Darkroom (5 page)

Today it seemed my prayers were answered. After breakfast and a walk with Miss Janet, my physical therapist, one of the hospital administrators found me and said, “You have a visitor in the atrium, Grace.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Peter Carrick. He says that—”

I never heard the rest of his sentence because I rushed out of Janet’s grip and went straight to the atrium. “Please, Grace,” she called out after me, “you mustn’t run!” But I had never felt better. How could I just walk?

When I arrived, his back was turned to me, his hands in his jacket pockets. He faced the dark corridor toward the lobby as if waiting. But my brother was not with him.

“Peter?”

He turned and walked toward me. With an awkward kind of smile that did not match the rest of his demeanor, he said, “Grace. How are you?”

I bowed my head slightly. “Thanks to you, alive and well.”

“Yes, well. You’re looking just fine. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you?”

“I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.” A wide smile brightened his face. “I just meant that I didn’t have a translator and my Vietnamese is so poor that—”

“Forgive me, but did you find Huynh Tho?”

His smile evaporated like steam from a pot of rice. His hands went back into his pockets and he let out a slow breath. “Yes. I did.”

The words caused my heart to leap. “That’s wonderful! Thank you, Peter.” Though it was inappropriate for a woman to touch a man other than her husband, I could not contain myself. I jumped up and put my arms around him, embracing his neck. Tears of relief streamed from my eyes onto his lapels.

But his countenance seemed incongruous. “Grace, listen …”

I pushed away. As quickly as my hopes had arisen, they began to sink. My stomach cramped, my breath grew hesitant. “Where is Huynh Tho?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“You said you found him. Where is he?”

“I found him, yes, but—”

“Why are you being so unkind? Please, tell me!”

Now holding both of my arms, as though I might run, or hit him, or hurt myself, Peter turned his gaze down toward me, an unspoken apology brimming from his eyes. “Grace …”

Oh, why couldn’t he just speak without this infuriating pausing? “Please, where?”

From the breast pocket in his jacket, he reached in and pulled something out. “Grace, I’m so sorry.” He placed it in my hand. Without even looking, because my eyes were squeezed shut, trying to hold back a deluge, I knew.

“Oh, Huynh Tho!”

“There just wasn’t enough time.” He wrapped his arms around me to comfort me. But I stiffened my arms and pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Your brother was fighting for the Vietcong. They engaged Echo Company in a firefight.”

“He wasn’t old enough to shave!”

“I’m sorry.”

“It cannot be! It cannot!”

“Grace.” Again, he tried to hold me. I responded by shouting, crying out in Vietnamese and pounding his chest with my fists. Huynh Tho, my little brother, my only family, was dead.

I kept wailing and hitting Peter’s chest, but he remained there quietly until at last I grew too weary to continue and fell into his arms, weeping.

The hospital staff was now looking at us. In the back of my mind, the thought arose that they would think it improper for a young woman like me to be in the embrace of a man. A white man! But my entire world had collapsed; who cared what they thought!

I wrapped my arms around Peter and pressed my hands against his back. As I did, the gold crucifix that Peter had retrieved from Huynh Tho and placed in my hand dangled by the chain from my fingers.

8

RICHARD COLSON

Waldorf Astoria, New York City

Things don’t always go as planned.
That’s one of those golden nuggets my mother passed on to me early in life. Still carry it around in my pocket. I had, however, planned on victory at every turn and, as a result, emerged victorious after last night’s debate at Loyola with James Remington, much to the DNC’s chagrin.

“Five minutes, Rick.” Karen Lassiter, my chief of staff, takes my coat, my briefcase, and sets them down in the living room of my suite in the Waldorf Astoria. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good, thanks. Wasn’t it only supposed to be four hours from Baltimore?” Day twenty-eight on my East Coast campaign tour, and the only thing worse than a five-and-a-half-hour battle on the I-95 was the traffic coming into Manhattan, even at 11:00 a.m.

“Construction in the Lincoln Tunnel, rain. You scheduled things a bit too close. But I’m not one to say I told you so.” She just did. But she’s right about these things. That’s why I hired her.

“Just give me a couple of minutes to freshen up, okay? Make yourselves at home, help yourself to the wet bar. Just don’t get too comfortable, the reception is being filmed.”

Karen grins and gets right on her cell phone, while the Secret Service men step outside. I walk into the bedroom and make my way past the marble columns of the bathroom. I splash cool water on my face and take a deep breath.
Was it all worth it
?

After toweling off, I unzip my black leather toiletry bag, fish past the toothpaste and Tylenol, then put the Norelco to my five o’ clock shadow, whisking away hundreds of miles and pages upon pages of speeches. Tonight, I’ll deliver one of my best to my supporters from the Coalition of International Business Ventures. Topic: Transforming the Global Economy, One Commodity at a Time.

A major supporter, the CIBV pushed the legal envelope with contributions and promotions. There is no way I can give them anything less than my best tonight.

Karen knocks gently on the bedroom door. “Two minutes, Rick. Everything all right?”

“Be right out.” One final pass over my salt and pepper with a comb, and I’m ready. The cell phone on the granite countertop displays 5:50 p.m. Given that I’m about to step up to the dais before cameras and hundreds of the world’s most powerful CEOs in less than ten minutes, Karen’s patience surprises me.

But not as much as the buzzing of my cell phone, just as I pluck it off the counter. Nearly dropped it. As soon as I see the caller ID, however, I grip it tighter. My heart races. “What is it?”

It’s Cecilia, Suzanne’s home attendant. “Senator Colson, I’m sorry to bother you right now, but—”

Karen knocks a bit more urgently now. “Rick?”

“Just a minute!”

“You’re going to be late.”

“I said, in a minute! Cecilia, what’s wrong?”

The nurse’s tone is even but anxious. “It’s Mrs. Colson, sir. She’s had a massive flare-up. We’re taking her to the ER right now.”

“Which one?”

“Mercy Hospital.”

“Tell her I’ll be there soon.”

“But—”

“Just tell her, Cecilia. Thank you.” I end the call before she can offer another question. When I open the door, Karen and the two Secret Service men stand waiting in the living area.

“They’re expecting you in the ballroom, sir.” She helps me into
my jacket and fixes my tie. “You’re going to miss your sound check.”

“There’s a problem.” I push her hands away and step back. “Suzanne’s had an episode.”

Karen opens her mouth, then stops herself. Then, “Sir, I’m sorry to hear that. But the CIBV members paid five hundred dollars a head to be here tonight.”

“It’s an important appearance, I know. But not as important to me as Suzanne.”

“Of course not.” She glances at her watch. “But remember, public perception.”

“We can work the media, Karen.”
I control it more powerfully than anyone in the public could ever imagine.
“I can make Hitler look like a saint and Mother Teresa as wholesome as Madonna.”

“If you miss this speech, you’ll take a direct hit. No amount of media spin mitigates snubbing this group. You can’t risk that now. Not when we’re this close.” Again, she’s right. If I’m perceived as unable to keep my personal life from affecting my official life even before I am elected, what would that do to my supporters’ confidence?

A few more of the event staff arrive at the door. Karen reaches up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be late.”

9

XANDRA CARRICK

New York City

The human body wasn’t designed to traverse continents in so short a time span. All the great explorers—Vasco de Gama, Ferdinand Magellan, Christopher Columbus—sailed for months. My journey back from Vietnam took a day. I’ve yet to reacclimate to Eastern time.

It’s 10:30 a.m., which for Dad is 7:30 in San Diego. An early riser, he will have been awake for a couple of hours by now. I reach over, pick up the phone, and call him. From the moment he answers, it’s apparent something’s amiss.

“How are you doing, Dad?”

“Better. You?”

“Unseasonably cold today.” As I speak, my eyes linger on the Graflex, perched on my desk. Beside it, my cello sits entombed in its case. How long has it been there, untouched, its voice forgotten?

Dad clears this throat. “Listen, Xandi. I never got a chance to apologize.”

“It’s all right, I should have said something about it before blindsiding you.” Once again I’m making excuses for him. Truth be told, I’d prefer an explanation over an apology for his tantrum in Bình Sơn. He’ll never talk about it, though. Anything related to his war experience, from which I suspect that outburst stemmed, is off-limits. It’s always been.

“So we’re okay?”

“Dad, I could never stay mad at you.”

“You were mad?”

“I just meant … never mind.”

“What are your plans, now that you’re home?”

“Don’t know. I was thinking about submitting an entry for the Marbury.”

Dad pauses. “Hmm.”

“What do you mean,
hmm
?”

“The Marbury’s huge. Makes the Pulitzer look like a local contest.”

“You don’t think I can win?”

“Not what I meant.”

“No, go on and say it. I can take it.”

“Xandi, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You don’t think I can make it in photography any more than I could in music.” Propped up against the wall, my neglected cello silently affirms this.

“You gave up, even though you had everything going for you. Excellence requires more than talent, Xandi. You need dedication.”

“You of all people should not lecture about dedication.” As far as memory serves, he’d become an absentee dad, even when he was home. I had no siblings with whom he had to divide his attention. Mom honored and protected his right to “privacy,” trained me to be devoted to him. Unfortunately, those sentiments were not reciprocated.

Dad huffs. “Why’d you call, anyway? To argue about the past?”

“What could ever possess me to imagine you’d open up about the past?”

“This conversation is over. Call me after you’ve cooled down.”

“Call me when you get a clue!” I slam down the receiver, but I think he beat me to it. My hands are shaking and I’m breathing heavily. The Graflex and my cello stare at me, witnesses testifying against me in this mockery of a trial called “My Life.”

“You’ve got such a gift,” Mom had said backstage, the day before my graduation recital at Juilliard Pre-College. “Don’t keep it to yourself. It’s meant to bless others.”

“I don’t feel so gifted. Karina’s the one who won the Avery Fisher prize, she’s the one who signed with Yo-Yo Ma’s manager, and she’s the one that Sony Classical—”

Mom cupped my face and kissed my head. “
You’re
just as good. Maybe if you were more willing to share.”

“Karina doesn’t share; she shows off.”

“Think of all the people you have touched with your music. The senior citizens in the nursing homes, people in church. Hmm?”

“How about Dad?”

“He loves your cello playing.”

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“It was a last-minute assignment; he had to go.”

“That’s what happened last year, and the year before. He doesn’t care.”

“You know that’s not true. He’s very proud of you.”

I went on stage and, according to my teacher Ardyth Alton, gave the best performance of any concert I’d ever played. But somehow, despite three encores and four curtain calls, Dad’s absence hollowed out any of the joy I might otherwise have derived.

That was my last public appearance.

From then on, it was college, photography, and the hollow pursuit of winning his approval. There are fringe benefits to such pursuits, though. My current work with the
New York Times
is among them, and I can always fall back on that when I’m feeling the need for validation.

Or so I hope.

My leave of absence from the
Times
began with Mom’s passing and lasted nearly a year. I’m having difficulty finding the motivation to return to my photographic endeavors. This concerns me, though Doug, my supervisor, hasn’t made an issue of it. “Take all the time you need,” he always tells me. “Your job will be here waiting, when you come home.”

It’s not so much the job as it is about my drive. What will impel me to get out of bed every day now? The thrill of capturing moments in the temporal existence of human beings from all walks of society just doesn’t hold the same appeal now as it did, say, two years ago, when I thought there was still a chance Dad would one day say, “Xandra, I’m so proud of you.” What am I doing it for now? Prestige, self-fulfillment? Perhaps when the money runs out, I’ll gain a new perspective.

On the way to the kitchen, I pass by my poster of Senator Richard Colson. In bold blue letters, the slogan reads: Vote Colson, Vote Change.

Perhaps the new president will bring a new hope. Thank God Colson is taking the lead in the polls. Nobody wants another four years of Republican rule. On the other hand, many fear Remington’s extreme views on the Democratic ticket. Colson is not the lesser of two evils, but the sensible balance. He’s socially responsible, well balanced, strong on foreign policy. And he’s got my vote.

Two more weeks.

Change.

That’s the word that fills my head as I pour myself a bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes. While I partake, Tony the Tiger reminds me of how his sugar-frosted flakes are like Colson’s reform plans: “they’re grrrreat!”