Love, Hate & Other Filters(47)

WGN TV Chicago Local News

As cleanup crews continue the arduous process of sorting through the wreckage of the Federal Building here in downtown Springfield, this surprise from the FBI: Kamal Aziz, initial suspect in the terrorist attack, appears to be a victim himself. Initial reports tied Mr. Aziz to a terrorist splinter group, but the FBI is now calling it a simple case of mistaken identity.

In fact, Mr. Aziz was in the Federal Building that day to take part in a citizenship ceremony. He and fifty others were to take an oath to swear allegiance to the United States, to become our nation’s newest citizens, when a suicide bomber cut that dream short. Mr. Aziz was a resident at Memorial Medical Center in Springfield. His parents, local store owners in Dearborn, Michigan, mourn him now as the one-hundred-twenty-fifth victim of the suicide attack.





Life at home is hushed. My parents and I shuffle around like cordial strangers. Sometimes I can barely even muster cordial. Every time I look at them, all I see in their eyes is fear and worry about the state of their practice and the state of our lives. And they might not acknowledge it, but they must sense the resentment that comes off me in waves. It’s like we’re all unavoidable reminders to one another of what we’ve lost.

So I now have one mission in life: avoid my parents. That, and to not think of Phil. Or New York. Or all the opportunities I’m missing. My brain hurts from thinking about all the stuff I swear not to think about.

It’s Saturday night. I’m not on the work schedule at the bookstore. Violet is going to a party at our friend Monica’s house and wants me to come. She’s texted me three times in the last hour. Just what I need, to go to some party and walk in on Phil and Lisa making out. Not that I even know Phil is even going to be there, but still, can’t risk it. I can’t keep ignoring her, so I text:

too tired

and turn off my phone.

With nothing to do and nowhere to go, I drive.

I drive through town and the houses that sprouted up overnight where once there were only cornfields. I drive down the dark, empty road behind the grocery store to where Batavia’s mythic Lincoln Tree once stood. They chopped it down two decades ago when the tree got sick, but according to old Batavia lore, when the leaves were green and full, the elm looked exactly like Abraham Lincoln’s profile. It faced in the direction of Bellevue, the sanitarium where Mary Todd Lincoln was forced to stay for a while in the 1870s. They say that when the summer breeze was just so, the branches of the elm would dip down and give the face the appearance of weeping.

I drive on, unable to weep anymore.

When I find myself at the Fabyan Forest Preserve, it feels almost like an accident. Almost. I kill the headlights and drive along the road that parallels the river. The car creeps along a half mile of crunchy gravel. The pond is the best place to wallow in my wretched state. Why not go to the place that will hurt the most to see how much I can stand? It’s why I watch the Sullivan Ballou letter-to-his-wife scene in the Ken Burns doc Civil War over and over—because I’m challenging my own heart to burst. He was a Union officer and probably the most romantic guy ever. That letter is so full of longing and gratitude for his wife being in his life. My love for you is deathless, he wrote. He died a week after writing it. She never received the letter.

Their tragedy kills me every single time. Sometimes I think that letter is why documentaries need to exist—to show us the almost unbearable truth about ourselves.

As I drive up to the entrance of the Japanese Garden, I see Phil’s car parked in front of the NO TRESPASSING sign.

Damn it. My chest tightens. I clasp the steering wheel, afraid it will take flight. But I barely have time to panic. I do a quick U-turn and skid away. Gravel shoots up behind the car. He’s seen me, I’m sure of it. Or heard me, at least. And no one else comes to this place.

The space in the car shrinks, closing in on me. Was Phil there with Lisa? No. No. No. Crap. I don’t even try to stop myself from crying. I pound the side of my right fist into my thigh when I stop at the first light.

I’ve run out of road, so I drive home. The dark house is a relief. A note on the foyer table in my mom’s handwriting reads, At the mosque. Then going to the Khans’. Since the bombing last week, my parents have gone to prayers every day. I can understand. It gives them a sense of peace and purpose, a place to belong when no other place feels welcoming. But nothing at home has changed. We communicate mostly by notes now. I know they’re scared. I’m scared, too. A part of my heart aches for them. But another part of my heart can’t forgive them for reneging on their promise.

I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. I linger long enough to hear my mother’s voice in my head: “Shut the door, Maya; you are defrosting everything.” She made parathas while I was at work. I slather butter on a paratha and throw it into the microwave for thirty seconds. Since I’m eating my feelings, though, buttery flatbread is not enough. I open the freezer and grab a pint of mint chip ice cream, find a spoon, and head to my room.

In low light, I kick off my shoes and sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed. Spoonfuls of ice cream aren’t enough, either.

I need a friendly voice. A person who understands without me having to explain. I need Kareem.

We haven’t talked since the bombing. We’ve texted. I’m not sure if I should call. But my entire body pulls me to the phone. He always says I can call him whenever. Hope he means it.