Page 41 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

F ROM THE VERY BEGINNING, I know something is wrong. Babies cry, babies wail. But there is no scream announcing my baby’s entrance into the world. I catch a look on the volunteer nurse’s face. She pats my shoulder.

“You must have hope, my sister. These are tough times, but God’s will shall prevail.”

I hear a whimper then, followed by another. Dr. Richard sets you, Zahra, on my chest. He strokes your thin cheek; he tells me I have a daughter. But there’s still too much silence.

You are so tiny, so fragile. A wisp of life born into a place rife with death. I’ve seen it myself working at the clinic. Malnourished mothers giving birth to malnourished babies who will now live in inhuman conditions while the rats gaze upon them in open hunger.

I bring your mouth to my breast. You do your best, and so do I. But we are both exhausted.

Isaad takes charge. He has through some miracle procured extra bottles of water. You must drink, he tells me over and over. Your hydration is the baby’s hydration. Drink, drink, drink.

Malalai is there to help with changing out soiled rags and swaddling up tight.

She is a direct and efficient teacher. Do this, do that.

Drink this, eat that. But our new little family continues to exist in a state of hush, as if we don’t want anyone, not even fate, to know that we exist. Soon, in Malalai’s eyes, I see the same shadow I saw on the nurse’s face.

No one expects my baby to be long for this world.

Not even me.

I watch you all night long. You don’t cry to wake me up, so I hold vigil instead.

I try to catch the sound of your breathing and match it to my own.

I drink a bottle of water, then bring you to my breast. I bundle you up, then guard against the rats.

When it’s cold, I hold you close. When it’s hot, I fan your face.

When it’s wet, I cradle you away from the damp.

I can’t let you go. I must watch, I must tend, I must count every breath because any minute, moment, second, your little chest might fall, and never rise again.

I hear the silence. But worse, I see the specter of death, actively stroking your sunken face while delighting in the hollowness of your belly. It is coming for all of us, but I know as deeply and surely as I’ve ever known anything, it wants you first.

Night after night after night. I stand guard. You, me, and the endless quiet.

As your whimpers grow fainter and my breasts turn red and hard.

Then, I start to hear all the sounds thrumming through the stillness.

The murmur of Jamil’s voice, whispering in my ear, followed too soon by the crack of a rifle down a crowded street.

Farshid calling to me as we race through orchards bursting with bright red fruit. Two halves of one whole. As we should be, would be, could be for the rest of our lives, except we are not.

The rustle of paper as I flip through my mother’s notes, reading entries I don’t understand, piecing together puzzles I didn’t know existed, poring over maps that hide secrets I never thought the world to have.

Two halves of one whole.

In the end you will be allowed nothing…

Nothing.

Nothing.

I gaze upon the baby swaddled upon my chest…

I must keep you safe. I must hold vigil. The silence wants you. I can hear it now, a buzz of gnashing teeth, so impossibly hungry. How had I never realized?

Then one afternoon, walking back from the latrine, my chest a hard wall of fire, my footsteps stumbling, I spy him, clear as day.

My cousin, Habib, standing across the way. Recovered and now openly smirking at me.

I start to run, knowing what he’ll do a second before he knows it himself.

I push, shove, bulldoze. The camp is so cramped, there are no clear walkways.

I can already spy him moving out of the corner of my eye.

His line is more direct, he’s going to win, he’s going to get to you first. Habib had threatened revenge, and no one knows as well as family how to inflict pain.

I careen forward, faster and faster.

But he’s ahead of me. I can just catch sight of the flap of his shirt.

I won’t make it in time.

I will not be able to beat him.

Your little chest rising, falling, never to rise again.

Babies should cry. Babies should wail.

I never deserved you in the first place.

And the silence tells me so.

“What is wrong with her?”

“Off the top of my head, mastitis, postpartum depression, failure to thrive.”

“You must fix her.”

“Sure. I’ll just order up a regimen of antidepressants, antipsychotics, and talk therapy. And while I’m at it, how about some fresh fruit, yogurt, and non-spoiled goat meat to make everyone happy?”

“You cannot let her suffer like this!”

“I have Prozac, Prozac, and more Prozac. It was never intended to be the be-all and end-all, yet in a place like this…” A drop in his tone. “I’m doing the best I can.”

They are shadows to me. Figments of a dream scurrying along the edges of my mind. They want things, do things. I haven’t the heart to tell them they’re too late. I doomed myself years ago with small choices made, then larger ambitions attempted.

My baby. Where is my baby? The throbbing in my chest, growing, growing, growing.

Isaad is talking again: “We must get out of here. For both their sakes.”

A hollow laugh. “You think I don’t know that? I have no control over these things—”

“You are a doctor; you have contacts! You’re more powerful than you think.”

“I can’t—”

“Please, I will give you anything. Money? I’m a mathematician. I have a notebook of original theorems, proofs. I’ll hand them over to you. My life’s work. It’s worth something. In certain circles, it is priceless—”

“Don’t insult me—”

“Please. I’m begging you. My wife. My daughter. I beg you…”

A hoarse, choking sound.

I see him again. Habib. My cousin is right there, standing behind them. I see his triumphant smile. He has a knife, raising it up high. “Did you not think we’d figure out what your bitch mother had done? What you did? Two halves of one whole. You’ll pay, you will all pay—”

I scream. Am screaming. But they don’t hear, don’t see, don’t move out of the way…

Zahra, I love you.

Zahra, I’m sorry.

Zahra, I love you.

Zahra, I’m so, so sorry.

“Shhh,” the nurse tells me, a cool cloth upon my brow. “Rest now. Shhh…”

“Is she dead? My baby. Where is she—”

“Calm yourself, khwahar jan. Close your eyes, rest your body and mind so you can return to your family.”

“I killed him. I killed them. I knew. I knew what would happen, but I did it anyway. For my mother. I remember exactly how they treated her. For her, I finished what she started.”

“Shhh, my sister. Do not say such things.”

“Two halves of one whole. I didn’t know.

Didn’t realize until it was too late. I loved him, too.

If I had known, if I had known…” I’m choking, sobbing.

Farshid, running through the orchard. Farshid, stating I will take care of you…

Farshid, staring sightlessly at the sky, his face covered in blood.

Why had I not pieced it together sooner?

Me, the one who can stare into the fabric of the universe, knitting and unknitting at will.

And yet still so ignorant of the plain facts right in front of me.

My brother, trying stoically to save our family.

Myself, thinking I was so clever.

“Rest. Your daughter needs you.”

“He will kill her.” Has killed her. Over and over again. I see it clearly. The blood on my hands. Her price to pay.

“They would’ve given it all to the Taliban,” I babble. “Untold riches, unbelievable power. I couldn’t let them do it.”

The nurse leans close, her voice a mere whisper in my ear. “I know what you did. And I heard what he said. God have mercy on both your souls.”

I gaze upon her in wonder. “Are you real?”

“Yes, my sister.”

“My baby still breathes?”

“Yes, my sister.”

“I am alive?”

“Yes, khwahar jan. Rest now. Your husband is a good man…”

Then I’m floating on a lake, my hand tucked inside Jamil’s. The sky is pure blue, the sun a bright promise. And now I am sure I’m dead, but I don’t care anymore. I would stay here forever, float here forever, my fingers entwined with his…

“She is beautiful,” he tells me.

I’m crying, my tears pouring down my cheeks into the gently lapping water.

“You have done well.” He turns to look at me. I can see the hole in his head, where the bullet penetrated his bone-white skull, obliterated his brilliant brain. His blood, my tears, spreading out in the water around us.

“Two halves of one whole,” he informs me.

I shake my head. “He is gone. You’re gone. Everyone is gone.”

“Are you so certain of that? What did you see that day? And what do you know?”

I’m confused and hurting. But gradually, as the water caresses my skin and Jamil’s hand warms my own, I can picture my brother’s blood-covered face as he lay sprawled on the ground.

And I realize for the first time how much I didn’t truly comprehend.

Because that version of me didn’t know how to take a pulse, or that head wounds bleed horrifically, or that even the most grievously wounded body can sometimes be healed again.

I was still a child. A well-intentioned one, but a na?ve girl just the same.

“You have everything you need,” Jamil says now. “You know everything you must know.”

And I understand what he means, even as I dread what will happen next.

“What kind of fool falls in love when the world is burning?” Jamil whispers, so close it is his blood dripping down my cheeks. “What kind of fool doesn’t?”

I awake with a start. The first thing I see is Isaad, kneeling on the floor beside me, his hair, his clothing in complete disarray. As my eyes open, so do his. For a moment, he looks as bewildered as I feel.

Then he grabs my hand, clutches it fiercely. “Praise be to Allah!”

He feels my forehead, touches my cheeks. “You have returned to us!”

“My brother is alive,” I croak.

“What are you—”

“Farshid is alive. I must find him.”

He gives me a look of deepest pity. “Like your cousin Habib? You have been screaming about him, jigaram. You point at shadows, warn us to look out. He is behind us. He’ll kill us, you, Zahra.

But no one’s there. Whatever happened to Habib…

I share your sorrow, my beloved, but he’s gone.

Whatever you think you see, it’s merely the fever talking.

Now it has broken, however, and your mind will be clear again. ”

I don’t know how to respond because I swear Habib is standing in the room right now.

As I stare, he smirks, plays with a knife.

Except a blink of the eye later, he’s gone and the shadows are just shadows, and I’m the one left disoriented.

I should know the difference between what is real and what is a delusion.

It’s disorienting to hear that I do not.

Isaad pats my hand. “Dr. Richard says your condition sometimes happens to women after childbirth. You must rest, rebuild your strength. Our daughter needs you.”

Which is when I realize there’s a second person in the room. A tiny swaddled bundle nestled next to Isaad’s bent knees.

Isaad follows my gaze. He picks you up, places you in my arms.

The sound of silence.

You staring into me. Me staring into you.

“She is beautiful,” Jamil whispers. And once more, his blood mingles with my tears.

I love you. From the beginning to the end to the beginning again. Civilizations fail. Countries die. People pass. And yet a parent’s love, hope, dreams…

I love you, Zahra.

And in that instant, I let you go.

Because my sins shouldn’t be your punishment.

Someday, I hope you’ll understand. As my mother taught me, so I will teach you:

You descend from warriors.

There are good men, amazing men, exceptional males out there, but too many…

They seek to erase us from existence. To force us to disappear within our own communities. To make us become invisible to even ourselves.

Never let them win.

Your voice has value. Your heart sings. Your mind glows. Your strength beckons.

I bow to you, one tired fighter to the next.

And I hope you will understand what I have to do next.

Two halves of one whole.

I finally understand. And there are things I must do.

I can only offer you this, a parent’s lament to all the children out there:

I’m sorry.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

I love you.