And so, slowly, the girl got better. She began to eat more, began to brush her own hair.
She took baths on her own. She began taking her meals downstairs, with Mariam and Rasheed.
But then some memory would rise, unbidden, and there would be stony silences or spells of churlishness.
Withdrawals and collapses. Wan looks. Nightmares and sudden attacks of grief. Retching. And sometimes regrets.
“I shouldn't even be here,” she said one day. Mariam was changing the sheets.
The girl watched from the floor, her bruised knees drawn up against her chest.
“My father wanted to take out the boxes. The books. He said they were too heavy for me.”
“But I wouldn't let him. I was so eager. I should have been the one inside the house when it happened.”
Mariam snapped the clean sheet and let it settle on the bed.
She looked at the girl, at her blond curls, her slender neck and green eyes, her high cheekbones and plump lips.
Mariam remembered seeing her on the streets when she was little, tottering after her mother on the way to the tandoor,
riding on the shoulders of her brother, the younger one, with the patch of hair on his ear. Shooting marbles with the carpenter's boy.
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