Chapter Two

Hospitals have always unnerved me and I shudder as I walk down the gleaming white halls, as I have every Wednesday since my dad had been hospitalised. I resisted the urge to think about death. I couldn't help it; every time I entered the sanitised environment of the hospital with the scent of metal and newly washed scrubs and Mr. Clean, my mind always wandered over to think about the dying people behind tightly shut doors. It freaked me out because in the room next to me, a guy could be fighting for his life.

Just like my dad.

I neared his room, which was located near a small kitchen, where nurses occasionally made coffee for themselves and sat back on sofas to read magazines about Kim Kardashian's new diet which probably consisted of water and water...melon. A pretty blond nurse looked up from said magazine as I walked by, and greeted me. By now, after four and a half weeks of regular visits, I was becoming a familiar face. The thought made me unhappy.

My dad was still when I entered the bright room, his heart monitor beeping quietly. I studied its screen for a few moments, checking over his heart rate, and blood pressure. Anything that could give me a clue about when my dad would wake up. I gave up, turning away from the lines and numbers to sit by my father.

I reached out and grasped his hand. Wrinkles lined his forehead and even unconscious he looked worried as if he knew how his son had been doing recently.

"Assalamu'alaikum, Abu."

My father did not respond because four and a half weeks ago, he was hit in a car accident, took severe damage to his head which had caused him to slip into a coma. I gripped his hand, apologies and the taste of bitter regret in the back of my throat. We had gotten into a fight before he'd driven off to work. The next time I'd seen him, he was wrapped up in gauze, and bleeding heavily, eyes closed and unconscious to his weeping family.

"I guess I should tell you about school or something." I mumbled, knowing that the topic of school was important to him.

"I'm doing good in math and English. History though...." I paused. "Some kids have been bothering me in that class lately and I don't want it to affect my grades."

Even though my father had been in a coma for more than a month now, I still looked up expecting him to berate me for my slipping grades. When he did not do so, my heart sunk. If her were conscious, I imagined that his eyebrows would dip in concern over the prospect of falling grades. He would give me advice along the lines of "don't let them get between you and your grades. Remember, son, this is the foundation of your future."

I could almost hear his deep voice in my head telling me to focus, urging me to ignore anything that could distract me. I squeezed my eyes shut. It felt wrong to imagine his voice when his body was right in front of me. It should be coming from him, from his mouth, not from my imagination. It felt so unfair.

I would give anything for him to wake up, I realised, even if all he did was complain about school and grades and what it meant to be a practising Muslim. At least he would be awake. At least he would be alive.

Please, Allah, I thought desperately, my hands gripping the sheets of the hospital bed. Please wake him up. How would I live with myself if he died and the last things I'd said to him were hateful? How would I face him on Judgement Day, knowing the last thing we did was fight?

"Abu," I sobbed into my arms. "When you wake up, I don't even care if you don't forgive me. Just wake up, Abu. I'm sorry."

--

When I arrived home that evening, I entered the kitchen to see my mother sitting at the kitchen table, eyebrows drawn and starting down at a bunch of papers. Surprised, I set the groceries that I'd been carrying on the table and turned to greet her. She usually didn't come home until late and my mind instantly jumped to conclusions. I hoped she hadn't lost her job.

"Salaam, mum." I said, softly.

Wasalaam, Abdullah." She looked up and gave me a small smile.

"You're home early." I tried casually, turning back to the groceries.

I was met with a brief silence. I continued putting the food away, the quiet kitchen filled with the sound of opening and closing cabinets and drawers. I was opening up a jar of sugar to refill it when my mother spoke up.

"Yes, I wasn't feeling well so I came home." She sounded distracted.

I looked over my shoulder. "Tylenol?"

"Already took one."

I finished refilling the sugar, cleaned up the counter and sat down at the kitchen table. My mother looked tired and old, and I saw that she was looking over bills. Her hands moved slowly, through each sheet of paper, eyes growing worried with each passing minute. It was gruesome, this waiting and calculating to see if we could make the mortgage and utilities bill each month.

I'd tried hopelessly to convince my mom to let me work, to let me help out but she wanted Salma and I to focus on our studies.

"Your father won't be pleased if he hears that your grades are slipping," she'd told me.

I gave up, because where grades were concerned there was no hope for compromises.

The front door opened and my mother and I both looked up as Salma strode into the kitchen.

"Oh, mum!" She stopped and blinked. "Salaam."

"Waslaam, habibti." My mom smiled and then paused, taking in Salma's outfit. "What are you wearing?"

I couldn't care less about what my sister wore but as I stared at her outfit, my eyes widening. I was sure she didn't leave the house with that tight crop top and high waisted jeans which looked practically painted on. Also, school had ended three hours ago. Salma had just came home from a day out with her friends and judging by the shopping bags she was currently hiding behind her legs, it wasn't school related.

My mom's eyes narrowed. "Salma, how many times do I have to tell you not to wear such tight clothes in public?"

Salma pouted. "Mum! I was just-"

"And look at the time! We barely have enough to pay the bills, please don't waste your money on clothes and makeup."

"It's my money!" Salma states.

"Which I give to you, habibti." My mother sighed. "I hope you don't go out everyday with your friends while I work my butt off for you."

"Well." Salma begins, angrily. "It's not like I can go shopping with you."

"Salma, you know why I have to work." My mother says slowly, as my head swivels back and forth between the mother and daughter.

I feel like I should say something but I can never seem to ease the tension that has been growing for the last month. It wasn't fair; the whole situation. Dad should be alive. Mom shouldn't be working two jobs and thinking about what would happen if we couldn't make the monthly bills. Salma and I should be receiving proper attention from our parents, but that wasn't the case and it wasn't fair.

 As Salma spun around and walked back to her room, she slammed the door shut making the house shudder. Pens rolled off the dinner table and my mother sighed, turning back to the paperwork in front of her. I watched her for a while, sipping a cup of milk.

I knew Allah made us go through trials, to test our patience. It was something my dad had always reminded me about. That God didn't want to harm us, He wanted to test us. It never made sense to me. Why did He want to test us? My dad would tell me because we were created by Him, so the purpose of our lives were to serve Him.

I couldn't wrap my head around it. I didn't ask for this life. I didn't ask for any of this.

Why did I have to serve Him?

Why did I have to pray to Him?

I could remember a time when it had been easy to pray. And it was because my dad made me pull out the prayer rug, and helped me perform wudu. He would sit me down and go through the steps of prayer and I would pray. I would recite the chapters from the Quran which my dad would listen to everyday. And I would pray. I would run to the mosque, as a kid, my dad behind me as we neared the dome shaped building, the sound of the athaan drifting out as people drifted in.

And I would pray.

But my dad wasn't here now and these days, I couldn't find it in myself to pray.  

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Awh, Abdullah....

(And hey guys. Don't ever give up on salah. Remember: Allah doesn't need your prayers. They are for your benefit. You don't pray because of who you are. You pray because of who He is.)

wudu: ablution

athaan: call to prayer