Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  I pulled my head up and looked at her. She smiled at me and reached out to wipe a patch of dampness from my cheek. I wasn't sure where all her strength was coming from. It didn't even sound like my mom. It sounded more like some spiritual Zen expert, leading a room full of lost souls seeking guidance and salvation. Not the wounded, brokenhearted victim I had comforted and nursed back to stability so many times in the past two years.

  And now she was telling me to forgive? But it seemed so impossible. How can you forgive something that kept you chained to a life you didn't choose for so long?

  You can't just flip a switch and absolve that kind of thing.

  Can you?

  "I can't," I said softly. "I can't let go of it. I can't forget what happened. And everything that became of it."

  "Of course you can," my mom soothed. "If I can, you can."

  I shook my head and felt the tidal waves of impossibility start to crash over me. I was overwhelmed by their salty taste and frightened by their threatening determination to knock me over. "I can't forgive something I've spent my whole life trying to make up for," I said softly to myself. But she heard it, anyway. I kind of hoped she would. And I kind of hoped she would tell me what to do.

  And she did.

  "But you have to if you want to find true happiness," she stated simply. As if it were the only truth in the world. And everything else around it was just there to purposefully cloud your vision. Distract you from it. Steal away your attention and refocus it on far more destructive thoughts. "You have to let go of your anger and resentment. You have to learn how to release it. Because if you continue to hold on to it, it will eat away at you until there's nothing left."

  My mom may still have been referring to my father, but I knew there was someone else I had been struggling to make amends with – for years. And it would be far more difficult to do.

  The doorbell rang and I jerked upright, snapping myself back into reality. Halloween, doorbell, trick-or-treaters, candy. I sniffled and wiped my nose with the back of my hand, chuckling slightly at my state of disarray.

  "I'll get it," my mom said gently, placing her hand on top of mine and then reaching for the candy bowl.

  "No," I insisted, standing up and taking it from her hands. "I want to do it."

  I straightened my clothes and smoothed my hair back into my ponytail as I walked the ten paces to the front door, the door that once had offered me a daily escape from a prison I thought would never fully release me.

  Telling my mother all the countless secrets of my past wasn't going to solve a thing. It would only generate more pain. And forgiving my father for creating those secrets in the first place might have allowed me to walk away and move forward, but it was a forgiveness much more profound, much harder to obtain, and much closer than I ever imagined that would eventually set me free.

  I opened the front door to a group of three little girls. All roughly around the age of seven or eight. I smiled brightly, the mouthwatering bowl of chocolate sitting in my arms.

  "Trick-or-treat!" the three of them recited in unison.

  "Don't you all look great!" I exclaimed as I dropped a variety of chocolate pieces into their awaiting bags. "What are you dressed up as?"

  The first little girl, wearing a gold, winged helmet on her head and a white-and-gold fitted dress on her body, proudly pointed to her cape and said, "I'm She-Ra, Princess of Power." And then motioned to her less articulate neighbor, who wore a gold headband and a red-and-blue leotard, and said, "She's Wonder Woman. Sometimes people get us confused. But we're totally different."

  "I know," I said seriously.

  "Wonder Woman can fly but She-Ra has superhuman strength," she continued knowledgeably.

  "Really? I didn't even know that." I turned to the third girl, dressed adorably in a red tank top, red pleather pants, and a red handkerchief around her head. "And who are you?"

  She smiled timidly and rocked back and forth on her heels. "I'm Electra."

  "Cool!" I marveled. "What kind of special powers does Electra have?" I asked with extreme curiosity.

  "Electra's a ninja assasin," She-Ra chimed in smartly. "She can move real fast and she's super flexible. I think she does yoga," she mused.

  I stifled a small giggle. "Well, you guys look amazing!"

  "Thanks!" chimed Electra, Wonder Woman, and the Princess of Power as they spun on their glitter-covered heels and took off for the next house.

  I closed the door with a contented smile and leaned back against it. My mom had disappeared into the kitchen and I was left alone with my thoughts.

  But interestingly enough, this time I only had one.

  One that would probably shape the next two years of my life.

  The world just doesn't have enough female superheroes.

  Epilogue

  SIX MONTHS LATER ...

  I PULL up in front of a tall, thirty-story building in Santa Monica. As I step out of the car, I'm careful to smooth the front side of my Gucci suit. These days, it's all about appearances. Especially when you have a room full of people who look to you for direction and guidance. Wrinkles just won't do.

  I hand the keys of my new Lexus hybrid SUV to the man in the valet uniform who greets me with a friendly smile.

  This is the same man I see every day. Sometimes, if I have to come here on a Sunday, his weekend replacement completes the other half of the familiar exchange.

  "Good morning, Pedro," I say warmly.

  He takes the keys and disappears with the car into an underground parking structure reserved for tenants of 100 Ocean Avenue.

  I walk briskly through the lobby of the building and into an awaiting elevator. In the past six months I've learned the difference between "walking briskly" and "rushing." Rushing is for amateurs. Brisk walking is for professionals. And as appearances go, it looks much more controlled.

  I press the button that promises to drop me on the fifteenth floor, and I wait patiently for it to do so.

  The elevator doors ding open, and I veer left down a long corridor and through a set of glass doors that lead into the office at the end of the hallway. The one with the best view of the ocean...naturally.

  Why rent an office space in a building on Ocean Avenue if you can't have a view of the ocean?

  Inside the glass doors sits a plump but attractive middle-aged woman whose workspace is appropriately situated directly under a large, silver-plated sign that reads "The Hawthorne Agency."

  "Good morning, Ashlyn," the assistant greets me in her usual pleasant tone. Although she is actually Hispanic in race, her voice bears not even the slightest trace of an accent. Her English, as well as her Spanish, is flawless. And as I am clearly in the business of client relations, she is integral to the daily operation of this company.

  "Good morning, Marta," I return, an equally pleasant salutation.

  "Everyone is already inside the conference room," Marta informs me.

  I shoot a short glance in the direction of the first door on the left and nod. I'm rarely what most would call on time to these meetings. But my timing is always intentional. Arriving just the slightest bit after the rest of the attendants gives off a certain air of importance.

  Although I would never make them wait more than five minutes. After that it's no longer about appearances; it's just plain inconsiderate. And the people in that room are far too valuable to disrespect in any way.

  "Thank you. You can tell them I'll be in shortly. Any messages?"

  This is Marta's cue to rise to her feet, and she follows me as I glide down the office hallway to the last door on the right. My home away from home.

  "Yes," Marta begins, handing me corresponding slips of yellow memo paper as she concisely verbalizes their content. "Your father called. He wants to know if it's all right to move your lunch from two o'clock to one-thirty because he has a conference call at three."

  I smile to myself. The last six months certainly haven't been easy in respect to mending the severed relationship with my
dad. Four years of silence doesn't automatically fix itself with one honesty-filled phone call. But the fact that we've agreed to get together at least twice a month regardless of our mutually busy schedules has helped things progress tremendously.

  "Tell him that's fine," I reply to Marta with an authoritative nod. "But if he makes reservations at Valentino again, can you please ask him not to wear those dirty sneakers this time."

  Marta releases a polite chuckle as she scribbles in her notebook, then returns her attention to the stack of yellow slips in her hand. She picks up the next one. "Zoë called. She said that she wanted to remind you to" – Marta cringes as she carefully reads word for word from the small piece of paper – "get a fucking brain or get your lame ass off the road."

  I smile and nod. "Sounds about right."

  "And Sophie called. She said to say, 'I'm having a breakdown. Eric's mother is insisting we have the wedding in Chicago because all of his relatives are there, but my parents are refusing to pay for it if we do. Help!'"

  I laugh and reach out to take the message, taking the burden from the woman's shoulders. "I'll call her," I offer with an incredulous shake of my head.

  I should have guessed that wiping out all of Sophie's doubt about the groom himself would only allow her to focus her obsessive behavior on new areas of relevant concern.

  Marta and I arrive at the end of the hallway and I push open the door in front of me. I step inside the large corner office that I've chosen to decorate in white and soft grays, and take a seat behind the L-shaped glass desk. "Any others?"

  Unlike the previous messages that Marta had simply breezed through without any trace of attachment and/or recognition, she takes particular care in relaying the next one in the stack. "Jamie called..." She allows her clear, accent-free voice to trail off and waits for the reaction she has come to anticipate every single morning when there is a message of this particular nature.

  My eyes immediately light up and a smile flashes across my face. "What did he say?"

  Marta, having now received the emotional response she was waiting for, continues with the message. "He said he left his black jacket at your house last night and wonders if you can bring it to dinner."

  I allow the idyllic smile to linger on my face for just a mere moment longer before I return to my usual level of office professionalism. "Thank you, Marta. I'll return his call after the meeting."

  Marta nods her head and begins to exit the office. "Oh," she says, turning back sharply. "And your friend John called... again."

  I nod knowingly and ask, "About the same thing?"

  "Yes. He wants to know if maybe next week there would be a good day for him to sit in on one of the staff meetings."

  I roll my eyes with just the slightest trace of amusement and reply, "Please tell him I'm still considering it."

  "Of course," says Marta as she backs out the door and shuts it behind her.

  One would think that being the owner of a successful, thriving business, the first thing a woman in my shoes (and my size office) would do in the morning would be to sit down at my computer and sort through my in-box of e-mails.

  I, however, don't have time for e-mails at the moment, for I have a conference room full of people waiting for me.

  Nevertheless, I always manage to find time to squeeze in the most important step in my morning routine.

  And that is exactly what I am in the process of doing at this very moment as I wait patiently for my laptop to boot up. I then navigate my mouse to the small icon in the corner of the screen that bears the Internet Explorer logo.

  A browser window springs to life, and thanks to the high-speed wireless Internet installed throughout the office, I am instantly greeted by my home page, which I bypass by typing a very important Web address into the bar at the top of the window.

  The fluency in my series of movements would certainly suggest that this is not a routine I do monthly or even weekly. This is a routine that I do every morning, as diligently as a stockbroker checks the opening NASDAQ price, a politician checks the morning polls, or a TV executive checks the latest Nielsen ratings.

  The address that I type might, to anyone else, seem strange, odd, and bearing no relation to any aspect of my current day-to-day business. But then again, I know something they do not.

  When I finish typing, the combination of letters on the screen spells out the following: www.dontfallforthetrap.com.

  Upon pressing Enter and eventually receiving the same comforting page that appeared yesterday and the day before that, and the day before that, I smile with satisfaction, close the application, and begin to gather up the things I will need for the ten A.M. meeting that I am now exactly five minutes late for.

  Right on schedule.

  Each and every morning I marvel at how a simple line of text reading "Error 400: Web site not available. Bad Request" could so effortlessly put me at ease. And yet every morning I still crave that same reassurance, and still manage to chuckle quietly to myself upon reading the words "Bad Request."

  After pulling a stack of glossy, crimson-colored folders from my briefcase and grabbing a yellow legal pad from my desk, I exit through the door from which I entered and make my way back down the long corridor, stopping in front of the awaiting conference room door.

  Just before entering I reach up and delicately touch the silver Tiffany chain necklace with a rose pendant hanging from my neck. For some reason it seems to bring me more luck with every passing day. As soon as I enter, conversations around the room come to a halt. I can feel all eyes on me, and I smile politely and make my way to my regular seat at the head of the table.

  "Sorry I'm late, everyone. I'll try to make this short."

  In this conference room sits my five regular associates. Five vastly different individuals who I have come to trust wholeheartedly. These are the five people now responsible for carrying out my life's work.

  Having always had a particular ability to analyze a situation and immediately decide how it should be best handled, I have brought together these unique personalities to form a very special and very talented team of experts.

  Sitting to my immediate left is a young blond woman with soft, feminine features, a voluptuous figure, and a classic beauty that would turn the head of any Playboy magazine subscriber. And not coincidentally, those are exactly the kinds of heads she was brought in to turn.

  The woman sitting next to her is also extraordinarily beautiful but in her own unique and self-defining way. She is petite and quirky, with a personality that is almost as captivating as her smile. Given that her genuine interests include football, poker, pool, Quentin Tarantino movies, and greasy fast food, this particular associate finds herself in many work-related situations where her non-work-related interests happen to come in handy.

  The man directly across from me at the far end of the conference table looks remarkably like someone you'd find on the Abercrombie and Fitch shopping bag that holds your most recent in-store purchase. At six-foot-one and two hundred pounds, his purpose in this office varies with each given assignment, but more often than not requires the sporting of some type of uniform... military or otherwise.

  Directly to his left sits a tall and strikingly exquisite Asian woman whose stone-cold exterior is nothing short of impenetrable. Not surprisingly, it is that very same enchanting indifference that helplessly seduces the people chosen to make her acquaintance.

  And finally, to my right is an elegant and breathtakingly sexy young brunette who, with the just the right wardrobe selection, can effortlessly catch the eye of almost any man in any room. Although little of her free time is spent researching these wardrobe selections and more of it is spent rewiring portable computers and various electronic devices like the one she holds in her hand right now. She and I both know, however, that it is this specific skill, and not her fashion sense, that is most applicable to the conversations she has on a weekly basis.

  And although every single one of my associates is important to this
organization, the woman on my right is the only one in the room with whom I share a more personal connection.

  Because not only did she have a direct influence on my decision to start this organization in the first place, she also conducted a very personal favor on my behalf.

  Six months ago this woman walked into a crowded Chicago bar full of drunk male doctors celebrating their last day of a three-year residency and struck up a conversation with one of particular interest. After a short exchange, however, and to the blatant disapproval of his drinking companions, the man kindly excused himself from the conversation, stating that he was, in fact, engaged to someone else.

  In other words, this woman is the reason my best friend is getting married to a doctor named Eric in six months.

  And for that she will always be more than just an employee.

  As I sit down in my chair, she takes the small silver-and-black device in her hands and slides it over to me. "I configured your new iPhone. You shouldn't have any problem accessing your e-mail. If you want me to show you how to use it later, I will."

  I thank her, taking special care to address her by her code name, as no one uses their real name while in this room or while working in association with this room.

  Lauren Ireland selected her own alias upon joining my staff, as did everyone else.

  I open the glossy crimson folders in front of me, one by one, and begin to review their contents: an overly flirtatious real-estate agent in San Diego; a bored housewife in Dallas; a suspicious bachelor party celebration in Las Vegas. And countless more arriving every week. Almost too many to accommodate.

  While unique in their origins, each of these folders contains a very familiar request for something universally acknowledged to be invaluable: the truth.

  I distribute each of these fidelity files to the staff member most capable of handling the request inside.

  Although I have experienced several changes in my life over the past six months, the most significant change came in the form of a discovery. A realization. That peace of mind can come in many forms. And more important, with the help of many different people.