Page 336 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 325

7:30 in the evening in Islamabad, roughly about the same time in
the morning in California. That meant Soraya had been up for an
hour, getting ready for school.
“It’s me,” I said. I was sitting on my bed, watching Sohrab
sleep.
“Amir!” she almost screamed. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m in Pakistan.”
“Why didn’t you call earlier? I’ve been sick with tashweesh! My
mother’s praying and doing nazr every day.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m fine now.” I had told her I’d be away
a week, two at the most. I’d been gone for nearly a month. I
smiled. “And tell Khala Jamila to stop killing sheep.”
“What do you mean ‘fine now’? And what’s wrong with your
voice?”
“Don’t worry about that for now. I’m fine. Really. Soraya, I
have a story to tell you, a story I should have told you a long time
ago, but first I need to tell you one thing.”
“What is it?” she said, her voice lower now, more cautious.
“I’m not coming home alone. I’m bringing a little boy with
me.” I paused. “I want us to adopt him.”
“What?”
I checked my watch. “I have fifty-seven minutes left on this
stupid calling card and I have so much to tell you. Sit some-
where.” I heard the legs of a chair dragged hurriedly across the
wooden floor.
“Go ahead,” she said.
Then I did what I hadn’t done in fifteen years of marriage: I
told my wife everything. Everything. I had pictured this moment so
many times, dreaded it, but, as I spoke, I felt something lifting off
my chest. I imagined Soraya had experienced something very simi-
lar the night of our khastegari, when she’d told me about her past.