I emerge into the cold night air with a gasp. I stand with my hands on my legs for a moment, trying to control my breathing. My thoughts. I straighten up to flag down a taxi and think that I am too drunk to be doing this on my own. I think about the buddy system in Iraq. I think about what happened the time I ignored it.
I shiver. The thin material of my top is no barrier against the cold and I hug my arms around myself, cursing the loss of my jacket. I consider going back inside to find it, but I don’t want to risk bumping into Peter. I rub my arms and stamp my feet a bit, but it doesn’t make much difference. This isn’t me. These aren’t my people. I don’t belong here.
A couple of military policemen walk past. One glances towards me, then says something to his partner. Can they see I am out of place too? I wonder whether Noor remembers the US uniforms from before she left Iraq, and how she feels seeing them around Colorado Springs. I wonder if Ali managed to get out and if he’s somewhere in America now too. I wonder if he goes out at the weekend and sees military police who don’t know who he is, what he’s done. Who he’s saved. To them he is just another foreigner.
One of the policemen looks like he’s about to come over, but a taxi pulls up and I clamber in. I tell him my address and when the taxi driver hears my accent he looks in the mirror.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” he says.
“No. I’m from England,” I reply.
“Oh. You need to dress for the weather here. It gets real cold real quick.”
I don’t want to have a conversation, so I just nod and say, yes, he’s right, and ask him if he got the address.
As soon as I get home, I take off my heels and pull on one of Adam’s hoodies, which reaches halfway to my knees. I try to make tea in a mug that was in the sink, but I don’t wash out the coffee dregs so the tea tastes strange. I start to cry and I tell myself that tea is a stupid thing to cry about. I drink a large glass of water instead.
I reach for my phone and send Adam an email. It is the kind of email I would never let myself send while sober. It is an email that doesn’t help either of us.
I hate being in Colorado without you. I miss you. I wish you were home.
I sleep on the sofa, pulling my knees up into the hoodie. I do not want my empty bed tonight.
30
I woke up this morning with a dry mouth and a pounding head. I have drunk three cups of coffee and eaten a fried egg sandwich, but it hasn’t helped. What I really want is bacon. Thick, English bacon, not the thin streaky kind that everyone eats in America. Perhaps if Adam were here we would go out for breakfast, to one of those places that serves stacks of pancakes and giant omelettes. But he’s not here and it’s almost midday and I’m still in my pyjamas. I called Penny and apologetically told her I couldn’t come into the shop.
“Must have been a good night,” she said, “I’m glad.”
I feel nauseous. It’s the kind of guilt and nausea mix that started plaguing my hangovers when I hit my mid-twenties. “The Fear”, Anna and I would call it. The hangover guilt gathers like fog around the edges of my brain. I try to think back through the night. Sally and her friends. The shots. The two Air Force guys. The hand on my back. The panic. Sally leaning in, chin raised. Shit.
The worst part of it was the email I woke up to.
What? You hate being in Colorado? Are you okay? Did something happen?
I tried to ignore the pounding in my head so that I could reply.
Hey. I’m fine. Just a late night and a bit too much to drink – I got emotional. It was a fun time though. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.
The last thing I want is for Adam to be distracted worrying about me. The thought of that is worse than the hangover. Maybe that is where the guilt is coming from.
Back when I was at university, hangovers were almost fun. I’d often go out with people from my Arabic class, and the next day we would sit in lectures, resting against each other’s shoulders as we tried to make sense of whatever Al Jazeera radio clip our teacher was playing.
In Baghdad, hangovers were less fun, mostly because of the low-quality alcohol and relentless heat. There was one particularly bad hangover the day after Anna and I went to a party on the UN compound. The ‘bar’ there was just another converted shipping container, same as the CHUs, that shook disturbingly when there was dancing.
The next day, we sat in the office, each clutching a large polystyrene cup of Coke and ice in our trembling hands. Anna periodically rested her head on the desk. I was on my third packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
“Never again,” Anna said. I feebly shook my head to agree with the sentiment. That was when the incoming alarm sounded.
It had been a quiet couple of months, so the alarm was a surprise. It was the first and only time in my life that I have truly understood the figure of speech “a splitting headache”. But I didn’t just think my head was going to split open. More like explode, sending slivers of skull bursting in all directions. I briefly considered just staying in my seat and risking whatever fate came my way, but Nigel yelled, so we slid gingerly from our chairs onto the floor. The movement was too much for Anna and I heard her retching into the wastepaper basket next to me.
Even that Baghdad hangover was better than my hangover today. At least there I had Anna.
I lie on the sofa and stare mindlessly at the television. From my horizontal position, I scroll through Facebook. It looks like everyone in England is out enjoying a final enthusiastic burst of British summer. My sister Rebecca has just posted photos of Sophie, sat in a paddling pool in what must be the garden of their new house. Sophie is slathered in sun cream and wearing a bright pink swimsuit with frills. She is so much bigger than when I last saw her. I think about giving Rebecca a call, it’s been a while since I spoke to her, but I realise I would only want to listen to her voice, because I am currently unable to form sentences myself.
I feel sick. My mouth is watery. I think maybe I should move to the bathroom just in case, but when I try to sit up my head pounds. Shit. Why did I let myself drink that much? Memories of the night come flashing back. The shots. Swirling to the music. The hand on my back. Shit. Why was I talking to him anyway? I was there with the team wives but just because some guy had been to Iraq I thought he was more interesting. I thought he was more like me. And Sally… shit. Sally and the man who wasn’t her husband. I wonder if the other women saw. I wonder if there is a code among them, like there often is with the men.
Two more episodes of trashy television later, I get an email from Adam, asking if I’m around to Skype before he goes to bed. I drag myself to a sitting position and balance the laptop on my legs. Skype makes the familiar whoosh and pop sound that now accompanies every interaction with Adam and even finds its way into my dreams.
He calls. The emblem of a large pulsating telephone fills my screen. I smooth my hair down and hope I look less awful than I feel. I click accept and the circle of the loading signal swirls round for longer than normal. It is not a good sign. Eventually Adam appears on screen, except he is not Adam. He is a blurred shape in the middle of the webcam window, which moves around to uncover and re-cover the light source behind it.
I hear him say hello, but the sound connection drops and his voice is lost before he finishes asking how I am. I answer anyway, but he realises the connection has gone down and asks “Can you hear me?” over the top of my answer. Then the connection is lost completely and his face is replaced by the infuriating circle that swirls unhurriedly as it tries to find him somewhere on the other side of the world.
The blurred shape is back. It talks to me.
Hey
Hey
Bad connection today.
Yeah. Weather?
Dust. How was—
Swirling circle.
Blurred shape.
My night out? Yeah, it was okay. But I—
Lost you. I said how was the night out?
It was good. I went with the team wives.
Yeah, I saw from the photo.
Photo?
Yeah, the – you sent.
Oh. Yeah, I forgot.
Did you—?
Pardon? I didn’t—
Emma? Are you—
Swirling circle.
Connection lost.
Reconnect.
Can you hear me Adam?
Yeah, you’re back. So you – fun?
Yeah, it was nice.
And the email?
Yeah, I… Sorry about that.
Do we – talk – about it?
No. No, I’m fine. It was just drunkenness.
I—
Connection lost.
Searching…
Searching…
Unable to reconnect
We switch to written chat.
Adam is typing…
Sorry babe. Video isn’t happening today.
No worries.
Sure you’re okay?
I’m sure. Just hungover. But how are you? Are you okay? What did you want to talk about last night?
Nothing. It’s fine.
Can we try to Skype again tomorrow?
I’ll let you know. Busy couple of days ahead.
Okay. I love you Adam.
Love you too babe. Bye.
Adam is offline.
31
The day after the hangover, I told Noor I wanted to start the mentoring role as soon as possible. The night out had reminded me who I was, Colorado or otherwise, and more importantly – who I was not.
Noor told me that the objective of the first couple of visits to Zainab was just to build up a rapport with the family. It was up to them to choose how much or little of their lives they wanted to share. “It could be that they never really ask for any help,” she said. “Sometimes just knowing they have someone there is enough.’
When I arrived at Zainab’s house, I felt immediately at ease. At the door, she kissed my cheek, then took my jacket and dusted it lightly before hanging it up in a gesture that reminded me of my mother.
I am sat on her sofa now, balancing a tiny cup of coffee on my knees.
“How is the painting going?” I ask as she fusses with coasters on the coffee table.
“Well,” smiles Zainab. “I’ve almost completed the painting you saw.” Her English seems much more fluid now we’re on our own, making me think it was nerves that caused her hesitation in the art group.
“Can I have a look?” I ask.
“Of course. I have a few I can show you.”
“I paint too you know,” says Zainab’s daughter Farwa, patting me on the leg from her position next to me on the sofa and making my cup wobble. Zainab has two children. Farwa, who has just turned fourteen, and Hassan, who is seventeen. Farwa looks a lot like Zainab. She has inherited the same almond eyes and the habit of pressing her lips together when she is thinking, which seems to be often. She is wearing a pink T-shirt, denim skirt and glittery Converse. She is chatty and bright and speaks almost flawless English. Her brother Hassan is different. He sits at the table in their living room and plays with his phone. He said hello when his mother told him to greet me, but hasn’t said a word since.
“Oh, you do?” I say to Farwa.
“Yes. But not like my mum. I paint my pictures on normal-sized bits of paper. And I like to paint people, not just gardens.”
Zainab returns with a pile of tiny canvases and I put down my coffee. Not one of the paintings is bigger than the one she brought to the art group. Some of them are backed onto light-coloured wood, but even those are almost weightless.
“Each person has their own style,” Zainab says to Farwa. “Art is as different as people are. It would be a boring world if we were all the same.”
“Your mother’s right,” I say to Farwa, taking the pictures from Zainab and beginning to look through them. Each tiny painting is the same garden, but from a different angle. One is a close-up of the bottle-green leaves of the fig tree. Another is a chair and a table, with a small bowl of olives. Another is a lizard, its body twisting in movement as it scurries up a wall.
“Are they all of your garden?”
“Yes. I don’t have photos, so I paint it while I still have memories.”
“Where did you live?” I ask her.
“Basra,” she says.
“I have a friend from there,” I say. At least I think I do, but there is still no news of Ali. Something is wrong. It shouldn’t be this hard to find him.
Hassan’s eyes flick up at my response. I catch his eye and he looks down again quickly, but I can tell it got his interest.
“You have a friend from Basra? Really? Oh my god, that’s so cool,” says Farwa. “How did you meet him? Or her? Is it someone in America?”
“Actually, I used to live in Iraq. In Baghdad,” I tell her. I like the way she bubbles with questions and curiosity.
“What, seriously? Wow. But you’re British right? Why were you there?”
“I was there for work,” I explain. “I worked in immigration. Helping people to leave.”
“People like us?”
“Well, I don’t know the exact details of your family, but I did help Iraqis move to the US.”
“We moved to Jordan first,” Farwa says, “then here.” That I knew. Noor broadly filled me in with the family’s story before I came to meet Zainab. She said that Haider, Zainab’s husband, was a businessman in Iraq. After the invasion, he won a contract providing logistical support to coalition troops. Noor said she didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she understood that “big bucks” were involved. From what Noor had been told, for a few years the going was good, but then Haider began to receive threats, apparently linked to a soured relationship with an old business associate. The family applied to move to the US, but, of course, the visa process was slow, and when the threats kept coming, Haider decided it was safer to move his family to Jordan first, where they spent the next three years in limbo.
“Did you like Jordan?” I ask Farwa. She shrugs.
“I liked Iraq more. It’s where my friends were.”
I continue to look through the paintings Zainab handed me. There are so many of them. Fragments of the same garden, over and over and over again. A ginger cat. Weeds growing between paving slabs. The evening light. Endless attempts to capture a home that exists only in her memory.
“Have you painted all of these since arriving?” I ask her.
“No, I did some of them in Jordan.”
“I love them, but I have to ask, why do you paint them so small?” I hold one flat on my hand and it fits my palm almost exactly.
“I have learnt only to create things that can be carried with me,” she said. I imagine Zainab filling a suitcase, the taxi arriving in the middle of the night, the children being roused and piled into the waiting vehicle while still half-asleep.
“What about now you are here?” I ask. “Do you expect to move again?”
“I hope not,” she says. “But if we do, I will be ready.”
I think about my own home. The love atlas, the books on the shelf, my mother’s painting. How easy would it be for me to pack up and leave? What would I take, if I could take almost nothing?
I hear the front door opening and closing. It must be Zainab’s husband returning from his job as a UPS delivery driver.
“It’s me. I’m going to shower and pray, then go out for coffee,” he shouts in Arabic.
“We have a guest, my love,” Zainab replies to him in English.
“Who?” he shouts back in Arabic, then appears at the living room door. When he sees me, he moves backwards slightly, shielding his brown uniform behind the door frame, then appears to think better of it and strides into the room with his hand outstretched.
“Hi, I am Haider. Nice to meet you,” he says. “Welcome to our home.”
“Hi, I’m Emma. Good to meet you too,” I reply, standing up to take his hand.
“Emma is the lady from art group that I told you about,” says Zain
ab.
“Right. The one who was in Iraq,” Haider says, holding my gaze in a way that seems almost challenging. Defiant. I’d met plenty of men like this through my job in Baghdad. Men who had been rich and powerful, and resented that they had to look to people like me for help.
“Indeed. Well, I don’t want to keep you from your coffee. I’m sure we’ll meet some other time,” I say. Surprise and then suspicion flash quickly across his face.
“You understand Arabic?” he says to me.
“A little,” I say. He does not need to know how much.
“Well, until next time, Emma,” he says. “Enjoy your time in my home.”
He ruffles Farwa’s hair briefly and walks out.
I return to the sofa. I see Zainab looking at me, lips pushed together. I want to tell her that I am used to men like Haider, he is what I expected, but that doesn’t seem appropriate.
“So now I’ve met the whole family,” I say with a smile. Her face relaxes.
Farwa, who was silent the whole time her father was in the room, starts talking again.
“So why did you come to America, Emma?” she says.
“Mrs McLaughlin,” Zainab corrects her.
“Emma is fine,” I say. I want them to be comfortable with me. All of them. “Ah, that’s a bit of a long story. I fell in love.”
“Ooooh, tell us!” says Farwa excitedly.
Hassan, at the table, rolls his eyes.
“Mum, can I go upstairs to use the computer?” he says.
“Hassan, we have a guest. You’re always on that thing,” she scolds him.
“No, it’s fine, really,” I tell her.
Zainab looks at him crossly, but then she dips her head slightly and at the signal he pushes back from the table.
“Bye, Mrs McLaughlin,” he says and then I hear him leaping up the stairs two at a time.
“Honestly, I don’t know what he does on that computer so much of the time. He always wants to be shut away in front of a screen.”
Pieces of Me Page 16
