the ailments that would hound mammy for the rest of herdays began. chest pains and headaches, joint aches and nightsweats, paralyzing pains in her ears, lumps no one else couldfeel. babi took her to a doctor, who took blood and urine, shotx-rays of mammy's body, but found no physical illness.

mammy lay in bed most days. she wore black. she picked ather hair and gnawed on the mole below her lip. whenmammy was awake, laila found her staggering through thehouse. she always ended up in laila's room, as though shewould run into the boys sooner or later if she just keptwalking into the room where they had once slept and fartedand fought with pillows. but all she ran into was their absence.

and laila. which, laila believed, had become one and thesame to mammy.

the only task mammy never neglected was her fivedailynamaz prayers. she ended eachnamaz with her head hunglow, hands held before her face, palms up, muttering a prayerfor god to bring victory to the mujahideen. laila had toshoulder more and more of the chores. if she didn't tend tothe house, she was apt to find clothes, shoes, open rice bags,cans of beans, and dirty dishes strewn about everywhere. lailawashed mammy's dresses and changed her sheets. she coaxedher out of bed for baths and meals. she was the one whoironed babi's shirts and folded his pants. increasingly, she wasthe cook.

sometimes, after she was done with her chores, laila crawledinto bed next to mammy. she wrapped her arms around her,laced her fingers with her mother's, buried her face in her hair.

mammy would stir, murmur something. inevitably, she wouldstart in on a story about the boys.

one day, as they were lying this way, mammy said, "ahmadwas going to be a leader. he had the charisma for it-peoplethree times his age listened to him with respect, laila. it wassomething to see. and noon oh, my noor. he was alwaysmaking sketches of buildingsand bridges. he was going to bean architect, you know. he was going to transform kabul withhis designs. and now they're bothshaheed, my boys, bothmartyrs."laila lay there and listened, wishing mammy would noticethatshe, laila, hadn't becomeshaheed, that she was alive, here,in bed with her, that she had hopes and a future. but lailaknew that her future was no match for her brothers' past.

they had overshadowed her in life. they would obliterate herin death. mammy was now the curator of their lives' museumand she, laila, a mere visitor. a receptacle for their myths.

theparchment on which mammy meant to ink their legends.

"the messenger who came with the news, he said that whenthey brought the boys back to camp, ahmad shah massoudpersonally oversaw the burial. he said a prayer for them at thegravesite. that's the kind of brave young men your brotherswere, laila, that commander massoud himself, the lion ofpanjshir, god bless him, would oversee their burial."mammy rolled onto her back. laila shifted, rested her headon mammy's chest.

"some days," mammy said in a hoarse voice, "i listen to thatclock ticking in the hallway. then i think of all the ticks, all theminutes, all the hours and days and weeks and months andyears waiting for me. all of it without them. and i can'tbreathe then, like someone's stepping on my heart, laila. i getso weak. so weak i just want to collapse somewhere.""i wish there was something i could do," laila said, meaningit. but it came out sounding broad, perfunctory, like the tokenconsolation of a kind stranger.

"you're a good daughter," mammy said, after a deep sigh.

"and i haven't been much of a mother to you.""don't say that.""oh, it's true. i know it and i'm sorry for it, my love.""mammy?""mm."laila sat up, looking down at mammy. there were graystrands in mammy's hair now. and it startled laila howmuchweight mammy, who'd always been plump, had lost. hercheeks had a sallow, drawn look. the blouseshe was wearingdrooped over her shoulders, and there was a gaping spacebetween her neck and the collar. more than once laila hadseen the wedding bandslide off mammy's finger.

"i've been meaning to ask you something.""what is it?""you wouldn't…" laila began.

she'd talked about it to hasina. at hasina's suggestion, thetwo of them had emptied the bottle of aspirin in the gutter,hidden the kitchen knives and the sharp kebab skewersbeneath the rug under the couch. hasina had found a rope inthe yard. when babi couldn't find his razors, laila had to tellhim of her fears. he dropped on the edge of the couch, handsbetween his knees. laila waited for some kind of reassurancefrom him. but all she got was a bewildered, hollow-eyed look.

"you wouldn't…mammy i worry that-""i thought about it the night we got the news," mammy said.

"i won't lie to you, i've thought about it since too. but, no.

don't worry, laila. i want to see my sons' dream come true. iwant to see the day the soviets go home disgraced, the daythe mujahideen come to kabul in victory. i want to be therewhen it happens, when afghanistan is free, so the boys see ittoo. they'll see it through my eyes."mammy was soon asleep, leaving laila with dueling emotions:

reassured that mammy meant to live on, stung thatshe wasnot the reason.she would never leave her mark on mammy'sheart the way her brothers had, because mammy's heart waslike a pallid beach where laila's footprints would forever washaway beneath the waves of sorrow that swelled and crashed,swelled and crashed.