Page 165 - The Kite Runner

154 Khaled Hosseini

“Take this to the front desk,” he said, scribbling quickly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A referral.” Scribble scribble.
“For what?”
“Pulmonary clinic.”
“What’s that?”
He gave me a quick glance. Pushed up his glasses. Began
scribbling again. “He’s got a spot on his right lung. I want them to
check it out.”
“A spot?” I said, the room suddenly too small.
“Cancer?” Baba added casually.
“Possible. It’s suspicious, anyway,” the doctor muttered.
“Can’t you tell us more?” I asked.
“Not really. Need a CAT scan first, then see the lung doctor.”
He handed me the referral form. “You said your father smokes,
right?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. Looked from me to Baba and back again. “They’ll
call you within two weeks.”
I wanted to ask him how I was supposed to live with that word,
“suspicious,” for two whole weeks. How was I supposed eat, work,
study? How could he send me home with that word?
I took the form and turned it in. That night, I waited until
Baba fell asleep, and then folded a blanket. I used it as a prayer
rug. Bowing my head to the ground, I recited half-forgotten verses
from the Koran—verses the mullah had made us commit to mem-
ory in Kabul—and asked for kindness from a God I wasn’t sure
existed. I envied the mullah now, envied his faith and certainty.
Two weeks passed and no one called. And when I called them,
they told me they’d lost the referral. Was I sure I had turned it in?
They said they would call in another three weeks. I raised hell and