Page 84 of What Remains

“You mean, I can’t be Dick Grayson?”

“That’s my cue to say I’m not Bruce Wayne, but not only am I not independently wealthy, I’m simply not made that way. I’m serious,” he said. “The only thing I want for you is to grow into whomever and whatever you choose. Here, you have the freedom to be.”

Poya’s eyes suddenly stung.Don’t cry.What kind of tears would they be, though? Sadness? Relief?Maybe a bit of both.“I know that.”

“But you don’t believe it yet, which is understandable. Years of thinking a certain way are tough to break. So, it bears repeating. You are free. You never have to hide what and who you are ever again. Remember that.” Turning, Mac said, “Dinner at seven. It’s a nice day. What do you say, we grill some burgers and eat on the porch and watch the sunset?”

For a few momentsafter the doorsnickedshut, Poya didn’t move but held very still and waited, ears pricked, barely breathing. Habit, really. Another doctor, one who only listened as Poya talked, said that some habits die hard and others never.

Maybe that doctor was right: not every day was a minefield. But that time hadn’t yet come and now all Poya made out was the stair’s creaks and complaints as Mac walked down from this third-floor attic space to the ground and then, faintly, the housekeeper’s voice raised in a question followed the softer burr of Mac’s response.

Poya stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, eyes roaming from the windows to the bed to the bookshelves, all of them empty save for the seventeen books Poya had managed to salvage from Kabul. Plucking Anne’s diary from the shelf made the collection looked even more pathetic. Then, again, a collection, like a person, had to begin with something and start somewhere.

Crossing the room, Poya pulled open a closet door. There was a mirror there, full-length, and Poya studied the image captured in the glass: the dark glasses over the eyes, the hair captured under a cap, the oval face.

Slipping off the glasses, Poya studied the eyes. The colors would never change. The right eye would always be brown. The left would always be a ghost eye, so pale as to be almost white.

The one difference: the ghost eye had only one pupil now instead of three.

Polycoria.A fancy name that meantmany pupils.One could have manytruepupils, meaning that they could open or close the way a single pupil could, or manyfalsepupils, which were simply holes in the iris.

Poya’s were true. Baba once said it was a lucky thing Poya’s eyesight was unaffected. The condition could be fixed with surgery…just not in Afghanistan.

Having a ghost eye with now only a single pupil was a relief. The doctor said losing the glasses was up to Poya:no medical reason to keep them, but it’s your call.

So much was Poya’s choice now and that was…thrilling. Scary, too.

Folding the earpieces, Poya slid the dark glasses into a pocket. Without the protection of those glasses, that mirror-image was eerie. A little scary, too, because there was more to see than met the eye, even one fit for a ghost.

Like Dorothy. When Baba showed the movie, he said they made Garland, who was sixteen at the time, wear ace wraps around her chest to flatten her out and hide her bulges, her curves. Baba said Garland cried because it hurt so much to hide what she was becoming.

Poya knew just how that felt.

But this is for the best, Baba had said as Mami cut a shock of Poya’s red hair, which was no less startling than that strange ghost eye.This way, you will be a bacha posh. No one need ever know. But one day we will escape to America before long and when we do…

“You can be yourself,” Poya whispered, “because you will be free.”

Then Poya pulled off the cap and shook out coils of rich red hair as ruddy as a maple leaf in autumn—and became herself.

This is the story of your life. So, begin yourself. Start somewhere.

And then Mina opened Anne’s diary and began to read.

JOHN: A LEAP OF FAITH

They left Phakding early,around nine. Their hike in Nepal that day was only six, seven miles, but the last three-quarters of a mile to Namche Bazaar was supposed to be a real killer: straight uphill, no nice level turnouts where you could look at the view and catch your breath. One guy they met in Phakding said they could count on two hours of steady uphill easy before they hit the valley:Nothing but up and more up and they got some steps that are real killers. Even if you do get to see Everest for a couple two, three minutes, those stairs? Do them and then tell me if they aren’t the worst experience of your life.

He was tempted to say that, no, he reallyhadexperienced far, far worse and killed several people along the way but kept his mouth shut.

The day was clear, which he thought was a good omen. An hour out, he figured the guy was exaggerating. The way was downright pleasant, a nice ramble through thick forests of pine and rhododendron studded with pink blooms. The river kept them company along the way, gurgling and chuckling over rocks, churning itself the color of milk. There were several suspension bridges along the way, but they’d been relatively tame affairs: not very high, not very long, all of them bedecked with colorfulprayer flags tied to either side. He’d been reassured of the bridges’ sturdiness by the constant stream of yaks, burdened with sacks and bulging panniers, clopping along. (Yak caravans always had the right of way. He didn’t know if this was written down anywhere, but the yaks were wide and their burdens even wider. So, best to let them just have the bridge for as long as it took. But, boy, you had to watch your step. He hadn’t seen so much yak poop since Amu’s camp.)

About two hours out, he spotted a perfect rhododendron blossom on the ground which he plucked up then slid over Roni’s right ear. When they kissed, her lips tasted of sweat and salt, and he thought,Yeah, just do it. Take the leap. Don’t second-guess. The time’s right.

So, all in all, the day had been good so far. He was jacked up, filled with good intentions and love for his fellow man, hopeful about the future, feeling just great because the world was his oyster, baby…

And then they got to the Hillary Bridge.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s…that’s, you know, that’s pretty high.”

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