My mother’s paperbacks lay scattered around me. The contents of her medicine cabinet are strewn across the bathroom floor. Hurricane Grace has swept through my mother’s room, and I’m not finished.
The rocking comes faster now. My blood is pumping too hard, and I know I should get out of the room, go for a walk or a run. There are too many live nerve endings in my skin. I am about to catch fire.
But in this moment, I don’t want to stop it. I just want everything else to burn with me if I have to go.
I think about the file in Ms. Chancellor’s office — the one where she kept the Scarred Man’s picture and the newspaper clipping. I want to know what else she might have under lock and key. So I allow myself one more foolish act. I don’t even look back.
It’s easy enough to get there. I just put on clean clothes and brush my hair and my teeth. No one is going to bother the ambassador’s granddaughter on the last day of the G-20 summit. There are way too many other things to do.
When I reach Ms. Chancellor’s office, I pick the lock. The filing cabinet is easy to get open. Inside, I find lots and lots of diplomatic documents, staff forms, and personnel information. The embassy has entire rooms for filing. These are the things Ms. Chancellor holds most valuable or maybe needs most often. But it’s not just that. These are the things she doesn’t want anyone else to keep.
Quickly, I thumb through her personal notes and records. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I know it the moment that I see it.
Caroline.
My mother’s name makes me stop. I’m perfectly still, not shaking or trembling. Even my breath slows down as I look at the carefully written word and pull the file from the drawer.
As always, Ms. Chancellor is thorough. She has a copy of my mother’s obituaries — the ones that ran in the States and here. There are cards of condolence from the president and the prime minister — even the king and queen.
I know what this immense file is supposed to say — supposed to mean. I am supposed to walk away from this knowing that my mother was adored and treasured and loved. I am supposed to feel like I am not alone in my grief, that my mother left me with dozens or hundreds of powerful people who want to make sure her only daughter will be fine.
But I am anything but fine, and everybody knows it.
Especially me.
When I reach the final piece of paper in the file, I almost miss it. It’s just plain copy paper, white on one side, and it sticks to the back of the file. I pull it away, stare down at the words Certificate of Death.
It is only a copy, but I’m not surprised that Ms. Chancellor has one — not in her incredibly thorough files in her incredibly tidy office. She would want all the information, the facts. She would keep this for my grandfather — proof that his daughter is really gone.
I know my mother is gone.
I don’t need to see proof.
And yet I cannot tear my eyes away from it.
I see my mother’s name. The date. The coroner’s signature scrawled across the bottom of the page.
And, finally, the words —
Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the chest.
The door must open and close. Time must pass, but I don’t sense it. I am frozen, not shaking, barely breathing. I close my eyes and hear the report of the shot, shake with the sound. Three years have passed, and still I can’t stop shaking. I’m thousands of miles away and the blowback has finally reached me.
“Grace.” I hear Ms. Chancellor’s voice, turn to see her standing in the doorway. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
My breath is coming too hard. I want to cry. To scream. To die.
I honestly think I’m going to die.
“She was shot,” I say between ragged breaths. “She didn’t die in the fire. She was shot!” Now I’m shouting.
Three years’ worth of lies are swirling around inside me. I see the darkened shop more clearly. My mother’s face. I actually hear the sound of the gun and I startle, eyes squeezed tightly shut, recoiling from the sound.
“Grace.”
I can feel something cold in my hand.
“Grace!” Ms. Chancellor shouts, shaking me. I can see that she has given me a glass of water. Condensation seeps between my fingers.
“Drink, Grace. And breathe. Deep breaths.”
I do as she says, sucking the cold liquid down in one long gulp.
“Good,” Ms. Chancellor tells me.
“You lied,” I say. “She was shot. It wasn’t an accident. It was —”
“It was an accident, Grace.” Ms. Chancellor grips my arms tightly.
“She was shot! It says so.” I hold up the death certificate. “She was shot,” I say again.
“Have a seat, Grace. Take another drink,” Ms. Chancellor orders, and I do as I’m told, suddenly docile and meek.
“I was right,” I mumble to myself. And then I settle on the one thought that calms me. “I’m not crazy.”
“No, Grace.” Slowly, very slowly, Ms. Chancellor shakes her head. “I’m afraid you aren’t.”
The words are wrong. The tone. The feeling in the room has shifted. I look at Ms. Chancellor, who is backing away from me. I glance down at the glass that is blurry now. Spinning. I try to call it into focus but the room is spinning, too. My arms feel heavier than they should, and I know that, even for me, this feeling is not normal.
“What happened?” I say. “Why do I feel so — What did you do to me?”
“I’m very sorry it has to be this way,” Ms. Chancellor says, but she sounds very far away. The words echo. “It’s for your own good, dear. I hope you will believe me. It has always been for your own good.”
I want to argue and demand answers, but it is all I can do to focus on the glass that is falling, shattering on the floor.
Two seconds later, I follow.