So Rover became my “dog.” Because it’s so hard for me to have a real dog, given my job, the little white stuffed toy was a surrogate. He moved to Toronto with me and, later to Regina, where my friends embraced him as if he were a real puppy. He was especially popular with Henry, my friends Mal and Coreen’s two-year-old. And that’s where he was now, with Henry’s godmother, Stefani.
I thought about what else I had that was of any value. Abdulrahman had made off with my grandmother’s wedding ring. My other ring was the silver one from my sister. I hadn’t taken it off since Vanessa gave it to me, and it wasn’t something I thought I could give back to her.
To Kelly McClughan—my silver ring.
But I had to give my sister something. I would have given her grandma’s ring, but I no longer had it. But I did have something else of my grandmother’s that was, to me, even more special: her original Good Housekeeping cookbook, published in 1966. It was tattered and the spine was tearing, but I loved it because it was full of her writings, little notes on the sides, with recipes she’d culled from other sources and scribbled in the margins.
My grandma was an amazing woman. She had grown up without very much, the hated stepdaughter of her father’s second wife. Working hard her entire life, she and my grandfather raised an only child—Joyce, my mother—and eventually moved with our family when we immigrated to Canada. With both of our parents working, she focused on her grandchildren, and our lives were the richer for it. She helped us with our homework, reading the classics again when we did at school, working through long algebra equations with us, walking us to and from school and to all those after-school lessons we were signed up for. But best of all, she baked.
She taught herself by following recipes, until she eventually started creating her own beautiful cakes and tortes. The best apple pie in the world, with homemade ice cream, which she cranked out from an old-fashioned salt and ice–powered ice cream maker. Cinnamon buns, with big fat raisins peeking out from a cream cheese glaze. Cookies and meringues and buttercream. My favourite was a maple walnut torte she made with layers of walnut meringue and chiffon cake, with a perfect maple buttercream. Her Black Forest cake, which I’ve tried to replicate but just can’t make taste quite the way hers did. A chocolate–Grand Marnier torte, with layers of rich and moist dark chocolate cake with orange liqueur mousse, topped with chocolate ganache and ribbons of shaved chocolate.
I watched and learned, and she would let me help. My job was measuring ingredients and holding the electric mixer—and, of course, tasting the finished product. Then she’d make notes in her little blue cookbook.
Years later, I saved it from the garbage bin when my parents were renovating the house.
To my sister, Vanessa—Grandma’s blue cookbook.
I didn’t really have anything else of value. My friends were already looking after my possessions, as I’d been away from home for months before going to Afghanistan. My KitchenAid stand mixer, probably my favourite kitchen appliance, was at Coreen’s house in Regina, where I knew she was putting it to good use.
To Coreen Larson—my KitchenAid stand mixer (please make the yummy Guinness chocolate cake with it).
I’d already left all my good Scotch and wine with my friends Gerry and Shelley Thue in Regina. I kept several single malts in my liquor drawer, and because another reporter would be staying in my apartment while I was gone, I moved the liquor to the Thues. Gerry was a single malt aficionado.
To the Thues—please drink the Scotch. Yes, Gerry, even the Lagavulin.
My prized Canucks jersey was my going-away present from the Vancouver newsroom when I left to take a job as a national reporter in Toronto. It had been signed by the entire hockey team, and I barely ever took it out of the clear resealable bag it had come in. I didn’t even wear it to games, afraid that I’d slop mustard or ketchup or spill beer on it. There was only one person who would appreciate it and look after it the way I did.
To Jen Barr—my signed Canucks jersey.
That was pretty much it. All my worldly possessions. Not much to show for thirty-six years on this earth. I flipped to the earlier note I had written to Paul and added to it.
I know I just asked you to pray for me, but in the event that those prayers don’t work, and you find yourself reading this notebook at some point without me, I left you something that might help with praying in the future. I wish I could have given you so much more—but I need you to be okay if I don’t come home.
Promise me, okay?
xox
I must have passed out sometime in the early evening. I woke up to the sound of footsteps above. I froze. Was it one of my kidnappers or someone looking for me?
“Mellissa!” It sounded like Abdulrahman.
“Yes!” I called up, struggling to stand. I shuffled over in my chain to the opening of the pipe and with my left hand took the fabric pieces out of it so that I could call up.
“You are Khalid! Not Mellissa!” Oh, right. I had forgotten that I’d been instructed not to answer to my own name.
“Mellissa!” he called down again. I didn’t answer.
“Khalid!” was the next call.
“Yes?” I responded.
“Good. It is Abdulrahman. Do you need anything?”
“Yes, more batteries for the tsiragh. And more cigarettes.”
“Battery and cigarettes,” he repeated. He pronounced “cigarette” without the “a” so it sounded like “cigrette.”
“Yes. When do I go to Kabul, Abdulrahman? What is going on? How is Khalid?”
“Inshallah, in a few days,” he answered. “We will take you. Goodbye!”
His footsteps faded away, I was alone again. As much as I despised Abdulrahman, his short visit made me feel a little better. At least my kidnappers hadn’t forgotten about me. But of course they wouldn’t. I was worth more to them alive than dead, and they had invested enough time in my kidnapping.
One way or another, I was getting out of here, and I would get out alive. I sat back down and opened my notebook.
Don’t worry, P. I’m coming home. It will all be okay. We’ll see each other soon. But keep praying, if you can. I need all the help I can get. Love you. xox
Dearest M,
I got a note from Kas last night who says she and the girls are drinking a lot to ease their fear and frustration (but what else is new!). She also says Jen Barr won a Gemini this week and dedicated it to you. Erin Boudreau in London also won and sent this note:
“But I must say, the golden hue of a Gemini doesn’t feel right under these circumstances. I think about Mellissa all the time—when I eat breakfast, when I brush my teeth, when I try to concentrate at work. I hope you are hanging in there…”
I am just sorry, darling, that you will have to spend more nights in your hell. I know you have tremendous faith, and prayer will help you get through the worst of it, but still I worry. I’ve taken out that photograph of us from the harbour in Hong Kong and put it on the desk. I look at it and just know that we will go back there together.
Good night, M. I’m with you.
xx
I’d spent about forty-eight hours alone in the hole with my thoughts, my rosary, and my notebook, and was just lighting a cigarette when I heard footsteps again. But no one called down to me, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Was I being released? Could it be the police? Maybe it was someone else.
Then I heard digging. I wasn’t sure I was hearing right at first. But the sound became unmistakable. It had been a few days since I’d heard it.
“Khalid!” A voice from above. My heart slowed. It was my kidnappers after all. I ducked under the duvet to shield myself from the dust shower and waited. I heard the cover being taken off the opening of the hole, and then a thump. It was the real Khalid, and I watched as he crawled down the tunnel toward me.
“Khalid, what’s going on?” I asked.
“We go now!” he replied, looking a little flustered. He started unlocking the padlocks on the chain that
held my ankles together. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted. He was struggling with the lock on my wrist, twice trying all three keys, but none of them fit.
“Quick, we go,” he told me. “Your shoes.” He reached for my runners and I scrambled to put them on, without even untying the laces.
“Quick!”
“Wait,” I said. “I need to bring my things. My notebook. My backpack.” If I was being released, I wanted to be able to bring my possessions with me.
Khalid gave me an empty white plastic bag. “Put here,” he ordered.
I emptied the contents of my backpack into the plastic: my wallet, my makeup bag, and both notebooks.
“Quick! Go!” He gave me a push into the tunnel and I crawled up. I still had the chain on my wrist, and it was dragging behind me. I got to the end of the tunnel and stood up.
“Mellissa!” It was Abdulrahman from above. Khalid had come up the tunnel and was now standing behind me. He wrapped his hands around my legs and lifted me up. “Lift your arms!” I heard Abdulrahman bark. I lifted my arms and felt two sets of hands on either side lifting me onto solid ground. I breathed the fresh air deeply. It was dark and I could barely make out the abandoned house to the left.
“Do not look!” Khalid shouted from the shaft as he scrambled to the top with my plastic bag. “Sit down!”
I obeyed. He took my black scarf and wrapped it around my eyes, so crudely that the scarf was restricting my ability to breathe.
“Ow!” I yelled. “Not so tight!” He loosened it and asked if I could see. I said no and was ordered to stand up.
“Walk.”
“Walk where?” I asked. “I cannot see.”
“Up!” Someone shoved the barrel of a gun into my back. I felt a cold rush of fear. Was I about to be executed? Where were we going? Khalid—at least, I thought it was Khalid—shoved the handles of the bag into my hand. We started walking, Khalid leading me by the elbow. Shafirgullah walked on my other side, and Abdulrahman was behind us. They led me through the village, and I stumbled several times over steps and the uneven ground.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Do not speak,” Khalid said. My heart was pounding and my skin was clammy. That must be the feeling of raw fear. I’d never felt anything like it before.
“We going away from here,” Abdulrahman told me.
“Why? Where are we going? Why are we going now?” No answer from anyone. We just kept walking. Around walls, over bumps on the road, through alleys between houses.
“Sit down!” Khalid pushed my left shoulder down, and I dropped to the ground. So did my captors. We sat for a while, and they spoke in hushed tones in Pashto. They must have seen someone walking in the vicinity.
“Get up!” I felt Khalid’s hand on my elbow, pushing it up, so I stood up. “Go!” And we continued rushing through the village—I assumed—with me blindfolded, unable to make out even the brightest of lights from under my scarf. I tripped several times and stubbed my toe. They seemed impatient, hauling me up again, all the while talking among themselves in rapid Pashto. We finally stumbled into an open area. The ground felt a bit sandy and I sensed there were no buildings around us.
“Do not stop,” Khalid said quietly, still leading me by the elbow. We kept walking, and I kept stumbling over my feet, even on the sand. I felt awkward walking. It had been so long since I’d been able to, and now I was being forced to do it blindfolded. It felt like we were climbing a hill. The sand was slippery under my running shoes and it was difficult to go very fast.
“Sit down now.” I did as I was told, and sensed my kidnappers sitting down next to me. “I am taking your scarf.” I felt hands reach behind my head and the scarf came off. I blinked and looked around. We were in a sandy open area, and there was a small hill about thirty metres away. I could make out mountains farther ahead and to the left. I turned to look at where we had come from.
“Do not look!” Khalid turned my head around to face forward. It was just him and Shafirgullah with me. Abdulrahman must have left us somewhere along the way. Shafirgullah was carrying a big sack on a stick, like a hobo sack. Khalid also had a big pack with him, which he unpacked, looking for something. I saw that his pack held several plastic bags, which looked like they contained about a dozen juice boxes, a few packages of cigarettes, fruit creme cookies, and Afghan bread. Shafirgullah’s pack was bigger but lighter. He sat down on it while Khalid fished out a package of cigarettes and put them in the pocket of his jacket.
“Khalid, where are we going?” I asked.
He lit a smoke and didn’t answer right away, instead saying something to Shafirgullah in Pashto. “Where are we going? What is going on?” I insisted. I was running on adrenaline. My heart was still pounding, as it had been since they’d dug me out of the hole, about an hour before.
“We go away—to a better place,” Khalid told me.
“Why?” I asked. “What was wrong with where we were before?”
“It is not safe,” he said.
“Where are we going?” I kept repeating. “Where?”
“Walk! Go!” Khalid ordered. He yanked the chain that was still tethered to my right wrist, and the metal dug into my skin.
“Ow!” I cried. “Don’t do that!”
I couldn’t believe he was treating me like this. Even though he was the one who had chained me to myself two days before, I still found it difficult to accept that the one person out of the gang of kidnappers, the one I had come to rely on, had turned on me the way he had. I’d spent the last three weeks trying to build a relationship and gain his trust, and I thought he actually cared a little about my well-being. He’d called me “sister,” promised not to kill me, talked to me about his wedding plans. I’d listened to him, told him about my family, gave him the little mirror in my makeup bag as a gift for Shogufa.
And in the last two days, we had reverted back to the relationship we started with on day one. Kidnapper and hostage. Gunman and captive. Fundamentalist and foreigner. I felt betrayed, but I realized I had been betrayed only by my own naïveté, if anything.
He yanked the chain again, not as hard this time, and led us toward the small hill. We trudged through the sand and up the hill. It wasn’t very high, and over the edge I could see bushes, and mountains in the distance. I turned around and looked at the village we’d just left. It was bigger than I had thought, definitely not a village, but a town. There weren’t many lights, and it was sprawling and flat, checkered with mud walls and mud houses.
“Do not look back,” Khalid ordered, so I turned back around and looked ahead. He had been holding the end of my chain but dropped it to pick up his pack. I caught up to the end and picked it up. The chain was maybe twelve feet long, and it was heavy. Khalid led the way and Shafirgullah walked behind me, carrying his hobo sack, his gun pointed at my back. We veered left along what looked like a dried-up creek bed, and I could feel small branches rub against my raw ankles.
“Khalid, please tell me, what is going on?” I called out to him. “Did your father tell us to leave? Are we going to Kabul?”
He ignored me, but I was dogged, like the legislative reporter I once was, grilling a minister who was trying to avoid answering a question. Finally, he had had enough. He stopped walking and turned back to face me. “It is not my father!” he shouted. “I have no father!”
“What?” I was completely confused.
“It is not my father!” he repeated, a little louder this time.
“What are you saying? Then who have you been talking to all this time? You told me it was your father.” I still wasn’t sure what he was telling me.
“I lie to you. The one in Pakistan. He is not my father.” He started walking again.
I followed, running a little to catch up to him. “You lied? If he’s not your father, who is he? And where is your father?”
“I have no father!”
“Did you lie about your mother too? She’s not dead, is she.” Khalid’s only response was to
walk faster. I was almost running to keep up.
“Khalid, if that person in Pakistan is not your father, who is he? And what about your mother?”
“My father is dead! I have no father!” He was yelling again.
I yelled back. “Then who is the person in Pakistan you are talking to?”
“It is my friend! My friend, okay?”
I was confused, but it was clear he wasn’t going to give me any more information, so we continued walking. Soon we were in front of what looked like the base of a small mountain beyond some trees and bushes. I was getting tired. Three weeks of sitting in a hole had no doubt weakened my muscle strength considerably, and I was carrying around a chain that probably weighed close to seven kilograms. I was huffing and puffing when we finally stopped behind the trees.
“Sit,” Khalid ordered. We all sat for a while, and my captors lit cigarettes. They offered me one and I took it, lighting it only after I had caught my breath. We sat for a while, and the two Afghans spoke to each other in Pashto, pointing at the mountains in front of us. I wished I could understand what they were saying. After a few minutes, Khalid stood up. “We go!”
I struggled to stand up. My legs felt like jelly. I didn’t know how much farther we were going to go, but I knew I couldn’t walk any faster. My kidnappers didn’t seem to care. We started walking up another hill toward the mountain. The ground was rocky, the stones like shale, brittle and angular. The mountain was getting closer and closer, and I wondered if we were going to go around it, through it, or under it. I tripped several times as the hill got steeper, the rocks crumbling under our feet. I tried to step in the same places Khalid had stepped, but his legs were longer than mine and I couldn’t match his strides. A rock gave out under my left foot and I stumbled. Unable to catch my balance, I fell and tumbled several feet down the hill.
Under an Afghan Sky Page 26