Night of Power, page 10
“Outside?” Layla asks, puzzled.
“Yes. He was found in a farm field near Airdrie.”
“But he was supposed to be at the business. He is always at the business,” she says, her eyebrows knitted together. “What was he doing in Airdrie?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure of the details. The police will have them. They should be arriving soon. It will be a part of their investigation. But what I can tell you about is your husband’s health.”
Layla nods. The word investigation makes her nervous. She squeezes her cellphone more firmly.
“We’ve had to intubate your husband.” Dr. Poole rests both palms on the table. “Let me explain what that means. At some point your husband lost his ability to breathe on his own. This can happen when a body is traumatized. The body literally shuts down. Blood rushes away from non-vital organs and goes immediately to life-sustaining ones. The heart. The lungs. That’s actually a good thing, which probably sounds funny. But what happens is that our instinct for survival kicks in.”
Layla silently begins calling the names of the Imams. Mawlana Ali, Mawlana Hussein, Mawlana Zayn al-Abidin, Mawlana Muhammad al-Baqir.
“He didn’t have any vitals when he was found. But the good news is that we were able to resuscitate him in the ambulance. That’s the miracle of the technology we have today. They inserted a tube into his throat which was then hooked up to a ventilator. It’s this machine that breathes for him….”
Layla can barely hear the doctor. She hears the words CT scan, x-ray, blood pressure, but his voice is a distant echo. Her prayers are roaring in her mind. YA ALI. YA ALI. YA ALI. It’s only when the doctor reaches over and gently touches her arm that she hears him again.
“Mrs. Visram, from what we can see, your husband has not sustained any bodily injuries with the exception of a laceration on his left leg and frostbite on several toes and fingers. But that’s nothing to worry about. We’re taking care of that. But what we can’t be sure of is if he has sustained any internal injuries. That’s our first priority. We need to run some tests to find out, but unfortunately we can’t do that until his body warms up.”
The doctor goes on to explain the process of rewarming. He speaks about blankets, a machine that blows hot air over Mansoor’s body, warm fluid IVs, and bladder flushes.
Layla imagines Mansoor encased in ice. She is not interested in the doctor’s technical details. She just wants to know that her husband will be all right. “When will he be unfrozen?”
“If you’re asking about rewarming, the times vary. It could be a couple of hours or the better part of a day or longer. Your husband’s core temperature fell to dangerous levels. Maybe you’d like to see him now?”
“No.” Layla’s hands begin to tremble. She does not want to see her husband the way the doctor has described him, like some kind of machine. “I will see him with my son.”
“Will he be here soon?”
“I hope so.”
“Okay.” Dr. Poole pushes his chair back. “As soon as we know anything, you’ll be the first to hear.”
Outside the Quiet Room, Layla pulls out her cellphone. She presses on the number one, her hands still trembling. The phone makes a sing-song of sounds as it dials Ashif’s number. She is relieved to hear her son’s voice on the other end of the receiver. She wells up with tears and is about to say something when she realizes that it is only his voicemail. “Hey, you’ve reached Ash. You know the drill.” Where is Ashif? She hopes he hasn’t left for Vancouver already. She leaves him a brief message and asks him to return her call, though she knows he will not like this message. “Be clear, Mummy. You know how busy I am. I need to know what you’re calling for. Don’t just say, call me. Give me specifics.”
“Okay, bheta,” Layla had said, but she is stifled by this requirement. Often there are no details to give. She is only calling to say hello, to inquire on how he is, to hear his voice. So she tries to limit the calls she makes to him. She does not want to disturb him. Instead, she waits for him to call her, just as she will now.
Chapter 15
WHEN ASHIF FINALLY CALLS his mother, it’s past eight in the morning and he’s checking out of his hotel in Calgary. He has two employee meetings this morning before he leaves for Vancouver. He’d seen her missed calls. One from yesterday and one today. But neither message said anything. Just, “call me.”
“But that makes no sense, Mummy,” Ashif says to his mother, adjusting his tie. “A farm field?”
“Yes,” Layla says loudly as if she is speaking to someone overseas. “Near Airdrie.”
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” he asks curtly. “Didn’t you ask the doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“They are thawing him out.”
“Sorry?” He presses his thumb to his ear.
“Defrost,” Layla says loudly.
“You mean frostbite?” he offers.
“The doctor said frostbite.”
“Okay, good. So he’s okay.” He’s relieved that his father’s injuries are minor. Once, when he was a child, he had frostbite. He had forgotten his gloves and toque at home. He just tucked his hands into his winter jacket, but there was no way to protect his head from the icy temperature. After recess, his ears were red and raw and he was sure they would fall off. The school nurse treated him for frostbite and sent a note home with him listing appropriate winter clothing and stores where they could be purchased. If needed, the school could pay for the items. Layla tore up the note and made him promise not to tell his father. He didn’t. Ashif asked her to sew his gloves to his coat, like the other kids, and she did.
“What else did the doctor say?” he asks briskly, trying to get his mother to get to the point. He checks his watch. He has a flight to catch.
“They will do some tests,” Layla continues, “but not until he has finished thawing out.”
“But thawing doesn’t make sense, Mummy!” he says, his frustration growing. He can’t tell if his mother is withholding information to prevent him from worrying or if she hadn’t understood what the doctors told her. Or maybe she hadn’t asked any questions, deferring, as she always did, to authority whether it was a doctor, a police officer, or his father. He holds the receiver between his shoulder and chin and slips off his suit jacket. “What does Pappa say?”
“Nothing. I have not seen him yet.”
“I’m calling the hospital right now,” Ashif says firmly, like a teacher reprimanding a child.
“But I don’t want to see him without you, bheta. Please come,” Layla says, now crying.
Ashif suddenly feels guilty for being harsh with his mother. The same feeling of sinking into quicksand. “Everything will be okay, Mummy,” he says. He reminds himself she has no one else she can count on. Just him. “I’ll be there soon.”
When he hangs up, he tells Mel that he needs to leave after their morning meetings to take care of a family matter. He then asks her to handle the first few meetings in Vancouver without him. She agrees and he rebooks himself on the next flight out.
Chapter 16
MANSOOR TUCKS A STACK of bills and rolled coins into a bank bag. It’s only seven-thirty in the evening. A little early to be cashing out, but he’s eager to get home tonight and tell Layla his news even if he’s not sure she’ll fully understand its importance. That doesn’t matter to him. He has a great need to say it out loud. Tell someone. He reaches into his shirt pocket and removes the faxed letter that arrived an hour ago. He slips on his bifocals and reads it yet again. “Yes-yes-yes!” Abrahams & Abrahams approved his mortgage. Just like that. The interest rate is higher, but what does it matter? He can finally buy his plant, show the City his power.
He retrieves his cellphone from his pants pocket and tries Ashif again. That’s who he really wants to tell. Now his son will believe him. Not doubt him as he did this morning at breakfast. “I’m on my way up, son!” What a difference a day makes. The phone makes a sing-song of sounds and soon, he gets the same voice recording. “We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” Mansoor shakes his head. Why didn’t Ashif give him his new number? He’ll call his son when he gets home. Layla will have the right number, no doubt.
He collects his winter coat and briefcase from the backroom. At the front of the store, he catches a glimpse of himself in the glass door. He throws a punch at the faint image. “Look at you now, Visram!” Another punch. “You were right all along, weren’t you?” He flips the OPEN sign over to CLOSED, turns off the lights, and steps out of his store.
* * *
Mansoor and his boss stood at the back of a massive showroom. Outside, a neon sign blinked on and off. PATTERSON USED CARS & TRUCKS. Behind them, plaques with a photograph of a salesman and a bronze plate engraved with a name and month. The Salesman of the Month Award. The Wall of Fame. Mansoor’s face appeared, again and again, under years 1973 to 1979.
“Come on now, Manny, if you want to see these,” his boss said, tilting his head toward the wall, “then don’t quit on me.” He was a large man with a boyish face.
“I’ll bring the plaques back, Fred.” Mansoor slapped Patterson on his shoulder. “Since when have I let you down?”
“I’m losing my best man. You can’t expect me to be happy about it.”
“I understand,” Mansoor said. But there was no turning back. He had joined Patterson Used Cars & Trucks almost as soon as he arrived in Canada. The job was commission-based, which appealed to him. He was paid on performance, not a salary for merely clocking in. It was as close as a job could get to being like a business. But in the end, it was still just a job. He was just an employee. He had a boss to answer to and there was no way Mansoor could have tolerated that for much longer. Working here had always been a temporary venture. Only until he had enough money to put a down payment on his own business. Business was the only way. The only way to own land, to call something your own, and rebuild the family legacy.
It had taken five years of working day and night, weekends, too, keeping a tight control on spending, to finally amass the funds he needed. He then spent the past year combing the province on evenings and his days off in search of the right opportunity. He’d been outbid on three promising operations. Then last month, he closed a deal on a gas station. It was located on an empty stretch of highway between Rocky Mountain House and Red Deer, two hours north of Calgary, making it a primary stop for truckers and oilmen on their way to a work site, construction workers from nearby projects, tourists and campers on their way to the Icefields Parkway, or motorists caught in a snowstorm. But he had no plans to move the family there. He wasn’t confident that he’d be able to find Ashif a good school in such a small town and a proper education for his son was imperative. It had been hard enough to get him a place at Calgary’s best public school. Besides, it was a temporary matter. Once the gas station was on solid ground, he would hire a manager to run it and expand with a second location, closer to home.
“If you ever decide to come back, Manny, there’ll always be a spot for you here.” Patterson tucked his thumbs under his suspenders. “Business is a tough proposition, after all.”
“Thanks, Fred.” Mansoor loosened his tie. This idiot should be working for him, not the other way around. He had more business acumen in his pinky finger than his boss had in his whole body.
“So, what you gonna do with all these plaques? Sell them?” Patterson chuckled.
Mansoor laughed along. “I just want to take some photos at home with the family. For the sake of posterity, you know? Don’t want to forget these years.”
“Well, it’s quite an accomplishment. Just bring them back, okay?” Patterson said and started for his office.
“Absolutely. First thing.” Mansoor stepped onto the ladder and reached up for a plaque with his name.
Soon, the accountant, Patel, a slight man with greasy hair, walked up. “Just finished lunch,” he said in Gujarati, pulling the fingers of his right hand through a handkerchief. “Let me help you, brother.”
“English, please!” Mansoor ordered in a sharp whisper as he handed him a plaque. One of Patel’s brothers was the janitor here and another, a junior salesman. The brothers often lunched together in the backroom, bringing tiffins of curries from home. The insides of their lockers were tiny altars adorned with bronze Ganeshas and incense sticks. They performed poojas there and unabashedly continued their day with red-and-yellow markings on their foreheads. Mansoor complained to Patterson about it, saying it would chase customers away. But Patterson said it didn’t matter. Most of them were just back-office staff. No one would see them anyway. But that was beside the point. Mansoor would still have to see them.
When he was done, Mansoor weaved through the cars to the front of the showroom. Patel followed with the box of plaques like a lackey. Mansoor’s colleagues gathered like penguins in their dark suits and white shirts, marching in formation, to say goodbye. Some patted him on the back and wished him luck, others shook his hand and congratulated him. But he knew that most of them were happy to see him go. No more competition.
“Stop wasting your time with goodbyes,” Patterson said, popping his head out from his office. “He’s coming back with the plaques tomorrow.”
On his way home, Mansoor stopped at Marlborough Mall and pulled in front of a row of Dumpsters at the back of the building. He unloaded the boxes from his trunk, hoisted each one up and into the bin. The plaques clanged against the metal before landing on the pile of garbage. Wall of Shame, more like it! His good name was now permanently erased from that low place. As if he had never worked there. The money he saved there had been converted, like money at a foreign exchange, into his new business. He was starting his real life, the one he was supposed to be living.
* * *
Mansoor treads across the icy parking lot to the far end of the plaza, where he unlocks the bank’s night deposit vault and drops the canvas bag of his day’s earnings inside. He decides to buy a bottle of champagne on the way home. Yes, why not? Layla doesn’t drink, but maybe tonight she’ll have a sip. She’s done it before. An image comes to him of her taking a sip of his whisky at a party then scrunching up her face before spitting it out. He laughed then as he does now. Better buy a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, too. He doesn’t want to drink alone.
Chapter 17
AT THE HOSPITAL, ARZEEN informs Layla and the growing number of community members that the medical staff have started a series of internal tests. The results will be available soon. Mansoor’s body has responded well to the rewarming regimen.
“You doctors are top class,” a senior says, tipping his fedora to Arzeen.
“She’s not a doctor,” Almas whispers.
“She can be my doctor anytime,” he says with a wink to Arzeen.
Arzeen shakes her head and turns away.
“Our prayers are working,” another senior says, clenching her prayer beads to the ceiling.
“Let’s get the test results first,” Arzeen cautions.
“True, but it can’t be a bad sign, no, that his body is waking up like this?” the senior adds.
“True.” Arzeen sits down between Layla and Shamma.
After more and more people arrive, Arzeen arranges for the group to move from the waiting room to a family room. “We’ll be more comfortable in here,” she says to Layla, making Layla even more thankful for the girl’s constant presence today. The room is a rectangle, like a small hall. It has three pea-coloured couches and padded folding chairs, some of which are clustered into small groups. The door to an adjoining room, an extension to the main room, is held open with a chair that is stacked with winter jackets. The smaller room is also filled with people from the community, many holding paper plates filled with snacks brought by the constant flow of visitors. Aluminum platters of nylon-bhajia, potato-kachoori, and chutneys are spread on the tables of both rooms along with boxes of Timbits, used Tim Hortons cups, and dirty serviettes.
For the first time since Layla arrived at the hospital four hours ago, she feels that she can finally breathe. Soon, they will have some news.
“How many months, dhikri?” Shamma asks, rubbing Arzeen’s belly.
“Seven months, Aunty,” she replies, beaming. “I’m due at the end of April.”
“How old are your twins now?” Shamma asks.
“The boys just turned three. I can’t believe it.”
“And this one?” Layla asks. “A boy or a girl?”
“A girl,” she says, rubbing her belly, “and we couldn’t be happier.”
* * *
They tried for close to a year for a second child. Layla was sure she was too old. She was almost forty. Then the doctor gave them the news. She was pregnant. When Ashif found out, he begged her to have a boy. “No sisters!” Layla laughed. “It’s not up to me, bheta. God will give us what he thinks we deserve.”
She had done everything right, went to all her checkups, did everything the doctor said. At seven months, she had an appointment to see an ultrasound of the baby. But instead of the boom-boom-boom of her little girl’s heartbeat, there was nothing. Her baby was dead.
The placenta had attached too deeply, the doctor explained. She would still have to deliver the baby. Layla did not remember taking the pills or being rushed into the operating room, though she did remember Mansoor’s face as he ran beside the stretcher, his fingers clenched around the steel railing. She moaned and pushed until finally they had to cut her open and remove the baby. And all her womanly parts, too.
“Would you like to hold her for a bit?” a nurse offered.
Layla nodded. She pulled away the pink blanket, examined the baby’s face, her tiny arms and legs, counted her fingers and her toes.
