“Chains,” said Cameron. “Sounds kinky.”
“Some of my colleagues agree—too Jungian. The publishers chose the title.” “What’s it about?”
Jenna sighed. “The relationship, in psychological terms, between male dominance mechanisms and female survival strategies in selected cultures over time.”
“Yow!” said Cameron. “Does it come with English subtitles?”
Even Jenna had to laugh. “Sorry. It’s hard to explain in one sentence. Let’s just say it’s about the ways women have adapted to various forms of discrimination and abuse.”
“A hot topic,” said Cameron. “Hot enough to send me back to the liquor cabinet. Get you anything?” He didn’t ask Carolyn.
“No, thank you. Actually, I’d better be going. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.”
The Chandlers made conventional protests. Carolyn walked her out. Under a backyard goal, the boys were playing one-on-one, to all appearances best friends. Jenna watched for a moment. She knew nothing about basketball, but it was obvious that Josh’s size was a great advantage, which Karim countered with agility and deception. Where had he learned all those feints and fakes, clever little lies told by the body? She shrugged off a shiver. The quick knife in the night in Alexandria.
Walking home, she glanced sidelong at her son. Love and sadness welled in her; he was growing up so fast! Only yesterday, he had been a baby. Then, in those first years when they were learning a new world together, they had been as close as two people can be. And now—too soon!—she could sense the beginnings of distance between them; already in his face, with its heartbreaking black eye and its newfound secrecy, there was the outline of the man to come. She reached out and tousled his hair. He squirmed away but grinned. It was an American moment, she thought, like a snippet from some TV commercial. In al-Remal, a mother wouldn’t treat a male child so familiarly, not at Karim’s age. But, of course, Karim knew nothing about that. He was an American. She was one herself—or nearly one. My God, she had even become a Red Sox fan. Her English carried hardly a trace of accent, and most of that vaguely Dutch, from Miss Vanderbeek. Karim had an accent, too: pure Boston.
An all-American boy. But had she done wrong? she asked herself for the thousandth time. She had gone to the Chandlers to defend her son’s heritage, but hadn’t she robbed him of that far more fully than any schoolboy insult could? Karim knew nothing of his nationality.
As for religion, there were mosques in Boston, but she had never taken him to one. She had taught him a little about Islam—but a little about other religions, as well. Then there was his personal birthright: he was a royal prince, yet far from knowing that, he did not even know his true father.
She had enrolled Karim in the prestigious Commonwealth School, which, ironically, accepted him readily because it was hungry for “minority” students. But she understood that, in some way, this was a concession to the remnants of her aristocratic memories and fantasies. Karim had no such illusions.
Someday, she would tell him the truth, she promised herself. Meanwhile, what was the point in questioning herself this way? She had done what she had to, and it was done.
“What do you think, kiddo?” she said, trying to shake off the mood. “Should we stop by the bookstore and see if they have any new puzzles?” Karim shared her passion for large, fiendishly difficult jigsaw puzzles. She liked to think that it meant their intellects were alike, attuned to solving problems.
“Can we order a pizza, too?” Karim asked eagerly. “Great idea.”
And just like that, for the moment at least, the distance was gone; he was her little boy again. They were Jenna and Karim, together against the world.
Genevieve
Wednesdays were a challenge because of Jenna’s three afternoon patients. It wasn’t that their problems were especially tricky, although Colleen Dowd’s was certainly difficult. The trouble was that Jenna personally liked all three women and found it hard to maintain objectivity.
Colleen Dowd was forty-five, several years divorced, no children. She suffered from agoraphobia.
The term, a combination of Greek words meaning “fear of the market- place,” had once signified an irrational fear of open places. Now it was applied to a spectrum of phobic reactions to various circumstances, which usually involved being out of one’s accustomed sphere. Colleen had panic attacks whenever she went more than a short distance from home.
Over the years, she had circumscribed her life ever more tightly to avoid them, even relocating her business to a storefront on the same block of Hanover Street as her apartment. At her first appointment, she had been triumphant at having accomplished the short cab ride to Jenna’s office. Ironically, she was a travel agent.
Barbara Aston presented a quite different set of problems. She was an alcoholic who also depended heavily on prescription drugs, especially Vali- um—a dangerous combination. She was also addicted—the word was quite accurate—to cosmetic surgery.
At forty-three, in a desperate effort to stay thin and young for fear of losing the husband she professed to adore, she had already undergone a dozen procedures ranging from breast implants to a facelift, and from a tummy tuck to two separate nose jobs.
Before attacking the deep insecurity that underlay all this, Jenna was attempting to deal with Barbara’s chemical dependencies, which not only interfered with other therapeutic efforts but were potentially life-threatening.
The final Wednesday-afternoon patient, Toni Ferrante, was thirty-five, married for fifteen years, the mother of two sons a bit older than Karim. She was also a lesbian, a fact she had finally admitted to herself only a year earlier. The problem was that she could not admit it to her husband, her boys, or—especially—her parents. From Jenna’s point of view, Toni was a difficult patient simply because there was nothing wrong with her.
Unlike Colleen and Barbara, she was not in the grip of some disorder. In coming to a psychologist, all she was seeking was a confessor who would not condemn her while she struggled to choose between living the truth and living a lie. It was a choice Jenna understood only too well, and often she felt like a hypocrite, even a charlatan, presuming to help others face up to their problems while she hid from hers.
That very afternoon, at the end of their session, Toni had stepped across the patient-therapist boundary. “Hey, Jenna, you know, I saw your book in the store. How come you don’t have a picture of yourself on it?”
“Well, it started out as a scholarly work, and they often don’t have author photos.”
That was true—as far as it went. But something skeptical in Toni’s expression made Jenna go farther. “Then, too,” she said, stepping over the boundary herself, “my father was a strict Muslim who disapproved of photography. I suppose I never really overcame his judgment.”
Toni grinned. “Still trying to win old Dad’s heart, huh? I can dig that.”
In truth, Jenna had refused repeated requests from the publisher for a photo; it was just too risky.
Living a lie.
Toni left. It was four o’clock. Karim would be at soccer practice—he showed surprising skill at the game—for another hour. Jenna looked at the paperwork that needed doing; soon, she was going to have to hire a secretary. She looked at the pile of forms, bills, and letters again, and decided on a cup of tea at the Village Greenery instead.
On the way, she stopped at a newsstand for the Star and the National Enquirer. A man buying a Boston Globe looked at her purchases with amused disdain. She was accustomed to the reaction, but she had learned that the tabloids, travesties of journalism though they might be, were the most likely source of news about her brother.
At the coffee shop, a hand reached out to open the door for her: the man with the Globe. A few years earlier, she might have panicked. Now she merely nodded thanks. The man took a table and was soon absorbed in his paper.
Not a spy, not a hunter—just another tired professional, maybe even a shrink, off work a bit early.
She or
dered Earl Grey with a croissant and jam, and settled into the scandal sheets. Disappointingly, she found nothing about Malik. Usually, there was at least a gossipy teaser suggesting his romance with this or that model or movie star, although, when quoted, he always pointed out that he was happily married.
For years now, the stories had identified him as “one of the world’s richest men.” Lately, they had begun dropping “one of ” and making it “man,” singular. He owned a shipping fleet that would have rivaled that of his old mentor, Onassis, held investments in enterprises of a dozen kinds all over the world, and—in the dark speculation of the tabloids—might or might not be earning huge brokerage fees on billion-dollar arms sales in the Middle East and elsewhere.
Once in a while, the stories mentioned the tragic death of Malik’s sister, the Remal’s princess.
Twice, there had been photos of Genevieve, smiling and a bit heavier than Jenna remembered.
Once, there had been a picture of Laila, tall for her age, thin, and looking almost angrily at the camera.
Jenna had never let Malik know that she and Karim were alive. It was the hardest thing in her life, a knife that made a new cut every day. But she was afraid. After seven years, she was still afraid.
The early days had actually been easier. Then, there had been no question of telling anyone anything. She had lived as a fugitive, pure and simple. If someone stood for a few minutes across the street, or walked behind her for two blocks, or merely gave her a long glance in Harvard Yard, she wondered if Ali had found her.
That kind of fear—fear she woke with and went to sleep with and dreamed— was past. She still took precautions, such as not having a photograph on her book, but she no longer suspected that every odd click on the phone meant a wiretap.
Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to contact Malik. He was too flamboyant, and too beset by hungry reporters and wolfish paparazzi, for the secret to remain secret for long. And if it came out, what then? Malik was wealthy, but his mil- lions—or billions, if the press could be believed—were nothing against the vast fortune of the Remali royal family. Could he protect her and Karim from Ali? For how long? Could he even protect himself ?
Better to let things remain as they were. By now, surely, her brother had reconciled himself to her death. So had her father, her aunts, Bahia, everyone she had known in her old life.
Everyone except Ali.
From the same tabloids that told her about her brother, she knew that her husband had married again and fathered at least one new son. But that wouldn’t matter if he discovered that she and Karim were alive. He would be as implacable as a falcon—and as deadly.
Far better to let the truth lie quiet. Still, she hurt.
“Jenna? May I join you?”
She looked up and recognized Carolyn Chandler. “Of course. What a nice surprise.”
“I’m not interrupting your … reading?” Carolyn indicated the Star and Enquirer.
Jenna laughed. “You’ve caught me. I admit it. It’s my only vice. Or my worst one.”
Carolyn sat down. She was wearing a black skirt and gray silk blouse that gave her a businesslike look. “I sneak a read myself now and then,” she con- fessed. “Did you see the one last week? ‘Aliens Kidnap Cows for Love’?”
“No. God, those aliens. You’d think I’d get one or two of them as patients, with the problems they have.”
“Or at least the occasional traumatized cow,” said Carolyn. She looked around. “It really is a small world. I’ve never been in this place—just popped in on impulse. Do you live nearby?”
“Walking distance. But my office is just down the block.”
“So you’re really a practicing psychiatrist, besides being an author.” “Psychologist.”
A waitress appeared. Carolyn ordered a cappuccino.
“Have you noticed,” she asked when the girl was gone, “that our sons have become inseparable?”
Jenna smiled. “I have heard quite a bit of ‘me and Josh’ lately.”
They were at a window table, and the late-afternoon light warmed Carolyn’s tennis tan, accentuating her hazel eyes. She seemed so much friendlier than at their last meeting, thought Jenna. Of course, she had been on the defensive then, about Josh.
“Isn’t it amazing,” Carolyn said, as if reading Jenna’s thought, “how little boys can try to beat each other’s brains out one minute and be Damon and Pythias the next? Grown men, too. I swear they’re a different species—maybe the notorious aliens. In middle school, a girl named Sarah Stubble- field slapped me once. I’ve hated her ever since. And, of course, when a man hits a woman, it’s never forgiven, is it?”
“No,” said Jenna, although it wasn’t that simple. “But even between men, it’s not the same everywhere, you know. Where I grew up, if one man struck another, they were enemies for life—and one of them might not live very long.” As soon as she said it, she remembered Malik flattening Ali in her father’s garden, and Amira Badir twisted Jenna Sorrel’s fingers into a sign against the evil eye under the table at the Village Greenery.
Carolyn shook her head. “I still say they’re aliens. How did we get on this depressing subject?” She took a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse, but her cappuccino arrived before she could light one.
Jenna checked her watch. “I hate to do it, but I need to run. There’s a stew in the Crock-Pot that may have turned into a brick by now, and Karim will be home any minute. He’s like a locust after soccer.”
“Josh, too,” said Carolyn. “Wait till they hit puberty. We’ll be setting out shovels and pitchforks instead of flatware.”
“It was good to see you. I’m glad you had that impulse.”
“Me, too. Listen, we’re having a little brunch party Sunday, very informal, just some friends and acquaintances. We’d love to have you. Bring Karim— Josh will be eternally grateful.”
Jenna hesitated. She accepted few social invitations. It was a habit born of the old fear: in a crowd of new faces, who might at last recognize hers? Over the years, almost without realizing she was doing it, she had made her son and her work into a twin-towered castle from which she rarely ventured.
“I know it’s short notice,” said Carolyn. Jenna decided. “Not at all. It sounds nice.”
“You’ll make it nicer. Bring a guest, too. The more the merrier.”
“I think Karim will be enough. Thank you. I look forward to it. What time should we be there?”
“Elevenish. As I said, it’s very casual. Most of us will be wearing workout clothes, old college sweats.”
Walking home, Jenna already felt uncomfortable about accepting Carolyn’s invitation. What had persuaded her to do it? The other woman seemed personable enough, but what did they really have in common except that Karim and Josh were classmates?
Maybe it was just a matter of being tired of living like a recluse.
Bring a guest. If only Carolyn knew what a sad joke that was. In her seven years in Boston, she had never had a real relationship, hardly even a date. It wasn’t for want of opportunity; in college, a dozen young fellow students— and a couple of not-so-young professors—had made overtures. She had brushed them off. In those days, it seemed to her that Ali and Philippe had ruined men for her, the one by his cruelty, the other by providing an example no one else could match.
But time had passed. She was thirty, and she felt something missing in her life. She wondered if there could be someone for her someday despite every- thing, despite the fact that, after all, she was still a married woman.
Maybe that was why she had decided to go to the party, she thought as she turned in at her door. Maybe she was hoping for something new, some- thing good to happen. And why not?
Home. Entering her apartment always filled her with a sense of pride and security. She had moved in a year earlier, after her practice had gotten off the ground. Two bedrooms, with a third converted to a workspace. It was expensive but not outrageous, unlike the first place she had taken in Boston.
Looking back, she had to laugh at that Jenna. Her ignorance had been appalling. She had no idea how much food cost or what a plumber did, no awareness that servants in America expected regular days off, or that land- lords, even of luxury apartments, wanted the rent on the first of the month. After a year and a half, she had finally confronted the fact that she was running through her money at an alarming rate, and that there was no wealthy father or husband to replace it. She took a two-bedroom apartment a mile from the campus, dismissed the cook and the nanny, and learned about day- care and supermarkets.
She and Karim had lived happily in that apartment for nearly five years.
The stew was simmering nicely, tender and tasty. Its aroma made the new place feel even more like home. Bring a guest. Did she really want to leave her warm and cozy castle for the cold wilds outside?
She heard the beep of the soccer-team minibus from the street, followed by Karim’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Hey, Mom! Guess how many goals?!” “Two?”
“Three!”
“Who was the goalkeeper?” “Josh.”
“Uh-oh. Is he upset?”
“Huh? Nah. We’re pals. Besides, it’s not his fault the other guys can’t stop me.” “Whoa! Superstar!”
Karim ignored the mild rebuke of his boastfulness. “Can we eat early, Mom? Do I have to do my homework first? Something smells great, and I’m starving.”
“All right. I’ll watch you eat, though. I snacked after work.”
They sat at the kitchen table talking of school and soccer while Karim devoured two bowls of stew. It was a cozy scene. It felt right. They were the smallest possible family, but a family nonetheless. At times like this, Jenna could say that she was truly happy.
Mirage Page 29