Sirens of Memory Read online
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
2015
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
1990
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
2015
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
1990
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
2015
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1990
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
2016
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
1990
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
2016
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
1990
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
2016
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
1990
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
2016
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
1990
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
2016
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
1990
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
2016
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
1990
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
2016
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
1990
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
2016
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
1990
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
2016
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
1990
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
2016
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
1990
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
2016
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Note to the Reader
About the Author
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Puja Guha
Cover and jacket design by 2Faced Design
ISBN 978-1-951709-37-2
Library of Congress Control Number: available upon request
First trade paperback edition June 2021 by Polis Books, LLC
44 Brookview Lane
Aberdeen, NJ 07747
www.PolisBooks.com
For anyone who has been the victim of abuse, you need not suffer in silence.
Austin, USA – November, 2015
Mariam snuck down the stairs, her face damp with sweat. She was moving as fast as possible without making a noise, but this was her one chance—she couldn’t let it pass. She crept past the door to her husband’s room, where he had bedded his other women—two or three of them—not that she knew, or really cared. The door was open a crack, which meant that tonight he was alone, and her only chance was to get to safety before he realized that she was gone. As she moved down the hallway, his throaty snore faded, and she couldn’t help but hope that tonight would be the last time she was subjected to that noise.
When she reached the stairwell, she sped downstairs, keeping hold of the straps of her overstuffed backpack so that it wouldn’t bounce too hard against her spine. The carpet muffled the sound of her feet, so she moved faster, with each step the door to safety growing closer and beckoning all the more intensely. She stopped at the last step and moved daintily onto the ceramic tile—Tareq was a light sleeper, and even the faintest noise had awoken him in the past.
Her gaze darted between the kitchen with the door to the yard to her left, and the front door past the foyer on her right. Tareq’s bedroom overlooked the backyard, so she elected for the front, picking up speed once again.
As she stepped into the foyer, her foot caught the edge of the thick rug, and she fell forward with a soft thud, catching herself on the carpeting on her hands and knees. She froze in place and looked up the stairwell, straining her ears. Had she woken him? If she had, her best bet was to stay quiet—she hadn’t made much noise; he might simply turn over and go back to sleep.
Please, she looked up at the ceiling and pleaded the universe to come to her aid. This has to end; I have to get away.
After several moments of silence, she got to her feet, thankful that the Persian Mashad rug her father had given her as part of her wedding dowry had cushioned the fall. At least it was good for something. She covered the last few steps to the door and opened it. The hinges squeaked slightly, but she was too close to pause again. She closed the door and made it to the gate at the end of the driveway.
Her heart sank as she realized that the gate was bolted in place. Tareq must have noticed she had left the padlock open and locked it before going to bed. The stainless steel was cold to the touch, and her fingers felt like lead as she fumbled with the combination. She tried it once, made a mistake, and had to start over, her head pounding to the rhythm of her racing heartbeat. Before she could stop herself, her eyes wandered back to the house, and she messed up again, restarting the four-number sequence for the third time. “Twenty-two, sixty-seven, eighty-three, twelve,” she whispered to herself this time. You can’t make another mistake, this is your only shot. The reminder was painful; the light at the end of the tunnel could be extinguished at any time.
On the fourth try, she succeeded, and with padlock in hand, she moved the bolt handle back and forth to slide it out of the socket. She felt compelled to move faster, but knew the bolt creaked. A few seconds later, the bolt was free, and she was outside the grounds. Her backpack snagged against the bolt socket, and she had to slide the straps off to wrestle it free. It’s going to be okay, she reminded herself, you’re just a few steps from freedom.
Mariam pulled the gate behind her and jerked the bolt back into place. It squeaked this time, but she willed herself to move—all she had to do was get the lock back on. Once she got to the main road at the end of the block, she could hail a taxi, and she would be free. She clicked the padlock into place, grabbed her backpack, and ran. Almost there, she could see the lights of the cars at the end of the street.
When she reached the corner, she doubled over panting. The backpack had never felt so heavy—What did you pack in it, a bunch of lead weights? You should have left some of your books. Mariam shook her head, silencing those thoughts, and waved for a taxi.
The white cab approached; the half-block it had to cover to get to her seemed endless, like the stretch of the Kuwaiti desert. The cab pulled to a stop, and she reached for the handle.
The door opened, and the worl
d changed.
“Did you think you were going to get away?” Tareq said to her with a cunning smile. He motioned toward the empty seat next to him. “This will always be your place, right next to me.”
Mariam turned to run, but the asphalt beneath her turned to quicksand, and the more she moved her legs, the deeper she sank. Tareq emerged from the cab and held out his hand, “You pretend to fear me, to want to run from me, but I’m the only one who knows you.”
Now waist-deep in the quicksand, Mariam surrendered, as tears streaked her dust-stained cheeks.
I can never get away from him, I can never get away from this life.
The quicksand sucked her in, and she gasped her last breath as it passed her neck. She closed her eyes as the congealed red mud enveloped her completely.
This is how I die.
Before the thought could register, the mud was gone, transformed into a thick cloud of ash, and she was falling. There was air around her again, followed by a loud crash as her body rammed into something glass. Her vision flashed red once again, this time a different shade, that of her own blood.
A ringing filled her ears and transformed into a high-pitched siren. She could see an ambulance a few paces ahead, coming toward her, but it wasn’t slowing down. The sirens reverberated, and she realized that she had to get out of the way, the ambulance wasn’t coming for her, it was coming at her. It’s going to ram into me! She tried to move, but her limbs refused. All that she could do was open her mouth,
“Help me! Somebody help me!”
RITIKA GHOSH BOLTED up, awake. She tried to catch her breath as tears streamed down her face. She squeezed her eyes closed, begging the universe to put a stop to the nightmare. As her breathing slowed, she slid out of bed to shut her window. The sound of distant sirens waned as the window slammed shut. The noise disappeared and she shuddered—even after so many years, sirens could still trigger her. They could take her back to that night, one that she wished with every fiber of her being that she could forget, that she could erase from history. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and crawled back into bed as her husband stirred and put his arm around her. She snuggled up against him, glad to have the comfort of his touch, although her pulse was still racing, and she resisted the urge to close her eyes.
Over the years the nightmares had grown less frequent, but their impact had worsened. Her life was so far beyond the events of that night, yet she was still haunted
She practiced a breathing technique that she had learned in yoga class, and her body and mind started to calm. She had been through this cycle before—eventually sleep would take her, no matter how restless it would be.
THE NEXT MORNING, when Ritika opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the window that she had closed the night before. Raj must have reopened it, there was a cool breeze coming in from the crisp November morning air, and the sun was streaming in. She sat up, looking out at the green grass and the leaves of the oak tree outside peeking over their chestnut wood pergola—there were no sirens this morning. She heard footsteps on the deck and saw Raj step outside holding a mug of coffee. He glanced toward her and smiled, gesturing for her to come join him.
Ritika gave him a quick nod and, after splashing some water on her face, took a long deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror. She was still reeling from the nightmare—her wrist smarted as if she could feel Tareq’s grip, pulling her toward him. She looked down at it, the scars from the cuts and bruises were long gone, and her arm looked just like it always had. Yet she could see it in her mind, she could feel herself falling through the coffee table, see the glass shattering around her as her head hit the edge of the couch. She shuddered again before working up the courage to put on a smile and join Raj on the patio. He didn’t know any of that part of her past, she had only wanted to forget it, never to share it. She didn’t want him to look at her as a victim, she felt so ashamed she couldn’t bear for him to know about it. He had done so much for her, raising Aliya as if she were his own daughter, saving them from a life as refugees.
Ritika pulled the patio door shut behind her and sat down next to Raj. He planted a kiss on her cheek and handed her his coffee mug, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she took the mug and gave him a quick kiss before helping herself. “Good coffee. Is there any more?”
“I love that little Bialetti percolator, but it hardly makes enough. I left it out on the stove though—it should be cool enough to make another batch pretty soon.”
Ritika nodded and savored another sip, keeping her eyes on the oak tree. She could see from Raj’s expression that he was worried. She wondered how blatant her nightmare had been, but she hesitated to ask. Standing up, she handed the mug back to him, “I should go take a shower.”
Raj frowned, and she knew what was coming and sighed, they had been together for too long for her attempts at avoidance to work anymore.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a quiet voice.
I’m fine, she wanted to say. She even opened her mouth to say it, but the words caught in her throat. Ritika sat back down, staring at the ground as her eyes welled with tears.
“It happened again, didn’t it?” Raj reached out and touched her hand, “You can’t keep living like this. This has to stop.”
“I don’t know what to do. I thought the nightmares would just go away…”
“I talked to Aliya about it, and she suggested you see a counselor.” He raised his hand to stop her from interrupting, “I know you said you didn’t need one since the nightmares don’t happen as much, but they shouldn’t be happening at all. It’s been twenty-five years since we left Kuwait. You can’t keep running from this, otherwise it will stay with you forever. Clearly burying them, pretending that these memories don’t exist isn’t working—you have to confront them.”
Ritika met his gaze, she could no longer protest—he was right. Even if he didn’t know what the nightmares were really about, perhaps especially because of that, they had to stop.
Austin, USA – November, 2015
Ritika drummed her fingers against the armrest of the chair as she waited for her appointment with the therapist. In front of her, the table was scattered with brochures on neurological health, depression, and bipolar disorder—all of which made her even more nervous. Even though she had known Raj was right about needing to talk to a counselor, she had put up several last-ditch efforts at resistance. They’ll just find a problem that isn’t there… What if all they want to do is prescribe me drugs? I don’t want to take anything… I should be able to handle this on my own. Raj had countered her arguments as best he could, but finally called their daughter, Aliya, who had flatly contradicted every point that she raised.
“You have to let go of this ridiculous stigma, Mom,” she had said. “You and Dad fled Kuwait as refugees. It is understandable that you have some PTSD, you just need to get help.”
Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Even saying the words to herself seemed insurmountable. She wasn’t a soldier, she hadn’t lost a limb, nor did she have any lifelong injuries from what Tareq had done to her. Why couldn’t she put it behind her?
She was still asking herself that question when the therapist opened her door and ushered her inside.
“Ritika, tell me what brings you here,” the counselor asked after they had spent a moment on introductions.
Ritika hesitated. Where should I begin? “I’ve been having some issues, but I’m not sure where to start, Dr. Teresa,” she finally said in a halting voice.
“Just Teresa is fine,” the therapist smiled. “Your husband gave me a little background when he called to make the appointment. The two of you were refugees during the First Gulf War? I understand you’ve been having some nightmares.”
“Yes.” Ritika’s voice caught in her throat, and she saw herself smashing through the coffee table once again. She looked up at the ceiling as her face crumpled, “But that’s not what the nightmares are about. I was nineteen when…”
Riti
ka wasn’t sure how she got through the rest of the session. She went through an entire box of tissues, but between sobs, she finally managed to tell the story. The story of where her nightmares came from, of her old life. Ritika wasn’t her real name. She wasn’t even Indian. Mariam Al-Salem. That session was the first time in years that she had even said the full name out loud.
Sabah Al-Salem, Kuwait – Twenty-five years earlier, July, 1990
Mariam Al-Salem smoothed the creases on her dress and smiled as she looked at herself in the mirror safely hidden at the back of her walk-in closet. The fuchsia dress revealed just a little bit of cleavage and hugged her curves in all the right places. She turned to the left and right to watch the silk of the floor-length skirt twirl with the movement. It looks incredible on you, her cousin Dinah had said, convincing her to buy it. Not that she had needed much—the dress looked remarkably like the prom dress she had wanted two years before, had her father allowed her to go to her senior prom.
“Mariam, are you ready?” she heard from the hallway outside.
A chill ran up her spine, and she grabbed a black cardigan from a hanger and proceeded to fasten all of the buttons down the front so that it covered every bit of cleavage the dress so carefully accented. Once she reached the last, she opened the closet door and called out to her husband Tareq, “Yes, just one second.”
Mariam reached for her purse, the faster that they could get out of the house, the less time she would actually spend with him. Theirs was hardly a conventional relationship—her father had married her off to him less than a year before, despite her protests. All Mariam had wanted to do was go to college and travel—to see the world that she now only escaped to through the books she read. She rearranged some of her shoes to hide the box of books that she kept hidden behind them in the back of the closet. Tareq knew that she liked to read, but the only books that she dared keep out were a few family dramas in which nothing remotely risqué ever happened. He would never abide her reading anything with a sex scene or men and women interacting openly—especially if it took place in the Western world. He had plenty of women on the side, but the thought of her interacting with anyone else, even just to say hello to one of her brother’s friends threw him into a rage. Fortunately, he preferred not to sleep in the same room—his was at the end of the hall. While he could have her whenever he wanted, she was able to maintain a space to hide her books and grab some alone time when she desperately needed it.
Sirens of Memory