The Tears of Dark Water (66 page)

All of the goodness, however, couldn’t banish Yasmin’s sorrow over Ismail. She had come to the meeting in Norfolk certain that the charges against him were erroneous. Khadija had told her about Megan’s visit to Dadaab and the story she had passed on about the shooting. But Yasmin had denied it fiercely, sure that the Americans had made a mistake. She knew her brother. He wasn’t a criminal, let alone a killer. She had listened in shock as he confessed what he had done and the price he had to pay for his crimes. That evening at the Marriott, she spent two hours on a hotel computer reading about his case. What she learned broke her heart and left her with a question she had to answer: Why?

She hadn’t rested until she found the truth. She talked to Farah, followed the news from the trial, and contacted Mahamoud in Mogadishu against her mother’s wishes. No one admitted it to her directly, but she put the puzzle together and recognized her own face in the frame. The discovery horrified her and shackled her with guilt. Time had granted her no relief, only exacerbating her humiliation. The blood Ismail shed wasn’t on his hands alone. He had done it for her.

For weeks she had agonized about what to do, praying ceaselessly for wisdom, and then an idea came to her. She discussed the matter with Khadija, and her mother agreed. She waited until the trial was over, until the jury had delivered its verdict and recommended a sentence—life without parole. Then she contacted Paul Derrick and explained her desire. He made the request and passed along Vanessa’s number. She placed the call despite her trepidation, trusting the voice in her spirit.

When Vanessa answered, Yasmin introduced herself.

“Yes,” Vanessa said, “Paul told me about you.”

Yasmin took a breath and spoke what was in her heart. “I don’t know if you will agree, but my mother and I would be honored to meet you. There are some things we would like to tell you.”

Vanessa was quiet for a while, and Yasmin could only imagine what she was thinking. Then, mercifully, she opened the door. “Can you come to Annapolis? That would be easiest for us.”

“Of course,” Yasmin said. “We will come whenever you wish.”

She heard Vanessa flipping pages. “How about Saturday, September 15?”

“That will be fine,” Yasmin said and wrote down the address. “Thank you.”

She bought their airline tickets from a travel agent at Farah’s mall and flew with Khadija to Washington, D.C., hiring a taxi to take them to Annapolis. The cabbie—an Armenian immigrant who spoke only broken English—let them out beside the row of Tuscan pines.

“This is address,” he said, gesturing toward the mailbox.

“Are you sure?” Khadija asked, looking at the house in wonderment.

“Yes,” the driver replied testily, pointing at his GPS unit.

The Cape Cod was a palace in Yasmin’s eyes. There was nothing like it in all of Somalia.

She walked with her mother up the cobblestone drive and through the grape arbor to the porch, admiring the flowerbeds, the rich green lawn and verdant trees, and the sparkle of the river in the distance. She used the knocker to announce their arrival. She was dressed in a blousy sweater, blue jeans, sneakers, and a red and white headscarf. The infinite styles and immodesty of Western fashion had been her greatest challenge in transitioning to American life. While Khadija was content to wear the
abaya
and
hijab
, Yasmin had made an attempt to blend in without compromising her dignity.

In time, she heard the lock retract. Then the door opened and she saw Vanessa for the first time. She was lovely, with red-brown hair and the greenest eyes Yasmin had ever seen. Yasmin laughed out loud when a dog with golden fur approached her with its eyes wide and its tongue out.

“That’s Skipper,” Vanessa said kindly.

Yasmin knelt down and patted the dog’s head. “He’s beautiful.”

Vanessa held out her arm in invitation. “Please, come in.”

Yasmin followed her mother into the foyer, looking around in awe. The rooms were filled with handsome furniture, elegant mirrors and artwork, and expansive Oriental rugs. Vanessa led them across the living room and out the back door to the deck.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” she said, gesturing to a round table by the pool. “I made a pot of tea. It isn’t as sweet as
shah
, but I think you’ll like it.”

“You know Somali tea?” Khadija inquired in surprise.

Vanessa gave her a tentative smile. “I did some reading on the Internet. I realized how little I know about your country.”

When Vanessa left to get the tea, Yasmin sat down beside her mother and looked toward the river. She watched a sailboat float by, its mainsail luffing in the breeze. There was so much she wanted to express, but words seemed inadequate to the task. Nothing could restore what Vanessa had lost.

A minute later, Vanessa appeared with a tray and handed them steaming mugs. “It’s rooibos from South Africa. There’s sugar and cream as well.”

“
Mahabsenid
,” Khadija said. “Thank you.”

Yasmin waited for her mother to fix her tea and then stirred three cubes of sugar into her cup, along with a large dose of cream. She took a sip and her eyes lit up. “It’s delicious!”

“I’m glad,” Vanessa said, taking a sip from her own cup.

After an awkward silence, Khadija spoke up. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. It was Yasmin’s idea to meet with you. Sometimes God grants wisdom to the young.” She took a pensive breath. “I do not know what Ismail said at the trial, but I know what it is like to lose a husband. Not a day passes when I don’t think of Adan. I would do anything to bring him back. As a mother, I feel responsible for what Ismail did to your family. Yasmin, too, feels responsible. What he took from you, we can’t give back. There is nothing we can do for you except to ask your forgiveness and to offer you, if you will permit it, a glimpse of the boy we knew before the war stole him from us.”

Vanessa turned away, and Yasmin saw the pain shining in her eyes. It was a while before she looked back at them. “Please,” she said. “I’d like to hear your story.”

So Khadija told her about her firstborn son. She told her of the child who at the age of three had looked at the stars and asked where they came from, the boy who memorized the Quran in Arabic and English, the teenager who mastered the art of rhetoric, occasionally besting his father in debates, the young man who was loyal to a fault, utterly devoted to his family. Finally, Khadija told her about the charge she had given Ismail before Adan was murdered, the charge to protect Yasmin and Yusuf at all costs. Her hands began to shake as she spoke of the lengths he went to honor her request, to shield Yusuf from the carnage of the war and to find Yasmin after she disappeared.

“I never imagined . . .” she said, choking up. “I never imagined what would happen. I am so sorry for all you have suffered. We are sorry.”

By now, Yasmin’s face was wet with tears. She thought back to the day in Lanta Buro when Najiib had taken her out of the lineup and piled her into the Land Cruiser for the trip to Jamaad’s house. She remembered the scene she had glimpsed out the window—Ismail with a gun in his hands, a boy kneeling before him in the dirt, like Adan in the schoolyard. She had seen the gun jump, seen the boy crumple to the ground, seen her brother turn away and take Yusuf into his arms. She had known then that they would never be the same. Death had begotten death. All that remained was to survive.

Vanessa wiped her own eyes. “Will you walk with me? There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Yasmin stood with Khadija and followed Vanessa down the path to the river. She saw a young man in surf shorts and a black T-shirt and a blonde-haired girl about his age in cutoff jeans and white top polishing the deck of a sailboat. They scrambled to their feet and hopped over to the dock.

Vanessa introduced them. “This is Quentin. And this is Ariadne, his girlfriend. They were just getting the boat ready to take out on the bay.”

“Hello,” Quentin said, extending his hand in greeting.

“Pardon me,” Khadija said in embarrassment. “It is against my religion.”

Yasmin glanced at her mother and then disregarded decorum. “I will do it,” she said, reaching out and shaking his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Quentin.”

As Yasmin watched, Vanessa’s lips spread into a smile. It was an expression of warmth, an expression of welcome, an expression of absolution.

“Have you ever been sailing?” she asked them, gesturing toward the sailboat. “It’s going to be a lovely sunset.”

Megan

Washington, D.C.

October 19, 2012

Megan found her brother sitting on a bench at Lafayette Square not far from the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson. The White House stood in the background, a flag fluttering over it on a tall pole. It was a blustery Friday afternoon in mid-autumn, the sky as blue as the canvas of Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
and the trees in the park festooned with color. A gusty wind was blowing, sending leaves cartwheeling across the grass, but the temperature was still pleasant, the dry air carrying a hint of Indian summer.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Paul said with a grin, closing the book he was reading. “It’s a shame they keep you chained to a desk.”

Megan smiled back. The park was a five-minute walk from Mason & Wagner and her favorite respite in D.C. “I come here almost every day,” she retorted. “Just not for long.”

He stood and gave her a hug. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They took a leaf-strewn path out of the park and walked up Connecticut Avenue to the parking garage just past the Army and Navy Club, where Derrick had left his car. He gave the attendant his ticket and took the keys when the man returned with his Audi. He climbed into the driver’s seat and Megan slipped in beside him, feeling the growl of the engine as he accelerated into traffic.

“You should do consulting work,” she ribbed him. “Then you could buy a real sports car.”

He laughed and threw the Audi into a quick turn. “She’s not a Jaguar, but I like her just fine. How’s Ismail?” he asked, taking New York Avenue toward the E Street Expressway. “I wanted to make it to the sentencing, but I had a conference in San Diego.”

“He got what we expected,” Megan replied. “Twenty life sentences, eighteen consecutive. They’re never going to let him out. But I asked them to transfer him to a facility near the Twin Cities. The judge was sympathetic. She told him that in all her years on the bench, she’d never seen a case like his. She made quite a speech, actually. She told him he had a choice. He could wither in prison, or he could find a way to transcend the walls and leave the world a better place. He was moved. We all were. The judge is going to reconsider Mas’s plea bargain. But I don’t know if Barrington has the stomach for another capital trial. I told him it might be better to let it rest.”

Paul took the onramp to I-66 West. “I bet your partners are glad it’s over.”

Megan chuckled. “I have to tell you, when they heard about the State Department reward, they started salivating. They couldn’t believe we weren’t going to get a piece of it. They’re relieved to have me billing full time again.”

He glanced at her as they rounded the curve and took the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge across the Potomac. “Do you really charge your clients eight hundred dollars an hour? Who can afford that?”

“You’d be surprised. We have to turn them away.” She looked out at the river and smiled to herself. “How are Quentin and Vanessa?”

“They’re good,” he replied with affection. “I’ve gone sailing with them the last couple of weekends. Vanessa says he still isn’t quite the same. There are moments when he forgets a word or loses his balance. But they’re rare. He’s a great kid and a hell of a mariner.”

“And Vanessa?” she persisted. “How is she?”

He laughed under his breath. “We’re having fun. That’s all it is right now. We talk. We play music. We spend time on the water. But she seems to be enjoying it.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Megan said with feeling.

“I was worried about Quentin,” Paul confessed. “I thought he’d resent me. But I’ve never gotten that sense from him. He really seems to like having me around.”

Megan nodded. “You’re a bridge for him. He doesn’t have to explain himself.” She grinned. “I’m sure the piano has helped, too.”

“The piano makes everything better,” her brother said.

Megan watched the neighborhoods of Arlington and Falls Church fly by and braced herself for what they were about to do. She couldn’t deny it any longer. Paul was right. She had spent the last two and a half decades living in the black shadow of a single day. She blamed herself for Kyle’s death, for the choice he made, for not stopping him, even though she had tried with all her might. It was her father—the man whose name she hadn’t spoken since his funeral—who had turned her brother into a time bomb. She still hated him for it, hated the ground he walked on, hated the fact that her birth certificate bore his name and his genes lived on in her. In fact, if she were brutally honest, he was the reason she had never had children. She wanted to rid the earth of him.