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“I need to know, Winston.”
“Know what?”
“All of it. Who is she? Did you know her before you were captured? How
long have you been...married...?” Sounded like she gritted her teeth on the last word. “Where is she now? Have you been in contact with her since you got back?” Her voice broke then.
Muting the television, he stared at the nondescript beige wall, wishing he’d died that day in the desert, right beside Danny.
“Her name is Afsoon.”
“Afsoon.” Bitterness mixed with tears. It was a sound he would never forget.
“I told you that I went to the village as a traitor to my country...”
“Posing as one, yes.”
The distinction—that she made it even after knowing what he’d done to her, to their marriage—didn’t surprise him. Emily was Emily. One in a million.
Which was why, once he’d met her, he’d never cared to seriously look at another woman.
“I told you that they tested me, the first test being that I kill a US soldier and bring them the body, as a sign of my loyalty.”
“Yes. Danny. You used Danny’s body, dressed in your uniform.” Her tone was stronger. And yet...unknown to him. Lacking in whatever made her Emily.
And he wondered, as he watched a quarterback complete a relatively simple pass, if he’d been sounding that way to her all these months.
While she’d stood by him. Still believing.
If only he’d been able to hold himself in check for a little while longer. Just until her belief had been challenged as his had. He’d so badly wanted her to see, to look at him and know that their childhood fantasies had been just that. Then he wouldn’t have had to tell her all of this. They could have remained friends more easily that way.
And she wouldn’t be sitting home alone so desperately hurting.
He went for a third beer. Uncapped it. Downed half the bottle.
“The remote village I was in was controlled by Taliban sympathizers. Many of their customs... They’re hard for anyone raised in Western civilization to understand.”
He’d lived among it and still didn’t get it. And prolonging things wasn’t making this any easier. He just had to tell her.
“Marriages are commonly arranged, with the groom or his family paying the bride’s family. I didn’t have any way to pay for a bride, but they wanted me to have my own woman. They ‘gifted’ me with a bride about six months after I’d joined them. I determined that it would blow my cover if I didn’t comply.”
They’d have known he wasn’t truly one of them if he hadn’t accepted the gift.
“So you were married, living with her, sleeping with her for a year and a half?”
The pain in her tone burned through him.
“Are you familiar with bacha posh?”
Silence followed his question—a nonanswer to her own. And then, “No.” Even with just the one word, he could tell she was crying.
All of this misery couldn’t be good for the child.
“It’s a fairly common and accepted custom in parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan where a family without a boy child raises one of their daughters in that role. She is dressed like a boy, has her hair cut short, and is then allowed in society, to escort her young sisters who have no brother to escort them. She’s allowed to attend school with the other boys and to play sports, sometimes, too.”
He’d had no idea...until he’d met Afsoon.
“When the girl reaches puberty, however, she’s thrust back into the female role.”
