Page 169 - The Kite Runner

158 Khaled Hosseini

time I heard Baba moan in the bathroom. The first time I found
blood on his pillow. In over three years running the gas station,
Baba had never called in sick. Another first.
By Halloween of that year, Baba was getting so tired by
mid–Saturday afternoon that he’d wait behind the wheel while I
got out and bargained for junk. By Thanksgiving, he wore out
before noon. When sleighs appeared on front lawns and fake
snow on Douglas firs, Baba stayed home and I drove the VW bus
alone up and down the peninsula.
Sometimes at the flea market, Afghan acquaintances made
remarks about Baba’s weight loss. At first, they were complimen-
tary. They even asked the secret to his diet. But the queries and
compliments stopped when the weight loss didn’t. When the
pounds kept shedding. And shedding. When his cheeks hollowed.
And his temples melted. And his eyes receded in their sockets.
Then, one cool Sunday shortly after New Year’s Day, Baba was
selling a lampshade to a stocky Filipino man while I rummaged in
the VW for a blanket to cover his legs with.
“Hey, man, this guy needs help!” the Filipino man said with
alarm. I turned around and found Baba on the ground. His arms
and legs were jerking.
“Komak!” I cried. “Somebody help!” I ran to Baba. He was
frothing at the mouth, the foamy spittle soaking his beard. His
upturned eyes showed nothing but white.
People were rushing to us. I heard someone say seizure. Some-
one else yelling, “Call 911!” I heard running footsteps. The sky
darkened as a crowd gathered around us.
Baba’s spittle turned red. He was biting his tongue. I kneeled
beside him and grabbed his arms and said I’m here Baba, I’m
here, you’ll be all right, I’m right here. As if I could soothe the