There could be nothing worse than choosing between two children. Ask me to choose between my right arm and my left and I will give you one. But ask me to choose between two of my children and my heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Children are touched by heaven—their every breath, every laugh, every touch a sip of water to the desert wanderer. I could not have known this as a child, but I know it as a mother, a truth I learned as my own heart grew, bent, danced, and broke for each of my children.
Samira watches me in silence. She is no longer a girl, her body assuming the delicate curves of a young woman. Thank God, she looks to be much wiser than I was at her age. I was na?ve. I think of how I believed people—the boy in the orchard, KokoGul. I imagine my daughter holds her tongue because she knows words mean nothing, accomplish nothing. She’s shown the quiet strength of a woman since we left Kabul. She has done as much for her little brother as I have. She has rocked him through his sweaty fits, patiently fed him when he would push the food away, and shouldered our bags when I could not. All of this matters more than any words she could say, though I yearn to hear her voice again. More than anything, I want to hear her laughter.
She misses Saleem. She’s incomplete without him and will not speak until he returns—until something is given back to her by a world that just keeps taking away. Her heart mirrors my own, and it is for her that I hold back my tears. I’ve had enough. I’m tired of being trapped. Each morning when I wake and find that nothing has changed, I think I am finished.
Were it not for my children, I would be. For them, I cannot be finished yet.
I may find Saleem again. I may put my arms around him and hear his voice and have him returned to his family. Even if I am so fortunate, I will not be the same. I will always be the mother who left a son behind. It is the hell I live in now and will live in forever.
The train has pulled out of the station. We are on our way. People look at us but our tickets are not questioned, nor are our documents. Some would call that lucky but lucky is relative.
Samira stares out the window; Aziz’s head rests against her side. She is thinking of her brother, no doubt, and wondering if her mother has made the right choice. I cannot explain it to her. It is a thing that cannot be packaged into words.
CHAPTER 36
Saleem
SALEEM RUSHED HOME EVERY DAY TO SEE IF THE PASSPORT AND train ticket had made it to Intikal. A week after he’d returned, he had sheepishly approached Hakan and produced a few bills to compensate for his room and board. Hakan shook his head and told Saleem not to speak of money again. Saleem bit his lip and nodded, an ineloquent but understood gesture of thanks.
Ten days went by and still no envelope from his mother. Saleem’s mood was further fouled by Ekin’s interest in his return. She stood behind the farmhouse pretending to read or tend to the herb garden Polat’s wife kept behind their kitchen. She made an effort to stay visible, watching Saleem from the corner of her eye. She said things Saleem did not want or need to hear.
“Where did you go?” Ekin laughed. “My father cursed for two days when you didn’t come back. You’re lucky he let you work again.”
Polat, from time to time, would shoo her back into the house, but he seemed oblivious to her fascination with Saleem. Their conversations were unbalanced. She talked and Saleem listened, afraid to say anything that could be taken the wrong way. He bit his tongue as she droned on about school and radio and things he could not possibly know.