Refugees (28 page)

“Hey, you're talking to the queen of idealism here. And who could complain about another healer in the family? But when I come for you in New York and we go home to California, you'll need to make up all the school that you missed. You'll also be grounded for a couple of months. Running away is no small thing.”

“Ground me?” Dawn couldn't remember Louise ever punishing her.

“Dawn, I've been thinking about your idea to bring Johar to the States.”

Dawn felt a wave of apprehension, recalling Johar's anger, but she was nervous about spoiling the mood. “Yeah?”

“What if we bring Johar and his cousin to San Francisco to live with us, to be a family? I want us to be a real family; I've been thinking a lot about that.” Louise paused. “I asked Johar about it and he didn't say much, but you two seem to have formed quite a bond. We have the room, and at least Johar knows enough English to go to school.”

How could Dawn tell her how wrong this was without hurting her feelings? How could she say it in nice words? “It's an awesome idea, Louise, but—” She broke off.

“I thought you'd be thrilled.”

“Well, actually I suggested it to him myself, but that's not what he wants. He wants to return to Baghlan and start a school.”

“But he's only fifteen. Didn't he say that caring for Bija was too difficult?”

“He gets overwhelmed sometimes, but he sees Bija as his responsibility. With his parents and Maryam gone, and Daq off as a soldier, Johar is the head of the family. He told me that in Afghanistan at fifteen, even at fourteen, a boy is considered a man,” Dawn explained. “Johar wants to stay and take care of things. He thinks that running off to another country would be like running away from his problems.”

“Well, what about a visit to the States, at least until Afghanistan is stabilized?”

“He doesn't want to leave at all, even for a visit,” Dawn replied. “To Johar that would be cowardly.”

“He told you all this?”

“Yes. I guess he was afraid to tell you. He doesn't want to seem ungrateful.” Dawn paused, then said, “I've got a great idea.”

“What is it?” asked Louise.

“Do you promise to keep an open mind about it—to really, really consider it?”

“Maybe.” She paused. “What is it?”

Dawn took a deep breath and began. “My roommate, Susie is a reporter. She writes features on cultural and political issues. She recently interviewed Muslims who worship at this controversial London mosque. And she's been angling for an unusual assignment on how Muslims interact with westerners. She's come up with a story idea.”

“What's that?”

“Interviewing the ICRC doctors and their patients in Peshawar!” Before Louise could react, Dawn plowed forward. “If she interviewed you guys, I could fly over with her. She travels with translators and security people and the whole nine yards, so it would be relatively safe. She'd do her interviews, and when she was done, we would all travel
north to Baghlan to help Johar clear his compound and start his school. And the best thing, Louise, is that you and I and Johar and Bija could all work together. It'd be like a family—this weird, crazy family. We'd have such a
blast
!”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Louise shouted “You are incorrigible!” She began to howl with laughter. It kind of shocked Dawn. She'd never heard Louise laugh like that. Ever!

Sander borrowed a car and drove Susie and Dawn to the airport. He helped them haul bags and escorted them to security. He pecked Dawn on the cheek, and kissed Susie too. Sander had probably kissed every girl in Manhattan on the cheek. That's how it felt to Dawn, at least. But hey,
Sander had taught her how to stand up and jam. More than anything, he was the guy to call when it came time for landing professional gigs. They sat and gulped caffeine and talked about the madness of the last few months. Then, while Susie and Sander scurried off for newspapers, Dawn wrote Jude a postcard.

Dawn gazed at the people streaming by. Probably many were New Yorkers braving flights for the first time since 9/11. So much had changed in Manhattan. Ground zero's fire was finally extinguished. The mountains of metal debris had finally been cleared, transported on barges to other resting places. An observation deck had been built so that people could pay their respects. Weeks of anthrax scares seemed to have passed but some rescue workers had fallen ill with lung ailments from working in the toxic air.

Many downtown businesses had gone bankrupt, and landlords were still spending a fortune to repair damaged buildings, yet most people had settled into holiday shopping. Plans for a memorial were batted about. Tourists ventured warily back.

Dawn's thoughts were pleasantly interrupted when Sander and Susie returned with armfuls of snacks, magazines, and newspapers.

It was hard to leave Sander as she and Susie rode down the escalator. He'd taught her so much and protected her. Dawn looked back once, and he was waving, blond mane encircling his face.

They were over the Atlantic, almost to England. It was night, and the sky outside the plane was black and impenetrable. Most of the passengers were out cold, their snores rumbling down the aisles. Only a few business types on laptops and a guy playing a video game were still awake with Dawn and Susie. Susie elbowed Dawn. She pulled out two gorgeous blue scarves from her oversized shoulder bag. “Pashmina wool,” she explained. “Normally they cost a fortune, but I got them as a present from someone in London. It's to show our respect in a Muslim country. Try one on.”

“Thanks, Susie!” Dawn tried to arrange hers like a veil. It wasn't quite working.

“Wind it like this.” Susie demonstrated. “This journalist for the London
Times
who's been to India and Iran and everyplace showed me how. So, what does he look like?” she added slyly.

“Who?” Dawn asked.

“Who? Who do you think?”

“I don't have a photo of Johar,” Dawn replied, shifting for the umpteenth time in her cramped seat. They had been on this plane for an eternity, and her nerves jangled every time she pictured facing Johar and Louise in the flesh.

“I can't believe you have no idea what he looks like,” Susie said. “What does he sound like? You can tell a lot from the voice.” Susie had already asked versions of this question a million times. Still, it was an endless source of entertainment for both of them.

“Well,” Dawn mused, “it's soft, but not in a feminine way. It's a rich tenor, if you think of it in terms of where he'd be placed in a choir.” Dawn felt herself blush.

“Ah, the sensitive type. He sounds adorable,” Susie gushed.

“Susie! You're embarrassing me.” Dawn covered her head with the skimpy fleece blanket the flight attendant had handed out.

Susie jiggled Dawn's arm. “So, what did you guys talk about most?” she asked, also for the umpteenth time.

“Johar recites poetry,” Dawn remarked, peeking out from under the blanket. “He's turned me on to some incredible poems.” Dawn's cheeks were still hot.

“You've got it bad,” Susie said.

“He's a friend,” Dawn protested.

“You've got it really bad,” Susie repeated, shaking her head.

The flight attendant began to roll down the aisle with the food cart, and when Susie ducked out for a pit stop, Dawn's gaze fell on a father, a mother and their two sons, two rows up. She'd studied them whenever she could. She watched how the little boy clasped his mother's neck with his chubby arms. She saw him lean his mop of curls on his mother's shoulder. Dawn noticed the older boy gazing up at his father as his father explained a book they pored over together. The family leaned toward one another, as if gaining sustenance from the huddle. Dawn wanted that. She wanted that a lot.

Susie hurried back just as the flight attendant came by with the food tray. He served rice and lamb kebabs. Dawn savored the spicy concoction. Johar had said this was what people ate in Afghanistan! Her back prickled with excitement. She could taste how close they were.

J
ohar bristled with anticipation as he stood by the arrival gate in Peshawar's airport. He hardly felt the jostling crowd or heard their loud chatter. Dr. Garland stood by his side; they both waited for the same girl. Johar wondered if this was against the laws of sharia. The sharia allowed human communication, spiritual love beyond desire. He'd gone over this problem of logic hundreds of times, each time piecing together a different justification. But he refused to feel shame.
It's just dawn music
. Under his breath, he composed poetry: “I am building a novel world in which to walk. This is no fantasy, but fact. My universe has many voices born from one cradle, one altar, and buried in one
grave. The voices sing the music of all tribes. I welcome you to join me.”

A steady stream of passengers flowed toward the gate.

“People are coming out!” Bija squealed in Dari, jumping up and down.