by D. P. Oberon
Novalie stood there trying to make up her mind.
“Summer section,” Saradi said. The dresser’s automatic rack shuttled swathes of clothing past them, halting once it displayed Novalie’s summer clothes in easy reach. Saradi chose one and stared at Novalie out of the corner of her eye. “So when did you start praying?”
Her daughter gave her an annoyed look. “Now and then, me and grandma go to the temple together on Sunday night. It’s fun.”
“This,” Saradi said, holding a dress out to her daughter. It was an elegant blue A-line dress. Two strips of accented fabric ran from the shoulders to the waist. The skirt flared out in a lighter shade of blue at the shins. Accompanying it were a hat, clutch, and matching shoes.
“I need privacy,” Novalie said as her mother just stood there.
“Privacy? You’re ten,” Saradi said. “You can change right here.” She pointed at the spot in front of her.
Novalie looked like she was about to argue but Saradi crossed her hands. “You can turn your back.”
Novalie changed and Saradi’s eyes scoured her daughter’s skin and found a small mark on her forearm, the slice of a faint white scar, but nothing else. Novalie finished dressing and turned around.
“Very nice,” Saradi said, kneeling down. She grabbed her daughter’s hands and held them up to the light. She massaged Novalie’s arms and shoulders, and shook her head at the fake tattoos of a pegasus and a unicorn. Novalie’s body felt like soft clay, as if the musculature hadn’t had time to develop. She lacked a physicality to her aura and it had led Saradi to have dozens of medical tests done. Yet none confirmed her suspicions.
“How did you get that?” Saradi asked, holding up Novalie’s forearm to show the faint scar there across her wrist.
“That was a playground accident,” Novalie said. Saradi drew her finger lightly over the faint line and felt a slight bump. It was the only mark on her daughter’s flawless skin. On impulse she kissed it.
“Okay then. Let’s go.”
They walked toward the door but Novalie stopped at the altar. She let go of her mother’s hand and bowed to the image of Krishna and then ran back to her mother. At her mother’s inquiring gaze, Novalie said, “You’ve got to pay your respects before you leave.”
“I see,” Saradi said, not seeing, thinking that she should have a word with her mother about all this. She knew her mother was religious but to see Novalie take it up so enthusiastically … It’s a phase, Saradi thought, it’s no big deal. Saradi bowed before the blue image.
“Stand at the edge of the bed and close your eyes,” Novalie said.
“Very well,” Saradi said, moving as directed. What was her daughter up to now?
She heard the bed shift as Novalie hopped onto it and then she felt something caress her hair and the unmistakable feel of cool metal links hanging heavily around her neck.
“Open,” Novalie said.
The amulet anchored by a single huge opal hung between her breasts.
“It’s meant to protect you, mommy,” Novalie said, and leaned forward and gave Saradi a big hug.
Saradi hugged her daughter and when she pulled back she wiped at the strange moisture that had gathered in the corners of her eyes. Only later did she realize the prescient nature of her daughter’s gift.
Maybe kids could sense danger like a shark scented blood in the ocean.
Either way, Novalie was right, danger came along as soon as they returned home that night.
#
The ink dark sky greeted mother and daughter as they returned home from the concert. They passed the swishing doors of the antechamber and strode into the house.
“Ma, Li Shi was awesome. Did you see those digi-art pieces in the background? They were 4D!” Novalie walked into the house talking non-stop. She had been like this since the concert finished.
“It was nice of her to meet with her fans like that,” Saradi said.
“I’m not going to wash my right hand,” Novalie said. “Not ever.”
Saradi rolled her eyes. Li Shi had high-fived Novalie and all the other fans who had been chosen at random. All the children who had been ‘randomly’ selected knew a lot about art components of Li Shi’s concerts.
“Vegan Degan was awesome, ma. That blueberry triple caramel pancake was so filling,” Novalie said, rubbing her small, protruding belly. “I feel like a killer whale who’s eaten a great white shark.”
Saradi laughed. “Okay you go shower and I’ll be up. We’ll read The Eye of the World together.”
“Yippee!” Novalie shouted, squeezing her mother in a quick hug before bouncing on the jump-pad that sent her to the upper level. She clapped her hands with glee as she flew into the air.
Saradi stared at her daughter’s retreating form. A sense of love permeated her entire being, filling her with warmth and contentment the likes she hadn’t felt in too long. The last time Novalie had been this happy was during her tenth birthday when Bheemasena was here.
The doorbell rang. Saradi looked at it and thought, well that must be Claas. She did remember her husband saying he was competing in a triathlon this weekend. She was still buzzing from the high of the concert and feeling like her feet walked on air because of Novalie’s happiness as she walked to the foyer to see who was at the door.
The antechamber’s inner door swung open as she drew near. The outer security door’s shell instantly cleared, showing her the silhouette of a tall man standing in the shadow of the full moon. Rain pounded the earth around him. A flash of lightning struck, and the resulting crack of thunder made her jump.
“Madam,” he said, as if he could see through the security door. He saluted. “Warrant Officer Christian Trisdale of the Austra-Asian Empire Defense Force. May I step in?” The soldier wore a green uniform with the AAEDEF emblem on his chest and wings against his shoulders. Embroidered on his breast pocket was the AAEDEF motto, ”In Our Mateship We Trust.”
Saradi told the houses AI to open the outer door. She stared at the officer as he stepped into the antechamber.
A bead of sweat slithered down between her breasts and she found herself clenching her daughter’s amulet. Her heart palpitated wildly. The soldier smelled of sweat and rain.
“I am Saradi Anantadevi,” she said. “What’s happened to Bheem?”
He spoke the words like he was a robot. He said, “The Austra-Asian Empire Defense Force regrets to inform you that your brother, Corporal Bheemasena Anantadevi, was declared missing in action yesterday in the Yakutsk region. We suspect he died due to overwhelming enemy forces.”
The warrant officer reached out and handed Bheem’s dog tags to Saradi. The conical identifier looked like it was made out of glass. Saradi knew the tags were keyed to their soldier by implant, and that they glowed to indicate a soldier’s status. Green for healthy, yellow for injured, and red for deceased.
Saradi swooned, falling against the wall. For a moment Trisdale looked like he would help her. She didn’t say anything.
He said, “Ma’am, you might not know this but the dog tags are actually crystalline gene-keys with inbuilt basic comp-node functionality and are gene-linked to each soldier. When the soldiers wear them they glow to determine the status of a soldier for a field medic. Red means the soldier is dead, yellow means the soldier is injured but alive, green means the soldier is alive and well.”
The dog tag was about the size and shape of an ice-cream cone, except octagonal in design.
Bheemasena’s dog tag glowed like an ember from Hell.
Chapter 11 – Meaning in Suffering
The entire Anantadevi-Alfsson family felt apprehension as they sat in the waiting room. The words “Anne Bishop, Marriage Counsellor & Logotherapist” emblazoned themselves in a holo-font on the plastiwood door.
Saradi fished into her handbag and took out Bheemasena’s dog tag. She stared at it, desperately hoping it would change color.
Her awareness of the words her husband and daughter shared faded into the background
as she focused on the crimson light.
“Change,” she ordered the dog tag. “Go green.” It disobeyed her. For a terrible moment she thought of throwing it out the window that let in the cold air and splatters of rain.
The plastiwood door creaked open slightly.
“Sara, you ready?” Claas touched her forearm. He appeared withered, with dark shadows under his eyes, and he stooped over as if he were an old man. Novalie held his hand.
“Who?” Saradi asked.
“Hello there,” said a chirpy voice Saradi assumed belonged to Anne Bishop. The marriage counselor wore a frumpy blue dress that needed ironing. She was a colorful figure, and seemed far too comfortable in her own skin. Her gaily colored orange top with Javanese batik patterns was accented with an artlessly draped silk scarf. Worn bangles dangled across her right arm. A glimpse of a tattoo sneaked under her left elbow. This was the woman Claas had chosen to help them?
“Claas, nice to see you. And you must be Novalie.” She nodded to the girl. “Welcome. And you must be Saradi?” The woman shook their hands and then beckoned them into her office.
The gale force winds outside railed against the window of Anne Bishop’s office, and they rattled. A framed picture that held the image of an old man called Viktor Frankl collapsed against the bookshelf. Hail rapped against the window, and the occasional flash of lighting illuminated the room.
Anne directed each of them to take a spot on one of three worn, backless sofas that faced one another in a circle. Claas and Novalie sat together, and Saradi and the counselor occupied the other two.
The counselor patted Saradi’s knee. “Saradi, I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”
A violent urge to ram her fists through the woman’s face and scream at her tore through Saradi. Instead she said, “Likewise.” To her own ears her voice grated like rough stone against stone.
A smile sticker plastered itself against the armrests on Saradi’s sofa. She recognized it as the kind that the Hare Krishnas gave out in the lower streets for donations. Saradi wanted to rip it off.
Saradi wondered how she had gotten to this position in her life. In every other aspect of her life she had made it. She’d reached the top of her field, she married the man of her dreams, and she’d given birth to an intelligent child.
Anne fingered the brown beads across her neck and stared at the young family thoughtfully. She sported a peace badge on her scarf. She smelled of sea salt and wore a quiet confidence about her with one leg over the other. Sombre eyes peered through yellow-rimmed spectacles. She seemed to just look at them as if she could stare at their auras. A silence pervaded the room for an entire minute.
“So, Saradi, this is how it starts. We’ll give Novalie time to tell you how she feels and then we’ll give Claas some time. When they talk you aren’t allowed to respond. But you are to listen attentively. Is everyone okay with this?”
Saradi growled. “When is it my turn?” Her instant dislike of Anne Bishop solidified.
“After theirs,” the woman replied, smiling.
Saradi nodded tersely. “Fine.”
“Novalie, why don’t you tell us about how you feel about your mother’s absence in your life?”
Saradi sat on the edge of the sticky sofa, about to object at the phrasing of the statement that she thought was artfully prepared to cast her into a bad light, but remembered she’d agreed not to speak. She crossed her legs and looked to her daughter.
“Look at me instead,” Anne Bishop said. “Otherwise Novalie might get too nervous.”
“Okay,” Saradi said, staring at Anne. As Novalie spoke Saradi found it easier to look at the counselor than her own daughter. Maybe the woman had a point after all.
Novalie said, “Mommy is always away. And when she comes back she isn’t really …”
“She isn’t really there with you?” supplied Anne Bishop.
Saradi caught Novalie’s nod in her peripheral vision. Saradi wanted to object at the obvious goading, but didn’t. She would play by Anne’s rules, though she was starting to dislike this arrangement. She had promised Claas, and here she was.
“I guess,” Novalie said. “I mean, she’s there but she’s always talking to the people at her work … I just want my mom to be at home with us. To be really at home.”
“Is there anything else, child?” Anne Bishop tilted her neck and gazed consolingly at Novalie.
Novalie’s bare whisper wafted in the air like the kiss of electricity. “I don’t know if mommy loves me.”
“What makes you think that, darling?” Anne Bishop asked.
“Uncle Bheem’s always hugging me, tickling me, and kissing me. It makes me feel good. And Tulissa’s mother does the same to her. My mommy doesn’t give me hugs.”
“Why do you think that is?” asked Anne Bishop.
Novalie said, “I’ve done something bad. But mommy won’t tell me what.”
The pounding in Saradi’s head quadrupled. “Nova, you haven’t—”
“Not your turn yet, Saradi. Sorry, but please keep the order. Claas, you’re next,” said Anne Bishop.
Saradi squeezed her eyes against the spasms playing against her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, her vision was blurred. She only heard the voices.
Claas’s normally quiet voice rose in volume as if the counselor gave him a power to speak. He said, “This is a very difficult topic for me.” Anne Bishop nodded, encouraging him to go on. “But, ever since I’ve known Saradi I’ve felt that she’s had an unusual relationship with her younger brother.”
Saradi’s world slowly cleared. Something inside of her tensed around her vocal chords. She couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to.
“In what way exactly?” Anne said.
Claas paused for a moment. Saradi’s felt her neck muscles tremble as the urge to turn on Claas and the desire to see this through warred inside her. Anne Bishop beckoned, making a ‘look at me’ motion with her index finger.
“Saradi always talked with Bheem like she would with no one else. She’d interrupt an ultra-priority call to take his calls — she doesn’t even do that for Nova.” Claas coughed and his sobs filled the air. “I’m not sure if I’m going crazy,” he wailed.
“Hush, no. Claas. I’m here for you.” Saradi heard the whisper of a tissue being withdrawn from its box, followed by Claas blowing his nose.
“I’m a single child,” Claas said. “I don’t know what it’s like.”
A sense relief flooded Saradi. There’s nothing there, she thought, just move on.
But it wasn’t to be.
Anne Bishop said, “We’re here to be very honest. Now is not the time to hold back, Claas.”
The silence that followed felt like watching the gong in slow motion.
Claas said, “I think Saradi—”
“One moment,” said Anne Bishop. “I would like Novalie to wear these ear muffs.” She fished out a pair of pink fluffy ear muffs from a basket near her sofa. “I’ll take them off soon,” she whispered before gently putting them on Novalie’s head.
The tension was killing Saradi. She wanted this stupid thing over and done with.
“Claas, you were talking about Saradi and Bheem. Go on now. You can do this.”
Claas’s words rushed out. “I think Sara has sex with Bheem.”
Saradi turned on him. “My brother just died you insensitive prick—” Saradi screamed like an avenging banshee.
Claas shook under his wife’s venom. He’s a pale shadow of man, Saradi thought contemptuously. How could he?
“Sara, I would like you to answer the next question honestly.” Anne Bishop patted Saradi’s knee again, forcing her to turn to look at her. “You know that relationships are built on honesty. Claas loves you and nothing you do is going to change that.
“Now, have you ever engaged in any intimate practice with your brother, Bheem?”
Something inside of Saradi wilted and then, before it could break, she found herself saying, “I have looked after Bhee
m since he was a child. My parents were migrants and they had to work all the time. He was like a child of mine.” She took a deep breath. “How can you even ask me that question?” Anne’s unsettling eyebrows rose further and she tilted her head. “No,” Saradi said. “No. I have not fucked my brother.” The last words she directed right at Claas.
Anne Bishop didn’t react to Saradi’s outburst. Her steady hands removed the pink ear muffs from Novalie. “Thank you dear.”
“Is it my turn now?” Saradi asked in ensuing silence.
“Yes, Sara, it’s your turn,” she said.
“Finally.”
Saradi turned to the two people she loved. She would answer Claas’s comments about her work affecting her wifely and motherly duties. “Firstly, Claas, my career at Autobus-Mannschaft has no ill effect—”
Anne Bishop cleared her throat. “Sara, please look at me while you talk.”
Okay fine, Saradi thought. It was easier staring at that fat woman’s face than at Novalie or Claas anyway.
“I have been the one to provide my husband and daughter the most comfortable life they could imagine.”
“Yes that’s true.” Anne Bishop nodded.
Saradi ticked her first finger. “Novalie is attending La Terre Quavois, the most exclusive school in Earth. My husband doesn’t have to work for the rest of his life; he gets to train every day and pursue the triathlons that are his passion. We have a gold level domestic AI — Claas doesn’t even have to cook or clean. We vacation once a year as a family, though admittedly I’ve not be able to do that for the last two years. My family has the best of everything, this is largely if not entirely due to my focus on my career.”
“Sara, do you think that your brother’s death has anything to do with your current behavior?” The counselor rocked back and forth as she spoke. It was quite distracting.
“No, not at all. Absolutely nothing,” she said. Her eyes wanted to peek in her handbag to check the status of the dog tag.