Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1)

by Venessa Kimball

  I feel my stomach sink and my heart races hearing the allegations from the Amir as I had imagined in theory.

  My father clears his throat in the uncomfortable silence of his shock. “I have not heard this. My Prime Minister, the Cabinet, our people, would know of this if it were true.”

  My father’s effort to save my brother is embarrassing and pitiful. Nothing can save him now. He has been caught in his fucking web of lies.

  The Amir folds his hands on the table. “My concern extends to them as well, Ammaar.”

  “What are you saying? That my executive office is aware of this asylum my son has enforced behind my back? That this Sheikh is using both him and my country as their hideout?” My father’s voice quivers as it rises.

  The Amir places his hands in the air just above the table. “I would not bring this to you unless I feared for your family’s and country’s safety.”

  He looks between my father and me. “You both know the severed relations we have with Syria. President Faraj Al-Dawood is a butcher, a murderous bastard, and a terrorist himself to his own people. Now, the revolution against him has fed a more deadly virus. An illness is spreading, coming to our nations, and people like this Sheikh are the transporters of it. I can’t have my family be a part of it. I will not support it by agreeing to Daya and Rajaa’s marriage, and if Zaid is to be the heir to the throne, I cannot in good faith link Kuwait to Jordan in any way. I’m very sorry to bring this news to you on such an occasion, Ammaar.”

  He looks from my father to me. “I’m very sorry, Rajaa. I know you wished to ask for Daya’s hand, and I have wanted nothing else for her, but with Zaid’s apparent involvement in this, I can’t allow it.”

  Amir Hussam rises and bows his head to both of us before leaving the room. The stillness my father expresses is frightening. “Baba.”

  He raises his hand to me. “Don’t.”

  His breathing is uneven as he rises with the aid of his cane. Suddenly, the door swings open, Zaid standing in the open doorway. “I’m sorry, Baba. I was tending to the guests.”

  I notice his rumpled shirt and the top button of his pants undone as I walk straight to him. Realizing the atmosphere in the room, he senses something has happened in his absence. I stop in front of him. “Zip up your fucking pants and sit down.”

  “No! Don’t sit down!” My father’s directive is fueled with pure disgust as he comes at Zaid, his cane dragging beside him. “You have disgraced our family, Zaid!”

  Zaid looks between my father and me, appearing to be surprised. “What? I have done no such thing!”

  My father stumbles just as he gets to my side. I quickly reach for him, as does my brother. He swats my brother’s hand away with his cane, accepting mine. “Don’t touch me! Do you know what you have done?”

  Zaid pulls away, avoiding the swing of his cane. “The Amir? What did he tell you? Whatever he has said, I can explain!”

  “There is nothing to explain! He has explained it all!” my father argues as I pull up a chair for him.

  “Please, Baba, sit.”

  He swats my hand away as Zaid pleads with my father, lowering himself to stare into his eyes. “Please, Baba, tell me what he said to you. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can explain! Please, Baba!”

  “No!” My father begins to cough. “You mean to tell me you can explain why you have given refuge to a drug lord, a Sheikh from Syria!”

  “Baba, no, no, it is not what you think,” Zaid continues to plead with a softened voice, begging for understanding.

  My father breathes in laboriously. “Drugs, Zaid! The Prince of Jordan dealing in drugs and the revolution!”

  “Baba, please, just give me a moment to talk!”

  “No! You do not get to speak! You don’t deserve to be in my sight! Your brother’s marriage to Daya is no more because of your dealings with Tariq bin Khaddam!”

  The door opens and my mother enters, her eyes filled with horror as she walks into the fire my father is setting ablaze. I try to place my arm on his back to help him keep the balance that is failing him.

  “Baba, please. Listen to me,” Zaid begs, his voice breaking with every word.

  My mother rushes to my father’s side. “What has happened?”

  “The Amir has refused Daya and Rajaa’s union!” my father bellows as he lunges for Zaid, clutching his shirt by the fistful. “You have destroyed everything!”

  “No, Ammaar, stop!” My mother’s cry goes unheard as my father growls and seethes.

  “You will not be king. You do not deserve to rule our nation!”

  “No, Baba, please hear me! I have done it all for our family!” Zaid’s pleas are cries of petition. “It is all for us! To protect us!”

  As my mother and I both try to pull my father from Zaid, I see my brother’s eyes widen. “Baba!” Suddenly, my father’s livened body turns spiritless, limp in my arms as he clings to my brother’s shirt. Zaid wraps his arms around my father as my mother screams.

  “Ammaar! No! Saaedni arjook!”

  I can’t mask my own fear as I wail for help with my mother. “We need help!”

  As Zaid and I lower my father to the ground, my mother collapses on him. “No, Ammaar! Don’t leave me!” I pry her from my father and hold her to me as Zaid slips away from us, into the hall as the guards circle around my father laboring for every breath.

  Days later ...

  “I am fine, please stop coddling me, Laiyalla!” My father’s demanding yet shaky voice is back. I stand at the window listening to my father beg my mother to stop doting over him, and can’t help but reflect on the day of his episode.

  Once the paramedics started working on him, they quickly determined he was having a stroke. The staff of doctors working on my father at the hospital explained the quick response and medication in the ambulance were key to preventing any irreversible damage.

  The staff told us to go home, rest, but we weren’t leaving. Part of me was there for my father, and another for the hope my brother would show his face, to see how our father was. As the sun rose the next morning, they released my father from ICU to a private room, and Zaid was still nowhere to be found. I called my cousin Anwar; he knew nothing of his whereabouts. I asked him for Samir’s number, the one giving safe haven to Tariq. He gave it willingly and I called him. Going straight to voicemail, I kept the message vague, telling him to have Zaid call me as soon as possible.

  Once they let us in to see my father, both my sister and mother went to my father and wrapped themselves around him as he lay on the bed. I stood tall behind them and rested my hand on the top of the arm holding my mother to his heart. He looked up at me, the exchange lacking words but not emotion.

  “Zaid?” His voice was weak as he asked for my brother. Even as he healed from a stroke, stricken on top of his already failing health, he asked for the one who put him there.

  Shaking my head, I stare out the window at Zaid as he paces along the cobblestones of the courtyard, talking on his cell. My brother never came to the hospital, but was waiting for us at home after my father’s release. He sat at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer, his eyes red from what one could assume tears, but I assumed drugs. My mother couldn’t contain her rage. “Here, now? Why? Why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

  Speechless, he shook his head and held his hands over his mouth as if to conceal the emotions, the guilt, the disgrace he has brought upon us.

  My father walked toward him; I feared his reaction and took hold of his arm. My mother stepped in front of him, and with warning in her voice said his name. “Ammaar.”

  He glanced from her to me and spoke evenly, “It is okay.”

  My father stood over my brother and extended his hand, an extension of grace I never expected my father to give to Zaid. My brother fought the compassion my father offered, lamenting through his tears, “I don’t deserve your mercy, Baba.”

  My father lowered his hand to my brother’s, covering it, squeezing tightly. “But still it is
mercy I give you. You are my son; receive it and become it.”

  Receive it and become it.

  My father’s words were a message for Zaid. His leniency to my brother was an extension of his humanity, his tolerance. A tolerance I couldn’t fathom giving to Zaid myself. I struggle with it now as I look down on him from the window.

  The days following, my brother and father were inseparable, working to relinquish ties Zaid had to Tariq, as well as the addictions that have driven him to his lowest. I watched as Zaid appeared to transform into the son he once was, the brother he used to be. I see my father’s hope that this transformation will bring his Zaid back to a righteousness that I fear is lost. The first meeting my father requested was with the Prime Minister and Cabinet. It is set for today in the dining hall.

  The gentle hand of my mother comes to rest on my shoulders, pulling my attention from the window to her. “You have been by your father’s side night and day, Rajaa. You need to rest.”

  “I’m fine. I slept last night.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m talking about a break away from here.”

  I’m not understanding what she means. “For me to go away?” I scoff, “I can’t do that. Not with everything as it is.”

  She folds her arms over her chest as she looks up at me, a gentle smile to match her delicate reminiscence. “In high school, whenever you needed time to think, you, Anwar, and your brother would go to Wadi Rum. Do you remember?”

  I bow my head, remembering the place that let me breathe freely. Suddenly, Ella Wallace slips into my vision of Wadi Rum. “Yes, I remember, but I haven’t been to the center in days. I need to be there.”

  I need to see her again.

  She nods and keeps her eyes level with mine. “Ah, yes, where your heart remains.”

  She stares as me a little too long and I wonder if she is thinking about our conversation nights ago about my heart, my passion, being kept within the center. Something comes to mind, a possible way for me to see her again, while getting away to the place where I feel free. “I will consider getting away. Shukran, Mama.”

  “Please don’t let your father’s health keep you here. He is well taken care of.”

  I look back at Tamanna tucking my father’s blanket in around him as he reads the newspaper. I don’t think he heard my mother’s comment until he says, “Yes, I am being swaddled like a baby, unfortunately. I do not need all of this attention!”

  His sharp response is playful and directed at my mother. Zaid appears at the door, knocking softly. Since my return home, Zaid’s appearance is crisp and tailored for the first time, opposite of the image he had assumed days ago. As for my father, aiding my brother to get back on his feet, back on track, suits him and has given him a strength I haven’t seen in a very long time. As my brother speaks to my father, the old Zaid, the one always carrying himself as honorable, untainted, pristine, and sober, appears, determined for redemption. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, I want to believe he is seeking redemption, he is the brother I grew up with, but I am hesitant.

  I watch my girls divide as half jump rope and half play hopscotch. It is definitely their favorite American game. Jumping rope is catching on now that I’ve shown them how to do Double Dutch. Muna is the quickest on the ropes because of how small she is.

  The sky is overcast with more clouds than usual; they somehow have caught an infinitesimal amount of moisture in the air. Hoda says we might get rain, which I haven’t seen in the time I have been here. As I watch the girls now, I hope it doesn’t rain, so they can have more time to simply enjoy being children.

  The girls try to get me to join them. “Come play, Ms. Ella. Show us you Double Dutch,” Muna calls to me.

  “In a little bit.”

  She looks at me strangely. “Bit?”

  Shit. I haven’t taught them the double meaning of the word “bit” yet. “Um, in a few minutes.”

  She sulks back and starts playing again, and I feel worse than I already do. It has been days since I saw Raj, and while I wish I could say it isn’t because of him not being here, it is. I think what is making me feel worse is how bitchy I was about him leaving and not returning for our meeting and then discovering from Ameena and the rest of the family that the King had fallen ill during the family celebration of Raj’s cousin.

  I want to see him again, and to know he was dealing with a painful event for his family, I feel like the biggest asshole in the universe. Even though logic tells me he is caring for his father, his family, I am still wishing to see him right now ... The worst fucking asshole ever, I know.

  I feel a presence come up behind me. Thinking it’s Tom, I don’t respond to his approach.

  “I have missed you.”

  Raj?

  Unable to keep myself from meeting his eyes to make sure he is really here, I turn to face him. “What are you doing here?”

  He doesn’t look at me, instead focusing on the girls playing. “The little one, she is really good at jump roping.”

  Still stuck on him being here at the center, I neglect his comment. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

  Raj glances at me, then back at the girls, grinning. “You may not want to stare long, Ella, we are in public among watchful eyes. You are a single woman and I a single man. It will look inappropriate.”

  I snap my head back to the girls, realizing he’s right. Anyone watching us from the center, the guards at the courtyard gate, would think poorly of our casual chatting.

  I fold my arms tightly over my chest and make sure my hair is tucked beneath my veil. Somehow I feel my confession to him is necessary and can’t wait any longer. “I have to apologize to you.”

  “Why?”

  “The night of the meeting, you weren’t there and I figured it was because the program didn’t mean everything I thought it had. I was disappointed, thinking a royal engagement was more important to your reputation than ... than the center.”

  More important than what you said to me.

  “Then, I found out what happened to your father, and it being a family celebration, and I felt like a total bitch.”

  I don’t realize I have offended until the weight of his stare is on me. “Sorry. I’m just really sorry for your father’s stroke and judging you like I did. I don’t know enough about you to judge you.”

  His silence is concerning as I blindly watch the girls play, occupying the uncomfortable silence while I wait for his response.

  “My father is healing, and while I would like to say he needs me right now, he would rather be back on his feet and tending to himself, not being spoiled by my mother and sister.” The smile in his voice delays my fear of him despising me for my misjudging.

  “As for the other, you are forgiven and I plan for us to know a lot more about each other in the future, Ella.”

  I can’t keep from staring at him now and he can’t either, his eyes finding mine just for a moment. “I couldn’t stay away any longer. I had to see you again.”

  Realizing the length of time we have stared, too long, we both look away back to the girls as he starts toward them. I’m not sure what he is doing, but as he gets closer, the girls all stop jumping rope and hop-scotching.

  He smiles. “La tatawaqqaf ... Don’t stop. Play, girls.”

  He picks the rope up from the ground and holds the ends between his hands, then winks at me charmingly before he starts jumping.

  Pinching my lips tightly together, I try to hide the smile wanting to break free as he plays with the girls. “See, the prince can jump rope!”

  The girls giggle and clap their hands as he continues to jump. He picks up the other rope the girls were using to jump Double Dutch, then looks at me, holding both of them up, before glancing over at Nooda. He speaks to her quietly in Arabic. She catches my eye and giggles. He looks at me too, then back at Nooda as she says, “Double Dutch,” with a heavy accent.

  Raj turns back to me playfully. “Double Dutch, huh. Okay.”

  He hands
the end of the two ropes to Nooda, then he holds the other two ends of the rope to me. “Ms. Wallace.”

  Is he seriously going to jump rope? “Do you know how to jump?”

  I take the rope from him as he lowers himself to Muna’s level. “She will show me. Muna, ‘farjeeni min fadlik.”

  At his asking her graciously to show him, she quickly nods.

  “Shukran,” he says as he steps aside.

  Nooda and I start turning the rope as the rest of the girls circle around. As I turn it, I watch Raj study Muna’s quick feet as she jumps in. Suddenly, he moves in and starts jumping. Face to face, I can’t help grinning at how he is moving. “I’m impressed.”

  I think he winks at me, then turns to face Muna, still jumping, giving me a view of his perfect ass. I shouldn’t be staring at it. Instead I focus on his broad shoulders, which I shouldn’t be doing either. The girls are clapping faster as we turn the rope quicker and quicker. Suddenly, the rope catches on the shoulders of Raj’s tall frame, collapsing the rope on them, and the girls laugh. Raj picks up Muna in his arms and cheers with her as the girls circle around them both.

  The rest of the day I am on a high after the short time with Raj. I never imagined myself to be that girl, the one who went gaga over a guy, feeling down when he is not around, feeling energized when he is. I kind of feel like a schoolgirl as I sit here reliving the excitement, the energy his presence gives me while I string beads with my girls.

  One by one their families come to pick them up. Ana’s girls are have already gone and so has Ana. Muna is the last to leave, and as I clean up the beads and string, placing them in the small file cabinet, I hear the door latch shut from behind me. Startled, I bolt upright and turn to see Raj standing in front of the now closed door. My heart is jumping out of my chest as I catch my breath.

  “Shit, you scared me.”

  He raises his eyebrows as he walks toward me, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. “Ella, please don’t curse.” He seems injured in some way by my using the word “shit” in his presence.