There are too many of us, Saleem thought on the truck ride home. He recalled the thick envelope of cash his mother had traded Abdul Rahim for the documents. The price of documents, food, and smuggling fees multiplied by four left the Waziri family with little reserve. Samira was too young to realize how hard Saleem worked every day. She stayed home and helped Madar-jan with chores but only when Hayal wasn’t catching her up on school lessons. Aziz was even needier.
Saleem regretted his thoughts. He loved his sister and brother very much, but the frustration and fatigue was beginning to wear him thin.
Every day, his mother needed more of him. Saleem ignored his desire to curl up against her. There was no room for him to be a child. Saleem still ached for his father, but he often thought it was Padar-jan’s decisions that had put their lives in danger. On other sleepless nights, Saleem lamented his childhood mischief and the disappointment he’d caused his father. He was a kaleidoscope of feelings when it came to his parents.
And now Saleem was the breadwinner. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like the head of their family and the less he felt like taking orders from others. Mr. Polat kept his burgeoning adolescent ego in check but when it came to his mother, Saleem’s tongue was loosening. He said things he would not have dared to say a year ago. He shot her looks he knew were out of line, but he gave himself latitude to do so. He worked long hours, kept the family fed, and wanted his opinions respected.
He returned to the Yilmaz home to find his mother cleaning the kitchen. Samira and the baby were already asleep.
“Are they all right?” he asked, slumping into the chair.
“They’re fine. Aziz’s eyes look for you, though,” she offered with a weak smile. She slid a plate of food in front of him and sat with him while he ate. Things were not fine, he knew, but she wasn’t going to burden her young son with her worries. He was doing enough.
It was good to be cared for, Saleem thought, as he fell onto the floor cushion and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 21
Fereiba
“WHY IS HE ALWAYS SICK?” SALEEM ASKED. HE’D WALKED IN TO find me sponge-bathing his baby brother. Aziz was pale and whimpering. He’d vomited twice already.
I wrapped a towel around Aziz and laid him on the floor gently. I didn’t have a real answer for Saleem.
“I think it’s the changes. The air, the food—everything is different here. And he’s so little. His body must be having a hard time adjusting.” I drizzled olive oil onto my palm and rubbed my hands to warm them. Even as I gently massaged Aziz’s chest and belly he seemed to be uncomfortable. “Maybe Aziz needs some vitamins to make him stronger.”
Aziz hadn’t gained much weight since we’d arrived in Turkey. I was trying everything I could. I used the few Turkish words I’d learned in the market to purchase fruits and vegetables. Havuc, bezelye, muz. When my vocabulary failed me, I resorted to pointing and rudimentary sign language. I picked through the herb bundles and found those I knew had healing properties. I boiled them and spooned the tea into Aziz’s mouth. I fed him the greenest spinach, the juiciest pears, and ground-up chunks of meat with an extra bit of fat on them. None of it seemed to make an ounce of difference.
Saleem walked into the kitchen. I heard his heavy sigh and the wooden chair legs sliding against the linoleum tiles. My explanation hadn’t satisfied either of us.
“We will take him to the doctor tomorrow, Saleem,” I heard Hayal say. “Eat your dinner. An empty stomach will only make you more upset.”
Samira was in the kitchen as well. She’d set out to prepare supper for her brother as soon as she heard him come through the door. Everything she’d felt for her father had been redirected to Saleem, a deep adoration that came with expectations and needs. She was that bulky winter coat that kept him warm but slowed his step.
Samira did what she could to help. She helped mash fruits and vegetables to feed Aziz. She watched him while I went to the neighbors’ homes to clean or do small jobs. She always looked drained when I returned.
“Aziz is not easy, janem. He’s scarcely any better when he’s with me.”
Samira was unconvinced.
HAYAL AND I TRAVELED DOWN THE LONG VILLAGE ROAD TO SEE Doctor Ozdemir who had, years ago, cared for her sons. The doctor was still practicing and had been joined by his son. Their home was at the far end of town. Father and son saw patients in a small room adjacent to the house. The setting was simple but cozy, with the doctor’s wife stopping in with a small plate of cookies.
I was nervous, too nervous to eat anything. Mrs. Ozdemir read the apprehension on my face and I could see she wanted to say something but we did not speak the same language. She exchanged a few words with Hayal and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
I looked at my son and, for a second, saw him through Mrs. Ozdemir’s eyes. Wisps of hair clung to his moist forehead. His head was starting to look too big for his body. He did not look well, I had to admit, and it had been so long since I’d seen him smile or say a single word. I couldn’t imagine what our situation would have been like without the inordinate kindness Hakan and Hayal showed us. I wondered how I could ever repay these total strangers for all they had done.
Aziz twisted and writhed in my lap to get into a more comfortable position. He hated to lie down. I knew him well, but I could not say what was wrong with him, just that he was nothing like my other children and it frightened me.
Doctor Ozdemir entered the room, his warm smile fading when our eyes met. I realized how distressed I must have looked and stood to greet him. The doctor had a mop of gray hair, a solid paunch above his belt. I trusted him and his silver hair immediately and knew something good would come from today’s visit. He nodded his head in greeting and motioned for me to take my seat again. He pulled another chair from under the counter and sat across from me.
Through a unique medley of Turkish, English, and Dari, we were able to communicate. Where words failed, we gestured and mimed. At the doctor’s request, I placed Aziz on the examination table and undid his shirt and pants. Doctor Ozdemir pursed his lips in consternation even before he laid a hand on the baby. Aziz had fallen asleep but as he started to wake, his chest rose and fell dramatically. He wriggled left and right, unable to pull himself up to sitting.
Doctor Ozdemir pulled at the skin on Aziz’s belly and listened intently to Aziz’s chest for what seemed like an eternity. Using a light and a wooden stick, he peered into Aziz’s mouth and then pressed his fingers against Aziz’s round belly, again and again, inching his way across his body. My heart raced.
“Doctor-sahib,” I interrupted as respectfully as I could. “Is there a problem?”
I looked nervously to Hayal, hoping the doctor understood.
Doctor Ozdemir sighed deeply. He removed his stethoscope from around his neck and wrapped Aziz in his blanket before placing him back in my arms. I propped him up in my lap and turned my attention back to the doctor who began to speak slowly, enunciating carefully and reading my expression. His words fell heavy on my ears as I strained to understand what he was saying. Problem. That was all that had been confirmed.
“What problem? Does he need antibiotics? Vitamins?”
Doctor Ozdemir shook his head no while he repeated “antibiotic” and “vitamin,” words that needed no translation from Dari to Turkish.
Doctor Ozdemir pointed to Aziz’s chest, to his heart and repeated the one word that he had been able to communicate. “Problem. Kalp.”
“Kalp?” Another crossover word. Kalp meant heart. I felt my arms grow weak.
The doctor stood up and pulled a book from the countertop. It was a soft cover book, its binding taped together more than a few times. He began to flip through the pages to find a picture that would help him demonstrate his point, but he quickly lost patience and tossed it back onto the counter. He pulled a pencil and paper from his desk drawer and began to sketch.
I pulled my chair closer to his. He drew a heart and started to open and cl
ose his fist rhythmically. Then he drew two shapes and began exaggeratedly breathing in and out. Lungs, I thought. The heart and the lungs. I nodded, and the doctor returned to his rudimentary drawing. He pointed to the heart and again opened and closed his fist, but slower this time. Then he pointed to the pictures of lungs and began to shade in the bottom parts. Something was blocking up Aziz’s lungs. Doctor Ozdemir again started his exaggerated breathing, but this time he did so with difficulty, breathing faster and harder, his face drawn in fatigue.
I thought a baby, my baby, was too young to have problems with his heart. I felt a sense of overwhelming hopelessness. How could we possibly fix something that was wrong with his heart?
Doctor Ozdemir knew his message had gotten across. He tapped his pencil on the sketch he held in his lap. Intikal was a small town, and there was nowhere to do the things he felt were necessary. There would be no X-rays or blood test. Aziz needed a hospital and even if we were able to reach the plentiful resources of a city, I had no money to finance all that this baby would need. Doctor Ozdemir shook his head.
The doctor had reduced my world to a graphite sketch on a scrap of paper. I needed to hear Doctor Ozdemir’s grand conclusion. He rubbed at his forehead, pulled a paper pad from the pocket of his white coat, and scribbled something on it. He handed the prescription to Hayal, and between the two of them, they informed me that these medications would help keep Aziz comfortable temporarily, but that his condition would only worsen with time.
Hayal’s eyes watered. She had trouble getting the words out.
It was not language that got in the way of our communications that day. Had he spoken Dari fluently, I still would not have understood my son’s prognosis. The doctor looked at me, and in his eyes, I could see he was not surprised by my reaction. I would refuse to accept, he knew, just as so many mothers did up until the very end and sometimes long after.
I pushed aside everything I was being told and held on to what I could do. I needed something tangible to keep me afloat.
“I will give him this medicine,” I said. “How many times a day? For how long?”
They understood me. Doctor Ozdemir made loops in the air with his pointer finger, continuously. Hafta meant week in both Turkish and Dari. Every week, he motioned with his hand that the medicine should go on. I nodded.
“Return in two weeks’ time,” the doctor said. Hayal nodded, thanked the doctor, and asked him something I did not catch. Doctor Ozdemir shook his head and gently waved her off. He touched my elbow and stroked Aziz’s forehead before he walked out.
I was numb. Hayal started to usher me out the door with only that small square of paper in her hand.
I didn’t know how much the medicine would cost. We retraced our path back to the house, a quiet between Hayal and myself. At the pharmacy, I pulled bills from my change purse to pay for the bottle of liquid the pharmacist prepared. Not wanting to wait, I pulled the blanket back from Aziz’s face and pointed to his mouth. Hayal relayed my urgency and the mustached man nodded. He opened the bottle and poured a small amount into a plastic spoon. I brought the dark liquid to Aziz’s thin lips.
My child’s heart was more broken than mine. I buried the rage I felt toward my husband, for his decisions that had brought me here. So much was not his fault and I knew that when I had the strength to be rational. But other times, when my shoulders started to give under the pressure of it all, thoughts of my husband were clouded with resentment. I saw pigheadedness instead of perseverance, pride instead of principle, and denial instead of determination. The light of our marriage dimmed. I prayed for a way to love my husband in death as wholly as I’d loved him in life.
In the name of God, the merciful and compassionate, cried my heavy heart.
CHAPTER 22
Saleem
SALEEM HAD LISTENED QUIETLY AS MADAR-JAN RELAYED THE doctor’s thoughts. She maintained her composure with clipped phrases and the reassurance that the medication had already made a difference. But the truth was in the space between her words, the hollows that Saleem and Samira had grown to recognize and fear. Samira met her brother’s gaze, her face drawn under the weight of all she left unsaid.
Saleem had kept his eyes on his baby brother. Aziz was sleeping comfortably, his breathing quieter. Hakan, having heard the news from Hayal, had sighed, shaking his head. To Saleem, it was a look of pity and he resented it. He sweated in Polat’s field every day so that he would not have to be pitied. The expression on Hakan’s well-meaning face, the hand on his shoulder—Saleem wanted to run from it all.
Saleem sat on the edge of the school soccer field, plucking blades of grass. Judging by the sun’s position in the sky, the children should be coming out soon. He could feel them stirring in their seats, watching the minutes pass and anxiously waiting for their teachers to dismiss them. A lifetime ago, in a far-off land, Saleem had been the same—eager for the moment when he could stuff his papers and pencils into his knapsack and scurry out the door.
But that was a different time, a different Saleem. This Saleem longed for a school with classmates, with friends. He longed for a normal life. More painful than Kabul, the normal life was now touchably close and yet unreachable. The longing brought him here, to the shaded, grassy field of the schoolyard. He passed the school every day on his way to the truck stop. It was a constant reminder of how things could have been different.
Saleem had arrived at the farm earlier in the day and let Polat know he would need to leave early. He mumbled a half-truth about his brother. The farm owner had grumbled, and Saleem knew to expect a cut in his wages. But Polat had few options for labor, and Saleem knew he would be welcomed back tomorrow.
If he couldn’t live a normal life, he would watch it. He wanted just a few hours with his feet cooled by the grass. He wanted an afternoon just for himself, away from the backbreaking work.
SALEEM TRIED TO PICTURE AZIZ’S HEART. HE COULD FEEL HIS own beating, pounding sometimes, in his chest. Saleem had seen an animal heart once. He had gone with his father to the butcher shop for chicken, a rare treat to mark the Eid holiday and the culmination of a long month of fasting. Their household budget had tightened when Padar-jan’s wages became inconsistent.
Saleem had watched as the butcher wiped his bloodied hands on a cloth and came over to speak with his father. They exchanged pleasantries before Padar-jan asked to see what chickens the butcher had. The butcher raised an eyebrow, and Saleem, the young son, felt his chest swell with pride. The Waziris were not the average customers asking for the cheapest cut of meat. They were here for the best.
While his father and the butcher haggled over the price, Saleem looked to see what the butcher had laid out on display. A skinned lamb was strung up on a hook. Chunks of meat and shiny organs were lined up in short rows. They fascinated and nauseated Saleem. He remembered tugging on his father’s sleeve.
“Padar-jan, what are those?” he had whispered, not wanting to draw the butcher’s attention but unable to stifle his curiosity.
“Those are chicken hearts.”
Padar-jan and the butcher chuckled to see Saleem with one hand to his chest, trying to feel his own heart beating, his eyes glued to the apricot-sized hearts on the block.
THE SCHOOL DOORS OPENED AND THE STUDENTS SQUEEZED out in a boisterous flood. Saleem envied their schoolbags, their notebooks, their lack of responsibility.
Boys his age headed onto the field, a group of about eight or nine. Saleem looked down at his watch as they neared. He did not want to be caught gawking. The watch hands had stopped turning last night. Saleem tried winding it again though he did not expect it to help. It was an engineer’s watch, an uninterpretable dial within the dial. Padar-jan probably would have been able to repair it. Saleem kept it on, hoping it would spring back to life spontaneously.
One of the boys on the field, the lankiest in the group, pulled a soccer ball out of a satchel. Saleem felt his feet fidget for the feel of the leather. He couldn’t bring himself to get up and walk away.
They probably won’t even notice me, he reasoned. He turned so that he was only half facing the boys who had begun to pass the ball around, their feet tapping as they crisscrossed the field. Their voices rang out, undoubtedly shouting obnoxious comments to one another in Turkish slang that Saleem did not understand.
They came together in a loose huddle for a moment, two boys shooting glances in Saleem’s direction. Feeling like a trespasser, Saleem brought himself to standing, brushing his backside. He was about to walk away when he heard a yell in his direction. He turned reluctantly. The lanky ringleader repeated himself loudly. Saleem did not know how to respond and simply shrugged his shoulders.
“No Turkish.”
“No Turkish?” The boy laughed and switched into English. “You like to play football or you like to sleep in grass?”
Saleem felt a rush. He followed the boy over to the others who had already broken into two teams. One team was short a player.
“You play with them,” the lanky boy declared. He paused and looked Saleem up and down. “You have a name?”
Saleem paused, wanting to be sure he was not being mocked.
“Saleem,” he finally answered, taking his watch off and placing it in his pocket.
“Saleem? You talk slow. I hope you move fast.”
Kabul had been full of boys like this. Saleem sauntered over to his designated team and greeted the guys with a quick nod. They looked him over in turn and began to assume their field positions.
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