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Mateo just holds me firmly in his arms as the sobs wracking my body slowly still. I remain pressed against his heart as I finally start to externally process. “It’s just so unfair. Samira already lost her husband fighting with the US Army against the Taliban. And now she loses her son because we can’t even get him out. The people that helped our country, we can’t even get them out to safety. It’s so unfair to Samira. To all the Samiras out there.”
Tears are streaming down my face again as I step back to look up at Mateo. He swipes both thumbs across my cheeks and asks, “What do you need, Lana? Do you need me to just keep standing here holding you? Do you need me to come up with a plan for you to get home? Whatever you need me to do, I’m here.”
Fresh tears spill out of my eyes and trail down to his hands still holding my face. “I can’t think straight right now. Can you take over thinking for me?” He nods and kisses a tear from my cheek before pulling me back into his warm embrace. With one hand he pulls out his phone and starts sending text messages as I just cling to him like a life preserver.
A few minutes later, he puts his phone back in his pocket and peers down at me. “Are you good to walk back to AOPi now? Amaya and Teegan are taking care of contacting your professors about missing class tomorrow, and they’re packing a bag for you. I texted your mom, and I’m going to drive the four of us in your car to KC once we’re all packed, okay?”
My view of Mateo’s face blurs as more tears well up. I’m surprised there’s any moisture left in me to produce tears, but here we are. “Thank you for taking care of me,” I whisper.
We walk back to AOPi, where I’m met with more tearful hugs from Amaya and Teegan. Mateo takes my keys and leaves to go pack a bag for himself before coming back to pick us up. My best friends have already taken care of everything for me, which is good because my body feels like a shell with no brainpower controlling it.
Thirty minutes later, we’re all sitting quietly in the car, pulling onto the highway out of Brooklyn. Mateo is driving and holding my hand in the passenger side. From the backseat, Teegan takes my phone and cues up Maverick City Music to play over the Bluetooth, filling the heavy silence in the car.
This is so unfair. This is so unfair. This is so unfair. The simple phrase loops on repeat through my mind, filling my body with alternating rushes of grief and rage. I picture the love mixed with sadness on Samira’s face as she showed me photos of Hassan over Christmas break. I lean my head back, eyes closed as yet another round of tears wells up.
Teegan reaches a hand up to squeeze my shoulder, and Amaya prays out loud for Samira, Zahra, and their family, as well as for my mom and me. I hear Teegan sniffling behind me, and although my heart is breaking, it’s simultaneously bandaged up by this car full of love and support.
My dad immediately opens the front door when we pull into the driveway. I run up the porch steps straight into his arms. “How’s Mom?” I whisper as he hugs me.
“You know your mom. She’s trying to be strong for everyone, for Samira and Zahra, for you. But she’s absolutely crushed,” my dad says softly, squeezing me tighter. “She’s in the kitchen cleaning the oven or some other unnecessary task to keep her hands occupied.”
I walk inside as my dad thanks Amaya, Teegan, and Mateo for coming. Sure enough, Mom’s head is buried inside the oven, the racks soaking in the sink. “We’re here, Mom,” I say, not wanting to startle her. She stands up and faces me, wiping her hands on her apron. She just looks at me for a few seconds before her face crumples, and we cry into each other’s shoulders.
Late Sunday afternoon, we’re driving back to Brooklyn after a heavy weekend in KC. I’m playing back the time in my mind as I watch the Kansas plains roll past my window. My mom and I spent most of Friday with Samira and Zahra. We returned home Friday night to a spotless house and dinner waiting for us.
Saturday morning, I woke up feeling restless, like I needed to do something practical, so I called the industrial laundry company Samira works for to beg them to give her a week of paid leave so she could grieve without worrying about not being able to pay her bills. It was the smallest of victories, but at least I was able to tell her she had the next week off of work.
Samira’s family in Afghanistan didn’t have strong enough Internet signal to video call her for Hassan’s funeral, so they recorded videos and sent them to her later from a stronger Wi-Fi spot. All of us went to her apartment, along with some other Afghan families from the community, to be there for her as she watched them Saturday afternoon. When it became too much for Zahra, I took her to a nearby coffee shop for some hot cocoa and cookies, along with Mateo, Amaya, and Teegan.
We all returned home Saturday evening feeling heavy. We half-heartedly made small talk, but no one was really in the mood to converse much. I excused myself and went outside to call Elena, someone I knew would understand the angst of the situation.
“We have to do something, Elena,” I told her after summarizing the events. “This shouldn’t have happened. Our Afghan allies should have more peace, more certainty and stability by now. Not this.”
I know she’s likely heard countless heart-rending stories from other Afghan families, but still she empathized with me as I shared. She, of all people, understood my driving need for action.
My exhausted body must have fallen asleep at some point along the drive to Townsend, because I wake to the sensation of Mateo’s knuckles brushing against my cheek, his voice quietly calling me out of slumber. I blink slowly, hearing Amaya and Teegan at the trunk unloading our bags.
Tender compassion has taken up permanent residence in Mateo’s eyes this weekend, hugging me with comfort every time I look at him. I lean across the console and press a long kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for being with me,” I whisper before opening my car door.
Mateo comes around to my side to hand me my keys. He envelops me in his arms and says, “You have Teegs and Amaya here, but I’m on standby. If you need me, just text, and I’ll be back to you in minutes, okay?”
I head inside with Teegan and Amaya, turning to wave at Mateo as he drives away in his truck. Because we all missed classes on Friday, we have plenty of work to catch up on. We spread out in our room, laptops open. “Hey Teegs, thanks so much for missing a day of student teaching on such short notice,” I tell her once we’re settled. “I’m sure that’s stressful.” She waves me off, reiterating how important I am to her.
I find an email with an attachment in my inbox from Aaron. Clicking it open, I read his message. Hey Lana, when you missed class Friday I texted Teegan and she filled me in. I took extra good notes and attached them for you. I’m praying for you and your friends. - Aaron
My eyes sting as I open the attachment and find incredibly detailed notes. That really was a thoughtful gesture. I have so many people in my corner fighting for me and lifting me up. It only makes me more determined than ever to be that person for vulnerable people who need it most.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ispend a lot of early mornings at Bookafe or Raelynn’s when I wake up unable to sleep. I reread Psalm 62 so many times, I basically have it memorized. My journal fills up with rambling thoughts and lamenting prayers as I try to untangle all of my frustration at Samira’s situation.
The cutting pain dulls over time, aided by getting back into routines and a full schedule. I also channel the ache into action, organizing people to call legislators and devoting even more hours to my pre-law school studying. The need to feel like I’m contributing to the cause of justice feels all-encompassing. I reach out to Elena and volunteer to help craft email campaigns each week for constituents to send to Congress about a variety of issues.
I don’t tell Shaista about Samira’s son, because the last thing she needs is borrowed trauma heaped upon her own. But I do hug her extra tightly each Tuesday evening.
I’m grateful for the routine of weekly Arrow meetings in addition to church to keep me focused on my faith in the midst of discouragement. I arrive early to the first meeting in February on welcome team duty, trying to come up with a lighthearted name tag question.
Peeling labels off and handing them to a group of giggling girls, I glance up and see Aaron heading my way. As apprehensive as I was that first day seeing Aaron in class, it’s turned out to be a good thing having class together, I think. He’s at least acted less and less awkward each time I’ve mentioned Mateo in front of him. I’m grateful that we had the forced opportunity to patch things up so we can leave Townsend as friends.
