When the Moon Is Low(31)

I heard frantic footsteps upstairs and knew Saleem had run over to the window. I never asked him what he saw. If I know my husband, he was conscious of his children watching him being led away. He would do nothing to make that night any uglier than it forever would be in their minds.





CHAPTER 15


Fereiba


SALEEM TIPTOED TO ME. I HAD SLIPPED THE BURQA OFF MY HEAD and slumped to the floor. I’d heard the car’s engine hum into the distance. They’d taken Mahmood with them. My son sat beside me, and Samira watched from a safe distance. When Saleem could bear the quiet no longer, he broke the silence.

“Madar-jan . . .” he whispered.

I stopped him before he could say anything else. I had no answers.

“My son, go on back upstairs with your sister and sleep. I’ll wait for your father.”

I knew he was scared. I knew he wanted to be useful. He wanted to do things that would make Mahmood proud.

Samira was just nine years old on that night. She was an extension of me. Her moods ebbed and flowed in response to my own, just as the tides respond to the moon. If I brooded, Samira quieted, blowing her dark bangs away from her crinkled forehead. If I was happy, my daughter walked with a skip in her step. On that night, Samira became silent and trembled. With her hands drawn into tight, little fists, tears darkened her pillowcase.

SALEEM WOKE AT DAWN AND FOUND ME ON THE LIVING ROOM couch. I sat with my head against the wall. I cannot imagine what I must have looked like to him.

“Madar-jan?”

He had to call out to me twice.

“Yes, Saleem,” I said. My throat was dry and raw.

Saleem hadn’t known what to say. He simply felt obligated to break the silence and gauge the situation.

“Did you sleep, Madar-jan?”

I sat with my hands wrapped around the round of my belly; my swollen feet barely reached the floor.

“Yes, my son.”

He looked doubtful and offered to bring me tea. I looked at Saleem, his hands wringing behind his back, his face knotted with fear. It was time for me to be a mother again.

“It is early still,” I’d said. “It would be good to pray for your father.”

We didn’t bother to heat the water for the ablutions.

“In the name of God . . .” I whispered and began to wash my hands, mouth, and nose. I steeled myself against the icy touch of the water. I would not show weakness. I washed my face, behind my ears, my hands and feet.

With a rehearsed rhythm, Saleem and I stood, kneeled, and bowed as we mouthed the phrases we’d both memorized very early in our lives. I could feel my eyes glaze as I thought of the previous night.

I didn’t know if my husband would ever be returned.

Our home froze in time, waiting for a sign.

Saleem helped with some chores and, though he was young, with going to the market for our basic needs. I was isolated. My siblings had fled Afghanistan along with KokoGul. My father stayed behind to look after his orchard, an hour from where Mahmood and I had settled. Mahmood’s family was similarly dispersed, his sisters living in Australia. All we had left were distant cousins who were struggling, as we were, to feed their families and survive Kabul’s new order. I sent word to our families. They were distraught, but not in any position to help. Mahmood’s sisters begged me to keep them informed if I heard from their brother.

RAISA, ABDUL RAHIM’S WIFE, CAME BY FREQUENTLY AFTER HEARING the news of Mahmood’s disappearance. Some days, she sent a plate of butter or a small pot of rice. Raisa had always been a dear friend, but I dreaded her visits after his disappearance. Her eyes, moist with pity, were brutal reminders of everything that was wrong.

She had a matronly softness, a bosom that offered to pull you in and rock you to sleep as if you were one of her many children. On those bleak days, Raisa would stop by for short visits. Without a pause in conversation, she would tidy the kitchen and make a quick dish with whatever she could find in our cupboards.

“Fereiba-jan, any word?” she would ask vaguely.

“Not yet, but I’m sure any day now,” I would say and I believed it. Mahmood was a marvel. I had no reason to expect anything less from him.

“Well, if there’s anything that you and the children need . . .”

I steeled myself. I tried to keep the house in order, to give my children a way to sleep easy in the night. Samira mirrored my composure during the day but at night, her dark bangs clung to the cold sweat of her forehead. She whimpered and wailed in her sleep, a language I understood but refused to speak.

I FOUND SALEEM’S NOTEBOOK. THERE WERE HASH MARKS ON THE back cover. He was counting the days since that night. There were forty-seven marks.

We were a home without a patriarch, the type of creature Kabul’s beasts devoured on sight. On the day I was struck with sharp pains, I realized just how isolated we were without a man in the home. For hours, I’d turned my face to the wall when the pressure overwhelmed me. The children said nothing. We each played our part in the charade of normalcy.

But the fear of losing my unborn, of having Mahmood return to find me without his child, was enough to drive me out of the house without a proper escort. I slipped on my burqa and took Saleem by the hand. I left Samira with Raisa-jan, who pulled my daughter against her chest and nodded. She could offer nothing else.

“Saleem-jan, forgive me if I squeeze your hand too hard, bachem.” The pain was sharp and came with such force, I nearly doubled over.