He moved his hands together, rubbing them gently as he thought.
Sometimes he could almost feel it, the heat against his hands.
They had been there, he was certain. His father. Someone else. Sara told him she thought it was Azadeh’s father. He didn’t know if that was true, but someone had helped him give the blessings that rainy night two days before.
Mary stared down at her daughter, absently stroking her brow. Her face was peaceful, her black eyes calm.
“She’s going to be okay now,” Sam said to her as he watched the mother and her child.
Mary looked up and smiled gently. “Yes, I am sure she will.” She spoke with unwavering confidence. “The good Lord didn’t heal her just to let her die a few hours later. One day she’ll tell her children of these wonderful days.”
Sam compressed his lips and nodded with a barely perceptible move of his head. Stealing a glance at Azadeh, he felt his heart skip a beat again. Sometimes she made it hard to think. Her soft skin. Her dark eyes. Her thin neck and delicate fingers. He thought about her too much, and he hated that. He didn’t need the distraction and neither did she. She wasn’t American, not even Christian. The two of them were opposites in almost every way.
Still, sometimes he wondered . . .
He sucked on his teeth and said nothing, just leaned back and stared into the empty sky.
* * *
Azadeh kept her head slightly bowed, but her eyes hardly left Sam’s face, noting the anxious movement of his pressed lips. He seemed to fidget at the silence, sometimes acting as if he wanted to speak. She noticed that about the Americans: They expected conversation even when they had nothing much to say. It was very different from her people, who loved the silence; many of her closest moments with her father had been without words.
Sam kicked his feet, nervously moving the small pack, then dropped his hands onto his lap.
She watched him and wondered. Did he notice how she looked at him? Did he notice her at all?
No. He was an American, an officer, a soldier. He was far beyond anything she had to offer. He was part of another world.
Still, there was something about him, something different, something . . . she didn’t know, something stronger than bone and muscle. She didn’t understand it, but this much was certain: She was glad he was her friend.
Feeling the touch of Mary’s hair against her cheek, she brushed at the tickle. The wind gusted and she turned her face to the sun, feeling welcome and cared about for the first time since she had said good-bye to the old woman back at the refugee camp in southern Iraq. With the thought of Pari, her only friend in Khorramshahr, the memories suddenly came flooding back. She didn’t want them to, but she couldn’t control it. She might as well raise her hands to stop the wind as to hold back the memories once they had been released. The London doctor had tried to explain it to her before sending her to the States.
“How are you sleeping?” he asked her.
Azadeh didn’t answer for a moment. “All right,” she finally said in Farsi.
“Are you having any nightmares?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you find it hard to concentrate? Do the memories sometimes flood your mind?”
Azadeh looked up at him with pleading eyes.
The doctor saw it and noted her response on his pad. “The emotional devastation you’ve experienced is very similar to that of combat soldiers. Your emotions have been jarred. Sometimes the memories will come out like a monster, too powerful to hold back. Don’t worry about it too much. They’ll eventually go away.”
So it was that, as she sat in the afternoon light, her face turned up to the sun, the memories washed like a sudden flood into her mind. She thought about her father, a man she loved more than any other person in the world. She thought of her old friend in Khorramshahr. The afternoon the flesh dealer had come to take her away. The first time she had seen Sam back on the hilltop overlooking her tiny village in Iran. The Iranian troops, their black uniforms and unmarked armored personnel carriers, the greasy smoke hanging in the air, her father’s cries of anguish, looking into his dying eyes, the vertigo and crushing loneliness of knowing that she was alone.
* * *
The afternoon sun was low and cold, but Sam felt warm and safe and he started to relax. Watching Azadeh, her face soft and full of thought, his mind too drifted back to the first time he had seen her, the battle in the valley so very far away.
Closing his eyes, he relived the entire scene.
* * *
Sam took a step to the right to see past his men, and his shoulders slumped as he looked at the smoking tree. The lower branches had been scorched and all of the leaves had been burned to ash. The corpse lay in a heap at the base of the tree. “Anything else?” he demanded as he looked away.
“No, Sam, that’s all.”
“Awright then, let’s go. There’s nothing more we can do, and the Honcho wants to get out of here. Move to the chopper. Let’s get out of this hell.”
“Roger,” the soldiers muttered. They all wanted to leave. There was too much death, too much darkness, too much destruction and despair. And it seemed to be for nothing. None of it made any sense. His unit gathered their gear and moved down the hill in a run. Sam watched them go, then stood alone on the top of the hill.
A slight wind picked up, blowing up from the valley and lifting the smoke to the tops of the trees, bending it over the branches like the long, misty fingers of an enormous, dark hand. Sam turned his face to the breeze, hoping the wind would remove the stain from his memory and the smell of smoke from his clothes. He closed his eyes and listened, feeling the breeze on his face and the weight of his gear pressing against his shoulders and chest. The tiny radio receiver beeped in his ear as the other squads announced they were ready to go. He pulled out the earpiece and let it hang at his neck. He needed a moment of silence, a moment of prayer.
He bowed his head slowly. “Father,” he began, then paused for a time. He wanted to say something, and he felt that he should, but try as he might, the words didn’t come.
He didn’t feel like praying. He felt like kicking someone in the head.
He paused, then finally mumbled the only prayer he could say, “Please bless them.” He lifted his head.
Turning, he started to walk down the muddy road. He had gone only twenty paces when something spoke in his mind. He tried to dismiss it, but the feeling remained. He paused and looked back at the smoldering tree.
She crawled from the high grass on the other side of the road. She was young, wet, and muddy, with long hair and a tan dress. She moved toward the body at the base of the tree and knelt down beside it, holding her hands over her mouth. He saw her shoulders heaving and heard her muffled cries.
“Go to her,” the voice said. “She is your sister and she needs your help.”
Sam stared in frustration. “But what could I do?” he thought desperately.
The voice didn’t answer and Sam didn’t move. The sound of the chopper blades began to beat from behind him as the pilots spun the rotors up to operating speed. He turned to the landing zone to see that his squad had loaded up in the choppers and were ready to go. He heard his name being called through the tiny radio earpiece that hung at his neck. “Sergeant Brighton,” his captain called him. “Brighton, let’s go!”
He stared at the choppers, frozen in his tracks, then glanced back at the girl who wept in the mud.
“Go to her,” the voice repeated.
The chopper blades spun, ready to lift in the air. His captain moved to the side of the lead chopper and stared up at Sam. The officer motioned to his radio and pointed to him. Sam slipped in the earpiece and heard his captain’s voice. “Sam, come on, buddy, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“Please, Sam,” the voice pled. “I need your help now!”
His captain broadcast again through his earpiece. “Let’s get out of here, Brighton! Come on, soldier, let’s go!”
Sam reached
for the transmit button. “Stand by,” he said.
“What are you doing up there, Brighton?”
“Stand by!” Sam replied.
He turned away from the choppers and looked at the girl near the tree. She kept her head bowed and her hands at her mouth. Sam took ten steps toward her and she finally looked up, her eyes wide with fear. She started to back up, pushing herself through the mud. Sam lifted his hands, holding them away from his body in a gesture of peace. She cowered, her head low, almost bowing to him.
Sam took another step forward and she slowly raised her head. When she looked at him, his heart seemed to wrench in his chest. Her eyes were brimming with tears, which left a small trail on her cheeks. Sam caught a sudden breath. The feeling was so strong it was like a kick in the chest. He stared, then stepped back. “I know you,” he said.
She watched him intently, cocking her head. Her face softened and she quickly wiped a rolling tear from her cheek. Sam saw the pain and desperation and he felt his heart twist again. He felt breathless and hollow, his chest growing tight.
He moved to her slowly. She backed up in the grass, keeping her eyes low, terrified to look at his face. Sam stopped a few paces from her and knelt down at her side.
He shot a quick look over his shoulder. His boss and two other soldiers had come up the road and were watching from twenty paces away. They didn’t move toward him, letting him talk to the girl.
Sam moved a few inches toward Azadeh. “I’m sorry,” he said. He spoke slowly in English, hoping she would understand.
She forced herself to stop weeping and lifted her eyes.
And Sam saw it, a flicker of recognition, as if she knew him too!
He gestured to the body. “Your father?” he asked, keeping her locked with his eyes.
She nodded in despair, then turned away from the tree.
“Where is your mother?” he asked her.
She only stared back.
“Mother?” he repeated.
Azadeh shook her head.
“You are . . . alone?”
She looked at him. “Now . . . yes.”
Sam leaned slowly toward her and reached for her hand. “Look at me,” he told her.
Azadeh kept her head low and Sam lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. “Khorramshahr,” he told her. “Do you know where I mean?”
She backed away from him slowly, her face uncertain with fear.
“A refugee camp,” Sam repeated, pointing with one hand to the north. “Khorramshahr,” he repeated. “Go there. We will help you.”
Though she nodded slowly, Sam could see she didn’t understand.
“Khorramshahr!” he repeated. “If you can make your way there . . .”
“Sam,” Brighton heard his platoon leader’s voice. The captain had moved to his side and he placed his hands on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, we have to leave. Come on, man, let’s go.” He pulled on Sam’s shoulder, then put a hand under his arm, lifting him up and pulling him toward the road.
“Khorramshahr!” Sam called out to her before she disappeared in the grass.
* * *
Opening his eyes to look at Azadeh, Sam couldn’t help but notice how much older she was now. She had seen a lot, lived through a lot, since the first time they had met. Both of them were different now. The entire world had changed.
It was getting dark, and the noise and hustle from the street was getting louder as the shadows grew. Sam looked around anxiously, the hairs on his neck suddenly standing on end. He didn’t know what it was, but there was a sudden dread inside him. Like a little kid, he was growing fearful of the dark. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, standing suddenly.
Mary looked up at him. “This will be our last night in Chicago?”
Sam looked down at her and thought. “Probably not. I want to check our route before we leave. It might take a couple days. Better to know what we’re walking into.”
Mary motioned to the neighborhood. “I wonder if I’ll miss this?”
Sam looked around at the chaos and ugly devastation, wondering how she could. “I’m going to go out tonight and check a few things,” he said.
Mary nodded to the streets. “It doesn’t get any better, not until we get a long way south.”
“That’s why we’ve got to take some time and figure out the best way out of here.”
* * *
The apartment was as dark and quiet as a morgue. In fact, that was what it felt like—death, sadness, despair, and impending doom. Sara hated it. It was oppressive and claustrophobic. She knew her sons felt they were prisoners in the apartment, unable to walk around the neighborhood or even step out on the street. And though she tried to hide it, sometimes she felt the same way too.
She rolled over on the sleeping bag, listening to the breathing around her, then sat up. Her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees, she thought of her husband, Neil. For the thousandth time, she longed for his touch, his voice, his strength, his ability to make a decision, his optimism for the future, his courage, his willingness to help others regardless of what it meant to him, his eyes, his laughter, his sense of humor, everything he was or used to be. For the thousandth time, she wished that he were there. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell him. She could feel him, his spine taut, his arms around her, his hands against her back, his stubbled face against her cheek. She closed her eyes as she imagined, then felt an overwhelming sense of peace.
“Patience,” the Spirit told her. “You have this to look forward to.”
Patience. She almost viewed it as a friend now. Life had taken them to an interruption, but not the ending. With such hope, she knew that she could wait.
She quietly stood. Moving into the tiny bathroom with its yellow tile floor and cracked walls, she shut the door and felt around for the candle and box of matches Mary had left out on the sink. Holding the half-burned candle beside her face, she looked at her image in the mirror, studying the features that stared back at her. She’d lost weight, she could see that in her face; she was too thin now, her cheekbones taut. Her blonde hair was pulled back and dirty and she wanted a shower in the worst way. But she was still beautiful. More, she felt stronger than she’d ever felt before. The light inside her eyes was just as bright and she had lost the hesitation that had haunted her during the first days after the attack. The floor was cold and she rubbed her hands against her arms, then looked back in the mirror, staring into her own eyes in the flicker of the yellow light. The pain was there, deep inside, but she knew she would be okay. She could smile now and really mean it. It was true; she had a lot to look forward to.
Wasn’t it strange? Despite the desperation all around her, she had so much to live for.
“Patience. Keep looking forward. You have a lot to be grateful for.”
Puffing out the candle, she opened the bathroom door and moved toward the sleeping bag on the floor.
* * *
As Sara passed the narrow doorway that led into the kitchen, something caught her eye. She stopped, frozen, her heart suddenly racing in her chest, then slowly turned her head.
Something was at the window.
No! It couldn’t be!
There. It flashed again.
She caught her breath in fear.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be! She was on the third floor.
But she’d seen it. She knew she’d seen it. She hadn’t lost her mind.
A pale face. A vicious smile. Dark eyes staring back at her.
She gaped at the window without moving. The empty pane was lifeless, dark, the faintest glow of starlight casting a pale sheen. She stared and held her breath again. Nothing moved. Her heart raced, the blood pounding in her ears. Behind her, she could sense her sons as they slept, their heavy breathing, sometimes movement, the soft brush of bodies against the sleeping bags. She wanted to run to them and cry in fear. But she was frozen where she stood.
She wasn’t going crazy. She had seen him at the window, st
aring back at her.
Another chill ran through her. She could feel her own breath upon her face, moist and faint. It was cold inside the apartment now, and she shivered as she stared.
She took a step toward the window. Her feet touched the cheap linoleum, feeling every crumb and crack. The room was silent. It seemed so dark, darker than any other night. She kept on walking. Eight steps before she reached the window.
Something fluttered by!Black cloth. A hand. Suspended in the air.
Her fist shot to her mouth to stifle her cry of fear.
No! It couldn’t be.
She didn’t move. A full minute passed. She felt faint and dizzy, almost sick inside. She realized she wasn’t breathing and took a gasp of air.
She wasn’t dreaming. She wasn’t crazy.
She took another step, forcing herself to breathe. Another step. The floor creaked as she adjusted her weight to release the pressure against the floorboard. Behind her, Ammon coughed and rolled over. Somewhere above her, heavy footsteps moved down the tenement hall. She stared. The window was completely blank. Dark. Another step and then another. She never blinked, always staring at the window. Something drew her forward. She tried to fight it, but she couldn’t resist. The window stared back at her, a sheet of black, flat and cold. It seemed to mock her, daring her to come. Come closer. Come and see. There is something out here. Come closer. Do you dare?
She kept moving forward, every sense raw and on edge. She was aware of every breath, every touch against her feet, the cold air against her arms, the utter lack of sound, the blackness of the night, the dank smell of the refrigerator that didn’t work.
A final step. She felt the countertop against her hips and sensed the emptiness of the kitchen sink below her arms. The window was just two feet away. She leaned forward but saw nothing. She reached out to touch the glass, feeling the coldness of the outside air against the pane. Leaning a little closer, she looked down at the outline of the streets below.
The Great and Terrible Page 127
