Los Angeles, Elizabeth, 2014
I can't sleep. George is dead. Henry is here. Conrad most likely killed George. Henry still loves me. But does he love me? Am I still the person he loves? I don't know what to do with this information. What does he want me to do with it? What does he think will come from all of this? I'm so confused. I get out of bed, pacing the floor. I remember there was a time when I would have known exactly what to do. I used to be strong. I used to know what I wanted. I used to go for what I wanted. Did I really let that man break me that much? Did I really let him make me this small? I realize that I don't need the whole night to think about it. I want to fight Conrad. I want to tell my story. I want to find out what happened to George. I want to meet my kids. I want my life back. I'm done being Lisa, I want to be Elizabeth. No, I am Elizabeth. Elizabeth Anne Adams McCord. I am a fighter. I believe in justice. I believe the world is mostly good. I believe that evil will fail and good will triumph. I am Elizabeth. And Henry will be at UCLA tomorrow, waiting for me.
Los Angeles, Henry, 2014
I hope I didn't freak her out. I just needed her to know. If that was the last time I ever got to see her, to share space with her, I needed to tell her. I don't know what I'm going to do, if she doesn't come tomorrow. I don't know how I'm supposed to go back to my life in Pittsburgh. How am I supposed to look Stevie, Allie, and Jason in the eye, ever again? How am I supposed to be the kind of man Jessica deserves? Maybe none of it matters. Elizabeth asked me once, about fate and freewill. The most brilliant thinkers in history have never even figured that question out. I seem to think, that somethings are free will, like me going home with Jessica that night and then choosing a life with her. But some things are fate, like meeting Elizabeth and then meeting her again.
Los Angeles, Elizabeth, 2014
I haven't been this nervous in a long time. Not in this way, not the good way. My stomach holds excited butterflies. My mouth keeps flicking into a small smile as I do my makeup and stopping to sing along with the Bee Gees every few seconds. I haven't been this choosy with an outfit, in a long time either. Most of my clothes being practical, pantsuits for work. But I choose jeans today. Light washed, straight legged, but tight, tucking in a white button down. Adding in a well-tailored navy blazer. Finishing with a pair of burgundy pumps, to add some color. I can't even remember the last time I wore a pair of heels. Lisa didn't wear them, but Elizabeth always loved them. I gather my hair into a messy bun, my brown hair. I can see the blonde roots starting to grow in and wonder if it's time to go back. I take a second to look in my full length mirror, and surprise myself a little. I hadn't realized how much I had tried to make Elizabeth disappear. For the first time in five years, I see her. Her style, but more than that. I see her fire, well, not her fire so much as a spark. A small spark willing to reignite it, when I'm ready. Elizabeth did not die, in a small room in Iraq.
Los Angeles, Henry, 2014
I'm surprising myself as I stare at the clothes I brought with me. I took the time this morning, getting a close shave. Why I feel the need to look good for her, I don't know. But I choose a pair of dark jeans and my gray Marines t-shirt. I add a red flannel wearing it open over top. My stomach flips, the way it did nearly twenty six years ago when I told her that I wanted to take her out on a date. She looked at me without saying anything for thirty seconds, which felt like three hours. Then she smiled big and almost yelled the words yes, I thought you'd never ask. I laugh, remembering that we friend-zoned each other accidentally before that was actually a thing. Elizabeth was my best friend, and that's what made her a great wife. I think I've missed her friendship more than anything.
Los Angeles, Elizabeth, 2014
Its noon, and I'm going to call it a day. Not that I actually got anything done today.
"Hey Ash, I'm out the rest of the day." She looks surprised. She should be, I don't think I have ever used any of my PTO. But she nods and moves my meetings and tells me to enjoy my afternoon.
I take the long way to campus. Driving with the top down. Blasting classic rock. The vague feeling of happiness poking through. It's completely foreign, but I decide to lean into it. Just let it be. I find myself sitting on the bench at one fifteen. Forty five minutes to wait. I pull a notebook out of my bag and begin to write. I write down everything I know about the President of the United Sates. I write down everything I know about George Peters. I write down all of the questions I would like to have answered. I write down my working theories. And I start a eulogy. Preparing myself for a trip to DC.
Los Angeles, Henry, 2014
She's here. Sitting on the bench, writing in a small notebook. She's focused, oblivious to the world spinning around her. I walk over and sit next to her, her focus doesn't break.
"What are you writing?" She startles, and I flinch, remembering why she's so jumpy now. But she recovers quickly and smiles at me.
"Things." It's her CIA voice. The voice that says I'll tell you when I know. But I don't have enough information yet. She closes the notebook and quickly puts it back in her bag.
"You came." I tell her. Looking into her eyes, seeing the low embers of her fire, that always burned so bright.
"I did. What now?" She looks inquisitive. And I wish I knew. What now?
"Have you eaten today?" I ask her. She shakes her head no.
"Well, let's fix that." I stand and offer my hand to her. She looks at it for a moment and then takes it. We walk hand in hand to her car. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't. It should feel like cheating, but it doesn't. I figure, a late lunch is what's next. One baby step at a time.
