BARRIERS
My father, like Bastien, was born a prince. Or that’s the story he told us. He was the second of four brothers, anyway. At least that part is true. His father led the country—by birthright or brute strength, depending on who you asked—and custom allowed him to pass his title to one of his sons when he died.
My grandfather died early, as men in my family seem to do. His eldest son died next, in a car accident. He was never a real contender, though. Too wild, too reckless, too fond of all things easy. The youngest brother died several years ago from a mysterious fever—whispered accusations of a poisoning floated around his funeral but never settled firmly on anyone’s shoulders. That left my father and my uncle Ali.
According to Mother, Ali was always strict, even with himself. He was a man of extremes. First with religion. And then, when Father named him the country’s top military official, he went to extremes with war.
Uncle Ali killed my father.
Not with his own hands—he left the dirty work to his second-in-command, a man who didn’t hesitate for a moment when he shot my father in the chest. Mother saw it all. The killer, someone she’d known for years, stared straight at her after he’d pulled the trigger. “I’m sorry,” he told her, as if he’d knocked over a vase instead of murdered her husband. She thought he might shoot her next, but he didn’t. He simply holstered his gun and left the room, pulling the heavy doors closed behind him. He slipped out into the street, where he vanished into the rioting crowds as my mother screamed and screamed for help.
Word spread quickly. Within the hour, people outside stopped fighting one another and joined together to turn on our gates.
Our gates were strong. Metal bars, thick as a man’s arm, topped with razor-sharp spikes both decorative and deadly. They’d survived riots and protests, kept out agitators and enemies. No one could breach those gates, so heavily reinforced with deep concrete foundations and double shifts of armed guards. “Don’t worry, Laila,” my father would say whenever the noise from the crowds outside grew loud enough to scare me. “They’re just having their say. They’ll get it out of their systems by morning. We’re safe here.” He was so calm, stroking my hair and speaking in soothing tones. Of course I believed him. It was just a rowdy parade out front—nothing of consequence.
But the day my father died, the guards began to vanish. One by one they slipped away from their posts. Cowards or traitors, we’ll never know. The end result was the same: We were unprotected. We were alone.
There were gunshots. Far more than usual, and closer than ever before. There was shouting and breaking glass, cars turned over and fires lit. It was unbearably loud and unbearably smoky, and the lone saucer-eyed guard in our living quarters was already inching toward the exit.
I was paralyzed with fear. We all were.
And then came Darren Gansler. Not a knight in shining armor exactly, but the closest we could have hoped for at that moment. I still don’t know what he said to my mother. She was shaking, as pale as the paper she signed, and my father’s blood had soaked a gruesome rose pattern into her blouse. I’m sure she didn’t read anything he gave her. Her movements were jerky, robotic, and she didn’t speak. She kept mouthing something, some silent plea that terrified Bastien and sent him clinging to me.
I don’t like to think about that day.
I don’t like to be reminded of it. By crowds or by smoke or by any of the hundred things that reignite the panic in my gut. So my uncle’s voice is the last thing I want to hear.
STATIC
“It’s in your best interest to hear what I have to say.”
My mother is having a conversation with the devil. I listen from the hallway, willing my heart to slow down before my rapid breathing gives me away. The voice on the other end makes my stomach roil—the only thing that keeps me from vomiting on the spot is the need to hear what she could possibly be discussing with him.
She hates him as much as I do. More, even. She had to tolerate him far longer than I did, starting when he urged my father not to marry her. He claimed she wasn’t pure enough—her mother was French, and she was not devout in her faith. She was unsuitable, he maintained. My father ignored him, so my uncle took it upon himself to torment her. He threatened, he bullied, and he spied. She tolerated his cruelty for years and forced me to do the same.
“I’d be a fool to trust you, Yasmin. This conversation is a waste of time.” He is every bit as dismissive and harsh as I remember. My fingernails search for holds in the plaster of the wall.
“I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m sure it will come as no surprise that I don’t trust you, either. I’m only saying that we might be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” My mother doesn’t sound like my mother. This version of her is firm, businesslike. She knows that this devil won’t be charmed.
My uncle laughs, and then his laugh turns into a cough. It sounds like he’s choking, but that’s probably just me wishing. “I’ve already taken the only thing you had to give, and I’m not about to let your child challenge my position. Neither of you will ever set foot here again.”
“You need money.”
What is she doing? I slide down to the floor, dizzy with hurt and confusion.
“I know the international community has cut you off,” she continues. “There’s no more aid money for you to steal. And you can’t line your pockets with the money you skim off everyone else’s profits anymore. Not since your war destroyed the economy.”
Still no response.
“No money means no weapons, Ali. Do you think your enemies don’t know that? They’re plotting against you as we speak—I’ve heard it with my own ears. You won’t hold that precious position of yours for long if you can’t defend it.”
A grunt. He’s listening. “You have no money, Yasmin. You’re bluffing.”
“I don’t. But the Americans do. This isn’t a secure line, so I don’t want to say any more right now. But I’m working with someone who can get you whatever you need. That’s all you need to know.”
Who is this woman speaking? I don’t know this person. I hug my knees to my chest and let the tears escape silently, but I’m shaking so hard my teeth rattle. Just as I start to think that maybe this is all too crazy to possibly be true, the stranger’s voice in the next room transforms back into my mother’s.
“We just want to come home, Ali. I can’t live here. I can’t raise my children this way. We’re no threat to you. Please let us come home.” She’s groveling. Begging. My face burns for her humiliation.
“I need to think about this. Next time we talk, you’d better have specifics.” I jump as my uncle slams down the phone.
There is a long silence. And then my mother begins to sob—a terrible noise no daughter should hear. She sounds broken. She sounds inhuman.
On my side of the wall, I bite my lip to keep from letting any noise slip out.
My mother and I cry like this for a long time, separately, inches and worlds apart.
ICE
I sit outside her room until she comes out.
She jumps when she sees me, hand to her chest.
“What have you done?” I’m looking up at her, ugly with snot and tears, praying she’ll have an answer that makes sense. One that can take away this crushing dread.
Her face is dry. She’s already composed herself, her lipstick fresh and her hair in place. “Laila, you have no business listening to my conversations.” She steps over me and stalks into the living room.
“Don’t walk away from me!”
She turns, and for a moment I think I see fear on her face. If it was ever there, though, it vanishes quickly, replaced by stone. “This does not concern you, Laila. I’m doing what I have to do.”
She turns her back on me again, but I won’t be dismissed. Not this time. I jump to my feet and shout at her back, “Where are you going in such a hurry? To get yourself a drink, maybe? No wonder you drink so much! Is it easier to betray everyone around you when you’re drunk?”
She freezes, then pivots. She covers the distance between us in three quick steps and slaps me across the face. Hard. I collapse to the floor, as much from shock as from the blow. She pulls her hand back to do it again but lets it hover over me, threatening, while she speaks. “Don’t question me again.” Her voice is whispered fury and her face a twisted snarl. “Ever.”
I don’t say another word as she walks away. I hear ice cubes rattling in a glass, and I know I was right about her drinking. But nothing else—nothing—makes any sense to me.