Nina Hamza - Ahmed Azizs Epic Year

I was mad at Mom for making us move our lives while Dad was still sick. Seething. No conversations, no discussions.

I pulled a guava off the tree before getting in the car. The tree Dad had planted the day I was born, with a line scratched and a date carved on the trunk marking my height on every birthday. I slouched down, arms crossed, and baseball hat pulled low. I waited for Mom to notice how angry I was. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, tapping on the steering wheel, bobbing her head from side to side, and singing all the wrong words to a Prince song. Gimme a red Corvette. Baby, youre much too bad. The guava was hard and still sour. Sara joined in from the back, clapping and snapping out of tune and out of sync. I was surrounded by weirdos.

Come on, Ahmed! Mom yelled over the music, either oblivious or unaffected by my anger. I looked out the window instead.

I hated visiting hours. Dont get me wrong, I love my dad. I especially love my memories of Dad before he got sick. What I didnt love was the unpredictability. If his hair was unbrushed and the blinds were closed, it was going to be a rough visit. Sometimes he barely recognized me. If he was showered and sunshine flooded the room, he would be ready to come home.

Sara climbed between the front seats to get out of the car, stepping on my fingers, adding injury to insult. Maybe a move to Minnesota would mean a car with back doors that opened.

I made my guesses as we waited for the elevator. The family with the balloons was obviously a sixth-floor family. They were laughing, and the little girl wore a pink Im a big sister now T-shirt. They were going to the labor and delivery floor. The man with the gray beard and bald head who didnt look up when the girl started to sing must have been an eighth-floor family. That was the cancer floor.

The seventh floor was ours. Squeezed between the joy of new babies and the sadness of cancer, the seventh floor was where my father had spent too many months of the past year.

Cirrhosis, the doctor called it, his lisp stinging my ears like static on the radio. A year ago, Dads doctor drew pictures on the whiteboard explaining how a backed-up liver let toxins build up until Dad became confused and goofy. He called it a blocked drain, like bad plumbing. Bad plumbing makes your toilets overflow; it doesnt make your dad forget who you are. I asked the doctor why Dads liver was cirrhotic. Was it something we brought home from school like lice or strep throat? The doctor smiled so wide, his eyes turned to tiny slits. No, he assured us, thats not how cirrhosis works. Dad had a rare genotype of hepatitis C, the doctor explained, but I didnt understand what he meant. Sometimes you can have all the right words but not know how to use them. What they meant to say was that Dad had an infection, a type of hepatitis C, a type he inherited from his mom, a type that was hard to cure. The only solution, they all agreed, was a liver transplant, but rare genotype apparently also meant they couldnt give him one.

The seventh floor was also the transplant floor, but my father was an impostor, because he needed a transplant and couldnt get one. So even when the whiteboard cheerfully spelled Happy Birthday, Bilal! in multicolored balloon letters, I hated it.

I pushed the door open with my back, my hands gripping the still warm plate of pakodas. The room was bright, and Dad was smiling. It was going to be a good visit.

Whats going on, guys? he asked. Im looking forward to some company today. Missed all of you. The white of his eyes was a lighter yellow than two days ago.

Sara started, not taking a moment to breathe. She filled him in on her latest dance recital and the book she was writing and how she was going to learn to knit scarves and sell them at the fair and how she was going to donate all the money she would make to research for liver disease. She had a hundred plans brewing. Most of them were created on the spot, and none of them would leave the room with her.

Dad focused on scratching his arm, not meeting my eyes. What about you, Ahmed? Do you hate me?

Hate him?

Umm... for what? I asked.

Well, Im sure youre not thrilled about moving to Minnesota, but the doctors say thats the place to be. Theres an experimental treatment for my hepatitis and an experienced surgeon that may be the perfect combination for me.

What? I was confused.

They think I have a decent chance of getting ready for a liver transplant, and

Were moving to Minnesota because you want to? I asked.

I looked at Mom, but she was helping Sara get gum out of her hair, her back turned to me.

Want is a strong word, Ahmed. This treatment is only available in a few places. Japan, California, and Minnesota.

And you chose Minnesota?

Dad worked on undoing a knot on the tie of his gown, still not meeting my eyes. Sometimes, in the hospital, it was like he was the child and I was the grown-up. Dont scratch your arm, I wanted to tell him. Dont play with that knot.

Yeah, I didnt think Id be ready either. I loved Minnesota when I was a child. He pulled at the knot, making it tighter, not looser. I didnt think Id ever want to move back, you know, because...

Because your brother died? I finished his sentence for him.

Yes. Its been a long time, but maybe this is the push I need to go back.

And that was our only conversation about the move, but it was the only one we needed.