From what Abdul Rahim was able to gather, the local Taliban had decided to make an example of Mahmood Waziri. The rest of the family would not be targeted, he believed, but no one could say with any certainty. Even in the light of day, there was little certainty in Kabul. The cloak of night made all things possible.
I couldn’t bear to have my children out of my sight. I sent Saleem on errands to the marketplace only when I was truly desperate. Just one month after the news of Mahmood’s assassination, my belly began to ache. At first, I thought it might be the balmy winter air bringing a cramp, but as I walked from room to room, the familiar pains became clearer.
I paced the room, my lips pursed and my steps slow.
“Nine months, nine days . . . nine months, nine days . . .” I repeated softly.
Just a few hours later, Raisa coaxed my third child into the world. I named him Aziz.
“Saleem and Samira,” I managed to get out. “Meet your father’s son.”
AZIZ WOULD NEED TO GAIN SOME WEIGHT BEFORE WE COULD venture out of Kabul. As I nursed him, his face started to take on his father’s features: the squint of his eyes, the dip in his chin, the curl of his ears.
Abdul Rahim kept a watchful eye on the widowed Waziri family. He invited Saleem to sit with him when he returned from school. I don’t know what they talked about, but Saleem always came home pensive. I was grateful my son had Abdul Rahim to turn to.
Abdul Rahim and Raisa agreed that it was best for us to leave. We had no family to help us. I feared my son would be swallowed by the Taliban, and as a woman, there was little I could do to help us survive.
“We’re going to leave,” I told my neighbors. “I have no choice but to get my children out of Kabul. Their stomachs are empty, their lips parched. There’s nothing for us here.”
Raisa nodded in agreement.
“There’s no telling if things will get better. They could get worse. As much as I hate to see you go, I can’t bear to watch you stay with things like this. If Mahmood-jan, God give him peace, were with you, it would be different. But like this, Kabul is worse than a prison for you.”
“I’m going to need your help.”
Abdul Rahim had nodded. He’d been anticipating this conversation.
THREE MONTHS AFTER AZIZ WAS BORN, I GATHERED MY CHILDREN and packed two small bags with what I thought we would need most: clothing, a parchment envelope with a dozen family pictures, and whatever food we had left. I’d said nothing to the children until two days before we were to leave. Saleem looked resentful that he’d been kept in the dark. We lived in the same space, with the same dismal thoughts, and yet, for the better part of our days, we were confounded by each other. We were a family beheaded and floundered around as such.
“What if they find out we’re leaving?” Saleem’s voice was quiet with fear.
“They won’t find out,” I promised. I had no other way of answering. His expression flat, Saleem held my gaze for a few seconds too long. He had seen through me.
I told myself things would be better once we escaped Kabul’s toxic air.
I sent word to my father that we would be traveling to Herat. I wanted to see him once more before we set off. But Padar-jan was a man who preferred to live in the comforts of yesterday. The letter I got back was nothing more than I had come to expect from my father. The orchard was in such bad shape I would hardly recognize it, he said. Armies of beetles had tunneled through the wood. He had taken to sleeping some nights in the grove, hoping his presence would scare them away but they were quite brazen. The past winter had been especially harsh and he would need to do much coaxing if he wanted to see even a single basket of apricots this year. They were more delicate than children, he believed. It saddened him that he could not do more for us now, but he looked forward to seeing us on our return.
People have different ways of saying good-bye, especially when it is forever.