Occasionally they would show images of 23rd Street, which was packed with people whom the police were incapable of controlling. Most of the people in the crowd came to show that the world stood in solidarity with Nigeria, Russia, Indonesia, and Brazil. Others were protesting the continued threat Carl made. Analysts on television were saying terrifying things about a strategy terrorists sometimes used: Do something inflammatory and then, once the inevitable crowd formed, strike again with much greater impact. Since America hadn’t been part of the attack, and Americans are incapable of considering that evil people would coordinate a massive attack and leave us out of it, everyone assumed something else was coming.
As I watched the news, a thought leaked into my mind. The world was tearing itself apart; people were dying. The noise in the street threatened to become a riot if a bunch of Defenders showed up. It was easy for me to blame all this on Peter and people like him. But ultimately, wasn’t the source of it all Carl? Wouldn’t those people still be alive if Carl hadn’t showed up? Wasn’t I as biased and irrational as the Defenders? Clinging to my unquestionable belief that Carl was here to bind us together, not to divide or destroy us? Seeing only the evidence that confirmed my point of view and not the evidence, right here in front of my eyes, that Carl was undeniably disruptive?
I realized that there was no way for that not to be in my brain in my next TV interview, though certainly I wouldn’t mention it. And that’s when I realized that I wasn’t supposed to be watching the news about Carls; I was supposed to be on the news about Carls. And then I panicked a bit. Why hadn’t anyone called me?!
I grabbed my phone and saw a fairly simple explanation: It was off. I tried turning it on . . . out of batteries. Oh god! Robin was probably having a fit. EVERYONE was probably having a fit! Why wasn’t anyone at my house? And worse, both my chargers and my other phone were in my freaking bedroom. OK, computer then. At the very least I had to tell everyone I was OK.
I popped open my laptop. It seemed that my connection to the outside world had been restored. As expected, I had about five hundred new emails—TV producers, Robin, Andy, Miranda, Maya, parents, brother, everyone. Notifications from the Som were out of hand.
Here’s what was not expected: I had replied to many of the emails.
That was confusing enough that I didn’t understand it at first. I read the email Miranda had sent, and then I read my reply, and I tried to figure out who it was from. It sounded like me, though it wasn’t complicated, basically just letting her know I was OK and would need some time before I did anything publicly.
My first thought was that Robin had, in a panic, impersonated me. Then I saw a whole conversation I’d had with him about why I wasn’t answering texts and that I needed time to process and would be in touch soon. I’d told him to start a list of people interested in talking to me and it would be late morning before I could take any interviews. Andy’s insistence that we make a video was responded to similarly. A message to my parents and brother told them not to worry and that I was safe and being looked after and the whole thing was just so terrible and I would call soon and thank you for worrying about me, but again, I was fine.
There was no response to Maya’s email.
It is possible—I do not think this is what happened, but it is possible—that I woke up several times and answered those emails and then fell asleep between sessions (they were spread out over several hours) and was experiencing some kind of post-traumatic amnesia. I certainly would not have questioned the emails’ validity if I had been any of the recipients, and if I had been awake, I probably would have sent extremely similar emails. But I had not been awake.
I read all of my sent and received messages and found no hint as to their origin. I did my best to imagine Carl’s hand curled over my phone or computer typing out emails, but I figured I couldn’t dust for fingerprints or anything. In the end (and until just now, actually), I just pretended I’d sent the messages. I was suddenly living a number of rather large lies, and this one seemed pretty inconsequential. I was numb to oddity. I emailed Andy telling him I wanted to do a shoot down in the street in the next few hours and told Robin to start scheduling for Skype-ins starting at noon and ending at four and that things would be weird but he had to just simply not ask any questions. Also, could he bring me something TV-worthy from Top Shop and an iPhone charger?
Having an assistant is awesome for when you are terrified to go into your own bedroom because of last night’s attempted murder!
Before showering I finally tweeted something:
@AprilMaybeNot: Sick with sadness. I have misplaced my hope. Let’s be together today, and remember our humanity not our brutality.
And then immediately after:
@AprilMaybeNot: Just a few people did this. In a world of eight billion. I am trying so hard to remember how few of us are truly evil.
I don’t think I actually felt any of those ways, but it seemed on-brand. Those seemed like the kinds of things April May would tweet. In reality, I felt numb and I wanted to work. I wanted to write and talk and figure out how the Defenders were responding and start up the counterarguments immediately, even if I was finally questioning my own faith that the Carls were only here to help us. It was easier to act than doubt.
The police and government, at that point, were still searching for information on several disconnected bombers, we had no real information, and so the vacuum was being filled by lies, guesses, and assumptions. At least I refused to give in to that impulse.
Humans are terrible at believing reality. The things I tweeted about July 13 were absolutely true. These attacks were the work of such a minuscule number of people, a number so small as to be inconsequential. And the number of people hurt and killed, on a global scale, wasn’t a huge deal either. More people died in car accidents on July 13 than in those bombings. But these are things you can’t really say in the face of tragedy.
We are irrational beings, easy to manipulate if you’re willing to do whatever it takes. That’s exactly how terrorists convince themselves that murder is worthwhile. And the wound it left, it was larger than those lives lost; it was a wound we would all have to live with forever. The purity of my feelings for Carl was gone and I would never get it back.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Here’s a weird thing. You remember July 13, and I sure hope you remember September 11, even if you weren’t alive. But we’ve pretty much all forgotten June 28. June 28, 1914, to be exact, probably the weirdest day in recorded history. Here’s what happened.
The guy who’s next in line to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which was this huge politically important country (second largest in Europe by size, third by population), was visiting Sarajevo, which is now in Bosnia but was then part of that massive empire. A lot of folks living there didn’t like the Austro-Hungarians for complicated reasons that we don’t need to get into.
A group of young guys have decided they want to kill this prince, who has, in his wisdom and bravery, prepublished the route he’s going to be taking through Sarajevo in a literal open-topped car (note to world leaders: Stop doing this). These twenty men line up at various places along the published route with various devices and strategies for assassination. One of them jumps the gun a little bit and runs out of the crowd with a small bomb. He throws it at the prince, but the bomb doesn’t detonate for several seconds, so it ends up exploding near a different car and injuring several people but not killing anyone.
Everyone disperses, the heir to the throne gets swept to safety, and none of the other would-be assassins get to try their hand at assassination.
That’s a weird day already, right? Well, it gets much weirder.
The parade, of course, is called off and the prince is safe. But then he decides, in his wisdom and bravery, that he wants to go visit the people injured in the bombing at the hospital. The driver takes what is likely to be the worst wrong turn in history and then, realizing it, puts the car in reverse. It’s 1914 and cars are very new and glitchy, so the car stalls in front of a deli where one of the foiled assassins, Gavrilo Princip, just happens to be standing.