Refugees (24 page)

Daq eyed the bedraggled patients lined up by the Red Cross compound. “Before the Americans came here, people were happy in their villages. Now look at our people. They are injured, hungry, lost.”

“It's not just the fault of Americans. Some Americans are trying to help—” Johar began, then stopped himself.

“Trying to help?”

“Forget it.” It plagued Johar that Daq and he had ended up on such opposing sides. Couldn't Daq see how the Taliban warped the laws of sharia for their own brutal purposes? Couldn't he see the inhumanity in their public assassinations, in the mothers begging and the torching of entire wheat fields? Dawn and her people had suffered too—from Al Qaeda's fiendish destruction of the American towers. But Johar kept his mouth shut. He refused to start arguing. Nothing would get in the way of being with his brother again… nothing except being coerced into joining the Taliban ranks.

They stepped past the crowd into the ICRC's whitewashed building. Daq gawked at the shelves of medical supplies and the colorful satellite poster of the world.

“Why, hello,” said Dr. Garland. “And who might this be?”

“My uncle,” squealed Bija, grabbing Daq's arm in excitement.

“My brother, Daq,” added Johar.

A gray strand escaped Dr. Garland's scarf as she leaned
forward. “Salaam alaikum, Daq.” She held out her hand, but Daq refused to shake it.

He's repulsed by the way she offered her hand and the hair peeking from her scarf, thought Johar. This is the same brother who could curse in English, the same brother Johar had worshiped. Well, Daq embarrassed him now. He watched the doctor's smile fade. “Dr. Garland,” Johar said, struggling for courage, “I haven't seen Daq for so long and, well…I wonder whether I could have the day off. If you please.”

She busied herself opening shutters and then shuffling charts. Johar sensed Daq's rage at the audacity of this working American female. Johar imagined his brother thinking that she took an impudently long time in answering. When Dr. Garland finally turned to them, Daq's gaze fell to the floor. “I suppose, Johar. But first could you let a patient in and interview him?”

“Of course, Dr. Garland.” Johar turned to Daq. “It will take only a minute. Please, sit.” Johar pointed to a chair.

“I'll stand,” Daq said firmly. Bija scurried into the corner with her doll.

Johar led in the first patient—a new arrival with an ugly shoulder wound. As he questioned the patient and took notes, Daq tapped his boot on the floor impatiently.

When Johar was done asking his questions, Dr. Garland bound up the patient's wound. “One more thing,” she requested. “Could you please talk to the truck messenger behind the building? He needs the supply list—”

Daq cut her off in midsentence. “Are you coming?” he demanded, facing Johar. Johar looked from Louise to Daq and back to Louise, who was silent, waiting. “Coming?” Daq repeated. “As for me, I'm leaving.” Daq's eyes held
rage. “I'll not stay another second with this American infidel, this ill-mannered female who dares order my brother around like a street sweeper!”

“No one accuses this woman of being ill-mannered,” Johar retorted. “This woman gave me a job. She saved our lives!” Bija whimpered and clutched her doll.

“So be it, brother.” Daq stalked out.

Johar dashed after him and grabbed Daq by the arm. “Don't act crazy! Think about what you're saying.” Daq thrust off Johar's hand and swerved away. “I will come to where you stay,” yelled Johar. “We'll talk later, after you calm down.”

“You have chosen the wrong side,” Daq called over his shoulder. With that he was gone.

Johar waited until Dr. Garland went out to give the trucker an additional list, then dialed Dawn's number. He'd always waited until she called him, but Daq had unnerved him. “Dawn, where are you?” he mumbled to himself as the phone rang and rang. “The war has ruined my brother. He's a specter of his old self. His skin is all yellowed. Kharab!”

D
awn twisted the flute pieces together and flipped through the sheet music. The blond woman had come back—the one with the rose-scented perfume and the model's graceful poise. She was already softly crying when she asked for the Bach—her daughter's recital piece. Playing for families was always such a meaningful occasion, but something about this lady burrowed under Dawn's skin.

“Please, play another,” insisted the woman after Dawn's last notes. “Just one more,” she begged when that was done.

Dawn felt so bad for her, barely sopping her tears with the wad of Kleenex before another flood came. Although Dawn sensed there were people on the edge of the crowd who would have liked a turn, she could hardly refuse this
woman. But when she requested a third song, Dawn finally asked, “Don't you need to get back to work?”

“I make my own hours. Can
you
take a break?” Dawn's eyes locked into the woman's blue ones, onto her powdered forehead and perfect chin. She couldn't look away— that face seemed so familiar. Spurs of baffled recollection shot up through Dawn. There could be no way, but this lady was a spot-on match for her ruby-lipped, blond birth mother, or at least for Dawn's memory of her. But this woman was too old, probably pushing sixty. She had deep crow's feet, and her hair was dyed platinum over strands of white. Still, the resemblance was spooky.

“I'll take you for a coffee or something.” The lady clamped onto her hand with spidery fingers. “You look as if you've seen a ghoul.”

Against her will, Dawn let her sneakers shuffle along the pavement next to the lady's clacking heels. The woman led her around the crush of bodies on the sidewalk and guided her into a dark restaurant. Dawn took a croaking breath, inhaling the rich aroma of burgers and coffee. They sat in a booth, and she looked across at the lady. She felt ridiculous asking, but couldn't help herself. “Did you ever have any other kids? Did you have one who went to an orphanage or a group home?”

The woman looked startled. “No other children, just Giselle. Why?”

Dawn felt herself sink. “It's just… it's just that you look like someone I used to know.” There was no way. This woman was too old.

“I hope that's good. By the way, my name is Vera.” The woman fished in her purse and pulled out a photo. She held it out to Dawn.

“Mine's Dawn,” Dawn said, then looked at the pretty girl in the photo who was dressed up for a school dance or a holiday. “Your daughter was beautiful. She was…” Dawn struggled to find the right words. “Asian!”

“Yes. She was from Korea. She'd been in an orphanage. That's why your question surprised me.” Vera held out a menu, and Dawn took it. “Hungry?”

“Not very. Well, actually, yes.” Vera was offering to feed her. She was paying attention. It made Dawn feel sad and happy at the same time. “So, your daughter's adopted?”

A tentative smile revealed perfect caps. “That's right.”

“And you felt like she was really yours?”

“She
was
mine! You mean because I didn't give birth to her?” Dawn nodded. “I didn't think about that, only when someone looked at us cross-eyed. Then I had to feel sorry for them.” Vera smiled again, a patient smile.

“But wouldn't you have a truer bond if you were related?” The question was crude, but Dawn had to ask. She'd heard all the standard lines about adopted kids being no less loved than biological kids. Those were just so many words, though. She'd never heard it from a real parent of an adopted kid.

“Clones are a bore,” Vera said with a tiny smile, flicking her veined hand forward in a dismissive motion. “Besides, genes are no guarantee of similarities or bonds. The kids of some of the people I know—well, you wonder how they could ever be related. Giselle and I, we connected over music even when she was small. Well, you know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you and your mother have things in common.”

“An interest in doctoring.” Dawn said.

Vera nodded. “How nice.”

The waitress came over. Vera ordered fruit salad and tea. Dawn ordered soup. “Don't you go to school?” Vera pressed a lemon wedge against her spoon.

She seemed nice enough, but Dawn figured that the less she said the better. “Sure. I'm in an Internet school. You know, classes online.” She tried to steer the conversation Vera's way. “Tell me more about Giselle.”

“She was talented on the flute, like you. I bet your mother's proud of your playing.”

Dawn scrunched up her napkin and lowered her head. Her real mother had never heard Dawn play.
She wasn't there.
Dawn tried to picture her, but an unexpected memory of Louise floated in, of her beaming awkwardly in the front row of the auditorium as Dawn played. Was it Louise that Dawn missed, or just anyone being there for her? How could you know what to miss if you'd never had it… or if you'd never let someone try to be there? Louise
had
tried. Was it a sense of duty that led Louise to Epiphany House, or emptiness or desire? Maybe none of it mattered except what came after.

Lunch came, and they were mostly silent while they ate, both hungry, both thoughtful. When she finished, Dawn glanced at the wall clock. One o'clock; almost too late to play before lunch hour was over. “Thanks for everything. I have to get going.”

“You're very welcome.” Vera straightened out her skirt, and the rose scent wafted up.

Dawn waved as she walked away. She was sure of it now: that rose scent was what her mother had worn.

At midnight Dawn dialed the number. Thoughts whizzed like darts as she listened to its ring.
What if Vera had been my mother? She's so different from Louise.

“Hello, ICRC Peshawar. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Johar.”

“Dawn! I tried to call you.”

“Really? What's up? I've been out a lot lately.” It must be very early there.

“My brother Daq is alive!”

“Seriously? That's awesome, Johar. Is he there with you? Have you guys talked or had time to plan? I mean, this is huge!”

“Yes, he is alive. But he is very sick.”

“What do you mean?” Dawn had called for Louise, but that must wait.

“He is acting strange, not himself. He is like skeleton and eyes are yellow. He want to take me to army. Americans drive the Taliban back. Kabul is finally free! Soon even Kandahar. But Daq want to stay fighting.”

The capital city was free—Dawn had heard it on the news. It meant Louise might return sooner rather than later. But Johar couldn't go back and fight now. “Join the army? I thought you didn't want that! What about your poetry, the school?”

“No want army. Is everything I hate—killing; death.”

“So don't go with him.”

“I try not.” Johar's voice was high-pitched, faint.

Dawn heard a woman in the background ask who was on the phone. Hastily she added, “Johar, you're strong and you're no coward. Remember that.”

“I try.”

“E-mail me with every detail, and be careful. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Was that Louise? Can I speak with her?”

“Yes, one moment.” The phone clacked as Johar put it down and then Louise's voice.

“Dawn. How are you?” Dawn had thought so much about Louise lately that it was weird to hear her voice. Maybe Louise wasn't feeling the same at all.

“I'm fine. I miss seeing you. How's the clinic?” Dawn felt suddenly unsure of herself.

“The clinic is quite challenging. It doesn't get any easier.” Louise paused. “I miss seeing you as well.”

Dawn had only asked her next question once and hadn't gotten a straight answer. “Did you ever learn why I was at Epiphany? Do you know anything about my birth mother?”

“They told me next to nothing,” said Louise quietly. “Why are you thinking about that now?”

“I guess it's just that this whole Trade Center attack made me think about family, about losing people. I mean, things are starting to bubble up. I've been remembering things.”

“Some family history is better left unexamined.” Louise's voice was hesitant. “But not always. What did you remember?”

“It was pretty vague. I was in the car with her, and I was scared and I smelled her perfume, rose talc. It made me feel sick, like I wanted to cry. I thought I would faint.”

“The past is the past, and they didn't tell me much,” said Louise. “It's hard for me to think about what happened to you before you came to live with us.”

“But I need to talk about it. It's like I'm stuck and I need to move on, get it out. If you want to be close to me, you would try to understand—”

“I'll try,” said Louise. “When I get back, I promise.” She sighed. “Trust me when I say that I don't know many facts. But if you think it's preventing us from having a better relationship…if it'll help to get the feelings out…”

“Thanks.” Dawn felt almost like a traitor, but that was silly. Talking honestly with Louise felt good. “Is Johar right there?”

“Not here in my office. Why?”

“I want to ask you something without him overhearing. What did you think of Johar's brother, Daq? Did he threaten you?”

“Johar mentioned that to you?” When Dawn didn't reply, Louise went on. “Daq didn't dare threaten me. I'm pretty tough, you know.” She laughed wryly. “He was furious at me for ordering Johar to do chores. He was furious about the war casualties. He was an angry guy in general. Truthfully, he seemed to be on drugs.”