CHAPTER 5: THE BASEMENT APARTMENT
The yellow cab ride to 5th Street felt longer than the seventeen-hour flight from Riyadh. My hands wouldn't stop shaking—not from fear, but from the terrifying, volatile reservoir of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. The box of toys sat on the seat beside me, the bright, colorful cardboard faces of action heroes and plastic dump trucks looking profoundly absurd in the dim light of the taxi cabin.
The industrial district of Columbus was a wasteland of corrugated metal warehouses, rusted chain-link fences, and the low, perpetual drone of the nearby interstate highway. The 24-hour laundromat sat between a diesel repair shop and a defunct diner, its flickering neon sign casting a sickly pink glow over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot.
I pushed the heavy glass door open. The air inside was thick with the chemical smell of cheap powdered detergent, scorching metal dryers, and stagnant humidity.
And there she was.
Sarah was sitting on a cracked blue plastic bench, her head leaning heavily against the beige tile wall. She looked so much smaller than I remembered. Her hair, which used to fall in thick, chestnut waves around her shoulders, was pulled back into a hasty, frayed ponytail. Her hands—the soft hands I used to hold during our walks through the park—were red, raw, and chapped from hours of handling harsh industrial linens at the factory.
Next to her, curled up into a tight ball with his head resting on her lap, was Jamie. He was wearing an oversized, faded sweatshirt that was fraying at the cuffs. A small, blue plastic asthma inhaler was clutched tightly in his small fist even as he slept.
"Sarah," I breathed.
Her eyes snapped open. For a second, she looked terrified, as if she were seeing a ghost from her worst nightmares. Then, she looked at my face—really looked at me—and a sound broke from her throat that I will carry to my grave. It was a sob of pure, unadulterated relief.
She stood up so fast she almost tripped over Jamie’s feet. She ran across the linoleum floor, her worn sneakers squeaking loudly, and threw herself into my arms. The impact nearly knocked me over, but I caught her, locking my thick arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground as she buried her face into the crook of my neck, weeping uncontrollably.
"You're alive... you're really alive," she kept repeating, her hands frantically tracing the contours of my shoulders, my face, my hair, as if verifying that I wasn't a mirage born of her exhaustion.
"I'm here, Sarah. I'm so sorry. I didn't know... I swear to God, I didn't know," I muttered into her hair, my own tears finally spilling over, hot and bitter against my wind-burned cheeks.
A small, sleepy voice drifted from the blue plastic bench. "Mommy? Who's that man?"
I gently set Sarah down and turned around. Jamie was sitting up, rubbing his large, brown eyes—eyes that were identical to my own. He looked at my dusty boots, my worn flannel shirt, and then at the large box of toys I had set on the folding table.
I walked over to the bench, my heavy knees cracking as I dropped down onto the linoleum floor to bring myself to his eye level. I didn't want to frighten him; I looked like a stranger, a giant who had broken into his small, fragile world.
"Hey buddy," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm your dad. I'm the guy from the phone calls."
Jamie stared at me for a long, unblinking moment. Then, his eyes drifted to the gold bracelet protruding from my shirt pocket, and then back to my face. "Mommy said you went to the stars to build big buildings."
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"I did," I said, reaching out a trembling hand, allowed him to see the thick scars across my knuckles. "But I finished building them. And I came back. And I’m never, ever leaving again."
Jamie took a small, tentative step forward, his little hand reaching out to touch the rough fabric of my sleeve. When he didn't pull away, I pulled him into my chest, holding my son for the first time in five years, while the industrial dryers spun behind us, a steady, rhythmic hum that signaled the end of our exile.
