A Long Way from Home (5 page)

Chapter 10

Colin noticed the girl across the aisle looking his way, her gaze troubled.
She's worried,
he thought. He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile, although he had no clue what was going on himself.

Colin turned to his mother. “Mom, what do you suppose is happening?”

His mother closed her eyes. “I don't know, Colin. I already told you that.”

Colin picked up his book. No use talking to Mom when she had one of her headaches. In the hours since they'd landed at Gander, he'd heard scraps of information. There were rumors that the plane had been hijacked, that the hijackers and the police were working out a deal. They were saying that all over the United States, planes were being hijacked and flown into buildings. Mom had tried to use her cell phone to call home, but was unable to make a connection. She got a Canadian operator who told her that all lines to the U.S. were blocked.

Colin tried to concentrate on his book. When the captain made his announcement, he had just finished reading about how Odysseus's son, Telemachus, left in the night to go in search of his father. Now, he was at the part in the story where Odysseus and his men arrived on the island of Aeolid, home of Aelus, guardian of the wind. Aelus and his family welcomed the visitors with kindness and hospitality. Everyday was a holiday on the island, with banquets, feasting, and much gaiety.

Darkness was falling by the time a set of portable steps was brought to the door of the plane. “Thank God,” Catherine said. “Finally we can disembark.” She picked up her purse from under the seat. Colin got his knapsack from the overhead compartment.

“Are we going to a hotel?” he asked as they followed a line of passengers across the tarmac to customs and immigration.

“I don't know,” his mother answered, wearily. “We may have to sleep in the airport.”

At customs, a man scanned them with a metal detector. Their carry-on luggage was opened and searched. Colin watched as his mom's makeup, fingernail polish, wallet, and appointment book tumbled out.

A woman with a clipboard directed them down a long hallway. As they turned the corner, Colin saw men and women in red-and-white vests. He knew they were from the Red Cross because last year, volunteers had come to his school to talk about how they helped victims of earthquakes, floods, and other disasters. Colin pulled his mother's sleeve. “Why do we need the Red Cross?” he whispered, feeling a rush of panic.

Mom didn't answer.

A volunteer handed them each a bag containing a sandwich and bottle of water.

Gratefully, Colin accepted the food. Were they victims of a disaster now? Would they ever be able to go back home to New York? A lump rose in his throat, nearly choking him.

Women hurried by with sleeping babies and crying children. So many people: men wearing turbans, women in burqas and headscarves. All around them, people spoke in languages Colin didn't understand. Everyone looked tired and frightened.

The people at the desks and luggage counters had accents like Aunt Bea, and they kept talking about someone named Buddy.

“Buddy over there will take care of you, look.”

“Tell Buddy he forgot his passport.”

“Go see Buddy, he'll fix you up.”

The woman with the clipboard led them outside where rows of school buses lined the parking lot. A number of local volunteers stood by ready to help. “They're taking the passengers to a shelter,” one of them explained.

Shelter? But shelters are for animals and homeless people, aren't they?
Colin turned to his mother. She looked ready to keel over.

One of the volunteers must have thought the same thing. She came to Catherine and gently touched her shoulder. “You okay, my dear?”

“Headache,” Catherine mumbled.

“Oh, my dear. Must be terrible traveling with a bad head.” The woman glanced at her clipboard. “Passengers from your flight are being bussed to Gambo,” she said. “That's about a half-hour drive from here.” She put a hand on Catherine's arm. “Tell you what. Since you're not feeling well, I'll put you on a bus to the Gander Academy.”

Gander Academy? They were going to a school?

“Thank you,” Catherine whispered gratefully. “I just need to lie down.”

The woman led them to one of the busses. After a word with the driver, she motioned for Colin and his mother to get on. Catherine sagged down in her seat, rested her head against the window, and closed her eyes. Colin stared out into the darkness.

More volunteers met them at the school. A table with juice packs and bottles of water was set up in the foyer. No sooner were they inside than a woman approached. The nametag stuck on her sweater said
Jennifer
. “You the lady with the bad head?” she asked. “I got a call from the airport.”

Catherine nodded.

“Follow me,” she said, leading them down a long hallway. “I'll put you both in one of the smaller classrooms where it's quieter.”

Through open doors, Colin saw air mattresses and sleeping bags scattered across classroom floors. They followed Jennifer to the end of the corridor. She opened the door of a small classroom. All the overhead lights had been turned off except for one near the door. “This is where you'll sleep,” she said, ushering them inside.

Glancing around the dim room, Colin saw that desks had been shoved against the wall to make room for cots and mattresses.

“There are four other families in here,” Jennifer said. “All women with children.”

Although it was only a little past nine o'clock, the families were already bedded down for the night. Jennifer led them to a cot in the corner of the room. Beside it was a mattress. “You take the mattress,” Catherine told Colin. “I'll take the cot.” She kicked off her shoes.

Jennifer handed them blankets. “Not the Hilton,” she said, almost apologetically, “but there won't be any more people sharing this room. I'll turn out the light.”

“Thank you,” Catherine muttered.

Colin lay on the mattress. Despite his weariness, he couldn't fall asleep. Troubled thoughts tumbled through his head. It was a long time before he finally drifted off.

Chapter 11

Rabia glanced around the large room at the molded plastic chairs and pale green walls. After going through customs, they had been brought here by a woman named Emma. “Someone will come for you shortly, Ray-bia,” she said, pronouncing her name, incorrectly
.

“
Rah-bee-ah,”
she corrected silently.
My name is Rah-bee-ah
, but she smiled and nodded politely at the woman. The woman smiled back.

“Where will they take us?” Rabia asked, feeling a stab of anxiety.

The woman shrugged.

There were about a dozen other people in the room, most of them old. Some were in wheelchairs. An elderly man coughed into a handkerchief.

Why did they bring us here?
Rabia wondered, feeling her heart flutter with panic.
Why?
Rabia heard someone say that the United States was under attack. What did that mean? If America
had
been attacked, would they still be able to go there, or would they be put on a plane back to Pakistan? They were not citizens of Pakistan and didn't have passports. Even worse, if they were returned to Afghanistan, it would be the end of them.

“Gander, Newfoundland,” Rabia whispered.
How far are we from California?
she wondered.
How many more miles to freedom?

If only she could find a phone, she would call Fatima, her caseworker at the relief organization. She might know something. Fatima had given Rabia her number and told her to call if there was a problem. Rabia had passed a bank of payphones when she came through customs. All had signs on them and a man stood, motioning people to keep moving. He kept repeating “Out of order.”

A girl came into the room and took a seat across from Rabia. She stared in disbelief at the sight of her. Her hair was orange and green like a parrot, and stood up in spikes. Surely no one was born with hair like that. The girl wore baggy shorts and a shirt that came down to her knees. She took an object from her pocket and began punching it with her fingers. She put it to her ear. A wireless phone, Rabia realized. She had heard of such things.

Rabia listened with interest to the conversation.

“He goes, ‘Why did you dye the dog purple?' And I'm like, ‘It's my dog and I'll dye him any color I want.' And he's like, ‘That's puppy abuse.' And I'm like, ‘Well, if you're so concerned, why don't you call the SPCA?' And he goes… ‘Well, you know they won't do anything.' And I'm like…‘Well, duh….'”

What a strange conversation,
Rabia thought.

“I'll call you back, Brittany,” the girl said. She glared at Rabia. “What?” she said, folding the phone.

“What has happened?” Rabia asked. “Why are we being held here?”

“How would I know?” Scowling, the girl turned her back on Rabia.

What a strange, rude girl,
Rabia thought.
Probably she is American and upset because her country is under attack.

Rabia stretched out her leg, wincing from the throbbing ache where her prosthesis was attached. She needed a new one; this one was cracked in places and no longer fit properly.

Emma returned to the room followed by a young couple. “Jim and Daisy Hayes,” she called, looking around.

An elderly man stood up. “That's us, Daisy,” he said. “C'mon, dear.” He reached for his wife's arm.

“This is Adam and Darlene House,” Emma told them. “They're going to take you to their home.” Rabia watched them shake hands and follow the couple out the door.
Is that what we are waiting for
—
someone to take us home?
Rabia wondered. Then another sobering thought jumped into her mind.
What if no one comes for us?

Rabia needed to go to the toilet. Maybe Emma could show her where it was. She stood up and walked toward her. “I need go…” She could not remember the English word. Sometimes when she didn't know the English, she would mime what she meant, but not this time. She felt her cheeks flush.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Emma asked.

Bathroom. Yes, that was it.
Rabia nodded gratefully.

“Come, I'll show you where it is.”

The bathroom was large and bright with beige and brown wall tiles. A mirror ran the length of the wall. Rabia counted six sinks, all with gleaming silver faucets. She leaned toward the mirror and studied her reflection. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and her face looked thin and haggard.

Rabia was in one of the stalls when she heard two women come into the room.

“Imagine, killing thousands of innocent people,” one of them said.

“Some people are pure evil,” the second woman replied.

“President Bush should go in there and drop a bomb. Blow them all to pieces.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the other woman. “There could be terrorists on the planes for all we know.”

Is that why we were kept on the runway so long after landing?
Rabia wondered. She waited until the two women left, then found her way back to the waiting room, a feeling of dread growing larger with every step she took. She only knew one thing for certain: Whatever was happening was not good.

More people arrived, and more names were called from the list. Finally, a woman and young boy about Rabia's age came into the room. The woman was wearing denim pants and a checked shirt. Her dark hair was cropped so short that Rabia mistook her for a man. She had noticed that a lot of women dressed like men in this country.

“Oh, my dear, so sorry to keep everybody waiting,” the woman said. “Kevin, my husband, was gone with the van. It's been so busy… what with all the…”

“This is Millie Keating,” Emma cut in. “And her son, Jason. Millie's going to take you to her home.” She turned her attention to Rabia's family. “And this,” she said, “is the Atmar family — Rabia, Karim, and their mother, Ayeesha. They're from Afghanistan.”

Millie Keating held out her hand. “So nice to meet you all.”

Jason gave them a wide smile.

“Rabia,” Millie said. “Now that's a name you don't hear too often. I must tell Tanya, my niece. She's having a baby,” she explained, “and they've gone through dozens of baby books searching for unusual names. Can't make up their minds. They knows 'tis a girl. Had an ultrasound done weeks ago.”

“Mom,” Jason said. “I doubt they care.” He smiled at Rabia.

“Help the girl with her luggage,” Millie told him.

“Is okay,” Rabia said, clutching the drawstring pouch. Everything she owned was in the bag, and she was not going to let it out of her sight.

They followed Millie and Jason to the parking lot where a minivan was parked.

“Some nice weather,” Millie said. “Can't remember a fall that's been this nice.”

Rabia sniffed the clean fresh air. It smelled wonderful. And there was something else. “It is so quiet.”

“Quiet?” Millie gave her a puzzled look.

Rabia could hear the hum of cars on the highway, a dog barking in the distance. In Kabul, there was always the sound of gunfire. Bombs and rockets rained down regularly. During the civil war, they fell night and day, destroying buildings and killing people. Many times Rabia and her family had scurried for shelter in the middle of the night.

Jason opened the front passenger door and gestured for Ayeesha to get in. He pulled open the side door, and Rabia and Karim climbed into the back.

Millie got behind the wheel, and started the engine. “Your family will be staying in our basement apartment,” she told Ayeesha, as she backed the van out of the parking lot. “Our tenant won't be moving in until the end of the month.”

Mama looked confused, so Rabia translated in Dari. “Mama does not understand English very well,” she explained.

“But you certainly speak very well, my dear,” Millie said.

“My father. He teach me,” Rabia said proudly.

“And what about your brother?” She turned her head slightly. “Karim, is it?”

“Karim…he does not talk.”

“Oh.” Millie said. “Oh, my!” Thankfully, she didn't ask questions, and Rabia didn't go into any detail. Instead, she stared out the window at the passing scenery.

Millie drove to a neighborhood with tidy houses and carefully trimmed lawns. A few minutes later, she pulled the van into a circular driveway in front of a large brick house with a double garage. Jason got out and opened the passenger door for Mama. Rabia and Karim climbed out the back.

“Jason,” Millie said, “could you show them to the apartment?” She turned to Rabia. You'll no doubt be needing to rest. If yeh needs anything, my love, give me a shout, okay?”

“Tashakor
,”
Rabia said. “Thank you.”

“This way,” Jason said, leading them around the back of the house. He opened the door to a small foyer, then another to the apartment. Neither door was locked. “It's small,” he said, switching on the living room light.

Rabia took in her surroundings. The room had a sofa, two chairs, and a small television on a stand. It was much bigger than the room they'd shared in Kabul.

“Sofa converts into a bed,” Jason said, pulling down the back to demonstrate.

There was a kitchenette with cupboards, sink, fridge, stove, and a small table with four chairs. Jason opened the fridge. “Mom left egg sandwiches,” he said. “There's cheese and fruit. Milk and sugar for tea.”

“Thank you,” Rabia said. She was starting to feel hungry.

“In here's the bedroom,” Jason led them into a small room off the kitchen. The room had a double bed with a white ruffled spread. There was a small set of drawers, and a little table with a lamp and a telephone on it.

“Can I use this telephone?” Rabia asked. “I will make a…collect call.” Fatima had told her about collect calls and how to make them in case she needed to.

“That phone doesn't work yet,” Jason said. “But you can use the one upstairs. Come, I'll show you where it's to.”

“I try to call at the airport,” Rabia told him when they were outside. “The phones do not work.”

Jason shook his head. “That's what they wants people to believe. My stepfather works at the airport. He told me they wanted to get everyone through the airport as quickly as possible. Didn't want people stopping to use the phones.” He led Rabia up a set of concrete steps. “Made sure all the televisions were turned off too, they did. S'pose they thought the shock would be too much for most people.”

It must be very bad,
Rabia thought. “What happened?” She summoned up her courage to ask.

“You mean you don't know?”

“Yes, I hear something…an attack….”

“Terrorists flew planes into two buildings in New York. A lot of people were killed.”

“Why do you take us to your home? Why do we not go with the others?”

Jason looked down at her prosthesis. “I s'pose it's because of your…disability. Families with elderly or disabled members are being sent to private homes.”

“I am not disabled,” Rabia said firmly. What did this boy know? He had not seen her play soccer. Before the Taliban came with their silly rules, she had played soccer all the time and kept up with the others.

Jason shrugged. “Be thankful you don't have to stay at a shelter. The apartment's small, but at least you'll have privacy.”

The boy was right, Rabia realized. Crowds frightened Karim. “Thank you,” she said. “Your family is kind.”

Jason nodded, absently. “What happened to your foot?”

“In Afghanistan, I stepped on landmine.”

“Geez.” Jason frowned. He opened the screen door and led her through a large foyer into a well-furnished room. The walls were painted a soft gray and the wooden floors gleamed. A large painting of the ocean hung over the fireplace.

“Phone's in there.” Jason gestured toward a small kitchen where a phone hung on the wall.

There were no people around, but Rabia heard a buzz of conversation coming from one of the other rooms. She dialed the operator and gave her Fatima's number, exactly the way she had been instructed. The phone rang twice before a recording cut in.
All circuits to the United States are busy.
Sighing, Rabia hung up.

Rabia knelt in front of the television. An image of Osama bin Laden filled the screen. He was wearing his military uniform and holding a rifle. Mama looked questioningly at Rabia. The picture changed to a panel of reporters. “It appears that bin Laden was behind the attacks,” one of them said.

Rabia sucked in her breath. As she listened, she became more and more disturbed. “Bin Laden and his followers see this as a religious war between Islam and America,” she translated for Mama.

“People have been murdered in the name of Islam?” Mama's dark eyes flashed, and for a moment she seemed like her old self. “Osama bin Laden has made a mockery of our faith. Made a mockery of all that is good and holy.”

Rabia nodded, uneasily.

Mama turned from the television and went to the stove to pour tea.

Rabia moved to the sofa, her eyes riveted on the television. A reporter was talking to a man in a blue suit. Words crawled across the bottom of the screen. On a split screen, Rabia could see the devastation left by the destruction of the towers. Smoke still rose from the site. It reminded her of the bombings in Kabul.

“Do you think there will be a backlash against Muslims because of this?” the reporter asked.

Rabia turned up the sound, her heart skipping beats.

“It's hard to know just how people will react,” the man in the blue suit replied. “Of course, we all remember what happened after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Japanese Americans were rounded up and put in prison.”