“Baby Steps”

“Baby Steps”

Omar
My big brother has always been my role model, the guy I could always count on. Sometimes I

wondered why I couldn’t have been like him. He was always strong, always happy, and always so alive. Now, I don’t know any more. Lying on that hospital bed, he’s hardly breathing; he looks so fragile. My mom’s crying and my dad looks confused; the accident hasn’t caught up with him yet. My eyes are dry. Why am I feeling nothing? Something, anything, I just want to feel again, to know that this is real, that it isn’t just a crazy dream.

My brother’s fingers twitch. My brother, my amazing brother, why did it happen to you? You should have let that truck hit me! Me! Worthless me! Why?! Why did you save me? I drop to my knees next to my brother’s bed. My hands are trembling. I take his big, warm hand in mine and squeeze.

“Ya Allah, please don’t let him die, please don’t let him die.” I repeat like a mantra, over and over again. His limp hand suddenly squeezes my own and I look up startled. His sleepy eyes focus on me and he gives me his signature crooked smile.

“I’m not dead yet doofus,” he croaks. Warm tears run down my cheeks and I start crying – long wheezing, hiccupping cries. My mom and dad come rushing inside instantly. As soon as she sees my brother, my mom collapses next to me, her face fresh with tears. “Alhamdulillah! Alhamdulillah!” she repeats. My father looks relieved.

“I’m sorry!” I cry out suddenly, “I’m sorry! Please forgive me!” Tears stream down my face, as guilt and self-hatred threaten to make me explode. I have no right to receive my brother’s forgiveness. He should forever hate me. I don’t deserve pity. Aamir looks at me and I flinch, waiting for the words that would cut off our relationship forever. They never come. Instead, my brother puts his bandaged hand on my head and looks me right in the eye.

“It’s okay,” he says. He smiles one more time and closes his eyes falling into a deep sleep. I don’t deserve this. No matter how much I try to follow him, I just can’t keep up.

You’re getting better, I want to say, but that is a lie. He’s not getting better; he’s slowly wasting away. He has lost weight since the accident, and his cheeks have a hollowed look to them. The legs, which he had so carefully sculpted with hours of basketball training, have lost their firmness, becoming bony and grotesque. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but my brother is dying.

“Hey Omar,” my brother croaks. He turns to look at me and I see that his lips are cracked and bleeding. “Why didn’t Allah kill me?”

“What are you saying?!” I exclaim. “Stop thinking that way! You have your whole life ahead of you! Why do you want to die?”

“I don’t have a life anymore,” he whispers. His eyes are glassy, like that of a soulless puppet. “I don’t believe in God, I want to die.” Aamir says.

“Stop it!” I shout, “Stop it! You’re not my brother! My brother would never say something like that! He would try his hardest and succeed! What happened to you?!” I scream at him in frustration. I can’t take it anymore.

“What happened to me?” he asks slowly with wide eyes, his manner both mocking and bitter. “This happened to me!” he cries gesturing to his legs in frenzy. “The accident happened! My legs are useless now! I can’t do anything! I’m not even living anymore!” My brother, my strong big brother, who once had the confidence of a champion, who once laughed in the face of any challenge, starts crying like a child. “I hate God! I hate him! Why did this have to happen to me?! What did I ever do to deserve this?!” My brother is howling; the house echoing with his loud cries. I feel empty; my chest feels as if it’s being crushed by all the suffocating pressure.

“You can do it…” I murmur, not believing it myself. My brother has broken down completely and is now scratching at his legs with unkempt fingernails.

“I can do what?” he growls, with a feverish look in his eyes. I have never felt afraid of my brother before, but as I stare into his maddened eyes, I feel shivers scramble across my body.

“How do you know I can do it? How do you know how I’m feeling? Who are you to know anything? Nobody understands my pain. Nobody!” He laughs a demented laugh.

“Please…” I whisper, “Please stop…” Bile rises to my throat and I feel nauseated. My brother is still ranting, oblivious to everything around him.

“It should have been you who ran in front of that truck!” he screams. “It should have been your life that was ruined! Why was it me?!” Any color left in my face drains at the brutality of his words. Aamir realizes too late that he has said too much.

“I…I’m sorry,” he stammers. My brother can’t look at my face and instead stares at his hands. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just frustrated.” He flexes his fingers nervously. “I’m just confused. I’m saying things I don’t mean. I’m hurting those who I don’t want to hurt.” He looks at me for a response but I can’t speak. He looks defeated, like a century old soul, tired of life.
Aamir

“I hate you!” Omar screams at me, and I see how much my careless words have hurt him. And even though I may deserve it for being a jerk, his words still cut me.

“Wake up will you?!” he yells. “I know you’re confused! I know you’re angry! But why are you giving up? If you give up, you can’t blame anyone but yourself! Allah will help those who help themselves. I can’t believe I looked up to you! I can’t believe I was in your shadow for so long! I can’t believe you were this weak!”

“I will not become weak like you,” he says before leaving. “I will not stay in your shadow any longer. I will prove to you that anyone can do anything if they have patience, if they believe in Allah and if they try!” He gives me one long last look.

“I will never become like you.” Omar walks out of the room, leaving me speechless. My little brother, who always admired me, who had never said a word against me, was now calling me weak. His words sear me like a knife. What had I become?
Aamir

It has been a few weeks since my fight with Omar, and not once since has he spoken to me. I can tell he has matured tremendously. He has become more independent. The naïve, little brother I once knew has disappeared into the past.

Every day he comes home exhausted, with bruises and scrapes. I don’t know what he has been doing, but I am worried. Omar was always the shy, reserved one. Reading and writing were his hobbies, he was never far from his books, but now his bookshelf is neglected and covered in dust. Even Mom and Dad notice Omar’s strange behavior.

“Is everything alright?” I hear my mother ask Omar one afternoon.
“You don’t look too well and the teacher called saying you fell asleep in class.” Omar shrugs off

her worry and pulls on his jacket.
“It’s nothing Ami, I’m just tired.” He walks out the door without another word. My mother

comes into the living room where I sit, staring out the window, looking at Omar walk down the driveway.

“I’m worried about him,” my mom says. Over the last few months my mother’s face has become stretched and tired. She puts her hands on my shoulder.
“So am I,” I reply. “So am I.”
Omar

The basketball hits the rim and twirls around without dropping in. It lands on the asphalt with a lo

ud thump before it bounces away from me. My knees buckle from underneath and I fall down panting. Basketball is much harder than I thought. It seems no matter how hard I try, I can’t run fast enough, can’t shoot well enough, and I just can’t be good enough. When I decided that I would work for my brother’s dream, I had thought it would be easy. When he used to play, it seemed as if every one of his limbs were infused with grace. My brother brought so much talent onto the court that it made basketball seem like a coordinated and directed dance. I, with my short, stout body, clumsy hands, messy foot

work, was less than an amateur compared to my brother. A tear rolls down my cheek, mingling with my sweat. Was I wrong? Was I not strong enough to support my brother’s dream? Why am I so weak?

The basketball comes bouncing back and I catch it reflexively.
“Tired?” a voice asks. I look up, and with the glare of the streetlight on my eyes, I see a smiling

face. I recognize him.
“You’re Aamir’s little brother, aren’t you?” he asks. He is one of my brother’s close friends.

Asad Haroon is his name. He is a junior along with my brother at Mayfield High School.
“I’ve been watching you since yesterday,” he says, “Are you trying to learn how to play?”

“Yeah,” I say with uncertainty. Will he laugh at me for trying to play something that was like second nature for my brother?

“Do you want to learn how to play?” he asks to my surprise. It must clearly show on my face because he laughs.

“You’re trying to cheer your brother up aren’t you?” he asks. I nod, feeling embarrassed that my intentions are so obvious.

“Yeah,” I say. “I want to support him. I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back on his feet.” Asad gives me his hand, and I take it after a moment of hesitation. His grip is warm and strong. It rescues me from the darkness of my thoughts.

“We all will,” Asad replies. “I hope you have a lot of patience,” he warns jokingly.
“I do,” I reply firmly. Allah subahanawatallah will give me the patience, I’m sure of it.

Aamir
Basketball season has almost come to an end. All the games will be coming up, and this year I

have been gone from the team the whole time. I joined the varsity team freshman year. I’m going to lose the entirety of my final year. I wonder if the guys have missed me. Asad, Rohan, Jacob, Mohammed and . . . Omar. I haven’t seen Omar in a while. He always leaves before sunrise and comes back after sunset.

He has lost the boyishness than defined him and has become taller and lankier. We are growing further and further apart.

The colors of the season are transitioning. They are changing from the bright greens and blues of summer, to the warm tones of autumn. I would have been a senior this year. Omar is now a sophomore.

Suddenly, hands grab my shoulder and I jump, startled. Mohammed and Jacob!
“Yo!” says Mohammed, “Did you miss us?” Both he and Rohan grin and I can’t help but grin

back.
“Of course I did! Couldn’t you morons find some time to visit me?”
“Sorry,” they reply sheepishly, “Coach has been pushing us so hard this season!”

A wave of jealousy hits me as they stand in front of me, healthy and unperturbed. They are wearing their uniforms, so today must be a game.

“We’re here to take you to the tournament finals.” says Rohan. My stomach lurches. Going into a crowded gymnasium with fans cheering and balls hitting the wooden floor; it used to be my stage. Now I can no longer enter. I have become a bystander in my own play.

“Sorry guys, I’m kind of tired,” I lie, keeping my obvious jealousy behind a façade. “I really don’t want to go, but I hope you guys win.” They are not discouraged or embarrassed at my refusal. Rohan grabs my wheelchair and pushes it toward the door. Mohammed takes my jacket from the sofa and tosses it to me.

“Stop being such a wuss; you’re going no matter what!” Protests arise in my mind, but they all sound feeble, just like my will. I sit silently, doing nothing as they load me into Rohan’s jeep and drive to the game.
Omar

A lot of people are filing into the gym. They’re all laughing and talking and the ball in the pit of my stomach grows heavier with every passing second. The lights seem too intense and even though I’m

in my loose Wildcats jersey, my body feels constricted. I plop down on the bench. Am I really doing this? A hand slaps my shoulder and my body reacts with a jolt. Coach Stuart looks down at me.

“Feeling nervous?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply. He sits down beside me on the bench and an awkward pause ensues as I’m too nervous to speak. Suddenly, he starts talking.

“You know Omar, you’ve come really far. Do you know why a rookie and a freshmen like you was put on the team? It’s because you have talent. I have watched you closely for the last few months, and I’ve seen how hard you’ve struggled. You did something that would take someone years to do. When things got hard, you never gave up; you were always patient. And we all know that you didn’t do this for yourself, you did it for your brother.”

I turn red, though I can’t tell whether it’s from embarrassment or nervousness. Coach Stuart fails to notice and continues on with his encouraging speech.

“Although we may not believe in the same God, I know that a good deed and patience is rewarded no matter what your beliefs are.” He stands up and slaps my shoulder again with more vigor than before. “Don’t sweat it son, you’ll do great!”

The referee blows the whistle and our team and the opposing team walk onto the court. Rohan and Mohammed aren’t here yet, but Coach doesn’t seem worried.

“Omar! You’re playing, get onto the court!” My body is covered in nervous sweat; I stand like a statue until Asad comes from behind and pushes me onto the court.

“Remember,” he says, “just take baby steps.” He dribbles the ball and passes it to me. As the ball comes into my hands, calmness finally sets in. I dodge the onslaught of two opposing players and pass to Asad. Asad shoots and he makes it in! The whole gym reverberates with the cheer of our quick first point. But I don’t care that hundreds of people are watching me. I don’t care that I have done something that would have been impossible for me a few months ago. I don’t care about any of that. My eyes are

focused on the opposite end of the gym, where the doors open and a thin figure in a wheel chair is wheeled in. Aamir.
Aamir

We enter the gymnasium to the roaring crowd. Omar is playing.
“Pretty good isn’t he?” asks Mohammed. I can do nothing but nod with the jerky movements of a

marionette.
“He did it for you, you know.” says Rohan with a grin.
“I know,” I say softly, “I know.”
“He’s amazing, you know, your brother,” says Mohammed. “You should be proud to have him.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
“I know.” I cup my hands around my mouth. I haven’t felt so light and free in ages.

“OMAR!!” I yell. The whole gym turns silent at my outburst. Omar looks at me, startled, and Mohammed and Rohan grin widely. I can see Asad in the corner of the gym smirking. “YOU BETTER WIN DOOFUS!” The whole gym explodes into cheers. Omar gives me a modest smile that transforms into a toothy grin. The left side of his mouth rises a little higher than his right and I see a smile identical to mine. It is surprising that my little brother can be so much like me, and yet so different. The referee blows the whistle again and the game resumes. My little brother gives me a wave before going back onto the court.

“He’s just like you,” says Rohan. I smile. No, he’s not, he’s much better. Omar

I thought that at the end of this game, our lives would have changed, that I would get my brother back. I don’t know how things would have been if the results were different, but I’m glad that everything turned out the way that it did. We lost the game.

I receive my second-place medal and walk over to where my brother is. He gives me an enormous smile that makes me feel even worse.

“You were amazing lil brother!” he exclaims.
“No I wasn’t,” I mutter. “We lost.” My brother laughs.
“Well, basketball isn’t that easy you know.”
“I’m sorry, I wanted to win for you and I tried really hard, but I still couldn’t win. I’m sorry

Aamir. You are my hero but I couldn’t do anything for you.” I’m too ashamed to look at his face. Aamir doesn’t say anything and instead, pulls me down for a hug.

“Omar,” he says, “you are my hero.” He squeezes me so hard it’s almost painful. “You are the champion of my life, and you have given me the greatest gift of all.” He pulls back from me and looks into my eyes. His eyes are twinkling again. “You are an amazing person, and I hope Allah will give me the same drive, and the same patience that he has given you. I pray, that he gives me your motivation, and your constant determination and allows me to fulfill my dreams.” And my brother, being the person that he is, ends this heartfelt moment by tousling my hair.

“But, I’m still better than you at basketball!” he cries gleefully. We both burst out laughing. Thank you, Allah, thank you. Thank you for giving me my brother back.

The End