Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [16]
He looks like somebody tackled him. He sits down in a chair, covers his face with his hands. “God, what am I going to do?” he says softly.
This is it. The big reconciliation scene. Where I run to him and he holds me and we cry bright silver tears and everything is better. I wait for the music to start. I wait for someone to cue the violins. For the cheap Hollywood score to kick in. But it doesn’t. And it won’t. I know that. I’ve been waiting for two years.
“When does winter break start?” he asks me, lowering his hands.
“Today.”
“When do you go back?”
“The fifth.”
He takes out his BlackBerry. “Okay,” he says, after a few seconds. “That works. Actually, that works well. You can come with me.”
“We tried that once, remember? It doesn’t work. Minna hates me.”
“I meant to Paris. I’m flying there on Monday from Boston. For work. As long as the airline doesn’t call a strike, that is. They’ve been threatening to all week. I’m staying with G and Lili. They have a new place. Plenty of room. You’re coming with me.”
I laugh out loud. “No, I’m not.”
“No arguments, Andi. You’re coming to Paris and you’re taking your laptop with you. We’ll be there for three weeks. Plenty of time for you to work up an outline for your thesis.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? What about Mom? What do we do about her? Just leave her here by herself?”
“I’m checking your mother into a hospital,” he says.
I stare at him, too shocked to speak.
“I called Dr. Becker. Right after I got here. He’ll get her into Archer-Rand. It’s a good place. They have a good program. Can you pack some things for her? I’m going to take her early tomorrow morning and—”
“Why? Why are you doing this?” I shout angrily. “You were never here when you were supposed to be. Now you’re not supposed to be and here you are. Nobody asked you to come. We’re doing fine without you. Totally fine. We’ve always done fine without you.”
“Fine? Is this what you call fine?” he shouts back. “This house is a dump. Your mother’s lost her mind. And you’re about to get kicked out of school. Nothing’s fine, Andi. Nothing.”
“I’m not going. I swear I’m not.”
I pick up my bag and head for the door.
“Where are you going? Andi? Andi, I asked you a—”
There’s a crash from the parlor.
“Marianne? Are you all right?” Dad shouts. He runs into the parlor.
“I’m not going to Paris,” I say, slamming the door behind me. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I swear to God I’m not.”
9
It’s cold on the streets of Brooklyn.
I’m standing on the corner of Cranberry and Henry. A neon Santa is glowing in the window of Kim’s Deli. Under his smiling fat face, three words flash on and off: Ho, Ho, Ho.
Kim’s is closed. Mabruk’s is closed. In the dry cleaner’s next to Mabruk’s, clocks showing times all over the world tell me it’s 5:35 a.m. in London and 6:35 a.m. in Prague.
I need to go inside. I’m freezing to death. I forgot my jacket. I blow on my hands. Hug myself. For a few seconds, I let myself imagine what it would be like to go home, build a fire, have some hot cocoa with my parents, and talk everything through.
Ho, Ho, Ho, says neon Santa.
I look at the clocks again. 5:36 a.m. in Reykjavik. 8:36 a.m. in Riyadh. Riyadh … Is Sunday a workday in Saudi Arabia? If it is, King Abdullah’s sure to be up and about, and Vijay Gupta will be, too—trying to get him on the phone.
I head for Hicks Street. Number 32 is a small brownstone with a statue of Ganesha in the front yard. The house is dark, except for a light burning in a window on the second floor. I see Vijay in that window. He’s got a headset on. I fish some coins out of my pocket and throw them at the glass. One hits. Vijay comes to the window and waves. A few minutes later, the front door opens. He tells me he’s on hold with Kabul.
It’s dark in the hallway but we don’t turn any lights on. I follow him up the stairs and into his room. It’s a full-on fire hazard. I can’t cross the floor without stepping on issues of the Economist and the New Republic. He’s got Aljazeera streaming on his laptop, the BBC on his PC. I’ve never known anyone