Without a word, she looks down at the letters, then over to the slightly opened door of her closet. Her voice is soft, beaten. 'On the floor is a can of tennis balls. They're inside the middle ball.'
I walk to the closet and quickly find the can. Emptying it in my hand, I let the other two balls fall to the floor, then take the middle ball and give it a tight squeeze. Sure enough, like a fish opening its mouth, it spreads wide where the seam is sliced open. Inside is a brown medication vial--there're a few pills at the bottom and, on top, what looks like a roll of seven or eight stamps, but with yellow smiley-faces on them. That's the acid. 'What're the pills?' I ask.
'Just some Ecstasy--they're old, though. I haven't taken them in months.'
'Months or weeks?'
'Months . . . at least three . . . not since graduation. I swear, Michael.'
I stare down at the vial, which is still inside the ball, and let the seam close. Gripping it in a tight fist, I hold it out to Nora. 'This is it,' I tell her. 'No more games. From now on, it's all in your control. If you want to be a headcase, do it on your own. But if you want to be a friend'--I stop and stuff the ball in my pocket--'I'm here to help you, Nora. You don't have to be alone, but if you want to earn my trust, you do have to get it together.'
She looks absolutely stunned. 'So you're not going to leave?'
I once again picture her cradling my dad in her arms. Identifying with what's missing. 'Not yet--not now.' As my words sink in, I expect to see her smile. Instead, her brow furrows in distress. 'What's wrong?' I ask.
She looks at me, her chin down, her eyes completely lost. 'I don't understand. Why're you acting so nice?'
From the foot of the bed, I move in toward her. 'Don't you get it yet, Nora? I'm not acting.'
Lifting her head, she can't hold back. Her eyes well up and out comes the smile. The real smile.
I lean in and give her a light kiss on the forehead. 'I'm just telling you one thing--if you ever do anything like this again . . .'
'I won't. I promise.'
'I'm serious, Nora. I see any more drugs, I'll personally put it in a press release.'
She looks me straight in the eye. 'I swear on my life--you have my word.'
Chapter 20
Sometimes in my dreams, I'm real small. Six inches small. Simon reaches down and I step into the palm of his hand. He raises me to his cracked lips and whispers in my Barbie Doll-size ears, 'It'll all be okay, Michael--I promise it'll be okay.' Slowly, his deep voice gets louder, like a churning siren. 'Don't cry, Michael--only babies cry!' Then suddenly, he's screaming, his voice thundering as his hot breath blows me back: 'Dammit, Michael, why didn't you listen! All you had to do was listen!'
I shoot up in bed, startled by the silence. My body's covered in a film of cold sweat--so cold, I'm shivering. The alarm clock says it's only four-thirty in the morning, so I lie back and try to lose myself in Nora. Not the drugs or the scar. The real her. The one underneath; or at least the one I think is underneath. Last night . . . and the day-- my God--the roof alone'll keep me going for the rest of my life. NASCAR drivers, paratroopers, even . . . even pirates don't have that much excitement. Or that much fear.
Noticing that I'm gripping my sheets, I go for my best fall-back-asleep trick: I put things in perspective. Whatever else is going on, I still have my health, and my dad's, and Trey's, and Nora . . . and Simon, and Adenauer, and Vaughn, who I still can't figure out. Part of me's worried he's trying to set me up, but if he was in this with Simon . . . and he's now running from the FBI . . . enemy of my enemy and all that. If Simon deserted him, maybe he's got something to offer me. Regardless, I'll have the answer in a few hours. Today's the day we're supposed to meet. Somewhere in the Holocaust Museum.
After twenty minutes of staring at my stucco ceiling, it's obvious I'm not falling back asleep. I kick off the covers and head straight for the coffeemaker. As the smell of caffeine invades my small kitchenette, I pull a map of the museum from my briefcase. Five floors of exhibit space, a research library, two theaters, a learning center . . . How am I ever going to find this guy?
Behind me, there's a noise at the door. It's small--easy to miss--like a tap. Or a thud. 'Hello?' I call out. The noise stops. Outside, I hear the pounding of muffled footsteps moving up the hallway. Chucking the map, I fly at the door, flip open the locks, and rip it open. There's another thud. And another. I leap into the hall, anxious to face my attacker. All I find is a teenage delivery boy dropping the first of the day's newspapers. He leaps back from the shock, almost dropping his handful of papers.
'Cono!' he curses in Spanish.
'Sorry,' I whisper. 'My bad.' Picking up my own paper, I slink back into my apartment and shut the door.
Unnerved, I peel off the top section of the paper, hoping to lose myself in current events. But just as I fold back the front page, a small white envelope falls to the floor. Inside is a handwritten note: 'Registry of Survivors. Second Floor.' I speed back to the museum map, which is still on my linoleum floor. Finally, an exact location.
He's not stupid, I decide. It's a small room tucked away in a corner of the museum. He'll see everyone coming and going. The meeting's not until one o'clock, but I still look at my watch. Seven more hours.
* * *
Bolting out the door of my office, I rush over to the West Wing. I used to pride myself on being early for Simon's staff meetings, but lately, I can't seem to get there on time. And while it's easy to blame it all on forgetfulness, I have to tip my hat to subconscious avoidance.
Inside the West Wing, Phil's at his usual security desk, clearing people in. As soon as I see him, I turn my ID forward and lower my head. It's not that I even care about him calling the elevator--I just hate when he pretends not to know me.
'Hey, Michael,' he says as I walk by.
'H-Hey,' I reply. 'Hi.'
'Staff meeting today?'
Before I can even answer, he reaches below his desk and returns my most favorite of privileges. On my left, the elevator door slides open and I step inside. I'm not sure what caused the turnaround, but as the door slides shut, I'm happy to take the favor.
* * *
As I step into Simon's office, I expect to find the meeting already in progress. Instead, I see most of the staff swapping stories and sharing gossip. The empty chair at the head of the table tells me why.
I take a quick look around and notice Pam in her now regular spot on the couch. Ever since she's moved up, she's practically disappeared. 'You're a real honcho now, aren't you?'
'What do you mean?' she asks, feigning innocence. It's a classic White House power-move: Never acknowledge advantages.
Shaking my head, I make my way to an open seat in the back. 'I see right through you, woman--you're not fooling anyone.'
'I'm fooling you,' she calls out. Her downplaying days are over.
I'm about to shout something back when the door to the room opens. The whole place goes silent, then picks up again. It's not Simon--just another associate--a WASPy, expensive-shoes, Yale-tie-clip-guy who just came over after clerking at the Supreme Court. I hate him. Pam said he's been nice.
As he steps inside, the office is packed. The only open seat is the one next to mine. He takes a quick recon, looking right at me. I move my chair over to make sure he has room. But as he heads toward the back, he passes right by me, continues toward the corner, and leans up against one of the bookcases. He'd rather stand. I glance over at Pam, but she's caught up with her new pals on the couch. No one likes a sinking ship.
With no one to talk to, I sit and wait until the door once again swings open. Simon enters the room and everyone's quiet. As soon as we make eye contact, I look away. He doesn't. Instead, he heads straight toward me and smacks a thick file folder against my chest. 'Welcome back,' he growls.
I look down at the folder, then back at everyone else in the room. Something's wrong. He's too smart to lose
