Happy Harrison #1

Na’eema cried every time she went to see her father these days. Her brother, Saleh, only wept afterwards. But that was the least of the differences between her and her brother.

This afternoon, she wept yet again as she walked through the halls of the hospice where her father was living out his last days. This time the tears came as she pondered what his reaction might be to the photographs she was bringing him. In his advanced state of dementia, he rarely recognized her during these visits. Nonetheless, the doctors recommended that she bring pictures and other memorabilia from her father’s life to help stimulate what little memory he had left. Saleh told her that that was ridiculous, that that couldn’t possibly work. And yet he always sang a little song for Father before he ended his visit. But he should know, she thought. He is a doctor.

Na’eema dried her eyes and walked into her father’s room. He was lying in bed again. And his favorite shawl was across the room, neatly folded on top of his bureau. That wasn’t a good sign. He usually loved to rap himself up in it when he rested.

Omar Jalaal ibn Omar Al-Najim sat up wide-eyed when his daughter entered his room. He muttered to himself as he always did, words that were not quite Farsi or Arabic. Or French, or any of the other languages that he knew. Used to know. But today he produced the faintest twinkle in his eye that let Na’eema know that on some level, even if he did not know precisely who she was, she was known to him. She sat with him and chatted for about 20 minutes, watching his eyes and his hands. He seemed moody and his hands trembled a bit when he gazed out the window. But that little twinkle resurfaced when he looked into her eyes, as if just for her. They tripped over words and phrases together, chuckling. Her Arabic was pretty rusty since she had spent half her life living stateside with her brother. And her father's English anymore was merely a hodgepodge of gerunds and pronouns.

Saleh arrived and was predictably cavalier, going on and on about his practice. Preening his hair and nails, he appeared not to notice or even care that Omar also appeared not to notice or even care. Na'eema decided it was time to show Father the photos. She had driven up to Boston to get them from her safety deposit box last week. Most of them she hadn't even seen since she was a small child, if ever. She wasn't sure how good they might be for Father, as many of them were from his days in the army. Some were so yellowed and frayed she was sure they dated back to 10 or 20 years before she was born.

"Would you look at that!" Saleh snatched their parents' wedding photo when it caught his eye. "Look at that dress, would you! Can you imagine?" He handed the picture to Na'eema.

Their mother, Nisreen, was stunning, standing there with an coy smile and an enormous bouquet of white roses. Father slouched and wore a funny moustache that Na'eema hadn't seen in years. All black, no grey. That was hard to remember. She handed the picture back to Omar. He scanned it. Didn't seem impressed.

"Do you remember this, Dad? This is your wedding day. This is you and Mom. You and Nan. Your wife? Don't you--?"

"He doesn't remember, sis. These are great, but he's not going to remember, he's just not."

One picture caught Father's attention, though. A huge grin broke out on his face. He laughed a funny laugh to himself.

"What is it, Dad?" Saleh asked, reaching for the picture. Omar drew it away. He continued to chuckle, pointing and muttering. Na'eema sat back and tried to look over her father's shoulder. It was an old army photo. There Omar stood, hair slicked down, moustache waxed, and rifle in hand, baring his teeth for what could have been a smile or could have been a snarl, Na'eema couldn't tell. Beneath it was another photo of him, blurry with the motion of Omar cleaning his weapon. Looking at these now, Father smiled all the more, flashing his bright eyes back and forth to his son and daughter before darting back to study the photographs.

Saleh snorted. Na'eema was mortified. All of her childhood she remembered Father telling her how much he had hated being in the army, and how horribly destructive and senseless war was. Yet here he was, as happy as a child with a new comic book. She couldn't understand his response at all. She only knew of his experiences from Mother; that as a young man, Omar had been conscripted from a cushy civil engineering job to fight the Iranians. That his gas mask had failed and he had suffered tracheal damage when bad intel meant Saddam gassed his own troops. That he had had chronic pain in his head and chest ever since. That he had taken a rifle butt to the head from an overzealous American soldier when he led his unit peaceably in surrender to U.S. forces in 1991. And that years after leaving the army he had been shot and his car forced off the highway by Blackwater agents while driving to work one morning. And if that weren't enough suffering, while he was in the hospital recovering Shiite thugs had shot and killed Nisreen for walking down the street either with her head uncovered or without her husband escorting her. With nothing left in Iraq, Omar came to be with his children as soon as he could. And while his disorientation in a new country and new culture were certainly understandable, it slowly became apparent to Na'eema and her brother that something else was wrong with their father. That his mind and his memory were slowly being eaten away.

Tears came again to Na'eema's eyes as she watched her father smile and gawk at the pictures she had brought him. She didn't understand. But he was happy. Something she couldn't see in those flimsy yellowed sheets touched him in a way she couldn't understand. Her father had experienced so many awful things that she was grateful never to have experienced herself, and he had every right to be bitter and angry at the universe. Yet here he was inexplicably remembering the glory of days that should by all rights have haunted him.

Her voice thick, she asked, "What do you see there?"

Omar's smile faded as he tried to piece together what he wanted to answer.

"It ... it is good. To be home." He put up a wrinkled hand to wipe at his daughter's tears. "Thank you."