SHIFTS
“Are you sure we won’t get caught?” I ask Ian this for the third time.
He laughs. “Relax, Laila. This is the perfect place to practice. There’s no one around.”
I am eager to begin my search for answers. I itch to toss our apartment, to look under cushions and mattresses, to open, to find, to redial. But Mother rarely goes out, and so I will have to wait. In the meantime, I am learning to drive.
Ian has a driver’s license but no car. I have a car but no license. Together, we make a whole driver. Theoretically. If only I could manage to keep my foot on the gas pedal long enough to make any progress. Some reflex deep within causes me to slam on the brakes the second I get any momentum.
I’m also distracted. Ian smells nice, woodsy and toothpasty—a more appealing combination than it sounds.
“Why haven’t I ever seen you driving?” I’m delaying. We’ve been here nearly an hour and I still haven’t been able to correctly angle the car into any of the thousands of empty spots in the parking lot of an abandoned mall. No matter how many times I try, I end up crooked, straddling the lines. Ian may not be frustrated, but I am.
“Try it again. You’re getting closer.” He points to a spot three rows over. “I’m saving for a car, but it’s slow going. Technically I have enough for the car, but it’s the tags and the insurance I can’t afford yet.”
This gets my attention. “Can you make me a list? Please?”
He braces himself against the dashboard as I jerk to a sudden stop. “A list of what?”
“Those things you just mentioned. Tags and insurance. And anything else. How you register a car, that sort of thing.”
His eyebrows climb. “So let me get this straight: you’re too young for a license, you have no insurance, and your car isn’t even registered? Forget what I said earlier—you are going to get us arrested.”
He must see the panic on my face, because he quickly reassures me: “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You’re fine as long as we stay in this parking lot. But I’ll take the back roads home. Just in case.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. He’s better than a seat belt at making me feel safe.
“Let’s take a break. I don’t want to practice anymore.” The car seems more trouble than it’s worth. Besides, I can’t picture my mother doing this—enduring shaky starts and jerking stops until she finally masters driving.
“Good timing—I’m starving.” Ian reaches into the backseat for a plastic bag and pulls out two bags of chips and two cans of soda. “Which do you want? We have salt and vinegar or barbecue chips.” His gold-brown eyes twinkle in the sunlight as he changes to a campy French accent. “Only zee best for zee mademoiselle. Zee finest delicacies from zee finest convenience store in town.”
I wrinkle my nose and just take one of the cans.
“What’s wrong with chips?” he asks. “Breakfast of champions, second only to cold pizza in the morning!”
“Ugh, I hope not.” I shudder. Then giggle. Did I really just giggle? Ian’s banter renders me happily foolish.
“You’re not a fan of good old-fashioned American junk food, huh?” He opens the bag of barbecue chips with a flourish.
“It’s just—” I try to think of the nicest way to phrase it. “The food here is so … loud.”
He mulls it over, then laughs. “I never thought about it like that, but I see what you mean.” He makes a show of crinkling and crunching his way through a bite of chips, then laughs again as I open my soda with a sharp crack.
He tilts his seat back and shifts so that he’s almost facing me. “I’m glad you asked me to teach you to drive. Even if you aren’t doing much driving.” He grins as I stick my tongue out at him. “You’ve seemed a bit, I don’t know, distracted or something lately.”
I can’t argue with that.
“I thought it might be because of your family stuff. The General is getting some pretty bad press lately. He seems like he’s in over his head, to put it mildly.”
The muscles in my shoulders go rigid. Where did this come from? I stare straight ahead. I don’t want to look at Ian right now. I made myself clear the other day, so why does it feel like I’m being interviewed?
For once he doesn’t notice my reaction. He presses on, and it just gets worse. “Has anyone in your family been in touch with him? I mean, I’d hope not, not after what he did to your dad. But he is your uncle, so I assume that someone somewhere in your family tree is still talking to him?”
The buzzing starts in my ears again. It’s almost drowning out his words as he continues to talk to my profile. I focus on a distant point—an old movie theater marquee advertising films long gone. Why would he ask this? Of all questions, why this one? It could be a coincidence. I know it’s a coincidence. But it’s too late. Something in me has already shifted, and my poisonous thoughts are burbling over, fizzing and spitting like the warm soda in my hand.
Finally, he notices. “Hey, I’m sorry, Laila. I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. I just …” He trails off. “I’m just interested in you. I’m just trying to know you. To understand you.” He’s leaning toward me, trying to grab my eyes with his, trying to get me to look at him.
“We should leave now. You drive.” I get out of the car and walk around the front. I stand outside his door until he opens it and steps out.
“Laila—” he starts. He sounds miserable.
But I slip around him into the passenger seat and shut the door. He stands, looking at me through the window for a long minute before his shoulders slump and he makes his way to the driver’s side and starts the car. “I’m sorry, Laila. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m an idiot.”
Or a spy. There, I’ve thought it. Most of me knows it’s a stupid, laughable idea—the delusional notion of someone who has watched too many movies. After all, Ian’s original appeal was the fact that when I’m with him, I’m just a girl and he’s just a boy. Nothing more complicated than that.
But in my experience there are always complications. And rarely coincidences.
And my life—my history—contains more spies than boyfriends. I don’t have room in my head for any new fears, no matter how ridiculous they are.
“Take me home.”
He taps the top of the steering wheel with his fist twice, slowly. He wants to say more, I can see it, but he doesn’t.
We drive home in silence.
EVIDENCE
At last the door closes and I am alone.
Bastien came home two days ago with a note from his teacher requesting a meeting with his parents. The surprising plural of that word made me wonder what legends my brother has been weaving for himself.
They left a half hour later than planned—a delay that had me nearly screaming with impatience. Bastien was sloppy and morose, first losing track of one shoe and then insisting that he couldn’t leave until he’d found his gray sweater—no other sweater would do. Mother wasn’t much better. She changed her clothes twice and frowned her way through an excruciatingly slow cup of tea before heaving a deep sigh and finally walking out the door.
I begin immediately. There aren’t many hiding places, so this shouldn’t take long.
Mother’s bedroom is surprisingly tidy. Dresses are carefully hung in the closet, makeup tubes and bottles are organized by size on top of the dresser, and drawers contain only ordinary, folded things that are supposed to be found in drawers. There are no pictures on the walls; there is no ornamentation anywhere. Even the bedspread is plain and utilitarian, and the jewelry box I was certain she once had is nowhere to be seen. The room makes me think of Amir’s apartment. It is the bedroom of someone who does not plan to stay long.
The secrets lie under the bed.
Everything I need to know is contained in a single cardboard box, the low, flimsy kind that might be used to gift wrap a man’s dress shirt. I’m almost disappointed—my mind had concocted entire roomfuls of evidence. In reality, there is curiously little—a few photos and a small stack of papers.
I pull out the photo on top. It’s darkly framed in heavy wood, a gaudy state seal fighting the image for attention. The picture is familiar—a candid shot of my parents on their wedding day that used to sit on the desk in my father’s office. The event was a major affair, choreographed and formal, but in this picture they look as if they were alone. They’re staring into one another’s eyes, transported. My father is fierce as he gazes at his new bride—he looks protective and consumed. My mother is a glowing version of herself. The woman in this picture adores.
The next picture in the box erases my nostalgia.
It’s another candid shot, this one more recent—two brothers standing side by side in happier times. At least my father looks happy. My uncle looks the same as always: ill-tempered and uneasy. Every inch of him is a living, breathing condemnation of my father. His beard, groomed in the style of those worn by religious scholars in my country, practically points at my father’s clean-shaven face, accusing him of giving in to modern vanity.
The faint, bluish smudge on my uncle’s forehead announces to the world that he is more devout, that he bows lower in prayer: low enough and often enough to leave a constant bruise. I always suspected him of bashing his head against walls when no one was watching—he was far too proud of that badge of faith for it to be genuine. Next to him, my father’s faithless skin is unblemished—the devil’s own complexion, if you were to believe his brother’s accusations.
Even the clothing worn by the two men in the photo is a source of tension. My uncle, who never wears anything but a military uniform or the traditional collarless shirts of my country, used to mock my father’s silk neckties. “You look like a Western dog wearing a leash,” he said more than once over our dinner table. Each time he said it my mother ordered more ties from her favorite shop in London the next day—spiteful gifts that became a running joke between my parents.
“What did you know? What were you planning?” I whisper the questions out loud before I realize that I don’t know which man I am asking. Both of them had a head and a heart full of secrets when this photo was taken. I shove the picture aside in disgust, flipping it over so I don’t have to look at it.
But then I pick it up again. This time I focus on my father’s image, searching. I see a mouth that used to sing me silly songs, eyes that used to wink at me, and a nose that looks exactly like my own. I can’t find any hint of a monster, no matter how I try. The man in the photo is just my father—no more, no less. My father, with a dead man’s smile on his face.
I can’t get distracted now.
I flip through the documents, not even really knowing what I’m looking for. There are bank statements with grim balances and legal documents bearing looping signatures and heavy stamps from American officials. There’s also a map from home, heavily marked with red and black ink, and one page of handwritten notes.
I try to decipher the writing, but it makes no sense. The entire page is covered with long number sequences and strange punctuation. Some numbers are crossed off; others are circled. One sequence is underlined twice—angry red slashes that dent the paper with their force.
What kind of secret code is this? Even without understanding the meaning of the numbers, I know I have found what I’m looking for.
I glance at my watch, debating what to do next. On the one hand, I feel totally justified in snooping. Mine is a righteous sort of treachery if ever there was one. But if I’m caught, the notes are sure to disappear. I will lose all access to my mother’s secrets.
The fear of being cut off makes my decision for me. I race to my bedroom with the page and feverishly copy as many of the number sequences as I can before my nerves make my hand start to shake. I don’t know how long my mother will be gone, but I’m guessing she’ll keep the meeting with Bastien’s teacher very short. It’s not in her nature to be lectured or counseled, and she’s apt to walk out if she hears even a hint of criticism.
The notes are back in the box, the box under the bed, the bedspread smoothed, and my face arranged into careful boredom by the time she comes home.
“Laila, please get something started for dinner. I’m going to take a bath.” She’s rubbing little circles into her temples like she’s trying to unwind a headache. “Bastien, this conversation is not over.”
I hold my breath as she walks stiffly into her room. I can hear her moving around, opening and closing her closet door. Did I straighten the comforter correctly? Is the box exactly as far under the bed as it was when I found it? Are the papers in the right order?
By the time she comes out in her robe, I’ve convinced myself of half a dozen telltale mistakes. But she heads straight for the bathroom without even looking at me.
My first spy mission has succeeded.
SYMBOLS
While Mother bathes, I search for answers.
The internet, my modern-day crystal ball, gives me what I need almost immediately, and my gratitude is such that I have to stop myself from kissing the screen. The numbers are geographic coordinates. Latitudes and longitudes. Directions. Each sequence a giant X-marks-the-spot. I plug them, one at a time, into Google Earth and zoom into familiar terrain. Satellite imagery turns me into a virtual tourist.
The first set of numbers takes me to the coast—a remote intersection I recognize from trips to the summer palace. There are no buildings nearby, only crossroads and sand dunes. I can’t imagine why this location would be important.
The second sequence, the one underlined in red, takes me high into the mountains. Between two small villages a winding road bumps against a steep embankment. The geocoordinates point to a small, isolated turnout.
The third set of numbers takes me to a bird’s-eye view of my former home. I stare at the roof of the palace trying to visualize the rooms below. Who sleeps in my old bedroom? One of my cousins, no doubt, though I can’t guess which one. My uncle didn’t allow his daughters out of his compound much, particularly not to our home, where my mother’s godless ways might influence them. The boys were allowed to visit us with their father, but they always kept their distance, little junior generals already learning to condemn and despise.
“What are you looking at?”
I jump—I hadn’t realized Bastien was peering over my shoulder—and slam my laptop closed.
“That was home, wasn’t it? I recognize the swimming pool. And the driveway. Come on, Laila, let me see,” he whines. He’s been moody since he and Mother returned from the meeting at his school, but he won’t tell me anything except that his teacher doesn’t like him.
I hesitate, but then give in. What can it hurt?
Bastien leans into me as he looks at the grainy image. I can hear his breathing slow, practically stop, as I zoom in further. He reaches out and traces a corner of the building with his finger. “Laila, remember that tree? That’s the one I used to climb!” He’s suddenly animated, jabbing at the corner of the screen. “And that’s—” He leans in even closer, and his little body goes rigid. “Laila, that’s Daddy’s car! He’s there, Laila, he’s there!” He’s shouting, nearly hysterical.
“Shhh, Bastien!” I don’t want Mother to hear. “Let me look. Be quiet.” I elbow him aside so I can see better. I try to zoom in even further, but it makes the image too fuzzy.
It’s hard to tell, but I think Bastien may actually be right. My finger shakes as I click to zoom back out. There’s a car parked in the circular driveway—inside the gates and next to the large fountain. It’s the right color, red, and approximately the same shape as Father’s prized toy: a rare and impossibly expensive sports car that Mother used to joke he loved more than he loved her. He rarely took it anywhere—his security advisers warned against it—but he would occasionally drive it slowly out of the garage to the front of the palace just so he could hear it and feel it. He’d drive around and around the fountain, his precious few yards of freedom, and then park next to the front steps, where Bastien and I would run our hands along the sleek metal. “No fingerprints! You’re leaving smudges,” he used to say, but he was the worst among us—petting the car as if it were a racehorse. Sometimes he’d let us climb inside, but only if we took off our shoes and promised over and over again not to touch anything.
To see it parked there in front of our old home makes me feel like I’ve been plunged into ice water. I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter, and my palms are cold and damp. Unlike Bastien, I don’t take this as a sign that Father is alive. I saw his body. I know he’s gone.
I think it means we’ve been betrayed yet again—that my uncle is driving the car that gave Father so much pleasure. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t sting so viciously. But it does. The thought of that hateful man sitting in my father’s car, running his hands over the leather, hiding the keys away in his pocket, possessing it, fills me with a rage bigger than I am. My anger stretches my skin, inflating me with hatred. It shouldn’t be his! None of it should!
And then I see the small notation in the corner of the screen. The imagery date stamp. I close my eyes and push back from the computer, wilting as the rage trails away like smoke.
I hear Bastien’s ragged, hitching breaths, and I know without looking that he’s crying. “No, Bastien. No. He’s not there. The picture is old. See?” I point to the date. “It was taken months ago. Way before—” Neither one of us needs me to continue. I put my arm around him and try to absorb some of his pain.
“It’s not fair.” He says it softly first, almost a moan, but then his voice rises to a shriek. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” He’s screaming now, and I have to tackle him, physically wrestle him out of his arm-flailing frenzy. I hold him, pinned to me, while he sobs into my chest. My own tears fall and disappear silently into his hair.
I brace for Mother’s entrance. She must have heard Bastien’s screams; it would be impossible not to. But she never comes. For a long time we sit huddled like this, just me and my brother and a picture of what we’ve lost.