by Jean Austin
The doctor insists on having me use a wheelchair even though I feel fine and have walked to the bathroom several times. Fine might be overstating my case a little, as my back aches and there are moments when I move the wrong way and a jolt of pain rips through my body like electricity. Sometimes, my arms feel like they’re on fire, but it’s nothing a few painkillers can’t dull. I talk to the kids on the phone, but Dad and I agree to leave them at the hotel.
Dad lets me drift in and out of sleep for most of the morning. Occasionally, I catch him slipping outside the room to talk on his cell phone in hushed tones, speaking to the airline or the US Consulate as he arranges our return flights.
Rather than being refreshed by my sleep, my drowsy dream-like state is tormenting. I see Anton in those last few moments. My body shudders as the landmine launches from the ground. Darkness erupts from behind him, consuming him before spreading to consume me, dissolving my body like acid, and I wake in a sweat. I desperately want there to be another, different outcome. My mind seems to relive that moment over and over again, looking for other possibilities, but the time has passed. Anton’s dead. Deep down, though, I’m struggling to accept that. The warmth of his touch, his soft lips, his calloused hands, his tenderness, the laughter we shared, his kindness toward my son—they’ve all been stolen from me. My heart sinks at the cruelty and finality of a single step on the rough, stony ground. How can something so simple, so ordinary and mundane as running through an open field raise the specter of so violent a death?
My mind casts back to the night we made love. Neither of us spoke as we watched a meteor streak through the sky, blazing through the heavens and burning up before reaching the ground, but we both felt it. Somehow, we both knew our love was doomed to flare briefly in the dark. I remember the way Anton squeezed my hand. I think he was trying to reassure me what he felt was real, something more than the rush of passion found in a single night. But he couldn’t know how he’d lose his life in that very field the next time the sun rose.
I still remember the discord of that fatal moment. There were no clouds in the sky. The sun was warm—inviting. Life was all around us. Insects hummed in the trees. Birds soared on the currents, circling high in the clear blue sky. The green grass spoke of life, while the soil hid death.
A lump sticks in my throat.
Dad finishes another call and steps back into the room, seeing me awake.
“Hey, take it easy,” he says. “Just rest.”
“I can’t,” I say. Although I’m emotionally exhausted, I’m not physically tired.
“Flights are booked. Ten tomorrow morning.”
I nod. Our departure feels rushed, but Dad and I both know there’s nothing more for me here in Europe. I need to face Paul.
Around two in the afternoon, Dad pushes me out of the hospital in a wheelchair. I’m dressed in a tracksuit given to me by one of the nurses. Apparently, Mom’s still waiting for my clothes to be sent to the hotel. We hop in a taxi. Dad uses a translation app on his phone to communicate with the driver, and we turn onto a familiar freeway. I remember the signs. I remember what I was thinking when I first saw them just a few days ago. Now, they seem cold—indifferent to all I’ve gone through.
“I charged your phone,” Dad says, handing me my cell phone. Four messages.
Paul: What the hell? Call me.
Paul: Look, I’m sorry. We need to talk okay? Please.
Paul: Emma, I’m worried. You, me, the kids. We can’t keep going like this. We have to talk about what happened.
The fourth message is from an unknown number, so I open it last.
Unknown: Emma. OMG. Just saw Jimmy in the minefield, then you in hospital after an explosion. Are you okay? If you need to talk, please just call. Sofia.
The contrast between Paul and Sofia’s messages couldn’t be more stark. I’ve known Paul for fifteen years and he’s all business—Sofia for fifteen minutes and she’s kind. My fingers tremble as they hover above the glowing screen, poised to reply. What should I say? The socially acceptable thing to say to Sofia is, “I’m fine.” It’s a lie, of course, but I’m good at lies.
Dad’s sitting in the front of the taxi so he can’t see me wiping the tears from my eyes. I reply to Sofia first.
I’m heartbroken. But Japanese pottery, right? Pick up those broken pieces and glue them back together. Work some gold into the cracks. I’ll try. Got to be brave. Love, Em.
I’m not sure what to say to Paul. Technically, whatever I write is the first thing I’ve said to him since shooting at him with his own gun and running him buck-naked out of his own house.
Paul…
It takes me a couple of minutes before I dare type any more letters. I want my words to be right. Dad peers sideways from the front seat. He’s trying not to pry, but I suspect he can hear me sniffing back tears. He knows. I bet he wants to help, to say something supportive, but this is something I have to do for myself.
Got your messages. Kids are fine. Will be back as soon as possible. A lot to talk about. Em.
That’s the best I can do. Ahead are the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. Row upon row of headstones speak of past losses. My heart aches. Each engraved stone tells a tale of a love that has fallen. With the best of intentions we erect monuments, chiseling our undying love into cold, hard stone. We don’t want to forget, but we do, and weeds grow up between the cracks.
The taxi pulls up at the front of a church at the heart of the cemetery. The stones are old and worn, weathered by the centuries, and I can’t help wonder how many funerals these stones have witnessed. Dad sets up the wheelchair and rolls me inside. Vast stone pillars support high arches. Stained glass windows depict the twelve stations of the cross, marking the passion of Christ as he passed from the judgment of Pilate to Calvary. Wooden pews sit in orderly rows, only they’re empty. The church could hold hundreds, but there are less than ten people here. A coffin lies before the altar with a large arrangement of flowers sitting on the polished wood.
I feel weak. It’s been a few days since Anton died, but for me, it’s only been a few hours. I feel as though he died this morning. It’s hard to believe his decimated remains lie inside the coffin before me. Death is an insult to life. We try to hide its ugly face. Flowers. Candles. Polished wood. Shiny brass handles. More lies.
“Emma.”
“Branka,” I reply, recognizing her beneath a black veil. Branka lifts the lace, draping it over her hair, and hugs me.
“Oh, Emma,” she says, holding me tight. I introduce her to my father.
We sit in the second row, leaving the first row empty. A priest emerges from a side door and stands before an ornate wooden lectern. He speaks in Bosnian, so I don’t understand what he’s saying, but it’s clear he’s following a liturgy. It’s sad to see someone’s entire life reduced to a formal order of service and a few Bible verses read in a monotone voice. I don’t think this is what Anton would have wanted, but what I think is meaningless holds meaning for his family. I’m here out of respect for him and what he did for my son.
At the end of the service, we stand, taking our cue from the family on the other side of the aisle. We lower our heads as the priest prays. Although I don’t understand the words, I recognize the cadence as the family echoes the priest. They’re saying The Lord’s Prayer. The service comes to a conclusion, and each family member walks up to the front of the church, laying their hand on the polished wood and saying a few words in farewell. At a guess, the elderly man is Anton’s father, while the distinct family resemblance suggests the two women are his sisters. At least one of them has teenage children. After they’ve said their goodbyes, I walk alone to the front of the church and rest my hand on the coffin. Although he can’t hear me, I have to speak to Anton one last time.
“Hi,” I say, remembering his beautiful smile in the hallway when we first met. To anyone listening, that one word would be meaningless, but Anton would understand. He’d smile. “I—I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you li
ke you were for Jimmy.” Tears fall. “Thank you for getting my son out of that field. Thank you for showing me what love can be. I will never forget you.”
I drag my fingers over the slick polish, reluctant to leave. Anton gave me something no one else ever has—confidence in myself.
The family waits for us at the back of the church. They’ve been talking among themselves.
“You were there,” one of the women says as we approach. “You’re the woman with the child.”
I nod. “Anton was the bravest man I’ve ever met.”
“He was my brother.” The other sister translates for the father as we talk. “We hadn’t seen him in a decade—not since his brother died.”
We walk outside. The sun breaks through the clouds. For the next ten minutes we talk, and I tell them what I was able to learn about Anton’s life in those few short days. Branka and my dad stand to one side talking as I tell Anton’s sister about a humble mechanic in Zepa. All too soon, we’re leaving. I hug each of the sisters and Anton’s father, telling them how deeply I appreciate what he did for Jimmy.
Back at the hotel, we sit in the restaurant for dinner. Technically, I’m supposed to go back to the hospital, but I’d rather be with my family, so Dad calls them to explain. What should be a quick call goes on for almost twenty minutes, and finally he joins us at the table. For me, the day has been a blur.
“Well,” Mom says, sitting next to Jilly. “I’ve always wanted to come to Europe.” She’s so kind. I’m guessing she’s talked quietly to Dad on the side and he’s told her to go easy on me. The compression bandages on my arms and the stitches on my face get curious glances from the other guests in the restaurant. I have seventeen stitches holding my right cheek together. Chewing is a little painful, as my painkillers are wearing off, and any motion stretches the skin. Three parallel lines run along my cheek, marking where steel ball bearings grazed the side of my face. Less than an inch to the left and they would have smashed into my face, probably killing me.
“We saw a castle,” Jimmy says, oblivious to all that’s happened. “It was cool, grandpa. There were cannons, a drawbridge, watchtowers. It was a real castle, used by real knights.”
“That’s where the princess lives,” Jilly says.
“There are no princesses,” Jimmy replies.
“Are too.”
“Kids,” I say, warming to their banter. If anything, it’s not annoying but rather a little refreshing, a bit of normalcy breaking through the haze in my mind.
The main course arrives, but I can’t eat. My jaw hurts.
Jimmy’s playing with something under the table, hiding it from sight.
“What have you got there?” I ask. Jimmy looks guilty. He straightens in his chair, sliding something small under his leg. “Jimmy?”
“I thought it would be okay,” he says. “I only took one. I wanted it to remember Anton.”
I hold out my hand. Reluctantly, Jimmy hands me a small orange flag on a thin metal wire.
“He’s been playing with it all day,” Mom says. “What is it?”
“Snakes,” Jilly says.
“Landmines,” Jimmy says.
Dad raises an eyebrow. I take the flag from Jimmy, examining it closely, saying, “It’s okay. I think Anton would want you to have it.”
Jimmy smiles.
At a guess, he got this from the fence line beside Branka’s cottage. I doubt one flag will be missed. The plastic is weathered, faded by the sun. The wire is slightly bent. Funny how something so cheap can carry so much meaning. I can still see my hand running over a flag just like this as I lay with Anton in the dark of night.
Chapter 11: Homecoming Queen
The flight from Sarajevo to Munich is mercifully short. Dad was able to get us seated together, but on the flight back to North Carolina we’re separated. Mom and Dad are in economy, while I’m in business class with the kids. Shortly after takeoff, we swap seats. Jilly and I go back into economy, giving Mom and Dad the chance to enjoy the luxury of business class with Jimmy. I raise the armrest between Jilly and me, turning our two seats into one quasi-sofa. As much as I’d love to stretch out on one of the flat seat-beds of business class, I really want Mom and Dad to have them. Two international flights in as many days is crazy for a couple on the verge of retirement. It’s the least I can do given it’s my fault they had to fly to Bosnia. Their first, and possibly only trip to Europe, was nothing but a whirlwind of airplane seats, hotel lobbies, and rundown hospital corridors.
I lean against the bulkhead, with my legs on the seat and Jilly curled up on me, resting her head on my chest. It’s not exactly comfortable, especially as Jilly has a habit of kicking, but somehow we sleep for a few hours.
Breakfast in economy is disappointing—a yellow slush that’s apparently scrambled eggs, along with pale, flaccid, broiled bacon and drowned mushrooms. Thankfully, there’s yogurt and fresh fruit as well.
We circle, preparing to land. I have mixed feelings peering out the window. Reality has caught up with me all too quickly. Down there, life will continue on in an unbroken thread extending from the moment I pulled that trigger. If anything, life will be harder with the specter of fleeing the country hanging over my head. I wonder what Paul makes of all that’s happened. He will have seen the news reports. I’m sure he and Dad have talked, although I bet Dad tore strips off him for his infidelity.
I’m not scared anymore. I never thought I was scared, but Anton showed me fear is far more subtle than I ever realized. Fear is more than jumping at shadows in the dark. Fear is an undercurrent dragging us backwards in life. The fear of failure, the fear of rejection, the fear of losing all I hold dear, these are the fears that held me bound in chains—a hostage in the prison of my own mind. No more.
Once we clear customs, we walk out into the terminal. Mom has Jilly on her hip. Dad pushes a cart with our bags packed high upon it. Jimmy rides shotgun, sitting on one of the suitcases. I walk beside him.
Cameras burst into life, peppering us with dozens of flashes in a fraction of a second, leaving me stunned. There are easily twenty to thirty reporters and a variety of people with television cameras, microphones on booms, and portable lights focused on us—glaring at me. The noise is overwhelming. My initial reaction to the wall of confusion is to shrink a little, wanting to hide, but I will not be intimidated. I have walked in a goddamn minefield for the man I love. What else is there to fear?
“Take the kids back to your place,” I yell over the commotion, separating myself from my parents and leading the rabid pack away from my family.
To my astonishment, several of the reporters have their backs to me, but they’re pivoting, walking along and following the direction of sound engineers standing beside the camera crew so they can keep me in shot as they talk about god knows what. They’re providing commentary, although I’m not sure how well their microphones are picking up their voices. They’re on the verge of backing into me as I make my way along the back wall, pushing through the crowd. I catch fragments of what’s being said.
“…story that’s captivated the nation…”
“...the woman that shot at her husband...”
“…returning from war ravaged Bosnia…” The war has been over for decades, but hey, when has the media let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Several of the reporters adopt a different strategy, shoving microphones in my face, demanding a comment. I’m not sure what they think I can tell them in one or two sentences. They position themselves in my way, leaving me with no choice but to barge through as they talk over the top of themselves.
“Can you tell us about Tarik Antun Hadzic?”
“Why did you take your children to a village on the front line of a civil war?”
“How could you let your son walk into a minefield?”
I didn’t, and I get that they’re baiting me. It’s working. My blood is boiling. For the first time, I understand why they’re called The Press. I try to push through the press of
bodies bearing down on me, but the crowd of reporters simply shifts with me, like flies swarming around my head on a hot summer’s day. Thankfully, the doors leading outside act as a bottleneck, thinning the herd as I move onto the pavement. I rush to the front of a line for cabs, pushing ahead of an old man, and jumping in the back seat. He’s incensed, and yells at me, only to be quickly silenced as reporters, cameras and microphones press against the window. I have no idea what they think they’re going to capture. Their desperation is exasperating. Perhaps that’s the point.
“Drive,” I say. The driver floors it, pulling out into the traffic. Behind us, several reporters climb into cabs determined to follow us, while network vans cut off the traffic, rapidly loading their crews and giving chase.
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror.
“I’m guessing anywhere other than here, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling bewildered—overwhelmed.
“You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Apparently.”
“We heard you were coming in today—only thing anyone’s been talking about.”
I’m too busy looking out the rear of the cab to pay too much attention to the driver. There are dozens of vehicles racing to catch up to us.
“You wanna lose them?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Hot damn,” the driver replies. I turn to face him, putting on a seatbelt. He slips an earpiece in and dials a number on his phone.
“Hey, Justine. Listen. I’ve got a problem. VIP on board. Being hounded by the media. We’re talking some serious paparazzi. Ten to fifteen vehicles. I need to lose them. Can you help?” There’s silence for a few seconds. “It’s that chick—the one from the minefield.”
“Emma Hallen,” I say, leaning forward and trying to be helpful, although my name sounds decidedly pretentious next to ‘that chick,’ and it’s then I realize what’s happening to me. Thanks to the media, I’ve transcended humanity, or perhaps descended beneath humanity would be a better description. I’m no longer a person in their eyes. I’m a target. I’m that woman, that chick. I’m a fox chased by hounds.