Jessica and her brothers would sneak out of the office, opening the caramel wrappers as they went. Just looking at the photo, Jessica could feel the creamy meltiness of the caramel as it dissolved in her mouth. Grinning, she remembered how devious she’d felt, knowing that she had another one she could enjoy alone in her room after they got home.
At the bottom of the container, she found a large coin so worn and smooth that she knew the denomination only because she had seen Gramps with it so many times. She picked up the silver dollar and held it between her thumb and two fingers. She could trace the barest outline of a head, but she couldn’t make out the date.
Ruefully eyeing the boxes that surrounded her and cluttered what had been a decidedly uncluttered space just an hour before, Jessica could only think of what she would have to show for her own life one day. She had left Idaville so she could do important things, achieve things that were impossible to do in a small town in the middle of nowhere. The boxes were no longer a distraction but more of a warning.
Jessica found herself reflexively rubbing the smooth silver from the box and put the coin in her pocket. Based on today’s events, she might need it.
CHAPTER THREE
AMINA
Amina breathed in the exhaust-tainted air as she shed the feel of the IAP offices. The somber facility was stifling enough, but the windowless meeting room with propaganda on the walls had felt more like an interrogation room than a place to seek asylum. Seeing the lawyer pull in her breath so sharply when Amina walked in the room had set Amina on edge even more. She could still feel the tension in her own brow.
Although the lawyer had tried to say the right things, she’d looked at Amina through eyes that didn’t understand. The lawyer had borne a practiced posture of strength, her square shoulders and long neck asserting innate power, but her eyes had shown weakness in the way they couldn’t quite meet Amina’s. Walking out of the office had reminded Amina of her own strength, and moving through the city streets bolstered the sense of independence she knew she needed to survive.
As she approached the next intersection, Amina squinted at the sunlight reflecting off the windows of a building up ahead. The cityscape blurred, and Amina could almost envision home. Almost. The warm sun on her face was the same elixir. But even with the outlines of the buildings blurred, Baltimore was no Aleppo.
Silent pedestrians plugged into headphones replaced men chattering loudly in Arabic. Impersonal storefronts replaced the vibrant and social markets she had loved to visit with her mother. Mostly, though, there were no mortar explosions, no sniper shots, and no screaming women calling for their dead children.
But that had been later.
She had reserved much of the day for the meeting she’d just walked out on, so she didn’t have to be to work until late afternoon. The unexpected freedom meant she could get to the library for the first time in weeks.
She had discovered the Enoch Pratt Free Library shortly after filing her asylum claim. Initially, the wealth of books had drawn her in, limitless possibilities contained in shelf after shelf of inquiry. But as the war in Syria continued and grew in intensity, the library had become her haven of knowledge of a war she could no longer watch on television.
The quick-edit flashes of video, the cracks of the bombs, the stressed commentary of embedded journalists, the images of injured children and sobbing mothers—all were broadcast here in a country that couldn’t make any of it stop. She didn’t need to be brought back to the horror via satellite.
Though she couldn’t bear to watch her country’s demise on television, she devoured the newspapers at Pratt so she could stay informed about her home. True, she had fled the country and could not return, but it would always be home. Between the Post, the Times, and the Wall Street Journal, she could read about the horror and choose not to turn the page, and she didn’t have to hear the sounds of death or watch her countrymen moving about as ghosts among rubble that used to be bustling city streets. The thought of her family as ghosts, whether dead or alive, still darkened her heart, and every image that wasn’t one of those who might still be alive pulled her further away.
A blaring horn brought Amina’s attention back to America. A taxi driver yelled at her in a language not her own. She held up her hand in apology and stepped back onto the curb. Fluttering hands and a hijab to the left caught Amina’s attention. A woman not much younger than herself, wearing a light floral scarf with her modest blouse, fashionable jeans, and Chuck Taylor sneakers, descended the stairs of a brick building ahead, chatting animatedly with a young man. The woman was American, Amina deduced, based on the unaccented English. She seemed so comfortable, her arms flowing in a visual melody punctuated by her laughter. A hunger filled Amina’s gut, a longing to move her own arms that freely again. They had been weights at her side, holding her back, for too long.
She hoped to catch the young woman’s eye, to learn a bit of her melody, but the couple turned away from Amina, caught up in their own news of the day. A lost opportunity for connection, the moment blended in with the everyday reality of the streets. Sometimes Amina would catch someone sneaking a peek at her or even blatantly staring, but most people were too focused on where they were going next to interact with those around them. Lack of connection was better than conflict, perhaps, though it was probably a lack of connection that led to conflict.
Rounding the corner past the Baltimore Basilica, she saw the massive library that occupied a city block. Amina considered the late Enoch Pratt’s vision that she’d read in the lobby: a library for “rich and poor without distinction of race or color.” The quote accurately portrayed the library today. Amina herself fulfilled much of that vision as she entered through the tall metal doors. Today, this poor woman from Syria would be researching for her asylum case.
One of the great frustrations of the asylum process had been the absolute uncertainty of timing. In limbo for over two years, Amina had been both relieved and fearful when she’d read the newly released asylum office waiting times that indicated she could hear from the office in as soon as a few months with an interview date. She was no immigration lawyer, but she knew that if she presented a good case in the interview, she could be approved and not have to go before a judge, where approvals were even less likely.
She was in control and would be prepared, and she would start with staying up to date on the current political and martial state of Syria.
Amina joined the job seekers needing to print résumés, the homeless regulars seeking reading material or air conditioning, and the others for whom the Pratt was a refuge. The Washington Post awaited her, and she took a spot at a table in a corner below a window.
In a midpage headline, the Post revealed another broken ceasefire. Amina didn’t need to read the paper to be reminded of the endless series of broken promises. The Syrian regime had promised change during the protests and demonstrations of the Arab Spring, and the world had promised support for Syrian civilians. But the regime decided to go to war against its own people, and the world stood by. A broken ceasefire didn’t seem like such a huge breach of trust anymore.
Nor was the news in the politics section a surprise. Congressional action would increase refugee review and immigration enforcement requirements without increasing funding or resources. This was one of the reasons asylum cases took so long already. Diversion of even more resources meant that Amina and others like her could expect their state of limbo to be indefinite, and the interview notice could be potentially put on hold forever.
IAP materials advised asylum seekers to “live your life as though you are staying in America forever.” That was easy for them to say, but for someone in America due to broken promises, it seemed almost suicidal to make efforts that could lead to further disappointment.
Amina replaced the Post and picked out the Wall Street Journal. Finding two students conferring at her table when she returned, she headed to a different section of the library to find a quiet spot.
As Amina walke
d through the atrium, a woman passed with a young child. Amina silently guessed at the girl’s age. It was a sad game she couldn’t keep from playing when she saw young children, thinking about lost opportunities to have her own family. This little blond girl, whose mom wore a matching dress, looked about four and a half. Amina smiled at the girl, whose eyes opened wide as she stared up at Amina.
The little girl tugged on her mom’s hand and, without taking her eyes off Amina, urged, “Mom, Mom. Look.”
The newspaper crinkled as Amina clutched her bag to her chest like a shield. The mom gasped sharply then hushed the girl and scurried away. Amina didn’t want to decide whether the woman’s expression reflected shame over her daughter’s staring or aversion to the object of her daughter’s curiosity. What mattered more was that the little girl was learning to associate that reaction with the woman in the hijab.
A connection was severed, and limitless possibilities started to look more limited. But Amina had endured worse than the shocked face of a mother in a library.
CHAPTER FOUR
At the squeak of protesting hinges, the dog started barking again. Jessica set down the half-diced onion and checked her watch. It was close to dinnertime, and the kids were due home anytime.
The whistled melody drifting into the kitchen triggered a smile. It wasn’t the kids, but it was proof that something good had happened today.
Gracie bounded into the room, followed by her sailing partner. Gracie wasn’t particularly helpful as crew, but she loved to lap at the spray when the wind was high, and Danny was happy to bring her aboard.
“Wasn’t expecting you home so early,” Jessica said. Late nights at the office had been the norm for Danny this year. His increasing hours somehow made Jessica’s diminishing responsibilities more apparent to her, though he had been too busy to notice. He might notice her tension after today’s events, though, and could hopefully help her work through it.
He, on the other hand, moved as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which certainly wasn’t true. Staying calm under pressure had always served him well on a sailboat, and it translated well to business. “Hope you don’t mind, hon.” He tilted his sun-streaked head slightly in the direction of the front of the house. “We seem to have some boxes that weren’t here when I left this morning.” He set his laptop case on the table and grabbed an apple.
“They were a day early, and yes, there are a few more boxes than I expected. You’d think Oma would have gotten rid of everything when she moved into the facility, right? But I guess if you live through the Depression... ugh. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with it all.” Jessica picked up her knife and started chopping again.
“You might want to make sure no one else names you executor of their estate.” He took a bite of the apple. “Otherwise, we might need to bunk up with the kids to make room for another load of boxes.” His blue eyes twinkled. “And we don’t want that.” He leaned in for a kiss, running his hand from her shoulder to her lower back. He pulled his head back, maintaining his hold on her. “Do we have time for a little...” He arched his eyebrows mischievously.
The front door squeaked open then slammed shut, closing out any chance for a rare afternoon tryst that would have taken the sting off of the morning’s events. The door squeaked open again. She really needed to WD-40 the hell out of that thing.
“Hey,” yelled a prepubescent voice. “Why’d you shut the door on me?” Footsteps pounded up the stairs, then a door slammed shut.
“Clearly not. Isn’t Conor being an ass lately?” She wasn’t sure Danny had been around enough to notice Conor’s attitude.
Fortunately, their kids weren’t all angsty teenagers. Her curly-haired eleven-year-old burst into the kitchen and threw his backpack on the table. The bucktoothed grin indicated that he had already gotten over having the door slammed in his face by his big brother.
“So...” Jessica prompted. “How did the speech go?”
“It was crazy!” Mikey’s wild-eyed expression shot back and forth from Jessica to Danny, who had moved to the couch in the family room, as though wondering which one of them to tell.
Jessica walked to the couch when he picked Danny, and the words came tumbling out.
“We were giving our speeches, and Andy Franklin, do you know him? He got up and got totally freaked out, and then he threw up. Not a whole lot, just a little. But it was on the thing you give the speech from.”
“Lectern. It’s called a lectern.” Jessica motioned for Mikey to continue, hoping she could keep up with him.
“Right, so the lectern was all gross, and they moved it off the stage so they could clean it up. I had already given my speech, so I didn’t have to go up there after him. The rest of the people had to hold their speeches in their hands, and the principal held the microphone for them.”
“Did Andy get the sympathy vote?” Jessica could certainly sympathize with nerves and a sick stomach.
“I’m not really sure what you mean by that, but he did get president. And I got vice president!” Mikey grinned, giant dimples forming as if to provide more space for his joy.
“Just a heartbeat away from the presidency, son,” Danny said. “Or an upset stomach away, perhaps. Be ready to take over.” He ruffled Mikey’s hair then pulled his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling down the screen—the parent hand-off signal. Danny might have been home from the office early, but that didn’t mean he was home from work.
“We’re proud of you, Mikey. It takes guts—no pun intended—to get up there and speak in front of your class.” Jessica picked up the backpack from the table and held it out. “Even vice presidents have to do their homework, though. Get going. Can you tell Conor dinner will be ready around six thirty? Cricket should be home from swim practice by then.”
“Got it.” Mikey stopped in the doorway and hollered to Conor.
“Well, I could have done that.” Jessica sighed. “Looks like we’ve got a little more time alone. Do you want to help with dinner?” And tell me I’m not a failure?
Danny glanced up from his screen. “Sorry, hon. I’ve got to go take care of something. One of our customers got a hacker scare today. The software did its job, but their CTO is panicking. I should be done talking him off the ledge by dinnertime.”
So much for some alone time together. But if anyone could talk someone off a ledge, it was Danny. He always looked and sounded relaxed in that way sailors do. It was deceptive. She knew he was always on the alert, whether for a change in the wind or a security threat at work. But he exuded the calm and cool that reassured everyone around him that they would get through the storm.
He had been exactly what Jessica needed when she’d first fallen into those bay-blue eyes. And today, she had hoped to talk to him about her own morning and get a neutral and reassuring perspective. But work took precedence. She understood. Her morning wasn’t of critical importance.
The outside corners of Danny’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, more today than they had back then, but they still sent her insides spinning. “I’m sure you’ve got everything covered.” He kissed her as a promise for later and sailed out of the room.
CRICKET’S hair was still wet from practice, her auburn curls piled into a bun atop her head, but she completed the group to allow for a proper family dinner. With Danny’s late nights and the kids’ crazy schedules, people had gotten used to throwing together a plate from what Jessica put out, and they now hovered near the kitchen counter like vultures.
“Have a seat, people.” Jessica shooed them toward the table. “We’re doing this old school. A good old-fashioned family dinner. Leave your phones over here.” She tapped the granite counter with a serving spoon, eliciting groans all around.
Three phones soon lay on the counter, one already vibrating with messages. “Set it on Do Not Disturb, please, Crick.” Jessica tapped the counter again, feeling like a schoolmarm. Cricket grudgingly changed the settings and joined everyone at the table.
Jessica brought
over the platters and started passing them. Danny looked relaxed in a tattered golf shirt and plaid shorts. He must have talked the client off the ledge. Jessica searched his face for a clue and was rewarded with a wink. Danny then turned off his own phone and placed it on the counter with the others.
Conor ate silently, his heavy eyebrows shielding his occasional glances around the table, while Mikey and Cricket argued about who they would have on their zombie-apocalypse team. Their dad made the team not because software development skills would be essential but because zombies couldn’t swim and Dad could sail them out of reach of the dead hordes. The argument centered on whether they would bring Gracie. Ever the pragmatist, Cricket was on board with the dog because, well, “We might need to eat her.” Mikey wanted to bring Gracie as a companion but not if his sister planned to make dog burgers out of the poor thing.
“I wouldn’t make dog burgers.” She shook her head at her brother’s naïveté. “We have to plan for the long haul. I’m thinking we would make dog jerky.” She tented her fingers and placed them to her lips. “Then we could pack her up and have protein snacks that wouldn’t spoil.” Now she was just pushing Mikey’s buttons.
Jessica jumped in just as Mikey’s reddening face threatened to burst. “Did you hear Mikey was voted vice president today, Conor?” Jessica prodded her oldest, hoping to pull the glowering teen into conversation.
Conor ran his fingers through his golden hair, standing it up in faltering spikes. “The student council doesn’t do anything in middle school. They all say they’re going to add more dress-down days and have pizza delivery days in the cafeteria, but all they end up doing is decorating signs for the spring social.” He sneered in Mikey’s direction. “Make sure you have some sparkly markers, Mikey.”
Unbroken Threads Page 3