Lie Girl

Chapter 20

Silence followed the explosion as hundreds of travelers lifted their eyes to the ceiling as if they might see the heavens raining down. Thinking myself dead, I watched as a ghost, until the pounding of my heart brought me back to my trembling body. I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. You're okay, Sinela. My rapid breathing slowed.

The detonation had blown out windows, but the walls and roof of the structure had remained intact.

People patted their bodies and shouted "Praise Allah" when they realized the building hadn't collapse or caught fire. Mothers and fathers hoisted their crying children and rushed toward the security aisle I had passed through when I entered the terminal a moment ago.

Even in those chaotic moments, I wouldn't have joined the fleeing crowd.

For an instant, I glimpsed the little girl in her mother's arms. Blood flowed from a gash in her head, and her eyes were closed. I swallowed back the burning, bitter fluids rising in my throat. Clutching my satchel, I winnowed through the frantic travelers toward the corner of the terminal.

There through the shattered window, wind carried the smell of spent fuel.

As I gazed through the glass, police cars and ambulances raced into a parking lot. with their lights flashing and sirens wailing. I sat down in a chair, putting the satchel on my lap while all around me disorder reigned, Whatever had happened, I would wait it out. Leaving this room meant being trapped in Islamabad forever.

Through the far wall's intact windows, a jetliner struck the runway, smoke rising from its wheels.

The PA system screeched, then boomed, "We urge everyone to remain where they are. Please do not leave the terminal. We are temporarily putting on hold on all flights. Normal operations will resume as soon as possible. We apologize for the inconvenience."

Despite the instructions, many hastened toward exits. But soldiers and policemen appeared, stopping those trying to leave and guiding them back to seats. In the following moments, I listened to the chatter and learned what had happened.

A suicide bomber had detonated his vest in the parking lot. Had he entered the airport, it could have been fatal for hundreds of people, but it exploded after he left his car. Except for the bomber, there were no fatalities, though five injured.

There had been terrorist incidents in Pakistan already this year. Umair had talked of a bomb exploding at Islamabad's Marriott Hotel. Conflicts, religious, political and ethnic, were prevalent.

An hour later, workers entered the terminal to make temporary repairs. Soon after, snacks and drinks arrived on carts and were distributed for free. I obtained a box of chaat and a bottle of lemonade, and settled into a book from my satchel.

At midnight, seven hours later than I was originally scheduled to leave, they called for my flight to board. My insides twisted like a towel being rung. I and several hundred other people boarded the plane under the eyes of soldiers, police officers, and security. Holding my breath, and barely making eye contact with the flight attendants who smiled weakly at me as I entered the cabin, I glancing at the seat numbers, checking the number and letter on my ticket until I came to my row.

A man sat in my seat by the window, in my seat, and I froze. Passengers behind me grumbled as they squirmed past me in the aisle, drawing his attention. Recognizing my distress, he looked at his ticket, shook his head, and stood. As he stepped into the aisle, I sidled into my seat.

"Do you want me to stow your carry-on?" he asked.

My brain whirled, but then I looked across to the open compartments. I handed him my satchel. He must have seen how I feared to part with it.

"You can fetch it later."

"Thank you," I said, feigning calmness. My money, passport, and boy's clothing (if a quick disguise was ever needed) were inside. He placed the bag in the overhead, and I wished to crawl in there with it. My safety satchel.

I took my seat and stared out the window, my forehead pressed to the cold glass as if bound by an adhesive.

A plane taxied along a nearby runway. Farther away, another drew closer, its lights blinking against the black sky.

My heart raced, and images of what had happened came to me in a rush. Sameer falling under my blow. Niya and Umair on the floor. Zareef accusing me of murder. What if he only wanted me as a model for the tattoos men would order? Or was he an emissary of Sameer and had played an elaborate game? He could have killed my friend, thinking it was me. Perhaps he waited outside the house to be sure. He saw me and then wondered if he had sliced the throat of the right person. Zareef may have desired to paint me, and then slaughter me.

Oh, how powerful a plane is as it takes off. Like a tiger chasing its prey, it accelerates, then with a roar, throws off the earth, and presses my body into the seat. It tilts to show the city below, then rockets toward the stars, until it calms above the clouds, as if it has caught its victim and eaten its fill. The aircraft carried me through dreamlike clouds and over white-capped mountains.

Three hours later we approached Mumbai, 1700 kilometers. I made an instant calculation into American measurement: 1012 miles away.

Changing planes, I watched the rising sun light up India while eating breakfast from a plastic box. The journey from Mumbai to London took ten hours. I slept half of that, exhausted from fear and excitement. Refreshed, I boarded the flight from London to Seattle with my senses keen and my brain speeding up like the plane.

I imagined all the circumstances I could confront taking on Niya's identity. I recalled every sentence Niya said in Urdu or English, and pictured her manners and gestures. In my mind, I created a tree as in a math class to show probabilities. Each chosen move might cause different outcomes, and each outcome offered more possibilities. The roots were Niya's past, which was stable, but the branches of my tree were numberless.

I calculated how to prevent Aunt Awamila from suspecting this young woman wasn't her niece. I didn't doubt I could pass for my friend, especially given three years had passed since Awamila had seen Niya. On the road and at Umair's, I had viewed Niya without clothes, and she had no unusual marks. I'd transfer the scar on my forehead to my friend, an action she had taken to get out of her marriage. I accepted that my life would become a lie.

"Yes, Aunt Awamila, I poured lye on my forehead."

Niya liked new clothes. I would like new clothes. Niya liked to decorate her hands and face. I would do the same. Niya liked to chatter. I would follow, though I got out of breath when I said words I didn't care about. I'd accompany my stories with a burst of laughter as my friend did with every tale.

As the airplane crossed over expanses of brown desert, I practiced my part well. For acting as a young man only required cutting off my hair, donning loose clothing. and corseting my breasts. Though there was little to hide. The boy I played had no personality. Spoke little. Imitating an individual was a different thing altogether. Could Sinela be Niya?