Felicity
Three days, I think, standing in front of the mirror of my childhood home.
It’s the mirror I stood in front of for prom and the mirror I stood in front of before I went off to college. It’s pink-framed with stickers all around it, stickers charting my growth to maturity. First boybands, and then metal bands, and then quotes from books, and then fitness and motivational quotes. I never pealed a single sticker off. I guess some part of me knew that one day I’d return a changed woman and need a reminder of who I was before the change occurred. I think of the innocent, hopeful girl who stood before this mirror so many times. I think of her and I miss her.
I keep thinking about Roma and the gunshot. Surely it’s possible he could’ve done something and gotten to the car in time? Surely it’s possible he didn’t have to shoot at us? Surely it’s possible he could’ve gotten away with us.
I adjust the flower on my red dress. My kidnapping has been a public scandal in the time I was away. Dad was bombarded with questions and even some ridiculous accusations, namely that he orchestrated the whole thing to garner some twisted political attention. Now, tonight is his big night, his chance to parade me in front of the press and his colleagues and show that I was the victim of a horrible kidnapping, not some political scheme. But not just any kidnapping, I remind myself. Dad wants to make it clear that it was a Russian kidnapping. Like it or not, I’m political currency now.
Dad knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He steps in and looks around my bedroom, exactly how I left it before college. Posters of fitness buffs and DVD covers of my favorite movies cover the walls. My bookshelf, directly next to my bed, is chipped from where I used to absentmindedly claw at it with my nails in my sleep. My prom dress hangs in plastic covering on the back of the door.
Dad is wearing a tuxedo. He looks old and tired. But that’s what politics does to people. Only his sparkling green eyes are completely untouched by the madness of politics. He glances around the room. “There’s no need for you to come tonight, if you’d rather stay in,” Dad says.
He means this, I know. He’d be willing to put me first. But in truth, I don’t want to stay in. I’ve been locked in the house for three days and all I can think about is Roma, the gunshot which cut through the air above us. And Bear, the way he dropped me off half a block from Dad’s house and coasted after me as I jogged down the street. When he saw I was safely through the doors, he drove away. God knows where he’s gone. I feel guilty. I didn’t even have a chance to thank him, I was so stunned.
“I want to come,” I say. “It’ll be fun.”
I try a smile. Dad doesn’t know about Roma. As far as he knows, I was kidnapped and that was that. I gave the Secret Service the location of the factory, but by the time they got there, it was empty. Mr. Black moves fast.
“Fun?” Dad tilts his head. “That’s one word for it. If you can call taking a dip with a pack of hungry piranhas fun.”
I can’t help but giggle. But always, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking of Roma. It’s like my thoughts run on two sets of tracks. One runs in the present, talking and eating and sleeping and jogging on the running machine. The other is constantly, without pause, dedicated to Roma. I wonder what happened after he fired off that shot. Did they kill him? Do they even know that he’s the one who set off that explosion? Did firing the shot give him a decent alibi?
“You seem distracted,” Dad says. He joins me at the mirror. “I’m so proud of you, Felicity. You know that, don’t you? I can’t say I don’t miss the days when you asked me for advice—and permission, if truth be told—but I’m proud of the woman you’ve become. You’re handling this with grace and poise.”
“Maybe I’ll remember that when I’m President.” I laugh.
Dad nods seriously. “You better.” He pauses, and then goes on: “When you were gone, I kept thinking about you—about how I raised you, I mean. I kept wondering if I’d done a good job, you know, after your mother . . .”
“You did a fine job,” I say. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m sorry I was away so often.”
I roll my eyes. “Dad, you’re an ambassador. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?”
“Well, if you insist on being technical, yes.”
“Is it almost time to go?” I ask.
Dad nods. “Ten minutes. We have a large function room on the first floor, Secret Service coming out of the wazoo, lots of them plainclothes.”
“Need to keep up appearances,” I say.
Dad nods again, and then leaves.
He shuts the door behind him and I turn once again to the mirror. It hasn’t been that long since I set out on my backpacking trip. What—a month? And yet so much has happened in that time I can’t help but wonder if I’m looking at the same woman. The features are there, the eyes and the cheekbones and the lips and the nose and the chin, all the things which make up my face. But I’m sure I see something underneath it, something which wasn’t there before, something dark and hard and gritty.
It’s Roma, I realize with a shock. I’m seeing Roma.
I look closer. Yes, he’s there, in my expression. Roma’s hardness, Roma’s capability.
Please, I think. Please, Roma, don’t be dead.