Once upon a time . . .

Expelled from his mother’s bathroom, Lethe retreated down into the basement where his father sat in his pinewood study, skimming medical journals and examining X-Rays or speaking into a voice-recorder. His father’s study was the size of a guestroom, with an Italian leather sofa, a large hardwood desk and a New World globe poised on a wrought-iron stand. Four columns of bookshelves filled with encyclopedias, history books and a collection of leather bound Classics, extended across the walls on each side of the room.

Lethe’s father held X-Rays up to the light as he identified the different types of bone fractures and jotted down some notes. When Lethe stormed into his private study, he beckoned him closer with an outstretched arm, and the little boy nestled his head into the side of his father’s ribs. While Lethe could be restless at times, his father knew how to tame him by applying a small pressure to the nape of his neck. Feeling the pinch of forefinger and thumb, Lethe squirmed to get away.

“I heard your mother screaming.”

Lethe’s eyes grew big and expressionless.

“Were you bothering her again? You know you’re not supposed to be in her bathroom. Lethe? Are you listening to me? Do you want to read now?” Lethe’s father bundled him into his arms.

“Gulliver’s Travels, Gulliver’s Travels.” The boy’s high-pitched voice rang out.

Together they sat on the Italian leather sofa and exchanged turns reading from Swift’s masterpiece. The Doctor had a passion for literature, and young Lethe watched his father’s face change expression, his voice become fantastical and dreamy.

“Very good, very good. Continue.” He patted his son on the head.

Sometimes after finishing a chapter, the Doctor digressed into a story about the country where he was born.

“No, I want to read more Gulliver—”

Again the Doctor affectionately pinched the nape of his son’s neck, and young Lethe responded by sinking back into the leather sofa.

“Do you know why they call Iraq the ‘the cradle of civilization’?”

The little boy shook his head, angling his eyes to the closed book on his father’s lap. “You told me this story already—”

“Iraq is called ‘the cradle of civilization’ because that’s where civilization began. The soil was rich between the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers. It was good for farming so people settled around these areas and built villages.”

The boy didn’t seem to be listening. “Tell me about Grandma. I want to hear the story about Grandma.”

“That’s fine. I’ll tell you the story about Grandma. But tomorrow night we’re going to talk more about Iraq’s history.”

Lethe mashed his lips together.

“You can’t ignore history, son. I want you to know something right now. History is bigger than you think. Don’t ever forget your heritage.”

The boy was silent. “I want to hear the story about when Grandma used to take you to all the different people’s houses.”

“That’s fine. But you’ll have to promise to go to sleep after that.”

“I promise—did you live in a big house when you were my age?”

“Yes we lived in my Grandfather’s house and there were ten of us.”

“You said it was a mansion.”

“Yes, it was very big.”

The Doctor calls his son through the intercom

The intercom system of their house, built in the 1980’s, was semi-functional, capturing only traces of the human voice, and transmitting static and incoherent echoes into the serpentine hollows and voids of the interconnecting circuitry. Because the members of the Bashar family gravitated to their own isolated parts of the house, dinner being the exception when they all met together in one room, speaking through the intercom system became the standard mode of communication. One member of the family often demanded the presence of another member in their part of the house, and no matter what the speaker’s mood, once words were catapulted through the cacophony of the intercom system, the result always felt like a babble of anger and resentment.

Lethe could barely make out his father’s words through the intercom system. But at nine o’clock every night he was expected to meet his father in the pinewood study for their reading hour. Lethe had grown to despise reading with his father. He was too old to be reading out loud. Next year he would be a freshman in high school. The last time his friends read to their parents was in the second grade. Lethe began to suspect something was wrong with him. He grew self-conscious reading out loud with his father every night.

For the Doctor’s part, he cherished the time he spent with his son in the evenings. It was a father’s job to broaden his son’s horizons, and what better way than reading Classical Literature? Of course, there was a selfish motive too, why he wanted to read with his son. This was the nostalgia Lethe’s father had for certain books, which reminded the Doctor of his own childhood and adolescence. And there was another reason. A father and a son had a duty to bond with each other—reading together provided the perfect opportunity. Sometimes, during their reading hour, the Doctor took a moment to instruct his son on beliefs and principles that were dear to him.

“Do you know the definition of the word, ‘kin’?”

“No,” his son answered wearily. “Can we be done for tonight?”

“Not yet. I want to tell you something before you go to sleep.”

“What?”

“I want to tell you about the meaning of the word ‘kin’.”

Lethe stared blankly at his father. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

“It means . . . . blood relation. A family sticks together no matter what. It’s different from your relationships to your friends at school and to your teachers and other adults. ‘Kin’ are the people who are related to you through blood. Like your aunts and uncles, Grandma and Grandpa. Your Sister and me.”

“And Mom?”

“Yes. And your mother. Because family is a bond you can’t ignore. It’s very hard to separate from the family. If you do it leaves scars. Permanent scars. Lethe, are you listening to me? As a family we’re dependent upon each other. We help each other out. That’s what ‘kin’ means: we’re ‘blood’. Understand?”

“I think so.”

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