Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
AZARA
After what I now referred to as the incident , I’d instated a new rule: Avoid him unless absolutely necessary and never, ever , scratch the itch again.
Even thinking about the notion of doing so was forbidden.
I’d managed to handle the second part of my mantra, but unfortunately for me, rules always seemed to have a knack for rebelling and someone in the universe clearly hated me because I’d kept finding myself thrown in constant proximity with Dr. Young. He’d been the department’s lead consultant for the past two months now, and I’d never had to work or share surgical duties so much with another surgeon in the past.
Although I was still technically in training, this was my last year and the previous consultant had always let me go about my own way. Besides, each doctor specialized in different surgeries and we usually each had our side of the ward and stuck to it, but for some godforsaken reasons, I’d been appointed to assist in every single one of Michael’s surgeries because of course we had the same area of expertise.
If his sheer presence wasn’t enough to deal with, he’d managed to get under my skin every time, like getting on my nerves and seeing how far he could go before I snapped was some sort of game to him.
He had yet to succeed and I’d never let him, despite how many times I’d dreamed of just letting it all out. His arrogance was unbelievable and it took everything in me not to stab him with a scalpel when we were in the operating theater.
Not that I would do it even if I was given the chance—albeit extremely tempting. Cutting didn’t faze me, it was literally my job, but it was much different doing it to someone unconscious and that needed it versus injuring someone.
My mobile ringing with my 9:00 a.m. alarm pulled me out of my thoughts. Realizing I’d been lost in my own head for the last two hours, I quickly silenced it and got up, pushing the words Michael Young into the far back of my mind.
If only they could stay there and never resurface. Better yet, if he could stay there and never cross my path ever again.
I grabbed a jumper from next to me and walked over to the small closet from my childhood bedroom, pulling out the wrapped box from it.
My brother turned sixteen today, so after my shift yesterday, I’d come to my dad’s house and stayed the night so it’d be easier to be here early this morning. Besides, we’d have to leave soon to head to the Tassili Stadium for Zayd's big birthday gift.
Eddy had gotten tickets for today’s match—his club was playing against their biggest rival Sufax United—and Zayd would get to go on the pitch before the game while the players went through their warm-ups.
I pocketed my phone in my sweatpants and swiftly left my childhood bedroom, making my way to Zayd’s room on the upper floor of the townhouse.
Although I’d be surprised if he was already awake since he always slept until the early afternoon on weekends, I chanced a peek into the kitchen on my way to make sure he wasn’t there.
But instead of finding it empty like I’d presumed, my father was sitting at the head of the dining table, a full tea glass in hand with a small, untouched plate of olive oil mixed with a dollop of what looked like amlou and a basket of bread in front of him.
Although he was usually off on weekends, he still often went into the office to do any administrative work he hadn’t tended to during the week. He always needed to work, a trait I’d definitely inherited from him.
For better or worse.
He looked lost in thought, his face filled with worry.
“ Baba ,” I said from the open doorway.
He didn’t look up.
“ Baba ?” I repeated, louder this time as I stepped into the kitchen.
Startled by my presence, he knocked his glass over, the atay ? 1 spreading across the circular wooden dining table. He cursed in Arabic as I quickly placed Zayd’s gift on the counter and grabbed a rag from it, placing it over the streak that had formed before it spilled over the edge and onto the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking at me
“It happens to the best of us,” I said with a small smile, hoping to lighten the somber atmosphere that surrounded him, but he still had the same faraway look in his eyes than when I’d stumbled on him a few moments ago.
There used to be a lightness to my father’s face, a constant joy that I hadn’t seen in years. He used to laugh everything off and didn’t take life too seriously.
The man sitting in front of me, however, looked at the mess he’d just accidentally made like it was just another bad thing to add to the list of unfortunate events that happened in his life.
It pained me to see him like this, knowing there was nothing I could do to help. I’d tried to get him to go to therapy to help with his grief, but he’d just say that everything was fine and he didn’t need help. And unfortunately, in our culture, going to therapy wasn’t something many people did despite how helpful it could be, much less men.
I finished cleaning up and rinsed the cloth in the sink before wiping the table one more time to avoid it being sticky later. I took the seat closest to him and poured him another glass.
“Here,” I said, pushing it toward him.
He muttered a thank you before placing his thumb and index against the bottom of the glass, but not moving to drink it.
Although his expression was more often than not somber, the one he currently sported was weighed with something else. In addition to the usual sadness, he looked conflicted.
I didn’t often push for him to talk about his feelings because it just made him put up more walls around him, but the look on his face worried me.
“Is everything alright?” I asked him in Darija as I tore a small piece of the now cold bread and dipped it in the plate. Placing the piece in my mouth, I leaned back in my chair and did my best to hide my concern as I chewed.
His eyes met mine. “Yes, why wouldn’t it be.”
I flinched at his harsh tone, raising my hands up. “I was just asking.”
His gaze filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, benti . It’s just work.”
I didn’t believe him, but chose not to push him any further.
“You know it’s Zayd’s birthday today?” I asked, hoping the answer was anything but what I knew he’d say.
My father wasn’t a bad man and I knew how much he loved us both, but over the years, he started forgetting things, anniversaries and birthdays included. Grief came in many forms and was such a tricky thing. Although it hurt when he forgot and I didn’t want to blame him for it, it didn’t lessen the disappointment I felt every time.
I’d learned to brush it off, but Zayd was still just a kid and deserved better.
I pushed my chair back and stood, resting my palms against the wooden surface.
“I got him a football jersey and a tablet for his art. I signed your name on the card that I attached.” Learning to forge his signature when I was younger for school related communications came in handy. He let out a heavy sigh and as he was about to say something, I cut him off. “I’ll go upstairs to wake him up and I’m taking him to the game today. Hazel’s fiancé got us tickets.”
I didn’t stay to see what he’d have to say and grabbed Zayd’s gift on my way out. As I began climbing the stairs, I chanced one last look toward the kitchen, finding my father with his head in his hands. He looked defeated and I hated that I’d been a part of it, but he needed to do better.
For Zayd. My brother only ever knew our father like this and I could only do so much to shield him from what our dad had become. And most importantly, he needed to do better for himself because he couldn’t keep going like this. No one should.
But forcing someone to get help never worked. They needed to be willing.
Pushing my remorse and guilt to the side, I climbed up the stairs and paused in front of Zayd’s bedroom, hearing his snores from the other side of the door. I pulled my phone out of my pockets and scrolled through the list of songs on my music app until I found the one I was looking for.
The first notes of a remix of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” that repeated the intro verse of the song played from my phone as I opened his door with the hand holding it and walked inside of my brother’s messy room, belting the lyrics and dancing to the beat.
I carried my mother’s loss deep in my bones, but had found a way to soothe it with moment’s like these. Moments where I could share glimpses of who she was with others, especially my brother.
On every birthday morning, she'd burst into my room with the song playing and a single doughnut from Kareena’s Bakery, a small business owned by a sweet older lady in Camden, and a lit candle shoved in it for me to blow.
I’d foregone the doughnut since the bakery had been closed by the time I left work last night, but I’d take him for breakfast before we had to meet Hazel and Nakia at the stadium an hour before kick-off at 3:00 p.m.
Zayd groaned and pulled his black duvet over his head as I approached his bed. I sang louder as I loomed over him despite his pleas to stop. Once the twenty seconds clip was over, I sat at the edge of his bed, placing his gift on top of his cover.
“Do you always have to do that?” he grumbled, his voice groggy, his face still covered with his duvet.
“And deprive you of my beautiful voice?”
He snatched the cover off his head and shot me an annoyed teenager look, but I knew he secretly loved the tradition. “I’d rather—” His cheeky reply died on his tongue when he noticed the large wrapped present at his feet.
He abruptly sat up in bed, his eyes wide and filled with excitement.
I feigned to grab the gift away. “What were you going to say? I mean if you don’t?—”
“No, no, no,” he said in quick succession, pushing the cover off his body. He was wearing a black graphic shirt and gray joggers. He swiftly reached for the gift and placed it on his lap, almost exploding from excitement. “Your voice is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard.”
I snorted out a laugh at his response.
“Can I open it?” he asked, his eyes glued to his present.
“It is your birthday after all.”
I’d barely finished my sentence when he tore through the wrapping paper Hazel had chosen and meticulously packaged. She’d insisted on doing it, refusing to let my brother be a witness to my horrendous gift wrapping skills. Although I had many talents, apparently that wasn’t one of them. Besides, I didn’t really understand the point of perfectly wrapping presents when the receiver would just decimate the meticulous work within seconds of receiving it.
Zayd’s jaw fell open when he discovered the contents. He immediately reached for the packaged tablet, seeing the well-known brand I’d heard him talk about before.
“You didn’t,” he noted in disbelief as he removed the wrapping around it and retrieved the device from its box.
My brother had entered a competition recently with other young graphics designers so he could help pay for more professional equipment and expand his portfolio. He’d been using the same old tablet for the last few years and always complained about how slow it was or how it had inaccurate calibration.
Whatever that meant.
So after some research and online videos, I’d figured out the best one to help him continue the latest project he’d been working on.
I chuckled. “Well, you are holding it in your hand.”
He began turning it on, while rummaging through the other accessories that came with it. He’d never go look further into the box and spend the next few hours playing with it if I didn’t redirect him.
“As exciting as seeing you play with your thing, you might want to look at the other gift inside,” I suggested, eager to finally reveal our plans for today.
He whipped his head up, glaring. “It is not a thing ,” he deadpanned. “This is?—”
I cut him off before he launched into an hour long explanation about the specs of this tablet and how great it was. Not that I didn’t want to hear all about it, no matter how boring I’d find it. I loved hearing about his hobbies.
But we’d waste precious time and I was just too impatient to keep this secret any longer.
“Oh dear, tablet. I apologize for calling you a thing,” I directed toward the device he was still holding. “Now, just open the rest, pretty please,” I finished with a smile.
He let out a sigh, placing his new device aside. “What could be better than—” His sentence was cut short when he pulled out the red and black Atlas football jersey.
“Holy shit, is this a real one?” he asked with a giant smile on his face. He held it up in front of him, turning the shirt over to find the name and number of his favorite player printed on it.
I sure fucking hoped so with the amount I’d spent on it. Why on earth were football jerseys over a hundred quid. For printed fabric. In my opinion, it was pure robbery, but Zayd never owned an authentic one, the fake ones filling his wardrobe all from small stores in Morocco.
“This is actually perfect for later when I watch the game,” he went on. “They’re playing against Sufax United who’s their biggest rival. And their two major players absolutely hate each other so it’s always so hilarious to see DeMarco feign fouls because he wants the advantage.”
He was buzzing with excitement and it put an even bigger smile on my face. “Wouldn’t it be so much better to watch it in person?”
He brought the shirt down in one fell swoop, his brows raised. “Well obviously, but tickets have been sold out for months. And they’re so expensive, even if I saved up for a whole year, I still wouldn’t have enough.”
I cocked my head to the side. “First, you never save any money you’re given. You spend it so fast, it’s like you think it’ll disappear if you leave it alone for a few days.”
Since our father wanted him to focus on his education and enjoy his free time instead of working, Zayd had been given a monthly allowance to pay for anything he needed, whether it was for school or his hobbies. But my brother always found a way to spend it within the first week the funds hit his account.
He huffed out a laugh. “Fair point.”
“Secondly, it’s a good thing that your wonderful sister happens to be best friends with one of the team's player’s fiancée.”
His eyes widened. “You’re kidding.” He tightly gripped the jersey and abruptly stood on his bed, looking down at me. “If this is a joke, Azara, I will never forgive you.”
“We’re going to the game.”
He began chanting the team’s anthem while jumping on his bed, my body bouncing with each hop.
I shook my head, laughing at his reaction. “Alright, settle down before father comes in here.”
He plopped on his bed, his bare feet landing on the wooden hardfloor with a loud thump. He then leaped over to where I sat and wrapped his long arms around me, pulling me into a tight side hug.
He repeated the words thank you in quick succession before pulling away, eagerness radiating off of him. “What are we waiting for, let’s go.”
1 ? Moroccan mint tea