Love, Hate and Other Filters(46)

I approach the broken window, slowly panning across the yellow crime-scene tape that stretches the length of the one-story building. Through the window frame I focus on the slivers of sparkly glass that escaped the vacuum.

My father looks up, sees me with my camera, and narrows his wary eyes. Then he just nods. Probably too tired to argue with me about this not being the right time or place to film. But what he doesn’t get is that it is exactly the right time to film.

I walk into the waiting room, camera on. I greet Rose, the receptionist who’s been with my parents’ practice since the beginning. She looks up and smiles into my lens and then pretends to engross herself in her work. But what could she possibly be doing? My parents aren’t seeing patients right now. They can’t. The office is still closed. Maybe it’s habit. After years of watching me film, Rose is happy to play along, to star or cameo. I’ve promised her a shout-out if I ever win an Oscar.

I’m not even exactly sure what I want to do with the film. Right now, I’ll take as much raw footage as possible. There’s maybe a short doc in all of this, one I could even enter in a student film festival. Something positive has to come of this senselessness.

My mom walks into the waiting room with the same drawn face she’s worn since yesterday. “Maya, why are you filming? We don’t need memories of this …” She trails off; her voice has run out of batteries.

“Maybe the footage will be helpful for the insurance company?” It’s a feeble excuse, but she nods, anyway, and then heads toward the back without another word. Maybe she’s right. I don’t need to document the last three days; I need to delete them from existence.

Outside, my dad, Violet, and three police officers surround the open window of Officer Jameson’s squad car. The radio blasts. Violet gestures for me to hurry up and join them. A man’s deep voice rings over the car’s speakers.

“It’s not him. It’s not him,” Violet repeats as I jog up to the car.

“It’s not who?”

“They don’t think the Aziz guy is the terrorist. It’s not him.”

I put my hand to my chest to catch my breath. I squeeze my eyes shut. My mind’s camera rolls. The newscaster’s words emerge from the radio in three dimensions, hanging in the air in block letters:

TRUCK RENTAL LINKED TO SUSPECT WITH POSSIBLE WHITE SUPREMACIST TIES …

AZIZ CLEARED …

CITIZENSHIP—HIS AMERICAN DREAM …

POLICE EXECUTE SEARCH WARRANTS

My mouth hangs open. I should be more relieved that a Muslim isn’t responsible, but all I can think of is the carnage. Over a hundred people are dead, and there have been dozens of attacks on Muslims in retaliation for a crime no Muslim committed. My father and the police stand at grim-faced attention until the station breaks for commercial.

Officer Jameson turns down the dial. “Let’s hope this curbs the threats from our neighborhood vandal. I’m going to check with the chief. I’m sure he’ll want police detail to stick with your family at least another day.”

My dad nods, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to tell my wife the news.” He doesn’t say a word to me. He hurries toward his office without glancing back.



Violet takes me home. We raid the fridge. She grabs a couple leftover samosas and tosses them into the microwave. I pour us glasses of chilled mango juice.

“I wish I had vodka to spike those,” Violet says.

I have to laugh. It feels good. “Yeah. That would go over big with the parentals.”

“I’m trying to help you relax. You should be psyched it’s not the Muslim guy. It’s some asshole white supremacist dude. This will all blow over, and your parents will let you go to New York. We should be celebrating.”

I shake my head. “That’s now how it’s going to work.”

Violet’s impish smile fades. “Why not?”

“Are you kidding? All this stuff happened when they only suspected it was a Muslim. Imagine if the next time it actually is a Muslim. Like that guy, someone who just happens to have my last name? Which is actually sort of common. My parents told me all these stories about things that happened after 9/11—people getting beat up or harassed because they were brown—some of them weren’t even Muslims. This brick through the window? The Brian bullshit at school? I don’t see how my mom is going to recover. Or my dad, by the looks of it.” As I’m saying these words to Violet, I suddenly fear that my parents could take a lot more away from me than just NYU. They could take away Batavia. They could insist we move somewhere else and start over.

“Maybe your aunt can talk to your mom?” Violet says softly.

“My mom is still pissed at her for aiding and abetting on the whole applying-to-NYU thing.” I slump back in my chair. “I can’t ask Hina for anything else. Besides, she has her own life.”

Violet takes a bite out of the samosa in front of her and gulps down her juice. “I know it’s bleak, but don’t give up. We’ll find a way.”

I’m silent. I give my head a little shake.

“What’s stopping you?” she demands.

It’s a simple question, but there is no simple answer. That infuriates me. I can’t do whatever I want. I can’t be whatever I want. No matter what, someone I love will get hurt.