“Her mother, of course. She wants you both to talk. Kaka Siar doesn’t know about this. It’s just between Meena and her mother.”
Yusuf debated whether it was ridiculous or progressive of Khala Zainab to call his mother on the other side of the earth with Meena’s cell phone number.
“I’m supposed to call her?”
“Yes!” his mother moaned. “She can’t really call you, can she? Now, listen. When you call her, ask her what she’s interested in. Ask her how many kids she wants to have and if she wants to work or study. Don’t do all the talking.”
Yusuf tilted his head back and took a deep breath. Was his mother giving him advice on how to talk to a girl?
“Madar-jan, I think I know how to have a conversation.”
“It’s not just a conversation, bachem. You have to get to know each other and see if you can spend your lives together. That’s a big deal, you know. I wish I’d had a chance to ask your father these questions.”
Yusuf could hear his father yell something in the background. His mother laughed and shouted back to him that it wasn’t too late to ask now. She turned her attention back to Yusuf.
“Your father thinks everything’s a joke. But seriously, Yusuf, call her.”
YUSUF HAD WAITED UNTIL THE FOLLOWING DAY, NOT SURE IF HE was being rude or polite in doing so, but it had seemed hasty to call just after hanging up with his mother. Not to mention, he was fairly certain Meena would be home with her parents and that she would be ducking into another room to take his call out of earshot.
“Eh, Meena-jan,” he’d said, hesitantly when he heard her answer. “It’s Yusuf. How are you?”
“Yusuf? I’m. . good, good. How are you?”
“Good, thanks. I got your number from my mother. . or your mother, I guess. Hope this isn’t a bad time for me to call. I. .”
“My mother gave you my number?”
Yusuf bit his lip.
“Yes, is that all right?”
The split-second pause before Meena answered told Yusuf that she hadn’t known. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, shaking his head at the way mothers plotted their children’s lives. He struggled for a way to back out of this conversation gracefully — but then Meena spoke up.
“No, this is a great time, actually. I was just taking a break at work. How’s your day going?”
Yusuf immediately noticed the confidence in her voice. She did not sound like she was speaking with a hand covering her mouth and receiver. She did not sound like she was checking if anyone was eavesdropping. As a matter of fact, she sounded like she was sitting back with her feet casually stretched out before her.
Their conversation flowed naturally — Yusuf’s mother would have been pleased. He asked her about her work and she told him about the United Nations Gender Program. She was an assistant to the director, charged with organizing meetings and coordinating agendas between cooperating departments. Kaka Siar’s family had returned to Kabul in 2002, the year the Taliban were ousted and hope for a peaceful Afghanistan flourished. Even while refugees, Meena had continued her studies, including English. Her command of the language, along with the recommendation of an uncle working within the program, had helped her secure the job. She had aspirations to advance in her post and was taking computer classes as well.
“You enjoy the work?” Yusuf asked. It sounded like an impressive job, especially considering that she’d not had much opportunity for stable schooling. It would look great on a résumé, he thought, and she might even have a chance of finding a related job in the United States. He wouldn’t say that out loud, of course. It was not as if he’d made any commitment to Meena, nor had he even decided that he wanted to officially seek her hand in marriage. Still, he wanted to consider the logistics carefully.
“I do. I work with some really great people — Afghans and Americans. Even some Europeans. They’re all so smart.”
“You know, I was thinking. . you were so young when our family left. Do you even remember me? You were just a little girl then.”
“Of course I remember!” Meena cried cheerfully. “I was old enough to realize my best friend was going away. I certainly didn’t know how long you’d be gone, though. I remember you being so patient with me. You were the older brother I never had. I think that’s why my father liked you so much even then. You were like a son when he didn’t have one.”
It had been a luxury, in a very difficult time, for the children of each household to feel as if they had two sets of parents. Kaka Siar and Khala Zainab had indeed treated Yusuf like a son, and his parents had done the same for their children. They’d all left just as the Taliban were making their way into the capital, just as both families had realized that there was much, much further for Afghanistan to sink. Yusuf’s father had been dreadfully afraid that his sons would be recruited to fight for one side or the other, or caught in the crosshairs.
“You were the only boy in the world willing to put up with a six-year-old girl. I can’t believe how patient you were with me. I remember you even braiding my hair and telling me stories, but I can’t remember a single one of them now.”
“Glad I was so memorable. I was just thankful to know someone shorter than myself,” Yusuf joked.
“I’m happy for you,” Meena said, her words warm and sincere even through the crackling line. “I’m really glad you’ve done well for yourself, that your family is healthy and growing and that you’re back here. I’m sure you are going to do some great stuff here. We need people like you.”
Yusuf ran his fingers through his hair. Was he really doing this? This was not a casual conversation between childhood friends. Every moment they spent on the phone deepened the expectation that it would result in something serious, something that would tie their families together forever. His sisters had teased him about this very prospect before he’d left, but he’d dismissed the possibility, telling them he had serious doubts about Afghan girls, having lived with both of them all his life. He’d been rewarded with a twist of his ear — by his mother.
“You and I are sort of similar in that sense. Don’t you think, Meena?”
“Yes,” Meena said thoughtfully. Yusuf imagined her tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear with one delicate finger the way she had the other night. He imagined her smiling to hear him flirt with her, words as bold as a profession of love. She was exciting and vibrant, not what he’d imagined for a young woman living in Afghanistan. “Yes, Yusuf. I suppose we are.”
CHAPTER 9
EVERY DAY WAS A STEP FURTHER FROM THAT FATEFUL AFTERNOON. Every day, Zeba was that much more of a widow, that much more removed from Kamal. There were moments when Zeba felt light and liberated. She missed her children dearly, but it was hard not to appreciate the freedom she had. If she did not want to rise with her cellmates, she could ignore their chatter, roll onto her side, and sleep through the morning. She had no responsibilities in the kitchen. Her meals came with impressive regularity. Zeba bathed herself and no one else. She missed Rima’s soft cheek against her own, but there was also a delicious peace in walking without a baby on her hip, without the tiny fists pounding out the hot rhythm of a tantrum, without the mouth seeking her bosom with total disregard for Zeba’s needs. How many full bladders had she held so that the Rima would not go hungry for a moment longer? And Rima was just the last of them — or at least the last one to survive, but Zeba would not think about that now. She was enjoying a moment of lightness.
SHE DID NOT REGRET THE CHILDREN, BUT AT TIMES SHE DID resent them. All mothers did, didn’t they? How could they not bear a little resentment toward people who took took took all the time? How could she be expected to feed them all? Where was Kamal when they were sick or tired or unreasonable?