We Are Called to Rise (12 page)

“Luis?”

I can’t talk to Dr. Ghosh. I can’t breathe. Now I want to die.

“Luis. I know you’re upset. I know you feel bad.”

He doesn’t know. Dr. Ghosh really does not know.

“Luis. This is what I was talking about. About war and stress. Luis, things happen to us that are more than we can take. And we break. We break for a moment, for a while. But that break is not who we are. It’s not the sum total of who we are.”

His words are just washing around me. I want to grab hold of them, hang on, but I don’t want to be saved again. I don’t want to keep coming back and then have to fall again. I can’t listen to him.

“Luis. We’ve been talking together almost every day for weeks now. If there was ever a man who did not want to kill a child, it is you, Luis. I know this is not what you wanted to do. I know that it was a break. I know what you have been carrying.”

I can’t hang on any longer. I cry then. I cry and cry, and I don’t think I will ever stop, and Dr. Ghosh gets right on the bed and holds me.

WHEN MY ABUELA COMES BACK
after dinner, I see her register that something has happened. She can see it in me, but she says nothing. And I don’t say anything that night, because I don’t know what she is thinking, and I wouldn’t know how to bring up the letter I wrote to that kid if I did want to talk.

But having her there helps me think about it. In my mind, I pretend that my abuela does know about the letter and what I wrote, and that we’re talking about it. I think about what she would want me to do. I think about that kid the way my abuela would think about a little boy.

It changes everything. If I think like my abuela. If I think of myself like my abuela thinks of me.

A FEW DAYS LATER, AFTER
Abuela has gone home, I get a chance to talk about the kid with Dr. Ghosh. The boy in Nevada. The one who got the letter.

“Do you know anything about him? Did he read the letter?”

“I know he read it. Everybody regrets that. Somebody should have read the letters first before they handed them out to the children, but nobody thought of it.”

“Yeah. Do you know anything else?”

“Not much. The principal was pretty upset. And the parents, of course. That’s about it.”

“I need to do something about it. I need to do something for that boy.”

“Hmmm. Yes, I see. It might not be easy. Nobody is going to want to put you back in touch with him.”

“But I have to, Dr. Ghosh. I have to do something. I can’t leave it. That letter. It was so cruel. I can’t do anything about everything else. About Sam. About . . . about everything. But that’s a kid from Vegas. I just can’t leave it like that. Please. Please, help me do this.”

Dr. Ghosh starts to say something, but then he stops.

“Okay. Luis, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe there’s a way to contact the school principal. Maybe. I’ll try.”

And that’s the first time that I want something. The first time I have wanted anything since I woke up in this hospital. There has to be something I can do for that kid. And that’s the only thing I want. If my abuela never believes in me again, if I spend my life in Leavenworth, if I die in Iraq, I just want to do something for that kid. I want to do something right.

Maybe it’s my Mexican roots. Maybe it’s because of what my abuela did for me. Maybe it’s just that he’s another boy. A boy who is alive. Maybe it’s what I said about the kid’s name. I don’t know. But ever since I thought of the kid and realized that he was out there, that maybe I could change one thing, it’s all I can think about. Doing something for that kid.

I don’t want to scare him, of course. His parents are already mad at me. But I just can’t leave that letter like that. He shouldn’t grow up thinking a man sent him a letter like that and never fixed it.

THE THING IS, I CAN’T
actually write a letter by myself. I can’t hold the pen, and I can’t write. I can read characters, and sometimes words, but it is hard for me to see a set of words. I haven’t read a sentence yet; I can only see part of a line. I am working on reading with my occupational therapist, so I decide to tell her that I want to write a letter and see if she will help me. I trust Alison.

ALISON AGREES TO HELP ME,
but since I’m in therapy, it comes with a set of conditions. When I can read three lines without help, she’ll write the letter. I remember to tell her that she’ll have to print, because the letter is going to a child. I think about what she might imagine from that detail, and it’s so far from reality that I feel a bit discouraged. Still, when I have the letter, I’m going to ask Dr. Ghosh to mail it to the principal. I’m going to do something about what I did to that boy.

17

Bashkim

MRS. MONAGHAN SAYS THAT
the principal wants to meet with me today. I am going to go there right after lunch. I must be getting more mature, as Mrs. Monaghan says, because I am not too upset about this. I have been to the principal’s office a couple of times on my own before school. She likes me to feed her fish. Dr. Moore is not so bad, and she keeps food in her office. She needs kids to eat it, because some people donate it to the school, and she does not want them to think that she wastes it. I have a lunch, though, so I won’t be able to eat any of that food today. Maybe just a cookie or something.

I go straight from the lunchroom to the office. I am not tall enough to see over the counter, so it is a little while before Mrs. Hartley, the aide, realizes that I am there.

“Hi, Bashkim,” she says. “Are you here to see Dr. Moore? She is waiting for you.”

I wait for Mrs. Hartley to unhook the gate into the office, and then I walk back to the principal’s room myself. Like I said, I have done this before.

“Bashkim, it’s nice to see you. Thank you for feeding my fish. Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thank you. I just had lunch.”

“Good. Well, Bashkim, I have something interesting to talk to you about today.”

I really am getting more mature, because I am not worried that she is going to say anything terrible. She does seem a little worried, though.

“Bashkim, I have received a letter from the soldier who wrote to you. He wants to write to you again.”

I am worried when she says this. I don’t like to think about Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes, and whenever anyone asks if I want to talk about him, I say no.

“Bashkim, I don’t think your parents would want you to communicate with this soldier. And I respect your parents’ wishes. But I also think that Specialist Rodriguez is very sorry about what happened, and he wants to make up for hurting you, and I think that reading his letter would be helpful.”

I am confused. I really don’t want to read that letter, and I don’t understand why Dr. Moore is saying that she respects my baba and nene but that she wants me to read the letter. She knows how Baba feels about soldiers. If I read the letter, I couldn’t tell my baba. Does Dr. Moore want me to lie to him?

I say nothing.

“Bashkim. This is an unusual situation. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents. But I also want you to know that there are lots of good people in the world, and that sometimes an adult can make a mistake and still be a good person.”

“I know that.”

“That’s good, Bashkim. I’m glad you know that.

“Bashkim, now you know I have the letter and I have read it and I think it would be nice for you to read it. Why don’t you take some time to decide if you want to read it, and if you want to tell your parents about it, or if you would like me to tell them about it. And whatever you want to do, that’s what we will do.”

I am getting a headache sitting here, and I don’t even want a cookie anymore. So I tell Dr. Moore that I will think about it, and I go back to class.

I THOUGHT ABOUT SPECIALIST LUIS
Rodriguez-Reyes’s letter all weekend. I asked my nene if she thought the soldier who wrote me was a bad person.

“Oh, Bashkim. Are you thinking about that letter? He might be a bad person, but he also might be a good person. I don’t know.”

My nene stops sweeping, and she looks out the window for a long time. I am not sure if we are still talking, but I don’t leave the kitchen, just in case.

“Writing that letter doesn’t mean that he is bad, Bashkim, because war is very hard on a man.”

I listen carefully, because maybe she is talking about Specialist Rodriguez, and maybe she is talking about Baba.

“Maybe the war that soldier is in is too much for him. Maybe he is a good man, and he was never supposed to be in a war.”

I don’t ask my nene any more questions, because I am not ready to tell her about the letter, but I listen. Is Baba a good man? Is prison the same as a war, if you never did anything wrong to get there?

ON MONDAY I STOP AT
the principal’s office to feed her fish. She is not there, but I tell Mrs. Hartley that I want to talk with Dr. Moore. About nine o’clock, Dr. Moore comes to get me in Mrs. Monaghan’s room. We walk to her office together.

“Do you want to see the letter, Bashkim?”

I do, so she lets me have it when we are in her office. She says she is going to stay right there doing her work, and I can talk to her whenever I want. I see right off that Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes knows letter form too.

November 24, 2008

Mr. Bashkim Ahmeti

C/O Dr. Martina Moore

Orson Hulet Elementary School

2201 Navarre Drive

Las Vegas, NV 89120

Dear Bashkim:

Thank you for reading this. I know it must be scary for you to read a letter from me. I am so sorry about what I wrote before. I feel terrible about it, and I lie awake at night thinking about how you must have felt when you read it.

I don’t know how to explain myself. I don’t even remember writing the letter to you. I was very sad about something that happened to a friend of mine, and I think I went a little bit crazy. I am not making an excuse, but that is what happened.

I am very sorry for saying something about your name. People used to make fun of my name. They would ask why I had two last names, and why I didn’t know how to say Luis, when they were the ones who did not know how to say it. I know I must have been crazy the day I wrote you, because I can’t imagine writing something like that to anyone.

If you would like to write to me again, I would be happy to keep writing to you. Again, I am very sorry.

Luis

I see something funny about the letter. His name doesn’t look the same as the rest. Luis writes his name shaky, like Baba does. I wonder if Luis is as old as Baba. Can old people be soldiers? I didn’t notice that he had a shaky name before.

I don’t know what to say to Dr. Moore after I finish reading the letter. Did Luis shoot the boy because he went crazy? I don’t want him to talk about that boy again, but I don’t want him to pretend there is no boy.

I feel sorry for Specialist Rodriguez too. This letter is nice. He doesn’t even sound like someone who would kill a boy. Maybe my nene is right that wars can be too hard. Maybe Specialist Rodriguez wasn’t supposed to be in a war. What if I had to be in a war?

I sit in the chair awhile, looking at the letter, and then I don’t want to sit there anymore. I help myself to some goldfish crackers that Dr. Moore has.

“So, Bashkim. Do you want to talk about what Specialist Rodriguez wrote?”

I don’t really, right that minute, but I do say, “My nene says that war can be too hard for a soldier. She said that Specialist Rodriguez might be a good man or a bad man, and we couldn’t tell from that one letter.”

“I think your nene is wise, Bashkim. I am glad that you have talked to her about Specialist Rodriguez.”

I decide not to tell Dr. Moore that I have not really talked to my nene about him. Instead, I say:

“My baba was not in a war, but he was in prison. He went to prison for seeing a police officer do something bad. That happens in Albania. And it makes my baba kind of . . . mad . . . too.”

I wish I hadn’t said that last thing about Baba. I don’t want to tell the principal about how my baba gets mad, or how he hurts my nene. That could really cause a lot of problems. I start to get up, because I don’t want Dr. Moore to ask me any questions.

“Bashkim. Thank you for telling me about your baba.”

“Yes, Dr. Moore.” I am standing up now, because I really want to leave.

“If you ever want to talk about what happened to your baba, you can come here anytime.”

I nod my head, and then I walk back to my classroom fast. I almost forgot not to talk about some things.

December 12, 2008

Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes

A BTRY 2-57FA

FOB Kalsu

APO, AE 09312

Dear Specialist Rodriguez-Reyes:

Dr. Moore gave me your letter. I understand about soldiers feeling bad in war. My baba is sometimes crazy from being in prison in Albania. He did not do anything wrong, but he was in prison anyway, and that is what makes him get mad at people.

I hope you are having a better time in Iraq now.

Your friend,

Bashkim Ahmeti

December 19, 2008

Mr. Bashkim Ahmeti

C/O Dr. Martina Moore

Orson Hulet Elementary School

2201 Navarre Drive

Las Vegas, NV 89120

Dear Bashkim:

Thank you for your letter. I really appreciate it.

I am not in Iraq anymore. I am in Washington DC, in a hospital. You call your father Baba, and I call my grandmother Abuela. My abuela raised me. I never had a baba, or at least one that I knew.

I grew up in Las Vegas too. Have you ever ridden a dirt bike in the dry lake bed? I used to love to do that. I broke my arm once, but it was worth it.

Do you play any sports? I played basketball, and I ran track a couple of years in high school. In Iraq, some of us would sometimes get a pickup game started, but I guess that stopped after a while.

I hope school is going well for you. Hello to your baba—

Luis

December 30, 2008

Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes

A BTRY 2-57FA

FOB Kalsu

APO, AE 09312

Dear Specialist Rodriguez:

Do you want to stop using letter form? If you do, that’s okay with me.

I play soccer for the Las Vegas Storm. We have orange uniforms, with blue letters, and every kid has his own bag. I am number 4, and my bag has my number on it too. That way, everyone knows it is mine.

My baba was a soccer player in Albania. He was almost like a professional, until he had to go to prison. He shows me how to play, when I am not in practice with my coach.

Why are you in a hospital?

Sincerely,

Bashkim

January 9, 2009

Dear Bashkim—

I hate letter form.

That’s cool that you play soccer. I played on a team for a few years when I was younger, but then I started liking basketball more. What position do you play? How is your team doing? Are you playing now?

My abuela is a big soccer fan. She loves México, and Brazilia. She loves Brazil just because they used to have a great player named Pelé. Have you heard of him? A lot of my friends played soccer or baseball. But I liked basketball best. My abuela let me choose, since she had never played any sport and could not help me herself.

It sounds like you have a great baba. I didn’t have a dad growing up. I am glad you do.

Best wishes,

Luis

p.s. I got hurt in Iraq, and they flew me to this hospital in DC for rehabilitation. I’m fine though.

January 18, 2009

Dear Luis—

Las Vegas Storm won a big soccer tournament last Thanksgiving, even though there were teams from other states. I am a striker, and I scored two goals in the championship game. My baba was so happy, and my nene too.

My friend Carlo is Mexican, and he has two last names too. They are Garcia-Lopez. I figured you were Mexican as soon as I saw your name. Carlo has four brothers and sisters. That’s why he can’t play soccer. Because there are too many of them to all get uniforms and bags and things.

I am going to be a magician when I grow up. Our music teacher at school is a magician, and he is really good.
Are you glad you are a soldier?
Have you ever seen a magician?

Sincerely,

Bashkim

p.s. I’m sorry you got hurt in Iraq.

February 3, 2009

Dear Bashkim—

My uncle Timo likes magic tricks. When I was a kid, he used to pull quarters out of my ear, and he knew so many card tricks. It takes a long time to become a good magician, so it’s good to get started now.

My abuela does not like magic acts. She went to Siegfried and Roy once—that was a big magic act on the Strip before you were born—and she says the tricks made her think that the magicians knew the devil. They must have been pretty good magicians, huh? My abuela would never let me go to a show, but maybe I will go see your teacher when I get home.

I bet the weather is nice where you are. I am starting to think about going home a lot.

Take care,

Luis

February 15, 2009

Dear Luis—

Happy Valentine’s Day, late.

My teacher Mrs. Monaghan had a big party for us yesterday. Some of the kids brought food. My nene let me bring ice-cream treats, which I never did before. The kids liked them even better than Alyssa’s cupcakes.

We had a talent show for entertainment. Mrs. Monaghan believes in spontaneous talent shows. That means we don’t practice. But we all knew we would have one, so Carlo and I did a talent. I sat on his knee, because he is bigger than me, and we pretended that I was a puppet and he was a venterwilkist. Everybody laughed, because Carlo is funny.

I hope you had a good Valentine’s Day too. It was one of the best days I have ever had.

Bashkim

February 21, 2009

Dear Bashkim: