Flowers from Afghanistan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

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  Thank you…

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  Flowers from Afghanistan

  Suzy Parish

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Flowers from Afghanistan

  COPYRIGHT 2018 by Suzy Parish

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given away to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  Cover Design by Nicola Martinez

  Cover photo courtesy of Stacy Defourneaux Photography

  Green Beans Coffee used with permission of Green Beans Coffee Company

  Zarbul Masalha: 151 Afghan Dari Proverbs by Captain Edward Zellem used with permission of Captain Edward Zellem

  No Dogs Get Left Behind used with permission of Save the Pups, Inc

  Harbourlight Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

  www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

  Harbourlight Books sail and mast colophon is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

  Publishing History

  First Harbourlight Edition, 2018

  Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-5223-0044-1

  Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-5223-0042-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  In 2011, my husband, Investigator Chet Williams, set out on assignment to train Afghan nationals in police techniques. His e-mails painted vivid sights and sounds that inspired me to write Flowers from Afghanistan. The attack scenes are very close to what my husband experienced. The story of Mac’s running shoes is an actual event.

  Chet, you were the eyes and ears necessary for this book. You are the one who described starry nights in Afghanistan and made me fall in love with children like Bashir.

  I love you, babe, for your sacrifice for your country and your family.

  For the lights of my life; my husband Chet, our children; Stacy, Christi, Ashley, and our grandchildren, Simon, Jack, and Cora.

  For Jesus Christ, The Light of the World.

  1

  Huntsville, Alabama-2010

  “Little Mac, where are you?”

  Giggles came from behind an old sheet draped over our breakfast nook table, a makeshift tent. I pretended to look behind the sofa. “Are you behind the couch?”

  More giggles.

  “Are you under the coffee table?” I crawled on my belly, looking in the 3-inch space between the coffee table and floor. “Nope. I don’t see you.”

  Infectious laughter.

  I crawled over to the table, slowly, slowly, calling his name until‒“Gotcha!” I threw the sheet back and grabbed him in my arms, tumbling and tickling him until his laughter bounced off the walls.

  “I thought I heard my two favorite guys!” Sophie came in from the kitchen, pulling an oven glove off her hand and laying the mitt on the table. The yeasty smell of warm bread breezed in her wake. “I’m having photos made from your going away party. The sergeant’s words about you were very touching. I hadn’t heard stories about a few of those calls you were on. How was the office party today?”

  “Good. Chief even came by to wish me luck.”

  “Luck. I hope you have more than luck. I’m praying for God’s protection.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t start in on me about God-stuff again.”

  Sophie turned away. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “I promised the guys I’d bring Little Mac by the barbershop to visit and get a haircut.”

  “Wait until tomorrow. You’ll have more time,” Sophie said.

  If I’d listened to her, things would be different.

  I ignored her request and scooped him off the floor, dressed him in khaki shorts, a blue T-shirt, and red sneakers. My little man was going for a haircut at the same barbershop all my fellow police officers on first shift frequented. “We won’t be long,” I said.

  “If you won’t listen to me, then at least take a picture of us before you go. I’ll miss these curls.” She wound her finger around a bit of his strawberry blond bangs and kissed his forehead. Sophie hugged Little Mac into her lap.

  He squirmed.

  “Hand him his pinwheel. That always settles him down.”

  I found my son’s favorite toy on the end table and handed it down to Sophie, trying to center their faces on my phone. “Say, Pumpernickel!” The name of that bread always made Little Mac laugh.

  “Pump-a-ni-coo,” he repeated in his squeaky voice. Little Mac’s face spread into another of his infectious grins. The dimple on his left cheek deepened as he spun the pinwheel. The blue blades threw glints of light onto the floor and ceiling. He clutched the plastic toy to his chest like it was a treasure.

  I bought it for him when Sophie was still carrying him in her womb. I was amazed it survived two years of his rough play. He graduated to toy cars and building sets, but the pinwheel was still his favorite. I snapped a picture, a light flashed, illuminating the room. They were frozen in time on my phone. I’d won the argument but wasted precious time. The barbershop was only four blocks away, but it closed in thirty minutes. I scooped Little Mac from Sophie’s lap.

  “Babe?”

  I stopped mid-step at the door.

  “Drive careful. It looks like a storm is on its way.”

  “Will do,” I said, blowing Sophie an air kiss. I hurried outside carrying Little Mac, letting the screen door slam behind me. Lightning flashed in the west. I pulled away in a cloud of dust.

  Little Mac kicked his feet against the back of my double cab truck seat, in time to his favorite song.

  I sang along, though Sophie wouldn’t have called it singing. I put on my turn signal and stopped at the red light. When I hit my brake, my cell phone slid across the front seat. I grabbed it, and as I did, a text message flashed. My breath caught. It was the name of a first shift dispatcher who’d sent me on most of my calls. I thought I’d made it clear when she approached me at my going-away party. I wasn’t interested in any relationship outside my marriage. I fumbled with the button to erase the message.

  The light turned green.

  I hit the gas. How did s
he have the guts to text‒

  Out of the corner of my eye, a flash.

  The loud bang of two vehicles colliding reverberated in my head, then grinding metal on metal. Airbags deployed.

  I coughed and blinked to clear my eyes of the white cloud that filled the truck.

  Smoke? Are we on fire? No, it’s powder from air bags.

  The truck stopped spinning. I tore myself from the seatbelt, grabbed my pocket knife and cut Little Mac free from his car seat harness. “Hold on, son!”

  Red lights flashed. No siren. No traffic sounds. Only the fear-filled bass of my heart and my own ragged breaths. It seemed to take forever to reach the ambulance. I tucked Little Mac’s small body against my chest. Focus. A few more feet. I ran until I threatened to push my lungs and legs past their limit of endurance. I handed my two-year-old son off to the waiting paramedic and jumped in the back of the ambulance with them.

  Later all l could recall was his hand, so tiny, grasping my sleeve as if he were trying to do his part, too.

  2

  Huntsville, Alabama-2011

  Sophie hovered around me like those moths that fling themselves against the lights in ball fields. “I still don’t understand how you can leave for Afghanistan. It’s only been a year since…”

  I continued to sort my equipment into piles to pack. Socks, underwear, T-shirts. A plastic bag held my body building supplements.

  Sophie paced around my gear in the living room, her hands fluttering, clenching and unclenching.

  When I was a boy, I’d pick up those little moths, thinking I could save them. Instead, handling them rubbed the powder off their wings until they could no longer fly. I had to get away before I did the same thing to Sophie. “It’ll pay off the medical bills. Contract work as a police trainer is not the same as being military.”

  Her face crumpled.

  I dropped the pile of T-shirts I was packing and drew her into my arms, carefully so I wouldn’t rub off the imaginary powder. I cradled her face in my hands, made her look at me. “We can do this.”

  She was not buying it. She wrenched out of my arms. Redness crept up her neck, colored her cheeks. Who was I kidding? Sophie was no fragile moth. She was an iron butterfly.

  “Is that all you have to say? We can do this? Where is the ‘we’ Mac? Because all I see right now is the ‘you.’ You signed up for this mission. You know what I’m doing? I’m packing our little boy’s things and cleaning a room that will never be used by him again.”

  I could make order out of my clothes, but I had no answer for Sophie. Shame kept my gaze from seeking hers. I continued to pack. I was aware of Sophie’s voice in the background, but I wasn’t focused on what she was saying. In my head, I saw Little Mac’s curly hair covered in blood.

  “Mac? Did you hear what I said?”

  I shook my head to erase the image of Little Mac in my arms, his warmth pressed against my chest. “What?”

  “I’d like to escape, too. You aren’t the only one struggling. I’ll never watch Little Mac play baseball, never see him go to prom. Now I don’t have dreams. I barely sleep.”

  I twisted my face away, turned toward the wall so she wouldn’t see I was in torment. If there really was a hell, I was already there. I wasn’t escaping. I was serving a self-imposed sentence for killing our son.

  Sophie’s foot brushed against my backpack, and it toppled over. The bright blue fins of the pinwheel protruded from the side pocket. “You’re taking Little Mac’s pinwheel?”

  “It helps me feel close to him.”

  She didn’t have an answer for that. She took a deep breath, and her shoulders relaxed. Was she finally accepting my departure?

  When I picked up my running shoes, her forehead wrinkled in frustration.

  She changed the subject. “Where are your boots?”

  “My boots?”

  “You know, the ones they issued you?”

  “Oh, I don’t get those until I hit Arkansas. It’s where we’ll do our initial training, and our gear will be issued.”

  Her face clouded for a moment, and then a thoughtful look replaced frustration.

  “What?” I asked.

  She smiled and shook her head. Her blond hair swung across her face, and she flipped it away. She leaned over and hugged me. I guessed the cloudburst was over for the time being.

  “I’m not mad, but it’ll be lonely here. I know you feel you need to go, and I’ll be happy once those bills are paid. Maybe then we can heal.” She studied me intently, eyes full of hope. She twined her fingers through my red hair. It’d taken months to grow out, and I looked more like a surfer dude than an investigator. Sophie’s finger twirled a bit of hair at my temple.

  “You won’t get all this cut off, will you? I love your hair long.”

  “No. Contractors aren’t held to the same standards as active military.”

  Sophie’s hands moved to my shoulders. She leaned against me as if she were trying to hold on to us as a couple, as if she were savoring the moment. Instead of comforting me, the action made me nervous.

  “You know I wouldn’t go unless I had no other choice.” My heart beat rapidly. Was I convincing Sophie? Did she suspect I was responsible for Little Mac’s death? I had to get away where I could sort the nightmare in my head. That was why I chose Afghanistan. I couldn’t think of any place more unlike Huntsville’s rolling green mountains and parks full of families.

  Sophie shook my shoulders. “Mac? Did you hear what I just said? Hand me your running shoes. They’ll have to do.”

  I handed her my shoes and went back to work, stuffing items in my duffle bag.

  A few minutes later Sophie returned with a mysterious smile on her lips. She dropped the shoes in my lap.

  I’d learned when Sophie got an idea in her head it was best to comply, forget the argument, and file the questions.

  I should have paid more attention to those running shoes.

  3

  Kandahar, Afghanistan-2011

  My running shoes were white when I left Huntsville. I looked down, studied them. Tan against the plywood floor of the tent. I doubted they’d ever look the same again. I was no longer the same man who spoke vows to Sophie. I felt as filthy inside as my shoes looked. During the day Afghanistan took me away from the pain of causing Little Mac’s death. Nights were different. At night every black thought shrieked in my dreams.

  A knock at my tent door made me jump. I hadn’t been in camp very long, and any unexpected noise made me jittery.

  Travis, another of the police trainers, pushed his way into my room. From my seat on my gorilla box locker, his lanky runner’s frame loomed over me.

  “Hey, I noticed you’re using that thing for a chair.”

  “Yeah, well, the room was advertised as unfurnished.”

  Travis chuckled. “Come on.” He led me down the hallway into a small area we used as a snack room. It was sparsely furnished with a shelf, coffeepot, and college dorm fridge.

  Another of the instructors at the camp, one new to me, poured himself a mug of black coffee. The scorched odor of day old coffee overtook the small area. “What are you two up to?” He shook his head as if he were correcting unruly students.

  “Shelf building detail. You up for it?” Travis asked.

  “What? Did you destroy yours again?”

  Travis ignored the remark and nudged me toward the coffee-drinking dude. “Mac, this is Glenn Thurman. He’s an instructor at camp, but his unofficial position is procurement, at least in this tent.”

  I stuck out my hand, and Glenn’s engulfed it. Broad shouldered and square all over, he gripped like a vise. I tried not to let on, but it felt as if he was breaking my fingers. It was a challenge. I looked him in the eyes and didn’t break contact. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Glenn’s the old man around camp. Thirty-eight,” Travis said.

  Glenn grimaced. He released my hand and brushed shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. The haircut made him look younger than his years. B
ut he appeared to be a guy who’d gotten into one too many fist fights with life and lost. “So, we have shelves to build?”

  “Yep,” I said.

  Glenn swigged his coffee then winced. “Burned my tongue. Always do that.” He sauntered down the narrow, dark hallway, balancing his coffee mug. He stopped at the room across the hall from mine and shoved the door open. Glenn sat his cup down on a vintage keyhole desk. The top had swirls of chestnut stain, and it was decorated with bronze drawer pulls. He turned to us. “Wipe your feet.”

  Travis obediently backed up and wiped his feet on a small mat.

  What kind of pull did this Glenn guy have around here?

  The room was the same size as mine, but the similarity ended there. I bent down and ran my hand across a handmade, red and gold wool rug, framed in red diamond shapes. “This is incredible. Feels like velvet.”

  Glenn was on his belly, dragging boards from under the cot.

  “Where’d you get all this?” I asked.

  The dense carpet muffled Glenn’s voice. He felt around under the bedframe. “This is my home. I don’t have a wife to go back to like you guys, so I make the best of where I am.” He straightened and pulled more two-by-fours from under the bed. “Travis and I go on scouting missions to the dump. Occasionally, we come up with excellent finds.”

  “The rug?”

  “No, not that. That was a birthday gift to me. Top-of-the-line. Made by the locals.” A twitchy, sad smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  I couldn’t tell if he was proud of his bounty or wished he had a wife back in the States.

  He motioned to me. “Grab that hammer and nails.”

  The construction crew had a new member. We walked barely three feet across the hall and into my room.

  Glenn grunted disapprovingly when he saw the gorilla box and my books and other items piled on the floor. Embarrassment made heat creep up my neck. Back home, Sophie made fun of me for being compulsively organized. She wouldn’t recognize the mess I was living in now.

  “Hey, watch it. You daydreaming? I need help here,” Glenn said.

  His voice made me jump. It resounded like rusted hinges on an ancient barn door. I stepped back as a board sailed near my head, narrowly missed my chin. Either the caffeine kicked in, or Glenn savored the challenge of making a desk out of all this chaos. Flinging boards here, nails there, he handed me a two-by-four. “We’ve got to get you up to speed. Be right back.” A few seconds later, he was back with a short handsaw. “Travis, hold the end of this board across the gorilla box. We’re making a man’s desk.”