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SUMMER INTERNSHIP POSITIONS/DEPARTMENT 16 page

"This is my big break, Johnny, and I don't want to screw up. I thought I'd start by picking your brain."

"I haven't slept in a month, so I don't know how much good I'll be, but I'll do what I can." He paused. "You know it's dangerous down there. A real powder keg. People are dying."

"You sound worried about me."

"Of course I am. Now, let's start with the relevant history. In 1960 or '61, the Sandinista National Liberation Front, or FSLN, was founded . . ."

Tully wrote as fast as she could.


For just under two weeks Tully worked her ass off. Eighteen, twenty hours a day she was reading, writing, making phone calls, setting up meetings. In the few rare hours when she wasn't working or trying to sleep, she went to the kind of stores she'd never frequented before—camping stores, military supply outlets, and the like. She bought pocketknives and netted safari hats and hiking boots. Everything and anything she could think of. If they were in the jungle and Edna wanted a damn fly swatter, Tully was going to produce it.

By the time they actually left, she was nervous. At the airport, Edna, wearing a pair of razor-pressed linen pants and a white cotton blouse, took one look at Tully's multipocketed khaki jungle attire and burst out laughing.

For the endless hours of their flights, through Dallas and Mexico City and finally onto a small plane in Managua, Edna fired questions at Tully.

The plane landed in what looked to Tully like a backyard. Men—boys, really—in camouflaged clothing stood on the perimeter, holding rifles. Children came out of the jungle to play in the air kicked up by the propellers. The dichotomy of the image was something Tully knew she'd always remember, but from the moment she got out of the plane until she reboarded the flight for home five days later, she had precious little time to think about imagery.

Edna was a mover.

They hiked through guerrilla-infested jungles, listening to the shrieking of howler monkeys, swatting mosquitoes, and floating up alligator-lined rivers. Sometimes they were blindfolded, sometimes they could see. Deep in the jungle, while Edna taped her interview with el jefe, the general in charge, Tully talked to the troops.

The trip opened her eyes to a world she'd never seen before; more than that, it showed her who she was. The fear, the adrenaline rush, the story; it turned her on like nothing ever had before.

Later, when the story was done and she and Edna were back in their hotel in Mexico City sitting on the balcony outside Edna's room, having straight shots of tequila, Tully said, "I can't thank you enough, Edna."

Edna took another straight shot and leaned back in her chair. The night was quiet. It was the first time they hadn't heard gunfire in days.

"You did well, kid."

Tully's pride welled to almost painful proportions. "Thank you. I learned more from you in the past few weeks than I learned in four years of college."



"So, maybe you want to go on my next assignment."

"Anywhere, anytime."

"I'm interviewing Nelson Mandela."

"Count me in."

Edna turned to her. The sticky-looking orange glow from the bare outdoor bulb highlighted her wrinkles, caused bags under her eyes. In this light she looked ten years older than usual, and tired; maybe a little drunk. "Have you got a boyfriend?"

"With my work schedule?" Tully laughed and poured herself another shot. "Hardly."

"Yeah," Edna said. "The story of my life."

"Do you regret it?" Tully asked. If they hadn't been drinking she never would have asked such a personal question, but tequila had blurred the lines between them for just this moment in time. Tully could pretend they were colleagues instead of icon/newbie. "Making this your life, I mean?"

"There's a price, that's for sure. For my generation, at least, you couldn't do this job and be married. You could get married—I did; three times—but you couldn't stay married. And forget about kids. When a story broke, I needed to be there, period. It could have been my kid's wedding day and I'd have left. So I've lived by myself." She looked at Tully. "And I've loved it. Every damn second. If I end up dying in a nursing home alone, who gives a shit? I was where I wanted to be every second of my life, and I did something that mattered."

Tully felt as if she were being baptized into the religion she'd always believed in. "Amen to that."

"So, what do you know about South Africa?"



CHAPTER TWENTY

 


The first twelve months of motherhood was a riptide of cold dark water that all too often sucked Kate under.

It was embarrassing how ill-equipped she turned out to be for this blessed event that had been her secret girlhood dream. So embarrassing, in fact, that she told no one how overwhelmed she sometimes felt. When asked, she smiled brightly and said motherhood was the best thing that had ever happened to her. It was even true.

Yet sometimes it wasn't.

The truth was that her gorgeous, pale-skinned, dark-haired, brown-eyed daughter was more than a handful. From the moment she came home Marah was sick. Ear infections followed each other like cars on a train; just when one ended, another began. Colic caused her to cry in-consolably for hours at a time. Kate had lost count of the times she'd found herself in the living room in the middle of the night, holding her red-faced, shrieking daughter and quietly crying herself.

Marah would be a year old in three days and she had yet to sleep through the night. Four hours was her record so far. Thus, in the past twelve months, Kate hadn't slept through the night. Johnny always offered to get up. In the beginning he'd even gone so far as to throw back the covers, but Kate had always stopped him. It wasn't that she wanted to play the martyr, although she often felt like one.

Johnny had a job; it was that simple. Kate had given up her career to be a mom. Thus, getting up in the night was her job. At first she'd done it willingly, then at least with a smile. Lately, though, when Marah let out her first wail at eleven o'clock, Kate found herself praying for strength.

There were other problems, too. First off, her looks had gone to hell. She was pretty sure this was yet another ripple in the no-sleep pool. No amount of makeup or moisturizer helped. Her skin, always pale, was J. P. Patches white lately, except for the shadows under her eyes, which were a lovely shade of brown. She'd lost all of her baby weight except for ten pounds, but when you were five-foot-three, ten pounds was two sizes. She hadn't worn anything but sweats in almost a year.

She needed to start on an exercise program. Last week she'd found her old Jane Fonda workout tapes, a leotard, and leg warmers. Now all she had to do was hit play and get going.

"Today's the day," she said aloud as she carried her daughter back to bed and gently tucked her in beneath the expensive pink and white cashmere blanket that had been a gift from Tully. Luxuriously soft, it had become the thing Marah chose to sleep with. No matter what toys or blankets Kate offered, Tully's was the one. "Try to sleep till seven o'clock. Mommy could use it."

Yawning, Kate went back to bed and snuggled up to her husband.

He kissed her lips, lingering as if maybe he wanted to start something, and then he murmured, "You're so beautiful."

She opened her eyes, staring blearily at him. "Okay, who is she? Guilt is the only reason you'd say I was beautiful at this godforsaken hour."

"Are you kidding? With your mood swings lately it's like having three wives. The last thing I want is another woman."

"But sex would be nice."

"Sex would be nice. It's funny you brought that up."

"Funny ha ha, or funny I-can't-remember-the-last-time-we-made-love?"

"Funny that you're getting lucky this weekend."

"Yeah, how's that?"

"I've already talked to your mom. She's taking Marah after the birthday party and you and I are going to have a romantic night in downtown Seattle."

"What if I can't fit into any of my nice clothes?"

"Believe me, I have no problem with nudity. We can order room service instead of going out. Although you're the only one who thinks you haven't lost the weight. Try on something. I think you'll be surprised."

"No wonder I love you so much."

"I'm a god. There's no doubt about it."

She smiled and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him softly.

They had just closed their eyes again when the phone rang. Kate sat up slowly, and looked at the clock: 5:47.

She picked up on the second ring, saying, "Hello, Tully."

"Hey, Katie," Tully said. "How did you know it was me?"

"Lucky guess." Kate rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling the start of a headache. Beside her, Johnny grumbled something about people who couldn't tell time.

"Today's the day, remember? My report on the reservists Bush called up to active duty. My first honest-to-God important story."

"Oh. Right."

"You don't sound very excited, Katie."

"It's five-thirty in the morning."

"Oh. I thought you'd want to watch the broadcast. Sorry I bothered you. 'Bye."

"Tully, wait—"

It was too late. The dial tone blared at her.

Kate cursed under her breath and hung up the phone. She couldn't seem to do anything right lately. She and Tully had so little in common these days there wasn't much to talk about. Tully didn't want to hear endless "mommy" stories and Kate could only stand so many my-life-and-career-are-great anecdotes. The postcards and calls from distant, exotic places were vaguely irritating.

"She's on Sunrise this morning, remember?" Kate said. "She wanted to remind us."

Johnny threw the covers back and turned on the television. They sat up together, listening to Norville's report on the buildup of hostilities in Iraq and the president's response.

Then, suddenly, Tully was on the air. She stood in front of some rundown concrete building, talking to an impossibly fresh-faced kid with a thick red crew cut and freckles. He looked as if he could have been wearing braces and a letterman's jacket ten seconds ago.

But it was Tully who demanded attention. She looked trim and utterly professional and beautiful. She'd tamed her curly auburn hair into a sleek, sophisticated bob and applied just enough makeup to accentuate her eyes.

"Wow," Kate whispered. When had that transformation occurred? She wasn't overblown Tallulah anymore, child of the cocaine-and-glitter eighties. She was reporter Tallulah Hart, as beautiful as Paulina Porizkova, as professional as Diane Sawyer.

"Wow is right," Johnny said. "She looks gorgeous."

They watched the rest of the broadcast. Then he kissed Kate's cheek and headed into the bathroom. Within moments she heard the shower start.

"She looks gorgeous," Kate muttered, leaning sideways for the phone.

She punched in Tully's number. The NBC receptionist answered and said she'd need to leave a message.

So Tully was pissed.

"Tell her Katie called to say the story was great."

Tully was probably right there, standing next to the phone, wearing her expensive designer skirt and blouse, digging through her quilted designer handbag, watching the light flash on her phone.

Kate got out of bed and went into the bathroom. There was no point in trying to sleep any more. Marah would waken any minute. In the shower, her husband was singing a very off-key version of an old Rolling Stones' song.

Against her better judgment she looked in the mirror. Steam clouded her reflection but didn't obscure it.

Her hair was straggly and too long. Dark blond roots showed how long it had been since she'd had a foil. She had bags under her eyes the size of open umbrellas and enough cleavage for two women.

No wonder she tried to stay away from reflective surfaces. With a sigh, she reached for the toothpaste and began brushing her teeth. Before she'd finished, she felt Marah wake up.

Turning off the water, she opened the door.

Sure enough, Marah was screaming.

Kate's day had begun.


When the big day arrived, Kate wondered why in the hell she'd planned such a ridiculous birthday party for her daughter. In the morning, after another sleepless night, she got up and began the preparations, putting the finishing touches on the pink Barbie doll cake and wrapping the last few presents. In a moment of obvious madness, she'd invited all the children from Marah's Mommy and Me class, as well as two former sorority sisters who had similarly aged daughters and her parents. Even Johnny had taken the morning off work for the extravaganza. When they all arrived, on time, bearing gifts, Kate immediately got a headache. It didn't help that Marah picked that moment to start screaming, either.

Still, the party went on, with all the women in the living room and the kids on the floor, making more noise than Sherman marching into Atlanta.

"I saw Tully on that really early show the other morning," Mary Kay said. "I was up with Danny."

"I was up, too," Charlotte said, reaching for her coffee. "She looked great, didn't she?"

"That's because she sleeps through the night," Vicki pointed out. "And her clothes don't always have puke on them."

Kate wanted to join in, but she couldn't. Her headache was killing her and she had this nagging sense that something was wrong. It was so acute that when Johnny left the party at just past one, she'd almost pleaded with him to stay.

"You're awfully quiet today," her mother pointed out when the last guest left.

"Marah didn't sleep again last night."

"She never sleeps through the night, and why is that? Because—"

"I know. I know. I need to let her cry." Kate tossed the last of the used paper plates into the trash. "I just can't."

"I let you cry. It took three nights and you never woke up in the wee hours again."

"But I'm a genius. Clearly my daughter is not as bright."

"No, I'm the genius. Clearly my daughter is not as bright." Mom looped an arm around Kate's shoulder and led her to the sofa.

Side by side, they sat down. Kate leaned against her mother, who stroked her hair. The gentle, soothing motion transported her back a few decades. "Remember when I wanted to be an astronaut, and you said I was lucky because my generation could have it all? I could have three kids, a husband, and still go to the moon. What a bunch of bullshit that was." She sighed. "It's hard to be a good mother."

"It's hard to be good at anything."

"Amen," Kate said. The truth was that she loved her daughter, ached sometimes with the intensity of that love, but the responsibility was overwhelming, and the pace of life exhausting.

"I know how tired you are. It'll get better. I promise."

No sooner had her mother said the words than her father walked into the room. He'd spent most of the party hiding out in the family room, watching some sports team or another. "We'd best get a move on, Margie. I don't want to get stuck in traffic. Get Marah ready."

Kate felt a flash of panic. Was she ready to be away from her daughter for a night? "I don't know, Mom."

Her mother touched her hand gently. "Your father and I raised two kids, Katie. We can watch our granddaughter for a night. Go out with your husband. Kick up your heels and have some fun. Marah will be safe with us."

Kate knew her mother was right, even knew it was a good thing to do. So why was her stomach clenched?

"You have a lifetime to be afraid," Dad said. "That's what parenting is. Might as well embrace it, kiddo."

Kate tried gamely to smile. "This is it, huh? How you guys felt all the time."

"How we still feel," Dad said. Mom took her by the hand. "Let's go gather Marah's things. Johnny's going to be back in a couple of hours to pick you up."

Kate packed Marah's clothes, making sure she had her pink blanket, her pacifiers, and her beloved Pooh bear. Then she gathered up the formula and bottles and tiny jars of strained fruit and vegetables, and wrote out a feeding and sleeping schedule that would have made an air traffic controller proud.

When she held Marah one last time and kissed her soft cheek, Kate had to hold back tears. It was ridiculous and embarrassing and inevitable, for it didn't matter that motherhood had kicked the hell out of her and ruined her confidence; it had also swamped her so with love that she was only half a person without her daughter.

Kate stood on the porch of her new beachfront Bainbridge Island house, with her hand tented across her eyes until long after the car had disappeared down the driveway.

Then, back inside, she wandered aimlessly for a few moments, not quite certain of how to be alone anymore.

She tried calling Tully again, left another message.

Finally she found herself in her closet, staring at her prepregnancy clothes, trying to figure out what she had that was sexy and grown-up and would fit her. She'd just finished packing when she heard the door downstairs open and close, heard her husband's footsteps on the hardwood floor.

She went down to meet him. "Where are we going, Mr. Ryan?"

"You'll see." He took her hand and got her overnight bag and closed up the house. Out in his car, the radio was on. Loud, like the old days. Bruce Springsteen was singing, Hey, little girl, is your daddy home . . .

Kate laughed, feeling young again. They drove down to the ferry terminal and onto the waiting boat. Instead of sitting in their car for the passage, as they usually did, they bundled up in coats and hats and stood on the bow with the tourists. It was five o'clock on this cold January evening, and the sky and Sound were a Monet of lavender and pink. In the distance, Seattle sparkled with a million lights.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"No, but I'll tell you what we're going to do."

She laughed. "I know what we're going to do."

As the ferry chugged into port, they returned to their car. Once they were off the boat, Johnny maneuvered through the stop-and-go downtown traffic and pulled up in front of the Inn at the Market, where a liveried doorman opened her door and collected her bags.

Johnny came around for her and took her hand. "We're already checked in." To the bellman, he said, "Room 416."

They strolled through the quiet brick courtyard and into the intimate, European-style lobby. On the fourth floor, they went to their room, a corner suite that had a sweeping view of the Sound. Bainbridge Island looked almost purple; the water was steel-blue; the distant mountains were back-lit by pink light. On a table by the window a bottle of champagne stood tilted in a silver ice bucket, a plateful of strawberries beside it.

Kate smiled. "I see someone wants to get laid in the worst way."

"What you see is a man who loves his wife." He swept her into his arms and kissed her.

When someone knocked, they broke apart like teenagers, laughing at their own passion.

Kate waited impatiently for the bellman to leave. The second he was gone she began unbuttoning her blouse. "I'm not sure exactly what to wear tonight." When Johnny looked at her—he wasn't smiling now; he looked as hungry as she felt—she unzipped her pants, let them fall to the floor. For the first time in months she didn't worry about her weight gain. Instead she let his gaze be her mirror.

She unhooked her bra, let it dangle from her fingertips and drop to the ground.

"No fair starting without me," he said, wrenching off his shirt, throwing it aside, then unbuttoning his pants.

They fell into bed together and made love as if they hadn't done it in months instead of weeks, with every part of their minds and bodies. Sensation carried Kate away. When he finally entered her with all the pent-up longing of too many passionless nights, she cried out at the joy of it, and everything inside of her, everything she was, melded with this man she loved more than her own life. By the time she came, shuddering hard, holding him against her damp body, she was utterly spent.

He pulled her against him. Naked, panting, they lay entwined, the expensive hotel sheets tangled around their bare legs.

"You know how much I love you, don't you?" he said quietly. They were words he'd said hundreds of times, so often that she knew how they were supposed to sound.

She rolled onto her side, instantly worried. "What is it?"

"What do you mean?" He eased away from her and went to the table, where he poured two glasses of champagne. "Do you want some strawberries?"

"Look at me, John."

Slowly—too slowly—he turned, but he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"You're scaring me."

He went over to the window and stared out. His profile looked sharp suddenly, distant. Damp, tangled hair obscured his cheek. She couldn't tell if he was smiling. "Let's not do this now, Katie. We have all night and all day tomorrow to talk. For now, let's—"

"Tell me."

He put the glass of champagne down on the windowsill and turned to her. Finally, he let his gaze meet hers, and in his blue eyes she saw the kind of sadness that made her breath catch. He went to the bed, knelt beside it so that he was looking up at her. "You know what's going on in the Middle East."

His words were so unexpected that she just stared at him. "What?"

"There's going to be a war, Katie. You know that. The whole world knows it."

War.

The three letters coalesced into something as big and black as a thundercloud. She knew what this was about.

"I have to go." The simple, quiet way he said it was worse than any yell.

"You said you lost your nerve."

"There's the irony; you gave it back to me. I'm tired of feeling like I failed, Katie. I need to prove to myself that I can do it this time."

"And you want my blessing," she said dully.

"I need it."

"You'll go no matter what I say, so why the big act?"

He came up on his knees, took her face in his hands, and held her steady. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her. "They need me. I've got experience."

"I need you. Marah needs you, but that doesn't matter, does it?"

"It matters."

She felt the heat of tears flood her eyes; they blurred her vision.

"If you say no, I won't go."

"Okay, no. You can't go. I won't let you. I love you, Johnny. You could die over there."

He let go of her, sat back on his heels, and stared at her. "Is that your answer?"

The tears fell, streaked down her cheeks. Angrily, she wiped them away. She wanted to say, Yes. Fuck, yes. That's my answer.

But how could she deny him this? Not only was it what he wanted, but down even deeper, there was something else, that tattered, ugly remnant of fear that floated to the surface sometimes, reminded her that he'd loved Tully first. It made Kate afraid to deny him anything. She wiped her eyes again. "Promise me you won't die, Johnny."

He climbed into bed and took her in his arms and while she held him as tightly as she could, already it didn't feel safe. It felt as if he were dissolving in her embrace, disappearing bit by bit. "I promise I won't die."

They were empty words, made worse by the fervor with which he spoke.

She couldn't help thinking of this morning, when she'd woken with the feeling that something would go wrong today. "I mean it, Johnny. If you die over there I'll hate you forever. I swear to God I will."

"You know you'll always love me."

The words, and the easy, victorious way he said them made her want to cry all over again. It wasn't until much later, after they'd had a romantic dinner in their room and made love and snuggled into each other's waiting arms, that she thought about what she'd said to him, the terrible, wrenching horror of her threat; the gauntlet she'd thrown down to God.


Tully eased off Grant's naked body and flopped onto the bed, still breathing hard. "Wow," she said, closing her eyes. "That was great."

"Indeed it was."

"I'm so glad you were in town this weekend. This was exactly what I needed."

"You and me both, my love."

She loved listening to his accent, feeling his naked body against hers. This was a moment to hang on to, to cling to, even, because as soon as he left her bed, she knew her unease would come back. She'd been battling it since her call to Kate. Nothing could disrupt her self-confidence or make her feel edgy like being mad at her best friend.

Grant sat up in bed.

She touched his back, thought about asking him to stay the night again, to put off his meeting, but that wasn't the kind of relationship they had. They were friends who met for sex and laughter for a few hours and then went their own ways.

Beside him, the bedside phone rang. He reached for it.

"Don't answer it. I don't want to talk to anyone."

"I gave the office this number." He picked up the phone and answered. "Hello? . . . Grant," he said. "And who are you? Oh, I see." He paused, frowning, then laughed. "I can do that." He held the phone to his naked chest and turned to Tully. "Your best friend forever says—and I quote—that you are to get your lily-white ass out of your bed and come to the damn phone. She says further that if you give her any shit on this of all days that she will beat you until you beg for mercy." He chuckled again. "She sounds serious."

"I'll take the call."

Grant handed her the phone and walked naked toward the bathroom. When he shut the door, Tully brought the phone to her ear and said, "Who is this?"

"Very funny."

"I had a best friend forever once, but she was a real bitch to me, so I figured—"

"Look, Tully, normally I'd grovel for an hour or so and spoon a bunch of humble pie down my throat, but I don't have time for the ritual today. I'm sorry. Your phone call came at a bad time and I was snotty. Okay?"

"What's wrong?"

"It's Johnny. He's going to Baghdad tomorrow."

Tully should have seen this coming. The whole station was buzzing over what was happening in the Middle East. Everyone at the station and around the world was trying to guess when President Bush was going to drop the first bomb. "A lot of journalists are going over there, Katie. He'll be fine."

"I'm scared, Tully. What if—"

"Don't," Tully said sharply. "Don't even think it. I'll follow him from the station. We get most of the news first. I'll watch for you."

"And you'll tell me the truth, no matter what?"

Tully sighed. Their familiar promise didn't sound as airy and hopeful as usual; suddenly it had a dark, ominous edge that she had to force herself to ignore. "No matter what, Katie. But you don't have to worry. This war won't last long. He'll be home before Marah takes her first step."

"I pray you're right."

"I'm always right. You know that."

Tully hung up the phone, listening to the sound of Grant turning on the shower. His humming, which usually made her smile, had no effect. For the first time in a long time she was afraid.

Johnny in Baghdad.


Kate received the first message from Johnny two days after he left. Until then, she'd walked around the house in a daze, never far from the new fax/phone they'd put on the kitchen counter. As she went about the business of her day—changing diapers, reading stories, watching Marah crawl from one potentially dangerous piece of furniture to the next—she thought: Okay, Johnny: let me know you're alive and well. He'd told her that phone calls could only be made with dire need (to which she'd argued that her need was dire, and why didn't that count?), but that faxes were not only possible but relatively easy.


Date: 2015-12-17; view: 458


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