Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers

by Eve Rabi

  “Maybe. But it’s hard to cooperate when I feel such … such revulsion for you. I truly despise you.”

  “Okay. I accept that.”

  In a really controlled voice, I continue. “Each time I see your face, I feel like spitting. I no longer use your name. I refer to you as It or Him.”

  He nods slowly as if he’s okay with my insult-fest. But his thinning lips, his bobbing Adam’s apple, and his flaring nostrils tell me otherwise.

  “Can I say more? I mean, like, can you handle it?” My tone is facetiously sweet.

  When he raises both palms, I steam ahead.

  “See, if you were in America, we’d send you to the slammer for a long, long time. I would not be expected to work alongside you, my rapist.” I force a small, saccharine smile, aware of the duct tape nearby. “But lucky for you, you’re here and you now have your very own rape chamber. You should be congratulated for such an accomplishment. You now can join the ranks of Uday and Quasay. So pat yourself on the back.” I give a bright smile. “Go on.”

  He opens his mouth to speak then shuts it.

  “If you untie my hands, I will give you a round of applause.”

  Silence.

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  His Adam’s apple works overtime.

  “People like you should be feared. You’re insidiously dangerous. You befriend the enemy, ply them with gifts, gain their trust, then when they least expect it, you rob them. Gut them.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Megan.” His voice is barely audible.

  “Yes it was, Dr Kader.”

  “You’re forgetting something; you kissed me, Megan. Twice.”

  “I did not!”

  “Yes, you did, Megan. Passionately, at that.”

  “What?! I never did …” Suddenly, I get a flashback of me kissing him – impossible! I would never do something like that.

  He peers at me. “What? You’re remembering now? Huh?”

  “I … I …”

  “Is it easier for you to deny it, Megan?” He shakes his head from side to side. “Megan, you were out of control that night. Your words … they were so vicious. Remember what you said, what you called us? ‘Towel-heads,’ ‘Camel jockeys,’ ‘Ragheads’…”

  “What?! I did not …”

  “What happens in America when you disrespect people? When you use politically incorrect words on a person? You get sued? For sure.”

  “I didn’t say those … I would never use those words.”

  “You did.”

  “I couldn’t have. You’re lying!”

  “One bullet, one kill–”

  “What?! I didn’t–”

  “–one Arab …”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I never heard that chant till you sang it that night.”

  “I never said that! I would never say …”

  “Oh yes, you explained it really clearly that night: sometimes it’s necessary to bomb a whole Iraqi neighborhood for the greater good? It doesn’t matter that some innocent Iraqis die – there are so many to spare. That’s what you said.”

  “I never said that! I would never …” Suddenly, to my horror, those words seem oddly familiar. I hang my head.

  “Rings a bell? What other words have you forgotten, Megan? Words that–”

  “Nothing!”

  “–you used that night?”

  “Hey, don’t you shift the blame here.”

  “I’m not. Understand though – that night, I was trying to prevent you from getting shot or raped.”

  “Raped?” My laugh borders hysterical.

  “It’s true. Laugh if you must, but you alone with four or five guards outside in the night – not a pleasant thought for anyone.”

  “Well, they did not rape me; you did. And the hate I feel for you … really, I would think nothing of putting a bullet between –”

  “You hate me? I HATE ME!” he explodes. “You want to hurt me, Megan? Huh?”

  “Yes! I want to hurt you.”

  His glare is so piercing, I find myself flinching.

  “Okay!” He jerks to his feet and storms out of the room.

  Now what?

  He returns a few moments later, a 9 mm in one hand and a knife in the other.

  Oh fuck! What have I done now?

  When he brings the knife towards me, my heart slams in my chest and I wait for the plunge. He’s going to viciously stab me, rip me apart or cut my throat.

  To my surprise and relief, he furiously hacks at my ropes and zip cuffs, setting me free. Then he flings the knife aside and stares at me, his eyes filled with tears.

  I look at him, then away, then at him again.

  “Here!” He thrusts the 9 mm at me. “Shoot!” he says, and crouches in front of me.

  “Wha …?”

  “Shoot. You want to kill me; shoot me.”

  “I eh …” I examine the 9 mm. It’s loaded.

  “Shoot!”

  In spite of the crazy situation I’m in, for a moment, a thrill surges through me. To be in possession of a firearm is every POW’s manna. It signifies freedom.

  But hang on, what if I shoot him? Then what?

  He reads my mind. “You want to take revenge, right? So go ahead. Even if you don’t make it out alive, you’ll still have taken out the source of your pain. Go ahead and shoot. Shoot Megan!”

  I raise the weapon and point it at him. Between his eyes, like I imagined I would.

  He stares back, unblinking. I cock the gun. He doesn’t flinch.

  My opportunity. I’m taking it. My finger curls around the trigger and I squeeze.

  Nothing happens.

  “Go on,” he urges, “Shoot!”

  I didn’t fire. My eyes are fixed to the spot between his eyes, but I can’t bring myself to shoot him. Slowly, I lower the gun.

  “Go on Megan. Shoot me and put me out of my fucking misery! I don’t mind dying, but I don’t have the balls to do it.” The tears in his eyes leave me disconcerted. “You’ll be doing me a favor. SHOOT!”

  I flinch at his tone and aim at him again.

  “SHOOT!”

  As I stare at him, it dawns on me that I’m not blameless in this whole thing. I did kiss him, I remember clearly now. I may have also said all those terrible things he mentioned. That night, I had lost my mind and my behavior was erratic.

  Looking at him now – the way he’s begging me to kill him – the extent of his pain crystallizes. Somehow, something has fucked up this man’s life and he’s suffering.

  A tortured soul. I think of all the times he helped me – sleeping in a cramped chair all night to protect me from Bilal and Nazim, the time he gently treated my wounds and fed me sips of water, not retaliating when I hurt him during my first attempted escape, getting me out of the dungeon, bringing me chocolates, undoing my shackles ...

  I’m angry, he’s equally angry.

  Two wounded animals, both prisoners, casualties of someone else’s battle for power – that’s what we are.

  With shaking hands, I remove the round from the chamber, click on the safety catch, and throw the weapon on the bed.

  “What? You don’t want to shoot?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why not?” He springs to his feet. “Why not, Megan?”

  Suddenly, I’m crying too. I cover my face with my hands and bawl loud wah!-wah! sobs. Right now I don’t know why I’m crying – I just feel overwhelmed and terribly exhausted.

  He reaches over and pries my hands away from my face. “Tell me, I want to know.”

  “You don’t …” I wipe away tears with the back of my hand, “you don’t deserve to die,” I whisper, locking eyes with him.

  “Yes, I do, Megan,” he says as tears run down his face. “I do. I do. I do.”

  Never did I expect to see him cry in front of me. It confirms what I suspected; he’s a tortured soul – probably a by-product of war.

  For what seems an eternity, neither of us speak
. Finally, he wipes his tears with his shirt sleeves, picks up the knife and the gun and walks to the door. When he jerks the door open, a hoard of people crash into my room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Even though Reed and I barely speak these days, we’re no longer hostile towards each other. And yes, I’m using my rapist’s name again.

  I have the flu right now and I feel pretty rotten. The flu tablets I’ve taken have not helped at all.

  When I slide off a chair and lie in an undignified heap on the floor, Reed examines me while Leeanne hovers over him, a worried look on her face.

  “Leeanne … wha …?”

  “Megan, you fainted!” she says.

  “I did?”

  “Stick out your tongue,” Reed says.

  I stick it out, feeling awkward and silly.

  “I need to check your stomach,” he says.

  “My stomach? Why …?”

  Ignoring my protests, he conducts his examination and to my relief, he’s quite professional and it’s not that embarrassing.

  “Need to take some bloods, Megan,” he says as he pushes up my sleeve.

  “B ... blood?”

  He sticks a needle in my arm and blood gushes into two vials.

  “Results in a few days,” he says in his doctor’s voice. “Rest for now, and plenty of fluids.”

  I rest, fantasizing about aspirin, ginger ale, oakwood brandy, and some of my mom’s chicken soup. At times like this, I’d give anything to be in my mom’s arms.

  ***

  Reed knocks and walks slowly into my room, clutching a piece of paper in his hand, a somber look on his face.

  “My results?”

  “Leeanne, I need to speak to Megan,” he says. “Alone.” To my surprise, his tone is unusually curt.

  Leeanne and I exchange worried glances before she scurries out of my room.

  It’s 9 p.m. and he’s in my room wanting to speak to me alone – something’s wrong.

  “What is it? What’s wrong with me?”

  He hesitates for a moment before he finally blurts, “You’re pregnant.”

  “Whaaaaaat?!”

  “I said – you’re pregnant.” His expression is so grave, his voice so quiet; any notion of it being a joke is dispelled. “Eight weeks.”

  “That’s impossible. There’s no way …” I manage a small laugh. “I can’t be pregnant, Reed.”

  How can I possibly be pregnant when I haven’t been …? Suddenly I gasp, my eyes darting all over the place. The rape! Oh God, the rape!

  Reed rubs his chins slowly, his eyes never leaving my face.

  With both hands clamped over my mouth, I flee to the bathroom and shut the door, where I sit on the edge of the cold bathtub and try to make sense of the situation.

  About five minutes later, Reed enters without knocking. We stare at each other in silence for a few moments.

  “It’s only been you,” I say, my eyes fixed to the floor.

  He nods. “I know.”

  “Could you be wrong?” I finally croak.

  He shakes his head slowly and sits next to me. At least he’s not asking for a paternity test.

  “God, I need a cigarette.”

  He fishes out a pack of Camels and offers it to me. Just as I’m about to take one, he says, “No!”

  I look at him, eyebrows raised.

  He points to my belly.

  “Aw c’mon!”

  He doesn’t answer and a long silence follows.

  “I’m married,” I mutter. “I have a husband. You’re married. You have two children.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I sigh. “Look, this is …” I gulp at the air. “This is way too fucked up. I need to be alone. Please.”

  Without a word, he walks slowly out of the bathroom.

  I lie in bed, turn off the light, and in the dark, ponder my situation. Couldn’t fall pregnant for years, failed IVF three times and yet, here I am, pregnant. I’m pregnant! I smile and touch my belly. I’m finally pregnant. What a miracle. Something between a chuckle and a sob escapes me.

  If my mom and dad knew – gosh! They’d be so thrilled. I mean, it’s their first grandchild. Wow! My smile widens. Maya, she’d be thrilled too, and I can just imagine how she’d be pulling rank as aunt and short-listing baby names.

  And Ben and Carl – they’re going to be uncles! Oh my God! I laugh out loud. And Dr Liebowitz – he’d be so happy for me. Surreal. This is surreal.

  When I think about Damien, my smile vanishes. He’d never accept this. No husband would.

  As disappointment oozes through my weary body, I slowly remove my hand from my belly.

  I’m carrying the baby of a rapist – an Iraqi insurgent and a rapist.

  Tears course down my cheeks as reality checks in. “Sorry baby,” I whisper, “but I just can’t have you. I am so, so sorry.”

  When I fall asleep, I don’t have nightmares. I don’t need them – I’m trapped in one.

  ***

  6 a.m. Although I’m exhausted, I’m back in the ward, unable to stand the confines of my room.

  To my surprise, Reed is already in the ward, equally bleary eyed. I don’t look at him, but as I continue my duties, I feel his eyes boring into me.

  Finally, he ambles up to me, shoulders sagging. “We need to talk. Come with me.”

  We really need to, so without argument, I nod and follow him to my room. As we enter, Leeanne breezes in.

  Reed stiffens at her presence.

  “Top of the morn …” She stops when she notices our somber expressions. “What?”

  “Let her stay,” I say to Reed.

  He shakes his head from side to side.

  “What’s going on?” Leeanne asks.

  Silence.

  “Megan?” Leeanne peers at me, then looks at Reed.

  I finally break the silence. “I’m … I’m pregnant,” I whisper.

  Her eyes grow large. “Whaaaat?! You can’t be serious.” Her eyes dart to Reed. “You can’t be serious!”

  Silence.

  Finally, she regains her composure. “Well … what you gonna do?” she asks, her hand absentmindedly massaging her throat.

  I take a deep breath. “Terminate, I guess. What choice have –?”

  Reed’s head jerks to look at me. “WHAT?!”

  “Termin –”

  Reed leaps out of his chair.

  Both Leeanne and I jump when his chair crashes against a wall.

  “Well, Reed … I … I mean, what do you expect me to do? I conceived out of rape. I don’t have a choice.”

  He walks over to me, looks me in the eye and says, “I have a choice. You will have the baby and give it to me.”

  “What?! No way! I must just hand over my baby to you? You have a dark side. I’ve seen it, I’ve experienced it.”

  “You haven’t really.” His voice is so quiet, I shrink inwardly.

  Summoning every bit of courage from God knows where, I stand up and say, “You have no right to tell me what to do.”

  “Like hell, I don’t. I have every fucking right!”

  “Hey! Hey! Heeeey!” Leeanne says. “Calm down, you two. Let’s work it out. C’mon now.”

  “There’s nothing to work out, Leeanne. This is my body – I make the decision.”

  “That’s what you think,” Reed sneers. “In here, you have no rights.”

  I glare at him, my lips curling with contempt. “You’re really cocky for someone who got me into this mess. You’re responsible for this.”

  “And responsibility I will take. Did I deny that? Am I shirking it?”

  “Well, don’t you take away my rights. Don’t take away my choices. I didn’t ask for this. I have a husband. I have family …”

  “Not here, you don’t. This is Iraq, this is not the US.”

  I sigh and turn away. “I can see there are five walls in this room,” I mutter.

  He grabs my shoulders and spins me around to face him, scaring the crap out of me.
“When you invade another person’s land to kill, to take, to pillage – you accept all that comes with it. Hear me? I call the shots here. You don’t.”

  I shrug his hands off me. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Guys! Guys! Guys!” Leeanne says and steps between us.

  Reed shoves her aside and sticks his face in mine. “You do anything, you attempt anything … I will chain you to that fucking bed and keep you there for the duration of your pregnancy, understand?”

  We enter into a staring contest. He wins. With his flaring nostrils and hooded eyes, I believe he will carry out his threats. Breathing like he’s just run a marathon, he turns and storms out of the room.

  Leeanne bites her nails as she stares at the closed door. “Dark side sure is … dark,” she whispers.

  Weary and drained, I crawl under my bed covers and shake my heavy head. “I can’t have this baby, Leeanne. I just can’t.”

  “Yeah, but what a miracle, huh, Megan? I mean, you wrote off having a baby and here you are with child. A miracle or what?”

  I stare at her long and hard, then burst into tears. “It’s supposed to be my miracle, but it’s marred. How can any woman in my situation not consider terminating the pregnancy? This is not how I imagined it would be.”

  “But Megan, it’s your baby too. Half of this child is yours. Your blood runs in this child’s teeny tiny veins.”

  My blood in this child’s veins? I cry harder at my unfortunate miracle.

  “Megan, he’s just protecting this child. Most men wouldn’t – they’d want you to get rid of it asap.”

  “Pray for me, Leeanne. Tell God to … to … make it go away. Please! Tell him I appreciate this miracle, but not like this. Tell him to make it stop.”

  Leeanne reaches over and clamps her hand to my mouth. “Shhh! Megan, you be careful what you ask for,” she whispers as her eyes dart around the room. “You be very careful.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Troubled days creep into troubled weeks.

  These days, Reed sports a permanent scowl, and judging by the way he’s up so early every morning, I suspect he’s equally disturbed by the pregnancy. He barely speaks to anyone in the bunker unless it’s absolutely necessary. As for me – he talks, I listen. Iron tablets, scans, maternity clothes, rest, and all the stuff that I’m supposed to do and have. My initial cloak of numbness is slowly wearing off and feelings of loneliness and helplessness linger.