I’ve found that life has no tolerance for dwelling in memories. I may have wanted to stay in bed, examining those thrilling and confusing times to seek clues that could help find William. But my recollection was ended by an exhausted sleep, and then the cat pawing at my face, ready to be fed. Since school hadn’t let out for fall break yet, I had to rush to get Greg to school and check in on Brian, followed by a complete collapse by Anne, in which she sobbed on the couch for an hour, and then a call from Tom that we needed to have dinner together tonight to discuss some important things. I’d put some salmon in the oven, but when we sat down to dinner, I quickly lost my appetite over what my husband had to say.
As he started scraping his fork to gather the last remnants of the angel hair pasta, I rubbed my temples. When the base of his wineglass caught the edge of his plate and made a sharp clang, I scooted my chair back, walked over to the sink, and began to rinse the plates before putting them in the dishwasher.
“I guess you don’t think we should do it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Of course I think you should do it. We aren’t doing it.”
“It’s Diane Sawyer, Lynn. She’s giving us an hour in prime time.”
“I know who she is, Tom. And I think it’s the right decision. For you to do.”
“Lynn, you need to take part in it. People are going to be more sympathetic to someone like you than some perceived beltway insider. You or Anne—”
“No,” I laid the dishrag down on the countertop. “Not Anne. Not Chris. No one but you. This family is hanging on by a thread. I won’t put Anne through it—”
The knock came at the door, and he checked his watch. “Deanna said she’d be here at seven. Listen to what she has to say, Lynn. She’s a communications expert; she’s been a valuable asset. And the FBI has already signed on to this.”
I dried my hands, then put on too much lotion. The October air was already wreaking havoc on my skin. When I turned back around, Deanna Ruck, Tom’s communication manager, who I’d met on the porch the day of the news conference, was setting down her briefcase.
“Hi Mrs. Roseworth. Nice to see you again.”
“Hi Deanna. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No, thank you, I’ve smoked too much for one evening, and I don’t think my nervous system can handle caffeine too.”
“Have a seat,” Tom said quickly, knowing I refused to clean his clothes when he’d been smoking.
Deanna produced a thick folder. “So here are the talking points, all approved by the FBI. ABC is giving you an hour, so they will need a lot; enough to keep the story line moving along until the last quarter hour—”
“Story line?” I winced.
“Lynn…” Tom gave me a weary glance. “She means we want to keep viewers tuned in until the end of the hour, when I reveal the increase in the reward.”
“We’re not a TV drama,” I replied softly.
“Please go on,” he said to Deanna.
“As we discussed, you’ll take Diane and the crew through the woods. You’ll provide all of the new photos of William approved by your daughter. ABC is asking again if Anne or Chris—”
“No,” I insisted. “They will not be doing an interview. No other member of the family.”
“Have you given any thought…” she began.
“I won’t. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
She nodded. “Here’s where we have to have a tough discussion. Senator, Mrs. Roseworth, forgive me, but I have to ask: Is there anything—anything at all—that could be considered controversial about your family that you haven’t already disclosed? No pattern of runaway behavior by William? No affairs by Anne or her husband? Drug use? Nothing that would make the tabloids?”
“We’ve gone over this repeatedly with the FBI. We’re terribly boring,” Tom said.
“Because if there’s one single bit of information that’s outrageous, anything that casts doubt on the family or your sensibilities, you will lose the public’s sympathy in a heartbeat. A sideshow will disrupt what really matters. I’m sorry to be so crass. The producers have made it clear: The information about Brian is a nonnegotiable.”
“Nonnegotiable?” I asked.
“Lynn, they have to have something to tease,” he said.
“Tease?” I was gripping the side of the table now.
“We have a daughter who works in television news, Lynn, who has spoken to us at length about this. Kate has spoken to you about this. The more the producers can tease that they have obtained new information, the more people will watch, and the more people will be on the lookout for William. I will discuss briefly that Brian may have witnessed it and has been in a traumatized state ever since. End of discussion, Lynn. Deanna, do we have a list of questions?”
I envisioned walking over to the cake plate, calmly taking the last piece of iced banana bread, and throwing it in Tom’s direction. But instead I sat with my hands on the table.
“The network won’t provide questions, but we know the ballpark. You need to be prepared. That’s what’s in the talking points—”
“I need to assume questions about the VP offer. And if William was a troubled kid; if we acted quickly enough in contacting police; domestic terrorism—”
“Does it have to go there?” I asked.
“It can go there and it will, Lynn.” Tom was getting angry now. “You don’t get it: ISIS is converting suburban high school kids into extremists and teaching them through social media to shoot up military institutions and attack the government any way they can. I’ve read the files. You couldn’t stomach them. Of course, they could have staked out our family and waited for just the right moment. You think kidnapping a family member of the only Democratic senator who led the charge to increase military presence in Iran to bomb those fuckers is out of the question?”
“It could have been any of you, truly,” Deanna said. “But after the magazine came out…”
I stood up and walked to the stairs.
“I’m sorry, but that question will certainly be asked.” She sounded more irritated than apologetic.
Tom was on his feet. “Lynn! Come on, Lynn. God dammit!”
I hurried up the stairs, my hand on my mouth. I went through the bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door. I ran the water to mask my sobbing.
Nothing outrageous, Deanna warned. Nothing salacious or controversial should come out about any of us.
I roughly wiped the tears from my face. The small amount of mascara I’d earlier applied streamed down my cheeks. I grabbed a Kleenex and leaned into the mirror.
I stopped. A flushed face with weepy eyes and smudges of black beneath reflected back.
The desire to smash the mirror was so strong that I actually began to step back, to contain myself. But instead, I leaned in closer, looking at every detail of my pathetic face.
I would burn that image in my memory to use as ammunition, should I begin to doubt what I had to do.
The bells above the door to the Peddler announced my arrival, and I could see Barry Manilow’s face on the computer screen reflected in Roxy’s glasses. She was obviously so engrossed in her online research into his denials of plastic surgeries that she only held up her finger. “Be with you in a minute.”
“Don’t keep the customers waiting too long,” I responded.
“Well, good morning. What a nice surprise.”
I rubbed my shoulders. “It’s cold this morning. You’ve done a nice job with the Thanksgiving decorations. I can’t thank you enough for tending to the shop during all this. And I’ve been such a terrible friend, I haven’t even asked about how Ed was doing this month.”