The Tears of Dark Water (41 page)

In this case, the old man was prophetic. It wasn’t long before the spur became a sidetrack and intersected with the main road again. They fishtailed in a soft patch of dirt and closed to within a few car lengths of the lead truck. Megan exhaled audibly and put her iPhone in her pocket.

“See?” Omar said, the smile still etched on his face. “No problem.”

In time, Megan saw an assemblage of structures in the distance—a few administrative buildings and a vast array of tents and huts bordered by stick fences. They passed a signpost bearing the emblems of international aid organizations and approached a walled compound with razor wire. The guards at the gate refused to let the trucks in but beckoned Megan to follow them on foot.

“Call when finished,” Omar said. “We go home.”

A matronly Somali woman was waiting for her beyond the gate, a bottle of water in her hands. She was dressed in an emerald green
abaya
and a white headscarf that framed a cherubic face—wrinkled and fleshy around the edges, but still lovely despite her age.

“
As-salamu alaykum
,” Megan said, using the formal Islamic greeting.

“
Wa alaykumu s-salam
,” Khadija replied, beaming brightly. She handed Megan the water and spoke in clear, yet accented English. “You must be thirsty after the drive. I’m so sorry you had to come all this way to see me. It is a tense time.”

“I understand,” Megan replied, taking a swig of the cool water.

“Come,” Khadija said. “We can talk in my room.”

Megan followed her down a path to a dormitory-like building with a thatched roof and half a dozen doorways screened by fabric. Khadija doffed her sandals outside one of the doors and held back the screen, allowing Megan to enter. She sat on one of two beds and looked around. The room was simple but colorful with fabrics draped on the walls and a fan circulating air.

Khadija took a seat across from her, her eyes clouding with emotion. “I still can’t believe that Ismail is alive. Though what he has done . . . I can’t understand it. Is he well?”

Megan smiled softly. “I have a photo of him.” She took out her iPhone and found the picture she had taken of Ismail before his first court hearing, after greasing the wheels with the marshals to get the phone inside the lockup. The lighting wasn’t great, but Ismail cut a nice figure in his new suit.

She handed the phone to Khadija, and the woman began to cry quietly. After a while, she said, “He is my son, but he is different. His eyes are hard. There is much pain in him.”

“Will you tell me about him?” Megan asked tenderly. “The way he was before.”

Khadija blotted her eyes with a tissue. “Ismail is his father’s son—passionate, loyal, and stubborn. When he was growing up, he had no interest in childhood. He read all of Adan’s books by the age of fifteen. He memorized the Quran in Arabic. He was fiercely protective of his brother and sister. Once when he was twelve Yasmin was stung by a scorpion. Adan and I were at the market, and the children were home alone. He carried her to the hospital, running all the way. He saved her life.”

Somehow, none of this surprised Megan. “Farah told me what happened to Yusuf. But he didn’t know about Yasmin. Do you?”

Khadija’s eyes took on a faraway look. “The Shabaab treated girls differently from boys. Some were used to support the fighters, but most were given away in marriage. Yasmin was beautiful. I imagine one of the commanders claimed her.” She stared at her hands. “After they were taken, there were so many times I wanted to try to find them. But I couldn’t. It was too dangerous.”

Megan asked her next question delicately. “What would you have done if you
had
tried?”

Khadija hesitated. “I would have texted them. They all had mobile phones. Maybe the Shabaab took them, but maybe not.” She folded her hands, her lip quivering. “I don’t know what I would have done if they had replied. But at least . . . at least I would have known they were alive.”

Megan saw the lacuna immediately. “They never texted you?”

Khadija shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I gave my phone to Mahamoud, my husband’s brother. He told me I needed to disappear. He promised to destroy it.”

Megan made a mental note of this. “Did you stay in touch with Mahamoud?”

“Not after what happened to my husband.” Khadija frowned, as if searching for the right words. “Somali clans are like families. Before the war, we got along. We married across clan lines. We had friends from many clans. But the war has torn us apart. When I left Mogadishu, my father told me to cut all ties to Adan’s clan. He said his relatives would stay in touch with Mahamoud.”

Megan waited a moment before asking her next question. “Do you have any idea why Ismail would have gotten involved in piracy?”

Khadija answered with quiet conviction. “I have never known a boy more honorable than Ismail. There must be a reason. But what? I can’t imagine it.”

Megan softened her voice. “Do you know what could have driven him to kill?”

Khadija closed her eyes. “There is a saying of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, that all creatures are God’s children and the ones dearest to God are those who treat his children best. That was Ismail when I knew him. But the Ismail in your photo . . . I don’t know.” She opened her eyes again. “Farah told me about the boy he shot. How is he? I pray for him every day.”

Megan gave her a sanitized answer. “He’s improving. But it’s taking time.”

Khadija looked at her inquisitively. “Farah said you are representing Ismail in the courts for free. If he did this terrible thing, why are you helping him?”

Megan held her expression steady.
If I told you, you wouldn’t understand
. At once, she questioned herself.
She’s seen death. Perhaps she would.
Her mind flashed to the photograph she kept in her desk drawer at the office, the one she had taken of Kyle at his easel, working on a still life of roses—the wispy brown hair falling into his eyes, the dash of a smile, like a secret to be shared, the gaze that never lingered long, the product of a restless mind. She felt the sorrow again, like a wound that never stopped bleeding. She steeled herself against the pain and offered Khadija a partial truth.

“I want the public to hear the whole story, not just the part the government wants to share. I also happen to think that execution is immoral. It doesn’t cure the wrong; it compounds it. Ismail could make something of the rest of his life, even in prison.”

Khadija looked back at her, her eyes glistening in the light. “There is a verse in the Quran that talks about retribution. But it also contains a promise. If anyone remits the penalty by way of charity, it is an atonement for sin. I’m not sure that applies to you. But I would like to think it does.”

Megan reached out and touched her hand. “That’s kind of you to say. Before I left, Ismail gave me a message for you. He asked me to tell you that he’s sorry.”

Khadija shook her head slowly. “I will always love him. But if he owes me an apology, he will have to tell me himself.”

Vanessa

Annapolis, Maryland

March 2, 2012

The morning dawned as gloomy as the shadows in Vanessa’s heart. She went about her routine with the zeal of a convent novitiate, but her mind was crowded with distraction. The hot water in the shower woke her up but didn’t soothe her. Her cappuccino tasted bitter. Even the Bissolotti sounded discordant, though she played Rachmaninoff’s
Vocalise
and Paganini’s twentieth caprice without error. It was Quentin who was haunting her, filling her soul with a melancholy she couldn’t seem to break.

It had been twenty-two days since his discharge from NRH. She had spared no expense in preparing for his homecoming—framing photographs from his travels, putting fresh sheets on his bed, tuning the piano, buying him a new Sony PlayStation and a suite of the hottest video games. She had hoped that bringing him home would accelerate his recovery, but the effect had been just the opposite. Instead of liberating him, the house had trapped him in a mausoleum of memories, confronting him on all sides with reminders of his father’s death and his own disabilities.

The stairs he had once taken three at a time he couldn’t climb without holding the banister. The wood floor that he used to skate across on socks he had to cross in rubber-soled shoes to keep from slipping. The boats down at the dock were off-limits, as was the dock itself. The PlayStation and piano were like Kryptonite; he didn’t touch them and refused to tell her why. One of his therapists had explained it to her. He was afraid his fingers were inadequate to the task. In his mind, it was better not to try than to suffer the discouragement of proving himself right.

The depression overcame him within hours of stepping foot in the door. He retreated inward and shut out the world, sleeping until early afternoon, ignoring his therapy, sitting on the sun deck under blankets watching the river pass by, and ignoring Vanessa’s increasingly anxious attempts to engage him. She tried all the strategies that had worked in the hospital, but nothing seemed to help. Music irritated him, as did Daniel’s letters. Even Ariadne’s emails didn’t buoy his spirits. After three weeks, Vanessa was convinced she was losing him.

She put the violin back on its stand and ran her hand over the piano, recalling the sonatas they had practiced together on weekends and occasionally performed for family and friends.
Will he ever play again?
she thought. She caught herself and shook her head.
Don’t go there. You have to be strong for him
.

She ate a breakfast of eggs and toast and answered the door when she heard the knock. Curtis and Yvonne were standing on the porch. She ushered them inside. She was dreading the day ahead, the hours she would spend with Curtis driving to the courthouse while Yvonne looked after Quentin. She didn’t have the energy for conversation. In the aftermath of the shooting, relationships had become tedious. Everyone meant well, but no one understood. She didn’t need sympathy or flowers or meals or phone calls. She needed her son to come back to her.

“How is he, dear?” Yvonne asked, giving Vanessa a hug.

“He’s asleep,” she replied without elaborating.

Yvonne nodded. “Of course. Don’t worry yourself. We’ll be fine.”

Platitudes
, Vanessa thought.
How tiresome
. She put on a brave face and gathered her coat.

When she turned around, Curtis cleared his throat and met her eyes. “Yvonne had an idea. It’s a good one. I think you should listen to it.”

Everyone has an idea
, Vanessa thought, regarding him in annoyance.

Yvonne took a pensive breath. “That’s right. I’ve been thinking it might be helpful if he had a friend his age. I can only imagine how isolated he feels.”

Vanessa winced.
When he left on the voyage, his only friend was a drug peddler. And Hans nearly ruined his life.
She tried not to be patronizing. “Who do you suggest?”

Yvonne took a breath. “What if you flew Ariadne over? She’s finished with school now. Quentin told me they talked about it before . . . the incident.”

Vanessa was taken aback. “When did he tell you that?”

Yvonne traded a look with Curtis. “Just the other day, dear. When you were at work.”

Vanessa turned away and walked to the window in the living room, hiding the tears in her eyes. What had she done wrong? Why would her son talk to his grandmother and not to her? She balled her hands into fists. She didn’t realize that Yvonne had followed her until she spoke from a few feet away.

“You’re a wonderful mother, Vanessa. You’re doing everything you can for him. But you can’t save him. His therapist told me something the last time she was here. He needs a new North Star. He needs someone to build him a bridge into the future. You can walk with him there, but I don’t think you can show him the way.”

Vanessa hugged herself to ward off her despair. “What makes you think Ariadne can do it?”

Yvonne touched her arm softly. “I don’t know if she can. But isn’t it worth a try?”

The miles between Annapolis and Norfolk passed quickly beneath the wheels of Curtis’s Mercedes-Benz. Mercifully, Curtis filled the air with music instead of words. Vanessa watched the blur of scenery and tried not to think about Yvonne’s suggestion, tried not to think about anything but Mozart’s ebullient Violin Concerto No. 3. Whenever her mind drifted toward Quentin, she imagined herself playing the concerto, her bow dancing on the strings of the Bissolotti. In this manner, half an hour disappeared, and after it forty minutes with Brahms, an hour with Mendelssohn, and finally Beethoven, before Curtis turned off the stereo and allowed her to finish the trip in silence.

At a quarter to ten, they emerged from the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel and drove into downtown Norfolk. The courthouse stood on the corner of Brambleton Avenue and Granby Street, a monolith of stone beneath the granite sky. They parked in a nearby lot and used the side entrance, passing through security and taking the brass-and-wood elevator to the third floor. The courtroom was across a marble lobby and through swinging double doors robed in timeworn Virginia pigskin—trivia Curtis had shared on their first visit. They took seats in the back and waited for the judge to appear.