Khadija

Chapter 3

Monasterace, Provincia di Reggio Calabria, Italy, 2015

We were in 'The Room'. That room. The Room of consummation, of condemnation. The final seal on my fate.

In all honesty, it was beautiful. Monasterace was almost more resort than province, with its mountains rolling to the horizon, speckled with white houses roofed with baked red clay. The view out of the hotel window was of gravelly sand fading down beneath warm Mediterranean waters. I dreamt of swimming through it until I couldn't stand, hair splaying out in dark tendrils.

The water was different here. It was cerulean and picturesque, whereas in my corner of Riace, the sea always looked stormy, even when the surf was gentle and lulling. The waters where I swam in Riace reminded me of eyes I hadn't seen in weeks.

"I'll kill him. I'll fucking kill him, Khadija," Luca had seethed when he found out about the engagement, pacing around and jittery with rage. But what could a poor, skinny boy from Riace do against the perfect son of a politician? He was most certainly a fighter, but what good would fists do here?

The deal was struck. It was done.

It didn't matter. I'd much rather be in that perfect water than in The Room, surrounded by women who loved and despised me.

They had me sitting at a white vanity, clucking, gossiping, and planning my demise. There were five of them; my cousin, Yadira; her mother and my aunt, Khala Hana; my own mother; Enzo's mother Concetta; and his sister Catarina. Catarina had a twin sister named Gina, but she mysteriously found herself plagued by a migraine after the reception and returned to her room with the best man to watch over her. The rest of the women were preparing me for tonight, in The Room.

They had already stripped me of the dress. I sat at the vanity with a silk robe over my "undergarments", meaning a milky white corset and a short satin skirt covering the intricate straps of my lingerie garters and thong. Yadira seemed mystified at first by the lines and cuts meant to excite men. Her family was much more religious than mine--meaning they didn't prostitute her for money--so she knew nothing of sexuality other than her own burgeoning, inexplicable feelings. The bronze skin left bare, the curves of hips and cleavage she'd never been privy to. Her glimpses into the world of women, which as our family claimed, she'd yet to enter.

She was only three months younger than me.

Catarina had set about plucking the veil from my hair without ruining the updo, her fingers surprisingly gentle, softer than I would ever expect an Acerbo to be with me.

I think she was my favorite of the family, perhaps because she was the quietest. She never spoke at dinner, and there was a sadness in her eyes when Enzo excused us to go "speak in the garden" at dinner parties and when I announced my "pregnancy".

When the comb was freed from my locks, she smoothed the netting and folded it with something akin to reverence. Like it was my sacred shroud.

Holding it in the palms of both her hands, Catarina offered it to my mother, always close enough to correct me and chide. She wasn't alone in her negging today, as Khala Hana gossiped alongside her in Arabic. "Here," Catarina whispered. "You should keep it for her. Her daughters will want to wear it one day." My chest constricted. My daughters. My children. But wasn't I the child just weeks before?

The idea of a stomach swollen with a baby--a real baby--shouldn't have come as a shock. Especially in The Room.

My mother accepted the gift and smiled at the girl, a year older than me just starting university.