Words in the Dust (16 page)

The room had changed. The bright light above the table was gone. I wasn’t so cold anymore. The young American woman who was standing next to me just a moment ago had left. I ran my tongue around my dry mouth and cringed at the metal taste, feeling a dull ache in my teeth and lips. Were they done with the surgery? Impossible. I had only just climbed up on the table. But the needle … It was no longer in my arm. And my mouth …

I slowly reached my hand up to my face, gently touching my top lip. My lip. I touched my lip. Not an ugly split. Not twisted teeth. My lip.

“Najib?”

It hurt a little to speak, but in a moment he leaned over above me. He smiled big. “Salaam.” Najib gently pushed my hand away from my face. “How do you feel?”

“Sleepy.” I tried to sit up but my head whirled and I lay back down. “Dizzy.” My words sounded strange — not that I could ever speak right. Yet they sounded a different sort of funny than usual.

In the next instant, my brother was gone and Captain Mindy was looking down at me. She made some friendly, soothing sounds in English. Then she vanished.

Finally, dimly aware that time had passed, I sat up so that I was resting on my elbows. Najib saw me and jumped from his chair to rush to my side. “Are you awake for good now?”

“Was I asleep?”

He nodded. “You kept waking up and then going back to sleep.”

I squinted my eyes shut and then opened them to focus. I had a thought that I might be dreaming. But everything felt very real, including the throbbing in my lip.

“The surgery worked.” Najib smiled, turned, and reached for something on a nearby table. He handed me a mirror. “Go on, look. You won’t believe it. Allahu Akbar! God is good!”

I took in a breath and held the mirror up. I could hardly look. My vision blurred with tears. “My mouth …”

“They say the swelling will go away and then you will look just fine.” Najib glanced around as if to see if anyone else was listening. He whispered, “They say you will look very pretty.”

“Oh. My mouth.” There was a vertical line of tiny stitches running from the middle of my puffy upper lip to my nose, but I had an upper lip. No more did my teeth stick out and show. “My mouth. Najib.” For the first time in my life, I could almost make the
b
sound and say my brother’s name properly. I could not hold back my tears.

My brother grinned and squeezed my shoulder. I looked at him and smiled back, though it hurt a little to do so. “No … more … Donkeyface.” I pushed the words out through happy sobs. Najib could only nod. “Praise Allah. My mouth.”

The rest of the day was spent lying in a puffy bed high off the floor, watching American movies. We watched the toy movie again and then we watched a second toy movie. Eventually, I stopped paying attention. There were many visits from Dr. Akamura, Captain Mindy, and Shiaraqa. My brother never left my side, but stayed in a cushioned chair near my bed. I was surprised at how good I felt. It was such an amazing change for so little pain. The dull ache remained, and I hated the smell and feel of the slimy clear cream they made me keep on my mouth, but other than that, I felt fine by nightfall.

I’m not sure the Americans believed me when I told them that, though. Again and again they asked how I was feeling. And they brought me gifts, even the Americans I had never seen before. They filled another plastic sack full of candy (for when I was better), dolls (for me or my sister), and toy cars and planes (for my brothers). I thanked them again and again, but didn’t they understand how useless these trinkets were compared to the priceless gift of my new mouth?

Finally, Dr. Akamura bowed to me with his hand over his heart. Shiaraqa translated as the doctor spoke. “The doctor believes the operation was a complete success. He says your recovery should be short. He must leave now to take a plane to Kabul, but he hopes you will have a very happy life.”

Najib’s grin was warmer than I’d ever seen.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
He tried his best to speak English. He gave the doctor a “thumbs-up” sign.
“Thank you.”

The doctor shook my brother’s hand. He nodded to Captain Mindy on his way to the door.
“Khuda hafiz,”
he said as he left. Captain Mindy had Shiaraqa tell us that she was going to walk the doctor to the plane.

I couldn’t stop checking my face in the mirror. The more the swelling went down, the more normal I looked. I took a deep breath in through my nose, which the surgery had also straightened. If only Zeynab could be here! She’d be so happy. And I could smile, really smile, with her. I wondered, for a moment, if I looked more like my sister. Could I look even a little bit pretty? If I could have such a miracle surgery, surely anything was possible. Anything.

But by lunchtime the next day, at least part of my excitement was wearing off. I was hungry and tired of eating this red wiggly stuff they called Jell Oh. It was tasty enough, but I longed for real food — a warm piece of naan and some rice, maybe even an orange. After all, my mouth no longer throbbed with pain as it did the day before. Now it only hurt when I pushed on my lip. I bit my finger to test my teeth. I would probably have trouble with a tough piece of meat, but otherwise I felt ready to eat.

I was glad, then, when Captain Mindy and Shiaraqa finally came to tell me to put my own clothes back on. Shiaraqa smiled when he translated for Captain. “She says we will fly home soon, but first we must go eat at the place they call the chow hall. If you are feeling well enough, you can have as much food as you like. They have everything. It is almost like a whole bazaar of food, all for free!” Najib raised his eyebrows at the interpreter.

After I dressed, we followed Captain Mindy and Shiaraqa across the base to a wooden building. Inside, Captain Mindy held up a piece of paper and led us to the front of a long line of soldiers. “Don’t worry,” she said through Shiaraqa. “You’ll love it.”

Captain gave us each our own plastic trays. We went through a long, clean room with a shiny tiled floor, and passed a glass case filled with different hot dishes. I didn’t see any food I recognized and felt my stomach gurgle with hunger and nervousness.

Shiaraqa held his tray up for the woman behind the counter and asked for something. Then he turned to my brother and me and pointed at the various foods. “This is called a hamburger. It is made from cow meat and you eat it between two pieces of American bread called buns.” He waved away the food in the next big pan. “Don’t eat that, they are called tenderloins but they are really just pig meat. The peas are okay. Here are smashed potatoes. I’m having fried chicken too. The Americans at Farah love this. It is very good.”

I shrugged at my brother, held my tray up, and asked Shiaraqa if he would get just a little piece of chicken for me. Then Captain Mindy said something. “She says to remember there is more food through there.” Shiaraqa nodded to an archway in the center wall of the big room. Najib pointed to the chicken and potatoes, hardly looking up as though he was afraid they would not give him any food.

Captain told us to follow her. We entered a large room full of Americans sitting at tables, talking and eating. In the cor
ner up on the wall was a television four times the size of the one I had been watching in the hospital. The American President was on, much larger than a normal person on that big screen. Then the show switched to two men sitting at a desk talking. All the while at the bottom of the screen, words or maybe numbers whizzed by. Captain waved at us and then pointed to another food line as if to ask me if I wanted anything.

“That’s ham. More pig meat,” Shiaraqa said, making sure Captain Mindy put down one of my meat selections. Captain stepped aside and let Shiaraqa pick the food. “Here is some roast beef.” He used a sort of plastic gripper to place the meat on a piece of bread. Then he used a different plastic gripper to put on some lettuce and still another for a slice of tomato. When he was finished, he put another piece of bread on top of the stack and smiled. “The Americans call this a
sandwich
.”

“Sandwich,”
I whispered. Najib made a sandwich for himself. Then we all selected drinks from a refrigerator and sat down at a table near another glass case full of something Captain Mindy called
pie
.

It was time to test my mouth and teeth. Captain, Shiaraqa, and Najib all ate quickly for a few minutes, but I took my time, lifting the sandwich the way Captain Mindy held hers. I brought it up, opened my mouth, and bit down on one corner. My teeth were a little sore, so I had to eat slowly and carefully, but it was working! My front teeth cut through the food until I had a bite in my mouth and could chew.
The sandwich was cold, but the flavors of all the foods in the stack mixed well. I placed my lips on the rim of the can of soda and tried drinking. I could hold the sweet soda in my mouth without tilting my head back. I could eat and drink like everyone else. Nobody was staring at me as they did when I used to have to eat like a bird. Nobody in the whole crowded hall even noticed me.

Captain Mindy eventually said something, though. “She says you are eating very well. That is very good,” Shiaraqa said.

We ate the rest of the meal in that loud chow hall without speaking, and by the time I finished all my food, I was very full. The soda I drank was not quite as sweet as Zam Zam, but it was more bubbly, and made me feel as though I might burst.

Finally, Captain looked at her watch and said it was time to go. She led us through the double doors. Next to the walls on either side of us were two large buckets almost as big as me. These buckets were lined with open plastic bags, and Captain Mindy showed us how to scrape any food we had not eaten into the buckets before we put our trays on a small table. I had only one chicken bone to put in the can.

At that moment a soldier came out with his tray, picking his teeth. He nodded at Captain before he scraped his extra food into the bucket. I watched him dump out a whole sandwich and a banana. How could he do it? There were too many poor and hungry Afghans for us to throw away
food. Wasting it was considered almost a crime. If somehow there was food left that spoiled so that it could not be eaten, we still saved it to feed to our cow, Torran. But there in the big black plastic bag were kilos and kilos of perfectly good food.

I looked at Najib, who must have been as disgusted as I was, because he shook his head. Captain and Shiaraqa, on the other hand, walked on by like nothing had happened. We followed them out of the building and across the base, to where we would wait for our helicopter.

The flight home was much like our first flight, bored Americans sleeping and Shiaraqa and Najib moving around trying to get the best views. I sat in my seat feeling tired but excited as the moment for showing off my fixed lip to my family drew closer and closer.

After the helicopter touched down outside the south gate of the American base at Farah, Captain Mindy walked Najib and me to the front gate and out to Baba’s car. Through Shiaraqa she repeated the instructions for keeping my mouth clean and for the cream I was supposed to put on my lip every day so I wouldn’t get sick. She looked at me in a kind way that reminded me of Meena, or my mother, or Zeynab.

A few days ago, I was just an ugly girl from a small village with a mangled mouth. Now I’d flown around the skies in an American helicopter. I’d walked around their Kandahar base. My mouth was fixed. Even with the swelling, I looked almost
normal. And I had the Americans, as ignorant and wasteful as they were, to thank.

“Tashakor,” I said, wishing I could think of better words, in Dari or in English, to express how I felt.

Captain Mindy put her arms around me. This time, I hugged her back. She said some kind words to me in English. Shiaraqa did not translate. No translation was needed.