by T. S. Simons
'And?'
'The problem is, I can't see any natural state in her. She is like a constructed being. She was moulded, an android if you like. A robot that appears to be human. She hasn't been able to find or express her personality because she had no opportunity to be herself for the first six years of her life. She is so utterly lost. She doesn't know who she is.'
'Surely she will develop a personality now that she can? Or will she be like Kat and always feel lost?'
'Initially, I thought she would find her voice, her motivation. Express her personality. But the longer she is here, the more doubt I have. She was taught how to behave, what to do and say, and she is struggling now that her life isn't ordered and structured.'
'Will she learn?' Ceri's erratic behaviour was of increasing concern. Cam and I had spent many nights quietly discussing how challenging we found her.
'I don't know. But we need to be patient with her. Take it slowly.'
'Will do.'
'Can I ask what happened last night? Why was Cam roaming around outside until 2 AM? Why you felt the overwhelming need to accompany me on your day off?'
'Did he wake you?'
'He passed by my window, and the shadow startled me.'
Filling Illy in on the content of the letters, she nodded wisely.
'He will never get over her, will he?' I whispered.
Illy's arm came around my shoulder as I slowed to take a corner.
'It isn't about getting over her. He has moved on, you know he has. But he will never forget her. Do you want him to?'
Instinctively I wanted to blurt, 'Yes!' but the thought of Louis' warm brown eyes seeing me as he raced across Angus' kitchen forced me to relent.
'I guess not. But he didn't even know Amara. Why would fifty-year-old letters have an impact?'
'He couldn't save Laetitia, the same way Angus' father couldn't save Amara. Both died tragically, leaving behind a baby. He is likely wondering if what happened to Jasmine could happen to Louis.'
'Well, of course not!'
'That is logic speaking, my Athena-friend. None of us have a crystal ball.'
As is always the way, Illy's waters broke in the dark hours of the night. She laboured alone for a while, but finally woke the girls. One to stay with her, the other to come and wake us.
Like all houses here, we had no locks, so Cam and I woke to the sound of tapping on our bedroom door. We jolted awake in an instant, knowing without words what was happening.
'Go home, Ally,' I told her kindly. 'I will be there in just a minute. Just let me get dressed.'
Cam, dressing hurriedly, was dispatched to get Sorcha and hope she hadn't been called out.
As I entered, Illy was seated in the large leather chair that had been Luca's favourite. An oversized black recliner he had proudly brought back on one of his visits to the mainland. The only chair he alleged could accommodate his size. Oh, Luca, I sent a silent wish to my friend. I wish you could be here. To support your wife and meet your son.
Illy's groan snapped me out of my trance, and I was at her side in a shot.
'What can I do?'
'Nothing,' she panted. 'Just be here.'
Ordering the girls back to bed, I knew they wouldn't sleep, but I also recognised that watching their mother in pain wasn't the greatest choice. Not that anything would happen to her, I had the utmost faith in Sorcha's ability as a doctor. She had undoubtedly saved my life with caesareans for all of my children.
I had no way of timing the contractions, so I tried to count, grimacing as Illy squeezed my hand until the bones grated. No sooner had the contraction passed than I heard people coming in the door. Sorcha ordering me to make her a coffee. I smiled, recognising doctor mode.
'Cam, can you check on the girls?' I asked quietly. 'I sent them to bed, but they won't be asleep.' Cam disappeared up the darkened hall as I padded into the kitchen in my socks.
Three mugs of coffee later, and I returned to find Cam sitting beside Illy, holding her hand. Handing him one, he accepted with a grateful smile. I held Sorcha's until she finished. I had assisted her with enough surgeries over the past few months, primarily orthopaedic, to read her needs and respond to them. We worked well together, and many times she had lamented my choice of profession. Initially, I had suspected asking for my help was a way to help me accept what had happened to me and move on. Acknowledge that medicine had the capacity to heal as well as harm. But as time passed, and she put more pressure on me, I realised she did call me in for my skills. Another silent prayer to Luca for the safety of his son and wife, and I took my post on Illy's other side, flanking her. The contractions were coming hard and fast now, and Cam and I focused on keeping her comfortable.
'What will you name him?' I asked as Sorcha handed the tiny bundle to my friend. Cam helped Sorcha to clean up before leaving, instinctively knowing that I would stay. He needed to get home, to be there in case our children woke. With Cam's shooting, Luca's death and me being gone for weeks, all of our children still woke during the night and checked in on us.
Waiting until Sorcha was out of earshot, Illy whispered, 'How does he look? Is he… damaged?'
'He is perfect,' I assured her, stroking her sweaty hair from her face. 'He is absolutely beautiful.'
Illy paused, returning to my original question. 'I thought about naming him Luca, but I am worried it will be too difficult. For him and me.'
'Why for him?'
'Well, his father died in fairly tragic circumstances before he was born.'
'So did my sister. I named my first child Katrin.'
'Yes, but when you named your daughter, you weren't aware your sister was still alive. And no one here knew her. When your Katrin introduces herself, no one looks at her with pity, remembering what happened to her namesake.'
'I see your point. What will you do?'
'I have been researching other variations, but they all sound similar. Lucas, Luke, Lucian. They all derive from the same Latin word. It means bringer of light.'
'That is very fitting.'
'I thought about using Luca as his middle name. No one uses them anyway.'
Mairi, one of the women we had saved from Mousa, was a talented calligrapher. As her gift to each newborn child, she gave them a beautiful handwritten birth certificate detailing their name, date and time of birth and the names of their parents and siblings. She also included a short Gaelic blessing at the bottom. I had one for each of my children and cherished them. But it was the only time I had used my children's middle names. Aside from a few people who went by their surname, usually where there were multiple people with the same name, even those weren't widely used here.
'Including Luca's name would be lovely,' I said, but went on, knowing what she was really asking me. 'It was so hard, having a child, alone at that point, and desperately wanting to discuss names, but unable to.'
'I'm so glad I have you.'
'What was your father's name?'
'Alasdair. But everyone in Australia called him Al.'
'What does it mean? Do you know?'
'I borrowed a book from the library in town. It means defender of man.'
'Well, I think that is a fitting tribute to his father. He was a god among men Ils.'
'That he was. My father was too. Alasdair Luca Morgan Cadman…' she tried the name out as she gazed at her miracle.
'Do you want to try to feed him?'
'No, I just want to sleep.'
Supporting Illy as she stumbled down the hallway to her bed, I set up a pillow fort around baby Alasdair so he could sleep safely and Illy could rest.
'Get some sleep,' I whispered, kissing her, then the baby's head. 'I will see you all in the morning.'
'Goodness, she is a prickly little creature,' Cam murmured, rolling over to warm me as I slipped into bed shivering. He pulled me close, my frozen limbs thawing against his warm torso. A layer of snow coated the outside of the dome, but we were fortunate t
hat it didn't permeate. As protected as we were in our little cocooned world, it was still bitterly cold.
'Ceri?' I yawned, snuggling in close to his warmth.
'For all their faults, none of our children could be described as prickly. Feisty and determined. Argumentative and demanding. But not prickly.'
'What has she done this time?'
'When I got home from Illy's a little while ago, I found her in the kitchen. I walked in as she was cramming bread and jam into her mouth. I asked her if she was hungry. She lied to my face. I mean, she had a mouthful of bread, the slice still in her hand, jam dripping down her chin and said, "No".'
'In the middle of the night?'
'Then I asked her what she was doing, and she replied, "Nothing." Her face turned red, so she clearly knew that she was lying to me. I told her she could have as much food as she wanted, but we just needed to be mindful that there was enough for everyone else to have breakfast. That loaf of bread was all we have at the moment, and it takes time to make more.'
'What did she say?'
'She got quite hostile and argued that she wasn't eating the bread. All the while, the half-eaten slice is in her hand, hidden behind her back as she licks her lips to hide the evidence. I tried to talk to her about the value of honesty. She can have as much food as she likes, but she needs to tell the truth and remember others. But it was the next part that shocked me and why I couldn't get back to sleep. She said that all the stories we tell are lies. She said that everything here is a lie. Then I tried to explain to her the difference between fiction and a lie.'
'How did you explain it?'
'I said that when there is intent to deceive another person, it is a lie. A story is for entertainment, to make people happy, but it doesn't hurt anyone.'
'That is a wonderful description. What did she say to that?'
'She just reiterated that all the books we read her, all the songs we sing, everything here is a lie. Realising the futility in having a moral conversation with a young child well past midnight, I told her to enjoy her sandwich and went to bed.'
'She was gone when I came through just now. Illy told me she caught her taking fruit out of the greenhouse last week. She only got caught as she dropped the peach on the ground, and when Illy asked her about it, she tried to pretend that it had fallen, and she was just picking it up. Illy said that there were bite marks in it, and she had peach juice dripping down her chin. It appears our Miss Ceri has an awful lot of trouble in telling the truth.'
'Agreed. How on earth do we deal with that?'
'Goodness knows. The others never had an issue telling the truth from a lie. It isn't like we starve her. I'd love to ask Illy for ideas, but not right now. She will have her hands full with the baby.'
'What did she name him?'
'Alasdair Luca.'
'Do you ever feel guilty that the kids don't have many toys? That they don't get lots of things to unwrap?'
'Not really,' I confessed. 'I often only had one or two things to open, and rarely were they frivolous.'
'I just have memories of being surrounded in shredded wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Unwrapping gifts and enjoying the thrill of unwrapping each one. Maybe I didn't unwrap diamond jewellery or a Lamborghini under the tree like you,' he smirked as I rolled my eyes, 'but my parents always spoiled us.'
'They may not be spoiled, but I believe our children have a far better life. Far fewer risks. They have a supportive community, aren't in danger of traffic, drugs, and many diseases have been eradicated.'
'Do you think we are better off now?'
Recalling my conversation with Illy six months ago as we escaped, I struggled to form an adequate answer. Life was simpler here, better for the kids, but the likelihood of me being held captive in a medical facility was non-existent in Melbourne. Not wanting to ruin the mood, I answered, 'They know what is important. Did unwrapping all of those Christmas gifts in our lifetime make us better people? Did it prepare us for this?'
'Of course not. I just loved it, that's all.'
'They will never know any different.'
'True. Christmas was the epitome of consumerism. Sales! Must buys! It went for months. Shopping, buying everyone the perfect gift. It caused me so much angst, never knowing what to buy someone. What if they hated it? Observing faces in case they showed their disappointment. Did they wear or use the item that was gifted? Then the sales after Christmas. The waste must have been horrendous.'
As I placed the last of the carefully wrapped gifts under the tree, I asked, 'Is there anything you want for Christmas?'
'A wish or a gift?'
Tilting my head, I looked at him suspiciously and responded, 'Either.'
'Well, you remember that black lacy set I got you for our wedding?' he said, with a little too much enthusiasm. His face flushed.
'That was years ago! I've had two more children since then! What makes you think it will still fit? Besides, you got me more when we stopped in Adelaide.'
'That one is special. You haven't changed in the years since I picked it out. Tonight?' he asked hopefully.
I exhaled. 'Maybe. Surely one of the newer ones is better.'
'Why not that one?'
I exhaled, not wanting to explain. Concern crossed his face, and I relented. 'That one is very skimpy. It shows… well, everything.'
'That is kind of the point.'
'I mean, you can see my scars,' I whispered. Three caesareans and now other wounds to add to the mix, and I looked like a patchwork quilt.
'Oh honey,' his arms came around me as I stiffened my spine and swore I wouldn't fall apart. 'I don't mind. I don't even see them.'
I sniffed.
'But you do?' he asked gently.
I nodded, not wanting to open the floodgates. We had been back six months, and I had held it in. Not let him know how much that time was always foremost in my mind.
'You still have nightmares.' It was a statement, not a question.
Burying my head further into his chest, I didn't respond. Damn. I had woken him then.
'It's okay honey. You don't need to wear anything if it makes you uncomfortable.'
My head snapped up, and I looked him in the eyes. 'That isn't it. One is love. One was assault.'
'Then what is it?'
'I just felt so helpless. I have never felt like that in my life. My mind was fighting, but my body couldn't. Everything was out of my control. What we ate, when they bathed us, the surgeries. Him. I was utterly powerless.'
Cam's arms tightened. When he spoke, it wasn't what I expected.
'Speak to Isla.'
'What?'
'Speak to Isla. She can help. She knows what that feels like, remember? Better than anyone, she knows. She might have some ideas.'
Instinctively I wanted to argue, but logic took hold. Isla did indeed know what it felt like to be held against your will. Helpless. Powerless. To feel like a victim.
'I don't want to cause her any trauma. Bring back old memories.'
'Well, you can't speak to Illy. She is likely still coping with her own trauma—Luca, Clava, and now Alasdair. Isla is stronger than you think, and she would do anything to help you. You just need to ask.'
'I will,' I promised. 'But after Christmas. I can wait a few more days.'
Illy, with two-day-old Alasdair and the girls came for Christmas Eve. Summer and Ally were unusually subdued. Then I caught the glare Illy shot in their direction and had to hide a smirk. Clearly, they had been threatened with punishment if they misbehaved, although Cam and I didn't mind. Katrin was hardly an angel, with no filter between brain and mouth.
After dinner, we sat on the couches as she held him, sleeping, and we watched the children sing the carols they had been practising with Bridget at school, amidst raucous laughter. Ceridwen was looking increasingly uncomfortable if someone got the words or timing wrong.
'It is okay,' I whispered to her as they argued over what to
sing next. 'No one minds.'
'It is a mistake,' she protested. 'We should always strive for perfection.'
'Sometimes. But it is Christmas. We are here to have fun with our family. It isn't about being right or wrong.'
She nodded, but plainly wasn't convinced.
Cam returned with the bowls of popcorn and chocolate milk, a particular treat made from chocolate Illy and I had found in Edinburgh. With the children seated on the floor and the three adults on the couch, we took turns reading Christmas stories by lamplight. I watched Illy surreptitiously as she gazed at the miracle in her arms as she fed him. An enormous baby, I was thrilled to see he already had traits of his father, Luca's dark hair and honey-coloured skin. Massive hands and feet. Even this early, there was no denying his parentage.
Ceri sat with her arms folded and a scowl on her face. Perhaps she didn't like the book Cam was reading. 'Twas the night before Christmas. It was one of our children's favourites. I leaned forward and whispered, not wanted to disrupt the other children who were listening intently, lying back on cushions, eating popcorn.
'What is wrong? Don't you like the story?'
She paused, unwilling to say anything.
'What is it?' I pushed.
'It is all lies,' she muttered.
Cam, overhearing her words, turned to look at me behind her head, not breaking his reading.
'It is a story, sweetheart. It is just for fun,' I assured her. 'Just listen and enjoy.'
Letting the children stay up late was a special treat, and one we secretly hoped would allow us a tiny sleep-in Christmas morning. Every year we tried this trick, usually to no avail. It was late when we wished Illy and her girls goodbye, all yawning madly, promising to save gift unwrapping for when they arrived after breakfast in the morning.
'Merry Christmas.' I hugged my friend goodnight. Her first Christmas without Luca was undoubtedly going to be difficult, for her and the girls.
The sound of terror woke me. Groggily, I stirred as I sensed Cam bolt upright beside me, sniffing the air. The waft of smoke hit my nostrils simultaneously, and we fell out of bed. I hadn't smelt smoke like this in years, and this wasn't the clean smell of wood smoke, the type produced by a campfire. This was an acrid smell of something burning that shouldn't be burned. The smell of an industrial fire.