Thanksgiving was one of the busiest days of the year at the Ragin’ Cajun. Only on Mothers’ Day did they serve more people. Asher always made a traditional turkey dinner, several kinds of stuffing, candied yams and homemade cranberry sauce. His turkeys were roasted on a rotisserie, which gave them a juicy texture that was lacking in most home kitchens. His turkey dinner was the Ragin’ Cajun’s best-selling takeout and delivery meal of all time.
Short bowel syndrome still prevented him from eating much of his own cooking. Small quantities of the turkey dinner were one of the few things he could eat without having to run to the bathroom. The main thing was that his shortened bowel no longer interfered with his developing new recipes. Finally, he’d developed a tolerance for the smell of food and no longer became nauseous when working in the kitchen. He’d even gone back to preparing meals at the tasting bar from time to time.
Asher’s favorite kind of stuffing was an apple-walnut stuffing, reminiscent of the stuffing that used to be served at the Good Stuff Diner. The diner had been Asher’s favorite restaurant in New York, but it didn’t survive the pandemic. He’d managed to reverse engineer some of their best entrées and side dishes, including their wonderful stuffing. He took pride in serving it as part of his traditional turkey dinner on Thanksgiving.
Manhattan was unique in that an unusual preponderance of young adult professionals called it home. As might be expected, a lot of them visited their families on the holidays, but quite a few could not. The more courageous tried their hand at preparing their own Thanksgiving meals. Few of them were experienced, and the results were mixed. When faced with utter failure, takeout was almost their only recourse, and the Ragin’ Cajun was there to help.
Others turned to the top restaurants in New York, hoping for the taste of an authentic home-cooked meal. A lot of the better restaurants offered a barely-acceptable turkey dinner at a vastly inflated price. The Ragin’ Cajun offered an exceptional Thanksgiving dinner that exceeded expectations at a price most could afford.
That said, Thanksgiving was also a time for Asher to be creative – to innovate. He always served Cajun turkey. He’d perfected many different recipes. He also served a variety of new takes on old staples. It was the fusion of authentic Cajun and Creole flavors with Asian techniques that had earned the Ragin’ Cajun Michelin’s coveted two-star rating.
The restaurant was located in one of the new high-rise buildings at Essex Crossing, on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. There was a large dine-in and takeout buffet on the ground floor. Because they didn’t take reservations on Thanksgiving, the wait time could be as long as four hours. Few objected and none were turned away. Rather than having people wait in a line that could well extend across the Williamsburg Bridge and into Brooklyn, they used a smartphone app. Not only could patrons view estimated wait times, but they were notified when their table would be ready, although they did have to be present to claim it.
In addition to the buffet on the first floor, the Ragin’ Cajun also had a high-end, sit-down café on the top floor, just below the pool deck. It afforded incredible views of the city. Thanksgiving reservations for the café were taken a year in advance and filled quickly. Instead of the usual á la carte menu, diners could select from a more limited prix-fix menu, with a discount for kids under 54 inches tall.
The café included a tasting bar, but seating was limited. There were five two-hour sittings of twenty patrons each. Usually priced at $300 per person or $500 per couple, the price on special occasions and holidays was $1000 per person, most of which was donated to the Sophia Lawrence Foundation to Combat Homelessness. It was a way to give something back to the community that had made the restaurant a success.
The Ragin’ Cajun also prepared thousands of Thanksgiving dinners for those in need. They were served at homeless shelters and senior centers throughout the five boroughs. Asher got his suppliers to donate the turkeys. Most of the restaurant staff volunteered to provide the labor.
The café had party rooms, separated by movable partitions that could be reconfigured or fully retracted. On major holidays, the entire floor could be opened up to seat more customers. However, Asher was making an exception this year. He was using one of the party rooms for his friends. Robin was still a hostage and her friends and family were in no mood to celebrate a traditional Thanksgiving at home. Asher couldn’t take away their pain, but he could give comfort at what was often a stressful time. A Thanksgiving dinner at the Ragin’ Cajun would be the perfect way for a brief time to shift the focus away from those not at the dinner table that year.
Come Thanksgiving morning, Asher was up with the chickens. In the past, his preparations for the holiday involved going in search of fresh meat and produce in nearby Chinatown. He didn’t miss those days in the least. Asher might be half-Asian, but the merchants had treated him as if he were just another black boy. At least he’d known when they were trying to pull the wool over his eyes. Thanks to the time spent while growing up, tagging along with his mother in Chinatown, he was fluent in both Cantonese and Mandarin.
Now, the Ragin’ Cajun was big enough to deal directly with wholesale suppliers. The restaurant had close working relationships with local farms and fish merchants who could be counted upon to deliver the freshest ingredients, no matter how much was needed. Still, there was plenty that needed to be done to get the restaurant ready before it opened for the onslaught of holiday diners. In spite of all the preparations, inevitably there would be fires to put out.
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“Mornin’, Babe,” Zach said as he slowly began to wake up.
“Mornin’,” Tanner replied from the upper bunk in Zach’s bedroom. It was mid-morning on Thanksgiving and Tanner had spent the night.
The boys were both seniors at Brooklyn Technical High School, the largest of the elite specialty public high schools. Zach was sixteen and would celebrate his seventeenth birthday in two weeks. Tanner was seventeen and would celebrate his eighteenth birthday in February, just after Valentine’s Day.
With parents who were both Emergency Physicians at Wyckoff Heights Medical Center, Zach and his younger brother, Jake, had been pretty much on their own, taking care of each other, since Zach began middle school. Zach made sure Jake kept up with his assignments during the pandemic. Before Tanner got together with Zach, the two brothers took turns preparing dinner from meal kits.
Tanner lived on Coney Island in a crowded apartment with his parents and four sisters. His father was a physical education teacher at Brooklyn Tech, so they usually drove in together each day. Between the noise made by his sisters and the lack of space, studying at home was nearly impossible. He’d found it ideal to study in the school cafeteria while waiting for his dad. The cafeteria allowed him to spread out much more than he could in the library. Besides which, most of the library’s resources were available online.
Everything changed when Zach and Tanner became boyfriends. Instead of studying at school, Tanner went home with Zach and the two boys studied together in Zach’s home. Instead of preparing dinners from meal kits, the boys picked up fresh groceries on the way home and Tanner prepared a delicious meal for Zach, Jake and himself. Tanner liked to cook, but had seldom had the opportunity to do so in his family’s apartment.
Zach and Jake lived in a century-old, narrow, four-story wood-frame house in the Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn. When their parents bought the house, it was dilapidated and located in a neighborhood that was largely working class and industrial. Over time, they fixed up the house, gutting and modernizing the kitchen and bathrooms. They added two rooftop terraces and a garden in back, as well as a nanny’s apartment in the basement. Meanwhile, the neighborhood gentrified, and realtors were making offers of as much as $5 million for the house.
Jake was now fourteen and a freshman at Stuyvesant High School, the highest-ranked of the elite specialty high schools. He had his own circle of friends and spent much of his time with them and with his girlfriend in Lower Manhattan. The result was that Zach and Tanner had a lot of privacy on most afternoons after school. They’d taken full advantage of it. There was a spot on the back terrace that was hidden from the neighboring apartment windows that overlooked their house. In nice weather, they spread out a blanket and spent the afternoon making love.
It wasn’t warm enough for that in late November, however. With no homework assignments due until after the break, they’d taken the G-Train home and grabbed a large pizza on the way. They spent the afternoon simply cuddling up together in the nude while watching movies and eating pizza. Later, they made passionate love before separating into the upper and lower bunks in Zach’s bedroom.
Mid-morning arrived, and they needed to get going if they didn’t want to be late to Asher’s Thanksgiving dinner party. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor, Zach’s being the front bedroom while Jake’s was in the back. “I’ll go check the bathroom to make sure it’s free,” Zach said. Not bothering to put on any clothes, he plodded down the hallway and found both the bathroom and Jake’s bedroom empty, with the doors open.
Curious, Zach called out, “You home, Jake?”
“Yeah, I’m in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee,” his brother answered. “Tell your lazy-ass boyfriend I’m hungry.”
Laughing, Zach replied, “You gonna let us shower first?”
“You better,” Jake responded. “I don’t have the stomach to deal with seeing the evidence of what the two of you did last night, much less smelling it. Speaking of which, you guys left a mess in the kitchen. The open pizza box coulda brought bugs, ya know.”
“Sorry, bro. We had other things on our minds last night.”
“I’m sure you did,” Jake replied. “Now hurry up and take your showers so you can feed me.”
Hearing his boyfriend’s laugh behind him, Zach asked Tanner, “You wanna shower first while I shave?”
“Works for me,” Tanner said as he entered the tiny bathroom, adjusted the water temperature and stepped into the shower.
With his dark hair, stubble was quite visible on Zach, and he didn’t care for the unshaven look that was so popular with his classmates. After shaving, he brushed his teeth.
In the meantime, Tanner finished his shower and dried himself. Trading places, Tanner got out his electric trimmer from its place in the vanity. He stayed over at Zach’s often enough that he kept a second one at his boyfriend’s house.
Tanner had flaming red hair, complemented by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. After applying his deodorant, he used the trimmer to clean up his appearance. Finally, he brushed his teeth and splashed on a little cologne.
After Zach dried himself off and applied his own cologne, the two boys donned fresh pairs of boxer briefs and headed downstairs. Jake was already seated at the table, drinking a steaming mug of coffee and reading something on his smartphone.
Without looking up, he said, “There’s breaking news. Three Palestinian kids were shot in Vermont this morning. There isn’t much info yet. It says they were visiting relatives for Thanksgiving and taking a morning walk. They were minding their business, and I guess maybe they were speaking in Arabic. They were wearing kaffiyehs. You know, those checkered scarves they wear over there. Some guy walked out of his house and shot them.”
“Damn, that’s horrible,” Zach exclaimed.
“Yeah, but I can kinda understand how that guy felt,” Tanner responded. “Not that I’d ever shoot someone for it, but Palestinians kidnapped one of my best friends.”
“It was Hamas that did it,” Jake countered. “The Palestinians in Gaza are every bit as much victims of Hamas as the Israeli’s are.”
“Yeah, but the Gazans elected Hamas,” Tanner pointed out.
“And how many free and fair elections have there been ever since?” Jake asked. “Oh that’s right. None. And didn’t we elect Trump?”
“Be careful with that,” Tanner replied. “My parents voted for Trump, both times.”
“Are you gonna vote for Trump?” Jake asked. “You’ll be old enough to vote in the next election.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Tanner answered. “I could never vote for Trump, but I just don’t know about Biden. The guy should be in a nursing home.”
“I’d rather have a president who should be in a nursing home than one who should be in a mental hospital.” Zach countered.
“Point well taken,” Tanner replied. “So how about some French toast to tide us over until Thanksgiving dinner?”
“That’d be excellent,” Jake answered. “I’m starving; get on with it.”
While Tanner was getting the things he’d need out of the refrigerator and cupboards for making brunch, Zach asked, “When did you get home, Jake?”
“It wasn’t long after midnight,” he answered. “I’m surprised you guys didn’t hear me.”
“You have a hot date with Sandy?” Zach asked.
“Actually, we spent the afternoon at the new Wegmans at Astor Place,” Jake answered. “It’s really quite something. It’s much nicer than the one in Brooklyn. They have all kinds of prepared foods and places where you can sit and eat. They have a lot of exotic stuff, and ordinary groceries too.”
“Wegmans is open at midnight?” Zach asked his brother.
“I didn’t say that’s all we did. And before you ask, of course we used protection. We always use protection. We’re not ready to be parents.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Zach responded. “After all, I’ve drummed it into your thick skull enough times.”
“That you have.”
“Haven’t you been wanting to check out the new Wegmans?” Zach asked his boyfriend. “It’s supposed to be a gourmand’s paradise, and no one’s more of a gourmand than you, except maybe Asher. Maybe we should go sometime after school. The Q- or the N-Train would take us right there.”
Sighing, Tanner answered, “I would’ve checked it out long ago, but the grand opening was on October 18, not even two weeks after the Hamas attack. I just haven’t been in the mood.”
“Damn, I hadn’t thought about that. You and Robin were close friends, even before you met her at chess tournaments.”
“I was always a grade ahead of her, so it’s not like we played footsie on the playground together, but she lived in the neighborhood, and we often attended each other’s birthday parties and the like. We sometimes played chess with each other, or went with a group of friends to the movies. If I weren’t gay, I could have easily fallen for her.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Zach replied. “I really liked her too, and her boyfriend is a true prodigy. I can’t imagine what he’s going through.”
“They’re both gonna need counseling for the rest of their lives,” Tanner agreed. “I just hope she comes back alive.”
“Fuck, you make it sound like she won’t,” Jake exclaimed.
“Realistically, the odds are against it,” Tanner admitted. “From what we already know, I imagine the women have been raped repeatedly and Hamas isn’t gonna release anyone who could confirm it. Even if she does come home, there’s a good chance she’ll be pregnant.”
“I hadn’t even thought about that possibility.” Zach responded.
“If she does end up getting pregnant, Hamas will probably keep her until it’s too late for an abortion, which means it could be months, if ever.”
“God, she might be better off dead, but that would kill Larry,” Zach exclaimed.
“So would having to raise the child of a terrorist,” Tanner pointed out.
“But raising the kid as a Jew would be sweet revenge, now, wouldn’t it?” Jake suggested.
“Let’s not go there just yet,” Tanner countered. “Maybe she’ll be released soon as part of a hostage deal.”
“You’re the one who brought it up!”
“I know, but let’s just forget about it for now,” Tanner responded as he set plates loaded with French toast on the table.
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“Stop the fuck calling me!” Josh shouted into his phone. “I’m not interested in selling!”
“Another realtor?” Dave asked his fiancé as he pulled him into a hug.
“They keep calling. On Thanksgiving, no less. It’s not just that I’m not ready to even think about what to do with the apartment, but it’s not yet mine to sell. Don’t they realize the estate has to go through probate?”
“I’m sure they do, Joshy,” Dave responded. “Half the time, the estate’s just inherited by a surviving spouse. Sometimes a surviving spouse wants to sell. The realtors want to get ahead of the competition.”
“By harassing grieving children on Thanks-fucking-giving?”
“Hey, there’s a reason realtors are held in such ‘high esteem’,” Dave joked, making quote marks in the air.
“Robin will own half, but Robin can’t sign the paperwork while she’s a hostage in Gaza. The fucking realtors don’t seem to get that. The State of New York’s even worse! Who the hell reads the classifieds anymore? Still, they insist I run ads every week, as if she’s gonna see them and contact us.”
“Bureaucracies have a life of their own,” Dave agreed, “and bureaucrats can’t deal with anything outside of their playbook. Not to mention, playbooks get updated only once every century or two. Something tells me they don’t have an entry for dealing with heirs who are hostages in Gaza. Perhaps you should take out a classified ad in the Gaza Tunnel Express.”
Josh couldn’t help but laugh at that, but the situation was no laughing matter. New York State was known for its cumbersome probate process, and even under the best of circumstances, it could take a couple of years to resolve an estate.
Thanks to the mortgage insurance provided by the credit union, the apartment would be his and Robin’s, free and clear. Additionally, there was a life insurance plan provided by the university of which their father had taken out the maximum amount on himself and his children. That too was waiting for Robin to either sign for her share or be declared unreachable.
Josh’s father had a traditional 401k retirement account, but once closed, Josh and Robin would have only sixty days to roll it over into inherited IRA accounts. Otherwise, they’d owe a shitload in taxes. Josh’s attorney was doing everything he could to keep it open as long as possible, but Robin and Josh were the only surviving beneficiaries. Only a death certificate, God forbid, could remove the need for Robin to sign to release her share of the account.
Even worse was the situation with his middle sister’s assets. Although still in her teens, Stacey had had a very successful online blog and had published a series of graphic novels. Josh was stunned to find out she had assets worth millions. She had bank accounts and investments in mutual funds, stocks, bonds and real estate funds. Royalties from her books would still be coming in for years into the future. Naturally, there wasn’t a will — what teenager thinks of the need for a will?
Stacey and her girlfriend had been living together for less than a year and there was evidence that both of them had dated other women during that time. Even so, her girlfriend was suing for complete control of Stacey’s estate. The case would likely be dismissed but in the interim, but she could tie things up in court for years. Josh’s lawyer had already offered her a generous settlement, but she wanted it all.
Josh didn’t need any of that drama. He needed time to grieve — time to recover. The daily onslaught of phone calls, paperwork and court filings, though, kept opening up fresh wounds. He was having trouble even processing the fact of his father’s and sisters’ deaths. Of course, Robin’s captivity was never far from his thoughts — not that the news media would leave him alone.
Sitting down next to his boyfriend, Dave pulled Josh into a hug and said, “You’re not alone in this, Joshy. We’ll get through this together.”
“I know your heart is in the right place,” Josh replied, “but I’m the only one who can deal with all of the paperwork. I’m the only one who can talk to the lawyers and make the decisions that need to be made. I know you’d like to help, but it all falls on me.”
Hugging him more tightly, Dave responded, “Let the lawyers handle as much of the paperwork as they can and don’t sweat the details.”
“At a cost of more than $450 an hour!” Josh complained.
“He did offer to work on contingency,” Dave pointed out.
“For thirty percent of the entire estate,” Josh lamented. “That’s likely to be hundreds of thousands of dollars. Perhaps millions once Stacey’s estate’s settled.”
“And he estimated more than a thousand hours once this is all through,” Dave replied. “With a contingency, he’d have every incentive to go after every penny. In any case, it comes from the estate. That’s money you don’t even have yet and you won’t even miss it when the whole probate thing is done. Whichever way you go with the attorney’s fees, that’s money well spent. It’s well worth it for your sanity.”
Sighing, Josh replied, “I wish it were that simple, but it’s a never-ending reminder that my family’s gone, and that my youngest sister’s still a hostage.”
Entering Dave’s bedroom, his mother asked, “Hey, it’s time to head to the Ragin’ Cajun. Aren’t you two ready yet?”
“Sorry, Mom,” Dave replied. “Joshy got another call from a realtor and it kinda set him off. We’ll be ready in five. Apologies to you and the uncles.”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” his mother responded before leaving the boys to finish getting ready.
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Clarke was becoming increasingly concerned as more and more information was released about the shootings in Vermont. He knew that Ahmad was spending Thanksgiving in Vermont with his two best friends from Nablus. He just didn’t know where in Vermont.
The names of the victims were being withheld until the family members had been notified. It just seemed too coincidental that Ahmad was supposed to be in Vermont, and the victims were Palestinian American college students who were visiting family in Vermont. Plus there were three of them. It fit too well.
Clarke had tried calling Ahmad earlier, but the call wouldn’t go through. He decided to try calling him again. If he was okay, Clarke would know the incident involved someone else. Anxiously, he dialed Ahmad on his phone, but the call went straight to voicemail. That was even worse than not knowing.
Clarke didn’t know anyone else to contact, but then he remembered Ahmad had a brother. The brother was supposed to be spending Thanksgiving with their uncle in California. The trouble was, he didn’t have any contact information for the brother or their uncle.
Clarke’s sister, Jasmine, ducked in to remind him that everyone was waiting on him to begin Thanksgiving dinner.
“Please tell everyone to get started without me, Jas. I hafta try and find out if my friend from school was one of the kids who was shot this morning. I’m sick with worry and don’t really have an appetite.”
“I’m sorry, Clarke. I didn’t know,” Jasmine responded. “What do you want me to tell your boyfriend?”
“Tell Carl I’ll be there soon, but not to wait for me. Tell him I’m tryin’ to reach Ahmad, but don’t tell him why. I’ll tell him myself if I find out anything.”
Clarke tried looking for Ahmad’s relatives on the internet, but Assad was a very common Arabic name. In the meantime, CNN was covering the story continuously as well as covering what little was known about a potential cease fire and hostage exchange.
As he was searching for more information, CNN gave an update on the shooting. Two of the victims reportedly had minor injuries, but the third was in critical, but stable condition at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center.
At once, Clarke remembered Ahmad mentioning that his friend’s cousins were both physicians who worked there. When the announcer mentioned that the kid in critical condition was a student at Columbia University, Clarke nearly lost it. There were many Palestinian students who attended Columbia, but what were the odds that one of them would be in Vermont? They weren’t releasing the names yet, but it had to be Ahmad.
Clarke was beside himself with worry. His first instinct was to grab the keys to his brother’s Highlander and drive up there, but then what? He doubted he would even be allowed to see Ahmad. Perhaps Congressman Moore could get more information, but that prodded him to think of Seth. Did Seth know about the incident? He probably would’ve heard from him by now if he did. He needed to call Seth.
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Asher served up a menu that included course after course of traditional dishes along with unique takes on Thanksgiving fare. So far, he’d served his friends a spicy pumpkin soup, crab-stuffed portobello caps, fresh greens with a cranberry vinaigrette dressing, and a traditional rotisserie turkey dinner with apple walnut stuffing, Cajun candied yams, string beans almandine and apple-cranberry sauce.
The group was taking a breather and enjoying coffee and tea. Soon, Asher would bring out the next course, consisting of Cajun turkey, spicy shrimp creole over brown rice, an Asian vegetable stir fry and half of a baked tomato with a parmesan raspberry glaze. Seth was in the midst of speculating with Dave Schuster about when a hostage deal and ceasefire might take place, when he got a phone call. Seeing that it was from his good friend Clarke and not wishing to disturb the others, he got up and walked out to the hallway, just outside the party room where they were eating.
“Hey, Clarke,” Seth answered. “How’s ‘Turkey Day’ goin’ with all of your family on Staten Island?”
“Seth, have you heard the news yet?” Clarke asked.
“What news?” Seth asked.
“There was a shooting up in Vermont. Some Islamophobic bastard shot three Palestinian teens who were visiting family for the holiday. Two of the boys had relatively minor injuries, but one of them was seriously injured. I’ve been trying to get more information since the news first broke, but they haven’t released the names of those involved yet, pending notification of the families. The kid who was seriously injured is a student at Columbia. He’s at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, in critical but stable condition.
“I’m not sure how to find out if it’s Ahmad, but what are the odds that it could be someone else? A Palestinian student at Columbia who was visiting Vermont with two of his friends? It’s gotta be Ahmad. I was hoping maybe you’ve heard something. Perhaps your dad knows something, or could find out for sure.
Seth tried to make it to the men’s room, but he couldn’t hold it in. He vomited much of his Thanksgiving dinner on the floor of the hallway, close enough to the door that all inside the party room could hear. Asher rushed to see what was wrong with his husband.
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Ibrahim Assad was no stranger to American life. He and his wife spent a large chunk of their lives in America. They’d raised their four children in Southern California. They returned to the occupied West Bank, only when they realized their children were more American than Palestinian. Although Ibrahim wasn’t religious, he saw his children as godless. That was not acceptable.
The straw that broke the camel’s back, to use an old Arab expression, was the realization that their second son obviously was gay. Not even he was aware of it at the time, as few eleven-year-olds are. It was then that Ibrahim made up his mind. His wife had no choice but to agree with him. They would move the family back to Palestine.
Ibrahim made arrangements through his extended family on the West Bank to obtain job offers from An-Najah National University for both himself and his wife. Although spending his formative teenage years in Nablus might not make Ahmad straight, it would instill Muslim values in him. He’d come to accept the feeling of obligation to marry a girl of his parents’ choosing and raise a family. He would do this in spite of his sexual orientation.
Ibrahim should have known that things seldom go as planned. His older son had two more years of high school ahead of him. Ibrahim assumed he’d finish his secondary education in Nablus. Upon hearing of his parents’ plan, however, Hassan challenged much of the curriculum and ended up with enough credits to graduate. Hassan did not want to go live in Palestine – none of the children did, in fact – but he was in a position to do something about it. He applied for admission to Stanford University and was accepted.
Thanks to his uncle, Ibrahim’s brother-in-law, Hassan had a trust fund with the resources to defy his father and stay in America. He could have applied for emancipation, but it wasn’t necessary. Stanford was considered by some to be the best university in the world, and it was certainly one of the best in America. It was Ibrahim’s own alma mater. He’d have been crazy not to allow his oldest child to begin his university education at such a prestigious institution, even if he was only sixteen.
Then Ahmad followed in his brother’s footsteps. He couldn’t avoid returning to the West Bank with his parents, but he too intended to begin his college education in the U.S. at the earliest age possible. He aced the entrance exam to an elite English-language school in Nablus and was placed in year ten — equivalent to ninth grade in the U.S. — at the age of twelve. That paved the way for his acceptance to Columbia University at the age of sixteen.
From Ibrahim’s standpoint, at least his four years in Nablus had taught Ahmad what it meant to be a Muslim. It didn’t make him straight, but it was enough to change his plans for the future. He would still study law in the United States, but then he would return to Palestine to fight the occupation the best way he could, by using the Israelis’ laws against them. Perhaps he’d even consent to an arranged marriage — not that it mattered anymore.
For four years Ibrahim had worried that his son would be gunned down by Israeli settlers. How ironic it was that he was shot while visiting a small town in Vermont. The call came late at night, He spoke directly with the doctor taking care of him. The bullet passed obliquely through the left lung and entered the spine, barely missing the aorta. Had it pierced the aorta, Ahmad wouldn’t have survived. The bullet ended up lodged in the deep muscles of the back.
Ahmad might need surgery to stabilize the spine, but the bullet would be left alone. The damage had been done. As the doctor put it, neural recovery from this kind of injury was rare. Ibrahim had to push and push again to get a legitimate answer. Doctors were adept at responding to direct questions without actually answering them. His son would never walk again, nor would he be capable of intercourse.
The doctor tried to explain that men with spinal cord injuries could and did live full lives. The governor of Texas was a perfect example of that. Paraplegics could even have children, thanks in large part to IVF. What good was IVF without a wife? It no longer mattered that his son was gay. He’d never give Ibrahim any grandchildren.
There was little point in going to see his son. Instead, his wife would go and stay with Ahmad throughout his lengthy recovery. However, there was nothing that could be done so late at night. At least with her U.S. citizenship, Nadia wouldn’t need to apply for a visa. Ibrahim would make the arrangements for her travel first thing in the morning.
Regardless, one could never count on making arrangements for a flight when there were Israeli checkpoints involved. Instead, Nadia would stay overnight in Amman on Friday. That would ensure that she’d make an early flight on Saturday morning, most likely to Boston.
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Hassan was devastated by the call. If only his brother had listened to him! If only he’d traveled with him to California for Thanksgiving. Not that there wasn’t a risk of being shot in Woodside, too. Who expected to be shot while taking a walk in a sleepy town in Vermont? But in California, at least they’d have been together.
Thank God for his uncle. His uncle took care of making all of the arrangements. The two of them were flying on a ‘red eye’ flight to Boston that night. They’d arrive in the early morning, rent a car and drive to Hanover, where he’d booked a couple of rooms for them. They’d be there for Ahmad during his surgery and for however long his recovery might take.
He’d be there to see his brother walk again.
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With help from his dad, Seth was able to obtain contact information for the cousin of Ahmad’s friend. Ahmad had been staying with her family. It turned out that she and her husband were physicians who worked at the hospital where Ahmad had been taken. Seth was shocked, however, when she asked if he’d like to speak to Ahmad. She was in the ICU at the time of his call.
“Just keep it brief,” she told Seth before handing her phone to her cousin’s friend.
“Hey Seth,” Ahmad said in a cheery voice, but Seth could tell that he was struggling.
“Ahmad!” Seth replied. “I won’t ask you how you are, ’cause how good could you be when you just got shot, but I’m surprised and so relieved that you’re able to talk already.”
“You know me, Seth,” Ahmad replied. “The bullet would’ve had to pass through my vocal cords to shut me up.” Seth couldn’t help but laugh along with his friend.
“Did you have surgery?” Seth asked.
“Not yet,” Ahmad answered. “They’re still trying to decide if I need surgery at all. It depends on how badly the bones in my spine have been damaged. They won’t operate before Saturday, though. They tell me there’s more of a risk of complications if they operate before then. In the meantime, I have to stay flat in my back, and I have a tube in my chest to keep my lung inflated.
“Don’t they need to remove the bullet?” Seth asked.
“Nah,” Ahmad replied. “They said it’s not doing me any harm, so they’re just gonna leave it where it is in my back muscles.
There was a pause and then Seth heard Ahmad’s friend’s cousin’s voice. “Ahmad needs his rest, so we’re going to say goodbye now. Is there anything else you’d like me to tell him?”
“Just tell him that Asher and I will drive up there tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. Perhaps our friend, Clarke, will come too.”
“He won’t be able to have any visitors, other than family, until he’s out of ICU,” she cautioned.
“That’s okay,” Seth replied. “We just want to be there for him.” Then after a pause, Seth asked, “By the way, how’s your cousin doing and his other friend?”
“Ahsan’s already been discharged and he’s home recuperating. Hussein’s still in the hospital, but he’s stable and should be discharged by Monday. Thanks for asking.”
It was already getting late, and Seth didn’t want to travel much after dark. Therefore, he and Asher decided they’d drive up to Hanover early in the morning, on Black Friday. He called Clarke to see if he wanted to go with them. Both Clarke and his boyfriend, Carl, had been planning to drive up in the morning themselves. They were appreciative of the chance to share the ride. Seth would pick them up at the South Ferry terminal, bright and early.
Seth also asked Josh if he and Dave wanted to go, but Josh gave him the best news he’d gotten all day. Josh got a call from the President, no less, updating him on the situation with the hostages. A ceasefire would begin tomorrow, followed by the release of fifty hostages. Robin wouldn’t be among them, but negotiations were continuing. There was an excellent chance she’d be released by the end of the month.
Needless to say, Josh, Dave and Larry weren’t going anywhere until Robin was back in their arms.
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Hassan couldn’t sleep on the flight back East. He’d never been able to sleep sitting up — not even when fully reclined in Business Class. It had been the same on the transatlantic flights he’d taken when visiting his family in Nablus. The snores of his uncle in the seat next to him served only to remind him that he was wide awake.
It was a six-hour flight to Boston. The entertainment system built into the armrest of his seat was loaded with a broad selection of third- and fourth-run movies, with a few newer ones thrown in for good measure. None of them were remotely of interest to him. Likewise for the TV shows.
His uncle hadn’t told him much about how his brother was doing, other than that he’d been shot. However, he’d overheard what his uncle said while speaking to Ahmad’s doctors over the phone. His brother had been shot in the spine. As a first-year medical student with virtually no clinical experience, he knew just enough to make his imagination run wild. A gunshot wound to the spine almost certainly meant a spinal cord injury. Just what that involved, he didn’t know.
Hassan took advantage of the onboard WiFi to do some reading on his phone on gunshot wounds to the spine. Much depended on the caliber and velocity of the bullet. However, even the smallest caliber handguns could do devastating amounts of damage. As significant if not more so was the level at which the bullet entered the spine. He just didn’t have enough information. Naturally, he imagined the worst possible scenario. He imagined Ahmad spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair. He didn’t yet know that that wasn’t even the half of it.
Although much of his reading focused on the mechanisms of spinal cord injury, his searches kept leading him to articles dealing with SCI rehabilitation. He was shocked to discover that there were scarcely more than 450 board-certified specialists in spinal cord injury medicine in the U.S. They were largely concentrated in academic medical centers and at the major rehab institutes, mostly located in or near large cities.
Although all medical school graduates were expected to know the basics, Hassan learned that their knowledge seldom extended beyond acute management. The consequences of a spinal cord injury, however, usually affected the patient over their entire lifetime. It was that realization that would change the career direction of Hassan’s life.
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The sound of his smartphone alarm woke Seth up at an ungodly hour on Friday morning. Asher was already in the shower, as he often was at that time of day. People in the restaurant business often started their day very early or finished very late. Sometimes both. After eating a breakfast of shrimp creole omelettes, the two were on the way.
Driving Congressman Moore’s Lexus SUV, they picked up Clarke and Carl as they got off the Staten Island Ferry at Whitehall Terminal. Taking the South Street Viaduct to FDR Drive, they drove up the east side of Manhattan, passing by the ramp to the RFK bridge and taking the Willis Avenue bridge instead. As did most New Yorkers, they opted to take a short detour through the South Bronx, which allowed them to access the Bruckner Expressway toll-free.
From there, it was an easy drive up Interstate 95 to Bridgeport, where they picked up the Highway 15 bypass to Interstate 91. While shoppers the world over were hitting the malls, shopping centers and the major internet retailers, looking for Black Friday bargains, the highways were practically empty. The four young men made excellent time, arriving just after noon in Norwich, mere moments after Ahmad’s brother and uncle arrived.
After introductions all around, Ahsan’s cousin, Fatima, served a feast of leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner. That there were any leftovers was thanks to the actions of her twelve-year-old daughter, Lena, who saw to it that the meal had been saved in the refrigerator. Otherwise it might well have gone to waste. With the news about the shooting coming just as the family was about to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner, the meal had gone uneaten.
Now, it was just what everyone needed for lunch after their long journeys. As they ate, Fatima shared what she knew about the three young men who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her cousin, Ahsan, was already home and was at the dinner table with them. He’d apparently shifted left just as he was shot, causing the bullet to miss his torso entirely and pass through his right biceps. As he was right-handed, it was quite painful for him to do anything involving use of the arm. He’d need some intensive physical therapy, but he’d recover fully in a matter of weeks.
Hussein had taken a bullet to the right side of his chest. It passed through without hitting the heart or any major vessels. It did pierce the lung, causing it to collapse. He was in stable condition and out of intensive care. He still had a chest tube in place to keep the lung inflated. It would likely be removed by the end of the day and he’d be discharged by Monday if not sooner.
Ahmad’s was an entire different story. As Fatima explained, “Ahmad must’ve been turned to the right, probably speaking to Hussein, who was turned to the left. The bullet entered the left side of his chest, just below and to the left of his nipple. It passed behind the heart and struck the seventh vertebral body, just to the left of and behind the aorta. It passed through the vertebra and through the vertebral pedicle, nearly nicking the right lung. Finally, it lodged in the thick muscles of the back.”
“In English please?” Seth asked.
Laughing, Fatima replied, “It’s not that important. The bottom line is that the bullet passed through the spine without striking any vital structures, but the shockwave disrupted the spinal cord. Ahmad has normal feeling down to his belly button, and no feeling below that. He has full use of his arms and trunk muscles, but not of his legs. He has no control of his bowels or his bladder. Right now, his spinal cord is in shock, so it may be weeks before we know how permanent the damage is.
“So there’s hope,” Ahsan asked as well as stated.
“There’s always hope,” she replied with a wan smile.
“No there isn’t,” Hassan countered. “Not from what I’ve read. Victims of gunshot wounds to the thoracic spine are usually paralyzed for life.”
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Josh, Dave and Larry were on edge, waiting to hear from the White House if Robin was among the first batch of hostages to be released. Along with Freck and Kyle, they were waiting for news – any news about Robin’s situation. Dave’s mother and his uncles were doing all they could to calm the five teenagers down. Truthfully, the adults were as nervous as the teens were.
So far, Hamas had released four hostages for humanitarian reasons. After Israel began its ground offensive against Hamas, all talk of hostage releases came to a halt. The IDF managed to rescue a female Israeli soldier on October 30 and that same day, Hamas released a video of three female hostages begging to be released. Robin wasn’t among them.
Finally, Israel agreed to a temporary cease fire. In return for Israel releasing 150 teenage Palestinian prisoners, Hamas would release 50 hostages by way of the Rafa crossing into Egypt. A small group of hostages was released that morning. Although Robin wasn’t expected to be among them, Josh, Dave and Larry were nevertheless hopeful.
The call came later in the day and as expected, Robin wasn’t among the first group of hostages released. Once again an argument ensued about whether or not they should fly to Israel and wait for her there. However in doing so, they might well end up sitting in Israeli hotel rooms, waiting for a reunion that might not come for weeks or even months, if ever.
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“So I definitely won’t need surgery,” Ahmad stated more than asked for the twentieth time. He was seeking confirmation that nothing more needed to be done. That nothing more could be done. In addition to his brother and uncle, a baby-faced resident in training and a distinguished-looking attending surgeon were in the room. The resident had asked to be called Vincent, and the attending introduced himself as Dr. Winters. Their I.D. badges identified them as members of the Department of Neurosurgery.
“We’ve reviewed the CT scans with some of the best experts in spinal surgery in the world,” Vincent explained once again. “Everyone agrees that the injury is stable and surgery could only make things worse. As young as you are, the bony elements will heal quickly with little evidence that you were shot.”
Nodding his head in agreement, the grey-haired attending continued, “Healing of the neural elements will take considerably longer. Right now, you’re in spinal shock, but that will pass quickly. Further healing could take months or even years.”
“But the spinal cord doesn’t heal,” Hassan interjected.
“All tissues heal in their own way and at their own speed,” Vincent replied. “Peripheral nerves can regenerate. As long as they aren’t destroyed, the fibers will regrow and reconnect. That doesn’t happen in the brain and spinal cord, where the interconnections among neurons are so much more complex. Instead, the glial cells, which form the scaffolding, clean up the mess and form scar tissue.”
“Healing in the spinal cord isn’t an either-or situation,” Dr. Winters continued. “We often compare it to a bruise. In a bruise, you have a central area that’s damaged, but there’s a lot of swelling around it. The same sort of thing happens in the spinal cord. You basically have a central area of damage, but it’s usually surrounded by an area of swelling. The cells and fibers in the area of swelling aren’t themselves damaged, and they’ll recover.”
“But isn’t most of the damage done by the body’s attempt to repair the damage?” Hassan asked. “Aren’t there drugs you can give him to prevent further damage?”
“Young man, could I ask how you know this?” Dr. Winters asked.
“I’m a first-year medical student at NYU,” Hassan answered. “I did some reading on the way here.”
“So you have the background needed to search and read the literature, but none of the knowledge needed to interpret it,” Dr. Winters replied. “Yes, there has been a lot of promising research on spinal cord injuries. For years, we gave high-dose steroids to everyone with a new spinal cord injury. The idea was to minimize the damage from the inflammatory response to the injury. Not only didn’t it result in better outcomes, but it increased the rate of complications, particularly in gunshot victims.
“There was some promising research using calcium channel blockers such as nimodipine and NMDA receptor blockers similar to ‘Ecstasy’, neither of which panned out in clinical trials. PDE-5 antagonists similar to Viagra have shown promise too. In fact, we’re participating in a clinical trial for one of them. Gunshot victims are excluded from the study; however, we administered the drug to your brother under the guidelines for compassionate use. It’s an FDA-approved medication, but an off-label application. There was virtually no harm in doing so and perhaps it might have helped.”
“The most important thing at this point is to get Ahmad started with his rehabilitation,” Vincent chimed in. “He’s already started some basic physical therapy, but the sooner he can begin comprehensive rehabilitation in a center with a spinal cord injury program, the better off he’ll be.”
“How long will I be in rehab?” Ahmad asked.
“That depends, but assuming there aren’t any unforeseen complications, it could be as little as a week, but more likely a month,” Dr. Winters answered.
“That’s it?” Ahmad asked in surprise. “And I’ll be walking by then?”
“Hardly,” Vincent answered. “It’ll take at least a year, if you can ever walk again.”
Taking Ahmad’s hand, Dr. Winters added, “My associate has a lot to learn about bedside manner. He’s not incorrect in that the return of sufficient motor control for ambulation can take a year or more. However, sometimes function returns much sooner than that. The bottom line is that it’s way too early to tell if, when and how much your spinal cord will recover.”
“I want my nephew to go to the best rehab center in the world,” Ahmad’s uncle interjected.
“In my opinion, our rehab center is outstanding,” Dr. Winters responded. “However, we’re not known for SCI rehab. There are some outstanding centers around the world, but I happen to think the best of them are in the U.S. The Shirley Ryan Ability Lab in Chicago has consistently ranked first among them…”
“Then that’s were Ahmad will go,” the uncle interrupted.
“Rehab is very much a family affair,” Dr. Winters countered. “He should go where his family can be involved in the rehab process. There’s also the matter of his outpatient rehab. He’ll need to continue his rehab as an outpatient for a good two years after he completes the inpatient rehab program. He’ll need physical and occupational therapy. He’ll need peer counseling. He’ll need specialized medical care, perhaps for the rest of his life.”
“Does Stanford have an SCI rehab program?” Ahmad’s uncle asked.
“One of the best,” Dr. Winters answered. “It’s based at the Santa Clara Valley Medical Center, in San Jose. They also have an outstanding SCI rehab program at the Palo Alto VA. Obviously, Ahmad isn’t a veteran, but I bring it up because of their research program in assistive technology, which is among the best in the world. Again, I strongly recommend he go to a center near where he’ll be living for the foreseeable future.”
“He’ll be living with my wife and me in Woodside, California,” the uncle replied.
“No, I won’t,” Ahmad exclaimed. “Regardless of the outcome, I’m going back to school at Columbia as soon as I’m able.”
“How the hell do you intend to do that?” his uncle asked.
“The same way as always,” Ahmad answered. “Through hard work and perseverance. If I’m in a wheelchair, I won’t be able to live where I do now. Perhaps Hassan and I can rent an apartment in an elevator building, or perhaps I could move into one of the dorms. The campus is fully accessible. It’ll be no different for me than it is now.
“The bottom line is I’m going back to Columbia and I’m still gonna get my law degree.”
“The heck you will.”
“Are you telling me you’d cut off my trust fund if I go back to Columbia?” Ahmad asked his uncle.
“Of course not, but wouldn’t it be easier to live with us in California?”
“Frankly, no,” Ahmad responded. “I have close friends, waiting outside that door, who dropped everything to come see me. My brother lives in New York. I have my own support system now — people who care about me.”
“Getting around in a wheelchair in New York would be impossible,” his uncle pointed out. “I’ve visited New York many times and when it came to taking the subways, there were stairs everywhere you turned. As I recall, only a few of the subway stations had elevators. The sidewalks were poorly maintained. I don’t remember seeing a single place to park a wheelchair van.”
“Why should I need a wheelchair van?” Ahmad countered. “ Every city bus is equipped with a ramp and can accommodate wheelchairs. The larger buses can take two wheelchairs at the same time. In the Bay Area, you need a wheelchair van to get up all those hills, and there’s no public transportation at all anywhere near your house. And besides, your house isn’t exactly accessible, you know.”
“So we’ll make it accessible,” his uncle replied. “Perhaps we could add an addition, and I’d buy you a wheelchair van, and you could go to law school at Stanford…”
“I didn’t get into the pre-law program at Stanford, so what makes you think I could get into law school there?” Ahmad countered. “Not that I’m complaining. Columbia’s Ivy League, and I’m at the top of my class. If I do well on the L-SAT, I think there’s an excellent chance I’ll get into the law school there. If not, NYU is just as good, and Fordham’s highly regarded. And in the Northeast, you’ve got Harvard, Penn, Yale, Cornell and Georgetown.
“Look, your house is built into a hillside and there are steps at every turn. Sure, you could build an accessible addition, but I still wouldn’t be able to join you in the main part of the house. I’d be a prisoner of that addition, and the only way to get to classes or to meet up with friends — not that I have any in Northern California — would be to fight my way through Bay Area traffic in my wheelchair-accessible van.
“Manhattan’s not perfect, but it’s mostly level. Most stores and buildings are accessible. I already know of a kid who’s in a wheelchair. He lives up in Riverdale in the Bronx and goes to the Bronx High School of Science. He takes a city bus every day to and from school. He and his boyfriend go to all the area chess meets by bus, and they go to the museums, the symphony, and the theater, all by bus.
“I’ll go back to Columbia in January, or perhaps more realistically in the summer. I’ll catch up to where I would’ve been, either way. You know I’m capable of it. I’ll get my law degree and I’ll return to Palestine to defend my people. Not by throwing my life away in a senseless act of violence the way so many do, but by using the skills Allah gave me.”
Dr. Winters interjected, “There are two well-known SCI rehab programs in the New York City area. Both are among the fourteen National Model Systems for Spinal Cord Injury Rehab, as is Stanford. The Kessler Institute, in West Orange, is better known, but only accessible by car. Mount Sinai has much more going for it in the way of cutting edge research. I wouldn’t hesitate to send my own son there.”
“What about the Rusk Institute at NYU?” Hassan asked.
“They aren’t involved in SCI rehab that I know of,” Dr. Winters explained.
“What about Columbia?” Ahmad asked. “My health insurance is through Columbia Health.”
“They approved out-of-network coverage for your acute care here,” the attending physician replied. “They might try to make you get your rehab at New York Presbyterian Hospital…”
“I already checked,” the resident interrupted. “They have contracts with Helen Hayes and with Burke Rehab.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before? I’m not familiar with either of those,” Dr. Winters asked.
“I was just being prepared,” Vincent explained. “Both facilities have slick websites and they’re both accredited in SCI rehab by the Committee on Accreditation of Rehab Facilities, better known as CARF. Helen Hayes has one of the oldest SCI rehab programs in the U.S. The only problem is that they’re both outside of the city and difficult to get to by public transportation.”
“Then we will go to Mount Sinai, even if we have to pay for it out of pocket,” Ahmad’s uncle announced.
“I don’t think you realize how expensive that could be,” Dr. Winters interjected. “The inpatient rehab alone will cost half a million to a million dollars. The lifetime costs will be in the millions.”
“With all the publicity, Columbia isn’t gonna want to quibble about where Ahmad does his rehab, Uncle,” Hassan countered. “They won’t want to be seen as sending a poor Palestinian kid upstate when the best rehab’s just across town.”
“I’m sure he’s right about that,” Ahmad agreed. Then turning to Dr. Winters, he asked, “So when will I be ready to go to rehab?”
“As long as you continue to do well, it could be by the end of the coming week, or maybe even sooner,” he replied. “Since you’re not going to have surgery and you’re stable, we’ll move you into a regular room tomorrow, and then you can have more visitors…”
“We’d like a private room,” the uncle interrupted.
“All our rooms are private,” Dr. Winters replied.
“Thank you very much, doctors,” the uncle said to the attending and resident physicians, making it clear he was done talking to them.
“If you need anything or have any questions, just have the nurses page me,” the young resident said as the two of them exited the room.
Then, turning to the younger of his nephews, the uncle said, “Now, we need to talk about the fact that all your friends are gay…”
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“Thanks, Seth. I appreciate the update,” Freck said before terminating the call.
Looking up from his phone and facing his twin sisters, his mother and his boyfriend, Kyle, he went on to explain the gist of the call. Even though none of them knew Ahmad personally, they were all concerned about the fate of the young Palestinian-American man who was Seth’s classmate and friend.
“So they think the paraplegia’s gonna be permanent,” Lisa reiterated.
“As Seth put it, from what Ahmad has been told, there’s always hope for recovery, but it’s pretty remote with gunshot victims. Recovery, if any, will probably take a year or even longer.”
“I can relate to that, personally,” Kyle interjected, thinking back to his own time in rehab from a traumatic brain injury. At least in his case he’d fully recovered with the exception of only a slight limp.
“Only time will tell, but the next several weeks will be critical,” Freck continued.
“You said his rehab might not be covered if he goes to Mount Sinai?” Seth’s mother asked.
“Seth said it’s very likely his rehab will be covered regardless, given all the publicity,” Freck again explained. “He’s covered by the Columbia Health plan, which has a contract with Burke in White Plains and with Helen Hayes up in West Haverstraw.”
“Helen Hayes Hospital has a storied history,” his mother countered. “I’ve been involved with their fundraisers in conjunction with my foundation. They might not have the academic credentials of Mount Sinai or the Kessler Institute, but they’re affiliated with Columbia and highly respected in the medical community.”
“It would be problematic for Ahmad to travel so far for his outpatient care after he finishes his inpatient rehab,” Freck pointed out. “He really needs to get his rehab in The City and for that, he should go to Mount Sinai.”
“There’s already a GoFundMe page for the three victims of the attack,” Debbie related. “They’ve already raised over $50 thousand.”
“Even if Columbia covers his rehab at Mount Sinai, that’s chickenfeed compared to what that boy’s going to need in his lifetime” their mother pointed out. “$50k won’t even cover the cost of a wheelchair.”
“He won’t need anything like the wheelchair Simon has,” Freck noted. “I don’t know what a sporty manual chair costs, but it couldn’t be more than a few thousand. Besides which, he has a trust fund from his uncle…”
“That’s just for his education. He’s going to need every penny of that to get his law degree from Columbia, assuming that’s still what he wants to do,” Freck’s mom exclaimed. “He’s going to need at least a couple million over his lifetime, and probably more. I can’t fund him through my foundation, which is chartered to serve the homeless, but perhaps I can use my contacts to raise the money myself.
“Hell, I could raise it alone, but it would look better if it were from a more grass roots effort. Perhaps I can set up an endowment to fund his rehab needs for the long term.”
“That would be fantastic, Mom,” Kyle chimed in. He was already considering Freck’s mother as his own.
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Finally, Ahmad was moved out of intensive care and into a room of his own. The first one to visit him in his new digs was his friend, Hussein, who was also a patient in the same hospital. Hussein’s chest tube had been removed the night before, allowing him the mobility to get up and walk around on his own. He needed permission to visit someone on another floor, but was doing so well that he was going to be discharged the next morning.
Ahmad still had a chest tube, which limited his mobility. He was told that if his left lung remained inflated, the chest tube would be removed on Sunday. With nothing better to do, and with the visitations of his friends from New York who were obviously gay, he decided it was time to come out to his friends from Nablus. He waited to tell them until Ahsan joined them.
Hussein actually laughed when Ahmad told his friends the was gay. Ahsan explained that they’d always known. “Not that it was obvious to anyone but those of us who were close to you, but your sexuality was never an issue for us.”
“Besides which, you gave the best head,” Hussein added. Ahmad couldn’t help but turn beet-red as he thought about the many times the three of them had experimented together as young teens.
Later in the day, when Ahmad was in the midst of a discussion with his best friends and classmates, Clarke and Seth, there was a knock on the door.
Looking up at the person who entered, he exclaimed, “Mom! You came!”
“Of course I did,” she responded as she approached her son at the bedside. Ahmad was sitting up in bed. Dressed only in a flimsy hospital gown, he felt a bit self-conscious.
“Where’s Dad?” Ahmad asked.
“Only one of us could come,” his mother explained. “We couldn’t both take time off from teaching for more than a week or two. By coming alone, I can stay as long as it takes to get you back on your feet.”
“They tell me I might never be back on my feet, Mom. I’ll probably be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life…”
“You don’t know that,” his mother interrupted.
“I think I do, but that’s not important right now,” Ahmad countered. “In any case, I have a question. Why didn’t Dad come for a week, just to see me? Is it because I’m both a faggot and a cripple now, and no longer worthy of his love?”
“Ahmad, don’t say that,” his mother admonished him. “It’s not like that.”
“Aami told me about the real reason we returned to Palestine,” Ahmad continued. “He said you and Walidi realized I was gay. By moving back to Palestine, you could ensure that I married the girl of Dad’s choosing…”
“Your father didn’t care that you were gay, Ahmad,” she interrupted. “We were never religious, but at least we’d been brought up with our faith. Your father thought that if you were immersed in Islamic culture and if we chose your bride, you’d naturally want to have children. It’s the same in many cultures. Gay men have a wife and children, but they experience fulfillment in secret with other gay men. That is the way it has always been.”
“But now that’s irrelevant,” Ahmad realized.
“Ahmad, you can’t imagine how much your father and I argued about returning to Palestine. It isn’t fair to a man to force him to live a secret, double life. It’s not fair to the girl either. There is no intimacy in such a relationship and for her, there’s no recourse.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ahmad related.
“You’re right. Your father did not wish to come, but it had nothing to do with your sexuality. He’s a very practical man and he thought it best not to coddle you. It’s a traditional role for the mother to stay with an injured child while the father continues on with life.
“In any case, I’m here and I’ll stay with you until you are back in school, regardless of whether you can walk or not. I’ll be here as long as you need me, Ahmad. I know you’re determined to continue your studies, and I’ll support you in that.”
“My friends and I were just talking about how I might be able to salvage what’s left of the semester,” Ahmad began. Then noticing how uncomfortable his friends seemed to be, he suddenly realized, “Oh my God, where are my manners? Mom, these are my friends from school, Seth Whitmore and Clarke O’Malley. Guys, this is my mother.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Seth said as he and Clarke shook Ahmad’s mother’s hand, apparently unaware or forgetful of the social norms with respect to women in Islamic society.
“I’m pretty sure I can get permission to record videos of the lectures,” Seth continued. “If not, I can record audio and share my notes, and we can email assignments to Ahmad. He can still work on his term papers and submit them electronically. The only issue would be with his final exams. Perhaps he’ll have finished his rehab by then, or maybe arrangements can be made for him to take the exams while in rehab.”
“Seth’s father’s a U.S. Congressman,” Ahmad explained. “The profs will listen to him.”
“Besides which, Columbia’s already getting a lot of bad publicity from their handling of student protests and the war in Gaza,” Clarke pointed out. “There’s been a lot of press on the shooting and I think they’ll want to bend over backwards to accommodate your son.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but let’s worry about one thing at a time,” Ahmad’s mother suggested. “Right now, the most important thing is his rehabilitation. It’s fine for you to see what you can arrange for his coursework, but the priority right now is in Ahmad’s recovery from this horrible incident.”
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“Call from Seth Whitmore,” echoed in the earbud Simon wore in his right ear. Smiling, he answered his phone. That he had a phone was something he was still getting used to. He’d never needed one before, when he was home schooled. Now that he had a lifestyle as active as any teenager’s, he definitely needed one. The trouble was, he didn’t have the manual dexterity needed to use the tiny touchscreen on most smartphones.
Craig took on the challenge of adapting a smartphone to meet Simon’s needs with gusto, but ran into a major snag when Simon insisted on using Apple products. Craig understood Simon’s desire to stick with what was familiar. He appreciated Apple’s focus on privacy and security. However, the restrictions imposed on third-party hardware and software kept getting in his way. It would have been so much easier to have installed an Android emulator. To be fair, though, all of the newer MacBooks could run most iPhone apps without the need for an iPhone.
Craig bought a third-party USB cellular modem, which Simon’s MacBook recognized as soon as he plugged it in. He set it up so that the MacBook automatically connected to Simon’s WiFi network at home and to the WiFi network at school, but used the cellular modem otherwise. That all worked great for accessing the Internet, but it still didn’t allow Simon to make or receive texts or calls. Clearly, Apple wanted Simon to buy an iPhone.
In the end, Craig installed Google Voice and set up an account for Simon, complete with its own phone number. That allowed Simon to do everything he needed with his existing MacBook interface, making use of all of its accessibility features. The only negative, if it could be called that, was that Simon’s text messages appeared on his friends’ iPhones in green bubbles rather than blue.
“Hey, Seth, what can I do for you. Are you guys still up in Vermont?” Simon asked.
“Yeah, Asher and I are still up in Vermont, which is kind of why I’m calling you. As you probably heard on the news, my good friend, Ahmad Assad, was shot in the spine. I probably don’t need to tell you what that means. He’s paralyzed from the waist down and although it’s too early to know if that’ll be permanent, he’s gonna be in a wheelchair for at least the next year.”
“That totally sucks,” Simon responded. “Believe me, I know. I can barely remember a time when I didn’t use a wheelchair. At least Ahmad still has the use of his hands. That’ll make all the difference. He’ll be fully independent.”
“From what I’ve seen, you do amazingly well, Simon,” Seth countered. “It’s probably not worth comparing degrees of disability, though.”
“For sure,” Simon agreed. “At least I’ve got normal feeling, and my plumbing works. I don’t know what Ahmad will be able to do in terms of bladder or bowel function, or even sex.”
“Let’s leave that to the experts,” Seth suggested. “The reason I’m calling you is because Ahmad’s gonna be starting his rehab, probably later this week. Nothing’s definite yet, but at least he’s an adult. Kyle had to spend a month in Baltimore for his brain injury rehab. There just isn’t much in terms of pediatric rehab in New York.”
“Tell me about it,” Simon replied.
“He’s probably gonna go to Mount Sinai for his rehab. They’re one of fourteen model system centers for SCI rehab. Anyway, he’ll probably finish up his inpatient rehab sometime around Christmas. He’d like to go back to school in January, but I’ve told him that’s probably a stretch. Not that I put it past him, but there’s still a lot to sort out. He’ll need to find another place to live, and then there’s the whole matter of scheduling his outpatient therapy.”
“Could he maybe start out taking his courses online?” Simon asked.
“Don’t know,” Seth answered. “We’re just trying to figure out a way for him to finish off this semester. It’d be a shame if he lost credit for all the time he’s spent in classes so far.”
“For sure.”
“So maybe when he finishes up at Mount Sinai, you could help him adjust to getting around the city in a wheelchair?” Seth asked.
“Of course. I’d be happy to do that,” Simon replied. “Most people have no idea how difficult that can be. A lot of places are accessible on paper, yet the aisles are too narrow for a wheelchair to move through, especially if someone is just standing there, looking at something and refusing to budge. The ADA only goes so far.”
“That would be fantastic,” Seth responded. “I’ll let you make the offer of help, once he’s closer to finishing up his rehab.”
“I’ll try visiting him in rehab,” Simon suggested. “Most places have peer counseling programs. I’m sure they’d welcome another volunteer, and it’d make it easier to transition afterwards.”
“That’d be great,” Seth agreed.”
<> <> <>
Larry was back in class at LaGuardia High School. It was the first week after the Thanksgiving recess. It had been a tumultuous time — an emotional roller coaster. He and Josh had been assured that getting Robin out of Gaza was a top priority, but everything depended on the intricate dance between sworn enemies, Israel and Hamas. Throw in Qatar, Egypt and the United States and it was more like a tango of the insane.
He was in the midst of a rather boring lecture on European history when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Students weren’t allowed to use their phones in class at LaGuardia, but everyone knew of his special situation and that he was waiting for word on the release of his girlfriend in Gaza.
Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he saw a number he didn’t recognize. In fact, it was in a format he didn’t recognize. There were eleven digits, displayed as the number ’20’ followed by a space and then the number ‘2’, followed by another space. Following that were eight digits, with a hyphen in the middle. He realized it was an international number! Holding his phone high over his head as he stood, so the teacher could see it, Larry sprinted out the door and into the hallway.
His heart was racing as he held his phone to his ear. Tentatively, he answered, “Hello?”
“Hello, Larry, is that you?” the voice at the other end said. The sound was somewhat garbled and distant, but that didn’t matter. It was the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard. It was Robin’s voice…
<> <> <>
The events of October and November, 2023, affected the lives of so many, and the ordeal was far from over. Larry, Robin, Josh and Dave would carry the scars of the October 7 attack for the rest of their lives. Avrahm, Sarah and Stacey came home in coffins. Ahmad would likely spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Their lives were reflective of the lives of so many others who were personally touched by the terrorist attack and by the Israeli response. The aftershocks would persist for months afterwards, and perhaps for many years.
Although Robin was freed at the end of this fictional account, the majority of American hostages remain in captivity at the time of this writing, and one body has been recovered. Life will go on in the Big Apple and the characters in the New York Stories series will continue to live their lives. More stories will follow as they navigate a perilous future.
The author gratefully acknowledges the invaluable assistance of Rob in editing my story, as well as Awesome Dude and Gay Authors for hosting it.