Liberty

by Andrea Portes

  And, let’s face it, you didn’t know I knew it either. It’s not something I go around bragging about. That would just be lame. But, suffice to say, my mom became kind of obsessed with Muay Thai, Eskrima, jujitsu, and good old-fashioned karate while I was growing up. So that meant we all had to be obsessed, too.

  It’s not their fault. Hot Dog and Hamburger.

  I don’t exactly look like a black belt.

  Hot Dog tries to grab me from behind, but that is actually the perfect positioning for me to flip him over my back and send him crashing to the floor. I mean, like, that’s literally where they have your sparring partner stand to practice that move on the mat.

  THUD.

  And there goes his AK-47. Which now falls to the floor and, praise the Lord, doesn’t discharge. I grab that particular health hazard just in time to see Hamburger charge me with the full weight of his flame-grilled burger body. Which would be daunting. Absolutely. Except if you use the force of his endless life of funnel cakes against him and simply wait until the very last moment before stepping aside in a lightning-quick manner, then he ends up using all of his own weight to run barreling into the bubblegum machine.

  Kind of humiliating.

  If these guys weren’t such dicks I’d feel sorry for them. But let’s remember who brought the AK-47s to the Applebee’s, now, shall we?

  Hamburger’s face is bleeding, lacerated by the gum-ball dispenser. Also, his nose looks pretty bad. Not that it looked that good before. This is a great time to grab his AK, which, let’s be honest, is not going to go well with his oncoming blind rage. I notice Hot Dog get up from the ground because his reflection is actually visible in the glass of the gum-ball machine. He is currently coming up behind me.

  See? If I wasn’t seeing this from the ceiling, I might actually be terrified right now.

  The thing about guns is that you can always use the butt of them. Which I do. And now he’s smacked to the ground bleeding, too. Hamburger seems to still be in a state of shock. Hot Dog is cursing to himself. Both of them are kind of just flailing around there on the floor of the Applebee’s welcome area.

  So that happened.

  The waitstaff, the manager, the moms look at me. Like I am from Pluto.

  They did not see it coming.

  It’s a five-year-old who breaks the silence, the one in the Batman shirt.

  “Did you see that, Mommy?! That was awesome!”

  And his mom allows herself a kind of relieved laugh.

  I remove the ammunition from both guns, then hand the guns and ammo, separately, to Ned Flanders.

  “Okay, well, thank you for the facilities,” I say. “By the way, you may want to install a hand air dryer, as it will prove to be an effective cost-cutting measure, as well as reducing paper towel consumption. Something to think about.”

  I step over Hot Dog and Hamburger. Flick their laminated Constitution, which I’ve picked up from the ground, into their faces. “I’m sure you’ve made George Washington very proud today.”

  And that’s all she wrote. I walk out, leaving the Applebee’s of Altoona, Pennsylvania, behind me.

  I’m sure it feels like a bit of a daydream to those people in there. But that’s okay, too, because, as you know, it all feels like a daydream to me. That’s my problem. Or my “crisis/opportunity” as my mom would say.

  But, regardless of that, I had to do something.

  You see, I hate guns.

  And the only thing I hate more than guns is guns around little kids.

  I feel passionately about this subject for probably the same reason I have this dissociative disorder. It all goes back to the same part of the brain, which is apparently highly invested in daydreaming, obsession, and, of course, worst-case-scenario plotting, otherwise known as worrying. It’s the same part. You see, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

  But the important thing here, right now? Well, the important thing is I didn’t know there was video being shot of the entire incident. I had no idea. And I certainly didn’t know that this video would alter the course of the rest of my life.

  4

  Everyone thinks they’re dead.

  My parents.

  I mean, they try to be nice about it and offer kind words and support. They tell me to have hope. They tell me miracles can happen. Stuff like that. Nothing about rainbows and buttercups just yet. But I’m pretty sure it’s coming. I mean, it’s been over a year. So the keep-hope-alive speeches are becoming less and less convincing. Particularly to the ones saying them.

  If they just would’ve stopped caring about people, none of this would have happened. If they just would’ve become like the rest of everybody and never seen the bad stuff, never looked at the bad stuff, just gotten back to the TV and the internet and the infinite distraction, well . . . then they’d probably be safe and sound. Ensconced in a cocoon of their own making.

  But no. Not them.

  They happened to be in Istanbul for their publisher. Yep, they both had the same publisher in Turkey. It turns out, Turkish people read a lot! There was a big hullabaloo book fair in Istanbul, and their publisher flew them out to sign their respective books and make appearances on local talk shows and the like.

  Yep, I know. They’re sort of famous. Well, renowned. Intellectuals are never really famous. My mom is renowned for a book she wrote on multinational corporations, where she actually went undercover and worked at a factory in Bangladesh for ten cents a day. That’s the one that got her that National Book Award she’s so proud of. Or used to be proud of. Right now she’s probably not proud so much because she’s probably dead.

  Ouch.

  I know.

  But let’s just face facts, shall we?

  And my dad. His book, River to Sea, taught on campuses from Princeton to Berkeley, has somehow ended up being the seminal book on Israel/Palestine. That got him a National Book Critics Circle nomination. (But not a win. That year the nonfiction went to The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson. Stiff competition.)

  But, in Istanbul? At the Istanbul Book Fair? My parents were rock stars.

  That would’ve been fine. Perfect. All well and good.

  Except.

  My mom met a woman who was worried about her sister. In Syria. Her sister was a nun at the Catholic Mission northeast of Damascus, halfway to Aleppo. Instead of fleeing the inevitable advance of ISIS, the priest and the nuns decided to stay there, with their flock. Even though most of the people in the town were Muslims. The idea was that it was wrong to abandon the people. That it was their moral duty, their God-given duty, to stay.

  So of course my mother wanted to interview them. This noble cause. This nun, this priest, this flock.

  She assured my father she’d be safe, but he insisted on joining her. They wouldn’t go farther than Damascus.

  Damascus, no surprise, is the last place they were seen.

  I go over this again and again, each night, tossing and turning, trying to find a clue, somewhere in the plan. A missing piece. Maybe the woman she met at the book fair was a plant. Maybe it was a trap. Where was this Catholic Mission? Who were these nuns? Are they still alive? Is anyone still alive? Where are my parents?

  Are they ever coming home?

  Will I ever see my dad’s rugged skin? His khaki green epaulet button-down shirts, always with a little notepad in the pocket. His hair all over the place, a mad scientist in chestnut. Will he ever tell me his dumb jokes again? Will he ever call me a sack of potatoes and throw me over this shoulder even though I tell him I’m too old and oh God, Dad, seriously, stop?

  What about my mom?

  There are a million things I think about my mom, and her decision to tell this story in the middle of a war zone. I have processed up to five hundred and thirty-one thoughts on the subject thus far. Only nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, four hundred sixty-nine to go!

  But will I ever see her again? Her long dishwater-blond hair, her bizarre mismatched outfits, her Bohemian chic, patterns from Mojave
to Mumbai? My mom, with her razor-sharp wit and pithy insights. That’s the thing about my mom: she was always the smartest and, yes, the weirdest, one in the room.

  At first, people would think she was a dummy. They would. They’d see my dad, a little bit older, and looking it from spending years and years from Gaza to the Golan Heights. They’d see my mom, younger than my dad, and young-looking. (She was vain.) Then they’d just assume he was some sort of sugar daddy and she was in it for the free ride. But then . . . then . . . she’d say one or two things in conversation that would inevitably identify her as 1) not stupid and 2) kind of a genius. And she’d do it humbly. Then, at some point someone would refer to her superfamous National Book Award–winning book.

  Game, set, and match.

  Trust me. I’ve seen it happen over fifteen times. You can practically tell time by it.

  The other thing you can tell time by is my mom’s ability to lose anything. And I do mean anything. Has she ever asked where her keys are when they’re in her hand? Check. Has she ever asked you to help her find her phone, when you are talking to her over the phone? Check. What about asking you where her glasses are when she is wearing them? And check.

  I have never in my life met anyone more forgetful or absentminded then my mom. She’s like beyond the absentminded professor. She’s like the loopy, blind, absentminded professor. Here’s an example: she cannot, for the life of her, make toast. Toast. She has tried it ten times and every time, every time . . . the toast ends up black. Oh, she’ll cut it into pieces. She’ll even cut it into little triangles BEFORE she realizes it’s black. Then she’ll serve it in front of whoever is the unfortunate receiver of the toast, usually Dad or me. And that’s when it happens: She’ll see it for the first time. Through your eyes. In reality. “Oh no!” She will declare. “How did that happen?” And she will mean it. She will truly be baffled.

  It got so my dad and I had to hide the toaster.

  “Please,” my dad would insist. “Stop trying. It’s okay. You don’t have to prove anything. It’s just toast.”

  She’d reply, “Are you sure it’s not a metaphor for my love and my ability to create a happy and loving home?”

  “Yes. It is not a metaphor for your love and your ability to create a happy and loving home. You’re an incredible journalist, mother, and wife. But, let’s face it, toast is not your thing.”

  “It’s not my thing?”

  “Nope. You are antitoast.”

  And he’d smile, and she’d smile back.

  That moment.

  Little moments like that.

  I miss them.

  So that was it. He was the chef. And Mom would put together whatever ridiculous fun decorations were in fitting with the theme. Chicken kiev for dinner? Let me show you these Russian dolls! Or a Cinco de Mayo night? I’ll find a piñata! Let’s make paper flowers! My mom had this goofy yet adorable way of going all in. She’d hang Turkish lanterns. She’d rent a popcorn machine. She’d find a way to project a movie onto a big screen in the backyard. She even once, I’m not kidding, hired a quick-change artist. I know. It was so doofy, but it was, undeniably, hilarious.

  That’s what I think my dad loved about her.

  She was like a light.

  He was more kind, more serious, more measured. But she was actually a goofball. Imagine Ruth Gordon in Harold and Maude. Oh, you haven’t seen it? Go see it right now. Seriously.

  . . .

  I’m waiting . . .

  . . .

  Okay, you back? Good. Nice to see you again. So, now that you’ve seen Ruth Gordon in Harold and Maude . . .

  That’s my mom.

  It was like all the terrible things in the world manifested in her into a rebellion against darkness. A defiant exuberance.

  And this is what makes me think she’s alive. That she has to be alive. That there is no way on earth, no God so cruel, no fate so callous, that it would let this particular spirit perish.

  I just can’t believe it.

  But maybe I am just kidding myself.

  Maybe they are both dead.

  And maybe I am a fool.

  5

  All three of my boyfriends are shocked LexCorp is recruiting on campus.

  Okay, maybe they’re not really my boyfriends. More like guys who I see a lot but can’t commit to. I know, it’s weird to have three.

  One day they will each of them marry a sweet girl who says the right things and is liked by their respective parents and they’ll move into houses with white picket fences and dogs named Spot.

  But that ain’t me, babe.

  I’m not sure why I’m doing this, this having-three-not-boyfriends thing, other than the fact that while I do not want to deal with ONE person in a RELATIONSHIP, I’m deathly afraid of being alone. When I’m alone, the thoughts come rushing in. When I’m alone, all of the too-horrible things that could have happened, or are happening, to my mom and dad threaten to invade my conscience. That’s the first problem.

  And the second problem? Remember how we were talking about that little dissociative issue I have? Like, I see myself not from inside myself but from somewhere else? Usually from up above or the corner or something? Well, that kinda takes a toll on the old relationship issue. You know how in movies girls are always superexcited when a guy comes close to them and says something sweet or gives them a hug or gives them flowers? Like every girl out there is just dying to bloom into a beautiful butterfly at the touch, the look, the approval of the nearest cute guy? Well, I sort of ended up being the opposite of that girl. So for instance, if a guy goes to kiss me really fast, I shrink away. It scares me. Or if a guy looks into my eyes and says, “I want to be closer to you.” It’s like a horror show. Terrifying.

  And I didn’t want to be this way. I didn’t ask to be.

  It’s just something that ended up happening for a lot of different reasons that maybe we can explore later and then make a PowerPoint presentation about.

  (Also, then we can make a PowerPoint presentation about why PowerPoint presentations are boring.)

  In any case, there’s nothing wrong with any of these three guys. I’m serious. It’s me. I’ve investigated the problem, and the problem is me.

  Do you want to meet them?

  Okay, fine. But before you do, I have to explain a little bit about the situation around these parts.

  Ready?

  I go to an all-women’s college named Bryn Mawr. It’s one of the “Seven Sisters,” and the thing everyone always says about it is that Katharine Hepburn went here. The other Seven Sisters are, in no particular order, Wellesley, Mount Holyoke, Vassar (the debutante one), Radcliffe (the Harvard one), Smith (girls in pearls), and Barnard (the one in New York). Bryn Mawr is generally considered the one with the freaks. Also, the most academically challenging. And lesbo central.

  Now, there are four colleges associated with Bryn Mawr: Princeton, Swarthmore, UPenn, and Haverford.

  Princeton is the official brother school of Bryn Mawr, but it’s WAY too square and there is zero interaction. Those are guys who strive to be bankers. Gross. You can practically feel them itching to crash the economy.

  UPenn is also considered part of the community. We can take classes there, but it’s in Philadelphia, which is a twenty-five-minute train ride, so it might as well be in Tibet. Also, those guys are kind of jocky. Again, ew.

  Swarthmore is closer, and cooler. We can take classes there, and they can take classes here. In fact, last year, five guys took a class with me in English House called “Poetics and Politics of the Sublime.” I know. No one had any idea what that class was about. But those guys could talk a blue streak. One of them even had patches on the elbows of his blazer. Patches!

  And, finally, there is Haverford. Very much more involved. There’s a blue bus that runs between the two schools and we can live there, they can live here, etc. Except no one really does this because those are all guys who listen to Phish, wear flannel, and play lacrosse, and we are all a bunch of black-c
lad lesbos who chant, “Death to the Patriarchy!” and spell woman with a y. Womyn. Get it? Because the idea is you don’t need a man to spell woman. Don’t laugh.

  I don’t really care about the spelling thing, but I have no desire to listen to Phish.

  However, every once in a while there is a phenomenon called a “Bryn Man.” That is a Haverford guy who doesn’t really fit over there and will just decide to live and major at Bryn Mawr. They have to have a pretty thick skin and a very studied self-deprecating way about them to get away with it. But these are the smartest guys. Because these guys still get a lot of action. Pretty clever, huh?

  So, now that we’ve laid the groundwork . . . let’s meet our bachelors, shall we?

  Okay, here we.

  Bachelor number one!

  Well, folks, bachelor number one hails from Allentown, Pennsylvania! The only son of a Jewish doctor and a doting mother, he was raised as if he is God’s gift to the earth and has a habit of being hilarious, pithy, and biting. Olive-skinned with giant dark eyes, bachelor number one is five foot eleven, skinny, and hoping to be a great filmmaker one day. His hobbies include watching obscure movies and watching obscure movies. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Aaron!

  Are you ready for bachelor number two? Okay, then, bachelor number two is from sunny Southern California. Having lost his father at a young age, bachelor number two was raised by his German-American mother. However, his grandfather on his father’s side was African-American. The combination of this, with his German blood, somehow made him the most attractive person ever to walk the face of the earth and possibly the universe. Dishwater-blond, short hair; beige, sun-kissed skin; and a truly hunky body have turned this guy into, basically, a living Ken doll. But with brains. Yes, folks, bachelor number two is an international relations major who will probably one day be the ambassador to China. Say hello to Teddy!

  And finally, bachelor number three is an international student from (sigh) Paris, France. He is filled with disdain for everything American except for his Levi’s and Marlboro cigarettes. He wears vaguely Middle Eastern scarves and is a philosophy major whose personal philosophy is look good, hate everything. He has the same five-o’clock shadow at all times, although I don’t quite know how that’s physically possible. His name is . . . Patrice!