Saleem helped with some chores and, though he was young, with going to the market for our basic needs. I was isolated. My siblings had fled Afghanistan along with KokoGul. My father stayed behind to look after his orchard, an hour from where Mahmood and I had settled. Mahmood’s family was similarly dispersed, his sisters living in Australia. All we had left were distant cousins who were struggling, as we were, to feed their families and survive Kabul’s new order. I sent word to our families. They were distraught, but not in any position to help. Mahmood’s sisters begged me to keep them informed if I heard from their brother.
RAISA, ABDUL RAHIM’S WIFE, CAME BY FREQUENTLY AFTER HEARING the news of Mahmood’s disappearance. Some days, she sent a plate of butter or a small pot of rice. Raisa had always been a dear friend, but I dreaded her visits after his disappearance. Her eyes, moist with pity, were brutal reminders of everything that was wrong.
She had a matronly softness, a bosom that offered to pull you in and rock you to sleep as if you were one of her many children. On those bleak days, Raisa would stop by for short visits. Without a pause in conversation, she would tidy the kitchen and make a quick dish with whatever she could find in our cupboards.
“Fereiba-jan, any word?” she would ask vaguely.
“Not yet, but I’m sure any day now,” I would say and I believed it. Mahmood was a marvel. I had no reason to expect anything less from him.
“Well, if there’s anything that you and the children need . . .”
I steeled myself. I tried to keep the house in order, to give my children a way to sleep easy in the night. Samira mirrored my composure during the day but at night, her dark bangs clung to the cold sweat of her forehead. She whimpered and wailed in her sleep, a language I understood but refused to speak.
I FOUND SALEEM’S NOTEBOOK. THERE WERE HASH MARKS ON THE back cover. He was counting the days since that night. There were forty-seven marks.
We were a home without a patriarch, the type of creature Kabul’s beasts devoured on sight. On the day I was struck with sharp pains, I realized just how isolated we were without a man in the home. For hours, I’d turned my face to the wall when the pressure overwhelmed me. The children said nothing. We each played our part in the charade of normalcy.
But the fear of losing my unborn, of having Mahmood return to find me without his child, was enough to drive me out of the house without a proper escort. I slipped on my burqa and took Saleem by the hand. I left Samira with Raisa-jan, who pulled my daughter against her chest and nodded. She could offer nothing else.
“Saleem-jan, forgive me if I squeeze your hand too hard, bachem.” The pain was sharp and came with such force, I nearly doubled over.
“Are you very sick, Madar-jan?” Saleem asked quietly once we’d turned off our street.
“No, bachem. I’m sure it’s fine. Everything will be better once your father comes home.”
The look of doubt on Saleem’s face did not go unnoticed. My confidence was beginning to stutter and stumble. Samira had sensed it too. Every day, she retreated further into herself.
“Is the baby coming now?” Saleem questions were practical. He was so much like his father. I hadn’t realized just how much he’d grown in the last year.
“God forbid, bachem. It’s still too soon. Babies need nine months and nine days. Nine months and nine days,” I repeated, hearing my motherin-law’s voice. There was much she’d shared with me before she’d left us, squeezing a lifetime of mothering into a few short years. She’d been the one to hurry the midwife to our home when my labor pains began with Saleem and Samira. She’d held my hand as I’d brought her grandchildren into the world. As the time grew near for this child, I felt her absence more and more.
With one hand on my belly and my eyes to the ground, I did not notice the three men round the corner. We were just a hundred meters from the hospital entrance.
“Have you no self-respect, woman? Where is your mahram?” A glob of saliva landed at my feet. I took a step back. My son’s grip tightened on my fingers. I tried to position myself in front of him.
“This is my son. He is escorting me to the hospital. I am in severe pain and am in a . . . condition.”
Were these the men who had come for Mahmood? Would they know anything about his whereabouts? Before I dared to ask, a stick cracked on my shoulder. I doubled over, my hands covering my belly.