Chapter Three:

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Seema will be driving home from the hospital when Sharon calls.

 

She'll remain composed through the conversation.

 

She always does.

 

She has to.

 

We haven't spoken in years.

 

My death won't come as a complete surprise.

 

She expected I'd die soon anyway.

 

Either it was going to be alcohol poisoning, or a drug overdose.

 

Suicide.

 

She won’t see that coming.

 

She'll want to know how I died.

 

And where I did it.

 

Sharon will tell her.

 

Seema will immediately try to control the situation.

 

That's who she is.

 

Seema doesn’t participate unless it’s her event.

 

But Sharon won't make it easy.

 

Sharon isn't on her payroll.

 

They'll agree to meet at the hospital.

 

On the drive home, Seema will call Hussain first, just to get it out of the way.

 

He'll want to know more.

 

She'll cut him off.

 

She won't go into details.

 

It would be a source of enjoyment for him.

 

She should have been calling Baba and Ami in Pakistan first.

 

They're twelve hours ahead.

 

It'll be well past midnight.

 

Baba will answer.

 

He always answers her.

 

She'll tell him what happened.

 

She'll explain that she's helping Sharon because she doesn't know what to do.

 

He'll ask how I died.

 

And why.

 

She'll tell him it was a gunshot to the head.

 

That alcohol and drugs were found in my system.

 

He won't ask any more questions.

 

He'll simply begin to pray.

 

The call will end when Ami starts crying uncontrollably.

 

That'll be the hardest part.

 

Her final call will be to Arafat Mammo, my uncle in Florida.

 

Her mentor.

 

For a psychiatrist, he never gave good advice.

 

At least, not to me.

 

He'll notify the rest of the family.

 

The news will spread quickly.

 

The mourning won't last long.

 

Life rarely stops for very long.

 

Out of sight. Out of mind.

 

When Seema gets home, she'll tell her kids.

 

Ali and Mya haven't seen me in years.

 

They'll be saddened, but they'll move on.

 

The other two being around Maya’s age, they won't remember much.

 

Children rarely do.

 

That's a blessing.

 

That’s why my death matters less right now.

 

Seema will begin texting friends.

 

One after another.

 

In the order of her biggest cheerleaders.

 

She'll start with Matt, her gay gym buddy.

 

Then the nannies.

 

The nurses.

 

Coworkers.

 

Colleagues.

 

Friends.

 

Even foes.

 

By the time she reaches the hospital, the news will already have spread.

 

Many of her coworkers will know.

 

They'll hug her.

 

Offer condolences.

 

She'll accept them.

 

When she and Sharon see me lying on the table, they'll both cry.

 

nyone would.

 

Then they'll talk about my burial.

 

Sharon will ask how much everything will cost.

 

Seema won't know.

 

But she'll offer to help.

 

She knows Baba will insist on paying for his son's burial.

 

Sharon will tell her about the two letters I left behind.

 

One for her.

 

One for Maya.

 

Seema will be surprised there isn't one for her.

 

Or for anyone else in the family.

 

She'll ask what's in them.

 

Would want to read them.

 

Sharon won't hand over the letter addressed to her.

 

She’ll let Seema read Maya's letter.

 

They'll cry again.

 

Then Sharon will tell her about the part of my letter where I didn’t want her or Hussain any part of the funeral.

 

That'll hurt good.

 

It'll make her angry.

 

She’ll refuse to sign the death certificate.

 

It shouldn’t be her signature anyway.

 

My body will still need to be transported.

 

She'll tell Sharon she'll have to figure it out on her own.

 

Then she'll walk away.

 

She won't acknowledge anyone on her way out of the hospital.

 

She'll need time.

 

Time to think.

 

Time to analyze.

 

Time to decide what my death can mean to her.

 

I just hope she loses her jealousy towards Maya and genuinely take care of her.

 

She is the only piece I leave behind in this world.