“I sense a but in all this.”
Staci takes a deep breath.“The kind of severe PTSD episode Sabera experienced while on the city bus… it’s generally triggered by some sort of external stimuli.”
I wait.
“Say a sound.Why so many veterans can be set off by cars backfiring.Smell is also a very powerful association, say the scent of barbecue, which is apparently quite similar to human flesh.”
I shudder.
“Or by sight,” Staci concludes.“Seeing something reminiscent of the traumatic time.Or someone.”
She pauses a beat.I go wide-eyed.I can almost nearly get this…
“Sabera would sometimes cry out while I was visiting her in the hospital.Nightmares.During them, she repeated one name, over and over again: Jamil.”
“Jamil?”
“Later, when they started weaning her off the meds and she became more coherent, I asked her about it.She dismissed my questions immediately.Jamil was her brother, nothing more; she must have been dreaming about her childhood.But here’s the thing—I’ve read Sabera’s family history.Her brother’s name was Farshid, not Jamil.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Off the top of my head?I’ve also seen Zahra’s birth certificate.Her middle name is Jamila.”
“As in… daughter of Jamil?”
A single nod.
I feel my eyes go even wider.“Holy shit.Zahra… Jamil.Sabera… Jamil.”Then, on the heels of that: “Why does Isaad feel like a committed married man, yet Sabera still fights it?The answer I’m guessing is Jamil.Okay then.Where the hell is Jamil?”
“There’s no record of any Jamil in Sabera’s background reports.Which brings me to the other thing she kept repeating during her hospitalization.‘I killed them.I killed them all.’And based on the tone of her voice, I don’t think she was speaking figuratively.Sabera’s final days in Kabul—something terrible happened.”
Staci shrugs.“I don’t think it’s over yet.”
CHAPTER 32
FROM THE VERY BEGINNING,I know something is wrong.Babies cry, babies wail.But there is no scream announcing my baby’s entrance into the world.I catch a look on the volunteer nurse’s face.She pats my shoulder.
“You must have hope, my sister.These are tough times, but God’s will shall prevail.”
I hear a whimper then, followed by another.Dr.Richard sets you, Zahra, on my chest.He strokes your thin cheek; he tells me I have a daughter.But there’s still too much silence.
You are so tiny, so fragile.A wisp of life born into a place rife with death.I’ve seen it myself working at the clinic.Malnourished mothers giving birth to malnourished babies who will now live in inhuman conditions while the rats gaze upon them in open hunger.
I bring your mouth to my breast.You do your best, and so do I.But we are both exhausted.
Isaad takes charge.He has through some miracle procuredextra bottles of water.You must drink, he tells me over and over.Your hydration is the baby’s hydration.Drink, drink, drink.
Malalai is there to help with changing out soiled rags and swaddling up tight.She is a direct and efficient teacher.Do this, do that.Drink this, eat that.But our new little family continues to exist in a state of hush, as if we don’t want anyone, not even fate, to know that we exist.Soon, in Malalai’s eyes, I see the same shadow I saw on the nurse’s face.
No one expects my baby to be long for this world.
Not even me.
I watch you all night long.You don’t cry to wake me up, so I hold vigil instead.I try to catch the sound of your breathing and match it to my own.I drink a bottle of water, then bring you to my breast.I bundle you up, then guard against the rats.When it’s cold, I hold you close.When it’s hot, I fan your face.When it’s wet, I cradle you away from the damp.
I can’t let you go.I must watch, I must tend, I must count every breath because any minute, moment, second, your little chest might fall, and never rise again.
I hear the silence.But worse, I see the specter of death, actively stroking your sunken face while delighting in the hollowness of your belly.It is coming for all of us, but I know as deeply and surely as I’ve ever known anything, it wants you first.
