Thirty-One

Clara Addas

In the days that follow Papa's death, I manage to look like a normal person. I eat breakfast though it doesn't stay down for long. I listen to the people who come bearing condolences but don't see the faces that offer them. I get out of bed when I have to, go to school, come home and go straight to our homemade videos. I re-watch our family videos late into the night.
When the screen shows my father, he is happy, laughing, he calls my name with the same affection he always had and for those brief seconds I am okay. My heart no longer feels the pain.
But I am not okay. Nothing is okay. Nothing ever will be. I'm incomplete. When I draw a breath, it's like I'm breathing into a vacuum. A cacophony of sadness overcomes me. The homework and assignments pile up, going undone. But I don't speak to anyone, nothing I say will take away the grief, nothing they say helps in any way.
Mostly people think I've stopped living. But I am living. If only in the past. I spend countless hours paging through our memories in my head, looking at the photographs I have of him, of us, of happier times, of laughter and joy, of love. I spend all my time going through homemade videos and for those short couple of minutes everything is fine. I am happy again. Papa is smiling. He's looking at me the way he always had. The grief is gone. But just for those short moments, moments that don't last. Moments that make everything worse.
I don't know how to live without him and I am not strong enough to try. Throughout this time, I experience an acute nostalgia, a longing for a lost time that is so intense I pray will be enough to knock me dead.
Dahab acts as our mother, cooking, cleaning, making sure we get enough sleep. And since Daniel and I know nothing about organizing a (Muslim) funeral, and having never been to one, we're grateful when she takes over the arrangements.
The house is so full that I'm amazed by how many friends Papa actually had. The detectives have dropped Daniel and I completely from their suspects list. I'm glad. Or so it seems. But Daniel and I? We're not okay. He hates me and with good reason. He was so angry with me when he found out about Samantha and Papa. I've apologized. He's not having it.
According to Islamic law (“shariah”), the burial should occur at least within twenty-four hours. Usually the funeral arrangements and preparations begin as soon as possible. Dahab (since there's no other adult immediate family member) has already met with the local Islamic organisation and together they have managed to find a funeral home, make arrangements for the service and burial.
Ali and Dahab agreed only to one autopsy that reveals that Papa possibly drowned to death. But the police are convinced it was in one of the bathrooms here at the house, a house Daniel and I still have to live in. I'm bound to have routine nightmares. Selling the house is not an option.
Since Papa was so badly mutilated a cosmetology and surgery were required. Dahab and Ali tried to fight against it, citing it conflicts with Papa's religion. She contacted the imam to help convince them but the Federal law won in the end.
Daniel gave Dahab a hard time. He wants to have Papa cremated which is forbidden for Muslims. He doesn't get why we'll have to bury an incomplete body. I see his point. The head and hands haven't been recovered yet and it's very unlikely it'll make a sudden appearance now. I figured the killer kept it as a souvenir? At least if the body is cremated and the head is eventually found, it'll be less hustle to have it grilled as well as opposed to having to exhume the body and start everything afresh.
Ali, since he's the same gender as Papa will give the Ghusl which is basically washing the body. But since Papa suffered mutilation the morgue had to first mend the body and wrap it in a shroud to minimise fluid leakage. Last night Ali crowded Daniel, Dahab and I in the living room to explain the process.
"Twins, as you know I'm in charge of the Ghusl and Kafan since your mother can't be reached." He looked at Daniel first and then at me. "Now, if you have any questions please don't hesitate to come to me, okay?"
Daniel nodded.
The body has been kept in this stuffed state for several hours to allow well-wishers to pass on their respects and condolences. (Ali explained).
"Clara?" It's Dahab. She pops her head around the door. She's wearing a black hijab and no lipstick. "Your father is being transported to the masjid (mosque)for Salat all- Janazah (funeral prayers) Hurry. We have to leave."
Salat al-Janazah will be recited at the morque's courtyard, three miles from my house.
After Salat al-Janazah has been recited, the body will be transported to the cemetery for al-Dafin. And since there won't be any lavish stones, Papa's grave will have only grave markers (a friggin wreath). He won't even be buried in a coffin for fuck' sake!
Instead, I'll be at home, preparing for the Post-Funeral Reception. My house is so full of food that I'm sure Daniel and I will have no choice but to throw most of it away. I heard from Ali that the Muslim community is bound by religious law to provide food for us as we're in mourning for at least a week.
Ali warned me to behave. Apparently I'm too emotional, at least, in Islam standards. Yeah sure, crying and expressing some form of grief is allowed but once, when the pain became unbearable, I screamed. They all looked at me as though I'd trashed the Qur'an or something. It wasn't until Ali sat me down and told me how I'm supposed to grieve that shrieking, throwing objects etc is prohibited according to the Sahih Bukhari.
"Were you planning on making it to the mosque in time for the funeral prayer?" Dahab asks me, her eyes locked on the clothes sprawled on the floor.
My heart is still racing and my breath grows shallow. I heave a sigh and gesture to my empty closet. "I can't seem to find something nice to wear."
"Clara," she begins. Searching my eyes. Concerned. She crosses the room, picks up a red dress and tosses it towards me. "That's a beautiful dress, and it looks good on you. And besides you'll be wearing your Niqab on top."
Holy smokes! I have to look like a damn sausage again today. Dresses make me look like a squashed frozen sausage.
I gulp, trying to find my voice. My eyes grow watery and I grit my teeth. "I guess," I say slowly. I'm sceptical of course. Family, specifically Dahab and me, tell each other lies so often the line between truth and illusion blurs a little. I hang my head for a moment and then look at her in the eye. "If he were here Papa would scold me for crying at all. He'd say, Kid, today we celebrate a life. We thank Allah for it. We don't cry." Tears blind me and I blink, forcing them away. "Do you think I'll ever forget? Ever not hurt?"
Dahab shakes her head, swallowing hard and with blinding fast movements she's standing a mere inch from me. "Look, Clara," She pronounces my name slowly. Without fail, every time I hear my Aunt say my name like this I know she's going to say something I don't like. "I know you don't want to hear this" — she takes a breath — "but here goes. . He was your father and no one can ever replace that. You guys had a bond that's hard to come by. Best friends. Very few girls are best friends with their fathers. You were so different and yet when I was with you two it truly felt like I was with the same person. Now, what you'll look for going forward is not a replacement for Zayed but a friend you can love, you have Ali. He's a great Uncle and he loves you and your brother very much. You won't be betraying Zayed. That's what he'd want for you. To find someone else to make memories with. Someone else to relay on. To walk you down the aisle if you choose that kind of wedding."
"We'll see." I hesitate. Panic making me squirm. "Let me stop crying. It always made Papa angry when I cried."
Her expression softens."Get dressed."
The inside of my throat is so dry I can barely swallow right. "Can't I borrow your nude dress?"
"Oh Clara," she says, voice impatient, her eyes distant. "You're wasting time."
"Can't I stay? I can't say goodbye to him. Going to the prayer will make it official."