Twenty

The next morning, my mom and I fly back to Vermont. My dad is headed for New York, where he’ll do some last-minute interviews on morning talk shows and the evening news before joining us back at home. I’ve never been so ready for a trip to be over in my entire life. When I wasn’t facing the interminable boredom of being locked in my hotel room, I was subjected to the furtive glances of campaign staffers, whose preferred method of communicating with me seemed to be whispering to each other about me as I walked past them. Suzette still won’t speak to me, either, and though I would have once desired that above anything, I’ve since found that her icy silent treatment is far worse than her anger-fueled tantrums. My parents are trying their best to pretend like nothing happened, but it’s in vain. Every time I’m with them, I can still see the disappointment in their eyes.

I spend my time at home locked up in my room, playing sad music on my CD player and gazing forlornly out the window. I’m dreading Tuesday night, when I’ll have to end my self-imposed seclusion and once again face my parents, the campaign staff and the press corps to watch the election returns come in. My father has regained some ground, but he’s still trailing General Bennett by a few points, and the pundits are all predicting Bennett as the winner. All I can do now is pray for a miracle.

When Tuesday finally arrives, I find that I’m actually relieved to be able to leave my room. Maybe this won’t be so bad, I think as I walk down the stairs to the living room, where everyone is gathered to watch the returns. As I round the corner and catch sight of Chris standing on the opposite side of the room, laughing with some of the other journalists, my sudden burst of confidence deserts me. I don’t have a choice in the matter, though, so I take a deep breath, smooth out my skirt and join my parents on the couch.

Three extra television sets have been imported into our living room so that we can watch all four of the major networks at one time. The volume is turned down low on each set, but the newscasters’ voices still mix together in a cacophony of speculation. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I swear I can hear my name mentioned a couple of times.

Each network features a map displayed prominently behind its anchor, and by the time I arrive, I can see that several of the Southern states have already been colored red. We’ve got a couple of tiny blue states up in New England (Vermont, of course, as well as Connecticut and Delaware), but they look paltry compared to the mass of red stretching across the Southeast.

As the minutes tick by, the West starts to fill up with red, too, and I begin to think that perhaps my fervent prayers aren’t going to be answered. My father has gained a few more important states on the East Coast and in the Midwest, and the campaign staff remains hopeful, citing the newscasters’ predictions that Dad could still pull off a win. I, on the other hand, am completely discouraged. I can’t bear to watch any more states turn red, so I get up and head for the downstairs bathroom.

My hands planted firmly on the sink, I stand and look at myself in the mirror for several minutes. I start to cry, but swallow the tears back. I’ve got to get it together, I think. I run a washcloth over my face, smooth my hair down and take a deep breath.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m startled to find Chris standing in the empty hallway. I stare at him, not sure what to say.

We stand there in silence for a few moments. I wait for him to speak, to offer some kind of explanation or apology, but he says nothing. Finally, as I move to head back to the living room, he says to my back, “I had to do my job, Julia.”

I spin around. “Is that your idea of an explanation?”

He only shrugs.

“So that’s it, then,” I say resignedly. “You did this all just to get a story. It was all just an act.” He looks down at the floor. “I suppose I should congratulate you on a job well done, then,” I continue bitterly. “Because you certainly had me fooled.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, looking up and meeting my eyes. “I did care about you. I mean, I do care about you.”

“After everything that’s happened, do you really expect me to believe you?” I ask incredulously.

He shakes his head and looks down again. “No, I guess you probably wouldn’t,” he replies quietly.

I stay in the hallway for a few more moments, regarding him sadly, before making my way back to the living room.

When I get there, I find that the mood has heightened considerably. People are out of their seats, jumping around and hugging one another. I race over to my parents, who are standing next to the couch, their arms around each other as my dad high-fives various campaign staffers.

“What’s going on?” I ask excitedly.

“We just took Florida!” my mom exclaims, pulling away from my dad and embracing me. “We’re only trailing by five electoral votes!”

As she hugs me, I jump up and down. A win, and with it, the dissolution of the guilt and worry that have been plaguing me for the past week, seems imminently possible now.

The jubilation eventually dies down, and everyone returns to their nervous perches.

“They’re saying it’s all going to come down to Pennsylvania,” someone calls. The current vote tally for Pennsylvania flashes on one of the screens, under the heading “Too Close to Call.” I see that my dad is only trailing General Bennett by a couple thousand votes, with nearly half of the precincts reporting. I grab my dad’s hand and squeeze it nervously. He gives me a hopeful smile.

Within an hour, the mood of the room has taken a downward turn, from optimistic to defeated. With three quarters of the precincts reporting, General Bennett’s lead in Pennsylvania has increased to nearly thirty thousand votes. The networks are still refusing to call the state in his favor, but most of the campaign staff seems to think that’s inevitable. Only a tenacious few are still trying to encourage the others not to give up. The last vestiges of hope seemed to have drained from my parents eyes.

One television screen at a time, I watch the state of Pennsylvania turn red on each of the networks’ maps as each of the anchors announce Bill Bennett as the next president of the United States, flashing a heroic-looking picture of him in uniform up on the screen. No one says anything for a few moments. Finally, my dad stands up and clears his throat.

“Well,” he begins. Everyone in the room looks at him expectantly. “We gave it our best shot. There’s nothing more we could have done. I just want to thank everyone in this room for all of the hard work you’ve put in over the past few months. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”

My father retires to his office to phone General Bennett with his concession. Silently, campaign staffers mill around the room, switching off the TVs. Eventually, only the set that’s always in the living room is on, and before anyone can get to it to turn it off, I hear the anchor say, “There’s no doubt that the family scandals that plagued Charlie Rowan in the final days of the campaign marked the turning point in this election. He was just never able to recover.”

I hang my head down, but I can feel the eyes of the entire room on me. My mother reaches over and takes my hand, but I break free from her grasp and run out of the room. By the time I reach the stairs, I’m crying so hard that I have to sit on the bottom step for a moment and collect myself. Just as I’m turning to go up the stairs, I hear someone call my name.

I turn back around to see Suzette standing at the end of the hallway.

“You have a phone call,” she tells me coldly before disappearing into the living room.

Tentatively, I pick up the phone on the hall table. “Hello?”

“Don’t hang up,” is the first thing I hear on the other end. The voice is Jake’s.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” I reply angrily.

“Just hear me out,” he pleads. When I don’t respond, he rushes on. “I just wanted to call and offer you my condolences.”

“How nice of you,” I reply sarcastically. “But shouldn’t you be out celebrating? I mean, really, this was quite the coup. You managed to use me to sabotage our campaign and win the White House for your father. He must be awfully proud.”

“It’s not like that, Julia,” Jake begins.

“Really?” I shoot back. “Because from where I stand, that’s exactly what it’s like.” I slam down the phone before he can get another word out and race up to my room, tears pricking my eyes yet again.

After a few minutes of sobbing into my pillow, I’m lying, worn out and broken, across my bed when I hear a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I mumble halfheartedly, not even bothering to raise my head to see whom I’ve just granted admittance.

It’s not until I feel the weight of another body sit down on the bed next to me that I turn my head to see who it is. I find my father, regarding me seriously, looking almost as beaten down as I feel. The mere sight of him causes the tears to flood once again.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper through my sobs. “This is all my fault.”

“Shh, shh,” he says, scooping me into his arms and stroking my hair. “Don’t you ever think that,” he tells me.

“But it’s true,” I wail. “Even the newscasters said it’s true.”

“Aw, you can’t believe anything they say,” he says with a chuckle. I sniffle and give him a little smile.

Wiping my eyes, I sit up on the bed as he says, “Julia, I want you to know that I could never blame you for what happened tonight. You were not responsible for me losing this election. I want you to understand that. Okay?” He searches my eyes.

“Okay,” I finally tell him, hoping my answer sounds more convincing to him than it does to me.

Apparently it does, because he smiles and, giving me a little punch on the arm, says, “That’s my girl!”

I return his smile, but when he leaves, I dissolve into tears once again. Who is he kidding? I think. I’m old enough to realize that parents just say those kinds of things because they don’t want their kids to feel guilty. My dad might have told me that I wasn’t the reason he lost the election, but I know the truth. And the truth is, the only thing that kept my father from becoming the next president of the United States was my foolish, trusting heart.