The dawn sun is starting to climb when Martin stops at the curb, releases the trunk, and pulls out Joan’s rolling black bag, a red ribbon knotted around the handle. It is the ribbon she used to tie up Words in its box when she gave the book to Martin at the restaurant. Eight days ago. She has no idea if he has started reading, but it’s irrelevant now, the book no longer belongs to her.
She checks for her passport and boarding pass, shows Martin she has it all. Even in their early days when they barely knew each other, even through everything with Eric, and even though they said little to each other last night, and have been silent on the drive from Rhome to the airport, they still kiss each other well. Wordless statements being made on each side. What she means by her kiss, how Martin interprets her kiss, what his kiss means, she doesn’t know, and he probably doesn’t know either.
Then she is through the pneumatic doors, in the early morning bustle of Washington Dulles International Airport.
When she looks back, Martin is pulling out into traffic.
She checks her bag through, finds her gate with its long line of linked plastic bucket seats. She has work to do before this first leg of her trip, her flight to Delhi. She powers up her laptop, connects to the airport’s free Internet service, and addresses an email to Iger.
Dear Iger,
There is a problem regarding Paradise of Artists and The Blissed-Out Retreat, the two books you published by J. D. Henry. In 1999, I began writing the first novel everyone assumed I would never write. I apologize for keeping you in the dark, but I did not want to discuss what I was working on, not even with you. I finished Words of New Beginnings in 2007, just weeks before life drastically altered when Eric dropped out of school. J. D. Henry’s books were not written by him; they are my book chopped in half. J. D. Henry is Daniel. I cannot explain why my son has done what he has done, and I cannot bring myself to seek out his motivations. I have spent the last several days typing the book into my computer and I am attaching it here. By FedEx, I have sent you the original, along with the filed copyright information. You will see that aside from one gender alteration, he stole my novel in its entirety. Once you have confirmed that for yourself, we can discuss what to do. Of course, I will need copies of the contract between Annabelle Iger Books and J. D. Henry. The matter of what you paid to him, and hence what he owes me, I will resolve with him directly. With respect to royalties and all other remuneration, contractual changes will be necessary to reflect that I am the author. I want all of this kept confidential, even within your own imprint. No one is to know. I am going to be out of the country for some period of time, but I will arrange to get original signatures to you in whatever way you desire.
The box pops up telling Joan the email has been sent, and she wonders how long it will take Daniel to learn his treason has been discovered.
To Martin she writes, Martin, then she lifts her hands from the keyboard. She realizes Martin might not know whether she is leaving him or not. He could interpret in any number of ways her silence yesterday, her arduous swim, the quiet dinner they ate at the limestone island, the old movie they did not really watch in the den, her perfunctory kiss when they climbed into bed, her lack of response to his quiet Sleep well when he turned out the light, when she made it obvious during the ride to the airport that she wasn’t interested in what he wanted to say. Whatever she writes will not satisfy, but she has no comfort to give. Whatever configuration of the Manning family might remain will have to function without her, and she is not taking bets when she herself does not know what might be ahead.
Thank you for understanding is what she decides to write, then Love, Joan, and sends that email off.
Squawky announcements judder the air. People scurry through the terminal, wheeling their bags, harried already.
She remembers the story Eric told her when he said he was going to Dharamshala, about a woman who had a private audience with the Dalai Lama, and how the Dalai Lama guided her out of her morass, helped her to rid herself of her anger so she could close the chapter on her dead father’s abuse. She was now mediating restorative justice between criminals and their victims’ families. Listening to Eric, Joan had thought the concept so noble, had said, “How wonderful,” and had meant it. She thinks now that the concept is ridiculous and useless; there is nothing Daniel could do to restore justice to her. How did she, with her pride in her observational skills, not notice a fatal rip in his character? How did she not understand how he thinks, when the number of words spoken between them over all of these years is incalculable?
He has made meaningless the life Joan has led, the sacrifices she has made, and now there is nothing left—not the book that would jump-start her silenced career, not the son she discovered she could love so completely, who had saved her from the other one.
If she gives him up permanently, will the loss feel similar to what she felt when she decided to have him, when she determined that, to save herself, she had to lock the writer away in a castle that no Manning mortal could enter, when she sacrificed herself these years for Eric and tried not to think of her work ready to go and hidden away.
In the slippery plastic seat, Joan watches the travelers and thinks that right at this moment Daniel is unaware he has already been exposed. Whatever Daniel obtained by stealing her work, it is destroyed as thoroughly as her own dream for her future. He is her bomber, and whether his actions were expedient or malevolent, she may never know.
She thinks about the guidance Eric hungers for, the numerous letters he has written to the Dalai Lama.
Joan has never imagined writing such a letter, never expected to have a reason to seek such illumination, but she is in need of rescue, in need of clarification and wisdom and guidance, about how she might continue on. She knows what people would expect her to say—how does she carry on as a mother and a wife, but she has played those roles to the best of her ability, and where is she? She wants the Dalai Lama to tell her how she can carry on, as a writer. She wants the guidance she gave to Bash, Lila, Minu, Zena, Bernard, and Anton, as they pursued the dreams closest to their hearts, despite the doubts they felt from inside, sometimes from without, the stern voices of people from their pasts.
She is in a rush now, opening her laptop, pulling up a blank document.
Dear Dalai Lama, she types.
Dear Dalai Lama does not look right on the page.
Do people address this exalted man, encourager of love and healing, good thoughts and kindness, as just Dalai Lama? She searches for an answer and the Protocol School of Washington informs her that the correct form of address is Your Holiness.
It is strange to see Your Holiness appear on the screen, as if she is addressing a god she has never been sure, has never needed to be sure, exists.
Your Holiness:
My name is Joan Ashby. I am a writer—