Baba was watching videos of long-forgotten memories and listening to his favorite childhood songs on the iPad, head bobbing up and down, mouth widened, showing a cheek-to-cheek, toothless smile, when his body jolted in an unusual way. Jalil did not notice. He was on the PC, headphones on, eyes so intensely close to the screen his long eyelashes almost flickered against it. Baba jolted once again, this time falling out of the chair. He dropped the iPad on the floor and clutched his chest. I shouted Jalil’s name. He turned around slowly, unsure if he had heard something. He looked at me, before looking down at his father.
“Baba?” Jalil whispered. Baba tried to muster the strength to sit back on the chair, but he stumbled back onto the floor. His breath became slow and stingy. He looked as though all the color in him were fading.
“It must be a heart attack,” I said. I grabbed my phone and immediately rang 999. “Sit him comfortably and get him some water.”
Jalil placed some pillows underneath Baba.
“Hello 999 Emergency, which service do you require?”
Jalil returned with a glass of water, giving it to him in small sips.
“Ambulance.”
I watched as Jalil’s face began to sink with worry. The burden of his father’s presence began to shift into compassion and fear of loss. He had never imagined life without his father, as I could not imagine life with mine. His father, particularly in recent years, had always been a reference point, like a map when you’re lost, but always tangible, always real, and mine had been an idea, a memory. We waited for the ambulance to arrive. Baba sat up, trying to make light of his pain. The ambulance arrived swifter than anticipated. They placed Baba in the back, wrapped warmly in a blanket, face in an oxygen mask, blood pressure monitor around his arm, lying back in his kaftan.
“I’m afraid only one of you can come with us in the ambulance.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get a cab and meet you at the hospital,” I replied. I hugged Jalil and gestured a wave to Baba that he did not see.
This relaxing Sunday had taken a direction none of us had anticipated. I arrived at Middlesex North Hospital and walked into the reception area from the foggy autumn cold. I looked around, trying to find my way to cardiology and saw tired faces. I found the room where Baba was being kept. Jalil was standing outside. He saw me before I said hello, and we hugged, holding each other longer than any other circumstance would usually allow.
“How is he?”
“He’s okay. He’s in there now, being assessed.” I breathed a sigh of relief—a gust of wind strong enough to set a ship to sail.
“Thank you for coming, bro.”
“Of course. I’m here for you. For both of you.”
Jalil nodded at me with affirmation, and then stared into an invisible abyss beyond me.
“Don’t you have work tomorrow?” he asked, looking back up at me. I did have work, but I was not thinking about it. Besides, it would show such a lack of compassion for me to leave my best friend without anyone to support him.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Aminah was going to come tonight as well, but I told her not to. It’ll be better for her to come tomorrow. I told her to spend the evening with her father and cherish him as I have failed to cherish mine.”
His words resonated like a gong in my heart, causing a loud, sensitive vibration. Spend the evening with her father. I envy the wrong things sometimes. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and offered some words to affirm him, and perhaps, in turn, to affirm myself. The door to the room opened and the doctor appeared.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Patel,” she said, looking back and forth between Jalil and me, her voice a measured tone of empathy.
“Your father is in a stable condition. He is in good hands and being well taken care of. We do have concerns, though, which will require further examination. We do not want to alarm you, but simply want to make sure we cover every possible base.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Can I go and see him?”
“Yes, you may.”
Jalil walked toward the door and signaled me to follow him. I walked in tentatively behind. Baba was lying flat on the bed, which was angled slightly upward, his eyes closed; a deceptive imitation of sleep.
“Baba…,” Jalil whispered as he slowly approached. He kneeled beside the bed. Baba’s breathing was deep, labored. Jalil held his head in his hands. Two teardrops fell in succession onto the floor. Baba reached forward and touched Jalil; they delicately held each other. Baba removed the breathing apparatus from his face.
“Baba…,” Jalil said, in an almost panicking voice.
“It’s okay… don’t worry,” Baba said, his voice groggy. He squeezed Jalil’s hand a little tighter than before. Jalil nodded.
“My son…”
“Yes, Baba…”
“You have to… fulfill my wish.”
“Yes, Baba.”
“It is my last wish… for you…”
“Yes, Baba.”
“Promise me.”
“Yes, Baba.”
“It is time.”
Baba’s breathing quickly became heavier, which was followed by coughing and spluttering. The nurse came in instantaneously.
“It’s okay, he just needs to rest,” she said, placing the breathing mask back on Baba. “It looks like you need to get some rest too,” she added, patting Jalil on the back. Jalil stood and slowly walked toward me at the door. We left the room together.
“Come back tomorrow. We will call you if there’s a change.”
“Thank you,” Jalil said, graciously.
“This is too much. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said as we left the room, his face a pale version of himself.
“It’s all right. It’ll be all right,” I said as I held him tightly.
I woke up with a resounding headache. My body ached as though a set of bricks had been lifted at one hundred feet above and released down on me. I did not want to move, but the headache became a migraine; an unbearable kind, an ailment of the soul. I got up to search for some food and aspirin.
It was quiet in the house, and cold. I had called in sick, not caring how often it had been lately. I went from the kitchen with my plate, glass of water, and packet of Tylenol, to the living room and found Pastor Baptiste sitting on the sofa, reading a newspaper. He looked up at me, surprised and startled. He scrambled to close his newspaper and stood to greet me. He said hello, switching on the charm and enthusiasm he afforded to others. I gave a reserved response, choosing instead to sit down and eat my food as I had intended. I looked the pastor up and down, analyzing every strand of his being. Nothing gave. The thought of him and Mami sneaking around like teenagers, desperate to be together at the first given opportunity, was repulsive.
“Please do not misunderstand my being here, Michael.” Pastor Baptiste spoke after a long moment of silence. “I did not spend the night,” he stuttered, “I am simply passing by on my way to the church.”
“Frankly, Pastor, I’m beyond caring.” I stared at him with eyes like two clenched fists.
“You know, Michael, I know that tough exterior you are putting on is only skin-deep.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I know, I feel the world of trouble that is disturbing you. You don’t have to talk to me about it, but you are always welcome to.”
“Really?” I replied with as much cynicism as my mouth could carry.
“Of course!”
I scoffed.
“And, if you don’t feel comfortable speaking to me, the Lord is always there to listen. He hears all.” Pastor Baptiste smiled and returned to silence. Mami came out from her bedroom and froze in her steps as she approached, increasing the exploding awkward tension.
“Michael,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” I replied.
“Well…,” Pastor Baptiste said cheeringly, trying to break the tension in the room, “I should be going.” He stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and folded the newspaper under his arm.
“Have a great day, Michael.” I looked up at him, offering nothing but a thin-lipped smile, then back down into my bowl of cereal. He walked over to Mami to say goodbye. I kept my eyes fixated on them, ready to pounce if I saw something I did not approve of. He opened his arms wide, then placed his hands on her shoulders, awkwardly positioning his mouth from a kiss on the lips to one on the cheek, until neither manifested. It all eventually collapsed into an awkward side hug. He walked out, the heels of his leather loafers click-clacking against the laminated wooden floor.
“Take down your hood, man,” I said to Duwayne, as he and the rest of the class entered. The “man” came out inadvertently; it was layered with bitter derision and discontent. The class felt it too. Usually, they were jovial and engaging, giving back to you what you gave to them while also doing the work; however, there were times when they could sense you were not in the “mood” and would approach you like you were a ticking time bomb, hoping you didn’t explode, at least not on them. The rest of the class settled into their work, silently scratching their pens into the paper. I watched Duwayne lounge at the back, his hands tucked into the front of his trousers. I saw flashes of him on that bridge, hood up, hands down, phone waving in the air for pictures, middle finger to the world.
“Get your hands out of your trousers,” I snapped, startling him so much that he quickly lifted them out.
“Are you going to do any work today?” I walked over and slammed his book that he had left behind onto the table. I could feel the rest of the class stop working and lift their heads to watch. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
“Get out of my class!” I erupted, roaring so much my voice echoed. Duwayne got up and walked past my pointed finger leading to the door.
“And the rest of you, get back to work.” I could feel the class quickly lower their heads and continue working. I joined Duwayne outside of the classroom.
“Come here,” I said, as he was walking away, my voice assertive, strong.
“Do you want to explain to me what’s going on?”
He chose to remain silent, exercising a right that I did not grant him. I stared at him more intensely, urging him to speak.
“I’m waiting.”
“I ain’t do nothing.”
“Can’t you see that’s the problem?!” I said, almost in a growl, using all my will to hold back the expletives that were punching their way out of my mouth. He shrugged. I went back into the classroom. The students had been watching the door, as if it would help them see through to the other side. They quickly returned to their work once I entered. I picked up my desk phone and made a call, then sat in my seat, looking out into the back wall. Moments later, Mr. Black arrived at the door, his head rising above the door frame. He would have to duck to enter, but I saved him the effort and joined him outside.
“Sir,” he said, towering above me and Duwayne, making him look like the parent of us both.
“Duwayne here, sir,” I said, “seems to think it’s okay for him to come into my classroom and not do any work.” Mr. Black alternated his head between me and Duwayne as I spoke. “I just don’t know why he thinks this is okay. Especially when he wouldn’t dare to go to basketball practice and do nothing. I know this because I’ve been watching him the past few weeks.”
We both fixed our eyes on Duwayne. He lowered his head, and if, in that moment, a hole had appeared in the ground, he would have placed his head inside it. He appeared vulnerable, timid, exposed. A shadow of the boy on the bridge or the boy in the back of the class or grabbing the other children and pushing them against the wall in the corridors.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Duwayne?” Mr. Black said. Duwayne moved not even a muscle in his body, offering not a shrug or a frown.
“Okay. I’ll take him with me, sir, and maybe he can have a moment to think about his actions.”