“Yes, Prince Rajaa,” he says, then swiftly leaves my side toward the classrooms.
Mr. Stern’s door is open when I walk up to it. His back is turned to me as he holds his cell phone to his ear. “Yes, thank you.”
As he hangs up, he continues to look out the window into to the courtyard. I knock on the open door, catching his attention. “Oh, Rajaa, I didn’t hear you come in.”
His lacking my formal title is comforting. “I wasn’t expecting you this early. Would you like some coffee?”
While I should be thinking only of my dedication to the program and the safety for everyone it involves, I can’t help my sole focus being on Ella Wallace.
“No, thank you. Have the volunteers arrived?” I ask as I sit in the chair across from Tom.
He nods. “A few have.”
I want to ask if Ella is here, but refrain. “Good. Did the staff have any concerns or problems yesterday?”
Tom shakes his head. “No, everyone was fine. Even though it was the first day back, the staff seemed at ease. The added security and the pristine cleanup your people did had everything to do with it, Rajaa. Many of them asked if you were here so they could personally thank you.”
“While I appreciate their desire to thank me, it is not necessary. I should be thanking them, and I will. Every one of them, today. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay yesterday to see them off.”
He furrows his brow. “Rajaa, you have been here faithfully for the past three days making sure everything was returned to its original appearance. They understand you have duties other than the center.”
I consider his comment and realize he hasn’t factored in Ella Wallace. His knowledge of her being a factor should remain unknown. “Being here is my main focus until I return to school in the fall.”
I ask Tom to give me a tour, telling him I don’t want to wait another minute to thank all of the staff and volunteers for their service here. “Where would you like to start?”
While my immediate thought hangs on Ella and my need to see her, talk to her, I ask if we can tour the medical clinic. “We can work our way around from there.”
Tom rises. “Okay, where is your escort?”
I remember the soldier from earlier saying my brother had demanded my protection. “I don’t need an escort,” I state flatly. “You are my escort.”
His smile weakens. “Rajaa, your brother said he expected you to be guarded the entire time you are here. He called just before you got here.”
Zaid needs to stop meddling. He wanted nothing to do with this program and now he is pushing orders and calling Tom making sure I have a babysitter. Bullshit.
I rise from my chair and move behind it, mostly from irritation of my brother throwing around his command over me. “My brother’s expectations and commands stop at the doors of Makan Lil Amal. If anyone is going to dictate commands it will be me.”
Tom nods. “I understand.”
I wonder what kind of threats my brother contrived to build a visible concern in Tom. “My only commands are for the safety of everyone in this center and I will handle my brother on this matter. You don’t need to worry about his warnings. My brother thrives on intimidation, something I have always despised about him.”
Tom shakes his head, appearing to dismiss my excuse. “It is fine, Rajaa. He is concerned for your safety. To be honest, I am as well.”
I take my sports coat off and hang it on the back of the chair, revealing my holster. Tom notices my carrying right away, then watches as I unfasten the holster and remove it, laying it on the chair. “While my brother may think I do not know how to take care of myself or those around me, I know you are aware of what I can do and I don’t need a gun to do it.”
Referring to the attack is more than enough of an answer for Tom as his apprehension relents.
“Do you have a place I can store this?” I ask.
Tom unlocks a draw in his desk and I hand him the gun and holster.
The number of refugees at the center is stunted from the attacks and the bombing, making me hate what the militants have done to their resolve. Sending the refugees into hiding, since they couldn’t kill them, to make a point that anyone giving them asylum will suffer. The refugees who have come to the center today have a distinct look in their eye; rebellion. Defiance against those who have stripped away everything they had before Makan Lil Amal. This was their way of saying they couldn’t take this center.
Many of the refugees recognize me, but stay away, like they are frightened to look at me. I walk up to them and hold their hands, and touch their children’s heads and faces. As I hold one infant’s small hand, the mother tells me in Arabic she is sorry her soiled baby’s fingers were getting my hand dirty. Her husband bows to me and apologizes again and again, saying they were ashamed of themselves to be in front of me in such a state. I speak freely to them in Arabic, telling them no amount of dirt could ever cover what I see in their eyes.
What I am seeing is something that can’t be read about, interpreted from a report, or transmitted over a television screen. I am seeing the casualties of war, the remnants of revolution stripped down to the rawest purpose for existence, to survive for one more day, one more hour.
I damn myself for pretending I have a handle on what is happening here. I have no handle on their well-being, only the conduit to provide it, which makes me almost worthless as a human if I am not here with them to feel it, to live it, to truly understand what they have suffered. I damn my brother’s ignorance even more for referring to them as less than human, because they are more human, closer to the soul they were given by Allah, than the rest of us.
With the sleeves of my shirt rolled up, I wash my hands in the facilities outside of the clinic. Tom watches me, seeing the aggression in the way I wash my hands and quickly dry them with the napkins from the dispenser. As I turn to Tom, I can see he is concerned. “Do you want to take a break? Eat lunch? I can have the staff bring you...”
I throw the napkins in the trash can. “No, I’m fine. I need to see this. If only my entire family could see this, Zaid, the King, the Queen. Maybe they would understand what I hope this center will do for these people.”
I want to say so much, but I don’t know where to start. I can only think in one direction and that is what isn’t being done. What isn’t being achieved here. “More needs to be done,” I blurt out, leaning against the hallway wall. Some of the children are standing at the window in the clinic gazing at me.
Tom nods. “We are doing so much. So many families having been turned away from camps, living on the streets, starving, sick, dying; we are helping them. Yes, there are thousands upon thousands entering your border and more to come that haven’t found our doors, but the lives you are changing now is the heart of your purpose. A purpose that will spread once your family, the Prime Minister, the Cabinet see what your vision can do.”
Having Tom emphasize his faithfulness in what we are doing here is what I need to pull me from my temporary sink to despair. I push off of the wall. “I’m sorry. Being with them...”
“It pulls you in. Pulls you down at times.” Tom speaks freely now, from his own experience. “You did good. Telling that woman her baby was beautiful, touching the children’s faces. That wasn’t done because of your position as Prince or for show. That was done from you, Rajaa, the man. You connecting with them and sometimes it is hard to snap out of the low you feel once you leave them.”
“You feel this too, I guess.”
“Yes, I feel it every day. But then I see the smiles, the laughing. I talk to them about their lives here and the low turns into a euphoria that is indescribable, Rajaa.” Tom smiles as he looks through the windows of the clinic at the gazing children waiting to be seen. “They have taught me how to really appreciate life, love, and purpose.”
He laughs out loud, making me wonder what is so funny. “I have told them in Arabic I could never repay them for what they have given me. They laugh at me like I am a crazy American.”<
br />
I smile, imagining the interaction as Tom continues. “You will feel it too.”
After visiting the counseling section of the center, I had finally begun to rise from the low, seeing the tears of joy as they received registration for food, clean clothes, and a meager allowance to help with living. Standing outside of the wing, I speak freely.
“What they are given, it isn’t enough to survive.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“They can’t legally work since they are not citizens,” I state mostly for myself.
“Correct.”
“If they register with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, they fear retaliation from the Syrian government upon return.”
“Yes, if returning is made possible.”
What we were giving them was only enough to sustain them for a short time. “Are they finding work?”
“Yes, illegally. Sometimes not getting paid at all. Some of our families, the staff, those that host our volunteers, have subleased portions of their homes to help.”
Him mentioning volunteers brings Ella to the forefront of my mind and as we leave the counseling wing, I think of her host family. “Who are they?”
Tom looks at me questioningly.
“The host families. I want a list of their names and where they live. They are doing a service beyond what has been asked and I would like to thank them.”
“Of course. I will email you the list.”
Rounding the corner, the sound of children singing the Arabic alphabet filters through one of the rooms. The door is shut, but I peer into the small cut-out window on the door. The boys are sitting on their small rugs, staring up at their teacher as he points to the Arabic letters on drawing board. By the looks of them, they are maybe six years old.
“Do you want to go in?” Tom asks.
I continued to watch them without them noticing. “No, it is fine. I will watch from here.”
As I move from window to window I see the boys doing math, reading, singing, creating art, smiling. These children don’t resemble the ones I saw in the clinic gazing at me through the glass. “These can’t be the same children passing through the clinic,” I whisper as I watch one class of boys laughing as their teacher reads to them in Arabic, then translate to English.
“It is hard to believe, but these volunteers, they have come here eager to make a difference in these children’s lives. They have come to love them, even lay their lives on the line for them at times.”
His reference is for Ella. “You mean, like Ms. Wallace.”
He doesn’t respond right away, so I turn to him. “Yes, Ms. Wallace has bonded to her girls so intentionally. Her passion is truly inspiring.”
“Yes, it is.” I abandon my hesitation to ask about her. “Where is her classroom?”
As we cross over to the girls’ hallway, giggling and soft-voiced singing escape into the hallways through closed doors. I see the soldier from earlier stationed in front of a closed door. Tom notices too and walks over to him. “Is there a reason you are stationed here?”
Not wanting the soldier to out me, I dismiss him. “Please guard the boy’s hall.”
The soldier nods and moves past us, leaving space for me to look into the small window on the door. She is sitting on the floor leading an American rhyme, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are...”
Her voice is a beacon for both the girls and me as I listen to her sing and watch her engage the girls with music.
I stand at the door and look through the cut-out, watching her sit in front of her girls.
My girls is what she called them when I shielded her. Not as a possession but rather possessing love for them.
Her arms are raised high, swaying from side to side as she sings. There is a partition behind them, dividing her area from another teacher just like the other classrooms. While today wasn’t a fair assessment of the population, this is a sign they are already running low on classroom space, something I would need to address. Right now, my attention is solely for Ella as she slows her singing so the girls so they can keep up.
I sense Tom moving on from the door, but I stay watching. “I would like to go in.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to disturb them.” He sounds surprised by my request.
“I will sit in the back and watch.” My statement is not a request, but an expectation as I open the door for Tom to pass before me.
“Excuse me, Ms. Wallace. You have an observer that would like to join you.” Tom’s announcement takes me by surprise.
Oh, um, sure.”
My heart rises into my throat when I see my observer; my rescuer, Prince Rajaa.
With his eyes penetrating me deeply he asks, “Are you sure it’s all right? I don’t want to intrude.”
Intrude on my class or intrude on my soul even more than he already has with just a look. Feeling heat rise on my neck and face, I stumble over my words. “Yes, it would be fine. I mean, it is fine for you to intrude. I mean, observe me. Us, fine for you to observe us.”
Sounding like a babbling fool, I wave him into the room. “Please come in.”
Shit, just great. I’m waving in a prince like he is fucking on-coming traffic.
Tom whispers something to him then closes the door, leaving the prince to walk to the back of my side of the classroom. He is wearing khaki pants with a white and navy-checked long-sleeve shirt rolled up to his elbows. I skim over his deep-golden forearms, just as he glances back at me. Dodging his gaze perfectly, I ready the girls to start again. “Okay, girls, one more time.”
Like myself, the girls have completely lost focus, but for different reasons. Two of them have about faced, watching the prince as he sits down on one of the small empty rugs behind them.
“Girls. One, two...” I call to them to bring attention back.
“Eyes on you,” the girls call back, finishing our quick rhyme for attention.
Even with the prince’s heavy gaze on my every move, I manage finishing the song just as Ana opens the partition separating our classes. Ana’s girls and mine quickly exchanged excited glances with the prince’s presence. They all are hesitant to move even as the prince starts to rise to his feet. “Please eat. Don’t let me keep you. Arjook tfaddal.”
“Girls, time to line up,” Ana says just as the prince approaches her.
“Thank you for volunteering here in Jordan. You are doing such amazing work for these girls. None of this could happen without you.”
It is humorous to see a bashful Ana. “No, I am excited to do it, your excellence. Oh, or is it Your Highness?” she asks, unsure of how to address him, then looks at me and actually giggles. Like a full-on girly giggle. He’s turned her to putty.
“Prince Rajaa will be fine,” he says, laughing at her humor. Ana’a faux pas appears to break some invisible barrier between the girls and the prince as they slowly circle around him, no longer shying from his closeness.
Muna remains by my side though, reaching for my hand and interweaving her fingers with mine as she looks on, then smiles up at me, whispering, “It’s the prince, Ms. Ella.”
“Yes, it is.” I smile back at her then watch him as he lowers himself down to their level. He whispers to them in Arabic, making them giggle as they move in closer. He reaches out to one of the girls, taking her hand in his and shaking it. I’m surprised at his contact with her, so warm and nurturing, not at all what I have expected of him with his culture’s division between man and woman, male and female.
Like he senses my eyes on him, he turns to me, his smile transforming into one less playful. “I’m sorry, I have distracted them.”
And me. You have completely fucking distracted me.
Ana claps her hands softly. “Okay girls, time to eat. Ghada’.”
Lingering a bit, the girls slowly line up in front of Ana as she slowly walks backward toward me, pausing to say, “I will take them. It looks like he may want to talk with you.”
I peer back
at the Prince and notice he is focused on me and patiently waiting in the middle of the room just as she has suspected.
“Thank you,” I say softly as Ana takes Muna alongside of her.
“Come with me, Muna.”
Once the girls and Ana have left, I breathe in deep and search for him, still standing in the middle of the room, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. He saved me days ago, this defender and silent benefactor that has paid my way for this program. I can’t help scanning his physique. His broad shoulders, how tall he is, how he appears in comparison to the bold man who rescued me. I can’t help wanting him to come closer so I can feel the tension of his presence. The look he is giving, the feeling inside, the tightening and twisting in the best ways possible, it all feels so similar to the first night I saw him in D.C.
“Hello, Ella.”
“Hi.”
Brilliant.
He takes his hand from his pocket as he closes the space between us. “I’m Rajaa.”
The fucking oh-so-good tension with his presence I mentioned, yeah I’m feeling it.
His hand is extended, waiting for mine, hovering across my desk. Putting the two concepts of greetings together finally, I lift my hand to meet his, my eyes following. “You are the silent benefactor?”
He holds my hand in his, refusing to release it. “Yes, I am, but I’m not sure how silent I am now with everything that has happened.” His words and smile shows his charm and mesmeric feature.
“And Prince of Jordan?”
He tilts his head. “Yes, one of two Princes actually.”
I pull my hand from his. “Why are you here?”
“Excuse me?” He laughs at my question. “How many more of these questions do you have lined up for me?”
I busy myself with the scattered colored pencils my girls were using earlier for their art lesson, shoving them in the side drawer. “I’m just having a hard time understanding why the Prince of Jordan and silent benefactor of this center would risk coming here only three days after a fucking attack.”
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 17