“Shooting guns? What in God’s name are you talking about?”
Madar-jan was not fully convinced that her son was whole and searched his body for hidden wounds.
Saleem pulled her hands away and stood up to shake the slumber from his eyes. He had tossed his bloodstained clothing by the floor cushion, a gruesome sight in the early morning hour. He told her everything, keeping his voice low in hopes that Samira wouldn’t be too frightened. He told his mother how he’d helped lift the bride’s brother into the car so he could be taken to the hospital.
If he’d had a bit more sleep, he might have had the sense to filter some of the gore. By the end, he was crying. He’d been unable to move for so long, he lamented. She listened intently, a hand over her mouth in disbelief. Samira had moved closer, sidling next to her mother, and listened with the intent of an adult. Madar-jan whispered words of gratitude to God for sparing her son.
Madar-jan pulled Saleem to her and rocked him as she did Aziz. He didn’t resist, cherishing the smell of his mother, the comfort of her arms, and her kisses on his forehead. She asked Samira to put the water to boil and get breakfast started for Hakan and Hayal. Samira rose obediently.
“And your friend, Kamal. . he was not hurt either?”
“No, Madar-jan, he was outside with me. He is all right.”
“His mother and father?”
“They were not hurt.”
When Hakan and Hayal came down for breakfast, Saleem repeated the entire story once more. His Turkish had improved immensely since he had started hanging out with Kamal and the boys. He searched for a few words here and there but relayed the night’s events to them. Hakan and Hayal sat stone-faced. Hayal instinctively put a hand over Fereiba’s. To Saleem, the violence at the wedding was starting to feel more like a story than an actual event.
Madar-jan searched their faces for an explanation. How could something like this happen in Intikal? Hakan rose and said he was going to Kamal’s house to see his father. He was dressed and out the door within minutes.
“I’m late for work. I should already be at the farm, Madar-jan,” Saleem said, instinctively looking at his watch. “I’ll get hell for coming in at this time.”
“Saleem, bachem, you are not going to the farm today. After everything that happened last night, it’s out of the question. I want you with me.”
Saleem looked down at his hands and realized he was trembling slightly. He knew he must have looked like death and had the sudden urge to bathe, to scrub the night’s events from his skin with hot water.
Hayal made him a cup of tea with honey and brought him a plate of bread and cheese. Saleem ate silently. Samira stayed close by but quiet. She warmed a bottle of milk for Aziz and propped him up on her lap so that he could take his breakfast. For the first time in a long time, it looked like the Waziri baby with the broken heart was in better shape than the rest of the family.
Saleem went to the washroom and turned the water as hot as it would go. He let the water cascade over his head, his face, his shoulders. He closed his eyes and saw the bride’s face, blood streaked across her cheek. He heard her brother’s moans. Saleem opened his eyes to try to see something else, but the visions were burned into his retinas. He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw. His temples throbbed. He turned the water off, his skin stinging at the towel’s rough touch.
Madar-jan sat in the bedroom, on the edge of her bed. She looked mournful.
“Madar-jan?” Saleem said, hesitantly.
“I thought we were okay here,” she whispered. “This was not supposed to be like home.”
Saleem sat beside her.
“I brought us here because we thought it would be safer. We thought this would be better for you. What have I done?”
Without Padar-jan around, there was no one to share the blame for the plan that had landed them in Intikal. Saleem pressed his forehead against her shoulder.
“We could not stay in Kabul, Madar-jan. We had nothing left. We were going to starve there — or worse.”
“Aziz was okay there. He was fine until we left home.” Her eyes were glossy, filled with thoughts of a rosy yesterday that existed only in her mind. “Samira wasn’t washing strangers’ dirty dishes and folding their laundry. You weren’t working your hands to a bloody mess from dusk till dawn. We were okay in Kabul, but I brought us here.”
Fereiba had wanted to keep her children healthy, fed, safe, and free from working as indentured servants. She’d failed on all accounts.
“Madar-jan, we were not okay there.” Saleem crouched in front of her, jarred by the way his mother seemed to be speaking about him and not to him. “Don’t you remember? We were scared. We had no money and couldn’t leave the house. There was barely air to breathe.”
“I wanted my children to be children. I wanted them to laugh, to play. . to learn. I wanted them to do the things that I should have done as a girl. How far must we go? How fast must we run?”
Saleem could not find the words, much less arrange them in a way that would bring any relief. It broke him to hear his mother talk this way and to know the thoughts she was likely hiding from her children on most days. Her smiles, her cheerfulness — had it all been to make them feel reassured? Her eyes were tearless. She was not speaking out of emotion. These were thoughts that came from the most honest part of her spirit. This was the result of her careful analysis and her astute observations. This was very real.
“We’ll be okay, Madar-jan, you’ll see. This was the worst of it. We’ll get to England before you know it and we’ll be okay.” Saleem’s voice wavered. He was nowhere near as confident as his mother.
But Madar-jan’s expression changed, as if a switch turned on. Her lips tightened and her eyes focused with a glint of resolution. She pulled her shoulders back and met Saleem’s hopeful gaze.
“Yes, my son. That’s exactly it. We will go to England.” Saleem felt relieved that his mother had shaken her trancelike state. He nodded in eager agreement.
“Yes, Madar-jan, we just need to set aside a little more—”
“No, we must leave. We are leaving Intikal. We are leaving Turkey.”
“Leaving Turkey? But, Madar-jan, we haven’t—”
“God could not have sent a clearer sign. The time has come for us to continue our journey. We will thank Hakan and Hayal for their hospitality, pay whatever debts we owe, and pack our belongings. Every day that we stay here is digging ourselves into a deeper hole. If we don’t leave now, we may never go.”
Madar-jan believed in moving forward. She always had.
CHAPTER 25. Saleem
HAKAN AND HAYAL WERE ALMOST TEARFUL WHEN THE WAZIRI family left. Fereiba tried to pay Hayal for the final month of rent, but Hayal gently refused. With her heart in her throat, she told Fereiba to use the money to take care of the children. She handed Madar-jan a bag of foods she had prepared — enough to last a few days without spoiling. The mothers hugged tightly. In the months they had lived together, they’d become good friends. Hayal was the whisper in Fereiba’s ear telling her God sent miracles in unrecognizable forms. Fereiba, distracted by her circumstances, did not always recognize the voice in her ear and sometimes took it for her own. But Hayal was a true friend, lifting Fereiba without needing to be named or thanked.
Samira clung to Hayal. She did not want to let go of her teacher and her friend, her source of security.