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I haven’t had my own phone in four years.
A stripe glows at the bottom of the screen. I tap it, then remember. You swipe it. I do, and a man’s voice speaks from the phone.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” It’s Daddy.
“Hi. What’s this phone?”
“Yours. You need one. That’s how the world works, sweetie. Your generation has smartphones to keep you on track. I have Anya.”
His attempt at casual humor makes me smile. I laugh because it’s expected of me, but a part of my chuckle is genuine. Something in my belly relaxes. A layer of tension releases.
“One day Anya is going to retire and you won’t know what to do with yourself, Daddy. You’ll just pause in place, like a robot without its energy source, and freeze.”
“She has to wait until after my two terms as President before she can retire.”
I laugh again.
“It’s in her contract,” he adds. This is an old joke. Anya’s younger than Daddy and is about as likely to retire as Daddy is to give up on politics. Both will never happen. This is safe territory for conversation.
“Are you home?” I ask, making polite conversation. I already know the answer.
“Back in Washington.” If I had a dollar for every time he said that, I’d have...well, enough to buy a nice computer.
Or, as I cradle it in my hand, a very nice smartphone.
“Lindsay, today is your day to decompress. Catch up on life. Learn how to use your smartphone, go to the spa, find your old friends...” The last little bit dies on his tongue. I know why, because I overheard what he and Drew said last night. But he doesn’t know I know, so I listen to his changing voice as he tries to cover for his own inner turmoil.
At least, that’s what I want to think. Because if my own father isn’t experiencing any kind of doubt or concern on the inside right now, on my first full day since coming home for the first time in four years since the attack on me, then I need to re-evaluate everything I know about love.
“I’ll be fine.” I pretend to yawn. “I plan to spend the day going on a nice run, seeing Mom, organizing my room, and getting ready for whatever comes next.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Daddy loves plans. He worships his to-do lists. He hates winging it. Of course, when you have Anya organizing your every move, and you’re a two-term United States Senator, you can think your success comes from being overly scripted.
But that’s not important. What is important is this: I think he’s no longer worried. The more I deflect and make him think I’m fine, the sooner he’ll give me more freedom.
And I need all the freedom I can get, because after a few days, it will be time to enact my plan.
Daddy doesn’t know I have plans, too.
Plans that have nothing to do with him.
“It is a plan, Daddy,” I say, smiling while I talk. I learned that on the Internet, in some article I read. You sound happy if you smile while you talk. Confidence radiates out from the tone that comes with a smile. I hope it works.
A sudden flash of memory, like a picture in my mind, makes me gasp. The vulture. The vulture, shoving the grey dress down my throat. Tiny beads of sweat break out on my chest and I feel my breath quickening.
No. Not now.
“Lindsay? Are you all right?” he asks. “Your voice sounds strange, suddenly.”
“Just stretching,” I huff, trying to tell the flopping twelve pound bass that is burrowing in under my collar bone to stop moving. “Getting ready to run. Gotta go. Love you.”
“Love you—”
I push end call and slowly slide to the floor, the warm carpet against my back more soothing than any meditation chant. One skill they taught me at the island: how to brace myself during a panic attack.
Maybe I did learn more than deceit during my four years there. Huh. Who knew?
My phone rings again. It’s set to that old fashioned ring tone, like the kind in those 1970s movies Mom makes me watch sometimes, with the rotary phones. I need to change that to something more hip, but right now I have double vision and it feels like my scalp is on fire. First things first.
