I’ve turned into my mother and instead of triple-checking the door locks and stove knobs, it’s my printouts that I keep looking over: the car-rental info, hotel reservation, directions to get to Fatima’s place (even though I’ll have GPS.) I’ve also visited the dining car four times and ate nothing, dipped in and out of the quiet car for no good reason, switched from the window to aisle seat a few times back-to-back—like a complete weirdo—and there are still two hours of tracks to cover before we pull into Union Station tonight. Clearly, true boredom has set in. Maybe a quick call to Miles would help. He keeps circling my brain. I’m hearing him say It’s the human condition, with each glance at these Fatima photos. He’s worked it all out. Figured out where to put things, useless things like shame, resentment, pity, guilt. They’re not weighing on Miles in the slightest. I could have sat with him at that bar for hours more. And him being easy on the mind—and eyes, with his bionic leg—that doesn’t hurt.
Looking around the train, every other seat has that distinct blue glow hovering above, tickling the ceiling—I’ve counted.
Fuck it. I root around my coat pocket for Miles’s card and actually mumble the words “just do it” to my cold phone. I press the raised, rigid button on the side of my phone and rest it on the seat next to me. Not going to bother with the deep breaths and pep-talk bullshit. I don’t want to sound rehearsed with him. I like this truth-thing that we’re doing. (However, I will take one quick exhale for centering purposes.)
My phone rings and it’s loud. The clang of it gets me a mean-mug from the older couple seated nearby. I’m startled too. I literally just powered up the thing and already it’s ringing? I don’t even have time to check the ID. “Hello?” I whisper and arch my body away from my annoyed neighbors.
“Best! Best?” Trinity sounds breathless, panicky.
“Hey. Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh my God. Best. You’re alive. Are you okay? Where are you, in Montreal?”
“Yes, alive; yes, I’m okay. Yes to all. Actually, I’m probably in Ontario now, though. Train ride is ongoing.”
“Ontario? Train ride? Wait, I thought you were flying home.”
“I did. I’m heading to an interview, for that honor-killing thing I told you about a little bit ago.”
“Jesus. That thing.”
“Yeah, it’s gruesome, but that’s not what my story—”
“No, I know about the survivor angle. Everyone knows about the survivor angle. I can’t go three minutes without hearing about the goddamn story around here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t heard my voice mails? I’ve left like eleven thousand. I’ve been trying to reach you for-fucking-ever. I even sent a couple texts. Texts. Me, sending texts. And you know where I stand on that shit.”
“My phone is . . . I’ve haven’t checked really anything yet. What’s going on? Who’s talking about my story—in what way?”
“Everyone, and not in a good way. Why didn’t you just come to that all-hands meeting, Best? Honestly, you could have sorted all of this out. Now it’s a shit storm. You should have just come to that meeting.”
“But you know that I was traveling. My flight got changed. I told everyone. I sent the e-mail to all concerned parties.”
“Hang on. Let me just change locations. Ears are everywhere now,” Trinity whispers, “especially around my desk, since I was the last person to speak to you—which I had to lie about, by the way, so remember to say that we didn’t actually talk. Say I left you a voice mail about the meeting. Remember to say that when you’re questioned. It’s important.”
“Slow down, Trinity. Questioned? Who’s questioning me—Joan? Is this a Joan-led witch hunt?”
“Okay, I’m in the breast-pump room.” She’s still hushed. “No, it’s everyone: Joan, Miyuki, Isabelle, Maggie, James. Like, James is super-pissed and you know she doesn’t do pissed well. Countdown is on ’til she’s asking me for her pills.”
“What’s the problem? I cleared my vacay with these people.”
“It’s not the time off. You know that. It started with that sex story you turned in for the shame issue. There were questions from fact-check, some red flags in it. Next thing I hear, people are saying you’ve been working on that honor-kill survivor story for some other magazine, but using our name and resources, and now there’s all this talk about fraud and—”
“Fraud?”
“Yeah. Best, it . . . it doesn’t look good for you here. I think there was a meeting on twenty-eight with the lawyers today.”
“Twenty-eight; that’s Nik Steig’s floor.”
“Yeah. He’s been in James’s office too. It’s just not looking good for you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Best, I think they’re going to fire you.”
“Jesus. Is that coming from twenty-eight, from Nik Steig?
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He has been kind of quiet about all of it. But when is Nik Steig not quiet about anything, right?”
I’m running through our last moments again, trying to slow it all down, look for signs. Nothing. Nik was as warm and sweet as he’s always been. But you don’t get to be the Wizard of Oz without a stony underbelly, without showing that the cutthroat begins with you. “Look, thanks for the warning shot, Trinity. I’m sorry I dragged you anywhere close to the middle of this.”
“It’s cool. I just wish there was something else I could do. Actually, I just wish you came to that meeting.”
“Me too.”
“When are you back?”
“That answer’s shifting.”
“I should go. This door should never be locked. Lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“Yeah, those lactating mamas do not play.”
Trinity attempts a laugh, but the poor thing limps through the phone, sounding more like a whimper or held-in sneeze. “I don’t know how you’re doing it. With all the stuff going on here and then all the Tell Me More stuff—I’d be hunched under a desk somewhere, just catatonic.”
“What Tell Me More stuff? Was there another story?”
“Not yet. This reporter called me and I think Kristen too, maybe. He was basically ringing around the low end of the masthead looking for you. Guess he knows editorial assistants are the only dummies who still actually answer desk phones and—”
“He was looking for me or asking about me?”
“Looking for you. Said you were helping him with a story, which was—to be totally honest—kind of surprising after they posted all that shit about you and Grant King and this supposed baby bump. Thought you would have told them to go straight to hell.”
“Yeah, I think that guy’s already there, making these incessant calls.”
Trinity chuckles. “Wait, what?”
“Nothing. I’m not helping with anything. If he calls you again, tell him . . . actually, don’t tell him anything. You’re not obligated to talk to him, like, at all. It’s totally within your rights to hang up on him. Tell Kristen too; you don’t have to tolerate that guy.”
“Whoa. Is everything okay?”
“Not yet. It will be. Let me get through this interview and it will all be okay.”
“I’m sorry this is happening, Best. I don’t know what else to say.”
“I guess, See you when I see you?”
“Okay, then . . . What you said.”
I stay there, clutching the phone, watching its brightness fade and letting the pathetic symbolism of it settle in.
At this point, there is no point, so scrolling through the phone makes sense. It’s clear that Bauer’s going for a record this week. There are eleven (so far) missives from him, a healthy mix of voice mails, texts, and e-mails. In the three most recent notes, there is no message, but instead a handful of ALL CAPS phrases in the subject line.
YOU NEED TO CALL ME BACK!!
YOU’RE AVOIDING ME, THIS IS IMPORTANT
MAKE IT EASY ANSWER MY CALLS!!!
The texts are basi
cally carbon copies of all his bellowing e-mails. As each new one pops up in the line, I trash it. Delete on repeat. It’s so mechanical now.
And then I see it, lying there quiet and special, sandwiched between Bauer’s heavy directives: an e-mail from Nik. My thumb hovers over the trash icon as a mini-panic sets in. What if Nik pulled the plug on this Fatima meet? Maybe he’s calling to personally let me know how big I fucked things up and to throw down that hacky bad-movie line, assuring me that you’ll never work in this town again. He could still be in the dark—intentionally. Like every other penis-free woman in this penis-focused industry, JK and the Robot want to appear ever-confident; decision-makers with grit and resolve who don’t need to a man to step in and carry shit when things get unwieldy.
Or maybe he just wants to make sure I’m all right, talk through our weird parting and flesh it all out, like adults do. I’m really hoping it’s the latter.
It’s this last embarrassing wish that pushes me to listen to the message.
“Best, it’s me.” I can almost hear his quick nods through the phone. “Listen, when you get this, call me. Okay?” Nik’s voice is smooth, pleasant. I think. Smooth and pleasant could also be detached and disappointed. I play the message again and three more times after that. I can’t be sure until I’m sure.
CHAPTER 19
Ajax, Ontario
Nerves take over the instant I pull into the driveway. I don’t remember anything about this morning, not my shower or the tea and toast or the drive over here from the hotel. Automated everything. It’s the best I can do to avoid thinking about that call from Trinity. Jesus Christ. Fraud? And Nik’s voice mail; I came up with about forty-seven different ways to read his tone. Actually, that’s all I could think about last night. That is, until I decided to investigate the minibar. Dinner was so-called healthy $16 popcorn surrounded by mountains of plush pillows on the quicksand-like bed. I don’t know when sleep came to me—it just did—and it was deep and heavy, like the kind that rinses the brain clean, fooling you into believing that you earned a fresh start the next day.
It feels like it’s been an hour that I’ve been staring out at this tiny playground in the center of this large crescent. It’s covered in snow, but I can make out the slide and poking out next to it, I see some painted-green steel. Monkey bars. Or is that not PC now—monkey bars? Jungle gym can’t be much better. I’m stalling and it’s too cold for this shit.
Before I ring the doorbell, I feel I should say a prayer or a wish, a chant, something to will this to go the right way. But whenever I’ve looked to a higher power for help in the past it was useless. I can either continue staring at this frosted-over play yard thinking about the many ways faith failed me or I can ring this goddamn doorbell. My toes are frozen despite my doubled-up wool-sock action. (I don’t mess around. Fashion never trumps function when windchill is involved.)
The door chimes out some muffled sonata. It kind of brushes back my prickly edges a little. Tempted to ring it again.
A woman answers. She’s pretty, but looks stern. There are no smiles. Her long black hair is swept across her left shoulder and she’s wearing a plain, spotless green apron over a long black skirt and gray turtleneck.
“Hi. I’m Best Lightburn. The reporter.” I hand her my card. Of course it’s pink and ridiculous. It’s James magazine. At least the font is legit. Power and elegance. No curves or flower bursts.
She takes the card and purses her lips as she reads it like it’s a search warrant.
“I know you’ve traveled a distance to come here,” she says. Her voice is even and low and there’s a slight British lilt to her words. “My husband has only good things to say about Will, and he in turn said nice things about your friend in New York City. But Fatima has been through utter torment. I don’t think this—”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt, ma’am, and I apologize for disturbing you this morning on a weekend and all, but I’m not from the papers or TV or anything. I’m a writer for James magazine”—I glance at my card in her hand—“a women’s magazine in New York, and I think it’s important, crucial, for the millions of young women who read the magazine to hear from Fatima, to hear about her strength. Really, I’m not here to gawk or prey on her. I know she’s been through the unthinkable. I don’t want to add to that in any way. With all due respect, I just want to talk to her, hear from her. So, may I see her?”
The woman softens her gaze ever slightly, while keeping her eyes locked in on mine. I smile, also slightly, and hold my calm stance. In my head, there’s shouting, throwing up invocations to God, Yahweh, Buddha, and whoever else might be watching this standoff.
“All right,” she says after a few beats and offers me her right hand. “I’m Parveen Asad, Fatima’s cousin. Please, come in.”
She steps aside and gestures for me to enter. The gust of overhead heat in the foyer is strong, but feels good. Before she can close the door behind me, I’m taking off my boots. I haven’t lost all of my Canadian habits, thankfully.
“This way, please,” she says. Her steps are light, heedful. I follow her, trying to keep my movements slight as well.
Despite the large bay windows toward the front—and on such a bright, white morning—the house is dark. The hardwood floors, the area rugs, the half-drawn drapes, the paint, even the framed art sparsely hanging from the tall walls—it’s all dusky. And the heat is on high throughout. It’s hot and dark, like some well-appointed cave.
There are a lot of photos, professional ones, of what seems like family crowding the walls of one room. A large piano is in there too. I only glimpse a few of the photos as we glide by. Looks like sunnier times. I see smiles stretched across brown faces set against blurry watercolor backdrops. It’s very Sears photo studio and it’s familiar. We did the plastic photo session every year too, for Christmas.
As we get deeper into the house, I can hear talking, but it sounds like it’s coming from a TV or radio: quick and animated in that this is not real life tone. Parveen takes a sharp turn and stops abruptly.
“Please, you’ll wait here?”
I nod like a witless puppy, even take a few steps back from her.
Parveen cracks the door and slips through the slim space. She’s not whispering, but talking in this low hum. The background burlesque is gone, turned off or muted, and a silence sets in. I feel scared and strange and near tears, choked up by the eerie quiet.
The door clicks open. Parveen’s head floats out. “Please,” she says, and opens the door wide. The silence dissolves and a heavy thumping noise replaces it, getting louder by the second. It’s my heart throbbing behind my eyes, in my throat and ears. This is the moment I’ve built, created out of scraps and thirst. There’s definitely no going back now; that was clear months ago. This is my moment and I can’t let it melt away. So why can’t I move?
Parveen steps out to meet me. “Is everything all right, Miss Lightburn?”
My mouth is dry, so I just nod.
“Would you care for some tea?”
Nod.
“I’ll make some for all of us. Please,” she says again, gesturing to the open door, “allow me to introduce you to Fatima.”
Parveen’s voice is stronger now. It’s practically pulling me toward the room.
“Of course,” I say too loudly. Can’t worry about modulation right now. I’m just surprised that a word found its way out. “Thank you, Pa—Mrs. Asad. That’d be great.”
Eyes up. Connect. Common Ground. Control.
Fatima sits stuffed into the corner of a large wraparound couch. She is frail. Her face is long and faded, the color of unbaked bread. Everything about her—from the shrunken baseball cap barely covering her crude-cropped hair to the dirty pink slippers peeking out from under a patchy, stained blanket—it’s all gnarled and dingy, like some long-forgotten sock discovered years later behind the dryer, rolled up in clumps of dust.
She smiles anyway. Her teeth are gray.
“Fatima, this is that mag
azine writer we discussed, Miss Best Lightburn,” Parveen says. Her voice sounds more pleasant, kinder than just moments ago. I want to turn to Parveen, see if she’s smiling too, but I can’t take my eyes off of Fatima. I can’t read her yet. Is she drug-loopy or lucid? The two news stories I’ve read about her recovery only talked about how fast and astounding it was—miraculous was the word they used. They also liked to say that she’s a walking example of courage, most notably with her gut-wrenching testimony at her father’s trial. The details, what she remembered, were heinous. It shattered even the slimmest chance of a not-guilty verdict. For the father, anyway. The brother worked out some deal early on that got him some bullshit lesser sentence. I never did wrap my head around him: a brother helping to end his own sisters’ lives. He didn’t even claim insanity. He just did it, he said, because his father told him to. A wave of virtue crashed into his zombie brain at the last minute, thank God, and he called 911 when he realized that Fatima was still alive. But he was the big brother. Instead of watching out for them, he did this. What brand of abomination is that?
“And, Miss Lightburn, this is my dear cousin Fatima Imam.”
“Hi, Fatima.” I move slowly to her, as if anything sudden will send her scurrying deeper into the couch cushions. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
When I make it to the couch, I extend my hand, but she does nothing, not a flinch, not a blink. Before I can realize it, Parveen is standing next to me.
“My darling Fatima, I am about to make some tea for all of us,” Parveen says, and gently covers my hand with hers. She doesn’t break eye contact with her cousin as she lowers my hand back down to my side again. “I’ll bring a few kinds, so you can choose, all right?”
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