All that is Darkness

CHAPTER THIRTY: THE MIRACLE GIRL

"We're going to be fine," said Uncle Bill, with his usual doggedness. "We're all going to be fine. But maybe the best thing to do would be to give the reporters what they want."

My jaw dropped and so did Aunt E's.

"William, you can't be serious!" she said.

"Hold your horses." He raised a hand to silence us before we could further object. "If you keep on hiding from them you're only going to make them more determined," he explained, fixing his eyes on me. "And it might just force them to do exactly what we don't want them to do. If they get their pictures and a few words from you here, that might be enough to satisfy them, and before you know it you'll be yesterday's news."

"Aunt E?" I turned to her, waiting for her to say something.

"William's right," she said at length. "But maybe we can at least be a little creative about your appearance before we unveil you to the public. Perhaps make it a little more difficult for anyone to connect you to one of your former selves." Her eyes twinkled with mischief and she gave me a wink.

So on the Tuesday evening following the market bombing, I made my debut before the cameras. I wore sunglasses and a dark sun hat and a mourning dress, and did my best to look older than I was and as physically different from my past self as possible. There'd never been any class photos of me at Humberton or any of the other schools I'd ever attended because I'd always been conveniently sick the days they were taken. And whenever we'd moved and I'd left a school, Uncle Jim had always made certain any record of my attendance was quietly and expediently expunged; just as he'd recently made my student file at Humberton go missing. Until the day I stepped out on the front porch and had a gazillion flash bulbs blazing at me in rapid succession, there hadn't been any pictures of me in the papers or on television—or anywhere else, for that matter, outside of those needed for ID and the like. In some respects it was as if I didn't exist, which seemed somewhat ironic given how many identities I'd had over the years.

The reporters and photographers stood in a tight circle around the porch, jostling one another for prime location and trampling Aunt E's rare begonias in the process. Notebooks were in hand, pencils were poised, and flashbulbs flared and sizzled. For a few minutes it was like being in the middle of a lightning storm, and I was glad of the sunglasses as camera after camera was thrust in my direction. On the top of the nearby Island TV truck, the operator behind the huge camera swiveled it toward the porch, aiming the lens squarely at us, no doubt zooming in for a close-up of my face.

A barrage of questions was lobbed at me, reporters shouting overtop one another in a bid to be heard. They asked how I felt, what it had been like during the bombing, and why I'd walked away from the hospital. For the most part I tried to be vague in my answers without appearing I was. Only when the subject turned to my friends did I allow myself to be frank. It was impossible not to be sad and tearful and to sob uncontrollably when I talked about Martine, Danni, and Cecilia and what they'd meant to me. And talk about them I did, because I thought the more I kept the attention on them, the less the spotlight would be focused on me.

It felt like I was out there an eternity, but it was probably only fifteen or twenty minutes. And though the reporters would have loved me to have remained longer, I was glad when Aunt E announced that that would be enough. "Chloe has been through a lot and she's still suffering from shock," she told them. "She needs to rest."

More flashbulbs flared as photographers made a last ditch effort for a final candid shot, and all was in turmoil as reporters scrambled to ask one more question while Aunt E and I retreated toward the front door. We ignored them until someone shouted, "Miss Havershaw, how do you feel about the fact that you'll be accompanying the president to the funeral service for your friends?"