Hoda turns off the kitchen faucet. “Not good. King should make Zaid king. It is law.”
I take in both Ismad and Ameena, wondering if it is true. Ameena adds, “It is law the firstborn son of the King should be crowned the heir to the throne.”
Curious about the King’s condition, I ask, “What does the King have? What is his sickness?”
Ismad and Ameena share a knowing glance and shrug as Ismad explains, “It has been kept quiet. The King has become less public in recent years. His people say it is from the crisis and war around us ... fear for attacks on the royal family, but I think it is because of his health. The Queen is young in comparison with him. He is twenty-five years older than her. An old man now.”
The boys race through the kitchen, chasing each other, and Hoda and Jasara raise their voices at them to stop running in Arabic, then mumble to each other under their breath before exchanging a smile as they work side by side at the counter.
By the third day of being kept in the Ba’ashir home from the outside world, we are all stir crazy to some extent. Hoda, Jasara, and Ismad are at their wits’ end with the boys running through the house and in the craze I somehow talk myself into calling Jilly, deciding to tread lightly on the circumstances of my call. I can’t believe I remember her cell phone number.
As it rings, I wonder if she is going to ignore it since it will show up as an International call. Just before I give up she answers, “Hello?”
The sound of her voice is like the best sounding music ever. “Jilly?”
“OH MY GOD, ELLA?”
I feel a lump rise in my throat. “Yes, it’s me.”
“How are you calling me?” she asks breathily, surprised, but still not crying so I guess she doesn’t know.
“It is an emergency cell phone from WorldTeach.” I realize I probably shouldn’t have said emergency.
“Emergency? What happened?” she asks sharply.
“No, I’m fine. I just ... I needed to hear your voice and let you know ... everything is good here.”
“Ooookay. Are you sure everything is alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just hey, don’t tell them I called okay?”
“Can you text on this phone?” she asks, ignoring my question.
“Uh, no I don’t think so. Hey, don’t tell Mom and Dad okay? I don’t want them to think anything is wrong. I just wanted to say hi.”
“Yeah, I won’t.”
The pause between us is that quiet sadness that happens before you say goodbye to someone you don’t want to hang up with.
“I miss you so much, El.” Her voice is low and soft, very much like the day I said goodbye to her in D.C.
I put on a smile and respond with as much pep as I can. “Miss you too. Bye.”
She knows nothing about the attack. I wonder if my parents somehow hid it from her or maybe don’t even know themselves. It wouldn’t be impossible for the news in the States to not know about it.
I roll over on my side and stare at the mosaic picture on the wall. Today will be the volunteers first day back at Makan Lil Amal. The Caritas staff returned yesterday. Knowing they survived a day without any problems puts me at ease about returning. I think of the prince and wonder if he will be there just for a moment, then consider him having a more important duty at his father’s side.
I try to close my eyes and fall back to sleep, if only for a couple more hours. Like every night since the attacks, when I close them I see his familiar face and striking golden-brown eyes. Hoda begins to hum a song to Ghalib through the concrete wall separating his room from mine. The words are lost to me but the sound is soothing.
That day at the center, the words the prince spoke when we were face to face after he saved me, they echo just beyond Hoda’s humming.
“Eh enta.”
I asked Laila what the words meant in English earlier today; I’m trying to work with her more since Ameena has got the hang of it. She said it meant something like “it’s you” or “knowing you.”
The rest of the day I puzzled over the map of our connection. I remembered annoying Serena say it was a prince’s party. There aren’t an exuberant amount of princes in the world, but there are quite a few and what would be the chances of Prince Rajaa being the prince at the party. Seeing him at some random Georgetown University posh private party, then again the next day in the elevator, which is still questionable based on my hangover, then saving my ass from waves of bullets on the other side of the world weeks later? How many Middle Eastern princes attend universities in the U.S? In Europe? Many. How many of them have dreamy brown eyes with the most striking golden hue? What are the chances of seeing the same man in D.C. halfway across the world? One in a million?
“A billion?” I mumble to myself as I pull the covers tighter around me. Before I surrender to sleep again, I sigh, knowing I can deny it all I want, lie to myself over and over again, talk my way out of believing the possibility, but it won’t change what I know deep in my soul. “It’s him.”
Hoda is already in the kitchen making breakfast when I come out of my room, fully dressed with my backpack and veil covering my head. She turns to me and nods to the table. “Sit. Eat.”
Saying no to Hoda would be more difficult than sitting and eating, so I submit as she brings a small plate of Hummus with my favorite, Shrak. Hoda sits with me as Ismad wakes Ameena and Ghalib. “Ella. You very brave. Ameena tell me. Alfatayaat ... girls. You love. We love.”
Hoda’s smile warms me and her hand touching mine now, squeezing it, makes my throat tighten with emotion.
I turn my hand over and squeeze her hand tightly, keeping my eyes on hers because if I look away the tears I am holding in right now will fall. “Bahibbik.”
I love you.
Ismad walks Ameena and Ghalib to their school, then leads me to the center. I understand his concern for Ameena and Ghalib getting there safely, but I tell him I am fine. “You have work. I don’t want to keep you.”
He shakes his head as he walks a few steps ahead of me protectively. Normally, women walking behind the man here in the Middle East carries a different meaning, but right now, between Ismad and me, it is for my safety. Jasara kept Rushdi and Laila home today. Ismad told Jasara he would walk them along with me, but she refused, fearful of what awaited her at the center. As I watch her explain to Ismad, the fear in her voice and eyes is acute and ready to reject any suggestion her children will leave her side today. I worry that her and the kids may never return to the center, and while I myself don’t really know the outcome of safety at this point, I have a level of trust Jasara has never been offered until we came here. How can it be expected for her to trust so easily, so quickly?
Ismad leads the way past the soldier standing guard at the courtyard gate. The soldier I had feared was killed in the attack. I pause before passing, forcing him to break his statuesque hold and glance down at me.
“Shukran.”
Knowing it is more about the attack then his standing guard right now, he doesn’t look away quickly like he has done before. Instead, he nods, seeming to know my thanks is more for his protection during the attack.
Ismad opens the door for me to pass just as Tom exits his office, noticing us.
“How are you, my friend? I haven’t seen you in a very long time,” he says as he shakes Ismad’s hand.
“Fine. I wanted to make sure she got here safely this morning.” Ismad glances down at me. “I will come back this evening to bring you home.”
Tom interrupts, “I can see her home. I have a mandatory meeting planned with the volunteers at the end of the day. We need to discuss what happened and where we go from here.”
Ismad seems leery about not being my escort, but Tom reiterates, “She will be taken home either by a soldier or myself, I promise you.”
Satisfied with Tom’s promise, Ismad leaves and I start to my classroom when Tom stops me. “I received a call late last night about you.”
I give him my full attention as he continues,
“It was your father. He said he heard what happened through his resources. See, that is the thing, even if it doesn’t make the evening news, government officials will always hear about these situations. So, my question to you is, why did you lie to me?”
“Look, I did call my family. I called my sister, Jilly. I told you before, this doesn’t involve my mother or father. They didn’t understand my coming here and I’m sure all my father would have to say is I told you so. Possibly tell me I have made yet another huge mistake in my life.” I start to turn, then decide I’m not done. I want to know what he said to Tom. “What did he want?”
Standing with his hands in his pockets and his glasses resting on the top of his head, he grins slightly and shakes his head. “He wanted to know if we were returning to the States. Said it was too volatile for us to be here and it wasn’t worth the risk.”
I nod, my expectations met by my father’s words.
Tom sighs deeply, then looks down, disappointment on his face. I worry from it, wondering if my father had somehow swayed him to change his mind about us staying. Three days ago I may have hopped the first plane out if it was offered, but now none of the fear matters to me.
He looks up and I hold my breath, preparing for him to say we are leaving. “I told him to excuse me, but he knows nothing about what we are doing here and we are staying to finish out the program.”
I raise my chin, proud of Tom standing up to him. “What did he say to that?”
Knowing my father, he had something to say, like “I will have your job” or some bullshit threat.
“He threatened to sue.”
“Motherfucker,” I hiss, then notice Tom’s quick glance at me. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time I was threatened. If he did, it wouldn’t hold up in court. The waivers you signed protect us and being they were approved by the very government he serves, he won’t have a much of a leg to stand on in a suit. Plus by the time it is all said and done you will be back home in the States.”
Even though Tom justified our being there, my own release begs to be heard even if not by my father. “What about it being my fucking choice to stay? He has no right to intervene. That is why I didn’t call him.” I shift the weight of my bag on my shoulder and turn to walk away when Tom calls after me.
“Hey.”
I stop walking and look back at him, expecting him to tell me he is just watching out for me or some shit.
“It’s good you called your sister. You need someone to know you are okay when these things happen.”
I nod and wonder about Tom. “Who did you call?”
“Hmm?”
“Who did you call to tell you were okay?”
He looks away and smiles. “My wife.”
I happen to glance at the wall, freshly painted over the blood from days ago. “The blood that was on the wall. Is that person okay?”
He nods. “Yeah, it was the director from Caritas, Alma. She was grazed on the arm by a stray bullet.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
I start back down the hall, quickly recognizing the spot I occupied with my girls days ago; huddled on the floor, the prince over me, the exploding and shattering glass, and the ear-piercing sound of screams, yells, and bullets. I quickly glance back to see if Tom has noticed my response to the memory, but he has already gone into his office.
I scan the newly installed window glass. It’s clean, spotless, no signs of broken glass missed when they cleaned up. As I walk on, I find myself trying to find a divot in a wall or something to indicate this place was ambushed days ago, but I can’t. While the fear from the memory has already lessened, the face of the man that saved me, Prince Rajaa and his entrapping eyes, are a memory I never want to fade.
Ana is sitting at her chair eating when I enter the classroom. As soon as she sees me, she crosses the room to hug me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and tilts her head. “Yeah, just a little on edge.” She scoffs, “It might be the strong-ass Turkish coffee.”
I grin. “Did you call your family?”
She nods. “Yeah, called my mom. I didn’t tell her much. She didn’t seem to know about it and was surprised to hear from me. You know, phones for emergencies. Did you call?”
I walk over to my desk and put my backpack on the side. “Yeah, I called my sister. Same, she was surprised and didn’t say anything about the attack.”
“I’m kind of glad. I don’t want Ma to worry. She has her hands full with my brother and sister-in-law.”
Leaning against my desk, Ana walks back toward hers and picks up her coffee cup. “Do you still feel the same?”
Her question isn’t clear. “About what?”
Ana leans against her desk, mirroring me. “About being here?”
I look down at the small rugs lined in front of me, my girls’ rugs. A gush of a thousand memories rush through my head. Memories of intimidation, being in a foreign place learning a foreign language. Memories of anxiousness meeting my host family for the first time, my beautiful little girls in this classroom the first day. Memories of going to the Roman Amphitheater, then Hashem Restaurant with the other volunteers. Talking with Ameena and Laila, teaching them English, and them teaching me Arabic. Hoda and Jasara, my Arab mothers always guiding, always cooking, always making sure everyone is cared for. The double kiss on the cheeks Hoda gave me this morning before I left is the culmination of the love I have grown to have for this family in the short time I have been here.
How can the love of these people, my girls, the Ba’ashirs, the Ahmadis, be so rich yet so young in time, when the love of my own family is so broken and has existed my whole life? The intense memory of my heart pounding quickly replaces any ill thought, as I recapture the moment Prince Rajaa covered my mouth with his hand and looked into my eyes with his golden embers. The feeling of his hands on me, the feeling of his words whispered to me. “Eh enta.”
I blink awake from my vivid reconnect and focus on Ana waiting for my answer. “Yes, I do.”
Stepping out of the shower, I notice my brother leaning against the open doorway to my bedroom. “Where are you going?”
Zaid has no social graces when it comes to privacy, something I have always known. I turn my back to him as I dry my back then wrap the towel around my waist. “I’m going to center. You know this.” I had already made it clear, yet he finds it necessary to hound me about it.
He moves into the bathroom as I step in front of the mirror to shave. “Still set on putting yourself at risk, eh?”
With shaving cream on my face, I look over at him pointedly before I make the first pass. My remark is intended to piss him off. “Yes, I am.”
His smirk quickly dissolves. “Better you than me.”
I focus back on my image in the mirror with little reaction to his biting comment. “So you aren’t coming to the center as father requested?”
He tilts his head back¸ popping his neck from side to side. “No, I have an important meeting. After the King’s speech, many of my advisors, the Cabinet, and Prime Minister want to discuss the climate of things over coffee at the palace.”
He forgot to mention is most prized advisor, Tariq bin Qasim.
“We have an event tonight at Raghadan Palace,” he says evenly, distracting me from my train of thought. No one had mentioned it to me.
“What is it for?”
“Dinner guests.” His smirk has me uneasy.
“Why would we have dinner guests at Raghadan Palace? The house would suffice, wouldn’t it?”
He leans forward, looking at me through the mirror now. “Because they are special dinner guests. Our father has requested we both be in attendance. Our sister and your mother will be there, the Prime Minister ... and others. It will be a royal family affair. We will leave here at seven. Don’t keep us waiting because of your duties at the center.”
With nothing more to say, he disa
ppears into my room, shutting the door behind him.
The SUV stops in the back alley between the center and an adjoining building so I can enter out of sight from any onlookers from the street. A truck identical to mine is in front and behind me, the decoys in place. Once I am dropped, all three of them will leave the other end of the alley, taking three different directions hoping to distract anyone watching.
The whole action is very quick and precise. Two heavily armed soldiers move with me from the truck to the back door of the center. Once I’m inside, they stand guard on the other side of the door, securing a point of entry. Just inside the door, a guard is waiting for me, his gun holstered.
“Good morning, Your High...”
I stop him before he finishes as we walk side by side down the hall. “Good morning. How many soldiers do we have stationed at each point of entry?”
“Three.”
“Good.” As he continues to walk by my side, I frown. “Where are you supposed to be?”
He looks at me oddly. “With you, Your High....”
I stop walking. “Who ordered that?” I had not ordered personal protection while I was here in the center.
“Prince Zaid ordered it this morning.”
Motherfucker. I walk on with the soldier by my side. “How many soldiers are stationed at the classrooms?”
“Three, just as Prince Zaid commanded,” the soldier answers quickly.
My stride becomes wider, angrier. “Prince Zaid has no command here. I am in charge of this program and all workings in this center, not him. Do I make myself clear soldier?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
I stop in front of him, not able to stand the use of the title again. “Prince Rajaa will suffice, please.”
“Yes, Prince Rajaa.”
I didn’t want to walk around all fucking day with every soldier calling me Your Highness. My being here is not for any title. It is for the people under this roof. My mind immediately focuses on Ella Wallace being a purpose. “Find Ms. Wallace’s classroom and station yourself there.”
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 16