Love, Hate and Other Filters Read online

  My gaze turns to Phil for a second, searching, but I’m not sure for what.

  Dean Anderson adds, “Why don’t you head to your table, Phil?”

  Phil touches my arm. It’s a small gesture, protective. But I shouldn’t read into it. I know better now.

  The hallway is empty. And silent. Except for my melon-colored Chuck Taylors, squeaking against the linoleum.

  “Maya, this is Officer Jameson,” Dean Anderson says.

  Officer Jameson holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Maya.” He takes off his glasses and tucks them in his shirt so I can see my distorted reflection in the mirrored lenses.

  I bite my lip. I rub my clammy hands against my jeans. “You, too, Officer. What’s going on?”

  “Maya, there’s been an incident at your parents’ clinic,” the dean begins. “They’re okay. Neither was seriously hurt.”

  “Wh-a … wha-a-t happened?” My lip quivers, and my voice shakes.

  Officer Jameson continues. “Someone threw a brick through the window.”

  I cup my hand to my mouth to hold in a scream.

  “Your dad got a gash on the forehead,” he continues in the same monotone. “A couple people in the waiting area have minor cuts from broken glass. Your mom was in a back exam room, so she’s unharmed.”

  “My dad … did they catch who did it? I mean, why would …”

  I look to Dean Anderson, who in turn looks back to Officer Jameson for a response. Dean Anderson can’t even look me in the eye.

  “It appears to be a hate crime,” the officer says. “There was a note wrapped around the brick. Apparently, the bombing in Springfield angered the perpetrator. The brick through the window was a kind of warning.”

  “A warning? It’s because our last name is the same as the terrorist’s, isn’t it?”

  “We can’t speculate right now,” Officer Jameson explains.

  Confusion, anger, and terror churn in my stomach. Thoughts fly through my brain at warp speed. First, Brian and the altercation this morning. And now this at my parents’ office. What if they attack us at home? A message? What if this is only the first?

  “Are we … I mean … are my parents going to be safe?”

  “Maya, I assure you the Batavia police department is taking this very seriously. We will find the perpetrator,” Officer Jameson says. I can see that he is trying to sound reassuring, but he might as well be telling me fairy godmothers are real, because nothing he says right now will make this okay.

  “Can I go see my parents?”

  “Of course,” Dean Anderson says. “Officer Jameson will take you—”

  Violet bursts out of the lunchroom doors and into the hall, silencing him. It probably took all her patience to wait this long. “What’s going on?” she demands.

  Dean Anderson frowns. “Young lady, I believe Officer Jameson and I were having a private discussion with Maya.”

  Violet stares at him like he’s speaking an alien language, then turns to me.

  “Someone threw a brick through my parents’ office window.” I repeat the officer’s words, not really believing them. “My dad got cut and a couple patients, too. It’s possibly revenge for the bombing.”

  “What? No way. That’s horrible.” Violet turns to Officer Jameson. “I assume this qualifies as a hate crime and that the police will be pursuing every lead with all their formidable resources?”

  Officer Jameson’s mouth betrays a slight smile. “Yes, miss. I was assuring your friend that once we catch the perpetrator, we will be throwing the book at him.”

  “Good. Maya, did you tell them about this morning?”

  I shake my head, swallowing.

  “This would be a good time, don’t you think?” Violet says.

  I don’t want to have this discussion.

  Dean Anderson raises an eyebrow at us. “What happened this morning?”

  “They need to know,” Violet presses me.

  I hesitate, nervous what this conversation will lead to. I honestly can’t deal with any more drama at school. “Brian Jennings …”

  “Bullied her. Because she’s Muslim. And there were witnesses.”

  “Why didn’t you report this to me immediately?” Dean Anderson demands.

  I don’t know how to answer. I just want this interrogation to be over.

  “Maya,” Officer Jameson asks, “have there been any other incidents of this kind? Anything else off school property?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “I want to make it clear that you need to report any other events of this type to the school immediately. If you’re threatened, and you’re not at school, call 911.” Officer Jameson reaches into his right front breast pocket and pulls out business cards. “You can also call me anytime, day or night. My cell phone number is on the card.”

  Violet eagerly takes his card. “Thank you, Officer Jameson. We will all rest easier knowing you’re looking out for us.” Her tone changes from terse and direct to something softer, and I look up to see that she’s standing right in front of him, smiling. I almost laugh. Neither time nor circumstance will stop Violet’s flirting. I resist the urge to cry or hug her or both.

  Officer Jameson clears his throat and adjusts his collar. “Are you ready, Miss Aziz?”

  Violet steps closer to me. “Dean Anderson, I’d like to go with Maya.” She doesn’t ask. It’s not a matter of permission. She’s going whether he approves or not.

  After a moment, he nods. “Okay. You’re responsible for any assignments you’ll miss. And I’ll call Brian in about this morning’s incident. Gather your things. We’ll wait here.”

  Violet takes my arm and whisks me down the hall. “I love that we’re getting a police escort,” she says in my ear.

  “Yeah,” I whisper and dissolve into tears.

  Three men in dark suits knock on the door of a modest house in Dearborn, Michigan. Tarnished gold letters spell out aziz on the black mailbox.

  It is dinnertime.

  A woman in black pants and a loose-fitting white shirt answers the door and then calls for her husband. One of the men talks for a long time at incredibly slow speed. Though both the husband and wife speak English fluently, they look at the man as if he speaks in tongues.

  They turn to each other briefly, silently.

  Then the woman shrieks and runs wailing up the stairs into her bedroom. The husband steadies himself against the doorjamb before inviting the men to enter his home.

  Chapter 14

  Dozens of flashing lights blaze outside my parents’ clinic. As Violet drives up, the world decelerates, and tiny details come into sharp focus. The surreal slowness of an empty swing moving back and forth, blades of grass seem to ripple individually, and brilliant sunlight sparkles off the jagged edges of what was once a plate-glass window that named my parents’ practice: dr. and dr. aziz, dds.

  I see my parents shaking hands with the mayor in the vestibule. Mayor Graham, Batavia’s one local celebrity. If by “celebrity,” you mean the guy who tosses candy from the back of a red convertible that leads Batavia’s annual Flag Day parade. Truthfully, that parade is really popular. He knows what the job of small-town mayor is—he shows up at every football game and makes sure the garbage gets picked up and the streets get plowed when it snows. He’s a good guy. My parents voted for him. Everyone did. He ran unopposed.

  The action lurches back to full speed. My brain is speed-ramping life—from slow motion back to real time. This is not normal. None of this is normal.

  I run from the car. I yank open the door, shove past the mayor, and hug my mom and dad at the same time. My whole body shakes. I step back. My dad brushes his index finger across my cheek. A tidy row of Steri-Strips marks a spot above his left eye. Brownish-red drops of blood stand out against the white of his lab coat.

  “Dad, are you okay? I … I can’t believe …”

  “Maya, can’t you see that Mayor Graham was so nice to stop by,” he says, ever aware of decorum. I’m relieved, honestly
—relieved that he’s himself and talking to me in the patient but admonishing tone people use to tell a five-year-old they’ve done something wrong. My mom, though, is pale and disheveled. She takes pride in her perfectly neat buns, but now strands of hair are carelessly tucked behind her ears, out of place. If I act according to Dad’s wishes, maybe Mom will feel better, too.

  “Hi, Mayor Graham,” I say. “Thank you for checking in on my parents.”

  “No need to thank me, Maya,” he says. He pauses, waiting until I return his gaze; maybe he wants to know that I’m reassured by his presence, that I know he takes this seriously. What he doesn’t understand is that right now, nothing can reassure me.

  He turns to my parents. “Asif, Sofia, I’ll be in touch. You’re in good hands with the Batavia PD.” With that, he heads out. There are no cameras, no press. Nothing but policemen and an aide—I’m guessing? The aide leaves with him.

  I might not feel calmed by the mayor’s presence, but I can tell by the way my dad’s shoulders have relaxed that the mayor’s promises have eased at least a little of his worry. And for now, that’s enough. I know I complained to Phil that Batavia is too provincial, but I think sometimes I take the positives—the people—for granted.

  Violet bursts in and throws her arms around my mom. “Sofia, Asif, we were so scared. Asif, does your head hurt? When they find who did this, there will be a line of people who will want to kick his ass.”

  My father has always vaguely disapproved of Violet’s casual way of calling him by his first name—not to mention her profanity—ever since we became friends. Today it brings a gentle smile to his face.

  “I’m okay. Thank you, Violet. Only a cut.”

  “Thank you for bringing Maya here,” my mom finally manages. Her words are slow, deliberate. Her voice is hoarse.

  “Dad,” I ask, “what exactly happened?”

  “Your mom was in the back, and I was chatting with a couple patients in the waiting room, and a brick came flying through the window. Glass shattered everywhere. Patients started screaming. I felt a sharp pain, then felt blood on my forehead. At first we thought it was a bomb. I yelled at everyone to get out, and we ran out the back entrance to the parking lot. I called 911, and they told us to stay away from the building. The police came quickly with a special squad from the county in case it was an explosive. But when they went in, they saw it was a brick with a paper wrapped around it with rubber bands, not a bomb.”

  “What did it say?” I ask. My dad hesitates. He opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out.

  “‘You’re dead—you fucking terrorists,’” my mom quotes. “And it had our home address written on the bottom.” Her face is grim and her voice barely audible as she says what my dad won’t. Or can’t.

  I cover my mouth with my hand. I’ve never heard my mom drop the F-bomb before. My stomach churns. I taste the bile rising in my throat.

  My dad gently squeezes my mom’s elbow. She looks away, not interested in reassurance or affection.

  “We should stay somewhere else, in a hotel or with my sister,” she says. “At least until they catch whoever did this. It’s too dangerous to stay at home.”

  I shake my head instinctively. I get it. She’s frightened. She’s a mom worried for her kid’s safety. But nowhere is safe. The logistics don’t even work.

  “But they might never catch the guy. And how am I supposed to go to school if we’re at Hina’s?” I’m trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

  “Maya can stay with me,” Violet offers. “I know my dad will be cool with it, and I drive her to school, anyway.”

  My mom shakes her head no.

  Violet doesn’t give up. “If you’re worried, we can always ask the police to beef up the patrol around my house. And we have an alarm system since my dad is totally anxious about how quiet it is here.”

  “It will be safer for everyone if Maya stays with family.”

  “Will you please stop talking like I’m not here?” I demand. “I can decide for my—”

  “No. No,” my father interrupts. “No one is going anywhere. We’re going to stay at home and go to work, and Maya will go to school like everything is normal.”

  “But it’s not normal. Look at what happened today. After so many years in this town with no trouble. I’m taking Maya to Hina’s. You can stay here if you want.” My mother mutters the last words under her breath.

  He takes her hand. “Jaan, you are right. It is not normal.”

  “It’s a death threat!” My mom’s voice turns from fearful to frantic as she begins arguing with my dad in Urdu.

  I sigh. It was only a matter of time until they took to their personal language. Of course they do. It cloaks them in the feeling of home, but it leaves me on the outside looking in.

  Violet and I walk out, leaving my parents to their quarrel. They don’t even notice I’m gone. When I turn back to look at them through the glass door, I see my mom gesticulating wildly. My dad catches my eye and then nods at my mom to stop. They walk out to join us.

  The chief of police approaches. He walks with purpose. Wide, confident steps. Eyes forward, shoulders back. I haven’t done anything, but I still feel like I’m about to get busted. The fact that he carries a gun seems utterly redundant.

  He stretches out his hand and removes his silver-rimmed glasses with the other. “Miss Aziz, I’m Chief Wickham. Batavia PD.” He remembers to add a smile when he shakes my hand, like someone told him he’s less intimidating that way.

  “Hi. Officer … uh … Chief … Sir—”

  “Officer Jameson tells me you reported trouble at school. A student named Brian Jennings harassed you?”

  Crap. I did not want to bring up the Brian incident. Not now. Especially not with my mom in emotional overload. I catch Violet’s eye. She gives me a sympathetic grin.

  My parents take positions flanking me. They heard it all.

  “What happened at school? Did you get hurt?” My mom’s distress kicks into hyperdrive. “See, I’m right; it’s too dangerous here.”

  “Mom, relax,” I say, despite knowing that relaxing is not in her wheelhouse. I turn to the police chief. “Name-calling, that’s all. No big deal.” This is another situation best handled by a little white lie about my feelings.

  The chief nods. “Has anything like this happened before? With Brian or anyone else?”

  I shake my head. There was that weird incident at the Idle Hour when Brian saw me with Phil, but I don’t think being a jerk qualifies as a reportable offense.

  The chief turns to my parents. Clearly, they’ve already been acquainted. “Dr. and Dr. Aziz, I’ll send Officers Jameson and Olson home with your family.” He gestures to the two cops standing at their squad car. “I’ll put them on first watch at your place.”

  “Can they check around our house in … for … in case—?” My mother raises a trembling hand to her mouth.

  “Of course. And when we’re finished here, I will personally escort your husband home.”

  “I can drive Maya and Sofia, and they can wait with me in the car until the officers give us the all clear,” Violet offers.

  “Thank you, Violet,” my dad says. His voice is level. It’s his response to my mom’s frenzy. The more she freaks out, the calmer he sounds.

  My dad nods to the chief, who turns and walks with long strides to Officer Jameson’s car. “Don’t worry, jaan,” he says to my mom.

  She walks away from us without saying a word. She’s in tears by the time she reaches Violet’s car.

  I pause outside our front door, bracing myself. My mom has already rushed into the house. Violet hugged me extra long before driving off. I take a deep breath. Then another. I look down our street. It’s quiet. The late-afternoon sun dances off the tops of the maple trees that are planted all along the parkway.

  In autumn, the street is ablaze in the reds and oranges of the leaves. When I was a kid, I would gather the brightest reds of the fallen leaves and tie them with scraps of rib
bon into little bouquets for my mom. She would always feign surprise and delight and place the leaves in a vase in the middle of the table. Maybe the delight was genuine? All I know is how happy it made my seven-year-old self. I would add water to the vase to make the leaves last longer. Even knowing that no matter my efforts, the leaves would eventually dry and curl in on themselves.

  I wave to Officer Jameson as he steps back in the car after taking a look-see around the property. He’s here to protect us. I clench my jaw, realizing we might actually need the protection. The vandal has our address. He knows where we live. I don’t know if my mom will ever sleep well again. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again, either.

  I sigh.

  Alone in the house with my mom is the last place I want to be. I fold my hands across my body, grip my twisting stomach, and scan my memory for a moment of reprieve. My mind’s eye comes to rest on Phil and us floating together in the pond under the warm sun and the delicious graze of his fingertips on my skin as he helped me relax in the water.

  Inside the house, my mom stands at the kitchen counter. She winces while she stirs her tea, as if holding the spoon pains her. I shrink into myself. In a single afternoon my mom has aged. She seems grayer, her movements older and labored.

  She opens her mouth. It takes a few seconds for the words to come out. “It’s too dangerous—”

  “The police are outside. We’re safe.”

  She talks past me. “It’s too dangerous for you to be far away. You can’t go to New York. You need to stay close to us. It’s decided.”

  She betrays no emotion as she says this. She turns her back to me and continues stirring her tea.

  Tears flow down my face. My mom sits down at the kitchen table and takes a sip from her cup. I’m a ghost in the room.

  I run up the stairs and slam my bedroom door. I don’t even make it to my bed. Instead I collapse to the floor, sobbing for Phil, for New York, for the dead, for everything we’ve lost. And for what I’ve learned: that hope is just a million shards of broken glass.

  At a church a few blocks from the site of the bombing, the residents of Springfield create a makeshift memorial. Pictures of those lost, flowers, teddy bears, candles flickering in the quiet night. People stand, some huddled in small groups, others alone, softly crying.