Liberty Read online

  DEDICATION

  FOR MY MOM AND DAD,

  you will always be my bedrock.

  FOR MY HUSBAND,

  you will always be my hearth.

  FOR MY SON,

  you will always be my sky.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prelude

  Part I Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part II Interlude I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Part III Interlude II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Andrea Portes

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PRELUDE

  Everything comes to you in dust and waves. The light, the sand blowing in from the crack in the car door, just enough to pass in front of my mother. A two-dimensional face with my father beside her. Halfway across the world. He’s saying something about getting ready—Hey, honey, get ready, we’re almost there. Something about a checkpoint. I hear my voice coming through the screen: What are you doing there, Mom, what are you even doing there?

  She tries to be kind, tries to be understanding. Now, the words are all nothing to worry about—please don’t be upset, we’ll be home soon.

  My voice says, What could be so important, what could be so goddamn important to force you out of Istanbul, and farther up the road to God knows where?

  Damascus, she says. And it’s safe and there’s a mission there and the nuns won’t leave, in spite of the danger. And this is what we do, honey, this is what we do.

  Then my father says something about Here we are, here we are at the checkpoint. The driver is speaking to my father, in Arabic, my father answers, and for a moment everything is routine, just papers and IDs a few questions and even a little joke about the ID picture—I was younger then, boy, was I.

  I’m about to speak, but my words never get to come out again because then there is gunfire.

  Gunfire in bursts and Arabic and dust clouding the air and orders rapid-fire coming from somewhere outside the car and the screen isn’t showing my mom anymore, or my dad. The screen is showing the bottom of the backseat of the car while the sound keeps going rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.

  No good-bye words, no kind assurances, not even enough time for I love you.

  Only bullets.

  “Mom? What’s happening? Where are you, tell me now, where are you?!”

  But the screen has nothing to say now, and the car has nothing to say, and there are no more words coming from the car because the car is now empty.

  The car is empty.

  “Mom? . . . Dad?”

  And now there is only silence.

  I

  1

  It’s okay for me to tell my story now, isn’t it? I mean, there’s a couple of things I should probably leave out. Just to make everybody feel better. So as not to shatter our illusions that the world is a wonderful place or whatever.

  But maybe there’s no point to that. You know, whitewashing. Maybe it’s better to just put it all on the table so you can just look at it and decide if you want to see it for what it is, or just unsee it and walk away. I mean, really, it’s your choice.

  A lot of people unsee a lot of things, every day. Think about it. Every day you go around, stepping over some guy out on the street, outside the Starbucks, or at the park, or on the sidewalk, you just unsee it. Or those cops pulling over that black guy or that brown guy or that anything-but-white guy. You just kind of unsee it, right?

  And then, one day, you just kind of forget you’re even unseeing anything at all. It’s just subconscious. It’s just white noise. It’s just normal.

  But then, sometimes, a person comes along, or a thing comes along, and it jars you. It snaps you out of it. And all of a sudden you can see again.

  That’s when you have to make the choice.

  Am I gonna go back? Or am I gonna keep seeing that?

  Because if I keep seeing that, that thing right in front of me that is so unjust, eventually I might have to do something about it.

  Look, I’m not here to change anyone’s life or anything. I’m just trying to tell a story. But I’m asking . . . what I’m asking is . . . Can I just tell it? Can I just tell it how it happened?

  If I tell it to you, you have to keep it safe, okay?

  Just keep it safe.

  2

  All right, well, obviously there’s some details we have to go over. You’re probably gonna want to know who this right here is. You know, yours truly. The one invading your life right now.

  I’m an expat. Well, I’m not really an expat. I’m more the child of two expats. So, therefore, my expat status was forced on me.

  Don’t worry. I’m not mad at them about it. I couldn’t be mad at them even if I wanted to be.

  They’re dead.

  Or probably dead.

  No one knows.

  We’re going to get to that later. And don’t feel sorry for me. I can’t stand it when I tell people because the look of concern alone is enough to make me want to run out of the room to the nearest bar. Seriously.

  Also, just, do me a favor. When I tell you what happened . . . don’t freak out.

  The whole thing started with something stupid. I mean, really banal.

  It’s always something stupid. Something you never thought would amount to anything. Something you didn’t even think about. In movies you always know when the big thing is happening. The music swells. The camera swoops in. The star looks up in wonder. And you know. This is the big thing. The life-changing thing.

  But not in life. In life it’s just a shrug and I did this thing, and then that thing hap
pened, and then this happened. And you never know what the big thing is until you look back and think, OMG, that was it. How did I not know it?

  It’s maddening in a way. How random it is.

  Like this thing. This life-changing thing.

  Wanna know what it is?

  Applebee’s.

  Yup, Applebee’s.

  More specifically, the Applebee’s off Interstate 99 just outside of Altoona. That is Pennsylvania, just in case for some reason you didn’t know where ALTOONA is. This is the place that fate set me down one happy, unknowing spring day in April 2015. I was driving back from Pittsburgh, listening to Majical Cloudz, minding my own business, when, quite simply, nature called. Nature called and I had to make a stop in this godforsaken place, which, let’s be honest, is in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains. That’s right. Deliverance city. And the only place open that looked like I would not get kidnapped and put in a cellar, the entrance to which is disguised by an icebox, was the Altoona Applebee’s of Logan Valley Mall. (Proudly serving a happy hour special of Sweet Chili Brisket Sliders!) Normal, right? But make no mistake, if I hadn’t gone to the Applebee’s off Interstate 99, two hours outside of Pittsburgh, none of this would have ever happened.

  Now, what was I doing in Pittsburgh? Well, my parents raised me to be kind of a knee-jerk liberal—you know, one of those people who annoys everybody at the dinner table by talking about polar bears dying off or #blacklivesmatter and actually caring about sea slaves off the coast of Asia? Yup. I’m one of those. An agitator.

  My folks didn’t do this because they wanted to annoy everyone around me for the rest of their lives. They didn’t even do it on purpose. I could have become a red-faced Tea Party hysteric for all they cared, because the decision was left to me because they are/were namby-pamby liberals who believe this crazy thing that everyone gets to be whatever they want.

  But they are/were journalists. And good ones. They had a little flirty competition between them about who had the most Robert F. Kennedy awards, and who got in the New York Times and who could possibly get the National Book Award. (My mom did, four years ago, and I think she wore it as a hat for two months straight.)

  But let’s not talk about them right now, because I don’t want to start crying yet. I just want to tell you why I was in Pittsburgh in the first place.

  There’s a place in Pittsburgh called Carnegie Mellon University where they have an award-winning program in robotics. Without getting into what they are designing there and scaring the bejesus out of you, I will just say, I wanted to see it myself, take notes, talk to the designers, and write about it for my senior thesis on artificial intelligence. So far, the working title is: “Artificial Intelligence: Human Immortality or Frankenstein’s Monster?” Look, we can talk about it later.

  The problem is, I am still a human with human functions, and that means I had to visit a human bathroom in a human restaurant called Applebee’s.

  It was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be a quick stop. Simple.

  The thing is . . . there were a lot of families there. Cute families. Families with little kids drawing with crayons on those little paper place mats they give to make kids stay at the table and not run around all over the place tripping waitresses. There were babies, and toddlers, and five-year-old boys in Batman shirts. There was even a little girl dressed as Elsa. For no reason. It’s not Halloween. But go ahead, cutie pie, you dress up as Elsa all you want. You do you.

  And that would have been great, the families.

  Except that when you came out of the bathroom, if you looked at the faces of the mommies, you would see something was wrong. Something was really wrong. The moms were worried. The moms were freaking out but trying not to freak out because they were in front of their kids, and all moms know you have to keep it together in front of your kids or they will be terrified.

  So I look. I go to see why they are worried. I can’t help but feel bad for them. Moms have it hard enough. You try taking care of kids. I babysat once and had to take a nap for a week.

  And then I see it. Or more aptly, I see them.

  These guys.

  Two of them.

  We’ll call them Hot Dog and Hamburger. Why will we call them Hot Dog and Hamburger? Because one is tall and weighs three pounds and the other is short and weighs about three hundred. But that’s not what’s wrong with them. Don’t be a jerk.

  What’s wrong with them is this:

  These guys are both just standing there. One in a Confederate flag jean jacket. One in a Slayer shirt. They seem to have matching mullets. They seem to have cut them themselves. But, again, that’s not what’s wrong with them. Don’t be superficial.

  What’s wrong with them is that they are both carrying what appear to be assault rifles, AK-47s, strapped to their backs, just flung over their backs, like they are in the Applebee’s in Iraq. (Which doesn’t exist.) They both have extra, just-in-case guns in their holsters as well. Handguns.

  If you spoke to them, I bet they would tell you that they are very proud of their guns. They are in LOVE with their guns! They want to marry their guns! But you won’t have time to speak with them.

  Right now they are harassing the poor manager of the Applebee’s, who kind of looks like a much younger Ned Flanders from The Simpsons. Here’s the conversation:

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave; there are families here, and you are disturbing their meals.”

  The moms look worried. Everyone is leaning in. One mom is leaving, huddled over her kids on the way out. I don’t blame her. Most of the other moms are anxiously looking for their waiters, wanting to leave. There don’t seem to be any dads here today. Maybe they are all at work. It is eleven a.m. on a Tuesday, after all.

  Hot Dog and Hamburger reply with a card. It looks to be some laminated thing. I peer over their shoulders. Oh, a copy of the Constitution. Of course!

  Hamburger takes the lead: “It is my God-given right to be here. It is my right to be armed. This is a free country the last time I checked.”

  Hot Dog chimes in: “Yeah, our forefathers got it for us!”

  I’m sure Thomas Jefferson would be thrilled.

  More moms leave, panicked.

  And I can’t help it.

  This is something I shouldn’t do but I do anyway.

  (I’ve never been very good at social norms.)

  I step in.

  “Good afternoon, Hot Dog and Hamburger! I believe it’s time you leave this establishment!”

  3

  I think I forgot to tell you that I’m five foot two and have mouse-brown hair and skin the color halfway between paper and the inside of a potato. Also, I’m a bit underweight because I have what the doctor’s have informed us is called “dissociative disorder,” which makes me not realize that I actually have a body and that I’m actually supposed to feed said body.

  So I’m not exactly big. And I’m not exactly tough-looking. And I’m in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains.

  So you can imagine the look they give me.

  It’s not quite laughter.

  It’s more incredulousness.

  It’s more . . . What the eff does this little elf think she’s doing here?

  It’s more . . . Are you kidding me, tiny?

  And they’re all staring now. The mothers. The waiters. Even the little ones. Those little baby faces, rapt. And I have to protect them. I don’t know why I feel like it’s my job. But for some reason, it is.

  And somehow it seems this is not really happening. That the moment I spoke up I stepped into an alternate universe.

  “Are you fucking kidding?” It’s Hamburger. He’s the leader.

  “Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, I would like you to refrain from using profanity in front of the children. Many of them are not yet five and should not be submitted to hearing such vulgarity. However, the more pressing issue is that I would like you to leave this establishment.”

  “You high or something?” That wa
s Hot Dog. He’s obviously the brains of the operation.

  “I will give you to the count of three.”

  Now Hamburger.

  “I will give YOU til the count of three, sweet cheeks. How ’bout that?”

  He pulls out his handgun. Aims it at me.

  Welp, that escalated quickly.

  I turn to Ned, the manager. “You see this, right? Assault with a deadly weapon?”

  Ned just gulps. I turn back to the barbecue twins.

  “The sweetness of my cheeks is of no concern to you. Also, the problem is that I have a dissociative disorder. So when you are pointing that gun at me? It’s as if you are pointing it at a stranger. Do you understand?”

  They don’t really know what to make of this.

  Who would know what to make of it? Imagine if you see yourself from outside of yourself. Like you are a fly on the ceiling watching yourself. And right now, with a gun pointed at me in the hospitality area of the Applebee’s in Altoona, I most definitely feel like I am watching myself.

  “I’m going to give you one last chance to leave this establishment.”

  They stand there.

  “Are you sure? I really don’t want to humiliate you in front of all these people. Although, truthfully, you have already humiliated yourselves by bringing a semiautomatic weapon to the Applebee’s.”

  “Shut the hell up, stupid bitch.”

  The gun, still pointed, not two feet away.

  “I see. So you insist upon the swearing. Again, I’m a pacifist at heart, so—”

  “Yeah, suck it, hippie.”

  “Let’s count it down, shall we? ONE . . .”

  The manager and the waitresses look at each other and sink down behind the host’s stand.

  “TWO . . .”

  The moms shelter their kids, moving them back toward the tables.

  “TWO AND A HALF.”

  The guys chuckle now. They think it’s ridiculous. They think I’m stalling.

  We don’t get to three.

  If Hamburger knew what he was doing, he would not be pointing his gun that close. Because that is just close enough for me to reach out, grab his gun, twist his hand back, and point the gun right back at him. Using the ancient Filipino marshall art of Eskrima. Which he doesn’t know. And obviously he doesn’t know that I know.