Pieces of Me

by Hart, Natalie

  “But…”

  I feel like I am fighting a losing battle here, but I have to persist. I have to try.

  “But what?”

  “Okay, so you can’t ask for help, but there must be something you can do. Anything. Even just hanging out with the guys more. Maybe other people are struggling too.”

  “What do you expect us to do? Sit in a circle and talk about our feelings?”

  “No. I just mean be around people who understand.”

  “I’m around them all fucking day.”

  “But to relax, outside of work…”

  “Em, if you genuinely want to help me out here, the best thing you can do is get off my back. Yeah, I’m fucking miserable because one of my best friends died and I probably will be for a while. You just have to let me deal with it.”

  He stands up from the sofa.

  “I need to get ready for work, babe.”

  And with that, the conversation is over.

  46

  “Okay, here it is, the last one… the biggie,” I say to Hassan. “Are you ready?”

  We sit in front of his computer on the University of Denver application website. He’s applied to four other colleges in Colorado, but this is the one that he really wants. We’ve checked and double-checked his personal statement, uploaded transcripts (what he has of them) and references. Now it’s time.

  “Sure am,” he says.

  Hassan’s finger flexes, click, on the submit button. He turns to me with a grin.

  “Congratulations! College applications complete!”

  I hold my hand up for a high five and Hassan shakes his head at my waiting palm.

  “Too much?” I ask. He smiles and eventually lifts his hand to meet my own.

  “Definitely,” he says.

  I am almost sad that the application process is over. It has been a race to get it completed, but one that has given me a sense of purpose. I don’t know how I would have spent the countless evenings of Adam sitting silently in front of the television drinking beer, had I not been researching the details of computer science degrees across the state.

  After the initial conversation with Zainab, things gained momentum quickly. I contacted various institutions to ask about courses and funding availability. Unsurprisingly, more than one university was interested in having a bright young Iraqi among their student populace. A couple put Hassan in touch with current students so he could get a taste of what life at their university would be like. The University of Denver invited him for a private tour of the campus.

  I’d noticed a change in Hassan since beginning the applications. Zainab said he seemed happier. He spent more time sat in the kitchen with his mother, talking about college options, instead of shut upstairs in his room. He even seemed more sociable with other kids from school.

  Some evenings I would go round to Zainab’s and join them, and we would compare research on what we’d found out about course details or entry requirements. We wrote what we knew on Post-its and stuck them to the kitchen wall, comparing institutions. When I was with them, I felt energised.

  My favourite part of the process was helping Hassan write his personal statement. I felt like I was finally putting to use all the skills I had gathered in Iraq from interviewing visa applicants, coaxing out memories and details of significant life events. From that, I began to understand more of Hassan’s story.

  At first he was hesitant.

  “I don’t understand why you need to know about my childhood to write my personal statement,” he said. “I don’t want them to accept me just because I’m a refugee.”

  I knew how he felt. Mrs Edwards helped me write my personal statement in sixth form. Draft after draft after draft. She said I should include my father’s death as part of my narrative and I was adamantly against it.

  “It’s not about trying to play the sympathy card,” she told me. “It’s about explaining who you are and what drives you. Your motivation to do good in the world comes from your father, Emma, it’s obvious.”

  I explained this again and again to Hassan. I don’t know whether in the end I got through or whether he just gave up arguing.

  “We just need to thread the pieces together,” I told him. “They want to know how you became the computer-savvy Hassan that you are today, and how they can be the next step in that journey.”

  It took a long time for him to open up, but one day I took him out for a burger and finally the chipping away paid off.

  “We used to go for burgers after computer class sometimes,” he said. And then I asked more.

  Hassan told me that when he was a child there was one computer in his school. It was locked in a classroom and he never got to use it himself. Every day he passed by that particular classroom he jumped up to look through the window, and he never once saw anyone use it. He was fascinated.

  As he got older he got more access to computers, mainly through internet cafés where boys met to smoke, play games and occasionally talk to girls via messenger. When, in Amman, he heard about the computer club led by another Iraqi, he jumped at the chance. It ran from 3.30–5.30pm every Wednesday.

  “I lived for that club,” he said. “I spent every day just waiting for Wednesday to come around. As soon as the class was over on Wednesday evening, I just started counting down the days until the next one.”

  What Zainab had thought was just a bunch of boys hanging out in an internet café had actually been a course run by an Iraqi technology entrepreneur. He taught the boys and girls (only two girls, points out Hassan) basic coding and encouraged them to be creative.

  “He told us to imagine what we would create if we could create anything, and then we worked backwards from that until we reached the very first possible step. The most simple thing we could do to work towards that goal.”

  After the course ended, Hassan and some of the other boys continued to teach themselves, via online forums and YouTube videos. Hassan was the only boy to master the more complex multi-player coding, so he started creating games they could all play together.

  “It started as a bit of a joke,” he said. “I met some other guys from Basra, so I made this game that simulated the streets of the city. We could meet up virtually in the coffee shops around the area we used to live. We could walk the same streets – past the school and the bakery and the market where we were sent to run errands for our mothers.”

  Through the game, Hassan had found a way of reclaiming his old life. He made an alternate version of the reality that he had lost.

  “It got kinda popular,” he said. “There are quite a few guys from Basra who use it now. Someone got in touch to ask if I’d make a Baghdad version, but I dunno… It’s not my city. It wouldn’t feel the same.”

  I was astounded at what Hassan had done.

  Zainab appears in the doorway of Hassan’s room.

  “Is it done?” she asks.

  “Yup,” Hassan says with a grin. Zainab gives him a hug.

  “I’m so proud of you, son. God willing, you will succeed. Whatever happens, I am so proud.”

  She turns to me.

  “Emma, will you stay for dinner? I’ve made qouzi to celebrate.”

  I accept more quickly than perhaps I should have. I send Adam a message Out for dinner. Will be back around 9pm.

  Haider is at work again, but Farwa joins us at the kitchen table. At first she struggled with all the limelight cast on Hassan over his college applications, but eventually she got on board and even started looking at courses that she would like to do herself. This has ranged from art history to astrophysics, so it is probably good she has four years to decide.

  “Actually, I’ve decided to be a doctor,” she announces this evening between spoonfuls of soft lamb and pistachio-sprinkled rice. Hassan snorts and she punches him in the arm. I am sure that whatever she finally puts her mind to, she will do it well.

  I eat quickly. The food is delicious. I haven’t had qouzi since I was in Baghdad and Hana brought the dish in on her b
irthday. She explained the preparation to me at the time, but it went on for so long that eventually I stopped listening. Zainab must have been preparing this all day.

  “That was so tasty, Zainab,” I say, as she starts to clear the plates away.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” she says. “I’ll pack some up for you to take home.”

  Before I can protest she has gone into the kitchen and returns with a Tupperware container that is full to the brim.

  “Give some to your husband, perhaps he will enjoy it too,” she says.

  When it is time to leave, I put the qouzi on the passenger seat beside me and the car fills with the smell of Iraqi celebrations. I feel protective over the family as their mentor, but I am quietly comforted by the maternal role that Zainab has taken on too. I enjoy when she fusses over me, makes me food, worries that my jacket it too thin. I feel cared for.

  I look over at the qouzi, still hot in the Tupperware, and smile. But other thoughts start to cloud my mind. I think of Adam and remember the way that Iraq does not enter our home anymore. I think about Kate and remember our conversation in the maternity unit that day. Lamb grabs, Dave calls them. He hates them. Dave hates them. What do I think I am doing taking this food home?

  I see a bin on the pavement and pull the car over quickly. A couple stroll past with their dog and I wait until they are out of sight, then get out of the car with the engine still running. I empty the contents of the container into the bin and turn my back as steam rises up into the cold night air.

  47

  The weekend of Adam’s father’s sixtieth birthday celebrations has arrived. I know technically he is my father-in-law, but I do not feel I know the family well enough to refer to him as that. I am almost surprised to be here, waiting for the door of the family home to open.

  Up until the last minute, I wasn’t sure whether we’d make it. I ended up booking the flights for us both, even though he insisted he’d do it. I worried that if I didn’t, his mother might think that I was keeping him away.

  Now, as we wait, Adam puts his arm around me, his fingers digging into my side. The gesture surprises me and I glance up at him questioningly, but his eyes are fixed on the doorway and the figure of his mother that has now appeared.

  “Mom!” he says, his face breaking into a smile.

  “Adam, oh my boy, it is so good to see you both!”

  She takes a step towards us and wraps her arms around him.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she says. All of her sons are back now. She has spent much of the past eight years with at least one son deployed, sometimes more. Now they are all home, for the time being at least.

  She turns to me.

  “Emma, honey.” She hugs me too. This embrace is less easy. I know she finds it hard that her son married a woman she barely knows. Both of Adam’s brothers married girls from their home state. The all-American type. The type that Adam’s mum understands. The first time that we met was at the wedding and even then it was all such a rush that I didn’t have the opportunity to spend any real time with her. Luckily, her and my mother bonded over a love of gardening and the stress of having children who work in dangerous places.

  She ushers through the door and Adam keeps hold of my hand. In the living room, Adam’s two nephews are sat in front of the television and jump up from the floor to greet him. His older brother, Chad, and his wife are on the couch. His other sister-in-law cradles a baby girl in the kitchen. His younger brother, Michael, and his dad are out in the back garden throwing around an American football but come in when they hear us, letting a rush of cold air into the room. This family is loud and boisterous and so different from my own.

  “Son!” booms Adam’s father, hitting him hard on the back.

  “Happy birthday, Dad,” says Adam. “How does it feel being another year older?”

  “Feels same as ever, son. I’m still just as capable of whooping your ass at football,” Adam’s father says.

  “We all can,” says Michael. “Adam’s big old brain weighs him down too much.”

  Michael gives Adam a playful punch in the bicep. Adam wraps an arm round his neck, pulling him in and ruffling his hair the way he must have done since they were kids.

  “We’ll see about that,” says Adam.

  “Boys, already?” says his mum. “Adam’s only just arrived.” But Chad has already pushed himself up from the sofa and Adam’s dad is out the back door, Michael close behind. Adam puts his hand on my back.

  “Won’t be long, babe,” he says, then kisses my cheek and disappears after them. Seeing him with his family makes me miss my own.

  On the second day, I go to the store with his mother to pick up food for lunch. I am trying to be closer to her, the way she is with her other daughters-in-law. I want to talk about Adam.

  “How does he seem to you?” I ask as we walk around the grocery store, me pushing the trolley as she fills it up. I know better than to interfere with her choices.

  “Good,” she says. “Same old Adam. Why?”

  “I… He’s different… at home. Not here. But at home, well, he’s quiet.”

  She nods but says nothing.

  “I’m worried,” I say.

  “Have you asked him about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He says he’s fine. That he can cope.”

  She drifts away and returns with two large packets of pasta, which she passes to me. I place them in the trolley.

  “Well, there you go. If he says he’s fine, then he’s probably fine, honey.”

  She leans into the shopping cart and moves the bags of pasta to the other side, then rearranges the meat and the dairy.

  “If you organise it now it makes it easier when we get to packing,” she says.

  As we walk down the aisles, she greets people. It is a small town and this makes shopping a slow affair.

  “Oh, you must be Emma from England,” one woman says, holding her hand between both of mine. That is what they all call me, “Emma from England”. A constant reminder that I am not one of them.

  The next aisle is quiet. I try again.

  “What about Bob, or your other boys? Were they ever different after deployment? Or what about when Adam has been away before?”

  She disappears without answering my question and returns with a packet of cereal. I try again.

  “Mrs McLaughlin.” We share a name now. “Were they? Different?”

  She places the cereal methodically into the dried goods corner of the trolley and straightens up to face me.

  “They’ve been to war, Emma. Of course it has an effect. But they are men. They find their own way of dealing with it.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t deal with it.”

  She raises her hands from her sides in frustration.

  “They just do. It’s not for us to interfere and tell them how. You’re Adam’s wife. Your job is to support him regardless.”

  This woman and her family are so different to my own. In my family it was my mother who encouraged us to talk about our feelings, to be vulnerable, even when we didn’t want to be. Even when it seemed like a losing battle.

  Adam’s mother speaks again, her tone softer this time.

  “Listen, honey, I can understand your concern. But honestly, you and Adam – you’re still so new to each other. I’ve known him all thirty-one years of his life and, I can tell you now, that boy is fine.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mrs McLaughlin.”

  “I’ve got three sons. I haven’t been wrong yet.”

  When we get back to the house, Adam comes out to meet us at the car. He kisses me on the lips and takes the shopping bags that I have started unloading from the boot.

  “Let me take those, babe,” he says, carrying them back into the house.

  “See, says his mother behind me. “He’s fine.” I desperately want her to be right.

  We are only there f
or three days, but he is different at his parents’ house. Better, on the surface at least. I wonder whether it is being with his family or being around other military men that helps. Perhaps it is neither and he is just better at acting these days.

  He is more affectionate with me too. His leg rests against mine when we are sat at the dinner table. He pulls me onto his lap when there is no more couch space. I want to believe that my Adam is returning.

  We go for a walk one evening and he holds my hand, our fingers interlacing the way they did in Garden of the Gods that day before he left. I let myself hope for a moment that maybe things could be different. As we walk, a piece of blue catches my eye. A bit of crockery that must have broken long ago and has been trodden into the path. I stoop to pick it up, my nails digging into the dirt to prise it from its place.

  As we lie in bed that night, his body curls around me and his arm rests over my body. He kisses the skin behind my ear and whispers to me.

  “Em, I’m going to figure this out. You’re right, I’ll try and hang out with the guys a bit more. It might do me good.”

  I say nothing, but turn my body to kiss him back and gasp silently as his skin finally starts to move against mine once more.

  When we leave the next day, Adam’s father holds him in a tight embrace and his mother keeps trying to give us plastic containers of food for the plane journey.

  Adam steps back and puts an arm around me.

  “Y’all need to visit us next time,” he says to them. I smile and agree and insist that they must. I do not mention that I suggested to Adam that we invite them to us when he cancelled the last two visits, but he was against it.

  Chad drops us off at the airport.

  “Stay safe, guys,” he says, passing us our bags from the boot of his truck.

  “Always,” Adam replies. “It was good to see you, bro.”

  We walk into the airport in silence. I want him to take my hand again, but his hands are in his pockets now.

  “That was a good trip,” I say as we wait for our boarding passes.

  “It was fine,” he says with a shrug.