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Ghiyath Ayman never quite understood that as a single male in his mid-twenties, he was not supposed to be watching soap operas when he was alone. Or at any other time, really. But that's precisely what Ghi himself―genuinely without shame―told me he was doing that first afternoon of November.
Like Corin, Ghi found himself holed up in a hotel room somewhere in Manhattan, feeling anxious and increasingly awful. Ghi was not in New York for business or pleasure, however. Ghi was in New York against his better judgement and, quite frankly, against his will.
If it were up to Ghi, he would have been in a nice, quiet apartment in the suburbs of familiar Dubai, not in the frightful heart of Manhattan. To Ghi, New York was terrifying―more terrifying than Boston, even. And although Ghi had found nearly every life change during the past five years to be increasingly more terrifying, this time he knew for sure: New York meant trouble.
But it wasn't up to Ghi. Nothing ever was. This fact was as natural to him as walking, as breathing, as laying on the big green office couch in Boston, where he had told Dr. Avery every last recollectable detail about his dreams and begged to be left out of the convention. Ghi kept no secrets from Dr. Avery. He trusted Dr. Avery.
And yet here he was anyway, on the eleventh floor of the Times Square Wellington, in the suite he and Dr. Avery were sharing for the week: betrayed, door bolted, shades drawn, soap opera on.
The doctor was out. On the grainy screen, a woman lie in a hospital room, comatose and pregnant, while two dashing men debated heatedly from either side of her, arguing about which of them was the father of her unborn child.
Ghi stared at the TV with mild interest, sprawled awkwardly on the short hotel couch, his legs draped over the armrest. He felt completely on edge, as if someone would burst through the door or window at any second and prove to everyone, by means of violence, that he should never have gone to New York.
"Ghiyath, there's nothing to worry about. It’s just a coincidence."
That's what Dr. Avery had kept saying back in Boston, back when the convention was still a matter of debate. Ghi recalled all his own hopeless protesting and decided that he'd given in too easily. He rolled over onto his back and tossed a throw pillow from one hand to another, working hard to replay the argument in his mind.
"You’ve never been to New York. You were never in America until you came to see me. We’re certain of that, aren’t we?"
Dr. Avery liked to ask questions like that to sound reassuring. Most of the time, it just made Ghi feel like a moron.
The shapes of the hotel room blurred and shifted, until they lined up with the shapes of Dr. Avery's office. Ghi had to fight, just for a moment, to remember where he was.
"It could be a collection of memories, easily, but the Statue of Liberty may be sort of ... superimposed. Some sort of pop culture addition that your mind is manifesting in place of something it can’t remember."
The pillow dropped to the carpet. High above it, the ceiling's patterns began to float off in two different directions. These frequent optical and motor lapses never helped matters. Ghi strained his eyes, forcing them to refocus, until both the ceiling and his memory were correct again.
This was where he had given in, he remembered. The creak of Dr. Avery’s chair had indicated that he was about to say something in his resolved, sympathetic voice. Ghiyath, I really feel ....
"Ghiyath, I really feel that this will be to your benefit. A lot of my colleagues are very interested in you, and maybe they can help you in ways I haven’t thought of. And if it makes you feel any better, we won’t be anywhere near Liberty Island."
It didn't make Ghi feel better.
"Susan knows the truth," one of the soap stars snarled through bleached teeth. "You just wait, you son of a bitch! You just wait!"
Ghi shuffled into the kitchen for something to calm what was quickly becoming a nervous stomach. The clock on the microwave told him that it was four-o-clock, which meant that Dr. Avery would be back soon to take him to the second evening of the convention. The second evening of sitting on an auditorium stage under hot lights in front of fast-talking physicians.
Fantastic.
Ghi breathed deeply. He opened the freezer, where a lone can of Dr. Pepper was waiting for him. It didn't occur to him that the can was slightly misshapen, or that by putting it in the freezer he had created a frozen time bomb of frothy sugar. He just liked the stuff cold. Any other man in his mid twenties, unless he had grown up in a remote Amazon village, or unless he was just plain stupid, would know better. Ghi hadn't grown up in a remote Amazon village. And he wasn't stupid, either.
He just wasn't normal.
The icy metal tab refused to budge against Ghi's thumb. When a feminine cry sounded from the next room, he returned to the TV and saw that Susan had come out of her coma.
Can in hand, Ghi stood and watched Susan with rapt attention. She was sitting straight up, hair perfect, eyelashes long and pretty, staring at the two men who stood at her bedside. They asked her if she was alright, asked her for the truth, whatever it was. But Susan just stared. She didn't remember the truth. She didn't remember who these men were. She didn't even remember that she was Susan anymore.
Poor, poor Susan.
Ghi made a sour face and pried at the Dr. Pepper again. The tab finally lifted and frozen slush erupted from the bloated can, spilling down into the sleeves of all his layered sweaters. Ghi cursed and retreated to the kitchen before any of it could drip down to the carpet.
Vessel, Book I: The Advent Page 7