Unbroken Threads

by Jennifer Klepper

  “Certainly. Please enjoy your meal and let your server know if we can get you anything else.” The man bowed again and turned to walk away.

  “Sir? The table over there.” She pointed toward the center of the room. “What kind of wood is it?”

  The man’s smile started with his eyes, waterfalling down to his lips. “Olive. The olive tree is from my grandmother’s home. It was many hundreds of years old before it died.”

  Untold memories, or maybe even dreams, seemed to pass through the man’s mind as he paused wistfully.

  “It was not easy to get it to America.” He bowed again and moved to another table, his arms open wide in greeting.

  Jessica adjusted the napkin on her lap and surveyed the dishes, wincing. If she had looked up pictures of kibbeh arnabieh online before ordering, she almost certainly would not have selected it. It looked like giant sea slugs floating in a milky sea.

  But it was the order she’d made.

  THE number on the phone showed it was Amina. Nervousness and indecision seemed to have gone on hiatus following Jessica’s trip into the city, giving her a welcome boost of unencumbered confidence. She stopped stripping Mikey’s bed and accepted the call. “Hello, this is Jessica Donnelly.”

  “Hello. This is Amina Hamid.” She sounded as steely over the phone as she had been face to face, resulting in the end of the hiatus.

  Jessica sat on the exposed mattress, taking a deep breath to center herself. “Thanks for calling me back, Ms. Hamid.”

  “I am calling because you came to my work. My employer does not want any trouble. I didn’t ask you to come to the restaurant.”

  This was not starting off well. “I am so sorry if I put you in an uncomfortable position. I couldn’t reach you by phone, but I wanted to talk with you about your case.”

  She hoped the silence on the other end of the phone was good. At least Amina hadn’t hung up yet.

  Jessica stood, continuing. “I know you had a bad experience with your first lawyer. I’m really impressed with what you’ve already done, so far as submitting your application. Really, I am. You prepared a complete application, and everything seems to be in order. But, to be honest, complete doesn’t mean detailed or persuasive.”

  Jessica caught her reflection in Mikey’s mirror, seeing her younger attorney self pacing the H&C office while advising a client. She had once cut off a Fortune 500 CEO mid-sentence to tell him in no uncertain terms that the deal he was about to sign would land the SEC on his doorstep and she had no intention of joining him on a perp walk.

  Amina, however, was not a corporate executive, so Jessica softened her edges. “You didn’t include enough information or documentation to support your case. I believe you need to do a significant amount of preparation in order to succeed in front of the asylum officer. I would hate for you to be in that interview alone and unprepared. If you want to do this on your own, that’s fine. But why not meet with me one more time? I’ve been through your application now and have some ideas I can pass along.”

  Jessica stopped pacing. She moved the phone so she could see the screen to make sure the line was still open.

  “I will meet with you one more time.”

  Jessica fumbled the phone back up to her ear. “Okay, then. Great. I can come to your home or the restaurant.”

  “Somewhere else.” Amina’s response wasn’t a sharp chastisement, but its quickness sent a clear message that Jessica had pushed as far into Amina’s personal life as she would allow.

  Jessica made some suggestions, and the two settled on a coffee shop a couple of bus stops from Bathanjaan. “I can come to pick you up—”

  “No. I can get there on my own. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The kids were fed, homework was in progress, and most importantly, no one was engaged in killing either of the others, so it seemed safe to leave for book club. With Danny on an unplanned trip to Seattle to meet with a potential new customer, Jessica didn’t even feel guilty about the self-indulgence.

  Heading out the door for the short two-block walk, she ran through the earlier call. Amina had offered to meet “one more time.” The woman hadn’t sounded as though she’d warmed to Jessica, so this could simply be a meeting at a neutral public spot, where Amina would tell Jessica once and for all to leave her alone.

  Jessica had used that tactic herself with a law school boyfriend—boyfriend was a stretch, but he’d seemed to think he was, so Jessica had had to end it cleanly—and she didn’t relish the idea of being on the receiving end.

  She didn’t owe Amina anything, as Rosalie had stated, and Amina owed Jessica nothing, either. So the best road could be for Jessica to give Amina some basic advice and bow out. But something about that didn’t feel right. Jessica felt as though she did owe more, but she didn’t know what or to whom.

  She wanted to shake her mind free of all things pro bono, at least for the night, and Nari’s beautiful home helped.

  Architecturally lit from the foundation to the widow’s walk, the white three-story home stood like a wise sentry on the corner of Walnut and Sycamore, an exemplar of the homes that made up the Sycamore Street neighborhood. Thankfully, historic-preservation regulations had spared the outside when the Grants did extensive renovations on the home, transforming the aged interior into a model of contemporary style.

  Nari had come across an antique boat hatch cover in her attic during renovations and had promptly brought it to the Donnellys’ house. “Jessica, you should have seen our decorator’s face when I showed it to her and said maybe we could incorporate it into the interior design! I thought she was going to quit on the spot. Anyway, I thought maybe you could use it. I mean, you have kept your house so historical.”

  Jessica hadn’t minded the backhanded compliment. With sturdy pine and unadorned metal edging, the hatch cover had looked battered but impeccably intact. Its history was unknowable beyond sea voyages that had somehow ended at a port in Maryland, but Jessica had spent countless hours using her newfound woodworking skills to ensure its future as a restored maritime relic in the office of a certain cybersecurity company’s CEO. She wasn’t sure if Danny had been serious about the restoration serving a role in landing the Defense Department contract, but she took unashamed pride in the possibility.

  Walking into Nari’s home without knocking, Jessica could hear the women before she could see the group. She glanced in the mirror in the front hall and smoothed her hair. Her grandmother’s cross, which she hadn’t quite stolen from Cricket but was certainly sharing custody of, looked just right against her flowy black top. She didn’t look like Madonna at all.

  Hearing the clink of a wine bottle against the rim of a glass, Jessica oriented herself toward the kitchen.

  “Jessica! I’m so glad you could come!” Nari accepted the bottle of cabernet sauvignon offered by Jessica and added it to the collection on the white marble island that separated the kitchen from the great room. “You just missed Charlie. He said to say hello and that he wouldn’t be back down.”

  “I guess he learned his lesson last time,” Jessica said, laughing.

  Nari tied an apron around her waist, accentuating her thin frame and her decidedly non-housewife outfit that was more Manhattan than Annapolis. “No, he did not enjoy being the ‘man’s perspective.’ He’s just lucky that wasn’t the month we read Fifty Shades. Oh God, can you imagine? In any event, he won’t be through here again tonight.” She motioned toward the great room. “Please, help yourself. Open bottles and glasses are at the bar. I’ll be over in a sec.” She pulled on a monogrammed oven mitt to retrieve some miniature crab cakes from the oven. The elegant anesthesiologist had outstanding skills in the kitchen, and the ladies from Sycamore Street never ate dinner before book club when Nari hosted.

  Eight women were gathered loosely between the island and the bar. Occasionally, all twelve members would attend, especially now that everyone’s kids were getting old enough to be left home alone. Over the yea
rs, the group had changed little. Well, the women had gotten older, the houses had gotten nicer, and the inside jokes a little bawdier. By all accounts, the group had gotten better with age.

  Jessica poured herself a glass of cab and edged into the circle of women, already a world away from Syria and her involvement, such as it was.

  Tonight’s book researcher, Denise, was talking, but not about this month’s historical fiction selection. “I never should have agreed to move away from here, away from you guys. But I thought being closer to his work would let us be together more. Turns out that’s not what was keeping us apart.” She pushed her hands against the sides of her face, pulling the skin taut and temporarily erasing the despair that had physically etched itself into her face over the past year.

  The women shook their heads in support.

  Denise continued. “The trial separation is over. No more therapy. We’re over. I don’t know what I did wrong.” She reflexively reached her right hand toward her left ring finger. It was bare where it was once ringed for eternity.

  “You did everything right, Denise,” insisted Mary Anne, who stood to her left. Mary Anne was the loudest of the group, the most unfiltered. But she was also the most loyal and always the one Jessica would want to have her back. “He’s the one who fucked up, with that—” She stopped abruptly upon seeing the glares from the other women. Bringing another woman—the other woman—into the discussion was not a good idea. She sipped her wine in lieu of finishing her sentence.

  “I almost don’t even mind losing him. It’s losing me that I didn’t expect. I have been at home almost our entire marriage. Being a wife and a mom was everything to me. You guys know that.” She twisted the nonexistent ring on her finger and whispered, “He knew that.” Tears started to fall. “Even the mom part is cut in half now. I’m a quarter of the woman I was before, and I have no idea what comes next.”

  The other women were still, letting her get all her words out.

  “I don’t want to keep shrinking.” Blond highlights covered her eyes as she leaned forward. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She looked back up at the women, challenging them. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Nari appeared in front of Denise, holding a goblet filled with chardonnay. “The first thing you’re going to do is drink some wine.”

  Denise waved away the goblet. “No. I have to drive home.”

  “Why?” Nari asked, placing her free hand on Denise’s shoulder.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you have to drive home?”

  “Because I always have to drive home now that I live in fucking Bethesda.”

  Nari placed the goblet in Denise’s hand. “You said he has the kids tonight. So you’re staying here. With us.” Her strong bedside manner came through with her firm yet compassionate cadence. “You can get up early and drive home. Tonight, you’re ours. We’re going to talk about the book, and we’re going to drink wine, and we’re going to tell you how much we love you. Even though you moved to fucking Bethesda.”

  Denise’s unexpected laugh brightened her splotchy face, allowing the rest of the circle to breathe fully again.

  Jessica grabbed Denise’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Nari just dropped the f-bomb. You’d better do what she says, or who knows what will happen next.” She clinked her glass against Denise’s, the pure tones rising from Nari’s fine crystal goblets putting an end to the discussion.

  Nari ushered the women toward the cushy white couches and camel chairs that flanked them. Jessica always marveled at the woman’s nonchalance about the red wine and other threats to the upholstery. Maybe having a job like Nari’s, in which she held the balance of a person’s life in her hands, allowed her to block such mundane worries from her mind.

  It seemed easier not to get white couches.

  Taking her own place on a camel chair, Jessica gulped a healthy slug of her cab, hoping it wouldn’t take much wine to stop her from thinking about whether she, too, was shrinking.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The dark interior of the coffee shop was a small blessing for the unrelenting pounding in Jessica’s temples. I shouldn’t have had that last glass of cab. Book club had talked late into the night, strategizing about Denise’s future, before falling into their regular gossip, and Jessica had wobbled home well after even the teenagers had gone to bed. Short of sleep and long on hangover, all Jessica wanted right now was a freshly brewed cup of anything strong and full of caffeine.

  Amina was hard to miss, her poppy-colored hijab standing out against the decor of dark barrels and the rows of coffee bean–filled burlap bags. The anti-Starbucks authenticity of the small-batch roast shop lent a sense of privacy to the scattered tables. A public breakup didn’t loom as large as it had after the phone call yesterday.

  Jessica smiled as she approached Amina, wincing when the movement of her facial muscles triggered another round of pounding. “Thanks for meeting me here—you’re early! This is certainly more comfortable than that awful meeting room at IAP. Can I get you a coffee, tea, or something to eat?” Jessica reached into her purse for her wallet.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Really, my treat. Are you sure?”

  Amina nodded tightly. “Yes, thank you.”

  They couldn’t take up this table without ordering something, even if the place was empty, especially if the place was empty. Plus, she needed that caffeine.

  Jessica ordered a coffee and a breakfast sandwich and returned to the table. Her fingers burned even with the cardboard coffee-cup sleeve protecting them. If Amina weren’t regarding her with such intensity and what looked like a touch of impatience, Jessica would have gone back and asked for an ice cube so she wouldn’t have to wait so long for the coffee to cool.

  Jessica removed the lid, releasing a balloon of steam that momentarily obscured Amina’s face. “As I said on the phone, I apologize for any problems I caused by coming to the restaurant. I didn’t say anything about you or your case, if you’re worried about that. I just mentioned that I was a friend.”

  The muscles in the hollows of Amina’s cheeks tensed slightly. Right. Not a friend. Amina was a woman of few words, but Jessica was beginning to sense that maybe the woman simply didn’t need a lot of words.

  “By the way, it was amazing. The restaurant, I mean. I got the—and I’m sure I’m going to mispronounce this—the kibbeh arnabieh?” Jessica looked questioningly at Amina, who obliged with a nod. “So. Good. I mean, when it came to the table, it didn’t look all that appetizing. I’ve never had Syrian food before and didn’t know what to expect.” She barked a pathetic laugh, instantly regretting her impolite words.

  Amina’s face hadn’t so much as twitched.

  “Anyway, it was fantastic. Any chance the owner would give out the recipe?” She’d blurted the request without thinking, her nerves getting the best of her.

  The corners of Amina’s mouth tilted up for a split second, quickly returning to the sterner status quo. “The owner would be happy to hear you enjoyed your meal, but he is very protective of his kitchen.” She pierced Jessica with a stare that made it clear Amina had no interest in small talk.

  Jessica accepted the unspoken directive. “Let’s talk about your Form I-589 filing.” She handed Amina a copy of the asylum application. “It looks complete but only in the sense that you put something down for each question. A bare-bones application is acceptable to file, but it’s not enough at this stage, ahead of your interview. There isn’t much detail, and there’s no documentation. The United States Citizenship and Immigration Services—the USCIS...” Jessica searched Amina’s face for an acknowledgment that Amina knew the name of the government entity.

  Amina clenched her jaw in response.

  “Right. You filed the application with them yourself.” Jessica admonished herself silently. “The USCIS wants detail and documentation to support your claim of persecution, and there’s just not a lot of that here.” She was repeating herself and sl
owed down to focus. “I think you have set out the bare foundation for a good case. We—sorry, you—just need to sell it.” Jessica shook her head, releasing a pounding behind her right eye. She was flailing. This had been a mistake. “Not sell it, sorry. What I mean is that you need to be able to present a strong case.”

  Clarity broke through the fog of last night’s wine. The sole reason Jessica had come to this coffee shop today was to present her own case to Amina, and she wasn’t going to shrink away from that. “The good news is that we can gather more documentation and evidence and work together ahead of your interview so you’re well prepared to present your case. That is, if you want to use me as your attorney. Of course, you can still try to do this on your own.” Jessica paused to determine if she had the latitude to continue.

  Amina’s eyes didn’t waver from their attention on her.

  Jessica leaned in to challenge Amina’s stare. “You originally hired a lawyer who clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with.” Amina’s eyebrow twitched, and Jessica drove forward. “But even though you were able to complete and file the application on your own, I’m afraid the statistics don’t support your success. Only around eleven percent of asylum seekers without an attorney win their case. If you lose—” She paused, thinking of the scenes of Syrian destruction. “If you lose, you will be deported.”

  Amina continued to sit, attentive and unreadable.

  Jessica dug in. “I used to work with a law firm in Washington, DC. I worked in securities offerings and compliance.”

  Amina tilted her head slightly, eyes questioning.

  Jessica clarified. “I worked with corporations in financings, capital market transactions, and compliance with state and federal securities laws. Making proper disclosures, complying with insider trading rules, corporate governance—” Jessica clamped her mouth shut to end the digression. “The bottom line is that I was good at it. But I stopped working to take care of my kids—I have three—several years ago.”