Lie Girl

Chapter 7

Two little girls were kneeling by my bed, staring and giggling at my presence as I lay half-awake, wishing to return to a dream of wading through a field of flowers. I curled up inside their voices, but their hands shook me from sleep.

As I pushed away the covers and sat up, the closer one, asked, "How old are you?"

"I'm thirteen," I said.

Standing up, she poked my belly. "Why are you here?"

"I'm sick," I responded, sorry I had to lie to this little girl.

She bent her head sideways. "Will you get better?"

"Yes. They have very good doctors in your city."

"Does it hurt?" asked the other girl, the smaller.

"Not at all," I answered, ruffling her hair. She looked to be about three, making her the youngest of my uncle's five daughters. Though I had seen photos of my Ahmad's children, I was uncertain about their names. I asked for hers.

"Maira," she replied jumping, for she knew it meant light and swift.

"Can you run very fast, Maira?"

"Faster than out fat cat!" She sprinted to the end of the room.

I laughed and asked the older her name.

"Aroos," she said, striking a pose.

My heart quavered. Aroos means one who is extraordinarily beautiful. Her five-year-old face delighted, but would she walk a similar path to mine? The thought hurt so much it made my eyes well.

"Oh, it does hurt!" said Aroos.

I lifted my palm to a ray of sunlight. "The brightness makes my eyes water. It's nothing to worry about."

"Come," said Maira, "Mama made breakfast!

"

In Pakistan, it's easy to obtain a passport for someone my age. My father had long planned Hajj, a pilgrimage to Mecca: he had filled all the papers and assembled the documents.

I spent a pleasant week in my cousin's house as we waited for my passport. Ahmad told me he pulled some strings to streamline the process. The notice came on a Friday morning.

I wore my niqab on the day we went to pick up the passport. Ahmad drove a route that backtracked and circled several times—"to throw off anyone following us"—and parked his car several blocks away.

As we waited in line at the passport office, Ahmad's cell phone rang. Only three people were ahead of us; another ten minutes and I would have it. Fearing any interruption in our progress, I stared at the phone and shook my head. Ignoring me, he accepted the call, responding, "Hello. Oh. Yes, yes, everything is fine."

I caught a few words of my father's voice on the other end, before my uncle pressed the phone to his ear and cupped it with his free hand. Ahmad listened for a moment, gnawing on his bottom lip and his face losing color. "Yes, Murium is right here. My uncle swallowed hard and, with a glance my way, stepped out of line and withdrew to the farthest corner of the office room.

I watched Ahmad speak with my father on the cell phone. Whenever Ahmad spoke of me, he used his daughter Murium's name, and the conversation was always about Murium's medical treatment. If someone were looking for me, they wouldn't get the clue of my spoken name.

When he returned, his face was sweaty. They say animals can smell fear. That it is a distinct odor. I breathed in my uncle's distress and hoped to not give off the same scent.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"We must leave."

Now only two people were ahead of me. If I could just reach the counter, I would have my passport. I was in a cartoon, crossing a suspension bridge breaking apart behind me. I could not stop. I had to keep moving or I would fall into the abyss.