The Tyrant's Daughter (22 page)

I try not to look, but I can’t resist for long. There are more images from home dancing across the screen; boldface captions tell yet another gruesome tale. This time a lakeside resort has been attacked. The scene is familiar, both for the death and destruction I’ve grown accustomed to seeing and because I recognize the resort.

I’ve been there.

My grandmother—my mother’s mother—took me there, perhaps three years ago, for One Last Vacation. I wasn’t told about her cancer until the final day of the trip. “Three generations of women,” my grandmother bragged to anyone who would listen. The resort was one of few destinations in my country for three women traveling alone. We weren’t actually alone, of course—we had drivers and security guards, as always. But there was still something liberating about being in a place that was too exotic and too expensive for most people in our country. It was part of a Swiss chain, safe for its neutrality but considered scandalous because of the foreign journalists who kept the hotel booked year-round, along with a smattering of particularly adventurous German and Australian tourists. In their alien presence we allowed ourselves small acts of rebellion: a glass of sherry for Grandmother each afternoon, a leisurely, unveiled stroll for Mother, and a raucous game of badminton, played with a long-haired Dutch couple, for me. Such bliss!

And now it all lies in shambles—yet another blackened crater where there was once a peaceful refuge.

I raise the volume.
Retaliation for earlier attacks on the capital
, says the newscaster.
Government forces asserting control. A campaign to rid the country of foreign influence and illicit activities
. Tidy sound bites and anemic explanations blend together, while on-screen a stoop-shouldered man splashes bucket after bucket of water onto the red stains on the concrete veranda.

I silence the television again. I’ve heard enough.

Mother is still not dressed; her hair is still uncombed. She seems to compose herself later and later every day now. This, more than the scattered papers or the hijacked laptop or the medicinal-sweet smell of liquor that clings to her, worries me. My mother is many things, but sloppy is not one of them.

She’s slipping, too
.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to make a phone call.” She sounds vague, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “What time is it?” She glances at her wrist, realizes she’s not wearing a watch, and searches the walls for a clock. There are none. Not in this room, anyway, so she goes into the kitchen to check the display on the microwave. I know without looking that the numbers have been blinking, unset and ignored, since we moved in. Aside from the tiny alarm that sits at my bedside to wake me for school, none of us has much need for clocks. Our lives are divided into Before and After, and any further breakdown seems pointless.

Spotting my computer, Mother taps impatiently at the
space bar until the screen saver vanishes, then nods at the clock in the corner of the screen, satisfied. “Good. Not too late,” she says under her breath, and then walks into her bedroom, cordless phone in hand, and shuts the door.

“Nice to see you too, Mother,” I tell the door. “My day wasn’t so great, but thank you for asking. Oh, and feel free to borrow my computer anytime.”

I wait in the silence for one, two minutes before I creep over and nestle my ear against the door.

She’s not using the speakerphone this time, but her curt familiarity gives her away and I know that it’s my uncle on the other end. Again.

“That was a foolish mistake. Now is not the time to make the world your enemy—” There’s a long pause before she continues. “It doesn’t matter. How many foreigners died today? Ten? Twenty? It might as well be a thousand. The second you started attacking foreigners, you also started losing support. In fact, it might already be too late. Why would they give weapons to someone who is just going to turn on them—” She stops abruptly again, and I can practically hear him yelling through the receiver.

I trace question marks into the wall with my finger as I listen. Curving left to right, as the symbol appears in English, and then mirrored, right to left, a question from home. Even our punctuation marks are opposites—no wonder I can’t fit comfortably here. I’m an Invisible Queen asking backward questions. The visual almost makes me smile: I’m a character who would do Lewis Carroll proud.

“The point is that it’s now or never. If you wait any longer,
the deal will be off the table.” I can hear her footsteps on the other side of the door, pacing. Her voice grows louder. “No. It has to be
you
. I told you this already. I’m having enough trouble convincing him that
you
deserve the support; there is no way he’s going to hand over this much money, this much equipment, to a stranger. There is too much at stake. It has to be you.”

Another long pause. I hear her drumming her fingers on a hard surface, waiting her turn. “It’s enough. More than enough. They think they’re buying a new world order, after all. That doesn’t come cheap.” Her laugh is like sandpaper. “Two days. Maybe three. I’ll send you the details, the way we discussed.… No, not now.… Because some things shouldn’t be discussed over the phone. You of all people ought to know that.” She’s losing the battle to keep the impatience out of her voice, and after another pause she finally gives in to her anger. “How could I ever forget? You’ve made sure of that. But don’t you forget
your
end of the deal, either.”

A faint beep tells me she’s hung up, so I scurry into the bathroom and lock the door. I need a reason not to be in the same room as her right now, so I turn on the shower and let the water run. It’s loud enough, I hope, to cover the sound of my sobs as I mourn the complete loss of the woman I believed my mother to be.

I feel polluted. Tainted. Like one of those birds you see in photos every time there’s a big oil spill. Scrawny-necked, limp-winged creatures smothering under blankets of thick black tar, always with that same hopeless look in their shock-deadened eyes—that
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
look.

I suspect I have the very same look. But in place of oil, I’m coated with greasy, suffocating layers of shame. Sticky self-loathing glues me in place as I stand outside the school. Across the street. As far away as I can be and still watch, still see the bouncy steps of everyone who isn’t me entering the building.

From here they look like nondescript human-shaped bubbles: shiny and fragile and totally without substance. It’s a mean, childish thought, I know, but watching them turns me spiteful. They’re only bubbles when compared to tar-streaked, grief-tangled me. They live in a world in which there are no
bloodstains upon the pavement and no gift-bearing spies. I would also float and glisten in such a world.

I hold in my hand as heavy a paper as ever existed. The numbers and letters on it might as well already be bodies. I’m holding a pen-and-ink graveyard.

I fold it carefully and tuck it into my pocket.

One full day has passed. Two are left. Two days to do nothing, or two days to do something.

I see Emmy approach, but she doesn’t see me. I’m not hiding, but she’s not looking. She’s walking fast, a brisk, stiff-legged shuffle, less buoyant than usual. In her delicate bubble world, she has lost much. Her parents are divorcing. The charmed, photo-op love life she’s created on her walls doesn’t exist in real time, and her best friend has abandoned her. I am sorry for my role in this. I am sorry for her pain. But still I don’t wave or call to her. I don’t think of myself as superstitious, but it does seem as if my bad fortune has rubbed off on her. It’s better for everyone if I keep my distance.

I don’t see Ian. I’m not here to see him anyway, but a quick sighting would have been nice—a glimpse of something that almost was.

In a way, I’m saying goodbye. To my friends, to the school, to my life here. This was not my intention, but after the confrontation I had with Mother last night, it seems inevitable.

“I know what you’re doing, Mother. I know what you’re planning, and I think it’s disgusting.”

She’d stared at me for a long time before responding. “You know about your uncle, then.” She sounded neither angry nor
surprised. She went back to stirring the soup reheating on the stove before continuing. “There’s nothing to worry about. We have to start somewhere, and we might as well start at the top.
Someone
has to be in power if we’re ever going to move forward.”

As usual, her answer just made everything
more
confusing. “You’re playing with people’s lives.”

“I’m not ‘playing’ anything. I’m taking charge of our lives. Of our future. It has to be done if we’re to survive. Dammit, ouch!” She jumped away from the stove and ran her scalded finger under cold water from the sink. “Please, Laila, I can’t talk about this right now. Just set the table and tell your brother that dinner is almost ready.”

After that she seemed to shut off. Her face was a stiff mask, and over dinner we barely spoke. Even Bastien was quieter than usual, shrugging when I asked him if anything was wrong. He sensed something. He must have.

Sitting there in our tensely silent home, I decided to follow in my mother’s footsteps. I decided to take charge.

It was easier than I thought.

I found her message later that night. Mother may know how to send an email, but she doesn’t know enough to erase her tracks. Either that or she simply didn’t care if I discovered her treachery.

It was there in my Sent folder—a message made up entirely of numbers, impersonal and ominous. Three strings of digits in three different configurations had been sent to a nameless recipient at an address also comprised of numbers: [email protected]

I studied the numbers, staring at them until they made sense. There was a date. There was a time. And there was a place. I recognized the geocoordinate format right away, but I plugged the sequence into Google Earth to be certain. I braced myself as I used shaky fingers to type in the numbers and then hit Enter, but the swooping results still turned my stomach. The image on the monitor pulled away from almost–Washington, D.C., zipped me into a satellite’s view of the earth from outer space, and then plummeted down to a fuzzy new image that took too long to become clear, as if even the pixels were reluctant visitors to the place on the screen.

It was the location underlined in red in my mother’s notes—the small turnoff from a twisty mountain road, probably two hours from the capital. It’s isolated—a good spot for a secret meeting. I imagine that Mr. Darren Gansler is skilled at choosing just such places.

The fact that Mother had sent the message from
my
email account, with
my
name attached to it, made me queasy with anger. My stomach danced an oily revolt, and for a moment I thought I might vomit. I closed my eyes and took long, deep breaths until the feeling passed. I couldn’t be sick. I had work to do.

I knew the when and the where. The why was still a mystery. I steeled myself, then sat down to use my blood-money computer and a wifi signal stolen from my neighbor to give me the answers that my mother would not.

During the night I became an expert in terrible, evil things.

I read the things I couldn’t bring myself to read before—the words that had turned me fearful of libraries. Firsthand accounts I’d cowardly skipped. Pages I’d quickly closed.

I opened my eyes.

I learned about arms transfers and foreign policy and civil wars. I read about amnesty and tribunals, about prison conditions and mercenaries. Every article, every website, opened a new wormhole, and then another, and another. There was no end to what I didn’t know, it seemed. I googled “torture” and immediately wished I hadn’t.

I want to go back in time, to scour the words and the images from my mind. I wish to unsee what I have seen. But my brain keeps attacking me with what I have learned. I keep picturing Amir’s father, who I imagine as an older, broader version of him. I see him in jail, and I see him suffer. I can’t escape his pain.

At one point, late during the night, or perhaps very early in the morning, I looked over at Bastien sleeping soundly in his bed. He’d always been able to sleep through anything. But suddenly I wanted to wake him. I wanted him to get up, to tell me a silly story about his day at school or pester me to play basketball with him outside. I needed—
desperately
needed—some show of his sweetness. I needed proof that not everyone in my family was damned by the blood in their veins. That
I
wasn’t damned.

I let him sleep. One of us should.

Now I wait, my eyelids heavy with fatigue and my thoughts scorched with guilt. No matter what I do next, I betray someone. The question is who.

I finger the paper in my pocket as I finally spot Amir walking toward the school.

I’ve made my choice.

I can’t leave. I can’t bear the thought that I might miss something or even come back to find the apartment empty, my tiny, splintered family gone without me. My thoughts shift like a Rubik’s Cube—countless configurations of people and events clicking and twisting through my head until I’m dizzy and then numb.

The school calls twice. Mother ignores the ringing phone, so I pick up and pretend not to speak English and they stop calling. It occurs to me too late that they might report my truancy, that it might impact our legal status here, and then my worries bloom and multiply. I can’t move in any direction without risking disaster, it seems, so I sit as quietly as I can without moving, watching news reports that cycle through sporting events and political speeches and house fires and drug recalls and anything, it seems, except news from home.

Emmy calls once, too. It’s loud in the background—she’s
calling from between classes—and she’s unusually aloof. She’s being a friend without being friendly. “I’m just calling to check in. You haven’t been at school for a couple of days, and Ian and I are worried about you.” She can’t maintain the icy stiffness, though, and a hint of warmth sneaks back into her voice. “Are you okay, Laila? I just don’t understand.”