Refugees

by Catherine Stine

  ALSO AVAI LABLE FROM LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS

  BRINGING UP THE BONES, Lara M. Zeises

  KEEPER OF THE NIGHT, Kimberly Willis Holt

  ORPHEA PROUD, Sharon Dennis Wyeth

  KIT'S WILDERNESS, David Almond

  SWALLOWING STONES, Joyce McDonald ROB&SARA.COM P. J. Petersen and Ivy Ruckman

  THE GIFT MOVES, Steve Lyon

  DOWNRIVER, Will Hobbs

  SEE YOU DOWN THE ROADKim Ablon Whitney

  For my mother who understands endurance

  and my father, who taught me the

  nonviolent Quaker path

  Special thanks to Sulaiman Zai Abdul Raheem Yaseer Shaista Wahab Farzana Sayed Michelle Joe Andrea Stephanie Norris Jack Nate Ellen my New School MFA classmates Barbara 's group and Ziad from way way back

  NOTE

  While the characters in Refugees are totally fictitious, I was careful to rely on my direct experiences of that difficult September day, and of the days following. I felt that it was the only way to avoid the temptation to sensationalize or distort the events.

  It was on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirteenth Street that I witnessed the towers' demise. I waited in the lines snaking down the block for the dwindling supplies in the East Village bodegas and heard the drone of military jets overhead as I wandered through smoke-filled streets. I visited the Union Square memorial nightly.

  And it was on the insurance company stairs, on a park bench on Greenwich Street, and in the greenish light of St. Peter's that I wrote the first paragraphs of this novel.

  prologue

  Dawn and Johar

  2005

  Subj: A Surprise!

  Date: May 7, 2005 From: dawnmusic@usa.com To: johar.maryamsch@afg.net

  Johar! Are you sitting down? If not, brace yourself. I just bought my ticket to Afghanistan! I'm returning in June! Can you use a pathetically overeager music teacher at Maryam School? I have often thought of our time in Baghlan—the way the sun beat down, how we filled burlap with rubble to make way for your new school. I remember how we came and went with a hundred loads, how every day was a revelation of new emotion for you, for my mother, for the chance at a new life.

  Do you still think as much of me? I am scared, Johar; I never want to be as lonely as I was. Your letters have warmed me the way the sunrise warmed the Afghan sky those years ago. Can't wait to see you!

  Dawn

  Subj: Happy Day!

  Date: May 8, 2005 From: johar.maryamsch@afg.net To: dawnmusic@usa.com

  Dear Dawn—

  Khub ast! Can it be true? Four years have flown and our days in Baghlan so vivid as if they happened yesterday. I waited for this moment! You will not be alone. We have much to talk of and do together.

  Finally, you will hear my students' happy laughter, when they find at last that perfect word to complete their poem, or play the rubab with sweet sound they so struggled for. And such a talented music teacher they will gain.

  In your e-mail before, your final project in musical composition sounded most inspiring. And I am glad you had much fun to organize the Red Cross fund-raiser with your mother. How did the audience respond to your new orchestral piece? How my cousin Bija has grown! She too will be thrilled to see you.

  Fondly, Johar

  dawn

  San Francisco,

  September 4, 2001

  The marina-style house up ahead, with its crud-brown roof tiles and tiny concrete yard painted green to simulate grass, never failed to fill Dawn with dread. She'd forgotten an umbrella, so she gripped her jacket over her sandy hair as she broke into a weary jog. Rain pummeled against the jacket's nylon fabric. She swung the rusty gate closed, went inside the house, and kicked her dripping shoes onto the rubber floor mat. Victor's pipe tobacco smelled of overripe fruit. No doubt he was puttering around, but she couldn't bring herself to say hello. Victor had been ignoring her ever since he returned from his state research job. It was Dr. Louise who was always trying to connect.

  Dawn trooped upstairs to her room, slammed the door, and locked it. Picking up her flute, she ran through some scales, then cracked opened the Vivaldi. Too mechanical, she thought, and put a book of Russian folk tunes on the stand instead. She gave herself to the song's mournful B-minor as the rain softened to a patter on the window and broke into rivulets, winding its way down the glass. Music was everything life was not—it loved her, and if she played to its moods, it would leap to her anytime she needed it. In a catharsis of sound, she could whisper a pianissimo and sob an adagio. Playing flute and being with her friend Jude were all Dawn cared about.

  The muffled din of angry voices filtered into her room. She inched open the door. Her foster parents, Victor and Louise, were at it again. Lately they were always arguing. Dawn glanced at the wall clock. Why had Louise come back so early? It was only four. Dawn crept into the hall near their bedroom and listened.

  “This couldn't be a worse time for you to go,” Victor was saying. “I turn in my statistical research in October. Dawn's shenanigans will be a major distraction.”

  “What shenanigans?”

  “Her nasty attitude, her cold stares. Having to drag her back from that faggy boy Jude's day after day.”

  “OK, OK, you've made your point. But it's never a good time, is it, Victor?” Louise shot back. “Look, I postponed my trip to the Afghani camps when Dawn arrived. Meanwhile, you ran off to the CDC in Atlanta for some conference completely unrelated to your research.”

  “Well, you managed to slip out to Texas the second I got back.”

  Louise gave a wry laugh. “Yes, for that very unnecessary tornado rescue!”

  It was always like this: a debate over whose job was more important, who would get to travel, and who would have to stay with Dawn. Louise went on. “Look, it's not like this is something new. We've always traveled for our jobs.”

  “We used to have time for each other,” murmured Victor. “We used to go to lectures.”

  “And museums,” added Louise.

  Victor's voice resumed its edge. “Now it's always Dawn this, Dawn that.”

  “It's not really about the trip, is it, Victor?” Dawn pictured Louise's owl eyes staring down his nearsighted ones.

  “No. It's about Dawn,” he admitted. “I said I'd do this foster thing to make you happy, but we both know it's been a disaster. I told you it would never work. Foster kids Dawn's age are set in their patterns. And you let her get away with murder.”

  “Well, I don't see you making any attempt.”

  “I'm not good at this. Take her with you,” Victor said. “You said you'd consider that at some point.”

  There was a long pause. Dawn feared her ragged breaths were as loud as sandpaper on wood. Travel with Louise? Getting to see new countries would be cool, but if they were stuck in a plane together, they might just bring it down.

  “Victor, she's got school, she's got flute practice, she's—”

  “Louise, admit it,” Victor cut in. “You can't stand to be around the girl for more than a few minutes.”

  “That's not it,” Louise shouted. “It's my duty to see that she goes to school—”

  “Your duty?”

  “What's wrong with duty?”

  “It's fine until it involves real human beings,” Victor snapped. “I've washed my hands of it. The girl is a hazard. One minute she's all bottled up and the next minute she seems ready to explode. Send her back to Epiphany, where she belongs, before your sense of duty ruins us.”

  Dawn inhaled sharply and stumbled into the side table as she sneaked back to her room. Their fights had been awful, but she'd never heard it get this ugly.

  Their door opened abruptly and thwacked against the wall. “Dawn, is that you?” Louise's strained voice called.

  Dawn picked up
her flute. Her fingers trembled as she tried to slip back into the ambiance of the Russian folk song. Her face felt flushed. She wouldn't let this get to her, but sometimes there were hot parts she couldn't freeze. Tears were for suckers. She hadn't cried for years and had probably forgotten how. “I'll never go back to that hellhole,” she whispered. She didn't often allow herself to think about Epiphany House. When she did it was so hard. She remembered the excited and nervous departures, the defeated returns. It wrecked her and her friends, in stages. Dawn had paced back and forth in Little Mo's room just before Mo left. Dawn's heart just about broke with that last hug before her friend sped away in her new foster family's car. But it was worse when Mo returned, after not even lasting a month with her new family. Dawn tried her best to convince her that she'd find another family, but Mo's canceled-out eyes stared right through Dawn. Watching her friend slide her suitcase back under the threadbare mattress hurt so badly.

  “Dawn?” Louise called from downstairs. Then, louder, “Dawn?”

  Dawn unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Yes?” she called.

  “Hi, dear. How was school?”

  Dawn slipped to the head of the stairs. “It was fine, Louise.” There was no way she'd ever call this woman mother. She had a mother—blood relations—somewhere.

  “Can you come down for a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Can it wait? I'm practicing.” When she'd come here a year ago and realized that Victor wasn't one bit interested and Louise's interest seemed phony, she decided to hide herself like a bear in winter. Hibernate until she turned eighteen.

  When Dawn was seven and in second grade, her first foster mother had slammed her against a hot oven and into a window that cracked with the impact. Dawn recalled the shame of walking into a strange new classroom with bruises. Even so, when the family had returned her to Epiphany she'd felt like a failure. It took ages to get another foster family after that, but finally the DiGiornos had taken her when she was twelve. They hadn't hit her, and Dawn had settled in—slowly.

  “That girl will never trust anyone,” she had heard Mr. DiGiorno say once when they thought she was asleep. “Permanently withdrawn,” Mrs. DiGiorno agreed. Dawn couldn't help it if she had nightmares and couldn't bring herself to hug them right off. They had announced she wasn't working out and returned her to the group home, the way someone would return damaged goods to the store. She wouldn't settle in so easily next time.

  Still, she'd held secret hopes that first month with Louise and Victor—of a family huddling close, needing each other. But in the morning Louise would just pore over her case notes, and after dinner she would hurry to her study. The only time Louise's voice hummed was when she spoke to her co-workers behind that closed door. And Victor? Well, he never even attempted a conversation. Day after day Dawn struggled over homework in the living room, tapping her foot to the lonesome beats of the clock. She wondered how long it would take before they pulled the same dirty trick the DiGiornos had.

  “It will just take a few minutes,” Louise called up.

  “Coming, Louise.” Dawn hadn't realized how cold the rain had been. Her socks and hair were still damp. She pulled on a sweatshirt and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Dawn studied Louise from across the checkered tablecloth. Louise wasn't an ugly woman, just plain, with graying hair in a blunt cut and Ben Franklin spectacles. She was square-bodied and wore prudish ironed blouses under cable-knit cardigans.

  Louise offered tomato juice. Dawn must've told her ten times that it made her gag.

  “Thanks.” Dawn took it without sipping. “What's up?”

  “How was school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you like your new math teacher?”

  “He's not so bad.” So, I'm your duty, Dawn repeated to herself. “Is there anything else?”

  “There is.” Louise pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I have to go on a trip with the Red Cross for five weeks or so.”

  “Oh!” Dawn tried to sound disinterested, but her throat tightened. “To where?”

  “To Pakistan, near the Afghan border.” Louise stirred lemon into her tea.

  “That's on the other side of the world!” The DiGiornos had scheduled a trip before hauling Dawn back to the group home. Mrs. DiGiorno had claimed she needed space, but all that distance probably made it easier for her to dump Dawn. Well, if Louise wanted distance that badly too…“How long have you known about this?”

  “I just found out.”

  “Like the time you found out a week before your trip to Kansas and didn't let me know until the day before?” Dawn's face grew hot.

  “No, not like that.” Louise hesitated. “I realize it's far from San Francisco.”

  “What's in Pakistan, anyway?” Dawn felt herself flip off like a switch.

  Louise adjusted her glasses. “The situation in the refugee camps has been deteriorating.” She leaned forward. “Afghans have been fleeing from civil war for years, and the border camps are stretched to bursting. Drought has worsened, and food will run out by winter if the International Committee of the Red Cross doesn't intervene. Malaria and pneumonia are rampant.” Her owlish gray eyes fixed on Dawn. “How do you feel about me going?”

  Dawn said, “They need doctors.”

  “But does it matter to you?” Louise asked.

  Dawn's muscles clenched. “Do whatever you want. You'll do that anyway.”

  “Well, if you hate the idea…” Louise wouldn't stop staring at Dawn with a pity that made Dawn's skin crawl.

  “It's your duty, right?” Dawn replied. “And the refugees need help.”

  The ticking clock punctuated their silence.

  “I can see you're upset.”

  This routine was beyond exhausting. But Louise had never traveled so far. Usually it was a weekend of Louisiana flood relief or tornado relief in Kansas. And being alone with Victor for all that time would be awful.

  “Who said I was upset? You're the one who's losing it,” Dawn snapped.

  “Listen, Miss Rude, I've had enough of you!” Louise shouted. She breathed in deeply, exhaled, then spoke in a gentler tone. “I'll cancel my flight, Dawn.”

  “Absolutely not.” Dawn was surprised by her own fierceness.

  Louise seemed relieved and gave a tense smile. “Well, dear, as I said, it will only be for five weeks, just until food and medicine are distributed—you'll hardly know I'm gone. Victor can take you to some restaurants. You can bring along your friend Jude—”

  “Please leave Jude out of this.” Dawn checked the clock. “Are we done?”

  “Almost.” Louise held up a stack of papers etched in neat script. “Here's all my contact information—my numbers, the address for the ICRC's Suryast camp in Peshawar, my e-mail address. They say the Internet goes in and out, but a letter may get intercepted. E-mail and phone are the best,” she explained. “I'll show you how to use the sat phone in my office. Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out something from her cardigan pocket and handed it to Dawn. “A SIM card in case you need to call while you're away from the house.”

  Victor shuffled in, puffing on his pipe. “Hello,” he said, taking a seat.

  “How soon are you leaving?” Dawn asked, pocketing the card.

  Victor started to cough, then glared at Louise.

  “Tomorrow night.” Louise tapped the papers on the table to straighten them, then fastened them neatly with a paper clip. “You know I'll miss you, Dawn.”

  Sure, just like the DiGiornos had said. “You won't miss me and I won't miss you,” Dawn blurted. “Go. Do your Mother Teresa thing.”

  Victor stood up. “That's enough! What's wrong with you?”

  “Let her be.” Louise's look pinned Victor back to his seat. “There's a lot she needs to absorb.”

  “I've absorbed.” Dawn raced upstairs, anger and fear blurring her vision. Falling onto the bed, she curled into the fetal position. She hadn't meant to be so mean, but at times she just snapped. T
he argument between Victor and Louise and this sudden news only added two more off-key octaves to the discordant symphony of the day.

  Earlier the math teacher had handed back Dawn's pop quiz with a C-minus. Urban had decent classes, but algebra, no matter how it was candy-coated with games and gimmicky charts, was hell. Then in orchestra Dawn found out that she had only placed as third flutist. Third flutist! Just because the other two kids' parents were PTA clones who spent their lives repping their doubtful prodigies didn't mean their brats could waltz right in and grab her rightful chair. It was guilt that had clouded the music teacher's eyes as he mumbled, “You know I think the world of your talent, but these two flutists have been at Urban since way back in the first grade.”

  But the worst was what had happened after last period. Dawn had turned down the hall, slipped past some giggling classmates, and hurried toward her friend Jude. He was bending over his locker, stuffing books in his bag.

  Back when Dawn was new at Urban, Jude had rescued her from the sorry quagmire of freaks and geeks. They had formed a misfit musician-and-actor duo. The previous spring they had hung out at his house in the Haight, where every day Dawn swore she could feel the vibes of old hippie musicians like Hendrix, the Airplane, and the Grateful Dead—ghost trails of brilliant lyrical maniacs. They would sit on Jude's shag rug and plot their fantasy escape to New York, where they would take the plunge into professional music and theater. With each plotting, it grew more elaborate—her in a famous band, him a stage diva. This summer she had worked the counter at Melody's Music Store and Jude skipped off to acting camp. The summer hung on like a crusty scab, and Jude wrote only one half-baked letter. She wasn't quite sure where she stood with him now, but then she was never quite sure of things like that.

  “Jude,” she called when she was almost to his locker.

  He swung around. His hair was stylishly windblown, and he had on one of his trademark silk shirts. “Girlfriend, am I glad to see you!” Jude's chiseled features relaxed into a broad smile. “It's so depressing to be back among the heathens. I'm ready to blow this town for New York. Broadway needs the soon-to-be-infamous me, Jude Hahn.” He leaned in, his bony hands moving expressively as he spoke. “Pax would let us crash with him in New York. And you're so hot on flute that as soon as he heard you play, he'd get on his knees and beg you to join his band.”