Six Metres of Pavement. Farzana Doctor
Читать онлайн книгу.
Mr. Boxwala. Sit down,” he repeated sternly, his beefy hand gently guiding Ismail back around his desk and into his chair.
“You don’t understand, you see I must go check … I usually drop the baby off first … my daughter, Zubi … then my wife at her work, and then I come to work … but the order got changed today … I have to go get my daughter. Please, let me go to her!” Ismail sputtered, gasping for breath.
“It’s too late, Mr. Boxwala. She was found about an hour ago.” He barely heard the words; they were travelling away from him, faint, barely comprehensible syllables.
“What? What do you mean? Then she is … okay?” Ismail grasped for any possibility, any hope that Zubi was all right. Bill Todd shook his head, bit his lip, grimaced. For the first time during his visit, he didn’t make eye contact with Ismail.
“No, it can’t be. Oh no … oh no … Zubi!” Ismail wailed, forcing himself up out of his chair again. “Please, I have to go see her.” His mind refused to let go of the fantasy that Zubi was still alive: Yes, of course her crying would have alerted a pedestrian, a Good Samaritan who would have called the police, freed her from the car …
“It’s too late. She was found in your car, like I said, about an hour ago. Deceased. Most likely from the heat.” This time he did make eye contact, icy blue ponds.
“Oh no.” Ismail gasped, holding his chest.
Each time Ismail remembered this next part of the story, he viewed it in near-cinematic slow motion. A millisecond before he closed his eyes and fell to the ground, he saw Officer Todd’s anxious expression as he lunged forward to steady him. A co-worker, young, pretty, recently hired Chitra Malik, peeked into the cubicle, alarmed by the commotion.
He had no fear as he lost his balance and the world spun away from him. Rather, he had an amazing and naive thought: he believed he was dying, his life being snatched up in a great dizzying whirl, and he was on his way to greet little Zubi so that he could hold her one last time. He might cuddle her on his lap, kiss her sweet-smelling head, and then, in the vast wisdom of all things celestial, switch places with her.
Daphne had finished ranting and was now watching him with curious eyes.
“What?” he asked nonchalantly.
“You’ve kinda been staring off into space for the last few seconds.”
“Oh, sorry. Just tired I guess.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said and turned her gaze to the back doors, where the police had re-emerged. They travelled through the bar, the same way they’d entered, taking their time to scrutinize patrons. Before they could reach the front where he and Daphne sat, Ismail pulled some bills from his wallet, and muttered a quick goodbye to Daphne.
He walked the few blocks home, the glaze of intoxication making the sidewalk crooked beneath his feet. At his front door, he searched his coat and pants pockets for his keys, fumbling past loose change and bits of paper. Eventually he found them within his coat’s inside breast pocket, an unlikely place, and he wondered how they’d gotten there. Dangling before his eyes, they seemed unfamiliar, like someone else’s misplaced keys.
A silver key met its matching lock, a bit of grace on a graceless night. He crossed the threshold, and although he knew the house was empty, he sensed he wasn’t completely alone.
— * —
It was ten o’clock already and the nurse who came to check José urged Celia to go home for the night. “Have a rest, take a shower. He’ll still be here in the morning,” she said, clicking her pen open and scribbling something down in a chart. She efficiently moved around the bed, inspecting her husband’s limp body and the beeping machines that sustained him.
Lydia had been by earlier, bringing food during her lunch hour and a change of clothes after work. Celia hadn’t thought to ask for toiletries, and so she’d had to swish her mouth with water and wash her face and armpits with the harsh cleanser and brown paper towels in the public washroom down the hall. She guessed the nurse could tell she needed a bath. Later, she questioned why it hadn’t occurred to her to just go down to Shoppers on the first floor for travel-sized containers of toothpaste and face cream.
She picked herself off the chair, glad for the nurse’s permission to leave. By then, she’d spent two days at her husband’s sleeping side while others in the family had come and gone. The doctor had checked in twice and reassured her that his condition was improving. He’d looked at her sternly, as though José’s angina was her fault, and warned that there’d need to be lifestyle changes. She’d nodded dumbly and listened as he discussed recommendations for medication and future surgery.
She decided to walk home, even though Antonio, her son-in-law, had offered to come pick her up. She’d told him she’d take a cab, didn’t want to make a fuss. Anyway, she was glad to walk after sitting for so long, and the crisp night air was fresh against her skin.
At home, she took a shower, and then listened to eight messages of concern on the answering machine, pressing the orange button that meant they’d be saved. She would ask Lydia to call everyone back from work the next day. Hopefully she’d remember the password she programmed in for them; Celia had forgotten it long ago.
She wandered the quiet house and peeked in on her sleeping mother. She watched as the bedclothes rose and fell, something she used to do when her children were small, checking to make sure they were still breathing. José used to tease her for it; he rarely feared for their safety the way she did. She wished now that her mother was awake to comfort her, to bring her a plateful of fish and potatoes, to tell her what to do next.
She looked at the wall clock, calculating that it was only nine-twenty in Vancouver, and dialed her brother, Manuel. No one picked up. She rooted around the fridge for something to eat and found a bottle of wine José had opened a few days ago. She poured herself a tall glass, gulped it back, and then turned off the downstairs lights. By the time she landed in her bed, she could feel the cool wine heating her belly and carrying her off to unconsciousness.
— * —
Ismail lay in his bed, his head still cottony from the booze. It was a good way to fall asleep; his muscles relaxed and thoughts slowed down until they almost stopped. But alcohol wasn’t fail-safe. Its soporific effects only lasted so long before he’d dream his way into memories that would wake him in the middle of the night. That night, at 3:00 a.m., he saw Zubi’s ghost at the foot of the bed, staring at him blankly. Then her pupils grew large, darkening her gaze, and he grew afraid. From somewhere outside the window, he heard Rehana’s shrill voice yelling, “You forgot her! How could you have forgotten her?”
He backed up against the headboard with such force that he knocked himself fully awake. He switched on the bedside lamp, exorcizing Zubi and Rehana from the room. He left the light on a few more minutes before settling himself down to rest again. Before he fell asleep, he repeated the resolution he’d made earlier that evening: to stop drinking.
Right after the divorce, almost a year after Zubi’s death, he saw a psychologist for forty-eight sessions. Almost a year, but not quite. He attended each appointment faithfully, following the mandate of a manager who felt he needed assistance with his “post-divorce job performance.” It sounded like some kind of human resources category, but when Ismail looked it up in his employee handbook, he couldn’t find it.
All of Ismail’s colleagues signed a condolence card with platitudes to “take care” and “time heals all wounds,” but none attended Zubi’s funeral. A great cloud of silence crept over the cubicles of the Transportation Infrastructure Management Unit when anyone came close to mentioning the circumstances of his daughter’s death, at least when he was present. Over the years, a new life story was created for Ismail at the office. He became a “bachelor,” a “loner,” “single without kids.” He didn’t tack any family photos onto his cubicle walls. No one expected him to attend the annual office holiday party.
Soon after therapy ended, Ismail found an almost perfect way to dampen down his memories. He’d been walking home from