The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

and theoretical—would serve as a small rebellion against his father, the owner of an accounting firm.

      “Lane Moritomo in here?” some guy called out.

      “Yeah, that’s me!”

      “Girl’s on the phone for you.”

      Fighting a grin, Lane set aside his book. He had been hoping all afternoon that Maddie would ring him back once her brother left the house. “That’s gotta be my sister,” he told his study pals.

      “Pass along my thanks,” Dewey said, “for making those paper birds.” The origami cranes were what he meant, folded by Emma’s tiny hands to bring them luck on their exams.

      “Sure thing.” It drove Lane crazy not being straight with his roommate.

      Soon that would change.

      At the phone in the hall, Lane brought the handset to his ear. A pair of athletes in Cardinal sweatshirts strolled into the dorm. For privacy, he spoke just above a whisper. “Maddie?”

      “Am I speaking with Lane Moritomo?” It was indeed a woman, but he didn’t recognize the voice.

      “Uh, yes. This is Lane.”

      “Mr. Moritomo, this is Congressman Egan’s office.”

      “Yes?” he said again, thrown off guard.

      “Sir, I’m phoning to inform you that you’ve been chosen for an internship.”

      Her sentence lit a fuse. It traveled through him, gaining potency and speed, until he exploded with excitement. “I can’t believe it! My God—I mean, my gosh.” A small circle of students glanced over. Lane cranked his volume down. “I … don’t know what to say.”

      “How about, you accept the offer?” A smile broke through her businesslike tone.

      “Of course. I definitely accept.”

      “Congressman Egan will be delighted to hear that. Your enthusiasm and fresh ideas made quite an impression.” Lane strove to listen, despite his yearning to scream while sprinting through every corner of the Quad, around Lake Lagunita and back. “You’ll receive more details by post, but feel free to contact us with any concerns. Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you in June.”

      “Details. In June.” Thoughts tumbling, he barely remembered to add, “Thank you, ma’am. For letting me know.”

      “My pleasure.”

      The line went dead, but Lane was afraid to release the handset, as though the phone were his sole link to the internship.

      Among all the politicians in the region, Egan most closely shared his visions of equality and civil rights, community outreach. Of immigration and landowning laws needing to be reformed. Ongoing peace talks between Japan and the U.S. were dandy, but why stop there? Increasing American commerce in the East would benefit everyone.

      To each of Lane’s points, the congressman had listened, and concurred. Egan maintained that the government existed to serve the public, not the other way around. He was a doer, not a talker. And somehow, Lane’s foot had managed to wedge into that esteemed man’s door.

      Granted, it was only an internship and the pay wouldn’t be much, but it was a stepping-stone toward a brighter future. A future he couldn’t wait to share with Maddie.

      Maddie. She was the first person he wanted to tell.

      The operator connected the call. He started tapping his thumb on the phone after the first ring. By the fourth, it felt like forty.

      “Kern’s Tailoring.”

      He was so thankful Maddie had answered he plunged straight in. “The internship. At the congressman’s office. Sweetheart, I got it. I got it!”

      “Wow, that’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

      “I thought I had a good shot, after the interview, but … there were so many applicants—” He heard Maddie talking to someone, her voice muffled from covering the mouthpiece. “Maddie?” He waited. “Honey?”

      “Sorry, I’m here. And I do want to hear more, but there’s a whole wedding party being fitted.”

      He squelched a budding of disappointment. “No problem.”

      “I’m happy for you, though. Truly I am.”

      “It’s fine, I understand,” he assured her, then remembered the upcoming weekend. “Besides, I can tell you more in person, when we meet on Saturday.”

      “Oh, right. Saturday,” she agreed. But there was a catch in her voice that tugged like a hook in his chest. He was about to investigate the cause when the reason became clear.

      Egan’s office was in California; Juilliard was in New York.

      “Don’t worry about this affecting your schooling, okay? We’ll figure it out, no matter what.”

      Muffled again, she spoke to a customer, then, “Sorry, Lane, I have to run. Talk to you soon.”

      “Okay then, take care. I—” Click. “Love you.”

      The hallway went eerily quiet.

      By the time he hung up the phone, he chose to brush away his senseless worries. There was too much to celebrate. The internship of his dreams, a key to his future, had been dropped into his hands. Maybe there was magic in those lucky cranes after all.

      He sped to the commons and shared the news with Dewey, who demanded they toast at Danny Mac’s Pub to commemorate the triumph.

      Later, once the elation and beer began to wear off, they crashed in a happy stupor on their beds. And that’s how Lane remained until late that night, when he awoke from a nightmare, sweat beading his face. The scene imprinted in his mind left him unable to sleep: At Seattle’s Union Station, he stood on a platform, awaiting his future bride—who never showed.

      

11

      Dreariness hung in the air, rivaling the pungency of medications and disinfectant. The odors, however, didn’t bother Maddie. With each visit to the convalescent home, her nose had grown more tolerant of the strange, sterile surroundings, as had the rest of her senses. The sight of elderly residents struggling to feed themselves over-boiled food, or getting agitated at relatives they no longer recognized, had gradually lost its impact. Even glimpsing shriveled bodies holed up in their beds, disguised chariots headed for the after life, caused Maddie only occasional pause.

      She pondered this while rosining her bow, preparing for her performance. As she stood alone in her father’s assigned room, it dawned on her how accustomed she had become to the bland, beige walls and scuffed tiled floors, the clusters of wheelchairs and muted floral paintings. A sadness rose within her.

      He wasn’t supposed to be here this long.

      The doctor had recommended a change in scenery to help cure his depression, some place free from the memories of his wife. Beatrice Lovell had been quick to highlight the amenities of the rest home owned by her husband, as if selling a vacation house on the Malibu shore. Of course, more than the vastly discounted rate communicated her unspoken favor. Given that Maddie and her brother had both been in school, and lacked any close relatives, Bea had secured the care their father needed. Perhaps even rescued him from an asylum.

      What else did authorities do with people whose grief stripped their desire to function?

      “Mr. Kern, look who’s here,” a nurse encouraged. She guided him into the room in a slow shuffle.

      “Hi, Daddy.” Maddie dredged up a smile, held it as his glassy blue eyes panned past her face. The routine persisted in delivering a sting.