Page 20 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

“Exactly. Which brings us to the matter of childcare…” Heavy sigh.

“People have a tendency to assume refugees are taking away resources from the rest of us, but the truth is, most of our public-assist programs—section eight housing, Headstart preschool, et cetera—have too long of a waiting list to be of service. Ashley needs to secure an apartment for each family right now. I need to help them find childcare and secure a job right now. As a case agent, I may work with each family for over a year, but their federal monies run out in three months. Meaning in the first twelve weeks, I need to get them set up, employed, and stabilized. That’s no mean feat, especially given everything there is for them to learn. ”

“That’s why Isaad drives during the day while Sabera works as a housekeeper at night. So they can swap Zahra between them?”

“Best most families can do.”

“Can’t be easy on a marriage.”

“Still easier than living in a refugee camp. Do you know why mothers sleep with their babies swaddled against their chests at night?”

I shake my head, pretty sure ignorance is bliss.

“Rats develop a taste for infants. There’s more than one account of parents waking up to discover their newborn is now missing the ends of her fingers, or worse, the tip of his nose.

Then there’s the cockroaches that like to crawl into ear canals, and the daily knife fights that can break out over a bottle of water. ”

“Trauma,” I murmur. “Ashley told me I shouldn’t make any assumptions, because no matter what I thought I knew, my imagination would never be horrible enough.”

Staci smiles faintly. “My experience has been horrific enough, and even I don’t pretend to understand.

I had one terrible moment of violence. Most of my families have been subject to ongoing chaos, brutality, and bloodshed for years.

Let alone the constant anxiety of having no idea what’s going to happen next, again for years. ”

“Is that why Sabera drinks?” I ask, because Staci is still avoiding that question. “To cope with her PTSD?”

Staci hesitates. “I think there is a great deal of stress in that household,” she states, “and there are times when Sabera doesn’t seem herself. But is it from alcohol? There can be many reasons someone seems… off.”

“Pills, drugs?”

Shrug.

“Sleep deprivation?”

Another lift of the shoulders, but a little less exaggerated. I’m getting warmer, at least in her assessment of the situation. Though how can anybody, even a caseworker, know what’s truly going on behind closed doors? I decide to move on for the moment.

“What about Isaad? Wouldn’t he have PTSD, too?” I ask.

“Isaad’s complicated. Absolutely brilliant, incredibly vain.

He can’t stand their apartment, resents being reduced to working as an Uber Eats driver, and already aspires to fulfill the American dream.

But when not gnashing his teeth in frustration, he appears to be trying to do right by his wife and child.

Angry and explosive, yes, but more bark than bite.

He’s the one more comfortable expressing his emotions, even the ugly ones, which can be a good thing. ”

“Sabera doesn’t show her feelings?”

“Sabera is challenging. I’ve never seen her outwardly angry or anxious.

She observes, listens, learns. But what she’s thinking at any given time…

I’ve spent hours in the car with her. Even given her some personal cooking lessons, which is my favorite way of coping.

There are times I can tell she’s enthralled.

Other times when she’s clearly exhausted.

She never complains. Whenever I say, this is where we must go, this is what we must do, she does exactly as I say.

She never shirks her responsibilities. But as for how well she’s truly handling this level of change, I have no idea.

Which, in my experience, is not a good thing.

The more anxiety and fear that fester beneath the surface…

” Staci’s expression is genuinely concerned.

“They’ve been in Tucson a little over two months, right? Ten weeks?”

Staci nods.

“Meaning they have only two more weeks to be financially self-sufficient?”

“More or less. Given they have a young child, they qualify for some additional programs, which I’d just suggested they start applying for.”

“Meaning their stress level must be ratcheting up.”

“It’s not an easy time.”

“So Isaad gets explosive. She gets drunk.” I’m still pushing, trying to get Staci to fill in the blanks or at least drop enough breadcrumbs that I can get there on my own.

Staci takes a sip of coffee, seems to debate her options. “One of my roles,” she states abruptly, “is to help them line up a PCP and fill out the initial paperwork.”

“Okay.”

“Needless to say, our medical system is a mystery to most Americans, let alone outsiders. Then you add things like HIPAA and concepts of doctor–patient confidentiality, which don’t exist in most parts of the world, and it quickly becomes overwhelming.”

I nod gamely.

“Like many, Isaad and Sabera didn’t know how to complete the forms. What do you mean you have to assign one emergency contact and grant your doctor permission to share information with them?

Their culture is all about family, as in grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, siblings.

For them, it would be any of those people, all of those people.

I had to explain that in this country, an emergency contact is generally your spouse, or an immediate family member. Also could be a close personal friend.”

“Got it.”

“I assumed they’d listed each other. But I didn’t check. Their privacy matters.” Staci takes a deep breath. “Which is why I was surprised when my phone rang in the middle of the night just two weeks later with an ER doc reaching out to me as the listed contact for Sabera Ahmadi.”

“You were called? About Sabera?”

Staci studies me, waits a beat.

“Was it related to alcohol? She was that drunk, had passed out, become unruly, something…”

Still no answer. Because the caseworker can’t comment on medical history, I realize. Why Sabera was in the ER falls under confidentiality. Though my mind is already buzzing with the possibilities. For now:

“Did you ask Sabera why she provided your name instead of Isaad’s?”

“When it felt appropriate.”

In other words, when Sabera sobered up. Or…

There’s something about the intensity of Staci’s gaze.

Like she’s trying to sear specific information into my brain, except I’m too dense to get it.

Something happened. Not alcohol or drugs?

Meaning some other root cause? Either way, Sabera ended up in the ER, and Staci was contacted. Her caseworker. Not her husband.

I only realize I stated the last part out loud when Staci nods. “I’d told Sabera that an emergency contact is generally a spouse, a family member, or a friend. According to her, based on those parameters, my name was the one that made sense.”

“I know she doesn’t have family here; Aliah said they died in Afghanistan. But that still leaves—” My voice breaks off. I think I get it, though I’m so startled I can barely finish the thought. “Are you saying, she doesn’t have a spouse, either? She and Isaad… not married?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“They, what, lied to increase their chances of gaining refugee status and get out of the internment camp? But how is such a thing even possible? Aren’t there a million background checks, requests for documentation, et cetera?”

“Absolutely.” Staci leans forward. “Legal documentation is required, not to mention double, triple, quadruple checked. To make things even more interesting, I’ve watched them together.

Isaad? The way he interacts with her, looks out for Zahra.

That man considers them to be a family, even if Sabera doesn’t. ”

“I don’t get it.”

“Sabera is challenging,” Staci repeats. “Ten weeks later, I feel like I have some grasp of Isaad and his needs. Sabera, however, remains a complete mystery to me. Especially…”

She shrugs. The ER visit again. The clue she ethically can’t reveal. But something significant happened. The question is, what?

When working cold cases, the reason I can generally make headway, versus, say, law enforcement, is that I’m an outsider, asking the right questions at the right time. That can get others talking in ways they wouldn’t do with local authorities.

Medical matters, however, fall well beyond my purview. No doctor is going to talk to me. Maybe Sabera’s husband, Isaad, if he ever reappears, though it’s not clear he even knows everything. Which leaves me with caseworker Staci and all the things she will and won’t say.

I feel suddenly stupid, glancing up at her sharply.

“You’re afraid.” I utter it as a statement.

“Yes.”

I study Staci a beat longer, as I fully take in her expression: “Are you afraid for her, or are you afraid of her?”

“Exactly.”

I bow my head in defeat.