ALMOST THERE - I KNOW IT'S TAKING A BIT - BUT I NEEDED IT TO BE JUST RIGHT. KEEP READING - REVIEW - IM EXCITED WHERE THIS IS GOING - OH AND IT'S FAR FAR FAR FROM OVER.
Emma stared at her hands, twisting over and over in her lap. She tried to calm herself. She was used to this. She knew how this went. No matter how horrible things were, she had to keep her composure. She'd had to do it so many times.
She had to pretend that everything was fine – that nothing hurt her. That nothing phased her. Without that, survival would've been impossible.
But this felt different. This.
This was everything she'd ever wanted.
Ever since that day that she'd been grabbed on her way to school. She remembered her backpack from that day – the green one – because who would really want a pink one, she'd thought. That was for girls who didn't know that other colors were better.
Her backpack had stayed with her for only a few hours. In the back of the van, she'd cried on it. She forgot how long she'd been in there – but when they ripped her out after the blinding light came in the before darkened van, she'd tried to grab it. But – they'd pulled her out. And stuffed her onto a plane. In the middle of the night.
A plane like this.
Threw her in the corner. Her ears hurt so much – how loud it was – Emma still could feel that pain.
And she'd cried. And wanted nothing more than to see her mom. Her dad. Her brother. Her sisters. Her house. Her mom.
They'd thrown things at her when she asked where the bathroom was. They'd laughed at her when she'd wet herself. She wanted to cry just thinking about it.
But now. Now it felt like a dream.
One that she didn't know if it was a nightmare or a dream come true.
For years she'd lived, hoping for the day, begging for the day to see her family again. She'd cried to Lea, pretending that her arms had been her mother's – wanting nothing more than to have just one more fight with Jason – to go outside and play in the snow with her dad.
She didn't know when she'd stopped hoping. When reality seemed to set it. It just faded out – slowly, like a storm passing in the desert – you didn't know when it really passed, but you knew it when you saw the storm drifting past you into the distance.
Hope hadn't been lost. Maybe just forgotten.
Because she'd become a woman. She'd gotten up before the sun, watered flocks, made breakfast, started fires, washed clothes, dressed and fed children. She'd done everything that a woman in that culture did. And by the time she would climb into her cot at the end of the day, she was too tired.
Too tired for hope.
But here it was. Maybe too good to be true. Because just as she'd become a woman – she'd changed so much – missed so much of her life in America, and had such a hard life in Iran – she wasn't the person she was before. She was not that doe-eyed twelve-year-old child who got into fights because someone called her mother a name.
And what if that was what her family was expecting? What if this different person wasn't who her mother wanted? What if her siblings were still expecting their little sister – not who she was?
What if she wasn't enough – what if she couldn't be what they needed – what if –
What if they weren't the same people? Because if she wasn't – then they sure weren't. How… what if …
Her mother was the president – Isabelle had told her – and while Emma tried to think what that would mean – she knew her mother had to have changed – the mother before wouldn't have ever thought of becoming the president – she'd hated politics.
Did they still have the farmhouse? Did they live at the White House? How had their lives completely changed? Would she fit into that new life?
The thoughts swirled in her head over and over – and what she wanted most at that moment was the one thing that scared her the most.
She wanted something that might not be right outside that door. She wanted assurance that everything would be fine. She wanted to be sure that they'd love her. She wanted her memory to be correct – that her mom would always love her – that her dad would brush his hand through her messy curly hair and call her some funny name, make a dad joke, and then give her a hug in which she would never ever doubt that he loved her.
And the thought that it might not be true was enough to crush her.
"Ma'am, I cannot let you out onto the Tarmac until the plane has landed."
Bess tried to keep her eyes from rolling, as she stood there, watching from the hangar. "Seriously? Do you think the pilot who has just flown thirteen hours is going to suddenly decide to take out the President of the United States by crashing the plane into me?" She stared at her Security Guard. "Mike, really?"
"Protocol." He said. "Ma'am, you know I'd let you out there in a heartbeat if it wasn't for the protocol. But with it being dark… its…"
She understood, nodded, and instead walked over to where Henry sat, on the ground, with a sleeping Allison on his shoulder.
"She's been like this for about three hours." Henry whispered. Then he patted the ground, "Sit?"
"Let her sleep." But Bess shook her head, taking in a deep breath. "I can't." Another deep breath, "I would if…." It was so late – the floodlights brightened the whole hanger – but everyone was exhausted. And her mind felt foggy.
Henry nodded. Then he relayed information he'd told her over the phone about three times. "Jason is on his way back from his weekend trip… and Stevie is flying in tomorrow."
"Oh Henry, I hope…" The doubt began to grapple with her brain as she turned to pace. She'd kept it at bay. She'd tried as hard as possible. Not that there wasn't enough to keep her busy as the President of the United States, so she'd been successful in pushing away the pain all day long.
Bess wrapped her arms around her as she paced, blocking out all the people there waiting. Blake. Daisy. Nadine. Matt. Jay.
Instead she walked. Paced.
Isabelle said it was her. It had looked like Emma on the plane. But what if someone had been trying to fool them? Tried to get them involved in Iran by posing someone who looked just like her daughter would've looked like four years after her death.
What if… what if…
All Bess had wanted – for years – was for this moment. To be here, to be able to hold her daughter. To pull her in and whisper that she'd never let anything else happen to her little girl. To check in on her after putting her to bed – to watch her breathe – to hear her laugh again – to be Emma's mother again.
And yet. It all seemed too good to be true. Too much – too… perfect.
"Madam President."
Bess ignored whoever it was. Instead she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to hold her little girl again – yet not a little girl – but her Emma. The little girl that had been lost. And yet was coming home.
"Bess." Russell's voice jarred her out of her head, and Bess looked up to find her chief of staff standing there with someone she didn't recognize.
"This is Agent Grant."
Mechanically, Bess stretched out her hand to shake his as the man began to speak. "Ma'am, I'm Speical Agent Grant with the CIA."
Russell muttered, "I just said that."
"I've been in contact with Agent Barnes on the plane."
And Bess immediately asked, "What did she say?"
"She wanted me to give you a message." He paused, then said, "She said, 'Tell the President: Baghdad Triage.' That's all I have…"
But Bess was miles away by now.
YEARS BEFORE
"Bess, come on. You know you need to go see the doctor." Isabelle urged her. "You've been sick for so long and…"
They were walking down the make-shift street that the Base had there in Baghdad.
"Izzie, I'm fine. It's just a stomach bug…" Bess said, thinking her friend just a little bit too over the top. "It's fine I'm…"
The bomb went off. Just a few yards away. Bess felt her body thrown against the ground after flying through the air. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't hear. Could do nothing.
Bess remembered that day like it was yesterday. The triage after had been a nightmare. People dying, people begging to be helped but they were too far gone.
And Bess and Izzie had been with them all – trying to save and help.
But too many died.
And after.
Only after – sitting on her cot that night – that she'd raised her undershirt and found bruised ribs, a cut that had bled through her first shirt – she'd broken four ribs. And hadn't known it. Hadn't acknowledged it. And they'd given her medication to put her under – because she refused to acknowledge that she needed help. Others did.
She told Agent Grant. "The medical team? Is it standing by?"
She knew what Izzie was trying to tell her.
"Yes, Ma'am."
By this time, Henry had jumped up – "Babe, what's wrong… what's?"
And she turned to him, trying to keep her fear of what had happened to the girl form overtaking her. She knew she was losing it. She called over the sound of the plane landing, "Isabelle thinks she might be hurt."
Her face was composed, but her fingernails digging into Henry's hands gave it away. His own concern flooded his face, and he pulled her close to him. She could feel his heart beating as he whispered, "But she's here. She's home."
Allison, now awake, came and stood by them as they watched the plane door open. "She's here, Mom."
Bess leaned over and kissed her daughter's head. "She is." And how Bess hoped she was.
Then, after a few minutes, where whispering began from her staff behind her, about why no one was coming out. Bess just gripped Henry closer. Please let it be her, she whispered.
