The Tears of Dark Water (67 page)

They merged onto the Capitol Beltway and drove south, eventually taking the Little River Turnpike toward Annandale. When they reached the town center, they turned down an intersecting road and entered their old neighborhood—an arterial network of brick ranch houses set on pancake-flat patches of grass. Paul slowed down and turned onto their street, pulling to the curb.

Megan shuddered when she saw the split-level house—half red brick, half dingy white clapboard with a faux chimney and a peeling roof. The trees in the yard were bigger than she remembered, but everything else was the same. The memories came back to her in a flood, but she resisted them. She wasn’t here to relive the horror. She was here to release it.

“How do I do this?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “But whatever it is, I’m with you.”

She closed her eyes and cleansed her mind, breathing steadily and searching for a silver bullet. Then it came to her. She needed to say her father’s name. She clenched her jaw and took Paul’s hand, tears springing to her eyes. The hatred overcame her.
You bastard! You thought you were God’s gift to the world, but you were the Devil in disguise. You drove a beautiful boy to kill himself, and you sent our mother to an early grave. All for what? Because you couldn’t stand the thought that Kyle might be gay.

“John Derrick,” she said in a voice as hard as marble, “you stole my brother from me. You poisoned my mother’s soul. You robbed me of my childhood. I will not let you steal my future. On this day I bury you. All that you were is dead to me now.”

Paul squeezed her hand. “I’d like to say it with you. Do you mind?”

Megan shook her head. They repeated her words together, their voices uniting in a chorus of valediction, sealed by their blood and singularity of purpose. But she knew it wasn’t enough. She had to let Kyle go, too. She took a breath and told Paul, feeling the emotions pressing against the dam in her heart. All at once, she opened the sluice gate and let them out, the pain and the shame, the confusion and the grief, and, finally, the love she still tended like a votive flame for him.

“I miss you, Kyle,” she whispered. “I miss the way you sang for me, the way you looked for the good in everything. The world didn’t deserve you. Sing with the angels now, and help me let you go.”

When she had nothing more to say, she looked at Paul and he touched her cheek, wiping a tear from her eye. “I love you, Meg,” he said. “I always will.”

“I love you, too,” she replied. “You’re the best thing in my life.”

He pulled away from the curb and accelerated up the lane, leaving the house and the memories behind. She did not look back.

Ismail

Chesapeake, Virginia

November 1, 2012

Just after lunch, Longfellow delivered the stack of paper Ismail had requested, along with a ballpoint pen. He had only two more days before he was scheduled to board a bus bound for a medium-security correctional institution in Wisconsin, where he would spend the rest of his natural life. According to the jailer, it was the kind of place where he would be able to visit the library, play basketball in the gymnasium, attend worship services, take walks in the yard, and meet his mother and sister whenever they could make the three-hour trip from Minneapolis. It was the best Judge McKenzie had been able to do for him, and he was thankful. But the move was still two days away. Right now he had only one thing on his mind—writing a letter to Mahamoud.

The idea had come to him in the night, like the old dream of Yasmin. It had so excited him that he hadn’t been able to sleep again. It was a stretch, but it was possible now that the Shabaab was on the run and security was better in Mogadishu. He sat down on his rack, placed the pages on top of the book of Islamic poetry he had checked out of the library, and began to write.

Dear Uncle Mahamoud,

I know you are aware of my situation. My lawyer said she spoke to you and passed along the good news about my mother and sister. I am sorry we were not able to meet as we planned. It would have been a joy to see you again. I have a simple request to make of you today, though I know it will be a challenge for you to fulfill. I ask it not only for myself but also for my father and for the future of our country.

When we last met, you told me that our school closed after the attack. You said there wasn’t money to pay the staff, and that everyone was afraid. From what I have read in the newspapers, things are different now. I ask that you take the money I gave you and hire the teachers again. I ask that you use your resources to reopen the school and to educate a new generation of students in the manner my father envisioned—to honor Allah, to value truth, to love their neighbors, and to work for the good of Somalia. I will never leave the place where I am going. But that thought does not trouble me as much as the thought that my father’s legacy will have no one to sustain it. Please, Mahamoud, take the influence that God has given you and use it for good.

As for me, I plan to take up writing and demonstrate to our brothers and sisters that the pen is more powerful than the gun. I have only one aspiration for the years I have left, the aspiration of Rumi, written in his epitaph: When I am dead, seek not my tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men.

Go well, my uncle, and thank you for your kindness.

~ Ismail

He folded the letter in half, wrote Mahamoud’s address on the back, and went to the door, knocking on it twice. Before long, Longfellow appeared and took it from him.

“Mogadishu, eh?” the jailer grunted, reading Ismail’s scrawling handwriting. “That’s going to cost you a pretty penny for the stamps. It’s a good thing you have a generous lawyer. What does it say, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s to my uncle,” Ismail told him, seeing no reason to dissemble. “My father founded a school that closed down when he died. I’m asking my uncle to reopen it.”

Longfellow stared at him in disbelief. “You’re one odd bird, Ismail, or Afyareh—whatever the hell you go by.” He winked. “But I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”

Ismail smiled at the jailer as the door swung closed. Then he moved to the center of his cell, faced east toward Mecca, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

Paul

Zanzibar, Tanzania

November 13, 2012

The place was called Breezes, and the name suited it well. The trade winds blew in off the Indian Ocean as they had for millennia, rustling the leaves in the palm groves that lined the beach, stirring the surface of the water inside the barrier reef, and sculpting the sand along the seashore like an unseen hand. The island air was scented with spice and flowers. Never had Derrick seen so many colors of bougainvillea, so many varieties of tropical trees, all growing together in a garden as virginal as Eden. Zanzibar had a peculiar effect on him. It made him want to wax poetic even though he had no talent for it.

He still couldn’t believe he was here, on this day, with these people—with Vanessa and Quentin and Ariadne, to memorialize Daniel and to say goodbye a final time. He couldn’t believe how much the past year had changed him, how after decades of shutting people out—everyone but Megan—he had stumbled upon people who wanted in, who actually seemed to understand him and who didn’t ask for more than he could give. He couldn’t believe the way Vanessa had come to look at him since the trial ended, the way she held his hand, the way she laughed at his jokes, the way her music transported him, and the passion she had shown when at last she invited him into her bed. She wasn’t quite his. She never would be. But somehow it didn’t feel wrong to enjoy her, perhaps even love her. Was it possible? Had he really fallen in love with her?

They were sitting together on the sloping beach, as the sun set behind them, sending shafts of ruby light through the palm forest and casting long shadows across the tourmaline water. In the distance, Derrick could see waves crashing on the reef. Quentin and Ariadne were snorkeling about a hundred yards out in the lagoon. They were creatures of the sea. They never seemed to tire of swimming and kayaking and cavorting in the shallows.

“Sometimes I wonder if they were twins in another life,” Vanessa said, glancing at him through her sunglasses. She was wearing a sheer white cover-up over her turquoise bathing suit, her pale legs slightly pink from the sun. “Were you and Megan like that?”

He looked back at her, fingering a shell he had found in the sand. “We were. But we never got to travel like this. My dad believed that work was life.”

“It’s easy to see things that way,” she said. “It takes effort to learn how to relax. I think we’re doing pretty well, don’t you think?”

“This is paradise,” he replied. “The real test comes when we go home.”

She pushed her sunglasses onto her head. “What is home to you, Paul? Your apartment in Arlington?”

He took a slow breath. “I don’t know. I’ve never lived anywhere for more than a few years.”

“That’s sad,” she said softly, placing her hand on his. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

It was conversations like this that convinced Derrick he wasn’t totally crazy, that this wasn’t just some post-traumatic rebound for her, that she really, legitimately, genuinely cared for him. But thought of a common future raised a host of questions he couldn’t yet answer. The Bureau was a demanding master. He loved his job—well, he loved negotiating; he loved teaching; he loved doing deals. The thrill of bouncing from one crisis to the next, never sinking his roots in anywhere, had grown old. He couldn’t do it forever; he knew that. Perhaps now was the time to start planning an exit. He could do consulting work. There were universities where he could teach. Life didn’t have to get boring. But predictable didn’t sound so bad anymore, especially if Annapolis was nearby.

When the sun disappeared behind the island and the light began to fade from the sky, Quentin and Ariadne emerged from the water and dried themselves with their towels.

“You look like prunes,” Vanessa laughed. “I thought you were going to sleep out there.”

“We saw these amazing yellow fish by the reef,” Quentin said, putting on his flip-flops and T-shirt and grabbing his snorkeling gear. “And fire coral, too.”

“I took some awesome pictures,” Ariadne said, holding up a waterproof camera.

Vanessa smiled. “I hope you’re hungry. We’re eating at the Sultan’s Table tonight.”

Quentin laughed. “Do we get to wear turbans? I’d love to see Paul in one.”

Derrick began to laugh, marveling at the young man standing before him. A year ago, he was a hostage on a sailboat, hours away from sustaining injuries that would nearly take his life. Now he was back on his feet, moving on and making jokes.
Kids
,
Derrick mused affectionately.
If only we had their resilience.
He turned toward Vanessa and saw her subtle grin, her uncomplicated grace. The thought struck him:
Perhaps we can recover it. Perhaps, like Quentin, we can remember.

Vanessa

Zanzibar, Tanzania

November 14, 2012

The next morning, one year to the day after Daniel died, Vanessa woke early, dressed quietly so as not to wake anyone in the bungalow, and slipped out into the stillness of the garden, clutching a waterproof pouch she had packed the night before. She meandered down the path to the beach and crossed the sand to the cabana where resort guests could rent watercraft and schedule dive sessions. A young Zanzibari man, Ali, met her with a sea kayak.

“
Jambo
, Ms. Parker,” he said with a smile. “It is ready for you.”

Ali dragged the kayak into the surf and helped her climb aboard, securing the pouch in the netting behind her and handing her the double-bladed paddle.

“Bon voyage!” he said, pushing her off.

She paddled vigorously into the brilliant dawn, toward the reef and the rising sun. She was alone on the water as far as her eyes could see. Her skin tingled in air as humid and still as the breath of a sleeping child. She was wearing her bathing suit beneath cotton shorts and an airy linen shirt, her feet clad in sandals. She expected to get wet.

When she reached the reef, she pulled the kayak across the coral and jumped onto the seat again, paddling hard to escape the breakers. The water beyond the waves was as transparent as glass, the sea floor like an ivory shadow beneath her. She paddled toward the horizon, keeping no track of time. After a while, she turned around and looked back toward the island, unnerved at the distance she had covered. All she could see of the land was a thin stretch of muted brown and green above the cobalt sea.
It’s far enough
, she thought, breathing to steady her racing heart.

She opened the waterproof pouch and took out the glass bottle. She dried her hands on her shirt and twisted off the cork, gently removing the rolled pages. She knew the letters by heart. The first was the one Daniel had never finished, the one in which he had asked a question that had haunted her ever since:
Is it possible to forgive?
She had wrestled with the question more than she had ever wrestled with anything in her life, because, in a way, it summed up her entire life. It was the pivot point Archimedes had speculated about, the lever that could move the world.