The Miracle

Three

I couldn't cry, even if I wanted to. Rage and fury consumed me. Had I had the nerves and strength to, I would have lifted the mahogany table in the doctor's office and hauled it to the wall. I was that furious. Barely had I gotten over Sunday's death completely and I had lost Dad, too. Why? Why did Dad have to die? Why did God have to take him away from me forever? If at all there was even a God like people say. I mean, I had prayed to this so-called God to save Dad and Sunday, but still, I lost them both.

Mum!

I was mad at Mum. How could she lie to me? How could she lie to me that God was going to save Dad if I prayed? Why did she even make me believe in some invisible deity she said was up there above the sky watching over us when there was nothing to show for it? Mum had also said the prayers of children were always answered, why wasn't mine?

Simple: it's all a hoax, all lies to make you believe an Almighty being loves and cares about sinners like you. Some voice echoed in my ears.

What about your miraculous birth? Have you suddenly forgotten you were born dead? How do you think you're alive today? Another voice.

There's something called luck. You are just lucky to be alive.

Nothing gives life to a creature except the creator.

Why didn't the creator save your brother and father then?

The voices contending in my head were upsetting. To drown them all out, I covered my ears with my hands and let out a scream. Afterward, I bolted out of the office. I had no idea where I was running to; I just ran. While I did, I heard the voice of the doctor holler after me, "Nurse, get that young boy! Don't let him get away." And before I knew it, I was grabbed from behind and hoisted by the nurse whom I just ran past.

"Leave me alone!" I struggled to get off her while flailing my legs in the air. "Let me go!" I felt her grip tighten around my stomach as she headed back toward the doctor's office. This commotion got much attention in the hospital, but I cared less. I kept shouting and struggling to be released. When we got to the doctor's office, the nurse put me down, and I immediately turned around to run out again but she was quick to get in the way. "Leave my way!" I demanded as I moved from left to right, but the nurse kept blocking me.

"Madam, we sympathize with you for the demise of your husband but we need you to muster up the fortitude to bear the loss, especially for your son. You have to get a grip on him before he does anything silly." The doctor said to Mum who was now sitting on the floor crying.

"Miracle." Mum called while crying, but I ignored her. "Miracle, please!" Now she wailed.

I stopped.

I stopped trying to get away from the office as my efforts seemed useless. The nurse wasn't going to allow me, anyway, and she was stronger. I turned around to look at Mum. She looked a complete mess: her hair — which was neatly pulled to the back before arriving at the hospital — was disheveled; her face was smudged with so much pain and her eyes were bloodshot. Seeing Mum that way, I couldn't help it, I broke down in tears. I cried uncontrollably. I moved to her and hugged and cried on her shoulder. Why did Dad have to die?

Now it was just both of us against the world.

***

Dad's funeral was done a day after his death, as was the Islamic tradition. Grandma didn't care if Dad had been a Christian convert before he died; all she knew was that she and her husband had given birth to him as a Muslim. And as long as she was alive, she was going to bury him the way the religion demands. Mum didn't protest. How could she? Asides from even the fact that she had no funds to give her husband a befitting burial, she was a woman who had no relative to support her, should she have protested. She and her family had lost all connection since she was sent away from home. And for that, she was filled with so much resentment for them. So she had just me, and who was I, in the scheme of things?