Unbroken Threads

by Jennifer Klepper

  Jessica’s heart thumped, and her face flushed. “Oh, hmm, I hadn’t really thought about that. I’ve been out for so long that I don’t even want to say how long it’s been.” She looked down and found she had shredded the napkin into a soggy mass of pulp.

  “It doesn’t matter. Highland & Cross has a new program, and you are perfect for it.” Bronwyn placed her palms on the table as though it were already a done deal.

  “I’m listening.” Jessica surprised herself with her statement.

  “It’s called ReCross. Too many women leave the law and never return, even though a lot of them want to.” Bronwyn waved a hand above the table. “And I get it. Everyone needs a different balance of work and home. But the balance we need changes over time.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We aren’t the only law firm with a program like this, but ours is the best. I helped design it, so it has to be, right?” Her belly laugh turned heads at the table next to them. “We have all the training to bring you up to speed. The law stuff is easy-peasy.” She waved the law stuff away with the flick of a hand. “It’s the office environment, the technology, and client expectations that are usually totally alien to women coming back, especially after a hiatus as long as yours.” Bronwyn’s wink was supportive rather than patronizing. “Our program goes over all of these things that might have changed since you were practicing. What client expectations are now that you are accessible twenty-four-seven via cell phone. What secretaries do now that technology has changed so much. Do you remember how Mr. Davis didn’t have a computer in his corner office, even in 2000?”

  Mr. Davis was a bankruptcy partner who, even back then, had seemed behind the times. She wondered about all the ways she would be considered a dinosaur in her own right if she returned to the office today.

  “Well, he ended up getting a computer before he retired. It was like a two-headed chicken at the county fair. Everyone had to peek in his office to see him hunting and pecking on his keyboard. Anyway, the program works to bring you up to speed on working in the law firm today so you won’t be a Mr. Davis. Then, we split trainees off into practice groups to refresh and update in your specific area of the law.”

  Jessica considered this. “Then what? Job?”

  “In ReCross, everyone who goes through the program does an internship, kind of like the summer internships we did back in law school. We pay a stipend, but you can’t expect all of the wining and dining that we enjoyed when we were interns.” Bronwyn patted her belly. “Lord knows some of us don’t need that! At the end of the internship, the firm determines if we have a position. Even if we don’t, you’ve gotten the training and the experience to go out and find another firm. But we try not to admit someone into ReCross if we don’t think there’s a good chance we’ll have a spot for her.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Jessica’s measured voice belied the somersaults churning her insides. She hadn’t anticipated this offering, or maybe she had in some form, but she didn’t want to seem too eager to either Bronwyn or herself. “I’m not sure if this is the best time for it for me. But it seems like a great program. The firm has certainly been the right thing for you, though. You made some good decisions along the way.”

  “Where will this moment take you? I ask myself that every single day to focus on getting to that next goal, that next moment. Hasn’t failed me yet.”

  Mr. Pham’s granddaughter returned to the table with steaming hot bowls of pho, saving Jessica from having to take this topic further. The women reverted to gossip about the rest of their graduating class, and Jessica savored the ginger-infused broth and the memories that came with it.

  BRONWYN’S words replayed themselves in Jessica’s head as she circled through the garage, toward the exit. “Where will this moment take you?” Where, indeed. This moment offered real choices, and she hadn’t felt as though she’d had real choices for years.

  The satellite radio kicked in as the car pulled out into the street. The newscast crackled into something about Paris, a stadium, and an explosion. And just like that, the moment changed from her own potential future to a reality four thousand miles away that could affect the future of someone connected to her, someone she cared about. Jessica turned left as she cranked up the volume.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jessica set down her coffee and checked her watch. It wasn’t like Amina to be late, even by five minutes, and today’s tardiness didn’t help the unease Jessica had been experiencing since the events in Paris the prior week. One hundred thirty people were dead, hundreds wounded, and the so-called Islamic State was to blame. A significant attack in the West hadn’t made the news in some time, so television news had wall-to-wall coverage, and everyone on social media was now aligned with France.

  Jessica prayed Amina wasn’t suffering any backlash, but her practical concern focused on potential tightening on immigration. Neither Rosalie nor Bronwyn had heard of that happening when Jessica checked in with them, though they also couldn’t offer any additional information.

  It only took one glance from Danny during a newscast about the attack, his eyebrows raised and a pseudo-innocent shrug of “I told you so,” to trigger an internal battle. Jessica’s lingering apprehensions wrestled with her indignation at her husband’s opposition to her work helping Middle Eastern refugees.

  To be fair, though, he didn’t entirely know everything she was doing. Neither of them was guilt free, so it was best left alone. But she still resented him for his outward representation of a prejudice she had been ashamed to see in herself when she’d met Amina. Knowing Amina and hearing her stories had formed a bond that had erased apprehensions about their relationship, but Jessica would be lying to herself if she said she was completely free of biases that had surreptitiously built up over a lifetime.

  The door jingled, and Amina entered. A few patrons turned toward the door, eyes lingering on the scarved woman a little longer than they might have on Jessica.

  Amina breezed past them. “I am sorry for being late.”

  “No problem. Is everything okay?”

  Exhaustion peeked through Amina’s determined exterior. “Yes. Sama may deliver early, so we are busy.”

  “Let me know when she has the baby.” Amina might be harder to get together with after that, so today’s meeting was good timing.

  Jessica had Amina’s employment paperwork ready, with sign-here tabs, duplicates for IAP, Amina, and USCIS, and a different-colored folder for each set. It wasn’t a Securities Exchange Commission filing, but it didn’t seem over the top to think that a person’s future and livelihood deserved as much attention to detail as a company’s securities law compliance.

  The USCIS was strict about deadlines, so Jessica wasn’t taking any chances on getting Amina’s work authorization renewed, getting the application in at the recommended 120-day mark. Plus, it was an excuse to meet. After hearing the story of Samir and sensing an opening in the Syrian’s armor, Jessica hoped to take advantage of Amina’s candor to build up support for the asylum case by finding more details about what had happened to her family and why.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Amina said. “I did the employment authorization filing the first time.” But she didn’t appear irritated.

  “I know. But it makes me feel useful. Humor me?” Amina smiled at Jessica’s weak plea, and both women laughed. The tension from their first meeting, long gone, had been replaced by a comfortable ease. Jessica handed Amina the purple folder, pointing out what to review and where to sign.

  Jessica’s phone buzzed. Amina was going over the documents, so Jessica opened Danny’s text. Holding in a laugh, Jessica felt her face flush and couldn’t suppress her smile. She’d left the Thanksgiving turkey out to thaw for later in the week, and Danny had taken some wholly inappropriate photos. They were funny, but she certainly wouldn’t be showing them to the modestly dressed woman sitting across from her.

  The sound of shuffling paper stopped. Questioning eyes and a tilted head from
Amina demanded an explanation.

  “Just my husband. He sent me a funny text.” She shook her head and turned off the phone.

  Amina handed over the file. “What did he say?”

  Jessica fumbled. “Oh, hmm. It was, well, not appropriate for public display. They were... photos.” That statement could leave room for misinterpretation. “Of a turkey.” That didn’t make it better.

  Amina arched an eyebrow.

  “Thanksgiving.” Jessica sighed, releasing just enough stress to let words spill. “I think he’s trying to make me feel better about it. Some of Danny’s family comes every year. His parents died not long after he left for college, and somehow we ended up being Thanksgiving hosts about ten years ago. I just... I didn’t want to do it this time. Yes, it’s family, but I need a break from it, from them. It’s like I’m the caterer every year. Maybe if they reciprocated? Or maybe not. To be honest, my sister-in-law in particular is just awful, and I don’t like being around her. Danny and I had an argument about it last night since he went ahead and invited everyone without asking me.” She waved away the holiday concern, especially Danny’s comment that she didn’t exactly have “too much going on that she couldn’t host a family meal.” “I shouldn’t be boring you with this.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  Amina’s abrupt question jolted Jessica into the memory of the night she met Danny. Exhaustion, movies, Jujubes, and bay-blue eyes. Jessica could almost reminisce away the hurt of recent conflicts as she told Amina about that first chance meeting. Fingers touching floral fabric brought Jessica back into the moment.

  Jessica pushed the folders a bit out of the way. “Tell me about your husband.”

  Jessica sat, quiet and attentive, as Amina wove the story of how she and Mohammed had met. Her father had encouraged her to marry for love and intellect, but her mother had looked on disapprovingly. Jessica pictured Mohammed in her mind. Lean and tall, nearly a foot taller than Amina, with curly black hair and “dancing” eyes, according to Amina, whose own eyes danced amusingly along with the story.

  Amina said her mother had come around. “She never said a word of approval. One day he came for a regular visit. It was not even Eid, but she made maamoul bi ajwa. My brothers and I begged her always to make us our favorite cookies, but she would slap our hands away. Only for Eid, she would say.” Amina opened her hands, seeing something in them that wasn’t visible to Jessica. “When she made them for Mohammed, I knew.”

  Amina’s engagement was a family affair, followed by a wedding and honeymoon on the Mediterranean coast. “Mohammed studied architecture in Damascus. It is a beautiful old city.” Pain flashed across Amina’s face. “Even Damascus has seen tragedy.”

  She tilted her head upward, breathing in deeply, as if to drown the images in a rush of air. “We had hoped to travel. Mohammed wished to see the ancient Greek temples and ruins he had read about in his books. It is good to see the history before it is destroyed by those who wish to eliminate the past.”

  “Danny and I have always wanted to go to Greece.” Jessica regretted the banal comment immediately. Amina’s eyes had stopped dancing. Jessica needed to learn what had happened to Mohammed, especially if it could support Amina’s claim of fear of persecution. “I know from your application that Mohammed disappeared. What do you know about that?”

  “Mohammed left for work one day and did not come home. Sometimes it can be that simple. I went to his building. My mother did not want me to go out alone, but I had no choice. When I arrived, the men would not talk to me. They would not even look at me.” The flowers on Amina’s scarf rose and fell with her quickened breath.

  “I demanded they tell me where my husband was, but they ignored me. A child standing on the corner was watching me. He heard my shouting.” Amina’s brow tightened, and sadness filled her eyes. “I recognized the child. Samir had played games with him outside our door so many times. The child did not look away as I walked near. He whispered, ‘They took him.’” Amina’s impression of that whisper painted the tragic picture of a child who knew that some secrets led to dire endings.

  “Who? Why?”

  “We believed it was Assad’s men. They battled the rebels in our area, and if you were not fighting with them, they assumed you were against them. It was eight days when I left. My father handed me papers and a packed bag. He told me I was registered for a conference and would visit a distant cousin who lived in America.” She smiled wanly at Jessica. “Baltimore. I did not know that he had made plans for me. And I shouldn’t have agreed to go so quickly. But I was...” She pursed her lips.

  “You were what?”

  “My father was broken. He had such guilt over Samir. But he refused to let them break me. He was to tell Mohammed where I was if Mohammed returned, but no one else was to know. And I was to come home when”—Amina’s chest pulsated from either macabre laughter or sobs. Jessica couldn’t tell—“when things got better.”

  “And did he tell Mohammed?”

  Amina’s blank face offered no answer. The two had never directly addressed the question of Amina’s parents’ survival. If they had died, they wouldn’t have been able to tell Mohammed where Amina had gone. If they were alive, that would mean either Mohammed never got out, or they never connected for any number of dire reasons. Recalling Mikey’s theory of always thinking the best, Jessica couldn’t figure out a “best” scenario in this case, so she left the issue off the table for now.

  “I am sorry, but I need to get back to the house now. Thank you for the paperwork,” Amina said, her emptiness palpable. She walked away, with one hand holding an orange folder and the other hand on her bag. The void lingered in the shop even after the door jingled closed behind her.

  Assad’s men had assaulted Amina’s mother, tortured her father, killed her brother, and kidnapped her husband. A “well-founded fear of persecution” didn’t seem hard to prove. But there hadn’t been any indication that her fear was based on race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion. Maybe they could make it fit into presumed opposition to Assad. And maybe there wouldn’t be a tightening of reviews before the interview.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AMINA

  Amina tucked a stuffed animal into each backpack and confirmed that each held a snack, drink, and supplies to keep fidgety little boys occupied at the hospital.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Fayiz didn’t look up from the dresser as he pulled out one tiny shirt after another, examining each as though it were a puzzle he needed to solve.

  Yes, she was sure she didn’t want to come with them. “No, you should have time together. I will get things ready here for when she comes home.” Things were ready in the Darbi home already, but Fayiz was too distracted to know one way or the other and was happy to go along with anything Amina said right now. Her talk with Jessica earlier in the week had been surprisingly comfortable, but it had caused feelings to bubble up—feelings of loss of loved ones and a family she may never have with Mohammed. She was happy for Sama and for her healthy child but needed a little more time before she could see the baby.

  She never would have guessed the pulled-together American woman with her color-coded sticky notes would be the person who would make her feel normal again, but when Jessica had exposed her own cracks and struggles at home, Amina had felt as though she were commiserating with a friend rather than disclosing evidence to an attorney.

  Fayiz spoke again. “We need to get the boys fed and dressed, and I don’t even know...” He stared at the pile of shirts that had accumulated on the dresser. He couldn’t solve the puzzle.

  “You go feed them.” Amina gestured toward the dresser. “And I will take care of the rest.” She shooed Fayiz out of the room and picked up the shirt at the top of the pile. She set it facedown on the dresser, folded it into thirds, and smoothed the creases. She turned it over and folded it into thirds again then smoothed the creases. Falling into her mothe
r’s cadence of folding her scarves soothed her like a warm caress.

  Seeing Fayiz so flustered reminded her of a day a thousand years ago when she and Mohammed had gone for a drive outside of the city to see his brother. They hadn’t married yet, but she had already known they would be together forever. Forever was not a mournful concept then.

  They approached an apple orchard, lush green dotted with spots of red, an oasis compared to the urban desert they had just left. Before it was in their rearview mirror, Amina asked Mohammed to “please pull to the side of the road.”

  When he asked her if she was okay, his eyebrows knitted together with concern, she leapt from the car, jumped the fence, and ran among the trees.

  It didn’t take long for Mohammed to catch her.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked. “We don’t know whose orchard this is.” He looked over his shoulders, as if they were sneaking into Assad’s compound and the guards would be on them at any moment. For some reason, his paranoia made Amina turn and run away again. She was no runner, though, so she climbed the nearest tree. She perched only a foot above Mohammed when he caught up to her.

  His hair was a mess, in that way that looked as if an old woman had just run her hand through it and told him he was “such a sweet thing.” He seemed vulnerable, with his head tilted up toward her and his eyes open in wonder at the woman in the tree. She would never have been able to explain it, but watching the drop of sweat trail down his temple and wind its way into the fold of his ear had sent her into gales of laughter, until she’d fallen out of the tree and into his arms.

  If she had anything to give, she would have given it all to have him back and to be that girl again.