Refugees (29 page)

“This must be Dawn's flight!” Louise exclaimed.

Johar's heart beat wildly. He searched the multinational crowd for a woman with hair the color of desert sand, pale skin, and pink cheeks.

“I'm so nervous,” he heard Dr. Garland say, as if from across the room. “I wonder if she looks the same.”

“Look! A tall white lady,” Bija remarked in Dari, pulling on Johar's arm. “Is that her?” The woman was tall, but the hair poking out of her scarf was brown.

“It's not Dawn,” answered Johar. This woman did not match the photo.

But wait, right behind that woman strode Dawn. Johar was sure of it! She was even more radiant in person— boyish, yet delicate. Strands of blond escaped her blue scarf, and she had the same brown-eyed gaze that had jumped from the photo, though in person it was livelier. Dawn wore the cowboy jeans and sneakers he'd seen in newspaper photos of westerners. The passengers advanced like a formation of boisterous revelers. She looked at him. He saw her blush.

“Dawn, over here!” called Dr. Garland.

Bija took one of Johar's hands and one of Louise's. She jumped up and down between them. Inside, Johar did the same. “Dawn! Dawn!” squealed Bija.

“She's almost here,” Louise said to Bija. Bija nodded eagerly as the crowd fanned out, connected with friends, hugged lovers, hurried to the escalators, and departed in great clumps. Dawn was fifty paces away and getting closer.
Johar rehearsed words in his mind.
I am pleased to meet you. I have looked forward to this occasion. How was your flight?
It sounded so stiff. He'd known this girl's essence—how could he stumble back to formalities after that?
I have just a few seconds to compose myself,
he thought.
She will greet Dr. Garland first.

W
as that Louise past the door of the waiting area? Dawn hurried along the narrow hallway with Susie leading the way. “Oh, my God, there she is!” she exclaimed.

“The one with the wire-rimmed glasses?” asked Susie. Dawn nodded. Susie took her friend's hand and squeezed it. “Don't worry. It's going to be great.”

There was something so different about Louise. Was it that she had lost lots of weight, or that her gray head scarf accentuated her pallid face? She did look run-down, but there was something else. She looked exuberant, and her military stance had yielded to a softer, less certain one. For the first time ever Dawn wanted to hug her. Louise's mouth opened slightly, while her brows creased, as if she were trying to puzzle something out. Dawn recalled seeing that look the first day on Santa Marisa, when they had been washing dishes in the kitchen. They'd both tried so hard that day.

Now, as Louise drew closer, that memory faded and Dawn's old apprehension clenched her throat. “Susie, I'm panicking. Hold my hand?”

“Sure, honey.” Susie took it and kept it gently in hers.

The guy next to Louise wore loose pants, a cobalt shirt, and a black vest, which accentuated his raven hair. A tiny girl in a long yellow dress peeked out from behind him. It
must be Johar and his little cousin! To utter the first hello would be indescribably sweet. And Dawn had Bija's doll tucked in her pocket. But she needed Louise first.

At twenty steps away Dawn sensed Louise's slight hesitation. At ten steps Dawn witnessed the whites of her owlish eyes.
She's terrified too,
Dawn realized. At four steps away, Dawn ran into the crush of her arms. “I'm so glad to see you!” Louise's plain cotton dress smelled of campfires and sweat.

“Me too.” Louise's voice was muffled and teary.

Holding and being held, pressing their hearts close, felt to Dawn like drinking pure, cool water. And she had been so thirsty.

“My girl,” Louise whispered. “My Dawn.” They swayed as they hugged.

“You look different.” Louise held Dawn at arm's length. “Grown-up.”

Dawn laughed and smoothed down her head scarf. “I took an intensive course in that this fall.” She introduced Susie. “Here's the woman who's been helping you with all the arrangements. She's my best friend in New York.” Susie flashed her elfin smile.

Louise eyed Susie's new paisley pants suit and pashmina head scarf. “Pleased to meet you, Susie. You're right in fashion.”

“Thanks. I try.” Susie's manicured hand shook Louise's square one. “Your daughter's an awesome flutist and a very cool lady,” Susie said. “And thanks for letting her come on this assignment. I can't wait to interview you and your staff.”

“Well, we're delighted,” Louise began, and glanced hesitantly at Dawn with that quizzical look again, almost asking
permission. Dawn realized that she had liked that gaze that first night in the kitchen but had been too wary to understand it. She'd convinced herself it was disdain. She saw now that all of Louise's awkwardness, her fumbling talk, and confusing expressions were signs not of a cold heart but of a warm one.

Susie broke the silence. “Excuse me, Dr. Garland.” She leaned toward Dawn and whispered, “Go. I'll keep your mother company.”

Dawn murmured, “Thanks.” She saw that Johar had stepped back to make way for her reunion. Bija, a tadpole of a girl, clung to Johar's hand. He was mysterious in his shalwar kameez, like some Afghan rock star—unclassifiable and so handsome. Johar seemed radically different from other guys she knew. He was practically a stranger, yet she felt closer to him than anyone else. Johar was her poet. He would soon walk with her. They would talk. He would show her around Afghanistan. It mattered hugely how he saw her, and yet it didn't matter at all, because they already had something real.
A connection.
Johar's gaze darted from Dawn's shoes to Louise's to Bija's. Dawn realized,
He's nervous too.

D
awn was coming his way. He lowered his gaze to the carpet and watched her sneakers move toward him. Bija, as if sensing Johar's alarm, scurried behind him and hid herself in the folds of his tunic. Words left him as Dawn drew close. His face grew hot.
I must relax,
he advised himself. He peeked and realized that this was most decidedly not
[email protected]. This was the woman Dawn. His friend; his musician. Her smile dazzled him, and there was a moment before he found words. “Hello,” he said finally. “I am Johar.”

D
awn looked up, then down. Johar's was a sinewy, lofty strength, giving him an aristocratic demeanor. Over his black curls he wore a skullcap decorated with sunbeams. He wore a woolen vest over his garments, and sandals on his feet.

“Hi. I brought you some presents.” She held out the brimming satchel.

“For me?” asked Johar.

“Music for your new school. It's the first music book I played from at ground zero.” She regarded his steady hands with their crescent nails, the way his cheekbones sloped out under his almond-shaped eyes as he flipped through the books.

“Music, Jor!” Bija rolled the English word on her tongue as she stood on her toes to get a look.

“What honor.” Johar seemed confused as he examined the musical notes.

“It's American notation. Maybe I can transpose it.”

“Transpose? Ah, like to translate, but music. Of course.” Johar reached into a sheepskin pack. “I have present for you also.” He held out a woolen cap.

“Thanks.” Dawn stretched it out. “The moonbeams are fantastic.”

He smiled back shyly.

“And who do we have here?” asked Dawn. “Is this the awesome Bija?”

“I, Bija!” she chirped. Her wide face dimpled, and one dark ringlet fell from her scarf. She hopped over to Dawn like a rabbit.

“I'm happy to meet you.” Dawn drew out the English words. “If you want to, you can call me Aunt Dawn. Would you like a gift too?”

“Gift,” Johar repeated in Dari. Bija nodded. She took two more bunny hops and leaned in eagerly. Dawn reached in her pocket and pulled out the dolly.

“Jor, gift! Aunt Dawn!” Bija said in halting English. She took it and lifted the doll's coat to examine its skirt, then removed the plastic shoes and put them back on, prattling in Dari all the while.

“She likes it,” explained Johar. “She says, ‘Funny shoes.' ” They both laughed.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Dawn pulled out a thick paperback. “I'm not much with poems, except for songs, but I remembered one poetry book from lit class that blew me away.” She handed the book to Johar. On the cover, an old man with a white beard and brimmed hat leaned on his cane. “Hope you don't mind that I marked my favorite passages.”

Johar read, “Walt Whitman,
Leaves of Grass.
” He flipped open to the place Dawn had marked with pencil, and read slowly:

Johar's hand came away from the book, gesturing with his upturned palm. “Remember when you invited me to be part of your family?”

“I remember.”

“I would like that. And you are part of mine. In spirit, yes?”

“Yes.” She smiled. There was something clean and warm in the way he said things. There was no guessing.

“Coming?” called Louise.

Johar, Bija, Dawn, Louise, and Susie zigzagged through the airport lobby and out its wide exit door. “We've got the coolest extended family in Peshawar,” said Dawn.

“In Afghanistan,” said Johar.

“In Asia,” said Louise.

“In the East,” said Susie, “and all the merrier when the crew arrives in a couple hours.”

“We play!” squeaked Bija.

Dawn slipped her hand into the crook of Louise's arm. “Want to go for some chai, Mom?”

“Yes, love.” Louise pressed Dawn's arm with her own, and her gray scarf rustled lightly as she nodded.

They stepped into the Peshawar streets—streets of mosques and beggars, of spice bazaars and a concerto of conversation.