COVID Girl
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| “Tara! Tara!” Mom sounds worried. She is standing next to my closed door and is calling me softly. I released a deep sigh as I labored to pull myself up from my bed. Mom doesn’t want me to close the door but I still do. Probably just to prove that I am not as vulnerable as I appear to be. The truth is, for me living is agonizing. I struggle to even stand up sometimes, can’t walk more than a few steps without gasping for air, and can barely find the energy to talk. A teenager– turning fifteen today– I look normal with no obvious reason to suffer from such debilitating consequences. A year ago I had gotten COVID-19 with severe symptoms. It took me almost six weeks to heal but my debacle started after that. I never returned to normal life and later was diagnosed with long COVID. Who had known something like that even existed? Mom doesn’t wait for me. She opens the door, anxiously steps inside my room, and finds me halfway to the door. “Are you okay, Mamoni? I’ve been calling you for so long.” I sigh again. It is a struggle for me to just walk down to the door from my bed. Mom knows that. She holds me in a light embrace and joyfully says, “Happy birthday, my angel!” I moan to sort of acknowledge her. Words I usually save for better times knowing I can find the strength to say only so many. “Your grandparents are here,” Mom says. “The whole family will be here soon. You need to start getting ready, Mamoni. Do you need help putting on your new dress? You’ll look so pretty in that dress!” Since I turned twelve I haven’t had a birthday party. I prefer to go out with my friends to the mall, shop, eat, and call it a day. This year it is different. This is my mom’s plan to cheer me up. She wanted to invite all my friends but I discouraged her. I try to keep myself hidden from my friends. Don’t want them to see me in this embarrassing condition that most doctors can’t even put their heads around. “I can do it,” I quietly say, trying not to ruin her enthusiasm. I am not too crazy about the salwar-kameez–a traditional South Asian dress. Mom loved me more than anything in the world. I was her only child. Divorced from my dad for the last two years, an ER nurse, she dedicates most of her free time to taking care of me despite her rigorous work schedule and challenging mental condition. I don’t want to disappoint her in any way. “Okay!” Mom doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t insist. “Just ring me or text me if you need help.” Mom closes the door before leaving. Lately, my energy level is so poor that often I don’t even find the strength to call out for Mom and resort to texting. It took me a while to put on my new salwar kameez. Both are yellow and embroidered. A long white scarf to go with it. Mom says I look the best in traditional dresses. She picked this dress herself. I do not always accommodate her requests but today I don’t object. She has worked hard to throw this birthday party for me. She must have cooked half a dozen cherished Indian dishes for the guests, cleaned the house, and decorated it with balloons and banners. As I slowly emerge out of my room I am greeted cordially by my grandparents, who have been patiently waiting for me to come out. They are my mom’s parents. Both sweet and indulging. They quietly slip an envelope full of cash into my hand. Confused about my liking they have resorted to monetary gifts to avoid disappointment from my end. I smiled and tried to say something thankful but both stopped me midway. “It’s okay, Mamoni,” Grandma says. “You don’t have to say anything. We know speaking is hard for you now. We are always praying for you. It won’t be too long before you’ll be all cured and again become our pretty little butterfly!” That’s what everybody used to call me–Butterfly. I used to run around, never static. A busy-bee. The complete opposite of what I am now. I feel an involuntary sob almost taking me over. I give them hugs and murmur Thanks before allowing my attention to veer off toward my two aunts who are waiting to wish me next. Aunt Lipi is Mom’s eldest sister, older by two years. A civil engineer, she works for a government entity along with her husband. They have two kids, a boy, and a girl, both a few years older than me. None of them accompanied them today. They don’t like family parties. Mom calls them spoiled. I don’t blame them. I am not particularly crazy about being around the prying and judging eyes of aunts and uncles either. Aunt Rita is four years younger than Mom. Her husband is in real estate and is a self-proclaimed millionaire. Her time is spent doing social work. They have a boy, eight-year-old Ronny. A brat in every aspect he is a big fan of mine, but clearly not big enough to leave his video game to greet me. He finds a brief moment to wave at me from the living room where he is playing PlayStation with another boy, who looks to be in his mid-teens. Not someone I have seen before. Aunt Lipi gives me a long hug. “How is my favorite niece doing today? Happy 15th birthday, Mamoni! I got something really nice for you. Can you guess?” I can. She can never keep a secret. She already told Mom she bought an expensive wheelchair for me. I had an old one that Mom borrowed from a friend. My situation has turned so bad lately that at times I can barely walk. The wheelchair helps me make short trips outside the house. No matter how depressing it is I am learning to accept this new reality. Aunt Rita probably loves me the most after Mom and Dad. She claims we share the same look and personality. My opinion differs on the latter one. She is too emotional and sheds tears at any opportunity. I rarely cry. People often are surprised to see how indifferent I sometimes look when faced with tragedy. When her turn comes Aunt Rita embraces me tightly and breaks into a soft sob. “My darling baby! You’ll be back to yourself in no time. Trust me. This is just a test from Allah. And you are passing it with flying colors.” Then she sticks an envelope in my hand. More money. She doesn’t say anything but I know there must be over a thousand in the envelope. Everybody wants to make me happy in whatever way they can think of. “Thank you, Khalamoni,” I almost whisper. I was already feeling tired. Aunt Rita senses it. “Do you need to sit, Mamoni?” Before I respond the doorbell rings. Mom checks the doorbell app on her cellphone and immediately looks agitated. “Who is it?” My aunts ask simultaneously. “Malek,” Mom says with clear abomination. That’s my father–a family doctor who was married to my mother for fourteen years. Then something happened to him. He cheated on Mom. He tried to apologize and reconcile but Mom was unforgiving. She is a person of character and dignity. Such a break of trust is an irreconcilable offense to her. “what does he want?” Grandma never liked Dad. She openly calls him a thug and womanizer. Aunt Lipi shrugs. “It’s Tara’s birthday. As her father, he has the right to come to see her. Doesn’t he?” Grandpa likes Dad. He mumbles, “Let the guy in. Let him see his daughter.” Grandma gives him a nasty look making him nervously move away. He has lived decades with four women–a dominating wife and three controlling daughters. He knows the art of handling them. Drop your head and run! Mom makes a face that exhibits disgust and goes to answer the door. Aunt Rita helps me to get seated. I can’t believe how weak I have become. Doctors found something in my lungs as a result of COVID. That must be the culprit! I wait for my father. Despite all his downsides, his love for me is pure and unwavering, I can tell. Aunt Rita’s husband Uncle Belal and Aunt Lipi’s husband Uncle Lokman has been sitting in the living room. One of them must have opened the door for Dad. Halfway down the corridor that leads to the front door, Mom finds herself facing Dad. “Who said you could come in?” she snaps. “I just wanted to see Tara,” Dad quietly says. “Today is her birthday!” “Lokman Bhai, you shouldn’t have let him in,” Mom berates Uncle Lokman. “I am sorry…” Uncle Lokman says apologetically. Mom can be quite terrifying when irritated. Dad gets a glimpse of me and waves. Mom quickly stands in front of him, blocking his view and way. “Just give me the gifts and leave. I’ll give them to her.” “You won’t even let me see her?” Dad sounds heartbroken. “You know, I have visiting rights.” “You do, don’t you?” Mom mocks him. “Five minutes. After that, I want to see your ass out of my house. You are a bad influence on her.” Dad isn’t perfect. Far from it. Besides being a cheater he is also addicted to gambling and possibly does drugs too. Mom tolerated him for many years but when his affair with a nurse got publicized putting her in an insanely embarrassing situation she called it a quit. Dad brought a large bouquet of white roses, my favorites, and the latest MacBook Pro. I asked Mom for a new low-end laptop a few days back. She must have passed it on. “If you need anything you let me know, okay Mamoni?” Dad says. I take the bouquet and nod silently. I don’t show much emotional attachment to him in Mom’s presence. It upsets her. “Now you should leave,” Mom demands. “Or do you want a piece of cake too?” “If he is already here let him have a meal with us,” Grandpa appeals. The uncles mumble their support from a distance only to draw glares from their spouses. “No way,” Aunt Rita vehemently opposes. “He cheated Apu! God knows with how many women! Did I ever mention that he even used to flirt with me?” “Are you out of your mind?” Grandma chides her. “How can you bring this up in front of the kids? Let’s go in that room.” The ladies shove Dad into the study room and shut the door. Mom apologetically shows me five fingers– meaning five minutes– before disappearing inside. I chuckle. With all his mischiefs Dad is still quite likable and easygoing. Who else would have agreed to be pulled into that erupting volcano? Grandpa and the uncles glance at each other apprehensively before making their way back to the living room. I quietly sit, listening to the muffled chaos coming out of the study. The teenage boy who was playing PlayStation with Ronny, suddenly approaches me, hesitantly. He looks to be of my age, lanky with a deep brown face and a pair of kind eyes. Now he looks a tiny bit familiar. “You don’t remember me?” the boy says. “I am Roy. We went to the same elementary school.” With a little more effort, I remember Roy. This is the boy who used to be wide-eyed every time he saw me. My friends used to tease me suggesting he was my boyfriend. He was too quiet and we barely spoke. Later his family moved, forcing him to go to a different school. I struggle to find something appropriate to say. “I remember.” This recognition brings a big smile to his face. “I came with your aunt Rita. She is my mom’s friend.” He explains his presence. “I heard you are not attending classes anymore,” he says after a moment's silence. I nod. “Too weak. Long Covid.” “I heard. Everybody calls you COVID girl. Not in a bad way.” I know. It still hurts. Makes me feel like a virus–scary, painful. “Aunt Rita said today is your birthday,” Roy says with a glitter in his eyes. “I begged her to bring me. Wanted to see you and um… return something that belongs to you.” He proceeds to take out a small envelope from his pocket and hands it over to me. Surprised, I hesitantly take it and open it to find a red hair clip. I used to wear them in elementary school. I had a bunch of them. Accompanying the clip is a small piece of paper with an email address. I mutely ask him what is this all about. He blushes. “One of your hair clips. Found it on the school grounds. I kept it. I shouldn’t have.” I can’t stop the smile that spreads through my face. I had no idea I had a secret admirer who had been hanging on to a mere hair clip that I lost a long time ago. I swung the paper with the email address. Who gives a girl an email address? “If you feel lonely write me,” he says sheepishly. Before I can say anything the close-door meeting breaks up and pours out my dad, mom, aunts, and grandma. The women look somewhat pacified. My dad looks a little red but happy to be allowed to stay for dinner. No doubt he was subjected to some amount of jostling in there. At their sight, Roy quickly retreats to the video game. For the rest of the evening, things get hectic. After a little while, I feel so tired and out of breath that I have to retire to my room to rest. I don’t get a chance to find out more about Roy. For a 15-year-old curiosity can be a killer. After much thought, I text Aunt Rita a week later asking about Roy. Her reply shocks me. Roy’s parents died of COVID-19 just about a year ago. He along with his two younger siblings was staying with an aunt. On the day of my birthday, her aunt left him with Aunt Rita because she had to take the other kids to a kids' program. What surprises me most is the fact that Roy has gone to India to stay with his affluent grandparents as his aunt is unable to support all three orphaned siblings. I realize why he shared his email address. He knew his phone number would change. I’ve been feeling so pitiful about myself, Roy gives me a new vantage point. I sent him a short email. Why didn’t you tell me about your parents? His response came a day later. Covid girl! You wrote to me! |