by Alia Mamdouh
“I think they are changing some of the medical instruments,” said Caroline gently. “They are checking everything and soon they will tell us what is going on. Don’t worry.”
“Didn’t you notice that they didn’t ask any of us—not me, not you—to go in? What is the meaning of that? Is it a good sign or a bad one?”
“I think she has started to move. What I mean is that she has moved in a particular way. They saw it by means of those instruments they have going. Nader, she is not going to move the way we do, not at the moment. A flicker of her eye is enough, or her pulse getting regular, or her blood pressure returning to normal. There are details we’re not even aware of.”
“Monsieur Nader.”
It was the voice of the nurse named Charlotte. She was sticking her head out of the door to Suhaila’s room. Her face was calm and her voice did offer a little measure of confidence.
“Come in, please, Monsieur.”
They cleared the short path between her bed and the instruments and team of doctors. I didn’t hear anything at first but I did notice a doctor who was older than the doctor I had seen earlier and had a more serious look. He was standing next to the young doctor. It was the older doctor who spoke to me.
“Do you want to speak in English, Monsieur?”
“As you like, Doctor.”
He smiled slowly, as if we were in a university class.
“You may have as much of a look as you wish to have, Monsieur.”
I lowered my head slightly as I gazed at bottles, tubes, and wires. The doctor shoved one hand into a pocket and came closer to me, in an affectionate and sympathetic gesture.
“It is premature for me to tell you that she will know you right away. But I must say that we have something little short of a miracle here. From the medical perspective, this might have been expected to happen after some weeks at a minimum, that is to say, after her condition had stabilized and then after a gradual transition, over a period of two months or more, until she reached the condition she is in today. The attack she had was certainly very serious. When she came in—and I won’t hide this from you—her condition was hanging between death and paralysis through half her body.”
“Can you explain the situation to me, Doctor, please?”
“I don’t know whether you have gotten some basic medical information. It is indeed a complex case but I shall explain it to you as best I can, Monsieur. A surge in her blood pressure set off tremors in the veins that send the blood to the brain. There was a hemorrhage and it stopped. But you must realize that we certainly do not know precisely when it stopped. In the veins and arteries, there are certain types of sacs that contain blood and when there is swelling there is increased likelihood of tearing and excessive bleeding, and this leads to such a condition as we have here. Those sacs do have a charming name: mothers of blood. One of those mothers can become paralyzed, meaning the artery is blocked. Then the condition is as you see—a state between some loss of consciousness and a true coma.”
“And . . .”
By now, my entire face was wet with soundless tears.
“She is out of danger, Monsieur Nader. Furthermore, even though her eyes are closed she can hear us. It is possible to limit the blurring that afflicted her eyes with the rise in the pressure on the eye that can harm the optic nerves. This is a possibility and it is the grimmest one at this point in time. But the surprise here is that her blood sugar level remained moderate; if that had shot up her condition would have been very poor indeed.”
I was standing there shifting my eyes between her and the two individuals remaining near the bed, for the nurses had moved back slightly out of my way. On the other side of the bed, the doctor bent low and began to examine her left eyelid. There was a tiny flicker on the outer edges of her eyes.
“Take her hand, please, Monsieur.”
For the first time, I feel so truly afraid that I cannot find the strength to touch her. For the first time since childhood, I am feeling that no one has the power to separate us. My head has remained fixed on the palm of her hand. These movements of the fingers resemble a mother’s first language, the earliest and elemental mother tongue. These tremblings speak in Arabic. We exchange greetings and words, as-salam wa-l-kalam, in the intimate way of words between members of one family. Do you hear me well, mother of mine? We make another exchange, one role for another. It has never happened before that I speak and she does not answer. And today is no different: she does not refuse, she answers, but so very weakly. I look at her and the palm of her hand speaks to me. Her language has not become clear yet; I do not know what the words mean but that does not matter right now. I look directly into her face. I lift the end of the tube that is pumping oxygen into her lungs. The palm of her hand seems to want to remember my name. My name is between her fingers, it is within them; I gather in my name, letter by letter. Here it is, my name: it is the first time I know the location of my name, the first time I love my name and want that name more than anything. I begin to sweat. She has begun to sweat, too. Our sweat answers for us. I lift her hand to my cheek as I study her face. I watch the movement of her lips. Her hands are moistened by my tears. In hospitals, nothing saves us—nothing brings us together—but the water welling up from our eyes.
“Congratulations, Monsieur.”
That was Charlotte. Danielle followed suit as they left the room.
“Visits will be very tiring for her. It will be best to allow only one person in the room at a time, and only for a few minutes.”
Standing behind me, the doctor was speaking in a low voice. I straightened up slowly, not comprehending exactly what he was requesting.
“Things will be confused for her, of course. She will need a lot of time in order to make out images, to see things clearly. That is how she will feel at first, confused, slow. We will be near her to make sure that she is not startled—since everything will look to her either hugely magnified or very miniaturized. All we can do is to try to manage and organize what is around her, or perhaps rearrange everything. This means all of you, in the first place. Her son and her friends. Just as it is with numbers, we must rely on fractions first before we can move on to whole numbers, and everything must come in comforting and moderate doses. You are the one who will help us through this process, as well as those friends of hers whom you think are appropriate to have here with her in your absence. But it will all happen in stages and through different intervals of time.”
His words were firm but sympathetic.
“Should I go out now?” I asked.
It was as if they had diagnosed her with a simple sleep problem, and so this was the way she slept. It is her eyes that are my security zone. If she opens them, I will know her. As for her, it is still early. The doctor nodded. “The light is hard for her, too, but so is the darkness. Raised voices but also quiet ones. Both noise and silence. She will find being alone and the commotion of people equally distressing. At first she might resist responding to treatment if she senses anything disturbing.”
“Such as, Doctor?”
“Psychologically, we don’t know. What I have told you is the extent of what we can be quite sure of, what we can count on in order to ensure that the first two weeks will go as they should. And then, through a bit of trial and error, we can come upon the right code for her new life.”
Pacing across the room as I watched, he stopped by the window. Only now did I notice that the window treatment comprised both blinds—very thin strips of metal—and curtains of heavy fabric lined with oilcloth. He moved the panels gently aside and a bit of soft light came in, falling on his head and glasses.
“What about food, Doctor?”
“She’ll want to refuse it at first because she cannot open her mouth quite as she could before. With your help, though, she may be able to accept some types of food. What foods does she like best?”
“Everything!”
My reaction to his question was emphatic and it elicited a smile, the first one I had s
een on this doctor’s face. I smiled, too. The doctor prescribed the duties and responsibilities that would fall on our shoulders. As he stood in the doorway the nurses came up to gather round him, as did Asma, Caroline, Nur, Ahmad, and a woman in her forties whom I had never seen. Her skin was pale, she wore glasses, and her eyes held a crowd of words. She was carrying a cardboard carton in which sat a pot holding an odd-looking plant: a whole tree in itself, fully mature, short but with many thick roots that held it sturdily deep in the soil. I had the fleeting sensation of Suhaila as this tree, this tree as Suhaila. The woman walked right up to me, holding out the plant.
“Good morning, Monsieur Nader. I’m Simone, a friend of Tessa Hayden’s and your mother’s.”
We shook hands. I had taken the tree and I was supporting it’s heaviness with my other hand. Caroline came up. “She is Tessa’s secretary and her good friend.”
“Hello, Madame. Thank you very much.”
The doctor stood in the corridor giving his instructions and the nurses wrote things down. When two new assistants arrived, the circle widened to make room. Silence came over everyone and all eyes were directed toward the doctor. We walked over quietly and stood in the group. The doctor’s tones were calm as he directed his words to all of us. He would look at those friends and then turn his gaze to me, singling me out. I sensed that he was putting some confidence in me. No one answered, no one asked. He was the sole director here. We had only to begin our work, each on our own course. His voice was decisive, his words as terse as telegrams. I didn’t understand most of what he said. There were strings of medical terms, all very complicated. Where was Dr. Wajd? Why was she late? When he made as if to move away, Madame Simone walked quickly toward him and caught him by the wrist as only a long-time acquaintance would do. They walked away to stand off at a distance together. She leaned her head in toward him and then I saw her lift it. Their voices did not reach us. I studied the plant as Caroline came over to me.
“I expect she is talking to him about Suhaila. Maybe she is passing on Tessa’s instructions or recommendations.”
Sounding flustered and upset, Nur broke into the conversation. She was wiping her eyes on a handkerchief as she turned to us. “I think they are talking about Suhaila. Will she be moved from this section to another place?”
“It is a bit early for that,” responded Ahmad.
Asma returned to the glassed-in wall and stood motionless there. She had not stopped praying and reciting verses from the Qur’an for a moment. The nurses were reentering the room and they lowered the blinds completely. Asma came closer, her face still full of emotion.
“So now they will start in washing and sterilizing and cleaning. Akhkh, if only they would let me in, I know what-all Suhaila likes, hmm. I know what would do her some good. A long massage on her forehead and rubbing her hands until she opens her eyes and sees me—first of the loved ones.”
She was quiet, looking at me. Through her glasses I could see the soft and compassionate gaze.
“What a lovely tree,” Caroline commented, to take the burden off me. We craned our heads to look at the elegant lavender-tinted card and in low murmurs began to read what was written there. To Suhaila, my friend with her deep roots in the Iraqi soul, roots so like that of this tree. We are calling you. Hear our voices and prayers. Come back to us—we are all waiting for you.
“What moving words,” said Nur, coming closer to me. She took the card over to Ahmad who began to reread it.
“Bon courage, Monsieur Nader. Your mother has passed the critical, vulnerable stage of her illness. But according to the doctor’s explanations we must be careful not to disturb her.”
I turned to Madame Simone. So did everyone else.
“Thank you for coming, Madame, and for bringing this beautiful plant, and I want to thank Madame Tessa for the affection and kindness she has shown.”
My voice was shaky. I could not go on. Simone held out a small card. Her voice was very warm.
“Please do call Tessa. She left quite a few messages for Suhaila and for you on the answering machine but she didn’t get any answer. She is still in the south. She will be back in Paris on the fourth of September. If it were not for Caroline, we would not have known of your arrival from Canada. Tessa is directly in touch with the team of doctors and the hospital authorities. She will talk with you. Don’t worry, please. Your mother is not alone—you must be confident of that.”
Her words moved me. “Caroline will tell you . . .” she started to say.
“I do know of Tessa through Suhaila and Caroline, of course. Thank you, thank you very much, Madame, for coming.”
I felt completely incapable of expressing myself. I was gripping the plant tightly and I was sure that I would burst into tears at any moment. Simone was sensitive to my unsteadiness as she held out her hand to shake mine. We were all muttering inaudible expressions. After shaking hands with everyone, she went away.
“Come here, ayni, come over here, Nader, dear, and sit down, now. Come, dear.” As she spoke Asma was reading the card. She sniffed at a bud that had opened on one of the tiny tree branches.
“I will be the one to carry it in and put it near her head. In a little while.” I made my announcement and sat down on the first chair that offered itself. The base of the plant’s vase was square, made of an unfamiliar material, adorned with Chinese motifs and portraits. It was not pottery nor was it plastic. I don’t know what it was made of. It was dark green and edged with a frame matching the protective wiring. The plant was indeed a tree, with a trunk and leaves and roots. It was not a copy of something else. It was a real and original tree in the shape of an open fan. Its branches were not new but indeed looked quite ancient, strong, and harmoniously arrayed. The branching trunk, the tree’s whole form, leaned toward us. There were blooms reaching upward as if they meant to stretch to the crown. I had never seen a tree like it. Holding it, every time I turned my head it kept its balance and grace, accommodating itself to the movement of my hands, its heaviness shifting to the rear and downward, settling into the palms of my hands. So now I had seen Tessa with my own eyes before meeting her. I considered how noble and good her sentiments were as she spoke to me about my mother.
“She will come back, Nader, she will come back. She is just away, just traveling, as if she wanted a bit of a break by herself in order to come back renewed, to accustom herself and fit in anew with us. And with her own self.”
I was still holding tightly onto the plant as if it were a connecting cord between me and those roots of mine that had been severed. I held it gently, as if it harbored a part of my mother’s soul, of the spirit of my homeland from which I had so long been absent.
Caroline took note of the state I was in. “This plant doesn’t like a lot of water,” she said. “We water a plant such as this with just a spray of water or a slight misting, a couple of times a week. It will yield flowers the color of pomegranates. You can eat them; they taste like sugar. Simone told me that just now.”
Sixteen
I
My mind was on Sonia and Leon. Even so, I also recalled my father’s face. I thought I had forgotten that face, but it seems that I had not. It was not possible to forget that face. He should have been at my side. All of these faces coming and going and the hands that went with them were always carrying something or other. These people’s gazes were tender and their feelings sympathetic, and yet . . . it wasn’t them I wanted as I walked all the way down the long corridor. The few patients in this wing stayed here for days without visits, without family or friendships. How amazing were these women who were Suhaila’s beloved friends! I saw the nurses coming out one after the other, carrying a bucket, sheets, towels, clothes, and other things I didn’t know. What did they do inside that room? Their eyes seemed to bear some message—a mission, I thought. “She has fallen into a deep sleep,” they said. “You should hear her snoring!” The tone of their voices was a little mocking. They were confident in a manner that carried over to me. I
got up and went into her room.
“This is the way she will be, Monsieur. She comes to, and then she goes away. But she is coming back more than she is absent.”
She was quiet. She would camouflage things for me, feign something, put up barriers as she always had before; she would leave me behind. Don’t be like this, Nader. Your words hurt me. Why do you always try to cause me pain, hmm? Why?
And then I would leave her; I would run off. I would tease, and be harsh, and mock. How was it that she taught me bribery and we began to toss it back and forth? Nader. Look, son. I have made your room grow. See: it is bigger than it was before. I took space away from myself and added it to yours. Don’t you see? Your area has gotten larger—come and look.
What she said did affect me but I would distance myself. So, you have made it right, then, I would say to her. You’ve done what you should have done before.
She felt she was giving me this space that had not been a space, either for me or for her. She beautified it, aired it, and cleaned it. So that it will be meaningful, Nader. Why are you sad, my dear, as if your eyes hold some sort of regret? Is it because I changed the look of the room for you? A place becomes dear to us, for it has witnessed our lives’ worst moments and also the loveliest of them. It is the place that occupies us, not the other way around, and so we must grant it something, though I don’t know what that may be, something so that it will help us, so that it will not be stricken as we are with illness. We have an obligation not to abandon that place and leave it to die as so many places around us have died.
She always tows Baghdad into whatever places we have lived, to be able to endure things, to stay alive and not die. If there is one thing that felled Suhaila, it was Baghdad. And the wall goes up between us.
