Bounce Back

by Hena Khan

  “I can’t WALK properly!” I shout. “I can’t RUN! Or JUMP! How am I supposed to DANCE?”

  “Chill out, dude. I’m trying to help.” Zara tosses her hair.

  I can’t help being grumpy. It’s only been a couple of days since we saw the doctor, but I don’t feel any better yet. Plus, I have basketball practice tomorrow, and Baba said I should still go to support my team despite my injury. If I don’t get to play, I think I should at least get to chill at home and watch extra TV.

  “You’re going to be okay, Zayd.” Jamal Mamoo comes over to me, picks up one of my crutches, and uses it to poke me. “Come on. I think we need to take a break from all this wedding stuff and play some 2K.”

  “Fine.”

  I know he’s trying to cheer me up, as I hop down the stairs and settle into the couch. Naano for sure is trying to make me feel better too when she sends Zara downstairs with a mango milkshake for me a little later. But even after Jamal Mamoo lets me win, and I drain the last drop of my milkshake, I only feel a tiny bit less lousy.

  5

  “Can I please help Zayd get to the lunchroom safely?” Adam asks Mr. Thomas. It’s ten minutes before dismissal, and my best friend is using his extra-serious and responsible voice that he saves for teachers.

  “I think he can manage by himself. Don’t you, Zayd?” Mr. Thomas raises his eyebrows at me as I stand up and fumble for my crutches. I have a note from the office giving me permission to leave class early to make my way down the halls before they get crowded. It ends up giving me an extra half hour of free time a day.

  Adam pops up from his desk and hands me my crutches. He carefully tucks each one under my arms, and I hold on to the handles.

  “I can’t carry my lunch.” I shrug, looking as helpless as I can.

  “All right.” Mr. Thomas sighs. “But no horsing around, boys. Head straight to the lunchroom.”

  “Yes, sir.” Adam grins. He grabs my lunch and his own from our cubbies, and we stumble out of the room, bumping into desks, while everyone else stares at us, jealous.

  “YES! Freedom!” Adam throws up his hands when we get into the hallway and he shuts the door behind us. “It’s so great you’re hurt.”

  I whack him, using one of my crutches.

  “Is NOT.”

  “You know what I mean. Careful with the throwing arm.” Adam rubs the side of his arm. Ever since he started playing football instead of basketball with me, he talks as if he’s in the NFL or something. “Where should we go?”

  “The lunchroom?”

  “Let’s go to the kindergarten wing. They might have cupcakes or donuts.”

  “Mr. Thomas said go straight to lunch,” I say.

  “We are going straight. The long way. Come on!”

  The hallway is wide and empty, and I can swing freely on the crutches without bumping into anything.

  “You’re getting pretty good on those,” Adam says.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I want to complain about how it’s not fun at all and how I wish I could walk and play like normal.

  “Can I try them?” he asks.

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. No one will see.” Adam puts our lunches on the floor and reaches for the crutches.

  “Okay.”

  I slip off the crutches, hand them to Adam, and lean against the wall. He takes off down the hall, but he’s half skipping and using both of his legs.

  “You’re cheating!” I yell after him. “You need to keep one leg up the way I do.”

  A door pops open, and my old kindergarten teacher, Ms. Riley, sticks her head out.

  “What are you two doing? Where are you supposed to be?” she says. Her usual cheery face is scowling.

  “Going to lunch,” Adam pants. “We have a pass. He’s hurt.”

  Ms. Riley looks down at my boot. Then she turns her gaze to Adam holding my crutches.

  “That’s no excuse for disturbing other classes. Get to the lunchroom before I write you a pink slip.”

  “Sorry,” Adam mumbles.

  “Feel better, Zayd,” Ms. Riley says. She gives me a sympathetic half smile. We don’t get cupcakes, but at least we don’t get in trouble, either.

  During recess, Adam has the brilliant idea to organize a crutches race. We keep time while Blake, Chris, Adam, and I take turns hopping on the crutches from one end of the blacktop to the other. Chris is so much taller than me that he has to stoop to use the crutches. Blake is surprisingly quick. And Adam keeps track of everyone’s times and whether they beat me.

  “You smoked us all!” Adam high-fives me. “You’re so fast!”

  “That was awesome,” Blake adds. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

  I agree, and as I head back to class, I notice my crutches are all scratched up from falling on the asphalt so many times. I don’t care, though, since I’m counting down the days until I can get rid of them and get back on the court.

  6

  “How many weeks did you say?” Coach Wheeler is looking at his clipboard at his starting lineup. He’s tapping his pen the way he always does when he’s thinking.

  “Four. So I have three weeks and two days left,” I say.

  “Sorry to hear it. You in pain?”

  “Not much anymore. I’m going to get checked in two weeks, and the doctor said I might be able to play sooner.” Did Dr. Alam actually say that? Or am I just wishing he did? I’m not sure.

  “We’ll miss you. Don’t rush it, though. Make sure you heal properly.”

  I look at Coach in surprise. He’s always pushing us so hard, sweating on the sidelines, and yelling during our games. I thought he’d want me back as soon as possible.

  “So, um. Who are you going to put in on point?”

  “It’ll have to be Sam.” Coach is frowning at the clipboard.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah. I think he’ll do all right.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  Ravindu comes up behind me.

  “Oh man! Did you do that when you fell at practice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long are you out?”

  “Like three or four weeks.”

  “That means you miss the rest of the season!”

  “Yeah.” Ravindu talks too much.

  “But we’re playing the Lightning again.”

  The Lightning. We played them twice last season. Their players come to games in training shirts and take them off during warm-ups, the way the Wizards do. The names of their plays, “isolation” and “four out,” sound legit. Ours have silly names like “suns” and “horns.” A lot of the kids on the Lightning are tall, and they behave as if they’re being scouted every game. Their attitude intimidates everyone, and we were scared of them too. Until we finally figured out how to break their press and win last time we played them.

  “We need you,” Ravindu continues. “We can’t beat them without you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Ravindu is all right.

  I sit on the bench and watch my team doing layups. Coach Wheeler pulls Sam aside, and I can tell when he says Sam needs to take my spot. Sam starts to nod his head quickly, and I hear him say “Okay, Coach” as he glances at me a few times.

  I suddenly feel hot and sweaty, and my foot starts to itch inside my boot. Grabbing my crutches, I go outside to wait for Mama to pick me up. I’m going to convince Baba that I don’t need to be at practice again. I’ll come back in three weeks and two days, unless I’m ready to play sooner.

  7

  “Ballay ballay!” everyone shouts.

  “Ballay ballay, bai torr punjaaban di,” the auntie sitting in the middle of the floor sings loudly. She’s banging on the wooden part of a two-sided drum using a spoon. Another lady is playing the drum with her hands.

  The room is packed with mostly women and girls. They are crammed around the drummer, clapping and singing songs I don’t understand. Nadia Auntie is perched on some bedlike thing draped in colorful fabric.

  “Ballay ballay,” Zara joins in for th
e refrain. She’s reading the words off a paper and claps every now and then, sitting close to Mama. Naano is seated on a chair on the side next to Nadia Auntie’s mom. They smile and nod but aren’t singing or clapping. Every few minutes Naano leans over and whispers to Nadia Auntie’s mom, and they both giggle. I’m pretty sure Naano is making wisecracks.

  We’re in the basement of some friends of Nadia Auntie’s family, who are hosting a dholki for Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie. When Mama told us about it a few days ago, and explained how a dholki was a pre-mehndi, or a practice singing and dancing party, Baba and I exchanged a look of panic.

  “Zayd and I don’t have to go, right?” he said.

  “You should be there to support Jamal,” Mama argued. “They would want us all to come.”

  “I thought dholkis were only for ladies?”

  “No. It depends on the host. And they invited everyone.”

  I could tell Baba knew it was a losing battle when he tried to use me as an excuse.

  “What about Zayd’s ankle? Shouldn’t he be resting it?”

  I put on an extra-pained expression to help him out.

  “Zayd goes to school and manages. He’ll be fine. We’re all going.”

  And that settled it.

  Mama picked out matching shalwar kameezes for Baba and me: a deep maroon top over white pants. She tried to get Nana Abu to wear the same thing as us. But when we picked him up, Nana Abu had forgotten and was wearing a black vest over a cream shalwar kameez. He still looked sharp, though. I’d look better if I didn’t have to roll up one of my pant legs to wear my walking boot.

  Now all the men are sitting upstairs in the living room talking about cricket scores, the Pakistani prime minister, and other stuff so boring it makes my brain hurt. Jamal Mamoo was ordered to arrive later, around dinnertime. I think it’s weird he doesn’t get to be at a party that’s supposed to be for him for the whole time, but Mama said it was so he could make a grand entrance. She told mamoo she’d text him fifteen minutes before he should come. I decided hanging out downstairs was the best option until he gets here.

  “Zayd!” An auntie runs into the room and finds me sitting near the stairs. She obviously doesn’t notice the giant boot on my foot when she says, “Beta, go run and get your mom. Quickly!”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Her voice is strange.

  “Your grandfather. He fainted.”

  “Is he okay?” I jump up, forgetting my ankle, and feel a shock of pain.

  “I see your mom,” the auntie says, ignoring me, and she starts to push through the ladies to get to Mama.

  Mama gets up and dashes up the stairs, her face white. Zara grabs Naano and follows more slowly. I hop behind them as fast as I can. When I get to the living room, Nana Abu is sitting on a sofa, surrounded by people. Someone tries to hand him a glass of water, and he shakes his head. Another person is wiping his head using a kitchen towel.

  As Naano gets closer, the others move out of the way. When she reaches him, she puts her hand on his shoulder. They speak to each other in Urdu while Baba and Mama huddle together talking with Nadia’s dad.

  “What’s going on?” I pull on Zara’s arm.

  “I don’t know,” she says. And we both move closer to our parents.

  “We should take him to the hospital,” Baba is saying. “He needs to be checked out.”

  “I agree,” Mama says.

  My stomach starts to twist and churn when I hear the word “hospital.” I hope Nana Abu is going to be okay.

  8

  The hospital waiting room is small and crowded. I’m sitting next to Jamal Mamoo, and Zara is on his other side. We’re both leaning on him.

  Jamal Mamoo’s wearing the fancy shalwar kameez for the dholki he never went to. Mama called to tell him to meet us at Suburban Hospital when we left. Everyone from the party was ready to follow us to the hospital, but Mama begged them not to come, including Nadia Auntie’s family.

  “You have all these guests here,” she said. “Please stay and enjoy and keep my father in your prayers.”

  Naano and Mama are in Nana Abu’s room, and Baba is pacing the hall. Jamal Mamoo bought us a bunch of chips and candy bars from the vending machine, but no one is interested in eating anything.

  “Mamoo?” I interrupt while he’s texting Nadia Auntie.

  “What’s up, Skeletor?”

  “What does ‘ballay ballay’ mean?”

  Jamal Mamoo chuckles.

  “I have no idea,” he admits. “I don’t know what any of those wedding songs are talking about. Even though the aunties love them.”

  I see Baba talking to a doctor in the hallway, and Jamal Mamoo jumps up to join them. After a few minutes they come back into the waiting room.

  “How’s Nana Abu?” Zara asks.

  “Can he go home now?” I add.

  “Not yet,” Baba says. “Nana Abu had a . . . ah . . . minor heart attack.”

  “A . . . HEART . . . ATTACK?” Zara starts to wail.

  “No, no, no, it wasn’t serious. He’s going to be okay. The doctor said it’s a warning to take better care of himself.” Mamoo rubs her shoulders while Zara tries to pull herself together.

  “When can he go home?” I ask. There’s a giant lump in my throat.

  “He needs to have a small procedure tomorrow morning. Then he’ll be home soon, inshallah,” Baba says.

  “Can we see him?” Zara asks with a sniffle.

  “Sure. He’ll be happy to see you. Come on.” Baba takes Zara by the hand.

  I hesitate.

  “Need help, Skeletor?” Jamal Mamoo asks. “Isn’t it time to get rid of those crutches?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. I trail behind them down the hall to where the patient rooms are. Some of the doors are open, and I can see the bottom half of beds and people’s feet. It makes my stomach churn again to imagine my grandfather lying there the same way.

  “Here we are.” Baba pushes open the door to room A32. I see Naano first, sitting on a chair by the bed. She has her scarf on her hair and is praying. A worn copy of the Quran is sitting next to her.

  Zara rushes over to Nana Abu, whose eyes grow bigger when he sees us and he gives us a tiny wave. She takes his hand and grasps it inside her own.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks in a hushed voice. “Does it hurt?”

  “I feel fine,” Nana Abu says. “They are taking good care of me here.”

  I don’t move closer. Nana Abu looks so small in the big hospital bed and older than he usually does. He’s wearing a hospital gown instead of his nice party outfit, and his gray hair is a mess. A clear tube sticking in his hand is attached to a bag hanging on a pole. A screen above the bed is displaying zigzagged lines. I know one of the lines is his heartbeat because of cartoons. My own heart tightens when I see it.

  “Zayd?” Mama asks me. “Don’t you want to say salaam to Nana Abu?”

  “We’re both broken now, eh, Zayd?” Nana Abu says, motioning for me to come closer.

  I swallow hard as I inch forward. The lump in my throat is growing bigger. If I try to speak, I’m going to start bawling. Jamal Mamoo is watching me closely, and he suddenly cuts in front of me.

  “Abu, you saved me from being forced to dance in front of the aunties,” Jamal Mamoo says extra loudly. “But seriously? A heart attack? You could have faked a fever or something.”

  Nana Abu starts to laugh.

  Jamal Mamoo looks around. “I’m starving. Is there any real food in here? Did anyone pack up some food from the party for the handsome groom-to-be?”

  Naano looks up from her prayer.

  “Did they?” she asks. “I want biryani.”

  “Me too,” Jamal Mamoo agrees. “I’m going to ask Nadia to bring some over right now.”

  “And some dessert!” Zara adds.

  “Can she bring the drum, too?” I pipe up, finally able to speak.

  Jamal Mamoo winks at me.

  “Good idea,” he says. “Let’s bring the party in
here. I’m sure the nurses won’t mind.”

  Nana Abu’s face breaks into a slow smile as I move forward to give him a hug.

  9

  “All right, let’s do this!” I say.

  Nana Abu is sitting on the recliner and resting his legs on a small stool next to Zara.

  “You remember what the physical therapist said, right?” Zara asks him.

  “Yes.” Nana Abu grimaces.

  “Okay, let’s do the leg raises first.”

  She pulls the stool out of the way so Nana Abu can lift each leg up and down ten times.

  “Look at me, Nana Abu,” I say. “I have to do my exercises too.”

  Ever since Nana Abu got out of the hospital last week, he and Naano have been staying at our house. Mama said it would be easier for everyone to chip in and help take care of him. I think she also wants to have him near us. We all do.

  It seems as if Nana Abu is moving in slow motion, although he’s moving at his normal pace.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . ,” he counts in a raspy breath.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . ,” I say, rotating my ankle as I stick out my leg.

  I went back to see Dr. Alam yesterday, and he said I’m healing well. I don’t have to wear the boot or use the crutches anymore. He gave me some stretches to do and said I can start to put weight on my foot and try to walk normally. That was the good news. The bad news is I still can’t run or jump for two more weeks.

  “Aren’t you guys cute,” Mama says as she walks into the room. “I knew getting the kids to work with you on your exercises was a good idea.”

  “After this we have to walk around the house three times,” Zara says to Nana Abu. “You have to get in your steps.”

  “Maybe later.” Nana Abu smiles.

  “He should rest,” Naano says as she shuffles into the room behind Mama. “You people need to leave him alone.”

  “He’s been resting all day,” Mama argues. “The exercises are important for his recovery. It wouldn’t hurt you to do them too, you know.”