The Missionary

by Margaret Ferguson

  My eyes moved back to hers. Those beautiful eyes no longer held sympathy for me. I was in for a tongue-lashing.

  “What did you think you were doing? Going for a stroll down the mountain? To where?” She looked back down at my leg as she began to wipe inside the wound. Without deadening it. It felt like she was digging into it with a fork. Somehow, I think that was deliberate. She cut her eyes at me again, though my grimace didn’t make her smile.

  “The minute you are well enough to travel, I’ll be the first one to give you my blessing and send you on your merry way. But, until then, you’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to trust me when I tell you, every time you stand, you don’t give yourself time to heal inside. You take a chance of making it worse. Not to mention, the high probability of an infection,” she added, as she dropped the bloodied towel into the basin in Abraham’s hands. “If this leg goes septic, there’s nothing I can do for you here. Nothing. We’re almost out of everything.”

  I felt her intense, dark eyes, glaring at me.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? If it turns septic, you won’t have to worry about getting off this mountain. You could die here! Even the simplest bacteria could kill you because we don’t have anything else to treat you with.” She continued to stare at me.

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” she added brusquely, more than a little miffed. Her voice became more muffled as she put on the rest of her hijab and wrapped the scarves around her head. “Because there’s plenty of other people that need what I’m giving you more than you do. And, if you do something stupid, like waste it, just because your pride won’t let you sit still long enough to heal…” she stumbled over her words as she stood. “Well,” she began, then stopped just as suddenly. Mary Beth shook her head as she stomped across the hard dirt floor. “And, if you get up again, I’ll cut your leg off myself,” she snapped, as she slammed the door behind her.

  I looked at Denice, who was biting her lip to keep from smiling. “Mary Beth is very passionate about some things.”

  “Ya think?” I asked sarcastically, staring at the door.

  “She cares deeply about those God entrusts to her care.”

  “Yeah? Well, her bedside manner sucks.”

  Denice chuckled. “Most of her patients listen to her and trust that she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Oh, I’m confident that she knows what she’s doing. It’s just that my situation is different.”

  “Oh, really?” she asked, sitting back and crossing her legs as though waiting for some spark of wisdom. “How’s that, might I ask?”

  “Well,” I stuttered. “For one thing, whenever I’ve been injured in the field before, I either stitch myself up or get patched up by some corpsman in two to three minutes before going back out to finish my job,” I exaggerated.

  “So, this is about finishing your job?”

  “Yes,” I stammered. “Partly.”

  “Because, as I see it, Roark, Eddie, you’re in no shape to finish your job. Not in your condition.”

  I pursed my lips in frustration. “I lost men out there.”

  “I heard.”

  “I may be the only survivor left to—.” I glanced Abraham’s direction. He was listening, but I had no idea if he understood anything I was saying. “To do what we came here for.”

  “So, your mission is the only important thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the only thing you think about.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you feel like a failure if you don’t complete your mission.”

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  I watched her nod her head as she contemplated her words. “Well, then, I think you’re missing the bigger picture.”

  “Yeah? And, what’s that?”

  “I can’t answer that for you,” she said, standing without using her hands. “That’s something you need to find out for yourself. Maybe that’s why you’re here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I muttered, confused.

  Denice smiled as she re-wrapped the scarves around her face. “God has a plan for each of us, Roark, Eddie. Maybe He’s given you this time, to figure yours out.” With that, she turned and walked out the door, leaving me alone with Abraham again.

  “Does no one know how to answer a direct question anymore?” I growled sarcastically, before calling after her, “You don’t happen to have a cigarette on you?” When she didn’t return, I grumbled some more. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?” I yelled out loud. When I looked over at Abraham, he merely shrugged. I turned back to the ceiling and sighed. God, if you do have a plan for me, make it to get me the hell out of here. Soon!

  Chapter Eleven

  I woke with a start, gasping, looking around, feeling disoriented. As I tried to sit up, my leg cramped, causing me to roll over off the short bed and onto the carpeted ground beneath. I closed my eyes tightly as my thigh seized painfully. I didn’t see Abraham but felt him beside me. Then, cold air filled the room as he ran for help. But the freezing night air was the least of my concern. Another cramp contorted my calf so much that I couldn’t bend my leg or my foot to try to ease it. I groaned and grimaced, not to mention, uttered a stream of profanities, in frustration. I couldn’t even maneuver adequately in any direction because my left shoulder was still so incredibly tender.

  A moment later a gentle hand touched mine, and I opened my eyes suddenly.

  “Can you move it?” she asked.

  I shook my head, trying with all my might to do so.

  Her hands moved to my leg, fingers pressed deeply, trying to find the cramp and work it out. They moved from my thigh to my foot and back, as I shook my head repeatedly until her hand was directly on the culprit. Then, she began massaging— painfully, I might add—on the knots beneath my skin. Another set of hands joined hers. I glanced down to see her coaxing Abraham to aid her endeavors. I felt the wetness slide from my eyes as she explained in Pashto what she was doing and why. What seemed like forever was maybe only a few minutes. Slowly, carefully, gently, Mary Beth bent and then straightened my leg, continuing to knead my muscles. Abraham’s hands disappeared, then returned moments later with the small cup of water clasped between them.

  “Here, drink this,” she insisted.

  I gulped as quickly as I could, water dribbling down my beard and into the dirt below.

  “You’re probably dehydrated,” she said, helping me sit upright. “I need you to drink at least a gallon of water a day, okay?”

  I nodded, as I slowly bent and then straightened my leg again, stretching my foot in and out.

  Then she turned to give Abraham instructions. Mary Beth looked around the dark house. A small beam of moonlight shone through the dirty pane of the only window mudded into the wall. “We’ve got to get you onto your bed.”

  I dropped backward, cold sweat chilling my fevered skin. “I’ll just sleep here tonight.”

  “What kind of hostess would I be if I let you sleep on the ground?”

  I stared up at the ceiling. Carelessly, I snapped in utter frustration, “And how do you propose accomplishing what you are suggesting?”

  She sighed in frustration, looking around. “I’m not really sure.”

  Abraham understood the dilemma and motioned for her to turn me onto my side. She did. His hands shoved the toshak as far under me as it would go before pushing me farther over, until I was almost in Mary Beth’s lap. Then, I felt him slide the board under the cushion. I began shivering as she rolled me backward. I landed on the long, soft pillow, then the two of them merely pulled it until it was on the board. Good. I didn’t have to try and stand up again. They moved the pillows and blankets, including my thick army jacket with which I had so far resisted parting, until I was covered up again.

  Mary Beth took a small flashlight from her pocket and checked the bandage all around my thigh. When I glanced up, she nodded. “Everything still looks good.”

  I dropped my
head back onto the pillow, dizzy and exhausted, feeling like I’d just run ten miles.

  “Do you have any pills left?”

  I nodded, glancing the direction of my stash of T.P. and weapons. A moment later Mary Beth was holding my head up and pressing two pills into my mouth. I swallowed them with the cold, fresh water Abraham had brought me moments before. Hurriedly, he refilled it, brought and set it and my now empty pee bottle beside me.

  I looked up at her, in her thin coat and linen scarves. Her eyes shimmered like deep pools in the moonlight. “I’m sorry,” I said honestly. “I should have listened to you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said sweetly. She glanced at Abraham, who had nestled back onto his toshak, covering up to thwart the cold.

  I peered over at him as he watched us curiously. When I turned back to Mary Beth, she lowered the scarves from her face. I could see her fully as if for the first time. I must have been delirious because, suddenly, in her meager tribal attire, she looked…lovely.

  “How does your leg feel?”

  I turned abruptly, the trance broken. Warily, I moved my toes, then slowly tried to move my leg from side to side. I nodded in response.

  “I think you’ll be okay for the rest of the night,” she said, rocking backward to stand.

  I reached out to take her hand. When she hesitated, I smiled. “Please, stay just a little longer.”

  “I really should go,” she said, turning to Abraham.

  “Just for a minute,” I pleaded. The tender hand slowly slid from mine.

  “For a minute,” she conceded, pulling over a pillow and sitting beside me.

  Somehow, it was comforting just having her there. After many moments of silence, I said. “You know why I’m here. Why are you here?” I asked, just above a whisper.

  “I don’t know why you are here. Anything I’ve said counter to that is mere supposition,” Mary Beth responded stiffly.

  “Well, let’s just say, you are very intuitive.”

  Slowly, she nodded as she glanced in Abraham’s direction, only to find he had closed his eyes. “I,” she began, quickly correcting herself. “We came here to make a difference. To help those who needed us most.”

  “There are plenty of other countries out there that are less dangerous. Any of them could use people with your skills.”

  “So, only the people in less dangerous countries deserve to be helped?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I explained. “There had to be a reason that you picked Afghanistan. And this place?” I looked around as I motioned with my hand.

  “And what’s wrong with this place?”

  “Well, it’s cold, for one thing.”

  I caught her smiling, then looking away. “Well, there’s that.”

  I chuckled at her. When she looked back at me, her eyes were hypnotizing, and I simply couldn’t speak. Suddenly, I shook it off, trying to distract my straying thoughts. “How did you end up here? How in the world did you pick this place?”

  She sighed and looked away again. Her demeanor softened as she glanced around and back at her scarf, with which she toyed as she sat silently.

  “I’m sorry,” I conceded when she didn’t answer. “It’s none of my business.”

  “We didn’t pick this place. It picked us,” Mary Beth looked down, reminiscing. “When we first came here everyone received us with open arms. They are a welcoming, kind people. Simple people, living simply. Most of the people here have just become caught up in the fight for their identity.”

  “What is their identity?”

  Mary Beth exhaled dramatically. “I don’t know. I don’t think that they know, yet.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I get that.”

  “So, to answer your question, Eddie Roark, I came here to make a difference.”

  “Is that why your husband came?”

  Mary Beth looked away uncomfortably and slowly stood. “You should get some rest.”

  “Thank you,” I said again, through my disappointment at her departure. I watched as she walked to Abraham’s bed, where she knelt down, adjusted his covers, then brushed and kissed his head. I felt her glance my way once more before she disappeared into the cold darkness beyond the door.

  I rubbed my face in frustration before staring up at the ceiling. “She’s married,” I said to myself out loud. She’s another man’s wife. Unavailable. You should not be thinking what you’re thinking. I sighed, sure that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. When I finally closed my eyes, all I could see were hers—dark, cryptic. Mesmerizing. And, yet, somehow, I felt like I’d dreamed of them before, a soft fire reflecting in them. They looked into mine, captivating me. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Just a whisper. And somehow it set my heart at ease. I looked into her eyes and dreamt of them again, drifting fitfully off to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  The smell of hot bread filled my nostrils as Abraham entered. Behind him trailed his grandfather, uncle and several nephews, all of whom I’d met the other day when the town paraded through the small abode. They all nodded; his grandfather held his hand to his chest and bowed toward me. He rattled on and on, assuming I could understand him completely. Abraham must have told his family I was fluent. Boy, was he mistaken. I lost him somewhere between talking about how proud he was of his grandson and what his daughter was making me for dinner.

  The young boys were all giddy and playful, but kept their distance, as was their custom, close to their father’s legs, playing with tiny wooden figurines and rocks they had in their pockets. They were cute kids, and I could see how Abraham doted on them, not just in the way he had talked about them, but in how he spoke to them, tousled their hair or touched their cheeks. His grandfather left me with the promise of yogurt for my breakfast tomorrow, made with milk from their goats. I told him I looked forward to it and thanked him for his kindness.

  My next visitor was the mullah. It wasn’t an unexpected visit. At some point, I figured he would want to have a heart to heart, so I had prepared a speech in advance. Just in case. No sense in offending the powers that be, especially when they are keeping you alive. He nodded as he entered and then squatted on a pillow that Abraham promptly placed beneath him as he lowered himself to sit. I understood enough of the culture so that this would either go very well or very poorly, depending on his perception of the encounter.

  Abraham had helped relocate me earlier that morning back to my place by the wall. I did a lot of wiggling and scooting on my butt, feeling what we accomplished in thirty minutes—more or less—was worthy of some praise. All those years of weightlifting had paid off, in my ability to rise while he slid the board and cushion back under me. Only now my shoulder was throbbing again. Not to mention, I was plum worn out.

  As I leaned against the wall, my feet were outstretched before me. The mullah, aware of my discomfort, sat in front of me and to my right, since it’s poor etiquette to have your feet facing someone, and the man didn’t want mine in his face. I held my hand over my heart and nodded, then proceeded to inquire about his family and his health. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he realized that I understood their customs, and I could see he appreciated the gesture. He proceeded to tell me about his family and how well they were doing. He, in turn, asked about mine.

  Soon we were old friends. He knew about my sisters and their broods, and my baby brother; that my mother had remarried because my father died. Since alcohol consumption is against Sharia law, I didn’t think it appropriate to mention how he died. We talked for almost two hours, and I believe we were both pleased with how our visit went. He invited me to his home as soon as I was feeling better. I told him it would be an honor to dine with him. As with Abraham, I soon knew all about his family, his heritage and I was even privy to what he’d had for breakfast.

  To my relief, he never questioned why I was here. There had to be an underlying understanding that I wasn’t here by accident. But the subject was never broached. When he stood, he bowed, as did I, from my se
ated position. With our hands to our chests, I nodded as he backed from the building.

  Abraham turned away while I peed, after which he disposed of the warm liquid just outside the door in the tiny courtyard—hopefully, far from the cooking area. I couldn’t understand why he was still here. I assumed that Mary Beth had paid him or encouraged him to care for me. I know that he had responsibilities as the only male child in his family. They must depend on him for their income, since his father was dead.

  I glanced down at my watch and wrinkled my brow. Mary Beth should have been here by now. She had already been by twice today, to clean and dress my wound, and fit me for a sling. However, she had been uncharacteristically quiet. Pensive. And yet, somehow, I felt the need to apologize to her. Again. When it came to women, I found myself always apologizing. Usually, after putting my foot in my mouth—which is more often than not. I sighed dramatically.

  Thankfully, there had been no more cramps, and the pain in my leg and shoulder was tolerable. As I lay my head back on the wall, I also wondered why her husband hadn’t been by to visit me. In a country where the dynamic between men and women is ingrained in the culture and there are very strict customs, I found it odd, that he hadn’t escorted her on all her visits. Maybe he was in Kabul with Denice’s husband.

  The door opened again, and I looked up in anticipation. As if on cue, Denice’s head came into view. I tried not to show my disappointment.

  “You up to a visitor?”

  “Sure,” I replied. “Come on in.”

  She moved inside quickly, to escape from the freezing temperatures. In her hand, she held a steaming pot of tea.

  “You’re a godsend!” I exclaimed as she sat before me. “Can you hook me up an IV and just pour that into it?”

  She sweetly smiled as she removed her outer garment. “I would if I thought it would help. Trust me.” She poured us each a cup, tapped hers to mine and then we sipped on the hot liquid.