The gatekeepers notebook, p.29
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 29
Amara
“NEVER?” AMARA COULDN’T BELIEVE it. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Mrs. Zubairi, please. No yelling. We keep the ICU quiet, so the patients don’t get upset.”
“Upset? The man’s unconscious.” Amara shook her head, flummoxed by the doctor’s apparent stupidity.
“He’s comatose, and although not talking, we believe your husband can hear what you say. I strongly advise that you never speak in front of him as if he can’t hear you.”
Amara glared, reasonably chastised.
“Any unnecessary stimulation can agitate and raise his blood pressure—something we don’t want to happen. Why don’t we step outside?” said Doctor Carlisle, the hospital’s neurointensivist, holding the door open for Amara to step through. After closing the door behind them, the doctor wrote something down on his clipboard.
“Well?” asked Amara, unused to being censured.
“Mrs. Zubairi. Your husband has suffered a severe TBI,” Doctor Carlisle explained.
“A what?”
“A Traumatic Brain Injury, so we will be closely monitoring him.”
“That’s what all those machines are about?”
Doctor Carlisle stuck the clipboard under his arm. “We’re keeping him on a ventilator to provide him with oxygen to assist his breathing, since your husband’s not opening his eyes even with stimulation, and because his loss of consciousness has lasted far more than six hours. We inserted a probe called the ICP–intracranial pressure monitor to drain excess fluid. We also placed him on the EEG machine.”
“What does that do?”
“The electroencephalography machine records your husband’s brain activity. It lets us know if he’s having a seizure, the effects of the sedation, as well as if his brain functions are worsening.”
“How long will he be on them?”
“It’s entirely too soon to tell, but this is extremely serious. He’ll be monitored closely for the next twenty-four to seventy-two hours; maybe longer.”
“Will he wake up?”
The doctor had to tread carefully. “Again, we don’t know the extent of his injuries. Not all head wounds behave the same.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that your husband will recover at his own pace. To what degree? We don’t know yet.”
“How long could this last? Him being like this?”
“If you are referring to his recovery, that could take weeks, months, even years.”
“Could this be permanent?”
“Again, we don’t have enough information to make that call right now. Let’s hold tight and see what transpires within the next twenty-four to seventy-two hours.” The doctor rattled off the remaining information as if by rote.
Amara cringed every time the doctor said “we” as if this horror—this nightmare—was some sort of a conjugal experience.
“What about surgery?” she asked, hoarsely.
“Surgery is sometimes necessary. I think there may have been multiple skull fractures, but we need to wait until some of the swelling goes down before taking any further steps unless of course, something else arises before then.”
“Something such as—” Amara’s thoughts and emotions crashed.
Ya Allah, how will I survive this?
“Such as a bleeding vessel for example, or a hematoma, or high intracranial pressure. Any of those could bring your husband to surgery, but I don’t want you to worry about that. For now, he’s stable and under excellent care.”
Amara’s legs trembled. The walls started to spin. “Could he die?”
“Not if I can help it.”
The shock and enormity of Qasim’s injuries smothered her sensibilities. “I-I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered, breathless.
Doctor Carlisle clipped his pen to his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he offered in his kindest, trained doctor voice. “Is there somebody we can call for you?”
There it was again…that incessant ‘we’—
This time, however, instead of snarling or losing her temper, Amara turned her face to the wall. She pressed her body against its coolness, covered her eyes with the palms of her hands and wept.
One week later…
Kalila
“Ready?” Ruth asked Kalila, still heavily bandaged and bruised, but anxious to leave the hospital. Ruth stepped behind the wheelchair holding it steady while Kalila gradually lowered herself down.
“Where’s Hamza?” Kalila asked, as she inched her way down into the chair. Every part of her body throbbed, stung or hurt, aching in places she didn’t know existed.
“Already in the lobby. He’s got his nurse and Melvin to keep him company,” said Ruth. “Aand they loaded him up with goodies. The nurses on his floor fell in love with your son. Spoiled him rotten.”
Kalila heard Ruth. It warmed her heart to know that Hamza had been given such good care, but at the moment, the agony of being alive surpassed her ability to deal with more than one thing at a time. And for now, her total focus remained on getting the hell out of here. “I can walk,” she said. While the doctor informed Kalila her ribs were, shockingly not fractured, it still hurt like bloody hell to breathe in deeply.
“Hospital policy,” informed the nurse, busy gathering up Kalila’s paperwork. “Here’s everything we discussed. Your follow-up appointment is on Thursday. Until then, follow the instructions,” she said pointing to the highlighted yellow paragraph. “And if you have any concerns or questions, don’t hesitate to give us a ring.”
“Thank you,” nodded Kalila, paperwork in hand.
“Okay, let’s hit the road.” Ruth grabbed the handles and started to push. “I don’t like leaving Melvin for long. He’s not a big fan of hospitals.”
Kalila’s face broke out into a sardonic smile. “Who can blame him…”
* * *
Kalila’s mood darkened on the car ride home, still shaken after the visit from Officer Sebulsky and his trusty sidekick, Hippenstiel.
“How’re you doing?” Sebulsky had bellowed when he came uninvited into her hospital room, acting as if he and Kalila were two old friends catching up after a bout of hard luck.
“Better,” Kalila answered groggily. The pain medication made her mind fuzzy, slowing her ability to think.
“We won’t be staying long,” Sebulsky said. “Just wanted to stop by; go over a few points so we can wrap this report up and have you sign off on it. Sound good to you?” he asked. His piercing trained eyes never left her face. Hippenstiel, presumably the official note taker, moved closer to the door, remaining quiet, but affable. The nice guy. The kind you’d take home to mother.
Head throbbing, Kalila closed her eyes. “Sure.” She hoped the darkness would help her to work through the cobwebs currently annexing her brain. “Ask away.”
“First question: has your husband ever hit you before?” Sebulsky asked expressionless.
“No.”
“Never?” His raised eyebrows indicated her answer surprised him.
“Never,” answered Kalila resolutely.
“What set him off?”
What could she say? That she married him out of revenge? Out of necessity? “I don’t know. I’m not sure. He just barged into the house, furious.”
“Then what?” Sebulsky asked.
“Then he started calling me names.”
“What kind of names?”
“I can’t remember.”
“I need you to try.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Not even one name? That’s hard for me to believe.”
“Ask him. I’m sure he remembers every last detail.”
Sebulsky lowered his head as if in deep thought. “Well, you see, Mrs. Zubairi, here’s where we have a major problemo because we can’t exactly do that,” he said, cagily.
Kalila’s eyes popped open. “What do you mean?” She felt her heart rapidly pounding in her throat. “Oh, my God…he’s not—”
“No. Not dead, but unconscious. His wife—the other one—what’s her name?” he asked Hippenstiel.
“Amara Zubairi,” answered Hippenstiel promptly.
“Ah, yes,” he said with a snap of his fingers. “Amara. Well, funny enough, she said she didn’t know either.”
Kalila shrugged and turned her face away from the men.
“However, she did make a point of telling us that in her experience, Mr. Zubairi’s not the—how’d she put it?”
Hippenstiel read off his notes. “Not the type to get upset or mad for no reason.”
“Ah! And there you go,” said Sebulsky, throwing his hands in the air. “And as a matter of fact, the other Mrs. Zubairi said that your mutual husband is just the opposite. How did the other Mrs. describe him again?” he asked Hippenstiel. “In her own words.”
Hippenstiel flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Kind and patient. Loving and considerate. Upright. Never loses his temper easily.”
“She said that?” asked Kalila, incapable of masking the disbelief from her voice.
That lying b—
“Yep. She most certainly did. “So,” shrugged the congenial good old boy, just doing his job, cop. “You can see our dilemma, right?” Sebulsky slid the visitors’ chair closer to Kalila’s bed and without bothering to take off his coat, sat down, making himself at home. Hippenstiel remained standing.
Kalila stared at the ceiling, weighing her options. Either she could end this and tell the whole embarrassing, sleazy story—Roger included, or let the chips lie wherever they will and allow Amara’s bullshit version to stand. Either way, Kalila knew she wouldn’t come out looking good.
As if a savant who could read minds, Sebulsky leaned in, mellifluously enunciating each word. “Look, bottom line; whatever his reasons, whatever set your husband off—it didn’t give him the right to do this to you or to your son. Whatever you tell us stays with us. I just want to nail the bastard.”
Kalila didn’t know whether to trust him or not, but what choice did she have? “I don’t want anyone in my business, especially Amara. I will need time to get my son and I away without having to deal with all that.” She attempted to shift her position, but the pain stopped her. “I need to speak to my husband’s doctor first.”
“Fair enough. But I want you to remember, it’s your husband who’s being charged, not you.”
“But it’s my word against his.”
“This is true,” Sebulsky said, casually leaning back in his chair. “But he’s not talkin’.”
“Not or won’t?” she asked guardedly, refusing to be bullshitted.
“More like can’t. You should probably also know, from what the doctors are saying, he may never regain his speech again.” Sebulsky crossed his leg over his thick thigh, never once taking his eyes off Kalila’s face. “He took one hell of a blow to the skull, which is why we’re here. We need to make certain—from you—that he slipped. That this was just a terrible accident and not anything more dubious.” Sebulsky waited a moment before slapping his knees to stand. “Right then! Hippenstiel, get the nurse for me. Tell her Mrs. Zubairi needs to speak with her husband’s doctor asap.”
“Yes, sir.” Hippenstiel promptly left the room.
Once the door closed, Sebulsky turned to face Kalila, no longer playing the nice guy. “Look, Mrs. Zubairi, I’m no rookie. I don’t blush easily, and I’ve heard it all before so don’t jerk my chain. Whatever dysfunction you and the other Mrs. got going on, I couldn’t care less. Anything you may have had going on the side, doesn’t faze me in the slightest. Are you getting my drift?”
Kalila nodded.
“Good. So, do us both a favor. Stop your deceptive bullshit and come clean so I can close this case and call it a day.”
Ruth
Ruth drove home extra slow, mindful not to make any unnecessary sharp turns or stops.
She noticed how uncomfortable Kalila looked sitting in the front seat, probably wishing she was already home and in bed.
“Would you mind if I cracked the window? I need a little air.” Kalila’s cheeks looked pale behind the bruises.
“Of course.” Ruth adjusted the window from her side. “Any better?”
“Yes.” Kalila closed her eyes to rest. “Thanks.”
From the back seat, while Melvin hummed, Hamza remained stoically quiet, lost in his own world.
Once in Kalila’s driveway, Melvin headed home. “Bye, Hamza,” he said.
Hamza barely nodded. To Ruth, the boy seemed scared, as if not entirely sure about what he would find once inside.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I straightened up a bit last night. I didn’t want you both coming home to that—mess.” Ruth glanced away. Her voice trailed off, uncertain.
“Thank you,” said Kalila, relieved. “That was kind.” The place looked spotless.
“I’m going to bed,” mumbled Hamza, climbing the stairs slower than usual.
“Wait. Aren’t you hungry?” asked Kalila, barely able to stand on her feet.
“Nonsense,” said Ruth. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll put something together for the both of you and bring it up.”
“But what about Felicia?” asked Kalila. “I don’t want her to be alone.”
“She’s not. I have someone covering for me.”
Kalila gave Ruth a halfhearted smile.
Ruth waited close by, watching Kalila struggle on the first two steps. “Are you sure you can make it up by yourself or do you need some help?”
“I thought I could do it. I honestly don’t remember these stairs being this steep.” Kalila gripped the banister. “I guess I could use an extra hand.”
Ruth held Kalila firmly by the elbow. “Take your time. There’s no need to rush.”
Kalila nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Full Circle
Four months later…
“HAMZA!” YELLED KALILA. “YOU and Melvin grab the boxes from the hall and put them in my trunk. I think that’s it.” She scanned the room for stragglers. “Looks like everything else is already loaded up in the truck.”
“All right.”
“I’ll meet you out front. Give me a sec.” Kalila’s eyes swept the vacant spaces around her. The click of her heels echoed against the floor amidst the vast, hollowed emptiness. She thought this day would never come and when it finally had, she could have never anticipated the deep foreboding sorrow it would cause. It saddened her to think about all the time she wasted trying to convince herself to leave…to learn to let go of everything that had transpired throughout the past year; raw, painful emotions kept safely hidden until she saw fit to drag them back out for dissection and a proper burial.
She needed this moment alone. To walk around and give the home she had once shared with the man she thought she’d grow old with, one last regrettable, but final goodbye.
The mantel above the fireplace now stood unadorned, once jam-packed with trinkets and baubles collected from family trips. Running her hand on the front doorknob, Kalila thought about the first time they both stepped inside. How happy she and Bashir had been, full of vivacity and expectation. Eager to begin the next exciting chapter of their lives together. Or was that also a lie? A projection? In hindsight, had Kalila only known then what lingered around the corner, she would have never agreed to move here.
“Ma,” yelled Hamza. “Come on! The truck guys want to get going,” he said, indicating the moving company crew.
“I’m coming,” she shouted back, tugging the front door shut and locking it for the last time. Pocketing the key, she marched to her car, determined not to look back.
So much had changed in the last few months. Felicia’s passing and funeral. Melvin’s coming to live with them. The sale of not only of her house but Felicia’s home as well; a profitable endeavor which had provided the capital to start over elsewhere, but far from here.
“Where’s Melvin?” Kalila asked Hamza, already standing next to their car.
Hamza pointed across the street where Melvin sat digging up a nice-sized patch of tulip bulbs; dropping each unearthed prize in an oversized plastic bag.
“Shit,” moaned Kalila.
“Yup,” agreed Hamza, stifling a laugh.
“Why?” said Kalila, throwing her head back and stomping her foot.
“They were his mother’s favorite flower.”
The driver in the truck tooted his horn to grab her attention. He rolled down his window, leaned out and yelled. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Just give us a few more minutes. I have, um,” Kalila stammered. “My—” Unable to come up with anything that made sense, she settled on pointing next door to where Melvin continued on his quest. “He won’t be much longer.”
The driver and the two other guys in the front seat looked where Kalila had pointed and nodded.
“I shouldn’t be letting him do that,” said Kalila, shaking her head. “The new owners are going to lose their minds when they see those holes.”
Hamza nodded. “Probably, but I’m not gonna be the one to stop him. Are you?”
“Nope. Not me. We’ll let him finish.” Kalila got an idea. “You know what? Why don’t you go over there and nudge him along? While there, see if you can move the dirt around a bit, so it’s not as obvious the place has been pilfered.”
“Okay.” Hamza jogged away.
Kalila avoided glancing across the street at Amara’s house. The place still managed to give her the shakes. While not an ugly house per se, it had always been rather bland on the outside, if not gloomy. But now it appeared tattered and unkempt. Not surprising considering…
A rapid movement behind one of the curtains caught Kalila’s attention, so she stared back, assuming the beady eyes belonged to Amara.
I’m just as thrilled to be leaving as you are to see me gone.
The two women hadn’t exchanged a single word since the night of the attack.
Hamza and Melvin trudged their way towards the car.
Finally—
Apparently, they were discussing something that had Hamza cracking up.
