The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

32 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 9 head. He didn’t make it.” I watch- ed Ellen in stunned silence. Steven dead! How? Why? She buried her head in her father’s shoulder and sobbed. No! Steven couldn’t be dead. Watching my best friend and her father, I was an intruder — out of place, with no one’s arms wrapped around me. I got into Coach’s van and watched Ellen and her fa- ther wrapped in a silent embrace, until we turned the corner and they disappeared. Would my dad get out? Would he ever come home? When I got home, our cook waited with dinner for two. He’d heard something on the radio, but he didn’t know what to do. The phone rang, but Coach beat me to it. I clung to his elbow, waiting. “Thank you,” he said. “Yes, we un- derstand. ... We will. Good night.” “They got out,” he told me. “They’re at the British Embassy.” My father wasn’t dead. He wasn’t a hostage. He was safe! Did he know about Steven? What was it like? At 6:57 p.m., Dad walked through the door. He brought in an overwhelming stench of smoke and a face solemn as the black ash lining his rumpled clothing. He shook Coach’s hand and said simply, “Thanks.” I looked down at his shirt. There was blood on it. “Dad, did you get hurt?” He touched the blood and looked back at me. “I ... it’s the Marine’s.” His eyes filled with tears. Without thinking, I put my hand on his arm. He pat- ted my hand. I said, “I know he’s dead. Steven’s dead.” That’s when my father put his arms around me, and I began sobbing. ■ F O C U S What do you do when they kill your father? To whom do you turn to ask if you’re safe?