A Song for Julia

scared me.
    With a little bit of adjustment, Alexandra was all fixed up in a pretty green dress that had once belonged to Carrie, and we were all set. I was just finishing up adjusting my makeup when our mother knocked on the door.
    Mother did her best to glare me into submission over the next ninety minutes as we finished getting ready and then loaded up in the van my father rented. As always, Dad was oblivious. Alexandra sat in the back seat, reading a book, while Carrie and I sat in the middle, quietly talking. She was actually looking forward to getting back to school. Apparently, despite the dislocations of going to three different high schools (one in Bethesda, one in Moscow, and now in San Francisco), she’d settled in and found a place for herself. I found myself envying her that. My own high school experience was nothing but one nightmare after another, and it was hard to imagine how different our lives were in that respect.
    But seriously, so what? I had found a place for myself. Even if it was only recently. I was slowly getting closer to Jemi, though that was often awkward and odd. And Jack and Margot and Sean truly made me feel like I had family in Boston. It was beyond strange, that in a row house in South Boston, I’d found people I cared about as much as I cared for them. Briefly, I wondered how Jack was. On Monday, he’d mobilized with his unit, and they’d begun the process of deploying to Kuwait. I had no idea how long that sort of thing took. Were they already over there? In some camp in the desert? I had no idea.
    Thinking of Jack turned my mind back to Barry Lewis, who had been my bodyguard and almost big brother, in middle school. Jack had suggested that I try the Pentagon’s worldwide locator. If he was still in the Marines, they’d find him. I’d thought about it a lot. Would he even remember me? I was just some kid he had to guard—somehow I was sure that relationship didn’t have the same significance for him as it did for me. He’d provided a … stability, a warmth, that I’d never had before, and really hadn’t experienced since, until I met Crank’s family. Someday, I wanted to thank him.
    Carrie seemed to have dodged a lot of that. In fact, she seemed remarkably well adjusted and happy. It was weird. Our lives were lived out of sequence from each other, the distance in age compounded by the many moves. I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like for Alexandra, or the twins, or especially Andrea, who would grow up too young to even remember the Foreign Service and moving every three years of her life.
    We quieted down as the van approached the gates to the White House. A military Humvee was parked at the intersection, yet another relic of September 11. I wondered if they would be there permanently. At the gate, my father handed over his identification, and the Secret Service guards shined flashlights into the van, then pointed my dad where to park. Two guards followed to the parking space and stood a safe distance as we piled out of the van.
    It was freezing cold out, just the slightest bit of drizzle threatening to turn to snow. The White House was brightly lit in the darkness, and we followed our escort to a door in the East Wing. Once inside, we went through metal detectors, and then the guard led us inside.
    A young woman met us on a landing. “Ambassador Thompson and family? Come this way, please.”
    She turned, leading us through a locked door, past a silent Secret Service agent and up a flight of stairs. A moment later, we were in the residence. We followed her down a thickly carpeted hallway, lined with portraits of past Presidents and First Ladies, and into a small room, where I was brought face to face with a nightmare.
    “Ambassador Thompson, may I introduce Ambassador Easton, who will be representing the United Kingdom.”
    I barely noticed as my father and Ambassador Easton shook hands and began introducing their families. Easton’s wife was a somewhat frumpy looking woman wearing a black velvet dress. Standing beside them, his face blanched, was Harry Easton.
    I froze.
    My dad and Easton chuckled as they shook hands. “We know each other,” my father said. “Ronald was on his last year in Beijing when we arrived there.”
    Easton said, “Richard, I don’t know if you’ll recall him, that was a long time ago, but this is my son, Harry. He’s currently a junior attaché at the consulate in New York.”
    My mother smiled and shook hands with