Page 17 of Revisions

I can see the forced swallow in Luke’s throat.

“I dream at night. I see Dana lying a few yards from me, bleeding. I wake up and think the weight pressing against me is Blake. I have to remind myself to breathe—close my eyes and repeat Jameson’s name until I trust that when I open them, I will seeher. You think I’m pushing because I want to prove I’m not afraid. Of course, I’m afraid. Jonah set off some firecrackers in Schoharie last week—I trembled for an hour. No one noticed except Jameson. My fearcan’tprevent my work. Too many people around me underestimate thegravityof my presence in that work. I will allow my fear to dictate my actions. I won’t. People need to feel safe, Luke. They need to believe they canattend a political rally, a protest, or any event and feel secure. The truth is that safety is an illusion. No one can predict what will happen. It could be an accident that triggers an explosion or a fire. It could be another shooting or a natural disaster. I need to project confidence.”

“But this is a preventable?—”

“Disaster?” I ask. “Do you have any reason—any verifiable evidence that my presence will endanger the crowd?”

“No. We have time,” Luke says. “I know you’re worried about losing the Senate. We can find alternatives?—”

“There isn’t an alternative to being present.”

“People understand.”

“No.Peopledon’t understand. My days are filled with meetings with powerful people, many of whom serve my administration. Do you know how often I’ve heard, ‘I serve at the pleasure of the president?’ That may be true. They forget thatIserve at the pleasure of thepeople. You forget that. My family forgets that. I assure you; I havenotforgotten it.”

“I’m not going to win this argument, am I?” Luke asks me.

“This isn’t about winning an argument. It’s bigger than that. What happened that day in New York was traumatic for everyone—everyone.People need to see me. I also need to see the people I serve. Do you know why I wanted to run for office?”

“I know you admired your grandfather.”

“I did. I do. My childhood wasn’t always easy. People looking at me from a distance assume because my family has money, my life is easy. I didn’t wantthingsas a child. I had toys and bikes, went on trips, and never worried about paying for my education. I hated to be at home. My mother loved that house in Saratoga Springs. I don’t think she loved it more than she loved me, but she understood it better. I never felt like I washomethere.

“Being at the house in Schoharie with my grandparents and Pearl—that washome. I could be myself. Anywhere I was withmy grandparents felt like home. When I was about twelve, my mother planned a trip for the family to Europe. She was so excited. We were set to leave in August for two weeks. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I told her I didn’t want to go. My grandfather was campaigning that month. I wanted to be with him. My mother was furious.”

“So, you went to Europe?” Luke asks.

“Hell no.”

Luke chuckles.

“My mother was so angry at me that she extended their trip for another week. Maybe she thought that was a punishment, or maybe she just wanted to avoid me a while longer.” I chuckle. “I got to stay with my grandparents for three weeks. That was the best gift I could have been given. I was on the trail with Grandad most of the time. I loved every second of it. He could talk toanyone. He encouraged me to speak witheveryone. I met interesting people everywhere we went. Some would ask about me or Grandad. Most told me about their lives and how Grandad helped or disappointed them. They had stories about meeting him before he was governor or how they’d seen him play baseball when he was in college.

I realize most people think I love to campaign because I get to share myvisionand presstheflesh. I do enjoy those things, but that isn’t why Iloveit. I also get tolistento the people who shape my vision and hear the truth. Sometimes, it’s uplifting, and sometimes, it’s ego-shattering. But I hear thetruthout there—people’struth—away from people keen to stay in my good graces.

“Groups like the American Brethren disgust me. It’s infuriating to know that we still have people in this world who embrace white supremacy and hate. But it isreal.What they feel is as real to them as what I believe is real to me. It’s uncomfortable. I need toseeit andfeelit as much as I needto feel the encouragement of my supporters. And they need tofeelthe discomfort that accompanies seeing me as the leader of this country. This is about more than elections, Luke. It’s about much more than that.”

Luke smiles.

“Is that all you have for me?” I ask.

Luke laughs.

“Silly question,” I say.

“I’ll leave you in peace for a bit,” he says. “Candace?”

“Yes?”

“Idoknow why you love being with people. I may even know you’re right. That’s why we all want to keep you safe and chair,” Luke says as he leaves my office.

Deep breath. There are many moments when I wonder why I am the one sitting in this chair. When I was first elected to public office, I held the naive belief that I could change the world. Somehow, I thought that if I worked hard enough and remained honest and straightforward, I could eliminate the hatred directed at me. I didn’t understand the fear and anger behind all that hatred. It’s still hard for me to comprehend how people can become so hateful. But I also know that the ire directedatme isn’taboutme.

I spent some time reviewing the transcripts of the interrogations the FBI conducted with members of the American Brethren after the bombing. Some parts were chilling, while others were infuriating. None of what was said surprised me. Mostly, it just makes me sad. I wonder where we took a wrong turn with these people. Was it neglectful or abusive parenting? Did our schools fail them? What happened to make themhate? It frustrates Jameson when I get into those conversations—trying to understand thewhy.She’s fiercely protective of the people she loves, me most of all. I love that about her. She sometimes views my effort to understand as equivocal totolerance. That’s not what I feel at all. If I allow myself to believe that I can never shift people away from hateful perceptions, I also concede my ability to create meaningful change. The moment I fall into that trap, I’ll know I amnotthe right person to sit in this chair.

Jameson has been deeply hurt by hateful, judgmental people she cares about. She’s learned to manage that pain, but hearing the vitriol directed at me or our family makes those wounds resurface.

Initially, I tried to assuage her anger by assuring her I was unaffected by the hurtful things said about me. That only increased her ire. She knows that isn’t true. What people say about me doesn’t change who I am. I can try to influence or counter their assertions, but I can’t force anyone to change their behavior, let alone their minds. I’d be lying if I claimed none of it bothers me. But it isn’t the momentary sting I feel that weighs on me. It’s how the lies, name-calling, and threats affect the people I love that gets under my skin—something Jameson quickly reminds me of. And my perceived unwillingness to fight back often frustrates those closest to me, Jameson included. I can’t say I blame them. I also recognize that the temporary rush of verbally hitting back is fleeting, and the repercussions are usually far more painful than the brief thrill. I prefer to strike back where it matters most. I know that seeing me in the Oval Office is the ultimate revenge.

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