They keep Dad in jail.
Mr. Bhanjee tells us to hang tough. “Things look bad, but the evidence is weak. A single e-mail. And no mention of dangerous substances or any public threat. I’ll be filing papers immediately, demanding to see evidence of this so-called ‘new, unidentified terrorist.’”
Dad’s e-mail and the mystery terrorist: that’s the big news on TV. There’s speculation about who the terrorist might be. One of Dad’s co-workers? Someone from our mosque? There’s an interview with a criminal profiler. He says the secret conspirator is likely “an unemployed male with low self-esteem.” On the other hand, he could be “a high achiever.” A reporter suggests “he” could even be a woman, noting the female suicide bombers in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“Great,” Mom says bitterly. “The suspect is anybody brown.”
If the weekend was bad, the rest of today is hell.
Mr. Bhanjee says not to jump to conclusions: “There’s nothing to tie this unidentified terrorist to your father.”
Mom nods her head.
Are they blind? Dad and another suspect from the Rochester area are linked to the same foreign terrorist cell. And they don’t know each other? What are the odds?
“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” I say, as another image of Dr. Death, a.k.a. Dad, flashes on the screen.
“Oh yes, you are,” Mom says. “All of them out there, they’re waiting to see us crack. Well we won’t. We’re Sabiris. We stick together no matter what.”
“Mom! Think what he tried to do!”
She slaps me. I stare at her in shock. A look of horror crosses her face. She hugs me close. “Forgive me. But your father needs our strength. We musn’t betray him.”
“Like, he hasn’t betrayed us?” I whisper. “Like, he hasn’t betrayed our country?”
A long pause. “We don’t know that. All we know is, your father is your father.”
It’s the middle of the night.
I’m staring at that framed photo on my bedside table, the one of me and Dad from his office. Who is he? Who is he really? I don’t know. I don’t care. I hate him. He’s ruined my life. Mom’s too.
I go to throw it in the garbage. But I can’t.
Dad.
I remember the time I had whooping cough. I thought my lungs were going to rip themselves inside out. I thought I was going to die. Dad stayed by my side day and night for a week, rocking me and singing me Persian lullabies, not caring if he got sick. Just willing me to be well.
Or there was the time before I met Andy and Marty, when I was little and all alone. I remember how one day he found me crying, and he held me and told me how his granny smuggled him out of Iran, how he came to North America without family or friends, how he was so scared he wanted to die, how he met Mom and had me and then everything got better. “You’ll get through this,” he said. “I promise.” And I burrowed my head into his chest, and for a while I didn’t mind not having friends, because I had him and Mom, and nothing else mattered.
Mom’s right. Dad wouldn’t do what they say he’s done. There’s got to be another explanation. Maybe Hasan pretended to be a scientist working on a project, or a conference delegate—the leader of a terror cell could easily forge credentials. Maybe Dad was giving Hasan secret research reports, thinking he was legit.
Then why did he want to break off contact? Why was he scared to get caught taking “the items” out of storage?
Because—because maybe Hasan claimed to be a bio-lab inspector. Maybe Dad was acting as a whistleblower!
A bio-lab inspector? The way he was dressed in those photos?
Okay. So what if Dad knew he was a fake, and planned a sting? Dad could have given Hasan stuff to set him up, but it wasn’t viruses or spores, it was innocent stuff like flour and foot powders—only before Dad could spring his trap, the cops jumped.
How old are you, Sami? Two?
Fine, I don’t have the answers. All I know is, sure Dad’s strict, and he makes me mad, and he’s embarrassed me more times than I can remember. But he’s not this evil, wild-eyed maniac.
What does evil look like, Sami? If monsters looked like monsters, we’d know who to run from. But they don’t. The scariest monsters look like family and friends. They’re the ones that get you. The ones you trust. You let them into your heart, and then it’s too late. They’ve got you. You’re dead. Ask Andy. He thought he knew his dad too.
No! I hit my head over and over, but the voice gets louder. I grab the photo of me and Dad, smash the frame face down on the floor, and shove it, hard, under my bed. I imagine the splintered glass tearing into the paper, shredding Dad’s face.
The ceiling and the floor are spinning.
I run to the washroom and throw up.