The World: According to Rachael (19 page)

Greg asks, “Then why the need to add the shock-jock element to the show? Isn’t it enough that you guys are peers discussing political issues?”

Revere fields this question. “Do you know why you have the ability to type into the Google search bar
who are the Sons of Liberty
?”

Poor Greg actually looks a little perplexed at Revere’s answer. But he decides to play along. “Why?”

“Because of sex. Sex and video games built the Internet. It pushed technology companies to keep up with the demands of consumers who wanted faster and better and prettier sex and video games.” He pauses for a moment and shifts in his chair. “We use sex and vulgar talk to attract our target audience. We use locker-room humor to keep them listening so we can also educate them on what they need to know about what’s going on in their nation’s government.”

“I don’t quite agree with your analogy, but we’ll leave it at that,” Greg says, and changes the subject. “Let’s talk about your seemingly insider information. How are you able to constantly scoop the traditional reporters?”

All three boys laugh and give each other fist bumps. It’s very frat boy. McDougall replies, “We have the best kind of sources in the right places.” The meaning is implied. There are women and maybe men around Washington that let secrets slip when they’re between the sheets. At that moment, I kind of hate them. Not
I hate them
like I wish them genital mutilation. No. It’s the kind of hate that I feel when a female is demeaned because she’s a female. Once again, I’m reminded that this is still a world run by good ol’ boys.

Greg says, “Let’s talk about that. You call Rachael Early, the first female Chief of Staff, Tinker Bell. Don’t you think that’s demeaning to her and her accomplishments?”

I actually yell out, “Go Greg!” I mentally make a note to send him a Harry and David fruit basket.

Solomon replies, “Yeah, of course it’s demeaning. It’s actually downright mean of us. But it’s also mean to call the President Hank Hill. I don’t think the three of us will argue with you that our radio show can be disrespectful, crass, and not something we’d wish our mothers, sisters, or wives to listen to. But in the end, if the audience turns off our show and is more educated about what’s going on in Washington than they were before they listened to us,” he shrugs, “well, then it was worth it.”

Personally, I hate Solomon’s answer. I think it’s counterintuitive to what they’re trying to achieve. However, I can’t argue with the results from whatever nonsense it is that they’re spewing—it’s working. They certainly have the attention of the American public.

The rest of the interview is focused on past Tuesday’s elections. They’re obviously quite proud of the fact that this is the first time in our nation’s history that so many men under the age of forty have voted in a non-presidential election.

When the interview is over, Evan turns off the TV. We all look expectantly at the President, waiting to be dismissed. I check my phone. It’s only noon. Graham and I might be able to spend the rest of the day together.

Then, the President clears his throat and asks Carl to leave. Carl gathers his belongings and scoots out of my office, shutting the door behind him in record time.

There is a shift in the President’s demeanor. The glimpse of the man that I saw when he was still a senator is gone. Langford Jones’ face sags, and he appears to have aged ten years in two minutes.

I’ve seen him like this before. When he had to sign an executive order to commit troops to the Middle East conflict, I witnessed how difficult it was for him to pick up the pen. Later, we discussed it. He told me that all he could imagine were the moms counting on him to return their sons and daughters safely back to their open arms. Together, we shed a few tears and watched with bated breath while his orders were carried out.

The President looks Evan, then me, and finally the Vice-President in the eye before he begins to speak. My lungs ache as I realize that I haven’t allowed them to exhale.

He leans forward in his chair and sighs. “There’s something that I need to share with you. As always, I know that this will be kept confidential.”

I nod like an obedient schoolgirl. The President’s face is grim, and his skin an unhealthy shade of grey. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to spit it out. I’ve been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.”

I gasp, and instantly wish that I handled situations like this better.
Stoic, Rachael. Be stoic.

The President continues, “Because I can’t sneeze without a doctor examining me, they’ve caught it in its very early stages. Anyway, I’m taking some drug that the experts all agree will prevent the appearance of symptoms for five to seven years, and it shouldn’t have an impact on my last year in office. I just thought you all should know.”

Looking at this man who I’ve known most of my adult life, it’s shocking to me that he could be sick. He is in fantastic shape. He eats right, except for his fight night indulgences. If he wasn’t the President of the United States, he could easily be a professional golfer. And he has a neurological disease? My world has shifted off of its axis.

Leave it to Evan to respond with, “Damn, maybe now I’ll finally be able to beat you at golf.”

The President doesn’t just laugh, he guffaws, which makes the rest of us laugh. It breaks the tension in the room, and is just what the doctor ordered.

We spend another hour discussing our strategy for managing this news. The President agrees to a meeting with his physician and us so we can discuss the medication side-effects. It’s our job to not only protect Jones, but to also ensure that he’s able to fulfill his role as the president.

This news has added another layer of stress to an already very demanding last year in office.

I feel mentally and physically exhausted when I walk to the waiting town car. I text Graham on my way home, and ask him what his plans are for today. He responds that he’s spending a few hours with his friends that are staying at his place, and that he’ll text me later tonight.

Without really thinking, I reply.

Me:
If you don’t have plans for supper, I’ll bring us some takeout, and we can watch
House Hunters
.

It takes him a while to respond. In that time, I decide that I’m pushing him—becoming a needy girlfriend—that kind of girl that I despise. He needs space. I don’t want him to think that just because we’ve had sex that I’m going to be clingy. Plus, I have a ton of reading that I need to catch up on, and political shows to watch. I also need some time process the President’s diagnosis. I text him back.

Me:
Never mind. Something has come up.

Almost instantly, he responds

Graham:
That sucks. Let me know if your plans change.

Now I just don’t know what to think, so I decide to go home and figure it out.

I’ve gotten caught up enough on my reading so I at least will not be starting off the week drowning. I’ve watched my taped television shows while I did some cardio on my rowing machine. Now, my house is eerily quiet.

This is ridiculous. He’s only stayed here one night, but his scent lingers in the air, reminding me that for ten brief hours this house was on fire with intense passion, tender emotions, and happiness. Now, it feels void of life. It’s as if I had seen color for the first time, and now I look around at everything in shades of grey.

I stand up and grab a towel, wiping the sweat off of my face as I head to my kitchen for a bottle of water. What has Graham Jackson done to me? Cast some sort of voodoo spell? This isn’t me. I don’t get attached, needy, clingy, or any other adjective that makes me feel like a nineteen-year-old girl. I hate how much I want to grab my phone and call him just so I can hear his voice.

There’s a postcard that hangs on my refrigerator. Caroline and Colin are part owners of an island in the Caribbean called Nouveau Départ. Caroline’s daughter loves sending mail. Last time they visited the island, I received the picture of a tropical landscape. On the back, she wrote,
I mis u!!!!!!! Love, Ainsley McKinney.
It’s the only piece of personal mail that I have received in years.

Homesickness almost doubles me over. I can’t call Graham, and I’ve already spoken to Caroline once this week. She’d hop on a plane and be at my doorstep if I actually called her more than once in the same month.

So instead, I call my parents. My mom picks up on the third ring.

“Rachael, how nice to hear from you.” Her voice is changing with age. When I was a child, I loved how confident she sounded. I would practice in front of the mirror saying my name different ways, experimenting with how I could manipulate my voice to sound as authoritative as she did. Now, my mom sounds a bit fragile and unsure of herself. Has anyone else noticed? Probably not, but I do, and it adds to my unease.

“Hi Mom,” I reply as I sink into my chair by the front door. “How’s everything?”

“Great,” she replies. Then she goes on to share with me her and Dad’s plans for Thanksgiving. They don’t include me. They haven’t since I graduated from Texas A&M. They’re going to Greece for two weeks. Mom’s excited to see the clear blue water against the white cliffs. Dad wants to check out some art galleries that he has read about.

I just listen. It occurs to me that it’s been a couple of years since I last saw them. It has never bothered me before, but now I feel sad. Maybe it was hearing Graham talk about his family last night after we’d had sex, before we fell asleep. Maybe it’s my boss, mentor, and friend being diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I don’t know, but for the first time since I was a child, I long for my mother’s embrace.

I add the appropriate responses of “wow” and “That sounds amazing.” I even throw in an “I’m so happy for you.” But, what I want to ask is, “Do you remember that you have a daughter?”

In all fairness to them, I haven’t made much of an effort to be a part of their lives. I could blame it on how busy I am, or the distance between us, but in my heart, I know the truth. My parents and I are very different people. We have nothing in common, and when I was growing up they never invested their time in me, so I don’t feel I owe them any of mine now. I had a nanny that took me to the museum or to dance practice. It was her who taught me how to stuff my bra, apply eyeliner, and how to drive a stick-shift.

Now, I want to reconnect. I take a deep breath before I say, “Mom, you and Dad haven’t seen my office or the White House, or met any of the people that I work with. Do you think that y’all might have some time to visit?” I ask, trying to keep the melancholy out of my voice.

Mom must adjust the phone because I hear a bit of ruffling in the background. “We’re taking off two weeks from the practice to go to Greece. I guess we might be able to visit in March. But I’ll have to check with your dad. You know how the cold weather bothers his knees. Is it still cold in March in D.C.?”

Words fail me. As I’m about to respond with “Never mind. Forget I asked,” there’s a knock on my front door. It’s dusk and the street lamps are not on yet. I assume that it’s Lou.

I lean back and peer through the slats in the partially closed wooden blinds. All I see is a bit of a big, black furry head with a long pink tongue hanging out of its mouth next to an olive-complected leg with sprinkled dark hair.

“Uh … Mom, I’ve got to go. There’s someone at my door.”

“Well, thanks for calling, Rachael. I’ll check with Dad about coming to visit in March.”

Dejectedly, I end the call and toss my phone on the overstuffed couch.

Talk about a sight for sore eyes. Graham, and what I can only guess is George, are standing on my front stoop. They’re like rays of sunshine peeking through my depressed mood.

Before I can squeak out a surprised hello, Graham says, “This was probably a bad idea. George and I went to the park to play Frisbee, and I thought we’d stop by. Maybe I thought too much. I should have called. This is probably a bad time.” He turns away from me as if to leave. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t go,” exits my mouth. I’ll blame this one on my conversation with my mother, but I want Graham, and even his very large dog to stay. I open the door and motion for them to enter.

Graham and the beast brush past me. I’m greeted by a kiss on the tip of my nose from Graham … not the dog. “Rachael, I’d like for you to meet my roommate and best dog, George.” Then to George, he says, “Show her what nice house manners you have.”

Graham drops his red leash and George walks over to the gold and green worn linoleum floor in my kitchen and lays down with a loud dog sigh. “Hi George. Make yourself at home.” I walk over to him and scratch the top of his head.

“Mind if I fix him a bowl of water?”

“Of course not. Bowls are in the cabinet by the sink,” I reply as I flop back down in my chair.

“We aren’t interrupting anything, are we?” he calls over the noise of running sink water.

“Just got off the phone with my mom. She and Dad are going to Greece for Thanksgiving.” Surprisingly, I pull off a very neutral, I-don’t-care, it-doesn’t-bother-me tone to my voice.

The faucet turns off in the kitchen and there is a bit of a splash when Graham sets the bowl in front of George. He grabs a paper towel and mops up the spill. “You can come to Houston and have Thanksgiving dinner with my family.”

It’s so nonchalant.
It’s so soon
. “Thanks for the offer. I’m sure that’s just what your family wants. Your fling of all of ten minutes crashing their turkey day. It’s okay. I always go to Caroline and Colin’s anyway.” Aloof coolness is my specialty.

Graham throws the soaked towel in the kitchen garbage and struts toward me with purpose. He drops to his knees in front of me, and grabs my hands. With a very serious look on his face, he says, “By Thanksgiving, you’ll be my fling for, like, three weeks. Plenty of time.” He can’t stop the smirk from drawing up his left cheek. Damn, he’s cute. And that dimple …

I look away for a split second, and then turn my gaze back to him. “Thank you. I sincerely appreciate the offer, but I always go to Caroline’s.” Then I change the subject. “Have you had supper? Want to order some carry-out?”