Chapter 19

AT THE ICU NURSING station, Ashif lays his briefcase on the counter and asks for his father’s room. A nurse with black cat-eye glasses directs him to the family room. “Just down the hall, love,” she says, pointing her pencil down a corridor. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Ashif stands at the entrance of the brightly lit family room and scans the crowd for his mother. He expected her to be alone, but the room and the one connected to it are both crowded with people from the community, rocking back and forth in unison, prayer beads in hand. Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim. The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.

“He’s here!” a woman shouts, the first to spot him.

Eyes pop open, people turn toward him. A few let out extended sighs. “Thank God!”

“There she is, son.” A man points to Layla, who is surrounded by a circle of women, including one he recognizes as Arzeen. She hasn’t changed at all. She’s still perfectly put together, her hair straight and coloured caramel-blonde.

Ashif smiles and waves. The crowd parts for him. When he reaches his mother, he sets his briefcase and suit carrier down and takes her in his arms.

Layla hands Arzeen her handbag. She wraps her hands around Ashif’s arms and pulls herself to standing. She smells like rosewater.

“There’s no need to cry anymore.” He takes his mother in his arms. “I’m here now.”

But she doesn’t stop crying. She clutches onto Ashif. “We have to keep praying,” she mumbles into his chest. “Set him free.”

“Of course we’re going to pray.” He gently pushes her back. Her eyes are red and swollen: she must have been crying for hours. “Let’s go and see him first, okay?”

“We can’t,” Layla says, her words barely audible. “He’s gone.”

“Where?” Ashif asks. “Another hospital?”

It’s Arzeen who finally takes Ashif to the quiet room and tells him. His father passed away this morning. He was dead on arrival.

“What do you mean, dead on arrival?” He understands the term, but his mind deflects the idea, like a shield.

“We’re not sure of the exact time of death, but we now know that he was already dead when the paramedics got to him.”

“That makes no sense!” he says, practically shouting. “He was alive this morning.” He is sure Arzeen is speaking about another patient. She’s mixed up.

“Your father was on life support, Ash, so yes, he was alive in a sense. But neurologically, he was dead.” She squeezes his hand.

“What are you saying? My father was half-dead, half-alive?” He pulls his hand away.

“I’m saying there’s just no way to assess a cold body. You have to warm it up first before you can tell what’s going on internally. That’s normal protocol. And sometimes that requires reviving a patient if there are no vitals. And that’s what we did with your father.”

He imagines his father, lying on the hospital bed like frozen meat being warmed in a microwave. He gasps for air. The quiet room is shrinking. He throws back his chair, stumbles to standing. He can’t breathe.