A Journey Back Home

The first time I touched a dead body, I was 18. It was at the Battle House, a few hours after Nikki died. I wasn’t alone. There were four of us in total who had volunteered to wash and prepare Nikki Williams’ body for burial. My mother didn’t want me to participate in this ritual. She feared I would have nightmares. At 45, it would be her first time to see or wash a dead person. But I insisted. I wanted to touch a dead body, feel it. Smell it. I wanted to look for afterlife signs on Nikki’s face.I wanted to know what life was like inside a coffin. I wondered, and still wonder, what was happening to those who preceded us--the Pharaoh of Egypt, Saladin, Gandhi, Peter Jennings, Michael Jackson, Gadaffi, my grandmother?                                                           

We stood in the washroom – my mother, my older sister, my mother’s friend Nora – staring at the shape of Nikki’s body underneath the white sheets. I inspected the room and found stacks of dark blue cotton towels and white sheets in one corner. Bottles of Clorox spray and Lysol were under the sink. Over 25 shades of lipstick and eye shadow were arranged on the counter. Pink and red blush, Maybelline mascara, Old Spice cologne. Very Sexy Hot by Victoria’s Secret.

            My mother squeezed my hand. “Jinan,” she said in a small voice. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

            I nodded.

              I didn’t know what to expect under the sheet. I imagined the skeleton from Tales From the Crypt. Mother stepped towards the table and reached for the sheet. “Inna lilla wa inna e-layhi raji’oon.” She wiped a tear with the back of her palm.

            To God we belong, and to Him we shall return.

I stretched my neck to get a better view. I didn’t want to miss a moment, but as soon as Mama unveiled Nikki’s face, I shut my eyes. I waited for a scream. A cry. An Oh, My God. But it was quiet except for my mother whispering verses from the Quran.

            I opened my left eye. My mother held a finger under the faucet, waiting for the right temperature. My sister browsed through the shampoos, unscrewing the caps and sniffing until she finally selected the unscented bottle. I tiptoed towards Nikki’s body. Her eyes were gently closed, her lips sealed in the shape of a crescent. Her cheeks were pink, naturally. Her face was thin. She had lost almost 60 pounds because of the AIDS. I wanted to touch her so I uncovered her right arm. It was hard and cold, just like our kitchen’s granite countertop. I touched her pale fingers, one by one. I touched her white feet, her toenails, her eyelids.

            It was less than three months ago that my sister and I visited her at the hospice. We took her a yellow silk nightgown as a gift. I asked her if she was afraid of death. She was. But she said that converting to Islam had kept her alive, even after the death of her husband eight months earlier from the same disease.

            “This life is only a journey back home,” she said.

            “What do you mean?” I asked.

            “Paradise. Where our mother and father, Adam and Eve, originated.”

            I smoothed her hair with my fingers. I’d read about the rivers of honey and wine in the Quran, about the castles, the abundance of meat and pomegranate. I'd memorized the hadith of the Prophet Muhammad that teaches paradise is a place no eye has ever seen, ear has ever heard, or mind has ever imagined. But I couldn’t paint a picture of this heaven beside the scenes I had seen on The Simpsons and Southpark.      Mama was mopping Nikki’s collarbone and chest with an orange soap bar while her friend Nora showered after her with the hose. They moved down her body methodically until everything was cleansed. They rearranged the sheet so that her body was never completely exposed. My sister shampooed Nikki’s hair.

            “Can I wash her feet?” I asked.

            My mother looked at me, pulled her sleeve up and handed me the soap.

            Her feet were ice, her toenails tiles of glass. I rubbed her withered calves and knees.

            The last time I'd seen her pray at the Mosque, she prostrated for so long I feared she had died.

            “Are you all right?” I asked after she finally got up and finished salah.

            “I needed to ask God to take care of a few things after my death. I asked for an easy departure and to be reunited with my husband.”

            I regretted not spending more time with Nikki, even though she was 15 years older than me. I never knew why she had chosen Islam, how she had met her husband, or how they both ended up with AIDS.

            I finished washing her feet. Nikki Williams was clean, and it was time to perform on her the mandatory ablution Muslims make before praying a physical prayer.  
“Bismillah Rahman al-Rahim,” my mother said.

            In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

           Mother wiped her mouth and nose and face. I washed her right arm. My sister washed her left arm. Mama wiped Nikki’s hair, ears, and neck. Nora washed her right and left foot.

            We dried her body with the dark blue towels. My sister braided Nikki’s hair, then carried the white pre-cut sheets to the table. We wrapped her in seven sheets, covering everything except her face. She looked pure.

            We paused. No one said a word. Mama cried. She pulled out a napkin from her dress pocket and pressed it against her eyes. This made my sister cry. I wondered who would wash me. I wondered if I would look so natural, buried with nothing except white cloth and my Book of Deeds. 

            We rolled in the coffin and stationed it next to Nikki. Even though she weighed only 57 pounds, her body felt much heavier. We lowered her inside and curved her face to the right. Nora searched for the bottle of rose water in her purse, and peppered it over the body.

            After that, I would never have rose water in my baklava or milk pudding.  

            Mama closed the lid. This is when I started to cry. Not because I’m claustrophobic. I was afraid of dying; of leaving this earth. Of going back home to where Adam and Eve were created. I was afraid of being judged for cheating all throughout Geometry and Islamic Studies class, for the time I stole from Wal-Mart and let a boy in high school hold my hand and see my hair. Of the time I smoked. The time I told my brother that his bed was a toilet while he was sleepwalking. And when I let the pool guy stare at me swimming in a hot pink bra instead of grabbing my towel.

            I didn’t want to go to hell. Or heaven. I didn't want to live in a castle. Or drink from the river of wine. I didn't want to believe that life beyond Earth existed.

            I was no longer interested in justice, in reward or punishment. I thought, let us simply die: The Prophets. Helen Keller. Hitler. Mother Teresa. Soldiers who raped Bosnian girls. Children slaughtered in Rwanda. Iraqi infants blown up into pieces. My neighbor who killed his wife. The mother who drowned her four kids. The old man who searches through dumpsters for food. The student who volunteers her afternoons at the Ronald McDonald House. The doctor who donates a year’s salary to education.

No reward. No punishment. Just ashes.

My sister put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

            I let her lead me outside to the car. It was noon. Before we drove to the cemetery, Nikki had to be escorted to the Mosque where everyone in the community would join in the funeral prayer.

            Two policemen waited outside the Mosque parking lot, observing us until we finished praying. They then led the carpool to the cemetery. It took the thirty cars--a few Mercedes, one Hummer, a Jaguar, a Rolls Royce, and a many more vehicles--twenty minutes to reach the cemetery. I was silent the entire way. I stared at the rows of palm trees bordering the wide golf courses, and listened to the Quranic verses Mother had turned on. “For devout men and women, for men and women who are patient, for men and women who humble themselves, for men and women who give in charity, for men and women who fast, for men and women who guard their chastity, and for men and women who engage much in God’s praise, for them Allah has prepared forgiveness and great reward.”

            I thought about Nikki. Did she know she was on her way to be buried? We passed billboards for Disney World and Island of Adventure before we reached a small dirt road in the middle of nowhere. We took a right on Medina Drive and parked. We walked over the long grass and around the untrimmed bushes. Five men carried the coffin while the rest followed. We gathered around the grave. Less than a year ago I had stood at the same spot holding Nikki’s hand as her husband was lowered into the ground.

            Was death really a journey back home? Could Nikki see us? Hear us? I’ve memorized the three questions the Angels of Death ask as soon as the earth swallows you up: Who is your God? What is your Religion? Who is your Prophet?

            I know about the barzakh, the place souls linger until the Day of Judgment.

            Did Nikki's husband know that she was going to be buried three feet to his right?

            I knew about the window to paradise that reveals a person's promised spot in the afterlife if they answer correctly. The window to hell is on the left. But what was happening to Nikki at that particular second--as everyone lifted a handful of dirt and sprinkled it over the coffin? 

            I longed to witness the angels questioning her. To listen to her answers. I thought about my mother, my father, my brothers, my sisters. I never wanted to bury any of them. I bent down, scooped soil into my palm, and dropped it into the hole. The Imam recited a prayer.

            "Amen," we all said.

            The shovel was passed around and everyone took a turn to fill the grave. Even an eight year old girl. The hole was sealed. People started walking back to their cars. And that was the end of the funeral. Last night Nikki slept in her bed, above the ground; tonight, she sleeps inside. Alone. It was time to go home, time to return to life. To eat dinner, watch The Office, brush our teeth, sleep, and wake up.    

            A small group of people stayed behind. I overheard the Imam tell a woman--she had concealed her tears behind Ray-ban sunglasses--that God would have created a tribe of sinners for the sole purpose of sinning and repenting and sinning and repenting and sinning, just to demonstrate His patience and mercy. In response, I recited one of my favorite verses, “And when my slave asks about Me, let him know that I am near. I respond to the invocations of the supplicant when he calls on Me. So let them obey Me, and believe in Me so that they may be guided.”

           

I dropped to the earth and prostrated in the direction of Mecca, my forehead pressed to the grass. I called God by His most beautiful names. Oh Merciful. Generous. Powerful. Forgiving. Peaceful. I asked for humility. I prayed for the life of every soul since Adam. I prayed for the old man who ate drumsticks from dumpsters to find a job. For the children who grew up eating only canned foods. I asked for a conscience that wouldn’t allow me to sleep until the persons I had wronged had forgiven me. I asked God to be patient with my inevitable sins. And to never let me forget Him.