Lipstick in Afghanistan
Page 1
Lipstick in Afghanistan
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Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Roberta Gately
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition November 2010
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Designed by Akasha Archer
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gately, Roberta.
Lipstick in Afghanistan / Roberta Gately.
p. cm.
1. Nurses—Fiction. 2. Afghan War, 2001—Fiction.
3. Americans—Afghanistan—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.A78836L57 2010
813’.6—dc22
2010006735
ISBN 978-1-4391-9138-5
ISBN 978-1-4391-9144-6 (eBook)
Don’t forgetto click through after
Lipstick in Afghanistan
for an exclusive sneak peekat Roberta Gately’s powerful second novel
THE BRACELET
Available from Gallery Books November 2012
In loving memory of my parents, Bob and Mary Gately,
who taught me to dream.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part 1: Elsa
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 2: Parween
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part 3: Friends
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part 4: Choices
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Author’s Note
‘Bracelet’ Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a solitary process, but getting it published and into readers’ hands is anything but, and I am thankful for the kind assistance of so many.
Infinite gratitude goes first to my agents, Judy Hansen who believed in this project from the start, and to Cynthia Manson who knew just what it needed. They are savvy, insightful, wise women and I count my blessings that they are my agents.
To the incredible team at Simon & Schuster, including Louise Burke, Abby Zidle, Danielle Poiesz, Lisa Litwack, Carole Schwin-deller, and Aja Pollock, my eternal gratitude for your enthusiasm, support, and patience for this first-time novelist.
I am indebted to my mentor, Mark Fritz, as well as to my early editorial support, Anna Lvovsky, Steve Saffel, and Ann Pinheiro. To Lauren Kuczala, I can’t imagine finishing this up without your keen eye and fervent eraser. A thousand thank-yous.
For my family, Susan Richard, Marianne Pierson, Jim Gately, and my beloved aunt, Doris Barron, who always believed, my thanks. To my countless friends and extended family—your support, understanding, humor, and love have been invaluable. Thank you all.
To the Nursing Department at Boston Medical Center (formerly the Boston City Hospital), and especially Maureen Hilchey-Masters, my gratitude for your support and understanding.
To the U.S. soldiers stationed in Bamiyan in 2002, members of the ODA-963, C-2-19th SFGA and the 345th Psychological Operations Unit, especially Adam Perry, Frank “Doc” Plisko, and Darren Davila, my thanks for your friendship, your food, your laughter, and your soap.
And finally, to the 42 million refugees who struggle each day to survive, and the selfless aid workers who dedicate themselves to rescuing them, my endless admiration and gratitude for teaching me what really matters in life.
prologue
Afghanistan, 2002
“Do you hear it?” The voice was almost a whisper.
Elsa held her breath, and then she heard it too, a faint rustling of footsteps over twigs and leaves. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed several shadowy figures darting through the trees, and when she turned, she saw a glint of sunlight reflecting off the barrel of an assault rifle.
There was no denying it—the Taliban had found them.
Oh, Jesus! she thought. We’ll never escape.
Elsa knew the Taliban’s ruthless hatred; the death and destruction they wrought was undeniable.
Seized by a sickening wave of fear, she wanted to cry or throw up, but there was no time. She tried to catch Parween’s eye, but her friend was looking back, intent on finding the source of the sound.
“Run!” someone shouted, and suddenly, the chase was on.
But not for Elsa. Her legs were tangled in the fabric of her all-enveloping burqa. She struggled to free herself and finally threw off the covering and ran, her plastic shoes barely touching the ground. She’d never run so fast before, and her heart pounded as she swallowed air in great gulps.
She heard heavy panting.
Was it her own?
Her chest tightened, and a scream rose in her throat, but there was no sound. She couldn’t think clearly. She knew only that she didn’t want to die there in Afghanistan.
Oh, God, let us make it, she prayed.
Just ahead was a small house, and though unprotected by the walls that surrounded typical Afghani homes, it was their only hope.
If they could reach it in time. But the distance seemed too great and her sprint too slow. Still, she pushed on, her arms pumping wildly.
After what seemed an eternity, Elsa and the others reached the house. She turned and stopped dead in her tracks. A growing sense of panic washed over her.
Parween.
Her eyes swept the horizon, but there was no sign of her friend.
Elsa’s throat burned as she tried to catch her breath, and she felt as though her heart would explode in her chest.
She buried her face in her hands.
How had it all gone so wrong? What were they doing here?
What was she doing
here?
A nurse from Boston in fucking Afghanistan, for Christ’s sake.
Hot tears stung her eyes. With trembling hands, she tried to wipe them away.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Where are you, Parween?”
PART
1
Elsa
1
Boston, 1994
It was the hopelessness in their eyes that held sixteen-year-old Elsa’s attention. The black and white images of starving, big-bellied babies gripped her with horror, but one photo in particular haunted her—a close-up of a skeletal mother holding a shriveled baby while two other gaunt children clung to her frail arms. It felt like they were looking right at Elsa.
She read the caption, which explained that they were refugees who’d escaped a quick death at the hands of rebel tribesmen only to be trapped in a life of misery. They weren’t just starving, the story said, they were dying. All four suffered from malaria and dysentery, and without help they would likely be dead in one month’s time.
Elsa flipped back to the cover to check the magazine’s issue date and her eyes widened.
The magazine was two months old.
A strange feeling—a kind of numbness—came over her, and she sat on the floor, her knees bent up, supporting the magazine. She turned the page and held her breath as she read.
As the tragedy in Rwanda deepens and the death toll continues to rise, world leaders seem paralyzed, unable to act. It is only the valiant efforts of a few doctors and nurses that are making a difference, snatching thousands from death’s certain grip. But more relief workers are needed and the UN has issued an urgent plea for help.
Elsa read the words again and then turned the page.
A large picture revealed hundreds of women and children standing in what seemed to be an endless line, waiting for their food rations. The women, and even the small children, seemed lifeless as they waited their turn. None of them looked at the camera. It was a photograph of utter despair.
Elsa sighed and ran her fingers over the picture. She turned to the next page and found a series of photos, all of corpses—endless rows of babies and children, entire families, lying in the road or in fields, clinging to one another in death. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she closed her eyes.
But when she opened them, the bodies were still there. She turned back to the first page and read the story again. She lingered over that first image, the one of the dying mother and her young children. She wondered where they were, if they’d died or somehow been rescued. It was hard to believe that people lived like this.
How could she ever complain about her own life again?
She paused at a shiny picture of a nurse cradling a baby. The nurse seemed to be crying. The caption explained that the baby was dead and the nurse was looking for his mother.
A nurse, she thought, doing something that matters.
Elsa closed the magazine, breathing deeply to calm herself, before she glanced at her watch. Four o’clock! Jeez, where did the time go? She quickly gathered her remaining books onto her cart and hurried to the library’s front desk.
“Sorry, Miss James, I lost track of time.” She needed this job; she couldn’t afford to be fired. “I’ll finish these tomorrow.”
The old librarian, fidgeting with her hearing aid, smiled up at Elsa. “What, dear?”
“I’ll finish tomorrow,” Elsa almost shouted. “And this,” she said, holding out the magazine, “can I keep it? It’s two months old.”
“You want the magazine?” Miss James confirmed. “That’s fine, dear.”
Elsa trudged home along the narrow, crowded streets, the magazine stuffed into her backpack. If she hurried, her mother could still get to work on time. Rushing into the house, she pulled the magazine from her bag and showed the pictures to her mother.
“Oh God, Elsa, why do you look at that stuff? Jesus, it’s awful,” her mother said, slipping her arms into her old coat.
“But, Mom, I was thinking, I could be a nurse, maybe help someday.”
“That’s just a wish, don’t ya think? Nothin’ good ever came from wishing for things you can’t have. Look around, honey. We’re in the crummiest three-decker in the crummiest part of Dorchester. And with Diana getting sicker, I don’t see things getting any better.”
“But if we don’t wish for more or try for more, things will never change.”
“I’ve worked two jobs since your father died, and every single day, I’ve wished things would be easier. I just don’t want you to be disappointed is all.”
But Elsa was disappointed. She was always wishing for things she couldn’t have—her friend Annie’s wild red hair, a nice house, a real family. There was always something else she wanted. God knows, there was a lot to wish for when you lived in Dorchester.
“Learn to be happy with what you’ve got, Elsa. There’s always someone else who’s got it worse.”
“That’s just it—these refugees have got it worse. I want to help.”
“Well, you can start with Diana. I fed her, but she needs to be changed and put to bed. I’ll see you later.” With a quick peck on the cheek, her mother left for work, the second shift at the supermarket where she rang up groceries she could barely afford.
Life isn’t fair, Elsa thought glumly, but that doesn’t mean you just sit back and accept it. She shed her coat and moved toward Diana, who sat awkwardly in an oversized high chair. Unable to hold her head up, it bobbed on her spindly neck until Elsa set a pillow behind her.
“There, Diana. Is that better?” she cooed.
Diana, the four-year-old daughter of Elsa’s older sister, Janice, was hopelessly disabled, or so the doctors said. It took all of Elsa and her mother’s efforts just to feed and take care of Diana. Janice was never home, and her brother, Tommy, the oldest of the three, only came home long enough to swipe money from either his mother or Elsa.
It hadn’t always been that way. Though money had always been tight, they’d been a family once, and when Diana was born, she’d brought smiles and laughter into the house, at least for a while. Those were the good days, when even Annie, Elsa’s only close friend, still came around.
Annie had lived with her Polish grandmother in another dingy three-decker on the next corner. It was Annie who’d sat with Elsa when she’d fed, changed, and babysat Diana, and it was Annie who’d poked through Janice’s bureau drawers one afternoon until she discovered an old tube of lipstick called “Misty Mauve.” At Elsa’s urging, Annie had opened it and swiped it across her lips. Though the color was hopelessly outdated, they’d taken turns applying it.
Annie, her red hair straining against the elastic that held it back, had peered into the mirror and declared that it was a bad color for her. “With my hair, I need something brown. This is awful.”
Elsa, small and narrow, had always wished for hair like Annie’s, something that would set her apart. When it was her turn, she’d stood in front of the mirror and swiped the waxy mauve over her mouth. She’d pressed her lips together to spread the stain and peered at her reflection, suddenly boasting violet-colored lips. Against her brown hair, the color had been perfect. She’d turned to Annie.
“Well, what do you think?”
Annie had looked at her friend admiringly.
“You look beautiful, Elsa. You should wear lipstick all the time.”
Elsa had looked in the mirror and smiled again. The face that stared back at her was pretty—really pretty—she had to admit. She’d grinned at her reflection as though she were seeing herself for the first time—shiny hair, creamy skin, upturned nose, and full violet lips. The very act of applying the lipstick—the gentle stroke of color, the pressing of her lips to spread it evenly, and finally, the gaze into the mirror—fascinated her.
This lipstick is amazing, Elsa had thought. It didn’t just put color on her lips, it put an unmistakable glow in her green eyes and made her feel, if only for an instant, as though she were somebody, like one of those important women in the fancy magazin
es. Women who mattered wore lipstick. She smiled at her reflection again.
“Jeez, Elsa,” Annie had declared. “You were made for lipstick.”
I am, Elsa had thought. I really am.
The memory of that afternoon still made her smile, and though Annie had long since moved away, Elsa’s love of lipstick was the same. A swipe of bold plum or soft pink was enough to raise her spirits, and in Dorchester, that was a necessity.
Lipstick was magic.
2
By the time Elsa was seventeen, she was buried in responsibilities, and of those responsibilities—work, school, and Diana—it was Diana who took the lion’s share of Elsa’s time. Diana, always sick, required constant attention so she didn’t choke or slide from her seat.
Just feeding her took hours, nudging little spoonfuls of pureed meat or vegetables into her mouth and urging her to swallow. Changing and cleaning her became more difficult with each passing day; though her mind hadn’t grown, her body had. She was heavy and stiff and difficult to hold. Their little apartment was crammed with the special equipment and food Diana needed just to survive. Janice hadn’t been back in months, so it was up to Elsa and her mother.
Margaret often muttered that she just couldn’t imagine what it would be like in ten or twenty years. And Elsa, who took over the responsibility when she arrived home from school, felt a growing resentment toward the sister and brother who’d deserted her.
Finally, an overwhelmed Margaret, with Elsa at her side, approached Diana’s doctors.
“We need help,” Margaret pleaded. “It’s only me and Elsa taking care of her. We just can’t do it anymore.”
The doctors nodded and made the arrangements to place Diana in a special home. “St. John’s,” they said, “is a good nursing home. And the state will cover the costs, so you won’t have to worry about that, Mrs. Murphy.”
“What about Diana’s mother? Does she know about this?” one young doctor inquired.
“We don’t know where she is. I’m Diana’s guardian.” Margaret hung her head, ashamed of Janice’s failings. Mother and daughter left the clinic in silence, and as they waited for the bus, Margaret finally spoke.