Patchwork

by Elle E. Ire

  Except we’re touching. We’re still holding hands, and I can feel the lie. My patience ends. My temper flares. “Why are you lying to me?” I practically shout, tugging on our clasped hands. I yank mine away and stand, striding across the small living space. “You don’t want to talk about it? Then why did you say you’d tell me later? You changed your mind and you want to keep more secrets? Fine. Tell me that. But don’t lie. You’re supposed to love me. You should never be lying to me!” My voice breaks. The tears I’ve been holding in fall. I hate them, and I hate being like this, and I swipe them away with two quick jerks of the back of my hand.

  “You snapping at her when it isn’t her fault isn’t going to make things better.” The words of my teacher and mentor echo back to me.

  I know this, and I care, but I can’t stop it. I’m angry and hurt and I can’t stop any of it. Besides, this is Vick’s fault. She doesn’t have to lie.

  I turn and march for the stairs. “I’m going to bed,” I say, laying one hand on the railing. In my peripheral vision she levers herself up on her elbows and swings her bad leg off the couch in preparation to rise. “Don’t bother. I’m not sharing a bed with you until you decide to tell me the truth.”

  I’m halfway up the stairs when her final words reach me. “I’m not lying.” They only make me angrier.

  I spend a horrible night tossing and turning and replaying our conversation over and over in my head, examining every action, every word, wishing I could take some things back, wishing things had gone differently, wondering how we could have avoided the whole horrible thing. Eventually I cry myself into a deep, depressed sleep, waking midmorning to bright sunlight streaming through curtains I never bothered to close.

  Though the reunion will continue on without us for several more days, it’s our last day here, and my birthday, and I’m alone and miserable, going over it all again. Only this time, I remember the oddly placed emphasis in Vick’s parting words to me last night.

  “I’m not lying.”

  I’m not.

  But someone else is. And that someone else can only be VC1.

  Crap.

  When the AI wants to keep something hidden, or when she’s programmed to do so, there’s absolutely nothing Vick can do about it. It all makes sense, the way she tested her words, broke off sentences, lost her inflection. Half the time I probably wasn’t even talking to Vick at all.

  It wasn’t Vick’s fault.

  I yelled at her for nothing.

  After throwing off the light blanket, I head for the door, then stop, noting the open drawers in the dresser and several missing shopping bags. Her formal wear, whatever it was she bought, since she never showed it to me, is gone. She must have sneaked in while I was sleeping and retrieved it. She had said she wanted it to be a surprise.

  I wonder if she went to return it.

  Heart pounding, I race downstairs to find the couch empty. I’m beginning to panic when I spot the note taped to the inside of the front door.

  Kel,

  I’ve gone to find someplace to get ready for this afternoon. I’ll meet you on the beach for your party, that is, if you want to meet me. I’m sorry I couldn’t Fuck. I wish I Never mind. Regardless of whether you’ve forgiven me or not, I’m sure you’ll look beautiful in your new dress, and I hope you have a happy birthday. I do love you, no matter what you believe right now.

  Vick

  P.S. If you leave for the beach early, take a jacket. It’s going to rain.

  Oh Vick. Even after the way I treated her, she’s looking out for me.

  I’m crying again, but this time I don’t bother wiping away the tears. I reread the crossed-out portions, wondering if they’re simple errors or things VC1 wouldn’t allow her to write. Outside the front windows, the sky darkens and a distant boom heralds the approach of a hopefully quick thunderstorm.

  There’s a local comm set in the kitchen, and I pick it up and dial my parents’ cottage number. My mother answers on the first buzz.

  “Is she there?” I ask, no need to explain whom I mean.

  “She’s here.” Mom sounds more sympathetic than angry. I wonder what Vick told her when she showed up this morning. She doesn’t elaborate, so I’m guessing Vick is within earshot.

  “Is she okay?” I try instead.

  “That will depend on tonight. Try not to be late to your own party.” With that, she clicks off, and I’m left staring at a disconnected comm.

  Outside, the lightning flashes and the rain pours down.

  Chapter 37: Vick—Friends and Family

  I AM… in flux.

  When I first wake up on the couch, I’m disoriented. Then last night’s argument with Kelly comes rushing back. I need to get out of the cottage. I’m in sleep shorts and a tank top and I need a real shower, and none of it matters. I need to go before she wakes up.

  I can’t face her anger again.

  I know it’s not my fault and she’ll figure it out eventually, probably when David Locher dies some horrible, painful death. And then what? Will she blame that on me too? It also won’t be my fault, but if she’d never met me, never gotten involved with me, she’d have no reason to be so angry.

  She would have no reason to feel the pleasure she receives from loving you, either, VC1 says in my head.

  What the fuck would you know about it?

  Enough to know that it is something I will never directly experience.

  Is that regret? Envy? From an AI? You’re saying I shouldn’t give up on the two of us.

  That is exactly what I am saying.

  I sit up and swing both legs off the couch, then test my weight on the injured one. It holds, but it hurts. I’m limping badly when I cross the living room carpet, and I feel like a complete fool. How could I have forgotten the second octoshark? How could I have turned my back on that big of a threat?

  Oxygen depletion, VC1 states matter-of-factly.

  Excuse me?

  You had been beneath the surface for several minutes. I maximized your oxygen usage, but the reduced intake caused disorientation and decreased comprehension and recall. Through contact with your organic tissue, it affected my processing as well. Neither of us “remembered” the second octoshark.

  I smile. Are you trying to make me feel better?

  I am stating fact.

  Of course you are.

  Using all the stealth skills I can manage with my injury, I ascend the stairs, testing my weight on each one and hoping none of them creak. They don’t. The resort is high-end, everything well maintained, another reminder of the financial disparity between Kelly and myself. The door to the bedroom opens on oiled hinges, and I’m able to remove my formalwear without waking her. I do pause before grabbing the ring box, though, my breath catching at the sight of her tearstained face, knowing I brought her this pain, however unintentionally.

  In good times and in bad, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, VC1 intones in my ear.

  Yeah, it’s the “’til death do us part” section I’m more worried about. I try to imagine myself at a much older age, sharing a porch swing with an elderly Kelly, complaining about the younger generations and cuddling for warmth so our old bones don’t ache, but nothing comes. I can’t picture it. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be lucky to survive long enough to make it to any sort of marriage ceremony, however unofficial, and my inevitable premature death will hurt Kelly more than anything I’ve ever done or been mistaken for doing.

  You have no other birthday gift, she reminds me.

  I sigh and slip the velvet-lined ring box into the shopping bag with everything else.

  At the base of the stairs, I find my laser pistol lying atop the weapons pouch next to the potted plant. Kelly must have taken it while I was cleaning up last night, but not been able to open the pouch since it’s keyed to my print. I open it and swap the laser for a ballistic pistol, since I have no intention of entering any bodies of water today. I’m also not going anywhere else unarmed, even if I have to shov
e a switchblade down my cleavage next time I’m wearing a bathing suit. Then I seal the pouch and hide it back in the plant where housekeeping shouldn’t find it. The pistol also goes into the shopping bag. I jot a quick note for Kelly and leave it where she will find it.

  I limp outside and off the porch, pausing at the end of the front walk when I realize I don’t know where to go. My first thought is to find Kelly’s friends, but I discard that idea quickly. They’ll want to know why she’s not with me and ask all sorts of prying questions, and they’re more than likely to take her side even if I was able to explain the argument, which I can’t. Besides, I remember they’d all planned to get ready together at our cottage a couple of hours from now.

  A pang of disappointment passes through me that I’ll miss that experience. Not like I was going to really share in the laughter and makeup tips, but I would have enjoyed observing from the sidelines. Vicarious pleasure is still pleasure.

  With no destination in mind, I start walking, passing cottage after cottage. A couple of friendly groups stop me, praising my actions to save Locher yesterday and asking after my injury. I thank them politely and tell them I’m fine, encouraging as little interaction as I can get away with. I’ve never been comfortable with compliments and feel like every response I would give is inane. But it does seem like the tide of approval has turned in my favor.

  It’s the first really good thing that’s happened today and it lightens my heavy heart. My goal in coming here had been to earn the approval of Kelly’s relatives and friends. After Locher’s escapade, I may have achieved it.

  Maybe I’m not a total screwup after all. Maybe Kelly does have good reason to want someone like me.

  When I come to a stop, I realize I’m standing in front of the cottage housing Kelly’s parents, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve subconsciously ended up here or if VC1 gave some uninvited guidance. Since she doesn’t comment on the thought, I suspect the latter.

  I hesitate before turning up their walk, then sway as a memory flash hits hard and fast.

  My mother and I, standing in the living room of our family’s Kansas home. It’s prom night, and she’s helping me with my bow tie while Dad gives useless and humorous instructions from the couch.

  “Tab A into Slot B, dear. Now, over, under, and around the bunny ears.”

  “It’s not a shoelace,” I say, chuckling, but with an undertone of growing panic. My date’s expecting me to pick her up, and I’m already running late.

  “Don’t you worry,” Mom says, straightening the loops of the tie, then patting my shoulder. “I’m all finished, and you look just charming.”

  She’s dead, I remind myself. She died while I couldn’t remember even having a mother. But the ache in my chest tells me I miss her just the same.

  “Vick? What are you doing out here? Are those your pajamas? Are you all right?”

  I snap back to awareness and blink into Kelly’s mother’s face, inches from my own and peering at me with open concern. Wavering, I grab the low rail of the little picket fence running around the cottage. She takes my other arm.

  “Fred? Come on out here, Fred! Vick’s here and she needs help,” Bea LaSalle calls toward the front door.

  It opens a moment later and Kelly’s dad hurries toward us, still wearing his own pajamas and slippers.

  I flush with embarrassment. “I’m fine, Mr. and Mrs. LaSalle. Really. I’m okay now. It was just a memory flash.” Kelly’s told them about some of my medical issues. This shouldn’t come as a surprise.

  “That’s not all that’s wrong, is it?” Bea says, making it more of a statement than a question. “Tell me the truth.”

  Oh, no worries there. I’m not lying to anyone. I know where that gets me, intentional or not. “Kelly and I had an argument,” I admit, breaking eye contact. “I slept on the couch.” I gesture at the shopping bag on the ground beside me where I must have dropped it when my mind took its detour down Memory Lane. “I need someplace to get ready, and—”

  “Say no more,” Fred LaSalle breaks in. “Come on inside. Bea just put some fresh coffee on, and I think there’s toast and jam left over. We were a little lazy getting started today, so I’ll just take my shower and get out of your way, and then you ladies can take over the bathroom like women always do.”

  When we get inside, he disappears upstairs and Bea and I settle at the two-person kitchen table with cups of coffee and cool but not cold toast and jam. The coffee perks up my senses. I really did sleep like hell, and the promise of an approaching caffeine rush helps a lot. We make small talk about the weather, the menu for the party, our plans to depart tomorrow. After a half hour or so, the kitchen comm buzzes and Bea excuses herself to answer it. Standing a few feet away, she engages in brief conversation with someone who has to be Kelly, but it’s quick and to the point.

  With my enhanced hearing I can make out both ends, and it amounts to, yes, Vick’s here, and she’s sort of okay, all of which is accurate.

  Bea disconnects and sits down, and I brace myself for the inevitable onslaught of questions.

  It never comes.

  “You seem surprised I’m not prying,” Bea says, watching me.

  I blink. It’s like she read my thoughts… or my emotions, I realize, mentally kicking myself. Bea’s an empath, just like her daughter. “You’d be within your rights,” I say, leaning back in the white wooden chair. “I’ve upset Kelly. I understand if you’re angry with me too.”

  Bea’s expression softens, and she reaches out to pat my hand, resting on the table’s surface. It’s so reminiscent of my own mother’s past pat on my shoulder that a lump forms in my throat. “Oh, honey, I’m not angry. Couples argue. It’s natural. If you didn’t, I’d be more concerned. And whatever you argued about is none of my business unless you want to share it or ask for advice, which,” she says, holding up a hand to stop me from speaking, “I can tell you don’t. And that’s fine. Besides, I know my daughter. She’s sweet and caring and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, and I’m proud to have been a part of raising her that way, but if you push her buttons, she can lose her patience.” Bea gives me a wink. “And I have a feeling you push her buttons in all the wrong and right ways.”

  The fire in my face could reheat my toast.

  “Actually, I only have one prying question for you,” she says.

  I wait for it, resigned.

  “Have you made a final decision on that very important subject yet?”

  I don’t even hesitate this time. “If she’ll have me, then yes, I have.” And Kelly called to check on me. That means she can’t still be too mad, right?

  Bea’s face breaks into a beaming smile. “Well, then, we have work to do.” Shifting in her seat, she calls, “Fred! Fred, hurry up and get out of that shower. Vick’s about to have a very important night. Time to make her look dashing.”

  Dashing, charming. It’s all too close to home, and I swallow hard.

  Fred tromps down the stairs and leans into the kitchen, fully dressed in a nice white button-down and tan dress pants, an untied tie draped over one shoulder and a huge smile on his face. “You’re going to propose?” he asks. At my raised eyebrows he explains, “Bea told me. Sorry. She was so very happy you were considering it, as am I.”

  They are? Really? I can’t keep a sloppy grin from forming.

  “And don’t you worry about the legalities of it all,” Bea adds, turning back to me while rising from her seat. “I’ll keep working on that, but it won’t matter one bit to Kelly, I promise.”

  God, I hope not. Standing, I limp my way after her and up the stairs.

  In the end, I forgo the bow tie, opting for a dressy yet not-quite-so-formal look: hair down, shirt front open several buttons, hands tucked in the pockets of the tuxedo pants beneath the velvet jacket. Having Kelly’s mother tie that tie would have been more than my fragile emotional state could handle, but knowing her parents both approve has fortified me. Just to be safe, and satisfy my standard paranoia,
I slip the pistol from the bottom of the shopping bag into the back waistband of the pants and hide it beneath the jacket when Bea isn’t looking. Outside, a quick thundershower hits and passes, dropping the temperatures by about ten degrees as VC1 predicted. Even the weather is working in my favor.

  I can do this. I can go to this gathering and socialize and not make a fool out of myself. I’ve prepared well. I can hold a conversation with almost anyone who will be present. Kelly’s closest friends like me. The rest think I’m some kind of hero. Her family likes, no, loves me and accepts me for who, not what, I am. I can propose to Kelly and have faith that we’ll get through my issues together.

  I pat my inner jacket pocket where I’ve stashed the ring box.

  For the first time since I can remember, I’m actually optimistic.

  Chapter 38: Kelly—Music by Moonlight

  VICK IS dashing.

  I arrive at my birthday party/reunion bash right on time, though I might as well have been late because it seems like everyone has gotten there before me with the exception of Lily, Rachelle, and Tonya, who walk me there. Ninety percent of the guests are family here for the reunion, but there is a smattering of other friends from my Academy days besides my pseudo-sorority sisters. The rain stopped, and it’s a lovely evening, with stars and a full moon peeking from behind the last of the clearing clouds. The other two moons have not yet risen, but once they do, the night sky will be breathtaking. It is a bit brisk, though, so I’m glad for the sparkly silver-and-blue shawl Tonya lent me to go over my sleeveless dress.

  The party setup takes my breath away. Resort staff have turned two adjacent tennis courts into a covered pavilion, removing the nets and using the flat surfaces for setting up over a dozen round tables for ten. There’s even a small dance floor in the center of one, and a buffet table runs down half the length of the other. An additional smaller rectangular table in the back holds a mound of gifts, with more being dropped off by the arriving guests. Colors are teals, blues, and glittering silvers, creating an ocean-and-stars theme.