When the Moon Is Low(32)

“Are you very sick, Madar-jan?” Saleem asked quietly once we’d turned off our street.

“No, bachem. I’m sure it’s fine. Everything will be better once your father comes home.”

The look of doubt on Saleem’s face did not go unnoticed. My confidence was beginning to stutter and stumble. Samira had sensed it too. Every day, she retreated further into herself.

“Is the baby coming now?” Saleem questions were practical. He was so much like his father. I hadn’t realized just how much he’d grown in the last year.

“God forbid, bachem. It’s still too soon. Babies need nine months and nine days. Nine months and nine days,” I repeated, hearing my motherin-law’s voice. There was much she’d shared with me before she’d left us, squeezing a lifetime of mothering into a few short years. She’d been the one to hurry the midwife to our home when my labor pains began with Saleem and Samira. She’d held my hand as I’d brought her grandchildren into the world. As the time grew near for this child, I felt her absence more and more.

With one hand on my belly and my eyes to the ground, I did not notice the three men round the corner. We were just a hundred meters from the hospital entrance.

“Have you no self-respect, woman? Where is your mahram?” A glob of saliva landed at my feet. I took a step back. My son’s grip tightened on my fingers. I tried to position myself in front of him.

“This is my son. He is escorting me to the hospital. I am in severe pain and am in a . . . condition.”

Were these the men who had come for Mahmood? Would they know anything about his whereabouts? Before I dared to ask, a stick cracked on my shoulder. I doubled over, my hands covering my belly.

“Please don’t!” Saleem cried as he threw himself over my crouched form.

“Only loose women speak of such matters so openly! Have you no shame in front of your son? Where is his father? Or maybe he does not have one.”

My body quaked with rage, but I said nothing. I had to be practical too.

“We ask your forgiveness. Please let us be on our way,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Get back to your home. Go home with your boy and try to carry yourself as a respectful Muslim woman. You have no need for the hospital. Keep your woman troubles to yourself and spare your son the shame of being seen with you.”

Sharp pains pierced my pelvis and shoulder, but I got back on my feet. I pulled my bewildered son by the hand and turned around. After just one step, I felt a snap against my back. They’d lashed out twice more, for good measure. I squeezed Saleem’s hand, anticipating his reaction.

“Madar!” He was angry.

“Say nothing, bachem,” I whispered. “Let’s be on our way, my love. I am fine.”

Saleem’s face burned with fury. It hurt him to do nothing, even if it was what I asked. In bringing him as my escort, I’d asked him to be the man of our home. In telling him to do nothing, I’d struck him back down to a boy. He supported me as I hobbled back home. For an Afghan, pride is harder to swallow than a bag of nails.

We stopped several times so I could catch my breath and rest against a wall. The way home was much longer than I remembered.

I LAY IN BED FOR THREE DAYS, PRAYING FOR GOD TO WATCH OVER me and my child. The pains waxed and waned. Raisa stayed at the house until nightfall and made simple meals for the children. She put wet cloths on my forehead and made me drink water from a copper bowl engraved with a sura from the Qur’an. Saleem and Samira were somber and inseparable. They clung to each other like two lost travelers trying to keep warm on a bitterly cold night.

On the third day, Raisa burst into our home with fresh determination. She pulled a small pouch from her pocket and dropped a handful of small, dark seeds into a bowl. As she trickled boiling water into the bowl, she whispered prayers into the musky steam. Raisa sat behind me with her back to the wall, propped me up in her lap like an infant, and brought the bowl to my parched lips. I hadn’t the strength to ask what she had brewed and let the warmth make its way down my throat.

Raisa made a meal of stale bread and added more water to the meat broth we’d been drinking for four days. We had money, but there was no food to be found in the markets. Two days of rocket fire had sent all the street vendors and shop owners into hiding and left the city’s stomachs grumbling behind blackened windows.

I woke in the night, a sliver of moonlight catching my face. I took a deep breath and felt the baby stir. The pain in my back and flank had subsided. As I pushed myself to sit, my head spun just slightly, then steadied itself.

I thanked God.

Saleem looked at me with cautious optimism. He didn’t trust this world, and I couldn’t find the words to restore his faith. Maybe it was more than words I was lacking.

I sent Saleem next door to thank Raisa-jan for her help and to let her know she could tend to her own family without worry. Saleem returned with news that Abdul Rahim and Raisa would be coming over shortly.

I boiled water for tea and searched the cupboards for something to serve them. We would not have survived the week without their kindness.

They knocked on our front gate quietly. I met them in the courtyard and led them into the living room, eager to show Raisa that I was very much back on my feet.

“You should be resting still, Ferei-jan,” she chided.

“Allah bless your family with many happy years.” I hugged her tightly and kissed her cheeks. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done. You’ve put me back on my feet and kept my children fed when you have a household of your own. Mahmood and I will never forget this.”