by Kathryn Shay
He’d loved her, too, then.
“Maybe they meant so much because it was such a normal thing to do.” She sighed as they passed a playground with children outside. “Remember the time we met the woman on the road? She gave us that flatbread to eat. I thought it was the best thing I ever ate.”
“Mama would kill me if I said that, but it was delicious.”
“How is she? And your brothers?”
Connor filled her in on the lives of his family. Gabe and his wife of not even a year were unbelievably happy. Nick and Isabelle were expecting two babies in June. Whitney and Max had had a rough time, but were doing well now. He was worried about Declan the most.
“Why is that?”
“He’s lonely as hell. He looks like Adonis but doesn’t date. I think he’s still in love with his ex-wife.”
“Sometimes, there is only one person for you.”
Connor didn’t respond. After a few minutes, he asked, “How are the girls?”
She updated him on her sisters. They were all in the U.S. but the youngest. They all had interesting jobs.
The two of them walked longer than they had planned, but when they returned to the condo, Whitney and Max still weren’t back. And tension between them surfaced. Suddenly Calla felt weak. Drained. “I need to nap. I’m exhausted.”
“You relived a horrible experience today.” He led her to Whitney’s spare room where she kicked off her shoes and slid onto the bed. “Sleep well.” His tone was so tender she wanted to weep again. At one time, he would have given his life for her. Now, he wouldn’t even stay with her.
o0o
Syria, seventeen months ago
Calla and Connor were laughing with some children that had come in to be treated for minor cuts. The girls got patched up and asked them to sing songs. For some reason, the children in their village loved American music. She and Connor burst into a rousing rendition of a Beatles tune, then Razim led the girls out.
The ISIS soldier came out of nowhere, holding a monstrous gun, wearing full combat gear: head covered, scarf around his face, the unmistakable uniform of those who hated America. He sent a burst of gunfire over their heads.
Calla said, “Dio mio.”
Connor swallowed hard. Took Calla’s hand. “Stay calm.”
“I am calm.” But her heart was beating so fast she thought it might thump out of her chest.
The man glared at them with narrowed black eyes. Connor pulled on her hand and they began to back away.
The soldier inched forward.
And grabbed for Calla. She stumbled and Connor jumped in front of the man, breaking his hold on her. Connor shielded her with his body.
The soldier raised his gun.
Cocked it.
A loud tinny sound.
The intruder fell to the floor.
Behind him stood Razim, holding a frying pan from the makeshift kitchen. When it sunk in what had happened, Calla crossed to him. Hugged him. He’d saved their lives.
Then Connor went to get the supervisor. When he returned, two of the camp guards rushed in to haul the man away.
“Razim, you saved us.” Connor clapped his hand on the man’s back. “How can we thank you?”
“Some American hooch?” he said mischievously.
Connor laughed but Calla didn’t. She observed the exchange with a hooded expression. When Razim left, she whirled around. “Don’t you dare risk your own safety to protect me ever again.” Her eyes welled. “You could have died.”
Surprised, he grasped her arms. She expected an apology. “No can do, sweetheart. I’ll risk my life for you any time. You’re that precious to me.”
o0o
Connor lay on the couch and closed his eyes while he waited for his cousin. Until he’d gone to Syria, he’d always lived such a protected life. And everything had been easy for him. Top grades from elementary school through his medical training. Only the best of internships and residencies. And the patent he developed in college for a different kind of stethoscope gave him just enough money to live on. Perhaps if things had been harder for him, he wouldn’t have gone to Syria. He wouldn’t have suffered over the atrocities he saw over there. And of course, he’d never have met the princess of Casarina.
Did he wish that now, when she was tearing open wounds that hadn’t yet healed? No, he couldn’t. She’d given him something that he never had and probably never would find again.
On that depressing note, he tried closing his eyes. But images haunted him...
The first time she came to him, wanted to make love, needed to be close with him.
The way she always tried to see to his needs even over there.
How she was so sad when she left she could barely say goodbye.
And finally, months later, how she approached him when she left her abusive husband and came to the U.S. That one hurt even more and he remembered it in detail...
“Why on earth could you want to see me?” he’d asked when she approached him.
“I went back to my castle,” she said, shaking her head at his moniker for the palace she lived in. “I married my prince.”
“And?”
“You were right. It was the wrong decision.”
“I don’t know what to say. What are you going to do now, Calla?”
“I don’t know, Connor. I guess that depends on you...”
He fell asleep wondering what would have happened if he’d said he wanted her back.
o0o
The room was big. Fancy. Callandra sat in a chair right next to Papá. He let her do this a lot, be in his office while he worked. “I love you, Papá.”
“I love you, too, bambina .” He looked over at her. “Do you like getting away from the little ones?”
“The babies poop and cry all the time.”
“They do. Now read your book while I work.”
Callandra opened the page of her storybook to the picture of a palace. It was so beautiful. She could almost feel the gold when she touched it. “Why don’t we have a fancy palace like this one?”
He sighed. She was bothering him. “Casarina’s royal home used to look like that. It’s become modernized.” He frowned. “Now don’t ask any more questions until I say you can talk or I’ll have you taken home.”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Papá.”
The pages were all beautiful. The king looked like Papá, with his dark hair and little beard. Uh-oh. The queen...she seemed mean. Callandra read more. She was mean! Her black cape flew up and she sent out a curse. Callandra closed the book because she was scared. She stared down at the pretty front cover.
“Callandra, what is wrong?”
Her eyes were wet. “Why are the queens so evil in my books? Mamá is not evil.”
Papá mumbled under his breath, but she only heard the word arguments . “We’ll need to get you new books. Queens are not evil. They can be good. Mamá started the Marcello School to help young ones learn better.”
“Mamá is good.”
“Yes, if a little too liberal for my taste.”
“Will I be queen some day? I’m the oldest.”
“No, Cara. You are a princess.”
“You mean I can’t be in charge of Casarina?”
He sighed. “Only boys.”
“We don’t have any boys.”
“We might. If Mamá keeps having babies.”
“Yuck.”
“Come here.” He pushed back his chair and patted his lap. When she scrambled up, he hugged her close. “One day you will have babies. If Mamá and I don’t bring a boy into our lives, you will have one, and he will rule Casarina.”
“Not fair, Papá.”
“Sometimes life is not fair. But women cannot rule. You will understand when you grow up.”
“Understand what?”
“Men protect women. Women have heirs.”
She smiled. “You protect me, Papá. I almost fell off my horse and you saved me.”
“I will always protect y
ou, little one. Always.”
Calla woke with a start. She’d had another true-to-life dream, where she recalled every incident of an event vividly in her sleep. Sometimes, they were wonderful memories. Sometimes they caused pain. Tonight, the thought of how her father had promised he’d always protect her, made her sad. He’d let terrible things happen to her, like the evil queens did to the king’s children.
Chapter 3
* * *
At five o’clock, when his cousin and Max walked into the condo, Connor sat with Calla in the living room watching an American newscast. She looked rested now, and unfortunately, very sexy with her hair out of its braid, and falling down her back. He remembered the silky texture of the strands, the weight of the inky mane as it spread across his chest.
“We have news.” Whitney held up some papers and didn’t even sit before she blurted out, “We confirmed that women in domestic violence situations can seek asylum from a foreign country if certain criteria are met.”
“Sweetheart, sit.” This from Max, who removed his light windbreaker and slid hers off her shoulders, too. They both dropped down into chairs.
Connor said, “Calla already looked that up, Whit. But she doesn’t think she qualifies.”
“I know but we dug deep. The first criteria is a woman must be a member of a specific group.”
Calla shook her head. “I’m not a member of a group. I’m a princess. There was no information for my situation.”
Whitney came to the edge of her seat. “Not true. You are a member of a group. Women in Casarina are by law bound to a man no matter what he does. Your category consists of ‘women who are unable to leave their domestic relationship on matters of marriage, divorce or domestic hierarchy.’”
Max added, “An example would be that, if in a Middle Eastern country where fathers commit honor killings, a woman can legally come here to escape.”
He referred to the practice of very backward civilizations where, if a daughter is violated even in rape, her father can murder her.
“That’s true for the Middle Eastern countries so it would apply to you.” Whitney seemed excited by the fact.
Calla’s eyes widened. “Are there other women from Casarina who sought asylum?”
“We don’t know. But we can find out.”
“Maybe your initial impression was wrong, Calla.” Connor sat forward too. “So if she has that one covered, what are the other criteria?”
Max spoke again. “The second qualification is a woman, having suffered regular and serious beatings, attempted to get help from the authorities.”
“Brie and I saw that too. It’s another criteria I don’t fit. I didn’t go to the polizia. I went to Papá.”
Whitney said, “He counts as the authority, honey.” Though they had a governing body and law enforcement, the king did preside over both and usually got his way.
“Next, the applicant must have repeatedly tried to leave and stay with her family, but was sent back to the abuser. That’s you, too.”
“Oh, I was only sent back once.”
“I think we might be able to still use that one.”
Calla sighed. “Whitney, this won’t reflect well on Papá.”
“Be strong, Calla. He didn’t protect you, so you have to protect yourself.”
“There’s still one more.” Whitney scowled. “And this might not apply, but I don’t think it would be a deal breaker. After she left, the husband sought the woman out and threatened to kill her if she did not return to him.”
Calla took in a deep breath. “He did threaten to kill me. Twice. Once, in a drunken stupor, after I left.”
Connor got up and walked toward the kitchen, unable to handle the last bit of information without getting angry. He would spare Calla his reaction.
o0o
Connor stood staring out the kitchen window, gripping the counter edge as hard as he could in order to keep from smashing the dishes drying in the drainer. How, how, had this happened to the woman he loved?
A hand on his shoulder. Max. “Con, talk to me.”
“You would think,” he said, his voice hoarse, “after working in Syria, and all the atrocities I’ve seen perpetrated by one group on another, I’d have been more prepared for this. But she always described Casarina in idyllic terms.”
“There you go. How could you have known?”
Connor turned around. “I loved her. Why didn’t I research the country?”
“Did you have Wi-Fi in those villages?”
Max knew they didn’t. It had been hard to contact his family. “No, but I could have called you or one of my siblings and asked them to find out. Jesus Christ, you all work for the government to protect people and I never thought to check.”
“This reaction is a classic case of displacement.”
“I’m the doctor, with a specialty in psychiatry. Why the hell would you think that?”
“You know it is, Con. Getting angry is easier than recognizing how much pain the one you love is in.” He harrumphed. “Like I did, when Whitney left me.”
“Whitney seems better.”
“No evasion. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Connor scrubbed his hands over his face and leaned against the counter. Fatigue settled on his shoulders. “Yes. It’s unbearable to think of him abusing her.”
“Then don’t think about it. Let’s concentrate on the next step.”
“Which is?”
“I’m sure Whitney is telling Calla. It’s time to see an immigration attorney.”
o0o
Gabriella wanted to call her sister but had promised to wait until Calla returned to her house with Connor. She could go out for a jog but it was dark, and if someone was following Calla, he could still be around. And Gabriella was nothing if not practical.
So she decided to cook for herself. This was a familiar routine which she engaged in when she was trying to block out life. After she chopped onions and fresh garlic, then put them in a pan, memories seized her.
All right girls, you must chop this onion carefully—that’s it, Callandra. Gabriella, a little too hard... Yes, you can put them in the skillet. Be careful to stand back in case it splatters.
Now, she wondered again how two people all seven of their children adored could possibly have ruined Calla’s life. She might never forgive them for that.
Just as Papá might never forgive her not returning to Casarina. She just couldn’t. The man he’d chosen for her was a normal, happy Italian guy, content to take over his father’s vineyards. She’d made the call with tears in her eyes to tell them while Calla was in Syria. “I cannot come home, Papá. That life isn’t what I want... I’m not sorry for doing this, but I am apologetic for hurting you...”
He’d said he was disappointed in her. Well, she thought as she hand-crushed fresh tomatoes, tossed them in the sizzling oil, and added oregano and a teaspoon of salt and sugar, she was disappointed in him too. How could he not understand that she wanted more than the life of a farmer, proverbially barefoot and pregnant. She wanted to run her own business. That it would be a humanitarian venture should make her choice all the more palatable.
A knock on the door made her jump. She tried to calm down, but what if Lorenzo...all right, she needed a weapon. She spied the knife in the block. Then she remembered the self-defense lessons Mamá had made her and the other girls take. A knife was often easily turned on a female. Instead, she grabbed a frying pan and tiptoed to the front of her house and peered through the side window.
She relaxed when she saw her neighbor and co-worker, Eddie Smith, and opened the door.
“Hi, Brie.” He pointed to the pan. “What’s that for?”
“I’m skittish, I guess.”
“You? You’re tough as nails.” He scowled. “What’s got you so jumpy?”
“Long story.”
He held up a six pack and a bottle of red wine. “I thought maybe you, your sister and me could order a pizza.”
“Come on
in.”
He sniffed as soon as he entered the living room. “What do I smell?”
“Homemade pizza sauce.”
He looked at her like a puppy dog.
“Want to stay?” she asked, laughing. He always made her smile. She’d known him since she bought this place when she’d decided she’d remain in America. He could charm a snake out of its skin.
“Hell, yes.” She led him back to the kitchen. “Where’s Calla?”
“With friends.”
“Huh! I didn’t think she had friends. She always seems so lost, poor kid.”
Eddie had a good heart and he was easy on the eyes, too. His broad shoulders tugged at the material of his golf shirt, and his face, though not classically handsome, was ruggedly attractive. He worked at the school as a paid Phys. Ed. Teacher, whereas Brie taught elementary students. He often dropped in to say hello or to see if she needed anything. One reason she picked this neighborhood to live in was the camaraderie here made her think of home.
“Calla is kind of lost,” she told Eddie as he pulled out the stool he always sat on, and she went back to the stove.
“Hmm.”
When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw he was studying her. “What?”
“Nobody at school knows much about your background, Brie. You’ve worked there two years. When are you going to tell us? Tell me?”
“Not much to tell.”
“I don’t think that’s true. Both you and Calla have this certain...bearing, I guess, like you could command a country.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” she lied because he was so close to the truth. “But maybe someday I’ll tell you about myself. How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine.” His mother was in a nursing home. Eddie paid a lot of her bills and went to visit her three times a week.
“And you, young lady, are changing the subject.”
Gabriella expected him to flirt with her and he did. All the time. But she wasn’t interested. Nope, they could be friends, but the last thing she wanted was a beau.