The Leather Jacket

The thing about Suleiman is that he admits nothing. You could catch this man with your purse in his hands, your gold necklace in his fist… you could be making dinner one night and get an alert that your card’s being used at the department store on 10th and is this you trying to buy a man’s leather jacket, size XL? but that stubborn man will roll his eyes and ask why you always assume the worst.

And it works. You actually apologized that time and bought him the jacket the following day. He’d picked one made of the best calf leather, the kind that nobody could deny looked expensive. You had the bag sitting on the kitchen table when he returned from another job interview. There was no thank you. Not a word — only that it was about time you showed him appreciation, as he slipped his arms through the sleeves.

He still pauses in front of every mirror, every glass surface, when he passes by wearing that jacket. He stares at himself like he’s in love. When has he ever looked at you like that, you wonder one night when you’re up late making baklava because he said he had a craving. You stand at the counter, after a long day at the office, layering sheet after sheet of the most vulnerable dough in the world, wondering why you married a man who makes everything complicated.

But it wasn’t your money he took this time, promising never again.

This time, he can’t fix it.

***

The tired nurse calls you on FaceTime right before and says, her voice muffled behind three masks, “Doctor says he won’t be awake much longer.” A Band Aid keeps the top of her mask taped to the bridge of her nose — you’ve seen the news where nurses and doctors are doing this so their glasses don’t fog up. You thank her excessively, polite and agreeable because she doesn’t have to do this. It’s loud over there and you realize he’s still in the hallway, where he’s been for a week.

“You ready?” she asks. “It’s worse than yesterday.”

You nod.

She flips the camera around and there’s Baba, pale as a page from Scripture.

The nurse’s disembodied voice softly prods, “Your daughter’s on. Can you see her?”

You paste a hopeful look on your face, but his eyes stay closed, his mouth droops.

“Baba?” you say timidly.

“Louder, hon,” her hovering voice barks out. “It’s loud here.”

“Baba,” you practically shout into your phone. “Baba, I love you.”

And for a moment, you freeze. So little time, but you are paralyzed because the little triangle of skin at the top of his chest peeks through the open neck of his gown. And it is sucking in hard with every breath he takes, like a mine about to collapse.

He is in pain. He is fighting to breathe.

How do you say, “I’m sorry Suleiman came into the house?” How do you say, “I’m sorry I married a selfish man?”

“Hon? I have other patients.”

The anger is for later.

You tell Baba, loudly and in Arabic, you love him and you’re sorry but they won’t let you in. You pause to see if he will answer, but he can’t breathe. The nurse replaces his mask every few seconds, triggering his moan of relief. He’s been reduced to one thing: a need for oxygen. Opening his eyes, speaking — these are all a waste.

The oxygen matters more than you.

You beg: Please call back if he opens his eyes. Please write down anything he says. You know you have no right to ask, but please. She promises. Her voice sounds like it’s on autopilot: like it’s a promise she’s made before, one she will keep having to make, because she is at the mercy of someone else.

***

You’d made too much baklava that day. Baba had said on the phone, “I wish I could taste it. I wish I could leave this house and come visit and eat it with you.” And because it had been months, you decided to drop off a plate to your father who had been shut in alone. You stood there and sliced the tray of baked pastries into ribbons, then turned it and sliced the other way until you had golden diamonds of baklava. You did it with your good knife, thinking, maybe you could wear gloves and a mask and drop the tray off on his porch.

But Suleiman, passing by in his jacket, said he would go. The virus doesn’t show symptoms in everyone, you said, so don’t go inside. Stop treating him like an idiot, he spat at you.

You check your FaceTime app. Still nothing from the nurse.

You finish packing anyway. The news will come any minute, but you do not need it to make you act. Not this time. You've been taking boxes to Baba’s house for days now.

Suleiman is upstairs, avoiding you. His cough is gone — it only lasted a short time. Maybe he understands what he has done, but he still has admitted nothing.

On your way out, the jacket catches your eye, so lovely hanging from the rack by the door, and so you pick it up by its smooth collar, the way a dancer picks up a fairy-like ballerina. You head back into the kitchen, and as you slice the leather with your good knife, you think about how much you’ve already lost, how much more loss awaits. And you shred the garment into ribbons.