Khadija

Chapter 1

Monasterace, Provincia di Reggio Calabria, Italy, 2015

Misses Enzo Acerbo was the epitome of perfection on her wedding day.

Misses Enzo Acerbo was refined. She dipped her head and smiled shyly as her family praised her. She folded her hands in her lap and nodded in a demure fashion when her love spoke. She held herself with enviable poise, class, and obedience.

Misses Enzo Acerbo was beautiful. Her hair--so pitch black it gleamed navy--was pinned and swept up in a bun with sapphire combs, whose sparkle rivaled that of her exotic, almond shaped eyes. Sheathed into the bun was a veil made by some Venetian designer, the tulle framing her slender, bronzed shoulders beautifully. The criss crossed chiffon bodice of her white dress fitted her slight body snuggly, and the sweetheart neckline showed just the very swells of her breasts. At her waist, still trim despite entering her second month of pregnancy, she had a simple sash, and beneath that her skirt flared out in a sea of tulle. The dress was new, and the rosary around her neck with polished blue lapis stones strung into the chain was old, borrowed from her new mother-in-law. Old. New. Borrowed. Blue.

Misses Enzo Acerbo was fortunate. How many girls could escape a country that just a few years ago had been plunged into a civil war? And for that girl's family to then find success and fatten their pockets in a new land? How often does that girl become so smartly partnered with the father of her child on the way--a wealthy, promising, and bright young man--and have the honor of taking the name Misses Enzo Acerbo? Why is she the one on her wedding day, being surrounded by so many friends and family? She must thank God every night as her pretty head comes to rest on a pillowcase of Bergamese silk.

Unfortunately, Misses Enzo Acerbo was in a deep state of panic, and in the midst of a nervous breakdown.

Misses Enzo Acerbo wasn't me. She couldn't be. How could she? Pretty, sophisticated, and lucky--all the things all the people celebrated her for being, and all the characteristics I exuded only superficially. I was never this perfect, Mary-like specimen of a woman referred to only in relation to her husband. In my mind, regardless of what the courts may say, I was still Khadija Barakat, just like I had been that same morning.

I, Khadija Barakat, had manners beaten into me since I was a child, but that didn't stop my mind from running wild. I hid my gaze in the presence of my family, because I didn't want them to see the hate sharpening my eyes when they rubbed my flat stomach and cooed to a baby they knew wasn't there. I kept my hands in my lap only to stop myself from throwing a full fit. I stayed silent to give everyone around me, from my mother to Mister Enzo Acerbo, less reason to beat me later.

I was disgusted by my own image. My hair begged to be let down in thick waves, free of the pins that shone like my eyes from angry tears. My veil and my dress were nothing like Kurdish dream I once had of alabaster fabrics edged in gold filigree and pretty little coins. I had no henna night, and therefore no mehndi to proudly display winding up from finger to forearm. My criss crossed bodice looked like the bandages I'd seen on tv, wrapped across the chests of men struck with bullets and shrapnel back in my home country. But instead, this dress hid bruises over my ribs and thighs. They didn't, however, cover the petit scars over my arms as a result of my mother throwing and shattering glasses, or the old gash Enzo gave me months ago on my forehead, which I knew I would have for life.

I should have been grateful just to be alive, but that was proving to be a great feat. At least in Syria, I was young enough to still believe that Allah would let no harm fall upon us. I had an uncorrupted sense of optimism. Death, strife, and pain were all concepts I had yet to grasp. I was a naive child, and my name was Khadija Barakat. Then, suddenly, I was a child of Riace, Italy.

Over the years, Riace had crumbled under the weight of financial ruin, until the town was left abandoned by locals and reoccupied by immigrants. We were poor, until my father found work at the office of Senator Acerbo, and then we were not impoverished, but not quite rich enough either. It was there that the Acerbo and Barakat families became acquainted, and where my mother narrowed her avarice on their only son, Enzo. A deal was struck between our parents, one of marriage for the children soon to become parents themselves, and what could the poor, struggling refugees say to the lavish political family offering the world to them and their future grandchild?

Stay. Stay for the money, Khadija. On that day, they made sure I couldn't run any longer. They made me marry him, in front of all my friends and family. Or perhaps his friends and family--the vast majority of my relatives were either still in Syria or had escaped to Lebanon, and I really had just one true friend. The only person I wanted there. The one person I needed there. Luca Marino. My best friend.

Luca. I wished that I was by his side. I wished we were kids again, having his cousins drive us in their salt-rusted truck down to the coast, walking barefoot on sun baked Italian asphalt and bearing the pain until we were wading through the Ionian Sea, letting the dark waters calm our stinging shoulders and the burnt soles of our feet. We would stroll through town and talk about everything, buying any treats we could with our pocket change, and stealing what we couldn't. When police would spot us, we'd take off through the street, weaving through cars and pedestrians. When we'd close in on his cousin Ian's truck, we'd leap into the back, collapsing in a fit of laughter as the oldest boy in the family sped off and scolded us from the front seat, pretending he wasn't just a bit proud.

I wished that I was dressed in airy linens in the Mediterranean breeze, standing to my knees in the ocean, with hearty wildflowers in my hair that I plucked from their hiding spots in dusty road ditches. I wanted my face pressed to Luca's chest, scrawny from poverty. I wanted to throw my arms around his broad, bony shoulders and cry until I felt lighter, and we could both swim and play like children. I wanted to be innocent again.

We'd be free from our head wandering demons; mine being anxiety riddled silence, and his being violent anger.

I wanted Luca to tell me I was still Khadija Barakat, because I knew that he was the only one that would. I needed someone to say this marriage didn't make me any different than I was this morning. I wanted to be told that I was more than Misses Enzo Acerbo.

But Luca wasn't here. My cousin, Yadira, was. Her smile was brilliant and mischievous as she gripped my shoulders, leaned in close, and whispered so our mother's wouldn't hear what in her defense she thought would bring me joy. "Are you excited for your wedding night, Misses Acerbo?"