“Are you trying to tell me that I shouldn’t marry Esther Hicks?”
Dad shakes his head. “No. I’m trying to tell you that I’m sorry it has to be this way. And I’m trying to thank you for what you’re doing for us. I’m saying I’m incredibly lucky you grew up to be so much like your mother, who did the right thing even when it went against what her heart was telling her. I know that’s how this must feel for you and I want you to know that I’m grateful.”
“It won’t be so bad,” I say. “She’s different than I thought she’d be.”
“Good. I hope you two get along real well. Still, it’s not at all what I wanted for you,” he says.
And all of a sudden I’m angry at being forced to comfort him in this after everything he’s done, however long ago, so instead of telling him again how fond I’ve grown of Essie, I force myself to say, “I thought it was exactly what you wanted for me. I thought this wedding was the thing you were most afraid you’d never get. You must be incredibly relieved.”
* * *
—————
On Friday we wrap up filming early in order to get to an interview with Liberty Bell. I’ve never heard of her apart from that one segment with Essie that I saw on television, but Essie says she grew up as part of a cult or something and that it got her sister killed. The members of the cult were big on conspiracy theories and living off the grid and preaching the overthrow of the government, that sort of stuff. Not Libby herself, of course, who was only a kid at the time, though later she took on the mantle and made a name for herself on the conservative blogosphere and even wrote a book. Essie says she dropped out of that whole world shortly after she started college, stopped blogging, disappeared from social media. Most people thought she just grew up, decided to focus on school, but that wasn’t how Essie saw it. She thought Libby had broken free.
“Is that why you like her?” I asked then.
“No, but it’s why I trust her” was Essie’s short reply.
When we do meet, Liberty Bell is the opposite of what I’d expected, which is to say that I don’t immediately hate her the way I thought I would. By this time, I’ve read all about the massacre at Black Rock. One of the pictures on the Wikipedia page is of a girl being carried away from the visitor center, where the militants had holed up for the better part of that winter. She reaches her arms over the shoulder of an FBI agent in full tactical gear, face tear-stained, teeth bared like a wild animal. It must’ve been taken just after Liberty’s sister, Justice, died. She’s not named in the caption to the photo, but it’s those same eyes that greet me when I walk into the studio. She has that vaguely feral look of a person who always knows where the nearest exit is, who will never be entirely at ease.
She walks across the room to greet me and extends her hand. “Mr. Richards, so nice to finally meet you. Essie has told me you’ll be attending Columbia in the fall. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I answer. “Call me Roarke, please. Mr. Richards is my dad.”
She smiles, and in this expression there is no trace of the polished persona she projects for the cameras. Instead she is genuine and kind and I don’t flinch when she places a hand on my arm and leads me over to the set. She introduces me to a short woman who’s setting up the cameras whose name, I’m told, is Margot. Margot has close-cropped purple hair and wears heavy boots, men’s cargo pants, and a T-shirt that reads Nevertheless, She Persisted. I notice a delicate silver ring in her left nostril. She nods at me but doesn’t stop what she’s doing.
“This is where you and Essie will sit, and I’ll be here.” Liberty Bell indicates a modern-looking couch and, across from it, a sleek matching armchair of the same red leather. “I think it’s best if you’re there, to Essie’s right, just as you’ll be when you’re at the altar. Does that sound okay with you?” She actually stops then and looks at me for an answer instead of breezing on. I manage a “Fine” and then she’s leading me past the set and through a door to a room labeled Hair and Makeup.
Up until this point, I’ve been spared having my appearance fussed over—probably because the show couldn’t afford to have the footage look too staged. But I guess these lights will be brighter. They need to make sure I don’t look washed-out. Anyway, since this is my official debut, I understand that they want to take extra care to make sure I look presentable.
Essie is already sitting with her hair in curlers while a pale and emaciated-looking woman brushes a cream-colored powder over her face and neck. Libby leaves me and I’m guided to a chair of my own. I sit facing a wide mirror mounted to the wall and submit to tugs and prodding as a gorgeous dark-skinned woman with no hair at all begins to make me into a more acceptable version of myself. I’m actually surprised by how quickly I’m transformed as her fingers shape and smooth my hair, then brush foundation over my cheeks. It’s not that I look any different, not really, but somehow the makeup blots out more than just my imperfections. It makes me feel like I’m covered in armor and impenetrable and I begin to see the appeal.
Before I know it, I’m sitting on the red sofa next to Essie. Her brown hair falls in loose curls that just brush her shoulders. Her lips and cheeks have been painted with the faintest hint of matching pink. Her freckles have been banished for the occasion. She wears a sleeveless dress made of some slippery fabric, silk or satin or whatever. It’s a pale blue not unlike the color of her eyes, with narrow pleats that fall straight from the high-collared neck down to the narrow waist. The dress manages to look at once old-fashioned and fresh. Her round pearl earrings match the button just below her collar and as I take in this small detail, I realize for the first time just how beautiful she is. It feels almost like a betrayal, how I never noticed this until now.
* * *
—————
We’ve already gone over the questions like a million times. I told Delaney not to let me know how much money we’re getting paid for this series of interviews because I was afraid it would make me nervous, but now, all of a sudden, I wish I had asked. Essie signed off on it, though, so it must be something obscene, the sort of money that, before last week, I didn’t believe was real. As the lights grow hotter, it occurs to me that there’s a very good chance that I might be sick.
“Breathe,” Libby instructs me and leans forward in her chair. “You can do this.”
She says it sincerely and I’m overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the entire situation, that a girl who saw her sister murdered is somehow comforting me. It’s Libby’s eyes that bring me back into myself and I do breathe then, a big breath in and out again, and the flushed dizzy feeling dissipates and I tell her that I’m ready whenever she is.
Libby sits back in her chair and crosses her ankles and adjusts her skirt. Then she says, “I’m here again with Esther Anne Hicks, younger daughter of Pastor Jethro Hicks and his wife, Celia, and a star of their family’s hit show, Six for Hicks. When last we sat down, Esther hinted at some very big life changes. Essie, thank you so much for joining us again.”
I know that the shot is framed to be just the two of them, so I sit frozen with my hands flat on my thighs, careful to keep my elbows folded close in to my sides, away from Essie and safely out of view.
“Thank you for having me,” Essie says.
“Now, I think we all know that when television personalities such as yourself come to interviews like this one, you have a certain product to promote. So I honestly never expected that you were serious when we spoke last and you said that you thought you were in love. I thought that someone must have put you up to it, that it was some sort of publicity stunt. But it seems I owe you an apology. For the man in question is in fact real and he’s as adorable as he can be. What’s more, he’s here with us tonight.”
As the camera backs away to include me in the shot, I force my face into the expression we agreed was my best chance at looking both irresistible and entirely wholesome at the same t
ime.
“Essie, would you like to introduce us to your boyfriend?”
Essie giggles, again just as we rehearsed, and Libby asks, “Is something wrong?”
“No, of course not, it’s just that it still sounds strange when you say it out loud.”
“ ‘Boyfriend’?” Libby asks, and Essie blushes. “Well, even so, now’s no time to be shy, not with the poor young man sitting right there beside you.”
Essie turns to me and takes my hand and then says to Libby, “You’re right. I’m so sorry. Libby, this is Roarke Richards. I’m so incredibly blessed to have him here with me tonight and to be able to tell you that he’s not only my boyfriend, he’s my fiancé. Just last night he proposed and I said yes!”
She holds up her left hand and turns it this way and that so Libby can appreciate the ring. We’d discussed making the announcement later in the interview, but Libby suggested dropping the bombshell right out of the gate. That way, once I did speak, people would be hanging on my every word.
Now Libby is turning to me, saying, “Well, it seems that congratulations are in order, Roarke. Is it all right if I call you Roarke? Do you think you can tell us how you feel?”
I look from Liberty Bell to Essie where she sits beside me, hands now folded calmly in her lap, and I’m surprised to find that I’m not lying as I deliver my line: “I feel like the luckiest person in the entire world.”
Liberty
The boy is doing well. Better than I could have hoped. He is good-looking, which helps. Easy on the eyes, Mama would say, and she would be right. When I think of teenagers, I picture baggy jeans, greasy hair, and bad skin, but the young man Esther Hicks produces to play her one true love has none of these. For that I breathe a sigh of relief. Farai can work miracles with her paints and her brushes, but even she can’t turn a pimple pincher into a Hemsworth brother, and a Hemsworth is exactly what we need if we’re going to sell this.
Luckily, Roarke needed very little touching up. His eyes are dark and smoldering, a nice contrast to the Hicks brood’s obvious Aryan tendencies. They make you wonder if Essie has left the fold in search of a bad boy, if Roarke might be her own private rebellion. But the bad-boy image stops there, with his eyes. The rest of his face is safer. Strong jaw, good cheekbones, the kind of chiseled looks that even Farai cannot conjure from nothing, but in this context, with his pressed trousers and brand-new Oxford shirt, they are bland, unthreatening. He is the sort of boy any mother would be happy to have her daughter bring home. Esther could not have planned this better if she tried.
I say this because I do not for one minute believe that these two children are in love. Which is fine with me. It’s more interesting, really.
Essie called midweek to see what progress I had made in finding Elizabeth. I told her that I had tracked down Carter, that I had spoken with Lissa on his phone.
“I asked her why she cut off contact and she said that nothing had happened, that she just wants to be left alone,” I reported.
“But she seemed okay?” Essie asked hopefully.
“She seemed fine,” I assured her. “I think Carter is a good friend. He was looking out for her. I’ll bet she has real good people in her life. Maybe she just wanted to be out of the spotlight. You and I both know how suffocating it can feel. She probably wanted to leave that, not you, behind.”
“You’ll keep trying, won’t you?” she pleaded.
“Of course, if that’s what you want,” I said.
“Yes. Thank you. Delaney will be finalizing the schedule and payments for the interviews I promised in the next couple of days. Can you make sure Lissa knows where I’ll be?”
“Carter will probably send the information along to her if I ask. I’ll also do some more digging around on campus. Maybe we’ll run into each other and she’ll have a change of heart and want to talk.”
“All right,” Essie said then. “I guess I’ll see you soon.”
Something in the tone of her voice reminded me of what I’d said to Elizabeth, about Essie maybe being the one who is in trouble despite her claims that she is the one who is in control, so I said, “Or you can call, anytime, whenever you need to talk, off the record or on. I hope you know that I’m here if you need me.”
“I do. I just haven’t decided yet what it is I need.”
“But you’ll let me know?”
“I will. I just need time. And I need to talk to Lissa before I do something that can’t be undone.”
There is no hint of the Essie who steals phones to call reporters at one in the morning, who makes cryptic statements and then hangs up, in the girl sitting across from me now. The girl sitting on the red couch next to her newly proclaimed fiancé is wholly two-dimensional; she is a projection only, like light cast on the surface of a still pond or the first hint of dawn in winter as it breaks behind the barn. She smiles when it is expected. She says all the right things. She is the exact combination of humble and sarcastic that gives the impression that she might actually be real. But she isn’t. She’s a fabrication. A meticulously constructed and lifelike illusion, but an illusion all the same.
Both Essie and Roarke answer their questions seamlessly. How they met, when they first noticed each other staring across a crowded high school hall. It’s not a particularly interesting story, but they make it compelling with the looks that they share, the shy little smiles, the fingers that reach out for each other as if they can’t help themselves. We pause at the appointed times so that some shots of the two of them together can be cut in before the interview airs later tonight. When we’re done, they both look exhausted, Roarke especially. Or maybe it is just that the room seems dark now that the brighter lights have been turned off. There are shadows in his face that I hadn’t noticed before that make him look older than just eighteen. Still attractive, but also weathered. There is a story inside him as well, I sense, and I wonder if I will ever get to hear it.
“That was great,” I tell him, and I mean it. “You’re a natural in front of the camera.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had some practice this week,” he says, and he and Essie share a laugh that isn’t forced at all.
They really seem to like each other, I’ll give them that. But love is an entirely different matter. Love takes time. It takes energy. And when exactly are these two supposed to have put in that sort of legwork, I would like to know? I’ve seen the clips that the Hickses’ production team sent over and they are charming, but there’s no real substance, no uncertainty, no fighting, no moments when you can see that it would be easier for them to walk away but then they don’t. They choose the harder path. And they choose to walk that path together.
Still, they are fond of each other and maybe that’s enough. Maybe that is the sort of affection that should serve as the basis of a lifetime commitment. Maybe everyone else has been doing it wrong, expecting too much only to be disappointed. I certainly shouldn’t be giving advice, but if I were asked, I guess I would say that the key to any relationship is a shared vision for where you both want to be. No frills. No fuss. Just a road map for you both to follow so no one gets lost along the way.
* * *
—————
That first day, when Mike so casually walked into my room and then walked out again, the furthest thing from my mind was that I could ever love him. I already knew what he thought of me. I had heard it in his voice. They were words I had heard before. Whack job. Loony. Conspiracy nut. Crazy cultist. I had been called all of these things and some of the harsher four-letter words besides. If you ignored the profanity, the rest of the name-calling was well deserved, though at the time I would have defended my beliefs as fiercely as a mountain lion protecting its kill. I would have gone for blood. This was easier to do from the privacy of my dorm room, of course, where I could read only those comments on my blog posts that I wanted to and ignore all the rest. In person, it was more difficult
. In person, I sometimes heard my own words as I was speaking them and realized how cruel they were, how hurtful, because there was no way to avoid the pain visible on the other person’s face.
So I expected Mike to keep his distance. After all, despite my own tendencies to always seek out a fight, in my experience, most other people weren’t so inclined. They just wanted to go about their business quietly, sleep through class, hang out with their friends, and drink too much on the weekends. And Mike did his share of all that, I know, but he also started to read my blog and comment on it. He was writing the sort of comments that I used to just skip over, but now that they were attached to an actual person who had stood in my actual bedroom, I found them difficult to ignore.
He clearly didn’t agree with anything I wrote, but he was funny about it. When he called me narrow-minded and bigoted, he did it in a way that made me laugh. He created a Twitter account just so he could troll me, but instead of being angry, I found myself thinking about ways to bait him, to draw him out. He would never let comments about gays being responsible for 9/11 go unanswered, for example, or those blaming the Jews for killing Jesus. But he had a way of deflecting rather than resorting to name-calling that allowed us to have a conversation even though we were as close to polar opposites as two people can be. I had never really spoken about such things directly with an unbeliever, not without eventually being told that Hell was preferable to having to spend an eternity in Heaven with the likes of me.
It was months before I saw Mike again in person. I was carrying my tray into the dining hall when I heard my name called out above the din.
“Liberty Bell, in the flesh!” He was practically yelling. My cheeks burned and I began to move away, but then Mike was sliding over, making room, and gesturing for me to join him.
The Book of Essie Page 11