What If…(We're Soulmates)?
Chapter One
"In other news, President McCord is due to appear in court this afternoon as she seeks to finalise her divorce from her husband of over thirty years…"
Elizabeth was sitting at her desk in the living room of the Residence, reading the State Department report on how miscommunication between Chinese and Russian officials had almost delivered them back to the days of the Sino-Soviet border conflict, only this time with the added threat of nuclear strikes from both sides and the promise of all-out war, but at mention of the court hearing she stopped reading and looked up at the TV on the wall.
The news anchor, Ginny Zhang—young and pretty, with a sharpness to her eyes that dared people to underestimate her—continued, "The White House has said that the divorce is uncontested and today's court hearing is merely a formality required as part of the D.C. divorce process, but there's been no statement yet as to whether or not President McCord will keep her married name. Some experts have suggested that, what with the White House's keenness to counter early claims that President McCord's husband, Dr Henry McCord, might have been playing a greater role in governing and decision-making than previous first spouses and her aides' eagerness to assert that this is very much her presidency, it is likely she will revert to her maiden name. We go now to our panel…"
Elizabeth's look turned to one of disbelief.
Seriously…?
They'd convened a panel to discuss her name…?
The camera shot changed, providing a wider view of the broad V-shaped desk; Ginny sat on the right-hand arm, while two women and a man clustered on the left.
"So, what do we think?" Ginny said. "Are we about to have a President Adams for the third time in our history?"
Before the panel could answer that inane question and begin to speculate on a situation they knew entirely nothing about, no doubt featuring the inevitable drift back to their post-divorce-announcement pet topic of ambition (read: authority/power/status) being unbecoming on a woman (translation: if only Elizabeth had known her place she would have been able to keep her husband. Or, as one cable so-called pundit not-so-pithily put it 'the only Oval a woman should be familiar with is an oval pie dish'), Elizabeth snatched the remote control from the edge of her desk, almost knocking the untouched plate of toasted sourdough slathered in peanut butter and topped with banana coins over the side in the process, and jabbed the 'channel up' button.
Another morning show. Another presenter, centre screen: a woman, equally as young and pretty as Ginny, but blonde this time, with a playful smile, rather than a sharpness, to her eyes. Cassie somebody?
"Do you believe in soulmates?" Cassie smized into the camera. "Do you feel like you and your partner are 'meant to be'? Well, an article published today suggests you might just be right. Scientists studying energy patterns of couples found—"
Elizabeth scoffed, and zapped the screen to black.
Energy patterns?
Really…?
Maybe she shouldn't judge. After all, hadn't she believed in soulmates once…? or at least believed she and Henry were 'meant to be'…?
But, in truth, she and Henry were just two people who'd happened to meet. Their relationship worked because they worked at it and they kept on working at it, and when one of them decided, for whatever reason, that he no longer wanted to work at it…? Well. That's why she had a court hearing scheduled for one p.m. that day.
oOoOo
Elizabeth strode along the hall, heading for the Oval Office, State's Russia-China report held in the sling of her hand and knocking against her hip. The hour was earlier than she'd usually care to come down—early enough for her to catch the lingering scent of the vacuum cleaners that Housekeeping had run over the carpets—but, without the TV for company, silence had crept into the Residence, a thick and suffocating presence. No one could blame her for wanting to avoid it.
Halfway along the hall, arms folded and leaning against the doorjamb at the entrance to his office, Mike B loitered.
"Ah, Madam President," he said. "Just the world leader I was lying in wait for."
Elizabeth suppressed a curse—out loud, at least. (Maybe she'd come down early in the hope of avoiding him, too.)
"Morning, Mike," she said, her tone clipped.
"We need to go over things for this afternoon."
"No"—she walked past him—"we really don't."
Mike's voice rose, pursuing her along the corridor. "You, Madam President, have serious form when it comes to going rogue in court, and as easy as today's hearing ought to be, quite frankly, I don't trust you not to mess it up."
"We don't need to go over it!"
"Just because it isn't televised, doesn't mean—"
"Not listening, Mike."
She'd almost made it to the safety of the reception area outside the Oval, when he all but shouted, "Will you at least take off your wedding ring?"
She halted. The words couldn't have hit her harder were they a wall of bricks thrown in her path.
She looked down at her left hand. Two rings, one a plain silver band, the other studded with sapphires and diamonds, still hugged her third finger. On the opposite hand, the weight of her double-anchor ring remained, too.
Where they belonged.
Where she thought they'd always belong.
She turned to Mike, who had used her pause to catch up with her and now stood only a stride away. When she spoke, her voice was soft and bitter. "Why?"
Mike shrugged. "You're the one who wanted a divorce."
"I said I wanted to file for divorce."
Mike stared at her for a long second. His eyes widened, and he shook his head. "I'm not hearing the difference."
"Trust me," she said. "They're far from the same thing."
"See, this is exactly the kind of thing you need to get out of your system now, before you embarrass me at the—"
"We're not doing this, Mike!"
With that, she walked away.
oOoOo
"Good morning, Madam President."
Blake stood next to his desk, one hand tucked behind his back like a waiter in a fancy restaurant, the other holding a plate loaded with the biggest bear claw she'd ever seen.
(Being there early, ready and waiting…it was almost like he knew her routine would be thrown off that morning.)
"I got you a little something," he said. "Just in case you forgot to eat breakfast. Again."
"I didn't forget, Blake." She strode straight past him, heading for the open door to the Oval. "And I'm not hungry."
"With respect, ma'am, you need to eat."
She pivoted on her heel and carried on walking, stepping backwards into the office. "What I need is those files from Treasury. And for someone to tell Chef Cindy that chicory isn't coffee." Her eyebrows arched as she sent him a pointed look: there was no doubt in her mind that his micromanaging of her diet was to blame for the sudden scarcity of caffeine.
His jaw and brow tensed, nudging him toward a grimace—all the confirmation of guilt that she didn't need. "Yes, ma'am." He set the plate down at the edge of his desk, and grabbed the stack of manila folders from beside his Hamilton mousepad; as she returned to walking forwards—truly preferable in heels—the tread of his footsteps over the carpet followed her.
In the middle of her desk a pile of documents waited; she stared down at them as she pulled back her chair.
"These all need your signature." Blake motioned to said documents as he stooped over the desk. "And these are the files from Treasury." He placed the manila folders to the left of the documents. "Is there anything else I can get you?"
Elizabeth sank onto her chair. "That's all." She gripped the lip of her desk, and pulled herself closer, the chair wheels squeaking in protest. "Shut the door on your way out."
Blake gave a cross between a nod and a small bow, "Of course, Madam President," then strode away.
The door closed with a faint clunk.
And she fell headlong into the silence she'd come down from the Residence to escape.
It wasn't just how vast and claustrophobic the silence felt that rankled her, or how in its presence a mental and physical paralysis seeped in; silence was where all her doubts lived and she didn't have energy to waste on battling them, especially the big one, the one which grew larger with every second closer the court hearing loomed, the one which had her questioning:
Am I making a mistake?
But, no—
She swept the thought away.
—Henry was the one who left. Henry was the one who didn't come back. And she wasn't going to hold him prisoner in their marriage if he wanted to be free. Only a few more hours and then he'd have what he wanted, and the question (if not the silence) would be gone. In the meantime, she just needed to keep busy.
Documents. Signature.
She reached blindly for the pen pot as she scanned down the first page, but when her fingers kept groping at air, she stopped and looked up.
No pens. Not helpful.
She scooted her chair back, and tugged open the drawer with a clatter. At the sight of the contents she frowned.
Someone had left a tablet in there—she called it a tablet, though it was unlike any tablet she'd ever seen. A rectangular sheet of clear glass with a black screen inset: it reminded her of a window, but inverted, with the glass forming the frame.
She lifted it out, and opened her mouth, ready to call for Blake, but before his name could form, the screen of the tablet blinked to life. (She could have sworn she hadn't touched it, nor any button, if the tablet even had buttons, but something must have switched it on.) After a second, the screen zoomed out, so that the plain white backdrop became no more than a speck—just one speck amidst thousands, all bathed in a sea of indigo, like the night sky teeming with stars. Some of the stars twinkled, shining brighter, ever brighter; as they did they united, one by one, to form letters…words…an ellipsis…a question mark.
What If…?
A question had sprung to Elizabeth's mind too, and although it also started with a 'What', it sure as hell didn't end with the word 'If'.
And, as if in answer to that unspoken question, a pop-up appeared, like one of those annoying tutorials or 'handy tips' that showed up whenever she opened a new or updated app, only this one didn't have an 'x' in the corner for her to jab.
"Did you know this universe is just one of many?"
At the disembodied voice emanating from the tablet, Elizabeth jumped. Were it not for her CIA-honed reflexes, she might well have dropped it.
"In fact, there are infinite universes that exist in parallel to our own, one for every path we didn't take…"
She readjusted her grip while, on screen, a cartoon corgi ambled onto the pop-up's white canvas, its bobtail pointing towards Elizabeth. In front of the corgi a path split into two; at the fork, the corgi stopped. It turned its head, looking left then right, then left then right, then began ambling along once more, travelling up the left-hand path. A moment later the paths—both the path taken and the path not—split again, and the corgi paused to make another choice. As the cartoon dog progressed, the paths continued to branch, over and over, over and over, until the pop-up box was filled with an extensive tree. The corgi stood at the end of one of those branched paths, just one of infinite outcomes it could have reached.
"Have you ever wondered how different your life might have been if only you'd made a different choice, walked a different path? Well, with 'What If…?', now you can find out. Simply enter a condition into the search box"—
As though rubbed out by an eraser, the corgi and the tree disappeared to reveal 'What if…' followed by a text box, into which a question could be typed.
—"and watch as you open the window to an alternate universe."
The tempo of the disembodied voice then quickened, like a disclaimer at the end of a radio commercial, and text scrolled rapidly up through the pop-up box.
"'What If…?' cannot show the future, only what is and what has been. 'What If…?' accepts no liability for damages physical, psychological or otherwise incurred through its usage. 'What If…?' will not be held responsible for any rips in the space-time continuum…"
The voice and text got faster and faster, until they were no more than a whine and a blur, enough to send Elizabeth's head spinning and stomach churning. Then they vanished.
The pop-up closed, leaving just the night sky backdrop with the star-spelled 'What If…?' remaining, and below that a text box, cursor blinking, ready for her first question.
Elizabeth stared at the screen, frozen.
Maybe Chef Cindy had accidentally slipped a little something extra into that chicory 'coffee'…