Pieces of Me

by Hart, Natalie

  48

  At night he treads the streets of Baghdad. His night vision is not the plum colour of our sheets or the magnolia of our walls. It is grainy black and chemical green.

  He never tells me where he has been, but I know. I transpose him onto images I have seen before. Last night, rubble-strewn streets with breeze-block buildings that have surrendered to the battle. The night before, an empty school, child-size chairs lying on their sides and paintings curled at the edges, licked by flames.

  Tonight an infrared laser searches for a target. A pinpoint traces across the light green sky, then explodes into brilliant white.

  While dogs dream, their paws paddle the air and rubbery black lips rise in muffled barks. Their owners watch on, nudge each other and smile. Sometimes Adam’s limbs twitch too, but there is nothing endearing about a sleeping man who patrols the streets of a faraway country, in search of an enemy it is too late to find.

  Sometimes half-formed words leave his mouth, guttural and aggressive. Get back, he barks. Get down. Get back. Get away. Sometimes they are of another language, learnt from interpreters and trainers, sounding heavy on his tongue. Sometimes they are not barks, but whimpers. Sometimes they form a name. I am an unwanted observer to his vulnerability. Always the sounds contain danger.

  I do not wake him during these nocturnal operations. I do not want to walk into the stream of bullets flying from his gun or alert the enemy to his position with my intrusion. I do not want to disturb him as he shoves bandages into a gaping chest. Time is running out.

  Mostly I worry that until his mission is complete he will never fully return to me. So I kiss him as he leaves for Iraq each night and pray that he will succeed so that he can finally come home.

  Tonight I think he came close. It got down to hand-to-hand combat. Green on black and black on green. He grunted. Flesh pounded flesh. He grappled with a body, thrashing this way and that between dust and bed sheets. But then I entered his dream unbidden. The piercing sound of my cry rang out across Baghdad as his elbow plunged down through the night air to meet my face on the pillow next to his.

  49

  It has been a long time since I called her, but since we returned from Adam’s house I have felt the pull of family. I want to hear her voice.

  She answers on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Mum.”

  “Emma?”

  “Yes, Mum. Hi. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Emma. Is everything okay?”

  I hear the concern in her voice. I am not the daughter that calls her just to chat.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just… I’m just calling to say hi.”

  “It’s lovely to hear from you, darling. It’s been a while.”

  “I know, Mum. I’m sorry. I just get caught up in things here, and then… you know… with the time zones and stuff…”

  “It doesn’t matter, you’re calling now. How are you?”

  “I’m… I’m fine.”

  “And Adam?”

  “Yeah… He’s okay too.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t sound too certain.”

  “I am. It just takes a while, you know… Settling back in.”

  “I can imagine. You never seemed to settle when you visited us.”

  She’s right.

  “You must be so glad to have him back though, Em.”

  “I am. It’s great… Really… really nice.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mum. I…”

  I want to talk to her. Want to tell her. I want to let her comfort me. But I can’t.

  “Mum, can we just talk about something else? How’s the garden at the moment? Rebecca said you’re painting again.”

  Even across the Atlantic she understands. She knows not to push too hard, too soon.

  “Of course, darling, of course. Did she tell you about the new palette I bought?”

  “No, Mum, but I’d love to hear more.”

  “Okay, Emma… But just remember, if you want to talk about anything else I’m always here.”

  50

  Adam has gone out with the guys on his team tonight. Even though he promised he would while we were away, I didn’t fully believe it. Not until he came home this week and said they were making plans for Friday night.

  “I’m proud of you,” I said and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  It was strange seeing him get ready this evening. I watched him put on his nicest pair of jeans and kissed his neck as he tightened his belt in the mirror.

  “You look good,” I told him. His reflection smiled at me.

  I couldn’t help but feel envious too. Even though I wanted him to go out with the guys and relax, I couldn’t remember the last time the two of us had gone out together. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d really had fun. But maybe this was the beginning, I told myself. Maybe things would get better and soon we’d go out together too.

  After he left, I sat at the island in the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. I was there for a while, moving pieces of mosaic around the counter, but eventually I became frustrated and swept them back into the jar. Instead I ran a bath, put on some music, tried to relax. I had another glass of wine, put on fresh pyjamas and was in bed by 10pm.

  Now, I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing. It is dark and the bed is empty and for a moment I think he is still out there and the panic rises in my throat. But Adam is in Colorado now, not Iraq. The phone keeps ringing. It is not the Arabic pop song anymore; he asked me to change that after he got back. It is one of those irritating pre-set ringtones with a cycle of notes repeated over and over.

  I grab the phone, checking the clock as I do so. It is 3am. No good calls ever come at this hour. I expect to see Adam’s name, but instead Zainab flashes up on the phone. Shit. I answer.

  “Zainab, what’s wrong?”

  “Emma…” I can hear the tears in her voice. “It’s Hassan. I just got a call from the police. He’s in some kind of trouble downtown.”

  “The police? Shit. Really?”

  “They say he’s been in a fight. Another one.” Her voice shakes. “They aren’t charging him with anything, but they want me to go and pick him up and Haider’s working night shift so I don’t have a car and I can’t get hold of him.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go straight away,” I tell her.

  “Are you sure, Emma? I’m so sorry to ask.”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “I… I thought things were getting better with him, Emma. I don’t understand.”

  “So did I. But it’s okay, Zainab, we’ll figure it out. Call the police officer back and give them my number. Tell them I’m on my way. I’ll call you when I’ve got him.”

  “God bless you, Emma.”

  “I’ll call you soon.”

  As Zainab was talking, I have been pulling on my jeans and socks. I don’t bother changing my pyjama top but pull a hoodie on over it. I am angry with Hassan. Hurt. We worked so hard on his college applications and I can’t believe he’d jeopardise all of that so soon.

  I set off in the car. The streets are dead at this time of night. I do not turn on the radio. I just sit in silence and try to decide what I will say to Hassan when I get there. My phone rings again. It is an unknown number and I assume it must be the police officer.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs McLaughlin?” says the voice on the other end.

  “Yes. Is this about Hassan? I’m on my way. I’m about five minutes out.”

  There is a moment’s silence.

  “Er… No. It’s Specialist Yates here, from the Military Police. I’m calling about your husband.”

  “Wait, you’re what?” I push hard on my breaks and pull over to the side of the road.

  “Yes. I’m in downtown Colorado Springs at present. I regret to inform you that your husband has been involved in an altercation. There are no charges against him, but given his current state of inebriation we recommend you pick him up.”
/>   “Where exactly are you?”

  “We’re at North Tejon with East Kiowa.”

  “I’m… I’m already on my way.”

  “Thank you, Mrs McLaughlin. We’ll see you shortly.” The voice disappears.

  “SHIT!” I thump the steering wheel hard. “Shit, shit, shit.” This can’t be happening.

  I call Noor, who answers the phone with a bleary voice.

  “Noor, I’m so sorry to wake you. Can you get downtown? I need your help.”

  “So let me get this right, you’re here for both this Iraqi kid and your SF husband?” the police officer asks me. The regular police officer and the MP are standing side by side. They exchange a confused look.

  “That’s correct,” I say. I try to block from my mind the last time I talked to an MP. The blood in my mouth. My feet pounding the gravel. The look on Anna’s face.

  From what the policemen have told me so far, Hassan and his friends spent the evening smoking on benches because they were too young to get into bars. Adam and his teammates were drunkenly leaving Cowboys when they passed the group on the bench. Riley, the team Charlie, muttered something about “Haji motherfuckers” and the boys heard.

  “What did you just call us?” one of the boys shouted, although it wasn’t clear who. I remembered telling Hassan that he shouldn’t tolerate racist comments and wondered if I had somehow played a part in this too.

  The altercation didn’t last long. Adam and his teammates turned around and there were a bunch of insults and a few shoves, but the police were on hand almost instantly. The presence of MPs in downtown on a Friday night suddenly made sense to me.

  “Luckily we were just outside the next bar,” the MP told me. “A bunch of SF dudes against those scrawny teenagers? I don’t think it would have ended well.”

  Now, Hassan is sat with two other Middle Eastern-looking boys of the same age. I catch his eye and give him my best I’m-disappointed-and-your-mum’s-going-to-kill-you face. Adam is sat on the pavement about five metres in the other direction, his head between his knees. He has avoided all eye contact so far.

  Riley, who is still standing, hears what the police officer said to me.

  “Hey. Hey. Wait. Did I hear that right? McLaughlin’s old lady is here for the kid too?”

  “Shut up!” the MP yells at him.

  Adam puts his head deeper between his knees and runs both hands over the back of his head.

  “No shit!” says another team guy, who I don’t recognise. I watch Adam. These are his men. These are the people he has been trained to protect. To risk his life for. Who would he defend now?

  “Yeah,” Riley starts again. “She’s the Haji-lover, don’t you remember Adam telling us that—?”

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” shouts Adam, raising his head. “That’s my fucking wife. I’ll punch you in the throat if you say another fucking word.”

  His eyes lock onto mine. I hold his gaze for as long as I can bear.

  Noor turns up about five minutes later, still fully in pyjamas. I try to remain calm as I explain to her what has happened. I see her glance over my shoulder at Adam, but she makes no comment. Instead, she calls Zainab to say that she is here with me and will bring Hassan home very soon. She passes the handset to Hassan and we watch as he says very little but just gives small nods and says “Yes Mom, yes Mom, yes Mom.” After he finishes, I reach for the phone myself, but Noor grabs it and gives me a quick shake of the head.

  “No, Emma. Just focus on Adam for now.”

  I look over to the pavement where he is still sat and I know she’s right.

  Hassan gets into her car.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Noor says. “Take care.”

  On the way back to the house, Adam and I sit in silence. His head rolls to the side each time I take a corner. I wonder how much he has drunk. I am angry and devastated and so many things that I say nothing. But then he speaks.

  “Why do you always choose them, Emma?”

  “What?” My eyes glance towards him and then back to the road.

  “Why do you always choose them?”

  “What do you mean, ‘them’?”

  “Iraqis.”

  “Adam, you’re drunk. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You always choose Iraq. Iraqis.”

  “I just left the kid I’m helping so that I could bring you home. Is that choosing Iraqis?”

  “What if that other one hadn’t turned up, what would you have done then?” he asks.

  “Other one? For fuck’s sake, Adam. Noor. She’s called Noor. You know that.” But I do not answer the question because I do not know the answer and it’s not something I want to think about more. “Is this just about tonight?” I ask, instead.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what, what else?”

  “It’s always, Em. I always feel like it’s a competition. It’s me or them. Me or Iraq. I fucking proposed to you, said I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life, and yet you still wanted to stay longer in that godforsaken place. Then you finally move here and we agreed you’d focus on settling in Colorado for a while, but first it’s the Iraqi friend and this fucking refugee art shit and then next thing I know you’ve basically implanted yourself into an Iraqi family. I’m just waiting for the day you leave me to go back there.”

  My head is spinning.

  “I’m not leaving you to go back there, Adam.”

  “You said you’d leave Iraq behind when you moved to Colorado and you didn’t do that. Why should I believe you now?”

  I sigh. Suddenly all the anger and frustration seeps from my body and is replaced by a tiredness that penetrates my bones.

  “Even if I go back there to work, it doesn’t mean I’m leaving you, Adam. You’re my husband.”

  51

  It is midday by the time Adam emerges. I spent the rest of the night lying awake, trying to convince myself his comments were just the alcohol talking. By 6am I was up, unable to bear the looping of the conversation in my head any longer. You always choose them, Emma. It wasn’t so different from something my sister once said.

  He comes downstairs and starts to make coffee without saying anything. I am sat at my laptop, looking at a pamphlet for that art exhibition that Noor sent me a few days ago for feedback.

  “Morning,” I say to him.

  “Do we have any Advil?” he replies.

  “Under the sink in the bathroom.”

  He heads back up the stairs and I hear the bathroom cupboard open and close. As he comes down, the pills rattle in their plastic container. He pours coffee. Takes a couple of noisy gulps. I told myself that I would wait until later in the day to talk about it all. But I can’t.

  “Adam, we need to talk.”

  “Now, Em? My head’s ready to explode.”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “Fine. Talk.”

  “You need to get help, Adam. We can’t go on like this. I barely even know who you are anymore.”

  “You’re the one that wanted me to go out with my team, remember? You wanted this.”

  “But I didn’t think it would be like… Adam, I didn’t think you’d end up roughing up the refugee kid I’m mentoring.”

  “It wasn’t ‘roughing up’, it was a couple of shoves. It’s hardly a big deal.”

  “Hardly a big deal? Jesus Christ, Adam.”

  “Okay, so I won’t go out with the guys after all. Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is for you to talk to someone. This isn’t you, Adam. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how unhappy you are?”

  “Yeah, I’m depressed as fuck. But I’ve told you, I’m not talking to a shrink.”

  “There must be someone. Anyone. The chaplain even.”

  “Why are you so desperate for me to talk to someone, Emma? You want me to talk about my feelings, what, like I bet you did when your dad died? You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You barely even talk to your mom anymore and when you do it’s just about gard
ening or the weather.”

  It is a low blow. It hurts because it is true. We all want to be known, but being known makes us vulnerable. Those who truly know us can see things that we have yet to recognise in ourselves. My brain won’t even let me process his comments, so I continue, losing the fight to keep emotion from my voice.

  “I want you to talk to someone because you’re changing, Adam. You’re… you’re mean. That stuff with Hassan last night… Your comments about Noor… I’m starting to feel like I married a fucking racist.”

  “My best friend died, Emma. My best friend was shot in the chest by an Iraqi.”

  “And that’s awful, but it was one guy, Adam. One Iraqi. What about Ali? Do you not even remember how we met, how you were trying to help him? How he risked his life to save yours?”

  This doesn’t make sense to me. It doesn’t add up. How can the man I fell in love with be thinking this way? Which version of Adam is real?

  “Don’t you dare bring Ali into this,” he says.

  “Why, Adam? Because you know I’m right? That you’re being insane. Yes, Dave was killed by an Iraqi, but that was one bad person. Did I start hating all the white guys in the world because one shitbag PSD tried to rape me?”

  Silence.

  “Someone tried to rape you?” he says quietly.

  I say nothing.

  “Someone tried to rape you and you never told me?” I thought I was protecting him by not telling him. Now I have used it against him at his most vulnerable.

  He runs his hands over his head the way he did last night. I think I might vomit. The hand moves again. Over the head. Round the back of his neck. I can see him trying to process what I have said. Over the head. Round the neck. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look this sad before.

  “Emma, I…” His hands are shaking. The trembling starts to extend to the rest of his body. What have I done, putting this on him? It was not something I wanted to throw out in an argument. “Emma…”

  Over the head. Round the neck. Shaking. Then the hands stop and something in his face changes. Hardens. He looks at me and this other version of Adam returns.