Page 183 - The Kite Runner

172 Khaled Hosseini

It was Soraya who suggested that she move in with Baba
and me.
“I thought you might want us to have our own place,” I said.
“With Kaka jan as sick as he is?” she replied. Her eyes told me
that was no way to start a marriage. I kissed her. “Thank you.”
Soraya dedicated herself to taking care of my father. She
made his toast and tea in the morning, and helped him in and
out of bed. She gave him his pain pills, washed his clothes, read
him the international section of the newspaper every afternoon.
She cooked his favorite dish, potato shorwa, though he could
scarcely eat more than a few spoonfuls, and took him out every
day for a brief walk around the block. And when he became
bedridden, she turned him on his side every hour so he wouldn’t
get a bedsore.
One day, I came home from the pharmacy with Baba’s mor-
phine pills. Just as I shut the door, I caught a glimpse of Soraya
quickly sliding something under Baba’s blanket. “Hey, I saw that!
What were you two doing?” I said.
“Nothing,” Soraya said, smiling.
“Liar.” I lifted Baba’s blanket. “What’s this?” I said, though as
soon as I picked up the leather-bound book, I knew. I traced my
fingers along the gold-stitched borders. I remembered the fire-
works the night Rahim Khan had given it to me, the night of my
thirteenth birthday, flares sizzling and exploding into bouquets of
red, green, and yellow.
“I can’t believe you can write like this,” Soraya said.
Baba dragged his head off the pillow. “I put her up to it. I hope
you don’t mind.”
I gave the notebook back to Soraya and left the room. Baba
hated it when I cried.