Page 46 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

H ABIB TAKES TO FOLLOWING ME everywhere.

I see him when I exit the showers, when I walk from our shack to the medical clinic.

Sometimes he looks perfectly groomed and composed, like he could be sitting at my parents’ table.

Other times he is a broken, bloody mess.

Always, he is smirking. I will get you , he tells me with his eyes. I will have my revenge.

Initially, I hunch my shoulders and scurry by.

Don’t look at the shadow that isn’t there.

But over time, I start hissing at him angrily, which then leads to curt orders to stop it, and then, quite naturally, entire exchanges.

About his greedy, treacherous father. About how I was totally right to do what I did and they didn’t deserve an ounce of that gold.

And then… Almost conversationally, look at us, Habib. Oh, did you ever imagine this would become our lives? From a grand home and full table to this, begging day after day for a bottle of water, a scrap of meat? If the rest of our family could see us now…

Did your family always hate my mother? I want to know. Was it because they thought she was too good for them, with her crisp British accent and chic Western clothes? Because my father knew she was too good for him; it’s what he loved most about her.

And what was it my brother was doing those last few months? Did you ever follow him, Habib? Pry him with questions? I should’ve pushed harder, I confess, paid more attention. I regret that now. I regret so many things.

Do you know where he is, Habib?

But ghost Habib isn’t much for talking. Ironic given living Habib rarely shut up.

One night, walking home from the clinic, I catch a glimpse of my mother, disappearing between two makeshift tents.

She turns, flashes a smile before vanishing from sight.

I have to force myself not to chase after her.

Maybe I have become a Parizan, a woman who talks to angels.

Or maybe I’ve been overinfluenced by my mother’s love of ghost stories, especially involving Wadi Al-Salam, where the restless spirits of six million souls—kings, prophets, peasants—roam the tightly packed cemetery, spooking visitors and playing childish pranks.

She loved to warn us of ghouls, blame mischievous jinn.

A pot not left in its usual space—the jinn did it.

The smell of tobacco lingering in the hall—oh, your grandfather’s ghost is restless tonight.

She would regale my brother and me with stories of haunted houses and hungry demons till my father begged her to stop for the sake of his children sleeping through the night. But Farshid and I always returned for more. What youngster isn’t secretly fascinated by death?

And so I talk to my dead cousin Habib, while waving at my beautiful mother’s spirit and gazing upon my beloved Jamil’s shimmering form.

So many mornings I wake to discover him lingering next to you, Zahra. Sitting cross-legged on the floor as he admires your slumbering form. Stroking your cheek while you cry. Beaming with pride the day you take your first step.

Like Habib, some days he’s as smartly garbed as the first time I saw him, walking across the university lawn.

Other times, his brains leak out of the hole in his skull.

The first time that happened, I screamed hysterically, and you burst into tears.

Which led to murmured conversations between Isaad and Dr. Richard, then more pills poured down my throat.

I quickly learn to honor each of Jamil’s forms. Shrieking in panic, I learn, gets me heavily medicated.

Talking to shadows, on the other hand…

“Look at her, Jamil. Our little girl is growing up!”

You remain a child of silence, Zahra. But I swear each time you peer in Jamil’s direction, you smile.

Since the death of sweet young Omid, our little shack family has fallen apart.

Rafiq has become grim from the loss of his beloved son, as well as the continued burden of ensuring the rest of his family’s survival.

Malalai gazes upon you, Zahra, with such longing it hurts.

Who lives and who dies in this place? How are we to know?

How can we possibly protect the ones we love?

Isaad is sweet and patient with you, Zahra. And yet as I chat about childhood days with Habib, or delight in your progress with Jamil, he grows positively thunderous.

“You must stop this insanity!”

“Shadows aren’t real!”

“Good God, woman, are you trying to drive me crazy, too?”

I shake my head as he doles out more meds, then discreetly spit out each pill behind his back. It’s not his fault he can’t see what isn’t there.

Dr. Richard eyes me with concern, but then he has many concerns, most of them much more pressing than my idle prattling. I ask him about the kind nurse who tended to me while I was sick. The one who claimed she overheard me talking with Habib.

He has no idea who I’m talking about, which is strange given our clinic’s tiny staff.

“Maybe she was a ghost, too,” I muse thoughtfully. “Oh, the number of souls who’ve died in this place. Thank goodness I can’t see them all. Such a thing would surely drive a person mad.”

“Sabera,” he begins. “How are you sleeping at night? Eating, drinking? You know it’s important to keep up your strength for Zahra’s sake.”

“Do you know how I know they’re real?” I ask him seriously.

He slowly shakes his head.

“My brother, Farshid, is not among them. I see my cousin, my mother, my beloved.”

Dr. Richard’s eyes widen slightly.

“But never Farshid. Which proves what I should’ve known from the beginning—Farshid still lives.”

“What did you think had happened to your brother?”

“He was shot. I saw his body, collapsed on the street outside our home, his face painted in blood. I took his gun from him. He never moved.”

Dr. Richard shudders slightly.

“My father was not so lucky. Those men used machetes. My father was a literature professor. Did I ever tell you that? He liked to wear sweater vests and debate poetry. I could see his teeth through the gashes in his face. His left ear, totally gone. The tip of his nose… what kind of men cut off someone’s nose? ”

“Sabera—”

“Head wounds bleed. I didn’t know it then, but I’ve seen it working here. Meaning maybe Farshid wasn’t as grievously wounded as I believed. He had been knocked unconscious, left for dead, but wasn’t actually killed. It’s possible.”

Dr. Richard doesn’t answer.

“You don’t have to believe me,” I allow at last. “I know Isaad doesn’t. Just tell me: if Farshid didn’t die that day, if by some miracle my brother lived, what would’ve happened to him?”

Dr. Richard pauses, seems to genuinely consider my question.

We’re outside, locking up the clinic for the evening.

Even this time of night, the camp teems with activity.

Though now most of it’s furtive, and the low, muffled noises carry dark tones of warning—whimpers here, groans there, an occasional sharp scream.

I peer into the dimly lit space, hazy with smoke from campfires.

I’m looking for my mother, who has a tendency to stay tucked at the edges of my vision.

I haven’t spied her for days. Do ghosts take vacations?

Have other places to be, other souls to haunt?

Or do they simply grow tired of walking among the living, roaming an endless buffet from which they can never eat?

I don’t want to remain here one minute more as a living person; I certainly wouldn’t choose this place to haunt once I’m dead.

“Your brother would’ve been taken to a hospital,” Dr. Richard replies at last. “Upon recovery, he’d try to make it to the border, like you did. Meaning it’s possible he’s at another camp. You could post his name on the bulletin board out front. Maybe someone has news of him.”

“And if he couldn’t make it to the border? A young man already attacked by the Taliban once and identified as an enemy of the state?”

“Go underground? Hide out with other members of your family, or friends?”

I like this idea, the fantasy of it, but I can already see Jamil, standing behind Dr. Richard, shaking his head. In the corner of the room, Habib smirks. Yes, his expression tells me. Believe in fairy tales. I will enjoy watching your eventual disillusionment break you.

I understand the truth of that sentiment. “The Taliban don’t kill everyone immediately,” I state. For having worked in the clinic for nearly a year, I haven’t just seen things, I’ve heard things as well.

A slight hesitation. Dr. Richard shakes his head.

“I’ve caught stories of torture camps,” I continue. “Caves where they chain up men, women, and children for hours, days, months. Farshid could be someplace like that.”

“If so, then surely you understand, Sabera—”

“He would find a way to live! Trust me. If there was someone who could survive, it would be Farshid! Is there a way to identify these camps? Learn where they are, get a list of prisoners?”

“I doubt the Taliban are that forthcoming—”

“Of course not! But they don’t have to give out the information for it to be known. Satellite footage, drone activities, glowing red silhouettes captured on infrared.”

“How do you know—”

“Governments are always watching. And spying and selling and wheeling and dealing.” My voice picks up.

I don’t mean to grow so angry, but the emotion, like so many these days, washes over me in a giant wave.

“We are nothing but pawns to them—you, me, everyone in this rodent-infested hell! What’s that saying—the boys throw rocks in jest but the frog dies in earnest?

They are the children; we are the frogs.

Throughout all of human history. Again and again and again. ”

I feel a brush against my cheek. Jamil trying to sooth. Or maybe it is my mother, offering a rare moment of comfort.