We made our way down the beige hallway, which seemed to stretch for miles. The freshly waxed tiled floor gleamed, and I felt disgusted by its shine.
I've always hated fluorescent lights, I thought.
After what seemed like an hour, we finally made it to her room, and I lingered back a little. I wasn't sure what to expect.
The only thing worse than expecting the worst is not knowing what to expect at all. Would she be hooked up to ominous-looking machines? Would she be deathly pale, with papery skin? Would she be excruciatingly thin?
Would she be the same Fatima I know and remember?
I took a deep breath and disappeared behind the curtains. I mentally braced myself for whatever was coming.
And what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
She looked...absolutely normal. A white sheet was pulled up under her chin, and a damp cloth rested on her brow. She was leaning back on some fluffy cloud-like pillows and her chest rose and fell rhythmically, in sync with the beeps of the heart monitor. Her eyes were closed, but they fluttered occasionally, and I thought I saw her fingers contract in an involuntary muscle spasm. It was when she inhaled deeply, like a person fast asleep, did I think that maybe, just for a second, maybe she was.
She's just sleeping. I could reach over right now and shake her arm until she woke up. But being Fatima, she won't wake up right away, of course. First she'd crack a smile, and it would give it all away; we'd all know she was just playing a big joke.
She's just being her regular Fatima-self. Its a prank, this whole thing.
And we'll say, "Okay Fatima, reeeeeal funny. Joke's over, now wake up!"
And she'll burst out laughing and say, "I got you guys good!" while pulling the IV lines out of her arms. And then Omar would start laughing too, and agree with her. And the doctors, they'll come in and exchange high-fives with Fatima, because they knew all along. And we'd all pretend to be upset that she tricked us like that, but we'd be laughing too. Because who can resist Fatima's disarming smile and chirping laughter?
"Hi, Fatima," I said quietly.
And I knew she heard the despair in my voice, the anguish and gloom, the distress and anxiety. I knew she heard it all.
I waited for the corners of her lips to curl up in a grin, for her laughter to fill the morose room.
I waited for her to wake up; she knew we weren't joking anymore.
But she didn't.
She just lay in her bed, rebelliously serene, and still in a deep sleep.
And I can't believe I'll never be able to hug her ever again. I won't get to share a smile, a joke, or a laugh with her.
I won't get to hear her call me "Knee-Haw" again.
And I won't get to threaten to trip her in public for calling me that.
And I miss her. So much.
She had the last laugh.
اللهم اغفر لها وارحمها وعافها واعف عنها وأكرم نزلها ووسع مدخلها واغسلها بالماء والثلج والبرد ونقها من الخطايا كما ينقى الثوب الأبيضمن الدنس وأبدلها دارا خيرا من دارها وأهلا خيرا من أهلها وأدخلها الجنة
اللهم إجعل قبر فاطمة قاسم روضة من رياض الجنة و ارحمه و إغفر لها و لنا يا رب العالمين
