Close Your Eyes

15

It might have happened right then, while I was on my carpeted floor, sobbing and then falling—finally—into a dreamless sleep. It could have been while Gerry carried me to bed, gave me a back scratch, and sang “It Had to Be You.” Maybe it was while he showered and I lay in the sunlight, smelling Irish Spring soap and feeling Handsome’s heavy head on my tummy. I lay on my expensive mattress, and two Iraqi men drove to either side of Ibn Sina Hospital and detonated cars full of explosives, demolishing the building and everything inside.

The news came the way I’d always feared: a phone call that showed up on my caller ID as RESTRICTED. It was late afternoon, and I was watching First Time Home Flippers. I answered the phone tentatively.

“Miss Lauren Mahdian?” said a man’s voice in an accent I couldn’t place, maybe French.

I said, “Yes?”

“This is Laurent Janssen with Médecins Sans Frontières. I am calling about your brother, Dr. Alexander Mahdian.”

I hit mute on the television. The man was talking about my brother and two suicide bombers and an explosion.

“An explosion?” I said.

“It is a terrible tragedy, a terrible mess,” said the man.

“A mess?” I said.

“At present, we are tending to the bodies. We believe that most inhabitants of the hospital did not survive.”

“What are you telling me?” I asked. I rose, screaming into the phone, “What are you telling me?”

“We have not identified your brother at this time,” said the man. “We will keep you informed of any developments. You have my deepest sympathies.”

“It was a bombing?” I said.

“It was a bombing, yes,” said the man.

“They bombed Alex’s hospital?” I said.

“They bombed the hospital, yes,” said the man.

After I had hung up, I fell back onto the couch and tried to feel something—some communication—from my brother. Was he dead? Did it hurt? I felt that I should know. But I did not know.

It had been only hours since his phone call. I had been planning to call him back at nine A.M. his time, which was midnight my time. I’d already emailed, telling him to be near the phone. His message was still on the machine! Alex could not be dead.

I tried to call Gerry, who was out doing research. But after I dialed, I heard the ring tone (“Folsom Prison Blues”) in the kitchen, where Gerry had left his phone charging in the wall socket next to the blender.

Who could I call? What should I do? I thought about trying to reach my dad. They had phones in jail, after all. I could just telephone information and ask for the number of Attica Correctional Facility. I could say it was an emergency. In fact, it was an emergency. But I washed down four Tylenol PMs with a tumbler of Sprite and lay on my bed.

I heard the phone ring a few hours later. After the beep on the machine, a man cleared his throat. “Lauren,” the man said. I knew at once who it was, and I stood up, holding the sheet around my body. I walked toward the voice.

“Lauren,” the man—my father—said. “I’ve gotten the news about your brother. About Alex. I’m calling to tell you I love you. I love you. I’m so …” He began to falter, but after a moment, he continued. “I hope you can … can find it in you, in your heart, to call me. Or write. I want you to know I’m here. You’re not alone.” I heard a shuffling, and then he cleared his throat. “I’ll call again soon,” he said. “I love you, Little One.”

When he had hung up, I waited for the tape to rewind. I realized with a blunt pain in my gut that Izaan had recorded over Alex’s voice. “No!” I cried, pulling the tape from the machine. A piece of the ribbon caught and tore. “No!” I said, desperate. My father. My father! He ruined everything, everything, everything.