Power and Passion (2 page)

Feeling her head begin to throb, Sara
reached into her purse for her sunglasses. The heat was finally
getting to her, and her mind felt cloudy and unfocused. She walked
slowly back toward the racetrack and took a seat on the corner of
the first row of bleachers. Isabella, still standing at the fence,
saw and motioned her over, holding her hand out, palm toward the
ground, while opening and closing her fingers. Sara smiled and
shook her head; she did not feel like cheering at the moment. All
she wanted to do was sit. It was like all the wind had gone right
out of her sails.

However, this was not like her, and she did
not care for it. Sara was nothing if not focused and determined to
make things work. That was another thing her parents had taught
her: don't give up. Not on herself, not on those she loved, not on
anything about which she truly cared. That was how she had made it
through high school in British Columbia and then gone on to
graduate with honors from the University of British Columbia, only
the second generation in her family to earn a degree. That was how
she had worked her way up through the nonprofit world, from
volunteering with local charities as a child to joining the
international Model UN as a teen. As a college grad, she had worked
for a nonprofit organization researching accessibility and
community integration under the Canadians with Disabilities
Act.

In Dubai, when she had applied for this
position with the Special Olympics, she had been the only woman
shortlisted among a handful of male candidates, and she had come
out on top. Sara did not like to brag, but the offer had not really
surprised her. Her resume was top notch, and she had really wowed
her interviewers. When they had asked her how she thought she could
improve the lives of people with disabilities, she had taken the
risk of discussing instead how the term "disabled" is actually
disabling in itself and how it was not her place to improve
anyone's life but to assist those who needed help to reach the
goals they set for themselves. It was all about empowerment, she
had told them, because that was what she believed—that all people
are created equally; some just need a helping hand once in a while
to get things done. Thankfully the interviewers had agreed.

So why did she feel like such a failure now?
Just because her fiancé was a little grumpy? She would have laughed
at the thought if it did not make her feel so sad. Pierce meant the
world to her, and if something was off between them then nothing
else seemed to be right. She sighed deeply as she watched the young
men who had just run the four hundred meters patting each other on
the shoulders and pumping their fists in the air. Again there were
no losers there, only those who had taken a little longer to go the
distance.

Seeing their camaraderie, their joy at being
alive, made Sara's heart skip a beat. Taking a deep breath, she let
the warmth of the day fill her lungs, her heart, her mind. She knew
exactly what she had to do: forget about it. Or, rather, push it
all to the side. There was no sense in ruminating on her troubles;
getting depressed would get her nowhere. She simply had to keep
going. Whatever was up with Pierce, he would get over it as he had
so many times before. That man of hers was a moody one, Sara
thought with a smirk, but she was sure they would be happy again
before long.

In the midst of her contemplations, the bang
of a starting pistol rang out, and the third race began. Sara
jumped to her feet.

"Go, go, go!" she shouted enthusiastically
as the runners came down the stretch. "Keep going. You can do
it!"

L
ater that night Sara pulled up to her
apartment building—one of the hotel residences that were popular
with expats. Three bedrooms: just enough space for her, her mom and
dad, and a visitor from time to time, an old classmate from college
or a family member from across the seas. Some of Sara's friends
back in Canada thought it unusual that she still lived with her
parents at the age of twenty-six, but in that corner of the world
it was common. In fact it was expected that most young people would
stay at home until they married.

Whenever that might happen
, she
thought as she rolled her car into the underground garage and
turned off the ignition. She sat there in silence for a moment,
hands still on the steering wheel, just staring at the white wall
in front of her car. Her mind drifted to Pierce, remembering his
tense attitude on the phone earlier that day and how distant he had
seemed of late. They had been engaged now for six months but had
yet to set a date for the wedding. Not that anyone was pressuring
them—Sara's parents were none too pleased about her being engaged
to a non-Muslim, so they were in no rush to plan a wedding. And
although Pierce's family back in England was nice, they were not
thrilled either about his marrying a Muslim. This sort of mixture
would face many challenges as far as their families were
concerned.

Thinking about it, Sara shook her head.
These differences between her and Pierce did not matter to her or
to him. They loved one another—that was what counted. So why was
everyone else so concerned?

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse
and went into the house. She dropped her things on the kitchen
table as usual then headed toward the living room, where she heard
the TV on and her parents' voices.

"Oh, hello, dear," her mother, Soraya, said
as Sara came into the room. Sara went and kissed her on the cheek
then did the same to her dad, Ali, and flopped down on the
brown-leather couch across from where they sat in reclining chairs.
The two looked at her expectantly, happily, as if they had been
waiting all day just to see her come home again.

This gave Sara a warm feeling. Despite their
misgivings about her relationship with her fiancé, Sara knew how
much they loved her, and the three of them got along well. Her
parents were, for the most part, very supportive of all she did.
Sara really enjoyed living with them no matter how unusual it
seemed to those of different backgrounds; family was very important
in their culture, and situations like theirs were common. Back in
Canada her grandparents had always lived nearby as well and played
very active roles in her life, and there were constant gatherings
for holidays and special occasions with aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Sara smiled, remembering the picnics they would have together at
the world-renowned Stanley Park in Vancouver, all the relatives,
young and old, gathering to barbecue, play volleyball and
badminton, and enjoy each other's company. Everyone brought a dish
to share; the men would work the grills, and the younger women
would serve and clean up while the elderly sat and chatted. These
were great days full of fun and laughter and, most important,
family.

Unfortunately that physical proximity had
disappeared when Sara and her parents had moved to Dubai—an issue
that many expats had to face. Sara was lucky to have even her
parents there with her; some of her colleagues and friends who had
also moved to Dubai lived on their own with no support systems but
the ones they had to build for themselves over time. With none of
her extended family in the area, Sara missed the regular parties
and events, but when a relative did come to visit it was a cause
for great celebration and joy.

"How did everything go at the race?" her
father asked, folding his hands on his lap and leaning back in his
chair as if getting comfortable to listen to a good, long story.
"This was a big one, right?"

"Yes, it was," Sara replied, kicking off her
shoes and bringing her legs up underneath her. She nestled in
against the arm of the sofa, resting her elbow on it. "Everyone did
as fantastic as ever. You remember Joseph and Aisha? You met them
at the race last month."

"Oh, yes," her mother chimed in. "Tall boy
with curly hair and the girl who followed you around all the
time?"

Sara laughed. Those were very accurate
descriptions. Both Joseph and Aisha were from the home team—they
trained under the coaches employed by Sara's office—and she knew
them well. Aisha, who was only sixteen, was an excellent runner and
had taken quite a liking to Sara at the last meet, where Sara's
parents had volunteered to pass out water to the athletes, so they
had noticed it too.

"That's them," she said. "Both qualified for
the next level of competition. Not the semifinals yet but a step
closer. I think they might make it all the way this year."

"Well, that's great," Ali said without
hesitation, and both he and Soraya looked genuinely pleased. They
had always been so proud of all the work their daughter did. Plus
she continued to be honest, kind, and compassionate—ethics they
practiced. This pleased them, perhaps, more than anything else.

"So what's the next step?" her mother
asked.

Sara had just begun to yawn, but she stifled
it. She put a hand up to her mouth and laughed a little. "Sorry.
Been a very long day. The next step is…" She thought for a moment.
This was something she had been ruminating over for quite some
time. She always had events to plan—not just races and other sports
games but meet and greets, corporate functions, all the things that
had to happen to keep this Special Olympics chapter afloat. But
still she wanted something more. She knew this organization
needed
more. But…

"To tell you the truth, I don't know what's
next," she said. "I mean there's the usual. We always have
something going on. But I just feel like—"

"You should be going above and beyond?" her
mother asked with a smile.

Sara smiled too. "You know me too well."

"It's something you've always said," Soraya
went on. "When you were in high school and college right up until
today, whether you're volunteering or getting paid, you always want
to do more, more, more. Remember a few years ago when your father
and I had to sit you down and tell you to stop—"

"Overextending myself," Sara finished, both
her parents echoing the sentiment at the same time. "I know. I
remember it. And I do keep it in mind. There's just so much I want
to accomplish."

"Well, like what?" her mother asked,
eyebrows raised.

Sara sighed. "That's the problem. I don't
know. The Special Olympics in this part of the world needs…help. I
hate to say it, but, yes, it needs help. We need outside funding,
and to get that we need attention from the public. We have our
media team, and they do the best they can, but it's just not a
hot-button issue around here, so it's difficult to really make
people pay attention, to make them care enough to want to give up
their money for this particular cause." She laughed a little,
feeling embarrassed. "That sounds very mercenary, doesn't it?"

Her father waved a hand in the air,
dismissing the thought. "It's practical. And in a case like this,
that's exactly how you have to be. It would be nice if
organizations like yours could run on wishes and dreams"—Sara
laughed at this—"but the fact of the matter is you need cash to
keep on doing the good work that you're doing."

"Thanks, Dad," Sara said with a sigh. "I
don't know. I suppose something will come to me." She glanced over
at the television, which her mother had muted when Sara had come
into the room. An evening news program was on, showing footage from
what looked to be some sort of gala—lots of people, formal dress.
There was a stage with a podium, and behind it stood an older woman
with short, silvery hair and sparkling blue eyes. In her hands she
gripped what looked like a trophy or some sort of award with a dark
wooden base and a gold statue of a woman holding the earth in her
arms.

"Can you turn up the sound?" Sara asked,
shifting around on the couch to face the TV.

Her mother picked up the remote and raised
the volume. "What is this all about?" she asked, gesturing at the
screen with the remote in her hand.

"That's Joan," Sara replied a bit absently,
unable to take her eyes from the screen. The woman was a commanding
figure. Despite her age, her looks had not diminished, and she
still had a youthful air about her. But that was not what was most
impressive. Joan was an important woman, a powerful figure in the
nonprofit world; everyone seemed to know her and, more importantly,
respect her. At this gala, as she spoke, all eyes were on her, and
there was silence in the room. When Joan talked, people listened.
Sara could only imagine commanding that sort of rapt attention
herself.

"She's the director of Hearts and Minds, a
nonprofit raising money for cancer research and awareness." Sara
looked over at her parents. They both gazed at her and nodded their
heads, clearly impressed with Joan's credentials. "I met her at a
fundraiser for another organization a few years ago. What an
amazing woman!"