by Eve Rabi
He stares though. From the corner of my eye, I notice him staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Leeanne sometimes gives me real-time commentary. “He’s staring at you ... he’s looking at Imtiaz ... he’s looking back at you now … Oops! He spotted me looking at him and he’s blushing. Damn! He’s scowling again.”
She sighs. “Maybe you should make your peace with him, huh? He’s such a grump these days. Snapping at everyone and scowling all the goddamn time! You’d think he was pregnant and in an Iraqi jail.”
Bitchface is even more annoyed with the concessions I’m getting these days – time off during the day to cry and wallow in my room, necessary prenatal medical checkups arranged by Reed, leaving the ward when nausea takes over – all courtesy of Reed, who obviously has arranged all this with Shariff.
She needles me all the time. With so much on my mind, I ignore her, but it doesn’t work – she just quadruples her meanness towards me.
When she stabs me in the back with her finger, without thinking, I whirl around and slam the metal tray I’m carrying into her face. She reels back, loses her balance, and lands on her ass.
Aghast, I stare at her. What the hell have I done? It’s hormones, I swear.
For a moment, she too is stunned. Then she gets up and flies at me, punching wildly. I fend off most of her blows, but she manages to get in a few impressive ones to my temple mainly.
All the months of torture and humiliation under her boils over and the next thing I know, I’m on top of her, unleashing.
The men around us clap and cheer, thankful for some girl-on-girl action.
Until Fazel and Saam yank me off her and throw me into the dreaded dungeon.
As they slam my cage door, I shout out, “How many days?”
“Kamsa!”
Fuck! How the hell do I survive five days in this hell-hole?
I look around in dismay. In the dimly lit dungeon are four cages the size of a small bathroom and they are locked all the time. A thin mattress lies on the floor. No pillow, no sheet, and no food, just water. When dinner arrives, I’m ravenous and can’t wait to eat, but it’s a just a bowl of gruel with dry bread. Unable to stomach it, I push it aside.
At around 8 p.m. Fazel lingers outside my gate and leers at me through the bars. Uneasy, I try to ignore him, but he continues grinning, his eyes making all sorts of unpleasant and repulsive promises. I know they will turn off the lights soon, and then I’ll be at the mercy of both Fazel and Saam. The thought of that makes me want to throw up.
At 9 p.m. the lights are dimmed and panic sweeps over me. Just how do I defend myself if they attack me? No one will hear my screams here.
Footsteps approaching. I hold my breath, my eyes darting all over the place. As the footsteps get louder, hysteria rises in me and I stuff my knuckles in my mouth.
When I see Reed’s face, I almost collapse with relief.
“Oh, God, Reed! It’s you!”
“What? Something happened?”
I open my mouth to speak, to explain Fazel and my fears, but shut it again.
“Brought you some food and some magazines,” he says as he steps into my cage.
“Oh, thank you!” I say and accept the food from him. I’m starving, so I tuck into it. But the food is awful – overdone eggs and cold, gluggy rice.
“I can’t believe Bygone would serve food like this,” I say after a few mouthfuls.
“Sorry … I … I made that.”
My neck jerks to look up. “You made it? Why? Where’s Bygone?”
He lowers himself on the floor and rests his back against the wall. “He was gone to bed, so I tried to make something for you but … sorry.”
“No, no, no, I’m sorry,” I say. “This was nice of you, really.” I’m a little touched that he went through all this trouble. “Thank you.”
He shrugs.
Fazel hovers outside my cell, looking most irritated with Reed’s presence, but Reed ignores him.
“How’s … eh … how’s Imtiaz?” Small talk, but it’s the best I can do right now.
“Stable. But critical.”
I nod and page through a magazine.
When Fazel paces outside my cell again, I turn to Reed and blurt, “Can you stay the night?”
He looks up and frowns. “Here?”
“Yes. Please!”
“How …? Why?”
I roll my eyes towards Fazel.
He follows my eyes and his eyes narrow.
“You can have the mattress, the pillow, the sheet – I don’t care. Just stay here.”
“I can’t do that, Megan, you’re pregnant.”
“Fine. We’ll share. Just stay, please?”
He strokes his chin, appearing thoughtful.
“Please Reed.” Try as I might, I can’t hide the desperation in my voice.
I think he hears it too, because he says in a light voice, “You better not snore.”
I exhale and drop my shoulders.
Reed shouts out to Fazel that’s he staying the night. Fazel mouths off in Arabic but Reed just chuckles.
In theory, this sounds really fucked up: I’ve just pleaded with my rapist to spend the night with me in a dungeon in Iraq, to protect me from being raped.
We attempt more small talk for a while, until I fall asleep, secure in the knowledge that Reed is next to me.
In the middle of the night, I open my eyes to see Reed sleeping on the floor next to me, with no pillow. He looks so uncomfortable that I feel bad. I take my pillow, slip it under his head, and cover him with my sheet.
In the morning when I wake up, the pillow’s back under my head and he’s gone.
***
To while away boredom, I page through the magazines he brought me. Men’s magazines. As I page through, an invitation to a one year memorial service slips out. When I see the photos on the invitation, I gasp. It’s the lady and the two little girls from the photo in Reed’s wallet. How can this be? When I notice the memorial service date, my eyes widen. December 10. The night Reed raped me!
Stunned by what I’ve just learned, I shake the magazines in the hope of finding more information, and I do. I find the first page of a copy of a legal document which details a lawsuit filed on behalf of Dr. Reedwan Kader against a US federal court in Washington DC for war crimes. I’m not learned enough to understand all I’m reading, but I grasp that a bombing by the US soldiers in a suburb of Iraq resulted in the accidental killing of the lady and the two children in the photo.
To add to my shock, it goes on to talk about Dr. Kader’s release from Abu Ghraib.
I stare at the document in my hand. Reed was in prison, his family was killed by the US Army … Suddenly, so many things about him make sense.
All the nasty things I said to him the night he raped me, the night of the memorial service –“One shot, one kill, one Arab ...” Fuck! How could I have said those terrible things to a man whose innocent family was killed by my people?
Pacing in my tiny cage doesn’t work and eventually I sink to my mattress and spend the day feeling sorry for Reed. How the hell do I make it up to him?
At night, when the lights grow dim in the dungeon again, Fazel stands outside my cage and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be here, American woman,” he says.
Oh?
“This is not a place for a pretty girl like you.”
I totally agree. You gonna let me go then? Maybe you’re not the asshole after ….
“You should be home, taking care of your family and giving good blowjobs.” He wriggles both his eyebrows. “Tonight, later, we get to know each other, eh?”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Why the hell didn’t I ask Reed to spend the night here? Damn! I should have. Anyway, he’s probably had it sleeping on this uncomfortable mattress after last night.
Then I see Reed, overladen with stuff, shoving past Fazel, who’s trying to block his path to my cage and yelling something about telling Shariff.
I f
ight the urge to sock Fazel over the head with my Army-issue boots and throw my arms around Reed.
“I didn’t cook it,” Reed says as he hands me a plate of food.
“Oh, wonderful!” I say. Wonderful! as in, him and his plate of beef and rice. “Thank you!” I dive into the food right away.
One by one, he inventories the stuff he’s brought, while I attack the only food I’ve had all day. “Another pillow … another sheet … wine ...”
I jerk upright, my fork in mid-air. “Wine?”
He grins and his whole face lights up. “I’m joking, I’m joking! No more wine for you after the last time. Brought you some orange juice instead. Good for the baby.”
“Mff!” Pouting with a mouthful of beef and rice doesn’t work, so I give up and continue stuffing my face.
“And this.”
I gasp at the tub of chocolate ice cream in his hands. “Oh my God! I was so craving chocolate ice cream! How did you know?”
“I overheard you tell Leeanne about that, so I asked around and finally, I managed to get you this – imported all the way from good ol’ US of A.”
“Wow!” Ignoring his sarcasm, I almost drop my plate of unfinished food to reach for the ice cream.
He pulls it back. “Finish your food first. The baby needs proper nourishment.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, and quickly finish the rest of my food. “Done.” I put out my hand.
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he hands me the tub and lowers himself next to me.
“You’re such a baby, you know,” he says, as he watches me devour the ice cream, the way a pregnant lady with cravings does. “George Bush sends people like you to Iraq to fight them?” He jerks his head towards Fazel, who sits outside my cage and mutters angrily in Arabic. “No wonder you haven’t found the weapons of mass destruction.”
I lift and drop my shoulders while I continue to demolish the tub in my hands. “You know, I mentioned my craving for ice cream to Leeanne two weeks ago.”
“Well … mff! Try getting a foreign product like this while the US and Iraq are at war. Unless you want me to go to the Green Zone and make a formal request for chocolate ice cream?”
I giggle at the thought of him doing that. “They’ll make shish kebab out of you right away.”
He throws his head back and laughs. Never heard him laugh before and it’s quite appealing. For a moment, I just stare at him.
“Shut up!” Fazel, who sits a foot away outside my cage, shouts.
He laughs harder. Then he stops and looks at me. “What? You’re staring at me.”
“Nothing, nothing,” I say quickly. “What I meant is – I’m surprised you remembered and went through all this trouble.”
He looks away.
“For me.”
When he looks back at me, our eyes lock over the tub in my hands.
“I care,” he says in a quiet voice.
I believe him, but I don’t know what to say or how to react to what he just said. Should I say, “Thanks”? Or something smart-alecky like, “Really now? I would never have guessed after you tied me up, slapped duct tape across my mouth, and threatened to tie me to the fucking bed … Is this how Iraqis show they care?” Smart-alecky is more me, but I am so moved with all he’s done yesterday and today, that I feel grateful. Grateful … Stockholm syndrome? No way!
“Thank you,” I finally say.
He grunts something inaudible to me and falls silent.
“Eh …will you stay tonight?”
To my relief, his answer is immediate. “Sure.”
“Thank you.” I exhale and reward him with a chocolaty smile.
After an awkward silence, I reach over and flash the memorial service invite at him. At the sight of the invite, he frowns, snatches it out of my hand, folds it neatly, and stuffs it in his pocket. “You’re too nosey,” he scolds, a huge frown creasing his forehead.
“Tell me about it, Reed.”
“No! You already know too much, and you’re probably going to use it against me as soon as you’re out of here.”
I bring out the letter I found. “Exhibit B, the lawsuit.”
“Megan! I can’t believe …” He snatches that too and shoves it aside, and I worry he’s mad enough to leave.
“You’re the father of the child I’m carrying. I think I deserve some answers.”
Suddenly, all the lights in the dungeon go out – Fazel.
We don’t get mad, we both smile, and the tension between us is diffused. After a few moments in the dark, our eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, and it’s not so bad.
“In twenty-five words or fewer,” I coach.
“Twenty-five words ….” He sits back and links his arms behind his neck. “The letter is self-explanatory … you guys were trying to smoke out Chemical Khan – know him?”
“Yeah, one of the ten most wanted –”
“Yes, well, your intelligence was incorrect,” he says in an abrupt voice. “You bombed the wrong house – my house! And my wife … my … two daughters …” His cockiness vanishes suddenly and his shoulders slump.
I move quickly to sit in front of him. “Tell me, Reed.”
It’s a while before he talks again. “I was at work … I rushed over, tried to find them … tried to go back to my home, but it was no longer there. They wouldn’t let me. Wouldn’t give me any information, wouldn’t let me pick up my family’s bodies, their remains …” He shakes his head slowly. “Never occurred to me then that I wouldn’t be able to find them; I just needed to go back home to try and save them. I was their father, I was their protector, I was supposed to save them and I didn’t.”
“Couldn’t!” I say, my eyes brimming with tears. “You couldn’t.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my response.
“I lost it – punched a US soldier and landed in Abu Ghraib for sixty-one days.”
“Sixty … what about the funeral?”
“Missed it,” he says, in such a soft voice I can barely hear him. “Never got to say goodbye …”
I sit back, shocked at what I’m hearing. “I …I …”
“Months before the bombing, I visited the scene of another car bomb to help, and even though the bombing had taken place hours before, I could still feel heat from the explosion. I could still smell the burning flesh and I saw body parts around me – a hand – just the hand. When I looked closely, it was small – a child’s. I wanted to vomit. There was a foot with a shoe still on it, lying a distance away from the scene – isolated. The thing that struck me most; I couldn’t see a single human face among the debris. Just hair, limbs, brain … Haunted me for months! At one time, I slipped on blood and human remains and I just threw up. When I learned that my street was bombed, my house was bombed, I knew what to expect. Nobody cared that two beautiful angels … darling angels …” He squeezes his eyes shut.
I reach out and put my hand over his. He doesn’t react. After a short while, I slowly take my hand back.
“That night, Megan … you know, that night?”
“Huh? Yeah …?”
“You said something about bombing the entire Iraq –”
“Reed, I was having a breakdown that –”
“–and I snapped, Megan.”
“– night and I didn’t mean any of –”
“That’s okay,” he says, “I know you didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry, Reed.”
“No, I’m sorry Megan, I really am. It’s a mess and I feel responsible. I really wish I could turn back the clock.”
I nod, because nodding is all I can manage now.
“Reed,” I turn to face him, “The invitation … four people? You had two kids …”
“Miriam was five months pregnant,” he whispers.
My eyes fly to my belly and I gulp at the stale air in the dungeon. “Oh my ...”
“When I heard that you were pregnant with my child, that I was going to be a father again, it was like someone opened the curtain and let light in.
After the initial shock wore off, that is. True, the circumstances are less than favorable, but … I never expected to be a father again and the thought of hearing someone once again call me “daddy,” woke me from the two-year daze I was in. Then you talked about destroying this baby so … so casually.”
“But I …”
For someone who can only string three words at a time, he sure is talking a lot tonight. In long, lengthy, fluent sentences. Could be something to do with the dark – I can barely see him, his emotions, his pain – but I feel it.
“I worry about this place being bombed. I would like to take you both out of here and keep you safe, but Omar won’t hear of it.”
I’m thrilled he’s even thinking about taking me out of here.
“What about Shariff? Can’t he help?”
He drops his voice and glances in Fazel’s direction. “Omar has a lot of influence on the men around here, so we have to tread carefully, or they will throw me out of here and I’ll never get to see you and the baby again.”
I look towards Fazel, who’s snoring lightly. “I get it, okay, okay!”
When he falls silent again, I worry that I have lost him again. Maybe it’s time to lighten things a bit.
“So … what you gonna call this baby?”
His answer is immediate. “Osama.”
I jerk up. “What?!”
He chuckles.
“Gosh, you better be kidding.”
“What name do you like?”
I grow thoughtful. “Well, I’ve always wanted to have a baby. When I was four, someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said, ‘I want to be a mommy.’”
He smiles.
“I said, ‘I’m going to have three children – a boy I would call Prince Sparkles, and two daughters with pigtails I would call Sweetheart and Snow …’”
“Prince Sparkles … You’re not related to Michael Jackson, are you?”
I chuckle. Suddenly, for the first time, I think about the sex of the baby I’m carrying. What if this baby is the son I talked about? What if this baby is a cute girl with pigtails? What if this is my only chance to ever conceive and I never ever get to be a mother again?