A Jar of Broken Hearts

Prologue

“They killed Aunt Shia, stoned her to death,” Aliya whispered softly in the darkness, “and now they are coming for you.”

“I know,” Samia replied her gaze not leaving the Turkish mountains beyond the broken window.

“You must leave, tonight,” Aliya continued urgently, “I have arranged for somebody to take you to safety.”

“But where?” Samia’s voice trembled and she slowly turned around, “where won’t they find me?”

Aliya saw the fear and desperation written all over the young girl’s face and quickly looked away to hide her own tears.

“I’m going to miss this place,” Samia thought sadly as she looked around the dimly lit room with its musty smell, the discoloured peeling wall paper, the floor that was more concrete than tiles and a roof that threatened to fall in most days and from which she could see thin rays of sun shine during the day.  She may not have been used to living like a beggar, but right now, this was more like heaven for her.

She had been here for exactly two months, and already they were asking her to leave. Where else would she go now? Nobody wanted her anymore. She turned back to the window behind her.

“You knew that this day would come,” Aliya persisted softly, “nothing lasts forever, not even this.”

“Yeah, nothing, except my troubles.” Samia replied her voice betraying all the frustrations from the past few months.

“Oh, my poor child,” Aliya said as she started towards the scared little girl across the room, her arms outstretched ready to embrace her.

“Please auntie, don’t. Let’s not do this tonight. “L-let me just sit here for a while and enjoy the beauty of the night in the desert, before it s all over.” Samia said hoarsely as she looked at the moon kissed mountains through her teary eyes. “We have a few minutes, right?”

“Right.” Her auntie replied and fell silent as she stared at the girl by the window. “What is to become of her?” she wondered silently.

Finally Samia, turned to her auntie who was still standing across the room and said, “I’m ready now.”

And so the two women walked outside silently into the night towards the rendezvous point.  And as she glanced around her one final time, felt the desert wind softly caress her face, while trying to swallow the rising lump in her throat, she felt the lone tear course down her face. 

She had been prepping all day for this moment, gulping down the rising emotions and silently repeating her mantra: ‘be strong, don’t cry for them, they do not deserve your tears.’ But it was all useless now; she could not hide her tears from the world any more.

She turned to the woman at her side, “Is there no other way?” she asked desperately as she clutched her hands.

“You know there isn’t, if there was we would have found it by now, but there is none. You must go if you are to be saved.”

“What about you, you could come with me? They will kill you for this.” Samia persisted.

“No,” Aliya shook her head sadly, “my life is here, my children are here, everything I have is here.”

“But we could change all that, we could...”

“Hush child, you know that is not possible, you should save yourself, this is your chance to start afresh, go!” Aliya commanded and began walking away, as she wiped the tears in her face.

Samia  looked back torn, before she finally ran to Aliya -- the woman who had been both mother and confidant for two months, and did the only natural thing left to do, she threw her arms around her one final time before she turned around and began walking unsteadily towards her ticket out of hell.

And as she climbed down the cold steel tanker with thirty-three others who were not unlike her, her hand unconsciously flustered to her already bulging belly under the black abaya, her remaining reason for living and felt a soft comforting kick.

So she had waited apprehensively as they went over the mountains and down the hills all the while repeating, “This has to work,” as she strained her ears, listening for the faintest sounds that would spell the end of her short lived freedom, until finally her eyes began to fluster from all the anxiety and despair that had been weighing heavily on her for the past few months.

And two weeks later, as she finally stepped into the neck deep, fast-moving greenish water of the Rio Grande, it finally dawned on her that indeed she had gotten away.

It was on 23rd September, 1991, 6.24 am, when she finally stood on the land where her dreams had brought her to every night for the past five months, the United States of America, the land of great opportunity and endless possibilities.

Chapter 1

“He is not coming back, is he?” Melisa asked aloud as she placed her hand over her mouth to stop the sob that threatened to escape her mouth. With teary eyes, she stared at the rows upon rows of flag-draped coffins on the front page of the New York Times. “How long am I going to live like this?” she wondered as she looked up from her large oak desk and stared at the smiling woman on the wall across the airy room with its white walls, white floor, and the huge window behind her desk that looked out into lower Manhattan. She felt fear snake its way in and wrap itself around her heart as she slowly returned her gaze to her desk and began tracing the outline of the coffins with her finger.

“My poor Jeremy,” she closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly. Finally, she turned to the top drawer and took out the delicate silver box, brushed the unshed tears with the back of her hand, and took another calming breath before she carefully lifted the lid off the box with trembling hands.

For a moment, she stared at the neatly folded piece of paper that was already three months old as she chewed on her trembling lower lip. She slowly wrapped her fingers around it, felt its smooth surface as she weighed it delicately in her hand before she slowly proceeded to unfold it.

23rd August 2008.

Dear Siz...

Just wanted to tell let you know I got back okay, (finally after almost three weeks of travelling). We left Kuwait on the Tuesday I called and we have been going ever since, that is until this morning when we got to camp.

It seems we are back to where we started during my first tour. You hating me for going away and me feeling guilty for putting you through this again. I know you think that I should not have come back, and so do I. But when I think of all these kids here --someone has to make sure that they return home safely.

They remind me of me during my first tour, boy was I green. I was excited and nervous at the same time, I didn’t know quite what to expect, everything felt like a dream as we sat in our seats with our high and tight haircuts, “chocolate chip” desert uniforms and M16 rifles in hand. Then, I wanted to be here. That was what I wanted for my life; the place I wanted to be.
But a few months into it, the doubts began, ‘she was right,’ I told myself a thousand times. I had made a huge mistake; this was way over my head. How was I going to cope with the fear that followed me like a pitch black thunder cloud for eleven months? (But now coming here for the third time at least I know what I’m dealing with.)

I thought I was done with this place, but I guess I was wrong. Now I have to learn to live without air conditioning once more.
The moment I stepped off of the truck, just as dawn was breaking, I saw the camp just as I had left it four months ago, just standing there, taunting me, laughing at me. All I could hear were the echoes of the words, “you thought you were never going to come back, that you were done with me, well here you are,” it felt like having the wind knocked out of you.

I really thought I could do this, that this time it would be different, I would be different; it would be--simpler even. But now that I’m here, I’m no longer so sure and I don’t know if I can do this again. It’s been less than two hours, and already I’m needed at the medical centre. And there begins the nightmare I thought I had left behind, it’s like I never left. The flies are back, millions of them like someone sent them to come and reak havoc on us. And so is the unbearable heat, how is it that we can get temperatures as high as 140 degrees during the day and come night you find yourself freezing? (You have to love this weather.) And behind all that façade I can feel fear settling in my stomach like heavy lead. I’m terrified of what is waiting for me in that room; I’m terrified of what I will find out there while on patrol, what I will have to patch up. But I know that fear cannot stop me from going. Strangely, it feels like home far away from home.

I know I’m doing the right thing, fulfilling my duties as a soldier, but sometimes I just feel sick to my stomach and there is this defeated spirit I carry with me. I wish I could turn around and leave, tell them to take their letter of deployment and keep it as a souvenir, I don’t want it anymore. But we both know that is not going to happen. I signed a contract that they could do this to me—stick me back into this God-forsaken country to fulfil my duty to my country. And as Mark will point out to you, the contract is legally binding (don’t you hate it whenever he pulls out his legal jargon on you?) Besides, what do you do when the army calls?

It’s hard to believe that just a few months ago I was on my way home. I can still hear the wheels of the airplane finally kiss the Kuwaiti tarmac goodbye whenever I close my eyes, see the smiles of relief and disbelief on every soldier’s face aboard that plane, as they cheer, laugh and cry at the same time., and before we know it, we are at fort Williams.

Coming back home was the most excited I have ever been. I was filled with joy of seeing you again and at the same time apprehensive not knowing how you would react (now I know how your staff feels when they are summoned into the chief’s office, it’s like being called to the principal’s office for having done something very naughty.)

But seeing you standing there on the tarmac, wrapped in your expensive chinchilla fur, the six inch manola shoes (how do you even walk in those things), Jackie Onnasi sunglasses and the tiniest American flag in your hand – my welcome committee, I have to admit, I have never seen a more beautiful scene in my life. A scene I carry with me in my heart every day, and one I hope to see in a few months. I’m coming back, I promise. (But I hope next time you will go slow on the fur.)

I miss you terribly already, and I don’t know how I will make it for six more months without you. All I have to remind me of you is  this song that has been playing in my mind since we said good bye, nothing compares to you, I think it’s by Sinead O’Connor (at least that is what one of my buddies told me. He knows practically all the songs there is). Thank God I don’t have to sing it aloud, writing is so much better, I can only remember a few lines, so here it goes, ‘It's been seven hours and fifteen days since you took your love away, I go out every night and sleep all day, since you took your love away, since you've been gone I can do whatever I want, I can see whomever I choose I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant, but nothing, I said nothing can take away these blues, 'cause nothing compares, nothing compares to you.’

Love,
Jeremy

Ps. did I mention I sort of met a girl here? Crazy, right? I had to travel thousands of miles away from home to meet someone. Well her name is Denise, Sergeant Denise Shelly to the army. She comes all the way from Wyoming, and she is stationed in the same camp as I am. Lovely girl, she has been in the army for five years now. At least my third deployment is going to be anything but boring (wink wink).You must find the silver lining in every situation, right?

She neatly folded the letter and held it to her chest as she felt the sobs rake her body.  God, did she miss him. She turned to the window behind her and longingly stared at the sun rays bouncing off the beautiful skyscrapers around her. Far ahead, she could see the colourful billboards on Times Square. “What a beautiful day,” She thought to herself wistfully as she pressed her face against the cold, hard glass and sighed. Her heart felt ice cold, if only she could stretch her cold hand outside into the beautiful sun light and feel its warmth.

Instead she turned to her desk, wiped the tears from her face and replaced the letter in the silver box which she returned in her top drawer. She then grabbed the New Yorker Law Review and opened page thirty-six that had been bookmarked by her assistant.

“If it isn’t my dear husband,” she smiled cynically as she stared at the small portrait at the bottom of the page her earlier anxiety momentarily forgotten. She quickly scanned the text adjacent which mentioned that he was the main defence attorney for a big terrorism case that had been receiving some favourable airplay in the past few weeks. “Finally, he is joining the big leagues, he must be so proud,” she thought as she idly observed how handsome he looked in his charcoal black suit. It had been four days now since she had last seen him and nearly a month since their last ‘real’ conversation.  And even that had ended in screams, tears and flying objects. “Where did we go wrong?” she wondered as she ran her hand over his smiling face.  After what seemed like an eternity, she finally shut the magazine and tossed it at the edge of the table and reached out for the last item on her ‘to read list,’ the D’ Elegance magazine.

On the cover, was a smiling image of Gisela Montecino, the greatest thorn in Melisa’s side and the current ‘reigning queen’ of fashion.
“How happy she looks,” Melisa observed sourly as she stared at the blue eyed monster, with her smooth olive skin, pouting pink lips and blonde hair that gently floated behind her.

“The nerve of that woman,” Melisa fumed silently as she slowly massaged her temples. “How did she manage to steal my top spot in just a few months? Damn Jeremy and his stupid war, he has reduced me into bundle of nerves and tears.”

Ever since it was proved Melisa Payne a better sense of fashion than Gisela Montecino back in Fashion school, Gisela had been trying to overthrow Melisa as queen. It had taken twenty-two years to do it, but Gisela had done it, and she now was on top. She now was reigning queen, while Melisa had been bumped to a partly number six, and already all her investors were threatening to pull out. “How could I have slipped so low in such a short time?” she muttered, “I must do something to reclaim my lost glory. I must show them that I still run this town. But what?”  she raked her brain as she idly leafed through the pages of the magazine until she came to Gisela’s collection.
“God, what person could be so crazy to call these rags fashion?” she spat her voice full of venom as she stared at the bohemian dress with accentuated shoulders that looked like a scene from the 80’s. “People must be going crazy, or their fashion tastes are going to the drains together with this dreadful economy,” she muttered.

As if on cue, she turned the pages to the reviews on her fashion show and read the first review.

‘Melisa Payne’s fashion show was just that, pain. It started on a lacklustre note and evolved into a bad joke as the evening progressed. As the models walked down the runway in their massive fur collars and sleeves, all I kept thinking was ‘Oh dear God, how many animals did they have to butcher to satisfy her ‘highness’ whims?’ The clothes leaked of a cheap shot of someone trying-too-hard to regain control of her slipping reigns. And the only thing more painful than witnessing the clothes was watching the models pitch down the runway in shoes so ill-fitting that the spike heels were bending at awkward angles.’

“Aargh!” she screamed and hurled the magazine across the room. “How dare they write such garbage? I have a mind to march to their sleazy offices and give them a piece of my mind,” she fumed as she clenched her hands into tight fists. “No Melisa, you must calm down. You cannot lose control, not now.” She took a deep calming breath and then picked up the phone and dialled her assistant’s number, “Susan, get me the editor of.... never mind.” She said as an afterthought and replaced the receiver.

“No, I’m not going to give them the satisfaction. Instead, I will rise up from the ashes, I will create a collection that is so divine, and then we will see who the ‘bad joke is here.’ Yes that’s it, but first, I’ll trim the fat in the place.”

XXX

Susan glanced at the door to Melisa’s office for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes. She could hear the soft thuds emanating from the other side of the wall. “What is she up to this time?” Susan asked herself as she strained her ear listening for other sounds from the room beyond.

She had seen how colour drained from her face the moment she saw the front page of the New York Times. She knew how Melisa felt, she had once been there, but that was a long time ago, another lifetime altogether. Now, she no longer had to worry about any soldier. All she had left to worry about was school plays, doctor’s appointments and medical expenses. That is why she couldn’t bear to lose this job. The last stint she had had without a job nearly killed Gracey. This time there was no way she was leaving, even if her boss was one mean bitch, they would have to drag her out of here kicking and screaming.

Her reverie was interrupted once more by the shrill ring of the telephone. She reached for the annoying gadget and silently nodded to the instructions given before she stood and headed to the publicity department.

Chapter 2

Samia-al-Sayyid had once believed, believed in something called ‘The American Dream.’ Believed that with a good idea, hard work, and perseverance, anyone could become successful. But she had long stopped believing. She had stopped believing when she came to the realization that not even a good idea, hard work and perseverance would get her ‘her’ American dream. Now all she did was dream that maybe, just maybe her son would be luckier in achieving ‘his’ American dream. Because she had discovered that an essential ingredient of the American dream was luck, something she never had the privilege of possessing in her life.

Seventeen years she had been here, but she was yet to wake up from her nightmare.
They had forced her to leave her home, made it clear she was Persona non grata, and that the longer she stayed, the closer she was getting to an unmarked grave in the hot Iraqi desert. And now each time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the three of them driving through the mountains, and the endless seas of deserts just so they could get to her.

“It’s not like I had a choice, they were going to kill me,” she said aloud as she poured more cleaning solution in the antique Italian carrara marble sink.

But would they really have done it? Committed murder‘s most foul in cold blood, just to salvage the honour she had so ‘wantonly’ destroyed? A whisper of doubt crossed her mind as it did every time she thought of them, of times past, when there had been nothing but warm hugs and kisses.

“Who am I kidding?” she shook her head once again; of course they would have done it. It was their duty, their honour depended on it, society expected it of them. It was the only way her family could be saved.

“But is this it? Is this any better than what I left behind?”  she slowly looked around the huge marble bathroom, tastefully done in shades of classic black and white, with its’ translucent ceiling tiles that let in a soft glow and the occasional hints of oak wood to offer contrast.  “No,” she decided, nothing had changed for her.

She might have been thousands of miles away from her judge, jury and executers, the hot dry desert with its’ violent sand storms, and the grisly war, but for her, she could as well as have been standing in front of the firing squad, waiting for the ‘ready, aim and fire’ command before she finally sank to the ground one final time.

She had been cleaning rich people’s bathrooms and toilets every single day for seventeen years, washing and cooking, as she continually proved that she mattered, that she was contributing to the general well-being of the society, that she was a loyal American, and wasn’t a threat to the National security of this country. All she wanted was to live in peace, why couldn’t they see that?”

“Damn it!”  She cursed under her breath as she stared helplessly at the cleaning liquid that had spilt on the rug and was slowly spreading. “One more thing I have to look forward to, Melisa’s barrage for ‘ruining’ her precious rug.” she thought as she bent over the rug and began dubbing furiously at the stain in a futile attempt to clean up the mess.

“Oh Samia, what did you get yourself into?” She whispered to herself as she wiped her brow helplessly with the back of her hand. She stood back, shook her head as she stared at her messy handiwork, begrudgingly picked the rug from the floor and loaded it on her cleaning cart. She walked to the oval white and black IPE bathtub, enclosed by an oval metallic panel which displayed circular patterns reflective on the tubs exterior, and turned off the running water.

The house felt eerily quiet without the running water. She turned to the other side of the room and smiled wistfully at the sight of the sun light which bounced off the huge imposing gold embossed mirror that hung on the wall opposite the window just above the two marble sinks. Outside, she could hear the fading sounds of the late afternoon traffic and the people in the streets as they went about their business oblivious of her pain.

“You know, they hate you for what ‘your’ people stand for, for what they do.” She said softly. “If they knew, there is no ‘your’ people for you...” Samia smiled bitterly, “m-maybe their pity would be better than their hate?” 

“No,” She shook her head doubtfully, to them, she would always be the face of evil, nothing more, just pain, loss and senseless destruction. If her first employer, Mercy Meyer could not differentiate between her, and ‘her’ people even after working for her more than ten years, how could she expect the people on the streets to make the distinction? She wondered as she remembered her employer’s face, full of pain, anger and grief. Five years ago, and she was yet to shake off the look of hatred and disgust she had seen in those eyes, five years since the 9/11 attacks, attacks  that took Ms. Mercer’s precious daughter and Samia’s dream of acceptance.

“Oh how I would love to strike them all!” she thought as she turned to the tub and started polishing the golden taps, “to wipe those smug looks off their faces, but on the other hand I know it’s really not their fault. I too would have hated them with all my heart. They did not choose this, yet they did. They are victims just like ‘my’ people, but victims of what exactly?”

She felt sorry for them yet at the same time she felt anger for what they were doing to her, killing her ever so slowly. It was a very confusing mix of ambivalent, contradictory emotions

But she knew she was not alone in this, there were the thousands of people walking through hell, in a bid to flee the violence, mass abductions and miles of red tape, leaving behind loved ones, homes, jobs, education, everything hoping for new life, to save their lives, looking for a fresh start. New beginnings is what they called it; new opportunities. “Opportunities of what exactly, to have people shout in your face, “barbarian desert dweller, terrorist, Osama’s cousin,”

As she slowly rose up and started pushing her cleaning trolley towards the cleaning closet at the end of the hallway, she thought of her son, the boy who had slept an American and woken up in the morning a Middle Eastern Muslim in a country where being a male Muslim of a certain age was almost a crime.

“How many times has he home home from school, sad and depressed from the teasing which later turned violent simply because he was from ‘the region’?” she felt a sense of anger and despair. It may have been three years now since he last came home with bruises and tears in his eyes. But she was not fooled to think that the teasing had stopped. She knew he kept it all bottled up because he had sensed rather than seen how all this was tearing her up inside.

And every time Samia tried to bring up the subject, to let him know there was another way, that all he had to do was say the words, and she would find another school, a school whose racial demographic was a bit more friendly to him, all she got was,  “No mama, I cannot keep running away from my problems. This is the reality I live in now, and the sooner I accept it the easier it will be for me.”  “When did he grown up to become so wise?” she smiled proudly, “still a child, but circumstances have forced him to grow up really fast. She just prayed that she would be able to keep the promise she had made so long ago on the day he was born, the day she held him in her arms, and looked at his ominous huge innocent eyes, the shrunken skin, and the jet black curly hair on his head. On that day she swore to herself that he would get the best this life had to offer, he would be able to live his dreams for both him and her, and if unclogging toilets and cleaning rich people’s bathrooms was how she was going to achieve that, so be it.

Chapter 3

She heard the front door slam and she instinctively knew that her majesty the great Melisa Payne, reigning ice queen and evil witch of the wild, wild west had arrived and no doubt in one of her moods.

“Brace yourself girl, it’s gonna be a long tumultuous flight.” 

She took a long breathe to calm herself before she took the cold, brass railing and began descending the stairs.

To refer to Melisa as cold, calculating, high strung, pure evil would be an understatement. One had to cross her when she was on a warpath to fully grasp what Melisa was all about. Usually so cold and shrewd, Melisa had also managed to perfect a personality that  was both intimidating and alluring at the same time, with every detail of her behaviour and physical appearance, every gesture, including the fake smile that she flashed for the benefit of her most loyal customers thoroughly choreographed. 

“Samia, didn’t you hear me call you?” Melisa demanded from the foyer, “sometimes I wonder if you truly aren’t deaf. But then again it’s not your fault that you are so dense, nature did play a cruel trick on you. Though I’m beginning to wonder what’s the use of me keeping you around if you are not going to be here to open the door when I come in,” she said as shook her head exasperatedly.

“Take my coat and bag up to my room and while you are at it run me a bath,” she said as she shrugged out of a Chinchilla fur coat that she had designed as part of her winter collection and casually threw it on the couch.

“We shall have dinner a bit late today, Mark is held up at work, again. I don’t even know why I bother to make the effort for something that feels dead,” she muttered to herself, “maybe I should just stop trying so hard,” she added as an afterthought.

For a moment Samia saw something she did not see often on her boss’ face, vulnerability, fear, pain and uncertainty which disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

“Melisa, are… are you okay?”

“What do you mean am I okay?” Melisa retorted, “of course I’m okay. Why don’t you go fix my bath instead of playing psychiatrist and asking stupid questions? But before that go fix me a drink. And I hope you hadn’t made plans for evening. I will need you to stay late.” Melisa added dismissively.

Knowing it was a statement and not a question Samia nodded obediently and made for the drinks placed on the simple, Provencal chest with the Italian drawer fronts in the foyer and began fixing her employer a drink as she quietly observed her through the 18th century Regénce mirror hung on the wall above her. Melisa walked stiffly towards the sitting room and slowly eased herself on the 1940s Jansen Bergères arm chair. She looked tired, her features drawn out and her mind seemingly a million miles away as she slowly massaged her temples. Samia placed a glass of Chardonnay on the 1950s Italian art glass table in front of her employer and proceeded to take the coat and handbag that had been thrown over the quilted couch and made for the stairs.

Having worked for Melisa for eight years, Samia knew the one thing her boss hated was anyone ruining her plans. Melisa was known to go to great lengths to get her own way. Scheming, blackmail and betrayal were not foreign words to her boss. There was always a huge price to pay for anyone who messed with Melisa’s plans. And that included her husband Mark. ‘No’ was not a word in Melisa’s dictionary, and nothing seemed to get her down. But from the look of things tonight, it seemed today was an exception.

“Perhaps a fight with Mark?” Samia thought idly. Today was their nineteenth anniversary, and Melisa had put in a lot of planning to it. From the food to the music to the flowers, to the scented candles she ordered specifically for the dinner table, everything, a favourite of Mark’s. Samia had already spent endless hours scouting for some of the ridiculous stuff on Melisa’s wish lists including Barry White’s ‘you are the first, the last, my everything’ song that had played on their wedding nineteen years ago and the Nutmeg flowers she had specifically ordered. For some reason, she wanted the anniversary this year to be especially special.

Not an easy feat, but Samia had everything right.  Because it is what she did, dance to all of Melisa’s whims. Saying no was unthinkable, saying something was impossible, it couldn’t be done only elicited a monologue o f how she, Melisa Payne, an unlikely candidate from the projects downtown, had climbed through the ranks of cut-throat competition to head one of the biggest fashion houses in the world.
And just when everything was in place, from the food to the décor to the music, Melisa had her assistant cancel everything,

“Return everything to normal,” she had said, “and throw out that ridiculous music and the flowers too.” And in the background she could hear Melissa screaming and cursing. Knowing not to ask questions she did as she was told.

“There will be plenty of time to get answers” Samia reasoned. She and Susan, Melisa’s personal assistant would be having their weekly rendezvous later in the week. They had been having their weekly clandestine meetings for two years now, ever since Melisa had exploded on her new assistant on the very first day at work. Susan had been so scared and shocked and she fully expected to lose her job. What, after Melisa had called her ‘a brainless incompetent idiot,’ not bright enough even to fetch a cup of coffee? But over the next few weeks she saw more and more of this side of Melisa as she attacked and demeaned every single person in her office that Susan became accustomed to her outburst and even began to anticipate them.

It was through the numerous calls she made to Melisa’s house to make one arrangement or cancel another that she got acquainted to Samia and when one day Melisa made her go across town in the pouring rain to collect some contracts she had left home, the two women in Melisa’s life finally came face to face and a new friendship was born. Of course Melisa did not know anything of the weekly coffee dates, or the monthly lunches or the inside information on their boss they traded.

She walked into the expanse walk in wardrobe and began to put away the content in her hands. She should have gotten used to insane price tags on some of the items in here, but at times, even she could not help feeling a bit jealous. From a thousand dollars for a pair of jimmy choo shoes, to a five hundred dollar pair of Dolce and Gabana sunglasses or even a two thousand dollar dress from her very own collection.

“What two thousand dollars can do for me and my son,” she thought, “tuition fee for Ali, better healthcare for the two of us not to mention a better home in a neighbourhood not filled with gangs and drug dealers. Oh Well, if only,” she though as she went through the brightly lit archway, with its soft wooden panelling and gleaming floors into the bathroom.

Chapter 4

In the kitchen, Samia took the phone on the kitchen table and dialled the number, “Hi honey, just calling to tell you I won’t make it for dinner, I have to work late tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it”, she heard her son’s deep voice on the other side of the phone. “I’ll just grab a pizza. I have a lot of studying to do, big test tomorrow.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you when you come in.” Samia replied.

“Okay Ma, but be careful out there, you know what these streets are like.” Ali said seriously.

” Hey, now who is the parent here? “ Samia retorted trying to bite back the smile that was slowly forming.

“I’m just saying, the place has become pretty unsafe since Tito’s gang started dealing near the bus stop. Mrs. Benita from down the streets was beaten pretty badly just last week. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. You are all that I have.”  Ali added softly.
“I know son”, Samia replied with a sigh, knowing too well how true this was. She was all the family he had. Sometimes she worried he didn’t have too many people in his corner,

“Maybe I should have made an effort and tried to reconcile with them, perhaps if they had gotten to see his face, gotten to know him, they too would have fallen in love with him as I did.” But would they really have overlooked her mistakes? Compromised their beliefs for him?
No, and frankly she didn’t have the strength to go through another rejection. To them Ali would be a living, breathing reminder of the shame they would forever have to carry and they would never forgive her for that, at least, not as long as they lived. To them she was dead, and so was he. She had brought shame to her family and for that she deserved to die. And she would have, were it not for auntie Shia who had aided her escape from her blood thirsty brothers. And for that, she had paid for with her life.

The chiming of the clock broke her reverie and she impulsively turned to the French Boulle Tortoishell Mantel Clock on the wall behind her.
“Eight o’clock, great, I wonder how much longer her ‘majesty’ will require me to stay before she determines my presence is no longer required.”

She heard the ringing of the phone and she looked down to see the annoying gadget still in her hand. One ring, two, three, she made to press the receive button when suddenly it stopped ringing and she heard Melisa’s voice drifting softly through the rooms and she went to replace the receiver in its rightful place. Suddenly she heard screaming and then a crash.

“I guess Melisa didn’t like her caller much, and the phone had to pay for it,” she thought, “oh well, I guess that means more for me to clean up tomorrow,” she mused.

Minutes later, she heard footsteps approaching before Melisa appeared on the doorway.

“Cancel dinner,” she simply said, “Mark isn’t coming. He is busy working on a ‘big’ case. I guess when you are out conquering the world things like celebrating your anniversary with your wife seem like minor inconveniences that should be avoided at all costs,” she added sarcastically and gave a brief hollow laugh.