The Truest Believer-Interfaith Love Story

Chapter Ten

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And John could not help but think it was his fault. He was pacing outside of the ER, where Kalila was.

His thoughts went back to three years ago, when John was given the opportunity to speak with Kalila by herself over the phone.

It was the first time he'd spoken to her since her father had come to him, explaining clearly to him what was expected of a married man. But her father's answer did not remain with him; it resided solely on Kalila and her decision.

"Why?" she had asked, almost as if she were pleading. There were so many reasons, too many for John to say openly then, but it all had come down to one simple phrase.

"Because I want to take you to Jannah with me."

John had said it straight from his heart, his soul. There was nothing more truer than those words and Kalila knew it.

"Zakariyah," she said, after a pause. "You're name should be Zakariyah."

"Mr. Veron," a female voice said, making Zakariyah turn to face her. She looked at him with sympathetic eyes. "You may see your wife now."

When Zakariyah walked into the bright, spotless room, he thought positive thoughts. Everything would be alright. Everything would be–

Kalila was lying on the hospital bed, her hands folded over her curved abdomen. She wasn't wearing her hijab or burkha, but a light blue hospital gown, a white bed sheet draped across her. Kalila was staring at the ceiling, her eyes moist and dark; she had not even bothered to look at Zakariyah as he walked in.

Zakariyah sat down next to her, taking her hand in his. Kalila turned her head to face him, staring blankly at him.

"What did they say?" He whispered, leaning closer to her. From the corner of his eye, Zakariyah saw her right hand curl into a fist over her stomach.

"She didn't make it, Zakariyah. She's gone."

He held her as Kalila wept into his shoulder, holding onto him as if her life depended on it.

"Inna'lillahi," Zakariyah repeated, because it was all he could say. It was all he could think. Allah had taken the life of his unborn child. Their unborn child.

****

Kalila was issued to leave at that night after several hours of recovery from the dilatation and curettage procedure. It was routine procedure after a miscarriage.

By then, Zakariyah had notified her parents and Baraka about what had happened. He had also paid for the three's tickets, expecting them to be there within a few days.

As Zakariyah drove her home, Kalila was silent, keeping her eyes on the road; the tension between them foreign to him. They had always managed to express themselves, and without any shyness a year into their marriage. But now, he had no words to say to her, nothing he could think of that could make her lose her anguish of the loss of a child, because he had none for himself.

When Zakariyah had parked the car outside their home, he leaned over to hold Kalila's hand but she shook it away, taking off her seatbelt and getting out of the car in a rush.

Zakariyah followed after her, contemplating on what to say.

"Kalila, stop," he said, standing in front of her, blocking her way to the house. She stood rigid before him, pain written clearly on her face. "Do you blame me for what has happened?" The question sounded odd in Zakariyah's ears, but he had to ask because he could almost feel the anger in her.

"No," she said, looking up at him. "I don't blame you. I blame Allah."

She brushed past him, leaving Zakariyah open mouthed. He turned, watching Kalila disappear into the house. If anything were to be impossible, Zakariyah would have thought it would be Kalila losing the faith that kept him alive.

But he was wrong.

****

In the two weeks that was expected for Kalila's physical recovery, life in the Veron house was not pleasant. Nights would go by when Kalila would cry herself to sleep and other times she would not sleep at all, simply stay up staring into the dark nothing of the living room.

Her family could not help either. During the day, Kalila and her mother would often fight –that usually ended in tears for both– her brother could only offer her a silent comfort, and her father would simply let her cry to him as he whispered loving words to her and stroked her hair.

Zakariyah prayed all day, begging Allah for mercy, begging for help. Zakariyah had no idea how to please Kalila, or tell her that venting her anger and blame on Allah would not make things better. It was only ruining her.

And it wasn't as if Kalila had given him a chance to prove it to her; she refused to speak to him, perhaps because deep down, she knew what she was doing was not helping her. But she didn't care. Someone had to be blamed for her lost baby.

Sometimes Kalila would lay on the couch, under a quilt, and she would stay like that, no eating, no drinking, the entire day. There would be times where she would suddenly break into sobs, and her father or mother would rush to her side to calm her.

Zakariyah had noticed that Kalila's brother and father acted as though they did not see it, the change in her eyes that now showed a dark, cunning beauty. Her mother could see straight through her hardening heart, as it was the cause to their constant arguments.

Afraid of what could happen if he did nothing, he drove Kalila to the beach a little after sundown. They walked together on the shores of the gulf, most of which in silence. Their hands had found a way to entwine itself together though, a reassurance to Zakariyah that his Kalila was still there.

He then stopped to tell her how much he loved her and how much he hated to see her forsake Islam in their time of despair. And he told her how he knew their child was waiting for them in Jannah, the one place he promised he'd take her and nothing could stop him from fulfilling that vow.

"Please, Kalila, don't do this to me. Don't leave me," he whispered. She looked up at him, her face half covered in shadow from the setting sun.

"But I'm right here."

"No," Zakariyah said, shaking his head. "The real Kalila is leaving me. Leaving me for the satisfaction of knowing there is someone to blame for our loss. But there isn't, Kalila," he told her, touching his forehead to hers. "There is no one to blame."

Their trip back home was silent, but it was a different kind of silence. Kalila was staring at her hands folded over her lap, where a baby bump was still visible. There wasn't any anger in her eyes, just sadness.

When they arrived, Kalila had gone straight to the bathroom. She came out dripping wet from the waters of wudhu. Zakariyah smiled when she placed the prayer mat facing east to Mecca. Kalila's mother, who was in the kitchen preparing dinner, looked over at her in surprise.

It was the first time she had prayed since that day.

By the end of her prayer, Kalila was crying again, but this time, no one had rushed to her side. They understood her tears were not all sadness, but her show of sincerity during the prayer.

Later that night, before Zakariyah could enter their bedroom, he heard Kalila speak. He paused, standing there, listening.

"I'm sorry, Allah, for being so, so stupid. For blaming You. I'm sorry for deliberately missing prayers because I was angry that...my baby was taken away from me." She stopped, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry, Allah, forgive me. Please, please forgive me for hurting everyone else." Zakariyah could hear the tears in her voice and it made his eyes water at the thought of her in so much pain. "Please forgive me. I beg of You, please forgive me."

He rocked on his feet, not knowing whether or not to come in.

Zakariyah heard Kalila sniffle and stand up, walking over to the bed where he heard her settle in. He hesitated before entering and laying down beside her.

The room was completely dark, except for the sliver of light from the hall. Zakariyah lifted a hand to brush away the tears on Kalila's cheek. She placed her hand over his and whispered, "Thank you."