Right Where You Left Me Read online

  “Sworn to secrecy?”

  I nod.

  “On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the worst possible thing in the world, what number?”

  I take a deep breath. Ten would be that Dad died. Nine would be that he’s seriously hurt. “Eight,” I say. “But it feels like ten.”

  Josh takes a step closer and wraps his arms around me. “We can be mute if you want. We can be mimes or something.”

  When he kisses me, his lips taste of toothpaste and sugar, a perfect sweetness as though I had just pulled him from the oven. My mind empties until he’s the primary thought in my head. I trace the length of his arm with my fingernails, pleased when goose bumps rise to the surface of his skin. His lips leave mine, and when he moves his to my neck, I gently push him away. If I don’t stop now, we’ll be on the couch for the next hour. Too much too soon.

  “You’re addictive,” I say, resting my head against his chest, lulled by the rise and fall of his breath.

  He kisses my neck again, this time sweetly rather than urgently. “I could stay like this all day.”

  I laugh. “That’s the problem.”

  “Let’s go outside,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

  A breeze blows the curls away from my face as we are greeted by a symphony of bells and the scent of gardenia bushes. “What’s that sound?” I ask.

  “My grandma’s wind garden.”

  I follow him along a stone path that opens to large garden, something completely unexpected. We’re surrounded by flowers. Every kind imaginable.

  “In a couple of months, her roses will bloom,” Josh says. “I used to play here before she died. We lived in Berkeley back then. She collected them for smell, so it’s like stepping into a perfume bottle. I used to sit out here and draw while she pulled weeds and stuff. She practically lived out here. You should see it in the summer. You’ll have to come and take pictures.”

  It’s habitual the way I compose a shot as soon as I walk into a new place, as though that’s how I make it real. My camera anchors me, allowing me to absorb the new environment. I close my eyes for a second and listen to the wind chimes. “It’s really beautiful,” I say.

  “When I was old enough, I started buying wind chimes for her birthday and Christmas. Sometimes just because. I went all over. The shells are from Half Moon Bay, and the bamboo ones are from Japantown, and the tiny bells are from an Indian bazaar in Oakland. There’s a big trellis near the gate that’s covered with wisteria, and I hung a bunch of chimes there.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Josh rattles off the plants as we go: French lavender, jasmine, California poppies, African irises, and dormant roses. We walk under a giant angel’s trumpet with dangling blooms, which dust us in blessing.

  “Do you take care of the garden now?”

  “Hell no. My parents do it. Here,” he says when we’re under the trellis, “raise your arms as high as you can.”

  I can barely reach the chimes on tiptoe. I gasp when he places his hands on my hips to help me up. I rest my body against his as my fingers touch the bells, one by one, creating the sweetest notes. I close my eyes and move my hands back and forth, hitting high and low notes, playing my own jumbled melody. As I play, the trellis quivers, sending down wisteria petals that fall onto my hair.

  “I feel like a kobzar.”

  “What’s that?” Josh lowers me back to the ground

  “There’s an old Russian stringed instrument, kinda like a lute, called a bandura. Musicians who played it were called bandurists. Some of them were blind, and eventually, most of them were. It became a really strange tradition. I guess if you went blind, they gave you a bandura. They even had a special name—a blind bandurist was called a kobzar. If I close my eyes, I’m a wind chime kobzar.”

  “That’s cool in a weird way. I thought you’d love this. I’ve been wanting to bring you out here for a while.”

  “I’m glad you did.” I’m almost surprised when I smile. Missing Dad is all-consuming, and the anxiety is getting to be overwhelming. “I get so caught up in what’s happening with my dad. It’s hard not to be totally and completely hopeless. I don’t feel that way right now. It’s not like that when I’m with you.” I feel the smile still on my face. He does that to me—makes everything light and giddy. The chimes continue to play in harmony, with the wind as the conductor.

  “It’s different, but I know what it’s like to be cut off from everything,” he says. “One day life’s boring, but a good boring. Then everything changes in an instant, like a cabdriver turning the wrong way onto a one-way street. Boom. My grandparents are dead. Life’s never going to be the same. When they died, I stopped caring as much. I still think about the important stuff, you know, like grades and wanting to make films. But I stopped caring about what people think of me. I want to make movies, and I want to do something good. And I want to be with you.”

  Josh touches my face, the outline of my lips, before pulling me close for a kiss. I feel him everywhere: my mouth and my neck. When we pull apart, out of breath and covered in wisteria petals, I say, “Me too.”

  We never make it to the museum. Josh says he likes moving pictures more than still ones, and we debate the finer points of photography versus film. His room is covered with framed movie posters: Fellini, Hitchcock, Wes Anderson, Coppola, and Tarantino. He’s both shocked and disgusted that I’ve never seen a Hitchcock film, so we climb onto his bed and stream Vertigo and then North by Northwest. We behave. We don’t go too far, even though part of me wants to. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve liked each other. I can’t be with him that way while Dad is missing. I want to be with Josh because I want to be with him, not because I’m using him as anesthesia to numb the pain.

  Fifteen

  I try to pull open the door to the bakery, but it doesn’t move. Locked. The store empty and dark.

  Tatya and Mom wouldn’t abandon the shop unless something terrible happened. One of them would be sweeping or mopping or stocking or prepping.

  I take the stairs to the apartment two at a time, freezing the second I hear Raj Singh’s voice.

  They sit in a circle: Raj Singh, Mom, Tatya Nadine, and Uncle Miguel. With the exception of Raj, who looks like he’s the hostage, the rest look frustrated. Mom looks plain mad, glaring at Raj the same way she glared at me after discovering my empty bed back when I was going out with Kyle.

  Mom’s eyes are dry—no tears or smudged raccoon eyeliner. Tatya Nadine’s generous application of foundation remains intact.

  It’s like my day with Josh never happened, the hours of relaxed muscles and a clear head. I look at them, guessing what could be wrong, but I can’t even think clearly. All of this is too much. I miss Dad. I need Dad. He’s the only person who can get me through this, and he’s gone. It hits me hard, so hard that I double over—the fact that he may be gone for good. Whoever said feelings can’t kill you was full of it.

  Uncle Miguel rises and folds me into his arms, but it’s Mom who speaks, just glancing at me for a second before returning her impressive stink eye to Raj.

  “They freed Pascal. France paid the ransom. But”—Mom points at Raj, her arm a perfect line from ballet and yoga—“he’s refusing to do the same for your father. They’re leaving him there to die.”

  Her voice rises with each word.

  Raj Singh crosses his legs and looks painfully uncomfortable. He shifts again like he has a full bladder—or something worse. “Mrs. Lang—”

  “You can call me Valentina.” She’s calm, but she possesses an angry stillness that gives even me chills. Hello again, badass Mom, who took over a motorboat in the middle of the Neva River. It’s nice to see you.

  “I’m getting a beer,” Uncle Miguel says. He shoots Raj an impatient look, also in the stink eye category, and leaves the room. I follow him into the kitchen.

  “How did you find out?” I ask.

  “The rebels released a video. It hasn’t hit the media yet. I give it an hour, tops.�
��

  I storm into the living room, suddenly as angry as Mom, and tap at the closed laptop resting on the coffee table. “Show me.”

  Raj searches my face, probably gauging how much of Mom’s temper I’ve inherited.

  “Play the video,” I say. “Please.”

  Uncle Miguel reaches over me, opening the screen and pressing a few keys. Pascal speaks in heavily accented English. He expresses his gratitude to Mother Russia and support of the rebels’ goal of annexing the region. He says the United States must follow France if we ever want to see Jeremiah Lang again.

  When I lean close, my breath clouding the screen, I see Pasqual’s exposed arms, his face. One bruise on his temple. That’s it. He looks clean, even. Maybe they are gentle terrorists, not ones to hurt and torture. Maybe Dad isn’t injured. Captive but unharmed.

  Mom and I meet eyes, and I understand her anger, fully, like she gave me a transfusion and fury pumps through my veins. I welcome it. It’s such a relief to feel angry because fury makes me feel stronger.

  “What are you doing to bring my dad home?” I ask Raj. “You’re supposed to be our liaison, but you haven’t told us a single thing. You haven’t done a damn thing.”

  Tatya Nadine puts her hand on my arm. “Shh, Charlotte. You don’t need to yell.”

  I shake my arm free. “They need to do something!” I say. As quickly as I felt the anger, now I feel the tears. Gone are my few seconds of strength. That won’t stop me.

  I turn to Raj. “I don’t care that you’re working hard. I don’t care that the damn president has been briefed. I care that my dad is locked up somewhere while this guy is fine and is getting released. So if you guys can’t do your job, maybe you should let us do it.”

  Mom speaks in the politest tone of voice ever used by humankind. They should record her and send it to the United Nations. But I know that, just like me, she’s fighting the urge to scream for them to bring my father home. “We want a better sense of what you’re doing diplomatically and militarily. If you’re asking us to have confidence in you, we need to understand how you’re working on this. I’ve been talking to my family every day. They have resources. Maybe we should fly to Russia and see how we can help.”

  Tatya Nadine nods. “I’m visiting family next month. I can change my ticket and go earlier.”

  Uncle Miguel takes a swig of beer and chuckles. “And I run the front page of one of the biggest newspapers in the country. I can put whatever I want on it.”

  I want to laugh as I spot his telltale tic. He’s bluffing. I’ve never loved him more than I do right now.

  I don’t think I’m imagining it when I see Raj gaze longingly at Uncle Miguel’s beer.

  Mom, Tatya Nadine, Uncle Miguel, and I wait. A tribunal.

  Raj, obviously nervous, shifts again before speaking. “We’ve identified the key leaders in the group.” He looks at each of us. “I said they’re new, and they are, but their ties to established organizations are strong. Their network has grown, and they’re linked to the faction that shot down that passenger jet and is responsible for the recent bombings. The people who are holding Jeremiah are loosely affiliated and much lower-level. We don’t know how experienced they are, but we do know they are in touch with the aggressive group.”

  He looks at us again, like he’s deciding how serious we are about trying to take things into our own hands. “This is a delicate situation. We’re trying to determine how to approach this without fully engaging the larger rebel group. If you interfere, you could jeopardize everything. If you publish anything, you could jeopardize everything. You need to do as we say if we’re going to have any chance of saving Jeremiah.”

  “Then pay the ransom,” I say. “Because if you don’t, maybe we’ll have to figure out how to bring him home on our own. You know we have connections in Russia.”

  Maybe because I’m the only kid in the room, he stares at me when he responds. “If you interfere, we’ll be forced to confiscate your passports. You can’t fly to Russia right now and take things into your own hands. The United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. You’re U.S. citizens. This applies to you regardless of your family in Russia.”

  Everyone falls silent, so silent that our breathing is the loudest sound in the room. Mom stares at her hands, Tatya at her lap, Uncle Miguel at his beer.

  Raj continues to look at each of us, gaining confidence, straightening his spine. The restless shifting stops.

  Uncle Miguel is the one to break the silence. “What have you learned from Pascal?”

  “It’s too soon to know,” Raj says. “He’s in transit now. We’re working closely with France, and after we interview him, we hope to be able to pinpoint Jeremiah’s exact location so we can attempt a rescue. I can’t give you any more information than that. Remember, you have to be discreet. We have to control the public narrative.” He leans forward, elbows resting on knees. “I need to say this again. I know you’re scared and I see you’re frustrated, but you cannot interfere, regardless of your contacts in Russia. It’s against the law. It’s treason.”

  “So, what do we do now?” I ask. “Since you don’t really have anything to tell us and we’re not allowed to do anything.”

  “There’s nothing to do but wait,” he says. “Keep to yourselves. Be discreet and don’t discuss the situation outside of the four of you. Hopefully, we’ll have good news soon.”

  Uncle Miguel’s phone begins to beep in rapid succession. A news alert flashes across my phone.

  “Turn on the TV,” Uncle Miguel says.

  Pascal’s face fills the screen, with the ticker at the bottom announcing his release. I flip the channel. It airs on all of the cable news stations. We sit and watch as they play the video in full, then clips as they dissect his words. On the big screen, I notice that what I thought was a bruise looks more like dirt. He needs a shower, not medical attention. That’s the only relief. I flinch when I see a photo of Dad on the screen. The ticker reads jeremiah lang taken hostage one week ago.

  Sixteen

  I barely recognize Dad, who, in the video, wears a moth-brown jumpsuit, too short to cover his long limbs. I fixate on his bony wrists and ankles. Bruises of every shade cover his skin. Violet and yellow and aubergine, the entire color spectrum.

  I haven’t allowed myself to think of the details of his captivity, of locked doors and men with guns. Now, though, I imagine everything, and it’s like I’m trapped inside a matryoshka doll. I feel like the smallest of the nesting dolls, the tiny one in the center, buried within layers of larger hollow figurines.

  The video is everywhere: first YouTube and cable news. Now network TV and all of the news sites. Mom and I sit in front of the TV while Uncle Miguel talks on his phone with someone from the FBI. Not Raj.

  Just a couple of hours after Pascal’s release video went public, Uncle Miguel received an email at work. A link to this video. Now the rebels want more money and a prisoner exchange. Raj is due to return any minute.

  I keep waiting for Mom to speak, but she hasn’t said a word since Uncle Miguel came back. Tatya Nadine stayed with us. She’s keeping watch on Mom.

  I turned off my phone. Everyone keeps texting, and even though I couldn’t care less about Raj’s order to be discreet, I can’t imagine talking right now. I catch my breath at the thought. I’ve never been this scared in my life. I stare at my hands, at my legs, but have a hard time feeling them. The first time I saw the video, I felt like I hovered above my body, part ghost, as I listened to Dad speak. I barely feel human.

  I try to ground myself by watching the video over and over, looking for clues, reminding myself that Dad’s still alive.

  It’s hard to focus. I keep playing the video on my laptop, staring at Dad’s face, listening to his hoarse voice saying his name, that he is a journalist, that he is an American. He sits cross-legged, and even though it’s only been a week, his hair looks longer. Maybe that’s because his head is bent down. They have to poke him with a rifle to get him to look i
nto the camera.

  The video is forty-nine seconds long. I’ve watched it sixty-one times. I keep expecting Mom to take my laptop away, but it appears she’s no longer communicating with the living. She sits straight and still, eyes glued to the TV, without looking my way.

  In the video, I can’t see the gray in Dad’s dark salt-and-pepper hair or the scar on his hand from the time he changed a tire on the Bay Bridge. The room he’s in is dark and the film grainy. A twin mattress rests on the floor, covered with a thin beige blanket, but no sheets. Or pillow. This is what I focus on—Dad’s lack of a pillow and sheets. It’s easier than dissecting the rainbow of bruises.

  I can’t tell if the dark spots on his chin are scabs or stubble. Dad is capable of growing a full beard in a handful of days. He’s insanely hairy. Sometimes I call him Sasquatch.

  Uncle Miguel hangs up the phone, and I observe Mom to see if she notices. She doesn’t appear to.

  “They’re interviewing Pascal now,” he says, putting his arm around me. “Do me a favor and stop watching that.” He taps my laptop.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “We’ll learn more from Raj. He’s going into a briefing and will call back as soon as he’s done. Valentina?” He walks over to Mom and places his hand on her arm. “Valentina?”

  She jumps in her seat. She hasn’t slept in two nights, and she’s still wearing Dad’s shirt.

  “Valentina,” Uncle Miguel says. “Why don’t you take a shower, and we’ll make some coffee.”

  Mom stands and looks my way like she just realized I’m here. “Charlotte, will you call Nadine and tell her she doesn’t need to come back. We’ll see her in the morning.”

  Uncle Miguel follows me into the kitchen and watches as I heat some bread in the oven. He knows the kitchen as well as I do, so he busies himself with filling the coffeepot. I guess he decided to stop drinking beer. I wish I could have one instead of coffee. Anything to make me feel calm. Anything to temper the tension running throughout my body. One minute I’m tense, and then I’m numb.