The 1st Son
Chapter 4
I had that recurring dream again. I dreamt I was a three-year-old boy again with Mom, running through the lavender fields of the French countryside. Arms spread like an eagle in full flight, wind passing through my splayed fingers, I shrieked with careless joy as I lost myself in the vast sea of purple, little golden balls of sunlight bouncing all around me.
"Mahdi," said a deep, but rich, warm voice. "It's time to go, son."
I spun around quickly. A man with tightly coiled hair was holding Mom's hand, grinning broadly. He was a solid 6'4, broad-shouldered with golden-brown skin, slanted eyes and high cheekbones. He beamed as I hurtled toward him, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight.
Eyes that were granny smith apple green.
Like mine.
Just before I could tackle him midair in a hug, he shattered into a million pieces. The tiny particles that had been him, hung in midair for a few seconds, before slowly falling to the ground, evaporating into nothingness.
I awoke suddenly as if I'd been slapped in the face. A millisecond later, the familiar of disappointment and longing crashed down on me like a tidal wave. It took me a few seconds to realize what had awaken me. Logic's 'Fade Away' was blaring on my cell phone. Groaning, I grab my smartphone from the night stand. It was Bertie.
Bertie worked grueling hours as a doctor in the emergency room, so she'd let me know if she wasn't coming home. But, she usually sent a text message. She only called when it was serious. What was so serious that Bertie's calling at 2 in the morning? I wondered as I answered the phone.
"Hello?" I said hoarsely.
"Mahdi," said Bertie's voice from the other end. Even though she'd lived in New Jersey for 22 years, her voice still carried the pleasant, silvery lilt of her native land, Belize, which broadened when she was in distress, like now. "You have to come down to the hospital quick! Your mom has been hurt!"
"Hurt?" I said, sitting upright, as if I'd just received an electric enema. "What happened? How bad?"
"No time to explain!" said Bertie, "get down here as soon as you can!"
I slipped on my glasses as I got up. Then, I grabbed a pair of maroon sweatpants from my computer chair and slipped them on, before putting on a pair of running shoes with no socks. Then, I grabbed my keys and bolted downstairs to the garage and got into my car.
Mom knew the risks she faced in her chosen profession- She had received death threats, attempts to soil her good name had been attempted, but she always came out on top. She didn't let the wealth and status of her opposers intimidate her. She feared no one.
But, she isn't invincible. I thought as I made a right onto Bergen Street.
I arrived at Beth Israel Hospital 10 minutes later. After parking my car, I half walked, half jogged to the emergency room entrance. There, I ran into Samir, my mother's friend and co-producer. The front of his gray hoody was stained with blood. My heart dropped into my stomach once I saw that, because I knew that it was my mother's blood.
"Wh-wh-what happened? I stammered? "Is Mom okay?"
"We'll explain once we get inside," said Samir in his light East London accent, "we're blocking the entrance."
The emergency room was packed. Samir and I had trouble moving around, because the corridors were filled patients on gurneys, and EMS bringing more patients in. I nearly knocked over a guy walking with his IV stand to the bathroom.
Finally, we reached the nurse's station. Samir told me that Bertie wanted us to wait for her in the staff room, so we headed there, where there was only one blonde-haired bespectacled nurse, eating a sesame seed bagel.
"Coffee? Tea? Orange Juice?" asked Samir.
"Orange juice is fine," I said sitting at a table that had a few coffee stains on it.
Samir poured orange juice from a jug and gave it to me in a small plastic cup, before pouring himself some coffee. Then he sat across from me.
"So, what happened to Mom?" I asked, getting straight to the point.
"We were in the studio, getting ready for editing," said Samir. His eyes were bloodshot, though not from being up at nearly 3 in the morning. ", Ronnie forgot something in her car, so she ran outside to get it. A few minutes later, I heard gunshots. I ran outside to find her—" Samir broke off midsentence, choking on his words, tears running down his face. He took a deep breath and continued.
"I found her lying on the ground, she'd been hit in the ribcage, shoulder, and knee. But your mom. She's incredible, she is. Giving me instructions, so calm, as if we're discussing renovation plans for the floor. As we're waiting for the ambulance, can you believe it? She starts talking to me about soccer, because she knew I played often during my summers spent in Somalia. She'd just got fucking shot, innit? And she's asking me about soccer! Unbelievable."
Underneath the shock and horror, I couldn't help but laugh at Samir's disbelief. Only Mom could get shot and have a friendly discussion of soccer during it all.
"Did she mention who shot her all?" I asked, finally gulping down my orange juice.
"Now that you mention it, she did," said Samir, "not that it's much help, because the shooter was masked."
"Where is Mom now?" I asked.
"She's in the operating room," said Samir, taking a sip of coffee. "Bertie wanted to stay in there with her, but, you know, she has other patients to attend to. We just have to play the waiting game for now."
While we waited, I took advantage of the silence to consider who would want to take a crack at Mom. The list was long for sure, but I was trying to figure out who Mom had pissed off recently. A year ago, there was a big story about New Jersey politicians who were linked to a multimillion dollar criminal organization and were receiving campaign donations from them. Mom had exposed all of them, leading not only to the arrests of those involved, but in the resignation of ten councilmen in Essex County and the firing of many law enforcement officials. I wouldn't be surprised if it was someone looking for revenge.
It was a quarter to five when Bertie finally emerged. She plopped down in a nearby chair, her long braided hair falling all over her face. I'm sure it was the first time she had sat down in ages. Even though Samir and I were anxious to hear about Mom's condition, we didn't press Bertie right away. She'd been working in the E.R. for damn near 13 hours, so exhaustion on stop of distress was sure to have her on edge. Samir poured her a cup of coffee, while I checked my phone for messages.
At long last, Bertie swept her hair out her face. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Weariness was etched in every line of her russet face.
"She's in stable condition," said Bertie, her voice coming out in a croak. "The surgeons managed to extract the bullets. One bullet broke a few ribs, but they didn't puncture anything or hit a major organ. She'll survive.
The tight knot in my chest seemed to undo itself. Samir let out a sigh of relief.
"Shit," I said suddenly, remembering something. "I forgot to let Grandma and Grandpa know."
"I figured you would," said Bertie with a small smile on her face. "I saved you the trouble and called them myself. They're on their way down here now. But Nadira would want to know what's going on, if you haven't called her yet."
"And I'm sure he hasn't," said Samir, grinning slightly.
"Shut up," I muttered, dialing Nadira's number.
Nadira's phone rang 4 times before Nadira answered.
"Hot Mahd!" Nadira's exclaimed, though it was less enthusiastic than usual. She must have been studying all night. I wish she'd take a break from those goddamned exams.
"Good morning, my sweet little honey graham," I said, my voice lowering an octave. Samir snickered slightly. "How are you?"
"Tired from studying these goddamn exams," said Nadira, huffing. I could hear the sound of a pencil tapping rapidly on the desk in the background. "The finals are going to be the longest two days of my life. Anyways, how are you, handsome? You didn't give me my 5 o'clock phone sex call today, what's up with that?
I fought back the desire to laugh.
"For good reason," I said, "I've been at Beth Israel Hospital since 3 in the morning."
There was only a slight pause.
"Hospital?" Nadira said in a quiet voice. She hated hospitals. "What're you doing at the hospital?"
"It's…. it's my mom," I said, "She's-well she's been shot."
"No!" Nadira screamed, causing me to jump in alarm. "Oh, my goodness, she's not dead, is she?"
"No, she's still alive," I said. "Suffered some injuries, but according to Bertie, she'll survive."
"I'm on my way Mahdi," said Nadira at once, "See you soon, I love you."
"I love you to-"I tried to say, but all I got was the beep of the phone indicating the call had ended.
Bertie's shift was over by 6:30. After she changed into street clothes, we went inside Mom's room. My mom was laying on the bed, drainage tubes coming from her chest. A heart monitor was hooked up to her, as well as an IV, which was near empty. Her right shoulder and left knee were wrapped up in bandages. It wasn't a pretty sight.
When she had heard the door open, Mom raised her head up a little. Seeing who it was, her eyes twinkled as she smiled weakly.
"Hey, baby," said Bertie tenderly, stroking Mom's hair. "How're you feeling?"
My mom didn't answer right away. She was reveling in the sensation of Bertie's touch.
"I feel angelic at the moment," she said finally.
"Angelic?" Samir repeated. He looked a little scared.
"Yeah," said Mom. "I'm holy, Sam. Get it? Holy."
I laughed, while Samir and Bertie looked on in stunned belief. Who else would find humor in getting shot?
"Forgive me, Ron," said Samir, "but I'm still not quite adjusted to your twisted sense of humor just yet."
"You should be well-adjusted, Sam," said Ron, "You've known me and worked with me for five years. Anyway, it's the morphine. Once it wears off, I won't be in a joking mood."
"Do you remember anything about the assailant, Ronnie?" Bertie asked, "besides them being masked?"
"No, like I told Samir, it happened so quickly," said Mom, "but as I lay on the ground, I did hear the shooter shout for the drive to pull off. It was a young man's tenor, early to mid-20s I would guess."
"Don't worry, Ron," said Samir, "our secret surveillance cameras I had installed a few months ago will surely have gotten a glimpse of the shooter as well as the car and license plates."
"Good," said Mom, "you might want to call Jeanette as well."
Jeanette was an investigative reporter who was well connected and collaborated with Mom often on her projects. She was both respected and feared among those who knew her.
"We'll talk later Ron," said Samir, "I have to change, and then I'll contact Jeanette and go back to the studio. This is a time to be with your family."
"Thanks, Sam," said Mom, "I owe you big time."
"You owe me nothing, sis," said Samir, waving a hand. "Just recover and don't overexert yourself over the next few weeks."
He said goodbye to Bertie and me as he walked out.
"Don't you think it's time that you walk away from this?" said Bertie.
I wasn't surprised. Bertie had been springing this question on Mom for two years now. She had written an article in the Star Ledger that revealed secret tapes of high-ranking law enforcement officials bragging about falsifying evidence in the cases of over 200 suspects. Envelopes filled with ricin were sent to Mom's office for a few weeks, and the bomb squad even discovered a well-hidden bomb under Mom's car.
Since then, Mom had to fight hard to reassure Bertie she would be okay. She made sure she called Bertie and texted her every chance she had. Bertie wouldn't sleep until she talked to my mother on video chat. This wasn't enough for Bertie. She tried convincing Mom to retire from journalism, but to no avail.
"You know what Bertie?" said Mom, "It is time."
"What?" Bertie and I said at the same time. Like me, Bertie had been expecting my mother to put up a fight.
"Is it the morphine talking?" I asked.
"Not at all," said Mom, with a small smile. "I've been contemplating it for a while now. I've been doing this for a good chunk of my life, but I was starting to feel like it was time to move on to other things, you know? Like focusing on my art, advocating for more community gardens in Newark, things like that. Hell, I think it's time you and I made it official, Bertie."
Bertie clutched my mother's hand tight, her kindly brown eyes bright with blazing affection.
"It's about damn time," she said, though her smile was so wide, her eyes appeared slanted.
"I hate to ruin this moment," said Mom, "but if you don't mind Bertie, I'd like to talk to Mahdi alone for a few minutes."
"Sure," said Bertie, "I'll be on the lookout for your parents. They're on their way up here."
My mom grimaced.
"First I get shot, now I have to deal with my mom's crying over me," she said, "What on Earth did I do to deserve this?"
Bertie wagged her finger as she turned the knob.
"Don't bemoan your mother caring for you that deeply," she said. "some people don't have that luxury."
And she closed the door behind her.
There were a few seconds of silence between my mom and me. Only the beeps from the heart monitor and the ticking of the clock could be heard.
"How're you feeling, kiddo?" asked Mom finally.
"I'm not going to lie," I said, "when I saw Samir covered in your blood, I thought I'd lost you."
"But you didn't, sweetie," said Mom. "It's going to take more than bad aim and a few bullets to keep me down."
I knew Mom wasn't immortal, but the way she was totally without fear of death, and escaped from perilous situations mostly unharmed, I'd almost begun to believe she was.
"So, you're really walking away this time?" I asked.
"When have you known me to not do the things I've said, Mahdi?" said Mom, a hint of indignance in her voice. "Of course, I'm retiring. Right after I finish this last documentary. And that's where you come in."
"Me?" I said, "what do you need me to do?"
"To understand, sweetie," said Mom. "This last project, I'm doing it for a reason. I owe it to you to do it."
"What do you mean, Mom?" I asked.
My mom took a deep breath before answering.
"I know you've wondered why I never revealed the identity of your father, why I've refused to speak of him. It's time you ought to know."
Suddenly, my chest felt as if it were in a vice grip and I couldn't breath for a moment. My mouth felt like balls of cotton were in it.
"Wh-who?" I stammered. "Who's my father?"
"I'm sorry, Mahdi," said Mom, "but you're going to have to wait just a little longer. "Listen," my mom said as I begin to protest. "It's crucial that you listen to me. I knew the day would come where I would have to divulge the story about your father, and in secret, I've been working on my memoirs for the past three years. Once you go home, there's a large safe behind the Basquiat painting in my office. In that safe are installments of my memoirs. Read from chapters eight through fourteen. After you have read it, I will be ready to explain everything. Do not hold back, any questions you have, I will be prepared to answer. I owe you that."
I couldn't find the words I wanted to say, because my mind was whirring. I merely nodded my head.
"I love you Mahdi," said Mom, "I've achieved a lot of great things in my life. But my greatest achievement will always be you. Surely you know that."
"Of course," I said, "I love you too Mom."
I gripped her hand tight, just as Bertie had done moments ago.
"What time did you get here?" asked Mom.
"Around threeish," I said, "Why?"
"So, you haven't eaten yet?" said Mom, "well, go to the cafeteria and get you some food. Whether you want to leave or remain here is up to you, but I won't keep you any longer than you have to, I know you have classes later on."
"I have no choice, actually," I said grinning a little, "Nadira heard what happened and she's on her way."
"I look forward to seeing her then," said Mom, "go on, now, seek sustenance."
I didn't realize how hungry I was until my stomach emitted a low rumble. I headed for the door, thinking what kind of good eats they had in the cafeteria."
"Hey Mahdi?"
I turned back to face my mother once more.
"Yeah, Mom?"
"The pin to the safe is your birthday."