Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1)

by Venessa Kimball

  We all repeat in chorus before we begin eating, “By the name of Allah,”

  “My apologies for not seeing you earlier, Rajaa. I ... wasn’t myself.”

  I glance at Zaid as I respond to my father’s apology, driving home my reason for not disturbing him. “It is fine, Baba. You needed rest.”

  “No, it isn’t fine. I needed to know what was happening in my country under my rule, not sleeping. I can sleep when I am dead.” The constant yet slight movement of his head is visible now that I look at him, hammering further how fleeting life is. My father’s twitch has gotten worse in the weeks I have been home.

  Zaid clear his throat and wipes his mouth. “Well, as you know from my report all is secure for now. We have not found the shooters, but with further investigation the remains of the suicide bombing sites will reveal what we suspect: extremists, surely from our neighbor, Syria.”

  My father breathes in deeply before focusing on me. “What happened down there?”

  I look across the table at Zaid as I speak. “I was making sure security was working with them and discussing my continued involvement while I am here for the summer when the explosion happened. I heard the screams of children in the hall outside of Mr. Stern’s office.”

  “And the compelling American teacher,” Zaid adds.

  Ignoring my brother, I continue to explain, “The windows, I knew if I didn’t cover them, they might try to rise and run. I reacted as a soldier protecting the helpless. “

  All of a sudden Zaid drops his arm to the table out of frustration. “Yes, they are helpless, but a prince shouldn’t be saving lives, putting his own at risk when there were experienced soldiers on hand. You did not have to throw your life on the line for them!”

  “Zaid!” My father’s voice may have been weak moments ago, but now it has found renewed energy. “You were not there! Do not speak of what you do not know!”

  Bowing his head, Zaid relinquishes his apology through his clenched jaw of embarrassment. “Ana asfa.”

  I play my next hand very carefully, knowing my father will be the deciding factor if I return to the center. “You are both right.”

  Zaid’s attention is piqued by my agreeable remark. I patiently take a bite of my food and glance from my father to Zaid as I chew slowly. Swallowing both my food and pride, I explain, “Our soldiers, the soldiers Zaid has trained, were more than capable of protecting the volunteers, staff, the refugees, and their prince. While there is extensive damage to the front of the center, no one was injured, and everyone walked away safely with the defense we had in place.”

  I nod to Zaid across the table. “Thanks to Allah and Zaid, the center will not waiver in its mission to help the refugees and keep Makan Lil Amal safe for the volunteers and staff, and me.”

  Zaid sits back, takes his glass of water in hand, and drinks as he watches my move take form.

  Wearily, my mother looks from my father back to me. “Rajaa, after today, you still plan to return? You have seen how I have had to back away from my support and aid for refugee programs among others. I am not sure your presence there is wise.”

  Zaid clears his throat. “I couldn’t agree with you more, my Queen. His presence would be irresponsible and naive, just as it was in your case not too long ago.”

  His intentional jab strikes home in both my mother and me, silencing any further comments from her and getting deep under my skin.

  Looking onto my father for his final word, I ask, “Baba? While I still have faith the reward outweighs the risk, I will do as you say. Will you allow me to return to the center?”

  Leaving the decision up to my father is a risk of never setting foot in Makan Lil Amal again. Never seeing Ella again.

  With shaking hands, my father wipes his mouth as he works the food in his mouth; making it small enough to swallow is agonizing, so I look down at my plate, unable to watch him any longer.

  “You should be at the center, Rajaa.” His shaky words are surreal. I expected him to reject my being there.

  “What?” Zaid’s says, surprised.

  My father’s strong voice returns as he rejects Zaid’s question. “It will show the continued unification of Jordan and the Syrian refugees as well as the Royal support after a barbaric bombing and attack on a refugee camp and Makan Lil Amal!”

  My father peers at my mother. “I need to make a speech to the people of Jordan.”

  My mother cover his hand with hers, knowing how he dreads being in front of them in his lesser condition. Zaid speaks up, “I can speak on your behalf, Baba. Show the strength of our lineage and how we will not waiver in the eyes of these Islamic state fighters.”

  “No, they need to hear from their King,” my father says.

  The comment seems to offend my brother.

  “However, I do think you should go your brother to the center, Zaid.”

  My brother glances from me to my father, surprised by his statement. “Go to the center? No.”

  His flat defiance has my father slamming his fist on the table. “No! You say no to your King’s request?”

  “Ammaar,” my mother warns him quietly.

  I am surprised at my father’s suggestion as well. I didn’t calculate getting what I asked for to include my brother. “Baba, it isn’t necessary.”

  My father turns on me now. “These militants need to see we will not cower because of this attack. Our unified efforts will make our cause, our mission to protect Jordan, and those seeking asylum within its borders more powerful!”

  The twinkle of a strong leader with vision in his eyes strikes a chord as I remember how active he had been with his people, for his people, when I was younger. He coughs suddenly and his expression loses its intensity. “I do not have long on this earth with my family.”

  “Ammaar, please don’t,” my mom says softly.

  He closes his eyes briefly as he responds to her. “No! They all need to hear this.”

  When he opens them again, he looks between my brother and me in tandem. “Two princes ... one will become king after me. I want to see my sons form an unstoppable alliance.”

  My sister suddenly rises and leaves, small sobs follow behind her.

  “Tamanna,” my mother calls to her.

  My father lowers his gaze and claps my mother’s hand tighter, keeping her from going after her. “Let her go, it is fine,” he says tenderly. “She is delicate, but she will be as strong as her mother someday.” He weakly smiles as he looks up at my mother.

  Zaid drinks from his glass, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. “We will be an unstoppable alliance, Father. Each of us have our strengths, and while we work separately, we will always come together, because blood is everything. Family is everything. Right, Rajaa?”

  Deciphering his intention is deeper than the words he is speaking and I can’t decode his distorted logic, but I do know I will not let him bring this family down. “Yes, it is.”

  My father starts to push away from the table. “Now if you will excuse me, I have to prepare a speech for our people. Zaid, could you prepare the staff to receive the media?”

  “Yes, Father.” Zaid rises as my father wheels back from the table, aiming to assist him as I’m sure he had to do regularly while I have been away.

  “Rajaa, will you help me to my room?” My brother stops mid-stride, replaced by my father’s request for my assistance.

  I push back from the table and rest my napkin on my chair, exchanging a glance with my brother before tending to my father.

  “I will come to you soon, my love,” my mother says to my father before I push him away. “I am going to look after Tamanna.”

  My father nods. “Tbea Zahrat Baladi.”

  My mother looks on him lovingly as he calls her his little flower. It is an intensity I could only compare to what I experienced as I touched Ella’s face after the attack.

  When we are out of earshot, my father speaks evenly. “I have spoken with the Amir Husaam about Daya. Have you seen her since returni
ng?”

  I think back on two nights ago at Tariq’s and how the lesser of two evils would have been to see Daya rather than be a part of the indulgence I should have rejected from the beginning. “No, abi. I haven’t.”

  “He and I plan to talk about the future soon. Yours and Daya’s. You are graduating in the fall and plan to return home. It is time for you to ask for his daughter.”

  I grip the handles of the wheelchair tighter. Marrying Daya is not what I want. I don’t love her, don’t even know her, and while my father has never pressed me directly on the matter, I am caught now, expectant of an answer. “I’m not sure I am ready, Baba.”

  “I remember the feeling both with Yaasmeen and your mother when I called on their hands in marriage.” My father had loved my mother madly, but he never spoke of Yaasmeen and their love.

  “You loved them both?”

  “I loved them differently. Yaasmeen? Our union was for our territories, my father’s and her’s. While it didn’t start as love, it became so over time. Just as it will for you.”

  “And if it doesn’t? I will be in a loveless marriage.”

  My father angles back to look at me. “It will. You will come to love her.”

  I know that I won’t. I challenge him, “And my mother?”

  Your mother, she is my true love,” he says tenderly. “Through all of this illness, she has been my shining star, my light in the darkness. My little flower. Tbea zahrat baladi.”

  While he talks to me about true love and my mother, he is pushing for a bond with a woman I don’t even know. As we come to his doorway, I move away from his chair and come around to face him. “You loved her. It wasn’t about duty.”

  He nods shakily. “Yes, but in these times ... we need alliance more than anything. You and Daya can be the bearers of it.”

  Wanting this conversation to end, I ask my father, “Can you get into your room okay? Do you need help?”

  He furrows his brow and puffs out his lip, realizing I am removing myself from this talk. “No, I’m fine. We will talk about this again later.”

  I nod, then start to walk away when my father calls after me, “I am proud of you, Rajaa.”

  I turn back to face him.

  “What you did for those children, the teacher, I would have done the same.” His pride is evident as he raises his chin to me. “You are a passionate leader.”

  “Thank you, Baba.”

  Walking back through the house to my room, I notice my mother holding my sister in her arms. Her ability to be both tender and strong has always amazed me. She kisses Tamanna atop her forehead and says good night in Arabic before releasing her. Tamanna sees me and leaves my mother’s arms to wrap hers around my waist.

  “I’m glad you are safe, Raj.”

  I rock her side to side and squeeze her tightly. “Don’t worry, Tamanna.”

  My little sister says goodnight and leaves my mother and me. She is smiling and I’m curious of her thoughts. “What?”

  Close enough to her now, she places both of her gentle hands on my shoulders and looks up at me. “You would have returned to the center tomorrow with or without your father’s permission.”

  While I had intention to follow my father’s decision, if he was to say no, I would have returned anyway. I had more than one reason to return to the center now. More than one purpose. And while one was a long time in the making, the other was just discovered. I nod and look down. “Yes I would have.”

  She smiles wider. “Today, I think you left your heart there.”

  Ella.

  Her ability to know my heart so well takes me off-guard.

  “I did.”

  My mother lowers her hands and nods with determination and vigor. “Then you should return to your heart.”

  Though my secret is safe, I realize my mother is speaking to me as equally about Ella as she is about the center. It makes me smile as I turn away from her.

  “The American teacher...”

  I turn back to her, surprised at her preternatural expression as she continues. “The one you shielded. She is the one Zaid has spoken to us about before. The one he said compelled you.”

  I place my hands in my pant pockets, debating my disclosure. Fuck it. “Yes, she is.”

  She nods and lowers her gaze as she folds her arms over her chest. I sense her calculating my intentions behind her light-brown eyes. “You have always known me to be an open-minded person, Rajaa. But while I am open-minded, I am also faithful to our beliefs and traditions.”

  First my father, now her. “Mama, I protected the woman, plain and simple. I would have done the same for any other person in that hallway today.”

  She nods evenly. “I believe you.”

  “Zaid has made this out to be a bigger deal than it is.”

  She places her hands on my shoulders again. “Rajaa, I understand. It’s just I know your heart, and while your heart should always lead you, sometimes it is wiser not to venture too far from the path that has been paved for you. You are a prince promised to a princess.”

  I have already heard my father’s speech on this. I don’t need to hear hers. I pull away from her hands resting on my shoulders. “Yes, yes, I know, Mama. Both you and Baba have made it very clear. For love or not, I am going to marry Daya!”

  I realize my harsh response and shake my head. “Shukran, I’m just tired.”

  She folds her arms over her chest and nods, searching my eyes still for something more. “Yes, of course. Please rest.”

  As I kiss her cheeks and leave her standing there, I sense that she is not going to easily let go of her concern for my presence at the center, nor the reason for my heart settling there.

  The morning after the attacks, Ameena and I sit on my bed as Laila stands at the open doorway of my room. I don’t say anything about the prince shielding me from the rain of bullets at the center. The whole event is still intimate to me, something I want to keep inside. I ask Ameena if her family has been through an attack before. She looks at me timidly and nods.

  “It has never happened here, but I am afraid it is coming,” she says. Laila says something in Arabic I don’t catch completely, then suddenly steps into my room and sits on the corner of my bed opposite Ameena. “My home is gone. My father gone. Dead from the men that came. Uncle Naz, he took us, drove us to border. Not leave Grandpa. He left us and we run to the soldiers.” I’m shocked by Laila’s account and also her speaking in English so well, having only used it minimally with me.

  “We go to the camp. Zaatari. Eat small food and water. Have bed, then men took from us. We have no man to protect. So they take. They try to take me. Try to touch me. Mama fights, but they hit her again and again. Then they touch her. I hold Rushdi and cover his eyes, and close mine so tight until I hear them leave. I hold Mama until she stops crying, then we run. We come to camp in the city, here in Amman. Again we have bed, small food, small water. It goes away soon when there are too many people. Always too many.”

  The entire time she recounts their journey, she is void of emotion, no expression of pain or terror, emptied, gutted from everything she encountered. “We find Makan Lil Amal and they take us here to Ba’ashirs.”

  The first glimmer of light shows in her eyes as she continued to speak, looking over at Ameena. “They give us room, food, safe, family, love.”

  Her smile lessened. “This is safe. We are safe here.”

  Laila rises and leaves the room quietly without another word. Ameena quickly changes the subject. “Some were saying Prince Rajaa was at the center.”

  “Rajaa,” I repeat the name and she nods.

  “Yes, they say he shielded a teacher from being injured ... maybe even killed.”

  My death wasn’t a consideration as I hovered and scrambled to protect the girls. Does that make me brave or just fucking stupid? Him knocking me to the ground, shielding me ... that is bravery. Now as I think of looming death in the face of attacks here in Jordan, I feel what I would compare to the refugees,
Jasara, Laila, Rushdi, Uncle Naz, as minuscule. The smallest, almost insignificant fear compared to what they carry with them innately now.

  I keep my face even as I nod at her then look away. “I hadn’t heard he had been so brave.”

  Ameena fiddles with a loose thread on my blanket. “I hear one of the teachers protected her girls. That was you.” She isn’t asking and I wonder who gave her the information.

  I nod. “I wasn’t going to leave them.” I am timid to say why, but I do anyway. “I love them.”

  Tom calls the first day and asks if I have called my family. I lie and tell him I had. I don’t want to hear Jilly crying if she heard about it and if she hadn’t, I didn’t want to break the news to her over the phone. She would definitely tell Mom and Dad if they didn’t know already and I don’t know what Dad would do. Commission to have me brought back to the States, most likely. I imagine how Jilly’s and my conversation would go. “Hey, it’s me, El. There was an attack on my center but I’m okay.” That wouldn’t fare well and I know she wouldn’t be able to keep it from my parents.

  No one has left the house for the last three days. Not even Ismad for work. Jasara and Hoda make food all day and store it away in the refrigerator. The amount they have made, I wonder if their own fear is feeding their need to stockpile food just in case more attacks are coming. Ismad and Nazeer listen to the Arabic newscasters on the small radio in the living room as King Ammaar Bin Qadir addresses Jordan about the attacks on the center, camp, and the suicide bombing of a local shop. While his voice is strong, I overhear Hoda speaking about his health being poor.

  “‘Anna mareed,” she says.

  Ismad interjects, “He needs to choose which of his sons will succeed him. Choose an heir.”

  Uncle Naz agrees, saying so in Arabic.

  “Princes? He has two sons?” I ask.

  Ismad nods. “The older brother should be king without question, but there is talk ... Shaeaa. The news is saying Prince Rajaa could possibly become the heir if his brother Zaid is seen as not suited for the role by his father, the King. Zaid has found himself in trouble before with women.”