by Eve Rabi
“Your husband is sooo … charming,” she gushes to me as she adjusts my pillow. “You are so lucky he’s so supportive.”
“Yes,” I mutter, and cast a glance at the tall stranger they’re calling my husband. He’s already talking on the phone again.
How I wish he wasn’t here. How I wish no one was. How I wish I was back in the bunker.
Sick, I know, but that’s what I want right now. Desperately. I hate this freedom that I wished for. I hate everything and everyone and I wish this plane would just …
Okay, I might be losing it here. Breathe deeply. In … out … in … out … in ...
I shut my bloodshot eyes and return to the alcove of hell in my mind that I’ve lived in for the past week. There, I play What If – post-mortem all that has transpired – what brought me here and caused me to be without my two boys.
What if I yelled out that Reed was my lover, and that I loved him, and that we had a baby, and that I wanted to … no, demanded I take my baby with?
What if I refused to board the plane without Reed and Wyatt?
What if I didn’t send those emails?
What if I listened to Leeanne and didn’t …?
Okay, I know I should be thinking about my upcoming interrogation, but I don’t give a fuck about my future if it doesn’t include Wyatt and Reed. Let them lock me up and throw away the keys. I no longer care.
Sedatives, interrogations, and seeing my family and a constant stream of people in my day do nothing to dull the pain inside me. I’m pining for them. Leaving Iraq is the final straw – it is goodbye and it hurts more than being shot twice. Not something I want to stay awake and experience.
Damien hands me more Kleenex. I take it from him without a word and wipe my tears. After an uncomfortable pause, he yaks away beside me, but I zone out. He talks about my popularity polls and provides me constant updates even though I don’t give a shit about all that. I guess if he doesn’t, there will be a lot of awkward silences between us.
“See, most of them don’t quite know where to slot you now that you’ve been shot,” he says. “Say you were captured by coalition forces during a raid or something – then there would be no hesitation. It would be straight to Guantanamo Bay for you. But because you were shot – there’s this beyond a reasonable doubt scenario, get it?”
I nod.
“Hey, what do you call a Muslim with a piece of ham on his head?” he suddenly asks out loud. “Hamid,” he answers before anyone does, and laughs at his joke.
“Okay, so what do you call a Muslim with two pieces of ham on his head?”
Still, no one answers.
“Morehamid,” he splutters and guffaws.
The marine laughs, but everyone else casts furtive glances at me and tries really hard not to laugh. “Sir, that’s … that’s offensive,” the Green Beret says. For my benefit, I’m guessing.
There is a collective murmur of, “Yeah, it is.”
With a sigh, I zone out again as the distance between the U.S. and Iraq increases.
Reed, darling, it’s been a week since we touched. Are you hurting like I’m hurting? Do you miss me like I miss you? Do you miss my kiss, my voice, my smile? Cos baby, I miss all of that about you. Without you and Wyatt, I’m a zombie. I should have died instead of Leeanne, then we all could move on. Wyatt, my baby…
Maya silently hands me more Kleenex.
As I dry my tears, she says, “You know, Megan, you made it. You got out of there. Do you know how many prisoners captured by these … these … men, don’t make it out of there? You’re alive, you’re here. You made it.”
I nod. “Even those other prisoners, Leeanne and that Rory guy, and Darla … they weren’t so lucky. Try to remember that.”
I nod again.
Chapter Two
To my utter amazement and my terror, my homecoming is a circus – TV cameramen fighting over each other for the shot, jostling journalists shouting out questions, family I haven’t seen since I was six, friends who I’ve never seen in my life, strangers who want to be interviewed because they have something to say about me …
Placards are being held in the air with different messages:
Megan is our hero!
Megan for Mayor!
We love you Megan!
Damien’s smile is full of glee. “Now you’re talking!” he says as he rubs his hands together.
When he looks to the left, his smile vanishes. The placards there are not so friendly.
Megan Saunders must die!
Guantanamo Bay for Megan!
Megan the terrorist!
Megan is a fraud!
“Ignore them!” Maya snaps, her face turning red. “Aww, shaddup!” she shouts. “Leave her alone, she’s broken! Can’t you see that?”
Our path at the airport is blocked by hordes of people flocking to see for themselves the soldier turned jihadist. Did she really send those emails, or is the American government involved in another huge cover-up, like JFK and Elvis? They’ll only know if they look into my eyes for themselves.
I cling to Maya’s hand as I am wheeled around. In the sea of faces, I do see some family and friends I haven’t seen in years, but I don’t know how to relate to them anymore, so I keep my head bowed most of the time.
My father, brothers, and Maya crowd around me as flashbulbs explode in our faces.
I later learn from Damien that I am currently the third most screened face in the world right now. He should know – he watches and even studies television programs about me. Devours and analyzes every newspaper article, keen to hear what people think of me.
“You’re one of the most famous villains in history,” he boasts. “One of the most infamous villains!”
After two days in a military hospital, plans are being made to transport me to Guantanamo Bay for further interrogation. My ward is like a wake. My wake.
My family files in, heads lowered, and they just stand around. Seeing them suffering so much because of me makes me feel really guilty. But I’m guiltier about wearing this cloak of numbness and the ability to care less. The only time I feel is when I imagine forever without Reed and Wyatt. Then I want to throw myself off a tall building.
My mom’s face is puffy from crying and Maya is now stick-thin. My dad has started smoking again – chain smoking. My brothers barely speak to me or to anyone in my family, even though they’re around all the time.
Jake spends most of the day with me, planning my defense, preparing me for further interrogation. He’s also started smoking again. He’s here early in the morning and leaves late at night, and the lack of sleep has him snapping at me and everyone around me. This pisses my brothers off.
“What about the guy who represented O.J.?” Carl says. “From the Dream Team?” I guess he’s worried Jake may not be enough because of the magnitude of the situation.
Jake stops writing and slowly turns to Carl. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
“You wanna take this outside?” Carl snarls as he leaps out of his chair, fists raised.
“I sure do,” Jake says and stands up. Damien intervenes and a shouting match ensues. Luckily, the nurse arrives and throws everyone out of my ward.
Alone with my thoughts, I don’t ponder my fate like everyone else is – I think about Wyatt. Is he taking the bottle? Is he seeking the breast? Is Reed coping? Are they safe from Omar’s men?
***
Jake walks into the ward and politely asks to speak to me alone. The solemn look on his face prevents any argument from my family and they slowly file out of the ward.
“Megan, I’ve been thinking …”
“I want you to represent me, Jake,” I say. “No one else.”
I mean, the man knows my deepest, most dangerous secret, and he’s never deserted me. My respect and appreciation of him has since mushroomed, and I trust him.
Plus … he’s not mentioned a thing to Damien, even though he’s supposed to be Damien’s good friend.
For a moment,
he stares at me. After glancing around, probably for eavesdroppers, he hands me a page to read.
Megan, I don’t give a shit what you did in Iraq and I don’t want to know.
Our defense is that you basically had no choice but to surrender to the demands of your kidnappers. Although I believe you are innocent, you are in deep shit so I expect you to keep your mouth shut and behave.
I jerk to look at him. He gestures for me to continue reading.
If you don’t, you will drag both me and your family into this quicksand. Forget Iraq!!!! It’s over. Now you have to save yourself. Focus on clearing your name or you will spend the rest of your life behind bars. This is serious shit, Megan. I repeat: forget Iraq. I’m talking to you as a friend here, not your attorney. Damien is my friend. He used his connections to save Bailey from being deported years ago, so I will do my utmost to save you. But, you have to forget Iraq.
I lower the note and look at him. He’s writing what he could have told me, so this tells me that this room may be bugged. Slowly, I nod.
“Good,” he says and snatches the page out of my hands. After shoving it deep into his pocket, he walks to the door, sticks his head out, and calls in my family.
“Good news,” he says. “The interrogation will not be held in Guantanamo Bay anymore.”
There is an enormous sigh of relief from my family and absolutely no reaction from me.
“She’s being discharged from the hospital now and has to be under house arrest until the interrogation is over. She’s free to leave the house for two hours every day between noon and 2 p.m.”
“We can do that,” my mom says. “Isn’t that so, Megan?”
“Sure.”
“There’ll be an ankle bracelet,” Jake says.
Damien nods vigorously and immediately makes plans to take me home. “A united front, remember?” he reminds us before anyone can protest.
Numb, I meekly allow him to take me to a place I once called home.
A three-story split-level, with six bedrooms, six bathrooms, Olympic-size pool, triple garage, hot tub, and everything else a pretentious ego-maniac would deem necessary to impress his so-called friends. It’s not a home; it’s a house. As I look around, I realize how cold and empty this place is. Like a museum.
I have an urge to run from it.
We couldn’t afford to live like this on Damien’s and my salary, but Damien’s parents left him money, so I guess we’re lucky.
When we arrive home, Damien, looking like he has something on his mind, heads straight for the bar and pours himself a Jack Daniels. Without offering anyone else a drink, he downs that and pours himself another, which he gulps down right away. We all stare at him, but say nothing. When he pours himself a third in less than ten minutes, I wonder what could be bothering him so much that he has to get drunk.
Then I get it – he’s worried about our sleeping arrangements. See, we haven’t been husband and wife for almost two years, and it’s awkward for both of us. Time to put him out of his misery. I hobble over to the bar.
“Hey, Damien, maybe … I’m thinking, maybe I will sleep in the spare bed.”
“You will?” His shoulders relax. “You don’t mind?”
“Nah. I’m gonna be up all night anyway so …”
“And I have to get up early …”
“And you have to get up …”
“Great then! Fantastic! Super!” He turns to my family. “Hey, anyone want a drink?” He grabs the bottle of Jack and a couple of glasses and rushes over to pour everyone a drink, his relief visible.
Even though my heart belongs to another, and I have no desire whatsoever to sleep with him, and even though I’m perpetually numb these days, a pain, a familiar one at that, courses through my wounded soul.
The pain of rejection.
Chapter Three
The interrogation with the CIA, the military investigators, and the FBI is every bit as punishing as I expected, and it’s no secret they are trying to break me. Grueling days roll into grueling weeks. My weight has plummeted, I no longer have fingernails, and the black circles around my eyes match my black quilted Louis Vuitton bag that I carry around. My gut burns and I’m smoking again – a pack a day.
They pitch the same questions to me in different ways, hoping, I guess, to trick me into saying something like, “Sir, yessir! I became a jihadist of my own free volition when I was captured by Islamic militants in Iraq, and I delivered those inflammatory speeches because I always had a fascination for a jihad and yes, I shot myself in the back twice, half an inch from my spine and almost severed my spinal cord because I wanted a new set of wheels – a fucking wheelchair, you morons!”
After they question me, they probably rush off to analyze my recorded interview, word for word, and then finally say, “Ha ha! We caught onto the lying, sand-monkey-loving bitch! She is guilty. Come, fellow U.S. interrogators, let us hold hands as we charge her ass with treason, put her in an orange jumpsuit, throw her in with David Hicks and the likes, and when she asks for an attorney, we’ll tell her to fuck off.”
Actually, I do want to tell them everything, because I did nothing wrong. But everything will include Reed and Wyatt. Would they understand? Not a chance. So, I quietly hope to God they never find out about that part of my life in Iraq.
One day, someone may tell, and when that happens, I will jump off that bridge straight into the murky waters of Guantanamo Bay when I get to it. But right now I have to save my ass, so I will keep my mouth shut and do what Jake says.
I’m still the subject of debates on television. Theories about my involvement with Iraqi militants appear daily in newspapers and on the news. Everyone has an opinion and readily voices it.
“Sixty percent of Americans believe you’re innocent,” Damien says.
“God bless their understanding and sympathetic souls,” Maya says.
“Thirty percent believe you should be thrown in jail and locked up for life,” he continues, “while ten percent are on the fence. Basically, they’re waiting for the investigative reports.”
Stockholm syndrome is brought up regularly. Those who believe I’m innocent are sympathetic toward me. “She done what she done so they don’t cuuut her neck,” a redneck with a beer bottle and a dirty white vest says. God bless his soul.
“She did get shot,” an African American woman in a leopard print top, a leopard print skirt, leopard print shoes, leopard print bag, and a leopard wristwatch says. “Now dat means she ain’t really part of them. I think they did force her.” God bless her leopard-print-loving soul too.
One man accuses me of shooting JR. Who the fuck is JR?
***
Damien’s overbearing presence is suffocating me. Wish he would just leave me alone. Do this, say that, wear this ...
He’s done it since I’ve known him, but these days, I find my resentment quietly escalating. Yet, instead of ignoring him and thinking for myself, I find myself nodding meekly and doing whatever he asks me to do. Now I’m pissed off with me. How fucked up am I? I hate myself a lot these days. I hate that I was too chicken shit to admit to anyone I had a baby, I hate that I don’t have the balls to tell the truth about Reed and myself, I hate that I allowed myself to get shot and become separated from my two precious boys.
A lot of times, I hate that I survived.
Survivor’s guilt, they call it. Rory, Darla, and Leeanne didn’t survive, but I did. How dare I?
We’re watching a discussion about me on TV when I turn to Jake and whisper, “I want a divorce.”
To my surprise, he nods, a thoughtful look on his face. “About time,” he says quietly. “Fucking control freak.”
He’s Damien’s great pal, so I’m surprised at his response. I nod and turn my attention back to the TV.
The psychiatrist on television says that if I am a victim of Stockholm syndrome, I will display radical behavior now that I’m back in familiar and safe surroundings. She says that I will probably divorce my spouse, cut my hair, move ho
use, and even cut off all ties with my former life.
Jake and I exchange looks of alarm.
“Maybe not just yet,” he says reluctantly.
I say nothing.
“One step at a time, Megan. Okay?”
I shrug. What else can I do?
After six weeks of interrogation, I feel myself cracking under the pressure. Right now, we’re outside the interrogation room waiting to be called, and I’m flirting with the idea of just giving up and letting them do whatever it is they want to do.
I’m tired and I want to end this.
Jake is called in while I sit and wait outside with Damien. Then Jake runs out of the room, bursting with excitement. “Megan, you’ve been cleared of all charges!”
“What?!”
“That’s impossible,” Damien says. “How can …?”
“All interrogation ceases today and you’re free!” Jake grabs my hand, his eyes misting up. “Free, Megan, free!”
“How?” Damien asks. “Why?”
Jake shrugs. “What the fuck do I care, Damien?” He looks at me. “Cleared of all charges and you’re free, girl!”
Then, the door opens again and three men in grey suits and dark glasses exit the room.
One of the men, wearing white loafers, looks directly at me. As they walk down the corridor, the man with the loafers turns, drops his glasses, and looks at me again, recognition in his eyes.
Where have I seen him before?
“The CIA,” Jake murmurs.
“CIA?” I look at Jake. “Wha …?”
“Yeah. They enter and you’re free. Beats me.”
Those eyes … so familiar. Then it hits me – Mahmood! The guy with the white loafers is Mahmood.
I look back and he’s gone. Mahmood is a CIA agent? A double agent! Of course, it all makes sense now. No wonder he saved both Reed and I. Now, he’s saved me again.
“Apparently, the CIA got involved, read your account, and vouched for it. I don’t understand this but...” Jake shrugs. “Do we care?”