Blink of an Eye by Ted Dekker Page A

stood and stared at her with eyes that betrayed as much wonder as curiosity.
    â€œMiriam.”
    She dipped her head, feeling exposed. He knew her name, obviously, but he spoke it as if some mystery were contained between the syllables. What was this all about? Did he know about Sita’s drowning?
    The sheik walked toward her, eyes beaming. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He took her hands and kissed them. “Such a beauty, just like your mother, may God give her rest.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean,” she said. “You know my mother?”
    â€œBut of course. She was my wife; I would think I knew her quite well.”
    Desert silence smothered Miriam.
    â€œForgive me, but you’re mistaken. I’ve never met you. Or your wife. She isn’t my mother.”
    â€œNo, Miriam. I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Salman adopted you, yes?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou were never told?”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous!”
    He stared at her, then turned away. “Come . . . come sit.”
    She hadn’t heard right! “I don’t understand.”
    The sheik turned back, saw the fear in her eyes, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me. It’s a shock. How insensitive of me. I’ve been watching you for all of these years and you’re learning for the first time that I’m your real father.”
    She could hardly imagine it. In fact, she couldn’t. Why hadn’t she been told? There was no resemblance, no logic, nothing to tie her to this man.
    â€œYou’re a perfect reflection of your mother, Jawahara, who died giving you birth.” The sheik motioned to a beautiful woman who was pouring tea. “This is Nadia, my second wife.”
    Nadia set the teapot down and hurried over, kissed Miriam’s hand. “My house is yours.”
    Miriam didn’t want this house. It had been a mistake to come! But looking at them both, she knew that they spoke the truth. Such a powerful man would never fabricate such a preposterous story unless it was entirely true.
    Abu Ali al-Asamm was her father. God help her.
    â€œIt changes nothing,” the sheik said. “You are who you are. A beautiful woman. Privileged in every way. Royalty. Please, come and sit.”
    They sat. Nadia offered her fruit, and she took an apple. Miriam bit into it absently, trying to think through the ramifications of this news.
    â€œSo how is the House of Salman treating you these days?” the sheik asked. Wrinkles spread from his eyes, crow’s-feet formed by a perpetual smile. Miriam felt a knot rise in her throat. Could she trust this man the way she’d always wanted to trust Salman? Could such a strange man be a real father to her?
    â€œWell,” she said. It was not the precise truth, but it was the correct answer.
    The sheik began to speak about his life. None of it really mattered to her, but she listened politely and asked a few questions to show interest.
    What she really wanted to know was why. Why had the sheik given her up for adoption to Salman? What advantage had it gained him?
    He talked for ten minutes of the eastern province and Dhahran. Of the Shia and the American involvement in the region. About Miriam’s mother and how she had always wanted a daughter. Miriam was her only child, but Jawahara had died happy. Yet the sheik had not brought her here to talk about her mother.
    The talk stalled. “Are you feeling well?”
    â€œYes.”
    Al-Asamm studied her face. “Your eyes betray you, my dear.”
    She shifted her eyes. “I have—had—a very good friend named Sita. She was fifteen and forced to marry an old man. She refused him, and this morning her father drowned her for shaming them. I . . . I was forced to watch.”
    â€œOh, dear, dear, dear.” The sheik clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It is an abomination. There are far more appropriate