Nadia pretended to be asleep when Eric got up to go to work. She listened to him dress, eat breakfast and leave. Shortly after he left she got up, wrapping a quilt around her bare shoulders. She curled up on the sofa, and turned on the television. She flicked through the six stations they got and settled on a talk show.
The show reached a commercial break, and immediately a child's face appeared on the screen. It was an Iraqi girl, starved near death. Her face was scarred and she was crying. It was a campaign ad, related to the Gulf War. Nadia groped for the remote and turned the television off, before she could see any more shots of her war torn homeland. She cried quietly, letting tears drip down her face. Iraq was her blood, her soul, her mind, her heart. How could they destroy it so? Americans seemed content to call Iraq 'a third world country.' To criticize the theocracy so many Iraqis trusted. They would pretend to give their hearts to God in a Christian or Jewish chapel, but condemn Muslims who opened their soul absolutely. She cradled her head in her arms and sobbed, silently.
Sherri's feet padded quietly into the living room. Nadia rushed to dry her tears.
"Mommy? Why are you crying?" Nadia lifted Sherri on to her lap, "Is it the bad mans?"
Nadia wrapped her eyes around the girl and whispered, "What bad men?"
"With the guns, who made us run, until Daddy brought us on the plane?"
Nadia was hit by a cold wave of nausea. She hadn't realized Sherri remembered so much of their post-American life.
"No, Sherri. We are safe from the bad men."
Sherri traced a finger along the pattern of scars covering Nadia's hands, thoughtfully. The scars had always fascinated the child. Smooth, white stripes, that branched out from the center where there was a circle, less than an inch in diameter.
Presently, the child said, "Mommy, you have pretty hands. They have pictures on them."
Panic rose in Nadia's throat, but she didn't show it. She kept her face calm, hiding a turbulent storm.
"Yes, Sherri. They are pictures. Remember in your picture books? Remember how the pictures tell a story?"
Sherri scrunched up her lips, and looked deep in thought.
"Like The Little Engine That Could?"
"Yes. Remember that the pictures told about the little engine." Sherri nodded solemly. "Well, these pictures tell a story, too. Except this story doesn't have a happy ending, Sherri. These pictures tell a very sad story, about a very sad part of my life and a very sad time for Iraq."
"You mean the good little boys and girls never get their toys, because the little engine couldn't climb high enough?" Sherri's eyes were wide.
"Sort of. But now I have pictures on my hands that tell about a sad time that I don't want to remember. When you have pictures on your hands, Sherri, be sure to make them happy ones."
Sherri's face showed that she was trying to understand.
"Sherri, I want you to make me a promise. I want you to forget the bad men, and forget everything you remember happening before the plane ride with Eric."
"You mean Daddy?"
"Yes, forget everything."
"Why?"
"To make the nightmares go away."
They sat quietly on the couch, holding each other. Sherri concentrated on forgetting. Nadia stared at the scars on her hands.