Refugees (25 page)

“Daq wants Johar to come north to join the army. Don't let him do that, OK?”

“The war is almost over,” Louise said sensibly. “Coalition forces took Kabul. Now they're headed to Kandahar. It's only a matter of days until the Taliban surrender. Then it'll be months of skirmishes here and there, but the major fighting is over.”

“Well, his brother doesn't think so.”

“He's deluded,” Louise insisted.

“Either way, I'm scared for Johar. What if you take him back to the States? He needs a family. All his relatives are gone. He said it was hard to care for Bija on his own. And now, with his brother so agitated—”

“But his brother is his family too,” Louise pointed out, “and it would be very difficult to get an Afghani through U.S. immigration since the attack.” She paused. “It's a nice idea to bring Johar back. Maybe it
would
be good for him and his cousin to have a break from the suffering. We don't understand the scope of it in the States. We've been protected, cut off…”

Except at ground zero,
Dawn wanted to say. She felt an irresistible urge to confess, to share her trials and her new insights. She wanted to tell Louise about the trip east, about the excitement of her first night in New York. She wanted to describe the terrible September day, her terror, and the heavy aura of pain that had enveloped the city. But most of all, Dawn wanted Louise to understand how those days of playing flute music for victims' families had transformed her into a person who was finally connecting with the world—like a blind girl learning Braille. It was impossible to hold it in anymore. The rush of feelings began to breach her self-restraint. “Louise?”

“Yes, dear?”

Should she tell? Louise seemed more open. It was time she knew who Dawn had become. “I have to make a confession. I'm in New York. I'm doing something deep and wonderful. I'm playing flute for victims' families. I'm learning so much!” There—she'd said it, but Louise's silence was palpable.

Even before words came, the phone crackled with tension. “
What?
Are you all right? How long have you been there? Do you know how dangerous it is in New York right now?”

“I promise you, I'm fine.” Dawn's confidence faltered. “What about you? It's way more dangerous over there. Don't you think I've worried about you?”

“Yes,” Louise said wearily. “But… but it's different, Dawn. I know what I'm doing. This is crazy. What possessed you to run away, and where is Victor in all this? Why didn't he tell me? I haven't been able to get through to him for days.”

“He knows I left,” Dawn replied, and heard Louise's
sharp intake of breath. “Truthfully? He doesn't care. I have no clue where he is. And he doesn't know where I am either. He hasn't answered my calls for a while now.” A breathy silence weighted the space between them.

“So he's been lying to me.”

Dawn's tone softened. “I don't know what he's told you, but yeah. I'm sorry, Louise.”

Louise's voice regained its urgency. “What part of the city are you staying in? You're not staying anywhere near ground zero, are you?”

“No, I'm in a safe place. A friend of a friend's.

” “Good. But you're going down there to play your flute for people?” asked Louise.

“Yes. It's weird, but I've never been so happy. I've just never felt like I've done something this important.”

“What's your friend's address, dear?” Louise's voice grew shrill.

“I can't tell you yet.” Dawn said, “but I'll stay in touch.” She hesitated for a moment, and then the words came flooding out. “If it weren't for you going away all the time, I wouldn't have come here. I was mad at first, but it's not about that now. I'm using my talent for something good— helping people. I'm growing up. I know you care about me, but please don't stop this.”

“I'm not trying to stop you from growing up.” Louise was yelling now. “But I'll have to curtail my work here to find you in Manhattan. I can't have you running around on your own. It will make things easier if you tell me. Now!”

Dawn was too spent to fight. She imagined a protective layer surrounding her, like snow, to drown out the shouts. “Louise, I'll be in touch. Promise.” She hung up and sat on the bed, shivering.
So maybe she does care. Maybe she believes in
what I'm doing,
thought Dawn.
But she doesn't want me here alone. She doesn't trust that I'm safe. She got too mad. I couldn't explain. And Johar might leave.
She hadn't convinced Louise to help him before she hung up.

Dawn fell back on Susie's bed. She decided to try meditating, as Johar had suggested in his e-mail. As she slowed her breathing, her muscles loosened and she began to feel sleepy and calm, yet her mind was aware. For a moment she imagined Johar reciting poetry, but she couldn't hear the words. His soft voice gave her courage. Dawn let her head sink deeper into the pillow. She thought,
I'm almost unstuck,
and took a long breath in. As she breathed out, ever so slowly, a thought formed, delicate yet as pointed as snowflake tips:
I may not want to meet my birth mother. Ever.

D
awn's emotions bubbled near the surface. Tears pricked her eyes at the sight of homeless people, and she went all jellylegged when she bumped into Sander on St. Marks. She told him about playing for victims' families. “You're brave,” he said, and offered to come down and play with her. He encouraged her to try jamming with his band again. Instead of panicking, she chatted eagerly and even said a proper goodbye.

She had contacted Jude and asked him to check the house on Santa Marisa. He'd rung the bell at all hours, but no Victor. Finally he'd let himself in with Dawn's hidden key and tripped over a pile of mail. In the bedroom, Jude had discovered Victor's note.

He's gone,
Dawn thought. Inside her, it opened up huge spaces.

These wobbly new feelings were good, but when they got intense she sometimes pined for her old reflexes—ones that could shut her emotions down as automatically as her knee jumped when the doctor tapped it with his little hammer.

Meanwhile, she e-mailed back and forth with Louise.

Temperatures had been dropping steadily, but Dawn still went to the site almost every day. One overcast morning she wore a new red sweater and hat she'd gotten on sale.

“You look so lovely in that red sweater. Like such a proper little lady,” Vera said as she approached the concrete stairs. “Do you know any Telemann? My daughter used to play that so nicely.” Vera held the clump of
Kleenex, already dabbing at her mascara, and she reeked of the rose talc.

Telemann was brilliant—ordered yet fierce. Dawn began to play, stewing with precarious emotions—fear, doubt and sudden bursts of elation. Images flashed in and out like strobes: Louise in her office, an image of her birth mother staring into the distance. Without warning, Dawn's impressions swelled and sharpened. For the first time ever, the still portrait of her birth mother shifted. They were in a car. Her mother's chilly stare led Dawn to lower her eyes to the hands with their red nails clutching the steering wheel.

“When you're ready,”
whispered Johar in her mind.

Vera gazed toward her and said, “Such a proper little lady.”

Memories sizzled, loosened. She drew out a high G on her flute.

Mama's got things to take care of,
said the voice.

I'll listen to you, just to end this thing,
thought Dawn. The shutters of her chest broke apart, and two voices emerged— Dawn's, so young, and her lost mother's.

“We're going to a place where you'll stay for a while,” Mama says.

“Why, Mama, aren't you coming?” I ask, alarmed.

“No, Mama's got things to take care of.” Mama always has things to take care of.

“Can't you take me with you? I'll be good. I won't fuss.” Mama hates it when I fuss. The punishment is Mama not speaking for long times after fussing.

“No, Dawn, I can't take you.” Her jaw is hard and tight. She won't look at me, but stares straight ahead at the road.

I grab on to her coat. It smells like roses. “Mama, why?” Is punishment time starting? I cry in chokes, tugging at her scratchy coat.

She pries my hands open and smoothes down her coat. The only sound after that is of my crying and the
click-clack
of the wipers pushing snow off the windshield.

The notes of Dawn's flute soared.

We drive to a house with two porch lights and a sign in between the lights. Mama jerks the car to a halt. She opens my door and yanks me out so hard, my hands have red marks. My legs sink in tall drifts and the cold flakes burn my eyes like pepper.

As I rub them, my coat falls open, showing the new red dress Mama bought me for this trip. “Something to help you look like a proper young lady,” she'd said. I was so proud of my dress that every day before this trip I had opened my closet door to make sure it was still there. Now that I'm a big girl, almost five years old, I thought Mama would be taking me somewhere very special—maybe to the movies or to the ballet, but this is scary.

“I don't want to stay here, Mama,” I cry, refusing to take steps.

She doesn't answer, but drags me toward the house. My boots scratch trails in the snow. “Sometimes we must do things we don't want to do.” She presses the bell.

“I'll be a good girl. Promise. I know I've been a bad girl,” I shout.

“Stop it right this instant,” she scolds.

The door swings open. A lady with gray hair in a bun leans her big body forward, and waves for us to enter. It smells like pine soap and there is old furniture. A clock ticks.

“My name is Mrs. Donovan. Take your coats off and let's get started.” The lady points to a coat rack. I'm afraid to look at her. I run to Mama's coat and bury my face in its rose smell. She pries my fingers off again, as if they have mud on them.

Vera's voice rippled up. “Go ahead and cry.” Her hands enveloped Dawn's, but not spidery like before, just holding. The flute waited patiently on the concrete while
Dawn's tears mixed with Vera's—spilling and sloppy and such a relief. “It must be difficult to come here, day after day. Cry now,” Vera crooned, and held Dawn, shivering in her red sweater.

Dawn didn't care that people stared. Raindrops began to patter. She pictured the snow, the ice daggers under the curve of Epiphany's eaves. Sun glinted through them, increasing their beauty—an icy beauty like her mother's. Dawn realized her face had frozen too. She had become an ice queen. It had been all she had left of her mother. It had protected her.

“Child, are you all right?” Vera asked, worry in her porcelain-blue eyes.

“Bad and good.”

“Kleenex?” Vera asked, holding out a dry bunch.

“Thanks.” Dawn took them and blew her nose. She opened her mouth, loosened the muscles in her jaw, then picked up her flute and stroked the raindrops off.

“Y
ou've got mail!” piped the computer voice. Johar sat at Nils's desk and fumed over what he'd heard Dr. Garland say to Dawn on the phone the other day. And later in the clinic, the way Dr. Garland had seemed to hint that he should go to America. He knew they meant well, but how dare they make plans for him without asking? He and his cousin weren't stick dolls to be tossed around—they didn't need rescuing. Even an exciting trip could be terribly wrong if the timing was bad. Maybe he wouldn't read Dawn's message. He had to think about things. In his desperation for a friend maybe he'd opened up too fast. Curiosity overcame him, though. Johar clicked on the e-mail.

Johar was shaken. Dawn seemed different—more confident. Some of his irritation seeped away. He called her, but she wasn't there. He logged on and clicked Write Mail.

“Hi, Johar?”

“Yes. Hello, Dawn. How are you? I read your e-mail.”

“You did? I'm sorry to lay all that on you. I'm still shaken. But everything's much clearer.”

“Did you have more bad memories?”

“No. Maybe I will later. But the search for her is over. That much is clear. I just want to put it behind me.”

“Yes. Maybe you can do that now.”

“Yeah. So, what did you want to ask me? Are you still worried about Daq? Did he come back?”

“No. It's not Daq.” Her voice made Johar both glad and angry. “It's about your last phone conversation with Dr. Garland.”

“She told you about it?”

“Did you tell Dr. Garland that she should bring me back to the States?”