New York City, USA
January 2012
A choice we're making
I see the reporters the moment the car rounds the corner. There must be at least two dozen of them, maybe more. Which leaves me with only one conclusion.
They know.
Groaning softly, I hide my face in my hands for a moment.
"Are you alright?" asks Dan sympathetically and brings the car to a temporary halt a little distance from the reporters. They don't appear to have seen us yet.
I drop my hands and turn my head to look at him. "Yeah. It's fine."
It isn't fine, of course, but there's nothing Dan can do about it.
"Want me to walk you to the front door?" he offers.
Tempting as it sounds, I shake my head no anyway. "I'm okay. Just drive up as close as you get and I'll duck inside. That's probably the best way to get this over with quickly."
"Sure," nods Dan and re-starts the car. "Whatever you think is best." Thankfully, he's never been one to argue.
The reporters detect us as we slowly roll towards the apartment building and while they looked bored before, our arrival throws them into a sudden frenzy. There's a shout when the first one recognises me and they come running towards the car, surrounding it, their cameras flashing from all directions.
I keep my head lowered, staring down at my hands twisting in my lap, while Dan tries to navigate the car through the throng of photographers. We're inching forward slowly, but the photographers won't yield and they definitely won't clear the way. Instead, they start shouting, their voices dimmed by the rolled-up windows. Someone starts thumping on the top of the car, making me flinch.
Dan curses. Dan, who never curses.
The photographers are blocking the view of the street and there are strange, colourful dots dancing in front of my eyes from the constant flashes. My ears ring from the shouting and the thumping and the faint clicking of the cameras. It always makes me think of a lot of very angry insects, the clicking.
"Sorry," I murmur, without raising my head. "Sorry for this. Sorry for… for…"
Dan cuts me off. "It's okay." There's a tenseness to his voice, but when I catch a quick sideways glance at him, I can see he's trying to smile for my benefit.
Fractions of a second later a photographer throws himself over the bonnet of the car and Dan slams on the brakes. I take a deep breath and clench my hands into fists.
"Are you sure you don't want to come to our place?" Dan asks, as we both stare at the man lying on the bonnet of the car, his camera pointed at us.
I shake my head slightly. "They'd follow me and I don't want them camping out in front of your place. Jake…"
It's all I need to say. Out of all of us, Jake hates the reporters the most, and of course Dan knows that. "Right," he agrees after a moment. "Then let's get you home."
How I am to make it from the car to the front door is still a mystery to me, but at least the photographer has now slid off the bonnet and Dan immediately starts driving a tad faster, before another one can think to take over his place.
"Can you take my bag with you?" I ask as we slowly roll forward. We put it in the boot of the car and there's absolutely no way I can get to it under these circumstances. There's nothing of vital importance in there anyway, so it's more sensible to let Dan keep it until I can retrieve it more easily.
"Of course," Dan nods. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries to navigate the car without running anyone over (which, if you ask me, would be regrettable only inasmuch as it could cause Dan trouble).
Another couple of meters later, he brings the car to a halt again. "This is as close as I can get. Your apartment is just over there," he explains, pointing past me at the window to my right. I turn my head to look, but can't see anything for photographers and cameras. The flashes make my head hurt.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Dan asks, concern in his voice.
I'm not okay, actually. I'm very, very far away from being okay. But there's nothing to be done about this and no use dragging it out and further.
"Yes," I answer, trying to procure a brave smile for him. "I'm good. And thanks, by the way. For picking me up from the airport, I mean. And sorry. For, you know, making you wait yesterday and for… well, this." I raise a limp hand to indicate the chaos around us.
Dan shakes his head. "It's no problem." His expression shows that he still isn't convinced it's a good idea to drop me off here on my own (and frankly, neither am I), but he doesn't press. Instead, he leans over to give me a quick, one-armed hug. "Take care."
The flashing of the cameras suddenly intensifies. I don't even want to know how they're going to spin this.
"I will," I promise. "And thanks. For everything." I try for another smile, but it seems to have deserted me. So, I just lean down to reach for my handbag and hold it so tight my knuckles turn white from the force.
"Right," I mutter, more to myself than Dan. "Let's go."
When I open the car door, the sounds suddenly intensify, running together to create a single layer of noise. I know they're shouting at me (things like "arrested" and "illegal"), but I tune out their words, make them a part of the melee of sound that's crashing in on me.
The car door has knocked some of the photographers back a little, but there's a surge forward again, so I quickly swing my legs from the car and put them on the pavement, trying to appear more confident than I feel. Clutching my handbag with one hand and raising the other one to shield my face from the flashes, I try to push through the mass of bodies, but it's not much use. When I've managed a few steps, I notice some of them getting between me and the car and realise that they've got me well and truly surrounded.
There's a sour taste in my mouth that I belatedly realise to be panic. My ears ring and the flashes nearly blind me. Dimly, I am aware of a car horn honking, but there's little else Dan can do right now and I know it.
Biting my lip and keeping my head low, I just try to walk, towards that front door, towards where they can't follow me. (Some unfeeling part of my brain asks what makes me so sure that they won't force their way inside, but I make a point to ignore it. It's not exactly helpful when it comes to keeping my mounting panic under control.)
One of them thrusts his camera forward so much that it connects with my head, making me yelp in pain. There are tears in my eyes, but I blink them away furiously. Can't let them see me cry.
I take a deep breath, push forward a little more – when, suddenly, a path clears in front of my eyes. The photographers are backing off slightly, I realise. Not more than a few steps, but it's enough to give me a way through. Not caring what brought this to pass, I grasp the opportunity, quickly dashing through the opening they created. When, upon reaching the steps to my front door, I dare to raise my eyes slightly, I can't help a surprised gasp.
Mrs Weisz!
She stands in the doorway, positively glaring at the photographers behind me and as I concentrate on her, I can make out her voice over the buzzing in my ears.
"You awful men!" she shouts, her accent sounding a little more pronounced than usual. "Harassing a young girl like that! You should be ashamed of yourself. Ashamed! Did no-one ever teach you any manners? Get away! Get back!"
They don't leave. Of course they don't. But her sudden appearance seems to have startled them enough to draw back a little, allowing me to quickly climb the stairs to the front door and slip past Mrs Weisz. When, at the last moment, I take a quick look back, I can see Dan standing next to the driver's side of the car, obviously having prepared to try and intervene himself. When he sees me looking, he raises a hand, but I don't react. Can't be seen to appear to be waving at reporters. Don't want to be seen to appear to be waving at reporters!
The next moment, Mrs Weisz closes the door forcefully and the reporters are gone from my sight. Thank God.
"Are you alright, Marilla?" she asks, turning towards me with a concerned frown.
I let out a shaky breath. "Yes, I'm… I'm okay."
Truth to be told, I'm not utterly sure I'm okay, and Mrs Weisz doesn't look convinced either.
"Come with me," she orders. "I will make you a good cup of coffee."
"Coffee sounds perfect." I breathe a sigh of relief, mustering a real smile for her benefit.
Mrs Weisz ushers me into her flat and towards the living room. As we cross through the hall, I see a pile of letters on a table that have my name on them. My address isn't public knowledge, but some people seem to have found where I live, so I'm getting more mail than usual. Most of it is harmless, but some letters have been quite unkind and there was even one trying to recruit me into some weird organisation with roman numerals in the name. Ken said to give him any letters that feel upsetting and to ignore the rest, which is probably sound advice.
I sit down on the sofa, while Mrs Weisz bustles off to make the promised coffee. I'm left in good company though, finding the sofa already occupied with a sleeping George. (He's mostly a city cat, George is, roaming the streets day and night, but he also likes his home comforts. And when I'm gone, he gets his dreamies and ear scratches at Mrs Weisz's.) Opening his eyes when he hears me, George lazily gets up and takes a moment to stretch luxuriously, before he climbs into my lap, swirls himself around twice and settles back in, his entire form lightly vibrating from the purr.
I burrow my fingers in his fur and lean back against the backrest, closing my eyes for a moment. God, I'm exhausted. (There's also a persistent flashing on the inside of my eyelids, but I do my best to ignore it.) But it's quiet here and warm, George's purring calms me and I can feel my heartbeat slowing back to normal.
When Mrs Weisz finally comes in, I have almost nodded off, but the smell of the coffee helps in waking me up again. Grateful, I accept a cup from her.
"These are rude people," she declares as she sits down in an armchair. "To scare you like that."
"Yeah," I breathe, inhaling the coffee scent.
I mean, they are rude, aren't they?
"Someone should give them a stern talking to," continues Mrs Weisz, looking quite indignant and leaving little doubt that, were someone to ask her, she'd definitely volunteer for the job.
And that's even though she doesn't even have the whole picture yet. She must be wondering what this madness is about, right?
Taking a long sip of too hot coffee, I carefully place my cup on the side table next to me. My hands, now free, start to absentmindedly stroke George's back. (His fur, as befitting a part-time city cat, isn't all soft and silky, instead a little coarse and tangled, the change of texture giving me something to focus on.)
"About these reporters…" I begin slowly, looking at Mrs Weisz out of the corner of my eye.
She, however, has already jumped to the next subject. "What delayed you? Your little gentleman of a cat and I expected you home yesterday."
I sigh audibly. George purrs louder, as if in recognition of being spoken of.
"I got held up at the airport. The people at border police had convinced themselves that I was violating my visa conditions by waitressing someplace that's not connected to my university," I elaborate for Mrs Weisz, while moving a hand to massage George's ears.
"Are they correct?" asks Mrs Weisz, her look now one of faint disapproval.
It takes a moment before I realise that she disapproves of the idea of me potentially breaking the law but when I do, I vehemently shake my head. "No, they were absolutely wrong. The restaurant I work at is run by NYU and services staff and students, so the work there does in fact qualify as on-campus. Same goes for my previous work at one of the college cafeterias. My sister and brother-in-law had to get papers from my apartment and fax them over before they believed me though. And then, I had to wait until morning for the next flight."
They kept me in that room for hours, before someone finally came in, slapped my passport and papers down in front of me and welcomed me to the United States. (Never mind that we were technically still in Canada.) My flight was by then long gone, and so was every other plane headed to New York for the day. Not daring to go back for fear of having to go through the entire process again the next day, I spent an uncomfortable night on the airport floor and caught the first morning flight.
The disapproval vanishes from Mrs Weisz's face in an instant, to be replaced by sympathy, and I'm glad. I'd hate to let her down.
"Poor girl." She reaches out to pat my hand. "You must be tired."
I am. I am tired and my neck hurts and my hair is greasy and my clothes need changing and I feel faintly nauseous. I want a shower and I want to sleep.
"You should get some sleep," decides Mrs Weisz in that moment, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You can come back downstairs later and tell me all about your family. I will make dinner."
"Yes," I agree, nodding slowly. "Yes, sleep sounds good. And dinner, too."
Mrs Weisz barely leaves me time to gulp down my coffee, before she bustles me out of the living-room and through her hall, doling out strict orders to get a good rest before showing myself downstairs again. (I briefly consider picking up the mail, but then leave it for later. I don't want to deal with this right now.)
George leads me upstairs, tail pointing at the ceiling. He turns to look at me every couple of steps, to make sure I'm still there. Once we have reached my apartment, he immediately runs over to the kitchenette and looks at me imploringly. "Meow."
Laughing, I walk over to give him some dry food, and he happily starts munching away. I watch him for a moment and feel myself relaxing. After the utter chaos of the last 24 hours, I finally feel somewhat safe again. Of course, I know that the photographers are still out there somewhere, but with my windows facing out to the back of the building, I can't see them, which makes it a little easier to ignore their presence.
Shrugging out of my coat (the one that raised all kinds of annoying pregnancy speculations around Christmas) and taking off my boots, I shuffle over to my bed and let myself fall backwards, coming to lie heavily on Mrs Lynde's quilt. Despite the coffee, sleep is beckoning, but I force myself to stay awake a little longer, pulling my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and pressing one of the speed dials.
It takes Ken just three rings to take the call. "Rilla? Did you get home alright, love?"
"Yes, I'm home," I confirm, letting out a long breath. "But I see you haven't changed your number yet. I told you that border police officer probably has it."
"Not going to," he replies and I can almost hear the shrug. "I had letters sent to Homeland Security and the US State Department. They'll make sure the information stays under wraps. If need be, they'll put pressure on that… dastardly officer."
Uh-huh. Because he really, truly can do that, can't he?
"But enough about that. Are you okay? Did the reporters give you a hard time?" asks Ken, his voice concerned.
I open my mouth to assure him that I'm perfectly okay, just like I assured Dan and Mrs Weisz, but hesitate at the last moment. "It was… it was a bit scary, actually," I admit. "They surrounded our car and shouted and kept taking pictures… after I got out, I couldn't get through to the door at first. One of them bumped a camera into my head."
"Are you hurt?" he immediately wants to know.
Reaching up, I gingerly prod the side of my head. It feels a little tender, but that's it. "No, it's alright," I reassure Ken. "I'm not… nothing bad happened or anything. It was just… a bit overwhelming, especially after the night I had."
Once I had finally gotten through border security, grabbed some deep-fried airport food and managed to secure a seat on the 6:40am flight to New York (paying an arm and a leg for it, which I'm sure border police will not reimburse), I settled down on the floor in a corner of airport next to a rare power outlet and called Ken to update him. He was very concerned and very lovely, insisting that we stay on the phone until it was time for me to get up again. Both being tired, we didn't talk much, but he stayed on the line throughout the rest of his night. He even took me with him to his morning meetings, while I dozed fitfully on the airport floor. When I finally disconnected the call before boarding my flight, it had run over eight hours and I don't even want to know what it'll cost him.
"I can imagine," sighs Ken. "Look, if you want me, I can have Arlene shoot an unofficial warning to some of the editors. Make them call their reporters back. They shouldn't harass you like that."
The offer sounds tempting, especially after today, but I know that if he does it, it will make me look weak. It will let them know that they upset me, and I can feel myself bristle at the very thought. I'd hate to give them that kind of power and I'd hate even more for them to be aware that they have it.
"No, it's good," I decline, making a point to sound surer than I feel. "This will blow over and most of them will disappear afterwards, right? Once the story becomes an old hat, I mean."
I can sense Ken's hesitation, but after a moment, he agrees anyway. "Yes, it will blow over. Everything does at some point. We might even try and speed up that process, if you're interested?"
That makes me sit up a little. "I'm listening?"
"I could have Arlene leak the truth to a reporter we trust. Or, trust more than the others, anyway," Ken offers. "Tell them that yes, you got held up at the border, but that it was all a misunderstanding about who operated the restaurant you worked at and that it got cleared up nicely."
I hum thoughtfully. "What's in it for the reporter?"
"They get to be the first to print the truth," explains Ken. "You can't ever leak them a lie, because that would surely make them dig that much deeper the next time, but if we tell them the truth, there's something in it for everyone. We get it out there, they get the story first. We both win."
That's actually perfectly logical, isn't it? "Sure," I agree. "Go ahead and do it."
"Great." He sounds genuinely pleased. "I'll ask her to get in touch with someone. I'll be back in a moment."
I can hear a soft rustle as he places his phone down, then his faint footsteps walking away. Settling down more comfortably, I stretch out a hand to lure George over to the bed. Having finished his food, he obviously decides that some more cuddles are in order, and comes closer. Once here he jumps on the bed and makes a great show to curl himself up, cuddling into my side and resuming his purring.
While I wait for Ken to return, my mind circles back to a question that has been bugging me since yesterday, ever since I had a moment to recall and process the various conversations I had with the border police people. Because while I answered all their questions as truthfully as possible, there was one I only had a partial answer to.
I am no closer to figuring it out when Ken returns, but then, I suppose there's no way I can figure this out without him, is there?
"Arlene is on the job," Ken announces after having picked up the receiver again.
"That's good to hear. Please thank her from me," I reply.
But I must have sounded preoccupied or otherwise off, because Ken picks up on it immediately. "Anything else the matter?"
Well, I guess that now's as good a time as any.
"It's just…" I take a deep breath. "When they asked me questions yesterday, they also asked whether I intended to work in the US after graduation. And while I know I don't want to stay here, especially not after last night, it got me thinking, because, well… I don't really know where I'll be after graduation, right? I mean… look, we… we never really talked about what we'd do after I am done with college and that just had me wondering…" I break off, absent-mindedly treading the fingers of my right hand through George's fur.
Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "I'm actually glad you're mentioning this, because I've given this some thought myself."
"Oh?" I'm not sure I trust my voice to speak.
"Yes. I meant to talk to you about it, but what with the day you've had… I wasn't sure whether it was a good time," Ken continues, sounding a little unsure.
I swallow. "As good a time as any."
"In that case…" he hesitates a moment, perhaps to consider how to best express himself. "I'm not going to lie, Rilla. I hate this long distance-thing. I know it's the only possible way for now, but I hate going weeks without seeing you, I hate being reduced to calls and messages. I hate being half a world away while all this is happening to you."
"I hate it, too," I agree softly.
Another moment passes, before he speaks again. "So we agree on that. Good. In fact, great. I'm really glad that… that we agree. But you must know that I… that there's no way for me…" He breaks off without finishing his sentence and the unspoken words dangle between us for a moment.
(This is another conversation we should be having face-to-face, I know. But we make do as best as we can.)
"Your place is in England," I finish for him. I've known this for a long time, after all. "Which means that if we want to be together – really be together, I mean – I'm going to have to… come to you."
"Would you?" he asks quietly. "I know it's a lot to ask."
It is. There's no denying that. Canada might not have been my primary home in years, but both in Geneva and in New York, I always had Joy and her family nearby. In England, there will only be him. But truth to be told, long distance was only ever going to work temporarily and losing him is not an option.
Besides, I've spent many nights pondering this, slowly getting used to the thought that England is the next logical step for me. And to be honest, I've grown to like the idea. There's nothing immediately calling me back to Canada and the last day has shown me viscerally that maybe it's time for the US and me to take a break. (And as for the reporters, they're going to follow me wherever, but with Ken by my side, I hope they will be easier to bear.) So, quite frankly, why not England?
"Yes." My voice is barely above a whisper, so I try again, stronger this time. "Yes."
There's a loud, static-like sound over the line as he slowly lets go of a breath. "I was hoping you'd say that. Really, really hoping you would. And I've thought a lot about what's the best way to make this work."
"Tell me?" I ask.
"I talked to my father over the holidays. He agreed to let me go back to university for a master's degree. That would give us one year. I thought you could come here, get a graduate degree of your own and see whether you like England. If not, that's alright. You just go back after the year is over, and it won't disrupt your life any further. But if it's a yes… if it's a yes, we could take it from there."
I lie very still, clutching the phone to my ear, but my mind is whirring at top speed, processing what he just told me. And it takes me only a second or two to realise that his plan makes perfect sense. Because if I were to go to London and get a job, that would add a degree of permanency that would make things more difficult if I were to decide to go back. But a graduate degree comes with a natural end point. If, after that year, I wanted to go back, I could do it fairly easily. And if I wanted to stay…
"I thought we could get a place together while we study," Ken continues, seemingly a little unnerved by my silence. "It would allow us to finally properly be together, to really live together. We could find out whether we can see it… working out."
For what comes after.
Quickly, I draw back from the thought. Because we aren't nearly there yet. For now, there's the next step to tackle. And whatever comes afterwards will come when it will.
"What do you say, love? You don't have to decide now, but do you want to consider it?" asks Ken after another moment of silence. His voice is gentle, but there's a slight catch as he speaks, betraying his feelings.
I take a deep breath and slowly let go of it again. "I don't need to think," I finally reply. "I want to do this. I want us to do this." Then, with a breathless, happy, relieved little laugh, "England, here I come!"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'We Are the World' (written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie, released by USA for Africa in 1985).
A/N: I'm back early! Writing went better than expected these past few days, so I hope this early return is a nice surprise for you. Of course, I also hope you enjoyed the chapter itself and would love to hear what you think of it. As all writers, I adore hearing from readers and cherish any and all reviews. Whether long-time follower or newcomer (or returning reader), signed-in or anon, long or short, praise or criticism - if you're reading, it would make me very happy if you could take a minute to leave your thoughts :).
