Even Now

by Karen Kingsbury

  “This is a bad group, Miss Gibbs,” the captain told her. “They run a terrorist training camp, an operation we’re trying to shut down. We’ve had some success, but they’re spread out. We haven’t found them all.”

  “Why’d they want me?” She was numb to the pain by then, six hours on a medication that barely allowed her to stay awake. A surgeon removed two bullets from beneath her shoulder. The wounds were deep and dangerous, but her joint hadn’t been affected. They expected her to heal completely.

  The captain thought about her question. “You represent America.” He raised an eyebrow, as if he didn’t agree with that assessment. “At least, that’s the way they see it. They probably wanted to wound you. Take you captive. Most journalists and photographers aren’t armed, and Feni rarely works out of the orphanage.” He shrugged. “They weren’t expecting retaliation.”

  She looked away. “They weren’t expecting to kill children, either.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He was a big man, his hair cropped short against his square face. “When kids die, Americans always get the blame. They might’ve shot at the children on purpose.”

  Lauren blinked away the memory of the conversation and winced as she tried to move her arm. All this time she had sympathized with the insurgents. Yes, they were violent and sometimes behaved in a crazed manner. But this was their homeland. Didn’t they have a right to want Americans to stay out? Even if they desired a type of government Americans didn’t agree with, should it concern the U.S. ? Was democracy the only valid form of leadership?

  But now . . .

  Now she didn’t know what to think. People had a right to form their own government, but if that government was ruthless and brutal, then what? If she had to do it over again, she would’ve thrown herself in front of the children to keep them from being hit. She would’ve gladly taken the bullets intended for them if it meant saving their lives. And wasn’t that all the U.S. troops were doing, really? Bad people had taken over the Middle East, and innocent people were living in fear, oppressed, and sometimes killed. If Lauren wouldn’t stand by and watch that sort of behavior take place, then how could she expect the U.S. to do so?

  She shuddered and gave a quick shake of her head. The medicine was making her loopy. There had to be another answer, something better than fighting and bombings and war. Solutions could be worked out at bargaining tables or in courtrooms, couldn’t they? The entire mess gave her a headache. The political picture was more complicated than she first thought, that much was certain. But what mattered was this: Because she and Scanlon had gone back to the orphanage, little Senia was dead. A girl whose eyes were bright enough to light up the room. Now she was gone.

  Lauren hated crying. She feared that sort of emotion almost as much as she feared elevators. Giving in to sorrow would belike driving a freightliner through the dam in her heart. The emotion of nearly twenty years would become a flood that would drown her. But in the days since she’d been released from the hospital, she could barely last an hour without feeling tears on her cheeks.

  She would’ve adopted little Senia if she’d had the chance.

  How could she know that the woman was working for the insurgents, or that the whole story had been concocted? The army captain told her that a thorough check had been done. “We have birth records for every child in that orphanage.” His eyes blazed. “Not a child there has a single drop of American blood.”

  Lauren had hung her head then, not sure what to say.

  The captain wasn’t finished. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with the story before the second meeting.” The sarcasm in his laugh cut at her. “Can you imagine the headlines? Orphanages overflowing with the children of American soldiers?”

  Her eyes met his. “I didn’t have enough information. Of course I wouldn’t have written the story before I had the facts.”

  The captain only raised his eyebrow at her again. “Okay. Whatever.” His look was utter disgust. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

  “We don’t have to talk at all.” She’d hated the way he treated her. As though she were the enemy.

  “Look, Ma’am, I’ve been assigned to guard you as long as you’re in this hospital.” He shifted to the front of his chair. “Fine with me if you don’t wanna talk.”

  By the time Scanlon came to take her home, Lauren had no doubt about the army’s viewpoint of her reporting. The captain picked apart ten of her top stories from the last two years. She had untrustworthy sources and a strong bias, he told her. She wasn’t there to find the truth, but to make the U.S. armed forces the enemy.

  The last thing he said before he left would stay with Lauren for the rest of her days: “You think the military’s all gung ho for war, that we’re a bunch of bullies coming over here and flexing our muscles.” He pointed at her, and his voice grew low and intense. “Let me tell you something, lady. We want peace as much as you do. Maybe more.” He thumbed himself in the chest. “Because we’re layin’ our lives down for it.” He took a few steps back. “Don’t forget that.”

  She turned away, not willing to respond or bid him good-bye. But his speech affected her more than she’d been willing to admit. Now it was Wednesday, and she’d been home for two days. Scanlon was in often, making sure she had water and meals and whatever else she needed.

  It was time for more pain medication. She took the bottle from beside her bed and brought it close. Her fingers on her left arm worked fine, as long as she didn’t move her arm. She tapped a single pill into her palm. Then she used the water bottle lying on the pillow next to her to wash it down.

  Once the pills were back on the nightstand, she lifted her arm again and let it fall quickly to her side. The pain was still intense. An army nurse was coming by three times a day to change the dressing and administer a shot of antibiotics. But one day soon her arm would heal. Her heart? Well, that was another matter.

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stared at the room around her. Life was happening outside her apartment building. Life and conflict and heartache, all translating into stories that needed to be written. That she needed to write. She hoped to be off bed rest by the end of the week.

  Her eyes followed a familiar trail around the room, but this time they landed on her computer. She could at least check e-mail. That wasn’t much removed from bed rest, was it? She took a deep breath. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She could’ve been researching and checking in with her editors instead of staring at the walls all day from her spot on the lumpy bed.

  She stood and steadied herself for a few seconds. Amazing how weak she’d become after just five days of inactivity. She shuffled across the room and fell, exhausted, onto the hard-framed chair in front of her computer. The thud of her heart made her feel light-headed and dizzy. She turned on the computer and waited.

  There was a knock on her door. “Lauren, you in there?”

  It was Scanlon. She’d given him a key to her apartment a long time ago. She cleared her throat. “Come on in.”

  He opened the door and gave her a hesitant look. In his arms was a case of water bottles. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

  “They told me to rest.” She gave him a wry look and faced the computer screen. “How ‘bout you lie on the bed, and I’ll sit here.”

  He set the case of water on a table in her makeshift kitchen, at the other side of the room. Lauren watched him. His face was tanned, his hair cut short the way he liked it. He was nice looking, in his own way.

  She could tell he didn’t have the desire to fight with her. He shrugged. “Okay.” He went to her bed and flopped down. “I am kinda tired.”

  She laughed, but her energy was waning fast. “Don’t get too comfortable. I won’t be here long.”

  “Still weak?” He sat up, his legs straight in front of him. “Is that normal?”

  “Yeah.” She wiped her hand over her damp forehead. “I felt this way once when I had the flu for a week, back when I was a teenager.”r />
  “In Chicago?” He put his hand behind his head and leaned against the wall above her tiny headboard. “Remember, Lauren? You already told me about Chicago.”

  “I was drunk.” She signed onto the Internet and waited for the connection. “That doesn’t count.”

  “Okay, but I still know.” The tenderness in his voice was evidence that he cared deeply for her. “Everyone has a past. You wouldn’t be living here if that wasn’t the case.”

  She let his comment pass. She was connected to her server, and she found the little mailbox icon at the top of her home page. The number on top of the box read 68. Sixty-eight new e-mails. Even looking at them felt overwhelming. Especially now, when she could feel her strength ebbing with every minute.

  “Forget the e-mail. Come here.” From the corner of her eye she saw Scanlon move to one side of the bed. “There, you have room now. I’ll keep my hands to myself. Promise.”

  “Not yet.” She tried to draw a full breath, but she was too shaky. She felt this way one other time since she’d been living in the Middle East, when the area store ran out of food and she drank coffee for three days straight. Still, if she didn’t fight it, how was she going to get stronger?

  Summoning her energy, she clicked her in-box, and scanned the list of e-mails. Most were from other staff members who’d learned of her injury. The subjects read, “Get better!” and “Close call!” and “Time to come home, friend!” A few were from her editor, with subject lines that said, “Say the word,” or “Maybe it’s time.”

  She was halfway down the page when she stopped cold. Her heart thudded faster and harder. The subject line read simply: “From Emily.” Lauren blinked and read it a second time. What sort of strange timing was this, anyway? She’d been lying in bed thinking about peace and how she and her family had never found any, and here was a letter from a reader named — of all things — Emily.

  A soft laugh left her, and from off to her side she saw Scanlon open his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” She gave a shake of her head and brushed off his question. Her eyes were still locked onto the e-mail from Emily. Okay, so what did this Emily want? Lauren hadn’t planned to actually open any of the e-mails. Not when her body was wilting badly. But “From Emily”? She could hardly resist. She clicked the link and the letter came up.

  Hi, my name is Emily Anderson, and I’m eighteen years old —

  Lauren couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t force her lungs to draw even half a mouthful of air. She closed her eyes and gripped the desktop in front of her.

  “Hey, Lauren.” Scanlon’s voice was more urgent. “You okay? Maybe you need to lie down.”

  She waved him off, but she opened her eyes. Again she tried the e-mail, but she couldn’t get past that first line. Emily Anderson? Eighteen? Was this some sort of trick? Her Emily would’ve been eighteen. Eighteen years, six months, and twenty-one days. She pursed her lips and forced the air from her lungs. The effort gave her just enough room to take in a small breath. Her injured arm felt numb, and her right hand trembled so hard she could barely scroll down and read the rest.

  I believe that you might be my mother.

  Lauren felt the room collapse around her. Felt everything begin to spin. What was this? And who would’ve written it? Her daughter was dead, so a letter like this had to be a prank. She willed herself to stay steady long enough to finish reading.

  I’ve looked for you since I was old enough to know how to do it. I live with my grandparents — Bill and Angela Anderson. They’ve looked for you too. But just today I thought about looking under the name Lauren Gibbs, because that’s the name my mother used when she was young and wrote short stories. I found that out a few weeks ago.

  I did a search on the Internet, and I found your profile. Please, could you write back and let me know if I have the right person. This is very important to me, obviously. Sincerely, Emily Anderson.

  Lauren couldn’t exhale. She read the letter again, and a third time, and all she could do was gasp little breaths. Scanlon was up now, hurrying to her side.

  “You’re blacking out, Lauren, come on.” He eased her up and over to the bed. Then he lowered her to the mattress and rushed to the bathroom. When he came back he put a cool cloth on her head. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  She still couldn’t breathe right. Scanlon was asking her something, but she couldn’t make out his words. All she could think about was the e-mail. It was a hoax, right? It had to be a hoax. But then the past came trampling into the room, screaming at her. Emily was alive? Could it really have been from her? And if so . . . if so . . .

  Her heart raced along at triple speed. No way her baby had lived, no way. She hadn’t walked away from a living child and left her parents to raise her. It was impossible. What had the nurse said? Her baby was gone, right? Gone for a few hours by the time Lauren had called. Gone meant dead, didn’t it? Three more times she tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. Not until she exhaled, and she couldn’t do that no matter how hard she tried.

  She grabbed her friend’s arm and gasped. “Scanlon . . . get me . . . a bag.” She was hyperventilating. Her head told her she’d be fine, even if she passed out. A person couldn’t die from hyperventilation. But right now she didn’t want to battle herself, she wanted to battle the past. The giant, monstrous past. And she couldn’t face it for a second until she could breathe.

  Scanlon tore across the room, rifled through her kitchen drawers, and finally found a brown paper sack, the kind they used when they needed to pack an overnight meal. He raced it to her and held it to her mouth.

  “Breathe, Lauren. Come on.” He was genuinely worried, and in the rush of all that was dawning on her, she realize done more thing. Scanlon loved her.

  She couldn’t sort through that thought anymore than she could understand the e-mail she’d just read. Instead she focused all her attention on breathing into the bag. Eventually she felt each breath last a little longer, felt her rib cage relax so she could finally exhale. Only then did she dare move the bag and take the smallest drink of fresh air.

  She was drenched with sweat, and she felt weaker than she had all day. But still she struggled to sit up, desperate for a glance at the computer screen. When she was fully sitting, she saw it was still there. An e-mail with the shape and form of the one she’d read a few minutes ago.

  Next to her, Scanlon wiped the wet cloth tenderly over her forehead. “What in the world was all that about?”

  She sat up straighter on the bed. The she brushed away the wet cloth and looked him straight in the eyes. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.” He searched her face, ready to jump.

  With her elbow she motioned toward the computer screen. “Could you answer that girl’s letter?” She hesitated. “Don’t read it, just hit reply, okay?”

  “Sure.” He let his eyes linger on her, doubt flashing in his expression. “For a person who couldn’t breathe a minute ago, you’re pretty demanding.”

  Another out breath. “I know.” She leaned forward and dug her elbows into her thighs. “Can you do this, Scanlon? Please?”

  “Okay, okay.” He went to the computer and sat down. “Don’t get crazy on me again.”

  He clicked the reply link and a blank screen appeared. “Shoot.”

  “Give me a second.” She willed herself to think clearly. What if it wasn’t a hoax or a mistake? What if her daughter was really alive and living in Wheaton, Illinois? Maybe in the same house her parents had moved to when she was pregnant? She squeezed her eyes shut and refused to think about anything but the e-mail. “Okay, write this.” She paused. “Emily, call me as soon as you can. Here’s my number with the country code. Dial it just like this.” She was winded again, so she stopped and breathed. “Put the number next, okay?”

  He was still typing. “I figured.” After a few more key strokes his hands fell silent. “Send it?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Scanlon.” It wasn’t the time to wri
te anything flowery at the end. Because whoever she was, she couldn’t be her Emily. The daughter she’d brought into the world. Her Emily was dead.

  Scanlon was up and moving back to the bed. She shifted so he could sit beside her, but as he did he met her eyes and held them. “Wanna tell me about it?”

  “No.” She didn’t want to, but she had no choice. Suddenly in all the world, Scanlon felt like her only ally, her only friend. And since the past was threatening to swallow her alive, she had no option but to cut it wide open and let it spill out. She put her hand over Scanlon’s, her voice softer than before. “I didn’t tell you everything about Chicago.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” He wove his fingers between hers, his expression softer. “I’m listening.”

  She nodded, and slowly at first, the story came out. How she’d been so in love with Shane Galanter, and her desperate belief that after he left, she had to find him. She told him about leaving for California and being terrified when little Emily got sick, and she explained how she’d taken her daughter to the clinic, but left when she thought for sure the police would come and take Emily away.

  “What happened then?” Scanlon still had his fingers laced between hers. “Did you make it back?”

  “I did.” She told him how she’d rushed home and begged her mother for help, even though the two of them hadn’t been speaking before she left. “We raced to the hospital.” Her eyes fell and she shook her head. “It took the doctor ten minutes to tell us he didn’t think Emily would survive. In fact, he said it would take a miracle.”

  Scanlon listened, his eyes full of compassion.

  She told him how she’d sat by Emily all night, and how around four in the morning her little girl had taken a turn for the better. “An hour after that, I wasn’t sure I’d survive without sleep.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, I was seventeen and scared out of my mind. I hadn’t slept in two days. I wasn’t thinking straight or I would’ve found a bed in the hospital somewhere.”