‘Mrs Ibrahim, your pupils are reacting to the light, dilating and constricting in exactly the way I would expect them to if you could see.’
‘What does that mean?’ she says.
‘I’m not sure at the moment. You will need to have some X-rays taken. There is a possibility that the force of the explosion or the bright light damaged the retina in some way, but it is also possible that the blindness you are experiencing is the result of severe trauma – sometimes our bodies can find ways to cope when we are faced with things that are too much for us to bear. You saw your son die, Mrs Ibrahim, and maybe something in you had to shut down. In a way something similar happens when we faint out of shock. I can’t tell you for sure. We will only have the answer when you have more tests.’ For that brief moment, just as he finishes his words, he looks much smaller, hands clasped together, eyes darting now and then to the left of the room at a photograph on a cabinet of a beautiful girl in her twenties in a hat and graduation gown. He catches my gaze and looks away.
Then he scribbles on a piece of paper and says, ‘And how are you, Mr Ibrahim?’
‘Everything is fine with me.’
I notice out of the corner of my eye that Afra has straightened her back.
‘Actually, Dr Faruk,’ she says, ‘I think my husband is unwell.’
‘What seems to be the problem?’ He looks from Afra to me.
‘I’m just having a bit of trouble sleeping,’ I say. ‘I’m finding it difficult to get to sleep.’
I can see Afra shaking her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s more than that—’
‘No, I’m fine!’
‘Can you tell me more, Mrs Ibrahim?’
‘Can nobody hear me?!’
She thinks for a while, searching her mind, and says, ‘I can’t explain what it is, Dr Faruk, but I know something is wrong. He is not my husband.’
Dr Faruk looks directly at me now. I laugh. ‘Honestly, Afra, I’m sleep-deprived, that’s all. I end up so tired that I fall asleep in all sorts of ridiculous places.’ My laughter seems to be having no effect on either of them.
‘Like where, for example?’
‘The storage cupboard,’ Afra says, ‘and the garden.’
The doctor is frowning now and I can see that he is overthinking this.
‘Anything else unusual?’
They are both ignoring me. I look from the doctor to Afra. She quickly looks away.
‘He changed in Istanbul. He …’ Afra hesitates.
‘He …？’
‘He talks aloud to himself, or rather to someone who is not there.’
‘Dr Faruk, I would really appreciate some sleeping tablets to help me rest, and once I do I won’t accidentally fall asleep in the storage cupboard again.’ I am smiling too broadly.
‘I am concerned about what your wife is saying, Mr Ibrahim.’
I laugh. ‘What? No! It’s just me running through things in my head. Just memories. To-do lists. That kind of thing. It’s nothing!’
‘Have you experienced any flashbacks, Mr Ibrahim?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Any repetitive or distressing images?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Trembling, nausea or sweating?’
‘No.’
‘How is your concentration?’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you feel numb, as if you have lost your ability to experience emotions such as pain or joy?’
‘No, doctor. Thank you for your concern, but I am fine.’
The doctor leans back in his chair now, more suspicious than before. Afra’s face has dropped, her eyes have darkened, and I feel a great sense of sadness watching her sitting there looking so burdened.
The doctor is unconvinced. Nonetheless, our time is up and he writes out a prescription for sleeping tablets, strong ones, and asks me to come and see him again in three weeks.
That afternoon Afra will not go into the living room. She sits on the edge of the bed for a long time.
‘It wasn’t the bomb that blinded me,’ she whispers. ‘I saw Sami die. And that’s when it all went black.’
I don’t know what to say to her, but I sit beside her for maybe an hour or more and we do not speak to each other. Through the window I watch the sky change colour, the clouds and the birds moving across it.
We do not even move from where we are to get anything to eat. Usually the landlady brings a pot of stew or soup from her house, carrying it with oven gloves across the driveway, banging on the door with her elbow, and placing it in the middle of the dining table for us to help ourselves. I am sure that everyone has already eaten, that all this has happened without me noticing. I can hear footsteps and voices and the murmur of the TV in the living room, doors open and close, the kettle boils, the toilet flushes, water runs. The sky grows darker and I catch the moon, a crescent behind the mist of clouds. Sometimes I expect Mohammed, but he doesn’t come. I move to the armchair and wait for