by Camryn King
Kennedy noticed Bobbi’s faint smile as she took the chair directly facing the ocean. Bobbi walked over to a table and retrieved a notebook before taking the other chair.
“Tell me how you’re feeling other than fine.”
“I guess that was a rote answer.” She paused, rubbed her arms as a sudden chill hit her. “I think I stopped feeling because it was all too much. The abject fear followed by anger and sadness. The hurt, so much hurt. And guilt. What will this do to my family? Feeling sorry for myself for what it may have done to me.”
Bobbi set down the pad. “Let’s talk more about that.”
“Before all of this happened the world made sense. I mean, it was crazy, but it was the type of crazy that happened to someone else. Going through what I did changed me. Not only does the world not make sense but now my life doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense.”
No longer able to sit as these feelings swirled around her, Kennedy stood and alternately paced and gazed out of the window.
“On one hand, I feel that releasing the pictures was the right thing to do. Then, the very next second I can’t believe I ever made such a stupid decision. I almost died because of it. Then I get here and look online and there he is, the reason this all happened, looking smug and lying, expertly, with a straight face. He looks directly into the camera and says those pictures are fake.”
“And that makes you feel . . .”
“Like I could explode with anger, just like the building from which I escaped. I’m livid at how he manipulates the American people and seems to get away with it time after time. He continues to be popular. He continues to win.”
Dr. Bobbi didn’t immediately respond. She picked up her pad, jotted down a few words. “How is that anger serving you, Kennedy? Wait, don’t answer. Not yet.”
She walked over to a cherry armoire and picked up a journal from a stack on the shelf. “I have an exercise I’d like you to try. It’s another form of list building.”
Kennedy returned to the seating area and took the journal. “Like I did before?”
“Yes, a way to organize the thoughts in our head, to put them in some type of form, some perspective. You write whatever question you want to explore at the top of the page. Then draw a line down the middle. On the left side you write what the benefits or positives are about the feeling, opinion, position, whatever. On the right side, you write the challenges to the aspect, the deficits, what it’s costing you. There is no right or wrong. You shouldn’t judge yourself or try and analyze the feelings. You simply want to write them down. Looking at them outside of your body can have a profoundly clarifying effect. Would you be willing to try it?”
“I guess.”
“Good. Trying is all we can hope for. I have a few questions I’d like you to list build. The first I’ve asked already. How is your anger regarding Van Dijk serving you and your life? The second is, what are the ways this experience has changed you. And the third, how could what you’ve done potentially impact America. That obviously matters a lot to you. Explore what your actions could potentially mean to your fellow citizens.”
“Wow. That’s a lot.”
“The enormity will lessen if you break it into tiny pieces, be patient with yourself and take your time. And remember, Kennedy, you’re still here. With all the confusion and emotions and pain, through the healing, take a breath, and then another, and remember . . . you’re still here.”
35
“Gwen!”
Kennedy ignored the other traveler’s curious stares as she enthusiastically waved at the best friend coming toward her.
“Ken!” Gwen’s smile was wide, as she sashayed to meet Kennedy, wearing a bright red mini, high-wedged sandals and big, round black shades.
They came together with arms outstretched and enjoyed a rock-back-and-forth hug. Gwen stepped back. “You cut your hair!”
“I did.”
“And ditched the blonde look. Thank goodness for that,” she mumbled right after.
“I heard that.”
“Good. Hopefully that’ll help you not make that mistake again.” She side-stepped Kennedy’s playful punch. “I love you!”
“Yeah, whatever. I love you, too.”
They reached the yellow Kia. Gwen squealed. “Is this you?”
“Yes. Cute, huh?”
“I never would have guessed this was your car but yes, here in the islands, it fits you somehow. And speaking of, what a beautiful place!”
Kennedy helped Gwen place her luggage in the backseat, then headed for the road to her home that bordered the ocean, underscoring the island’s beauty and Gwen’s remark.
“Living here must feel like a permanent vacation,” Gwen said.
“It does, like living in paradise.”
“Do you think you’ll stay here?”
“I don’t think so. I love it, and the island is really stunning, one of the most beautiful I’ve visited so far. But it doesn’t quite feel like home.”
“So, you’ll return to Chicago?”
“I don’t know what I’ll do, still figuring life out. For now, I’ve rented a condo on the beach, not too far from my friend Tamara, who you’ll meet later this week. She and her husband Ryan are taking us out to dinner. You’ll love them. They’re good people. She’s helped me out a lot.”
Gwen didn’t respond. Kennedy immediately recognized her error. A woman she’d barely mentioned to Gwen knew more about her recent struggles than Gwen did.
Kennedy reached over and squeezed Gwen’s hand. “I’ve missed you, girl. There’s so much that I’ve wanted to share, so much to do on the island. Some of the guys are pretty sexy, too, but I guess you’re not much into that.”
“Slow down, now.”
Kennedy glanced over. “You and Logan aren’t together?”
“I guess you can say we’re on a break. I went to the studio recently and felt he was being a little too friendly with one of the singers.”
“Oh, no. He cheated?”
“He said he didn’t, but you know that look a woman gives you when they’ve touched the dick you thought was yours?” Kennedy nodded. “She gave me that look.”
“Ah, man, Gwen. I’m sorry.”
“It happens.”
“I haven’t talked to Logan in a while. He’s due a phone call, if for no other reason than to curse him out.”
A convertible sports car passed by them. The tanned driver with wraparound shades smiled and waved. Gwen turned to watch him speed down the road. “Don’t be too hard on a brother. Sometimes what looks like a bad situation can turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”
“Do you think you could live here?” Kennedy asked.
Gwen looked at Kennedy, then beyond to the sea. “Absolutely, I could live here. In a heartbeat.”
They reached Kennedy’s condo. Gwen loved it immediately and told Kennedy she was crazy to even think about leaving this haven and returning to any city in the United States. After freshening up, Gwen was ready to sightsee. Kennedy gave her a quick tour, ending up on one of the main roads running through town at a place called Snorkel, the newest oceanfront restaurant creating a lot of buzz.
“Table or bar?” Kennedy asked, after Gwen finished gushing over the prime ocean view and the partially glass floor revealing the deep blue water beneath. It was early, around five-thirty, but the establishment seemed to be filling up fast.
“Let’s do the bar,” Gwen said. “I might meet a lonely stranger and prevent him from drowning in drink.”
The bartender was friendly and a wealth of information on the extensive drink menu and the fresh, organic cuisine. While sipping bikini martinis they perused the menu, finally deciding on an appetizer of conch fritters and entrees prepared from the catch of the day. Gwen caught up Kennedy on all things Chicago. Kennedy finally told the whole story to Gwen.
“Ooh, girl, I’m glad you didn’t share all that as it happened,” Gwen admitted, once Kennedy was done. She placed a sympathetic hand on Kennedy’s arm. “I couldn’t
have handled it.”
“I can’t believe I did.”
“That sounds like the stuff you see in movies. Your life is a movie, girl. Or a book. That’s what you should do while you’re kicking it on the island.”
“Write a book?”
“Why not? You’re a writer.”
“A copy writer, not a novelist.”
“I don’t know the difference. I just know that the stuff you told me sounds like something some people would read.”
“It’s hard enough just list building and trying to write a page a day in my journal.”
“When did you start keeping a journal?”
“When I started going to therapy so I wouldn’t lose my mind.”
Gwen leaned back, a slow smile forming. “How much did you get for the picture?”
Kennedy gave her a look. “That’s classified.”
“For other people maybe, but not for me. This is Gwen, your best friend, remember?”
“I know and I love you,” Kennedy said. “But part of the negotiations was that the amount couldn’t be disclosed.”
“Damn, the way you’re dodging it had to be a lot. A million, maybe?”
“Something like that.”
Gwen’s mouth dropped. “Why are you holding back on the good news. This calls for celebration! Bartender! Bring us your best bottle of champagne!” A beat later, Gwen leaned over and whispered, “You’ve got that, right?”
Kennedy burst out laughing. “Yeah, I got it.” Best friends.
Conversation flowed as smoothly as the libations, changing from one topic to another as the restaurant filled. As the women split a sticky, gooey, decadent dessert, the conversation drifted back to the picture.
“You know what’s crazy,” Gwen said, shamelessly licking toffee off her fingers. “You went through hell and made a bunch of money off of a picture that most of the country thinks is not even real.”
Kennedy reached for her napkin and leaned back in the chair. “I try not to think about it.”
“How can you not? Living in paradise is a just reward for your troubles but doesn’t it bother you just a little bit that after everything you went through, Van Dijk is still rich and that Becker guy’s brother is running for governor of his state. Hell, they’re not making lemonade out of that lemon. They’re making a lemon cake with lemon frosting served with lemon ice cream.”
“Did you say Van Dijk?”
Kennedy leaned forward a bit to see the man sitting beside Gwen who she hadn’t noticed until now. Gwen turned as well.
“I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” the man said, his slightly glazed eyes and a rosy complexion suggesting that the tumbler he gestured toward them hadn’t been his first drink. “But I couldn’t help overhearing the name. It’s like a stinger, you see. Every time I hear it a bit of a shock goes through me.”
“We’re in the minority,” Gwen said, adjusting her seat to bring the stranger into the conversation. “It’s like the picture that came out a few weeks ago didn’t even happen.”
“Are you surprised? That man has been burying secrets and scandals for years, since he was in his teens. He cut his teeth on bribery and theft. Blackmail and payoffs are how he climbed the corporate ladder. Then there’s his father who’s basically a white-collar gangster, holding on to political offices for decades, no matter what the cost or who it hurt. The guy learned from the best.”
“Do you believe the picture is authentic?” Kennedy asked.
“Hell, yeah, I believe it. I know it’s true.” The man paused, looked around conspiratorially, and signaled the bartender to bring another round. “I know people,” he continued, his voice low and secretive. “Van Dijk and his wife Elena live separate lives. Their marriage was a business arrangement, a power grab to expand the TBC empire. The rumor mill has her with a lover young enough to be her son. Van Dijk is bisexual. He’s known the Becker family since he was a kid and slept with the father before dating the son.”
“You’ve got to be kidding?” Gwen asked in a hushed voice.
“Did you see the picture?” the stranger asked.
The bartender delivered their drinks. The trio sipped in silence.
“I know whoever took that picture meant well,” the stranger said, finally breaking the silence. “And I understand keeping their identity a secret. But in doing so, they’ve done Van Dijk a huge favor and helped him in ways they could never know.”
“How do you mean?” Kennedy asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Without the photographer, TBC’s PR machine has no credible pushback. For every expert her handlers tout to the public, there are three that his camp can find to beat back what they said. He’s raised questions, caused doubt. If the pictures are real, why hasn’t the photographer come forward? Why are they hiding? I heard him bragging on television just last night. ‘There is no photographer because there was never a picture.’ He has successfully convinced his viewers and much of America that the picture paraded as authentic is fake. Even some who don’t care for his network concede the point.
“He and his team will now take that momentum and shift it to all of the other allegations regarding the influence his network has in Washington and the part it plays in shaping politics in other countries.” He began counting on his fingers. “The FBI’s probe into Van Dijk’s involvement in money laundering, appropriating weapons, and helping rogue factions topple elected governments. The questionable business dealings and conflicts of interest. The not-so-subtle moves to have a monopoly on the conservative narrative, both shaping and broadcasting the White House’s political position. As horrific as those are there’s even something more damning. His successful defense against one of the most scandalous, controversial, egregious pictures ever has given that narcissist super powers. Since that picture was published his base has increased, his popularity has soared, and his detractors are huddled in a corner licking their wounds.”
The guy sat back, placed his drink on the bar. “The FCC has blocked his latest moves to merge with two other companies and create a juggernaut across most media platforms. But with this momentum, next time the sale just might go through. At that point, we might as well be like all those other countries who only get government sanctioned news.”
“Do you actually believe that could happen?” Gwen asked.
“A man like Van Dijk lives for the type of power he enjoys, and will do whatever it takes to keep that type of control and media dominance in the Van Dijk family. If a man can convince an entire nation that what they’re seeing with their own eyes is an illusion, then they’ll drink any flavor of Kool-Aid he pours.”
The stranger finished his drink and left. Not long afterwards, Gwen and Kennedy left, too. For the week her friend stayed there, Kennedy played the perfect hostess. Snorkeling and boat rides. Swimming with dolphins and shopping for diamonds. An upscale evening at the Ritz Carlton, enjoying fine dining with Tamara and Ryan. Everything great. They laughed, gossiped, flirted, and over-indulged. For Kennedy, everything that happened that week was under the blanket of that conversation with a stranger. A man at a bar who when she’d asked him his name had delivered the familiar line, that he’d have to kill her if he told her.
She tried to let it go, but his words about Van Dijk wouldn’t leave her, especially when time spent online proved most of it true. The inner counter argument was that she’d just begun to get her life back. Thing was, taking that picture was a large part of that life. And very few knew about it.
36
Summer slid into fall and the inner turmoil continued. Still, Kennedy continued to restack the building blocks of her life. She sold a set of pictures showcasing Grand Cayman to a travel publication, and another of the smaller islands to Mother Nature magazine. As normalcy returned, and after Gwen’s whirlwind visit, Kennedy’s isolation was magnified. She began to feel lonely. Tamara, Ryan, and appointments with Bobbi made up her entire social circle. With that in mind, she’d sought out and joined a group called S
isters of Spirit, who practiced yoga and meditation, and gathered to listen to musicians playing down at the beach. Karolyn was a week from moving into her new home. Logan and Gwen were back together, and Karl had proposed to Kimora, the girlfriend she’d met the past Fourth. Life was good. Kennedy should have been happy. But she was troubled, a fact clearly evident when she and Bobbi began to chat.
“He was just some guy, some stranger,” Kennedy said, after relaying what happened at the bar. It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned the incident to Bobbi. It was the third time, in as many weeks. “Who’s to say that if I came forward anything would change?”
“No one can guess the future,” Bobbi said quietly, writing notes in her ever-present pad.
“It’s not only me,” Kennedy continued. “I have to think about my family, my friends, and associates. The minute I put myself out there, then they’re out there, too.”
For the next forty minutes, Kennedy voiced the thoughts that kept her from sleeping. Half of the time she was ready to call a press conference, the other half she wanted to have the matter disappear. Without giving an opinion, Dr. Bobbi listened, encouraging Kennedy to continue talking through the mental chaos. She let Kennedy know that to do so was healthy, and that whatever answer was right for her mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being was the correct one.
As the session ended, Dr. Bobbi asked her, “Have you continued journaling, list building?”
“I’ve slacked up on the daily journal writing, but the list building has helped so yes, I’ve used it quite a bit.”
“Consider using it for this dilemma that is causing such angst and unsettlement.”
“The benefits to revealing my identify versus remaining silent.”
“Do you think that would help you?” Bobbi asked softly.
“I don’t know. Even if on paper it’s better for me to go public, that may not be the best choice for me in real life.”
“Remember, Kennedy. The right decision for you is the correct one.”
That night Kennedy sat with her journal by the open patio door. She opened it to two blank pages. One page was titled