“Sign the papers, Joseph,” I told him. “I can’t trust you with myself, and I sure can’t trust you with my parents’ hard-earned success.”
“I can’t do it,” he said forcibly, and right at the same second he spoke the words, Brad turned the gun and hit the back of his head, blood spilling onto the collar of his white shirt right away like a river. Joseph cried out in agony, causing me to flinch at the sight, my heart hurting for my brother’s pain.
“Sign the papers, you piece of shit, or I sure as fuck won’t wait for her orders to pull the trigger,” Brad shouted, and it was only then that I noticed what this conversation was doing to him. He was burning with anger. He cared for me, I knew he did. I hadn’t told him any of the reasons why I was doing this to my own brother, but was glad that he now understood my actions.
It didn’t take him any more convincing after that, he just signed them silently, and when he put the pen on the table, Brad put his gun back in his suit jacket pocket.
“Is there anything else you need?” By this point he was choking up, apparently trying his hardest to stop his tears from falling or his pain from showing. He was failing miserably.
“No. I don’t want to see your face in here again. Ever,” I said, and he got up to leave, putting his hand on the back of his head where his wound was. Before he went out the door, I added, “I’ve transferred five hundred million dollars to your bank account. It’s your fair share, I’m not as low as you are.” I didn’t wait to see his reaction to that; I turned my back to him and waited for him to leave, letting more tears fall when I knew he couldn’t see them.
Revenge didn’t feel nice. Nothing felt nice at all. I was too hurt to feel anything but hurt. Too broken to feel anything but pain.
I missed my brother. But that wasn’t him.
One day, I asked my grandfather, “Papa, what’s one of the hardest things in life?” and he told me, “To love someone so much, but you know that you have no place in their life.”
“Where to, Miss Archer?” Harry, my driver, asked.
“Grandma.”
Looking out the car window, everything was very much the same. Same buildings, same roads, maybe even the same people I saw every time I passed through this area. Everything was the same. Everything, but my heart. If it was even in my chest, that is.
A week ago, if someone had told me that my only brother would be someone I loathed as much I did now, I’d have called them nuts. A week ago, if someone had told me that an Arab Muslim would be someone I’d fall in love with in a matter of days, I’d have called them insane. A week ago, I was someone else.
“Mama!” I beamed when I saw her, sitting beside the window in her room and watching the green space outside. I missed her so much, more than so much. I hugged her, and tried my best to hide my tears; I didn’t want to trouble her.
When I pulled back, she stared at me for a moment before touching my cheek. “Abee!” she smiled, and my own smile fell. I could never get used to the idea that she never remembered who I was anymore. It still hurt every time when she couldn’t recognize me. It hurt so badly to know that in her life...I had no place.
“Mama,” I recovered quickly, “How have you been? I’ve missed you.”
“Ah! I’ve been all right, honey,” she smiled. “You tell me about you.”
What should I tell you, Mama? You wouldn’t even want to know, even if you were healthy, and not someone who can’t even remember her own grandchild who spent her whole life with you.
“I’m okay,” I told her. I was really far from okay, but didn’t know what else to say. I just wanted to see her, maybe apologize for not showing up last week, but then figured she hadn’t even noticed.
“Oh, don’t you lie to me, girl!” my grandmother said with a warning smile. “Mothers always know.”
I had to smile, because she was just so nice. Something in her reminded me of the Queen Mother, maybe her caring touch and warm smile, and just the thought made my forever-lost heart ache.
“Did you meet someone?” she asked, and I couldn’t find any harm in telling her the truth, so I nodded, and her smile widened. “Oh, dear!” she said cheerfully. “Tell me all about it, honey, I promise not to tell Dad.”
I laughed lightly, wiping a tear that had managed to escape, sad about the stage my grandmother had reached. But at the same time, I was happy to know that she lived in her own world, a world where her beloved husband and her only daughter were still alive.
“Nothing much, Mama,” I told her. “It didn’t work out.” Another tear escaped my eyes, hurting a bit more at the sound of my own words.
“Oh, no!” my grandmother frowned. “Why not? Wasn’t he treating you well?”
“He treated me like a queen, and only ever called me ‘Princess’.” I smiled sadly through my tears.
“Then why it didn’t work out, sweetie?”
“I didn’t belong in his world, Mama.” It was the simple truth. “I had to come back home.”
“But, sweetie...it’s not lands and buildings that make a home; it’s people who do.”
I stayed with my grandmother for the rest of the day. I let her speak until she dozed off, cuddled with her to feel some of the comfort I was missing so much, kissed her whiter-than-cotton hair before leaving, and promised to come back in a few days.
On my way out, I ran into Jamal. He was one of the nurses at the nursing home, and always took care of my grandmother. She preferred him the most, liked how gentle and patient he was with her all the time, even more than the others, though they were all wonderful.
“Hey, Jamal.”
“Miss Archer, how are you?” he smiled brightly. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Oh, you heard?” I smiled softly, despite the swelling in my chest.
“Oh, man! Of course I did, it was all over the news!”
“Yeah, I guess. Thanks. I wanted to ask about Grandma, is she doing any better?”
“Well, some days are better than others, but–Alhamdulilah–she’s doing fine,” he said, and I think my face paled because I felt all of the blood in my head dropping to my heart.
“W-what?”
“Don’t worry, Miss Archer, she’s really doing okay,” he assured me.
“No, no...what was that word you said? Alh– what?” My throat went dry.
“Oh, I said ‘Alhamdulilah’. It means ‘thanks be–”
“‘–to Allah’,” I finished for him, remembering Mona telling me of that word’s meaning when I’d asked. My eyes darted away as I thought of how I’d had no idea that Jamal was a Muslim.
And my Mama actually preferred him most of all…
“Oohh! I see someone has started to take some Arabic lessons,” Jamal joked, but all I could do was smile, end the conversation politely and leave.
“Are you okay, Miss Archer?” Brad asked when I made it out of the building.
“Just get me home.”
A week ago, if someone had told me that Jamal was a Muslim, I would’ve made him stay away from my grandmother. I might even have used my power to have him removed from there completely.
One day, I asked my grandfather, “Papa, what’s one of the hardest things in life?” and he told me, “To get used to someone, and suddenly find them gone.”
Lying in my bed and trying to fall asleep was the hardest thing I’d faced since coming back from the kingdom. Because then, there was nothing I could do to block my mind from thinking of him. Mazen.
My heart was breaking inside my chest, remembering him: his smile, his voice, his touch. Remembering how he’d comforted me, protected me, treated me like something breakable, held me tenderly, with care.
He let me go because he knew it was best for me. He let me go because he thought I’d be better. He let me go because he thought I’d stop crying.
He was wrong.
I was aching. Hurting. Bleeding and breaking inside. I missed him terribly. And I wanted him back. I wanted to go back. But...it wasn’t the right thing
to do. I didn’t belong there.
I held my cross, closed my eyes and prayed. But when I held the cross, I only thought of the moment he’d given it to me. When I closed my eyes, I only saw him smiling softly at me. And it was all so quiet around me, that I could easily hear him in my mind as he called me his ‘beautiful princess’.
My nights were dark, and my days were darker. I cried myself to sleep. Every night. And I ached for him even more. Every day.
One day, I asked my grandfather, “Papa, what’s one of the hardest things in life?” and he told me, “To believe strongly in something all of your life, and then find out that it was all a lie.”
It was another Sunday where I sought some peace in my church, and when I was good enough to actually attend it. I walked down the street, begging Brad to just let me be alone for a while, knowing that he would still be around all the same: somewhere where I couldn’t see him, but he would be able to see me, just to be sure I was okay.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks since I last saw or heard from Mazen. The closest I’d gotten to anything related to my week with him, was the bag when my housekeeper asked me where she should put it–only to find it was all of the jewelry that had been gifted to me there. I really didn’t feel good about keeping it, but couldn’t be rude and send it back. And I thought it was nice of Mona to remember to pack them with my things.
The other thing was when I looked at one of the company’s billing statements: I found one address I didn’t recognize that had had lots of roses shipped to it. I knew right away that it must be where Janna was. I was surprised to learn that she didn’t live with Joseph. I thought a lot about visiting her to see if she was okay, but then thought that it wasn’t a very good idea. I needed to forget, not to remind myself even more of what I had lost. A visit with Janna would make the ache in my chest grow even bigger.
I didn’t want that.
I knew that Mazen would make sure she stayed okay; he’d told me so himself. But I couldn’t deny that I found some pleasure in knowing that she hadn’t forgiven Joseph, and wasn’t even living at his house. Serves him right, I thought.
I gazed at the shops around me, not really looking at anything but just busying my mind with something. But my heart would always find a way to force my mind into remembering him. Mazen.
I saw a small crystal shaped into a horse that was standing on its two back legs. It reminded me of that night in the royal stable: when Thunder first saw Mazen and how he’d greeted him. It brought a smile to my face...then tears to my eyes.
I bought it, though. Because I liked to torture myself, I think.
I spent those two weeks learning about Islam; Google was a good friend of mine. True to Mazen’s words, Islam was a beautiful religion, but some Muslims really weren’t. Because they were humans: bending the religion to their desires, sick desires of power and shedding blood. It was really sad.
I learned that killing was the biggest sin in Islam, that in their holy book it’s said that killing one innocent soul was like killing all of mankind, and saving one soul was like saving the whole world. It was very saddening that many didn’t follow that law.
And like Janna told me: anyone who did something bad to a woman, insulting her or causing her any harm, was promised God’s punishment.
Like the queen and what she’d done to me.
I felt so sorry for other girls who’d gone through that. They didn’t have a Mazen to come to their rescue; they even had their closest loved ones standing there and watching, without moving a muscle to help them. And that needed to stop. I wished I knew how, or had the power to stop it forever. It was such a horrible thing.
I learned that Islam forbids any man to touch any woman that wasn’t his grandmother, mother, aunt, sister or wife. Not even a handshake. Not even looking at them with admiring eyes. And that explained to me why Mazen stopped when we were together. We weren’t married in the eyes of Islam, and that night I thought he had a harem, he told me he didn’t do that.
It made me also realize why the guards had lowered their gazes in my presence–in any woman’s. I’d assumed they were ordered to do that by the king or something. They were, but from the king of all kings. From God.
Mazen had sinned by touching me, something I knew he didn’t like to do–he was too religious. But he had also sinned a lot for my sake when he lied over and over again to save me from any harm.
He did care for me. A lot. And the knowledge was bittersweet.
I couldn’t stop myself from Googling his name. I found his picture, printed it, and slept with it every night. It wasn’t much, but it helped me a lot. And every time my tears ruined it, I’d print another. It was the closest I was able to get to him.
After I paid for the little crystal horse and left, I entered a café to get a cup of coffee. The line was long, but I didn’t mind: I had nothing better to do. As I was waiting, I checked my e-mails as the line got shorter and shorter, moving with it absently as I read through my e-mails, and then it happened.
“I just want a cup of coffee, sir, nothing more,” I heard a quiet feminine voice saying and, for some reason, it grabbed my attention.
“Go away! I don’t serve Muslims,” the guy behind the counter said, and my eyes widened.
“You won’t serve me because I’m a Muslim?” the girl asked. I had to move my head a little to the side to see her. She was just a girl my age or even younger with a headscarf covering her hair.
“Yes, you’re a terrorist,” he replied, and the shock just froze me in place.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, get out of my shop, take your jihad, go back to riding your camel and just–leave,” the guy waved her off. I felt so terrible that my throat started to tighten just hearing the way he spoke to her.
“I’m an American citizen and I have rights!”
“No, you’re not American!” he replied back.
“Yes, I am,” the girl insisted, “I was born and raised in America!”
“It doesn’t make you an American,” the guy shrugged.
“Seriously? What makes you?”
“How do I know you’re not hiding a bomb in there under that towel on your head?”
“Are you seriously not going to give her the goddamn cup of coffee because she’s a Muslim?” a girl who was behind me in the line asked.
“I sure won’t.”
“Okay, you just lost a couple of customers, just so you know,” the girl behind me said, and then left the line and the shop. I just stood there, watching the scene playing out around me with shock.
“Make that three,” an African-American guy said, and was about to leave when the vender called after him, “You’re not a good American.”
It was then that the guy turned to him and said, “No, sir, I’m a good American. I just served in Iraq for over a year. It has nothing to do with her rights, and what you just did is highly offensive. She’s a human being and deserves to be treated with respect and dignity.”
“I’m a good American and a devout Christian, and I have to protect my customers.”
“You’re white and you have a cross tattoo on your neck. How do I know you’re not one of the KKK? I’m a black atheist and should be afraid of you, right? How do I trust you not to burn me on a cross?”
“I–uh...those people don’t represent us,” the vender replied.
“They call themselves devout Christians! Aren’t you?”
My head was spinning, and I felt as if I was going to throw up. I had to leave this place, I was choking up with my tears. I wanted to call out the vender on how disgusting and racist he was, but...I couldn’t. I felt like a liar, like a hypocrite, because I knew that three weeks ago...I would’ve agreed with everything he was saying. Heck, I would’ve given him a thumbs-up.
What was wrong with me?
Was I really one of those racist people? Why couldn’t I just be colorblind? Why did I only see all Muslims as terrorists? Like the guy said, if all Muslims were terrorists,
why were all Christians not thought of as KKK members? I knew in my heart that those people didn’t represent me, so why would I think that those who killed my grandfather represented all Muslims?
I left the café, and went to the nearest trash can. I sat down by it and threw my guts up, waving a girl away when she asked if I was okay. But then, she insisted on holding my hair up for me; that was kind of her. When I was finished, I was shocked beyond words to find that it was the very same Muslim girl who didn’t get her cup of coffee, only because of her beliefs.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I can call a cab for you,” she said.
“N-no, I’m fine,” I told her, wiping my mouth with the tissue that she handed me. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” she smiled. “Yeah, why are you asking?”
“Um...the café, the ve–”
“Oh! No, it’s cool, I’m used to it,” she replied with a shrug.
“Used to it?” I asked with shock.
“Oh, trust me, when I only get called a terrorist and Osama’s lover, it’s a good day–at least I don’t get physically attacked.”
“Are you serious?” I gasped.
“Yeah, things are tough for us since 9/11, you know? Every day is a struggle,” she said, and my already-broken heart broke a bit more. “But it’s my country: I love it and I can’t leave it.”
It gutted me to realize that it was people like me who made things tough for her and others of her belief. But...this was my wake up call.
Back home, I sat on my bed, found a paper and a pen and started writing down my thoughts, because a wise man once told me it makes your thoughts clearer that way–and he was right.
My thoughts were too numerous, going everywhere, and I felt as if I couldn’t control them. It wasn’t the best feeling in the world.
After I wrote everything I wanted to write down, I started counting them.
Most of my thoughts were about Muslims and Islam. What I’d learned through my whole life–or better yet, hadn’t learned. Then, what I’d learned through my search for the keys of knowledge over the past two weeks, and in that week I spent in the kingdom.
[Colorblind 01.0] Black Keys Page 37
