Afterlife of Alanna Miller

Part 3

THREE

Dad gulped the last of his beer and ordered a third. I nursed my glass of water and shook my head at the waiter's enquiry. I didn't want any more alcohol. Even if I wasn't driving, I had to work tomorrow and a hangover wouldn't help me concentrate.

"If you don't want to hear it, you don't have to. You can go home. I'll get the concierge to call you a cab." Dad's voice broke into my reverie.

"No. I need to hear this. Please, continue," I replied.

"Well, from that day, whenever I left the lab to get a coffee or some food, I invited her to come with me and when she wouldn't, I offered to bring something back for her. She'd just smile, shake her head and go back to work. We did talk a little occasionally – like when we were waiting for the spectrometer or washing up the used lab equipment – but that's it. She didn't wear her veil in the lab any more, either. Every day I'd ask her out to coffee or lunch and every day she refused, but she looked wistful, like she wanted to. So I kept asking, long after I should have stopped.

"One evening, she left without saying good night – she always said good night – and I wondered what I'd done to annoy her. I figured my persistence might have pissed her off. Feeling a bit sad, I promised myself I'd back off the next day, but I'd go home early that day and have a drink from my small stash of illegal alcohol.

"I stepped out of the lab and ran straight into her. Well, into a short woman dressed all in black, but I knew it was her, even if I could only see her eyes. I apologised, feeling even worse, but she laughed and pulled me into the office across the corridor. She told me it was finally Eid, at the end of the fasting month of Ramadan, and she wanted to celebrate it with me, too, so she'd brought me some traditional sweets. And from under that dress she pulled out a dish full of...well, heaps of things, all covered in powdered sugar. More than two people could eat, I'm sure, but I tried. God, they were sweet. And then she explained to me that every day I'd tempted her with food and coffee when she wasn't allowed either of them, but tomorrow she could and if I asked her, she'd love to join me for coffee or lunch. She said they weren't supposed to even think about s*x when they were fasting for Ramadan. And one thing led to another and...she kissed me. I was shocked. I mean, it wasn't as if she'd ripped our clothes off and had her way with me on the desk...well, at least not that night, but – "

"Dad!" Even with my eyes squeezed shut, my vivid imagination was showing me pictures I didn't want to see. "I don't want to hear about you and Mum having s*x in public in the Middle East! I can't believe you didn't get arrested!"

"Shh, the waiter's looking at me like he's going to come over or call security or something. I thought you wanted to know how I fell in love with your mother."

I swallowed. "I do, but not...not in graphic detail. I don't even read that sort of stuff in books."

He stared. "There's graphic s*x in books now? And you're reading them?"

I wanted to laugh and tell him I had, just to see the shock on his face, but I doubted even he'd believe me. "Yes, there are a lot of books that are more open about these things now, but most of them involve b*****e and tying women up who supposedly enjoy that sort of thing. I avoid them like the plague. So unless you'd like to discuss forced castration for convicted rapists and perpetrators of violent crimes against women, I think we should go back to Mum."

Dad choked on his beer, but he pounded on his chest until he recovered. "Ah. Okay. You know I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you five years ago, when all that happened. It was like losing her all over again and I couldn't...I couldn't..." He looked like he was going to cry.

"I know," I interjected. "There wasn't anything you could do, Dad. I had police and anti-terrorist teams looking out for me until they moved me into witness protection." Yes, my father was a coward about grief and loss and we both knew it. No one was perfect. It's not like I didn't have some serious phobias, too. He made time for the good stuff – graduations and award ceremonies and maybe even one day my wedding, if I ever got close enough to a guy to consider such a crazy thing – but when I was sick or in trouble, he'd be on the other side of the world, unable to cope with the possibility of losing me. I'd had appendicitis when I was ten and he didn't visit the hospital once. Jo's mum had had to drive me home and stay there until Dad came home from work, late that night. I wondered whether he'd have come home for my funeral if I hadn't survived the k********g. I guess I'd never know. I took a deep breath. "How did you guys ever decide to get married? I mean, I didn't think people dated over there the way they do here."

He took a deep draught of his beer. "Violence was increasing and there was talk of war. My boss rang me one day and said they were evacuating all their field personnel, but the office staff could stay for the moment. There were only the two of us left. He said he'd call again if things changed, but to be ready to leave on short notice.

"Fatima and I had been talking about politics, but if it came to evacuating, she'd go with her family and I'd go to the UK or Australia, depending on where the company sent me. They had the prospect of a new gas field opening up in Australia and plenty of exploration for me to do, but that meant leaving Fatima and maybe never seeing her again.

"When I got off that phone, knowing she'd heard every word, I just looked at her without knowing what else to say. So she hesitated for maybe a few seconds before she asked me to marry her and take her with me. She was willing to leave behind her family and friends and everything she'd ever known to be my wife. She wanted to live in a country where she didn't have to wear a niqab to stop men from staring at her like she was a piece of meat.

"And I agreed. I was so in love with her, but I hadn't really dared to hope that we could. The difference in culture and religion and everything...but I met her family the next day, and she told me her father had agreed to it, though the grumpy look on his face said that he wasn't happy about it. And within a week we were married – Fatima was my wife. She moved into my tiny company apartment near the university and things were good for a couple of months. I filled out all the paperwork for her Australian visa and citizenship and we waited. Before we even had a reply from the Australian embassy, we knew she was pregnant with you. I called the embassy every day, asking about her application until they evacuated, too. And then I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd have to leave. I could take her as far as Dubai, but she didn't have a visa to enter Australia, so she'd have to wait alone in Dubai until I could return for her with her visa. Alone and pregnant in a foreign country...I hated to do it, but we agreed she'd be safer with her family. They'd protect her and take her with them if they left.

"So the last time I saw her, she had her hand on her belly, over you, her eyes filled with tears that she was too strong to let fall, and she kissed me goodbye in her father's house, because it was illegal to even kiss in public there, so she couldn’t do it in the airport. And the taxi drove me away."

He drained his beer, hiding the tears he was shedding behind the glass.

"War broke out a month later and I was reassigned to an Aussie project in Torres Strait. When I got home, her visa documentation was waiting for me and a crumpled letter with an ultrasound photograph, saying we were having a girl – it had arrived only a few days before. I tried to call her, but there was no answer at her family's house – their number was disconnected. It took months before I even knew that they'd left the country, but I didn't know where they'd gone. By that time, I'd filled out citizenship papers for you, too, and I filed them on your due date, saying it was your birthday. I had to choose your name before I'd even met you, without Fatima...I missed her so much. It took me almost two years before I finally tracked down her family in Saudi Arabia and another six months before I could contact them to ask for her. No one would tell me anything about her or you and I'm not sure anyone's English was good enough to, even if they'd wanted to.

"I had your citizenship certificates in my hand luggage when I boarded the plane. I was going to bring my girls home. Yet when I entered their house, and looked into her father – your grandfather's eyes, I already knew. My beautiful, wonderful wife of only two months was dead. When I asked about you, he tried to say the same thing, that you were dead, and I almost believed him, but one of the women brought a screaming toddler into the room who ran straight to him. Right away, he softened as he picked up the tiny girl, kissed her grazed knee, and wiped away her tears. It was like I wasn't even there – he was holding a child who mattered more than anyone else. And then she turned to look at me with Fatima's eyes and I knew who you were. I argued with him for two days – b****y impossible, seeing as his English was terrible – that you were my daughter, an Australian citizen, and you'd be coming home with me."

He sighed and lifted his beer, as if hoping the dregs would become a fresh pint before his eyes, but they didn't. The glass clunked back to the table. "You didn't understand a word of English. A woman I didn't know gave me a bag of clothes and toys that you seemed to recognise and that's all you had. The flight home was hell. My heart had died with Fatima and I had no idea what to do with a child, least of all one with her eyes, the part of her I knew best."

"Do you even know how she died?" I asked, stunned that he'd offered so little explanation. All these years, I'd waited to learn something, but it seemed like he didn't know, either.

"For many years, no. I wanted to, but all my Farsi was good for was making Fatima laugh as I made mistakes. I couldn't speak Farsi and her family didn't speak English. Or at least, that's what I thought. A few months ago, I learned that I was wrong." He rose from his chair and waved his credit card. A waiter hurried over to take the p*****t and we left, Dad tucking his wallet back into his pocket as we walked. "If I'm going to tell you the rest, I need something stronger than beer. Let's go to the bar and hope they have cask strength whisky."