We Are Called to Rise

by Laura McBride

  I say nothing. This hurts.

  “Luis, I made a lot of mistakes. I did a lot of things wrong. I should have told you about your uncle. He didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  I don’t say anything. I sort of nod my head, and I listen, but I don’t have anything to say right now.

  “I’ll help you find Miguel. You’re a good man, Luis. Maybe you don’t know this right now, but I do.

  “Luis, I didn’t help Maricela when she needed it.

  “And nothing I do helps her now. Every day, I hope that there’s someone, somewhere, who can help her, who will help her. Someone who has enough love. Someone who gives that love to her.”

  Abuela stops then. She looks smaller than I’ve ever remembered her being, and when I see her, small, crushed, I’m ashamed.

  Who am I to criticize her?

  Have I already forgotten what I did?

  And it drains away then, the anger and the hurt and the bitterness that was beginning to form deep inside me. Abuela’s human, she’s not perfect, and if she made a mistake, if she took something important from me, she also gave me everything I am, everything I ever had. She didn’t kill a boy carrying burned charcoal in a bag.

  I open my arms, and just as if I were a man, just as if I had the ability to protect her, Abuela leans into my body. And we stand there, lopsided grandson and tiny grandmother, doing the best we can. I feel Abuela’s body shake in my arms, I hear how she muffles her tears, how she tries to hold them back, and I know how much she has hurt, and I feel how my knowing this soothes her.

  33

  * * *

  Bashkim

  TWO PEOPLE COME TO visit me before Tirana and I go to the judge. The first is Baba. He comes with the caseworker, Mrs. Miller, on a Saturday afternoon. Mrs. Delain told me he would be coming two weeks ago, because he was supposed to come last week, but then he got sick—that’s what Mrs. Delain said—and so when the doorbell rings, and I hear Mrs. Miller talking to Mrs. Delain, I’m a little surprised.

  I wait until Baba gets to the living room, and then I run to him.

  “Baba! Baba!”

  I am crying like a baby Tirana’s age, but I can’t stop myself. I didn’t even know how much I was waiting for him. All of a sudden, I know what I want. I want to live with Baba. I want to live with my own family. I don’t want to be here anymore.

  “Baba, have you come to get me? Can I go home with you?”

  I am yelling this right in front of Mrs. Delain, and I don’t even care what she is thinking. Because now I know, I know what I want. I want Baba. I look at the caseworker, Mrs. Miller, because I know she’s important—Daniel has explained it to me. She gets to decide everything, and I look right at her, so she will know I am not making a mistake, I am not kidding, and I say:

  “I want to live with my baba. Tirana and I want to live with Baba.”

  She looks at me. She’s tall—taller than Mrs. Delain, taller than Baba—and she looks way down at me, and she says, “Bashkim, I’m so happy to see you again. Mrs. Delain tells me that you’ve been doing really well. We’re all so proud of you.”

  I don’t understand why she says this, so I look at Mrs. Delain, and I look at Baba, who is holding me but not really looking at me, and I can’t figure out what’s going on. They don’t look right. They don’t look like they’ve been listening.

  “I want,” I say much softer. Now I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say this. I thought this was why they were coming, to see if I wanted to go with Baba or not, and I didn’t know what I wanted, but now I do. “I want to live with Baba.” My voice comes out quiet this time.

  Baba suddenly squeezes me. He makes a loud sound, like he made at the truck, when the policeman shot Nene, and he squeezes me. He squeezes me so hard, I can’t breathe, and I try to get out, to push his arms back, but he squeezes harder and harder, he’s smashing me, so I wiggle. It makes him tip, and he loses his balance, and we both fall against the couch and then slip down, crushed together, on Mrs. Delain’s floor.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Delain rushes to help us. She tries to pull Baba’s arms away from me, to lift his head. I am still trying to breathe, Baba has not stopped squeezing me, and I squeak, “Baba, you’re hurting me.” I am trying to take a big breath, trying to get some air, and Baba hears me, and he lets go. We lie there on the floor, panting, me because I couldn’t breathe and Baba because we fell, I guess, and when I look at him, when I look at his face, I see that there are tears all over it—that Baba is crying, and still he does not really look at me.

  “Bashkim,” Mrs. Delain says so gently, like she is waking me in the middle of the night. She strokes my hair, still sitting on the floor next to me, and she puts her other hand on Baba’s shoulder.

  “Lacey,” she says. “Help me get him up.”

  And then Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Delain help my baba stand up, and they bring him some water, and he sits down in the red chair with the foot part that comes up. He sits there, and he doesn’t talk, and he doesn’t look at me, not for a long time, and finally, I just sit down on the couch. I just sit down and wait.

  Then Mrs. Miller speaks.

  “Bashkim, it’s been too long since you and your baba have seen each other. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”

  I don’t look at her. Does she know I haven’t seen Tirana either?

  I haven’t seen Baba or Tirana since the mosque. Does she know that? Does she know I’m eight years old, and I’ve been at Mrs. Delain’s, where I didn’t even know anyone before I came here, all by myself? Does she know that?

  “Bashkim’s been so brave, Mrs. Miller.” Mrs. Delain is speaking. She has such a nice voice, it always makes me feel better, and for a second, I’m sorry I yelled that about wanting to live with Baba. Except I do.

  “I met with his teacher last week, and she says that he’s one of the best students in her class. And he’s been so good for Daniel. Bashkim helps Daniel with his homework every afternoon.”

  Mrs. Miller smiles at me, and maybe she says something, but I am looking at Baba. I can’t tell if he’s listening or not. He doesn’t look at us.

  “Baba?” I say. “Baba!”

  He looks at me.

  “Baba, I missed you. I miss Tirana. And I miss you.”

  Baba looks at me, and he opens his arm, and I fly over to the red chair and crawl in his lap. I never sat in Baba’s lap much, only in Nene’s, but it feels good there. Baba looks at me. “Të dua, shpirt,” he says. “Të dua.”

  “I love you too, Baba. I love you.”

  And then Baba and I just sit there for a while, and Mrs. Delain and Mrs. Miller talk. And when Baba feels well enough, Mrs. Delain suggests I show him around the house, so I do. I show him where Daniel and Jeff and I sleep, and where I do my homework, and how we each have a green basket for our own laundry. Baba looks at everything—he looks like he’s never seen a washing machine or a bed before—but he doesn’t talk too much. I hold his hand, and once in a while, he squeezes my fingers tight. It doesn’t hurt, like when he hugged me. It feels good.

  After that, we eat tuna fish sandwiches in the kitchen with Mrs. Miller, and Baba and I go outside and walk a ways down the block, but we don’t really do anything, because Baba seems tired. I think about Baba when we had to sell ice cream all day at the soccer tournament. Now it doesn’t seem like he could even stand up all day. Can being sad make your legs weak?

  When we get back, Mrs. Miller says that she and Baba have to go. She says that I probably won’t see Baba until the court date, but that I can call him on the phone any time. He has a phone now, and she gave the number to Mrs. Delain.

  Baba and I hug each other before he goes, and it’s not like at first, when I was yelling and when he was crying. It’s just a hug. It’s a good hug, and Baba tells me to be good, like an Albanian boy, not American, and I say, “Yes, I am
good, Baba.” And when they drive away, I see Baba waving at me through the window, and I wave until the car turns left and I cannot see it.

  ON THURSDAY, WHEN I GET

  home from school, the second visitor is there. She comes with Mrs. Weiss, who is supposed to tell the judge where Tirana and I should live. They are waiting in the living room. I try to go past the doorway quick and get to the kitchen, but Mrs. Delain says, “Bashkim, can you come in here?”

  I go in.

  All three ladies look at me. I notice that Mrs. Weiss has red glasses, which I don’t think she had when she came before. Red glasses are nice, like red shoes.

  “Bashkim, you remember Mrs. Weiss, and this is Mrs. Reyes.”

  Both ladies smile at me, and I say hello, and I hold out my hand, because Mrs. Delain expects boys to shake hands and open doors. Mrs. Delain motions to me, and pats the couch next to her, so I sit down there, and she puts her hand on mine.

  The lady named Mrs. Reyes asks me how my day at school was.

  “Fine,” I say. And I don’t really want to say anything else, but I feel Mrs. Delain’s fingers on mine, so I say, “We had art today. I’m making a bowl out of clay.” I didn’t really mean to say this, since I was thinking about giving the bowl to Mrs. Delain if it turns out, but maybe she’ll forget about it before then anyway.

  “I like to make things too,” Mrs. Reyes says.

  “What do you make?” I ask her.

  “I sew. I make lots of clothes, and sometimes I make quilts or pillows. I took a pottery class once, and I made some pots that are on my porch. I grow herbs in them.”

  Mrs. Reyes has a soft voice. She sounds a little bit like the librarian at school, so she probably speaks Spanish, but I’m not sure about that. Her voice is pretty American too.

  “Do you like art?” Mrs. Weiss asks me.

  “Yes,” I say. “I like science better, but I like art too.”

  “Because of the marine lab?” Mrs. Weiss says, and I remember that we walked by the lab when she came the other time.

  “Yes,” I say. I look at Mrs. Delain then, because thinking about things makes me worried, and she guesses right away what is wrong.

  “Did you want to get something to eat, Bashkim? There are apples on the counter. I am going to talk to Mrs. Weiss for a bit, so you can run and find Daniel if you like. Or start your homework.”

  I say good-bye to the ladies, just the way Mrs. Delain likes, and I go upstairs. I don’t look for Daniel, though. Instead, I go to the closet, the one with the pillows where we can be alone, and I sit there for a while.

  Some days, I forget to think about Nene. Today was so busy at school, I don’t think I thought of her once, but now Mrs. Weiss is here, and I just want my nene. I’ve been trying not to think about Baba’s visit, about what happened when he hugged me, because my chest hurts again, just like it did then, and I don’t know what to do about that.

  I hold the biggest pillow in my arms and put my face in it, so nobody can hear me. I’m tired of living here. Everyone is nice to me, but nobody is Nene, and I just want my own house with my own bed next to Tirana’s. I want the kitchen to smell right, like it does when Nene cooks, and I want Baba to fall asleep in the big chair and make his snore sound, and I want Tirana to wave her arms and say she is a flutterby. I don’t want to be by myself anymore. I don’t want to see Mrs. Weiss. I don’t want to meet ladies that come to Mrs. Delain’s house. I don’t want to talk to Keyshah or Jeff or Ricky. I don’t want to be around teenagers at all.

  For a while, I just hold the pillow as tight as I can, and feel bad. I feel so bad it seems like I will burst. I start to think about nights when Nene felt bad, when I would hear her crying after Tirana and I said good night, or when she would sit on the patio and look at the sky, and not talk to any of us. I wonder if Nene was thinking of her nene then. I wonder if she missed her.

  Sometimes Nene would tell me about growing up in Albania. Sitting in the closet, holding the pillow, I think about Nene telling me her stories. I concentrate until I can almost hear her voice. Nene said she could walk up a hill from her house and sit on a wall where her mother had sat, and her grandmother, and her mother, and hers. The stones would be warm, even in October, and she could see down to the red roofs of the next village, and to their gray olive trees. She could see green fields, and the indigo line of a stream, and because she was so high, she could see blue sky below her as well as above her.

  The wall that she sat on was built a thousand years before she was born. Nene said it was built to circle a castle, and when she sat on the wall, she would pretend she was a princess. She would eat a fat, warm fig, and dream about marrying a prince. Her nene and gjyshe would have to cook for weeks to prepare for her wedding, and her baba would have to borrow mules to carry in all the vats of walnut raki. There would be dancing, and singing, and the wedding would last three days.

  Sometimes my Nene would laugh when she told this story. Sometimes she would tell it sad, but lots of times, she would laugh. A wedding for three days! What would Americans say about that?

  I can’t help it. When I think of my nene’s laugh, I smile. I feel better. I don’t think I’m supposed to feel better, because Nene died, and I need her, but I just do. I guess that’s how Mrs. Delain’s pillow closet works. You go in there sad, and you come out one of her strong kids. That’s what she says, anyway, that this is a closet for getting strong in.

  34

  * * *

  Avis

  Coroner’s Inquest Rules Killing of Las Vegas Woman Justified

  Las Vegas, Apr. 17—Las Vegas Police Department officer Nathan Gisselberg was exonerated of all charges in the killing of Arjeta Ahmeti last month.

  The Clark County Coroner’s Inquest ruled that the shooting was justified. The inquest met for six hours. The district attorney called seven witnesses to testify, and read a number of questions requested by the Ahmeti family’s lawyer. Attorneys for LVPD waved off questions after the proceedings.

  Jeremy Price, president of the Las Vegas chapter of the ACLU, and Fatmire Bardici, of the Albanian Society of Clark County, expressed dismay at the ruling.

  Since the inception of the coroner’s inquest system in 1976, only one shooting has ever been ruled unjustified, and in that case, it was the number of bullets released in a residential neighborhood that elicited the ruling, not the death of the victim.

  * * *

  I’VE HANDLED THE CLIPPING SO

  many times that the paper has slight, sweaty finger marks. I was there, of course, at the inquest. With Lauren and Jim and Rodney and Corey Stout’s wife. Darcy didn’t come. That was good. And, of course, there were the photographers and the reporters, the cameramen, and the head of the ACLU, someone from Catholic Refugee Services, a few Albanians, a local imam, a steel-haired woman whom I later saw identified as the principal of Bashkim Ahmeti’s school.

  Nate and Mr. Ahmeti sat at separate tables, each with an attorney. Several people, lawyers I suppose, sat at the district attorney’s table, just in front of the judge. Nate had a lawyer, but the DA was as good as his lawyer. Mr. Ahmeti was older than I expected him to be, old to have such young children. His hair was gray; it wound into long curls at his neck. He wore, even for this formal process, a shapeless old sweater, and wool pants with a pale herringbone texture, and shoes that looked like he had owned them his entire adult life.

  I could barely stand to see him sitting there. Old and odd and poor. Like someone who would go to all the city council meetings and speak. He kept glancing behind him nervously. When the door swung shut, he jerked, and his chair scraped loudly across the wooden floor. Nate sat perfectly still. He never looked around. His back was massive by comparison.

  I wondered what the old man was thinking. There was no chance that the shooting would be ruled anything but justified. Certainly not a decorated Iraqi vet, a local kid, with a father that lots of people
knew. If the inquest ruled the shooting a criminal act, the DA could, and would, choose not to prosecute. Everybody knew that. We all knew that. Maybe Sadik Ahmeti didn’t know that.

  Nate testified. Corey testified. The officers who were called in and who had pulled up just as the shooting happened testified. They each described a woman who was irate and out of control. At one point, she had her son by the neck. She was yelling that it would be better if she and her children were dead. She called for Allah. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a long silver object. Nate was thinking of the boy. He knew it would take less than an instant to slit the boy’s throat, if the object had been a knife, if the woman were as crazy as she seemed. She was calling to Allah, saying she and her children would be better off dead.

  One witness—who looked terrified through the whole thing—said that she didn’t see the ice-cream scoop or the knife. She said the mother sounded frightened. That the mother looked like she was protecting her son from the police. That the officer took out his gun, and the mother was afraid.

  Sadik Ahmeti and his attorney kept consulting. They submitted questions on yellow cards, furiously writing them as each witness spoke. The DA read each question to himself, and then set card after card on the table, without saying what was on the card, without asking any question. He did read one. He asked the frightened bystander, “Why did you think she was protecting her son?” The bystander said, “Because she is a mother. That’s what mothers do.” She seemed not to realize that this answer had no impact, that it did nothing to suggest that Arjeta Ahmeti was acting rationally. She seemed pleased to have said something on the victim’s behalf.

  There was a tense moment. Another bystander, a man, much more confident, said that he heard Corey Stout asking Nate, “Why did you do that?” and “What knife?” It was damning, the way he put this information out there. He wasn’t nervous, that witness, and he didn’t try too hard to be convincing. He simply said what he heard, loudly and clearly. I saw Nate scribble something on a yellow card, give it to his attorney. But his attorney did not give it to the DA.