Max is still grinning when we leave her hospital room. She follows me into the hallway, looking small but strong in her hospital gown and with a fresh hospital security bracelet on her wrist.
“By the way,” I say cooly over my shoulder, “you might want to check out the pictures on your phone. I’m closer to Hollywood than you think.”
Thirty-Four
It’s a Friday in December and my mother is frantically chopping tomatoes, cucumbers, and cilantro. The rice, the beef stew, and the fried eggplant are all simmering in the oven. Auntie Seema is setting our small table and shaking her head to see my mother so anxious.
“You’ve never made such a fuss for me coming over,” she says, acting as if her feelings are really hurt.
“That’s not true, Seema,” my mother mumbles, and Auntie Seema laughs because my mother’s right. She cooks for two full days any time Auntie Seema comes to visit.
It’s not until the doorbell buzzes that I realize I’m as anxious as my mother. I’ve cleaned the bedroom we share about twenty times and straightened the pillows on the couch so many times they look scared to move.
“I’ll get it!” I shout.
“Shah-jan, don’t run,” my mom calls out, though she’s practically hopping to put away the chopping board and the strainer, that metal sky full of stars. “Remember Ms. Raz!”
Ms. Raz. When I got back, my mother sat down and told Ms. Raz everything. The police had come by the building the day I ran off and asked her lots of questions. It turns out Ms. Raz was really worried about me. She went out looking for me in the neighborhood and wrestled my backpack away from that little angry dog. She told my mother, when she brought the backpack to our door, that she’s not just our landlord, she’s also our neighbor and friend. She didn’t say it with a smile on her face or any mushy hugs. But she said it, and she meant it.
My father’s pictures were still in perfect condition despite being under those little paws. Now those photographs are on the side table in our living room. I spent a lot of time staring at them before I slid them back into the frames. I think I do actually look like him. My nose has the same slope. My eyebrows are just as dark. Maybe I’ll be a story-telling journalist, too, one day. I think of all the good things my mother told me about Afghanistan, and I think I see a little bit of that in me.
Maybe I should start with telling the story of an Afghan-American boy who traveled to the end of the earth for his family, riding a stallion and relying on the friendship and hospitality of people who were fellow countrymen but also strangers. It kind of sounds like an Afghan story. It also sounds like an American story. I guess I don’t have to choose—like Liz said, it can be both.
“Seema, you are sure my clothes are good?”
Auntie Seema has a glass of mango juice in one hand. She looks at my mother’s freshly ironed black slacks and sky-blue blouse. Her lapis lazuli pendant dangles from her neck. Auntie Seema points to her own jeans, ripped at the knees, and her red flannel shirt.
“Almost as good as mine,” she says, and slips onto the couch. She can spend weeks arranging spots of color on a canvas or re-creating a desert scene. She cares about us. She cares about making sure every scrap of paper goes into a blue recycling bin. Nothing else seems to matter much. I like that about her.
I throw the door open.
“Hey, Jason D,” Max says. Her cheeks are flushed from the walk up three flights of stairs. She looks good, like she’s woken up from the best night’s sleep and an awesome dream. Her parents are standing behind her, looking a bit shy.
“Hope we’re not too early. We were anxious to have our first authentic Afghan dinner!”
It’s really good to see her. There’s so much to tell her, so much to ask her. Does she remember every little thing about being Max? What about our day together? Does she remember the rat that poked its head out in the alley and the look on Dr. Shabani’s face when we saw her in the marathon? Has she been back to her tree circle since her surgery? I want to tell her so much. I want to tell her about the lawyer who helped write my mother’s story, filling page after page with the hard truth behind the things she did. I want to tell her about the letter we got that says my mother might get real permission to stay in the country and officially become an American, like me. I wonder if I can take her to the roof and show her my pigeons and the amazing view of Elkton, my hometown. I wonder if we’ll have enough time tonight to get to all of it. We might not. We might just have to start small.
“Hey, Max,” I say with a laugh, remembering my manners and Afghan hospitality. I move aside and point an arm into our apartment. “Welcome to our home.”
Author’s Note
I am not Jason D but I can surely relate to him. My parents came to the United States just a few years before I was born. Many family members, fleeing a war-torn Afghanistan, followed in their footsteps or fled to other countries as refugees. I don’t know how old I was when I started learning words like affidavits, documents, visas, asylum, and amnesty. They are the necessary vocabulary of an immigrant family, especially one hailing from a war-ravaged nation.
My parents had visions of a brighter future in America and they found the land of opportunity, freedom, and liberty they’d heard about a half world away. My parents each have photos from their early days in the country with Lady Liberty standing tall just behind them, a beacon to those “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
In more recent years, immigration has become a deeply polarizing issue. Who should have the privilege of living in the United States? What responsibility does this country have to help families escaping danger around the world? There are no simple answers to these tough questions, but we can talk about them with decency and compassion, always remembering that we are talking about human beings. We’re all branches of the same tree, the Sufi poet Hafiz wrote in a gorgeous verse that hangs in my living room.
The relationship between Afghanistan and the United States is a long and storied one. In recent years, many Afghans have worked as translators for the US military stationed in Afghanistan. They do so at great risk, as many have been accused of treason or spying. Many have had their lives threatened. Far too many have been killed. So many Americans have stood up in support of those interpreters who were promised opportunities to come to the United States. And countless immigrants begin growing their American patriotism well before they reach this nation. I hope Jason D’s story will help readers understand why immigration is complex and important.
And then we have Max. Max is dealing with a very different struggle, but one that also has her questioning her identity. She is a girl with seizures, but she is so much more than that. Naturally, her parents worry about her, but she refuses to let any diagnosis stop her from plunging into the very enchanting New York City.
As a pediatrician, I’ve had the privilege of watching children soar despite diagnoses. Diabetes, cancer, seizures—these aren’t identities. Children know that and valiantly live their lives to the fullest. They are superheroes, with or without the capes flapping behind their shoulders.
To all the superheroes holding this story in your very capable hands, this world will test you in big or small ways. Maybe it already has. Know that nothing defines you but your heart and your actions. When the time comes, go ahead and let those superpowers dazzle the world.
Acknowledgments
Zoran, Zayla, Kyrus, and Cyra—thank you for the daily bouquets of chaos, encouragement, love, laughter, and the questions that halt me in my tracks. Along with Boba and Yaya, you all make it impossible and important for me to write these stories. Amin, thank you for always having my best interests at heart, for being my sounding board, and for dreaming bigger than life. Thank you to my astute agent, Sarah Heller, for nudging this story in the right direction. Grateful hugs to my editor, Rosemary Brosnan, for your principled guidance, for encouraging me to tackle the hard issues, and for believing in young readers. Much of this story stems from my experiences working with children like Max.
To the young rock stars in my life—Nyla, Kylie, Arria, Mila, Sorab, Sarah, Henna—you all inspire me to write about incredible kids, and you might have even given me some material. My thanks to the many compassionate and skilled physicians who helped train me and to the teams of allied health professionals I’ve partnered with along the way. And, of course, a world of thanks to the children I’ve cared for and to their families for teaching me about bravery, grace, and illness.
About the Author
Author photo by Chris Carter Photography
NADIA HASHIMI was born and raised in New York and New Jersey. Both her parents were born in Afghanistan and left in the early 1970s, before the Soviet invasion. Nadia is the author of three books for adults, as well as the middle grade novel One Half from the East. She is a pediatrician and lives with her family in the Washington, DC, suburbs. Visit her online at www.nadiahashimi.com.
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Copyright
THE SKY AT OUR FEET. Copyright © 2018 by Nadia Hashimi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art by Jennifer Bricking
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017942899
Digital Edition MARCH 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-242195-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-242193-7
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1819202122CG/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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The Sky at Our Feet Page 19