Except for that incident outside the Mirzas’ store, I only remember seeing Mama cry one other time. It was after I got suspended and “Bomb Boy” became a thing. She didn’t know I saw her. She and Baba were talking after they thought I’d gone to bed, but I came back out to get a glass of water. They were in the living room, whispering to each other, Mama softly crying, saying that I was a good kid, a kind boy. Saying she didn’t understand how the school could be so callous. How the other kids could be so cruel.
A lump swelled in my throat. I went back to my room without getting that glass of water. Hours later, I was still awake, so I tiptoed to the kitchen. I sat at our small, round wood table, another hand-me-down from a neighbor who was throwing it away, another thing Baba fixed and made beautiful. For a long time I sat there, staring at an empty glass.
Now my mom cries all the time. All the time. Her eyes are permanently red and swollen. Even when she’s in their dry cleaner’s shop. I wish she didn’t have to be there. Sometimes Baba tells her he can manage by himself. I stay with her at home so she’s not alone, even if she can’t see me. But I think it’s worse. For her and for me. It makes me miss her even more. Maybe she senses me and it makes her miss me even more, too.
I heard her saying to my dad, “I just want to bury him. To have the funeral prayer and our three days of mourning, like we’re supposed to. We can’t even give him that. They took everything from us.”
Tonight she prayed right after she got home from work and then went to lie down. Baba called for her, but it’s like she couldn’t get out of bed. Baba was warming some soup in the kitchen. He looked sad, too. His face drooped and he hadn’t shaved. Baba can’t cook. At all. Mama and I would make fun of him about it sometimes, but he knew we were joking. There are lots of other things Baba is good at. People from the mosque and old friends from the refugee relocation center keep bringing food. So much food, the fridge and freezer are full. They don’t know what to say when they drop it off. No one knows what to say.
Mama was lying there. So still. Her eyes open, staring out the window into the dark. I stood next to her, so close. I put my hand on hers. And when I did, her muscles twitched. So slightly. Mama gasped. “Jawad?” she whispered. I tried to say something, tried to touch her again. I tried so hard. But I couldn’t make it work. Maybe I wanted it too much. Maybe it would’ve upset her even more.
My dad called for her to come eat something. She sighed and sat up in bed, moving her legs slowly over the edge with a lot of effort, like they were really heavy. She stood up but paused at the door before walking out. “I love you,” she whispered. So soft. So low. It felt like a dream. Like a memory. Like a tiny bit of hope. Hope is her gift.