by Dylan Allen
©2017 Dylan Allen
www.authordylanallen.com
ISBN-10: 0-9986246-0-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-9986246-0-0
Editing by: Anja Pfister at Hourglass Editing
Proofreading by Gaele Hince at Bippity Boppity Book
Cover Design by Murphy Rae Hopkins at Indie Solutions
Formatting by Elaine York at Allusion Graphics, LLC
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For my parents, who have given me everything and more. I love you is not enough.
December 2, 2001
1:00pm
I glance at the clock. It is almost the end of the day, and I am ready to go home. When I left for school this morning my mother had been crying, loudly. I’m thirteen years old and have never seen my mother cry. It frightened me. My older sisters, Milly and Lilly, who were both in high school didn’t say a word at breakfast and left for school before I finished eating.
When I asked Daddy what was wrong, he didn’t answer me, and the drive to school had been silent and terrifying. We usually sing along to whatever was on the radio or talk about what my day was going to be like. He didn’t even respond when I said goodbye in the carpool lane.
I am supposed to be finishing my algebra assignment, but I have only managed to do two of the twenty problems on the worksheet. My stomach is in knots. I glance at the clock again then look across the room. I am trying to catch Cara’s eye. But Cara has her head down and is focused on her worksheet. I glance around the room and see everyone is working, but me.
My nerves become unbearable and I start to raise my hand to ask to use the bathroom when the classroom door opens and Principal Ramey steps in. Her stern dark eyes find mine immediately, but she looks away sharply. I stare as she walks to Mrs. Sneed’s desk and bends down to whisper in her ear.
Her eyes snap up to mine again, and this time, when our eyes met, she doesn’t look away. She stands up, straightens her grey linen blazer, touches her pearl necklace, as if to make sure they were still there and says “Adelaide Hassan, I need you to come with me”. It isn’t the summons that pricks my fear, but the use of my full name. No one calls me Adelaide unless I am in trouble. And I am never in trouble, at least not at school.
I get up, and start toward the front of the room. The principal’s cutting voice stops me mid-stride. “Gather your things and bring your bag, Adelaide. You won’t be back before class is over.” I turn around to find everyone looking at me.
I glance in Cara’s direction one more time, and this time, she is looking back at me. Her dark eyes are open so wide they look like they are going to pop out of her head. In them, I recognize my own panic and fear. I know, somehow, after today my life will never be the same. As I reach for my bag, I feel tears prick the back of my eyes and my heart starts to race. I can’t pull my gaze away from Cara’s. I feel a terror that is almost paralyzing, and I do the only thing I can. I start to laugh.
As I walk from the room, Principal Ramey’s hand on my shoulder, my laughter turns to sobs. And then I cry until I have no tears left.
July 18, 2014
London, England
I love the arrivals section at the airport. It is a magical place. Hugs, kisses, and screams of happiness abound. I sit, waiting for my family at London’s Heathrow airport, and watch people run to greet their loved ones as they come through the double doors. The cacophony of sound and constant movement is comforting rather than overwhelming.
So far, my favorite has been a couple whose three children and their entire families just arrived. They had been sitting next to me, waiting.
The wife struck up a conversation and told me their children, who all live in Australia, were visiting for the first time in three years with their spouses and children. She was holding a tissue she was twisting to shreds as we spoke.
We’ve only been talking for a few minutes when they arrive. Two huge men, three women and 7 children come rushing toward her. She jumps up, our conversation immediately forgotten. I watch as she and her husband are swallowed up in a huge group hug.
The most striking thing about their reunion isn’t the size of the group, but the hush that comes over them as they embrace. I feel like an intruder watching their intimate moment. I look away as sorrow, so keen it steals my breath, washes over me.
My mind drifts back to that fateful day of its own volition, thirteen years ago when my life, as I knew it, changed. The day my future went from one that was clearly mapped out to a complete crapshoot. The day my father chose his ill-gotten gains and freedom over his wife and children is a day branded into my memory, and I feel it like it happened yesterday.
When I got to the principal’s office, a haggard looking woman with a mop of blonde, close-cropped, curly hair was standing in front of the desk. She was flanked by two police officers who looked like they would rather be anywhere but in this room.
“Adelaide, I’m Mrs. Salter. These are officers Clarke and Luman. I need to talk to you about your father.”
The world stopped spinning at the end of that sentence. And in some ways, it never started again. My life, everything which occurred before that day, became a blur of time I only referred to as “before”. Before my father, formerly a pillar of our community, became a wanted fugitive. Before my home became a crime scene and everything I thought of as “mine” became evidence. Before I learned I couldn’t count on anyone but myself, and that there was no such thing as happily ever after.
My father was an Enron executive and had been implicated in the massive accounting fraud which caused the downfall of one of the largest energy companies in the world. Tens of thousands of employees lost their livelihoods; their retirement savings, their homes, their children’s futures. The CEO and CFO went to jail, the Board Chairman would have too, but he dropped dead, and my father, the General Counsel, fled with more than 20 million dollars.
My mother, sisters, and I became instant pariahs in our community. People threw bricks through our window, someone set our garage on fire. In less than 72 hours, the FBI moved us to a temporary home in Maryland, we changed our last names to Dennis, my maternal grandmother’s maiden name, and we began new lives. We received new birth certificates, new medical records, new school records, new everything. The Hassan family disappeared in the blink of an eye.
The press began hunting for us, almost more actively than they hunted for my father. The rumors ran rampant saying we absconded as well. The FBI was forced to issue a statement that we were not suspects or persons of interest in the investigation into our father’s disappearance. Which only turned the gossip from “are they criminals?” to “where are they hiding?”
The money
my father earned before his employment at Enron, our education funds, and some of my parents’ investments were not subject to seizure. Although our circumstances were greatly reduced, we were not completely destitute. The FBI was able to transfer all of the money into accounts opened under our new names.
My mother had given up her career as a lawyer when Milly was born and never went back to work. We bought a small house in Silver Spring, Maryland, and tried to build our new lives.
On the first night in our new house, my sisters and I lay together in one bed, me between them, and cried together until we fell asleep. We were shell-shocked. There was so much change in such a short period of time.
Our mother carried on with life as if nothing happened. I never saw her cry again after the day he disappeared. She told anyone who bothered to ask that she was a widow. At home, we weren’t allowed to speak ill of our father. My mother kept a picture of him by her bedside, her loyalty to him felt like a total betrayal. It was as if what he had done, leaving us, lying to her, destroying all of those people’s lives didn’t matter.
My sisters both took advantage of their excellent grades from the private all girl’s school they attended “before” and graduated high school early. They fled to the Northeast for college. In less than two years after my life exploded, I was alone. They called me every weekend. They came home for holidays and the year I turned sixteen they both came home for my birthday. They loved me, but they had escaped and moved on with their lives. I was left to live with a mother I didn’t respect, who acted like nothing had changed but our zip code.
“Auntie Addie!” A child’s loud scream pulls me from my dark daydream just in time to catch my nephew’s little body as he hurls himself at me. My whole family, my sisters and my mother, is here.
I’ve been in London for less than a year, but my sisters couldn’t wait to come and see me after I moved. I’m actually eager to show them the life I’ve built here. London represented new beginnings and the fulfillment of promises I made to myself after my father left.
They were:
1) I would never rely on anyone for anything again.
2) I would find a way to live in a country where no one would care who I had been “before”.
My college fund has paid for law school and allowed me to focus on studying. I graduated in the top five percent of my class at Harvard Law School and had been co-editor of the Law Review.
I landed my dream job as an Associate in the London office of a U.S. law firm. Even better, my best friend Cara, is also here. She is a dancer in the London Ballet Company, and my anchor.
I look down into my nephew’s big, brown eyes and squeeze his compact body into my chest. It feels so good to hold Anthony. I look up at the rest of my family. Lilly and Milly are standing close, watching our reunion. When my eyes meet theirs, the same hazel gold as my own, I feel my heart constrict.
The three of us share a history few people can even begin to imagine. As our gazes hold, without speaking a single word, we say a thousand things. The trauma we experienced in the weeks, months following our father’s disappearance has given us a bond that transcends definition. They are more than my sisters. They are my comrades in arms, they are my safe harbor, and I am so glad they are here.
My mother stands further back, watching but not joining in. This is symbolic of the role she has always played in my life. Our relationship is strained a one. I haven’t been able to look her squarely in the eye since I was old enough to really understand how wrong it was for my father to leave us and for her to act like nothing happened. I only glance at her before I look back at my sisters.
I reach my arms out to invite my sisters to join my embrace with my nephew. I know our reunion, like the ones I watched before, is drawing attention.
Our parents’ West African and Syrian heritage gives us unique features which have always made us stand out. I have a riot of curls, so black they glint with shades of blue, spilling over my shoulders and down my back. Milly’s curly mane is as long as mine but fires like copper in the light. Lilly’s is the color of dark chocolate she highlights with gold and wears blown straight into a collar length bob. While I am short with curves I spend an hour each day running into submission, my sisters are both tall and reed thin. The only physical trait we share are our father’s eyes and our generous asses from our mother.
“You’re squishing me!” A muffled plea can be heard from Anthony who is in the middle of our group hug. We break apart, all of us with huge smiles on our faces and eyes wet with happy tears.
My mother comes forward and puts her arm around my shoulders to get my attention.
Her voice is hesitant when she speaks.
“Hello, Adelaide.”
“Mom, hi.”
Looking at her placid eyes, I feel as though I could fly into a rage or cry. It is like she feels nothing and I want, just once, to see her angry, or sad, or something.
Instead, I lean forward and kiss her cheek. I turn back to see my sisters watching me like they have been holding their breath. I smirk at them and roll my eyes. I can handle a week with my mother without losing my cool.
We share a cab back to their hotel and we talk nonstop all the way. We haven’t been together in months. Lilly currently lives in Miami while Milly and her husband Kevin live in Silver Spring. He is noticeably absent. I see how sad Milly looks whenever she thinks no one is watching her. I decide to wait for a way to bring it up casually in our conversation so I don’t upset her any more.
Our chatter is punctuated with Anthony’s excited prattle as he explains his latest obsession, My Little Pony, to me.
When he pauses for a breath, Milly who is sitting across from us in the bench seat facing the rear of the cab says “So, Ad, how does it feel? Being here. Not in school?”
“Surreal, I can’t believe I’ve been here for almost a year already.”
And I can’t. It feels like yesterday I applied to Harvard Law School.
My sisters have called me a professional student until this year. I went straight from college to law school and there were days where it felt like I would never graduate.
“Well, we are so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard. I am just glad I could make it”
I see an opening and I snicker. “I can’t believe Kevin let you come all this way on your own. Where is that husband of yours anyway? I thought you were all coming, CB?”
We’ve always teased Milly and called her a child bride which has been shortened to CB over the years.
I regret the quip right away. The light in her eyes fades almost instantly and her smile drops for a second, but she recovers it quickly and says “Wild horses couldn’t have kept me or Anthony away”.
I lean forward to touch her shoulder. Looking her straight in the eyes, I ask “Where is Kevin?” I don’t try to soften my question or pretend it’s not totally bizarre he is not here.
She got married at twenty-one to her college sweetheart, and she and Kevin have always seemed like they made sense. They’ve been married for almost 10 years. He has been part of our family for even longer than that. But since Anthony was born, Milly hasn’t seemed like herself, and I know she hasn’t been happy.
Milly looks away from my probing eyes, turning back to the face the front of the car. She is silent, and I realize Lilly’s gone quiet as well. Anthony is paying attention to our conversation, too. I don’t press, but know I will try to find time to talk to her later, when I can get her alone.
Lilly turns to Anthony. “Hey, kiddo, I thought you were going to show me how to play the My Little Pony game on the phone.”
He lights up, forgetting about the awkward adult conversation. “Yes! Mommy, can I have your phone?” His question is more of a demand and when Milly hands it him, I see her catch Lilly’s eye and send her what looks like a silent “thank you.”
Even though we’re all extremely close, my sisters have always had this connection I’ve never felt part of. They seem to have forgiven our father after mak
ing some agreement I wasn’t privy to. They both have a relationship with my mother I don’t think I will ever share.
I force myself to tamp down the resentment rising in my chest and focus on the week of activities I have planned for us.
July 22, 2014
The week of their visit goes by like a blur. I have taken the week off from work so I could spend it with them.
We do all the touristy things. The Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. Anthony is absolutely enamored by the London Eye, and despite the exorbitant cost we ride it twice in a row. I don’t mind a bit. The view of London is spectacular, and I love seeing the wonder of it through his eyes.
Cara meets us for lunch near Westminster on the fourth day of their visit. She suggests we all go down to Green Park and stroll to Buckingham Palace to watch the changing of the guards.
It’s a lovely day and we are all up for the walk. Cara’s been in London for almost four years now and she knows the city like the back of her hand. It’s wonderful strolling with her.
As we walk up Birdcage Walk, away from Big Ben and toward Green Park, I hear a deep voice calling Cara’s name. We all spin around to see two drop-dead gorgeous men walking toward us.
One of them looks he could be Chris Hemsworth’s doppelgänger, except he is covered in tattoos. And the other, well, let’s just say, I’ve never seen a man who looks like him before. Ever.
If Idris Elba and Chris Evans had a baby it would look like him. He is tall, and broad, and the color of a lightly roasted hazelnut. His eyes are the rich, dark brown of hot chocolate. My throat goes dry instantly.
I can’t stop myself from taking in his closely cropped hair, his cleanly shaved, chiseled jaw, and his generous mouth.
His t-shirt which says, rather bizarrely, “I Woke Up Like This” on the front is pulled tightly across his exquisitely muscled chest and his biceps are so defined I know this man plays a sport and works out.
The jeans he is wearing are not too tight, but they are tight enough to tell me he doesn’t skip leg day at the gym.