Spilled Ink, page 12
“Please don’t try to move him,” she says. “In case he has any injuries to his spinal cord, it’s best not to move him, especially his neck. The EMTs will be able to stabilize him.”
“Don’t move him!” I shout at my parents. My father stops trying to get Yusuf’s head onto his lap but keeps his hands on my brother’s arms. “Don’t touch his neck. You might hurt his spine.”
My mother pulls her hands away and I see them shaking.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says.
She puts her hands on either side of his face, though, because she needs to touch him. She leans in, her body in a prayer pose, and presses her cheek to his. Maybe she’s trying to warm him. She’s talking to him but I can’t make out what she’s saying because the 911 operator is asking me more questions. Three voices are coming at me while I’m trying to listen for Yusuf’s, and my head feels like it’s glitching.
I look up. We’re below the music studio, where the walkway goes past the door and wraps around the side. One end of the handrail has come away from the building, jutting out into the air. Mom was headed that way but didn’t make it around the corner. Dad’s yelling brought her back down the stairs.
The second story looks so far up that Yusuf might as well have fallen from the sky.
My dad presses an ear to Yusuf’s chest again. He keeps checking, then searching the road for a sign of help. One car passes by with music blaring. Another set of headlights goes past and my heart sinks.
I don’t know why it’s taking the ambulance so long to get here.
The 911 operator stays on the line with me. She promises the EMTs are almost there. She tells me I’m doing all the right things, but all I’m doing is holding my brother’s hand, which I probably haven’t done since we were in pre-K.
The parking lot lights up with swirling red and blue lights. I run over to flag the ambulance down. Everything happens so fast but not fast enough. We give up our places at my brother’s side so the EMTs can listen to his chest and lift him onto a stretcher. My mother clambers into the back of the ambulance with Yusuf. Once she’s under the lights, I see a streak of dried blood on her cheek, like she’s wounded too.
My father and I hurry back to our car to follow them to the hospital. There aren’t many cars on the road and he follows close behind the ambulance, running through red lights. The piercing wail of the sirens is the only thing that makes any sense at all right now.
We pull into the hospital parking lot, in a spot closest to the red awning of the emergency department. I’ve only gone through these sliding doors with my grandmother. She suffered a small stroke first, then another stroke that was a little bigger. After that, she had a new diagnosis every other month. Hip fracture. Pneumonia. Urinary tract infection. I hated to watch my grandmother wincing as a needle slid through her papery skin. My mother would always sit with her and squeeze Bibi Jan’s free hand, though I wondered if she was doing it to comfort Bibi Jan or if it was the other way around.
We burst into the waiting room; people watching the television in the corner look up. I walk up to the clerk at the registration desk and give him my brother’s name. I tell him they came by ambulance. He nods and looks from me to his computer screen.
My brother is in a trauma bay. People are working on him while a doctor talks to us outside the room. We recap what we know about what happened to Yusuf tonight, which is close to nothing. My mother shakes her head when the doctor asks if Yusuf has any medical problems or if he’s taking any medications.
“No, no, no. He’s very healthy,” she insists, even as he lies unconscious a few feet away.
“Does he smoke or drink or use any drugs? As far as you know?”
My father shakes his head.
“No, no. He’s a good boy,” he says.
The doctor nods and smiles politely. Does she not believe us?
We’re ushered to the waiting room. They’re stabilizing Yusuf. They’re taking him for scans. He may need surgery. My parents blink back tears and sign papers.
They let my mother go back to be with Yusuf but warn her that they need space to work and that there’s going to be a lot happening.
“Okay, I promise. Yes, I promise,” she says, as if she’s afraid she might be pulled away from him again. My dad and I are left alone in the waiting room. People watch us from the corner of their eyes. Curious? Concerned? When I look at them, their gazes slip away.
We slump into chairs, eyes opening and closing. Moments later, my mother returns, followed by a grim-faced surgeon who tells us he’s going to take Yusuf to surgery to remove a blood clot that’s compressing his brain. My mother’s face goes pale. She’s murmuring something I can’t understand. My father bites his lip. We nod and remain standing for a long time after the doctor is gone. At some point, he returns and tells us that the surgery went well but it will be a long time before we know if Yusuf will be okay or what kind of damage the blood clot caused.
I want to ask him why Yusuf wouldn’t be okay if the surgery went well, but he’s explaining to my father where the intensive care unit is. My father doesn’t bother telling him that we already know. He just nods and thanks the surgeon.
Two police officers arrive and pull us aside. They take turns asking questions and jotting down notes. We tell them everything was normal today. Yusuf and I walked to school. He came home and picked up his car to go to the music shop.
“And around what time was that?” the officer asks each step of the way. They ask about his friends and if there was anyone he didn’t get along with. They ask about his mood and if he was seeing a therapist. We’re asked again if Yusuf was using any drugs or drinking or staying out late.
“Late?” my father asks, sliding an arm around my mother’s shoulders. Sure, there were nights Yusuf was playing with his band. Or practicing with them. “He’s studying and working. His grades are all A. He is thinking about law school.”
Whether or not Yusuf wants to be a lawyer doesn’t matter right now.
“What are you getting at?” I ask the police officers because I’m really not sure where this conversation is going.
The younger officer straightens his shoulders while the older officer directs his reply to my father.
“We’re trying to get an idea of when this accident might have happened. That side of the building isn’t easy to see, so it’s possible no one saw your son fall.”
“Toba khoda,” my mother mumbles, repenting for whatever she might have done to bring on this calamity.
“Where are you all from?” the younger officer asks.
“Afghanistan,” my father answers.
“Oh, interesting,” says the police officer, as if this detail has shed fresh light on the situation. He makes one final note before sliding his pen into his pocket. They’ll be in touch, they say. One officer nods in the direction of the doors behind us and tells us Yusuf is in good hands.
“This is not an accident. Somebody hurt my son,” my mom says with conviction.
“Ma’am, we’re taking a good look around to see what we can figure out. That railing was rusted pretty bad.”
“But how could he—”
“We’ll take a close look and see what we can figure out. With young people, there are always surprises. And if you hear anything, let us know. Right now, we’re going to let you focus on your son and his medical care.”
My mom blinks quickly, then looks over her shoulder to the doors and hallways that lead to Yusuf. My dad runs his hands through his hair and stares at the floor. The officers slip away and I feel curious eyes on us.
My mouth feels dry and sticky. I fish a dollar from my mother’s wallet and get myself a cold bottle of water from the vending machine. The water soothes my hot throat. A mother comes through the doors and walks up to the clerk. She has one baby in her arms and is holding a coughing toddler by the hand. We’ve watched people come and go without realizing that it’s morning now. I am trying to stifle a yawn when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
It’s a text message from Asma.
Hey where are you?
I take a deep breath.
Hospital. Yusuf just had surgery.
Typing it out makes it suddenly more real.
Three dots appear on my screen, then disappear. Asma can’t figure out what to say to this, I’m sure. She’s the type who whispers words like cancer or racist. I don’t blame her for being speechless now.
Is he okay? Surgery for what??
I’ve already answered a lot of questions tonight, but this is my best friend asking. This is someone I want to talk to.
Blood clot on his brain. He just got out of surgery.
OMG. Is he okay? What happened?
He didn’t come home last night. We found him outside Crescendo. He fell from the second-floor balcony.
I look at what I’ve typed. The letters form words but the text is so wrong. It looks like a made-up story and still I hit send.
Did he fall? Was he pushed? That building is in terrible shape. Could the railing have given way? Why would Yusuf have been leaning on that corner of the balcony anyway? He should have been walking in the opposite direction to get to his car.
But he’s going to be okay?
I don’t know how to answer. What had the surgeon said?
The surgery went well.
I look over at my parents. My mother’s resting her head against my dad’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed but I can tell she’s not asleep. They’ve moved so that their backs are turned toward the television. Like me, she’s probably just sick of watching infomercials for garden hoses or staring at the dust balls in the corner of the room. Maybe she won’t open her eyes again until the nurse tells her we can see Yusuf.
I check my phone. Three little dots appear and disappear. Of course. Who would know what to say in a situation like this? I sit in an empty chair and stare at the screen. I’m sick of this room too.
It’s another two minutes before Asma replies. It’s a sad face emoji followed by prayer hands.
I press the button and my phone goes dark. I lean back in the chair and spy my father speaking softly to my mother. He squeezes her hand and touches his lips to her temple. She leans into him.
Maybe my mother’s right. Maybe texts shouldn’t count as true communication.
17
“And do I have it right that you’re Yusuf’s sister?” the nurse asks. He’s wearing pale blue scrubs and white sneakers. He has a gentle smile, the kind that comes more from the eyes than the lips. I nod. “I’m William. What’s your name?”
“Yalda,” I say, and remembering my manners, I add, “Nice to meet you, William.”
“Under happier circumstances would have been preferable, but likewise. Yalda. That’s a pretty name. I bet it means something nice. Am I right?”
“It’s the winter solstice,” I say. My voice sounds automated. I leave out the parts I loved hearing as a child—that Yalda marked the birth of the sun goddess, Mithra, in a religion that gives us some of our traditions. Mom would tell us about nights sweetened by rock candy and stories, one about a little girl named Yalda who convinced a frightened town that the witch they feared was a lonely, kind woman.
“Oh, I love that,” he says, because he hasn’t connected that the winter solstice was when Yusuf was rushed into the operating room. “And Yusuf is a great name, too. Pretty legendary.”
“Yeah, he kind of is,” I say, and I feel suddenly grateful for this stranger’s warmth. My brother is in good hands, I’m sure of it.
“Tell me something about Yusuf,” William says while he enters information into a computer on wheels.
What should I say? I look at Yusuf, half expecting him to speak for himself.
“My mom named him after a prophet,” I say. “Yusuf. Joseph. Same guy. When we were little, my mom would tell him he was just as handsome as Joseph.”
Yusuf had to do some digging to learn about his namesake. He had shouted for me to come to his room, where he sat at his computer grinning like he’d just gotten an invite to open for Coldplay at their next concert. He tapped on the screen and waited for me to take in the discovery. I stood behind him and read over his shoulder about the Prophet Yusuf being so ravishingly good-looking that his master’s wife could not keep her hands off him. The guy’s wife needed her girlfriends to see for themselves so she invited them over for apples, and when Yusuf walked through the room, the hungry-eyed women lost their minds and sliced through their palms with paring knives. The tale made me wonder what other juicy scenarios were in these holy stories and why we didn’t talk about this more.
For a full week, Yusuf acted as if he could cause women to melt for him. It was a long, hard week of eye rolling for me. We were young then, and any mention of people lusting after each other called for an enthusiastic demonstration of disgust, even if I did secretly wonder what it would be like to be the object of someone’s affection.
“He learned about his namesake in the holy texts?” William asks.
“Wikipedia, actually.” I smile despite myself. It almost hurts to do so.
“Ah, the other sacred texts,” William replies. Mom steps back into the room then, looking from my smile to Yusuf to see if something’s changed for the better. I bite my lip as William, who noticed me stiffening, leans in slightly to offer a few words of advice. “My two cents? It’s important to keep your spirits up. It’s good for everyone, including Yusuf.”
Yusuf had been . . . extra that day. He’d spun out of his chair and run off to ask her. Mom, did you know this story? I didn’t follow him because while Yusuf stopped reading after the second paragraph, my eyes stayed on the screen. I closed out the website before I walked away and never did tell my brother what else happened to his namesake—that he was thrown into a well by his envious brothers and left to die.
I hadn’t dwelled on that part of the story because I couldn’t even have imagined anything more than a paper cut happening to my brother.
I squeeze Yusuf’s hand and see him grimace.
William notices and calls it “really great progress,” which causes my mom to tilt her head back and say a prayer. I’ve never seen my parents pray so much.
William checks the bag of clear fluids hanging over Yusuf’s bed, following the clear tubing as it leads into the back of his right hand. He moves to the computer in the corner of the room and stares at the screen. Click. Click click click. He rolls the computer aside and turns his attention to my mother.
“We usually allow only two visitors at a time, but I know how important it is for you all to be here with Yusuf right now. Mrs. Jamali, if you need water or a blanket, just let me know.” There’s a soothing drawl to his voice, like a warm mug to cold hands. Mom thanks him, her voice hoarse and her eyes on my brother.
Yusuf’s head is wrapped up, like a gauze turban. Another square of gauze covers his left eyebrow. His face is pale and swollen, with a breathing tube going down into his mouth. There’s tape on his face to hold it all together. The fluorescent hospital lights exaggerate every bruise, each place Yusuf’s skin has been rubbed away. All that had been concealed in the dark is now brutally exposed, and I can’t look away. A white sheet covers Yusuf’s bottom half, except for his right leg, which has been casted. Yusuf’s spinal cord wasn’t injured in the fall, which seems like a miracle. He has two rib fractures and a broken bone in his left arm, but it’s been casted as well. I want to get closer to Yusuf but I’m afraid I’ll dislodge something vital.
“We’re going to be watching him closely,” William tells us as he lifts the edge of the sheet near the foot of the bed. There’s a plastic bag with measurement markings on it. It’s filled with amber fluid, which I quickly realize is Yusuf’s urine. I look away, feeling like I’ve trespassed. His hand is a little warmer than it was in the woods, but not by much.
He doesn’t look like my brother. He looks disassembled. I turn away and try to take some deep breaths without my parents noticing. The air in the room is thin, like all the oxygen is being drawn into the machine that’s breathing for my brother.
Visitors walking into this unit look nervous. If they’ve brought flowers, they hold them tight to their chests like a shield.
I know ICU stands for intensive care unit. In my head, it’s a whisper.
I see you.
Do they? They see only what their machines can read. They see only what they can dress with gauze or reposition with tape.
They don’t see the real you, Yusuf.
My head gets light and the room seems to wobble around me.
“Honey, are you okay?” William asks. He’s at my side, pulling me into a chair. I don’t know how he crossed the room so fast.
A few minutes later, I’m back in the car. My father is driving me home so I can get some sleep. My mother stays with Yusuf. The car ride passes in silence, my head bumping against the cool window. Drivers stop their cars at red lights and I spot a woman checking her lipstick in her rearview mirror. An elderly man walks a terrier on the sidewalk. All these people are under the impression today is a normal day, like last night was just another moonless night.
I walk into the house and glance into the living room. The Yalda table, which Mom had cleared before we’d tracked Yusuf, has only the tablecloth and half-melted candles on it. My dad hangs his keys on the hook by the door and asks me if I’m hungry. I shake my head and go straight to my room. I leave my socks on, put my phone on the charger, and slide under my comforter. I’ve slept about four hours over the past two nights and it’s hitting me now. Dad pokes his head in my doorway just as my eyes shut.
“I’m going to take a shower and go back. You okay?” he asks.
I nod again. I don’t know how I am but I’m a lot more okay than Yusuf right now.
My father lingers in the doorway for another minute, and I wonder if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He pads down the hallway toward their bedroom and I hear the distant whisper of water as he turns on the shower.
