Page 4 of The Secret
“Being honest with you, it’s partly danger money, although I’ve been assured by the local manager of the VSO that the rebels have gone from this area and the government is in control. They’re paying three salaries and an allowance on top for whatever needs to be done.”
“Who’s managing the overall budget?”
“Well, that’s still an open question, but I thought I might put you in charge of it.”
“Me?” My voice is an incredulous squeak. I can hardly take it in, it’s a huge step up. I can’t turn this down, can I?
John smiles at my incredulity. “I’m sorry to spring this on you. Of course, given the way government works, they’ve taken six months to decide and now they’re in a tearing hurry because they’ve awarded the university the contract. They wanted someone on the ground in twenty-four hours. I said we’d let them know in twenty-four hours and send a person out there in forty-eight, so I can only give you a day to think about it.”
I nod at him, so grateful I want to hug him. Just as my life was looking unbelievably dreary, this comes along.
“What about my being on probation? Do I need to …”
“This is being classed as a departmental contract and as such doesn’t come under the central university administration. I’ve cleared it with the powers that be, and the rest will be sorted out in your absence. I thought you might like to be out of the way for a while.” His eyes twinkle at me.
I swallow down the lump in my throat. God knows what he’s done to swing this.
“It sounds amazing. Thank you so much, John. You don’t know how grateful I am,” I babble.
He nods and smiles. “You’ve helped us out in a lot of tight spots, Liss. You’re an inspiring teacher and a great field person. It’s nothing you don’t deserve.”
The lump in my throat swells—Iamgoing to cry. I dip my head and stare at my notes, swallowing. His hand comes out, hovering, and I shake my head, chewing my lip. Do I really need to think about it? No, no I don’t.
“I’ll go. I don’t know how to thank you.”
He beams at me. “That’s great news.” The relief and delight in his voice are palpable.
“I hope I’m up to the task.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re this bubbly, organized person. You negotiate and sort things out like no one I’ve ever met. I’ve been looking for a good opportunity for you for a while.”
He has? I press my hand to my chest. “Let me get out there first and see how bad it is.”
He laughs. “Just go and kick ass. Go and spread some good. God knows, few enough people care,” he says, and I laugh too, lifting my head. His words and the respect in his tone are like a balm after my meeting with HR, and the hard defensive shell I always seem to carry around, the feeling that I need to justify myself because I will always be called into question, softens a bit. Try as I might, I can’t seem to throw it off completely.
“I’ll send you some documentation. Just charge any costs back through expenses until we get the finance set up. I’ve done some of my own checking into the security situation out there, but I want you to keep me abreast of it when you’re out there, okay?”
“No problem.”
I gather up my laptop and purse and walk with him to the lobby and my hands are shaking as I say goodbye and push open the large double doors out into the street.
Am I making this decision because of what happened in the past or because it’s a sensible option for me? The memories cascade down in front of my eyes, and I find the nearest bench, collapsing down. I study the splintered wood on the bench, the soft crumpled cotton of my green pants. The sun is filtering through the trees, students happily chatting in groups. It feels like the most normal thing in the world, but it’s not heat and dust, shouting and chaos. I need to calm down, to bring myself into a more rational state of mind.He’s not there.It’s just a place and a name.Three years. That first day he arrived at the house, the broad shoulders, the tousled blond hair, and dust-ridden clothes, and my God, so tall: a powerful body that went on forever. The heat of his skin under my hands. I snap shut the trapdoor in my brain. Reliving those memories will drive me insane.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but when I look at my phone, the file from John is sitting in my inbox, so I head to the café on campus and spend a happy hour reading the documentation about the project and the problems the local population are facing. Hundreds of thousands of people displaced, poor or no sanitation, the risk of serious disease.I want to get on the ground.Pulling up a flight app, I hum as I search for flights, pressing the “pay now” button and cradling my coffee to my chest as I gaze at the soaring atrium and all the students, heads bent forward in concentration. A 6 a.m. flight out of La Guardia, but whatever—I can sleep on the plane.
I cycle home through the rain and make lists in my head. I’m always ready to go at short notice, but nonetheless I check my vaccinations and visas, and by 5 p.m. I’m all organized. I text Matt and he sends me a thumbs-up. Honestly, he is so chill. Then I message Kate and Jo. They already know about Stéphane, but they’re both thrilled about my escape and horrified that I’m leaving again. And my chest expands: They don’t think I’m wasting my life; they have my back no matter how badly I behave, no matter how little time I spend on them. And, goddammit, I need to talk to the people who don’t have my back: I should call my parents and let them know too.Cold drips down my spine.
My father has a history of trying to sabotage my plans. During my childhood he often prevented me from doing things he didn’t approve of. If he didn’t like a friend of mine, he’d make sure we had to go somewhere else when I was supposed to see them at a party or someone’s house. So I quickly learned to stop telling him about anything or anyone. I still have this nagging fear he’ll prevent something from happening if I tell him too soon.
He put me forward to play on teams or act in plays I didn’t want to. The pièce de resistance came when he applied to law schools on my behalf without my knowledge and forged my signature. This resulted in a huge showdown, and we’ve never recovered from it. I had to take a year out, a blissful year of traveling and working, so I could reapply for the Environmental Science degree I really wanted. When I think of Dad, all I see is his red angry face shouting, inches from mine, fury etched deep in every line. His continuing anger over my life is rooted in the fact he can no longer stop me from doing what I want: I’m a thorn in his side. And my mom tried to keep the peace. Am I angry she didn’t step in more? Perhaps, but I can also see that she is not that person.
So when I press the number, I’m steeling myself for a boatload of abuse from my dad.
“Hello, Lauren speaking.”
“Hey, sis,” I say cautiously.
I’d like to think my relationship with my brother and sister hasn’t been affected by Dad’s nonsense, but of course it has. He played us off against each other. Because they conformed and I didn’t, he’s always telling me how superior they are to me.
