When the Moon Is Low(43)

There are too many of us, Saleem thought on the truck ride home. He recalled the thick envelope of cash his mother had traded Abdul Rahim for the documents. The price of documents, food, and smuggling fees multiplied by four left the Waziri family with little reserve. Samira was too young to realize how hard Saleem worked every day. She stayed home and helped Madar-jan with chores but only when Hayal wasn’t catching her up on school lessons. Aziz was even needier.

Saleem regretted his thoughts. He loved his sister and brother very much, but the frustration and fatigue was beginning to wear him thin.

Every day, his mother needed more of him. Saleem ignored his desire to curl up against her. There was no room for him to be a child. Saleem still ached for his father, but he often thought it was Padar-jan’s decisions that had put their lives in danger. On other sleepless nights, Saleem lamented his childhood mischief and the disappointment he’d caused his father. He was a kaleidoscope of feelings when it came to his parents.

And now Saleem was the breadwinner. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like the head of their family and the less he felt like taking orders from others. Mr. Polat kept his burgeoning adolescent ego in check but when it came to his mother, Saleem’s tongue was loosening. He said things he would not have dared to say a year ago. He shot her looks he knew were out of line, but he gave himself latitude to do so. He worked long hours, kept the family fed, and wanted his opinions respected.

He returned to the Yilmaz home to find his mother cleaning the kitchen. Samira and the baby were already asleep.

“Are they all right?” he asked, slumping into the chair.

“They’re fine. Aziz’s eyes look for you, though,” she offered with a weak smile. She slid a plate of food in front of him and sat with him while he ate. Things were not fine, he knew, but she wasn’t going to burden her young son with her worries. He was doing enough.

It was good to be cared for, Saleem thought, as he fell onto the floor cushion and closed his eyes.





CHAPTER 21


Fereiba


“WHY IS HE ALWAYS SICK?” SALEEM ASKED. HE’D WALKED IN TO find me sponge-bathing his baby brother. Aziz was pale and whimpering. He’d vomited twice already.

I wrapped a towel around Aziz and laid him on the floor gently. I didn’t have a real answer for Saleem.

“I think it’s the changes. The air, the food—everything is different here. And he’s so little. His body must be having a hard time adjusting.” I drizzled olive oil onto my palm and rubbed my hands to warm them. Even as I gently massaged Aziz’s chest and belly he seemed to be uncomfortable. “Maybe Aziz needs some vitamins to make him stronger.”

Aziz hadn’t gained much weight since we’d arrived in Turkey. I was trying everything I could. I used the few Turkish words I’d learned in the market to purchase fruits and vegetables. Havuc, bezelye, muz. When my vocabulary failed me, I resorted to pointing and rudimentary sign language. I picked through the herb bundles and found those I knew had healing properties. I boiled them and spooned the tea into Aziz’s mouth. I fed him the greenest spinach, the juiciest pears, and ground-up chunks of meat with an extra bit of fat on them. None of it seemed to make an ounce of difference.

Saleem walked into the kitchen. I heard his heavy sigh and the wooden chair legs sliding against the linoleum tiles. My explanation hadn’t satisfied either of us.

“We will take him to the doctor tomorrow, Saleem,” I heard Hayal say. “Eat your dinner. An empty stomach will only make you more upset.”

Samira was in the kitchen as well. She’d set out to prepare supper for her brother as soon as she heard him come through the door. Everything she’d felt for her father had been redirected to Saleem, a deep adoration that came with expectations and needs. She was that bulky winter coat that kept him warm but slowed his step.

Samira did what she could to help. She helped mash fruits and vegetables to feed Aziz. She watched him while I went to the neighbors’ homes to clean or do small jobs. She always looked drained when I returned.

“Aziz is not easy, janem. He’s scarcely any better when he’s with me.”

Samira was unconvinced.

HAYAL AND I TRAVELED DOWN THE LONG VILLAGE ROAD TO SEE Doctor Ozdemir who had, years ago, cared for her sons. The doctor was still practicing and had been joined by his son. Their home was at the far end of town. Father and son saw patients in a small room adjacent to the house. The setting was simple but cozy, with the doctor’s wife stopping in with a small plate of cookies.

I was nervous, too nervous to eat anything. Mrs. Ozdemir read the apprehension on my face and I could see she wanted to say something but we did not speak the same language. She exchanged a few words with Hayal and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I looked at my son and, for a second, saw him through Mrs. Ozdemir’s eyes. Wisps of hair clung to his moist forehead. His head was starting to look too big for his body. He did not look well, I had to admit, and it had been so long since I’d seen him smile or say a single word. I couldn’t imagine what our situation would have been like without the inordinate kindness Hakan and Hayal showed us. I wondered how I could ever repay these total strangers for all they had done.

Aziz twisted and writhed in my lap to get into a more comfortable position. He hated to lie down. I knew him well, but I could not say what was wrong with him, just that he was nothing like my other children and it frightened me.