A Song for Julia (38 page)

I whispered, “Everything. And we don’t really have time to do this right now.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Yeah I know. But we’re not done here, Julia.”

I nodded, unhappily, and looked around. “I don’t even remember this room. Do you think there’s anything here?”

Carrie raised an eyebrow. “How can you not remember, Julia? This was your bedroom.”

I stiffened. Alexandra wriggled off my lap, so I stood and looked around the room. When I was here two months ago, I’d slept on the couch. And looking around this room … it was sterile. And I had virtually no recollection of it at all. I supposed it had been my room. But when we lived here, I’d never decorated it. Never put anything on the walls. I’d never felt like this was home. It was just … a room. I didn’t have any feeling for it. All I could remember clearly, vividly, was the bathroom. Every tile. Every bump in the caulk. Every drop of my own blood. I shook my head. “Are you sure?”

Carrie nodded, unhappily. “You really … don’t remember?”

I shook my head. “I ought to, I guess. But I never really … felt at home here.” 

She whispered, “Julia, maybe you should see somebody.”

I grimaced. “What, like a doctor? A shrink?”

Carrie approached me and whispered, “Maybe. Sometimes with traumatic things, we need some help. Julia, you were a senior in high school. That was only four years ago. I don’t see how you could possibly forget your own bedroom.”

I closed my eyes. I thought about the state I’d been in senior year. The constant fog over my emotions. The constant self-recrimination. The abuse at school, and the abuse at home. My room had been a refuge. But the more I thought about it … it wasn’t the room I remembered. Most of the time I spent in this room was either buried in a book or with a blanket pulled over my head.

In my freshman year at Harvard, I took Psychology. And we covered major depression, among a lot of other things. But until this moment, standing here in this room that I couldn’t remember, it never occurred to me that maybe that applied to me. I’d never even thought of talking to a doctor about it. It was just who I was. Dead inside.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

She looked at me, more than a little bit of worry in her eyes. “We’d better get ready. Or Mother will explode. I’ll be right back … I’ve probably got some dresses Alexandra’s size in my room.”

Of course she would. When we lived here, four years ago, she wasn’t much older than Alexandra was now. I tried to recall any time we’d spent together that year. Had we gone to the zoo together? School functions? A museum?

I had no idea, and that scared me. 

With a little bit of adjustment, Alexandra was all fixed up in a pretty green dress that had once belonged to Carrie, and we were all set. I was just finishing up adjusting my makeup when our mother knocked on the door.

Mother did her best to glare me into submission over the next ninety minutes as we finished getting ready and then loaded up in the van my father rented. As always, Dad was oblivious. Alexandra sat in the back seat, reading a book, while Carrie and I sat in the middle, quietly talking. She was actually looking forward to getting back to school. Apparently, despite the dislocations of going to three different high schools (one in Bethesda, one in Moscow, and now in San Francisco), she’d settled in and found a place for herself. I found myself envying her that. My own high school experience was nothing but one nightmare after another, and it was hard to imagine how different our lives were in that respect.

But seriously, so what? I had found a place for myself. Even if it was only recently. I was slowly getting closer to Jemi, though that was often awkward and odd. And Jack and Margot and Sean truly made me feel like I had family in Boston. It was beyond strange, that in a row house in South Boston, I’d found people I cared about as much as I cared for them. Briefly, I wondered how Jack was. On Monday, he’d mobilized with his unit, and they’d begun the process of deploying to Kuwait. I had no idea how long that sort of thing took. Were they already over there? In some camp in the desert? I had no idea. 

Thinking of Jack turned my mind back to Barry Lewis, who had been my bodyguard and almost big brother, in middle school. Jack had suggested that I try the Pentagon’s worldwide locator. If he was still in the Marines, they’d find him. I’d thought about it a lot. Would he even remember me? I was just some kid he had to guard—somehow I was sure that relationship didn’t have the same significance for him as it did for me. He’d provided a … stability, a warmth, that I’d never had before, and really hadn’t experienced since, until I met Crank’s family. Someday, I wanted to thank him.

Carrie seemed to have dodged a lot of that. In fact, she seemed remarkably well adjusted and happy. It was weird. Our lives were lived out of sequence from each other, the distance in age compounded by the many moves. I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like for Alexandra, or the twins, or especially Andrea, who would grow up too young to even remember the Foreign Service and moving every three years of her life.

We quieted down as the van approached the gates to the White House. A military Humvee was parked at the intersection, yet another relic of September 11. I wondered if they would be there permanently. At the gate, my father handed over his identification, and the Secret Service guards shined flashlights into the van, then pointed my dad where to park.  Two guards followed to the parking space and stood a safe distance as we piled out of the van.

It was freezing cold out, just the slightest bit of drizzle threatening to turn to snow. The White House was brightly lit in the darkness, and we followed our escort to a door in the East Wing. Once inside, we went through metal detectors, and then the guard led us inside.

A young woman met us on a landing. “Ambassador Thompson and family? Come this way, please.”

She turned, leading us through a locked door, past a silent Secret Service agent and up a flight of stairs. A moment later, we were in the residence. We followed her down a thickly carpeted hallway, lined with portraits of past Presidents and First Ladies, and into a small room, where I was brought face to face with a nightmare.

“Ambassador Thompson, may I introduce Ambassador Easton, who will be representing the United Kingdom.”

I barely noticed as my father and Ambassador Easton shook hands and began introducing their families. Easton’s wife was a somewhat frumpy looking woman wearing a black velvet dress. Standing beside them, his face blanched, was Harry Easton. 

I froze.

My dad and Easton chuckled as they shook hands. “We know each other,” my father said. “Ronald was on his last year in Beijing when we arrived there.”

Easton said, “Richard, I don’t know if you’ll recall him, that was a long time ago, but this is my son, Harry. He’s currently a junior attaché at the consulate in New York.”

My mother smiled and shook hands with the Eastons, then said, “Julia, didn’t you go to school with Harry?”

I couldn’t answer. I was paralyzed with shock, a wave of confused emotions running through me, clashing with each other. I could almost feel blood rushing through my ears, and I wanted to back away, run away—do anything to get out of being in this room right now.

Harry, in his characteristic Eton accent that he shared with his father, simply said, “Julia and I are … acquainted.”

Carrie stepped up next to me and shook hands with Harry. He put his hand out to me to shake, but I couldn’t move, and not in a million years, under any circumstances, would I ever touch him again. My stomach was turning. Right in front of me was the man who had ruined my life. And the irony? I’d loved him when I was fourteen, I’d been utterly obsessed with him, even after he’d treated me like I was worthless, and looking at him now? I couldn’t figure out what the attraction had been. He was shorter than I remembered, though still very handsome, if you liked cold-blooded assholes.

After a moment of him standing there with his hand out, Harry stepped back, looking uncomfortable. Both sets of parents had fallen silent. I suppose my behavior was discourteous enough that it caught their attention. I didn’t care. I just wanted to vomit. Or run. Or hit him. I was shaking, and when Carrie stepped away from Harry, she stepped back to my side, leaned her head close to my ear and whispered, “Are you all right?”

I shook my head, very slightly. Part of me wondered if I would ever be all right again. 

That’s when Alexandra stepped forward to be introduced. Ambassador Easton and his wife both cooed over her, and then she shook hands with Harry. He attempted to be charming, giving her a smile, bending over her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Alexandra.”

It was all I could do not to kick him. Rage flooded through me that he was even speaking to my little sister, who was barely younger than I’d been when I met him.

The woman who had led us up here said, “The President and First Lady will be down in a few minutes. In the meantime, please feel free to have a drink.” She gestured to a bar set up on one wall. A white-jacketed bartender stood behind the bar.

I promptly moved to the bar, Carrie trailing behind me. “Gin and tonic, please,” I said.

Both of my parents’ heads swiveled in my direction, my mother looking alarmed, my dad puzzled. And that’s when Harry decided to approach Carrie and me at the bar.

“Hello, Julia,” he said in a low tone.

I whispered, my voice shaking just like the rest of me, “Don’t come close to me, Harry. Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to my sisters.”

He froze in place. I tossed back half my drink at once. Carrie looked back and forth between us and then whispered to me, “I guess I don’t need to ask if this is the Harry you told me about.”

I shook my head. 

I was puzzled by my reaction. I didn’t feel grief or sadness. Just anger, rage, disgust. By this time, everyone in the room was staring at us, and Harry backed away, nodding his head at us in an ultra-polite manner. I remembered that look. It was his
‘What did I do?’
look, and I’d seen it a hundred times when we were teenagers. His look that squarely placed the blame for any situation on me. His look that said he was responsible for nothing, cared for nothing; that said I was nothing.

I turned away from him, finished off my drink and ordered another. Carrie’s eyes grew wide as I took the second drink. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she whispered.

“Nothing about being here is a good idea,” I muttered.

A moment later, I felt a familiar and unpleasant presence by my side. My mother. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Julia, but your behavior is inexcusable.” Her voice was quiet but urgent.

I gave her a sideways glance, and responded, equally quiet. “So what’s new, Mother? Everything about me has always been inexcusable.”

She blanched, and I turned and walked away from the bar, positioning myself with my back to the wall, where I could see everyone in the room and sip my drink. My father was chatting up Ambassador Easton, oblivious of the undercurrents in the room. Harry had returned to his father’s side, undoubtedly trying to preserve his precious standing in his parents’ eyes. My mother held Alexandra’s hand clamped in her own, standing next to Carrie, as Mrs. Easton spoke with her in an animated tone, her hands waving. My mother’s eyes darted to me. I’d spent twenty-two years knuckling under whenever she spoke. I’d spent a lifetime listening to her tell me that my behavior, my dress, my choices, my very life, were unacceptable. I’d had it. I wasn’t taking any more.

I glanced around the room, momentarily alone, except for the Secret Service agent who eyed me closely. It was hard to tell if he thought I was a possible assassin or if he was merely undressing me with his eyes, but the effect was the same. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and the skin on the back of my neck started to flush.

Why was I here? This wasn’t the life I wanted. This wasn’t the life I asked for. I’m sure plenty of people would have killed for a chance to dine here in this company. I wasn’t one of them. What I really wanted was to get back to Boston, back to the band. I wanted to find myself a nice, safe place. A place that was all mine, where I could live without moving for the next thirty years. I wanted some stability in my life. Despite the problems they’d had in their lives, I wanted what Jack and Margot had worked to give their kids: a stable, decent life. 

Two more Secret Service agents entered the room, taking up their position on either side of the door. A moment later, the President and the First Lady entered.

The President walked with a bit of a bounce, a sideways grin on his face, as he approached my father and Ambassador Easton. Like both ambassadors, he wore the required Washington uniform, a dark suit and white shirt with a bold, striped tie. My father and President Bush both wore the obligatory American flag pin on their lapels, something I’d noticed on the news since September 11th, but which hadn’t been part of the uniform prior to that.

The men shook hands, and then Ambassador Easton and my father introduced their families. I was called over and shook hands with the President and Mrs. Bush.

“My eldest daughter, Julia,” my father said. “She’s in her senior year at Harvard.”

The President grinned and said in his soft Texas accent, “Well, you should have considered New Haven, but I guess you can’t have everything.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said. I wanted to say to my mother,
See, I can be polite
, but that would have been … impolite. Instead, I grinned at the President, throwing his reference to Yale right back at him. “You should have considered going to college in Cambridge, Mr. President. It’s never too late to go back.”

He chuckled and suddenly I warmed to him, even if I did despise his politics. 

My dad looked stressed. I felt buzzed. President Bush looked amused. 

My dad said, “Julia’s planning on graduate school next year, then following me into the Foreign Service.”

“Oh, isn’t that nice?” Mrs. Bush said.

“Actually, I’m going into the music industry,” I said. “I manage a punk rock band.”