A Missing Peace (11 page)

“How did you even get here?”
Baba
asked.

I stared down at the cold floor. “I rode with some workers.”

“Mirriam, are you crazy? Do you know what's going on out there? Does your mother even know you're here? They're probably looking for you. If your brother gets hurt looking for you…”

“I'm sorry.”

“What's so important you had to truck to Baghdad?”

That was when it happened. A violent boom rang through the air. Followed by another and another. Bang! Bang! Each noise popped like fireworks, but in Baghdad it was never fireworks.

“God have mercy. What kind of sick people bomb a hospital?”
Baba
said under his breath. Then to me he said, “I should be taking care of patients, and I can't now. You don't ever do this again.”

He took my hand, and we ran out of his office. He dragged me along at first, but as soon as I figured out we were running, I kept pace.

“Where are we going?”

“I don't know. We'll try the back exit.”

We passed an exit, but we didn't take it. It led to the front door, the most dangerous way to go. Clutching
Baba's
hand, I ran to the back exit like he said. He pushed the door open, but smoke hit us in the face. This was a no go.

We ran back to the front exit. It would be dangerous, but we couldn't stay here.
Baba
prayed Hail Marys down the stairs, and I joined in, because it seemed like the thing to do. Neither of us knew if we would come out of this. The prayer couldn't hurt either way.

We got down the stairs one flight at a time. One. Two. Three.
Baba
was old. He was slowing down. I dragged him along now. We shot out of the front exit. We were out of the doors and into the emergency drive in three large strides—just in time, because most of the building collapsed into red and orange flames behind us.

American soldiers crowded the driveway. They waived guns and shouted in English. My English was good—fluent even—but I only caught parts, because the world was spinning, and my brain could only function in Arabic.

“Terrorists.” I heard the word clearly and repeated over and over. Then “He's a terrorist.” Apparently the guns pointed in the direction of the terrorist. I looked to my left and
Baba
must have done the same. The man they're talking about lay on his back in a puddle of blood. He didn't look like a terrorist, only a dying man.

Baba's
head darted around. “Play dead, Mirriam,” and then he rushed to the dying man. He knelt beside him and stuck his hand where blood gushed from the man's abdomen. He talked about work at home enough for me to know what he was doing. He tried to slow the bleeding.

“Terrorist!” The word continued to ring out.

Someone argued. “Civilian aid. He's a doctor.”

Then I heard, “Aiding a terrorist is an act of terrorism. Shoot!”

My dad was not a terrorist. He was a doctor. And he wasn't the one waiving a gun around manically. I ran for him.

His head blew off before I could close the distance between us.

I heard my own screams shrieking out as piercing as their bullets.

“Get her, too.”

An American soldier ran toward me. “What are you doing? What's going on?” the others called out. Some of them put their guns down. Others looked to the side as if they expected someone to tell them what to do.

The soldier grabbed me at the waist. I kicked him as hard as I could. “Calm down,” he said.

Like hell. They could kill me, but I wouldn't die without a fight.

“Miller, back down,” someone barked.

“She's a kid,” the soldier restraining me said.

“Back down,” the order was barked again.

“I've got a kid her age. I'm not watchin' this.”

“Shoot,” was the next order barked. “Truman, you have a clear shot.”

“Captain—”

“Shoot the girl. If Miller doesn't move, his wife will get his dog tags.”

“Captain—”

“You don't second guess the mind of a terrorist. I don't care if she's fifteen or five.”

My eyes stared right in front of me at the voice that kept calling, “Captain”. He was probably the same age as Abrahem, but holding a gun made him look older.

I saw the gun for a millisecond. Then my whole body turned, but I wasn't the one doing the turning. I hit the concrete on my knees, and the soldier behind me fell. He writhed in pain. His skin was white, his jaw strong, and his eyes brown. He was a typical All-American hero.

He saved my life. He turned into the bullet. I had to get out of here, now. I couldn't help this man, and if I tried, they would shoot me.

I pulled off the necklace I wore every day—a golden cross
Baba
brought back from a conference in Rome—and dropped it on the wounded soldier.

And I ran.

Caleb called and texted me constantly, so when my phone vibrated again with a text, I assumed it was him. I picked it up to silence it and found I was wrong. This message was from Morgan.

U disappeared after lunch. What happened?

Sick.

It wasn't even a lie.

Should I bring herbal tea? Itz tha bomb.

As horrible as I felt, Morgan made me smile. Her expressions were so silly, but she always had so much energy.

No.

I didn't feel like seeing anyone.

The next time my phone vibrated it was Caleb again.

When you're ready to talk, I'm here.

I had no idea when that would be. I thought our talking was probably done. I hated myself for what happened to both of our fathers. I couldn't imagine what he would think.

After reliving what happened in Baghdad I remembered wondering if it would be worse to not know what happened to your dad or to watch it happen. Now I knew the answer. Caleb was better off not knowing. If I told him, it wouldn't change anything. Except that he would hate me, and rightfully so.

Abrahem woke me up for school the next morning, which was unusual. He was usually coming through the door from work, or sleeping when I left.

“Mirr, school.”

I pulled the blankets up over my head. “I'm not going.”

“Why?”

“Sick.” Still not a lie, I felt like death.

“How was school yesterday?”

“Fine.” That was a strange question for my brother to ask.

His eyes narrowed. “How where your afternoon classes?”

Lying to
Ommy
was one thing. When
Baba
was living I could lie to him, but lying to Abrahem had always been harder. He knew I was lying.

He knew something, but I didn't know how. It wasn't like he was there, so I decided to go for it. “Afternoon classes were awesome.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“In trouble?”

“Mirr, are you doing something stupid?”

“No.” True, my brother's definition of stupid differed from mine, but it was over now anyhow.

“If you're doing something stupid, you need to tell me so I can help you.”

“Abrahem, I said no. Now get out of my room. I'm sick.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright.”

Caleb

Two days had passed since Mirriam flipped out on my floor, and I hadn't heard from her since. She wouldn't answer my calls or texts.

I didn't know what happened. We'd had a good day. One minute we were talking, and the next she lost her mind. Something was wrong. I knew that. I was tempted to go across the street and break her door down, so she would have to talk to me. But I was not going to be breaking doors down for a while, and I wasn't sure if I could get across the street. Not to mention, Mirriam didn't want her family to know about us.

I sent one last text.

Please call.

And promised myself I wouldn't send another.

Josh and Matt came over after school. It was good to see them. It had been forever, and it took my mind off Mirriam, who I didn't mention. Maybe, I was more okay with this being a secret than I'd thought.

Matt pulled out a sixpack. “I hit my dad's mini-fridge before we came.”

He handed one to Josh and offered one to me. “No thanks. I can't.”

“Oh yeah, the drugs. Sorry, man,” Matt said.

Josh shrugged. “Well, you're on better shit than this.”

He didn't notice when I rolled my eyes. For a second, I wondered how we ever became friends. Half the time I couldn't feel most of my body. When I could, it meant the painkillers had worn off, and it felt like someone was making a pulled pork sandwich out of me. “Yeah, Josh, I'm on way better shit.”

Matt's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen, and chuckled.

“What's up?” Josh asked.

He held the phone up for us to see. It displayed the picture of a cowboy, an Indian, and a Muslim sitting side by side. The Indian said, “My people are few.” The Muslim said, “My people are many,” and the cowboy said, “That's because we haven't played cowboys and ragheads yet.”

Mirriam flashed across my mind. She wasn't Muslim, but I knew Arabic Christians had most likely died in the crossfire. A few weeks ago, I didn't know Arabic Christians existed, and what if she were Muslim? I didn't think it would matter. She'd still be the girl that pulled me out of the road. She'd still be the only girl in school that ever stood up to Kailee Hill. She would still be my M.

“That's not funny.” My tone was harsher than I meant it to be.

“Oh really? Because a couple of weeks ago, you would have thought it was. It wasn't six months ago you were talking about enlisting to turn the whole Middle East into a plate of glass.”

Josh sat up in his chair and turned to the side so he could face me full on. “How is your prom date going?”

“Why?”

“Curious.”

“Fine.”

“Let's cancel the bet. Take Kailee to prom.”

“No way in hell am I taking Kailee Hill to prom. Why do you want to cancel the bet?”

“Because I think you're spending too much time with the A-rab. It's like you're not the same person anymore. She pulled you out of the street, so you didn't get hit a second time. I get it. You don't have to change your whole life, or who you are because of it. Do you know what she said to Kailee?”

“Do you know what Kailee did to her? And Mirriam would never actually do that.”

“I don't think so either, but it proves she's not one of us. The sooner you realize that the better.”

“Get the hell out of my house, or we're going to find out how bad my legs actually are.”

“Are you serious?”

I grabbed the arm of the chair and tried to stand.

“Caleb, calm down. I'm leaving.” Josh stood and headed for the door.

“I drove,” Matt said, following him out.

My stomach sunk, because they were right. A couple of weeks ago, I would have thought that was funny.

Mirriam

Caleb's calls and texts became less frequent, but he was still at it. Part of me thought I should talk to him. I
wanted
to talk to him. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I couldn't because that would be the last we talked. Also because not only would telling Caleb the truth not bring his dad back, it would crush his world. If my wannabe soldier boy knew another soldier shot his father, it would wreck everything he ever believed in. It would break his heart. Caleb had lost enough for a lifetime. I wouldn't add to it.

I couldn't tell him. I couldn't not tell him either, so we couldn't talk. Not that it mattered, because when he learned I was responsible for his father's death, he wouldn't want to talk to me anyhow. I wore his ‘M' under my clothes, because I wasn't ready to give Caleb up. I just couldn't complicate his life any worse than I already had.

I was sitting on my couch with a tub of ice cream and a spoon when Morgan called. She was probably mad at me. I'd been ignoring her calls, too.

“Hello?”

“OMG! Where are you? I seriously don't believe you're sick. You won't graduate if you keep skipping? Are you nursing Caleb back to health?”

I laughed at the way she said ‘nursing'. “I haven't seen Caleb in days, and I don't feel well.”

“What happened? Something is wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”

I sighed. “I know something that I wish I didn't about someone that I care about. I don't know if I should tell them, but I don't think so because they would hate me and I think the person is better off not knowing.”

“You know they're talking shit about him for dating you. He wouldn't be mad at you about it, but I wouldn't tell him his friends are trashing him. The guy's been through enough.”

“They are? How do they know we're dating? It's a secret.”

“Mirriam, in towns this size, there are no secrets. He kicked Josh and Matt out of his house for cracking raghead jokes.”

“Oh.”

“If that wasn't what we were talking about, what is?”

“Nothing. I have to go.” I hung up before she had a chance to argue.” He blew his friends off for me. I complicated his life all the way around. It was time for me to stay out of it.

I would go back to school tomorrow. Not today. I took another bite of my vanilla bean ice cream and flipped through the channels one more time. I wasn't a fan of daytime talk shows where the bottom of society screamed about their transgressions, so I settled on PBS, a documentary on friendly fire. I laughed when I heard the term. How could fire be friendly?

Then I realized we weren't talking about a fire at all. Friendly fire was when one soldier shot another from his military. As the documentary went on, I realized that what happened to Caleb's dad wasn't exactly friendly fire. ‘Friendly Fire' referred to an accident and was disclosed. What happened to Mr. Miller wasn't an accident. It was a calculated risk. Shooting him was worth it to maybe shoot me. The military told Caleb and his mom it was enemy fire. It was not.