Page 2 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

She seems to understand, stroking my cheek soothingly.

“Do you understand it all?” she asks me.

“You’ve always been the cleverest girl. Watching from the sidelines.

Your brother suspects, but you, janem, you peer beneath the surface, connecting what shouldn’t connect, identifying a whole where others see only parts.

You remind me of me, when I was a child. ”

“Mādar—”

“Shh, while I can still speak, this is what you must know: You cannot trust your uncles. Your father is too gentle. They will bend him to their will, and he will not understand the danger until it’s too late.

Never trust men who fatten their bellies off other people’s pain.

And never, ever , believe any man knows what’s best for you.

Even when they come from a place of love.

” A pause. “Especially when they come from a place of love.

“You and only you will clean out my sewing room.”

I nod helplessly.

“You will be troubled, and I’m sorry. You will feel you’re too young for such a burden, but you’re strong and powerful, janem. You will find your way.”

Her fingers squeeze mine. She raises her head to gaze at me with a fierceness I didn’t know she had left.

“You will tell no one. Do you understand? Not even Farshid. You can peer into other people’s souls, my sweet. But never let them see yours.”

I open my mouth. I want to say no, to selfishly refuse such a giant and terrifying ask.

But it’s too late. My mother’s head falls back against the pillows, the exhaustion like an extra blanket weighing her down.

She slips her hand from mine, draws a thin line through the tears on my cheek. “Should the worst happen, people will want to take everything, but in the end, they will be allowed nothing. Remember this, my sweet. Remember.”

I break down, sobbing, begging, demanding that she stay. She pats my back once, twice, three times. Then she gently pushes me away.

Her gray eyes stare straight into mine. Clear, purposeful.

She states: “Chin up.”

And that’s it. My father appears with my brother.

More aunts and uncles and cousins. Until with a last exhale, my mother passes, her hand tucked into my father’s, while my brother and I kneel with our heads against her feet.

My father’s wail is the first to crack the silence.

Then we are all sobbing and moaning: Oh my God, I am dying, I can’t live without you, why have you left us, oh God, please please I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband, sister, daughter, son.

We collapse over her body and howl our pain to the heavens.

She is gone from us. Gone from me.

When I was a girl, I dreamed.

Later, I clean out my mother’s sewing room. I don’t understand everything I find. But I realize enough.

More choppers roar across the minaret-studded skyline, and blast walls are built higher while roadside bombings become so common we barely flinch at the sound, just round our shoulders and scurry home.

My classmates exchange horrible tales of things going on in the outlying towns.

A growing resurgence of Taliban fighters executing policemen, annihilating entire villages.

Females dousing themselves in gasoline and setting themselves on fire to escape forced marriages.

Even more women, schoolteachers, reporters, doctors, disappearing in the middle of the night.

And yet still we flit from coffee shop to coffee shop, post photos to our Facebook page, chat away on our cell phones. Because this is Kabul. The insurgents would never dare to attack here.

My brother, Farshid, disappears for longer and longer periods of time, returning home covered in dust and staggering in exhaustion. He cloisters himself in my father’s study with the rest of the men, where low whispers and harsh exclamations reverberate down the hall.

They are arguing next steps. My mother’s right—my father’s too gentle for his brothers’ avarice.

They have worked too hard, built too much, to leave all their worldly goods behind.

They will defend if they have to, bribe their way through the rest. There’s still plenty of time to determine best options, they rashly insist. Never mind that they have made enemies of nearly everyone, including our neighbors.

And while my father might be more kindly regarded, he’s also well known for his outspoken views on women’s rights.

The current government finds him annoying; in the eyes of the Taliban, he’s downright dangerous.

In war, there are winners and losers. If Kabul falls, my family won’t be on the winning side.

One day, I discover Farshid striding through the courtyard with an armful of rifles, his expression so grim it hurts. There’s so much I want to tell him, but I remain bound by my mother’s words.

“Farshid,” I try.

“Not now, Sabera.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Go to school, Sabera. Study, learn, grow that stubborn mind of yours that enjoys torturing me so much. You do your job. I’ll do mine. I will keep you safe, Sabera,” he states darkly. “Trust me.”

“I will keep you safe, too, Farshid. Two halves of one whole, yes?”

He smiles softly. “Two halves of one whole,” he agrees. And for a moment, we are kids again, running through my father’s orchard, and all is right with the world.

When I was a girl, I dreamed.

And now, with the Blackhawks thundering overhead, and the packed streets of Kabul exploding with the frantic cries of desperate people, I take the gun from my brother’s lifeless hands.

He has fallen outside the wall of our compound, his face a mask of blood and dust. I already know what I’ll find inside will be even worse.

And yet, it still won’t be the most terrible sight I’ve seen today, as I’ve raced frantically from the university to my father’s house.

One man. I can still feel his eyes upon me from down the crowded street. His hand reaching out. His final aching look. And then… a single crack of a rifle. All it takes to end a life. Destroy a future. Orphan a child.

There’s no time now. Maybe never will be again.

More screaming, families frantically forcing their way down streets that are no longer passable by car, lugging small children on their backs while dragging their most treasured possessions behind.

Gunshots in the distance cause another terrified surge forward.

Pockets of resistance being overrun. Petty grievances being settled.

A young boy falls, an older relative scoops him up.

The panicked mass of humanity churns ahead.

I enter my family’s compound. My father is sprawled across the front steps. These are not gunshot wounds. I can’t bear to think of it as I close his eyes, rock back on my heels, moaning.

“Oh God, why have you taken my daddy from me? I am dying, I can’t live without you. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been a better daughter. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

But my ablutions change nothing. He’s gone, while outside the chaos looms closer.

I continue on, finding one of my uncles in the front parlor, while down the hall my aunt Fahima is on her knees, wailing over her husband’s body.

When I try to approach, she hits me so hard, I stumble backward.

I leave her to her grief, as I search room by room, rifle clenched tightly in my hands.

The fight was heavy and fierce. There are bodies of men I’ve never met and already hate, though they’re now gone from this earth.

The thunder of more choppers overhead, followed by the sound of explosions.

I end in my parents’ room. I touch the edge of the bed where my mother died. I feel her hand in mine. I remember the taste of my tears upon my lips. The words she spoke to me.

“Should the worst happen, people will want to take everything, but in the end, they will be allowed nothing.”

I understand now. I understand everything, including what there’s still left to lose.

I take a quick moment to sort through my mother’s jewelry box, then rummage through my father’s study. I select a single necklace from my mother. A single book from my father. I don’t expect to keep them, but they will serve their purpose along the way.

Then, I square my shoulders, raise my brother’s rifle, and face the front door.

“Chin up,” I murmur.

I run for it.

When I was a girl, I dreamed.

When I became a woman, I woke up.