Spy Mom

by Beth McMullen

  I smile, thinking about Will in a wetsuit. I fully expect that by the end of the lesson he will be able to give the instructor a few pointers. One of his friends tells a story of how, after two weeks of surfing in Australia, no one, not even the hard-core surfer dudes, could tell he was an amateur. It was assumed Will had been born with a surfboard attached to his feet. He is a gifted athlete. On one of our first dates, he beat me senseless in a tennis game, after which I couldn’t walk for a week, my body not used to the side-to-side motion. Me, I’m good at running away, which is not all that helpful on the tennis court.

  “We would love to come and watch you, although I have a hard time imagining why you would want to get into that water. It’s cold. Really cold.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  “Daddy, are we going swimming?” Theo calls from under the table.

  “Only me, sweet pea. You are going to play on the beach with Mommy.”

  Theo considers this. “Okay. We’ll go swimming next time with the trains.”

  “I promise,” Will says, raising his eyebrows at me as if to ask for an explanation. I shrug. Even I can’t interpret all of Theo’s thoughts.

  Crissy Field is one of the joys of living in San Francisco. Meticulously restored to its natural state, this long stretch of coast is the perfect playground for adults and children alike. With a view of Alcatraz, Angel Island, and Tiburon across the bay, it is as good a place as any to waste a weekend afternoon. In the parking lot, we help Will wrestle into his wetsuit. I stand back to admire the result.

  “You look kind of hot,” I say.

  “I am hot,” he says. “I’m boiling actually.”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh.” He smiles. “Thanks. I think you’re crazy. I look like a sausage.”

  “Good luck, sausage,” I say, kissing him. “Don’t drown.” We leave him standing in the parking lot, pulling on booties and a hood. Did I mention that the water here is cold, as in really, really cold? It would take a lot more than curiosity about some new sport to get me to jump in. It’s true. I’m the first to admit that I’ve gone soft.

  Theo and I camp out on a silky stretch of white sand. There are dogs everywhere, tearing into the surf, racing up and down the beach. Theo runs immediately to the water’s edge to fill his yellow bucket. When he returns and dumps it over my bare feet, I gasp.

  “Your father is crazy,” I say.

  “I’ll get more!” Theo volunteers.

  And suddenly there he is, standing at the other end of the beach, far enough away that I can’t clearly see the features of his face, but I know he is watching me. He is perfectly still, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a Giants baseball hat, and Ray-Bans from the 1980s. He gives me a small salute and walks in the opposite direction.

  For a minute, time stretches and everything slows down. Ian Blackford has found me again.

  When I reach for Theo, I am shaking. He holds tightly to his bucket full of freezing water.

  “Mommy?” he asks. I try on a neutral expression.

  “What, baby?”

  “Too tight. It hurts,” he says, peeling my fingers from his arm. They have left red marks on his delicate skin.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to squeeze you so hard.” I give him a hug. “Do you need more water?”

  But my voice is unsteady and I have to sit on my hands to settle them. I am, it seems, still terrified of Blackford. I sweep my eyes up and down the beach, out onto the water where white sails float on the bay like seagulls. He is gone.

  I dig my toes into the sand. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I am really seeing things now. Maybe I’m actually finally losing my mind. But then he sits down on the sand next to me.

  “Hello, Sally Sin,” he says, brushing a finger across my cheek. I recoil at his touch. When I try to speak, nothing comes out.

  “Hi,” Theo pipes up from his newly excavated sand hole. “Who are you?”

  “An old friend of your mother’s,” he says with a smile. “He is yours, isn’t he? Cute kid.”

  I am still without my voice, my whole body shaking now as if the temperature suddenly dropped forty degrees.

  “Relax, Sal,” Blackford says, “I’m not going to do anything to you. Just thought I’d stop by and say hello. It’s been a long time.”

  “Relax?” I manage after what seems like forever. “You’re supposed to be dead and I’m supposed to relax?”

  “Well, the dead thing worked well enough for a while, and now I’ve been reborn. Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  “No,” I say with a little too much force. Theo stops digging and looks at me. I smile to reassure him and he goes back to his shovel. “No, I’m not happy to see any of you, frankly. You, Simon, the nanny.”

  “I agree with you on Still. He’s a pain in the ass, always has been. Don’t know much about the nanny so I can’t comment on that one. But come on,” he says, giving me a quick punch in the arm, “you didn’t miss me at all?”

  I turn to fully look at him for the first time. He is the same, the blue eyes, the black hair, the perfect skin that shows no sign of age or wear or distance. And I shudder.

  “Cold?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, inching away from him.

  “So your man is out on the water? Brave soul. It’s cold out there.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know, see old friends, reminisce about the glory days.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I don’t appreciate you working with Still to set a trap for me. Don’t you know me well enough to know I don’t fall into traps?”

  I immediately begin to flail around for an excuse, but Blackford holds up his hand.

  “Nothing you could do. I get that. Simon’s about five minutes from here, so I’m going to go. Don’t want to make things too hard on you and your little family.”

  He stands, brushing the sand off his pants. “I’ll see you around,” he says. “You look good, Sally, better than ever. This life suits you. On some level, I find that surprising.”

  With that, he walks off down the beach. I want to chase after him and ask him what he could want from me after all these years. But that is not a possibility.

  Theo and I continue to dig his hole until his father returns, wet and exhilarated, from racing around on the bay attached to a giant kite.

  “That was amazing,” he says. “Nice hole. Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. Great, really. Fine. Do you need help getting out of that thing?”

  “Sure,” Will says. I peel the wetsuit off of him like a banana. Underneath, his skin is white, with a slight blue tinge, and cold to the touch. I rest my hand on his chest, making a warm spot. My voice catches in my throat and for a minute I think I might cry.

  “Hey,” Will says, tilting my chin up, “are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, “really.”

  But I’m not. The adrenaline rush from Ian Blackford is still surging through my veins. I feel like a coiled spring, the tension almost too much to bear. I try to steady my breathing. Now is not the time to fall apart. In the parking lot, I see Simon behind the wheel of a Mercedes convertible. He nods at me and I ignore him, holding tightly to my husband’s hand, hoping against all hell that he can keep me from disappearing down the rabbit hole.

  24

  I’m awake on Sunday morning before the sun is up. Will sleeps beside me, an arm tossed over my hip. I can feel his heat and want nothing more than to slip back into a foggy delirium alongside of him. But that is not going to happen. Even before my eyes opened, my brain was at full throttle, desperately trying to put the pieces together. There is something here that I’m missing, something important, but it remains out of focus. I throw off the down comforter and slide my feet into a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. I pull Will’s discarded sweater, on the floor from the night before, over my head. It sme
lls like him. I tuck the covers back around his body and head down the hall to Theo’s room. It’s about 5 A.M., and Theo will sleep for another hour and a half before he starts to bellow for Daddy to come and get him. I stroke back his matted hair, watching his eyelids twitch and flutter with the activity of some unknown dream.

  Down in the kitchen, I fire up the coffeemaker, taking a seat at the table. Is it possible that the critical thinking part of my brain has atrophied from lack of use? I want to reach in through my ear and scoop out the cobwebs that must be clogging up the works in there. Instead, I pour a huge mug of strong coffee and hope for the best.

  The players are the same: Simon Still, Ian Blackford, the Blind Monk, and Malcolm, playing the roll of the new guy doing some new thing that is making everyone else behave badly. The game is the same: Blackford and the Blind Monk both want what the new guy is selling, and Simon Still wants two things. First, he wants to rid the world of weapons of mass destruction. Second, he wants to put Blackford in a body bag. Not necessarily in that order. The big difference, I realize now, is me. I am not the same. I used to jump into this with both feet. Following the Blind Monk or Blackford was second nature. It was what I did, it was what I thought about. And there was nothing else in my life, nothing so critical that it would crowd them out of my head and out of my life. My purpose was important. At times, the security of the world depended on what we at the Agency might be able to pull off. But through it all, I remained not altogether serious about my work. It was like playing a global game of chess, and that is exactly how I treated it. If I died, who would miss me? If I succeeded, who would know?

  But now everything is different. The thought makes my head ache. I refill my coffee mug, knowing that there is not enough caffeine in the world to help me through this. There is nothing but me.

  I hear Theo stirring in his bed, shouting out something about a taxicab and settling back in for a little more sleep. How nice it would be to go upstairs and crawl into his crib with him and dream about bright yellow taxis.

  Today is a big day, a family outing to get Theo a brand-new, big-boy bed. He is thrilled at the idea, if not completely sure of the practice. It won’t be fair to Will or Theo if in my head I’m floating around in the deep mysterious past rather than paying attention to the present.

  I always believed that I was good at my job, not a superhero but good enough. Whenever I asked Simon for feedback about my performance, his annoyance was palpable.

  “You’re alive, aren’t you?” he’d say. “Now take Jacob. Jacob is not good at his job.”

  “Jacob is dead, sir.”

  “See what I’m getting at?”

  But what if I wasn’t any good? I think about the note on my Agency file, the one wondering if I should be referred to Simon as a potential hire at all. I think about the question mark. And that leads me to Director Gray.

  When I asked Simon Still why it was I’d never met Director Gray, the head of the Agency to which I had sworn allegiance until death do us part and so on, he frowned at me in a deeply unnerving way. Simon didn’t experience regular emotions. At best, I’d hoped for a snarky reply and a belittling dismissal. At worst, I thought he might totally ignore me, pretending I wasn’t standing twelve inches from his nose, tapping my foot impatiently. But I asked and he frowned, which could only mean he had no good, prepackaged, well-rehearsed line to throw back in my face, ultimately intended to make me shut up and go away. Troubling. So rather than count my blessings and hit the road on back to my own little bat cave, I had to keep at it.

  “I’ve been here for two and a half years. Do I embarrass you? Has he met anyone else new? Is there anyone else new?” I asked, plopping myself down on one of Simon’s cruel metal folding chairs, intending to stay in his office until he answered me. He sighed.

  “Sally, sometimes you remind me of a mosquito. And I don’t mean that kindly. Don’t you have work to do?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hard, calling up a nasty red mark. Also not a good sign. I put my feet up on his desk, expecting him to toss me into the hallway without even a “have a nice day.” But he didn’t. He sat down. I moved my feet.

  “Oddly enough,” he began, “the Director has requested to meet with you as of this morning.” I brightened up.

  “Really? What did I do? Congressional Medal of Honor?”

  “Yes. And I’m going to the Moon on the next flight out. Listen, Sally, when Gray wants to see you, well, it’s never a good thing.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, frantically going back over my last few missions in my mind. At least, nothing that stood out. What did he know? Simon read my mind.

  “Gray knows everything. Don’t even try to come up with a good story to cover your tracks.”

  I followed him up out of the subbasement back into the land of light. We walked for miles, down corridors and through hallways, entryways, and thruways. We went in doors and out, left and right and right again, and finally we arrived at the Director’s office.

  Simon nodded at the well-dressed secretary. She gestured for him to sit. No words were exchanged.

  “Wow. I guess if you’re the boss, you get real furniture, huh?”

  Simon stood back up. “You stay here. I’ll see you when he’s done with you. If you haven’t been reassigned.” He disappeared back the way we’d come, leaving me with nothing more than the secretary for reassurance. Her face was blank, without the slightest hint of compassion for my predicament.

  “Great. I’m fucked,” I muttered.

  “He’ll see you now,” she said, almost in response.

  I marched into the Director’s office with as much swagger as I could muster, which, let me tell you, was not a whole lot. The Director sat with his back to me facing a wall of huge, clean windows. He got to look outside. We, down in hell, got to look at puke-colored cement walls or, worse, each other. He was talking on the phone. I stood in front of his desk, silent, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.

  After a minute, he finished his conversation and spun toward me.

  “Sally Sin,” he said, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I couldn’t help but stare. There was something so familiar about him, something so close but still out of focus. I knew this man, I would swear to it, yet we had never met until this exact moment.

  “Well, Agent Sin, if I may call you that. Tell me about Blackford.”

  “Ian Blackford, sir? I’m not sure I can …”

  “Can and will,” he said, pushing back from his desk.

  “I’m not sure what I can tell you that hasn’t already been in my reports.”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me everything. Don’t leave out any details. Make me understand why Blackford picked you.”

  I’ll admit, this last part made me feel a little bit bad, but no matter. I began to tell the not quite fairy tale starring little old clueless me and big, bad, superspy traitor Blackford. When I got to the part about his request that I tell Gray he could get to me anytime, anyplace, I could see the old man’s face tighten, but he said nothing. He kept his eyes closed and listened.

  “I know how he can be,” he said when I was finished. His smile was like an arctic wind blowing through the room. “Sweeps you right off your feet, doesn’t he? Makes you think you are important.” The last word came out like a hiss.

  “Don’t be fooled, Agent Sin. He will tell you things, fantastic things. None of it is true. It’s all make-believe. Is that clear?”

  I nodded, although I had no idea what he was talking about. Blackford never told me anything. He just played with me like a cat with a three-legged mouse.

  “Well, even if you do believe him,” he said, leaning toward me, “it can’t change the circumstances. It can’t change what has been done.”

  I sat so still I might have been dead.

  Director Gray stared intently in my direction, but it was as if he were seeing through me to some other time, some other place.
Abruptly, his eyes flashed, and he was back in the present.

  “Go,” he said. He spun in his chair, leaving me to ponder the back of his head. “This conversation is over.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, the flush rushing to my cheeks. I backed out of the office like he was the Queen of England. And that was the first time I met Director Gray.

  25

  Avery’s house is on a hill with a panoramic view of San Francisco. From her bathtub, you can actually see the Golden Gate Bridge. We are good friends but not so good that I could ask to borrow her bathtub and not have her look at me funny. The house is catalog perfect, a designer’s dream, and yet it manages to feel homey and lived-in at the same time. I’m not afraid to walk on her carpet or sit on her sofa.

  Jonathan is in the kitchen, bifocals low on his nose, the Sunday New York Times unfurled on the table. It is 9 A.M. At home, Will and Theo are working through their scrambled eggs. My husband will try to read the paper, and Theo will not allow it.

  “Daddy, let’s play cars. Daddy, what are you reading? Daddy, what are you doing? Daddy, is that coffee in there? Can I have some?” And on and on until Will relents, gets down on the floor, and gives Theo his full attention.

  Thirty minutes earlier, I promised to be back in plenty of time to go shopping for Theo’s new bed and slipped out the door. In my bag, Malcolm’s photographed notes are rubbing elbows with leftover apple slices and a leaky bottle of water.

  Jonathan is older than Avery by a decade. With silver hair and a crooked smile, he looks every bit the professor, the kind the girls can’t help but flirt with. Avery gets me coffee, which may push me over the line into a state of hyperactivity from which I cannot return. She has an odd look on her face, a tight smile that might fracture into a million pieces with the slightest provocation. She avoids eye contact with Jonathan, focused entirely on delivering me my drink. From my bag, I pull the notes, only slightly damp. I slide them in front of Jonathan.