Chapter 24
Mauve Purple
I wake up early as dawn breaks, heart in my throat, and check all my social media accounts but find nothing. Just my old murals circulating.
I jump out of bed, pull on a hoodie, and grab the first hijab lying around before running out of the house and into the streets. I walk several blocks, not finding any hint of my painting anywhere. My hands are freezing, and my nose is runny from the late December air.
But everywhere I look, it’s all bare.
I come back home, heading straight to the sketchbook to find the drawing there. The sea, the jellyfish welcoming Mama home, the serenity.
But it’s not a mural.
My heart pounds painfully. Is the blessing fading away?
That can’t be it.
I look up to see Baba already dressed and slipping on his winter jacket. He turns to look at me, brows raised in confusion.
“Where were you?” he asks, glancing at the clock. “Are you okay?”
A thought comes to life in my mind. Quiet but clear—I didn’t draw the truth.
Mama’s death was not peaceful, and I tried to change that. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, shutting down anyone who asks or talks about it. I haven’t let my thoughts wander far away in case I relive that day over and over again.
“No,” I whisper.
Bà Ngo?i said one day I would wake up and the difficult life will have changed. But how can it change when I haven’t let myself think about the worst part of it? It’ll follow me until I die.
“Baba, what’s wrong?” he asks, coming closer.
My throat is dry, my stomach seizing, and I know the nausea is next. I’ve blocked that memory for so long that pulling it out is going to make me faint. “I was thinking about what happened to Mama.”
His expression becomes cloudy, gaze shuttering.
“I’m thinking how we don’t talk about it,” I continue, voice hoarse.
“There’s nothing to talk about now,” he says in Arabic.
“Yes, there is.”
He inhales sharply. “What do you want to talk about, Jihad? How the police didn’t do anything? How there’s no justice for us? What do you want to do? Because talking about it won’t solve anything. Your mother is gone, and the world moved on. That’s all.” He takes out his shoes from the closet.
“So we pretend she never existed?”
He stares at me. “You think that’s even possible? Jihad, I see her in my dreams every night.”
“Then talk about her!” I cry out. “Okay, nothing came out of the investigation, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about her.”
His face is ashen now. “I don’t have it in me to do that yet.”
“When, then?” I ask, heart hammering. “Because I will not let any of us go on with our lives with her being someone we can never mention. I nearly forgot how she used to cook.”
He stares at me for a long time and then gives a slow nod. “I have to go.”
He closes the door behind him.
I breathe through my nose, hold the air in before letting it out. Over and over again until the nausea ebbs away and I run to my room.
I open the sketchbook to a new page and take one color.
Red.
Because that’s how Mama’s life ended. In a flash of red spilled over the pavement.
I draw the memories. The cancer had left her alone.
Her lungs were strong enough to breathe on their own.
The color was coming back to her face. Her hair was growing.
She was putting on her mascara and lipstick.
Her voice was stronger, singing all over the apartment.
She even brought out her easel once to paint.
My mother was coming back to life. The dark cloud that had engulfed my family was dissipating. For good this time.
And then one late afternoon, she was coming back home from getting groceries.
She was waiting for the bus when someone decided she didn’t deserve to live.
Four gunshots, and she fell to the ground.
The bullets punctured her lungs that had tried so hard to fight the cancer, but they couldn’t fight metal.
She bled out on the streets with no one daring to help her.
People stood by and watched because they were scared.
No one dared take the first step. The murderer was gone.
The police said it was a mugging incident, and the case was closed.
In just ten minutes, I lost Mama, and the colors vanished with her.
I don’t remember where I was when they told me she was killed.
I don’t remember who told me. My brain has blocked that out, and I’m in no hurry to find out.
All I know is fear stopped people from doing anything.
Maybe they could have helped, or perhaps it would have had no effect. But there’s no way to know.
I breathe deeply and glance down at what I drew. Mama alive but shrouded in a red cape that’s wrapped around her like a shield. The cape is made from individual red droplets, like a waterfall of blood, going into her veins, keeping her alive.
Mama’s expression isn’t serene. It’s angry. A quiet anger like the rumbling of the ocean before a storm. A righteous anger. She’s staring directly at whoever looks at her, her lungs translucent, with four holes in them.
My chin trembles, and I move the sketchbook away from me, so my tears don’t smudge the art. I grab my phone and call Amal before thinking twice about it.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice scratchy.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks gently.
I sniff. “You know, for a long time, I didn’t think about how Mama died.” I hear Amal breathing deeply. “I couldn’t, you know? She was in remission, and I felt our life was starting again. I had hope. And that hope was stolen. Is there a bigger word than stolen? Ripped, I guess.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “I couldn’t leave the apartment for a whole month after.”
“I ran everywhere and was always home before sunset.”
“I didn’t answer the phone.”
“I couldn’t wash the glass Mama drank from that morning.”
“I kept hoping the blessings she talked about were real, and I would be able to see her. You know, like one of the distant aunts who knew when someone was going to die.”
The tears pause. “I don’t remember her.”
“I’m not sure how she was related to us, but I remember Mama told me she knew if someone was close to death. It wasn’t a bad omen in the village, but actually it meant the person had time to say goodbye. It was a mercy.” She sighs. “I wished I could see the dead. Just a blessing so I can see Mama.”
“But you do have a blessing,” I whisper. “We all do.”
“Yeah,” Amal says quietly. “I guess it’s in the eye of the beholder. Tell me. Is everything okay in school?”
I almost tell her about the bullying, but I can’t bring myself to.
I don’t want her worried sick about me, feeling helpless because she’s not here.
Baba is here, and he won’t be able to do anything.
Not him against the entire school full of lawyers’ and judges’ kids.
Mama was murdered, and the police didn’t help.
So there’s no reason to bring up anything.
“Alexis and I aren’t friends anymore,” I say instead.
“Oh. That’s horrible. I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It’ll be okay. I just feel stupid.”
“What happened?”
I chew on my tongue. “Her friends didn’t really like me, and we just fell apart.”
Amal makes an annoyed sound. “Okay, I hate her.”
I laugh.
I hear Amal shifting. “My stomach popped out, and they don’t tell you enough how uncomfortable that is.
The baby thinks my bladder is a squeeze toy.
But listen, friendship breakups are horrible.
They happen to everyone. They’re definitely going to happen to Alexis.
You don’t usually get definite closure, but you’ll move on. To way better friends.”
“Well, I did make another friend.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“His name is Jamie, and he recently converted to Islam.” I try hiding the smile from my voice, but my sister hears it all the same. I’m glad I’m telling Amal about him, and if Mama were alive, I’d have told her too. Even Baba, if he weren’t a ghost to me.
“Friend or…” she begins, dragging out the word.
“Friend,” I say firmly.
“You sure?” she singsongs.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, and she laughs. “He’s Vietnamese and has the personality of a golden retriever. And he grew up on a farm. He sends me all the notes from class every single day.”
“And he likes you? The black-cat personality?”
“How dare you? I’m a ray of sunshine.”
We both burst out laughing at the same time.
“I’m glad you have someone on your team,” Amal says, happiness in her voice. I falter, but she continues, “Other than that, and I don’t want to make you upset, do you want to talk to a therapist? You said the colors are back.”
I glance around my room to see them swimming hazily.
“They are. I have a lot on my plate right now. But I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” she says, sounding relieved. “I have to go pee. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I need to study for AP exams to deserve halal P.F. Chang’s in Doha.”
“Oh my God, Jihad. I’m literally making an Excel sheet of all the places we’ll be eating at. I don’t care if you’re full. You’re eating.”
I grin, daring to think about next summer.
When the mural shows up the next day, Jamie bombards my phone with his messages.
Jamie: this needs to be on a huge huge painting
Jamie: bà ngoa·i took a lot of pictures
Jamie: I saw a whole crowd standing in line beside the macy’s in times square
Jamie: it reminds me of klimt
#WomanInRed trends on social media, and I see so many close-ups of the mural online.
There’s one with just Mama’s eyes, the brown in them darker, the slight shift of her eyebrows.
It’s wonderful, and I feel like the world isn’t tilting on its axis like it was before.
For some reason, things make sense a bit right now.
There’s a clarity I didn’t have before. It’s not the light at the end of the tunnel, but I can see the tunnel.