The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Three

Her body may have grown weaker, but her mind never ceased to weave shelters where she could escape to. These imaginary houses were in a different place and time. There she experienced no pain, no grief… no discomfort at all. Those moments of peace were not memories of exact events from her past. She knew, as well, that they couldn't be any premonition of her future. They were only a confused melange of reality and dream, of truth and falsehood. She didn't mind the mingling of the real and the unreal; it provided her with a few moments each day of sanctuary.

The people she met and spoke to in those imaginary moments were only those whom she invited. Her sister was a regular visitor. They would often repeat some conversation they'd had some years ago, or there would be some other recollection of the past. Friends' names from long ago would fill her with a sense of well-being. Her sister was good at recalling all of these things, much better than she herself was. Lying alone in one cell or another, she would savor each thin slice of good she could recall, living each moment — smelling it, tasting it — as deeply as she could.

Other times, she would invite her students in her mind. They would surround her with their enthusiasm, with their questions. She was the gardener who sowed the seeds of learning. She'd nurture their thoughts as if they were tiny sprouts of palest green, propping them up and protecting them. She would feed their minds with the gentle mist of experience.

We are indebted equally to our teacher and to God. Her mother's words were always with her. Why was it, though, that she could remember the proverbs, the lips speaking them, but never her mother's face?

There were other moments of sanctuary, too. She'd recall an instance where a warm arm might wrap around her. Sometimes, she could feel the smooth touch on her skin. Was it real or imagined? Was it a memory or a longing? She didn't know. It didn't matter now.

In those moments, though, she'd sometimes feel herself escape out of her own body. A touch on her wrist would open a portal for her spirit, and she'd slide out of her body like a silk scarf from her father's pocket. Floating above herself — her body motionless in the dark below — she would come as close to being alive as she had ever been.

She never knew at that instant if it was really happening or not. It was only in the crushing aftermath of such moments that she knew her life was, now and forever, only the stuff of dreams.

The first days were a blur. Perhaps the first weeks were, as well. She didn't know. Eventually, she'd regained her balance, her sense of time. Months had flowed into years and then she'd lost her bearings once again. In the end, it didn't matter whether it was now or tomorrow or last year. Time means nothing when you are suspended in hell. Sometimes she'd feel as if she almost knew. She'd hear some guard mention a date. She'd focus in on it, try to hold on to it. And then it would slip away until she had no idea, once again, if it was one year or ten years since she'd been a free human being, teaching at the university six days a week, having routines and friends and a busy life.

As her sense of time wavered, though, her ability to concentrate on other things — on inner strengths — had grown. She'd taught herself to be indifferent to pain. Cold, heat, shackles, verbal and physical abuse… none of it meant anything to her. She'd learned to become numb to the physical world. She could close her eyes and shut down everything, retreating in silence to her house of dreams.

God finds a low branch for the bird that cannot fly. Yes, Mother. I know.

Lately, though, more and more, Fahimah was finding it more difficult to concentrate. Her discipline was wavering. She was running across some bumps in the road. The groan of a prisoner, the cry of a night bird, the shaking of the ancient and decrepit walls that were her prison brought reality to her consciousness again and again. Whether it was a mine exploding in the hills or American troops bombing a new target, she didn't know. But she could not ignore them as she once had. Increasingly, she could not block out the stark reality of her situation.

During these new moments, her entire life focused. She knew who she was and she even seemed to know how long she'd been in prison. She remembered how hard she'd worked in life to get where she'd been before her capture. She recalled the sacrifices she'd made, how much she'd achieved. She remembered the respect she'd commanded of her peers, her students. She felt inside of her the warm realization that she'd made something of herself, despite being a woman and a Kurd in a country where one was not particularly valued and the other was so often seen as the enemy of Saddam and his regime.

It was during these moments that she'd also recall with vibrant clarity her sister Rahaf lying on the cot in the basement, her leg gone, the wound from the amputation raw and bleeding and exposed to the musty air. She could still hear her sister retching piteously, her body trying to puke out the poison that she'd injected into her own bloodstream in an attempt to survive. More clearly than any of these things, though, she could remember her sister asking for her help.

These had been the deciding moments. Should she tell them after all this… or not?

Fahimah knew there was only one possible way that she could ever end this living hell, but telling the truth wasn't an option. Over the years there had been two separate messages passed on to her by other prisoners. Although there had been no name attached to them, she knew they were from her sister. The last one had come about nine months ago, just before they'd moved Fahimah to this facility. Rahaf was alive and looking for her.

The situation was impossible; Fahimah knew that very clearly. She had acted to protect her sister, never thinking that her imprisonment would be so… final. Still, she was committed now. She would never expose her sister to this. Her captors believed the deceit she had woven. Fahimah would go to her grave before shattering the truth they had accepted.

She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness of the new cell they'd moved her into this morning. She wasn't allowed outside. With the exception of the face of the guard that brought the food, she never saw any other. When they moved her from prison to prison, she'd been either sedated or blindfolded. They never kept her in any one cell too long. She was beginning to believe they moved her every so often just to make sure she was still alive. This new cell had no windows, no lights, only a sliver of daylight creeping in at the base of the door. She remembered being moved into this cell, or one similar to it, a number of times before. She hated it. It felt like a grave in which she had been buried alive.

The cement floor smelled of urine. She sat up. Her eyes were already adjusted to the darkness. The size of the room was perhaps four feet by six feet. She looked up and knew the ceiling wasn't high enough for her to stand.

Fahimah pulled the old wool blanket that they let her keep over her shoulders. The old rag smelled like death. The only other thing in the cell was the hospital chamber pot, glinting dully in the corner. She sat back against a wall, her legs crossed. Waves of panic were clawing their way inside of her. The air in the room was so heavy. She felt that there wasn't enough of it.

She recalled how she'd started calming her mind and body those first weeks after her capture. Fahimah had always been enthralled by the idea of Sufism. She'd read about it and studied it. The great Sufi poet Rabi'a of Basrah was her favorite. One of the many myths surrounding Rabi'a was that she was freed from slavery because her master saw her praying while surrounded by light. He realized that she was a saint and feared for his life if he continued to keep her in captivity.

There had been many times in the darkness of her cell that Fahimah had prayed, chanted quietly and meditated. No one had freed her. What her captors thought of her could not be further from sainthood. Despite it all, she'd been able to reach the peace inside she'd been after. She'd discovered her dreams.

She closed her eyes and started her meditation now. She had to observe, guard and control her thoughts. She had to escape this room… this body.

The noise outside of the cell cut through her concentration with razor sharpness. There was the sound of grinding metal, footsteps, voices. She forced her eyes to remain shut. Somebody was coming. Perhaps they were going to move her again to another cell, perhaps to a different prison. Even though they had just moved her in here, that was the way they worked. They never allowed her to feel settled, especially since she had made trouble for them by refusing food. She inhaled deeply, and the closeness of the cell made her stomach turn slightly.

The door opened loudly on rusty hinges. Even with her eyes closed, Fahimah could feel the light pour over her.

"Dr. Banaz."

It was a new voice. She held her breath. No one had called her that for nearly her entire imprisonment. To them — to the Americans — she was Rahaf. She was called by her sister's first name.

"Dr. Banaz," the man's voice called out gently again. "My name is Austyn Newman."

Another American, she thought. She knew their accents, understood their ways. She would never trust them.

"My partner and I were sent here to make arrangements for your release," the man said in the same quiet tone.

Fahimah wrapped the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and dipped her chin to her chest. Another lie. She willed herself to shut the voice out.