Ordinary Obsessions

by Tom Corbett

  “What can possibly be beyond passion?”

  “Obsession,” Azita said solemnly.

  Deena paused before saying. “That sounds…evil.”

  “Well, perhaps there are extreme obsessions that can be evil, like being a serial murderer. But maybe there are more ordinary obsessions: passions that are strong enough that you know they are what you are meant to be, what you were born to be. That is what I need to figure out, that I thought this trip would help me figure out but…” She lapsed into silence.

  “And then there is this boy.”

  “Yes, damn it. Amar told me how she reacted to meeting Chris, what she felt inside as a woman.”

  “Oh God,” was all Deena could say.

  “But Ahmad is fully Westernized.” Azita frowned. “He would not want a girl who might drag him back to the old country.”

  “And you know this for a fact?” Deena prodded.

  Azita just looked at her and burst into tears. The two sisters embraced under the now dark skies that covered the Panjshir Valley.

  Kay looked around. “I’ve been here before but not since…” She stopped suddenly.

  “That is alright, Aunt Kay,” Azita said and smiled. “We know very well what happened in this place.”

  Azita, Deena, Kay, and Agnes Singleton, a nurse and the spouse of Archie, had just alighted from a helicopter near the original family home of the Masoud clan. They were accompanied by four Afghan soldiers, something on which Karen and Amar insisted. This visit was part business. The team would screen the local women and children for signs of disease or medical issues that would later become problematic. When possible, teams from the home base would make visits to the larger villages to inoculate the children and do preventative work. Early on, these trips could be difficult. Suspicions remained high and outsiders were distrusted. The connection to the Masoud family eased the way in this area and word soon filtered through the various valleys in the low-mountain terrain that this was a good thing.

  In this instance, the medical mission was something of an excuse. Deena and Azita wanted to visit their old village even if they had not spent much time there as children. It was family, roots, and the soil from which their revered father had emerged. Besides, the elders had insisted. They wanted to personally honor the offspring of their favorite son. After some greetings and introductions, they would get to work. The formal ceremony was scheduled for later, but they did spend some time looking over a small village park that had been developed near the school in honor of Pamir, Madeena, and Majeeb Masoud. It was on an elevated area, as was the school. The girls stood under some trees and looked down over the village. They stared at what had been the family residence here, which now served as a community center of sorts. Someone had decided that the school would be used for medical services, not as a community meeting place, which it had been used as in the past. Perhaps the Masoud children would be more comfortable at the school.

  Deena was handling the administrative chores, Agnes was doing the inoculations, while Kay and Azita did the medical screenings. Kay decided to take advantage of her time alone with Azita since the work was rather routine. “So, how does it feel to be back here?”

  “The country or my village?”

  “Good question, I’m not totally sure.” Kay looked pensive.

  Azita paused as they moved to the next patient and briefly discussed the last one. “I will answer your question with a question.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Something wrong?” Azita looked more closely at the patient before them.

  Kay tried to look serious. “I believe this patient is fine, but you have been infected with a disease. Responding to a question with a question, that is my brother’s trick. You have spent too much time with him. I think surgery is called for, a Chris-ectomy. I know just how serious this affliction can be.”

  Azita smiled, and then broke into a giggle. “Nevertheless, here it is. Are you satisfied with the choices you have made? I mean about your career, becoming a trauma specialist and not an academic like your twin? Chris has told me you had options there. And marriage, and children, what about those decisions? These are wonderful things but once made you cannot easily undo them and the paths in life become…narrower.”

  Kay’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Good thing we are really not talking about anything heavy here. Okay, let’s take a break. One thing about these village women, they are very patient.” When they reached the shade of the small memorial park, they paused, and Kay picked up the conversation. “Look about you. This is a harsh land, unforgiving. It is also a land of beauty and even kindness. The same people who can fight each other so fiercely also love one another without reservation. It would be very easy for me to spend my life in places like this, working with such people. You know Chris’s saying about having that special opportunity to be everything for someone. But maybe that misses the point a bit. Working here, with such need, is a gift that is given to you. You don’t give them everything, they provide you with this special opportunity to be a complete physician, a complete person even.”

  “But that is my…agony right now. You are in England, with a husband and children and doing work that would get done anyways.” Azita abruptly stopped. “I am so sorry, it is not my place to ask such personal questions, nor presume on the choices you have made. I…”

  “Hah,” Kay interrupted. “this is what aunts are for, to be asked embarrassing questions. Just don’t expect any good answers. Listen, life is an endless string of choices. We’d drive ourselves crazy if we kept reliving each one. What I have learned so far is not to expect perfection. I remember taking an economics course in college, I had to take some stuff outside of my major for breadth of knowledge. Aside from all those supply-demand curves, I do recall this discussion of decision-making. Basically, we cannot make perfect decisions, we make satisficing decisions always based on imperfect knowledge in the face of competing ends and pressures. Perfection, it turns out, is the enemy of the perfectly fine.”

  “Hmm.” Azita looked unconvinced. “It sounds as if you have settled.”

  “My, my, you are an impudent girl, I am glad Amar got stuck with you.” Kay now laughed. “Do you know that Amar and I drew straws to see who would get to adopt you?”

  “No, I did not know that, and Amar won I suppose.”

  “No, she lost. In fact, she has never forgiven me for getting stuck with you.”

  Azita had a moment of uncertainty before breaking into an involuntary guffaw. “I am so glad to have you in my life.”

  “You know, I may have gotten that satisficing thing from an organizational behavior course, I really cannot remember. They forced me to take these social science courses to broaden my outlook. Science my foot, my butcher has better insights into the world. That satisficing thing was a good insight though, I remembered that one. But I will say one thing: I can imagine a life different from what I have, in some respects. But I am very happy. You are going to be confronted with choices. Just do the best you can and keep moving. And speaking of that, we have patients awaiting us, patiently. Hey, that was a clever segue.”

  “Is that the best you got?”

  “Yup, way too impudent. Poor Amar. However, my brother gets no pity, he deserves to suffer. But I will leave you with one more pearl.”

  “Don’t you mean the first pearl…sorry.” Azita chuckled lightly.

  Kay stroked Azita’s head affectionately. “I will still share this with you. Remember, quantum physics tells us that nothing that is observed is unaffected by the observer. That statement, from a real science, holds an enormous and powerful insight. It means that everyone sees a different truth, because everyone is creating what they see, at least to some extent. An observed phenomenon is shaped by the observer. Most people look to religion or philosophy for inspiration. I look to science. For me, that insight suggests that we alone are responsible for our world. Whichever road you take, or is forced upon you, make the most of it. Or, as I read on a bumper sticke
r once - happiness is a choice.”

  Later in the day, they all gathered for a ceremony honoring the visit by the girls and the memory of the Masoud family. Azita and Deena decided to spend a few moments back in their old home by themselves. It was very different now, but many memories spilled forth, particularly in their parents’ bedroom. This was the place of their death. Azita looked about her. Everything was different and yet she looked at the past. Over there was her parents’ bed. That was where they lay that monstrous morning, unaware of what was ahead. She could imagine their confusion, then shock, then horror as reality came into focus. It was all too painful for her. She shook her head to erase the images that crowded in on her.

  “We had better join the others,” Deena quietly suggested.

  “In a moment,” Azita responded. She was looking through a set of drawers in a chest pushed into a corner. There, she found a few pieces of clothing she knew had been her mother’s. She rubbed each piece across her face, smelled them to detect something from the past. She thought there was something there, but she could not be sure. It may have been pure wish, a fantasy. She brushed a tear away. At the last moment, she noticed a book buried deep under a pile of clothes. No, it was a journal. As Deena wandered toward the door, Azita opened it and knew immediately it was in her mother’s handwriting. She almost called out. Instead, she slid the volume into her blouse.

  Deena called to her. “They are waiting. We should go.”

  “Yes, let us go.”

  They exited into the strong daylight. A young man was standing nearby. Deena had noticed him on their way into their old residence since, in her mind, he had such an odd look on his face. Now Deena noticed a different look, grim and determined. She considered saying something to her sister when the teenager spoke. “Miss Masoud?” It was a question and not an exclamation.

  As Deena said: “Yes, what do…” she was distracted by the quick movement of his arm. Something in his hand glinted in the sun as she instinctively ducked low and tried to turn away. Instantaneously, a pain pierced Deena’s head followed by blackness.

  Azita froze for what seemed an eternity as a blow to her chest knocked her backward.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE PATRIARCH

  Chris emerged from the O’Hare terminal after completing his money-raising trip. It had also been an opportunity to do some political intelligence gathering on the political mood in America. To his delight, he could see Beverly and his two girls waiting. This would be a moment to repress the negativity that he had heard so often at his various stops. It bothered him that so many otherwise savvy, intelligent men and women harbored such hostile views of Hillary Clinton. A quarter-century of attacks had taken their toll. Goebbels had been right: tell lies loud and long enough and people embrace them, even those that should know better.

  His little girls squealed and ran to him. I have become such a boring, middle-class family man, he said to himself. I like my life just as it is. That was the debate that had raged inside him as he traveled to several East Coast cities. During the day, he remained his jocular, smooth self as he charmed, or tried to, one program officer or foundation executive after another. It had gone well. It usually did. Once again, he raised a great deal of money for a cause he cared for. He read a report that 400,000 had lost their lives in the ongoing Syrian conflict. That was more lives lost than American soldiers in combat in World War II. Worse, children were dying horrible deaths from gas attacks. They had to do more there. Such realities - no challenges really - kept him going.

  Night was a different matter. After exchanging emails with Amar and Azita and various folk back in London and Oxford, he would lie back in bed and let his mind wander. It always came back to Kat’s pleas, her warnings, her fears, and her needs. He was drawn in three directions - his sense of duty to some larger good in a cruel world, his family drama and all the conflicts that his father’s perverted obsessions brought out in him, and the love he felt for his new life as a husband and father. It was, he knew, one of those unsolvable conundrums. No matter how he approached the choices laid before him, or what techniques he applied to arrive at a solution, the result was predictable. He simply could not make a clear choice.

  At one point, he made a classic pro-con list on whether he should return to America in support of his sister. He had to admit, the points in favor of heading back to take on the dark side were numerous and persuasive. Yes, he could do no other. Then, however, a single memory that he could not shake would haunt him.

  It was a pristine fall day not that long ago in his past, though the date was irrelevant. This was a special day, a perfect tableau. It was a Sunday. The whole family went for a picnic on an expanse of green along the river as it lazily meandered through Oxford. The sky was azure, the air still warm yet refreshed by a crisp dryness and a gentle breeze. The trees swayed in a languid dance while the weekend punters pushed their boats along the water that flowed with a desultory resistance as if it never wished to reach the end of its journey. It was perfect.

  He recalled sitting on a blanket, having just eaten some of the brunch Amar and Azita had prepared. His youngest daughter had insisted on helping, making the point that she was more than a mere bookworm. It was a residual guilt from an early life script when her mother, Madeena, had permitted her to escape the usual female chores if she applied herself to her studies. She dove diligently into her studies, much to her older sister’s disgust, which in turn had led to numerous sibling squabbles. Though the bad feelings were past, the guilt that she had been selfish was not.

  Chris had managed to get under her skin earlier that morning by threatening to email Deena with a picture of her doing a domestic task. Azita chased him around their kitchen waving a spatula in his general direction. Even at that point, he could not resist one last jest, asking Azita which delicacy she had prepared. Then he consumed a bit of her contribution before feigning the symptoms of acute poisoning and an agonizing death. His antics, to his disappointment, were ignored. Now, with the repast being mostly consumed, he made a mental note to praise her culinary efforts. Chris had paid enough attention in his psychology class at Princeton to know the benefits of positive reinforcement.

  Azita was lying next to him in his memory, her head propped up on his thigh while reading a Shakespearian play, one of his comedies. He tried to remember when she last read something other than science or historical biographies, which she also loved, and for which she would lavish praise on her deceased brother for stimulating this interest. Majeeb had a fondness for stories of his country’s past. Still, she had never lost her fascination with Shakespeare, something her Papa had implanted in her when she was a child. The Bard, for her, represented this enchanted land where she could fulfill dreams that had seemed so impossible in Kabul when the Taliban ruled with a fierce and rigid will. Now, she was here, her dream closer than ever, living with a family she adored in a country that she loved while studying at a university that seemed like paradise to her. That, at least, is what Chris felt was in her head and heart as he looked down upon her. He gently patted the top of her head. How much he loved her, how deeply she had become part of his life. She instinctively brushed his hand away, murmuring something about not being the family dog. Chris responded with a quip that a dog would at least love him unconditionally. With that, he could see Azita stretch her neck to catch his eyes. No dog could love you more than I. He thought his heart would burst in that moment.

  Then Chris recalled looking up, seeing Amar a few feet away playing with their two biological daughters. They were now at an age where scampering about the expanse of greenery as their mother pretended to chase them was just about more fun than anything. Here I come, she would cry out. They would respond with unrestrained glee and frantically run in circles, the last thing they wished was to escape this woman about whom their world circled. As he looked upon them, he marveled at how deeply he had immersed himself in their development. He once had looked down upon fawning parents who bragged about each of their c
hild’s accomplishments, like uttering a sensible word was the equivalent of winning a Nobel prize. Here he was, no different, amazed at the process where a red, squiggling mass of wrinkles slowly evolved into a human being with such obvious potential. Was he this amazing at a similar age? No, that was not possible.

  All efforts to apply prefrontal lobe logic to his decision seemed about how to respond to Kat’s plea were hopeless. Reason battled desire. Conscience confronted selfishness. Duty squared off against pleasure. Why all this guilt? Was it his mother’s Catholicism, some lingering detritus of internalized sin and innate failure - the inescapable consequences of original sin? He remembered some of those early religious lessons, when he was quite young, and his mother remained involved in her children’s lives, before despair and depression and the Irish curse overtook her. Man was inherently sinful. There was an old catechism his mother had kept from her childhood. The soul was depicted as a milk bottle. When you were born, your personal bottle was empty, black. You had to earn your milk, your grace, through devotion and especially through good deeds. If you were not good enough, or slid back, your bottle might be half full or splotchy. No eternal reward for you, you faced a future of regret and suffering. He thought on such lessons. It really was a form of child abuse.

  On that day, his always active mind had reflected on insights that seemed relevant to his present dilemma. He and his late brother were more alike than he ever would have admitted, and quite different from his two sisters. Chuck and he were the sensitive ones, the artists, the dreamers. They were the ones that had embraced the early Celtic mythological sentiments and emotions with greater fervor, the guilt and sense of omniscient failure that had to be overcome but never could be. The girls were different. Kat, he sensed, would never have children. He was sure of that. Kay had two offspring, but Chris was sure that was mostly for Jamie’s sake. She loved her children but not with the singular passion that many true parents possessed.