Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Manning looked at her with unexpectedly quiet appraisal, but all he said was, “I love your voice. You could go into this business yourself. What’s that little touch of an accent?”

  “I was born in Egypt but grew up mostly in France. I married there and was widowed there very young.” All lies but repeated so often they had taken on their own kind of truth. “I came here fifteen years ago.”

  Truth.

  “One minute to air,” Courteney warned from a wall speaker. Suddenly, Barry Manning was animated again, a boxer answering the bell. “Come on, doc,” he said, grabbing Jenna’s hand and grinning his jack-o’-lantern grin. “Let’s go change the world.”

  Barry Manning was right about one thing: It was over almost before Jenna knew it. It reminded her of exams in college: unexpected questions, not enough time to say all she wanted, no chance to examine complexities.

  The whole setup was disorienting. She did not know what she had expected— some sort of stage, perhaps—but instead, there was a glass-enclosed booth in which she and Manning sat at a desk with three computer terminals. In a similar enclosure, separated from them only by a glass wall, Courteney and a sound engineer worked with equipment that looked to Jenna as if it belonged on the space shuttle.

  The studio audience sat in plain metal folding chairs set in rows at an angle to the broadcast booth. Jenna looked for Brad. He wasn’t there.

  Someone clipped a tiny microphone on her lapel. The funky blues instrumental that Barry Manning used as his theme welled up. The audience clapped fiercely as Manning bounced into the booth. After some brief opening remarks, he mentioned that his guest would be “Dr. Jenna Sorrel, the renowned psychologist and best-selling author” and cut to a series of taped commercials.

  While they ran, he showed Jenna the computer terminals. Each displayed the name, city, and interest of a call-in questioner already waiting to talk with Barry Manning. “I have the best screener in the business working the phones,” Barry said proudly. “Separates the wheat from the chaff. We tend to use the chaff.”

  Jenna, surprised at the note of cynicism, shot him a glance, but the pale eyes showed only concentration. “OK. You ready?” “Yes.”

  Courteney cued Barry and, holding up a copy of her latest book, Prisons of the Heart: Women in Denial, he reintroduced her as a best-selling author.

  Jenna started to protest that, although her books sold well for scholarly works, they were hardly blockbuster best-sellers, but Manning was already off and running. “So, what is this book about, Dr. Sorrel? The domination of women by men? The abuse of women by men?”

  “To some extent—and I certainly have written a number of papers on those subjects. But Prisons of the Heart explores questions I’ve heard so often, questions which seem to blame the victim: ‘Why don’t abused women leave the men who batter them?’ ‘Why don’t they just run away to friends or family—or even to a shelter?’ These are good questions, key questions, but what I’ve tried to show in my book is that there are no easy answers.

  What I often hear from battered women is denial. Some cling to that position for years, either out of shame or fear or a combination of reasons. The fear, I might add, is certainly not invalid, not when we consider the violence perpetrated against women who have left their abusers.”

  “Hmm. Let me ask you something, doctor. You’re obviously a very attractive woman—you don’t mind my saying that?”

  “Not at all.” Some sort of trap being set, she thought.

  “—Obviously very attractive, but I notice that there’s no photo of you on your book. In fact, I went to the bookstore and found that none of your books have a photograph of you. Isn’t that unusual for a well-known author?”

  “A little unusual, yes.” If she could help it, Jenna never allowed herself to be photographed or videotaped. But even if Barry Manning had somehow learned that, he couldn’t possibly have learned why. Could he?

  ‘‘Is that a feminist statement? That people shouldn’t care what you look like?” Of course, he didn’t know. He was only trying to make some obscure point. “Actually, I’m one of those people who dislike having their picture taken.

  Call it a little phobia. Not exactly something a psychologist wants to admit having, of course.” Jenna smiled as if relieved to confess this minor sin.

  Manning laughed. “Psychologist, heal thyself, huh?” “Evidently.” Always deception.

  When the call-in and audience questions began, Jenna knew what to expect— she had listened to Manning for a week to prepare herself—but still it all seemed to shoot by so quickly, so superficially, no time to look at deep issues, Barry trying to condense everything to sound bites.

  And, of course, no one asked about the actual subject of her book.

  Everyone had his or her own agenda: abortion, gays, Madonna, and what the Bible had to say that might pertain to any or all of these. There was even an alarmed query about a girl placekicker on a high-school football team in New Jersey.

  From a ruddy, gray-haired man in the audience, dressed as if he had stopped by on his way to the golf course: “I see we have another big brouhaha about so-called sexual harassment in the military, and at the same time, some of these women are protesting about their right to go into combat.

  But if they go into combat and get captured, I guarantee you they’re going to be sexually molested. So, aren’t they asking for the same thing they’re complaining about back home?”

  Jenna: “I know very little about the military, so I won’t address the issue of women in combat. But let’s look at your logic. All combat troops risk being killed. Does that mean they shouldn’t complain if someone takes a shot at them back at the base, or in their hometown? And if they do object, does that mean they shouldn’t be allowed in combat?”

  Barry: “But you must admit that there’s a certain incongruity in some of these feminist demands.”

  Jenna: “No, I must not.”

  From a disembodied telephone voice with a Southie accent: “My uncle had this girlfriend, they lived together, you know, and she had a life insurance policy on him. And one night, she stabbed him to death while he was asleep. When they arrested her, she said she was a battered woman. She had, like, these little bruises. And she ended up going scot-free. Does that seem right to you?”

  Jenna: “I don’t know the facts, so I can hardly second-guess a judge or jury. And while it would be hard for me to justify violence, even as a response to violence, I must point out that, since we’ve ignored the epidemic of abuse against women so long, we may on occasion make mistakes in righting that wrong.”

  As the show drew toward an end, Jenna felt as if she had been in battle. It was all rush, back and forth, sound and fury. Yet, oddly, she felt as if she were winning—winning the studio audience, at least.

  When Gary from Dubuque (“Or is it Dubuque in Gary?” Manning quipped) asked, “Are you an American?” the audience shifted uncomfortably.

  “I wasn’t born here,” Jenna replied, “but I did become a naturalized citizen some years ago.” By telling a number of convincing lies, she thought.

  “And that gives you the right to tell Americans how to think, how to live their lives?” the caller demanded. The audience rumbled their disapproval. “I wasn’t aware I was telling anyone that.”

  “I mean, why don’t you go to Russia, or what’s left of it, and—” Barry Manning hit the cutoff switch. “Go back to Gary, Dubuque.” The studio audience cheered.

  She worked hard for them, and they were with her, most of them so unlike the academic audience to which she was accustomed, who might hear the same appalling facts with polite applause and then discuss the work someone had done on a related topic back in ’59.

  There were thoughtful silences when Jenna pleaded her special causes: “Female children are still being mutilated in Africa, in the name of sexual purity. Millions of women still struggle against medieval constraints in fundamentalist nations. And here, here in America, the violence against women is
escalating to horrifying proportions.”

  Even so, Jenna felt a familiar frustration. It was as if she couldn’t bring her listeners quite far enough, couldn’t make them feel what she felt: as if she had crossed a wild river and were beckoning them, calling for them to follow, but they couldn’t hear her words or understand her gestures.

  Then, just as the show was ending, there was a last question from an intense young woman, a college student, Jenna guessed: “Dr. Sorrel, have you ever been the victim—I mean yourself, personally—of the kinds of things you’ve talked about?”

  It was a question she had anticipated, and for which she had rehearsed an answer. But coming so late, when she was weary and exhilarated and frustrated all at once, it took her by surprise. And for just a moment, she saw the real possibility of shedding the long years’ burden of pretending.

  Why not? she thought. It would be so simple to speak the truth in front of all these witnesses, to tell who she was and how she had come to be here, so many thousands of miles from home.

  It took only a moment for the fantasy of telling the truth to break through the clouds of long-standing fear, only a moment for the clouds to close over it again—just long enough to make it seem that Jenna had paused thoughtfully before giving what was, in fact, her prepared answer: “I’d rather not get into matters that concern my personal history. I’m a practicing psychologist with quite a few patients. A traditionalist when it comes to the client-therapist relationship. I believe the work goes better if the patient doesn’t waste time and energy identifying with or rejecting what I have experienced in my own life.”

  She looked at the young woman who asked the question, looked at the audience who had followed her this far and knew that it wasn’t enough.

  “I can tell you this much,” she said slowly, quietly. “In some of the richest countries of the world, I’ve seen things, seen them with my own eyes, experienced things that …” She halted. What could she tell them?

  How it felt to be veiled in black, to forfeit one’s identity while still a young girl? To lose a mother who could not go on as the lesser wife in her own home? To watch helplessly as a rain of stones snuffed out the sparkling life of a friend, a young woman whose only sin was to love outside the laws made by men? To— no, she couldn’t tell them that. No. In fact, she couldn’t tell them any of it.

  To her astonishment, Jenna felt the hot-to-cold trace of tears down her cheeks. “Well,” she said finally, “we’ve all seen things, terrible things, perhaps in our own lives, or in our neighbors’, or certainly in the papers every day and the news every night. But if I have one thing to leave you, it’s that to see with our eyes is one thing, and to see and know and feel and understand in our hearts is another.

  “And I believe that only when we learn to understand in that way—in our hearts, if you’ll pardon such an unscientific term from a psychologist—only then can we begin to learn the real work of healing, to do the real work of solving all these problems of which we’ve spoken, rather than fighting as a million private armies over every word, every thought, every belief that differs from our own.”

  A long moment of collective silence followed. Then, just as Barry Manning muttered, “Well said, doctor,” the audience broke into applause.

  Jenna let their approval enfold her. She was exhausted. Now, Manning was thanking the audience, plugging his next show, signing off. The theme music came up. The on-air light winked dark. It was over.

  Jenna turned to find the host staring at her. “You lied,” he said. Then his pumpkin face broke into a grin. “Easy, doc! Don’t look so shocked. I mean you lied about being a virgin. If you’re new to this game, I’m Meryl freakin’ Streep.”

  “I thought I messed up there at the end.”

  “Are you kidding? You had them crying along with you out there. You’re a natural.”

  Outside the booth, what seemed like the whole audience waited to descend on Jenna and Barry. Several had bought Jenna’s book on the spot—her agent had sent a dozen, just in case. The first to ask her to sign his copy was the man in golf clothes. The second was the college student.

  As Jenna signed books and accepted compliments, she scanned the studio, still hoping. Still no Brad. But there, in a corner near the door, was a dark man, small of stature, lounging against the doorway. His posture was relaxed, casual but something about him was oddly familiar, something that made Jenna tense.

  As if in response to her scrutiny, the man straightened up, brushed his sleeve, and walked out. Had she imagined the way he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze?

  You’re losing it, she told herself. The quarrel with Brad has thrown you off balance. If you go on like this, you'll be needing treatment yourself.

  When at last the crowd thinned, Barry approached Jenna.

  “Can I buy you dinner, doc? There’s a terrific place on Commercial Street—” “I wish I could,’’ Jenna cut in, trying to sound regretful, though the last thing she wanted now was to deal with more of Barry’s questions. “But I’m so tired … and I have a very early day tomorrow.”

  “Another time,” he said, not seeming too disappointed.

  They exchanged professional small talk—an invitation to return, promises to keep in touch—then Jenna was free. But to do what?

  Up until a year ago, she would have hurried home or to her office to lose herself in work. Then Brad came into her life—and she had someone to share her triumphs, her defeats, someone to touch and hold and yearn for.

  Stop it, she told herself, you’re thinking as if he were gone. And he isn’t. He can’t be. To be alone now, after a taste of warmth and intimacy … that would be unbearable.

  Once outside, she looked up and down the street but saw nothing suspicious, nothing out of the way. Just a bright sunny day and people going about their business. A cab pulling up almost directly in front of her.

  With a heartfelt sigh, she stepped inside.

  O

  Jenna’s Marlborough Street apartment was considered luxurious by the few acquaintances who’d seen it: a spacious duplex in a century-old limestone mansion, two fireplaces, a skylight, a planted terrace, simple contemporary furniture mingled with a few Oriental antiques. But to her—or rather to the woman she had been, a woman who had lived literally in palaces—it was a quaint, cozy little pied-a-terre.

  Not so cozy today, though. Not with the remnants of last night’s intimacy reminding her of how wrong it had all gone. On the Chinese lacquer bar stood the nearly full bottle of Beaujolais Brad had brought. As he held her in his arms, the wine had tasted like sunlight. But after he’d renewed his proposal of marriage—and she had given the only answer she could give—the mood broke, and they had parted like strangers.

  Now, Jenna poured herself a glass of Brad’s wine and drank a long swallow, but it no longer tasted of sunlight. She pushed the glass away.

  The apartment was astonishingly quiet. Oppressive rather than serene. She wished her son, Karim, were home, even with his prickly eighteen-year old’s independence. But he was spending the summer with college friends, sailing the Greek islands—slipping away from her already, a grown man soon, out on his own.

  Then she would be truly alone. Self-pity, the most ludicrous of emotions. Some psychologist.

  Why couldn’t Brad be patient? she thought. Why couldn’t he just trust her love? Suddenly, she laughed aloud. It was a harsh, bitter sound. How could she expect absolute trust when she had none to give? There was a tap at the door.

  With a rush of joy, she hurried to open it. “Oh, love, I—”

  But the man looming in the doorway wasn’t Brad. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him despite the red hair: he was bigger, beefier than he had seemed on Newbury Street or in the blue car on Commercial Street.

  Behind him stood a smaller, darker man.

  The big man had ice-blue eyes, and he said two words that froze Jenna’s soul. “Amira Badir?”

  “There … there must be some mistake.’’ Her hand c
lutched at the hall table.

  Without its support, she might have fallen.

  “I doubt it.” The man flipped a badge and identification card. “INS: Immigration and Naturalization Service. We need to ask you some questions, Ms. Badir. We’ll ask them at our office. Get your purse, your coat.”

  Moving like an automaton, her mouth dry with fear, Jenna obeyed.

  Feeling as if she were in a bad movie, she followed the INS men to their car, the blue car.

  The big man opened the door to the back seat, but the gesture had nothing to do with courtesy. It was a command.

  The two men sat in the front, the small man driving. The familiar streets of Jenna’s neighborhood slipped away. There must be something she could do, she thought, but what? She had citizenship papers, a valid passport, but the name on them was Jenna Sorrel.

  False documents. That was a crime, but how bad? Would she go to jail? Be deported? To al-Remal? Not that, please not that. It would be a death sentence. And what about Karim? What would happen to him?

  Think, Jenna, think. Think, Amira. A lawyer. I need a lawyer. Brad’s company has lawyers. The best. Dozens of them. Call Brad. They allow you a phone call, don’t they? Maybe it can be worked out. Maybe they can at least keep it out of the papers. Because even in al-Remal, people read the New York Times. My husband reads the New York Times.

  Oblivious to her desperation, the two men chatted in the front seat, workers doing their job. Jenna noticed a rental sticker on the windshield.

  Odd. Do government agencies rent their cars? I suppose they must. But green signs overhead? We’re on the interstate. Logan Airport ¼ Mile. We’re turning.

  Suddenly, a terrible suspicion seized her. “Why are we going to the airport? Why?”

  The red-haired man turned, a hint of amusement in the cold blue eyes. “We’re Immigration, lady. We work at the airport.”

  Oh. Well, of course, it made sense. Only …

  The car left the main approach to the terminal, took a service road, passed through a gate—there was some conversation between the small man and a guard—then rolled onto the tarmac and pulled up beside an idling Gulfstream with private markings.