Inevitable Flaw

Chapter 6: Déjà vu

Mama stands with her back pressed against a door's frame, arms crossed over her chest. She is shooting blanks at the corresponding wall in front of her. As I progress forward, she turns to look at me, her facial expression transitioning from an abyss to relief. I stand witness as she forces her shoulders to exhale and her teeth to smile awkwardly.

I run towards her open arms, the warm embrace draining all of my worries. As we stand conjoined, I overlook the trembling of her body until it escalates with speed.

"Mama?" I question, my eyes scanning the both of her's. They look away with pain and space.

"Your father is better, I'm just really happy about it."

She's lying; her eye squint a little, a fake smile.

She forces us back, my eyes wide with alarm.

"I have to go and run some errands, you go see your dad," She hastes, her voice flustered. She wipes her tears with the back of her hand before walking away.

The sight of her slow heavy steps, downs me.

As she rounds the corner, I rotate towards the door handle attached to my father's recovery room. The touch brings me back to when I was five.

Ecstatic aura flooded my body every time I was picked up from kindergarten and told that I would be going to the hospital. The thrill of running through the endless hallways and sights of intriguing machines drilled into ill bodies, was over my head. The excitement of being able to watch any cartoon show on my father's hospital television magnetized me even further. I was also fond of the hospital food, especially the popsicles my father would let me consume.

Drowning in pure innocence, the reality of the situation was never introduced to my mind; not once had I asked why my father was always hospitalized. I just carried on with nothing less than an optimistic outlook, a state of mind I often crave when life becomes intolerable.

I pull on the handle and step inside, recalling my whine for assistance to pull this door when it used to be so heavy. A bright room, the window completely bare, welcomes me. In the center, my father lays, his wrist invaded by intravenous therapy. His eyes are closed, the bags heavier than normal. My worry vaporizes at the sight of his color returning to its normal tone.

I take a seat in front of his bed, my mind drifting off.

The coming of age eventually dipped me into reality. It was at around the age of seven when I told mama I didn't want to come with her, explaining how the continuous trips to the hospital bore me. Without a word, mama left Aasif and me with a babysitter every time she went to visit.

But the truth was simple; I didn't want to see the patients, to have to hear family members crying when they announced a death. My nose had no more tolerance left for the aroma of that environment; it smelt of death, and my seven year old body got sick of it.

I remember growing helpless, especially since I wasn't even visiting my father. I deemed myself useful by staying up to research some methods that would help rid his cancer, writing my findings on a piece of paper and keeping them close to my heart when I slept.

They were my secret remedies, just for him.

My father would laugh and kiss me, promising that he would try them out. As the days went by and his illness deepened, I would call him a liar and tell him that I'd never talk to him again, the memory bringing me to tears.

It was not until the age of ten that doctors announced my father's victory. I knew they were lying; my research lectured that cancer couldn't permanently disappear; it was immoral, hiding until a more advanced technology caught it.

Regardless of the temporary liberty, I savored the news. Time was bought, regardless of how much. I had hugged my father's doctor and recall telling him that he was my hero.

"Aamirah, is that you?"

I follow the voice to the bed. His eyes squint in my direction, face wrinkled with confusion. I quickly rub the water out of my tear ducts and clear my throat, proceeding to take a seat adjacent to his bed.

I hold his hand, the warmth taming my shaking body.

"I miss you so much," he expresses, groggily.

"I do too," I reply, the tears winning our fight and falling at mass amounts. I attempt to cover them up with a nervous laugh.

"Don't cry, you know how that makes me feel," he whispers, his fingers gently rubbing the salt water away. His distant eyes reflect the guilt eating him; his belief that the pain aroused to his condition was his fault.

"I know, I just don't like seeing you like this, it's not fair," I speak, my voice in quivers.

He shakes his head.

"This is just another one of God's tests, He knows what He is doing and-"

"God never makes mistakes, everything happens for a reason," I finish for him, smiling.

"I see you have been listening to me," he smirks, squeezing my hand.

"Always," I return with a grin.

We carry on with a normal conversation; I talk to him about school, my classes, and Aasif's soccer games; anything that comes to mind.

A nurse enters after some time, asking I leave. I give him a gentle hug and tell him I love him. As a child, he would ask me how much, and I would respond by saying that I loved him to the moon and back. Now, I realize how much more that is.

It is infinite.

Mama orders pizza to break the fast with the lack of time she gave herself. I offered to cook but she shrugged me off, forcing me to finish my homework.

We are all seated in the dining table, Aasif across from me and mama adjacent. The meal is shortly interrupted by a phone call.

Aasif and I stare at our plates, forcing mama to answer it. I can hear her end of the conversation, the familiarity of her speech quickly hinting the person who called. Within a couple of seconds, she returns.

"It was Adam's mother, she asked if we could come over for dinner tomorrow night."

"So are we going?" I inquire, my heart fluttering.

"Of course we are."

Great.

--

I couldn't sleep; my mind is elsewhere. Random thoughts spring from one nerve to the next, refusing my brain's willingness to close. I stare out the window at the stars and focus on the perfectly clear sky.

The silence is eventually murdered by soft moans; the whimpering continues to a degree where ignorance isn't practical.

I get out of bed, my feet blindly stepping one after the other in darkness until they are a few steps away from mama's room. Her door is slightly open, allowing me a scope of view.

She is sitting on a prayer mat in a fetal position, my father's shirt tightly clasped in her hand. Her mouth strategically lets out cries, those that should be inaudible to others. I quiver as her eyes clasp painfully shut, face begging the ceiling; and at her body that violently vibrates in response to each sob.

I stand there, useless; my body not trained on how to proceed.

I eventually make the decision to leave, not desiring to disturb her closeness to God.

I resolve that I will question her when she is not as vulnerable.

But most selfishly, when I am ready to ask.