“Mommy, what will you put in there?” Michael asks. “Can I see how the key works?”
“No. It’s not a toy, nothing in here, see?” I hold it up, turn it upside down, demonstrating its emptiness. Andrew starts to whimper.
I shove my hand into my purse, grab the envelope and place it in the box as if it might singe my fingers. I peer in, the words are face down, so I am not forced to read them again.
“What is it?” Michael asks.
I hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t decided what story I would tell, I had stupidly envisioned this as a private action.
“A letter,” I improvise.
“From who?”
“Someone,” I evade. “It’s not important to you.”
I reach with my left hand to close the box and notice the glint reflecting off the small band of diamonds on my finger. I remember the gold band I have been carrying in my wallet. The FBI had let me keep it in what they believed was a gesture of good will, a bribe for my cooperation.
I place Andrew on the floor, hand my car keys to Michael, “Can you rattle these in front of your brother, play with him?”
Michael obliges me, twisting the lollipop between his pursed lips.
I have a minute, maximum, of simulated solitude. I retrieve the ring from my wallet, place it on the counter. Then I slide the band off my own hand and place it on top of the gold band. Is it heaven? I wonder. Do you share it with your father? With Shoukart? With the thousands, the millions who have died for someone’s ideals, some nation’s greed, some political necessity, some long-forgotten blood feud?
I lift both of the rings to my lips, kiss them, whisper a silent blessing. I drop them into the box, wishing I had some appropriate eulogy for the man who was my husband, for the marriage we used to have, for our murdered future.
The children are asleep in the bed when I open my eyes, I hadn’t meant to fall asleep myself when I lay down to put them to bed. I glance at the clock—I have already missed an hour of undisturbed time in which I can pack, separating the essentials we will take with us from what will go into storage. I open the closet. Rashid’s clothes remain, unpacked. Jeans and shirts, one good suit, a few kurtas. Maybe I can call someone else to deal with them, someone who will simply see them as clothes. I see them as they were when he animated them; dancing at our wedding in the kurta, calmly confident in the suit at a company party, musky and sweaty in the casual shirt painting the bedroom walls.
I slide my hand between two linen button-down shirts. The hangers jangle against each other. I step in and I am surrounded by his shirts and pants. I inhale the fragrance of his life, persisting in these fibers. I lift my arms so they encircle a generous quantity of garments. How many shirts will it take to occupy the same volume as his chest, his waist, his shoulders? Who was he really—the man who wore these? I squeeze the clothes harder, lean into them until the wooden clothes rod creaks. Gone. How will I ever know? And I am still here. Responsible for the family, for making the money, for dealing with these fucking clothes. I step out, pull on a sleeve until I hear a seam rip. And the sound, my act of destruction, of harm, causes a rent somewhere inside me. I lean back and then slam my palms into the plaid of the first shirt. Like a catapult, the weight of my body plows into the all of these costumes that camouflaged. Like a succession of paper dolls each one collapses into the next, until they are all shoved up against the wall, immobilized, routed. I bang my fists against cotton, wool, silk with gold threads. “God damn you, you bastard. God damn you!”
From the other room comes a crash, the sound of glass shattering and a heavy thud. Somewhere outside an engine revs and tires squeal. I rush out of the bedroom. Cold air billows in from a gaping hole in the living room window. Shards of glass litter the floor. On the edge of the Persian carpet, a brick has landed. I shiver, turning the brick over with my toe. One side bears a message, in black ink. Fuck you.
A few cars move through the intersection as the light turns green. One photographer persists in his news gathering vigil—did he throw this brick out of frustration? Maybe a teenaged thug just randomly threw the brick. Or maybe a survivor of the bombing, or a relative, an uncle, a cousin of one of the people killed, looking for a way to express their anger? I remember the window in the bedroom and run to that glass, imagining with terror another brick landing on the bed, the sharp edges of broken glass cutting my children’s perfect skin. I unlatch the bedroom window and swing it out on its hinge, so any broken glass would fall down instead of in. I pull the curtains shut and pile up three boxes in front of them. In an adrenaline frenzy I gather a pile of diapers, a toothbrush, a few clothes and bundle it all into a bag. When I slide shoes onto Michael’s feet, he grumbles sleepily.
“Michael,” my urgent whisper sounds like a hiss. “Get up. We have to go. Can you get up? You need to help me and walk to the car.”
He opens his eyes, his eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “What? Why?”
“Just come. We are going to get in the car, and go to Uncle Ted’s.” He does not move. “Now!” I shout.
He whimpers and then cries. I am already setting Andrew in the stroller.
“I want my daddy…I want my daddy…” Michael cries from the bed.
“Stop it!” I place my hand over his mouth to silence him. “He is gone. Gone!” His eyes grow wide with surprise, with fear. I know I am just making this worse. I will ask his forgiveness later. I pull him up, drag him into the other room.
Andrew starts to kick his legs in the stroller. I don’t have time for this. I grab my keys and purse. The door locks behind us, and we are running down the hall, down the elevator, into the parking garage. I check the back seat, the trunk before I open the doors.
Only when we are on the freeway, when we pass the lights at regular intervals and the hum of the engine grows constant can I speak in soothing tones to the boys. “Everything will be fine. There was a problem at our home. A window broke, but we’ll feel better at Uncle Ted’s. Please stop crying, I didn’t mean to shout, we just needed to leave quickly.”
“Does Uncle Ted know we’re coming?” Michael asks.
“He is expecting us, we are just coming a little early.”
“Will we go back home tomorrow?”
I consider the question. “Uncle Ted’s guest house will be home.” I look in the rear view mirror. The freeway lights briefly illuminate his face.
“So we won’t go back to our home in Los Angeles?” A note of panic sours his question.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“But Mom,” his distress now obvious, “what about my Legos, my Spiderman toothbrush?”
“Oh Michael, don’t worry about that, we’ll make sure to get those things.” If only all our problems were so simple.
“Promise?”
I reach back and stroke his hand. “I promise. Now sleep, we still have a long drive.”
He is silent for a moment. “Mom?”
“Yes, love?”
“I miss Daddy.”
I want to tell him I do, too. To tell him about the impossible void I feel, the enormous hole I must fill in our lives. But maybe it was all false, maybe the man we loved was just a façade, an apparition. I look in the rear view mirror again, watch as the lights pass. One. Two. Three times.
“Tomorrow I’ll get you a Spiderman toothbrush.”
He nods, closes his eyes.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Capen…”
“Ms. Capen,” I correct the principal at Michael’s new school.
“Ms. Capen then, the name on the application doesn’t match the name on your son’s birth certificate.”
“That was his father’s last name, his father is…” I hesitate, “he is no longer with us.”
I see the principal, sitting smugly behind his desk, glance at Andrew in the sling over my shoulder, and then at my naked ring finger.
“Michael Capen is my son’s name,” I assert. “I’ve made the change on his passport, on both their passports,” I nod at Andrew as wel
l. “We’re still waiting for them to arrive.”
I pull a copy of my passport application out of my purse, see my mother’s neat letters in each of the boxes. I remember how she had simply filled in the names and the information as if she were applying for a new credit card. Her handwriting shows none of my turmoil over the implications of the request.
The principal places the copy squarely next to the school registration form, I see his eyes move from one paper to the other. He glances at Michael, who makes an effort to look well behaved. The man glances back at me, frowning momentarily before accepting my documents as valid. “Ask my secretary to make a copy of the passport application,” he holds it out to me as if it smells bad, “and welcome to Hoover Elementary, Michael. I will introduce you to Miss Lopez. She will be your teacher.”
The principal stands and guides Michael by the shoulder, out of the room. He holds the door open for me to follow him, but otherwise he does not acknowledge me. Does he know? Did he recognize the last name from the birth certificate, or is his disdain for a woman he assumes has failed in her marriage?
Michael turns to look at me and Andrew as the principal tries to hurry him out into the hallway. My instinct to rush to my child, to take him into my protection and retreat to some safe place overwhelms me. But where? What place is safe? The danger in our lives originated in our own home, with our love for a man.
I kiss my hand and blow it in his direction. He mimes catching the kiss and slapping it to his cheek. And then he and the principal turn a corner and disappear down another hallway.
Janet meets me at her front door with a cup of coffee and a business card. “My salon. I made an appointment for you. My stylist is great, she’ll give you a cut and a new color.”
“What for? I think I really need to go back to LA to finish the packing.”
“No way. Ted doesn’t want you going back there after the brick accident. I have taken care of everything, called the movers. Don’t worry. Your new life is starting, you should have a new look too.”
I think maybe she is afraid the neighbors will recognize me from the news photos. “But the baby,” I start to protest, holding him tighter to me in his sling.
“Andrew can stay with me. Just feed him before you go and he’ll be fine. Really,” she says with forced politeness, “it’s my treat. I insist.”
The stylist pumps on the foot lever, raising me in the chair, with a flourish covering me with the waterproof cape. I feel small and helpless.
“So Janet said you’re moving to San Diego from LA? You’ll love it here. We’ve got everything you’d want that LA has, the beach, the weather, the fashion, but without the traffic or the smog. You came for a job?”
“No.” I am not in the mood to chat.
“Oh, so something else?”
“I came for a new start,” I say repeating Janet’s explanation. And I close my eyes to shut her out. I guess I doze off until she calls my name.
“Kathryn, Kathryn, do you want to see? It turned out really well.”
I open my eyes. My long hair has been reduced to a chin length bob, a bright platinum blonde strip dramatically framing the left side of my face. I think of Cruella deVille. Dark lines below my eyes undermine the lightness of my new hairstyle. I resist the urge to cry.
“Do you love it? You won’t have to do anything in the morning, except add a little comb in conditioner, especially since your hair is already so straight. If you wanna make another appointment, we also do facials here.”
I can’t even muster a smile before I nod and say thank you.
When I pick up Michael, he does not hug me. He looks at me and takes a step back. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What happened to your hair?” I have assiduously avoided looking in mirrors since I left the salon. I am not yet ready to confront this new woman.
“Auntie Janet arranged for me to have a haircut. Do you like it?”
I see his upper lip disappear inside his lower lip, prelude to a cry. “I just want everything to be like it was.”
If Michael cries, I won’t be able to hold myself together. “Kiss baby Andrew, he missed you today,” I chirp. “Kiss?” I nearly plead. He kisses the baby perfunctorily, keeping his eyes on me. I thank God for Andrew’s giggles as he reaches out for Michael.
Chapter 3
* * *
Janet stands, almost triumphantly as the movers busily wheel their handtrucks down the gravel path, depositing stacks of cardboard boxes next to the little backhouse. I recognize my own handwriting on several: clothes, toys, Michael’s, baby’s. On other boxes I can see the hurried handwriting of the men who have handled my belongings: kitchen, television, papers, written in a block script reminiscent of the graffiti lettering I recognize from freeway ramps.
I watch the three men drop boxes in my temporary retreat—the guest house Janet has arranged for us—and return to fetch more. Janet follows them back around the front house, directing their actions.
I look at the stacks, step inside again, surveying the limited space.
I step back outside, waiting for the next load of boxes. A diesel engine ignites, crescendos and lumbers away into the distance. Confused, I walk around the front of the house in time to see the back door of the moving truck heading down the lane. Trusty Movers, the door boasts in bold cursive lettering, Helping You On Your Way.
I turn around and hurry to the front door, thinking to tell Janet they have left with some of my things still inside.
“They brought all of your things,” she asserts. “I watched them pack up the truck.”
“But what about my furniture? What about the mirrors? The artwork?”
“You mean the things from…Pakistan?” The nasal a of her American accent makes the country sound childish to my ears.
“Yes!”
“Well, those were…his things. I arranged for the Goodwill to pick them up.”
“What?!” I curl my fingers into an angry fist. “I bought most of those things.”
“With him,” she says derisively. “You would have had to store them anyway, there’s no place for them in the backhouse. And they certainly would’ve made for a different, how can I say, aesthetic.”
I am dumbfounded. I search for the words to express my anger at her.
“You won’t need them. It’ll be better for you not to have those reminders of your past. I thought about it, Kathryn. I really think it’ll be easier for you to make a clean break.”
I look around, my mind racing about how I can get my things back before they become anonymous curiosities in a musty second-hand shop. I notice a piece of pink paper on the counter, the Trusty Movers bill. Two thousand dollars, written in the same hurried graffiti-like script, circled at the bottom.
I look up at Janet, realizing how much she has paid to give away my things.
She misreads my anger as fear, her expression softens. “Don’t worry about the money, they charged by the mile for the truck. You can pay us back when you have everything settled, and when you’re able.”
I repress the urge to shout at her. I turn and leave through the front door.
“You’re welcome,” Janet calls, the rise in the last syllable requiring a thank you—a response I refuse to provide.
I let the door slam shut.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Michael plays with Andrew, wiggling soft toys in front of him and recounting nursery rhymes. How wise Michael is, understanding not to come to me now.
I am still, paralyzed even. But my mind races. How can I escape, regain some control, reassert some power in my own life? I consider every possibility, even the most outlandish. Return to Los Angeles? Repair the window and continue as if nothing had happened? Move to my parents? They have a guest room, I could search for an affordable studio near their prestigious neighborhood. Reach out to Rashid’s mother in Lahore? I have refused to think of her, but surely the family would welcome me—the mother of their male grandch
ildren. Return to Dubai? Look for a job, any expat position would include a housing package and salary. Stay in a motel here in San Diego? I could find a more permanent place later. Contact my college boyfriend? He never married, has a beautiful house in Carmel. Apply for graduate school? My father’s university offers subsidized student housing. Buy an RV? Park wherever I like.
But any move would require cash, funds I can’t yet access. The bastards at the life insurance company still require more documentation from me to process my claim. Their adjusters’ usual reluctance must be compounded by their distaste for my circumstances. I consider the envelope sitting in the darkness of my safety deposit box. Perhaps I could even sell the rings. Then I remember my wedding gold. A Pakistani bride’s insurance, Sabeen had called it. I will sell that filthy metal and start over.
I hear movement in the garden, the crunch of gravel under several feet. Ted’s daughter, Amanda asks, “So was he really a terrorist? Why’d she marry him?”
“I never want to hear that kind of crap out of your mouth again,” Ted admonishes.
Silence.
“You hear me?”
Amanda mumbles a response to her father.
A knock on our door. I remain motionless, staring at the ceiling. Again the knock.
“Kathryn?” Ted calls.
Beneath the Same Heaven Page 11