Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,8
church without fear.
Now all that was gone.
A sob rose in her throat, but she curled her fingers until her nails dug into her palms, choking back the tears.
She must not cry.
Despite all she’d lost, God had blessed her and Thomma and Elisa, plucking them from a place of despair and destruction and giving them a new life in a town with a name that held such promise.
Hope Harbor.
How strange—and providential—was that?
“Teta?”
At the soft summons from her granddaughter, she turned toward the four-and-a-half-year-old.
Gone was the grimy waif in tattered clothing who’d shared the cramped living space at the refugee camp with her grandmother and father.
Now, Elisa’s dark auburn hair was sectioned into two short ponytails on either side of her head, and her bangs were combed. The blue jeans she wore were brand new, as was the sweatshirt that featured two seagulls and the words “I ♥ Hope Harbor.” Clean socks and new shoes—the laces untied—completed her outfit.
Mariam’s throat tightened again. Such a sweet, beautiful child—and her future had taken a dramatic turn for the better with their arrival in Hope Harbor yesterday.
Yet her expression remained solemn.
Perhaps it always would.
The specifics of her trauma might fade as the years passed, but the effects would last a lifetime.
A wave of fresh grief pummeled Mariam.
There was nothing she could do to erase Elisa’s bad memories—except pray the blessing of this second chance in a safe place would heal all of them.
She called up a smile for her granddaughter. “Do you need some help with your shoes?”
“Ee.”
“No. English.” They were in America now, and it was important to use the native language as much as possible—even if Thomma had yet to show any interest in learning the simple words and phrases she’d picked up in the refugee camp and taught her granddaughter.
“Yes.”
“Good. Come.” She patted the other twin bed in the room they shared, the comforter on this one decorated with butterflies and fanciful flower fairies designed to appeal to a little girl.
The kind people of Hope Harbor had gone out of their way to make her small family feel welcome.
Another blessing.
Elisa climbed up and traced the outline of a flower on the quilted fabric with her finger. “Jamila.”
“Pretty.”
The child repeated the word.
“Yes. Is pretty.” She needed to learn more English herself, but until she did, the bulk of her communicating would have to be done in Arabic. She switched to her native language. “Where is your father?” She tied one of Elisa’s shoes.
“In his room.”
“Is he up?”
“I don’t know. The door is shut.”
Mariam frowned.
Perhaps Thomma had had difficulty sleeping his first night in the apartment they now called home and was tired . . . or wasn’t feeling well, after their long journey through multiple time zones . . . or was writing in the journal he’d begun keeping after they’d left their home for the refugee camp.
Or perhaps he was in a bad humor, as usual, and was shutting them out. Again.
She lifted her chin.
That was no longer acceptable.
All these months, she’d given him space to work through his grief. The losses he’d endured—especially a wife and young son—would bring any man to his knees, and her heart ached for him.
But he wasn’t the only one grieving—and somehow, despite their sorrow, they had to accept their new reality and move on. God had spared the three of them and given them the gift of this new life, and they needed to lean on him . . . and each other.
A lesson her son had yet to learn.
Mariam finished tying Elisa’s shoes and stood. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get your father, then we’ll have breakfast.” She pulled a picture book off a shelf filled with toys and stuffed animals and handed it to her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She closed the door behind her as she exited, crossed the hall to the other bedroom, and knocked.
No answer.
“Thomma—are you up?”
Silence.
She twisted the knob and walked in.
Her son was sitting on the side of the bed, still in his underwear, forearms on thighs, hands clasped, head bent.
He didn’t look up as she entered.
She shut the door behind her. “It’s morning. We have to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He never was.
She scanned the thin frame of her once robust son, pressure building behind her eyes. The meager rations they’d subsisted on in the months following the bombing weren’t the main reason for his dramatic weight loss.