My insistence on secrecy seemed ridiculous now. Certainly, I wouldn’t have been allowed out to Nowzad had our engagement been known, but I could have been sent to another of the US military’s remote outposts.
And then I wondered about the two thousand US troops killed in Afghanistan. Who wrote their obituaries? Were their stories carried in small-town papers across the country? Or the 500 British troops; 158 from Canada; 88 from France; 56 from Germany; Italy, Denmark, Australia, Poland, Turkey, Latvia, Finland, Jordan – even Lithuania. And 37 journalists: now, 38. So many deaths, so much loss.
I took Sebastian’s ring off the chain around my neck, and slipped it back onto the third finger of my left hand, where, God willing, it would stay forever.
Back in Kabul, I checked into the Mustafa Hotel again. The manager was surprised to see me, but welcomed me and gave me my old room back.
I wished he hadn’t. He’d meant to be kind, but staring at the twin bed where Liz had slept – and snored through half the night – I just felt sad.
I worked all night, writing a rough draft, then polishing the remainder of the features that I owed the newspaper. All the time I wondered what Sebastian was doing; I hoped he’d finally get some sleep without me being there to distract him.
I emailed him to let him know I was back in Kabul and awaiting a flight home. I didn’t know when he’d get it, but it was still important that I sent it. I also hand wrote a letter, telling him how much I loved him and missed him, and then spoke about all the things we could do when he was home with me in Long Beach. It seemed a long way away.
I was ready to pack up and try to sleep, when I received an email from my editor. He was doing his best, but warned me it could be three or four days before he managed to get a flight. And he wanted to speak to me.
Just as I was about to call him, the signal on my cell disappeared again. I trailed down to reception to call him from the hotel’s landline, which was only slightly more reliable. When I finally got through, I gave him more information about Liz’s death – the things I hadn’t been able to put in her obituary. Sounding shocked, he promised he’d get me out as soon as possible.
After that, I didn’t feel like sleeping, so, instead, I spent the day wandering the echoing halls of the Afghanistan National Museum. Seventy percent of the artifacts had disappeared during looting over the past three decades, but the museum was slowly coming back to life. I took the opportunity to interview several of the enthusiastic, but poorly-paid, curators. They were hopeful that the long, cultural history had a future in their country.
I hoped they were right, and I was glad that someone felt optimistic about Afghanistan’s future.
Wearily, I returned to my hotel room and wrote another letter to Sebastian. This time I told him about the surf spots at Long Beach, up to the Hamptons and as far as Montauk. I tried hard to make my letter upbeat and cheerful, but it was difficult when I knew I wouldn’t see him for at least another five months.
When I’d finished, I kicked off my boots and lay down.
I hadn’t eaten and I wasn’t hungry. At least I was tired: I curled up under the sheets, in the unbelievable comfort of the narrow bed, and wished that Sebastian’s warm body was next to me, with his breath on my neck, and his arms around my waist.
A loud knock on the door woke me from a light sleep. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. I squinted at my wristwatch: 2.45 am.
“Who is it?” I said, loudly and clearly.
“Phone call.”
It was a voice I didn’t recognize.
“Who’s calling me?”
“Phone call.”
I couldn’t tell if it was simply that the person outside my door didn’t speak English, or whether I was in danger. I didn’t like it at all, and my anxiety levels shot up to Defcon 1.