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Fire
By Lois Fogg
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Chapter Five
Correspondence
Darien,
What happened yesterday, just before you left? I couldn’t really get to sleep
last night, thinking about it. You confuse me so damn much, do you know that?
One moment I think you love me, the next you hate me. What are you thinking?
Don’t you trust me by now? It doesn’t matter that I’m Ken Johnston’s daughter,
does it? If it’s any consolation, I disagree with practically everything he
thinks about politics. I probably won’t even vote for him, although I won’t
tell him that. I would so much rather be with you than here. I’ve never been on
a farm, well not since I was six years old, anyway. I’d like to never have to
dress up again, to never have to kiss up to imbecilic VIP’s, to just be myself.
I bet that I would enjoy it, especially during peach season. I thought I hated
my world before, but now it’s become practically unbearable. Yesterday, after I
got off the plane, my dad practically had an entourage to greet me. I haven’t
dared look at the papers, but I know my picture is probably glaring from some
back page. I was *so* angry at him for using me like that, but he wouldn’t
listen to me. I know that he tipped those reporters, so they would catch him in
a ‘fatherly’ moment. I should have just taken the train in, like I wanted, and
not told him about it. I should have gone home with you. Darien, the thought is
making me unbearably lonely—I wish that I could spend Christmas at your farm.
It sounds so romantic. Do you cut down your own Christmas tree? Here my mom
just breaks out the same fake one we’ve used for years. It’s top of the line—at
least, that’s what dad always says to the guests—but I’ve always wanted a real
tree. I like the way they smell. But the fake tree is just one more aspect of
this entire charade. Sometimes I think that I really hate politics. Why can’t
you be a real person and still be president? It’s not like I think my dad would
make a bad president, he’s a good person, but I think that he is so far removed
from real people. He surrounds himself with other political yuppies like
himself, and then pretends to understand the ‘common man’. It doesn’t work, you
know? I know that you’ll probably laugh at me, but I always think of your life
as the way mine ought to be. I know it’s hard to be a farmer—I know politicians
don’t help them much—but at least it’s *real*. None of this glittering,
glamorous, fake lifestyle. Sorry, my mom is bugging me to get dressed now—I
have to go to another one of those interminable cocktail parties. I love you,
Darien, but you already know that.
Serena
P.S. I just thought of the perfect Christmas gift for you! Don’t worry, you’ll
love it, I swear!
Darien, I feel so silly, writing to you every day, but I can’t seem to get you
out of my head, and even when I’m not holding a pen, I’m thinking about the
letters. I hope that you’re thinking about me, because I don’t want to be alone
in this. Well, let me tell you about what happened last night. The cocktail
party was a complete disaster, first of all. I swear, I’m going to go insane if
dad pulls anymore publicity stunts like this! So, first of all, it was one of
those super-important Christmas parties that everybody and their mother throws,
and my dad forces me to go to all of them. Even the president and his wife were
at this one, though, so I guess that it was pretty important. Anyway, I was
just sitting in the back corner—well, all right, I was next to the desert tray,
but you have to give me a break, if you knew these parties. The only good thing
about them is the desert tray. I always gain several pounds over Christmas.
Anyway, my mom walks over, talking to this ugly, dorky looking guy. And I’m
getting pretty nervous, because it has occurred to me that she might be trying
to set me up again. They hadn’t given me the chance to tell them about you, and
besides, I would never date anyone they set me up with anyway. So this kid
turns out to be the Vice-President’s son, and he’s in law school at Harvard,
and he was just *dying* to meet me—well, that’s what mom said. I was about to
gag. She knew what I was thinking, because she gave me this look that made me
know I had to talk to the idiot, even if I didn’t want to. It makes me so mad,
thinking about how they treat me. I am not a baby; I’m not even in high school
anymore. They don’t have a right to force me to talk to these stupid people!
But no matter what, I listen to them. So the guy smiles—and I saw that he had
braces! Imagine, braces at his age, I wanted to puke! So he pulls out a chair
for me, even though I really didn’t want to sit down, because then I really
would be forced to talk to him, but my mother glared at me, so I did. I feel
like such a wimp, I really should have splashed the wine in her face and
stalked out of the room, at least then I wouldn’t have had to talk for three
hours straight with Vance Jr. He was so remarkably stupid, it was so obvious
that the only reason he got into Harvard was because of his father. Every time
I made to get up, mom or dad looked at me and I had to sit down again. I swear,
Darien, it was pure torture. No one, not even the most ruthless Chinese prison
guard, could have devised a more horrendous punishment for a girl. He kept
downing wine like it was water, and by the end of the three hours, he was
leering at me in a way that made me want to slap him! His arm had somehow
sneaked around me, too, and his breath smelled terrible. And then, just as I
thought I would be able to get out of it, my dad—who, of course, had surrounded
himself with reporters—turns to me and Mr. Creep, and says, as loud as he
possibly can: “Well, of course I have to get used to my daughter growing up.
But I couldn’t think of a better match for her than Vice President William’s
son. Just look at them together!” Of course, my face turns beet red, and I look
away from the cameras, as they flash at me. I really couldn’t believe it. I
mean, dad has pulled some stunts before, but nothing like this! I could have
killed him. In fact, I wrenched away from the creep and walked out the door, I
didn’t even bother to grab my coat. All I could think about was that I really
wanted to be with you, Darien, and that I wish you had come with me so dad
would stop trying to set me up. I’m afraid, though, that stupid Vance Jr. is
going to stalk me back at Harvard. Well, you’ll just have to protect me, then,
I hope. That thought, at least, makes this whole situation bearable. Wait, my
father is finally home. I’m going to have to talk to him now, so I’ll go. I’m
telling him in no uncertain terms that I am off limits for matchmaking and any
other forms of publicity he may have in mind. You may find me on your doorstep
in a couple of days if he doesn’t let up! Exasperated, but (of course) very
happy to be writing to you again, Serena
Darien,
This is terrible! Dad didn’t understand at all! He practically ordered me to go
out with the creep. And when I told him about you he said some horrible bigoted
remark about keeping to our class, and different lifestyles. I told him,
succinctly, to shove it. I couldn’t believe that he said that. I told him that
I was planning to leave this stupid ‘lifestyle’ of his as soon as I possibly
could, so he wouldn’t have to worry about unsuitable boys. I always thought
that deep down, my dad believed in the type of social equality our country is
based on, but now I’m beginning to wonder if he is exactly like the rest of the
career politicians that I know. I don’t understand how he could judge you when
he doesn’t even know you, just because I told him that your grandfather was a
farmer. It doesn’t make any sense! I tried to explain, to both him and mom, how
wonderful you were, but they didn’t even listen to me. They actually said that
no peach farmer would date their daughter—those exact words! I thought I knew
them, but I never would have thought them capable of thinking something so
bigoted. I don’t know how they could possibly stop me, though, Darien. I don’t
have to listen to them. I honestly don’t know why I bothered to for so long.
It’s about midnight now, and I think that I’m going to have to leave the house,
and cool off. This life isn’t for me. I always knew it wasn’t, but I really
can’t handle it anymore. I’m going to my friend Molly’s house, the address is
at the bottom of the letter. Write me there, she can give me the letters, even
if I do decide to come back home after a while. I think that mom and dad need
to understand how serious I am. And, who knows, if anything will convince them,
it’s the threat of bad press. I might pull one of my father’s tricks, and tip a
reporter. Actually, I don’t think that I will do that—I can’t stand publicity.
It would be nice to be home for Christmas, though, if I can’t be with you. I’ll
just have to see what happens.
Missing you (why don’t you write?) Serena
Darien,
It’s been a week since I’ve seen you. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Why haven’t
you written to me? I want you so badly that I can taste it. Sometimes I look at
someone on the street, and for one brief second, it’s you, smiling at me. Can’t
you at least write? Tell me that something has happened, that the post has
broken down, that the mailman has forgotten to give you my letters. Don’t tell
me that you are ignoring me, that already you have forgotten me, stopped loving
me— if you ever did. Here is my gift. I wanted a little piece of me to be under
your tree this Christmas. I hope you like the present. I noticed that your copy
of The Taming of the Shrew was getting a little dog eared, so I knew that this
would be perfect. The picture on the cover is one Mina took of us. I think that
it actually *is* of our first argument. I think we look so funny, but I
couldn’t think of a more perfect picture. We look like fighting lovers, don’t
we?
You never explained to me how you know Japanese. I’m curious, but I’m beginning
to get a bit afraid. There is something that is pulling you away from me. I can
feel it. I don’t know what it is. You never tell me these things, Darien. I
don’t know why you’re afraid of me.
Serena
Serena,
I know that you will probably get this after New Years, since the post around
here is pretty slow, so merry Christmas and happy New Year. I’ve read your
letters, and for a while I could not bring myself to answer them, no matter how
much I wanted to. But when I saw your present, I knew that I had to explain
myself. You probably won’t forgive me for this. I don’t even know if you’ll
understand where I’m coming from, but I have to try. You are right, you at
least deserve the right to know what is pulling me away from you.
My parents were diplomatic attaché’s, stationed—when I was born—in Japan. I do
not remember them, but I will get to that later. I was educated in an English
school until I was seven. Then, while taking a road trip one day, we were in a
terrible car accident. I was the only survivor. I suffered complete amnesia. I
could not remember my former life, only my name. It was only much later that I
discovered who my parents were. I spoke Japanese fluently, and because they did
not know of any living relatives, I was placed in an orphanage. I don’t really
know why I remembered English as well as I did. Maybe it was because I read
every book I could find—and lots were in English. It was hard in the orphanage,
I suppose. Not because we were mistreated, but because we were never given any
real affection. The warmth of a family was denied to us. I had no friends,
growing up. I never really spoke to anybody. I was driven, determined to
succeed to spite everyone who had forced me down. But when I was fourteen, a
social worker came to the orphanage, and told me that a man in the US had
contacted her about my parents. He had been searching for me for years, she
said, and had only just found me. He was my grandfather. A grandfather I had
never known, but was being gratefully shipped off to. I resented his intrusion
on my life, I suppose. I was independent. I did not need love—or so I thought.
I had not really learned what love was. The last thing I wanted was to live
with a farmer who claimed to be my grandfather. And then I met him.
He was the only person in my life who had ever truly loved me for who I was. He
loved me, even when I was rude and ungrateful. He made the most incredible
sacrifices for me. We were poor—farmers usually are not very well off—but he
used every extra penny on me and my education. I came, despite myself, to love
him. But I always knew that our world was a different one from the rich, and
glamorous lifestyle made popular by television—your lifestyle Serena. As I got
older, I knew that there was always going to be a divide between those like my
grandfather, poor just struggling to survive, and those like you, with wealth
that could feed a small nation. I knew that I would never be able to understand
people like that. That much, I owed to my grandfather. One of the wealthiest
nations in the world, and the politicians only protected their own: the rich
and influential. I knew I couldn’t change that, but I refused to be a part of
it. Serena, I still refuse to be a part of it. That’s why it’s so important
that you are Ken Johnston’s daughter. He is the embodiment of every aspect of
the US government that I despise. You are his daughter. I simply can’t throw
away where I came from. Your father said that we come from two different
worlds. And we do. I would like to be able to love you, Serena. I came
extremely close to doing it. But I can’t truly love someone born to privilege
like you were. I can’t, because we are fundamentally different. You will
understand, if not now, later, why I can’t love you. We will go our separate
ways and forget about each other. I am so sorry, Serena.
Darien
I read and re-read the letter, as if doing so would change what he had said. It
didn’t. He still hated me. Not because of who I was, but because of what I
stood for. The tears started quietly, burning hot tracks down my cheeks. My mouth
opened convulsively, trying to utter a sound, trying to vocalize the extent of
my loss, but nothing came out. He had said he loved me, and now he didn’t. He
had called me Usako, and now he called me Serena. I loved him! I loved him so
badly that it hurt me, and he had washed his hands of me. Breaking from my
throat, an incoherent cry escaped, and I collapsed to my knees. I was alone in
the house, sitting in front of the fire. My grief was all-encompassing. It
ridiculed my love, but made it all the more inevitable.
“Darien.” I whimpered, over and over again, my tears making the ink unreadable.
It did not matter, the words were etched in my brain forever. How could he do
this to me? How could he? And yet I felt an unbearable sympathy for him. How
could I have complained of my rich life when he had lived through that? How
could I? Perhaps that was why he hated me. Because I was spoiled and did not
understand what I had been given before it was too late. With a violent cry I
ripped the letter apart, and tossed the pieces on the fire. I watched the
flames leap up as they fed on my tears and his rejection. It seemed as if the
fire was laughing at me, mocking my pain. Angrily I picked up the envelope,
ready to toss it into the fire as well, but stopped, when I felt something
inside. Numbly, I turned it over, and something fell out of the bottom. I
picked it up, and turned it over carefully in my hand. It was a small ivory
bunny, attached to a silver chain. On its stomach, with painstaking care,
someone had carved “Usako”.
I stayed in front of the fire, late into the night, calling his name like a
prayer.