Homebound

by Lydia Hope

  “You have a scar on your hand,” she commented to fill their silence.

  He sounded perfectly civil when he answered. “A laser burn. I saw action pre-Great Invasion.”

  “I heard Rix don’t participate in intergalactic conflicts.”

  “Not unless directly threatened. Our home planet is rarely attacked but we are now settled in three other worlds. One of them, Zeona Atun, gets pummeled all the time. It’s a rich little place and the native people are simple. We have to push back a lot in that one area.”

  “Do Rix have conflicts with the native people?”

  “No, they invited us to settle there. For protection.”

  “I guess it’s true then, about Rix being the guards of the Universe,” Gemma said absently. “It must be nice to be friends with Rix.”

  His head whipped to her and she saw her startled expression in his double whammy of the eyes.

  “Is that why you’re here? To become my friend in return for protection?” he ground out.

  Nonplussed, Gemma froze, and then humiliation came, swift and hot.

  “No. I’m not here to earn your protection.”

  “Good. My protection cannot be earned.”

  “I appreciate the clarification. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  “No, we aren’t on the same page.”

  “Don’t worry, I get it. I’m not your friend. I’m your slave. I live to wash your feet, cater to your special dietary needs, and chase away pesky Tarai with moldy ears whenever they get an urge to kill you by strangulation.”

  “You’re doing right by me even though you’re human.”

  Frustration didn’t cover half of what Gemma was feeling at the moment. She propped her fists on her hips.

  “You know what, Simon? Next time you eat my yogurt, I hope you choke on it to death.” Just so she could dance on his grave, bad foot and all.

  “I won’t,” he promised darkly.

  He leaned against the wall splaying his legs wider, oblivious of how inherently masculine the pose was.

  Despite her simmering frustration mixed with awkwardness, Gemma couldn’t completely stop her eyes from roaming all over him. He had no facial hair. His arms, legs, and torso were lanky and slick and velvety - a huge deviation from the Obu. Gemma could still feel the rough scrape of the beast’s wiry hide.

  She shuddered again.

  And realized Simon was watching her out of his swirling eyes. His expression didn’t change, but Gemma knew he noticed and interpreted her shudder as aversion to himself.

  She wouldn’t explain. Let him draw his conclusions, Mr. Never Assume.

  “Afraid I might jump you?” he quietly taunted in his calm, fluid accent.

  That deadpan voice of his did it. Gemma’s bottled up temper reached a full boil and exploded out of its containment like a nuclear reaction gone rogue.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not. What are you going to do? I mean, with what? I might’ve chalked it up on the cold, but you aren’t even cold.”

  She was no longer embarrassed, uncomfortable, or considerate. He had been subtly yanking her chain since she walked into his cell with that washcloth, and she’d had it.

  He remained deadpan. “I think you’re confusing me with the Obu. With the appendage.”

  ”Yes, he had enough of that for the two of you. Obu’s brain might be the size of a raisin, but heed my advice: don’t ever enter into a pissing contest with them.”

  “Rix don’t drink. So we don’t piss.”

  “Good to know. Saves you uncomfortable moments at the urinal. ”

  “We aren’t that disadvantaged.” He was looking at her strangely.

  “It’s okay,” she patted him on the knee, “to be different.”

  “Different. Is it an insult to my manhood?”

  “An insult on what, again?”

  He looked like he wanted to say something but changed his mind.

  “Aw, it’s alright, honey,” she cooed with fake sympathy. “No one’s perfect. Don’t dwell on what you don’t have, think about all the positives. You’re tall. You have good hair.”

  He made a sound deep in his throat.

  She’d be damned if she backed down now, even though for a split second her stomach pinched with something akin to regret. It made no sense but she couldn't lie to herself. She wished he was hung, to make things right in the world.

  His face an impassive mask, he finally said, “I’ll take my chances at the common showers before I let you sponge-bathe me again and get ideas.”

  Gemma was aghast. “You don’t mean that!”

  “I do.”

  “Forget the manhood issue if you can for a minute. You don’t want to be alone with a bunch of them in the dark basement. Remember the Tarai? I’m sure he’ll use the opportunity to grab you by the neck, or other parts that hurt, and you know what? I won’t be there.”

  “I’ll take a hard beating any day over my pride being viciously abused with a sharp tongue.”

  The anger went out of Gemma as abruptly as it had flooded her chest, and she was left with a healthy dose of remorse.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Please, don’t try going out with the others. It isn’t safe. If something happens to you…”

  “Gemma,” he interrupted her, her name in his flowing accent music to her ears. “I can handle myself. You, on the other hand…” He stopped struggling for words.

  “I, what?” She was standing a foot away looking down at him, searching his eyes for something…

  “Stay alert. Don’t go into anyone’s cell alone. If you must go, never turn your back on an inmate.” His tone was flat as he gave her the warnings.

  She hung her head. “I won’t.”

  Strangely defeated, she walked out of the cell without saying goodbye. She didn’t know why she expected anything different. He didn’t care if she lived or died.

  She was locking his door when something caught her attention. Something was wrong with the bars. Where she clearly remembered them all being straight, two were now noticeably bent, curved to opposite sides as if someone tried to pry them apart.

  In her mind’s eye, Gemma saw him standing there holding the bars in his strong six-fingered grip as the Obu had been assaulting her practically at his feet. And his eyes had been dark, shimmering, and a little wild. Her heart thumped against her rib cage and her head started to ring.

  The intensity of the moment burst something within her releasing a warm flow, and she couldn’t be there any longer. Without looking back, she hobbled away nearly slipping on the water she’d splashed on the corridor floor.

  Chapter 16

  Gemma woke up early. Pale diluted light of waning moon barely lightened the neat square of the window covered by faded linen drapes.

  She snuggled deeper inside the covers. Prison helpers were allowed one day off each month, and today was one of hers. Today, she didn’t have to get up and go to work in the harsh winter predawn. Today, she didn’t have to get on her hands and knees to clean someone else's mess. Today, she didn’t have to get her chafed hands dirty, shrug off crude remarks of crass inmates, or deal with Arlo, OO, Marigold, and Little Green Man.

  She used to wait for her days off like a child waits for Christmas.

  Now she was antsy, restless. It would be long twenty-four hours before she saw Simon again.

  Sleep slowly seeped out of her. Her body had gotten used to waking up early, and she found herself too preoccupied with thoughts that buzzed around her head, most of them about Simon, but also about Arlo and his shady business, and Ruby’s new kitten, and Uncle Drexel’s injury. She even wondered, with no particular concern, how Zeke and his wife were going to name their new baby. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of having children and had planned to name her future son Foy, after her brother.

  She still thought Foy had been legendary.

  Gemma squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her thre
adbare blanket over her head to ward off the cold in the room and to hide from reality. She wished like hell Foy had lived. Then their mother wouldn't have been so stupidly adamant about staying on The Islands after the mandatory evacuation orders. Foy would’ve found a way to get them all to safety. She was sure he would’ve eventually gotten them to Meeus.

  What would Foy think of Simon?

  Interesting question, that, considering how Foy had been trained. To him, aliens had always been the invaders. Ironically, had Foy lived, Gemma’s life would have likely turned out differently, and she and Simon would have never met.

  Gemma threw the covers aside and stood up. It didn’t matter now. Foy wasn’t coming back.

  Sounds of footsteps and muffled voices reached her ears - Herise was up now, getting breakfast ready.

  She didn’t want to leave her room and mingle, and neither did the family expect her to. Instead, Gemma pulled up a chair. Shivering in her underwear and an old thin shirt that served as a nightgown, she assumed the first position and, holding the chair’s back, went into plie, slowly, keeping her back straight like she had been taught by the pillars of the ballet mastery back in The Islands.

  She got on with the workout using the back of the chair as a barre, her body easily slipping into the familiar postures and moves. Gradually, her blood ran faster and warmed her to where she no longer shivered. She performed leg stretches noting how her body had lost its former supple flexibility. She’d kept up with the workouts as much as she could but most days she was simply too physically exhausted to swing her legs around.

  She propped her bad right foot on the chair’s back and gave it a disgusted look. The swelling had gone down and the crooked bones showed in their full impairment. Ballerina's foot it no longer was.

  Bending down to where her nose touched her knee, Gemma wondered why she stubbornly clung to her warm-up routine when her dancing days were left so firmly behind her. It’s not like she had a sedentary job and needed more exercise in her life - as if. Yet her identity remained rooted in dance and she still thought of herself as a dancer.

  Perhaps in time, after she trained as a seamstress, or a nurse, or whatever, she’d reinvent herself and let go of her old identity to become something different but if she let it go too soon, she was afraid she’d cease to exist.

  After the workout, Gemma dressed and quietly opened the door. The house was quiet, with Aunt Herise and the kids having eaten and left. Uncle Drexel was sitting at the table, his arm in a sling, reading some printed material with an air of great concentration.

  “Good morning, uncle. I’m glad to see you up.”

  “Morning, Gemma.” He raised his eyes to hers, and his were quite gloomy. “I’m about to go lay down again. I’m feeling unwell.”

  “Is your arm better today? I hope Dr. Delano’s treatment is working.”

  “I can’t tell. I’m in pain, and the wounds look red. They smell. It’s disgusting.” His words implied strong emotions but his tone was apathetic.

  “Healing takes time, uncle,” Gemma said softly. “We are going back to the clinic soon. I’m sure when the doctor sees you, he’ll notice progress. Are you using the ointment?”

  “I am. And there are pills I’m supposed to take after breakfast, but Herise left without helping me sort through them. Now I can’t figure it out.” He appeared on the verge of tears.

  “Is this what you’re reading? The doctor’s instructions?”

  “Yes.”

  Gemma sat down next to him and read the instructions with him. Together, they rummaged through the assortment of pills the nurses had sent home with Drexel and identified two for the right-now. Gemma warmed some water to take his medicine with and rinsed his glass after he was done.

  But her duty wasn’t finished.

  Depressed and needy, her uncle invented an excuse after an excuse to keep her around, catering to his never-ending and seemingly manufactured needs.

  His bandage chafed and needed to be adjusted.

  His feet were cold and he wanted extra socks.

  What was it that Dr. Delano had said about Perali saliva? Gemma had to repeat the lecture.

  And he complained and complained, endlessly venting his misfortune and expecting Gemma to reassure him and boost his sinking spirits.

  She bore this unexpected burden calmly, reminded of her own injury three years ago. She couldn't fix Drexel but if her presence and her words could offer him some comfort, she’d gladly stay and talk to him.

  Finally, he slept. Gemma left a glass of water by his bed and quickly ate the yogurt she wouldn't be able to share today with Simon. Tomorrow, though, she’d compensate for his missed meal.

  Bundled up in several shirts and two sweaters, she went out. It was strange to walk the streets in the daylight, so used was Gemma to making her daily commute in the darkness. She headed to the market located at the City center to see if she could score a second-hand coat. She couldn't afford one but neither could she afford to go without. With winter in full swing, she ran the risk of catching pneumonia before warmer weather made an appearance.

  Finding something that looked marginally wearable, she haggled with the seller until both their lips turned blue.

  “Do you want the coat or not?” the frustrated woman asked.

  “For what you’re asking? Hardly. It looks a hundred years old.”

  The woman huffed with overdone indignation. “It’s practically new! Hardly worn.”

  More like the previous owner died in it from old age.

  “You won’t find another one in your size, missy.”

  “I’ll check children’s selections.” She made like she was ready to leave.

  The woman hesitated… and came down in price.

  Counting out her brass dollars, Gemma silently thanked Marigold the supply dragon for teaching her a thing or two about negotiations.

  Pulling the coat on and savoring its warmth, Gemma headed to the food section of the market. She had to pick up a few grocery items that Aunt Herise wanted her to contribute to the table. Basic stuff like dried beans and cornmeal. Salt.

  In general, the selection of goods at the market could only be described as dismal. Rare fancy imports showed here and there but their price was steep and most folks passed by even on special occasions.

  Not wanting to ask Aunt Herise for eggs and have to enlighten the McKinleys about her situation with Simon, Gemma splurged on two eggs, a small chunk of soft cheese, and a cooked chicken patty. She figured if Simon could improve as dramatically as he did on yogurt alone, this meal would send his recovery rates into the stratosphere.

  Hiding the wrapped items under her new coat to avoid questions and feeling like a smuggler Arlo wanted her to become, Gemma returned home.

  Drexel was still asleep but to Gemma’s surprise, Leena was home, sitting at the table in silence with a lost look in her eyes.

  “Leena. You’re back early.”

  Leena moved her eyes without turning her head and stared at Gemma without seeing her. The empty look filled Gemma with unease.

  “Did something happen?”

  “Did something happen?” the girl repeated automatically.

  “Yes, did something happen to make you come home early?”

  As if floodgates busted open by a torrent of anger, disappointment, and crushed expectations, Leena jumped to her feet and spread her arms wide. “Yes! They closed the sewing school! Until further notice!”

  Gemma set the beans and cornmeal on the table. “Why?”

  “The sewing factory informed the City that they will not be hiring. They plan to lay off half of their current workers. Oh, what am I going to do? What am I going to tell mom and dad?”

  The blow seemed to have aged the girl in the span of one morning. She looked haggard and much older than her fourteen years, with sallow skin and oily blond hair that in this dreary light appeared gray. And she looked terrifyingly like Herise, down to the defined folds that ran from her nose to the corners of her m
outh. She was much too young to have any creases on her face, yet the burden of poverty, the heavy pressure to grow up fast and start providing were wearing out this girl’s fresh prettiness well before her time.

  “They may not have to do it yet,” Gemma heard herself say. The news was grim for Leena, for the McKinleys, and for herself who was harboring similar plans to follow the seamstress path. “They say stuff like this all the time and things turn out not to be so bad.”

  “It’s true, Gemma. Why would they close the sewing school? Other girls say it may reopen but I know it won’t. There’s no fabric to be had in the City. Southern regions are reduced to rubble by conflicts with Perali. Cotton fields lay barren, everybody knows it. The polyester factory burned down. What good is a seamstress when there’s nothing to sew?”

  “Something will be done. People need to have clothes.”

  Leena laughed hysterically. “People need to have food, too, and we don’t see it magically appear just because we’re hungry. God, Gemma, you’re so naive. We’re screwed!”

  “Don’t say that. Your mother wouldn’t approve of your language.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. But what can she do? What can any of you do now?” Her eyes filled with tears. “She and dad paid and paid for my training, and I stitched and hemmed and tacked, and now the school’s closed! They didn’t even let us graduate to get the certificates. Oh, and with dad so sick…”

  She dissolved into a mess of hot tears and hiccuping sobs, and Gemma had no choice but to wrap her arms around Leena’s shoulders to let her cry. She’d never felt any affinity to her cousin, chiefly because Leena always went out of her way to belittle Gemma and make her feel unwelcome, but today her heart broke for the poor girl.

  Despite having all the advantages of being born in the City, Leena’s chances in life were suddenly reduced to those of the migrant girl who was now wearing Gemma’s old coat. Equal non-opportunities.

  After the worst of Leena’s weeping had subsided, Gemma made her warm milk with honey, knowing she’d have to explain the frivolous snack to Aunt Herise. The girl looked so forlorn that for the sake of a distraction Gemma invited her to accompany her on the trip to the hospital with Uncle Drexel.