by Carrie Arcos
“We’re fucked,” Dalila concluded.
One of the boys said something under his breath, and the rest laughed. Even though Nadja didn’t hear it, she knew it was vulgar. Dalila laughed along with them and drank from a large bottle of Sarajevsko that they passed around.
Nadja put on her headphones, pressed Play and walked away. Dalila could fend for herself. Nadja sifted through the people who stood in small clusters like stone altars. What else was there to do? Hang out. Smoke. Drink if anyone could scrounge up something. Pair up. Soon someone would play music. Then there would be dancing. Nadja used to like dancing. But that was before. She didn’t dance now.
She was bored with the scene and wanted to leave, but she didn’t want to make Dalila mad. Since Nadja had arrived in Sarajevo, Dalila had become a good friend, her only friend. In the beginning, when Nadja couldn’t get out of bed and didn’t talk to anyone, Dalila had read romance novels to her. As Nadja’s hair started to grow out, Dalila would brush it and give it more of a style. She held Nadja’s hand the first time she ventured outside. She never asked why Nadja always wore the headphones around her neck. Sometimes Nadja cried at night, and when she woke from one of her recurring nightmares, Dalila woke too, comforting Nadja. Gradually, it was Dalila who coaxed Nadja out of the darkness. For that Nadja owed her. So she would stand watch on nights like this and let her friend drink and cuss and maybe make out with a boy.
One boy suddenly appeared next to Nadja. She ignored him like she did all the boys. But out of the corner of her eye, Nadja sized him up, noting where she could do the most damage if she needed to. She decided she’d go for the throat. It was open. The shirt collar unbuttoned. His Adam’s apple small and unassuming. One chop with her hand followed by a face palm to the nose should do it. Faris had showed her how. He had showed all the women in the family how to do it. How to use a gun. How to go for the eyes. How to survive.
Nadja was good at surviving.
But the boy just stood there like he didn’t know what to do with himself either. Like he didn’t want to be there. He wasn’t much taller than her, and he was maybe just as skinny. His clothes were baggy like hers, so it was hard to tell what was flesh and what was cloth. There was a faint trace of brown hair on his upper lip. His cheek displayed a small constellation of acne. He held half of a fresh cigarette in his hand. His fingernails were bitten down and dirty. His black boots were scuffed on the tops. The cuffs of his too-long jeans folded over. He reminded her of Jusuf, a boy she’d grown up with who always had a football with him.
The tape stopped. Nadja took out the cassette and turned it over.
“What’re you listening to?” the boy asked. His voice was so soft, she barely heard it over the noise.
She handed him her headphones. He put them on, and she pressed Play. He closed his eyes. The first song was “Nothing Compares 2 U” by Sinéad O’Connor. He listened to it the whole way through.
When it was done, he wiped his eyes and handed her back the headphones.
“Thanks,” he said, and walked away.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Dalila threw up on the walk home.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay.” Nadja patted her back while Dalila threw up again. “Done?” she asked after a few moments.
“I think so,” Dalila said, her voice a strained, weak imitation of what it usually was.
Nadja helped her to her feet and put her arm around Dalila’s neck. They walked slowly, stumbling up the steep hill.
The gunfire echoed in the night sky, but Nadja was too busy with Dalila to try and hide from the sound.
“Don’t ever let me do that again,” Dalila said.
Dalila had taken a cup of some drink that she said tasted like battery acid.
“Well, why’d you drink it?”
“Nothing else to do around here. Oh, no.” She leaned over and threw up again. This time some of the puke landed on the tops of Nadja’s boots.
“It’s probably because you don’t have much in you to begin with. And you’re, like, forty kilos.”
“The war diet,” Dalila said when she was done, and laughed. “When this war is over, I am going to eat everything, and I don’t care how big I get. In fact, I am going to get fat. I will work on it.”
“What will you eat first?” Nadja asked.
Dalila was quiet, thinking.
“Tulumba first, then rahat lokum, then ice cream, then halva.”
“Oh, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“No. No. It’ll be heaven. What will you eat?”
“Maybe burek,” said Nadja.
“Burek! That’s not dessert.”
“No, but I miss meat. It’ll be like a dessert to eat meat again.” Nadja imagined the smell of the sausages cooking on a grill, and her stomach growled.
“Yeah, you’re right. Burek’s the first thing we eat when this war is over.”
“The first thing. And maybe peaches,” Nadja said. Peaches were her favorite.
Dalila stopped and put her hands on Nadja’s shoulders. “Peaches? I forgot about those.” Her eyes were intense and wide, kind of crazed. Maybe because of the drunkenness.
“And strawberries,” Nadja said. Those were a luxury.
“Strawberries.”
“And blueberries.”
“Blueberries.”
“And apples.”
“Apples.”
Dalila let go of Nadja, and they continued walking, with Nadja bringing up all kinds of fruits and Dalila repeating them. The rhythm helping both girls up the street.
“I wish the neighbors hadn’t cut down their tree,” Dalila said. “They used to have the thickest, juiciest peaches every year. When we were sure they weren’t home, we’d climb the fence and steal them.”
Nadja didn’t remind Dalila that they weren’t in her old house. They were in the new one. The one they had stolen from the family that disappeared. The neighbors and the tree were long gone.
“Did they mind?” Nadja asked.
“How could they? They’d let them drop to the ground and rot. I’d even eat one of those rotting peaches now.”
They reached the house and sat on the pavement, away from the basement window.
“I feel eighty years old. Look,” Dalila said, and ran her fingers through her hair. There was a small clump in her hand. “This started happening.”
She began to cry.
Normally Dalila was the strong one, but this drink had made her weak. Nadja made Dalila lie down and put her head in her lap. Nadja stroked her friend’s hair, careful to be gentle so no more would come out. She absorbed each cry into her own body and added them to all the others already there. It was okay—Nadja was a deep well.
“Now watch, our ovaries are going to freeze,” Dalila said.
Nadja burst out laughing. She hadn’t heard anyone say that in a long time. She shifted her bottom on the concrete slab—the supposed cause of the freezing.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dalila said. “I probably won’t get to use them anyway.” And she started crying again.
“Watermelon,” Nadja whispered. “And not cut up, but scooped up into those small balls arranged all cute on a plate, and next to it, some gelato.”
“I forgot about watermelon.” Dalila burped. The smell almost made Nadja gag. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhh.” Nadja hummed an old song and patted Dalila’s head.
“I shouldn’t say it, but I’m glad you’re here,” Dalila said. “You’re the only good thing to come from this fucking war.”
Nadja didn’t answer, because her thoughts escaped to where they weren’t supposed to go. Far away, 120 kilometers maybe. To an old house up on the hill. By a green river. Near an ancient bridge. In a bed that needed a new mattress. She remembered a woman held her once
. Ran her cool hands through her long brown hair. Sang the same song that Nadja hummed now.
She remembered.
July 9
EVERYONE ASKS QUESTIONS.
They ask about Mom’s reflexes, her brain, how she can be “awake” yet not really “all there.” How much longer until she starts speaking? What is she looking at? Can she hear us? But all the questions really add up to this: Will she be okay?
Right now she doesn’t look okay.
Mom’s doctor does his best to answer; he tells us she suffered extreme head trauma and the only thing to do now is wait. As if we haven’t been waiting long enough already.
Standing a little off to the side, I watch her. Benny is next to me. Mom’s eyes are open and looking up at the ceiling. They seem to be focused there. Even from my angle, I see her irises shake like small green-and-black bees, trapped and darting back and forth inside a windowpane.
It’s like she doesn’t even know we’re here. She seems alien. Not herself.
It’s more disturbing than her being in a coma.
I shift my camera from one shoulder to the other, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear. I make no move to document this moment. I don’t want to remember her like this.
When the doctor leaves, Dad tries to explain about Mom’s condition a bit more, but as he does, her left hand starts jerking with tiny spasms. Dad holds it as he talks. He massages it. But I can still see the hand shake underneath his steady grasp.
Benny holds my hand. He stands a little behind me.
“What about lingering brain damage?” Gramma asks.
“Again, the chances are . . .” Dad starts, but he stops. Sighs. “We just don’t know.”
“Why is she staring like that?” I ask. “I thought she’d be more alert, like what they show on TV.”
“It’s not really like that,” Dad says. “Sometimes coming out of a coma takes a while. Like the doctor said, her brain has experienced severe trauma, and we won’t know the extent of it until . . . we know.”
He places his hand on her face, and I wait for a moment of recognition from her.
It doesn’t come.
Her eyes stay glued to the ceiling. I look up to see what has caught her stare, but there’s only the light.
“She is progressing, though,” Dad continues. “She’s coming out of the coma. And believe me, after a week, this is a good thing. Dr. Yang is the best in the country. Our staff will start working with Mom on her reflexes, doing some physical therapy. It can be hard on the family to see the patient like this, but it really is all normal.”
There is nothing at all normal about this.
Not in seeing Mom awake but far from alert, or listening to Dad talk about her so formally. Like we’re someone else’s family and not his own.
I stare at “the patient.” Her eyebrows need plucking. I want to cry. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. Mom is supposed to wake up from her coma and get better. We’re supposed to get better together.
Dad sits down in the chair next to Mom’s bed. “It’s important as you visit with her that you touch her. Talk to her. Here, come closer, Benny, Z. It’s okay.”
Benny slowly pulls himself away from me. He climbs up on Dad’s lap and holds Mom’s shaking hand.
“Hi, Mom,” says Benny, nervous.
“Z?” Dad reaches his free hand out to me, but I can’t move.
I shake my head and back away until I’m pressed against the wall. Pain shoots through my whole body. I want to cry out from it and from the deeper hurt that Mom’s lost to us forever. That this shell of herself is all there is. All there will ever be. This broken body and brain. Her stare terrifies me. This emptiness is all that’s left.
“Zara?” Gramma says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and rush out of the room.
1994
Spring
Sarajevo
BiH
NADJA WANDERED INTO the hospital like a wounded cat, wrapping her body as close to the walls and edges as she could. Part of it was because she was a little frightened to be there. So many injured people. So much crying. And she also knew that this time of day was the worst for shelling. Amir had told them. He had told them that the enemy, the bastards, purposely targeted patients and civilians.
Nadja didn’t know what section or floor of the hospital Amir worked on, though she knew that everyone from the top floors had been transferred to the lower levels because of the shelling. Much of the upper part of the building had been destroyed, riddled with bullets. She slowly crept through the hallways, past people lying in beds and cots. Most of them were injured. Nadja wondered where the regular sick were. Quietly, she approached a woman at a desk.
“Oh, you scared me, girl!” the woman said after turning around and seeing Nadja at her side. “Can I help you?”
“Amir,” Nadja whispered. “He works here.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Don’t know him. Is he a doctor?”
“Anesthesiologist.”
Just then a man came into the building carrying a woman. She was bleeding from the arm. “Help me, please!”
The woman behind the desk went over to him and directed him to the only free bed in the hallway—a couple of feet away from her desk.
“Sniper,” the man said. “In her shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood. I had to carry her all the way up here.”
“Are you her husband?”
“No, no. I don’t know her.”
The woman’s legs were all scratched up on one side as if, when she fell, she slid across the asphalt. Nadja could make out the small bits of asphalt and rock lodged inside. The woman moaned and moaned. Nadja wanted to cover her ears to make it stop.
No one was coming right away for her. All the doctors were tending to other patients. A nurse came and tried to soothe the woman and examine the wound. It was not life-threatening, so she would have to wait. The man seemed uncertain about whether to leave her there or not.
“You’re going to be okay now. We are safe,” he said, but she grasped his arm and wouldn’t let go. So he stayed with her.
Nadja backed away, sick from the noise and the blood, and turned down another hallway. She bent over in pain and breathed deeply, as if controlling her breath could control the pain. She felt the need to pee again, like she had been feeling for days, but she didn’t want to. She knew it would burn, causing a fire between her legs.
Nadja lowered herself to the ground and sat as close to the wall as she could, drawing her feet up underneath her. This position sometimes gave her some relief from the pain. She’d been ashamed to tell Ramiza about it, even Dalila. When she left the basement and went upstairs to use the restroom, that’s when she saw the blood in her urine. She walked out the door and immediately headed for the hospital, ignoring the danger she might face.
To the left of her, a guy lay in a white bed. He had an IV drip connected to him. He was asleep.
Nadja closed her eyes and rested her head on her knees. She counted to ten, wanting to distract herself from the dull pain in her lower abdomen.
“Hey,” the man said.
Startled, Nadja raised her head to see him looking at her.
“Sorry, I can move.” She thought maybe she was disturbing him. But she didn’t make an attempt to relocate. She was in too much pain.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”
“Grenade. Didn’t even see it coming. Bastards. They are going to amputate my leg.”
Nadja looked away from him. She did not know what to say. She was in pain but still had her legs. She was ashamed for being grateful for this. She pressed the ball of her hand into her lower abdomen as if that would help.
The guy kept talking. “My grandfather lost two fingers on his left hand in World War
II. I always stared at it, played with the scar tissue when I was a kid. But even with three fingers, he could still load a rifle in five seconds. He’s in Banja Luka. Haven’t heard from him in months. I hope he got out.”
She remembered Jela was from Banja Luka. Nadja had heard about terrible things happening there. But terrible things were happening everywhere.
“I shot a rifle once,” Nadja said.
“Just once?”
“Well, a couple times. With my dad. We went hunting.”
“You remember how to do it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What’s your dad do now?”
She pictured the last time she saw her father. He had his arm around Benjamin’s shoulders. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him.
“He is a teacher,” she said. “Math.”
“I was terrible in math,” the man said.
“Me too.” Her father used to help her at the kitchen table with word problems. He never minded how long it took, never reacted to her tears. He kept a steady hand on her back as he glanced over her shoulder at the page. Nadja. Nadja. You will get it. You are smart. It will come.
“This won’t last forever,” the man said. “Keep up your studies. As soon as the war ends, I’m gone. This place isn’t my home anymore. Sarajevo is not Sarajevo.” He turned his head away from her and closed his eyes.
Where was her home? Nadja couldn’t get her mind around the idea that she wouldn’t always live this way. What would life look like when the war ended? Would she live with Dalila’s family? Would everyone just get together and say they were sorry and then stop shooting one another? Would she go to America? Apply to university in Sarajevo? Try to go back to Višegrad? She had no home to return to, just broken things inside an empty house. Her bed left unmade. Tape player. Couches. Chairs. Dishes all stacked, coated with dust in the cupboards. She imagined another family occupied the space now, much like the home she lived in. She knew someone else slept in her brother’s bed. Someone else used the stove and the sink. They sat down at the table. Ran their fingers across the grooves in the wood, making new grooves.
