Page 114 of To Tango, with Desire

My mother squeezed her hands, shaking her head. “He woke up thirsty, and then he fell to the floor.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought he died on the spot,” she whispered, tears flowing.

“It’s okay.” Zane squeezed her shoulder. “We’re here now. He’s going to get the surgery he needs and he’ll be okay. We have to believe that.”

“They say there’s risks.”

“I’ll talk to the cardiologist, Mom.”

Nasrin swayed suddenly, and Zane caught her, guiding her to a chair. “Sit here, we’ll check what’s going on.”

When we entered my dad’s room, I was shocked at what I saw. Dad's eyes were sunken and his pallor was off. He looked like he was uncomfortable, and we’d arrived just as the nurse was administering more pain relief. They wanted to get him into surgery, but were stabilizing him with medication and monitoring him in the ICU in the meantime.

The nurse explained everything, answering our questions and making sure Dad was monitored while we waited for the surgeon.

I turned to find that Zane had gone suddenly quiet. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his skin had turned gray.

“Zane? Zane, are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” He was breathing slowly, his eyes glued to the floor.

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

He glanced across at me then shuddered. “Needles.”

I looked over at the nurse, who was discarding one.

“Maybe you can sit out in the hall with Mom? Keep her updated?”

“I need to be here.”

“Not for this, you don’t. I’ll be out as soon as I can. Dad’s asleep, so it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

He squeezed my hand before leaving. It would have been comical if the situation weren’t so damn serious. If my dad weren’t lying in the hospital bed at risk of further complications. Because according to the medical staff, there were risks, big ones, on operating so soon. But given the extent of the damage, if they didn’t do something in the next few hours, there was an even greater risk of death.

I hated to see him like this. I hated knowing there was nothing I could do to make a difference.

I sat beside him, holding his hand, until he woke up.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Amira?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Don’t get up, just rest.”

“My heart . . .”

“I know, Dad. They’re gonna fix it. Make you all better. So you just need to rest.”

“So tired.”

“I love you.”

“Habibti.” He took my hand, running his finger in circles on my palm. I swallowed the lump in my throat at the gesture. He was trying to soothe me at a time when he needed help the most. I trembled, fearful that this might be the last time I would feel his touch.

I couldn’t think about that now. I had to remain positive. I had to believe he would come out of this stronger than ever.