The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “Thanks, Najeela. I’ll finish my report tonight.”

  Najeela nodded as Abby hurried to her room to collect her bag. She saw her notebook, filled now with her description of the incident in Geneva, and she considered bringing it to share the details with Nick. She picked it up and paused. No, not yet. It could wait. She placed it back in her nightstand and slid the drawer shut.

  Nick was drinking his coffee and finishing up toast. He looked up. “That was quick, but I’m ready.” He stood and gulped down the last bit of coffee. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Once at the camp, Abby headed to the clinic. “I know the clinic’s closed. I just want to have a look.”

  “Fine with me. I’ll tag along if you don’t mind.”

  Abby took her time getting to the clinic. She wanted to fully experience this place. It seemed she was always in a hurry when she was here, and she never knew what it was to really be here. Emily had written asking what everything was like, and Abby realized that although she could describe the rows and rows of tents, the line of patients at the clinic, and the unrelenting sunshine, she didn’t know what things were like for the people forced to live here. She inhaled deeply.

  Nick grimaced. “Most visitors choose to hold their breath in a place like this. They want to get it over with, but not you, huh?”

  “I haven’t been here that often, and I don’t want to be just a visitor. I’d like to really feel it, if you know what I mean. I’ve added a section for refugee stories to my reports to underline what the numbers really mean. But maybe I can write something about the camp too. You know, tell what it’s like here.” Abby slowed her pace to match the sun’s demands. On her left, she noticed again the long rows of scraggly tents that seemed to spread on forever, and to her right, the rocky path that wound through the camp. Veiled women with babies and children in tow shuffled along the paths. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to this, to the smell and the sights, but she wanted to try.

  “Take a deep whiff of the place then. Tell me what you learn.”

  Abby closed her eyes and tried to blot out the sounds of children shrieking, and dogs barking. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils, pausing before she exhaled. “It’s an evocative smell, spices and sweat and something else I’m not sure of, but it’s a hopeless kind of scent that just lingers. It makes me think of disease and starvation and fear. I suppose that’s because I know what’s here.” She opened her eyes and looked straight at Nick. “Close your eyes. Can’t you smell it? Can’t you feel it?”

  “When you describe it like that, I can. You’re poetic. I might even use that description.”

  Abby smiled. “Always a writer, huh?”

  “Abby, you’re a nurse. My guess is you came here to save the world. I came here to save myself, at least my professional self. If I don’t pound out one hell of a story, I’ll be chasing celebrities for the Enquirer.”

  Abby couldn’t hold back her laughter. “God, you’re dramatic. I mean, you won the Pulitzer, right?”

  “Yeah, I did, but a writer is only as good as his last story, and I haven’t had anything good in at least two years. Pulitzer or not, the Times wants compelling stories, not fluff.”

  “Fluff—wasn’t that what you planned to write about me?”

  Nick raised his brows. “I was trying to get out of the hole I’d dug myself into. Don’t hold that against me.”

  “I won’t, especially when there’s so much else to hold against you.”

  “Aww, hell, that hurts. You must have noticed I’m trying.”

  Abby smiled. “Which brings me to just why are you trying?” He was nervous, she thought, the way she was when she liked someone new.

  “You don’t miss much, Abby. I need your help, and I’m smart enough to know that I won’t get it if I’m a jerk.” He smiled. “I’m really not a bad guy once you get to know me.”

  It occurred to Abby that he probably wasn’t, and that maybe Nick and she were more alike than she cared to admit. He was honest enough to confess that he’d landed here to save himself, and hadn’t that been her aim as well? Not that she’d share that information with him—not now at any rate. She studied his face and thought, not for the first time, that he was surprisingly handsome. With his chiseled features and deep brown eyes—well, there was no doubt about it. And he seemed not to be aware of that the way some men are. He just seemed comfortable with who he was, and that was appealing, though Abby reminded herself that she was definitely not interested in any man, period. At least not now.

  She crossed her arms and caught herself too late. She’d been looking—no, staring—at Nick, and he’d been looking right back. Her mind scrambled trying to pick up the thread of conversation they’d been having—something about his not being a bad guy. That was it, she thought.

  “No, you’re not bad, I guess. I think my friend Emily would like you.”

  Nick raised his brows. “Really? Well, you’ll have to tell me more about Emily, but what about you? What do you think?”

  Abby smiled. “Jury’s still out.”

  “I’ll win you over. You know that, don’t you?”

  Abby smiled and shook her head. “Time will tell.”

  “Back to business. We might as well get this show on the road.” Nick headed in the direction of the Protection Tent, the sun’s glare bearing down on them.

  “God, is it always so hot and sunny here?” Abby swiped her hand across her forehead. “Doesn’t it ever rain?”

  Nick wiped the beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow. “There is a rainy season—March, I think, but don’t quote me on that.” Nick lifted the flap of the tent for Abby. “That woman I told you about, I want to ask her if she might be able to get me in touch with a few victims of trafficking. Turns out she’s part of the team involved there. I just want to check and see if she’s in today.”

  Nick walked to the center, where an older woman, her face almost fully hidden by her veil, was working on a pile of photos. Nick leaned in and said something. Abby couldn’t make out what the woman was saying in reply, but she shook her head as she spoke. Nick returned, his brow creased in disappointment.

  “Not here today. Damn, I keep missing her. That woman told me where she lives. Want to come with me, see if she’s there?”

  “Sure.” The statistics Abby had to write up could wait. She hadn’t seen much of Peshawar. This could be interesting.

  They set off in Nick’s rusting old sedan. “We’re not going to University Town or anyplace remotely nice. We’re headed to the slums where most of the locals live.”

  They drove along a road lined with canals filled with stagnant, muddy water. “Not mud,” Nick said, watching Abby’s face as they drove. “Open sewers. And this”—he rolled down the window—“is the real smell of misery. It’s the smell of rotting food and rotting lives.” He turned to Abby. “Makes the refugee camp seem grand, doesn’t it?”

  Abby held her breath. She hadn’t ever seen anything like this. The houses, crumbling mud-and-plaster homes that bore long, dusty cracks, lined the narrow paths. Screeching children played on heaps of steaming garbage, oblivious to the smells and sights.

  “I had no idea things were so tough here,” Abby said. “The woman who works in the camp lives here?”

  “That’s what I was told, and it makes sense. If she lives here, she knows what this is like, and you can see for yourself”—he slowed the car—“these people are invisible. No one in the world that we come from pays much attention to people in places like this. And that makes them easy to kidnap or even talk into leaving. This is the kind of place that people are desperate to leave, and not even their families will notice, at least not for long. And the sad truth is—many of these girls and women are sold by their own families. Women here have value on the open market but not so much at home.”

  “Jesus, Nick, their own families?”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge. They’re living their own miserable lives, struggling to
find food and keep a roof over their own heads. They’re powerless too. I’m not excusing them, I’m just saying not everything’s black-and-white.” He rolled his window up and eased the car to the side of the road. “I think we should just walk from here. And a little advice—if you have anything of value, take it with you.”

  Abby hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder and stepped out. The stench was overpowering, and she opened her mouth to breathe. Her feet sank into a pile of squishy garbage, and she felt her stomach lurch. The taste of bile filled her mouth. “This place is pretty awful, huh?” She pulled her feet free of the oozing slime, relieved she hadn’t brought her designer sandals after all.

  “There are places like this all over the world,” Nick said.

  “This bad?”

  “Hey, sometimes worse. In Nairobi and Mumbai, the slums would make your hair curl, and yet some of the world’s kindest people live in those hellholes.”

  Abby looked around and saw that a small crowd had gathered. People glared at them with barely concealed hostility. She stopped and wondered if they should maybe leave. “Nick?”

  “Keep walking, and stay next to me.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I wanted to ask for my friend, but I think it’s better if you ask. Say you’re a nurse at the camp and you’re looking for Zara Hussein. Okay?”

  Abby nodded and smiled at the next woman she saw. The woman puckered her brow and beckoned Abby with her finger.

  Abby walked to her side. “You speak English?”

  The woman responded by rolling her head side to side.

  Abby smiled. “A little?”

  A long wrinkle creased the woman’s forehead. This woman, Abby thought, didn’t have a clue as to what she was saying, but she forged ahead anyway.

  “I’m a nurse at Safar, and I’m looking for . . .” Abby suddenly realized she’d forgotten the woman’s name, and she turned to Nick.

  “Zara Hussein,” he whispered.

  Abby repeated the name, and the woman’s droopy eyes opened wide. She pulled her veil forward on her head and touched her hand to her chest. “Beti,” she said, suddenly smiling. “Come.”

  Abby and Nick fell in behind the woman and tramped along the narrow path. The children stopped playing and watched before falling in step behind them. A few curious women joined the group, and by the time they arrived at a small plaster house, they’d acquired a crowd behind them.

  The woman turned and threw her arm out. “Burro,” she shouted, and the children and hangers-on scattered.

  The woman opened the rickety wooden door and stepped inside. Within minutes, a pretty young woman with coal-black hair peeking out from under her red scarf stepped out hurriedly, pushing back stray tendrils as she walked. “Nick,” she said softly, her eyes darting nervously. “I only speak in tent, acha?”

  Nick nodded. “Sorry, Zara. I hope my coming here won’t cause you any trouble.”

  “No, no trouble. My mother like you and your friend, but it’s best to speak in tent.” She smiled at Abby. “Tomorrow, yes?”

  “Yes, thank you, Zara.” He turned and placed his hand on Abby’s back guiding her along the path.

  Abby peered closely at the people as she walked, and once back in the car she turned to Nick. “I see what you mean. These people seem really beaten down, don’t they?”

  “They do. It’s good that you see that, that you see them. At home, you’ve probably seen places and people not so different from this, but your eyes glaze over. You just don’t notice, but here, everything’s new, everything’s different. You’re the perfect observer here, no biases.”

  “Does Hana live here?”

  The question seemed to catch Nick off guard and he winced, hesitating before he answered. “I don’t know. Why ask me?”

  “Jeez, don’t take offense. I just meant she’s a housekeeper, probably doesn’t make much money, and if she lived here, it might explain her hostility.”

  Nick raised his brows. “Hostility?”

  “Not to you, to me. You must have noticed. She ignores me, though she seemed almost kind the other day.”

  “You’re too sensitive. You read into things.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “Well, since you did ask, the answer is she probably comes from a place not so different from this.”

  Abby peered through the window and took a good long look around. “Just when you think you’ve seen all the misery the world has to offer, you step into something else.”

  Nick chuckled and looked down at her feet, her shoes still covered in reeking bits of garbage. “You, literally, stepped into something else.” His smile quickly turned to laughter, and Abby, unable to help herself, despite her attempts to look serious and irritated, felt herself collapse into laughter as well. She leaned into Nick. “I have to agree with you, but don’t get used to that. It’s a onetime deal only.”

  “I think you agree with me more than you care to admit.”

  Abby smirked in reply. “In your dreams, buddy.”

  Nick winked. “In my dreams, now that’s a thought. Come on, let’s get lunch.”

  Nick turned the car toward the American Club, and when they arrived, he opened the front door for Abby. “Even I can rise to the occasion.”

  Nick led the way up the familiar narrow staircase. The bar was packed, the hum of voices competing with a jukebox blaring out oldies. “Over there.” Nick shouted to be heard as he steered Abby to a table in the farthest corner. Once there, the noise seemed muted. “At least here we can speak. What’s your pleasure? I’ll put the order in at the bar.”

  They both ordered cheeseburgers and beer, and Nick returned with two frosty bottles. “Food’s coming.” He smiled and raised his beer, tapping it against Abby’s bottle. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  “Casablanca, right?”

  “Great movie.” Nick leaned back and settled in.

  “Fairy tale.” She took a long sip of her beer.

  “You don’t believe in fairy tales?” Nick asked incredulously.

  “Not me. I used to”—she set the bottle back down—“but not these days.”

  Nick whistled low. “You are an enigma, Abby, a real enigma. I would have bet you were a happy-ending kind of woman.”

  “Jeez, happy endings again—the favorite topic around here it seems. Well, Casablanca doesn’t exactly have a happy ending, does it?” She raised the beer to her lips. “I’m still hoping for my happy ending, but I’m not gonna get it believing in fairy tales. I will get it if I believe in myself.”

  Nick raised his bottle. “To you, Abby, and your happy ending.”

  Chapter 12

  That night, Abby dreamed, not of the shimmering bracelet or the woman’s fall to her death. Instead, she dreamed of Nick, of leaning in to kiss him. But just before their lips could touch, she woke with a start, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Shaking the cobwebs from her head, she sat up. She couldn’t blame this one on the Lariam.

  Later that morning, Nick appeared at the house. “Sleep well?”

  Afraid he’d somehow known what she’d dreamed, Abby mumbled and looked away from his face.

  “Shit, you still having those dreams?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

  “Sometimes, but I took your advice and threw the Lariam out.”

  “Smart girl, and speaking of smart . . .”

  Abby laughed. “You are a charmer, Nick. You’re going to the camp to see Zara, and you need me, right?”

  “You got me.”

  “I might as well. I want to hear the stories. Buy me lunch again and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “That was easy,” Nick said. “My kind of girl.”

  Abby grabbed her bag and settled into Nick’s now familiar old sedan. She watched as he eased the car into the streets already bursting with vehicles, bicycles, donkeys, and bony horses decorated with tiny bells and garish flowers. Peshawar was filled with old traditions and modern chaos—always crowded and noisy and exciting.

/>   Abby craned her neck and watched as an old woman hoisted a heavy bundle onto her hunched back. The woman adjusted her veil and staggered back for a minute before she adapted to the weight and shuffled off. As the traffic slowed and then stopped, a young boy approached the car, his hand outstretched, his eyes pleading. Abby reached into her pocket searching for money, but before she could find any, Nick handed her a $5 bill. He nodded. “Go on. And hurry, this traffic’s going to be moving again in a minute.” Abby passed the bill to the boy, whose eyes grew wide. “Shukria,” he shouted as he ran off, swallowed up by the crowds and the cars.

  “You made his day, Nick. That was nice.”

  “It was only five bucks.”

  “That five was a fortune to that boy.” She wondered if Nick did that often. “You know, some people say it creates more problems to give them money.”

  “The only ones who say that are people who were never hungry. My philosophy is help when you can, but don’t pat yourself on the back for doing what you should do.”

  Abby whistled. “You’re a nice guy, Nick. Why do you hide it?”

  “I don’t hide it. I’d just rather people find that out for themselves. Enough of this.”

  The traffic eased and the road opened up before them.

  At the camp, Abby and Nick headed straight for the Protection Tent. Inside, Nick pointed and smiled. “She’s here,” he said to Abby, who turned and recognized Zara.

  Abby held out her hand. “Nice to see you, Zara. I’m Abby.”

  “Sit, please.” Zara motioned to chairs in front of her desk.

  Zara leaned forward, folding her arms on the desk. “I went to the rescue house, Nick, to ask if any of the girls there would speak with you.”

  Nick searched through his bag and pulled out a pen and a notebook and started writing. “And?”

  Zara nodded. “There is one, a young woman, very young. She was only thirteen when she was trafficked, and just seventeen now. And though she works a few days a week here in the camp, she is a child still in many ways, but she has agreed to share her story, and I must tell you, it is heartbreaking. And, not the least of it is that she was sold by her family.”