by Pamela Clare
Derek?
It was his voice.
“This is not your affair, friend.”
Derek wasn’t put off. “In my village, our Imam tells a story of a man who lived near a river. A great rain came, and the river flooded the land. The man was trapped. He prayed to God to save him. An elder came with a boat, but the man would not get in the boat for he was waiting for God to save him.”
Barely able to breathe, Jenna listened as Derek shared the proverbial story that would have been familiar to most Americans, placing it in an Afghan context. But how could he pass as an Afghan man? She wanted to peek out but knew she couldn’t risk it.
“When the man drowned, he went to paradise and asked God, ‘Why didn’t you save me from the flood?’ God said to him, ‘First, I sent a man in a boat, but you turned him away. Then I sent a helicopter, but still, you refused to go.’”
The waiting room was quiet as Derek finished the story.
“I ask again, friend. How do you know that God didn’t bring you to this hospital to save your wife and child? Are not all things, even this hospital, in God’s hands?”
Silence.
“Baleh.” Yes. “Tell them they may give Behar this surgery—but not the woman who spoke so rudely. She must be nowhere near my wife.”
Relief washed through Jenna, the breath leaving her lungs in a long exhale.
The door opened, almost hitting her as the mother-in-law stepped back inside.
She glared at Jenna, pinched her arm. “You are not a pure woman.”
“For shame, Grandmother,” Delara hissed. “You should be grateful. Miss Jenna fought for your daughter-in-law’s life. Now, you will have a grandchild and not a grave.”
The mother-in-law delivered the husband’s message to Marie and then went back to wait with her son.
Jenna watched while Marie and Delara moved Behar to the operating room, the students following so they could observe the surgery. Then she walked to the kitchen, pulled the satellite phone out of her pocket, and sent Derek a text.
Thank you. Thank you so much.
He had just saved two lives.
6
Jenna gave Behar’s newborn his first bath and put him in a diaper, newborn pajamas, and a knitted hat donated by churches in the United States. Then she gave him a bottle of formula while his exhausted mother slept and her harridan of a mother-in-law went out to make food for herself and her son. Jenna would rather the baby be breastfed, but Behar wasn’t yet fully conscious.
Jenna kissed the baby’s forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here, little one. You had a rough journey, didn’t you?”
The baby’s head was bruised, and his cranial bones had shifted in response to being pressed into his mother’s tight pelvis, giving him quite the conehead. The bones would go back to their normal rounded shape quickly.
Marie walked up to Jenna and pulled off her OR scrubs, anger on her face. She spoke in English, her French accent strong. “What you did was dangerous for all of us. If these men tell others that a midwife here spoke to them, other men might refuse to bring their wives here. Or maybe the Taliban will come to kill us.”
Jenna knew this was true, but if she hadn’t broken the rules, Behar would have labored to death, and this innocent baby boy who was so alive in her arms right now would never have taken a breath. “I can’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not.”
Marie threw her blood-stained scrubs in the laundry basket. “I know you think saving this girl’s life and that of her son was the greater good, but is it? If we get shut down or men start refusing to permit their wives to come here, other women and babies will die. What good will you have done then?”
“I have a moral duty to give the best medical care I can to the women who come here for treatment. I can’t ignore one woman’s suffering for the benefit of others.”
Delara, who had assisted during the surgery, pulled off her surgical scrubs. She didn’t speak English, but she had clearly understood that Marie was angry. “I wish I’d had the courage to do what you did, Miss Jenna.”
Marie closed her eyes, the anger draining from her face. “So do I.”
“My brother is the one who changed the father’s mind, not I.” Jenna told them what Derek had said.
Delara’s eyes went wide at the punchline of the parable of the drowning man. “I must remember that story.”
“Your brother is a good man,” Marie said.
Derek was a good man.
Was he still on duty in the waiting area?
He hadn’t replied to her text message, but perhaps he couldn’t. If he were truly trying to pass as an Afghan man—Jenna couldn’t imagine that—he wouldn’t be able to whip a satellite phone out of his pocket without arousing suspicion.
“What do I tell Behar’s mother-in-law when she finds out I’m the only one working tonight?” It was Jenna’s turn to take the night shift, and that meant looking after newborns and mothers alike.
“If that horrid woman gives you trouble, call me,” Marie said. “Good night.”
“Sleep well.”
The baby had a strong suck and finished the bottle quickly, his eyes, which had already been painted with kohl, as was the custom here, drifting shut. Jenna settled him in his bassinette and tucked an extra blanket around him to keep him warm. She watched him sleep, an ache in her chest. At this moment, both mother and baby were safe, but what about tomorrow?
Tomorrow, Marie would have to fight with Behar’s family to keep mother and child here for another three days to give Behar time to heal and get past the worst of her post-operative pain. And soon, Behar would be pregnant once more and would face this ordeal again.
Jenna checked on Najida’s little girl next. She had finally managed to persuade Najida to breastfeed rather than giving her daughter butter, and the baby was now sound asleep beside her mother. The two would be leaving in the morning, riding in a donkey cart to their village two hours away.
Jenna kept busy through the night, checking on Behar, changing her IV fluids, giving her morphine—and ignoring the dirty looks the mother-in-law cast her way. “You have a beautiful grandson.”
“Impure woman,” the harridan hissed back.
You have no idea.
Jenna restocked supplies and folded and put away yesterday’s laundry, the relative peace of the night giving her time to think, her mind turning to Derek and what had happened in the safe room this afternoon.
I want to see your hair.
Jenna’s pulse skipped. No sexy pickup line or attempt at seduction had affected her the way those words had. Derek had taken her completely by surprise, yanking off her headscarf, sliding his fingers into her hair, inhaling her scent, his brow furrowing as if the smell of her shampoo pleased him. After six months of celibacy, separation from men, and hiding under a headscarf and tunics, she had felt exposed.
You smell like flowers.
She could hear Derek’s voice, hear the way the words rumbled in his chest.
You’re a beautiful woman, Jenna.
For a moment, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. He had stopped himself— which is more than she would have done. Now, she was left to imagine what it would have been like to have all that man and muscle hold her close, his mouth over hers, those big hands fisted in her hair. And so, she did imagine it, again and again, until she found herself standing, eyes closed, a half-folded sheet in her arms.
Snap out of it!
On second thought, it was probably for the best that he hadn’t kissed her. One kiss would only make her want more, and that couldn’t happen, not here, not without putting them both at risk. No kiss was worth that.
Maybe with him it would be.
That was her ovaries. They were getting ahead of her again.
Jenna forced her mind away from Derek and finished folding the sheet.
Derek wanted to throttle Jenna. He strode back to the barracks in search of Farzad, certain things would go better for Jenna if Farzad heard what had happened
from him—if the man wasn’t already aware.
Derek understood why Jenna had done what she’d done, but she’d come close to landing herself in a world of hurt. The men in that waiting room had been outraged, some of them talking about going to their village mullah. Where things would have gone from there, no one could know. Derek had talked them down, commiserating with them about the ignorance of Westerners and their women, doing his best to make light of the situation. In the end, news of a son had taken the edge off the husband’s anger.
Derek found Farzad and his men putting away their prayer rugs. He removed his wool pakol—the traditional men’s hat—and his patoo, which he’d wrapped around his face to hide his features and lack of beard. “A good morning to you all.”
He joined the men for tea and bread, grinning at their jokes about his appearance.
“If you were an Afghan man, you would have a beard,” Hamzad teased.
Derek rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “I’m growing one.”
When the men had eaten and finished their tea, Derek turned to Farzad. “May I speak with you where we cannot be overheard?”
Farzad’s face was expressionless while Derek explained what had happened.
“I would like to deal with my sister myself. I don’t believe she understands what she has done. She needs to learn the right way to act.”
Farzad’s face folded in a thoughtful frown. “Tell me, my friend, when were you a soldier here? You told Dawar you are not a soldier now, but I believe you must once have worn a uniform. You speak our tongue as one born to it, not like your sister, who has an accent. You slip into the clothes of an Afghan man as if you have always worn them. You did not need my help dressing this morning. The way you turned those men away from violence last night… You have been in Afghanistan for a long time.”
Derek could have lied, but he wouldn’t, not to Farzad. “I was an operator with U.S. special forces for many years. I left the army long ago to work in private security. I did not say this when Dawar asked because I did not know you or your men then, though I did not lie. I said I am not a soldier, and, indeed, I am not—not now.”
“Did you kill Talibs and al-Qaeda fighters?” Farzad’s face was still expressionless.
“Yes, I did.”
Farzad grinned. “Then we are brothers. But I will not tell the others, especially not Hamzad. As I said, he is the eyes and ears of The Lion.”
And Derek knew at that moment that Farzad didn’t trust Kazi either.
“As for your sister, what she did was kind-hearted but dangerous. The mother and child are well?”
“Yes. A son.”
“I’m glad you brought this matter to me. I will do all I can to protect her. Yes, you may speak with her and explain things to her so that she will understand and not bring trouble upon us.”
“Thank you, Farzad.”
Farzad’s expression fell. “My country has not always been like this. When I was a boy, women walked the city streets without burqas. Some went to college, and many held jobs. No woman feared being flogged or shot for speaking with a man. The Taliban ruined that by twisting Islam. They stole Islam, dragged it through the dung, destroying my country. They are heretics. Once we were a land known for its poetry, music, and food. I grieve for Afghanistan and its people, Mr. Tower.”
“The future depends on men like you—and women like these student midwives at this hospital. My sister and I are in your debt.”
Derek sent Jenna a text message but didn’t hear back until noon, when she told him she had worked the night shift and been asleep. He told her they needed to talk, but she said she was too busy.
Derek took advantage of the time to catch up on sleep himself, crashing on his bunk in the barracks. He fell asleep quickly, but his dreams were haunted by Jenna—her sweet-smelling auburn hair, those kissable lips, those beautiful green eyes. He kissed her, began to peel away the layers that hid her body.
Sniper!
Rat-at-at-at!
Derek jerked awake, heart slamming in his chest.
Fuck.
He glanced at his watch.
It was just after three in the afternoon.
He got up, walked through the frigid wind and sunshine to the Land Cruiser, where he went through his stash of food, reading the options. He chose Menu 4—spaghetti with beef sauce, toaster pastry, peanut butter, multigrain snack bread, infused and dried fruits, fortified cocoa beverage powder, jam, and Accessory Packet B, which turned out to be M&Ms.
After eating, he brushed his teeth from a bottle of water and then went inside for a quick shower. There was no hot water today, the cold a shock to the system that sent his nuts into full retreat.
This is what you deserve for dreaming about getting Jenna naked.
Jenna Hamilton was off limits for many reasons, not the least of which was that getting caught with her could be fatal for them both.
He stepped out of the shower to find Hamzad standing nearby.
The man looked straight at Derek’s dick. “If you were a good Afghan man, you would be circumcised.”
Derek ignored him, wrapped a towel around his waist, and reached for his boxers. His satellite phone buzzed with a message from Jenna.
I can take a short break now.
He finished dressing and met her at the back door. “We need to talk—in private.”
They walked in silence to the Land Cruiser and climbed inside, where it was much warmer.
“Thanks so much for what you did last night. You saved—”
“What I did was save your ass. You came close to starting a riot.”
“I had to do something.” The anguish on Jenna’s face was real. “If I hadn’t, a twelve-year-old girl would have suffered until she died with her baby still inside her.”
“I know why you did it.” He’d heard the girl’s cries, each one sending shivers down his spine. The screams of the injured and dying were nothing new to him, but the girl’s cries had gotten beneath his skin. “Why you did it doesn’t matter—not to those men. I spent the next twenty minutes talking them down. Some of them wanted to fetch the nearest Imam. You could have been dragged out by your headscarf and flogged. You put the other midwives, the students, the staff, including Farzad and his men, at risk.”
Her face paled, but her chin went up. “What was I supposed to do—watch her suffer for endless hours and then die? Do you have any idea how painful that would have been? Oh, wait, you’re a man, so you have no clue.”
“You haven’t had any babies—not that I know of, anyway. How can you have more personal insight into how painful it is than I do?”
“I’m a midwife! I hold their hands. I see the pain in their eyes every time they have a contraction. I see their despair when labor drags on.”
Against his better judgment, Derek reached over, cupped her cheek. “You can’t save everyone, Jenna.”
She drew away from his touch. “Are we done?”
“Farzad knows. I told him I would talk to you so that he wouldn’t have to.”
Without another word, she opened the door, hopped to the ground, and disappeared inside the compound.
“The head is out. The worst of your pain is over.” Jenna put her hands atop Lailoma’s, guiding her as she supported the baby’s head while the other students watched. “Check to see that the cord isn’t around its neck.”
With no cord, all the baby needed was another push.
“Take a deep breath and push,” Jenna said to the mother, a twenty-three-year-old who was about to give birth to her fourth baby.
The woman’s mother-in-law held her hand. “Push! Push!”
Jenna shifted Lailoma’s hands as the baby began to turn. “The baby will rotate so that the shoulders can be born. It doesn’t matter which direction it turns. Sometimes the shoulders can get stuck, and that’s an emergency.”
They had talked about shoulder dystocia in class, but Jenna could tell that it wasn’t going to be a problem this time.
The m
other let out a shriek as first one shoulder and then the next emerged. The baby slipped from its mother’s body and into Lailoma’s hands in a rush of amniotic fluid, flinging its little arms out as if in surprise and letting out a lusty wail.
“It’s a boy!” Lailoma’s face lit up with a smile. “You have another son.”
Jenna let Lailoma take over, watching as she tucked the baby into a blanket and handed him to his mother. “It’s important to give her the oxytocin injection as soon as you can. If the baby weren’t breathing, you would need to treat him before giving the mother the injection. Those first few minutes are important for the baby’s survival.”
This little guy was already using his lungs to their full capacity, his healthy cries making everyone in the room smile.
Lailoma reached for the prepared syringe and injected the life-saving hormone into the mother’s thigh then went about clamping and cutting the cord.
Jenna’s phone buzzed, but she didn’t have time to check it. She hadn’t spoken to Derek since the day before yesterday in his Land Cruiser. He’d been so angry with her, as if she’d done something deliberately to endanger everyone.
Stop thinking about him.
“After the baby is safe and breathing and the afterbirth has been safely delivered, we will check the mother for birth injuries—vaginal tears, fistula, anything that might require treatment.”
Everything had gone as it should this time—no hemorrhaging, no retained placenta, no vaginal tears—giving Jenna time to focus on lessons about newborn care. Here, midwives were often the first and only people to screen new babies for problems. A proper neonatal evaluation could save a child’s life.
Under Jenna’s supervision, Lailoma checked for hip dysplasia, listened to his heart and lungs, and put ilotycin ointment in his eyes. Then she gave him an injection of vitamin K and a bath, and placed him, diapered and swaddled, in his grandmother’s waiting arms.
