Love, Hate and Other Filters(43)

Officer Jameson clears his throat and adjusts his collar. “Are you ready, Miss Aziz?”

Violet steps closer to me. “Dean Anderson, I’d like to go with Maya.” She doesn’t ask. It’s not a matter of permission. She’s going whether he approves or not.

After a moment, he nods. “Okay. You’re responsible for any assignments you’ll miss. And I’ll call Brian in about this morning’s incident. Gather your things. We’ll wait here.”

Violet takes my arm and whisks me down the hall. “I love that we’re getting a police escort,” she says in my ear.

“Yeah,” I whisper and dissolve into tears.

Three men in dark suits knock on the door of a modest house in Dearborn, Michigan. Tarnished gold letters spell out AZIZ on the black mailbox.

It is dinnertime.

A woman in black pants and a loose-fitting white shirt answers the door and then calls for her husband. One of the men talks for a long time at incredibly slow speed. Though both the husband and wife speak English fluently, they look at the man as if he speaks in tongues.

They turn to each other briefly, silently.

Then the woman shrieks and runs wailing up the stairs into her bedroom. The husband steadies himself against the doorjamb before inviting the men to enter his home.





Dozens of flashing lights blaze outside my parents’ clinic. As Violet drives up, the world decelerates, and tiny details come into sharp focus. The surreal slowness of an empty swing moving back and forth, blades of grass seem to ripple individually, and brilliant sunlight sparkles off the jagged edges of what was once a plate-glass window that named my parents’ practice: DR. AND DR. AZIZ, DDS.

I see my parents shaking hands with the mayor in the vestibule. Mayor Graham, Batavia’s one local celebrity. If by “celebrity,” you mean the guy who tosses candy from the back of a red convertible that leads Batavia’s annual Flag Day parade. Truthfully, that parade is really popular. He knows what the job of small-town mayor is—he shows up at every football game and makes sure the garbage gets picked up and the streets get plowed when it snows. He’s a good guy. My parents voted for him. Everyone did. He ran unopposed.

The action lurches back to full speed. My brain is speed-ramping life—from slow motion back to real time. This is not normal. None of this is normal.

I run from the car. I yank open the door, shove past the mayor, and hug my mom and dad at the same time. My whole body shakes. I step back. My dad brushes his index finger across my cheek. A tidy row of Steri-Strips marks a spot above his left eye. Brownish-red drops of blood stand out against the white of his lab coat.

“Dad, are you okay? I … I can’t believe …”

“Maya, can’t you see that Mayor Graham was so nice to stop by,” he says, ever aware of decorum. I’m relieved, honestly—relieved that he’s himself and talking to me in the patient but admonishing tone people use to tell a five-year-old they’ve done something wrong. My mom, though, is pale and disheveled. She takes pride in her perfectly neat buns, but now strands of hair are carelessly tucked behind her ears, out of place. If I act according to Dad’s wishes, maybe Mom will feel better, too.

“Hi, Mayor Graham,” I say. “Thank you for checking in on my parents.”

“No need to thank me, Maya,” he says. He pauses, waiting until I return his gaze; maybe he wants to know that I’m reassured by his presence, that I know he takes this seriously. What he doesn’t understand is that right now, nothing can reassure me.

He turns to my parents. “Asif, Sofia, I’ll be in touch. You’re in good hands with the Batavia PD.” With that, he heads out. There are no cameras, no press. Nothing but policemen and an aide—I’m guessing? The aide leaves with him.

I might not feel calmed by the mayor’s presence, but I can tell by the way my dad’s shoulders have relaxed that the mayor’s promises have eased at least a little of his worry. And for now, that’s enough. I know I complained to Phil that Batavia is too provincial, but I think sometimes I take the positives—the people—for granted.

Violet bursts in and throws her arms around my mom. “Sofia, Asif, we were so scared. Asif, does your head hurt? When they find who did this, there will be a line of people who will want to kick his ass.”

My father has always vaguely disapproved of Violet’s casual way of calling him by his first name—not to mention her profanity—ever since we became friends. Today it brings a gentle smile to his face.

“I’m okay. Thank you, Violet. Only a cut.”

“Thank you for bringing Maya here,” my mom finally manages. Her words are slow, deliberate. Her voice is hoarse.

“Dad,” I ask, “what exactly happened?”

“Your mom was in the back, and I was chatting with a couple patients in the waiting room, and a brick came flying through the window. Glass shattered everywhere. Patients started screaming. I felt a sharp pain, then felt blood on my forehead. At first we thought it was a bomb. I yelled at everyone to get out, and we ran out the back entrance to the parking lot. I called 911, and they told us to stay away from the building. The police came quickly with a special squad from the county in case it was an explosive. But when they went in, they saw it was a brick with a paper wrapped around it with rubber bands, not a bomb.”