Chapter 13 Second-Degree
The clinic is closed for several days. There’s an investigation.
The security cameras show an unidentifiable woman with dark hair, a mask, and a hat starting the fire and pouring gasoline around it to make sure it spread.
The perpetrator was very deliberate, setting it up so that it would take several minutes to reach the building.
But I know the explosion is my fault. I denied the demon what he wanted and he retaliated.
As soon as I’m released from the hospital, Aai takes me to her house. She washes my hair in the tub, like I’m a small child, but afterward my hair still stinks. Aai prays for hours each night in my room as I stare at the ceiling.
I want to cut off all my hair.
The antis all claim they saw nothing. Apparently one even suggested that we set the fire ourselves to try to hurt them.
Aaron texts. Then he calls. I do not pick up. Even though he almost died, too, I’m pissed at him, though it’s muted underneath my depression. In an alternate universe, Aaron was rooting for the fire to raze the clinic to the ground.
The building isn’t significantly damaged.
Some windows shattered, but we were lucky to have called 911 so quickly—the firefighters were there within minutes of the blast. But I don’t feel lucky.
I feel shaken, and stupid. The clinic will reopen on Friday, after four days of treating no patients.
Because of me. It’s my fault. If I was like Laila, I would track the demon down and make him pay, even if I don’t usually believe that violence should be repaid with violence.
It probably wouldn’t improve my situation, but at least it would be something.
If only I was brave enough to be fierce.
Thursday afternoon, I manage to crawl out of bed to find a pair of scissors, since Aai isn’t answering my texts.
I go downstairs to the kitchen and find Aaron holding a cup of chai and talking quietly with Aai.
Aaron was hurt, but when he got to the hospital, they discovered only a few bad bruises and a laceration on his scalp.
No concussion, no broken bones. We barely escaped, and I know the demon will be back.
Aaron waves at me, but I ignore him and Aai and get the scissors out of the drawer. I’m not wearing pants.
“What do you need scissors for?” Aai asks.
“To cut my hair.”
It only made the local news for two minutes.
Aaron rises to his feet. “I’m sorry. I should go.
I just wanted to make sure you were okay, so I texted your mom, and she told me to come over.
My family isn’t—they can’t—” He takes a deep breath, and I wonder for the first time what it must be like for Aaron to do this job when almost his entire family is dyed-in-the-wool anti. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “You guys enjoy your tea. I’ll cut my hair in the bathroom.”
“I can take you to a hairdresser,” Aai says. I’m sure she doesn’t want me to cut my hair, but she’ll never say so while I’m in this state.
“I’m good.” As I stare down at the scissors, I feel less and less like cutting my hair. I trudge into the living room, lie down, and cover myself with a blanket. The bed is too far away.
Aai sits on the free end of the couch by my feet. Aaron sits on a comfy chair a few feet away.
“Thank you,” Aaron says.
“You already said that.” He didn’t remember what happened, so I told the paramedics he stumbled into the blast wave and I dragged him away. We were both lucky.
“I could be dead. You saved my life.”
I snort. “Let’s notify the protesters.”
“I’m actually pretty sure that saving the life of an abortion doctor is not considered a good thing to them.” He sips his tea, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
It turns out that I’m desperate for this kind of ridiculous interaction. “No, you don’t understand. They’re pro-life. They value saving lives, I’m sure of it!”
“Next you’ll tell me they support parental leave!
Food stamps! Housing assistance! What’s next, opposing the death penalty?
Do you think they’re commies?” he jokes.
Aai returns to the room with a plate of cookies in her hands.
I didn’t realize she’d left. I’m so hungry that I grab one and scarf it down like I’m seven.
Aaron takes one, too, and nibbles at it.
“Seriously, though,” he says after I’ve demolished my cookie. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.
Some of my fatigue has returned, but I feel a lot more clearheaded.
Maybe I’ll take a shower. It’s so stupid, but every single time I get pushed into a depressive funk, I feel better after seeing people and eating something.
And yet, every time I convince myself that it won’t work, that it won’t be worth it.
“I do worry about it,” he says. “How did you know there was something back there?”
“I could smell smoke,” I say. But now that I’m turning over what Aaron said, it is a bit odd.
He claimed not to smell the smoke, but he followed me anyway—was it to help me, or to stop me?
Sure, he got hurt. And yet the woman targeted my office exactly, in a small, mostly unused part of the building that only clinic staff know about. “You really couldn’t?”
“Julie couldn’t, either. Why do you…” He must see something in my face, because he leans forward, speaking quickly. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, you know that, right? It was right next to your office, I—”
“You’re being an idiot,” Aai interrupts, her tone sharp. “Nisha is not insinuating that you hurt her.”
I look over at her in surprise and realize she’s upset. I’ve been awful to her for days. Aaron stands up, sensing the tension.
“I’m sorry again to intrude. I’m glad you’re okay. I… god, I feel—”
“It’s fine. Really. Don’t worry about it,” I say. He makes a hasty retreat, and even before the door closes, I’m sinking back into apathy. My old, comfortable friend.
I lie in bed reading and rereading the few articles about the fire.
There are a couple of Facebook posts about how the fire is so tragic, but several more celebrating the fact that god took divine action against us transgressors.
The text-based apps tip more in our favor, with a healthy contingent of people decrying the arson.
And then there are the articles by local news organizations, each full of person-hiding language.
The same way their headlines proclaim “Black Man is Shot During Confrontation with the Police” instead of “Police Shoot Black Man,” it’s all “Fire Breaks Out at Local Abortion Clinic” and not “Anti-choice Arsonist Sets Fire to Local Abortion Clinic.” I’m sure if a dark-skinned man was caught on camera, the headlines would lead with that.
I’m well and truly caught in the whirlpool, forgetting how to swim or kick or find the surface—I’ve forgotten everything but how to scroll.
Eventually, Aai snatches the phone out of my hands. “Enough, Nisha!”
I grasp for it, and she dangles it out of reach. “I’m not a child,” I whine. “Give it back.”
“I’ll give it back when you snap out of whatever this is and get out of bed! It’s been days. Please, baccha. Talk to someone. I’ll find you a therapist. But you can’t keep living like this.”
“What do you know?” The words boil out of me. “That’s rich coming from someone who didn’t know what a therapist was until two years ago. Why don’t you go pray about it?”
Aai wordlessly drops the phone onto my nightstand and walks away.
For a moment, I feel triumphant. Then I swing my legs out of bed and chase after her.
What the fuck was I thinking? Depression makes me mean.
Aai has been bathing me and feeding me like a child, has done and sacrificed everything for me her whole life, and I just insulted her for no reason at all.
I pause outside her room when I hear her talking on the phone.
“She just… I don’t know what to do.”
Rima Aunty responds from Aai’s eardrum-bursting speakerphone. “She’s ungrateful. She has no idea how lucky she is.”
“No, no… Nisha says a lot of things when she’s depressed. If I had listened to all of them, I would have, as she once put it, literally jumped off a bridge.”
My heart clenches. I did say that once, when I was in the hospital after the accident. I deeply regret it, but she never said anything, so we moved on. I was hurt and scared and lashed out against the one safe person in the world.
“Have you tried slapping her?” Rima Aunty asks.
“Children,” Aai responds. I would pay years of my life never to hear Aai speak about me in that tone again, especially to Rima Aunty. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“She has had a lot of difficulty in her life,” Rima Aunty says. I wish the phone would mangle her words, but they are clear as day. “But it’s nothing compared to what you have gone through.”
“It’s not a contest. I wanted Nisha to have better options than I did.” Aai laughs, an ugly one I rarely hear. “Look how that turned out. This country gave her a car accident, depression, and now this.”
“She’s rude, but capable. You should be proud. Some of the boys in this generation can’t even wipe themselves.” I cannot believe that Rima Aunty is defending me.
“She could have been a brilliant lawyer, a doctor, anything. But she’s stuck, and now she will just struggle forever.
” I know Aai wouldn’t want me to hear this conversation, but part of me feels relieved to witness her say aloud what I always knew to be true, that I am a disappointment who wasted all the opportunities she gave me.
Aai sounds regretful, which makes me want to carve out my own heart.
My throat feels tight. “I tried to give her everything.”
Aai did give me everything, and I have nothing to show for it. Even Muya didn’t choose me the way he chose other people to share his gift with. I stumbled upon his power by accident.
Nobody chose me.
But my clinic is in danger. I’m an adult. I should be able to solve my own problems without continually burdening Aai. I grab my things. They’re still talking when I quietly close the front door.