Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (17 page)

“But why didn't anyone tell me?” Sunny slammed her cup down angrily on the kitchen table.

“Whoa there, lady. Calm yourself. I told you, everyone is okay.” Candace held out her own empty cup for a refill, as if this were a restaurant. She had been there less than an hour and already she was pissing Sunny off.

The knock on the door had taken Sunny by complete surprise. Layla and Kat were out, seeming—at least for the moment—to be getting along well enough to head into town together in search of donuts. And she supposed Sky was in the vineyard with Joe. There stood Candace with her flowing blond hair, now a shade less brassy than before, and her tight pre-distressed jeans. Sunny had been thrilled to see her old friend but could tell right away, just from the way she held their hug for a little too long, that something was wrong.

The news of the attack had stunned her. It felt as though her entire world had been turned upside down and shaken like
a snow globe. Her legs seemed to melt beneath her, her head began to swirl, and Candace had to pull up a chair for fear she'd topple over. It couldn't be possible that something this horrific had happened at the coffeehouse. But, of course, it was. And now nothing would ever be the same.

Shortly after, over coffee, the shock had turned to anger, with the unfortunate Candace serving as her punching bag. “But still, why did they call you, and not me?” Sunny regretted the whiny words the minute they left her mouth.

“Please, Sunny. Your internet was probably out, as usual, and you know how bad your cell service is. And besides, they didn't call me.
I
called
them
, the minute I heard about the attack. I was lucky enough to reach Yaz at the hospital. And I busted my ass to get up here from LA as quickly as I did, thank you very much, before you and Layla had the chance to hear about it anywhere else.”

“Wait, Yaz is in the hospital? I thought you said everyone was okay.”

“They are okay. She's there with the girl that was injured. But she and the baby are fine.”

“Thank God Najama wasn't hurt.”

“Not Najama. I was talking about the other one. It can't be long now. Just a few months, right?”

Another thing Candace knew before she did. Sunny was all too aware, from the last time Yazmina was pregnant, how Afghan women hid their condition from the outside world as long as possible. But still, she wasn't exactly the outside world, at least not in her opinion. She wondered if Layla knew.

“Anyway, this girl?” Candace continued, glossing over Sunny's hurt and surprise. “She claims to know who was behind the attack. She seems to think she was the cause.”

“Are you shitting me? All this was over a girl?”

“So she says. And from the sound of things, I do think it's possible. This girl is terrified, thinks her whole family is in danger. For now I've called in some favors. We've got people guarding her room day and night.”

Sunny knew that, with Candace's connections, everything that could be done was being done. She wasn't the ex-wife of a US ambassador for nothing. But still. “Please tell me they're going to be okay.”

“The family is fine, Sunny. Bashir Hadi's wounds are relatively minor. I don't know about the girl, though. She doesn't seem to have much of a will to live.”

“This was really all about her? It just doesn't make any sense.” Sunny rubbed her face with her hands.

“Yeah, I know. I also know how these things go down. Apparently the girl's family had agreed, sort of, to a marriage with him. But it turns out he's one of the bad guys, a real bully, and one with connections to a whole lot of power. Now the family feels terrible, with all that's happened. They know there's no way they can let their daughter marry him now, but they're also smart enough to know that the minute that girl comes out of that hospital, her life is over, one way or another. They're worried she'll jump off a bridge with rocks in her pockets or something equally as horrible. You've heard it all before.”

Sunny's anger loomed even larger. The number of lives lost, the number of innocent people scarred and ruined by this way of thinking, was something she'd never understand as long as she lived. “So now what?”

“Not sure. All I know is that if she does make it, she's right about all of them being in danger. That is definite. Guys like him will never let a thing like this go. It won't be over until it's over.”

Sunny knew Candace was right, and her worry for her friends made her insides start to churn like a boiling stew. “So why hasn't Yaz called me?”

“Give her a chance, Sunny. This all just happened. Besides, you remember how Afghans feel about sharing bad news. And I know she was worried about how Layla would take it. I suggested it might be better for me to tell her in person, so that you can blame me for. We'll talk to her together when she gets back, okay?”

Sunny let her head drop into her hands, and silently wished she could turn back the clock to yesterday.

“Remember, Sunny, their lives are going to be crazy for a while. Yaz says she'll be spending time at the hospital with the girl, and Ahmet will be dealing with the cleanup, the police investigation, helping Bashir Hadi and his family while he heals, a whole mess of things. Not to mention that they'll have to figure out what's next.”

Sunny lifted her head and looked at her friend. “What do you mean figure out what's next?”

“The coffeehouse, Sunny. It's over.”

“Oh, please. Don't be ridiculous, Candace. It can't be over. All they have to do is clean it up, slap on some paint, hire some new guards. I'll go help! I can make this happen.”

Candace took Sunny's two hands in her own. “You just don't get it, do you? The game has changed over there. To run a business like that, one that's dependent on foreigners, it's just too risky. Everyone is a target, Sunny. It may have been a lone wolf attack this time, but it won't be the next. And really, if you were Yaz or Ahmet or Halajan, would you want to spend your days haunted by the memories of that day? Imagine.”

“But, my coffeehouse …”

“It's over, Sunny. The coffeehouse is over. And it wasn't even yours anymore.”

Sunny winced at the sting of Candace's words. “But Layla's going to want to go home. I know it. I'll have to take her. I'll check for flights—”

“Just stop, Sunny. Layla will be fine. She's stronger than you think. You know what that girl has been through already in her life. The best place for Layla right now is here with you.”

And me, Sunny thought. Where is the best place for me?

 

Candace decided to remain with them on the island for the rest of the week. As she had predicted, Layla reacted to the news of the attack with remarkable strength. There were tears all around, but as soon as she was assured that her family was safe and that Bashir Hadi was going to be fine, and that a Skype session with her sister was scheduled for later that evening, internet gods permitting, she seemed to calm down a little.

Sunny worried that perhaps the girl hadn't fully processed what she'd been told—which had not included all the horrifying details Sunny had heard—but Candace disagreed. “You remember what it's like over there. Things happen, and life goes on. These people are strong.” And Sunny did remember. But personally, she didn't think she could find it in herself to feel that way. At least not yet.

Candace kept her busy during the rest of her visit. There were long walks on the beach and even longer lunches in town, visits to galleries and farmers' markets, and, Candace being Candace, lots of shopping. Sunny tried her best to enjoy their time together—she had almost forgotten what it felt like to have a girlfriend to hang out with. And Candace had changed,
seeming to have lost that feeling of entitlement she used to carry around with her like a treasured Chanel bag. But just when Sunny would start to lose herself in gossip and conversation, visions of the devastation in the coffeehouse courtyard would come flooding into her brain, filling her head with feelings of guilt and uselessness that derailed any attempt at diversion. And it didn't help that Candace was constantly on her phone, pulling all those distant strings that were needed to put a plan in place to help the injured girl in Kabul.

“Trust me, you're doing a lot of good yourself, Sunny,” Candace assured her early one morning as they strolled barefoot along the deserted shoreline. “Knowing that Layla is safe and happy over here must be a huge relief for Yazmina right now.”

Sunny tossed a piece of driftwood across the water for Bear. “I guess. She does seem to be feeling more and more at home, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Candace answered, her latent southern accent drawing out the two syllables into one long note.

“And what's that supposed to mean?” Sunny stopped and watched as the dog paddled back with the stick clenched in his jaws.

“Please, don't tell me you haven't noticed how she looks at that boy.”

“You mean Sky? No way!”

“Jeez, Sunny. Has it been so long for you that you don't even recognize a crush when you see one?”

“Ouch.”

“Seriously, she's like a colt itching to escape the barn.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you're just reading your own cougar desires into this.”

Candace swatted at Sunny with the jeweled sandal in her hand. “Not my type, anymore. Just mark my words. There's some heartbreak ahead for that one.”

Sunny wanted to kick herself. She threw the stick again, this time with all her might. How could she have not seen this happening? Poor thing. She'd have to find a way to nip this in the bud, or Yaz, and most definitely Ahmet, would never speak to her again.

“It'll work out somehow. And she does seem happy here.” Candace reached for the stick Bear had dropped at her feet and threw it back in the water. “And you know?” Sunny followed her friend's gaze across the piney strip of land that jutted out from behind them and sloped gracefully into the Sound. “Why shouldn't she be? I've gotta say, it really doesn't seem like such a bad place to live.”

“That's because you don't live here.” Sunny bent to pick a pebble from between her toes.

“So tell me, what's so wrong with the island, anyway?”

Sunny hesitated for a moment. “Well, for one thing, it's so hard to get off of.”

“So don't.” Candace shrugged. “Civilization is overrated.”

“Easy for you to say. I haven't seen you sit still this long for like, well, ever.”

Candace tilted her head skyward as a seaplane buzzed overhead. “I don't know, it's kind of growing on me. You'd better watch out, or the next thing you know I'll be settling in as your roomie.” She jogged ahead a little to try to get Bear to run. “We'll wear flowy clothes and no bras, and make jam, and let our hair get long and grey!” she called back to Sunny. “You could paint, and on Saturdays I'll go hang out with those witches down in Chittleham.”

“In a pig's eye!” Sunny struggled to catch up with her.

Candace stopped and turned around. “What, you don't think this island is big enough for the both of us?”

Sunny just laughed. She was panting as she reached her friend's side, stopping with her hands on her hips and her eyes turned toward the blue horizon as the water lapped gently at her toes. Not so deep inside, she kind of wished Candace wouldn't leave. “Do you think I should put him out there?”

Candace raised her eyebrows at the question that seemed to come out of nowhere. “What? Who?”

“Jack. His ashes. Either here, or in the vineyard. Or maybe both. I really should let him loose from that box in the linen closet. I just haven't been able to bring myself to do it. Is that weird?”

Candace shrugged her shoulders. “Not so weird. I still have my cocker spaniel's ashes, and he died when I was eighteen. You'll know when it's time to let him go.” She hooked her arm through Sunny's and together they walked slowly along the shore, their feet becoming entombed by pebbles with each ebbing of the tide. “Well look at that.” Candace stopped and pointed toward the water. Just above the surface of the Sound, tiny shimmers of silver were slicing through the air, popping up from below as if shot from a cannon, then returning with a swan dive back into the deep. As they watched, the air became thick with the shiny creatures, as if a frenzied mirrored curtain was being dropped from the sky.

“Wow. Beautiful.” Sunny shaded her eyes with one hand. “I've never seen anything like that.” To Sunny, it looked like magic—an optical illusion created just for her. It was a vision she wanted to remember forever. “Candace,” she asked after a moment, “why do you think fish jump?”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Candace shrug her shoulders. “Because they can?”

Sunny took in a deep breath of the lavender and anise that was heavy in the air. As simple as a fish, she thought. That's how life should be. Jumping cause you can. If only.

Ahmet sat with his forearms resting on the counter, his hands folded together, his eyes pointed straight ahead yet not focused on a thing. The ticking of the clock seemed as loud as a pounding hammer, making it even harder to think than it already was. Outside, where the courtyard should have been filled with the sounds of the vendors shouting out their morning greetings to one another as they set up for the Friday market, all was quiet. There would be no more Friday market at the coffeehouse, not now. And there would be no more coffeehouse, not ever. His own stupidity had taken care of that.

If only he had been more forceful with his opinion about the foolishness of those two. If only he had been stronger with Omar, and had shown more firmness in his warnings to Yazmina about her dealings with that silly girl. He had allowed himself to become distracted by his meetings and the thoughts that came from all that talk, and now they were paying the price.
Today he would make a special prayer to Allah, a promise of renewed dedication to his faith and to the traditions of his people.

Ahmet could feel his nostrils burn from the smell of ammonia that cloaked the room, left behind from the endless hours of scrubbing it had taken to wipe away the physical signs of the attack. How he missed the aromas of Bashir Hadi's burgers, and the strong scent of the dark coffee that would come from the copper machine, whose shiny surface, he could now see, was beginning to cloud from neglect.

As he ran his fingers lightly over a small nick left in the counter by one of the gunman's bullets, the fear that had been stabbing at him ever since the attack suddenly rushed back in full force. His heart began to pummel furiously at his chest. It could have been his wife now lying there in that hospital bed, or even worse. He pictured Yazmina upstairs, where he had left her to sleep. Had Bashir Hadi not been able to put a stop to the madness, Ahmet might have never had the chance to hold her in his arms again, or to welcome their unborn son into the world. How close he had come to losing everything he loved, everything that mattered in his world. I told him to leave her alone, he thought as he replayed the conversations with Omar in his head. I told him that this is not the way our country works, that this is not the way things are done in our culture. If they had simply obeyed the rules, if they had honored the traditions, none of this would have ever happened. Of course, perhaps, as the authorities suggested, it wasn't because of Omar and the girl that the coffeehouse had been targeted. The Taliban had claimed responsibility for the attack and the two who had died, just as they claimed responsibility for practically every incident involving foreigners in Kabul. But it could very well be true. Either way, Ahmet had failed to prevent it. He blamed himself.

The stack of empty coffee cups rattled as he banged his fist down onto the counter. Behind him came the sound of a throat being cleared. He turned to see Yazmina standing at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the banister, the other resting on her bulging belly, now clearly visible beneath the big lightweight chador she wore over her clothes.

“Good morning, my husband.”

“Good morning to you as well.” He turned back around on the stool, the clock's relentless pulse marking the silence between them.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“Thinking.”

Yazmina came and sat on the stool beside him and took his hand in hers. “Well, while you are thinking, perhaps you can think about driving me to the hospital on your way to the mosque today?”

Ahmet shook his head. “You were just at the hospital yesterday. I do not think it is necessary for you to go there again today.”

“But it is! Zara needs me.” She gave his hand a little squeeze, as if that would be enough to get him on her side. But Ahmet would have none of it.

“Isn't her family there to watch over her?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the counter below.

“Yes, but she is still in a very bad condition. And she remains in grave danger.”

“What,” he responded in a voice full of scorn, “and it is you who will protect her from Faheem? I thought it was your friend Candace who was in charge, who had snapped her manicured fingers for a private room and a guard to appear at the hospital door.”

Yazmina withdrew her hand from his. “Yes, there is a guard there. But I still have a desire, a responsibility to help.”

“You must stay out of their business!” Ahmet turned to face his wife. “Being there is what brought us this trouble in the first place. We have no room for more trouble.”

Yazmina leaned away from him and straightened her back. “There is no need to shout. I am right here beside you.”

“And that is where you will stay.” Ahmet nodded firmly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “There will be no more going back and forth to the hospital. You must stay home to tend to your duties as a good Islamic wife and mother.”

Yazmina's green eyes narrowed into two angry dashes. “I
am
a good wife and mother,” she hissed, the indignation from his words causing the color to rise in her cheeks, “and also a good follower of Islam, one who cares about the fate of others, who believes in doing service for humanity. And I thought you were as well.” She turned her face to the ceiling and shook her head.

Ahmet slammed his two hands down on the counter. “I care about my family, not about some ridiculous girl who refuses to obey the rules.”

“You and your rules,” Yazmina shot back. “I ask you, where is it written that a man or woman cannot marry the one they love? We are here together, are we not?” she asked, her voice now soft and beseeching.

Ahmet turned away from her pleading eyes. “She should just run away. The family should take her and go back to where they are from.”

“But it is not her fault!” Yazmina grabbed his forearm with her hand, forcing his attention back upon her. “It's Faheem who is responsible for all this.” She swept an arm across the empty room. “And you and I both know that running away will never work. He will find her no matter where she goes.” Yazmina let
him go and began to yank at the scarf around her neck. “Now please, stop with all this nonsense, and let's get going.”

Ahmet didn't budge. “I told you that you are not to go to the hospital anymore.”

“Then I will take the bus,” she said, struggling to lift herself off of the stool.

“Or perhaps you should ask my mother to drive you,” he said with a snort.

“Well perhaps I should. At least she has the decency to act on her beliefs.”

Ahmet was tempted to run after his wife as she stormed out the coffeehouse door. But an unseen force kept him frozen in place, his body and mind both stuck in a pit of confusion. How was it that he had lost control of his family, his wife ignoring his demands, his mother bringing them such shame with her flouting of convention? And with the flash of a rifle, it seemed as though he had been robbed of control over their futures as well. How would he provide for them, and keep them safe from whatever dangers might come from a world so unsettled and unsure? He crossed his arms on the top of the wooden counter and lowered his head down to rest, exhausted by his own thoughts, and by the string of sleepless nights he'd endured ever since the attack. He quickly drifted off into a world no more easeful than the one he left, and it wasn't until he heard the muezzin's call that he woke.