Just Make Du'aa

• t w e n t y • t w o •

Un-edited chapter

Farouz

What do you say? Huh? What do you say as you drive with your wife through a torn-up, shabby neighborhood to your childhood home, where you were abused and mistreated in a hundred different ways? What could I possibly say? The drive was deathly quiet, Dina was optimistic, but even then, there was nothing to say. In all honesty, I'm terrified, and I'll turn this car back around in a second. But when I told Dina I'd go, and asked her if she'd come with me, she didn't hesitate. My wife wholeheartedly believes that this will be good for me, and I owe it to the two of us to see if she's right.

As we drove, I said nothing. And when I pulled up infront of the all too familiar house, I couldn't say anything. My mind was running, and I wanted to tell Dina everything. But everything in me froze when I saw that green door. The small, narrow door with rust and stains all over it. It looks the exact same as it did nearly nine years ago. The windows were even dirtier and muckier than I remembered. Something told me that they haven't been cleaned since I left. The walls were covered in vines and moss, giving the house it's final touch to make it a place straight out of my worst nightmares.

Then I thought about the people inside it, and I saw a shadow flash across a window. My breath hitched in my chest. Who was that? My mother? Or my father? How would they react when they saw me, when they learned about who I've become? How would they make me look to Dina? I turned to her, this woman who knows about my past and sits here because she wants me to have a comfortable future; and this sick twisted part of me actually believed that once she saw what was on the other side of that green door, she wouldn't love me anymore.

"You ready?" she pulled me out of my thoughts by a light tug on my sleeve, "don't worry Farouz. I will be next to you, every step and every second."

I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned over, kissing her lips and lingering as if they were my lifeline. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to just hold and kiss her, and forget everything else. Her kiss back was gentle, and patient. She knew I was stalling, that I was scared, and she let me take my time.

Finally, I pulled back, prayed to God for help, and opened the door. As soon as I was at the front of the car Dina was next to me. Her small hands wrapping around my right hand as I focused on breathing and putting one leg in front of the other. I raised my left hand up to knock, but it was as if my bones turned to stone. "I can't," I breathed, stepping back. Dread washed over me like a bucket of ice, taking my breath away with a shocking speed. "I can't."

My ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, my throat turned dry, and my eyes shut against my will. For the first time in years, a panic attack took over me, and pulled me into a depth I couldn't swim out of. I felt as if I were about to suffocate, as if my lungs were milliseconds away from bursting due to lack of air. Time ticked by slowly, I felt every second with every beat of my heart pounding in my ears.

Something squeezed my shoulders so hard it forced my eyes to open, and I saw Dina. Her eyes wide, her hands dripping onto my shoulders. Her expression was afraid, but also calm and determined. I saw her lips moving but my ears refused to work so I focused on her eyes. She's grounded, determined, strong. I numbly lifted my hands and set them on her cheeks, she smiled, and her eyes lit up even more. Slowly, her words made their way into my head, "...your time, I'm right here. I love you Farouz."

I gulped and nodded, collecting myself, drying my eyes. "I love you," I told her, then pressed my lips together, marched over to the door, and knocked before I could think.

The time went by too fast, and the rusty doorknob twisted open just as Dina walked over and slipped her hand in mine. The door was pulled back, and there she stood, my mother. It was as if my eyes were glued to her face, she aged so much. Her once red lips now dripped and lacked color. Her clothes hung on her as if they covered only bone. She smelled of drugs and beer yet I still missed her. My mother never beat me, not physically. Yes, she used me as a shield and watched as my father dug into me with all he could, but she never laid a hand on me. Now I'm educated and I know that she is as much to blame as my father, but still, part of me felt like she did care, at least a little. And maybe if my father was different, she could have loved me.