He comes right over to me and Mrs. Delain. I stand up, and he holds me for a long time.
“Bashkim, Bashkim,” he says. “My son, Bashkim.”
I hug him back as hard as I can. When we are done hugging, he and the lady sit next to us.
Now I am waiting for Tirana. I wonder what she will think about this big room. I wonder if she knows what is going to happen today. Baba’s lawyer comes over to us then. He asks Baba to come and sit at the table with him, and Baba looks a little nervous.
“That table? By the judge?”
I know that Baba went to prison, and I wonder if he also went to a judge. He has never told me that, but I know Baba, and he doesn’t want to sit at the lawyer’s table. I look over and see that there is a security guard standing at the front of the room too. Baba doesn’t like security guards either.
“Yes. The judge will want to direct some questions to you, and it is better if you are sitting with me.”
Baba nods. Looks at the security guard.
“It’s okay, Baba,” I say, and pat his arm a little bit. He looks at me with his wet eyes—they are always wet—and he says okay, he will go to the table.
So now it is me and Mrs. Delain and the woman with yellow hair. She says hi to me, and she says that she met me when I was only a year old, when we first came from Albania.
Finally, Tirana comes in. I almost don’t recognize her because she has on a fancy white dress and socks with lace at the ankles and pretty shoes. Her hair is longer, and it has a blue ribbon at the back. She looks taller, and different. She doesn’t look like a baby. She looks like a little girl. She is holding her foster mother’s hand, and she says something to her, and suddenly I really want Nene. I can’t stand that Tirana is holding that woman’s hand, and I think how bad Nene would feel, to see me and Tirana with different mothers.
Why did Nene say that?
That she and her children would be better off dead?
Why did Nene say things like that?
She didn’t mean them. Nobody ever understood about my nene and how she needed to say things like that sometimes.
Tirana seems so strange that I am a little afraid to call to her. But she looks over and sees me, and instantly she lets go of the lady’s hand and runs to me.
“Bashkim!”
She jumps right into me, in her dress and everything, and kisses me in front of everyone. Then she sees Baba, and wiggles out of my arms to go to him. I am afraid that Baba will not act right, but of course he holds his arms out, and Tirana kisses Baba too. We all watch her. She is so pretty. Then Tirana comes back to where I am sitting. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her head in my sweater, and now she won’t look up, even when Mrs. Delain says hello and when her foster mother comes over and sits down. So that is how we sit. Mrs. Delain, then me, then Tirana half in my lap, then the Catholic lady, then Tirana’s foster mom.
Some other people come in the courtroom too. The woman who came to Mrs. Delain’s house that afternoon, the one who liked to make things, and a man walk over and sit near Mrs. Weiss. The caseworker stops and talks to them before she sits down at the table across from Baba and his lawyer. Then the judge comes in. The security guard says, “Please stand for the honorable judge Robert Kohler,” and we all stand, and the judge enters and sits down very quickly, and looks at the papers in front of him.
He’s not a scary judge, but I am feeling scared anyway.
“Mr. Ahmeti?” he says. And Baba stands up.
“I am sorry for the circumstances that bring us here. The court acknowledges your great loss.”
Baba stands a minute, nodding his head over and over.
“I know this day is hard for you. You had a very difficult decision to make, and I thank you for making that decision in time for our meeting today. Your decision shows courage. I know it took courage.”
Baba has a strange look on his face, but he sits down.
“Bashkim Ahmeti?”
Mrs. Delain motions for me to stand, and when I move Tirana over a bit, she stands up too.
“Tirana Ahmeti?”
We look at the judge, and he looks at us.
“Thank you for coming to this hearing, Bashkim, Tirana. Everyone tells me that you are very special children, and I am going to try hard to take care of you.”
Tirana turns and buries her face in my side, but I look at the judge. I think I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. I am thinking about how much I wish my nene were here, and how nothing the judge does can really help, but then I think about whether or not Tirana and I are going to live together, and whether we are going home with Baba, and how I don’t know if that is a good thing or not. I just look at him and then look down. I don’t know what I want.
“Mrs. Delain? Mrs. Stoddard?”
Our foster mothers stand up.
“Thank you for taking in these children, and for the thoughtfully written reports that you each submitted. They were very helpful to me. We are lucky to have people like you as foster mothers.”
Mrs. Delain and Mrs. Stoddard sit down. I see Mrs. Delain look at Tirana’s foster mother and smile, just a little, the way she does.
“Ms. Miller. You surprised me with your recommendation.”
The caseworker explains to the judge that she spent a lot of time thinking about it, and that she is confident it is the best option under the circumstances.
“Ms. Weiss.”
The lady from CASA stands up.
“Roberta, the court and the city of Las Vegas owe you and your fellow CASA volunteers a great debt. Thank you for the extraordinary commitment you made to this case, and the number of hours you put in. This is a system that could not protect children as well as it does without volunteers like you. I thank you profoundly.”
“Graciela Reyes?”
The woman who came to Mrs. Delain’s stands up.
“Luis Rodriguez-Reyes?”
I almost yell out, Specialist Rodriguez? My soldier? Why is he here?
I look, and a man, not much older than Ricky or Jeff, stands up. It takes him a while, because he has a cane, and there is not quite enough room for it in front of his seat. He looks over at me, he looks right in my eyes, but I can’t tell what he is thinking. My heart goes thump thump.
I wrote him some lies.
And I told him that I wanted the president to say soldiers could not be policemen.
And he shot a boy.
Does the judge know he shot a boy?
I can’t sit still, and my heel thunks against the seat. Mrs. Delain puts her hand on my knee.
I look at Baba. Does he know who Specialist Rodriguez is? Is he going to yell at him? Are they going to fight?
I don’t hear what the judge says to the woman or my soldier. I see them sit down, and then I can’t stop thinking about them. I want to look at Luis, but I am afraid. I keep watching Baba, waiting for him to remember who Specialist Rodriguez is. I don’t know what he’ll do. I remember him in Dr. Moore’s office. That was such a long time ago. Nene was there too. Dr. Moore wanted Nene to talk to her without Baba. Nene could not do that.
I remember Baba and Nene fighting that night. It was the worst fighting ever. Even Tirana couldn’t stop crying. If Baba figures out who Specialist Rodriguez is, something really bad could happen. I see that the security guard is wearing a gun, and I can’t stand it anymore. I stand up, and I think that I am going to run out of the room. I can’t be brave anymore. I don’t want to be. I want my nene. I want my own house. I don’t know any of these people. I don’t want any of them to help me. I have to leave.
Mrs. Delain reaches out to pull me back in, but I jerk away. I don’t care. I don’t care how mad they get. I can’t do what they want anymore. I have to get away.
Just then, Tirana calls my name. I look over and she is sitting there on the bench,
right next to where I was, and I can see that I’ve scared her, and that she’s starting to cry. Her foster mother trades places with the blonde woman, tries to get Tirana to look at her, but Tirana is looking at me. Her face is filled with fear. I can see that she knows I’m running away, that I’m leaving her there, and that it is the worst feeling she has ever had.
She feels like I felt when Nene slumped to the curb.
I stop. I look at Baba. He has turned around, to see what I am doing, and his face looks like Tirana’s. He looks just as scared as Tirana.
I look at them both.
I am so tired.
I want my nene so much.
And I step back in, past Mrs. Delain, and sit next to Tirana. She grabs hold of me even more tightly than before with her skinny little baby arms. I can’t leave. I can’t leave Tirana. And I can’t leave Baba. I am just going to have to stay here, even if I feel like I am going to burst.
“Bashkim.”
It is the judge. I look at him. His face is kind. He doesn’t look mad that I’ve interrupted him.
“Bashkim, this is a hard day. You have been very brave. We are proud of you. And your mother would be proud of you.”
I look at him, and I feel a little better. I don’t think he’s going to hurt me, me or Tirana or Baba. Mrs. Delain reaches over and puts her arm around me and Tirana both. She is not going to let anyone hurt me either. I breathe in, and I sit back against Mrs. Delain’s arm.
“I’ve been a judge for many years. In family court, and in criminal court. Before that, I was a lawyer. And I’m not a young man. So, like all of us, I’ve seen my share of tragic circumstances. I’ve seen the smallest error lead to the most painful outcome: the harried mother who forgets her baby in a hot car, the exuberant teenager who leaps into a too-shallow lake, the young driver who doesn’t see the child chasing a ball. And I’ve seen my share of cruelty, of violence, of criminal acts that sicken the heart.
“There are times when all this pain, all these misunderstandings, all this hatred, has made me wonder if we deserve this beautiful world; if we human beings should really be left in charge of it.
“But if, sometimes, an unspeakable horror arises from the smallest error, I choose to believe that it’s possible for an equally unimaginable grandeur to grow from the tiniest gesture of love. I choose to believe that it works both ways. That great terror is the result of a thousand small but evil choices, and great good is the outcome of another thousand tiny acts of care.”
Judge Kohler looks around when he is talking. I can tell that he has practiced saying this. He doesn’t really look at the papers in front of him, and his voice is kind of like a speech. I wonder if this is what he always says.
“Every single person in this room has chosen to act against the horror, has chosen to act in care. The death of Arjeta Ahmeti, and her loss to her children and her husband, whatever the circumstances were, created a hole in their lives. She may have been a lonely and frightened woman, but she loved her children, she cared deeply for her family, and they needed her. Without her, they are at risk.
“But against that loss, all sorts of people offered a gesture of love. Each of you offered one. And all these gestures are the reason why there’s hope for these children. That’s what I see when I look at this case, at this report. And so, I am granting the recommendation of the caseworker, Lacey Miller, and the CASA, Roberta Weiss. I accept the offer of Graciela Reyes, and the voluntary renouncement of rights of Sadik Ahmeti. It’s an unusual arrangement. But here in Nevada, where we are short of funds and services, where many people are without family, where we are accustomed to working creatively, I think it’s a far better plan than we might have thought possible.
“I remand Bashkim and Tirana Ahmeti to the care of Graciela Reyes, and grant her full physical custody, with the following conditions.
“Sadik Ahmeti and Graciela Reyes will share legal custody of the minor children.
“Sadik Ahmeti will have the right to full and unconditional visitation with his children.
“Sadik Ahmeti will move into the Sierra Nevada Apartments, near Mrs. Reyes’s home.
“Bashkim Ahmeti will stay at Orson Hulet Elementary School, at least until the end of this school year, and through fifth grade if he so chooses.”
WHAT? TIRANA AND I ARE
going to live with Luis? With his mother? How did this happen? Does the judge know who he is? I can’t stop myself. I jump up.
“No! He killed a boy!”
Luis stood up as soon as I did, but he moves more slowly than me, so when I turn to look at him, he is still trying to get his balance, his hand gripped on his cane. He looks right at me, and the expression on his face stops me cold. He looks as if I have struck him and also as if he will cry.
I stop, because I hadn’t meant to hurt him. I remember how nice his letters were. I remember that I wrote him over and over right after Nene died. So we just stare at each other. And I don’t know what I think. I don’t want to live with someone I don’t know. I am afraid to live with Baba. I think I should stay with Mrs. Delain and Daniel and Keyshah, but what about Tirana? I have to live with Tirana. If Tirana lives with someone else, she will be part of their family. Like when she walked in holding her foster mother’s hand. She already seemed part of a different family.
I start to sit back down, and then I notice that the caseworker and the judge are talking, and that the CASA is approaching the judge too. Mrs. Delain holds my hand, but she doesn’t say anything to me; her face doesn’t tell me what she is thinking.
Luis is still standing where he was before, looking stunned and so sad. The woman who came to Mrs. Delain’s house is looking at me, and then she stands up and motions for me to come toward her. Tirana sees this and grabs my hand, so that I won’t leave. The woman notices Tirana, and she walks slowly toward us instead.
“Bashkim, I’m Graciela Reyes. We met before. I would like to be your foster mother. Yours and Tirana’s. I am Luis’s grandmother. I raised him when he lost his mother.”
I look at her, not knowing what to say. Am I supposed to say yes to someone I don’t know?
“Your situation is very special, Bashkim. Your father has the right to raise you. He doesn’t want to give you up, and he understands that he needs help. Everyone has tried to come up with a solution. I can offer you and Tirana a home together, and Catholic Refugee Services has found an apartment for your father down the block. If the arrangement does not work out, Ms. Miller and Ms. Weiss will still be involved. They’ll be in touch with you often. You will have someone that you can trust.”
I like Mrs. Reyes’s voice. It is very calm and gentle. Even Tirana has noticed. Mrs. Reyes offered her hand while she was talking, and Tirana took it. They are holding hands right now.
I look at Mrs. Delain, who is watching me closely. I think about how she told me to be brave today and how she says that her foster children are going to make the world better. She is looking at me with eyes that say I am tough enough, that this is not my worst day, that I have already been through worse.
I look at my baba, who doesn’t look at me. He is sitting at the table, still seeming too small to be him, with his face in his hands. Even from here, I see his back trembling. I think of the truck, of the bad day, and of how Baba shook like that when the police officer came.
I think of my nene. I think about her picking me up at school, with Tirana. How Tirana would kiss me. How Nene would touch my hair. How I didn’t care that she didn’t talk to the other moms, didn’t know the teachers’ names. I think she was pretty. How I used to check quick, when I saw her coming, if it was a good day or a bad day. If her fingers were moving together, over and over. If she was talking with Tirana or just holding her face very still. How I would feel so light if she was talking, if she was just holding Tirana’s hand.
Nene would want me to stay with Tirana. She would not want Tirana to be
a different family from me.
I think about how Baba will live near us; how we will visit him. I think that Baba knew Nene’s family, Baba lived in Albania with Nene, Baba knew Nene.
I think about how it is me that wrote the letters to Luis. That told Dr. Moore she could send my letters, that told Dr. Moore not to tell Baba or Nene. The judge was talking about me. I let Luis say he was sorry, because I knew about Baba and the prison and how a man might not be meant for a war. I let Luis say he was sorry, and that made Luis write to me, and that made Luis’s grandma care about us. The judge isn’t trying to hurt us. Because I let Luis say he was sorry, Luis’s grandma can help Tirana and me. That’s what the judge means.
And just then, just when I haven’t felt this feeling in such a long time, I think I feel Nene’s fingers on my head, soft, soft, like when we watched Jeopardy! And I think that I did something good, that I made it possible for Tirana and me to be together, for Baba to be nearby. I am the one who did the small good thing first. And I think that Nene is smiling at me. And that she has her hand very soft very soft on my head. And that maybe we are going to be all right.
Author’s Note
This is a work of my imagination, but the explosive event at the center of this novel was inspired by someone else’s explosive event.
In writing my novel, I didn’t know any more about the real event than I had read in the newspaper. I didn’t know the details of how the event actually unfolded. I didn’t know what led the real people involved—the mother, her children, her husband, the police officer—to that catastrophic minute; I don’t know how they have fared since. I didn’t write about them.
Instead I used certain elements of that incident—that they were Albanian immigrants, that the father had been imprisoned there, that they had an ice-cream truck, that the police officer was a veteran—as the catalyst for a fictional story with fictional characters. The immigrant family scarred by one set of political events, the young veteran scarred perhaps by another: for me, those ideas perfectly capture an essential quality of the boomtown I call home.
We Are Called to Rise Page 29
