The Broken Road (The Broken Series) (8 page)

An
hour later, we inched into the district, bumper to bumper with at least a
hundred other cars. “We’re almost there,” Habib said encouragingly. “We made
good time.”

I
closed my binder and eyed the sea of cars pressing in on us. I stared at Habib,
mystified as to how he could appear so unaffected by such a terrifying sight.

*
* * * * *

I
hit the ground running with the first interview and was quickly sucked into a
whirlwind of office tours, people, and promises about legislation I could work
on. I scheduled all five of my interviews back to back on the same day so I
could devote more time to finding an apartment. I hadn’t thought to budget
myself any time for lunch, so I ended up eating a squished up power bar that I
discovered in the bottom of my purse when I was walking between the Dirksen and
Russell buildings. I didn’t have time to process what I learned from the
interviews or how I felt about the people I met. My head was throbbing by the
time I crawled back into Habib’s cab.

As
soon as I returned to my hotel room, I peeled my sticky clothes off and took a
lukewarm shower. I slipped into a black camisole and a pair of pink cotton
shorts before popping some liquid Advil and sprawling out on top of the king
size bed.

When
the throbbing in my head subsided, I let my thoughts drift over the day’s
events. I liked both senators from Montana, but I was already familiar with
aging and health policy initiatives in Montana. If I chose a senator from
another state, I might be able to identify some new initiatives that would prove
useful in Montana.

I
was admittedly star struck by Senator Kennedy and even more so by Splash, the
rambunctious black dog who crashed our interview with a bright yellow tennis
ball tucked inside his mouth. But, as tempted as I was to work with Splash, I felt
drawn to Senator Rockefeller and his staff. Their passion for helping
vulnerable populations was nearly tangible. I couldn’t stop thinking about the
framed quote from Hubert Humphrey that I discovered in the senator’s office:

The
moral test of government is how it treats those who are in the dawn of life . .
. the children; those who are in the twilight of life . . . the elderly; and
those who are in the shadow of life . . . the sick . . . the needy . . . and
the disabled.
        

It
was the most compelling quote I’d ever read. Senator Rockefeller represented a
rural state, he held a powerful position on the Senate Finance Committee, he
was highly respected, and he was clearly committed to serving vulnerable
populations.
Yes
, I thought,
if I’m going to walk away from
everything I know and love, then Senator Rockefeller is the one I want to work
for
.

As I rolled the idea of working for
Senator Rockefeller over in my mind, an overwhelming sense of peace settled
over me. Suddenly, everything about my decision and the fellowship felt right.

*
* * * * *

Habib
picked me up at the hotel at nine o’clock the next morning. He dropped me off
at the first apartment complex and agreed to return for me in a half hour. I scribbled
my cell phone number across the back of my business card and handed it to him
as I stepped out of the cab so he could call me if he was tied up with another
customer.

The
staff in the lease office seemed completely put out by my request that I
actually
see
the apartment before signing the lease agreement. It didn’t
take long to figure out why. Although the apartment had been advertised as a
non-smoking unit, the place smelled like a vile mixture of mold and smoke. The
carpet was filthy, and the walls were so grimy I could see where all the
previous pictures had been hung. I quickly scratched that apartment off my
list.

Habib
returned for me as promised. After hearing my description of the first
apartment, he insisted on waiting for me while I inspected the second one. The
second apartment smelled marginally better than the first… more like old socks
and garlic. I found a dead cockroach in one of the cupboards, and the lease
officer insisted the rent was two hundred dollars more than they had quoted me
over the phone. Apparently, the cockroach cost extra.

Habib
must have sensed my growing concern, because he insisted on accompanying me for
the third apartment tour. The lease officer at the third apartment complex was
named Mickey. I asked for her specifically because she’d been so personable
when I called to schedule the appointment.

Mickey
offered to show us around the gated community before taking us to see the
apartment. We walked alongside a beautiful pool that was located just behind
the lease office. The pool was nestled under a cluster of magnolia trees, which
appeared to be in full bloom. The trees held the largest white flowers I’d ever
seen. 

We
toured a small gym that was tucked inside a glass-front building overlooking the
pool. Mickey led us through a number of walking trails, which were lined with
vibrant flowers, lush green bushes, and small patches of lawn. I could easily
picture myself walking Cade through the beautiful gardens.

After
we toured the common areas, Mickey walked us to a ground floor apartment that
was located a short distance from the pool. The apartment was quite small, but
it had a fresh coat of paint and brand new carpet.

I
followed Mickey into the kitchen. “This is a good-sized kitchen,” I noted
appreciatively.

She
motioned toward the appliances. “The apartment includes a gas stove, a full
size refrigerator, a dishwasher, microwave, and a garbage disposal.”

I
leaned against the breakfast bar and looked over the living room. The breakfast
bar was the only thing separating the kitchen from the living room. There
wasn’t room for a dining table, and the living room was quite small.

Mickey
opened the door to the hall closet.

I
followed her into the hallway, glanced inside the closet, and smiled. “A washer
and dryer.”

“This
is nice,” Habib remarked as he wandered into the kitchen.

A
confused look flitted across Mickey’s face. “Will you be renting the apartment
together?”

I
chuckled softly. “No. Habib’s a friend of mine. He’s just here for moral
support.” I paused as I peeked inside the bathroom. “I really like this place,
but I’m concerned about living in a ground floor apartment. Do you have any second
or third floor apartments available?”

Mickey
flipped through a couple of pages on her clipboard.

I
wandered into the bedroom, which was located directly across the hall from the
bathroom. The sliding glass doors in the bedroom led to the same patio as the
sliding glass doors in the living room. Both sets of sliding glass doors
overlooked a narrow street that ran between the apartment buildings. There
would be no privacy when the blinds were open.

Mickey
joined me in the bedroom. “No. I'm sorry. This is the only one bedroom
apartment we currently have available. I have a two bedroom apartment located on
the second floor of one of our larger five-story buildings. The two bedroom
apartments start at fourteen hundred dollars a month.”

I
popped my head out of the closet. “I'm afraid that’s a bit outside my price
range. Besides, I like how these garden-style apartments have their own
entrances.” I folded my arms over my chest as I studied the bedroom. The
walk-in closet was huge, but the bedroom was very small.

Mickey
and I found Habib leaning against the breakfast bar. He was typing something
into his phone. His eyes met mine as he shoved the phone into his pocket. “I
think you will be safe here. The apartment has a security alarm, and your sliding
glass doors face a high traffic area.”

I
hadn’t really considered the high traffic area a boon, but Habib had a point. No
one was going to break into an apartment where he was so likely to be seen.

Habib
and I followed Mickey back to the main office. I felt conflicted about the
apartment. I wasn’t crazy about living in a ground floor apartment, but the place
was clean, it had all of the amenities I was looking for, they allowed dogs,
and the rent was reasonable. I didn’t want to delay my decision too long and
risk losing the only decent apartment I’d seen. So I thanked Mickey for her
time, and I told her I would let her know my decision within the next
twenty-four hours.

Habib
studied me as we approached his cab. “You haven’t eaten, Kristine. Let’s take a
break and go to lunch.”

My
eyes widened when I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t believe it was already two
o’clock. My stomach growled its consent as I slid into the passenger seat.
“Sure, Habib. Where do you want to eat?”

Habib
smiled as he backed the car out of the parking lot. His teeth practically
glowed against his tan skin. “I know a good Afghan restaurant not far from
here. My sister, Diwa, works there.”

My
eyes met Habib’s. “I’ve never eaten Afghan food before. I’d love to try it, but
I may need some help ordering.”

Habib
chuckled as he eased into traffic. “I’ll make sure you sample all the best
dishes.”

I
leaned back against the head rest and closed my eyes while Habib drove. I suddenly
felt completely exhausted.

Habib
pulled into a parking lot next to a white stucco building with a red shingled
roof. The front of the restaurant boasted a long wooden deck, which had been
painted red to match the roof. A number of arches framed a walkway alongside
the building. Red neon signs hung in the windows.

The
restaurant staff greeted Habib like he was family, and they treated me like an honored
guest. Habib’s sister, Diwa, was breathtaking. She had the lightest green eyes
I’d ever seen. Her dark hair peeked out from under a delicate lavender scarf. I
was thrilled when she sat down and joined us for lunch.

The
waiter brought a steady stream of food to the table from the moment we arrived.
Habib recommended I start with some dumplings that were served with a meat
sauce, spicy yogurt, and mint leaves. The dumplings were divine.

I
would have been perfectly content eating the dumplings, but Diwa encouraged me
to try a pastry stuffed with potatoes and herbs. This, too, was served with a
yogurt sauce. The appetizers were followed by lamb kabobs and a dish Habib
referred to as Kadu Chalua, which I thought tasted a lot like pumpkin. Both
dishes were served with white rice. Another meat dish was loaded with carrots
and raisins. The food was unlike anything I’d ever eaten, but I loved how the
coriander, cardamom, cilantro, and mint played out on my tongue.

Habib
and Diwa told stories about growing up in Afghanistan. I could tell the two of
them were very close. They spoke fondly of their family and their childhood,
but their stories were based on the simplest pleasures. It wasn’t difficult to
imagine the hardships they’d faced as children.

I
was curious about how they’d come to live in Virginia, but I was hesitant to
pry. So I waited to ask until the meal was over. Habib was drinking coffee. Diwa
and I were drinking a cardamom laced tea. I cleared my throat, then directed my
question to Habib. “What brought you to Virginia?”

A
dark cloud passed through Habib’s eyes as he responded. “My father helped the U.S.
government in Afghanistan back in 2001 and 2002. The Taliban issued death
threats against my family when they learned my father was working with
Americans. The U.S. government offered my family special immigrant visas when
our lives were threatened and it was no longer safe for us to remain in
Afghanistan. Both of my parents, Diwa, my brother, and I moved here together. The
special visas did not extend to my aunts, uncles, or cousins, so we still have
family living in Afghanistan.”

I
pressed my hand against my chest as tears welled in my eyes. “I’m so sorry you
had to move because your lives were threatened. I can’t imagine how frightening
that must have been.”

Diwa
fidgeted with her scarf. “It is not uncommon for Afghans to be killed for
trying to make their country a better place.”

I
set my tea cup down. My eyes sought Habib’s. “I hope you’re happy here. I hope
people in the United States have treated you well.”

“Some
better than others,” Habib admitted frankly. He looked thoughtful as he sipped
his coffee. “It is not easy being Muslim here.”

I
thought about the hate crimes that followed the September 11
^th
terrorist attacks. “No,” I admitted sadly. “I imagine it is not easy being
Muslim here.”

“Did
you know a Christian woman can marry a Muslim man?” Habib asked rather unexpectedly.

My
eyes narrowed. I thought it a very curious remark, since I had presumed a
Christian woman could marry whomever she wanted. I turned the statement in my
head before responding. “Can a Christian man marry a Muslim woman?”

Diwa
shook her head. “No. In Muslim culture, the man is considered the head of the
house, and the head of the house must be Muslim. So a Christian man must
convert to Islam to marry a Muslim woman.”

The
double standard didn’t sit well with me, but I held my tongue. A few minutes
later, I excused myself to use the restroom so I could pay for lunch without
debate. I figured it was the least I could do. Habib was undoubtedly losing cab
fare by accompanying me to my appointments.