you to hear what I’m saying and support me. We all went through something tragic together. But after all these years, we need a new way to cope before it’s too late to enjoy the life we still have.”
Her father nodded. “Claire’s got a point, Ruth. Maybe we could try family counseling.”
“We can’t control the monsters out there, and no amount of therapy will change that,” her mom replied.
“The truth is that we can’t control much of anything, Mom,” Claire said. “Only the choices we make.”
Chapter Twenty
Logan roamed the narrow streets of Athens’s Plaka district, hoping the bustle of excited tourists and shopping would help to subdue memories of the misery he’d seen at the Moria refugee camp. Today he’d perused endless rows of stores and alleys, each strung with bright-colored clothing for sale, all waving like flags along the sidewalk. An excess of distractions—sunlight, the high-pitched drone of passing motorcycles, ancient ruins in plain view—yet none of them quieted the overwhelming questions he had about what would happen to unaccompanied minors, like twelve-year-old Aya Khateb, who were two- and threefold victims of a failing system.
Thank God he hadn’t succeeded in convincing Claire to meet him in Italy this week. He’d been out of his mind to think he’d be able to vacation immediately after spending several weeks photographing people trapped in a situation with little human dignity at best, and death or trafficking at worst.
The Council of State’s recent ruling might’ve been lauded by human rights organizations, but the government’s swift reactionary imposition of an administrative order to reinstate the containment policy maintained the standstill that had existed for two years. Thousands of refugees imprisoned in hell.
A vibrant sun beat down on the busy streets now, but although temperatures hovered at a mere eighty degrees, Logan felt depleted while forcing himself to pick up a few gifts to take home: olive-oil beauty products and soaps for Peyton and olive-wood salad servers for his parents. Normally, that would be the end of his shopping list, but he’d stumbled upon a beautiful set of lapis lazuli–and–silver kombolói, or “worry beads.”
Its design resembled a lariat, but the set was actually meant to relieve stress by giving one’s hands something to play with. The color of its beads reminded him of Claire’s eyes, and kombolói seemed the perfect gift for someone with her constant concerns.
Now he toyed with it as he wandered back to the hotel to grab a shower and a meal.
Claire. Prior to arriving on Lesbos, he’d thought of her often, but then he got swept up in the work, the stories, the pictures, leaving only the wee hours available for missing her. During sleepless nights, he’d stared at the photos he’d snapped of her at the Breakers, wondering if he should send them to her with a note. But what could he say?
Nothing that would comfort her or give her more faith in the world or the goodness of people, although he’d encountered remarkable volunteers who’d come to supply aid to those in need. Even within the camps, many refugees would band together to help each other. But death, illness, and violence went hand in hand in overpopulated, underprepared, sequestered conditions, too.
And the children . . .
Shaking those images loose, he took the hotel stairs two at a time up to his room, eager for a cool shower to wash away his discomfort. Ten minutes later, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower right before Karina banged on his door.
“Logan . . . are you in there?”
“Hang on.” He jogged to the door in his towel, opened it, and then walked to his suitcase to locate shorts and a T-shirt.
“Did it work?” Her gaze lingered on his abdomen, but he felt no stir of interest from it.
He impatiently snagged his underwear, too. “Did what work?”
“Sleeping, shopping, showering? Did any of it make you feel better about what we’ve learned?” She sank onto his bed and leaned back on her elbows, restlessly fluttering her feet.
“Not really.”
“Me neither.” She tapped her toes on the floor and sprouted a saucy smile as she pointedly looked at his towel. “There’s one S-word we haven’t tried yet. It’s always worked in the past.”
That gratifying human connection had been a sort of ritual for them at this juncture of other projects, but it wouldn’t help today. After being with Claire, his shallow connection to Karina would be too obvious for him to ignore or enjoy.
They were colleagues and sex buddies, but sex