Veiled Freedom (42 page)

“Okay, that's our last, and another reasonably clean bill of health.” Becky Frazer jotted notes on a clipboard as the woman she'd been examining slid down from the table Amy had set up as a makeshift examining couch.

“Except for Najeeda's cough, they're all healthier than they've got reason to be considering the lives they've led. And the cough is only bronchial. We'll need to add TB vaccinations to the rest, but you can cross off worrying about an epidemic. We'll get Najeeda on antibiotics and steam therapy, and she needs to stay out of the dust as much as one can in Kabul.”

A discreetly cleared throat from the doorway interrupted the American nurse practitioner. “Excuse me, Miss Ameera, but another patient has arrived.”

Soraya handed Amy the medical questionnaire she'd been filling out as another draped female shape scurried into the infirmary. In celebration of the upcoming Eid-e-Qorban holiday, Amy had suspended today's classes and extended her housemate's weekend leave through Saturday. But this morning was the first Becky had been able to squeeze from her own busy schedule, and since Amy could hardly solicit Jamil's assistance with the women, she'd asked Soraya to postpone departure until after the clinic.

Becky's Dari and Pashto had proved excellent, leaving to Amy tasks requiring minimal language skills like helping women in and out of their voluminous clothing and ferrying water from her own shower for a washbasin.

While Amy gathered up a black chador, Becky glanced over the final patient's questionnaire. “Mortality rate here's so high, if they do survive to adulthood, it's because they've got the constitution of a mule. The aches and pains your women complain of are real enough, but a fair part's emotional. Unfortunately, there just aren't resources to treat the amount of trauma they've endured. Ibuprofen and keeping them busy are as effective as any other prescription I can hand out. Though your idea on that orchard is a good one. Some trees and flowers and real grass might do even more than ibuprofen. At least your tenants don't have to deal with the biggest health risk women face in Afghanistan—pregnancy.”

Their final patient might not consider that such a blessing. Amy had informed Hamida of the visiting doctor, as Becky was categorized here. But she was as surprised as pleased Rasheed's wife had taken advantage of the offer, even if only after the Welayat women were out of her path. Then, as Hamida raised her head, Amy sucked in her breath sharply. Covering one whole cheek was a fiery red welt shaped like a large human palm.

“Hamida, what happened?”

The Afghan woman quickly covered her cheek with her hand.

Becky translated her distressed murmur. “She says it was her fault. She's now been married six years and is still not pregnant. She's hoping I might have a cure.”

“Her fault,” Amy said indignantly. She hadn't forgotten Rasheed's disdainful dismissal of Hamida as barren. “How does not getting pregnant give anyone the right to treat you as a punching bag?”

Hamida couldn't understand Amy's words, but she looked more distressed at her tone.

With no more patients waiting in the hall, Soraya had joined the other two women inside the infirmary, and she cut off Amy's fuming. “There is no point in speaking of this matter. It is a husband's right. When I did not bear a son, my husband—”

Amy glanced at her curiously. Though she'd chosen to respect her housemate's reticence, she'd wondered that a woman of Soraya's age and social value would remain single and childless in this society. “Then you've been married?”

“He died when the mujahedeen battled over Kabul.” Soraya hesitated; then as she met Amy's inquiring gaze, she shrugged. “Many rockets were fired by the mujahedeen into our neighborhood. One hit our apartment. He died. I lived.”

Amy waited for more, but Soraya walked over to the door. “If there are no more patients, do I have your leave to go? My family will be expecting my help with feast preparations.”

“Of course,” Amy said warmly. So like everyone at New Hope, her housemate too had a story of tragedy in her past. “I hope you have a wonderful feast time with your family. Oh, and just one more thing.” Hurrying to the office, Amy returned with a package she handed to Soraya.
“Eid mubarak.”

The latter was the Muslim equivalent of merry Christmas, meaning literally “A blessed Eid.”

Carefully removing wrapping paper from a dictionary-size book, Soraya looked more puzzled than pleased as she turned it over.

“It's an anthology of English poetry,” Amy explained. “You mentioned you'd always wanted to find some of the pieces you memorized in the university.” One of the rare times Soraya had discussed anything beyond work. “I think you'll find a lot of them in there.”

Though Amy's guidebook mentioned small gifts to children as an Eid tradition, she'd wanted to do something special for her New Hope adults as well. Hand creams and makeup items from the bazaar would be appreciated by the Welayat women, but she'd looked for something more personal for Soraya. The poetry collection had been among Persian and Arabic titles in a downtown bookstore.

Soraya's expression cleared as she turned pages. “Yes, I see. Thank you for thinking of me. Eid mubarak.”

As Soraya left, Amy returned to the infirmary.

Becky was scribbling final notes on Hamida's chart as she explained briskly, “You are in good health. There is no physical reason I can see that you shouldn't be able to bear children. If you have not yet become pregnant, it isn't your fault or anything you're doing wrong. Do you understand? But because there is nothing wrong with you, neither is there anything I can do or give to you to help you get pregnant. You just need to be patient. If God wills, he will give you children in his time.”

“Inshallah. If Allah wills.” Hamida looked disappointed, but she also seemed more cheerful. After all, no matter how hard one strove, there was no bucking Allah's inscrutable and sovereign choices.

Becky shook her head as Hamida left, her chador turning her back into a black ghost. “I sure wish a woman's worth in this society wasn't so tied to having children, because unless a miracle intervenes, her chances aren't good.”

“But I thought you said she was healthy.” Pushing the table against a wall, Amy gathered up disposable gloves, tongue depressors, and other debris to restore the infirmary to order. “That you could find no physical reason she couldn't have children.”

“That's right, at least not without more sophisticated tests than I can offer. I wish I could say the same for her husband.”

Amy straightened up. “Rasheed?”

“That's right. From what Soraya wrote down of Hamida's family medical history, Rasheed's first wife was a widow with a son who died like so many here before age five. But she never got pregnant again during her marriage to Rasheed.

“You mean—?”

“I'm saying the difficulty in conceiving is likely Rasheed's doing, not Hamida's. Though just what the problem is would need medical testing I'm not qualified to give.”

“Then shouldn't we tell her that? And Rasheed? At least so he can stop hitting Hamida for not getting pregnant.”

“He won't believe it,” Becky said decisively. “Certainly not from female medical personnel. If your chowkidar was a professional with some science education, maybe. As it is, he not only wouldn't believe it, he'd consider it an insult. No, what matters is that Hamida knows it's not her fault. And in the end, it is in God's hands. Miracles do happen.”

Amy tried to imagine herself presenting the tall, burly caretaker with this new tidbit and quailed at the image. She hadn't even mustered the courage to broach the use of the orchard. Since Rasheed had returned to New Hope after the break-in, he had been in the darkest of moods.
The way he stomped around that broken gate, you'd have thought we did it.

Amy's diffident explanation had been brushed irately aside. “If we were not harboring criminals, we would not have to concern ourselves about such assaults.”

Maybe looking for a new location for New Hope wouldn't be such a bad idea.

The sky overhead was gray and pregnant with moisture as Amy saw Becky out to her battered van. Was rain going to spoil the afternoon's plans? Or from the nippiness burning at her nostrils, maybe even the first winter snow Soraya had been warning her to expect? For Miami-bred Amy, the intensifying cold was one of the worst aspects of Kabul life. The propane heaters she'd scattered liberally through New Hope's salons barely touched the chill except to make the place smell like rush-hour traffic, and Amy had reluctantly shelved play equipment for Eid to purchase winter clothing in bulk.

Wajid ambled over from the guardshack to open the gate. Amy had asked Becky about the elderly guard's opium smoking, and the nurse had shaken her head. “At his age, if he's functioning, I'd leave him alone. You'd have to find a substitute for the pain anyway, and likely as not, it'd still be morphine-based. Just don't count on him as part of your security.”

“Tashakor, Wajid.” The lightest of drizzles was quickening Amy's steps back up the cobblestone path when her phone rang. Caller ID told her who it was before she heard Steve's amused drawl.

“Thanksgiving!” Amy gasped. “Oh, my goodness, you're right, it
is
the fourth Thursday of November. I've been thinking so much about this Eid holiday, I totally lost track. And I had Becky run a clinic this morning. Whatever is she going to think? I hadn't heard anything about it at the expat worship gathering.”

“That's because it's one holiday that's exclusively American. For the rest of the planet, it's the middle of the work week. Except this year it also happens to fall the day before Eid-e-Qorban.”

“Well, thanks for that intel,” Amy said tartly. “At least now I can remember to Skype home tonight. Is a little cultural update why you're calling?”

Steve chuckled. “No, that was a freebie. I wanted to pass along an update from Ismail on your perps from the other night. It seems they're all one family. Four brothers-in-law of Aryana, along with cousins, uncles, etc. One of them just happens to be a locksmith.”

All of which Amy already knew, Aryana having unhesitatingly picked out her husband's relatives from the footage Jamil had shot. After the young woman's earlier collapse, Amy had been worried this new scare would trigger even greater trauma. But seeing her in-laws cowering under all those weapons proved to have the opposite effect. If still quiet, Aryana was venturing out to join the other women as she never had before.

“They've also admitted they paid one of the Welayat wardens for intel. I figured you'd be pleased to know that as deputy minister Ismail stepped in to sack the guy. The other good news is that your intruders are steaming mad they paid for bad intel. As long as they don't learn otherwise, we can hope you've seen the end of this.”

“At least for these ones.” Amy sighed. “I've been wondering if I should try to find a new location the Welayat doesn't know about.”

“As long as it's rented to a foreign entity, there'll be records out there. On the flip side, you won't find many places as large and solidly built as the one you've got. You've tested your security now and know it works. And at least you know your perps were disgruntled amateurs, not Tallies targeting an expat aid worker.”

“Amateurs!” Maybe that was all that frightening mob had been to former Special Forces Steve Wilson. Still, his words echoed Amy's own misgivings. She didn't
want
to start over again elsewhere. She could end up jumping from the frying pan into the fire, and after all, an amiable relationship with the caretaker was hardly part of a rental contract.

Besides, Rasheed had offered no protest to Amy's latest request. Along with repairs to the smashed vehicle gate, metal security bars like those protecting the main entrance and Amy's suite had now been added to every door with outside access. There'd be no repeat of last week.

And Steve's report reassured Amy on one niggling concern. She hadn't wanted to believe one of her staff was capable of betraying her charges. But
someone
had passed on Aryana's whereabouts. Jamil's intervention was his own best alibi. But Soraya had been less than truthful at least once, while Rasheed made no bones of his disdain for Amy's tenants. Steve's confirmation that it was none of the above was a relief that tinged Amy's tone with gratitude. “Well, thank you for letting me know. I'll pass on the good news to Aryana. If there's anything else—”

“Actually, there is one more thing. I'm heading over to a Thanksgiving service this afternoon, and I wondered if you'd be interested in riding along.”

“You're inviting me to a Thanksgiving service?” Amy couldn't keep surprise from her voice. She was not unacquainted with the signs of a man intrigued with her, and Steve Wilson had shown none of them.

“You sound so suspicious, I'm not sure I shouldn't feel insulted.” Steve's voice still held amusement but now exasperation as well. “Is it because I'm inviting you specifically or that we're talking church service here?”

“Neither,” Amy countered. “It's just—well, like I said, I hadn't heard anything about Thanksgiving services here in Kabul.”

“It's not in Kabul. It's at Camp Phoenix, the American base out toward the airport. An old friend of mine, a chaplain from Fort Bragg, is in-country with a singing group to do some special holiday services with the troops.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate the invitation,” Amy said cautiously, “but I'm just heading out to our neighborhood project. We're doing kind of a movie-and-a-meal thing with the kids for Eid-e-Qorban, since we're celebrating the real thing tomorrow here at New Hope. Besides, if you've got a friend visiting, surely you can't want some outsider tagging along.”