by Trent Reedy
“She is my sister and she wants to talk to me!” I yelled. Captain Mindy looked at Shiaraqa for the translation, but he only shook his head.
A tear streamed back from Zeynab’s eye and she groaned in pain. It must have burned on her scorched face. “No,” she whispered. “No … fly. Let … me … mmmmm …” Her eyes rolled in her head as she trembled. “Let … me … die.”
Die? My Zeynab? Oh, no. A thousand times no. “Zeynab, they can help you. The Americans can fix you the way they fixed my mouth.”
The radio that Captain Mindy had clipped to her chest squawked and a loud voice spoke over it. She quickly covered it and stepped out into the hallway.
“Let … me … die,” said Zeynab. Each word was a quiet, forced wheeze.
“Oh, no, please, Zeynab,” I cried.
Captain Mindy stepped back into the room and spoke firmly to Shiaraqa. I looked to him and he translated. “A helicopter is on its way. She needs to know if your sister takes any medicine.”
I asked Zeynab and she whispered no.
Shiaraqa spoke more quietly. “Is she pregnant?”
Zeynab heard the question and painful tears sprang from her eyes. “No,” she whispered in little gasps. “He say … He … say …” She winced against the pain. “He say … I … can’t.”
Shiaraqa nodded and left the room. My eyes went wide and I put a hand to my open mouth. “But it’s only been a few months,” I said. Without thinking about my words, I added, “You can still have a baby. You will, Zeynab. Think about your little boy. He’ll be so beautiful.”
Zeynab shuddered as more tears burned her face. After a few quiet but tense moments, Shiaraqa rushed back into the room and spoke to Captain Mindy. She looked at him and answered in rapid English, punching her fist into her hand. He answered and Captain threw her hands up and shook her head.
“What is the problem?” I asked.
Shiaraqa would not even face me. When he spoke, he looked at Captain. “Your sister’s husband says he cannot afford to stay with her in Kandahar through her treatment, and that his wives may not go without their husband as an escort. He says the Americans should treat your sister here in Farah.”
How could Tahir say such a thing? Didn’t he understand how serious Zeynab’s burns were? He was a rich man. He could afford the time away from work to go to Kandahar. He had to know that this hospital was nothing like an American hospital. This place was dirty. The people here hadn’t run one tube into her arm as the Americans had. They hadn’t even bandaged Zeynab. She was simply lying there on the bed.
Mercifully, Zeynab was asleep again. Over the next few hours, Captain Mindy and Shiaraqa went outside several times. I knew they were arguing with Tahir. Every time they came back, Captain was angrier. I looked down at Zeynab’s charred and peeled-away skin. My sweet sister was dying. She was dying and her husband, Tahir, didn’t care.
Everything blurred in my tears. I stood there, remembering how beautiful and wonderful Zeynab had been, my strength and friend and hope through my whole life. I stood there, watching her suffer, listening to her raspy, shallow breathing. I stood there until just before the dawn, when finally she breathed no more.
In the murky mix between yesterday and today, between light and dark, I squeezed Zeynab’s hand for the last time. I should have cried. I should have screamed and pulled out my hair. But I had shed all the tears I had left. I was exhausted and dizzy from a long, long night in this horrible, hot room. I pulled the white sheet up to cover my sister. Then I turned away.
There was nothing more to be done here. Zeynab’s dead body, just like her life, belonged to Tahir now. I stepped out of the room. The only light spilled in through an open door at the end of the hallway near the front of the hospital.
“Zulaikha?” Captain Mindy said as I passed. She put her hand on my arm but I pulled away, staggering toward the front door.
I hadn’t realized how thick the heat had been in the hospital until I was outside on the front porch and the cool air stung my face.
Najib sprang to his feet. “Zeynab?”
I only shook my head. I couldn’t say the word. Najib turned away quickly and I took his hand.
We passed Tahir, who stood up, yawning and stretching. He didn’t shed a single tear. I was too sad, too tired to be shocked. My sister was only one of his wives. He had two others. He was a rich man and could marry again.
Shiaraqa called after me, translating something Captain Mindy was saying, but I kept walking with my brother to the car. Only when Najib was in the driver seat did I turn around and see Shiaraqa hadn’t been calling after me at all. Instead, he was speaking in a loud voice to Captain Mindy. Captain shouted, pointed at Shiaraqa, and then pointed at Tahir. When Shiaraqa shook his head and responded in English again, Captain Mindy grabbed his perahan-tunban and shook him. Finally, Shiaraqa nodded and turned to Tahir.
“What does this crazy woman want?” Tahir asked.
“She says she thinks you’re wrong to be so old and marry so young a girl.”
“She doesn’t understand. She knows nothing. These things happen.” Tahir shrugged. “Anyway, why does she care so much for this one girl when the Americans have killed thousands? Tell this little tramp to go on home.” He took a step toward Captain.
I heard a metallic click and saw Corporal Andrews standing closer to them both, his rifle ready and his finger on the trigger.
Tahir’s chest heaved up and down as he breathed deep. He looked at Captain and then at Corporal. Taking a step back, he held up his empty, thick, sausage-finger hands. He spoke softly to Shiaraqa. “This is how the Americans do everything, bossing everyone around with their big guns, pretending to be heroes because they act like they care for one girl who burned in an accident.”
Captain erupted into English, her words blurring together in an angry rush. She motioned for Shiaraqa to translate, but didn’t pause to let him catch up.
“She says … you’re a very bad man.” Shiaraqa sounded uncertain. Captain Mindy’s shouting got even louder and she held up her fist. Shiaraqa’s eyes widened. “A very, very bad man.”
Finally, Captain spit at Tahir’s feet as she stepped past him. Corporal Andrews kept watching him with his gun ready. She ran to me and crouched down beside me. When she pulled me in close to hug me, I didn’t resist her. It all felt unreal, like Captain wasn’t hugging me, but some other girl I was watching in a nightmare that would never end.
She let me go, and I looked at her for a moment before I got into the car.
My brother Najibullah wept all the way home.
The month following Zeynab’s death was long and painful.
Hajji Abdullah’s family reached Baba by satellite phone, and he came home late the day my sister died. He looked drained and empty, hollow, the way I felt. I never saw him cry, not even at her funeral, but he locked himself in his room for days. I’d take him food sometimes. Other times Malehkah or Najib would try to get him to eat. Either way, he did not eat much.
When he finally did come out, he still didn’t talk. He just went back to work, building the clinic in Nimruz and welding at the base in Farah. He was even working with the Abdullahs, trying to get the contract to improve the old Russian air base that the Americans were using to the north in Shindand. Baba was a busy man.
Malehkah’s baby came. We did not celebrate as people usually did when a new baby was born. It was a girl. We named her Safia. She cried at night sometimes. I half wondered if she was crying over Zeynab like I was. A few days after she was born, Malehkah was better able to help with the work around the compound.
“Zulaikha, when you’re finished dusting, will you sort the rice for dinner?” Malehkah stood in the doorway to the storage room, holding the new baby. Lately, she actually asked me to do chores, instead of ordering me as she had always done.
“I sorted it already, Madar.”
“Ah. Feed Torran then.”
“I already did that too.”
“Bale.” She le
ft the room.
That was how most of our exchanges had been lately. Except for the baby’s cries, the house had been quiet. I launched myself into chores, and when those were done, I sneaked away alone to practice my writing. Maybe I worked so hard because it helped to keep my mind focused on something. Maybe I volunteered for all those chores because when I did them, I didn’t have to focus my mind at all.
I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, then shook my head. Everything was supposed to be perfect once my mouth was fixed. Zeynab was supposed to be happily married. I was supposed to marry his handsome brother. The two of us would raise our children together. But nothing had happened the way it was supposed to. Maybe I looked normal. Maybe even a little pretty. What difference did it make? What had beauty done for Zeynab? I felt the tears coming, and so I bit my lower lip. I could do that now, with my new mouth. I did that a lot.
I pulled my notebook from my trunk and slipped it into the pocket of my dress. Malehkah was in the kitchen, humming and peeling potatoes while Safia slept in a basket.
“Do you need anything from the bazaar?” I asked.
“Onions.” Malehkah pulled a stack of bills out of her pocket and counted off fifty Afghanis.
As I went through the courtyard, Khalid came out of his fort behind the fuel drums in the front corner of the compound. Habib was with him. “Buy us some candy?” I nodded to them on my way out.
Outside, a dog barked in the distance and a gentle breeze blew a dried-up leaf across the dirt road. The water in the river was cold. Soon I’d need to wear shoes when I crossed.
In the bazaar, I bought three onions. I didn’t even argue about the price. I’d give the boys some of what was left of the candy the Americans had given me.
When I had rounded the corner from the bazaar road and passed a few compounds down Meena’s street, Anwar and Salman came out of a side alley, laughing, pushing, and shoving each other. As soon as Anwar saw me, his smile vanished and he held up his arm to stop his cousin. I clenched my fists at my side. My stomach felt like it was twisting over.
“Look, Anwar,” said Salman. “It’s Zulaikha with her pretty new mouth.”
I wheeled around in the direction I had come, but Anwar rushed to block my way. They had me cut off from the bazaar and from home. My legs felt wobbly again, almost as bad as that morning they had cornered me on the river road.
“Naw, look at that scar,” Anwar said. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s just the same old Donkeyface.” He put his fingers straight out from under his nose to imitate the way my teeth used to be.
Used to be. I didn’t look at all the same anymore. I didn’t feel the same anymore. Couldn’t they think of new mean things to say? How could they still think this was funny?
“HEEEE-HAAAAAW,” Salman droned. Anwar slapped his cousin on the back and laughed.
The same old jokes every time, and now the insults weren’t even true. I stood and simply watched the boys laugh at me. They could do what they wanted. I couldn’t make myself care.
Anwar frowned, as though he sensed that something besides my mouth was different from the last time we’d been through this. He pulled back his fist. Suddenly, he lurched forward like he was going to hit me. I flinched when his fist came close.
But he didn’t hit me. He stopped his fist a few centimeters back. He grinned at Salman and then at me. “Just testing,” he said.
All the same as that day on the river road. He hadn’t really hit me. He’d stopped short. The only difference was that back then, his hateful words had hurt, because I did look horrible.
“The way I look doesn’t make a difference,” I said. “Nothing does.”
“What are you talking about, Donkeyface?” Salman shouted.
“It never made a difference, except that the insults and the threats used to bother me.” It was time to forget about what these boys were always saying, about what they would always say, no matter what happened. “Khuda hafiz, Anwar.” I stepped past Anwar and Salman and went on my way to Meena’s shop.
“Wait a minute!” Anwar shouted, rushing to block my path again. “I didn’t give you permission to leave yet!”
I faked to the right and then stepped around Anwar to the left. “I’ve given myself permission.”
“Donkeyface, where you going?” Salman said.
I didn’t reply. I kept walking. Anwar caught up with me.
“I can still see the scar, Zulaikha. You’re still ugly,” he said. “You’ll always have the scars.”
At another time I might have smiled. These boys I had always been so afraid of, they were powerless except to call me mean names. They weren’t going to do anything to me. I walked right past them.
“Aw, who cares about old ugly Donkeyface?” Anwar said from somewhere behind me.
I forced myself not to look back. When I reached Meena’s shop, I finally turned to check behind me. The street was empty. Anwar and Salman were gone.
Meena welcomed me in as always. She put on the tea and we took our usual seats. I didn’t say anything, but handed her my notebook. She examined the pages I had copied. “Good.” She turned more pages. “Very good.”
I wished I could enjoy her praise. She must have noticed something in my expression when she looked up from my work. “But how are you, child?”
“I …” The tightness was back in my throat. “I can’t stop thinking about Zeynab.”
“Nor should you, Zulaikha.” Muallem’s voice was very quiet.
“She was so beautiful and …” I bit my lower lip. “I mean, I always thought if I could be even a small part as pretty as my sister …” Then the tears came. “I miss her. It just hurts so much.”
Meena stood up and went for the tea. She placed my cup on the table next to me and poured. “‘Every triumph from patience springs, the happy herald of better things.’”
“But what better things?” I wiped my nose with my chador. Meena poured a cup for herself and then sat down. She watched me through the steam over her cup and said nothing. I took a sip. “You mean the school? In Herat?”
“I did not say so, child. You must decide for yourself if that’s the desire Allah has placed in your heart.” She lowered her cup and held it with both hands in her lap. “I will help you no matter what you decide, but I cannot make the decision for you.”
“The poems you have me copying,” I said. “They make more sense. In the back of my notebook, I started to write a letter … to Zeynab, and to my madar-jan.” I rubbed the tears from my eyes. “You can check it over if you —”
“No.” Meena leaned back on her bed. “No, those are sacred words, between you and your mother and sister.” She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. “You’re learning. You are a very good student.”
“The poems are the only things that bring me peace. Poems and prayer. They comfort me.” I stopped and waited for Meena to say something, but she only nodded, her eyes still closed. “But I can’t go to Herat,” I said. She didn’t move. “Baba would never let me.”
Meena kept her eyes closed but raised her eyebrows. “Really, child? Have you asked him?”
“I’m too afraid to,” I said, looking down. “He’s … He’s not the same since Zeynab died. And he’d be furious to know I’ve been sneaking away from the house and coming here. And …” I sighed. “I worry that if he finds out I’ve been learning, he’ll put a stop to it.” This time my teacher was quiet for so long that I wondered if she was sleeping. “Anyway, ‘every triumph from patience springs,’ right?”
Now Muallem’s eyes were wide open. She was more awake than I had ever seen her. “Haven’t you been patient long enough?” She gestured at herself and then at me. “Haven’t we all waited long enough?” She leaned toward me. “What if this chance for school is the better thing that you were always destined to be patient for?”
“Herat isn’t going anywhere.”
Muallem nodded. “Yes. But as we get older, as we gain more responsibilities, life’s option
s have the tendency to slip away.”
I breathed in deeply and huffed out over the steam from my tea. “I have to do this now, don’t I?”
“Of course not, child. But it may be much more difficult to do later. Not that convincing your father to allow you to go to Herat for your studies will be easy now.”
“But it would be worth it,” I said, to myself as much as Meena.
As if by unspoken agreement, we fell into our work, reviewing some of the poems we’d read before and practicing new words. When it was time to go, Muallem gave me a new page of poetry to copy. I picked up my bag of onions from the bazaar and went through the shop to the street door.
“Muallem-sahib?” I asked as I reached the door. She looked up at me. “Do you pray?”
“Absolutely, child. It seems I hardly ever stop praying.”
I smiled. “Will you pray for me tonight?”
Meena made a little bow. “Bale, Zulaikha.”
That night, we ate much later than usual because Baba and Najib arrived home late from work. When we were all seated around the dastarkhan, I stared at my rice and naan and twisted my old dinner towel in my lap. I no longer needed it as I did before my surgery, but right then I found it comforting.
“We should be finished with the clinic in a few weeks. The Americans have inspected our progress and they are very impressed.” Baba spoke plainly, with some of his old excitement. “They paid me the third installment of my total payment, and they say that if I finish before the end of the month, which I easily will, they will give me a hundred thousand Afghani bonus. Can you believe that?”
Baba tore off a piece of naan with his teeth. “What did I tell you, Najibullah? You watch your workers carefully or they will work slowly, sleep on the job if they can. Watch them, work with them now and then so they will like you and work harder for you. Then …” He pointed at Najib. “… Then you will get results.”
Baba wasn’t exactly happy, but he was in a better mood than I’d seen him in for a long time. This was good. It was a good time to ask him about Herat. But how could I, when he would hardly stop talking about his jobs and his money? My palms were sweaty and my hands shook. Finally, I jumped in and spoke up. “Baba-jan, I need —”