by O M Faure
Theodora McArthur continues, ‘We are now ready to announce the names of the eight candidates who’ll be moving on to the next round. Everyone, please have a seat.’
She looks around the room sternly and everyone sobers up and starts righting chairs and rearranging the furniture into a semblance of order. Once silence falls and she has everyone’s attention, Professor McArthur pulls out a small, white piece of paper from her jacket pocket and unfolds it, watching us above her glasses.
‘DeAnn.’ The American barely looks surprised.
‘Björn.’ He straightens up and thrusts out his large chest.
‘Frank.’ The pinstriped cockney guy smirks and raises his head, looking around at the losers.
‘Andika.’ The intense woman squares her jaw and throws a glance at Aileen.
‘Woody.’ He lets out a surprised little laugh.
‘Karim.’ The thin man pushes his glasses up his nose and allows himself a smile, which disappears quickly.
‘Adam.’ A military-looking man says thank you and I recognise an Australian accent.
Oh no – I’m not selected. I’ve been so absorbed in the epilepsy incident that I forgot to worry over the results. Professor McArthur hesitates, frowns at her piece of paper, exchanges a glance with Andrew and says, ‘Olivia.’
Relief floods over me.
Theodora McArthur folds the list and removes her glasses. ‘The candidates who have not been selected, please follow Miss Foley, who will return your belongings and walk you out. Thank you all for participating.’
They file out of the room, glancing resentfully at us, and I feel blood rushing to my cheeks. How awful for them. Marjorie tries to make eye contact with Frank but he’s speaking with Woody and ignores her. The freckled woman grabs the tall engineer by the arm as they exit; he seems slightly dazed and unaware that she’s talking to him.
The door closes and Theodora turns her stern gaze to us. ‘Congratulations, you shall now proceed to the fourth round.’
Andrew takes over. ‘This is what we’re able to tell you at this stage: you’re competing for junior positions within the Cassandra Programme; we’re looking to fill two field positions and possibly a few back-office positions, depending on your profiles.’
Karim asks, ‘What does the Programme do?’ He’s very thin and tanned, with a mop of black hair.
‘We can’t tell you everything but we can start to give you the basics. We conduct year-long, data-gathering missions in foreign locations. You’ll be working undercover and won’t be able to disclose your true mission to anyone other than the Programme.’
‘Did you just say year-long?’ I ask, aghast.
‘Yes, that’s correct. The field missions are one year long. You also have to be prepared and trained beforehand and debriefed afterwards, so the minimum assignment length is approximately one and a half years. You need to let us know immediately if that will be an issue. If you have a family that depends on you, it will be impossible for you to make contact for a year. Similarly, if you need to take medications regularly, we would not be able to provide you with those during the year abroad, so you need to let us know and will be disqualified from the process.’
Expressions of surprise and concern dawn on the other candidates’ faces.
I can’t do this. What if my next IVF works? It’s impossible. But if I’m honest, I’m also intrigued and the anxiety is tinged with a shimmer of excitement.
‘Are the assignments dangerous?’ Adam asks, his Australian accent quite pronounced.
Theodora turns her gaze on him and takes in his soldier’s build. ‘Yes, they can be. There have been instances where agents have died.’
That takes a minute to sink in. We look at each other. Wow, proper James Bond stuff then. Why anyone would think me qualified for … this is absurd.
‘What will the next round’s format be?’ Woody asks, adjusting the noose of his shiny tie, looking uncomfortable.
‘It will be a two-day, off-site selection round. At the end of which, you’ll be evaluated and we’ll extend an offer to the two candidates whom we think are most qualified,’ Andrew answers.
‘Any other questions?’ Theodora looks around. ‘Would anybody like to drop out at this stage?’
Silence.
‘Quite. In that case, I’ll see you all at the next round.’
6
DeAnn
Heathrow, United Kingdom, July 2016
* * *
The stewardess is waving her arms about uselessly, trying to get someone to look at her and listen to the emergency instructions. Obviously no one does.
I’m in business class, trying to make myself comfortable as the plane taxies on the Heathrow runway. Time to leave this harebrained Programme behind and return to real life.
A kid is staring fixedly at me through the space between the seats. The toddler tried to play with me earlier and I completely ignored it, so it started throwing M&Ms at me and I had a stern conversation with the mother. Now she’s offended. People get irrational about their kids. Seriously, it’s not acceptable to let your kid behave that way. I bet the little creep is going to scream his lungs out during the whole flight.
I ask the flight attendant to move me when she finishes her pointless arm milling and she frowns, puzzled, then comes back a few minutes later and confirms that she can’t move me to a child-free zone. She also offers a complimentary glass of champagne to the offended mother, coos over the little monster and gives it crayons and a toy. It’s going to be a long flight.
My phone beeps and the stewardess stares pointedly at the device in my hand, then leaves to scold other passengers.
‘I want to fuck you tonight.’ Philip’s texts are not so subtle anymore.
I ponder what to type back. This is the first time he’s contacted me for weeks.
My phone rings and I pick up, feeling a tremor of desire.
‘Hello DeAnn.’ My mother doesn’t really do terms of endearment. Or small talk. ‘Your father had a stroke. We spent the night in hospital.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘He should survive.’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘There was no point, you couldn’t have done anything.’
But I’d have liked to know, I want to yell.
‘When can you get here?’
I mentally run through flight schedules and the time zones. ‘I can be there tomorrow evening. Send me the names of his doctors.’
‘Alright, see you then.’ She hangs up.
I quickly book a connecting flight from Baltimore to Miami, ignoring the flight attendant’s increasingly shrill injunctions to turn my phone off, then spend the flight worrying about my father and feeling powerless to do anything about it.
* * *
The plane’s just landed in Miami and the plane’s AC is already straining to compensate for the tropical humidity creeping up the aisle toward me.
I get off the plane, wheel my suitcase into the cloying heat and wait by the curb for my mom to drive up. And here she is, parking her old sedan. She doesn’t get out to hug me. I didn’t expect her to. I get in, clenching my teeth.
My mother’s so light-skinned that she’d pass the brown paper bag test. Nowadays, most people just mistake her for a Latina. She used to be a PA, my father’s PA, to be exact. He was powerful, she was young and pretty. My dad’s eighty-five now, but the other wife and kids still hate us.
‘You look tired. You should take better care of your skin, your wrinkles are starting to show,’ she says.
We drive in silence for the most part. From time to time she asks a question about my job. My condo. Whether I’ve continued with the diet.
The empty streets of the quiet Miami Beach neighborhood unfurl outside my window. I look at the palm trees without seeing them, eager to escape the oppressive car. She parks and I get out, taking a deep breath of humid twilight air. Tropical plants have latched onto the blue house, suffocating it in their unruly embrace. My mother op
ens the front door and we’re engulfed in an arctic cold as darkness surrounds us. My eyes take a minute to adjust. As I remove my shoes and sunglasses, she goes to the kitchen and pours us two glasses of icy water. She hands me one silently.
In the guestroom, I sit on the hard bed and the layer of yellow foam exhales with a moldy sigh. My hand idly runs over the moss green bedspread as I stare at the white walls, seeing without seeing the lack of paintings, childhood photos or trinkets. I unpack my bags and check my work emails. Nothing burning.
There’s a knock on my door.
‘Dinner.’ My mother never uses three words when one will do.
We eat in silence, ham sandwiches, crusts removed, a few chips. My five-year-old self comes flooding back, curiously vivid every time I’m with her. As if being with my mom stripped me of accomplishments, erased years of therapy and carved me to the core until only the insecure child remains, toying with the flavorless food on her plate.
As soon as her plate is emptied, she excuses herself and goes to her room, closing the door behind her. I stay for a while, watch some reality TV on mute, answer my work emails, paying attention to neither. My heart is tethered to my father, sleeping alone in the hospital.
All the lights are off and my mother’s door is still closed when I sneak back into my room. Despite the jetlag, I fall asleep clutching my Blackberry.
The night is fraught with nightmares. I gasp and wake up with a start, drenched in sweat.
My mom’s already up, her hair and makeup done, when I emerge, my pajama crumpled and sweaty, hair plastered to my forehead, the pillows’ creases imprinted on my left cheek. She looks at her watch and takes a sip of coffee.
She always makes me feel inadequate. Without words. Too big, too tall, too messy, not as I should be. I shower, get dressed and attempt to regain my usual self-confidence with moderate success.
We drive to the hospital.
‘So how are things with Trevor?’
I’m so surprised that I don’t know what to answer. I go for short and to the point. ‘It’s over.’
‘You’re not getting any younger and your looks won’t last forever, you know.’
I press my lips together. ‘He wasn’t the right person for me.’
‘So you’re not intending to give me grandchildren?’
‘Erm. No.’
‘You’ll break your father’s heart. It will kill him.’
Anger rises on the left side of my skull, like mustard inadvertently swallowed. ‘I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about this.’
I expect her to answer but she clams up again. The journey continues in silence as I mull over how guilty I feel now. How strange. I was always quite sure about not wanting any children and I didn’t feel the need to justify it, but somehow she’s once again made me feel like an underachiever who’s selfishly causing pain to her loved ones.
How does she do that? We must have exchanged a total of twenty words. I need to cut this stay short. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s going to cost me a fortune in therapy.
Finally we get to the hospital. It’s just as well because we’ve both run out of topics. Busy puke-colored corridors and beeping sounds greet us. The smell of urine and sweat mixes with disinfectant. She leads me through the busy hallways to a wide room where six pitiful forms lie on hospital beds emitting groans of pain. Dad is in the farthest bed, by the window, looking frail. My heart clenches at the sight of his pitiful smile.
I hurry over to him and grab his hand; it feels thin and bony, the skin like parchment. I stroke it, careful to avoid the cannula but the syringe digs into his flesh every time he moves his hand.
His eyes are milky around the edges and his face is lined. My heart contracts in my chest. He was once a giant.
My father coming home from work, wearing a suit with pointy lapels; my mom, her seventies hair perfect, in her tunic dress and pants, rushing to greet him at the door; a kiss, his hand wrapping around her waist. Me, in orange velvet overalls, cross-legged on the floor, watching Wonder Woman about three inches from the screen. I watch them embrace; curious, uncomfortable, impatient. I pretend I haven’t seen the kiss until my father calls, ‘Little Bucket, where’s my hug?’ then I spring up and run toward him, jumping into his arms as he whisks me up in the air. I burst into a cascade of giggles, conscious of my mother’s gaze. My little legs wriggle free of his embrace. Delighted. Dizzy. Out of breath.
Now I sit on the chair by his hospital bed and hold his brittle hand in both of mine.
‘Dad?’ My voice sounds smaller than usual.
‘Little Bucket,’ he rasps, trying to smile.
My heart twinges again. Damn it, keep it together DeAnn.
‘Dad, how are you feeling?’
If I focus on the medical aspects, I should be able to manage my emotions. But my father is having none of that.
‘You came.’ He raises his hand slowly and strokes my cheek.
A tear rolls down my face. He wipes it away, then his arm drops on the bed, exhausted.
‘I’m not leaving you yet, Little Bucket.’
‘Oh good.’ A smile wobbles on my lips.
My mother clears her throat and I straighten up.
‘The doctor said he’ll answer our questions at ten a.m.,’ she says. ‘We should go to his office.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I squeeze my father’s hand, wink at him and leave the room.
‘You can’t cry in front of him,’ my mother says dryly, as we walk down the khaki corridor together.
‘I won’t anymore.’
She nods, eyes straight ahead.
The doctor looks like a twelve-year-old but he answers my questions adequately enough. He indicates that the operation went well and explains the recovery plan.
An old woman stares over at us, envious, perhaps, of my father’s lucky escape, as the nurse removes his IV drip, leaving his bony hand bruised and bleeding. The nurse puts a Band-Aid on it and I step out while my mother helps him dress.
We drive back, my parents in the front, Dad gazing out, absentmindedly rubbing his palm, my mother staring at the road. I’m in the back, feeling like a child again.
When we get home, we struggle to support him, unfamiliar with our new roles as his human crutches. Then we swiftly find our places in this new dance; Dad in the middle of his two girls, heaving, stumbling. Mom leads, opening doors, I follow, relishing the feel of his arm around my shoulders, carrying the bag of medications and closing doors.
We half carry, half walk him to the bed and I get a glimpse of his thin legs, his protruding ribs, the bruises as he slips under the covers. I swallow to release the painful ball that has formed in my throat.
‘There you go. All done, Dad.’
‘Bessie dear, could you make me a coffee, please?’ My mother nods and leaves. A few moments later, muted clattering noises trickle in from the kitchen.
My father is lying propped up on a few pillows; he pats the bed next to him.
‘What’s wrong, Little Bucket?’
‘Nothing.’ I shrug.
My father sees right through my cheerful façade.
‘Your mom doesn’t know how to cope with this situation. But you do. You’ve always been strong.’
I nod.
He hesitates. ‘Your mother told me about Trevor. You shouldn’t marry the wrong man just to please us.’ He struggles with his breath and has to stop.
‘You don’t mind about me not wanting children?’
‘I just want you to be happy. Don’t worry about us old folks. Go live your life. Enjoy it to the fullest. Look at me.’ He gestures to his spent body. ‘I was twenty years old just yesterday.’ He laughs softly and it sounds like coughing.
I smile, feeling slightly better.
‘I named you, you know,’ he says, a faraway look in his eyes.
Actually, I didn’t know.
‘I named you for the Greek goddess of the hunt. I wanted you to be fierce and strong. You were never mean
t for an ordinary life, DeAnn. But I worry sometimes… I worry about you, Little Bucket.’
‘Oh, Dad, please don’t worry, I’m fine—’
He waves my protests away. ‘You know, when the Man up there lets me into Heaven, He won’t ask me if I’ve worked enough or earned enough money. He’ll ask me if I’ve loved enough.’ My father takes a wheezing breath and continues, ‘I know that love hurts and that it rocks the boat. I know that sometimes it can be hard to let someone in. But sometimes, Little Bucket, when you let your door unlock, when you open up, sometimes, joy will come in – and life and meaning.’
Jarred, I nod and kiss him on the cheek. It feels stubbly and wrinkled.
‘You have to find a way to open up and connect to others, Little Bucket, otherwise, think of all they’ll miss.’ He smiles.
My father always does that. Impart wisdom at the most unexpected times. I love him as I’ve never loved anyone else in my life. He pats my hand and falls asleep as old people do, mid-blink.
I sit very still on the bed, holding his wounded hand, stroking it, as my mind tugs, taking me back to the strange interviews. On the one hand, it would be completely unreasonable to take a position with the Cassandra Programme. Everything I have done since I graduated has been designed to achieve comfort and safety. It took me long enough to reimburse my student loans and amass a nest egg, I’m loath to blow it all on a ridiculous career move to this mystery organization. How would I even justify that in my resume? It’s preposterous.
On the other hand, I’m really tempted. This seems to resonate with my father’s advice. What if I could take a dramatically different road and somehow stumble on my joy? The Programme sounds more exciting than my current job and it could be just the jolt I need to snap me out of my empty, emotionless life. I have been worried lately that maybe I don’t feel enough and am struggling to know what to do about it. Well, maybe this is just the ticket.