a slight shudder running through him as he did so. I guess I should just be grateful that no one decided to take advantage of his death and snag the spot for themselves today. The office was the hub of his father’s multiple business interests; while he hadn’t come in every day, he owned the building and the grounds surrounding it, so a personal parking space was inevitable.
Rami stopped at security and showed his ID to the man who was seated behind the desk. “I’m here to look over my father’s estate information and financials,” Rami said, injecting his tone with as much confidence as possible. He wasn’t quite able to shake the feeling of being little more than a child, a sort of impostor, in the hallowed precinct of his father’s business.
The security official looked over his ID and typed a command into the computer in front of him. “Ah, yes, you’re listed here as having unconditional access to the building,” he said. He gave Rami back his ID and held up his hand to keep him from walking away. His fingers rattled on the keyboard as he input another command, and in another moment he produced a key card—unmarked except for a number along one side. “This will give you access to his office proper,” the man said. He met Rami’s gaze. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, sir. Your father was a great man and I was proud to work for him.” Rami gave him a nod of acknowledgement, trying to summon something like a smile before he turned away.
Inside the private elevator that his father used to access his office, Rami hesitated over the security keypad before keying in the digits of his father’s birthday. The doors closed and Rami was once more alone, in the small, plush elevator car. He pressed the button for the top floor and waited, resisting the urge to fidget. He sometimes suffered from claustrophobia in small elevators like this one. “You’d think if I was going to get claustrophobia it would be in a crowded elevator,” he mused to himself, shaking his head as the car made its way up through the floors.
The elevator chimed and Rami took a deep breath as he stepped through the doors, steeling himself for a flood of emotion that never came. He walked down the short corridor from the elevator to the door of his father’s office and slid the key card into the reader, typing the security code into the keypad next to it. The lock clicked open and Rami took another breath as he opened the door to his father’s office.
Rami had only been to his father’s office a handful of times, but it was exactly as he remembered it. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him, peering around at the clean but cluttered space. It was obvious that his father had intended to come back soon; there were files and stacks of reports waiting to be perused. Rami exhaled and made his way towards his father’s desk chair, determined to get down to the business that had brought him into the office in the first place. He would need to go through all of the financial records that he could get his hands on and figure out which accountants he needed to contact. His mother, even if she weren’t so distraught, would never be able to help him with this task—she had always been carefully shielded from the business side of her husband’s life.
Rami set to work, going through drawers and finding various documents. He located his father’s address book and found the names of his accountants, whom he then called to set up meetings. He began looking through the records of the various companies and business interests under his father’s control. It took him a moment to parse through some of the shorthand his father used, but slowly Rami began to get a picture of his different business operations.
It was a picture that started to alarm him—a notation about a loan that had been taken out against the assets of one of the lower-performing businesses; a report that another one of the companies was at risk due to not being able to pay off its existing loan; a third note that an investment had tanked, losing hundreds of thousands of dollars. As he read more and more, Rami realized that those few notes weren’t exceptions to the rule; they were the signs of a trend that was slowly but surely destroying all of the wealth that his father had built up. “There’s no wealth at all here,” Rami muttered to himself, turning to the file of yet another company that had been under his father’s control.
Almost every single one of the companies that his father had owned was in debt or underperforming. Even without seeing the accountants, it was obvious to Rami that the successful image his father had projected was propped up with loans and extensions on paybacks. Whenever a company failed to perform, his father had borrowed more money, seemingly hoping for better times. As the list of indebted companies grew, Rami realized that there was no way that he and his siblings would be in a position to inherit the billions they had always been told was their birthright. He wasn’t even sure that the payout from his father’s life insurance, after taking care of his funeral arrangements, would be enough to keep the companies he’d managed afloat.
Rami’s fear began to subside and was quickly replaced by anger. He rose from his father’s chair and walked across the office floor to the cabinet where he knew a few bottles of liquor were stashed. Rami snapped the fragile lock on the cabinet door and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler, carrying them both back with him to the desk. He cracked the seal on the bottle and poured himself a healthy shot, knocking it back right away before pouring another. He began opening more of the desk drawers, sipping at the whiskey as he did so. There had to be something else, some note to contradict what he’d read—surely his father hadn’t run every one of his businesses into the ground?
Rami’s anger deepened as he rifled through the piles of papers, desperate to find some earnings statement, some note that at least one of the debts was discharged. He shook his head, bitter at the mess his father had made out of his businesses. As he shuffled through documents in the top left drawer, Rami’s fingers brushed against a smooth sheet at the very bottom of the pile.
He frowned; it felt out of place among the lighter, cheaper stock that most of the paperwork was printed on. Rami slipped the sheet free and looked at it; it was a picture of himself as a young child—maybe four or five years old—sitting on his father’s shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the picture could have been taken, and was taken aback to see himself and his father both looking so happy. Rami sank back into the desk chair, savoring the last sip of whiskey and looking intently at the picture. He found his anger beginning to dissolve.
He was trying to protect the family; he didn’t want us finding out that there was something wrong. He must have been so desperate but was too proud to ask anyone for help. Rami shook his head. While he could understand the impulse to keep going and hope things turn around, the way his father had acted meant that he now had no idea how he and his siblings were going to live—or how he was going to take care of his mother. Oh God, the baby. How am I ever going to take care of a child without a job, without an inheritance, without any kind of security? What the hell am I going to tell Mia? Everyone was counting on him, the eldest son, to take care of everything, but Rami had no idea how he was going to break the news to his family that their wealth had just been an illusion.
Rami sighed and looked at the bottle of whiskey. “Everyone’s counting on me,” he murmured. He remembered the confrontation he’d been having with Mia just before receiving the news of his father’s death. “I can’t fall back on old habits at a time like this. I need to get my head together; I need to be better.” Rami stood and carried the bottle towards the private bathroom attached to his father’s office. He unscrewed the lid and poured the rest of the bottle’s contents into the sink, listening to the gurgle and splash as the expensive amber liquid went down the drain.
Rami looked at himself in the mirror, combed his fingers through his thick, dark hair, and sighed. “I have to tell them,” he told his reflection. “I have to tell them it was all a lie.” Rami shook his head, wondering how he could bring himself tell his family the truth about their situation, and in doing so crush the lives and dreams of so many people he loved.
NINE
Mia looked around as the car approached Rami
’s family’s compound, trying to suppress the feeling of dread that welled up in her at the prospect of meeting his family. Well, the rest of his family, she reminded herself. I’ve already met his mom. She swallowed against the tight, dry feeling in her throat, wondering just how the older woman would react to her presence at such an emotional time.
She had been tempted to make her excuses and tell Rami she wasn’t coming, but despite her ambivalent feelings about her and Rami’s future—if indeed there was one—she knew that he would need someone by his side for the funeral. The night before, he’d called to confirm that she would be flying out first class. “There’s going to be a car there to pick you up—I would get you myself, but I need to be with the family as much as possible.” Mia had agreed to everything; Rami sounded so tired, so defeated—she didn’t want to give him any more stress than he was already dealing with.
The driver parked up and Mia’s heart started beating faster. She wished that Rami would appear; she didn’t want to have to deal with the awkwardness of meeting the rest of his family with no one but his mother—who already hated her—there to introduce her. Mia unbuckled her seat belt and took a deep breath, opening the back door and carefully swinging her legs through it first. Gathering as much momentum as she could muster, she pushed herself out of the seat, holding onto the doorway to support herself. Some days I can’t wait for this stupid pregnancy to be over, she thought with a flash of irritation. At almost eight months pregnant, she ached all over almost all of the time; Mia couldn’t imagine how much more uncomfortable the plane ride would have been if she’d been in coach and not first class.
“Let me help you, ma’am,” the driver said, appearing at the door. Mia smiled politely, letting the man steady her. He had opened the trunk and as he reached in to retrieve Mia’s small suitcase, she took a look around. I can’t even imagine what it would be like growing up somewhere like this, she thought, shaking her head as she took in the lush landscaping, sprawling main house and smaller, but still luxurious, satellite buildings. She wasn’t even sure she knew what the other buildings on the immense property were used for.