Serenity
Every day started the same. She woke up on a straw mat that didn’t do much to add to the comfort of her little room but it gave the illusion of keeping her off the packed dirt floor. There was a small bowl of dirty water (and a few pieces of hay) sitting on the lone piece of furniture in the room—a wooden bench. The scarf she wore in her hair became a makeshift washcloth used to wipe off her arms, legs and face. It didn’t do much to clean but it was all she had unless she made the long trip to the river.
Once that was done, she wrung the scarf and used the damp cloth to pull back her stringy blonde bangs. Then she changed her clothes (though they weren’t really her clothes). Today she wore a dark dress-like set made of thin cloth that was designed to keep the wearer from suffering in the heat. (She thought if that was truly the intent, the cloth would’ve been a paler color.) As was her daily wont, she wished for a change of unmentionables but settled for what she had.
After that, she’d shake out her mat before rolling it up and storing it beneath the bench. It was a cleaning habit she couldn’t help, even now. It wasn’t like it made a difference—there wasn’t anyone who cared or such a lack of space to necessitate it. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure she cared most days. But just like the washing, the cleaning added some semblance of normalcy to this life she lived. (If it could even be called that.)
It was around that point she usually made her first choice of the day. She could spend some time making marks on her bench—words and sentences if she was lucky (she only had her nails to use as tools, after all). If that wasn't appealing, she could close her eyes and travel inside herself to visit her "special place". Or, if she had the energy, she could take venture out of her room and into the real world. Usually she did some combination of the three, depending on how tired she was.
Today started slowly. She spent a couple of hours scratching at the bench, managing to make a whole sentence: Give me strength. With that in mind, she decided it was time for her outside adventure. She slipped on the pair of leather sandals by the door, though they little to assuage the blistering heat and often made rocky ground slipperier. Then she dabbed a bit of the dirty water on the back of her neck in a vain attempt to keep cool for at least a short amount of time.
Pushing open the poorly constructed wooden door, she stepped the main room. It was larger than her room with a worn wooden table that had bench seats not unlike the one in her room on both sides. There was a bowl of something on the table and she assumed it was for her. The room also passed for the kitchen with an old Dutch oven in the corner. There was an old woman at the stove who only gave her a peripheral glance before returning to her task of stirring the pot.
It was silent as she ate her food. She took the time to eat slowly, savoring every watery bit and undercooked vegetable there was to be had. It wasn’t every day she had something warm—it wasn’t every day they had wood for the fire. Hell, on the bad days, she often wouldn’t eat at all. (Thankfully, those days were mostly few and far between.) It wasn’t like she could complain, anyway—she wasn’t contributing much of anything to the home.
Useless, that’s what she was. How she felt.
::Thank you,:: she whispered, the strange language still tasting wrong in her mouth. Her accent was rubbish, too, she was certain. But she did what she could. It was all she had to offer.
She spread her dark scarf to cover her hair and stepped out into the blinding sunlight. The winds were blowing strong today but she hardly noticed the thin fabric of her sort of dress brushing against her legs. She’d grown used to the desert by then. She shielded her eyes and glanced around. There were a few people out and about, several more working and still more she knew remaining inside. That was the safest place to be, after all.
A boy a few years her junior came to her when she stepped into the light. ::Why do you stay here, outsider?:: he asked, tone accusing. ::You are not welcome.::
::No home to go,:: she replied slowly, aware her words were broken. ::You want me go; why?::
He sniffed, expression disdainful. ::Outsiders do not belong here. You should have never come.::
The boy shook his head, muttering choice words in Arabic as he moved away from her. She ignored him in favor of a brief trip into her happy place.
“Darling, it’s so good to see you again,” her mother cooed, reaching forward to gently tuck a stray blonde hair behind her ear.
Blinking her eyes open, she saw a young girl looking at her with a curious expression. ::What are you doing?:: she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
::No thing,:: she replied, trying to force a smile. ::I think.:: She pointed to her head to emphasize.
The little girl grinned. ::Boring!:: she announced. ::Come play with me, pale skin.::
Pouting, the child gave a nod and raced off.
She wondered how it would feel to be young and innocent again. How it would be if she could see her family in the flesh instead of in waking dreams.
An older woman carrying a heavy burden passed. She moved forward and took the basket from her, waving off her objections with a kind smile. ::Help?:: she offered in a placating tone. It would be so nice to feel useful, if only for a minute.
It was the sincerity that touched her the most. ::You are welcome,:: she said quietly, uncertain why her eyes were suddenly tearing.
She was about to leave when the old woman grabbed her wrist suddenly. ::Why did you come here? Does your family not miss you?::
Again, the sincerity moved her. ::I no have family. Family think…:: here, she mimed that she was dead by a shot to the head.
The horrified expression on the woman's face was all the confirmation she needed that the message had been received. ::And you do not tell them the truth?:: the woman asked curiously.
That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to burden the lady but it seemed wrong to lie to her. She was just so tiny and kind. Reminded her of her grandmother, if not a bit younger. ::I am to be soon. Want hurt them less.::
Now the woman appeared concerned. ::You are dying?::
She looked sadly at her hands. “Sometimes I think I'm already dead,” she whispered as she nodded.
The old woman placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ::I am sorry to hear that,:: she said kindly. ::Is that why you came here?::
She froze momentarily, memories racing through her mind. ::No, I come…:: She shook her head. ::Tall story.:: She emphasized its length with exaggerated gestures.
There was an understanding in the old woman’s eyes that more than crossed cultural lines. ::You will tell me some other time, then,:: she replied easily. ::Thank you, child, for all your help.::
Forcing a smile, she nodded. ::Happy to be helping. Very.:: She was surprised to find she actually meant it, too. The woman had shown her something she’d sorely been missing—kindness. With a wave, she headed out into the hot desert again.
The hike back to her hut wasn’t too long but it gave her time to think. About how she’d been in Mumbai when terrorists attacked. About how she’d landed in the hospital only to find out she was dying. Inoperable brain tumor with no hope. “You could go to America,” the doctor’s interpreter had offered kindly, “but they will tell you the same.” It was then that she’d decided it’d be easier to let her family off the hook than go home only to let them see her die again.
And then she’d come here. Come to this backwards place where she was as much a prisoner as a guest. No money, no language skills, losing more to the tumor each day… there were times she’d questioned her sanity for coming. She never would’ve come herself—never. But at the hospital, she’d had a roommate. A girl her age who went by Gia and they’d bonded over their similar circumstances. Gia was worse off, though (suffering from end stage throat cancer), and soon she was hardly able to speak.
One of her last days in the hospital, Gia had grabbed her urgently. “Find her,” she’d begged. “My father’s mother—tell her of my fate. Please.”
She hadn’t thought much of it when she promised to do just that. She’d wanted to comfort her friend. And she was glad she had, too, because just three days later Gia was gone. The next day, a letter came to her. It was from Gia explaining where to find her aging grandmother and how to get there. How to get to Afghanistan. It even had the Arabic words she was to say spelled out phonically for her. That was the moment she realized how much the promise had really meant.
“Well, shit,” were the first words she spoke as reality sunk in.
Soon she was discharged with explicit instructions to come back for pointless chemotherapy and radiation treatments. She spent what little money she had remaining—because a dead person can’t access ATMs—to travel to the small town in Afghanistan, no questions asked. There were risks, sure, but it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Her days were already marked. More than that, she’d made a promise to Gia. It was only right that she keep it.
The traveling was rough, getting to the grandmother’s village. There weren’t always roads to travel on or vehicles to travel inside. Food was scarce, water scarcer. And it was so hot but she had to stay covered. Always covered from head to toe. It was the law. (If sweat marks were the new fashion statement, though, she was going to be riding that wave in.) Eventually, she’d arrived. Dehydrated and dirty, exhausted and broken but she made it.
A few words of broken Arabic were all she knew then but, somehow, she found Gia’s grandmother. Then the moment of truth—she read the lines. She read them slowly and carefully, certain the grandmother wouldn’t be able to read them herself. The old woman’s crumpled form was all the confirmation she needed that her message had been received. All that work and for what? Destroying an old woman’s last hopes? Part of her wished she’d never come.
She’d intended to leave then—to leave and never return. She didn’t know where she’d go or to what end (she had no money and she was dying, after all) but there was no reason to stay. Three steps away from the hut, she collapsed. Days later, she woke up on the mat she now called her own in the room that was once Gia’s. Understanding she was ill, the grandmother took her in. No words were ever exchanged, nothing discussed. It just was.
Now the room was hers. She was fed, given water regularly. She tried to contribute—tried to do her part. It was easy at first. She cleaned and lifted things, got water daily and even worked in a field. And she would listen, trying to pick up the language. As the days wore on, though, she grew weaker. She wanted to be strong. Wanted to help because that was what she was sure she was meant to do. But more and more she was a burden. The tumor was winning. And she—she had little fight left in her.
It was strange, she mused as she ducked into the hut that was her home now. Strange to by dying at only twenty-five years old. Strange to be living with strangers in a foreign land. Strange to spend every day trying to speak a language so different from her own. Mostly, though, it was strange to know that she would live out her last days alone. Not physically alone, not really. But she wouldn’t be with her family, the people she loved. And she always thought she’d have more time…
The hut was empty inside, so she headed for her room. Sometimes she wondered where the clothes came from. Were they Gia’s? They couldn’t be the grandmother’s—they were far too big to fit her. And the food—how did she pay for it? Especially now that she had an extra mouth to feed. She’d never seen the old woman work, not once. And there were rarely visitors to their hut, though she attributed that more to her presence than anything else. (People fear what they don’t understand, after all.)
Weeks bled into months and still she didn’t understand. Didn’t know how the society worked. Didn’t know why they were so anxious about her or if they’d ever trust her. Mostly, she wondered where all the fabulous U.S. aid and military assistance was. They were in the deserts of Afghanistan. Wasn’t there a war here? If there was, she couldn’t see it. Sometimes she wondered if anything had even changed for this village when the Taliban were kicked out.
Occasionally she’d have dreams about her cousin the marine suddenly appearing. He’d be handsome in his regimentals, she was certain. Probably all business with shorn hair and a burned nose. (He was fair skinned like her, after all.) She wondered what he’d say when he saw her. If he’d recognize her. If he’d believe it was her. And what would she do? Would she hide from him or embrace him? Would it even make a difference, either way?
He never came, though. No one did. No one searched for her, no one visited. No one except the woman she’d helped. Her name was Karimah and she was a mother of two men around her age who’d run off to join the fight years before. She didn’t know if they were alive or dead, but Karimah was optimistic. That was her way. Full of hope and kind words. Always had something to say to bring up the spirits of those around her.
Even as she lay growing sicker, Karimah would visit. The grandmother, too, began bringing food into the room. It was hard to sit up. She was in pain, so much pain. There were no drugs, no help. ::I feel to die,:: she told them softly one day. ::Sorry to hurt me but more sorry if to hurt you.:: She knew full well what it was like to feel helpless. That was what it had been like in Mumbai. What it felt like as her body began failing her. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Then one day a new person came to visit her—a man. He was dressed oddly, she thought, though her pain made it difficult to open her eyes for long periods of time. The man spoke in a language she didn’t know—maybe French, she thought. He gave the grandmother something and left. Later, Karimah and the grandmother argued. She wanted to stop them but her voice wouldn’t come. Her throat barely opened wide enough to breathe.
She coughed and they stopped. Karimah brought her a bowl of broth and helped her eat. Her expression was sadder than she ever remembered seeing it before. Even the grandmother had a forlorn look on her face. She cracked a smile to ease the tension—her first in days, maybe even weeks. The pain made it hard. But the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. In fact, she felt tired. Karimah laid her head down gently and both women bowed before exiting.
That night she slept a dreamless sleep. The morning came and she didn’t wake up. She never woke up. The grandmother had her buried properly. There was only a stone to mark it—no one knew enough in the village to read her name off the items still on her person. They were stolen and sold quickly, anyway, their value being great on the black market. Soon only the rock and the bench she’d carved remained to show that she’d ever been there.
Not long after her death, soldiers came into the town. Routine check, they called it. The villagers had more colorful words. They visited several of the huts, including the grandmother’s. The bench in one of the small rooms caught one’s eye and he gave it a closer look. “Huh,” he muttered, heading to the main room. He tried speaking to the grandmother in English but she only scolded him in Arabic, clearly not understanding a word he said.
That night, one of his buddies asked him what was bothering him.
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, eating his rations and dreaming of a filet minion. “There was just this bench in an old woman’s hut and it had English words carved on it. It was weird, y’know?”
The men agreed it was weird. One wanted to know what it said.
He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the words. “There were lots of random words and sentences ‘bout strength and shit but there was one part...” He could see it in his mind now: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. “It was the Serenity Prayer. I realized I hadn’t thought ‘bout it since I last saw my cousin Dana.”
“Yeah? Been a long time since you saw her?” another soldier asked.
He glanced back down at his rations. “Yeah an’ it’ll be longer still ‘til I see her again.” The questioning looks were all it took for him to elaborate—“She died in the Mumbai attacks.” His friends muttered apologies and condolences, then they went back to eating. He lost his appetite. Cleaning up, he wondered if his cousin ever found her serenity, in this life or the next. He hoped she did. Later, before bed, he prayed for that very thing.
That night was the first sound sleep he had since coming to the desert. In the morning, he thought Dana might be smiling down on him from somewhere up above. And that made him walk just a little bit taller.
Some end thoughts:I purposely didn't name the character until after her death for two reasons--style choice and to separate her from her surroundings. She's nameless to all that know here kind of thing. Also, the ending feels a bit weak to me but I had to stop it somewhere. Maybe earlier? Also, the title feels a bit weak but I really like the serenity prayer (and that's coming from a non-Christian).
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