Beneath the Same Heaven Read online

  “To…pick you up,” Rashid sounded unconvinced of his own reason. He gestured with his hands to coax Michael toward him. “We’re letting your Mummy finish her work. Chelo beta, come, hurry. Let’s get your things and go and pick up your baby brother.”

  “And Mummy will come home?”

  “Of course.” Michael ran into his father’s arms and wouldn’t let go. Rashid held Michael tightly, relieved.

  “I like it best when we’re all together,” Michael said, pulling on his father’s earlobe, smelling his familiar musky perfume.

  “Hmm,” Rashid affirmed. “Family’s the most important thing. We all feel better when we’re with our parents, isn’t it?”

  “Hi,” Kathryn said cheerfully into her phone. “What’s up?”

  “Um…the client has called in a big offshore job,” Rashid said. “It could be five or six days that I’m away.”

  “Again?” she groaned. “You’ll miss the parent-teacher conferences on Tuesday.”

  “Can you go by yourself?”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “This is a big job, the bonus should be good,” he didn’t sound convinced.

  She sighed with resignation. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Wish me luck,” he said distractedly. And with a businesslike tone, “I have to come home for extra coveralls. I can stop at the store first, do you need anything? Milk, eggs, anything?”

  She rattled off a handful of items. “Thanks for taking care of that, for taking care of us,” she said.

  “Oh God,” he sighed, “I’m trying.”

  Chapter 11

  The day of the bombing

  * * *

  The next morning Kathryn walked out of the daycare, feeling the lightness of moving without a child in her arms.

  A helicopter flew overhead, traveling west over the freeway. Inside the car she turned up the radio. “…with traffic backed up in both east and westbound lanes on the 10 from Santa Monica to Hollywood. The 405 interchange has been closed as emergency vehicles are clearing debris…”

  She reached into her purse for her sunglasses, realized she had forgotten the empty baby bottles she would need to pump later in the day. Shit. Every day she overlooked one thing; the laundry still damp in the machine, the call to building maintenance to fix the disposal, the permission slip for Michael’s field trip. How could she be expected to remember everything? She checked her watch. She would still have enough time to swing by home and pick up the bottles before her scheduled call with the managing editor.

  “…live reports confirm that the problem on the 10 and 405 freeways was caused by a major explosion in an SUV early this morning. We have no information yet on whether the explosion was intentional, or if so, who caused it…”

  She was grateful she wouldn’t have to drive anywhere near the traffic.

  “…CHP reports at least four confirmed fatalities…”

  She was relieved to turn off the car in the parking garage and stop the news.

  In the kitchen, she realized why she had forgotten the bottles, she had neglected to wash the used ones from the day before, so they weren’t ready in the dish rack for her. Just as the bubbles from the dish soap were overflowing out of the bottle, the phone rang. She fished it out of her purse, craned her neck so she could hold it between her ear and her shoulder and attempted to finish the washing.

  “Hello,” she said curtly. Her husband’s manager identified himself and after a moment she paused in her washing, trying to understand the meaning of his words.

  “So you don’t know where he is?” the man repeated, with some urgency.

  “What do you mean?” Kathryn answered into the phone, soap bubbles dripping off her hand into the kitchen sink. “You scheduled his offshore job. He told me he’d be gone for a week or so.”

  Kathryn dried her hands and called her husband’s phone number. She listened. Hung up and dialed again, irritated. She heard a knock at the door.

  She opened the door wide to reveal a Caucasian man dressed in a suit.

  “Hello?” She closed the door back down to a few inches.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he checked the number on the outside of the door. “I’m looking for Mrs. Siddique.”

  “I am Mrs. Siddique.”

  He scanned her face. “Yes. Mrs. Siddique, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He flashed a badge, “Agent Roberts, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Why are you here?” she closed the door a little more.

  “Rashid Siddique is your husband?”

  “You seem to know that already.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “Working.”

  Silence.

  He raised his hand, opened his fingers to reveal a ring, a yellow gold band resting on his palm.

  “I think you recognize this ring Mrs. Siddique?”

  The blood drained from her face. “Where did you get that? Is Rashid all right?”

  “I think you’d better let me come in.”

  She stepped aside, motioning for the man to come inside and sit on the couch. She would miss the scheduled call with her managing editor. As the stranger sat down, the room appeared suddenly unfamiliar, unfriendly. She sat across from him in a chair, unable to sit back.

  “This ring was found early this morning, inside the remains of an SUV at the scene of the bombing.”

  “The bombing…?” she echoed

  “Yes, the bombing on the 10 freeway.”

  “The accident?”

  “It was no accident. An SUV packed with fertilizer bombs exploded canisters of nails and ball bearings. A cell phone set off a detonator, a type of detonator common in the petroleum industry. Mrs. Siddique, your husband is dead. I need to understand how he was involved.”

  Part Two

  The Book of Kathryn

  Chapter 1

  The day of the bombing

  * * *

  I refuse to believe this man. He is not welcome here, he does not speak any truth I understand.

  “Where was your husband in the last few days?”

  “Offshore. On a rig, an oil rig. It’s his job.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with him?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Do you know if your husband was associating with Islamic radicals?”

  “What? What are you insinuating? Just because someone is a Muslim doesn’t mean he’s a terrorist.”

  I look again at the ring in my palm and see the gold shop where I bought it, remember writing down on a piece of paper Beneath the Same Heaven. I think I am going to vomit. “Excuse me,” I say to the man who has thankfully stopped talking. I leave the ring on the arm of the sofa. I barely make it to the bathroom before the heaving starts. Tears are running down my face from the effort. He knocks on the door.

  “Mrs. Siddique, are you all right?”

  My God, what a question.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Siddique, but I’ll need to bring you in for questioning.”

  “Give me a minute.” I rinse my mouth, wash my face. I don’t even recognize the contorted face in the mirror, the trembling hand opening the door.

  The man is sitting again on the edge of the couch. “I’ll go with you,” I tell him. “But I have to get something from the kitchen first.” I return to the baby bottles in the sink, carefully rinsing off every tiny bubble, trying to buy myself some time to think. I return to the living room, a bottle in each hand. The man, he is really very ugly with his pasty skin and balding head, looks at me strangely. “I have a baby,” I explain. “He’ll need his milk.”

  Hours later, in the afternoon light, I close the car door and scream, not the scream of childbirth, not the scream of nightclub frenzy; but the scream of a woman becoming a widow.

  The bomb has exploded in my life. The buildings I see are intact, the traffic still stops and starts on the streets around me, my skin and bones are unharmed, but the very fibers that held my life together—the threads of lo
ve and trust that bound me—have all been rent today.

  The shrill ring of the phone rattles the charged silence in the car. I can see my mother’s number on the screen. I am paralyzed, cannot possibly speak to her now. I will have to hurry to pick up the children in time. Michael’s school will cancel his afterschool enrollment if I’m late three times.

  I take a deep breath, blow my nose and wipe my eyes, and turn the key in the ignition. The radio blares to life. “…at this point, we cannot be certain that the bombers are affiliated with Al-Qaeda, or if they are homegrown terrorists. But we do know that both men, identified as Ali Al-Hassam and Rashid Siddique were both Muslim immigrants…” I slam my fist into the radio, turn it off. I power down the phone before I shift the car into gear.

  Clutching Michael’s hand, we walk down the hall of the daycare and a couple of mothers greet me warmly, balancing babies and diaper bags. The late-shift caregivers in the infant room are wiping the counter clear and straightening up the empty play area. I see no babies.

  “Don’t worry, Andrew’s sleeping in the crib room,” one of the caregivers responds to my alarmed look. “Hi Michael,” she rustles his hair. She doesn’t know yet. She still sees me as the woman I was yesterday. I take off my shoes and pad across the carpet to retrieve my beloved sleeping baby from his assigned crib.

  I inhale his smell and resist my tears. The caregivers are waiting for me so they can go home. I return and retrieve from my purse the single bottle I was able to pump today. I take two empty bottles from Andrew’s designated space in the refrigerator. “Stressful day,” I explain to the caregiver. She nods kindly.

  Back at home, I move ceaselessly. As long as I can keep moving, as long as the children are happy and the food is on the table and the laundry is in the dryer and the bottles are washed and my hair is washed and the diaper bag is emptied and the bills are opened and sorted…the day didn’t really happen. Just before I sleep, I turn the phone back on and check my messages. I sit down with a pen and paper. The first is from my managing editor wondering if I will be able to make the call we had scheduled for ten minutes prior to his message, then another suggesting a time tomorrow to reschedule. I write down the time he suggests as a reminder.

  The next is from my mother. “Kathryn?” I can hear the concern in her voice. “I’m just calling to see how you’re doing, and the children. We haven’t heard from you this week. Please give me a call as soon as you’re able.”

  With each new message, I hope that it will be Rashid’s voice, I hope that somehow, some digital representation of my husband will come through this little plastic device and restore my world to me.

  Next is a friend I have known for more than a decade, but have hardly had a chance to speak to since Andrew was born. She asks how I am doing, trying to sound interested but not alarmed. She knows.

  The next message is a reminder from the car dealership to schedule an oil change.

  Then my mother again, “Kathryn, please call. We, uh, we’ve seen the news, and we’re worried about you. Please call as soon as you can. We love you.”

  I don’t need to turn on the news to know where I fit in the 24-hour news channels and the conflict-fuelled talk shows. The misguided victim wife, the naïve innocent abroad who was deceived into marriage and unwittingly helped facilitate this monstrous act.

  And a final message, “Kathryn, your father and I would feel better if we know you’re not alone. We’ve booked the first flight in the morning. We’ll take a taxi from the airport. Please call as soon as you can.”

  I check the clock, past midnight. I pour myself a scotch trying to calm my nerves. I pour myself a second and then unplug the television and turn off the lights. I pull back the covers and am overwhelmed with feeling for my two sons who will grow up into men in this complicated, critical, cryptic world. I wiggle in between them, feeling their bodies on both sides of me. I hold their tiny hands for protection—whether for their protection or my own I am not sure.

  The phone alarm trills again in the morning at the usual hour. I wake, and for one delicious moment, I experience the hope and freshness that accompany new beginnings the world over. I look at the boys, curled up against me, their skin radiant, their expressions peaceful. The bed is so spacious when Rashid is away on a job. And then I remember. The memory of the previous day’s events comes crashing down like a guillotine, severing my future from my past.

  I hear the birds outside the window, I hear the cars on the street. The world outside remains unchanged, but for the life of my husband. And the lives of the others who were killed. The thought of the others is too much for me to bear. I don’t know them, I have not seen their faces, have not loved them, have not built a family with them.

  Andrew stirs. His eyes open and I see them so clearly. They turn immediately to me and seem to reflect some deep understanding. This disturbs me, as if this baby, who has no language, no knowledge of how the world works, of how we deceive ourselves, has comprehended what has happened in our lives. His lips quiver and before the cry comes I move to him so he can nurse. I feel the milk come in, the relief that always comes with this transaction. But the relief reaches only to my stomach where it confronts a mass, a hardness, tightness in the muscles, pain. I resist the pain, try to divert my attention by thinking ahead. I have a lot to do today, I will get up and make my list even before I go to the office, so I won’t forget anything. I wish Andrew would hurry up and finish.

  The phone rings, triggering a surge of adrenaline. I pick it up, hoping for some good news. An unfamiliar number appears on the screen. Without pausing, I answer, thinking maybe, by some miracle, Rashid is calling me from a payphone somewhere. “Hello?” I say quietly, so I won’t wake Michael.

  “Hello, is this Mrs. Siddique?” a man says. The man is not Rashid.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is John Carter, I’m a reporter with the New York Times, and I’m trying to reach the wife of Rashid Siddique.”

  My heart beats furiously. My mind races for an answer.

  “Hello? Is this Mrs. Siddique?”

  “It…you…this…you have the wrong number.” I hang up the phone. My eyes scan the room. The phone rings again. The same number appears on the screen. I do not answer it. I realize with a sinking feeling that after enough rings my recorded voice will confidently confirm he has reached the line of Kathryn Siddique and I would like him to please leave a message. Silence. Andrew tugs at his toes and his sleeves. Michael groans and stretches his legs long. The phone rings again. I power down the phone. I lay there, imagining how many other reporters, law enforcement officials, gawkers will hunt me down, will press me for information, vent their outrage and confusion and grief at me.

  Someone knocks on the door. Finally, I leave the bed. Pulling back the kitchen blinds, I see three television news vans parked on the street, neighbors talking into reporters’ microphones. I shut the blinds. I check both door locks are turned, the shades are pulled. And then I pretend. I wash the baby’s face and bottom, I dress him in clean clothes. The knocking continues. “Just ignore it,” I tell Michael, hugging him and helping him dress himself. He chatters away about the lives of his toys, the shoes he wants that light up when you jump.

  I set Michael in front of a bowl of Cheerios, Andrew into his swing with an assortment of toys before I shower. With only the usual interruptions of spilled juice and frustrated cries over dropped toys, I dress myself as if we were preparing for any other day. The knocking continues.

  “Kathryn?” a woman’s voice calls. “Kathryn, it’s your parents.”

  Michael jumps down from his chair, turns the knobs and dead-bolts in the incorrect order, hopping with excitement. “It sounds like Grandma. Did you know Grandma was coming?”

  “Go back,” I command him. I slowly turn the locks, open the door just wide enough to allow my parents in. I hide from the cameras pointed in my direction.

  Michael jumps at my father, who stoically hugs my son. Andrew squeals from the s
wing for attention. And I burst into tears. How fragile are my defenses. How ill equipped I am to handle any of this.

  My mother reaches her arms round me, worry wrinkles her face, ages her. And I am a child again, wishing that she could cure all of this with a band aid and a kiss. She holds me for a long time, practically holds me up as I sink my weight against her. She says quietly into my ear, “What have you told Michael?”

  “Nothing,” I whisper. “He thinks Rashid is away on a long job.” I pull back and wipe my tears. Michael, at my side, looks perplexed, seeks clues from the three of us adults about how he should feel.

  “OK Michael, let’s brush your teeth,” I say. “We don’t want to be late for school.”

  “But Mom, Grandma and Grandpa just got here.”

  “They’ll be here when you get home from school. Don’t worry,” I say for my benefit as much as his.

  My mother takes his hand. “I will help you,” his face lights up. “You show me which toothbrush is yours.”

  My father kneels down to kiss Andrew on the head. Habitually, I push the swing back and forth and wonder what to say. My father puts his arms around me, quickly hugs me as if to confirm he is in my corner, and immediately launches into questions over the baby’s head with a businesslike efficiency.

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “No, what for? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “OK, I have a friend I’ll contact. Make sure you don’t say anything to those news reporters gathering outside. What’s your financial situation? Did Rashid have a life insurance policy?”

  “Uh, I think so, maybe through his company.” I am off guard. “Dad, I’m still not sure he is dead.”

  “Really, why do you say that? What do you know? What did you know?”

  “I didn’t know, I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen a body. Only his wedding ring that the FBI showed me.”