by Allie Marell
He thinks of his insular life as they stand there processing events. A life lived in basic survival mode, devoid of companionship and the healing balm of love. He was a cold, hard machine to be deployed at his master’s pleasure.
“Fortune smiled on me when I bumped into you, Andromeda.” He likes the way her full name sounds on his tongue.
He’s still not so sure about this weakness they call dependency. A male should rightly be able to sort out all his mental ills, his hurts without need of another. But he can’t deny how good it feels to be in her arms, to have her there with him when he makes the journey to discover whether his mother truly still lives.
With his tracker in place, they were always going to find him. He can only be thankful it was the lesser of the evils and a being with a troubled conscience who got to him first.
Andra stiffens in his arms, pushing him suddenly away. “Jess. I just remembered Jess.”
He grasps her arm, stopping her flight. “Stay here, I will look for him.”
“You don’t think they hurt him?” The tremor in her voice, the dread in her eyes rekindles the anger. But he will not lie to her.
“They’re capable of that, yes. Let me go first.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Very well, but stay behind me. I believe the intruders have left, but I’m taking no chances.”
“Okay.” She creeps into his shadow, grasping a fist full of his tee shirt, the give and take of comfort flowing so easily he wonders if it’s so for all humans. Enclosing her hand, he keeps pace with her hesitant stride as they move towards the back door, calling out for the dog.
“He wasn’t here when I came down to make breakfast. Oh hell, where is he?”
“I had a dog very much like Jess.” Cautiously, he opens the back door, feeling for small bodies blocking its travel in the snow. “Or rather, William Chapman did.”
“Do you think that was William’s real name?” She peers around the door, letting out an audible sigh of relief at the pure white snow marred only by a maze of footprints. “If he was born on another planet?”
“Who knows? There is no sign of the dog. I will check the yard and barn.”
“I’ll get my coat.”
A waste of time arguing with her. She hands him the padded jacket he hung up in the boot room after their torrid kitchen table encounter. They sit on the bench and slide feet into boots, each of them wondering what they’ll find when they sweep the yard.
“Jess!” Andra calls out, her voice echoing off the barn and snow. “Jess, where are you?”
They trudge across the hidden grass in silence, his mind still spinning from the encounter, their heads turning to search out nooks and crannies. The barn door is ajar, footsteps and tyre tracks visible. Santar puts his arm around the door to feel for the light switch. The bulb glows, warming with light as they wait for the space to illuminate.
“Over there.” Andra shoots past him, dodging around her car and diving into the shadows of a two-door cupboard. He’s after her, wishing they thought to bring a hand-held light.
Her face is wet with tears, pouring from glazed eyes. Happy tears, he realises when he spots the trembling dog cowering in a dark corner, the cat curled into his side. Tam stretches out and yawns. Gives them a look that almost says, no need for concern, everything is in hand.
Andra’s on her knees, hugging the whining dog, her face as wet with enthusiastic licks as tears now. Santar bends to stroke the cat arching into his hand. Andra’s love for her beasts resonates in every tear, in every hotly murmured endearment. How much worse would it be to lose a child or a person you loved?
The dog’s pawing at him, licking desperately at his hands. He lifts the beast clean off its feet into his arms. “I believe these beasts need feeding. Then will you make that phone call?” He wants to waste no more time. Will not give that Harvester a chance to change his mind. “Make the call, but don’t tell them who will be visiting.”
Andra scrubs knuckles across her wet eyes, visibly drained now. “I’ll say we’re distant relatives. They might not let us in otherwise.”
“She must not realise my identity. I need to see her face, Andra. It’s the only way to know.”
“I get that.” Andra waits for Tam to skip out past them. The cat streaks ahead to disappear with a clatter of plastic through the boot room cat door. “You said food,” Andra says with a small laugh. “Nothing fazes Tam.”
“I like the sound of food. I’m ravenous enough to eat the dog.”
“Don’t listen to him, Jess.” Andra covers the dog’s ears, feigning shock as they wade through the snow. “I’ll cook you a full English breakfast. I have some sausages in the freezer. I keep them for when Oliver visits.”
“I meant it when I said give him the toy. I no longer have need of it.”
“Thanks. You have no idea what that means to me.”
She opens the door. Stamps snow off the boots while he puts down the beast. Standing behind her, he pulls her back against his chest, leaning over to bestow a kiss to her forehead.
“I must apologise for the angst I put you through. It was wrong of me to be so selfish. I was desperate. But I will learn,” he adds and hears the weight of meaning in those words. The implication of a future. “If you will help me.”
Does he assume too much? He’ll survive this world without her. But he no longer wishes to merely survive. He wishes to live.
“I’ll help you.”
They stand silent in the draught from the open door until Andra shudders and he lets her go and shoulders the door closed. Suddenly he’s impatient to get on with what might be the hardest thing he’s ever done. Confronting his past, unravelling the lies and finally knowing the whole truth.
And in doing so, meeting his birth mother. A privilege few of Centrum Command’s operatives ever achieve.
“I will feed the beasts and cook. You make the phone call.”
Andra does not argue. He’s glad of that. In the kitchen, she picks up her mobile phone and taps in a search for the care home number. Opening the cooler unit, Santar stares inside, wondering what a full English breakfast looks like, one ear on the call.
Start with the eggs. He places the carton on the counter top and watches Andra switch off her phone.
“They said she’s been expecting us.”
He grips the edge of the counter top, fighting the urge to march Andra to her car and demand that she drives him there now. “So he spoke the truth. When can we go?”
“Any time from eleven am onward. They serve dinner at one, but she can opt to eat in her room if we’re still there.”
When he misses the pan in an effort to crack an egg, Andra takes it gently from his fingers. “Put some bread in the toaster over there. I don’t think we have time for the full English right now. I’ll scramble us some eggs and then we can go.”
“Is it normal to be so...apprehensive?” He slots bread into the toaster, pushes down the operating lever. She’s a frail old woman and yet this small encounter terrifies him more than any battle he’s ever fought.
“Don’t know about you, but my stomach would be awash with butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
“That fluttering feeling in your stomach. Adrenaline, I guess. Yes, it’s perfectly normal to be a bit nervous. You’re meeting your mother, after all this time.” Andra bites her lip, perfectly aware she used the affirmative. She didn’t say, might be meeting your mother. He does not contradict her and finds the optimism allays some of his fears.
If he’s honest, that’s what he feels. Fear that it might not be her, and the scab-ridden Harvester meant to punish him with this torment before selling him back to the Order. His desertion would have reflected badly on the source that procured him as a child.
He once told Andra that time is an unstable thing that shrinks and stretches at will. It’s happening now. He barely tastes the eggs and toasted bread. Watches Andra wrap the box-shaped gift with a detachment that feels like
a dream. She does not press him for his thoughts, merely offers her silent support with an occasional glance and a touch. Letting him know she’s there if needed.
He spends the journey to the care home in quiet contemplation, working through every scenario from joyous reunion to blank indifference and outright anger that he should dare to presume to be anyone’s son.
Preparing for the worse to avoid disappointment.
He wants so much for this to be the end of the journey, not the start of another never ending quest to find out who or what he is.
When Andra pulls over to the side of a narrow road winding between two high ridges, he knows their destination is at hand.
“It’s all so deceptive.” He studies the snowy dips and waves sparkling like precious jewels in the morning sun. “Beautiful on the surface, but who knows what’s hidden beneath?”
“I think we should find out, don’t you?”
She’s tied back her hair, clipping it up with a wide-toothed comb, exposing the vulnerable curves of her nape, the earlobes studded with circular gold rings. Once he looked at another female this way, in longing and wonder. Hardly dared dream he might ever again.
This freedom to feel, to hope for something more than a physical release is a gift he will not squander. Whatever happens today, they will not take him back. He’ll fight for that freedom to his last breath.
“Let’s do it.”
The vehicle inches forward, Andra concentrating on gaining traction as the road steepens. A large sign on the verge announces, Copper Beeches Care Home. An arrow directs them left into a road marked private to a pair of closed, metal gates guarded by two overhead cameras.
“It looks like Fort Knox,” Andra mutters and operates the release that lowers the car window. Leaning out, she presses a button on a silver grille and time suddenly seems to slow to a crawl as they wait for an answer.
A buzz and then he hears a crackling hello, are you here for a visit?
“Visitors for Mrs Chapman, yes. She’s expecting us.”
“Wait a moment, I’ll open up.”
The gates sweep open on the cleared private road, where more arrows direct them to the car parking spaces neatly marked in front of a palatial, multi-turreted dwelling on four levels.
A world away from Andra’s humble cottage.
Santar raises his emotional shield as they walk the ramp to two heavy wooden doors decorated with berried foliage twisted into rings. A cutting wind blows hair into his eyes, tugs at his coat.
“He’s certainly keeping her in style,” Andra whispers as she pushes on an illuminated button that makes a bell ring somewhere beyond the door.
“I see only a creature buying absolution for his sins.” It angers him the Harvester imagines any material sum might compensate a mother for her stolen child.
Andra gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze. Hands him the parcel wrapped in Christmas themed paper and whispers, “It’ll be okay.”
His mouth is too dry to form an answer. Andra tightens her grip, as if he might run if she didn’t keep hold of him.
You’ve faced worse than this, he tells himself sternly. And then wonders if that’s actually true. The door swings aside to reveal a plump, cheerful face. The smartly dressed female’s eyes drop to the parcel.
“We’re here to visit Mrs Chapman.” Andra returns the smile while he stands awkwardly at her side. “She’s expecting us.”
“Come on in. I’m Sue, the housekeeper.” The female flaps an arm, ushering them into a wood-panelled hallway boasting a sweeping staircase and an overpowering smell of some artificial sanitary spray.
Waiting for the staff member to hang their coats in a separate closet, Andra signs them in, while he studies the opulent landscape paintings, the lavish floral arrangements, and the hushed aura of oppressive calm. Andra’s cottage feels so much more like a home than this lavish display.
“Lift or stairs?” The female raises her eyebrows expectantly. “All the private rooms are upstairs.
“Stairs,” he says, glad he found a voice. The climb will delay the inevitable. He needs to gather his scattered thoughts, parcel up his feelings. And he’s not ready.
“Follow me.”
They take the stairs in silence. The whole place is too silent. As if she heard him, the female turns with a smile, keys jingling at her waist.
“The more mobile residents all went off early in the mini bus for a spot of Christmas shopping.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Mrs Chapman likes to keep to herself. Poor thing’s so convinced her son’s about to return, it’s a job to get her to leave her room.”
“Does she receive many visitors?” Andra asks the question forming in his own mind. The staff member shakes her head.
“Only her benefactor, Mr Zegar. Though between you and me, I’d rather he stayed away. She’s always so agitated after his visits.
They’re at the end of a long, carpeted corridor with brass rails running along the length. Walking aids, he supposes. Vases bearing bunches of glossy, berried leaves litter small tables. The window is hung with shiny silver strands.
The staff member stops at a door and knocks.
“Mrs Chapman, you have visitors.”
She swings open the door without waiting for an answer and his heart feels as if it might explode. The staff member backs discreetly away, the door closes with a click behind them.
And then the neatly dressed grey-haired woman dozing in a high-backed chair lifts her head.
Two sharp eyes, the colour of silver pin him in place with a scrutiny so intense, he forgets to breathe. His eyes, he realises, sunk into a proud face wrinkled and softened by time. Yet, still Nora Chapman retains the quiet dignity of one who’s suffered, but never lost hope.
Her metal grey hair has been cut to frame shrunken cheeks. The hands clasped in her lap are spotted with mottled brown and on one finger he sees a plain, gold coloured band. The only other adornment is a pearled brooch, clasped to her breast.
Andra’s behind him, lending him courage. But this, he must do by himself. Desperately, he seeks out memories, trying to fit the aged face to one he might have known. This female must have changed so much in the intervening years.
Mrs Chapman completes her sweep, her gaze lingering on his right hand. Instinctively, he curls his fingers into a fist, sliding the hand behind his back. Her thin lips curl into a sad, knowing smile.
“Never be ashamed,” she says in a voice surprisingly sure and robust for one so old. “It’s what makes you special.”
“I know.” The response is there on the tip of his tongue. It’s always been there. Nora Chapman raises two shaking hands, palms forward. The same fused fingers, but on both her hands.
It’s all he needs to know.
“I knew you’d come back to me.” Her shield falls suddenly and she’s no longer the prim, closed off woman they saw on entering the room. Her face crumples as he strides across the room to lift her left hand and press her palm to his. Fused fingers to fused fingers.
The only evidence he needs.
His mother whispers one word.
“William.”
Chapter 20
Feeling like an intruder, Andra thought about creeping away, leaving mother and son caught in an embrace that seemed to go on forever. Finally, Mrs Chapman let Santar sink to one knee on the rug beside the chair, their hands still firmly entwined.
No words could express the feelings flowing between them. Andra watched in wonder as they silently closed the gap of long, lost years, Mrs Chapman stroking her son’s dark head. Santar, receiving her blessing with a heart that must be bursting with a world of bottled up feelings.
He was William now, no longer Santar, covert operative for Centrum Command. Andra said a silent prayer for the fused fingers he must have hated as a child on Earth. Without them, they’d still be wondering if Mrs Chapman spoke from her heart or simply imagined in her muddled mind that any dark-haired male might be her son.
“And who is this?�
�� Mrs Chapman beckoned her over with a wave worthy of the queen. But Andra saw the twinkle in her eye, the calculating look the old woman threw to her son and then to her.
Santar pushed to his feet. She’d get used to thinking of him as William in time. He turned to face her, a world of emotion in the eyes so remarkably like his mother’s.
“This is Andromeda Dalesio. She knows everything and without her, I wouldn’t be here.”
“And there was Zegar taking all the credit, as usual.” Mrs Chapman shook her head, her expression darkening at the mention of her benefactor and tormentor’s name. “Andromeda? And which planet are you from, my dear?”
“Good old planet Earth. I live at Rams Hollow, about twenty miles down the valley.”
The question wasn’t new. Kids at school had taken a perverse delight in her name, continually asking where she kept her flying saucer and chanting phone home until she punched the ringleader bully squarely on the nose and they never bothered her again. But Mrs Chapman wasn’t goading or teasing. To her the question made perfect sense.
“So you didn’t arrive with my son?” Mrs Chapman pursed her lips, nodding to herself. “I’m glad you didn’t have to make that journey.”
“Me too,” Andra said, trying to inject a little humour into her tone. Santar still had hold of his mother’s hand, clutching so hard she feared he might crack the old woman’s fragile bones. Having lost her parents at an early age, she could only imagine the feeling of finding a loved one again after all this time.
“The gift is for you, Mrs Chapman.” The wrapped box lay forgotten on a side table beside the armchair. “It’s from both of us.”
“How very kind. Oh dear, I’m forgetting my manners.” Mrs Chapman indicated a chair for her to sit. Santar finally let go of her hand to pull up a stool. Perched on the edge, he rested elbows on his knees, breathing slow and steady. His mother patted his hand and adjusted her cardigan, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I’d call for some tea, but I do like to take a nap before lunch. Perhaps you’ll visit another time? We have a lot to talk about.”
The two women exchanged glances. A canny woman, Andra thought. She knows how overwhelmed he is, and that he needs time to process all this.