Scattered Ashes

by Dona Sarkar

  I didn’t understand how he could say this. He was a criminal. And a liar.

  “Why is your English so good? And why do you speak French? And why do you know about Paris?” I knew I was rambling and these weren’t questions that mattered. I had yet to process the full extent of Zayed, my Zayed, being an informant.

  “I attended a very exclusive school run by a French family for expatriates. In return for the cost of the tuition, which we could not afford for both my brother and me, I tutored their youngest sons. I was invited to go along on family vacations with this family to Paris once a year.”

  I raised my eyebrows thinking of Zayed being an au pair.

  “So you really have a brother?”

  “Jamal was killed during an altercation in Iraq.”

  I watched him. The same faltering in his voice, the same flutter of his eyelashes. This part was true, I was sure of it.

  “Why was he killed?” I asked, lowering my voice from the shriek it had been raised to a moment ago.

  “Mars, you’re going to not understand this.” His voice wavered again.

  “What have you done, Zayed?”

  “You’re not going to understand.”

  No, I really wasn’t. I already had a feeling I knew, though.

  “I already don’t understand. But you owe me the truth. You insisted I tell you the truth about my past and everything I’ve been through. Now you need to do the same.”

  He didn’t look like he was going to say much more.

  “This is different. You needed to share what happened to you to heal.”

  “It’s not up to you to decide what I need to do or not to heal,” I retorted. “What I didn’t need was to be lied to and used. You owe me the truth. Now.”

  “Jamal and I were approached a year ago at the Abu Hanifa Mosque by the older brother of one of my friends. He talked to us over the course of several weeks about our country, our pride, and how it needed to be protected.”

  “No,” the words came out of my mouth silently.

  This was a textbook example of how terrorists recruited new people. I couldn’t believe Zayed had been naïve enough to fall into the trap. He had talked so much about insurgents and their need to belong and have a group of people to call their own in such a clinical, textbook manner. He had been no better than the ones he had talked so theoretically about.

  “He was a part of a cell of the larger militant group al-Talle. We were told there were enemies among us, people who were here to destroy our country and challenge our culture. People who believed themselves to be superior.”

  “The Americans. And you listened to these insurgents?”

  He sat up and hung his head. “I am an educated man, as was my brother, but these men, they were not all insurgents or criminals or terrorists. They were military. They were people like you or me wanting to protect their country.”

  “By hurting others? Is that what you did?”

  “I didn’t. But my brother did. And I didn’t know how to stop him. It’s as if he was someone else. Possessed. Brainwashed.”

  I observed the tracker watch on his wrist ticking ten seconds. I didn’t know what to say now that my worst suspicions were becoming real. Deep inside, I’d been hoping that Zayed would say that he’d been framed or there had been a terrible misunderstanding. I also knew if he’d told me that, I wouldn’t have believed him. This was the only truth I would accept because I knew, from the beginning, that Zayed had been hiding something big from me.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  There was no going back now, and no stopping the words that he couldn’t help but say out loud.

  “Al-Talle inducted Jamal and me slowly, telling us Americans didn’t discriminate. They told us about how only thirty-five of the seven hundred animals at the Baghdad Zoo had survived after the Americans attacked in 2003. All those innocent creatures killed. How this was nothing compared to the hundreds of thousands of military and civilian casualties in the decade since then.”

  I felt a deep sadness for Zayed and for his friends and his family. How terrible to live knowing that you and the people you loved were always in danger; that the very people who had come to liberate the country you lived in would be the ones to destroy it.

  “They told us stories of brothers and friends who’d been killed in battle trying to defend their country. Al-Talle had formed to fight back against the strangers who fired an aerial attack on our city. Baghdad was destroyed, Mars, when the Americans came. You’ve never seen it beautiful. It was an incredibly modern, cosmopolitan city with every comfort a person would need. Now, dust, rubble, death. That’s all.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Al-Talle had information that the Marines were seeking out the Abu Hanifa Mosque and were planning an attack on it during Friday prayer in the next few weeks. This was where my brother and I had prayed every Friday our entire lives.”

  “And you believed them,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. I felt like I was floating above, watching this interaction between two strangers.

  “I did believe them. They asked us to protect the area surrounding the mosque. To scare off the solders by putting a few explosives into the ground. Ultimately, I couldn’t do it. My brother and I agreed we wouldn’t do it. But he lied. He did it. And I couldn’t stop him.”

  “He planted IEDs,” I said. Like the one that had taken Ricardo Esteban’s legs. Like the ones that had taken so many people away from their families.

  He didn’t need to say anything more.

  “What else did he do, your brother? Kidnapping? Car bombs? Did you detonate a bomb on a bus where you knew a convoy of Americans would be?” I whispered. I knew my father was in a completely different country, but I had to know.

  “He did nothing else because I . . . I saw the faces of the people whose death and mutilation he was responsible for in my dreams. I learned that the largest number of people who died at the hands of al-Talle were Iraqi civilians. Children. People like my family. People he’d been trying to protect and was in turn putting in danger. I found the Marines based in Baghdad and told them everything. I gave the Marines the information on al-Talle and where the next meeting would be. They stopped the next attack by posting guards at the next location.”

  “Then?”

  “Al-Talle thought my brother had told and they . . .”

  I braced myself against the ground I sat on.

  “. . . killed him. Because of me. They killed him publicly. They said he had brought shame on our country. And that I was next.”

  My head jerked. Zayed, my Zayed was in their crosshairs.

  “I’d been taken into custody and wasn’t there when he died. I had to leave Baghdad immediately so they wouldn’t hurt my parents. All I could take were my journals and the watch my father gave me.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “There is a militant cell in Seattle now. They are associated with the al-Talle. Their primary targets are the airplane hangars. To destroy the warplanes.”

  “Oh, God. In Renton or Everett?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  The hangars were barely half an hour away from Seattle and were in very densely populated areas. There would have been hundreds, maybe thousands, of people hurt or killed.

  “I was to engage with the cell and discover information, relaying this back to the local police team. In return, I was provided with this apartment, an opportunity to attend the University, and a job at the Institute. I was assigned a case officer who meets me several times a week to give me my orders. The first and most important order was to tell no one.”

  “And the bombs that have been going off in the area?”

  “That is the work of al-Talle.”

  “You had nothing to do with them?” I asked, feeling a slight relief despite my best intentions.

  “Of course not. They were warnings. Signs to other members of insurgent cells. I was to stay out of sight and only engage with them through on
line forums. A few days ago, I gave my case officer information about where I believe their location to be.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll give anything to have this group caught.”

  “What happens to you now?”

  “I’ll testify against al-Talle on counts of murder and terrorism once they are caught. I’ll probably move on then.”

  That I hadn’t expected to hear. I knew after today I wouldn’t see him again, but knowing I would never even have the choice, would never be able to find him again, that realization seemed to punch me in the chest on top of everything else.

  “You’re going to leave Seattle?”

  “I think so. I can do good against other cells in other cities. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t. My case officer—”

  “So you lied. About everything.” I set the brick down. He wasn’t dangerous to me. He was a sad little boy who’d built a delusional little world and pulled me in.

  “I had no choice. And I had to protect you.”

  He slid the box in my direction, and almost against my will, I picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy.

  “What’s this?”

  “My journals. All the ones I brought from Iraq. All the ones about my life here.”

  The truth.

  I had been looking for it for so long, and now I held it in my hands. How little it seemed to matter now that the greatest truth—that Zayed had never loved me and didn’t even know what that meant—had been revealed.

  “What happened that day on the roof?” I ran my fingernails under the rim of the box, wondering if I should take it home with me or not. What had been real to me was over; there was no longer anything more for me to know.

  “I had a flashback to the aerial bombings in Baghdad. I was trapped in the attic of my house for hours because our staircase collapsed. I was finally able to escape to the roof.”

  I was silent.

  “Please say something.”

  “I need to go.” I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear any more.

  “I have to tell you something else, Mars. This is about you.”

  I stood up, box in hand, ready to leave. I’d gotten what I’d come here for. And it had been much worse than I’d expected.

  “You are so special that if there was any chance that your father was alive, he would be here with you.”

  “You shut the hell up.” I glared at him. I was not going to listen to this. Not from him. Not from someone who was related to the kind of people who had taken my father from me.

  “Mars, I’ve seen a convoy explode.” He hesitantly stood up and approached me. “You need to understand what that means in that part of the world.”

  “There was no body.” I stared past his shoulder beyond the city, beyond the lakes to the mountains with the crisp, white peaks. I longed to be able to run away, disappear. Not have to hear this.

  “I’m afraid there would only be ashes—scattered ones, at that. There would not be a body left. Not with that kind of explosion. I’m sorry, Mars.”

  “He’s not gone. I know he’s not. I would know if he was—-I would know it.”

  “He’s with you, always.” Zayed’s hands were on my shoulders. “I feel like I already know what a good man the senior Mars Alexander was from being with you. You’re just like him. Kind and generous. Giving. You have so much to offer. I can’t watch you trapped here, not being able to believe that he would want you to move on.”

  “Get your hands off me.”

  “Mars.”

  “Listen to me because I’ll just say this once. I hate you. I will never forgive you for what you and your family have done and for lying to me. You’ve betrayed me, deceived me, and believe me, you are going to hell for what happened to those innocent people. And for what you’ve done to me.” I harshly shoved his hand off my shoulder.

  I didn’t wait for him to follow me. I let myself into the building through the roof door, walked myself to the car, and locked the door behind me. Only after I realized his journals were still in my hands did I allow myself the bittersweet release of tears. Our perfect love affair had been built on a pillar of scattered ashes, and now it was completely and truly over.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Days

  I didn’t attend another SAT prep class. I had the option of switching to another instructor, getting my deposit back, and several other alternatives. I did none of them. I didn’t write another essay, didn’t complete another practice exam.

  I couldn’t. Didn’t want to. Didn’t care.

  I also couldn’t stop hearing Zayed’s voice in my head. Seeing his face in my dreams. Reliving that last conversation over and over again.

  I’m afraid there would only be ashes.

  I didn’t listen to the dozen voicemails he left on my phone each day. I deleted the twenty-four emails he sent me each day. I ignored the forty-eight questions I got about him from Erica, Lana, Vivek, and even Bree Nguyen, who came all the way up to my room to check on me.

  Bree let me know several members of al-Talle had been caught during a raid on their hideout in Everett. The local leader had escaped and hadn’t been heard from since. Zayed was scheduled to testify at the arraignment, which was set for a few weeks away. I listened silently to the news and thanked her quietly before hanging up.

  Zayed would be fine. Just a little while earlier I would have been terrified at the thought of my Zayed dealing with a group of very dangerous men and challenging them head on. Now, I realized he had been related to, and almost had become, a part of that dangerous group of men. He didn’t need me or anyone else worrying about him.

  The unopened box of his journals sat on my desk. I stared at it day and night, wanting to know, but wanting to forget at the same time. Every day I considered going to him, wanting an explanation. A different explanation.

  One Saturday, I got into my car and made it all the way to the University. I parked outside Zayed’s apartment and stared at the window to his living room, wondering if he could see me sitting out here, wondering if he would come out if I waited long enough.

  I sat in the silence of the car and considered retracting everything. I wondered why he hadn’t fought me on that day and had let me go so easily. At the same time I was grateful he didn’t because I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.

  Feel the loss, Mars. Don’t shut it out. I tried to lecture myself with all the lessons I’d learned in our group sessions. But still, I felt nothing. Just numb.

  I drove back home, not having accomplished a thing.

  The day of my final SAT exam was set for early December, and each day passed as slowly as the last. I spent the majority of the month curled up on my window seat. The leaves sputtered, then disappeared for the winter. The lake grew progressively more choppy and windy. There had been talk of snow, but there hadn’t been a single flurry yet. Seattle was not a city that was well-equipped for snowstorms, and I was secretly hoping for a blizzard to shut down school for weeks. I had missed so many classes; even when I was physically in the school building, my mind was ten miles away, sitting on the roof, reliving that horrible conversation over and over again. I found myself frequently leaning on various surfaces: walls, desks, my hand, and staring into a corner. Before I knew it, half an hour had passed.

  Erica and I hadn’t been speaking much either. She’d called almost every day and stopped by several times, but I hadn’t been terribly responsive. She was convinced Zayed had done something stupid and childish to hurt me. I didn’t tell her the truth. I didn’t want anyone else to know what the guy I’d fallen in love with had done and how stupid I had been to not see it earlier.

  After the initial numbness and shock of my conversation with Zayed started to wear off, I let my thoughts wander to those places in my mind I’d blocked off before. Things he’d said, things he could never take back. Things I could never get out of my head.

  I’ve seen a convoy explode. You need to understand what that means in that part of
the world.

  I couldn’t stop visualizing it. The convoy exploding, rupturing into pieces in the air, slamming back down to earth. No one left. Only ashes.

  He was right. I could deny it all I wanted, and when other people said Dad was not coming home, I could brush them off as being ignorant about what war meant. When Zayed said my father was dead, I knew it had to be true. He had seen people die with his own eyes. People he had known.

  There will not be a body left. Not with that kind of explosion.

  Everyone else had been right all along, and I had been the crazy one. The funeral had been real. I hadn’t attended, had never visited the grave. Still didn’t want to.

  I couldn’t believe the things I’d told Zayed, the parts of my soul that I’d bared to him. All those moments, what had they ever meant?

  I’d wanted to know Zayed, the real him, for so long, and now I did. I wished I didn’t. I wished I’d never probed and snooped and found out the truth. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I had been genuinely and truly happy when I’d been with him.

  Some days, I was almost happy my Dad would never know about Zayed. He would be so disappointed that I’d turned my back on everything he’d taught me was right to chase after the shadow of a person that Zayed was.

  Now I would never be able to tell Dad that I was sorry, that I had never meant to disappoint him the way I had my whole life, that I’d been planning to be a better person if he’d come home, that I never should have fought with him the day before his deployment about something so silly, that I missed him so very much and was lost without him to guide me. I called Dad’s cell phone every day. No answer. I called twice more, each time cut off by the voicemail.

  Finally I left a message, “Where are you?” I whispered, though I now knew he would never answer again.

  * * *

  After much debate, Lana decided to have Thanksgiving dinner at our house. Vivek headed up the cooking, my mother acting as line chef. I had nothing to do with the preparations and spent the day in bed until I was called down to dinner.

  I thought I would protest more, but I realized we’d all missed several Thanksgivings the past few years due to my father’s deployments. Having Vivek cook for us was better than having a lonely dinner for two at an upscale French restaurant like we’d had the previous year.