“Mariyah,” Simi said, “is from a small village north of Peshawar.”
Mariyah nodded and adjusted her head covering. Abby squeezed Mariyah’s hand and felt the small tremor that had settled there. “Hello, Mariyah,” she said softly, hoping to ease the woman’s obvious anxiety, and her own as well. Mariyah’s rows of colorful bangles jangled on her wrist, and she slipped her hand from Abby’s to silence them. She nodded again and turned back to her work. She hadn’t said a word, and Abby wondered if the wounds had stolen her voice as well as her smile. Abby wanted to say something to somehow provide comfort, but her horror at the sight of Mariyah’s scars had left her speechless.
Embarrassed at her ineptness, Abby turned to Simi. “She doesn’t travel every day from the north, does she?” Abby asked, hoping to get more information. “I thought the staff was local.”
Simi nodded. “Well, we are. The three of us,” she said, motioning to the two nurses, “are from Peshawar. Mariyah is on a special UN program, and she is living here in Peshawar now.” Simi didn’t offer any more information, and it seemed rude to ask. “Come,” Simi said, “let’s finish seeing everything.”
She led Abby to the opposite side of the room. This area was packed with stacks of paper, boxes of syringes and needles, a refrigerator to hold the vaccines, and a small generator to keep it working. A baby wailed, and Abby saw then the remaining patients lined up, anxiously awaiting their shots. The nurses, Shoma and Nasreen, were just finishing up with their injections, and Abby watched as the last of the patients drifted out.
“Hello,” Shoma called. “You like?” She waved her hand around the clinic.
“I do,” Abby said, “although the space is a little tight.” She straightened a pile of boxes and looked around. “I’m sorry that everyone is gone, but I’ll be back again to help.”
Shoma giggled and pointed to Nasreen. “No English.” Shoma turned and whispered to Nasreen.
Abby smiled. “No Urdu.” She pointed to herself and watched as the two laughed in reply.
“I guess I’ll go. The clinic is open on Tuesday and Thursday, yes?” Abby asked, stepping outside.
Simi stopped at the entrance, angling her head as if listening, and then Abby caught it too—a low rumble, thunder almost, gaining speed and coming closer. Sharp bursts of gunfire broke through the racket, adding to the chaos swirling closer. Abby gulped in a deep breath and inhaled the sharp scent of something burning. What the hell was going on? She turned questioningly and spied Mohammed sprinting toward her.
“Go back inside, miss,” he said urgently.
“What is it?” Abby asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
“There are demonstrations just beyond the camp. They’re burning an American flag. They won’t come into the camp. Just stay inside.” He pushed her toward the doorway. “We won’t leave until they’re gone.”
Abby stumbled, and Simi steadied her, propelling her to the rear of the clinic. “Stay here,” Simi said, pulling the canvas curtain across the room. The two nurses, along with Mariyah and Simi, huddled in the front area, and Abby could just make out their fretful whispers. Abby could still hear the thunderous shouts, and she sank into a rickety wooden chair, her heart pounding, her eyes darting to the doorway, still visible through the canvas. “‘Unstable security situation,’ my ass,” she said aloud. Despite the warnings and the demonstrations in the city center, she’d never actually expected to be caught in the middle of some kind of street riot. But here she was, and it was her own fault—she’d jumped at this position.
She drew in a slow, deep breath and chewed on her fingernails, the glow from the lightbulb adding to the stifling heat and the tension in the small space. She reached up and pulled the tiny chain, and the room went dark. At least they wouldn’t see her so easily if they did get in.
“Are you all right?” she heard Simi ask.
“I am,” she whispered, though she knew that she wasn’t. Shit, wouldn’t Nick love to hear this? She sighed and listened as the rumble of the crowd grew fainter and more distant, then all but died away. The whole thing hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes, but it had felt like an eternity.
Simi lifted the canvas and peered in. “It’s quiet now, and Mohammed is here. Are you ready?”
“It’s over?” Abby asked, peering through the doorway.
“It is,” Simi replied. “Don’t let the demonstrations bother you. There is always one group or another making trouble.”
Abby forced a smile. “I’m not sure that’s a comforting thought.”
“You’re safe here,” Simi said. “You can’t let this kind of thing trouble you. It is just young men with nothing better to do. Without jobs, they stir up trouble. When things improve here, when there are jobs again, there will be no time for this nonsense. You understand?”
Abby nodded. Simi’s commonsense response was the perfect antidote to the afternoon’s events.
“You will come again?” Simi asked.
Abby turned. “Yes,” she said softly. “As long as there’s a car for me, I’ll be back this week.”
“Khoda khafez, Abby.” Simi smiled and stood at the entrance watching as Abby walked to Mohammed, standing nearby.
“You are good, miss?” Mohammed asked.
“I am. But I was scared. Not for long, but I was scared.”
“Don’t worry, miss,” Mohammed said, opening the car’s rear door. “I will take care of you.”
Abby slid into the seat. “Thank you, Mohammed.” She leaned forward. “I believe you will, and I hope you’ll be able to bring me back this Thursday?” Mohammed nodded, and Abby found herself smiling and looking forward to Thursday.
Back at the house, the driveway was occupied by a long, black limousine, similar to the one that had ferried her to Najeela’s house for dinner. Abby squeezed around it and headed for the front door, where she was almost knocked over by Najeela, who hurried, almost ran, from the house. She looked up, startled to see Abby. “Back so soon?”
“I am. My work was finished, but there was some kind of riot nearby. Is that a problem often?”
Najeela seemed preoccupied. “Sorry for the rush, but I’m meeting my uncle. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Abby wondered if she’d heard a word Abby had said. “But . . .” She wanted to talk about the day’s chaos. Instead, she watched as Najeela slid into the limousine. Abby shrugged and waved, but already the car had pulled out into the street.
So much for sharing news of surviving her first riot. She couldn’t e-mail anyone about it—they’d just worry and insist she go home. She couldn’t tell Nick—he’d just say he’d told her so. But she did find herself wishing he’d stop by. A drink at the American Club would be the perfect remedy for her postriot nerves. She exhaled slowly and headed into the house, her footsteps echoing in the long hallway. It was quieter than usual. No banging pots and pans, no running water, no sounds at all.
“Hana?” Abby called into the silence, but there was no answer. She poked her head into the empty kitchen and peered into the dining room, then the office, but the house was empty.
She opened the door to her room and stepped inside, dropping her bag on the bed. When she turned, her leg hit the open drawer on her nightstand. She rubbed at the soreness and moved to open the curtains. In the flood of daylight that streamed in, she turned back and surveyed the room. Everything was just as she’d left it except for the nightstand drawer, which hung open, her notebook lying undisturbed. Could she have left the drawer open? It wasn’t like her, but she’d been in a hurry. She sighed and shut the drawer.
It was odd, but the whole day had been off, and maybe she was just getting forgetful. She headed to the office to get started on her day’s reports.
Chapter 10
Abby opened her eyes wide and sat straight up.
“Abby, are you still asleep? The car is waiting.” She recognized Najeela’s voice, and she closed her eyes to help ease the dull pounding that had started up in her head. Jesus, that damn dream again. She
reached for her bottle of Motrin and swallowed two capsules without water. What day was it? Thursday, she thought. She was going to the clinic. It must be Mohammed who was waiting.
“Sorry, Najeela, I’ll be right out,” she said as she headed for the shower.
Abby rushed through her shower and took one long gulp of instant coffee before running out the door and heading to the clinic. Mohammed wove through the maze of cars, bicycles, and rickshaws that filled the streets, and they arrived at the clinic in record time.
“I’m here for the day,” Abby said. “I’m not sure if you should go back to the house or stay here. What do you think?”
“I think, miss, I’ll stay right here. I want to be sure you are not alone.”
“Mohammed, thank you. And thank you too for the other day.”
Mohammed looked away shyly.
Abby hurried to the clinic, arriving just as the first patients of the day began to form a line at the door. She squeezed through the growing queue and greeted Simi. “Good morning, Simi,” Abby said breezily. “I’m hoping that I can help out today. I see there’s a line already, and since I don’t speak the languages of either Afghanistan or Pakistan, I thought I could give shots.”
“Good morning to you,” Simi said. “You have been sent from Allah today, I think. Nasreen is not here today, so you can help Shoma.” Simi showed Abby the registration card with the patient’s name, age, and vaccination record. “This section”—she pointed to the card’s heading—“tells you which vaccine the patient will receive today. You see—measles, polio, it’s right there—in English and Urdu, and once you’ve given the vaccine, initial it here.” Simi turned and gestured to a table off to the side. “Shoma has already started organizing for the day. The syringes and vials you’ll require are there. You just need to have a look and take what you need.”
“Okay, that sounds easy enough.” Abby nodded to Shoma. “Salaam aleikum, Shoma.” Shoma giggled and called the first patient. Abby watched the procedure, then called a patient. It wasn’t so different from home, except that these babies didn’t offer up the same plump arms for vaccines. Instead, their tiny, shriveled limbs seemed too frail to hold a needle, and Abby hesitated, her hand trembling. The patients seemed to sense Abby’s reluctance, and they looked questioningly at Shoma, who mumbled soothingly to them in Urdu.
Abby took a deep breath and plunged the vaccine into the first baby’s arm. He wailed in reply, and Abby smiled. Some things were the same everywhere. Before long she was engrossed in the rhythm of the clinic, and though she couldn’t speak their language, she could nod and smile. Still, she wanted to say something so she wouldn’t seem so foreign.
“Simi,” she called, “how do I say ‘it’s okay’?”
“Acha,” Simi answered. “Just say acha.”
Abby smiled and motioned for the next mother to step up. “Acha,” she said soothingly, stroking the baby’s head. She held the tiny arm and, in one quick movement, administered the vaccine. The baby whimpered, his large eyes following Abby. “Acha,” she said again, kissing his cheek. She watched as the tiny woman clutched her baby close, and an idea began to form in Abby’s mind. Why not document this, she thought, the sadness, the frailty, the people behind the numbers?
“I wonder if I could put this in my reports,” she said, turning to Simi. “Document more than just the statistics, describe these babies and their mothers and everything here.”
“You should,” Simi said. “Numbers don’t tell everything.”
Abby smiled. Simi was right—numbers didn’t tell everything, especially in a place like this. Suddenly the prospect of writing reports didn’t seem so boring or dull. She might actually be able to make a difference with what she reported. “Will you ask this woman where she’s from?”
Simi approached the woman as she swaddled her doe-eyed baby in a large shawl. The two spoke haltingly, the refugee turning to smile shyly at Abby. “She is from Afghanistan,” Simi reported. “Just beyond Kandahar, but the Taliban are there now, and the workers with the vaccines have left. Her first baby died because there were no vaccines.”
“Please tell her I’m sorry for her loss.” Abby moved closer and touched the woman’s arm. “Does she live here in the camp now?”
“Yes,” Simi said. “She and her sister and their children live here.”
The woman from Afghanistan finished wrapping her baby and nodded at Abby. “Khoda khafez,” she whispered as she hurried from the clinic.
Abby quickly jotted down the woman’s story. “Simi, can we add a small space on the vaccine card for background? You know—where someone’s from, why she’s here in the camp. What do you think?”
Simi smiled. “I think it’s very good. No one’s ever asked before. The UN people just collect the numbers.”
“Then it’s settled,” Abby said. “It’s about time someone collected the stories, shake things up a bit.”
She turned then to the next patient, a tiny woman struggling to hold her howling baby. Abby leaned in. “Acha,” she whispered to the wriggling child, who stopped long enough to take in the face of this stranger before he began to cry again. Abby quickly vaccinated and then soothed this baby before turning to the next, and the next. Her mind was spinning with the possibilities, and the hours flew. When the line finally thinned, Abby glanced at her watch—one o’clock already. She stretched and stepped into the registration area.
Mariyah sat hunched over the registration desk. “Salaam aleikum, Mariyah,” Abby called. Mariyah raised her gaze, her brown eyes flashing, and she nodded quickly before bending back to her pencils and registration cards. Abby hesitated. She wanted to approach her, to make a connection, but instead she turned away, looking for Simi, and saw her just as she came into the clinic.
“I’ve been to the kitchen for tea,” she said breathlessly. “It will be quieter now. Most come in the morning before the day’s chores are upon them.”
“It’s been so busy. How many have we seen today? Do you know?”
Simi picked up the registration ledger, then leaned over Mariyah and counted her numbers. She wrote both numbers down and sat and added. “Ninety-eight,” she said proudly.
“That’s more than usual, right?”
“A few more than we would have,” Simi replied. “It is good you were here.”
“Good for me too. I’m going to head back to the house, but I’ll try to come next week. And tonight,” Abby added, smiling, “I’ll add some of today’s background stories to my report. Thank you, Simi. And Mariyah and Shoma, thank you as well. Shukria, thank you.”
• • •
Abby arrived home to an ebullient Najeela. Though Abby had seen her quickly that morning, she hadn’t had a chance yet to tell her about the riots.
“Oh, Abby!” Najeela exclaimed, cutting into Abby’s thoughts.
“You seem especially happy today,” Abby said. “Is there news from your boyfriend?”
“Ah, there is always news,” Najeela said. “You have worked very long today already, yes?”
“I guess so, but it felt so good to do some real nursing. I didn’t even notice, especially after the trouble earlier this week.”
“What trouble?”
“Riots, demonstrations just outside of Safar.”
“But you are fine?”
Abby nodded. “I’m trying to think of it as an adventure.”
“Oh, no,” Najeela said softly. “The UN will not be happy. They may decide the trouble here is too much and send you home.” Her face crumpled into a long frown. “What will I do without you?”
“The UN hasn’t mentioned it yet, have they? Although home sounds good to me, I’m pretty sure I’m here to stay.”
Najeela smiled. “Let’s go out then,” she whispered. “We can celebrate that you’re staying, and we can do some shopping and have dinner.”
Images of Uncle Imtiaz danced in Abby’s head. “Oh, I still have my reports to finish. I have so much to do.”
“Oh, you do
not.” Najeela pouted. “I need a friendly ear. Please say yes. We can go to the Pearl. Yes? We have hardly seen one another. I want to look at fabric for my wedding dress. I know I’m not officially engaged, but it will happen soon and I want to be ready. I’ve decided I want to look like Kate, the new princess.”
Abby laughed and felt her resistance melting. “Princess?” she said suddenly, remembering Nick’s nickname for Najeela. “You want to be a princess?”
“Of course. I want to live happily ever after, don’t you?”
“No way. I loved the royal wedding, but that’s not the happily ever after I’m looking for.”
Najeela’s brows furrowed. “But you want to be married, no?”
Abby nodded. “I do, someday, but I don’t have any interest in being a princess.”
Najeela sighed. “Any word from Eric?”
Abby could almost hear the rustle of the folded page as she’d pressed it between the pages of her notebook, and she opened her mouth to share the news of Eric’s e-mail, but Najeela, she thought, would try to persuade her to take him back. She closed her mouth and shook her head.
Najeela placed her hand on Abby’s. “Do not be sad. It will work out for you, Abby. I just know it. And, I confess I still have hopes that you might find Uncle Imtiaz to your liking.”
Abby felt her stomach churn at the mention of Uncle Imtiaz. She knew she had to nip this talk in the bud. “Listen, Najeela, I don’t mean to be impolite, but the truth is, I’m just not interested in older men.”
Najeela’s lips puckered. “Oh, Abby, an older man will always take care of you.” She paused as if trying to understand Abby’s point of view. “Otherwise, you’ll be settling for someone you don’t even like. Which reminds me, I forgot to tell you that reporter, Nick, was looking for you.”
“When?” Abby asked too quickly. She felt curiously disappointed to have missed him, though she couldn’t say for sure why. She barely knew him. Maybe it was just that he was an American, an instant friend in a strange land. Could he have heard about the riots? Was he checking on her? “Was he here today?”
The Bracelet Page 9
