The Last

The heart machine perpetually beeps, a monotone sound tangled with the heavy breaths from the person it’s tethered to. The white walls are cavernous, which make the inhabitants in the room rather small in comparison. The hospital bed in question holds a young woman in her twenties, several white bandages lining her across her body and most part of her head, the shroud that grapples with her death. Except she is at death’s door. She knows it with every sharp spasm in her head, her weary bones, and her life force dimming every minute. She digests every wince that threatens to escape her lips, lest she might worry her family, lest she might give away that she doesn’t have long to live.
 

Her twin brother sits in silence as he watches her rest. Her eyes are closed, her countenance devoid of the color, which is usually a very earthy brown hue, and she has a feeble body. She has been like this for several days, and he can do nothing but sit and pray to the Almighty that she pushes through. One hand of his is reserved to hold hers while the other prods its thumb over the creases of the other four fingers, chanting every verse from the Quran in clarified diction pertaining to seeking aid in sickness.

 

“Oh our Lord Allah Who is in Heaven, Holy be Your name, Your will is done in heaven and on earth; as Your mercy is in heaven, bestow it upon the earth. Forgive us of our sins and our wrong ways. You are the Lord of the good. Send down mercy from You and remedy from You to heal upon this pain, so that it is healed up.”

“I ask Allah, the Supreme, Lord of the Magnificent Throne, to make you well.”

“O Allah, Lord of Mankind, remove this disease and cure (him or her). You are the Great Curer. There is no cure but through You, which leaves behind no disease.”

 

He is not bothered to shave the stubble inking his jaw and cupid’s bow, comb his hair, or look presentable. He doesn’t feel the need to.

 

His sister is ridden with a severe condition; how can he bring himself to do so? In probable death, she doesn’t have the liberty to look her best, so why him either?

 

Mahmud keeps on chanting at a relentless pace, eyes mostly stowed on his sister Mira. His gaze glides around the room when taking in her battered form becomes the pain of being splintered with thousands of needles in his heart.

 

Their mother, Zahara, comes in when Mahmud least expects it, plunged in his own reverie of spiraling thoughts. Thoughts that never plagued his mind at all until Mira faced the accident.

 

“Mahmud, you should eat something. You haven’t had your lunch either.” Zahara puts her hand on his shoulder before drawing circles on his back, her heart breaking at the soundless reply his eyes give. Red-rimmed, bloodshot and branched over his whites.

 

The red inside her sister's head.

 

“I’ve asked your father to bring something for you.” Zahara looks at her older child, “You have to be strong for her to pray to Allah.”

 

Mahmud doesn’t yield to his own averseness to eat, eventually caving in to his mother’s words. The siblings always caved in to her words. They knew better than to not listen to her, as she was always there to protect them from everything.

 

Zahara did the best she could to rear them tenderly and lovingly, devoid of open hands or close fists.

 

She kisses Mahmud on his head before gazing at Mira, and a single tear doesn’t fail to follow after as a searing agony imprints on her heart yet again. She remembers her own wails as the stretcher pulled Mira into the hospital, her and Mahmud in tow. She faced a road accident, and her head took the brutal hit amongst all.

 

After receiving the call, everything appeared to be a blur. Their father came in rather late, having put up with a very long meeting with an investor. He wasn’t as troubled as Zahara but was as stoic as ever.

 

After a day of working around on her issue, Mira was declared ravaged with acute subdural hematoma. The mere word sent their world turning upside down, as the doctor explained the matter with much thoughtfulness she could muster. She is now scheduled for craniotomy for the present day, to happen in a few hours. The risks are not unbeknownst to her and her family, but anything to curb her chances to die.

 

All the three can remember is Mira has so much blood brimming under the dura mater in her brain.

 

Mira was in and out of consciousness. Retching was the only thing her body could muster, and nausea was a constant friend. She felt like she couldn't breathe; she couldn’t speak. Her tongue felt heavy, a sense of helplessness engulfing her for not being allowed to voice her affliction.

 

She still feels the same. And she feels it has come to the worst.

 

Zahara pulls a chair beside her before placing her head on the vacant space beside Mira, her sobbing intensifying every second. Mahmud downs a glass of water before helping their mother with one.

 

Their father comes in many moments later, the toil of the day's work reflecting his disposition, with a tiffin carrier in one hand.

 

Mahmud wordlessly opens it, helping himself with its contents. A sense of guilt inundates him as Mira isn’t allowed to eat for a whole day before the surgery. Zahara and Abul see Mahmud eat and Mira rest, unaware of how this might bid for their daughter.

 

Zahara senses Mira moves a bit beside her, and her head shoots up to see her beautiful hazel eyes, a beautiful exception she and Mahmud share other than their visual. Mira attempts to ask for water but to no avail, but the need on her face causes him to bring it to her. Living with her the entire life has made him adept at reading her like a book.

 

“How are you feeling?” Zahara asks before pressing a kiss over her forehead, as Mira wills herself to form a coherent sentence.

 

“The….same…” Her voice lingers before she attempts to smile, to say she will be all right, to say she wants to live as much as her mother wishes the same.

 

She smiles regardless, fully knowing death will betray her mother in the cruelest way possible.

 

“You’ll be free of this pain in a few hours, Allah willing,” Zahara attempts to inject some confidence in Mira, but mostly in herself.

 

Mira only nods before focusing on Mahmud. She frowns at his puffy eyes, his enervated look, and a restlessness in his body.

 

“I will be alright, Mahmud,” Mira succeeds to form a proper sentence, and the strain in her voice causes Mahmud to feel even more restless. He replies nothing as he hugs her cautiously with all the pipes and wires connected to her, a small cry escaping him. Mira forces her right hand to pat his back, a glum embracing her, knowing both of them will never see each other again.

 

“You better be.” He murmurs, retracing himself from her as another cry escapes him, “I need someone to vent to when things don’t work out for me sometimes.”

 

Mira knows it’s his way of declaring his love, “You’ll always have me.”

 

She looks at the similar pair of eyes, putting as much love as she can muster, “I’ll always be with you.”

 

“Promise me you’ll come back,” Mahmud asks sternly, a tender worry underlining his plea.

 

Mira’s lump in her throat feels bigger because her intuition tells her she can’t keep the promise.

 

And not keeping someone’s promise is a sin in the eyes of Allah. She doesn’t want to leave this world sinning. Breaking her mother’s and brother’s hearts feels like a sin itself; she doesn’t want to add to it.

 

“Mahmud….” Mira tries to reason with him.

 

“No!” His voice raises an octave, “Promise me!”

 

Zahara flinches, as Abul remains a silent spectator. Mira piles another deep sigh above her million others since she is bedridden and nods.

 

“I promise,” Her voice grows small. “I will try. Pray for me when I'm in surgery. He knows what’s best. All you can do is beg Him.”

 

Mahmud nods, squeezing her hand before sitting himself.

 

The door behind them opens, and the doctor assigned for Mira enters. Zahara holds on to Mira even more by instinct as the amiable-looking lady inspects the room with kind eyes.

 

“How is Mira doing?” She asks before checking the vitals on the machines around her before humming contently.

 

“I’m feeling better, thank you.” Mira lies through her teeth, as Mahmud’s gaze is fixed on her. For once, he can’t ascertain the lie in her words.

 

“Mr. Gazzali, Mrs. Gazzali.” The doctor turns to look at them. “Her test reports came alright. In half an hour, we will take her for surgery.”

 

“I’m sure she will be better in no time.” The doctor puts his hand on Abul’s shoulder as assurance, the latter nodding before the door closes.

 

The sound of Azan permeates the room, seemingly pulling them out of their own thoughts.

 

“Mira.” Zahara glides her hand over Mira’s head, looking at Abul. “We’ll go say our prayers. Mahmud and I will be quick. Your father will go when we come back.”

 

Mira’s gaze follows the two out of the room.

 

After moments of silence passing, Mira decides to speak.

 

“You don’t seem too bothered about my state,” Mira’s spite doesn’t shroud itself in her words.

 

Abul sounds like he’s spoken for the first time in the day: “If she said your vitals are alright, there must be truth in it.”

 

Mira hums, almost appeased by his answer. Almost.

 

“What do you think will happen?” Mira moves a bit in her stature before fully looking at her father.

 

“Why are you asking me?” A line of irritation creases his eyebrows. “Am I supposed to know how the surgery will turn out?”

 

“I’m asking if you believe I will live or just die.”

“I don’t have the answer,” Abul says, and Mira almost mistakes his words as trepidation. A fear of her death. He doesn’t meet her eyes.

 

“I wonder if you have prayed for my health in the last few days,” Mira attempts to coax an answer out of him. To want to know if he cares for her at all.

 

All those years of being unavailable other than bringing in the money and putting food on the table didn’t underline the exact definition of being an affectionate parent. Other than seasonal trips around the country, which needed a lot of pleading from three of them, they weren’t precisely a family. They never felt like the family Mira wanted them to be. Seeing other children being showered with love from their fathers stung her like venom, an everlasting one. In her adulthood, it stirs in her the same.

 

Mira feels like it is him at one end and the other three on another.

 

Zahara always reminds them he never hated them; he’s not very good at expressing it.

 

Mahmud always caused a stir in their home about the matter, which ended with a lot of throwing mud from both sides. Mira can’t even say if it was abuse, being emotionally distant. She was too young to understand what it meant.

 

The dichotomy that is their father would never unravel. It confused her, and she mostly let it be.

 

At the precipice of death, she wants some sort of answer to her dilemma.

 

Mira sees her father swallow a lump before he forms an answer, “I did.”

 

Mira’s eyes grow enlarged at the simple answer. For her, it means the most if someone prayed for her wellbeing more than anything, and hearing it from him eases her concern a bit.

 

“Do I look incapable of caring enough for you?” He tries to sound impassive, but to no avail.

 

Mira focuses on him again.

 

“It always looked like it, to me.” She truthfully answers, “It always felt like you had us as your children for the sake of having us. Like being there as a parent for the sake of being there, not because you want to.”

 

Abul only heaves a sigh, fully holding her gaze.

 

“Only because I do not show emotions at all, am I not fit enough to be your father?”

 

“I never said so,” Mira hisses, a spasm going through her head.

 

“Then what?”

 

“What I mean is,” She closes her eyes to chase the sharp feeling away. “Showing fondness and concern from time to time wouldn’t hurt. Sitting there looking indifferent while Mahmud and I went through things, both good and bad in our ways, would give any child the impression that their own father doesn’t care about their feelings.”

 

“It’s not that I can read your mind. Mahmud can’t either. You shut yourself off from everyone else so that it’s hard to know if you feel for your family or not.”

 

Abul sits there astonished as she lays bare her own rumination, her own personal scars that inked her tremendously.

 

“It’s hard to know if you love your own children or not, because by Allah, mother never fails to let us know she loves us. Some part of her loves you too, because she wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

 

Abul lets her words mince in his head, her perception of him as a person, as he feels disoriented. His dying daughter, if not anyone, is addressing his uniqueness.

 

“Are you going to be silent as always?” Mira’s voice raises, “You’re going to let me go to the grave without knowing if—” as it cracks.

 

“I do care about you,” Abul says in a flurry of words, too low to hear.

 

“Say it again.” She calms herself. She heard him, but she wants to hear it again to be certain.

 

“I care about you.” Abul’s mask falls off, and a foreign hurt overwhelms his senses as the entire ordeal dawns upon him. “I just don’t know how to show it.”

 

Mira almost feels pity for her old father nearing his sixties.

 

“Thank you for telling me.” She tries to flutter away her tears, wanting to fall.

 

Abul nods and gathers himself before a pair of footfalls grow louder as the other two return.

 

The dying woman wipes her tears away before Zahara and Mahmud dote over her and Abul exits the room. His eyes linger on Mira a bit, and she nods at him.

 

Mira fails to erase the image of his moist eyes from her mind.

 

The doctor and nurses come in to prepare her for the inevitable.

 

By the time she is in the surgery room, with hope and despair melded into words from her mother and brother, Abul looks ahead while the door closes on him.

 

The next few hours crawl at a snail’s pace, the crimson light above the door unblinking. Zahara and Mahmud run their throats dry in desperate beseeching, and a deep frown inking Abul’s brows.

 

Their anxiety reaches an all-time high as the light dims before the estimated time of the end, and the regretful and almost forlorn-looking doctor exits the room. The cluttering sound of handy apparatuses comes from inside, and an unmoving Mira lays there, not an ounce of color in her face.

 

She looks faded, adrift into the sea, drowned with no way to resurface or breathe air into her lungs.

 

“I’m sorry,” The doctor sounds defeated. “She didn’t make it.”

 

“While we tried to fix the torn blood vessel, another blood vessel in her brain was cut open as it was close to the tear, and we could not stop the bleeding.”

 

The hospital hears a toe-curling scream from Zahara as her knees buckle and she falls headfirst on the ground. Mahmud sees a myriad of colors, mostly black and blue, dancing in his eyes as his world dims for good. Their mother screams again, and Abul’s surprisingly concerted demeanor detunes as he runs into the room. Their anguish reaches a new crescendo, and Mahmud feels the white noise toiling to deafen him.

 

All he knows is that fate played a harsh trick on him. He realizes why Mira was hesitant to promise him. She never broke promises she made.

 

This is the first and only time she broke it.

 

He fails to take it in as she is pulled out, devoid of a victorious smile, brightness in her eyes, and luster in her ringlets. She looks like she has grown many years older in the last few hours.

 

He doesn’t try to think if it’s actually possible to age when you’re nearly dead. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to focus on how his father looks grim and his mother looks torn. He doesn’t want to feel.

 

It’s not their parents anymore. It’s his, and his only forever, from now on.