Samara

By: Katrina Heidenburg

She looked at me and said, “lets go out and get…”

“What?” I asked, anxious to hear her recommendation.

“Lets go out and get make-up for my wedding.”

We arrive at the mall and my window won’t roll up.

We drive back to my house, get my mothers car, and drive back to the mall.

Your fiancé calls from Lebanon, his engagement visa is approved.

You put him on speakerphone so I can talk to him.

“Is she as beautiful as I remember?” Mohammed says.

“You have no idea,” I reply as I look at her.

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 She is sitting in a chair.
The cosmetic lady at Sephora is putting make-up on her.

She is the most beautiful person I have ever met, inside and out.

That is not an exaggeration.

“I am so excited to come. How is my English can you understand me?”

“Yes, you speak it well” I replied, still watching her.

“I’ve never been to America but this is how they teach us in Lebanon.”

“It’s good, it’s really good” I say.

“Samara always makes me talk to her in English to practice.”

“Well, she is a good teacher.”

I hand the phone back to Samara.

It is June of 2007.

He arrives next week.

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 You wait in the Airport with your brother anxiously.
You really love Mohammed.

Every time I ask about him you tell me the same story over again.

How he had to impress your father.

Yet, there were no jobs in Lebanon.

So he went to China to work to prove he was capable of supporting you.

That’s why you haven’t seen him for so long.

He was in China, and you in America.

He arrives.

You cry happy tears.

And though your eyes are red from them, you are still so beautiful.

I am Jealous of your happiness and your beauty.

You deserve the world.

Your father always talks about how you are his favorite child.

You are the only one who cares about him.

I tell him not to be silly.

You are his oldest child and your siblings are still young.

Young and immature.

I love them all like family.

You are married in September of 2007

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 I do not attend your wedding.
I am at the Maumee Chop House with your Father.

We are cooking the wedding dinner.

Fish, Chicken and Salad for Four Hundred.

Your father rented all of Stranahan Theater for the wedding.

It was the most wonderful wedding they say.

Everyone talked about it for a very long time.

You were very happy.

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 It is February 2008.

Six months after your wedding.

“I’m pregnant.” You said.

I already knew.

Mohammed was glowing.

“I’m going to be a dad,” he kept saying.

And for the next nine months it was all I heard.

“I want to know my son.”

“I want to know what he looks like.”

“I want to hear him speak.”

He is very anxious to meet him.

So are you.

Your belly is so big.

Your face is glowing.

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 Your baby is born October 16th 2008

He is named Khalil Mohammed Saada.

We call him Kyle.

Moe does not like that.

He is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.

His eyes are so big.

Just like yours.

His head, is full of hair.

He smiles widely.

He is a very happy baby.

You are a very happy mother.

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 Your baby is five months old.

It is March 2009.

Everything is changed.

I go back and forth with myself over how I should feel.

I want to write about you but I can’t.

I could never do you justice.

Your beauty, your sheer perfection is indescribable.

Those that knew you will hold those memories dearly.

Those you didn’t will never truly understand.

Which is why I will debate writing this story.

Your story is the biggest tragedy I’ll ever know.

And I don’t mean that to be a belittling exaggeration.

Because it is in fact the most sincere claim I will ever make.

I foreshadowed it you know?

I curse myself now for ever uttering the word.

Your dad said there was something wrong with your blood.

Your cell count is off.

“Joe, it could be cancer…” I said.

I wish my intellect would fail me.

You begin to look ill.

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 It is March 1, 2009

Your brother Saaid’s 18th birthday.

Your whole family is eating at the restaurant.

We are celebrating and everyone is happy.

It is March 12th 2009.

I am moving into my new apartment.

Your brother calls.

My intellect did not fail me.

Leukemia.

I sink to the floor.

They put an IV into your chest.

It is a Thursday.

You must go home and heal for a week before they can start Chemo.

I do not come see you.

I cover the shifts for your father, brother, and husband.

They are with you.

I cook dinner.

The vegetables well cooked.

I send it home with your father for you.

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Monday March 23rd you start Chemotherapy.

I again do not come see you.

We talk on the phone.

You are scared.

You do not want to lose your hair.

I make a joke,

“No one sees your hair anyway”

We laugh.

I have not seen you.

But I have seen your son.

Your mother brought him into the restaurant.

He is smiling as always.

He has no idea of the trauma around him.

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 It is Wednesday, March 23rd

There are complications.

Your lungs have filled with fluid.

Your body is swelling.

You are life flighted to U of M.

You are stabilized.

It is Thursday, March 26th.

You are fine.

Friday you are awake.

Watching T.V.

Eating a lollipop.

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 Your father leaves you.

He drives down to the Perrysburg Mosque to pray.

His phone rings.

He has to return right away.

Your lungs have filled with fluid again.

They must put you on a machine.

It shakes you, moving the fluid around so air can get in.

Meanwhile, a nurse stands next to you,

She is sucking the fluid from your lungs.

Then, the fluid turns to blood.

She is sucking the blood out of you.

The machine is keeping you alive and breathing.

But is killing you by making you bleed out.

Your father is by your side.

He is crying and repeating the phrase,

“Come back Samara, come back samara”

You do not come back.

It is that Friday, March, 26th when you die.

It is 11 O’clock at night.

I am getting the mail at my apartment.

My phone rings.

I again fall to the floor.

Two weeks after diagnosis.

I still have not seen you.

I text your brother to confirm the news.

I typed, “Please tell me it’s not true”

His response was, “the end.”

I notify the rest of the workers.

We will close the restaurant tomorrow.

I do not sleep that night.

I just cry.

Saturday, I drive to the restaurant.

I put a sign on the door.

“CLOSED FOR FAMILY EMERGENCY”

Then I drive to your funeral.

Your husband,

Father,

Brothers,

Sister,

Mother,

Grandfather,

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 And grandmother

Sit in the front row.

Your son

Is in the arms of an aunt in the back of the room.

And you.

Are in a casket.

The four hundred gathered so recently for your wedding.

And now gather again for your funeral.

We go to the burial.

I throw dirt on you.

I can still feel the grittiness of it in my hand.

Then I leave you.

Alone.

In the ground.

Your husband, son, and sister stay with you all night.

They read Quran to you.

They do not want to leave you.

Everything is changed.

Your 21st birthday passes in April

So does your fathers 48th.

We do not celebrate his.

Your father still cries when he thinks no one is looking.

But I see him.

He stares at the seat you always sat in.

You will never sit in it again.

Your brother attempts to cover up his feeling with laughter.

But really he is on anti-depressants.

When your family comes to eat they sit in a booth.

They will no longer sit at that table.

Your husband is in panic.

He leaves, back to Lebanon.

He takes your son.

Away from your family.

He did not say good-bye.

Everything is changed.

So my peacefulness is at an end.

Surprisingly, I do not mind.

I don’t mind my anger and sadness.

These are the feelings I am supposed to have.

I did mind however the untimleyness of your death.

Your mother tried to be religious about it.

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 “It was her time”

I knew what they were really thinking.

In their head they were thinking exactly what I was.

“Why you.”

“Why now.”

“Why not me.”

“Why is your father alive for his birthday but you are not.”

Yes, I can accept that my peacefulness is gone.

I cannot accept that you are gone.

I love you Samara.

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