Please read the beginning of this story as shown within the “Afghanistan Story” tab above.
Afghanistan, July, 2010, Camp Delaram
River City was lifted and I immediately called my husband in America. It took three days for him to answer a phone call.
The six second delay made communication difficult.
“Look, are you somewhere alone where I can talk to you?”
“No. Let me go outside.”
I heard sounds of him opening a sliding door.
“Okay, what’s up?”
I didn’t want to tell him about Dumaw. I couldn’t.
“Remember last year when we discussed swinging and the possibilities of me getting pregnant?”
I took a deep breath.
His laughter resonated through the earpiece.
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“Just a guy. But hey, are you okay? Are we okay?”
“I’m good. You’re the one pregnant in Afghanistan.”
“Yeah. But how are we?”
“I said it then and I’ll say it again, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, look, I gotta go. Love ya, bye.”
The phone disconnected before I could respond. I hung up the phone both relieved and a little disconcerted.
He was too cavalier. And he didn’t ask me how I was. And he hasn’t heard from me in a month. What the hell?
I called back. There was no answer.
I would try to call back every day, multiple times a day, for three weeks.