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Marjan was eager to return to the orphanage, to prove to her daughter that she wasn’t being abandoned. She also went back
for those precious embraces with her daughter. She had to admit, Hawa was doing quite well in the orphanage. Peals of laughter
rang out in the colorful hallways. The children were learning English, math, and even a bit of science. She was eating well
and had been taken to a clinic for vaccines.
Marjan and Hawa sat in the garden outside, under the smiling faces of the sunflowers, yellow petals dancing in the breeze.
Other girls peeked through windows and around corners, curious to see Hawa’s mother. Some of their mothers came to visit,
as well. Atefa wouldn’t say how many of the girls were actual orphans and how many simply came from families who could not
afford to care for their daughters.
“Who takes care of all these flowers?” Marjan asked.
“Khanum Atefa. But we help her too. I give them water and pick off the yellow leaves. And we planted seeds, too, in dirt and
soon mine will grow a stem and I’ll water that too,” Hawa said, her eyes twinkling.
Why hadn’t she ever thought to plant seeds with Hawa? It seemed like such a simple activity to do with a child. She smiled
brightly, told herself to be grateful Hawa was having the experience here.
They went inside, and Marjan looked at the clock. Hawa noticed and stiffened.
As if possessed by a djinn, Hawa darted out of the classroom, down the hallway, into the courtyard, and out the gate.
“Hawa? Where are you . . .” Marjan didn’t understand at first. She walked into the hallway, where the evening light spilled
into the vestibule at the school’s entrance. When she saw the open door, she understood and broke into a run, nearly tumbling
onto the dirt street outside the orphanage. She looked left and right, calling out her daughter’s name.
Marjan went around the corner, scanned the area, and, seeing nothing, turned around and jogged in the opposite direction.
The small road had branches. Should she go left or right? Marjan heard a dog barking. She ran toward the noise, terrified
she would find Hawa struggling to free herself from the jaws of an aggressive beast.
“Hawa!”
But the neighborhood was a maze, and Marjan’s ears could not track where the barking was coming from. She turned and turned
again. The barking stopped. Marjan’s chest hurt. She was out of breath and trying to think straight.
Atefa came around the corner.
“What’s happened? Where did she go?” she asked. Marjan could only shake her head. “Let me look around. I’ll have a couple
of the older girls help me too.”
Marjan started to walk toward the school, her eyes blurred with tears. She hadn’t done Hawa any favors coming here today.
Just this morning, Hawa had drawn a picture of a cat sitting on the branch of a tree, a waxy sun placed in a sky colored with
two shades of blue. Her cheeks were plump and her spirits bright—until Marjan showed up.
Marjan reached the corner. The small street intersected with the main road, cars going east in one lane and west in the other.
Tires screeched and a horn blared.
Marjan followed the sound and saw a small girl standing just a few feet from the hood of a black sedan, a face-off. Rickshaws
and cars swerved around them.
“Hawa!”
Marjan dodged cars. She ran into the street and put her own body between the car and her daughter, throwing up one hand to
thank the driver. He looked equally angry and shaken. How close had he come to plowing down this wild child? He drove the
heel of his palm into the horn one last time, then yelled as Marjan pulled Hawa toward the side of the road.
“What kind of mother are you? Teach her to cross the street if you’re not going to pay attention to her!” he shouted.
Marjan fell to her knees and hugged her daughter tightly.
“Hawa! Don’t you realize what could have happened to you? Never, ever do that again!” she shouted, her voice quavering. Hawa
was saying something Marjan couldn’t make out over the whooshing sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, over the rumbling
traffic.
Take me with you, Mommy, Hawa had pleaded, but her words went unnoticed.
Marjan wiped her cheeks and stood up, ignoring a passing woman who was shaking her head. She could go to hell, Marjan thought,
even while she cursed herself for not finding Hawa sooner. For not realizing her visit today could trigger a bigger tantrum.
For everything she’d done to arrive at this moment.
They walked back to the orphanage. Hawa, petulant and silent. Marjan the same.
She walked through the orphanage gates with Hawa, steeling herself for another outburst. But Hawa pulled her hand out of her
mother’s tight grip and ran straight into Khanum Atefa’s arms.
Marjan watched for a moment, then left without saying goodbye to Hawa or Atefa, the image of Hawa’s small body just a breath
away from being crushed by a vehicle seared into her mind. She sobbed shamelessly on the ride back to the Rasuli home.
Two days later, Soraya stopped by. They walked into the market to have a cup of tea together in a café owned and staffed by women.
Soraya had declared this her favorite place in all of Kabul, as if she had occasion or the money to try many places.
The setup was simple. Small round tables.
Wooden chairs. Skinny glass vases holding a single red rose.
On the wall was a board where patrons could post notes—confessions, promises, jokes.
Across the road was a restaurant called King’s Palace, its recent opening announced by a yellow banner in the window. Soraya
caught her eyeing the sign, a picture of an ornate throne. Marjan thought of the stories her khala Shaima would tell of her
ancestor, the woman who had been a guard of the king’s harem. It was hard to believe an orphaned girl could have risen to
such a role. She wondered, for the first time, if her aunt had made the whole thing up.
“I see you eyeing that fancy place. One day, when we finally get some jobs that pay us reasonably, we’re going to put on our
finest clothing and indulge in a most elegant dinner there.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but I’m wearing my finest clothing right now,” Marjan said.
“Not tomorrow, silly. Sometime soon, and by then we’ll have new clothes. Maybe some handsome suitor will treat me to a new
wardrobe,” she said, and winked. “And maybe that handsome suitor will have a very good-looking brother.”
“You love a fairy tale, don’t you?” Marjan laughed, turning her attention to the wall. The café had a sign on the wall, rotating
verses from dead poets. Today’s words came from Kahlil Gibran.
Your children are not your children . . . They come through you but not from you.
Over steaming cups of green tea, Marjan worked up the courage to tell Soraya about her recent visit.
“There she was, standing in front of this car that could have . . .” Marjan could not finish her sentence. She didn’t need
to.
“My God,” Soraya said, putting her hand over her friend’s. “How terrifying for both of you!”
Marjan’s mind flew back to that scene, the one she had returned to countless times in the past forty-eight hours.
Here, in this room of women and poems, in this space of whispered secrets and bold hopes, it occurred to Marjan that the expression on Hawa’s face had not been one of fear—it had been the hard stare of defiance.
Dear God, Marjan thought. Who is this child of mine?