We Are Called to Rise

“The sky is a living thing when one is a desert dweller, stretched out, vast and imposing, with its constant dance of cloud and color, the visual equivalent of a movie soundtrack to one’s life. But, of course, in Vegas, the sky is not just a matter of wind and dust and water and light, but also of planes. The ponderous passenger kind, roaring in and out of town, nine hundred flights a day, forty million people a year, diving into the center of the beast and flashing back out again, but also military jets, whistling in, four high-flying, perfectly matched arrows, bullets set to a ballet score, speeding around the Sheep Range Mountains north of town.” 

Las Vegas is highlighted here as a juxtaposition of movement and emptiness, civilization and desert. It’s a city of contradictions and oppositions. Still, it attracts people from all over the world (for various reasons), making it a melting pot of cultures, lifestyles, and textures.

“For weeks now, I’ve been dwelling on these questions that I somehow missed when everyone else was asking them. Maybe because I never went to college. I was never in a dorm room. You know: the meaning-of-life questions, the why-be-moral questions, the questions about scale. Our eighty years is a fraction of a second in geologic time, and our planet less than an atom against the universe, and our individual lives puny against the seven billion people living right at the same moment we are. How could any of us think that our lives have meaning?” 

While undergoing her family crises, Avis begins to question the meaning of life. She wonders what matters in a world that is microscopic and if her actions have any consequences at all. The issues of human existence and morality are at play, as readers are pushed to question how their lives fit into a greater scheme outside of their control, just as Avis is struggling to find herself in a time of suffering and loneliness.

“Nate has Lauren in a vise grip. His hand is squeezed so tightly around her wrist that I wait to hear the snap. His other hand is in her hair, pulling her head side-ways. She is oddly silent, intent on getting free, or on not antagonizing him further, or maybe even on not letting me know how much pain she is in.” 

This is the first time Avis witnesses her son, Nate, abusing his wife, Lauren. Avis had suspicions of foul play in their relationship, but seeing it in such an aggressive, physical, abusive manifestation shocks her. She details how violent her son is towards his wife, and it’s a moment of fear she uses to propel herself to be more involved in the life and recovery of her son (and daughter-in-law).

“Nate stares back at me. Something in his eyes makes me afraid. I am not sure he is going to let go. What is he thinking? Does he have control?”

Self-control is a major part of this text, often relating to male toxicity or PTSD. Certain characters—particularly Nate, Baba, and Luis—struggle to harness their emotions and actions, often as a result of having been victims of war or political imprisonment. In this moment, Avis knows that her son may not actually be in control of his actions, and this frightens her. She, as a mother, is emotionally intelligent enough not to simply blame her son for his anger, but to try and understand what he is experiencing so she can help him change.

“Of course, Nate was drinking at those parties. We never even talked about it. Beer seemed like a tame sort of rebellion to me. I had a son who was having an all-American childhood; I had won.”

Avis often questions herself as a mother, and as Nate’s abusive problems begin to manifest, she recalls moments in his life when she could have been stricter or more involved but wasn’t. In this instance, she remembers how much he drank as a teen and how she let him slide because he was merely a boy living an ideal teenage experience. Later, she acknowledges that her lack of guidance could have indirectly caused him to become distant and join the military, which eventually led to his PTSD and abusive anger issues.

“She doesn’t lean in too close, and she doesn’t touch me. My abuela always knew that some pain requires space.”

In describing his abuela’s sense of compassion and motherhood, Luis recalls how natural she was as a caring, maternal figure. She senses when Luis is in pain and gives him the space he needs to heal, without him having to indicate anything to her beyond his body language. Luis’s abuela proves to be a pivotal character in caring for Bashkim and Tirana, so this description foreshadows her ability to raise children with the necessary tenderness, affection, and understanding.

“‘Bashkim. This is an unusual situation. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents. But I also want you to know that there are lots of good people in the world, and that sometimes an adult can make a mistake and still be a good person.’” 

Dr. Moore, Bashkim’s principal, is a peripheral character but also acts as a reminder that there is goodness and morality in a world of pain and hardship. She senses how Bashkim’s family is unable to support him, so she steps in to try and guide him towards happiness and growth. After the disturbing letter from Luis makes Bashkim’s life more difficult and complex, Dr. Moore intervenes and teaches him that there is more to the world than simply good or bad people—that people, even adults, can make mistakes, but we must trust and aid them in their path back to recovery. 

“It’s weird how I was all worked up a second ago, and now I feel calm again.” 

As Luis struggles to recover from his PTSD and depression, he slowly begins to identify when he is feeling a spike or drop in his anger. It’s a tool he learned from Dr. Ghosh and largely indicates his sense of growth as he begins to own his feelings and take control of his happiness and health.

“It didn’t make financial sense to stay in an old house like this one all those years. Not in Vegas. But we had not wanted to move. Roots mattered to me. Knowing every family in the neighborhood mattered to me. And this was the home Emily had known, the only one in which she had ever lived. Jim and I never brought this up—as one of the reasons we did not sell our house and move on to something newer—but it was always there. If we left this house, then the few memories we had, the trailing decrescendo of images left to us, might be gone altogether.” 

Avis struggles to let go of the past in order to move forward because memories of her deceased, first-born daughter are tied to the house. Current circumstances dictate that she must move past her memories as a family with Jim. Once she leaves her house, she leaves a part of her past as the mother of Emily.

“Turns out, forgetting is easy. At least until I come across something that brings the memory back. A lopsided teacup from the pottery shop at the lake, an overheard melody that happens to be almost the same as Jim’s jingle, a baby repeating ‘ball’ from a nearby grocery cart. Or this house. This house, as I pack it up and decide what should be tossed, what should be given, what should be kept.” 

This moment further symbolizes Avis’s struggle in letting go of her former life. The packing represents a physical representation of her having to move on, but her memories and emotions hold her back, especially when she sees a literal fragment—such as a “teacup”—that reminds her of what she once had.

“We are not thinking about packing up our own pasts; we do not imagine how many times our lives will change.” 

When Avis has completed her packing, she reflects on how much her life has changed over the years. Her past becomes visible as she cleans out the house she has lived in for decades, and Avis is clearly humbled by the experience. She realizes that neither she nor any of her friends in the neighborhood could ever have known how impermanent any of their lives would turn out to be, despite all their efforts to maintain happy families.

“He thinks that if he speaks in Albanian, people won’t know he’s mad. Actually, it’s worse in Albanian. Baba doesn’t know about how Albanian sounds in America.” 

Baba often gets mad and reverts to what he knows from his life in Albania. However, his past doesn’t translate very well into his present and future. Bashkim is aware of his father’s cultural shortcomings and is very concerned that his father’s anger, amplified by his foreign language and customs, might create an even worse situation for him and his family.

“They are both so loud, and they don’t know how Albanian sounds in America, and I don’t know what to do. I keep staring at the second police officer because he has a gun, and he is staring at us.”

As Bashkim has feared, his father’s (and mother’s) habit of speaking in Albanian when they are angry has put him and his sister in a dangerous position. After being pulled over by the two officers—who are confused by Baba’s unfamiliar Albanian habits and tendencies—Bashkim worries that the situation will spiral out of control and that the communication gap between his father and the officers will become so large that it will have damaging consequences—which it does. It’s a pivotal moment in the text, and it highlights how Bashkim’s family suffers from his parents’ status as immigrants in the US system.

“I remember this. I do not want to remember it. I have spent my life not remembering it. But I can’t stop it now, now that I have talked with Rodney, now that Rodney knew, right away, that it was Nate who shot the woman with the ice-cream truck. I remember it, I remember it all. I remember the closet, I remember the crying. I still hear two other children, crying, crying, as their mother falls to the street in front of them.”

Avis’s trauma from childhood frequently arises in her present, especially during moments of fear or frustration. In this occasion, she recalls the time when her mother’s abusive boyfriend had a pistol, and how Sharlene used it to defend herself and her children. Though she didn’t kill anyone, she could have, and Avis can’t help but think of what happened to Nene at the hand of her own son as an outcome she feared as a child—losing a mother.

“The way I see it, nothing in life is a rehearsal. It’s not preparation for anything else. There’s no getting ready for it. There’s no waiting for the real part to begin. Not ever. Not even for the smallest child. This is it. And if you wait too long to figure that out, to figure out that we are the ones making the world, we are the ones to whom all the problems—and all the possibilities for grace—now fall, then you lose everything. Your only shot at this world. I get that this one small life is all we have for whatever it is that we are going to do. And I want in.”

Roberta is full of optimism and hope in the face of social despair—a contrast from the other characters around her with rougher upbringings and situations. She has the privilege and power to make the world better, and she is committed to her ideals. Though she has seen the suffering of others, she isn’t deterred by it and strives to do her small part in fixing a broken system.

“‘Marty? He’s great. Maybe he’d like me to slow down a bit. Who knows?’” 

Robbie is committed to her work of helping families in need—but does so at the expense of her own family. Her husband Marty makes comments throughout their time together that she is neglecting her own happiness, but she dismisses him. In this occasion, a colleague asks Robbie how her husband is doing, and by the somewhat uncaring response she gives, readers can see that she indeed doesn’t value her own family perhaps as much as she should.

“‘What, Mom? You see what? What do you think you see? What do you think you know? Do you think I’m crazy? Do you think I’m some crazy-ass warrior, Mom? Some guy who can’t stop fighting? What do you know about it, Mom? What do you think you know?’” 

In a rare moment of honest and open communication, Nate and Avis talk about his shooting Nene. Avis is being neutral in the situation, and Nate interprets this as her not supporting or trusting him. This comment reveals how much Nate has internalized a view of himself as a “warrior” and how he is grappling poorly with his faults.

“It all matters. That someone turns out the lamp, picks up the windblown wrapper, says hello to the invalid, pays at the unattended lot, listens to the repeated tale, folds the abandoned laundry, plays the game fairly, tells the story honestly, acknowledges help, gives credit, says good night, resists temptation, wipes the counter, waits at the yellow, makes the bed, tips the maid, remembers the illness, congratulates the victor, accepts the consequences, takes a stand, steps up, offers a hand, goes first, goes last, chooses the small portion, teaches the child, tends to the dying, comforts the grieving, removes the splinter, wipes the tear, directs the lost, touches the lonely, is the whole thing. What is most beautiful is least acknowledged. What is worth dying for is barely noticed.” 

After much back and forth, Avis finally goes all in on her view of the world. She is convinced that she has a role to play in helping others—including herself—in overcoming their struggles. She doesn’t make excuses for her son or pity her own life; she simply charges ahead with the perseverance of giving back, even if that giving isn’t acknowledged. In some ways, this attitude most defines her as a mother: the selfless act of constantly giving in order to improve the lives of others.

“And maybe that’s why our lives are beautiful; why they’re tragic. One perfect child can be born of an accidental encounter, and another lost to a split-second lapse in attention. If a motorist leans over to change a radio station at the same moment that it first occurs to a four-year-old that he can let go of his mother’s hand as easily as hang onto it, and that if he lets go he will be across the road first, before his mother, and that she will certainly laugh and say, ‘How fast you are, Johnny!’ If the child does this, and the motorist does that, and if the world then changes forever and unbearably for everyone involved, then is that not life in its simplest form? That so little matters so much, and so much matters so little. What if Nate Gisselberg had been in some other patrol car? What if Sadik’s brake light hadn’t burned out?”

This story is built on the coincidences and impossibilities of ordinary moments. In a blink, we can lose our mother or gain a lifelong friend. Roberta reflects on the beauty of chances in life to become involved or help alter one’s path towards a better outcome. Ultimately, the characters can’t control their futures and must learn how to navigate a world full of challenges and triumphs. Her character reminds readers to embrace whatever happens and to live a life not of worry, but of constructive growth and problem solving, because at the end, it’s all we can do as imperfect people.

“There are cases that I just can’t forget, that stick. Marty always wants to know why. What it is. I don’t know, I think it’s the ones where something small changes everything. Where the tiniest act, the smallest space of time, the most inconsequential of decisions, changes a life.”

This story largely explores how life can be merely a series of fragile and precarious occurrences. A person who we encounter by pure chance can be a savior or lifetime friend. A police officer who pulls you over might be the executioner you never expected. A family member might be lost before you get to say goodbye. Robbie’s character knows this, and she does all she can to repair the unexpected grief of others.

“I can’t imagine my family in Albania. In America, there is nobody but us.”

Bashkim is stuck in between two worlds, but as we learn more about his character, we discover he has no positive connection to Albania other than his mother. When Nene dies, so does any notion of going there. He is just as American as any of his schoolmates, and he has no future in Albania—nor can he even imagine what his life there would be.

“He goes to my school, and I have seen him on the playground, but I never knew he was in Mrs. Delain’s foster home. I didn’t even know what a foster home was. Daniel has blond hair and thick glasses, and Mrs. Delain is as old as a grandma, but Daniel calls her Mom, and he has been living here a long time. He doesn’t even remember where he used to live.” 

External appearances only go so far, especially in this novel. Bashkim’s sense of understanding people’s diverse lives—and their similarities—grows through his unfortunate circumstances, and his compassion and empathy expand as he is forced to live outside of his routine life. Daniel is someone he would never have expected to grow close with, but he does because he has to—and this helps him to know more about himself and others.

“Home. For a Las Vegas kid, the lights and sounds of a hundred slot machines are more natural than rain, and a public space backgrounded in the bells and chimes and gravel rolls of bored travelers standing at kaleidoscopic games is as commonplace as sky in Montana or snow in Vermont.” 

Though many might disagree, Luis (and many of the characters in this book) makes the case that Las Vegas is as American as any other place in the US, and despite its reputation as a sinful hellhole, it is a place where families and goodness can thrive. What seems to be evil and corrupting on the surface turns out to be filled with goodhearted compassion, and this setting in many ways symbolizes how we can find hope anywhere, regardless of any external appearance or reputation.