Life for a woman is hard enough.
A fresh commotion.Two dark-clad policemen appear, sending an immediate shiver of panic through the crowd.Then a tall man with unkempt curly brown hair and heavily whiskered cheeks strides up behind them.He wears stained blue surgical scrubs with a stethoscope dangling haphazardly around his neck.
“They said a woman understood him.You.”His gaze locks on me, still seated on the ground with red streaks across my hands, my clothes, my face.“What’s your name?”
Isaad takes an immediate step forward in aggravation.The two policemen muster accordingly.
The doctor raises a commanding hand, declares in a distinctly American accent, “Stop.You.”His gaze once again zeros in on me.“Your name.”It’s not a question, but a command.
I murmur obediently.“Sabera Ahmadi.”
“She is my wife—” Isaad begins.The doctor couldn’t care less.His attention remains fixed on me and only me.
“Mrs.Ahmadi, the wounded boy that was just dragged into my clinic, you can understand him?”
“Yes.”
“Then come with me.I need you, if that boy’s to live.”
The look my husband gives me…
Be still, I want to tell him.Everything will be all right.And it occurs to me for the first time that I’ve grown accustomed to his bristling eyebrows and hawkish nose and perpetually brooding features.I’ve come to appreciate the way in the middle of thenight, when my dreams are especially bad, he will tuck my head against his shoulder, even if we never speak of it come morning.
My mouth opens.I grasp desperately for words of assurance.But just because I can understand nearly every language doesn’t mean I always know what to say.
“Before the boy bleeds out!”the doctor barks.
The security men take a threatening step forward.
I shift away from my husband, toward the impatient physician.
His gaze homes in on my bulky figure.“And you’re pregnant?Of course.Fuck it.All right, one life at a time in this hellhole.”
Then a string of exasperated mutterings I understand better than he thinks as we head for the woefully understaffed, undersupplied medical clinic.
A young man I saved.
And who might well be the death of me yet.
Zahra, I’m sorry.
Zahra, I love you.
Zahra, forgive me for what happens next.
CHAPTER 22
DARYL ANNOUNCES WE NEED TOmake a stop as we depart from the luxury resort, which has now been taken over by a sea of law enforcement vehicles and gawking bystanders.No doubt management is ripping out their hair at this turn of events.On the other hand, here’s one family vacation people will be talking about for years.
I’m still lost in my own thoughts: Whose blood on the towels in the sink?Sabera’s, the two dead men, Isaad’s?
Too many possibilities.Too large a cast of characters.Not nearly enough information.
I’m distracted enough that it takes me a moment to realize Daryl has pulled into the dilapidated apartment complex from the first day, where in front of us looms a giant furniture-store delivery truck.Two guys with a dolly appear at the back of the vehicle, maneuvering a low-slung wooden dresser down the ramp.They roll it across the cracked asphalt, through the door of the unit I helped clean just the other day.
Ashley is hovering outside, her blond hair once again gathered in a messy topknot, as she shifts from foot to foot, looking torn between clapping wildly and bursting into tears.I know how she feels.
“You did all this?”I ask Daryl, taking in the new mattresses leaning against the side of the unit, as well as nightstands, sofa, coffee table, and standing lamps.
