A Thousand Splendid Suns

bleeping, syringes all over the ground.
"In the morning, the bed was empty. I asked a nurse. She said he
fought valiantly."
Laila was dimly aware that she was nodding. She'd known. Of course
she'd known. She'd known the moment she had sat across from this man
why he was here, what news he was bringing.
"At first, you see, at first I didn't think you even existed," he was saying
now. "I thought it was the morphine talking. Maybe I even hopedyou
didn't exist; I've always dreaded bearing bad news. But I promised him.
And, like I said, I'd become rather fond of him. So I came by here a few
days ago. I asked around for you, talked to some neighbors. They
pointed to this house. They also told me what had happened to your
parents. When I heard about that, well, I turned around and left. I wasn't
going to tell you. I decided it would be too much for you. For anybody."
Abdul Sharif reached across the table and put a hand on her kneecap.
"But I came back. Because, in the end, I think he would have wanted you
to know. I believe that. I'm so sorry. I wish…"
Laila wasn't listening anymore. She was remembering the day the man
from Panjshir had come to deliver the news of Ahmad's and Noor's
deaths. She remembered Babi, white-faced, slumping on the couch, and
Mammy, her hand flying to her mouth when she heard. Laila had
watched Mammy come undone that day and it had scared her, but she
hadn't felt any true sorrow. She hadn't understood the awfulness of her
mother's loss. Now another stranger bringing news of another death. Now
she was the one sitting on the chair. Was this her penalty, then, her
punishment for being aloof to her own mother's suffering?
Laila remembered how Mammy had dropped to the ground, how she'd
screamed, torn at her hair. But Laila couldn't even manage that. She
could hardly move. She could hardly move a muscle.