by M. C. Sutton
Damn it! I hate this! I’m stronger than this! She was getting really sick of how vulnerable and helpless these attacks made her feel.
Emma opened her eyes again, just long enough to see the swirling of the marble tile rising up beneath her. The dizziness and nausea were too much. She reached out a hand to catch herself before she hit the floor.
Someone else caught her first.
Emma breathed in deeply, clinging to whomever stood next to her as the final wave washed over. Then she let out a long breath and opened her eyes.
It was the young man with the sun-streaked hair and weathered face. “Ma’am, are you all right?” he said with a level of concern in his eyes she wouldn’t think possible for a stranger.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice shaky. “I think so.”
“Are you sure?” he said, scanning her face. “You look awfully pale.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s probably the heat. I just need a moment.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Maybe I should call for the doctor.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “No, don’t,” she pleaded. “I’m fine, really.” She looked past him to where he had been standing just moments before. The big, burly guy was already gone. “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to make a scene.”
He wrinkled his forehead, then smiled. “All right. What can I do, then?”
Emma relaxed her shoulders. She glanced around, relieved to see that apparently no one else had noticed her close call with the floor. “Just help me find somewhere quiet to sit down, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, glancing at the name badge on her collar. “Right this way, Dr. Grant.”
Emma smiled and took his offered arm.
The young man led her carefully across the atrium to the door of one of the restaurants, which hadn’t yet been opened to guests. He guided her inside, flipped on the lights, and directed her to the closest table. Emma sank gratefully into the cushioned armchair and closed her eyes.
“How about a glass of orange juice?” the young man said, pulling a small notebook from his back pocket and taking out a piece of paper. “Should help get your blood sugar up.”
“That’d be fantastic,” said Emma. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He set his notebook on the table and unfolded the paper in his hand. “Assuming, of course, one of these codes actually gets us into the kitchen,” he added with a smile, then stepped away.
Emma eyed the notebook he’d left on the table. The worn leather and frayed ribbon told her how much it meant to him. It surprised her that he would leave something so obviously important with a total stranger.
“Well, that wasn’t hard at all,” he said, returning with a large glass of orange juice. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Emma gratefully accepted the glass of juice and took a long drink. “It probably isn’t fair at all for me to drag you away from your duties, but would you mind just sitting with me for a little while? It helps if I have someone to talk to.”
“Are you kidding? And miss my chance to continue catering to all those pompous windbags? A bunch of guys who are supposed to be ‘representing the people’ but probably have no idea what it’s like to actually be one of those people?” The young man pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. He put his hand on his notebook and pulled it closer. “I could think of a thousand other things I’d rather be doing, trust me.”
“Such as?”
He smiled. “Well, writing for one, I suppose.”
“Ah,” said Emma, nodding to the book tucked under his hand. “So that explains the notebook.”
“Well, yes, actually. One of my professors in college suggested that we get into the habit of keeping a notebook with us. A place to jot down our ideas and whatnot. I took his advice.”
“So what happened then? With your writing, I mean.”
“Pretty much the same thing that happened to everyone else, I guess. My little brother went off to fight in the war and my father passed away, so I came home from school to take care of the family ranch. I only meant to stay till my brother got back, but…” He stopped and looked down.
Emma didn’t have to ask what happened to his brother. “You know, I once read that people who keep private notebooks are lonely and restless rearrangers, cursed at birth with an affinity for loss.”
He laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Does that mean you’re a ‘lonely and restless rearranger’ too?”
“Me? No. I’ve always been too afraid to keep a notebook. I have this underlying paranoia that someone would find it and know all my innermost personal thoughts.”
“Well, you’re just going about it the wrong way, then. Most of what’s in this notebook isn’t mine. It’s filled with poems, song lyrics, and what other people have said and written. Kind of like a code. Everything in here has some sort of meaning, some background, but only to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The words are little bits and pieces that remind me of a part of myself, like a freeze frame in time. What I choose to jot down isn’t what’s important. What’s important is how I felt when I wrote it. How it made me feel. Like a reminder of the person I was at that time, a way to keep in touch with a previous version of myself. It helps me remember who I was and wasn’t, who I am and who I’m not. I guess you could say it’s kind of like my totem.”
Emma shook her head. “Totem?”
“Yeah, you know, an object that’s a representation of ourselves. Something that’s familiar only to us, that helps us remember who we are.” He added with a grin, “Kind of like that necklace you’ve been fiddling with for the last five minutes.”
Emma hadn’t even noticed she was playing with it. She dropped her hand and smiled. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”
“Only for someone observant. And I’m afraid that’s what writers do—observe. So, does that mean I’m right? Or am I really the only one cursed at birth with an affinity for loss?”
Emma’s smile faded. She stared into her juice. “I grew up not too far from here, in a little east Texas town. When I was twelve years old, my mother and four-year-old brother were killed in a car accident just a few days after Thanksgiving. We didn’t exactly get along, my mother and I, but that Christmas I found a small box under the tree with my name on it. Inside was this necklace, with a note that said, ‘Learn to let go.’ My father told me she had bought it for me several months before she died.”
The young man’s face fell. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Grant. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re right. I guess it is kind of like my totem. A reflection of someone I once was. This necklace is a reminder to me that the choices we make don’t just affect us, but those around us as well. It’s a part of me, and it helps remind me of who I am.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s all it reminds you of?”
Emma opened her mouth, then swallowed hard and dropped her eyes.
He cleared his throat and stood. “Well,” he said, pushing in his chair. “I should get back, before someone starts to wonder about me.”
Emma nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have kept you so long. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be.” He tucked the notebook into his back pocket. “I’d much rather be in here than out there, anyway. And you’re welcome to hang out as long as you need to. The restaurant won’t be opening for a few more hours. I don’t think anyone will bother you.”
“Thank you,” said Emma. “For everything. I’d probably be out there on the floor surrounded by a bunch of gawking, gossiping politicians right now if it weren’t for you.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, wait,” said Emma, just as he was about to turn and leave. “I never got your name.”
He paused before answering. “It’s Sam.”
“Sam, huh? Well, it was very nice to meet you, Sam.” She offered him a hand.
He shook it. “It wa
s nice to meet you, too, Dr. Grant.”
CHAPTER 6
JON LOATHED THE FLUFF OF political façade. After hours of polite drivel in the lobby, he managed to make it up to their suite just in time for a quick shower before having to change. He stood in front of the mirror, fumbling with the necktie of what he so lovingly referred to as his “penguin suit.” No matter how many times he had to wear one of these stupid things, he still hated it.
“I really don’t see why we have to go to a state dinner, anyway,” he said, unknotting his tie and starting over for the third time. “It’s not like we’re in DC.”
“Because this is still a political event, and there is a foreign national here,” Emma answered as she stepped out of the bathroom and came over to help him. “Trust me, I’m not exactly looking forward to it, either.”
Jon knew full well how apprehensive she was about meeting Stephen Bennett, though he hoped that apprehension was related more to her distaste for Bennett’s political views than anything else. “Well, at least I get to see you in that little black cocktail dress.”
“I’m glad you’re getting a kick out of it.” She finished knotting his tie. “Now, if you’re done drooling over me, can we please go?”
Jon sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
In the elevator, Emma reminded him that this was a diplomatic dinner, and that he needed to be on his best behavior. He knew better than to mention that he had way more experience with this kind of stuff than she did, or that she was the one more likely to fly off the handle anyway.
The banquet hall was filled with round tables, each with a pristine white tablecloth and about a dozen formal place settings. Only one of the tables was occupied.
Jon and Emma were met at the door by the maître d’, a young man with sun-streaked hair and a weathered face.
“Mr. and Mrs. Grant?”
Jon nodded, and the young man led them to the occupied table at the very back of the room.
Jack stood as they approached. “Jon, Emma,” he said, shaking their hands. “Emma, I believe you know most of our presenters. Jon, this is Dr. Anna Korvaire, Dr. Najeet Anand, Senator Moses Hendrix, and Professor David Goldberg.”
Jon nodded politely to each of them.
“Then, of course, there is our special guest, whom I believe neither of you have met before. Minister, this is Captain Grant, formerly of the Virginia Air National Guard, and his wife, the lovely Dr. Emma Grant. Jon, Emma, I’d like to introduce to you the Canadian Minister of International Development, Stephen Bennett.”
Emma reached for Jon’s hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Minister,” said Jon.
Bennett greeted him with a gleam in his eye and a smile bright enough to see one’s own imperfections in. “Oh, I can assure you, Captain, the pleasure is all mine.”
Jack directed Jon and Emma to their seats, between himself and Bennett. Jon made sure to pull out the chair next to Jack for Emma, so that Jon would be the one sitting next to Bennett instead of her. The maître d’ returned and offered them all a glass of wine. Bennett held up his glass, but Jon politely declined.
“Come now, Captain, have a drink with me,” said Bennett.
“No. Thank you.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right.” Bennett took a sip of his wine. “A man who knows his limits. I admire that.”
Jon looked sideways at Emma. What was that supposed to mean?
“Captain Grant, you are a combat pilot, yes?” Bennett asked.
“Not anymore. It’s just private charter now, thankfully.”
“But you flew during the war, did you not?”
“That’s correct.” Jon looked down at his plate as the first course was served, a ricotta gnocchi with caviar. Where in the world did they even find caviar?
“Somewhat of a hero, from what I understand,” said Bennett.
“There are no heroes in war,” Jon answered.
Bennett smiled. “Indeed. Especially one so bloody and corrupt. A lot of good men and women were lost in that war. Some might say… needlessly?”
Jon stared at him, silent. The guy sounded more like an aristocrat Sophist than a Quebecker.
“And then, of course, there were those whose lives were so horribly… disrupted.” The minister looked this time at Emma. “Rather unfortunate. So many lost. So many left behind to pick up the pieces. Why, one might almost feel a sense of betrayal from the entire ordeal, considering the outcome.”
“Yes, well, it was a long time ago,” said Jon.
“And hardly a topic for dinner, wouldn’t you agree?” Jack interrupted.
Bennett nodded. “Yes, of course, of course.” He turned to Dr. Korvaire and joined in a conversation about the decline of the transportation sector and the effects of the rising cost of oil.
Jon quickly tuned them out. Bennett’s comments about the war had left him uncomfortable, to say the least. He wasn’t sure at all where Bennett had been going with it, but he was certain it wasn’t something he cared to discuss. He was grateful to Jack for changing the subject.
When the maître d’ returned to take their plates in preparation for the main course, Emma looked up at the man’s name tag.
“Sam,” she said, reading the tag. “And how are you this evening, Sam?”
He smiled. “I’m doing very well, thank you, ma’am.”
Emma smiled at him in return.
“Well, then, Dr. Grant,” said Bennett, turning to Emma. “Crisis psychology spans multiple disciplines, from what I understand, from the traumas of domestic violence to war. Your specialization is in…?”
“Disaster psychology. It focuses on how people react specifically during and after a disaster.”
“Yes, I am familiar with it. Indeed, I have endeavored to familiarize myself with most of your work, Dr. Grant. Quite an impressive career.” Bennett gave a smirk that, to Jon, felt like nails on a chalkboard. “Considering its… rocky beginnings.”
Jon clenched his jaw. Great. Here we go.
Emma took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”
“Oh, I mean that only respectfully of course. I am referring to the ordeal with your government’s Federal Emergency Management Agency so many years ago, right before the disaster outbreaks. When your recommendations were so unreasonably dismissed. It must have been difficult for you, to have to watch the entire scenario unfold, knowing something could have been done.”
“I believe that, at the time, decisions were made based on cost-benefit and what evidence was available,” said Emma.
Jon knew better, but he admired her effort.
“Evidence, indeed. Though I must say your projections were staggering, to say the least. Considering you had the same amount of evidence available to you. I’m no scientist and don’t pretend to fully comprehend the research, but I have never been able to ascertain just how you so accurately predicted each occurrence. Perhaps one day you can explain it to me.”
Emma’s face paled. Jon could almost feel the wave of panic that washed over her. He reached for her hand under the table. It was cold.
“And that is exactly what we’re here for, isn’t it?” Jack interjected as the maître d’ returned with the main course. “To share ideas and experiences? To bring down our boundaries and work together in mutual problem-solving?”
“Yes, absolutely. And aptly put, I must say,” said Bennett. “As you know, the GOG’s position has ever been to bring down the boundaries that surround our nations in order to work in mutual cooperation for the good of all.”
“At the expense of our freedoms and identities?” said Emma.
As the maître d’ set Jon’s plate down, he glanced at her, then at Bennett.
“Certainly everything worth working toward requires some sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?” Bennett replied. “If we are to achieve a common goal, we cannot hope to continue as isolationists, can we?”
“On the contrary, Minister.” Emma looked up at the maître d’ a
s he set her plate down in front of her. “I believe good walls make good neighbors.”
The maître d’ grinned.
“Oh, come now, Dr. Grant. Surely you of all people, having suffered personally as well as professionally at the hands of a corrupt system, would be able to appreciate the need for a government restructuring? A government more adequately held accountable to the people it is intended to serve? A government more centralized, with much further-reaching resources?” Bennett turned on Jon. “Captain Grant, can you honestly sit there and insist that these are issues you have not, yourself, considered?”
Jon was shocked by Bennett’s brazenness. Had he completely forgotten that he sat right next to the vice president of that so-called “corrupt system”?
Emma answered for him. “Minister, it is quite clear that you have done your homework. But one thing you fail to recognize is that my husband and I are patriots. We have both served this country. We have suffered and sacrificed, and we shall continue to do so, under an American flag. Now, if you will excuse me,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”
Bennett stood too. He spoke with an air of calm arrogance. “Make no mistake, Dr. Grant, the world is changing. And it is seldom… wise… to stand in the way of progress.”
Emma narrowed her eyes, then turned on her heel and headed for the door.
Jon stood and watched her leave.
“I do hope I didn’t offend her, Captain Grant,” said Bennett. “It was certainly not my intention.”
“No, Minister,” Jon answered. “I must apologize for her sensitivity. I’m afraid Dr. Grant isn’t exactly… feeling well.”
“Think nothing of it, Captain. Do let her know that I hope she recovers quickly.” Bennett held out his hand.
As Jon shook it, his gaze landed momentarily on the minister’s forehead before quickly looking away. “Thank you. I will be sure to tell her,” he said with a forced smile. With a nod to the others at the table, he excused himself to follow his wife. He wondered if he’d seen what he thought he just saw.