“I guess this is what the UN meant by ‘unstable security situation’?”
“‘Unstable’? That’s the understatement of the century. Didn’t the UN elaborate on what they meant by ‘unstable security’?”
“They did. They said that Pakistan had always been unstable, and that it was worse since bin Laden’s death. But they also said they had plenty of foreign staff in-country, and they kept a close eye on things, and if trouble developed, they’d move me to a safer post. So, you see,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “I’m not as naive as you think, but I do hope they don’t move me. I feel as though I’m just getting used to things.”
“Believe it or not, I wasn’t going to say that you’re naive. I think you can never plan for this stuff. It just happens.” Nick strode to the doorway. “Not to change the subject, but is Hana here? Any chance I can get some coffee?”
“I’m sure she’ll get some for you.”
“So—back to the interview. How about it?”
“Not today. Between the nightmares and my headache, I’m at my wit’s end.”
Nick moved closer, concern in his eyes. “I can see that. Want to tell me about it?”
Abby wasn’t especially keen on sharing the episode in Geneva with Nick. “Not really, it’s just a nightmare, but it’s so vivid, so real, I invariably wake up terrified.” She looked at him, ready for a smart remark.
“Why don’t you write it down? Might help you sort it out. Make it seem less scary.”
“Thanks, Nick,” Abby said, finally looking away. “And thanks for not making fun of it.”
“Hey, I’d never question someone else’s dreams. My own”—he smiled—“now that’s another story.”
Abby led Nick back along the hallway to the kitchen, where Hana was at the sink scrubbing dishes. When she saw Nick, she smiled and quickly wiped her hands on her dress. Abby had never seen her move so quickly.
“Hana,” Nick said, genuine concern in his voice, “that can’t be good for your hands. Have Najeela get you a dishwasher.”
“It’s not so bad, and someone’s got to do it.” Hana looked accusingly at Abby.
“If it’s not too much trouble, could I get some coffee? With the riots, there’s nothing downtown.”
“Have a seat in the dining room,” Hana said. “I’ll make you a nice breakfast.”
“No need, coffee’s fine.”
“Are you going to spend the day here?” Abby asked, leading him into the dining room.
“If you don’t mind.”
Abby resisted the urge to tell him she didn’t want him hanging around and instead smiled. “Knock yourself out, but there’s only the one computer, and I’m using it at the moment.”
“Fine with me.” He sank into his seat. “But, before you run back to work, sit with me awhile. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“Is this for your article?”
“Maybe—or maybe just an innocent, friendly question.”
“Well, my answer will prove how boring I am. I worked on my statistics, that’s it. Haven’t even been back to the Immunization Clinic since I last saw you, and though I hope to have the car this week, I haven’t done anything. My only outing was dinner with Najeela’s family.”
“Whoa, how was that?”
“Nice. They’re wealthy I think, or at least her uncle is. They live in a beautiful mansion in Hyatabad.”
Hana came in then carrying a small tray with Nick’s coffee and slices of cake. She looked straight at Nick when she spoke. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“How do you manage that?” Abby asked once Hana had left the room. “She barely acknowledges me.”
“Doesn’t mean anything.” Nick bit into the cake. “I’ve talked to her about her son, told her I’ll do my best to find him. That’s all. Don’t change the subject. Tell me about dinner.”
“Not much to tell. Her parents are lovely, but her uncle is, well, he’s something else.”
“What’d he do?”
“He didn’t do anything. It’s more the feeling he gave me. He’s creepy, and he’s probably a criminal too. He’s a poppy farmer and exporter with farms in Helmand and Spin Boldak, and before you say it, I’ve seen the news reports about the opium business. Anyway, it seems he doesn’t get along with Najeela’s father, but I guess they tolerate him since they need his money.”
“What’s his name?” Nick asked as he polished off the last of the cake.
“Imtiaz.” Abby felt her skin crawl at the mention of his name.
Nick seemed to sit up straighter. “Imtiaz Siddiqui?”
“Well, his brother’s last name is Siddiqui so I suppose that’s him.”
“Holy shit.” Excitement dripped from Nick’s words. “You’ve met him? Do you know who he is?”
“I bet you’re going to tell me,” Abby replied wryly.
“He’s the biggest poppy farmer and opium exporter in Afghanistan. There’s just no catching him. He plays both sides—supports the Taliban and Al Qaeda, and just to hedge his bets, he supports Karzai. He’s even pushing his brother to run for president once Karzai steps down.” Nick pushed a shock of unruly hair back from his forehead. “I’d give anything to meet that bastard, see what makes him tick. He’s rumored to be involved in human trafficking these days too, and why not? Easy money selling and smuggling these invisible people, and something to fall back on if the poppy business dries up.”
Nick got up and paced around the room. “This is really big, Abby, really big.”
“I couldn’t stand him. He’s arrogant and, well, just gross.”
“Don’t tell me—he came on to you, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“I know his type. Shit, I can’t believe you met him. Any chance I could meet him?”
“Are you kidding? I hope I never see him again, but even if I did, if he’s as bad as you say, and I don’t doubt you in this, what do you think the chances are he’ll speak with a reporter from the New York Times?”
“Hmm.” Nick scratched his head. “What does Najeela think of him?”
“She loves him.”
Nick rolled his eyes.
Abby felt a tiny bubble of anger for her friend. “I agree he’s a total creep, but he is her uncle. It doesn’t mean she’s evil. Jeez, you don’t trust anyone.”
“A lifetime of experience, Abby, all thirty-four years, and I’m usually right. Matter of fact, I can’t think of when I was last wrong.”
Abby stood and turned for the door. “I’m going back to work. Hang around if you’d like. Just let me know when you leave.”
“I will, and remember—deep-six the Lariam. I bet your nightmares will come to an end.”
“Believe it or not, I’m going to take your advice.”
“Smart girl,” Nick said.
Chapter 9
Abby took Nick’s advice to heart and packed her Lariam away. To hedge her bets, she didn’t throw it out, but as if to prove him right, her days and nights were quiet—no nightmares, no haunting images of the woman hurtling through the air. She hated to even think it, but it seemed he was right.
Three days into her dream-free life, Abby signed into her e-mail to find a message from Eric in her Inbox. Her heart raced a little at the sight of his name. In the subject line, he’d written—I love you. Abby took a deep breath. Should she even open it? Her index finger hovered over the DELETE button as she remembered his last e-mail telling her he was “moving on.” You bastard, she thought. She’d have given anything to see a message from him just a few weeks ago, but already the hold he’d had on her heart was slipping. Abby was making a new life, at least she was trying, and there was no room for him here. Still, she thought, it couldn’t hurt to just read what he’d written. She took a deep breath and clicked on Eric’s message.
Dear Abby,
I expect that this e-mail will be a surprise, although if you’re not using your old e-mail address, I suppose you’ll never see it. I wish we c
ould speak but I’ll have to settle for writing this e-mail and hoping for a reply.
I’ve moved to Oregon and started my fellowship. I’ve done everything I thought I needed to do to make my life and my future perfect. But there’s a big hole in my plans and it’s you. You belong here with me. I don’t know why I needed to move to Oregon without you, but it was a big mistake. I am so lonely without you. I hear someone laughing and I look for you. I see a couple embracing and I long for you. I miss you, I miss us. I miss it all.
I am sorry that I said good-bye in an e-mail. If I could take back my words, I would.
I know that you’re with the UN in Pakistan and I’m so proud of you. I hope you’ll reply to this e-mail and I hope you’ll take me back. My life is dreary without you.
I miss you and I love you.
Eric
Abby read the e-mail over and over and felt her resolve to forget Eric slipping away. Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away with her hand. She reminded herself that he’d let her down more than she’d ever thought possible. She knew what she should do, and her index finger floated over the DELETE button. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it, and she hesitated for only an instant before finally clicking print. It wouldn’t hurt to keep it in her notebook and have a look every now and then. Closing her e-mail, she began to write her vaccine report.
• • •
That night, Abby woke with a start, pulling wildly at the sheets that had entangled her legs. Her nightmare had returned, and this time she woke not in the bright, forgiving hue of morning light, but in the full, deep, dark of night. She sat upright, her fear somehow washed away by her overriding need to write it all down. She leaned over and snapped on the bedside light, cursing when it failed to work. The damn electricity was off again, and no generator either. Abby swung her legs over the side of the bed, her fingers searching for her flashlight. When her hand found the cool metal cylinder, she smiled, relieved. She wanted, no, she needed, to write this down. If she wrote it out, the threads of her memory wouldn’t unravel with time, and the details of the woman’s fall would remain as clear and crisp six months from now as they were tonight.
Abby reached for her pen and notebook and began to write, and once she was finished, she sat back and read her account of the woman’s plunge to her death. Should she erase that line, she wondered, about the bracelet mesmerizing her? She hesitated before deciding. It was the truth, even if it did sound a bit peculiar to be so riveted by a bracelet on a dead woman.
She felt a kind of relief to have written it out, and she laid the notebook on her bedside table before she burrowed back under the sheets. Maybe she could sleep again tonight.
• • •
It was almost seven thirty when Abby woke, feeling better than she had in weeks. It was, she thought, because she’d written the details in her notebook. She reached for the little book and read the words again. Seeing her words, her descriptions, on paper was comforting. It made it seem tangible, more than just wild imaginings. She wasn’t sure yet what she’d do with her notes, but she slipped the notebook into her nightstand drawer.
She was feeling refreshed and eager for company when she opened the door to the hallway, but the house was quiet. She peered into the kitchen, where Hana sat reading a newspaper. A newspaper? Hadn’t Najeela said Hana was illiterate?
“Morning, Hana,” Abby greeted her.
Hana looked up, and—would wonders never cease?—she didn’t frown. Instead, she hastily folded the newspaper and motioned to the coffeepot. “Help yourself. Want some breakfast?”
Abby’s stomach growled in response. “I’d love something, but don’t go to any trouble, whatever you have is fine.” She sat down across from Hana.
Hana pulled herself away from the table. “You can’t eat in here. If Miss Najeela comes, we’ll both be in for it.”
“Oh, come on,” Abby pleaded, but Hana shook her head.
Abby carried her cup to the dining room and sat in silence, wondering if Najeela would be in today at all. She looked at her watch—just eight o’clock. At home, she’d already have been up for hours, having risen at the crack of dawn to catch the cross-town bus, and once at work, she’d have grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a doughnut. But here in Peshawar, life was upside down. She slept in, worked from the house, and someone else got her coffee. Things that should have been a treat really weren’t, and she found herself wishing she could take a bus to the clinic, get her own coffee, and munch on a doughnut. She sighed. None of that was going to happen here.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Hana arriving with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast until she’d cleared her throat loudly and pointed to the food. Abby sat straighter. “Can you sit with me at least? I’d love the company, and if Najeela comes, we’ll hear the car from here.”
“No thanks,” Hana replied over her shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen.
Abby, tired of the solitude, ate quickly and headed to her small office, where she sat and typed out a few reports and looked at her watch again. Nine thirty already. The house was still quiet; even Hana dusted soundlessly today. It figured: the first time she wanted company, Nick probably wouldn’t show. She wandered through the empty rooms, and peering through the front window, she spied Mohammed and the precious car. Najeela had kept her promise, and now Abby had a way back to the camp. She pulled open the door and stepped outside. Mohammed jumped to attention.
“Morning, miss.”
“Morning, Mohammed. Can you take me to the camp?”
He smiled. “Yes, yes.” He opened the passenger door.
“Let me get my things.” Abby hurried back to the house. She grabbed her bag and last week’s clinic report from her desk and said a quick good-bye to Hana before climbing into the car.
Mohammed navigated the now familiar route with ease, and as they arrived at the camp, Abby let herself out of the car and turned back to face him. “It’s just too hot here in the sun, so let’s have different rules today. Don’t stay right here, just find some shade or go relax somewhere.” She looked at her watch. “And come back for me in two hours. Is that okay?”
“I’ll stay here,” Mohammed said, and Abby headed for the Immunization Clinic. When she stepped inside, the heat of the small space felt as though it might squeeze the breath out of her, and she paused. Though the crowd had thinned considerably since her last visit, the heat had grown thicker. Swiping at the beads of perspiration that had already formed on her brow, Abby headed toward Simi, working intently at the desk.
“Good morning,” she said.
Simi looked up and smiled. “Ah, good morning. It is good to see you. I was just finishing up the numbers for you.” She tapped her pen on the papers spread out on the desk.
Abby smiled. “That’s good, but why is it so empty here? Oh, no, did I get the day wrong?”
“No, no. Today the food rations are distributed. Mothers and children will be there, waiting in line, worried that if they show up too late, the rations will be finished.”
“Is that common? That people miss out and don’t get anything?”
“It is. The food rations are less now than at any other time, and there is always the chance that the supplies will be finished before the line is done.” Simi stood and stretched and wiped her scarf over the dampness on her face. “It is too hot in here.” She readjusted her scarf to cover the stray hairs that peeked out. Her hair, Abby saw, was streaked with bits of gray, and though her face was unlined, she had the unmistakable look of someone older, someone who’d seen disappointment more than once, and who fully expected to see it again.
She seemed to sense Abby’s gaze and smiled. “Come.” She held out her hand to Abby. “Without the crowd of patients, you can see how the clinic is organized.”
Abby nodded and followed. The entire clinic was housed in this one small room, maybe twelve by sixteen, made smaller by a canvas curtain that cut through the center to create a separate area. The first section held th
e registration desk and the same bare lightbulb Abby had noticed on her first visit. Though it gave off a hazy glow, it only added to the heat collecting in the small space. Simi lifted the curtain and gestured for Abby to step through. A slight woman, clipboard in hand, stood in the far corner, hunched over a box of supplies. Abby could just make out her face, her milky-chocolate skin, her delicate features, a black braid peeking out of layers of the bright yellow fabric that draped her head. Abby tried to remember if she’d met her.
“Mariyah,” said Simi, “come and see Abby.”
Her head down and almost buried in the bright yellow scarf she wore, the woman, a slight limp to her step, approached.
“You remember Mariyah,” Simi said. “She was at the desk with me when you came to meet us.”
“Ah, yes.” Abby remembered the thin woman who’d sat hunched over her work. “Hello, Mariyah.” Abby offered her hand.
When Mariyah raised her head, Abby saw the jagged, ropey scar that cut through her face. Abby recoiled at the sight, her hand frozen in midair. She took a deep breath, hoping that Mariyah hadn’t noticed her shock. But Mariyah, she saw with relief, had kept her gaze locked firmly on the ground.
“Hello,” Abby said again, her voice gentler this time. “Nice to meet you.” She reached out, and Mariyah slipped her own delicate hand into Abby’s. Her fingers, long and tapered, were covered with rock-hard calluses, the hands of a worker. She raised her chin, and Abby saw the full extent of the scar. Mariyah had been sliced from ear to ear, and her upper lip had been cut clean through, leaving her face contorted into a permanent frown. Her eyes, a deep, smoky black, sparkled against her light brown skin, a touch of unexpected beauty on her disfigured face. Abby locked her gaze onto Mariyah’s eyes.
The Bracelet Page 8
