Her eyes were closed, which presented a problem. The family members must be in the waiting room. Alex pulled a chair up next to her bed, took a seat, and began praying. He prayed softly, just loud enough to be heard from the doorway if somebody entered but not loud enough to sound like a lunatic. He peeked a couple of times. Ghaniyah kept her eyes closed. She was breathing but hadn’t moved.
After a few minutes, Alex ran out of things to pray. He took out a card and decided to leave a note, pastor side up, saying he had stopped by and she should call if she needed anything. He thought he heard footsteps outside the door and quickly bowed his head again, mumbling another quick sentence or two.
“What are you doing?” a deep voice said.
Alex turned and looked toward the doorway, where an older gentleman scowled at him. He was about Alex’s height-six-one or so-with the long limbs and the square shoulders of a scarecrow. He had dark hair, a long black beard, and brown eyes that were filled with a mixture of sadness and surprise.
“I’m a pastor,” Alex quickly explained. He stood and took a few steps toward the man, extending his hand. “I heard your wife was in a bad car accident, and I came to pray for her.”
The man shook Alex’s hand-a strong grip-but didn’t relax. Alex clutched his Bible with his left hand.
“Are you with the hospital?” the man asked.
“No, sir. I’m just a local pastor.”
“We’re Muslim.” The man’s tone was matter-of-fact, not harsh. “I’m the imam for the Norfolk Islamic Learning Center. I appreciate you coming by, but lots of our people are already praying.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex said, kicking himself for not picking up on the name. He had been intoxicated by the thought of a profitable case, and his brain had shifted into neutral. He quickly switched back into lawyer mode. “Do you mind me asking what happened?”
The man looked past Alex at his wife. He lowered his voice, perhaps not wishing to disturb her with memories of the event. “Ghaniyah ran off the road and hit a tree. We don’t really know how it happened.”
Alex resisted the urge to pester the man with questions. Were there skid marks? witnesses? Could she have been run off the road by a driver who didn’t even bother stopping? What are the limits on your liability policy? Do you understand how uninsured motorist coverage works?
“The doctors say she suffered closed head injuries,” the imam continued. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He stepped around Alex and moved to the side of the bed.
Lesser lawyers might have succumbed.
But not Alex. He stepped back toward the bed and delicately placed a card on the nightstand next to the gentleman. “I’m also a lawyer,” Alex admitted. The man glanced at Alex as if the words hadn’t registered. He returned a concerned gaze to his wife and took her hand, checking on the machine readouts.
“I’m not like most personal-injury lawyers-only worried about the money,” Alex spoke quickly, as if a trapdoor might open beneath him at any moment. “I care about my clients’ spiritual health as well as their physical health. I take cases on a contingency fee and normally charge 10 percent less than most lawyers so my clients can give that money to their church or mosque or whatever.”
The man turned to Alex, contempt beginning to fill the dark eyes. “This is not the time or the place,” he said simply. “I am not concerned about American lawyers or American lawsuits or, as you say, a cheap deal on a contingency fee. My prayer is that Allah will restore Ghaniyah to full health.” He paused, pinning Alex with his gaze. “And now, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate some privacy. Certainly there are others in this hospital in need of your prayers.”
“You’re right,” Alex replied. “This is no time to worry about a lawyer.” He nodded and started backing toward the door. “But when she starts to feel better, give me a call if she wants to talk.”
The man turned back to his wife, taking a seat.
I’ll never see them again, Alex thought. Why not go for broke?
“I may seem a little over the top,” he admitted, “but trust me, when you need someone to take on the insurance companies, you’re going to want someone brash and obnoxious.”
The man didn’t move.
“I’m actually handling another case for a Muslim client,” Alex added, though he suddenly felt a little stupid for bringing it up. “A store is trying to make her ditch her head scarf.”
The imam did not look impressed. Or even remotely interested.
“Blessings on you,” Alex said softly, standing in the doorway. “I’ve handled closed-head-injury cases before. I know that the first few days are critical. May God be merciful to your wife.”
The man turned and looked at Alex, his eyes sad and subdued. “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind…” He returned his attention to Ghaniyah, and Alex finally took the hint.
On the way out, Alex made a point of circling back around through the ER. Maybe somebody had been admitted in the last few minutes.
“How’d it go?” Bones asked.
“It’s not quite a lock,” Alex admitted. “But then again, her husband didn’t take a swing at me.”
“That’s progress,” Bones said.
3
By now, the nurses knew the routine. Ghaniyah had been in the private ICU room for nearly twenty-four hours, and Khalid had performed the salat four times. This would be his fifth.
He glanced at the monitors, kissed Ghaniyah on the forehead, and shut the door to her room. It still seemed strange going through the salat without her. Though the couple had their differences, Khalid had never questioned his wife’s loyalty to Allah. At each salat, she would place her prayer mat behind Khalid and repeat the prayers with him. Her voice was passionate and unwavering. She never seemed to harbor the questions and doubts that sometimes tarnished her husband’s faith. But yesterday and today, Ghaniyah had remained silent during the prayer times, her eyes vacant, her lips unmoving. Khalid had tried to muster the faith for two.
Purity was half the faith, a concept that had been drilled into Khalid since childhood. He used the bathroom sink for his purification ritual, taking off his shirt and washing his hands and forearms up to each elbow. He washed his mouth and nose, snorting the water back into the sink. He washed his face from forehead to chin and ear to ear, including his entire beard. He wet his right hand and passed it over his thick black hair. Then he washed his feet, up to the ankles. He put on clean clothes, a loose-fitting long black shirt and clean slacks. He washed his hands again and left the bathroom, rolling out his floor mat at the foot of Ghaniyah’s bed.
He told her that he was getting ready to say his prayers.
She stared into space, giving him no reaction.
“Do you want to join me?”
She nodded. But he could tell from the faraway look in her eyes that he would be going through the ritual alone. The doctors said he needed to be patient. Give her time. She would remember a little more every day; her personality would return little by little.
“Will she fully recover?” he had asked.
“I wish we could be more definitive, Mr. Mobassar. But truthfully… it’s impossible to say.”
Khalid stood now at the edge of his mat, hands together, chest facing toward Mecca. He silently recited his intention to pray, focusing his thoughts on Allah.
He took a deep breath and began his chants. “Allahu akbar,” he said, cupping his hands behind his ears. Allah is the greatest. In rhythmic motion, he moved his hands to his side. “Subhana rabbiya al azeem…” Khalid’s words were strong and confident. He resisted the urge to tone down his prayers so that he didn’t disturb others in adjoining rooms. Allah would not honor those who were ashamed.
He faithfully performed each raka’ah, the supplications to Allah and recitations from the Qur’an, some in a standing position, others sitting, some prostrate, his forehead and both palms touching the prayer mat. It felt lonely without the strong voice of Ghaniyah behind him.