Pieces of Me

by Natalie Hart

  Ameena is more open. She says it was very difficult to start with, but at least now they have Iraqi friends and it is getting better.

  “And what about work?” I ask. “Have you been able to use your nursing skills at all?”

  “I work in Kmart,” she says. She raises her chin slightly as she says this, as if daring me to judge her.

  “Oh. Did you try and find work in a hospital? Perhaps I could—”

  “Of course I did,” she cuts me off. “I applied to six hospitals in the city and I got one interview. The woman who interviewed me had a son who was a soldier in Iraq. She said ‘over her dead body’ would I be allowed to get my hands on Americans here.”

  Ameena’s face is defiant, but I can see she is hurt.

  “What?” I say, horrified. “Did you tell her why you’re here? Who you worked for?”

  “Why bother? It makes no difference to that kind of person. Anyway, there are a lot of Iraqis in Kmart. It is easier.”

  From the little I know of Ameena’s personality and everything I have heard of her life story, I know that working in Kmart is anything but “easy” for her. It must be soul-destroying. I wish I could somehow help her out, but I don’t know anyone in hospitals in Houston. I am in no position to help her anymore. I am more of a stranger here than she is.

  I try to keep the rest of the conversation light. We talk about the peculiarities of American culture, what Iraqi food they can cook with the ingredients available here, the kindergarten where Yusuf will start at the end of the summer. We do not talk about the obvious absence that hangs between us. Eventually I realise I have been there for two hours and am in danger of overstaying my welcome, although I am sure that neither Ameena nor her mother would ever indicate as much.

  I make my excuses, saying that my friend will be expecting me. Ameena’s mother, who has relaxed a bit by this point, tells me I must stay for dinner. I thank her but decline. She kisses my cheeks goodbye, then sinks back down into the giant sofa.

  Ameena walks me to the door. It is she who brings up Ali.

  “You heard about what happened to Ali, I take it?”

  I am both relieved she has said his name and ashamed at my own cowardice.

  “I did. I’m so sorry, Ameena. I wasn’t sure how to mention it.”

  “He knew it was going to happen. He called me two days before. He was trying to get out, y’know. He was going to come here, to be with us. We were finally going to… Well, it doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I asked him why he couldn’t get the visa faster, like I did. I told him to email Adam, but he said that Adam had already done enough for our family.”

  “He should have contacted us,” I say.

  “Would it have made a difference?” she asks.

  I struggle to answer.

  “To be honest, probably not. There is always a backlog of applications. I was able to push through your application because you were a single mother with dependents. But Ali was a military-aged male. There are so many of those.”

  She holds my gaze and speaks in low English so that her mother cannot understand.

  “Sometimes,” she says, “sometimes I wonder whether we should have just stayed. At least we would have gone through it all together.”

  I lower my eyes to the ground. My thoughts race, jumble. I am holding Kate’s hand as the coffin is carried off the plane. I am pressed up against the blast wall, with a hand scrabbling at the zip of my jeans in the hot night air. I am staring at Sampath’s empty step in the gym. I am on the icy floor of the garage as sobs rack through Adam’s body. I am the other side of the ocean from my family and their grief. Would it have been better to be together?

  “Emma,” Ameena says and I look up. “I don’t know what brought you to us exactly, but I can see you are looking for something. I am sorry that you have not found it here.”

  I nod.

  “I hope things get easier for you, Ameena,” I say.

  “They will, inshallah,” she says. “And for you too. We have a lot to be grateful for.”

  She leans in and gives me the lightest kiss on either cheek and then the door is closing behind me and I am walking down the stairs. I emerge, blinking, into dry afternoon air and lean against the wall of her apartment building. My chest rises and falls. My ears are ringing.

  On the floor I see a small white stone. I pick it up and squeeze it as tightly as I can, leaving angry white dents in my palm. The pain centres me. Helps me to breathe. With each contraction of my hand, I let her words circle through my body. At least we would have gone through it all together.

  59

  Today is my birthday.

  Adam has gone to work already. I heard him get up this morning, stumble around to make coffee and then leave the house. It sounded like another restless night.

  He hasn’t mentioned my birthday, yet when I finally get out of bed I still enter the kitchen half-expectantly, hoping he might have left something. I am disappointed.

  Last year he was deployed for my birthday. I woke up alone in bed just as I did today, but then the delivery man stopped by with a bouquet of pink and yellow camellias and a bottle of Prosecco. Adam didn’t usually give those kinds of gifts, he says they lack imagination, but conflict zones tended to limit the scope of options for birthday presents. Tucked amid the flowers was a card with a message that the florist’s assistant had carefully copied out from the email he had sent them. It was odd seeing Adam’s words in looped feminine handwriting, with a heart dotting the “i” of birthday.

  This time last year it was six weeks until he got home. This time last year, Adam was still Adam and Dave was still alive.

  I make myself coffee and pull two envelopes that arrived last week out from the kitchen drawer. One is from my mum. She has made a card herself. It is a painting of cows in the field behind our garden and she has captured their large docile eyes perfectly, even in miniature. The second card is from my sister and her family. Inside it is a picture drawn by my niece Sophie, of the three of us together with a birthday cake that looks like it might be on fire. Soph says that 29 candles is too many for a cake, Rebecca has written on the back. I laugh out loud and surprise myself with the noise.

  I slide the drawing under a magnet on the fridge door. A photo of Adam and I falls off as I do so, but I place it on the counter rather than putting it back up. Upstairs, I stand the two cards on my bedside table where my phone is charging. I check to see if Adam has called or sent a message but there is nothing.

  I have taken the day off from the art shop for my birthday, but now I am unsure what to do with myself. I check my watch. It is around midday in England. I told my mother I would call her early evening their time.

  I have breakfast and then spend some time browsing mosaicking websites, still on the search for inspiration. I have stopped going to the art group and I miss the companionship and creativity of the other women. Noor said I should continue coming, but I couldn’t bear the thought of making Zainab uncomfortable. She needs that space more than I do.

  Later in the morning I decide to walk to the local supermarket. I usually drive, like the rest of America, but the walk will kill some time and maybe some fresh air will make me feel better. I consider buying things to make a birthday dinner for Adam and I later, but he is unpredictable these days. Last night I made dinner for us and he said he wasn’t hungry, then sat and ate crisps on the sofa while I threw away half of what I’d prepared.

  I decide to buy myself a birthday lunch instead. As a child, I used to ask for jam sandwiches and custard cream biscuits for lunch every birthday. I don’t know when or how the routine started, but I know my sister does it too. That is what I want today, a taste of home. It feels like the closest I can get to my family right now.

  In the store, I roam the shelves. I knew that I wouldn’t find real custard cream biscuits, but I thought I would find some kind of American equivalent. I end up buying Oreos, which I’m not e
ven sure that I like, plus a loaf of bread and strawberry jam or “jelly” as the label calls it.

  At the cash register, the middle-aged lady surprises me by asking if I’m okay. I force a smile and say I’m fine, just a bit tired. I return home and sit on the porch with my birthday lunch for one.

  I bite into a sandwich and my phone rings with an unknown number. I let it go to voicemail, then listen to the message. It is Anna. She sings “Happy Birthday” down a crackly line, then reminds me it’s not long until she goes to Kabul and asks if I have made a decision on the job yet. I haven’t. Every time I try to think about it, the thoughts come in waves and swirl around each other and I feel like I am being pulled under by the current. I delete the voicemail and tell myself I will email her later.

  My phone makes another noise and it is a text message from Kate:

  Happy birthday Emma. I hope you have a wonderful day. Noah and Charlotte send their love. Say hi to Adam from us too!

  We last spoke about two months ago. Kate said that she was doing okay and was beginning to take on some physio clients while her mum looked after the kids. She said Noah’s clinginess got worse for a while, but he was much better now and making new friends at school. Charlotte was taking her first steps and smiles at everyone and everything. She still looks just like Dave.

  When Kate asked how I was doing, I said fine. In the background, I heard her mother shout that dinner was ready.

  “I have to go, Em, but call me if you ever need to talk,” she said. I did need to talk, but I never called.

  I check my watch again. It is 5pm in the UK. I dial my mother’s number and she answers after a single ring. She has been waiting.

  “Happy birthday, baby girl!” she says down the phone.

  “Mum, I’m twenty-nine!” I say.

  “I know, darling, but you’re my first. You’ll always be baby girl to me. How’s your day been so far?”

  I tell her about my trip to the store (“Shop, Emma, we call it a shop!”), my failed quest for custard creams and my lunch of jam sandwiches.

  “Gosh, I didn’t know you still did that! I would have posted over the biscuits if I’d known. I still can’t believe your father managed to convince you it was a special birthday custom,” she laughs.

  “Wait, Dad started it?” I ask.

  “Yes, don’t you remember? It was the year you turned five and I had the flu. It was awful. I was stuck in bed for about a week, so your dad was in charge of looking after you. He was having a busy week at the hospital too, so on your birthday when he came home from work and was too tired to cook he managed to convince you that jam sandwiches and custard creams were a special birthday feast for children once they turned five. Rebecca was so excited when she turned five too! I remember how she cried on her fourth birthday when you told her she couldn’t have jam sandwiches because they were only for big girls.”

  My mother is laughing and I am laughing too, even as the tears roll down my face. I can feel tiny fragments of memory shifting around inside me, finding each other and fusing together. I remember the smell of the hot lemon and honey he took my mother, the rustle of the biscuit packet as he opened it, the way he had spread the jam with a spoon not a knife.

  “It’s so good to talk about him, Mum.”

  “I know, darling. It must be hard with no one there to remember him with.”

  We talk for nearly an hour. I tell her about Ali and my visit to Ameena and finally about Anna’s offer.

  “Are you going to take it?” she asks me.

  “I don’t know, Mum. I don’t think I can, not with Adam the way he is. I don’t even know if I want to go to Afghanistan, I just know that I want something. I want to feel like me again. It’s like my life has ground to a halt.”

  “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. But remember, darling, there are people all over the world who you can help. It doesn’t always have to be in a war zone.”

  I am sat on the sofa when Adam gets home from work. He says hello as he passes, goes to the bedroom and changes into his gym kit, then says “Catch you later” as he leaves again through the front door. I say nothing. Sometimes it helps him to work out. Sometimes it makes him less angry. I drag myself off the sofa, pour a glass of wine, then return to my previous position.

  By the time Adam gets back from the gym it’s 9pm I ask if he’s eaten and he says he picked something up on the way back. He opens a beer, then goes off to shower. I flick through TV channels and try to decide whether I can be bothered to make myself something to eat.

  “Shit!” The shout comes from the bedroom. I flinch and wine spills down my hand. Heavy footsteps come down the stairs. “Why didn’t you remind me it was your birthday?” he asks.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say.

  “It is a big fucking deal. It’s your birthday.” He presses his palm into his forehead. “How did I forget? I’m such a fucking idiot. Okay, get your stuff, we’re going out.”

  I sit motionless on the couch as he disappears up the stairs again, then reappears moments later in a clean T-shirt, pulling closed the belt on his jeans.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asks me.

  “Go where? Adam, it’s late already. Let’s just stay in. I don’t need to go out.”

  “Em – it’s your birthday. We’re going out, end of story.”

  Although I am glad he has remembered, this is not what I want. What I want for my birthday is for us to sit on his sleeping bag and balance the laptop on his footlocker and watch a movie the way we used to. I want to order takeout and eat it straight from the container and then when I get tired I want to lie with my head in his lap and for him to stroke my hair as I fall asleep and miss the end of the film. But he says we are going out and so I find myself getting into the truck beside him and trying to convince myself that this is a nice idea.

  “Where do you want to go?” he says as he reverses out of the driveway.

  “Um, I’m not sure, I mean this is a bit sudden—”

  “One of the bars downtown. Or we could grab some food – have you eaten? Hey, how about the Mexican place? We haven’t been there for a while. Yeah, let’s do that! I could eat again.”

  He gets like this sometimes. Frantic almost. Like the energy saved up during his lows all comes bursting out at once.

  We haven’t been to the Mexican restaurant since before he was deployed. That’s more than a year and a half ago now. I’m not sure I want to go, but maybe we will find an old version of us tucked in the corner table or between the pages of the familiar menu.

  Adam has turned up the volume on the radio and is singing. The highs make me just as uncomfortable as the lows.

  “Come on, babe, it’s your birthday, join in!” he says. It sounds forced. Strained. I shake my head and try to give him a smile.

  I can tell as we pull up outside the restaurant that it is shut already. The inside is dark and the colourful papel picado that hangs from the ceiling is barely visible.

  “Shit,” says Adam, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. “Why are they closed?”

  “It’s late,” I say, “and it’s a Tuesday night. They probably didn’t have any customers. It’s fine, Adam, let’s just go home. We can have a drink there.”

  “No, wait, I see someone!” he says and starts getting out of the truck. “You see that guy mopping? I’ll ask him to open.”

  “No, they’re closed. Adam! What are you—?”

  Before I can finish my question, Adam is out of the truck and banging on the glass door of the restaurant. I get out quickly to follow him.

  “Hey. Hey! You!”

  I see the man who is cleaning the floor look up, surprised. The tables are empty. They have been cleared of cutlery and the selections of hot sauce bottles. The last customer must have left some time ago.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed,” says the man, opening the door just wide enough to talk through. “We’re just finishing cleaning up and then—”

  “No, look, s
orry, but I need you to open again. Just for a little while. It’s my wife’s birthday, you see, and we want to come in.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps you would like to reserve a table for tomorrow? We open at five.”

  Adam is gripping the door frame and his foot is wedged in the door to push it open further. The man who works at the restaurant is a small guy, maybe in his late forties. I am grateful not to recognise him from when we used to come here. He looks intimidated by Adam.

  “You’re not listening to me,” says Adam. “It’s her birthday today. Just open your fucking restaurant. We’re paying customers.”

  The man takes a step back from the door and it swings open. He shoots a glance behind him to the entrance of the kitchen, where other staff have gathered to see what’s going on. One of them takes a phone from his pocket, ready. I catch his eye. It’s the waiter who used to serve us. I look away quickly.

  I can feel Adam getting increasingly agitated and all I want is to be out of this situation. Away from these staring people. I do not trust what could happen next.

  “Adam, please, let’s just go home,” I say, taking hold of his arm. “I’m not hungry anymore. Let’s just go back, I’m tired.”

  “No, Emma!” He throws my arm off with a force that causes me to stumble back and for a moment I think I might fall.

  I hear one of the women from the kitchen gasp and my cheeks burn.

  “Oh, babe, sorry, I…”

  He reaches out to me but I say nothing. I turn and walk quickly towards the truck. I climb in and slam the door. Adam follows me and sits in the driver’s seat apologising. Then he starts to drive and shakes his head and says he’s sorry and he doesn’t know what is up with him these days. He says that he loves me. He says, “You do know that I love you, right, Em?”