by Lis Wiehl
“Please don’t be mean to me, please.”
“Please don’t be mean to me, please. Where’s the pretty please?”
“I’m sorry, Lily. I try to be strong for you. I try so hard, but sometimes I get scared. I’m sorry.” Celeste collapses on the edge of the bed and starts to cry.
“You are sorry. Now pull yourself together and get in that bathroom and clean yourself up. I have to go over to my suite and pick something up. The cars are leaving for the arena in ten minutes. I want your game face on. You understand me?”
“Please don’t leave me; please don’t leave me alone.”
Lily looks down at Celeste in disgust. Then she slaps her across the face.
Lily’s slap eases all Celeste’s anxiety and fear. Her cheek throbs with a tingly pain. She likes the feeling. Lily’s in control. Everything will be fine.
CHAPTER 77
BY THE TIME THEY LAND in Seattle the story has broken and the start of the debate is only an hour away. They’ve been able to keep Erica’s location a secret, so there’s no press waiting at the airport. On the flight up, hair and makeup made Erica look presentable while she studied the prep folder.
In the car on the way to the University of Washington with Greg and Moy, Erica ignores her faint dizziness, the weakness in her limbs, her hollow stomach. She’s digging deep, calling up everything she’s got, and she feels her adrenaline spiking—she’s keyed tight, running at a fever pitch, almost jumping out of her skin. The next couple of hours are the most important in her life.
They arrive at the hall with little time to spare. The scene outside is raucous and rowdy, with thousands of partisans holding signs for Ortiz or Winters. The scene triggers another flashback to the night of the Ortiz-Buchanan debate. And the bomb going off with a deafening boom and then blackness and then the mangled bodies and the girl with her leg blown off and . . . and . . . Erica tries to push the images—and the fear they ignite—out of her mind.
“Take us to the back entrance,” Greg says.
The driver nods and finds his way to the rear of the building. She, Greg, and Moy make their way to a holding room. There’s a television tuned to GNN, and Patricia Lorenzo is reporting from New York over live shots of the audience in the hall.
“As you can see, Meany Hall at the University of Washington is filled to capacity.” The camera zooms in on Lucy Winters’s family—her husband and three teenagers. “Here we see Jeff Winters and the three Winters children. Just two rows in front of them is Celeste Ortiz, sitting with Alberto and Miranda Ortiz, the candidate’s parents.” The camera pans to Celeste, with Alberto and Miranda on one side of her and Lily Lau on the other. “We can see in their faces the tension and nerves that everyone is experiencing, as we are just minutes away from the start of the final debate of the campaign. With Ortiz leading in the polls, there is general agreement that Lucy Winters needs a breakthrough performance tonight to shake up the race.”
The camera pans to the stage, where there are two podiums for the candidates and a desk facing them downstage, where Erica will sit.
Erica is half watching the screen, half going over her notes one last time. Now that they’re actually in the hall, minutes away from starting, she’s finding it hard to concentrate, to formulate her questions. She’s so exhausted, in some realm beyond exhaustion; she’s afraid she might collapse or faint or be unable to get out a coherent sentence. She feels sweat break out under her arms and on her brow.
An associate producer pokes her head in the room. “You’re on.”
Greg and Moy give her smiles of encouragement as Erica stands up—did she wobble slightly?—picks up her notes, and walks toward the stage. It feels like a mile-long trek, and in the distance she can see the bright lights and hear the tense murmurs of the crowd. And now the announcer says, “Host of GNN’s The Erica Sparks Effect, debate moderator Erica Sparks.” And she walks onstage and there is applause and Erica tries to smile, but her facial muscles feel like they aren’t working right and then she sees Celeste Ortiz and Lily Lau sitting side by side, taut smiles on their faces, and a wave of fear floods over her and she wants to turn and run away, run away from all this forever and be free. Can she ever be free? Will she ever be free?
And Erica looks away from the two women and wills herself to focus, to be a pro. She sits behind the desk and makes a show of checking her notes, but when she looks down at them the letters look jumbled and random, the words don’t make any sense.
And now the announcer is saying, “Please welcome Minnesota senator Lucy Winters and California senator Mike Ortiz.” As they walk onstage the audience applauds and shouts, each side’s partisans trying to outdo the other’s.
Mike Ortiz’s smile is somewhat muted, but he looks relaxed and confident and toned; his suit hugs his muscular body. At the same time he is clearly trying to project some of the gravitas that Americans want in their president. Lucy Winters is no slouch in the charm department herself; attractive and fit and outdoorsy, she smiles a warm smile that complements her natural dignity and purpose.
Erica and the candidates exchange nods. Ortiz seems guileless, and for a moment she wonders if the last four days were all a dream, a nightmare, and now she’s awake. And the whole world is watching. Can she pull this off?
“Good evening to you both,” Erica says. “You each have three minutes for your opening statements.” After both candidates have recited their boilerplate spiels, she says, “I’d like to start by asking you both the same question: Who has been the most influential person in your life? Senator Winters?”
“My mother. Growing up on a farm I saw that she not only pitched in with all the chores, she also ran the household budget, cooked, cleaned, took care of her three children, was active in our church, and volunteered at the library and food pantry. When we lost the farm, my dad went into a depression. My mom went back to college, earned a teaching degree, got a job, and held our family together. My whole life has been dedicated to honoring her legacy.”
“Senator Ortiz?”
“I would have to say my wife, Celeste.” He smiles at Celeste. “She has taught me that we all have a responsibility to the common good. She’s the smartest woman I’ve ever met—my best friend and my confidante. Her heart and her wisdom guide every decision I make.”
Boy, both those answers feel canned. In spite of their smiles, the candidates are nervous. Time to make one of them a lot more nervous.
“This is a question for Senator Ortiz. You’ve written and spoken a great deal about your time as a hostage in Iraq. In an effort to get you to divulge military intelligence, you claim you were subjected to torture by Al-Qaeda operatives.”
“That’s correct. I was.”
“What sort of torture?”
“They tried to break my spirit—but they only strengthened it.”
“How? What were the specific means of torture?”
Ortiz looks at Celeste and Lily, who have looks of concern and empathy plastered on their faces.
“It’s all in my book.”
“Yes, your recounting is in your book. Not every voter has read the book. You’re asking the American people to elect you their president. One of the lynchpins of your campaign has been your time as a hostage. As you know, many soldiers return from war emotionally and psychologically damaged. I think the nation deserves an exploration of your experience.” A murmur ripples through the audience, along with some muffled boos from Ortiz supporters. “So, can you tell us some specifics about the torture you were subjected to?”
Ortiz shoots another glance at Celeste. Is there a beseeching edge to it? Celeste nods in encouragement, an almost imperceptible nod.
“Well, I was restrained. Tied up. Blindfolded. My mouth was taped shut. My ears were plugged up. I was whipped and choked and told I was going to be killed if I didn’t cooperate.”
“Told by whom?”
“Whom?”
“Yes, who told you this?”
Another murmur courses throug
h the audience. Celeste and Lily Lau are having a hard time maintaining their poker faces.
“The Al-Qaeda operatives.”
“How many were there?”
“How many?”
“Yes. How many Al-Qaeda operatives took part in the torture?”
“Two. Three. I was blindfolded.”
“Was it the same two or three people every time?”
“Ah . . . yes. I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I just said I was blindfolded.”
“You couldn’t recognize their voices?”
“They were the same. I think. Mostly the same. I was under a lot of duress. Hungry and dirty and scared and sick.”
“And what did they say to you besides the threats?”
“Beside the threats? Um . . . um . . . they told me propaganda and stuff.”
“Propaganda and stuff? What kind of stuff?”
“Um, things like America was bad and they were good and I had to obey them. Stuff like that.” Sweat breaks out on Ortiz’s brow. The boos have stopped and the audience sits rapt.
“Anything else?”
“Else?” Ortiz tries to smile—which is totally inappropriate—but his mouth twitches.
“Yes. Did they tell you anything else?”
“Oh, okay. Okay, okay. They told me I was being groomed to do great things for the world.”
“What kind of great things?”
“That if I followed them I could be a savior.”
“A savior of what, of whom?”
“Of mankind.”
“So first these men tie you up; then they torture you; then they tell you that you’re going to be a savior of mankind?”
Mike Ortiz’s eyes keep darting to Celeste. She looks frozen. “Yes, yes,” he blurts out, looking totally at sea. Sweat drips down his temples.
“And were these men from Al-Qaeda?”
“Um . . . yes,” he mumbles unconvincingly.
“Did they tell you they were from Al-Qaeda?”
“Tell me?”
“Yes, Senator Ortiz, did the men who tortured you and told you you would be a savior tell you they were from Al-Qaeda?”
The arena has fallen into absolute pin-drop silence.
“Why does it matter?”
“Why does it matter? Because you’re asking us to elect you president, Senator; that’s why it matters. Who were they?”
“I don’t remember.” Ortiz looks around wildly, as if for a way to escape.
“You don’t remember? Well, I just spent four days with some of those same men.” There’s a gasp from the audience. “Would you like me to refresh your memory about what the men looked like?”
“Leave them alone!”
“Leave who alone?”
And now something close to rage fills Ortiz’s face. He clenches his jaw and spits out, “The men! They were my friends! They took care of me. They helped me. They loved me! They still love me! Just like my wife loves me! And Lily Lau loves me! You don’t love me. So stop it!”
There’s a gasp of shock and incomprehension from the audience, followed by agitated murmurs.
“Who were the men, Senator? Tell the American people who they were! We have a right to know! They took control of your mind. Who were they?”
Mike looks like a trapped rat, his eyes bulging, his jaw grinding. “Chinese! They were Chinese!”
CHAPTER 78
CELESTE LEAPS UP IN HER seat. “Stop it! Stop it right now! Leave my husband alone!”
Lily grabs Celeste’s wrist and yanks her down to her seat. People are staring at them, staring in shock. But they all recede to the periphery. All Celeste cares about is Lily.
“What’s going on, Lily? What’s happening to us? What’s happening here?”
Lily sits there, preternaturally calm. “Erica Sparks outsmarted us. She won.”
“But, Lily, we still have each other. I still love you. Do you still love me?”
“Still love you? I never loved you.”
Celeste’s face starts to spasm and crumble. “Don’t say that; please don’t say that. You told me you loved me . . .” Tears gush from her eyes as she slips into hysteria.
Lily opens her bag and takes out a pill vial. “And you believed me, you stupid cow.”
“Please don’t call me that, Lily. I love you. I love you so much!”
All around them people are buzzing and standing and moving but it all blurs for Celeste, who is lost in her own world, her own collapsing world, falling, falling into a black bottomless pit . . .
Lily opens the vial and shakes out a pill. She puts it in her mouth and bites down. Within seconds she turns sheet-white and grasps her chest and gasps for air, then slumps down in her chair, motionless.
“Nooooo!” Celeste wails, and now people are racing toward them, and someone lifts Lily’s body up and places it on the floor in the aisle. A man puts two fingers on her neck, on her pulse, and then shakes his head.
And Celeste wants to die. She wants to die with Lily, to be with Lily, always and forever, and the vial is on the floor and she lurches for it and grabs it and there’s another pill in it and she takes the pill in her hand. And a woman grabs her wrist and shakes it and the pill drops to the floor and rolls away and Celeste falls to the floor and crawls for it under the seat—she needs to be with Lily!—and now she’s being lifted up, restrained, but she’s screaming, screaming and flailing, screaming from the bottom of her soul and then . . . Mike is there, looking at her with concern and fear.
“Celeste, what’s happening? Please tell me what’s happening?”
She looks at his face, his sincere, handsome, stupid face, and says, “It’s over.”
CHAPTER 79
ERICA SITS AT THE MODERATOR’S desk as the mayhem swirls around her and she feels strangely . . . calm, detached, almost as if she’s disassociating again. Across the stage, Lucy Winters is surrounded by aides trying to contain their stunned jubilation. She has just been handed the keys to the White House.
Erica is also surrounded by colleagues, journalists, bloggers, political operatives, all shouting questions at her. It all blurs together into a meaningless cacophony. She doesn’t even try and answer. She’s not sure if she’s in a state of shock or a state of grace, or some combination of the two. But it is over. She was right. There was a Chinese-led conspiracy to take control of the presidency. She brought the truth to light.
It was all worth it. Wasn’t it? Only Jenny can answer that question. Please forgive me, dear baby girl. Please try and understand your poor old mom.
Erica stands up, still ignoring the pleas and shouts and questions. She walks across the stage, glancing down at the audience to see Celeste and Mike Ortiz surrounded by police, FBI agents, and freaking-out aides. Lily’s dead body is being loaded onto a stretcher by two EMTs.
On some level Erica understands that this is a fateful moment. That she has written herself a place in the history books. But all she wants to do is see Greg.
And there he and Moira are. And they each take one of Erica’s arms and lead her through the pack of people and back to the holding room. Greg closes the door. Suddenly they’re enveloped in a silence that feels like pure luxury.
Moira hugs Erica so tightly that their hearts are beating as one. And Erica inhales Moy’s fresh, sweet smell and knows that it’s what love smells like.
They come apart and Moy takes Erica’s face in her hands. “You did it.” And now tears are streaming down Moy’s face, but Erica isn’t going to cry. She hears Jenny’s voice: We Sparks girls don’t cry.
Then there’s a moment of silence as Greg and Erica look at each other and thoughtful Moy says, “I’m going to go make a fool of myself in private. I’m also going to make a reservation at the best restaurant in town. We need to get some meat back on your bones, young lady.”
And now Erica and Greg are alone.
“You were there for me, Greg.”
“That’s where I always want to be. I quit
my job. I’m coming home.”
Erica goes to him and lays her head on his chest and his arms enfold her, and Erica thinks, I’m already home.
EPILOGUE
IT’S A TUESDAY EVENING THE following May, and it’s a lovely evening: the cerulean sky is flecked with wispy, fast-moving clouds, and a breeze ripples through the blooming apple, cherry, and dogwood trees that dot the park. The sky and clouds and blooms are reflected in the waters of the lake outside the boathouse as lovers in rowboats glide across its surface. It’s like a Monet, Erica thinks—or is it Manet? Either way, it’s almost too romantic. Erica has learned to never take anything at its face value. Even love.
Jenny looks lovely in her blue maid-of-honor dress. And Erica feels radiant and chic in the striking silk cream dress with metallic silver threads running through it. Nancy, dear Nancy, made both of their dresses.
It’s all very low-key, which is what both Erica and Greg insisted on. A few dozen guests, Reverend-for-a-day Moira Connelly performing the ceremony, some great food, a good DJ. Simple. They’ve tried to keep the wedding under wraps, but of course someone leaked it to the press, and there are paparazzi and a few film crews outside. Greg and Erica are going to slip out early and catch their flight to Nairobi for their honeymoon safari. And from there, Erica is heading straight to Davos for a summit on climate change. There’s no rest for those who have no desire to rest.
Erica doesn’t believe in superstition—or even tradition, for that matter—but Jenny wants to walk her down the aisle, and so they’re waiting in a private dining room until the music starts.
“Moy and I are going to see Hamilton tonight,” Jenny says.
“I want a full report.”
“And then I’m heading back to my boring life in Framingham, Massachusetts,” Jenny says with a smile.
“Now you’re venturing into dangerous territory. But I guess it’s working out.”
“It kind of is. I get the best of both worlds.”