Page 16 of Kiss Her Goodbye

Then I shut the car door and prepare to meet the first of many people I hope can tell me all about Sabera Ahmadi.Mother, wife, refugee.Three weeks later, I wonder which of these roles cost her the most.

I can’t help myself; I check my cell.No texts, no voice mails, no contact.

I put my phone away and get back to work.

CHAPTER 5

EARLIER THIS AFTERNOON, WHILE WAITINGfor the mystery driver of the mysterious job opportunity to pick me up, I’d reviewed all the contact information Aliah had provided for Sabera’s known associates.Generally, I start my inquiries by speaking with the family.But in this case, my conversation with Aliah had revealed to me how little I knew of the refugee experience, so I decided to start broader, gain an understanding of Sabera’s current challenges and stress, then visit with her husband.

I’d begun with calling her designated caseworker, which had gone straight to voice mail.Then a volunteer coordinator, also no luck.But the housing manager, Ashley, had answered, sounding rushed.The moment I mentioned Sabera’s name, she was already bailing.I should reach out to this person, that person, another person, anyone other than her.

Which is often a sign she’s exactly the person with whom I should be speaking.

Not being a dumb bunny, I bulldozed ahead in a state ofcheerful exuberance.Of course, you’re busy.No matter.I’ll come to you.Better yet, let me help you out with whatever you’re doing; we can chat while we clean.

I didn’t get the impression Ashley was thrilled with this option, but like most people who were raised to be polite, she couldn’t figure a way out of it.Score one for me.

But I meant what I said.I’m a decent scrubber, and in my experience, some of the most revealing conversations happen when two people are doing their best not to think about what is that black stuff growing in the corner.

Now I cross to Ashley, who has big brown eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose.Cute in the proverbial girl-next-door look.And already trying to save the world at the ripe old age of twenty-something.Poor thing.

“Frankie Elkin,” I introduce myself.“We spoke by phone.”

Ashley nods.She looks even more stressed than she sounded by phone.“I’m sorry, I really don’t have time,” she rattles out.“Just got a call that another family is due to arrive day after tomorrow, and it was all I could do to line up one three-bedroom apartment let alone an additional two-bedroom unit.Not to mention the furniture I need to scavenge.Mattresses.Shoot.I have a pair of bunk beds in storage but not the twin mattresses.”

“This is the three-bedroom unit?”I point to the one she just exited.“Have you finished cleaning it?”

“Still have the kitchen to do.I need more paper towels.And bleach.Lots of bleach.”

She’s standing near a battered Subaru that had seen better days around a hundred thousand miles ago.The rear window bears the emblem of a Jesus fish, which tracks.I move to pop the hatch, withdrawing a two-pack of generic paper towels and gallon jug of pure bleach.Ashley doesn’t argue anymore, shoulders slumped,face drawn.The girl is clearly teetering on the brink of exhaustion.Which is the problem with trying to save the world; it’s much too big for one person to handle.

“I’ll help with the kitchen,” I announce.“We’ll get this unit squared away, then focus on the second.You know the landlord here?”

“Yes.”

I point to the crime scene tape across the way.“I’m guessing there’s a recent opening.”

Ashley’s lips finally crack into a smile.At least she’s not without a sense of humor.“When I first started placing families here,” she murmurs, “this complex was a hotbed of drug activity.Strung-out addicts sprawled outside all times of day and night.Broken-down cars and trash littering the parking lot, puddles of urine on the sidewalk.When I brought the family here, the mother broke down sobbing while the father begged me to take them anywhere else.Their children, they kept saying.Surely there had to be someplace else.Except there wasn’t—Tucson is in the middle of a major housing crunch, and the meager three-month stipend these refugees receive… That was my first lesson in being a housing coordinator.That even when you’re doing your best, you mostly feel helpless.Which is still better than the days you feel hopeless.”

“Today is a hopeless day?”

“At the moment.But give me a few hours.I’ll get over it.”She summons a determined smile.There’s a set to her chin I can’t help but admire.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Fourteen months.Which makes me the current record holder.”

“That kind of high burn?”

“I haven’t seen my own cat in two weeks.”

“But you’re sticking it out?”

“I have to.”Her gaze takes on a manic gleam.“I’m finally winning.”

“Winning what?”

“This!”She waves her free hand around the general area.“Look around.See any addicts lined up for a fix?Or human feces on the walls?”