by Lis Wiehl
“I need to find out what went on in that prison. Do you think we could find any Iraqis who worked there? Or were prisoners there at the same time as Mike Ortiz?”
“Doubtful. It was just a makeshift prison, a former rope factory that Al-Qaeda commandeered. There were only a handful of prisoners. However, I’ve heard from a reliable source that there is one surviving guard. He lives in a tiny town north of the prison.”
“He’s the person I want to talk to.”
“We’ll do our best to make it happen. I’ve got your flight number, you’re coming via Dubai. I’ll meet you at Baghdad airport. I’ve hired a driver for the duration. You’ve got my phone number and my backup number?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s check in on Wednesday. Call me anytime before then with any questions.”
“I will. And thank you.”
“Oh, and I’ve got a flak jacket for you.”
After the call, Erica sits quietly at her desk. This is the first time in her life that she’s traveled to a war zone. Hardly a week goes by without a bomb killing civilians in Iraq. ISIS claims religious justification for the systematic rape of girls as young as twelve. Erica has seen more than one beheading video. Capturing her would be a propaganda coup for ISIS. How would they treat her if they did capture her? As a publicity bonanza to be paraded in front of the world? As a hostage used to make demands on the American government? Or would they simply behead her and post the footage on social media? Erica imagines that happening—she’s kneeling on the ground, her masked assassin stands over her, holding his sword, and . . . she closes her eyes but sees it all.
Then, sitting at her desk with the sunlight pouring in the floor-to-ceiling windows, she feels a strange new emotion descend on her. The world around her looks both hyperreal and not quite real at all. It’s almost as if she’s disassociating from her surroundings, her job, her trip to Iraq, herself. Watching herself from up above. Is it a defense? To protect herself from the tsunami of fear that’s building inside her? Is she having a premonition of her own death? Whatever she’s feeling, it’s deeply unsettling. She stands up, fighting off the cosmic dread, the claustrophobic panic. Is she signing her own death warrant?
“Knock, knock.”
Erica whirls around. Nancy Huffman is standing in her office doorway.
“Are you all right, Erica? You look seriously spooked.”
Erica lets out a deep exhale. She’s pulled back to earth, to the here and now, by Nancy’s voice and presence. “I think I’m okay. A little rattled by this trip, but I’ll be fine.” Erica realizes, with dark finality, that turning her back on this mission isn’t an option. She’d never be able to look in the mirror again.
Nancy crosses the office and gives Erica a hug. “You’re smart and tough, Erica, and you’re going to find what you’re looking for over there.”
Erica can feel her internal systems returning to something close to normal. “And how are you?”
“Too busy, but it beats the alternative.”
Nancy is without a doubt the chicest woman Erica knows. She’s a little older, with a tight Afro and gorgeous black skin. Today she’s wearing black leggings, black flats, and a simple white oxford shirt worn out with the sleeves and collar up. A parade of silver bracelets marches up her right forearm.
“Let’s get down to work,” Erica says, thankful for the prosaic demands of the trip.
“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Nancy says, opening a garment bag. “Safety first for my friend. Women are much more vulnerable in that culture. Especially Western women. Especially blond Western women. So . . . I want you to look like a man from ten paces.” Nancy takes out two pairs of men’s cargo pants, two oversize work shirts, two floppy men’s sun hats, and a pair of work boots.
“My first foray into cross-dressing.”
“Hey, you’re on trend. And whatever it takes.”
“I think this is a smart idea.”
“Every little bit helps. Listen, I have a long-scheduled fitting with one of my best customers.”
“Go, go. And thank you for this.”
Nancy looks at Erica, and her face fills with concern. She grasps Erica’s hands in her own. “Hurry back.”
With Nancy gone, Erica takes another look at the clothes. They make perfect sense. She holds up her hair, puts on one of the hats, and checks herself in the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door.
Are you really ready for this, Erica? No. But you’re as ready as you’ll ever be.
Erica walks to the window. She looks out at the city—the towers, the traffic, the surging sea of humanity—and with a jolt she realizes that she’s never felt more alive.
CHAPTER 51
ERICA PEERS OUT THE WINDOW as the plane begins its descent to Lake Placid Airport. She’s never been to the Adirondacks before, and she’s amazed at how vast the region is—it seems to go on forever, dense forest punctuated by seemingly endless lakes, a tapestry of deep greens and shimmering blues.
The plane lands and Erica disembarks into the dry, pine-scented air. The car she ordered is waiting to take her to Woodlands Camp, a forty-minute drive.
When they arrive at the camp Erica gets out and surveys the scene. Woodlands sits on the shore of St. Regis Lake, and its buildings and cabins are constructed in classic Adirondack style—unfinished logs atop stone foundations highlighted with whimsical porch railings, benches, and columns made of roots and twigs and branches. She can see down to the beach where campers are getting swimming lessons and playing volleyball. The girls all seem so athletic, with thick shiny hair and lithe bodies, crying out with delight, charging for the ball or slicing through the water.
She can’t help but compare the scene to her own summer childhoods when she would get on her bike and ride and ride and ride, alone and lonely, anything to get away from that stifling, soggy doublewide filled with pot smoke, six packs, black-market pills, rage, and despair. Watching the campers’ carefree cavorting, she feels a tinge of envy toward these girls—and toward Jenny.
She finds the administrative building, and Meg Winston bounds out to greet her. She’s early middle-aged and radiates common sense. She extends a hand to Erica. “Welcome to Woodlands.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Isn’t it? Jenny’s in ukulele class. We’re two minutes to the lunch bell.”
Erica feels a sudden wave of anxiety. “She’s going to meet us here?”
“Yes.”
“How’s she been the last couple of days?”
“She’s a resourceful girl. But she’s got a full plate. A lot of our campers are second- and third-generation, or have been coming for years, so it can be a little tough on the newcomers. But all in all, I think she’s doing well.”
And there she is, coming around the side of a building, looking tawny and healthy. She sees Erica and breaks into a run. Then she catches herself and slows to a walk. Erica wants to run to her, but knows that would embarrass her.
Erica hugs Jenny, and she smells like the pines and the lake and like . . . privilege. Erica, this is what you wanted for her. You can’t have it both ways. Stop torturing yourself.
“Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you. You look wonderful. How’s your uke playing?”
“I killed ‘Blue Skies.’ ”
Erica puts her arm around Jenny and leads her to the car.
The town of Tupper Lake is a strange mix of busted lumber town and tourist haven. There are funky bars and pizza parlors and hairdressers and then shops selling Adirondack furniture, fancy balsam soap, and antler coat racks. Erica and Jenny land somewhere in the middle, at a clean and homey coffee shop. As they scoot into a booth, Erica feels a zap of happiness—she and Jenny are together in a fun new place.
“How’s the food at camp?” Erica asks as they look at their menus.
“It’s good. They try not to use any processed food.”
“That must be hard.”
“It’s not hard, Mom. Do you want to eat pois
on?”
Ouch. “We eat well at home, don’t we?”
“We did when Becky was alive. You can’t cook.”
“You’re right. I can’t. And I have no desire to learn. Does every mother have to be a great cook?”
“I hope I will be.”
Okay. “How you feeling about Becky?”
“Oh, just wonderful.”
“Jenny, if you’re going to be nothing but sarcastic—”
“Why did you come up here?”
“Because I wanted to see you.” Erica wants to reach across the table and kiss Jenny, hold her, hold her tight. She’s not going to tell Jenny about her trip—it would only add fuel to the flames. But the truth is fear is gnawing at her gut, she hasn’t been sleeping, and she’s haunted by the image of her own beheading.
The waitress comes over, and Jenny orders a bacon cheeseburger with fries. Erica bites her tongue—and orders the same thing. “Split an order of onion rings?”
Jenny nods.
“I was hurt that you asked your father and Linda up for parents’ weekend without telling me.”
“We have to talk, Mom.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want to move back to Massachusetts.”
Erica nods, trying to control her response—but she suddenly feels like she’s on a roller coaster perched on the edge of a precipitous drop. She failed. She failed as a mother. The legacy continues. Her throat tightens.
“Okay,” she manages.
Jenny winces. “Don’t look so sad, Mom. It’s not about you.”
Of course it’s about me. She’s just being kind. Jenny is kind—and knowing that brings a measure of solace.
“Who is about then?”
“It’s about me, Mom. This camp is nice, Brearley is nice. But I don’t fit in. I don’t belong. My dad’s a teacher, not a plastic surgeon or a banker or a tech billionaire. I like public school.”
“There are public schools in New York.”
“This is hard. Please don’t make it harder.”
“And what about your mom? She’s a television journalist who worked really hard to get where she is.”
“Which is never home.”
Erica fiddles with the salt and pepper shakers. “Is your decision final?”
Jenny nods.
All Erica wants to do is cry. But that’s the one thing she can’t do. It wouldn’t be fair to Jenny. “We’ll make it work, honey.” It brings some comfort to know that if something happens in Iraq, Jenny will be in a safe place, with a father who loves her and a caring stepmom.
Jenny takes a napkin and dabs at the corner of Erica’s left eye.
“It’s not like I’ll be in Sydney,” Jenny says.
Greg. If only Greg were here with her. Instead, there’s just loneliness.
“That’s right, honey, you’ll just be a few hours away. And you’ll still have your room, so you can come down and stay anytime you want, for special occasions and Broadway shows and—”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“How come you never talk about your mother?”
Just when Erica thought this lunch couldn’t get any more painful. She looks out the window, then fiddles with the salt and pepper, then takes a deep breath. “Well, honey, my mother and I have always had a . . . difficult relationship. I’ve told you how poor I was growing up. There’s more. My mother was, well, she was an addict and sometimes she was . . . she was abusive.”
“Did she hit you?”
“Jenny, do you think we could have this conversation when you’re a little bit older? I think you have every right to ask, and every right to know, but it’s just . . . it’s just . . . I don’t know, too much for me. Right now. Today. With everything else.”
Jenny nods gravely, and suddenly she’s the parent and Erica is the child. “I understand.”
Their food arrives. It looks disgusting. But Erica smiles at Jenny and forces herself to take a big bite.
CHAPTER 52
IT’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT AND ERICA has just finished The Erica Sparks Effect. She could have taken the night off, but she knew the demands of the show would keep her dread at bay. She’s washed off her makeup and is sitting at her desk. She leaves for Iraq tomorrow, and it seems like most of her loose ends are tied up—at least the practical ones.
“Hi there!” Josh says, appearing at her office door.
Oh no, they had an after-work date tonight!
“Josh!” Erica says, standing up.
“Did you forget?”
“Oh no, of course not, don’t be silly . . . Yes, I forgot.”
“This is where you see my bruised-male-ego pout.”
“I’ve been waiting for that to appear. You’ve taken longer than most men I’ve dated. Listen, I have been crazy, crazy busy—convention, Jenny, and I’m going out of town on assignment tomorrow.”
“I forget my own birthday. Are you still up for it?”
Erica looks down at her desk. No, she’s not up for it. She’s come to realize that no matter what happens with Greg, she’s emotionally bruised and needs time without any entanglements. You couldn’t ask for a nicer guy than Josh, but that may be part of the problem too. Erica is an adrenaline junkie. She needs to feel challenged, to push herself to the edge. Josh lives by a whole other credo. A lovely one, in some ways an inspiring one, but Erica is growing to believe that it would leave her unfulfilled. She’s just not sure that Josh understands her in the same way Greg does.
He holds up a small shopping bag. “I picked us up a little picnic. Whaddaya say?” He looks so touching and tentative.
“I think we should talk,” Erica says.
“Okay. Do you want to eat while we talk?” he asks hopefully.
Food is the last thing on her mind. “Sit down,” Erica says, managing a wan smile. Josh does. They look at each other. Erica has a hard time holding his gaze and shuffles some papers on her desk. “So . . . after our day on the trapeze, I came home and found Greg Underwood waiting outside my building.”
“Oh, okay. Now things are starting to make sense.”
“As you know, we were engaged.”
“Were or are?”
“That hasn’t been formally settled. But the point is, well, there’re still a lot of feelings between us. Plus, he’s been helping me with a work project.”
“Unless I’m wrong, he’s also been sleeping with another woman.”
“How did you know that?”
“Never underestimate the power of a Google search.”
That ticks her off a little.
“Don’t get bent out of shape, Erica. When you’re infatuated with someone, you take what you can get.”
“I don’t think it’s anyone else’s business.”
There’s a silence and Josh looks down, as if he’s surprised and disheartened by their pointed tone. Erica feels a wave of sadness sweep over her.
“I’m going to make this easy for you,” Josh says. “And for me.” He stands up and gives her a rueful smile. “I’ve enjoyed every minute—except the last ten—of our time together.”
“So have I.”
“I think we should just leave it at that then.”
Erica nods and stands up. There’s an awkward moment—should they hug? They both take tentative steps toward each other and stop. The distance is too great.
Josh leaves. Erica paces, feeling hollow and lonely. She’s lost Jenny. She’s lost Josh. Has she lost herself?
CHAPTER 53
ERICA IS SITTING IN DUBAI Airport waiting for her connecting flight to Baghdad. Outside the massive wall of plate glass, the temperature is hovering at 125, and heat mirages dance over the runways. She’s never been to Dubai before, and even though all she’s seeing up close is the airport, she’s in no hurry to come back. It just feels like the most artificial place on earth—a gleaming, glossy monument to extravagance sitting in the baking blistering s
un, its very existence made possible by the all-seeing, all-knowing God of Air Conditioning.
And now she’s onboard the jet for the two-and-a-half hour flight to Baghdad. Her fellow passengers are a mix of businessmen—both Western and Arab—and women in burkas lugging shopping bags from posh boutiques. Where do they wear their Chanel suits and Lauren belts and Hermes perfume? At clandestine dress-up parties? Or do they simply hang them in their closets and hope the day arrives when they can proudly flaunt their wealth on the streets?
They land, and Bob Ruggio is waiting to meet her. He’s in his forties with a slight paunch, bald on top, half glasses hanging on a cord around his neck.
“Welcome to Baghdad.”
“I’m psyched to be here.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“I could use a shower and a nap.”
After getting Erica’s suitcase, they step out into the furnace-like air and get in the waiting car. Erica is fascinated by what she sees. Her first impression is that everything is so . . . sandy. The streets, the buildings, the land, even the air. The architecture is a mix of ancient turreted mosques rising gracefully to honor Allah, and more recent and far less graceful office and apartment buildings. The scars of war are everywhere—empty lots, pockmarked houses, broken windows, rusting hulks of burned-out cars, concrete barriers. This is a nation that has been at war for decades now, and it shows. The streets have little foot traffic, and the few people who are out hurry along. She sees children playing, though, running down streets, throwing balls, laughing. They’ve lived with war their entire lives and they won’t let it stop them from being kids, although when they glance at her car their eyes look wary.