“Doesn’t that scare you?” I asked. “You’re not in politics, but you’re dealing with foreign governments. And you might know more than they do?”
“Yeah, sometimes.” With that simple admission he leaned back, his eyes seeming to go somewhere for a minute. “And you’re dealing with people. Real people.” He picked up his fork and used it to slice off some omelet. “It’s the people, of course, who break your heart.”
It wasn’t just a sad statement; he said it with such forlorn emotion I wanted to jump on his lap and hug him and kiss his cheek and tell him all would be okay. “I take it that happened to you on the job,” I said. “Heartbreak?”
“Sure, lots of times. You develop a relationship with them, and they happen to live in a war-torn country, so naturally some will die young and violently. It’s a fact.”
“Not a fun one,” I said.
“No.” He sighed. “And it’s not just the people you meet. It could be one of us who gets killed.”
“Us?”
He only gave a slight nod, not saying anything.
I stayed silent, wanting him to talk, but afraid to break the moment. It seemed to me then that we were treading into new territory for us, territory Sebastian hadn’t yet shared. And I wanted to understand his job better so I could try and get on board with it. I also wanted to simply share, to know.
“One of my friends...” Sebastian said. “A journalist.” He paused. “He was kidnapped by rebels, and they cut off his hand. Can you imagine?”
“Why?”
“They regretted giving him information. They decided he might give it to the wrong people. It was a symbolic act.”
“Horrific,” I said. Just one word. I could think of no others.
He nodded. “Once that happened, he wasn’t just a witness anymore. He was a witness and a participant.” Another pause. “It’s a hard place to be.”
Now the rain had stopped momentarily, but Baxter was still very wet. I put him on the ground, then stood and turned for home.
But I kept thinking of that brunch. Of the way Sebastian spoke about being a witness and a participant. The more I thought about it, something nudged my subconscious. I thought harder about that brunch, but all I could remember was that Sebastian didn’t talk much the rest of the time. I filled in the silence, waiting for what I’d heard to settle. I’m not sure that it ever did. I never entirely understood him.
And now it only raised questions. A lot of them.
I took out my phone and called the State Department.
45
Beverly didn’t answer right away, but she called me back within five minutes. “You saw it?” she said. “The video?”
“Yeah, I watched it at Barb’s.”
“I know that must have been hard,” Beverly said. “To hear the questions about death.”
“Yeah, but it was nice to be mentioned.”
We both chuckled lightly. I was still handling it.
“You’ve been divorced for a few years, right?” Beverly asked.
“Yes.” I got a flash of being in front of the judge to finalize our divorce. I felt a slice in the gut like I always did when I thought of standing at that bench, saying the words that would end us—experienced and will continue to experience irreconcilable differences.
But it was more painful to remember the divorce than usual. Now that Sebastian was...God knows where.
I wondered what else Beverly knew about me and Sebastian. Did she know about my drug arrest, my marriage to Billy? Of course she did. Even if the story hadn’t been in the magazine Gavin worked for (and the subsequent others), I knew that if celeb mags or a hack like Gavin could find my information, the State Department would find out much more. Thankfully, there was nothing else.
“Beverly, I have some questions,” I said. Baxter and I got to North Avenue, and he started pulling to the right. He wanted to go to the dog park.
“Baxter, no,” I said, tugging him toward the house.
He stopped and eyed me, trying mentally to entice me into taking him.
He must have realized I wouldn’t cave. He gave a grand shake from head to butt, shaking off the walk and a hell of a lot of mud. Some landed on my clothes, but I didn’t care. I was too focused on the questions.
“Can you tell me why this situation with Sebastian hasn’t been in the media?” I asked Beverly. “I mean, I’m glad, I guess. But I don’t understand why.” I was beginning to sense I didn’t understand a lot.
“They still haven’t told the media yet. That’s good.”
“‘They’ meaning the authorities in Libya?”
“Right.”
“Who are these authorities?”
I stopped Baxter and pulled a small pad of paper from my pocket. It was one of Sebastian’s notepads that I occasionally still found at my house. I’d started carrying it around since he was taken, needing to record notes, but also liking the connection to him, feeling for the first time some glimpse into Sebastian’s professional mind, the one that needed to jot down the most random of things, because sometimes they “assembled.” That’s how Sebastian had explained it to me. Sometimes the scraps of information and names and thoughts gathered into something cohesive.
“What do you mean?” Beverly said.
“Well, are these local authorities who have him? Are we talking the police station from a small town or province? Is he even at a police station? Did they get in an accident? Or did someone mistakenly think they stole something?”
Beverly was quiet.
“Or is it a higher authority, a government or whatever, that’s higher up?” I asked. “Is it federal in nature?”
“We hope to gather that information shortly from our various sources of intel.”
It all sounded so routine, so clean—gather that information... Various sources of intel...
“Remind me how we first knew about the photo?” I liked the word we.
“Good question. We got a call from someone on the ground that a reporter and photographer hadn’t returned to their hotel rooms. We put the word out and one of our sources received that picture anonymously.”
“Via email?”
“Correct.”
“Can we track the email?”
“We’re trying.”
“And the video? How did we get that?”
“The government sent it to us.”
“But you don’t know what government?”
Silence.
“And what about our government?” I asked, my voice getting a little louder. “What are we doing to get these guys free? What are you doing?”
“This is frustrating, Jessica, but as I’m sure you know when someone gets arrested in another country, that person is entirely subject to the laws of that country or state, even if they differ significantly from ours.”
“Right. But the question remains—what are you doing?”
“We’re monitoring the state of the country now, and their stance regarding the United States.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“We’re collecting information on that. And we’ll monitor conditions of the location they’re being held.”
“When you find out where that is.”
“Right.”
“Or whenever you decide to tell us.” I couldn’t help but sound bitter. Not being able to do anything was beginning to make me itchy.
“Jessica,” Beverly said, “I’m trying. I really am. I want to share everything with you, but information has to be confirmed. And to be honest, technically I shouldn’t be talking directly to you. You’re not married to Sebastian anymore.”
I stopped on State Street. Baxter tugged at the leash, already looking forward to a treat at home, I supposed. “So why have you done it? Why have y
ou shared with me?”
“Because I saw that video. I saw it sooner than you did, and I heard him say your name, and your dog’s name. And it was clear.”
“What was clear?”
“A few things. But mostly that he wanted you to know.”
My body seemed to thump at those words. I plainly felt my heartbeat near my chest, sending blood to the rest of my body.
“What’s the next step?” I asked. “Traditionally.”
“There are a number of things that could happen—release, contact from the government, the government allowing the guys to contact us, formal charges, disclosure of charges... I could go on and on.”
“What about doing our own media?” I said. “We haven’t talked about Baxter.”
When she said nothing again, I asked. “You know about the dog Sebastian and I share? Baxter?”
“Yes, Superdog. Of course. We’ve known from the beginning.”
“Right.” I kept walking. “And you’ve known since the beginning of what?”
A minute pause. “This situation,” she said vaguely.
“Right,” I said again, frustrated. “Well, did you consider whether that would help the situation? I mean is there any way we could work that? Tell the media that the dad of Superdog is missing overseas.” It sounded silly to my own ears.
“Yes, briefly. But that type of news coverage is primarily celebrity in nature, and that is highly volatile in terms of being able to control your message.”
“What is our message?”
“Jessica, I’ll get more information soon,” she said. “I’m sure. And I’ll call you as soon as I do.”
I was still frustrated by what she was holding back.
We both fell quiet for a moment. Then I said, “Thanks.” Because what else could I say?
46
I called Billy on the walk home. “Would you want to meet my parents again?”
“Sure.” No pause before that word.
“Are you still in Chicago?”
“Yeah. I’m not leaving until you want me to.”
“Don’t you have events, concerts? Your kid? Doesn’t your manager want to kill you?” I remembered when I knew his manager, remembered when I knew exactly what was on Billy’s schedule. The strangeness of it all struck again, the fact that I had been so squarely in someone’s life and now was so far from it.
We were coming closer, though, in a deep friendship kind of way.
“I’m handling it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
I was glad for him, then. Billy used to struggle with making decisions about his schedule, his work, his life. He let the manager or Mick make decisions for him.
“Meet me at my place?” I asked. “My parents are there.”
“Of course,” he said, again with no pause, no question. He knew my father wasn’t a fan of his anymore, but he didn’t mention it. And the conversation made me wonder, again, why I didn’t ask for help more often.
* * *
Thirty minutes later the doorman called to tell me Billy was on his way up from the lobby.
I picked Baxter up again. This time he was wrapped in a towel. My mother had insisted on giving him a bath.
I turned to my parents, who were seated at the kitchen table in the bay window. “You sure you guys are okay with this?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
My mom wore a black skirt and white blouse with a lavender scarf around her neck. My dad was in a blue shirt, which made his tan and his white hair stand out more. He had rolled up the sleeves as if ready for work. My parents had helped me as much as they could. Still, I knew they must be craving their art or at least some activity.
“Well, I know we haven’t talked about that time in a while.” That time I was arrested. “But you’re okay?”
“Billy was responsible,” my dad said. “But we’ll overlook it.”
“No, he wasn’t responsible. If anything it was Mick, but ultimately it’s my responsibility only.”
They nodded. They’d never been able to get their heads around why someone who wasn’t a drug user would buy drugs.
I felt a flutter of anticipation, and I could feel my parents do so, as well.
A knock on the door sent Baxter flying from my arms, barking madly.
When I opened the door, Billy kissed me chastely on the cheek and then immediately bent down. Baxter flew into his arms and began licking his face, apparently having made the snap doggy judgment that, This here is a dog person. Their hair was the same color, I noticed. If Baxter was my kid he looked more like Billy than Sebastian.
“Billy McGowan,” my mom said, crossing the kitchen. My dad stood but stayed near the table.
They shook hands, then my mom hugged him while my father scowled nearby.
When they pulled apart after the brief hug, I suddenly felt, Whoa. A weird moment was upon us. The awkwardness of the situation was clear, made me wonder if I’d been too hasty in pulling together the two parties who had been providing me the most support. I didn’t know if my dad would ever forgive.
But then my dad held his hand out and moved forward, and Billy was grasping it and then they embraced, too.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Billy said. “I’m very sorry I didn’t take care of her.”
My dad hugged him tighter, and the room felt strangely, suddenly comfortable.
“You look wonderful,” Billy said to my mom, and I heard his voice as if he were fourteen. The memory felt that fresh.
My mom smiled at him, just the way she used to.
I directed everyone to the bay window and the table. I had pulled out some crackers and hummus, which I set on the table now. I made offers of water or iced tea.
Billy looked at his watch. It was nearly 5:00 p.m. “Do you have a beer?”
“Amen,” my father said.
Billy and my dad drank beers, while my mom and I had iced tea. I led the talk round to Sebastian. Then I let my other ex-husband fuel our discussion.
“I feel like I need to brainstorm about Sebastian being kidnapped,” I told them. “And I’d like your help. The State Department says they’ve considered everything and that they understand this type of situation, but I want to do anything I can, anything we can.”
“Amen,” my father said again, although he never went to church.
I told them about the growing number of questions I had and the frustrating phone call with Beverly. I told them how I wondered if they should be using the Superdog story to fuel some movement.
“Well, what about calling our legislators first?” my mother offered.
“Good idea,” my father said. He pointed out that I was in Illinois, they were in New York, and Billy had three homes but spent most of his time in Huntington Beach—we had more than a few politicians we could call.
I brought out my laptop, and we researched legislators’ contact numbers. We each sent out a number of emails, made phone calls to legislative offices. None of them were in session, we were told, but they all had assistants who were surprisingly willing to listen.
We’d decided not to mention Superdog yet and only tell them of Sebastian’s arrest, that we were family and friends looking for information and help.
“Now what?” my mom said a few hours later. “What else can we do?” She was animated in a way I hadn’t seen often, and it thrilled me.
We fell silent, each of us thinking.
“I know someone in Jordan,” Billy said.
“Someone from Jordan, the country?” I said.
“Yeah. I did this party overseas,” Billy said, “and I met some people from Jordan.”
“Okay.” I kept myself from asking, How is that useful? because I saw in his hesitant expression that Billy McGowan was bashful. No one else wo
uld notice such a thing, except maybe his family, and me. I had been the recipient of that bashfulness (the original version of it), starting when I was fourteen. “Who do you know in Jordan?”
“Well, someone high up. I mean...” He shrugged. “They have a parliament and everything, but you know... I met the royal family.”
“Wow,” I said. The McGowans of yore, the ones I’d known, may have met a mayor or two passing through towns, but that was it. “Does that help us here?”
“Libya is nearby—they may have connections with people there. So I’m wondering if they can help, if I had someone call them. My manager, maybe.”
“Why not you?” my mom said. “Wouldn’t they be more likely to take a call from Billy McGowan?”
“Maybe we should wait for the government to reach out?” I said. Yet I said it weakly, almost as though I was required to say it. But really I was both scared and thrilled with the thought of taking matters into our own hands.
“I don’t know how it could hurt if Billy just said hello and felt out the situation,” my dad said.
“I can be delicate,” Billy said. I saw a yearning in him. Was it a need to help me? Or was he at a place in his life where he needed this kind of thing, something different? “I understand that there are politically sensitive considerations.” Billy sounded so adult. Sometimes it was hard to speed-age him from fourteen to now.
I pulled my laptop to me. “Let’s see what time it is there.” I ran a search. “Three o’clock in the morning in Amman.”
Billy started scrolling through his phone. “I can text the guy who takes care of the prince. He’ll get the message when he gets up.”
My mom scooted closer to Billy.
“Okay,” Billy said, as if he needed momentum. He typed on his phone, holding it out a little so my mom could see over his shoulder. “I just asked him to give me a call. Now, what else?”
47
A few hours later we had rounded through as many possibilities as we could think of to help Sebastian, weighing each, debating whether I should let Beverly know about our brainstorming. It had been exhausting.
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