57

“But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years—and it opens.”

—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

Would the average American respond to this quote with optimism or regret? What “kingdom” have you personally sought and found?

I’m sitting in the car in Millbrae, on Kobayashi’s street. He’s not home, of course. On the penultimate day of the Wonder Test, there’s only one place he could be. I park across the street, halfway down the block, tucking the Jeep in behind a Porsche Cayenne. I’ve asked Kyle to keep an eye on my dad’s house, do drive-bys every few minutes until I return home.

An email comes in from Malia. For Red Vine, I got you $1k for a gift, $25k for the payment, and I earmarked whatever travel you need for Iceland out of the IYIY funds.

I can sense Malia’s excitement. This is the part of her job she loves. She’ll want to know what kind of gift I selected for Red Vine, my ops plan, briefing questions. She geeks out on the details.

On the way home, I stop at the library in Burlingame. There’s a public computer I like, basement level, tucked away in a corner behind the archived newspapers. I log on with a library card that was surprisingly easy to obtain in alias. I access the dedicated proton account and find that Red Vine has left two messages. I’m alarmed to discover the first one was sent twenty-three days ago: What you wanted I have found.

The second is from twelve days ago and is more insistent. For a source at this level, Red Vine is uncommonly relaxed, but even he gets a case of nerves when I don’t respond. Are we not meeting on the anniversary? I think you will be happy if we meet. We should meet.

What I know is this: I don’t want to go back to Iceland. I don’t want to think about my time there, the time I wasted, the time I should have been with Fred. I don’t want to think about the lost days, and I don’t want to leave Rory behind. And yet, I made a commitment. Until I fulfill my promise, the unfinished business will weigh on me. In my head, I run through Rory’s schedule. The next school break is in April. I haven’t left him alone since Fred died, and I certainly don’t want to leave him now.

I type a message back to Red Vine, suggesting a meeting, using our minus-nineteen code to disguise the date. I bury the schedule in a few long sentences about the weather in Moscow and the travails of a club hockey team. I hit Send. My Russian is awkward, but the important parts are clear.

At home, I call for Caroline as soon as I step in the front door. I don’t want her to hear someone walking around the house and freak out. She doesn’t respond. She isn’t in the kitchen, the library, the guest room, the movie room. I feel a surge of panic.

But then, through the breezeway windows, I see her out back, reading, headphones on, drinking a Fanta. I go outside to join her. “It’s such a beautiful day,” she exclaims. “Sunshine!”

She’s wearing a pair of Rory’s shorts and the Cracker shirt Fred bought him at a show in Hoboken years ago. I sit next to her on the grass. There are so many questions I want to ask, but I need to ease into it.

She squints into the sun. “I talked to my mom.”

“You did?” I say, surprised. “That’s great. What did she say when you told her what happened?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to say it over the phone. I just told her I’m in trouble, and I really need her to come home.”

“Good.”

“She said they’ll be home soon. What do I do until then?”

“Stay with us. You’re safe here.” It feels important to keep saying this.

“You know what really makes me mad? Even if she knew what happened, I’m not sure she would rush home. She would call the embassy and send someone to the house to keep an eye on me, but that would be it. Her motto is ‘Gardez-le dans la famille.’”

“Tough being a diplomat’s kid.”

“Diplomat, right.” She smirks. “It sucks when your parents think their mission is to save the country. What am I supposed to say to that? Come home, I need you, I’m more important than la République?”

My heart breaks for Caroline. And for Rory.

We sit in silence for a while, the sun on our faces. She picks up Martin in Space. I can tell from the hot chocolate stain on the cover that it’s Rory’s copy.

“Rory is a real disciple of that book,” I say, smiling. “What do you think it’s about?”

“It’s about the things you want, the things you need, and how hard it is to recognize the difference. Rory thinks it’s about something else, but that’s why it’s a good book.”

I notice her skin is turning pink. “You’re burning.” I go to the patio, grab a tube of sunscreen from the wicker basket, and bring it over to her. She carefully rubs it on her cheeks and forehead. I lean back on the grass and watch the sunlight through the top of the redwood tree. I shouldn’t be sitting here with Caroline; her mom and dad should. Of course, if I’m honest, I have more in common with Caroline’s parents than with any of the other parents in this town.

She rubs sunscreen across her pale white skull, where the hair is beginning to grow into a fine fuzz. Her hands move with an aggressive confidence, straight over the top, down her neck, around her small ears. It occurs to me that she is more than resilient. She’s a special girl, much tougher than she looks, the years of benign neglect rendering her confident and independent. If she weathers this, there are few obstacles she won’t be able to overcome.

If I had the opportunity to choose the kind of girl Rory would eventually spend his life with, it would be someone like Caroline. And yet, I want so badly to stop time and keep him with me. I want to make up for all those times I wasn’t home or the times I was home but not present, juggling five different cell phones, my mind somewhere else. The stakes always seemed so high. I always thought there was so much to lose. So much could go wrong if I missed a call, if I failed at a task. Fred and Rory were doing fine without me, I thought. I was almost the third wheel—not unloved, not unwanted, but rarely necessary to the functioning of the family machine.

It was my country that needed me most, or so I believed.