Breaking Point

2

Chapter Two

Hospitals have always unnerved me and I shudder as I walk down the gleaming white halls, as I have every Wednesday since my dad had been hospitalised. I resisted the urge to think about death. I couldn't help it; every time I entered the sanitised environment of the hospital with the scent of metal and newly washed scrubs and Mr. Clean, my mind always wandered over to think about the dying people behind tightly shut doors. It freaked me out because in the room next to me, a guy could be fighting for his life.

Just like my dad.

I neared his room, which was located near a small kitchen, where nurses occasionally made coffee for themselves and sat back on sofas to read magazines about Kim Kardashian's new diet which probably consisted of water and water...melon. A pretty blond nurse looked up from said magazine as I walked by, and greeted me. By now, after four and a half weeks of regular visits, I was becoming a familiar face. The thought made me unhappy.

My dad was still when I entered the bright room, his heart monitor beeping quietly. I studied its screen for a few moments, checking over his heart rate, and blood pressure. Anything that could give me a clue about when my dad would wake up. I gave up, turning away from the lines and numbers to sit by my father.

I reached out and grasped his hand. Wrinkles lined his forehead and even unconscious he looked worried as if he knew how his son had been doing recently.

"Assalamu'alaikum, Abu."

My father did not respond because four and a half weeks ago, he was hit in a car accident, took severe damage to his head which had caused him to slip into a coma. I gripped his hand, apologies and the taste of bitter regret in the back of my throat. We had gotten into a fight before he'd driven off to work. The next time I'd seen him, he was wrapped up in gauze, and bleeding heavily, eyes closed and unconscious to his weeping family.

"I guess I should tell you about school or something." I mumbled, knowing that the topic of school was important to him.

"I'm doing good in math and English. History though...." I paused. "Some kids have been bothering me in that class lately and I don't want it to affect my grades."

Even though my father had been in a coma for more than a month now, I still looked up expecting him to berate me for my slipping grades. When he did not do so, my heart sunk. If her were conscious, I imagined that his eyebrows would dip in concern over the prospect of falling grades. He would give me advice along the lines of "don't let them get between you and your grades. Remember, son, this is the foundation of your future."

I could almost hear his deep voice in my head telling me to focus, urging me to ignore anything that could distract me. I squeezed my eyes shut. It felt wrong to imagine his voice when his body was right in front of me. It should be coming from him, from his mouth, not from my imagination. It felt so unfair.

I would give anything for him to wake up, I realised, even if all he did was complain about school and grades and what it meant to be a practising Muslim. At least he would be awake. At least he would be alive.

Please, Allah, I thought desperately, my hands gripping the sheets of the hospital bed. Please wake him up. How would I live with myself if he died and the last things I'd said to him were hateful? How would I face him on Judgement Day, knowing the last thing we did was fight?

"Abu," I sobbed into my arms. "When you wake up, I don't even care if you don't forgive me. Just wake up, Abu. I'm sorry."

--

When I arrived home that evening, I entered the kitchen to see my mother sitting at the kitchen table, eyebrows drawn and starting down at a bunch of papers. Surprised, I set the groceries that I'd been carrying on the table and turned to greet her. She usually didn't come home until late and my mind instantly jumped to conclusions. I hoped she hadn't lost her job.