3. Yasmeena
Chapter 3
Yasmeena
T he silence that drives me home is something I’m used to. Something I prefer instead of so many things going around. I have enough of that in my brain.
Most people would think that I would use a driver but having one means I don’t get to do what I want and I’d have someone watching my every move to somehow report back to my father.
These drives help me to think, what Katherine, my OBGYN said to me isn’t anything new that I should be shocked at. I’ve known about my Ovarian cancer diagnosis for two weeks now and Katherine wanted me to come back in for another check up. She thinks I need to see a specialist about the way that I reacted to the news. She didn’t like that I laughed off the news. Well, not off but hey, I’m not shocked that I have it. It’s probably from the fact that I was diagnosed with Reactive attachment disorder a couple years ago. My psychiatrist says that if it was something that would’ve been caught earlier on in my life things would've been different but honestly, it doesn’t matter anymore.
It wouldn't have changed anything. I am my Baba’s daughter. My native Egyptian mother and my Saudi Arabian father who was born and raised in Egypt. They raised us with an iron fist like most immigrants with money raise their children and there’s nothing that can change now.That’s why I won’t be telling my family about the cancer or else, they’ll consider me weak for not being able to get married and have a child without some sort of issues.
My big brother has a family and two kids but it doesn’t mean that he’s not busy having children elsewhere. While he is a responsible man, and good enough to take care of whatever child he has, it isn’t always about that, is it?
A call comes through and without having to even double check, I know it’s my mother, she wouldn’t be calling for anything else but guilt tripping me but we both know it won’t work at all.
“Hello, mother.”
“Don’t hello mother me, you heard the news about your Baba but I don’t see you at the hospital at all?”
“Do you need me there?”
“You know what they’ll say in the press about you if you don’t show up?”
“Nothing I haven't heard before.”
“So, you’re fine with them calling you Ice Queen and all those other frigid names?”
My chuckle is filled with mirth. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard around everyone. Words whispered against the walls that people think don’t whisper back to me, mother.”
“Then your employees also call you that and you do nothing to reprimand them for it.”
“I don’t care. Mother. I am cold. I am frigid and if you reach into my chest and pull out this organ that’s beating against the rest of my body, you’ll realize only one thing…”
“Yasmeena,” she sighs. “I don’t know where I ever went wrong with you.”
“Don’t worry, I don't blame you for anything. I am not a child where I’ll think about how you and Baba raised me. I am what makes me today. After all, I am an Al-Ameen.”
“Show up at the hospital or else.”
She threatens and hangs up before I can tell her where she can take her request.
Taking a deep breath in and releasing it, I swerve and press on the gas driving faster, much more reckless, and without a care in the world. Death is inevitable, we should never fear it, I know I don’t.
Without much shock to my actions, I end up in front of the hospital where the news reporters are waiting outside for Bilal Al-Ameen to make even one appearance. My car skirts as I stop right in front of one reporter who looks like they want to throw their expensive camera at me but I step out and they take a step back.
I could be upset that they would do that when I appear but I don’t care. I walk around them as they crowd me as I step into the hospital doors but then I stop to look around the area then turn around, leaving, walking out. This is as much of a presence he’s going to get from me.
My family hates to make headlines but at the same time, they love it. I know nothing is wrong with Baba but that’s not what the outside world knows. They have no idea who he is or what kind of man he is.
I sit in my car for a moment, getting photographed by paparazzi as I message Enrique about the proposal. His response lets me know that he will be ready by Monday with his feedback about my proposal.
My mind is all over the place with my news that I’ve held onto since the moment I was told, the relaunch happening soon and the fact that my father is all over the news seeking pity because his company is tanking. It’s too much but there’s no way for me to deal with it but head on. There’s never been a moment to take a break or cry out my frustration.
You’re an Al-Ameen, you can’t be like the others. We have royalty in our bloodline. We don’t bow down and take it, we do something about it.
That’s what Baba would say, yet, to point out that he’s bowing down now would mean that I’m willing to disrespect him or treat him like he’s beneath me. I clear my head not wanting to think about anything at all but getting married and having a baby. I need to do this soon, even if the diagnosis isn’t the worst, it doesn’t change that I don’t want surgery at all.
I fear only one thing in this world and that’s dying alone. That’s what I’ll have if I don’t have a husband or child… but at this rate, would they make a difference in my life?
LATER ON, I thought about eating at home but changed my mind wanting to go to the restaurant that I know my parents love the most. Instead of wearing a combo that I’d wear for work, I wear a short body-fitting black dress that stops mid thigh and showed skin under my boobs, matching it with black pantyhose and black open toe heels, I considered putting my hair up in a bun or ponytail but I’ll do it differently tonight.
Letting my hair out in its dark brown glory, it cascades my back in its curly state unlike how I wear it gelled back and away in a bun or ponytail for work. Opting for my sleek black Aston, I press harder on the gas, speeding through the night and when I finally reach the restaurant, I stop making sure nobody gets hurt, I would hate to have an issue with such an exquisite restaurant. Valet opens my door and I step out.
“Welcome to Halo, Miss Al-Ameen,” the usual valet, Andrew, says to me with a smile and I smirk at him.
He’s too young for me at the age of 24 but he always tries to flirt with me. I let him because we both know he’d never get another chance to do so.
“Come on, Drew,” his eyes sparkled at his nickname. “You can call me Yasmeena all you want.” I wink at him and he chuckles as the blush rises on his face.
“Yes, Yasmeena, enjoy your dinner.”
“Come and take my coat off. Let someone else park my car.” I tell him.
He nods and whistles to another valet. We walk or rather, I walk and he follows me like a little lost puppy that can only follow its owner.