Daughters of Men: Chapter 8
Small Decisions
This speculative women’s fiction novel is Book 1 in the Daughters Saga. Paid subscribers have access to the entire book. The prequel and sequel are also on Substack.
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Small Decisions
AS WE DROVE ALONG THE quiet streets, my Bronco’s hungry rumble was the only sound in the cab. Even when the headlights skirted a doe and fawn grazing on a hedge, we still didn’t speak. For my part, I just needed the silence. Offering him a ride had been the right thing to do, but once he was in the truck, I had nothing to say.
First, I wanted my coffee, because when Eileen wasn’t around, it was my tether to reality. Sad, but true. Then, I wanted to be in my bed, lights out, pondering Cara’s plight and the black things—energies?—until I either fell asleep, or found a hypothesis that might… Might what? Make sense? Give her a little peace of mind? Nothing was going to help short of God, Himself, showing up and saying, It’s okay, dear. Mary was freaked out, too.
I held in a sigh, conscious of Sal in the passenger seat. It must have been simpler back then. Miracles happened, and people accepted them. Except for all the people stoned to death, or burned at the stake, or…okay, maybe it wasn’t so easy for Mary either. We only had one version of that history. Her personal diary might’ve been another story entirely.
Nowadays, if Cara told anyone she was having an unfathered baby, she risked being whisked off to a secret research facility for invasive testing. Or she might be offered her own reality TV show. Hard to say which was more likely.
And Adam? Instead of being seen as a loyal husband, he’d be judged an attention-seeking enabler or an idiot unwilling to admit his girlfriend had cheated on him.
I’d gathered that he and Cara hadn’t been intimate before they married, which is why she was so sure her pregnancy was abnormal. That, and the fact her doctor was insisting the child’s development was more in line with a thirty-two or thirty-three week gestation, though she’d only skipped her first period in November. Thirty weeks in less than twenty. A hard chill set into my bones as I contemplated that.
I thought of my own pregnancy, and how I’d felt Eileen growing inside me—and had even felt I could communicate with her. How terrifying would it have been to feel an unknown and inexplicable life kicking and stretching within my body?
Shivering, I flipped the heat on and shook my hair free of its knot. My initial impression of Cara didn’t do her justice. She had every reason in the world to be shy and uncomfortable with attention in case someone asked questions she couldn’t answer; but this young woman was not the childlike figure I’d thought her to be. What made her capable of enduring this? It had to be more than just Adam’s support, however loving. Maybe she had a religious belief that was giving her strength and guidance. Maybe they both did.
My own beliefs were more complicated, having spent most of my literate lifetime perusing the religions and myths of the world in search of explanations for phenomena I knew first-hand to be real. Physics offered the best theories—if not answers—these days, but I didn’t think Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle could quite explain this.
When the guard house came in to view, I eased off the gas and slowly rolled up, not sure if I was required to stop since we were leaving. Then I remembered the visitor’s pass and stomped on the brake just as the grim-faced guard—the same one as earlier—came out with his flashlight in hand. I smiled as I returned the pass, but he ignored me and shone his flashlight into the back seat and cargo area before flicking it over Sal, and then finally waving me on. Jerk. I elected not to use my signal when I turned onto the highway.
“His thoroughness was not meant as an insult. He merely takes pride in doing his job well.” Sal’s voice was soft, and I glanced over in surprise. There weren’t many streetlights on this road, but I could just make out the sharp cuts of his right cheekbone as he looked at me.
“That’s very kind-hearted of you, but he’s doing his job a bit too well. Would it k-kk-kill him to s-smile?” Jesus, how cold was it supposed to be tonight? I cranked the heat up another notch.
I didn’t expect a response—from Sal or Jesus—so my mind was busy plotting the quickest route to the closest late night coffee shop when the man in the truck surprised me again.
“Emotions are not always helpful.”
I risked another glance, this time noting the set of his jaw and the unnaturally perfect lines of his profile as he stared out the windshield. Oncoming headlights swept across him, but he didn’t blink.
“Are we still talking about the guard?” I waited, eyes safely back on the road, but this time I didn’t get an answer.
I was so cold now. There was an all-night donut shop a couple of miles from here—surely they had coffee. A seismic shudder struck me and I frowned down at the heater. The controls were hard to see in the dark, so I felt for the lever, making sure I’d pushed it all the way to the right. Sal shifted slightly, sweltering no doubt, but I was desperate for heat. Hot coffee, I reminded myself as we turned into the parking lot. Really hot coffee.
After pulling into the front spot, it took a supreme effort to pry my fingers from the wheel and shove the gear shift into park—and even more willpower not to stick my hands under my armpits. Why hadn’t I brought a jacket?
Sal seemed interested in the shop’s late-night clientele visible among the vinyl booths—or maybe he was just trying to read the menu from here. He’d eaten more of the chocolate fondue than anyone else.
“Want anything?” I poked into my purse for money.
“No.” Now he was staring at a grungy young man waiting in line at the counter. The guy kept shuffling from foot to foot and hiking up his pants—he reminded me of a toddler doing the potty dance.
“Be right back. Ah, you probably don’t want this.” I flicked the heat off and opened my door, but my shoes had just touched the pavement when something rushed at me. An invisible mass shoved my chest, and I scootched back into the cab, unresisting. This had happened twice before in my life, and I wasn’t about to ignore it now. I reached for the door handle. Time to go.
“Down!” Sal pulled me face-first into his lap. I protested against his zipper, but he leaned over me to slam the door, then rolled me onto the floorboard. “Stay there!”
His voice was a frightening blend of absolute authority and anger, yet I knew the warning hadn’t been about him. Something else was happening…. From inside the donut shop, I heard a high-pitched scream and a man yelling. A robbery! I wriggled my shoulders, but my upper body was crammed under the dashboard and my legs were stuck on the driver’s side.
“Be still!” He sounded like he was in pain.
My left arm was pinned beneath me, and I tugged on his pants with my free hand. “Don’t let him see you! He’ll think you can identify him!” Why wasn’t he ducking? “Lie down!” I ordered, “Now!”
“Be quiet!” he hissed.
There was a thud as something rammed against glass and the yelling was suddenly louder, then I heard footsteps pound past us and fade away. It was over. There were more loud voices, and the sound of someone wailing, but it was just the aftermath. Those poor people.
I tried to push myself up, but Sal’s hot hands slipped under my arms and he pulled me into his lap like I was a frightened little girl. I struggled, but he just held me tighter. His muscles scorched my skin like stones fired by a summer sun, and my body sank against his heat.
No! I squirmed free and pushed off him, but was shivering so hard my jaw bone rattled. “You sh-should’ve d-ducked, m-mm-moron.”
The look on his face was priceless, but I felt a twinge of guilt and squeezed his arm. Just a conciliatory gesture, nothing more. Definitely not an excuse for one small part of me to feel warm.
THE LAW ENFORCEMENT PERSONNEL WERE skilled and efficient. He was impressed with their professionalism and ability to calm the traumatized patrons—with the exception of one teenage girl whose copious tears flowed unabated.
Her companion had been at a loss for how to comfort her, most likely due to the belief emblazoned on his shirt which read: The World Ended Last Year. Deal with It. Instead, it had been Lila who had wrapped her arms around the young stranger. The kindness created an incongruous juxtaposition, with the teenager’s myriad facial piercings pressed against Lila’s unblemished skin, but the girl had cried herself out against Lila’s neck and then mumbled that she needed to call her mother.
During the dramatic event, an employee in the kitchen had texted a request for police assistance, which accounted for the swift arrival of eleven well-armed officers; but the perpetrator had vanished among the shadows of adjacent buildings. This was a very commercialized thoroughfare, with several alleys and connecting parking lots; and to make the search more difficult, there were no visual recordings. He overheard two workers explaining that the security camera had been broken for three weeks and the owner had not yet replaced it. Descriptions from witnesses would have to suffice.
He understood the officers’ ensuing frustration. Emotionally biased information from untrained sources made identification—and subsequent apprehension—unlikely. Not that he normally bothered with such worries—humans often threatened each other for less cause—but he had seen the criminal scan the parking lot before he drew his weapon; and had seen him notice Lila. In the same moment that she chose to remain in the vehicle, the man had turned to demand money from the cashier. The criminal’s fractal, however, had separated, its features distorted by rage at the approach of Lila’s own fractal.
Rationally, he doubted that Lila’s path would ever cross the man’s again—and he was not concerned by potential risks to unknown humans—but the memory of the violent fractal’s actions was still enough to initiate the fiery sequence of heat and pain. He breathed through the hurt, inhaling as he remembered the degenerate fractal’s arm raising, exhaling at its finger clutching and pulling the trigger, shuddering at the memory of her fractal crumpling and fading away.
Never had he seen fractals interact.
His temperature surged, but whether he suffered for his involuntary emotional responses, or simply at the shock that such a potentiality existed—fractals aware of each other!—he did not know. Regardless, he was becoming used to the near-constant levels of discomfort he felt around her. Yet another indication of how deviation from his task was affecting his judgment. The criminal would most likely be caught after committing another robbery or two. His feelings on the matter should have no bearing on his choices. He should not even have any feelings on the matter.
He inhaled again, more deeply, pulling the bakery’s artificially cooled air into his inflamed lungs, noting the subtle scent of vanilla among the myriad smells of spices and disinfectant and human bodies. Real vanilla beans—not an extract preserved in alcohol. Would she have died? The fried cakes were of a better quality than the decor suggested. Who would have nurtured her child? A ceiling vent channeled a chilled breeze across his head and shoulders. Should he intervene?
From his position on the periphery, he considered the officer interviewing the distraught cashier. Not only could he provide an accurate description of the burned fingernails on the criminal’s right thumb and middle finger—indicating the preference for a certain new street drug—but he could also draw the family crest tattoo someone had inexpertly tried to remove from the disenfranchised young man’s right forearm. The surname designated by that crest would most likely cross reference with one of the one hundred and seventy-five registered owners of the 2011 Limited Edition 175th Anniversary Colt Single Action Army Revolver with a five and half inch barrel—the illogical weapon of choice for the robber. No doubt it would turn out to be a missing collection piece owned by a family member.
All in all, it should be a simple crime for the police to solve. There were more than enough witnesses to help them prosecute. They just needed more information. He glanced over and found Lila watching him, one arm still encircling the child whimpering into a cell phone.
In a moment of weakness, he had sought relief from her cool body, but she had rebuked him. As she should have. And when forced to redirect his thoughts to control his pain, he had realized that she was trembling. Though the evening was brisk, he suspected that the shock of Cara Mason’s revelation coupled with experiencing the—but what had she experienced? Why had she remained in the vehicle?
One side of her mouth lifted, pulled by her right eyebrow rising. It was an expression suggestive of a question, with an inflection of…sarcasm? She was…daring him? His eyes rolled in response—an equally communicative human gesture—but chose to accept.
“Officer, I believe I may be able to help.”
I FINALLY HAD MY CUP OF COFFEE. It had taken a lot of unnecessary drama to get it, but I had it now. I clutched it in my right hand as I parallel-parked with my left, using my knee for extra traction against the steering wheel. Once I’d eased the Bronc between an old Honda and an even older Volvo, I killed the engine. The immediate silence muffled us in peace.
It was past two in the morning, and the street was deserted except for a gray tabby cat watching from underneath an untamed camellia bush. I didn’t blame it for being careful. This close to downtown, all the houses were historic, but we were two streets away from the well-maintained ones. I locked my door and turned to Sal.
His features were warm and peachy under the dim glow of the streetlights, but his eyes were still shadowed. I’d been trying to think of what to say to him since we drove away from the donut shop, but the best I’d been able to manage was to ask him where he lived—and now we were here. There wasn’t much to see. He hadn’t left any lights on, and his bungalow was huddled in the darkness of an old oak and overgrown bushes. It wasn’t the spartan, modern apartment I’d expected, but then again, I still knew nothing about him, so I wasn’t sure why I’d even had an expectation.
“Did you enjoy your donut?” Stupid question, but I had to say something, and he wasn’t moving to get out. He flashed a grin at the darkness beyond the windshield.
“Yes, thank you. Are you enjoying your coffee?”
“Oh, yeah. Gravity doesn’t keep me grounded. My daughter and coffee do.” I sucked in a breath. Oversharing. “It was nice of the owner to give everyone coffee and donuts. You could tell he felt terrible.”
The poor man had arrived just as Sal had started talking to an officer and had been near tears, hugging his employees and everyone else in the shop. He looked vaguely familiar, with wiry strings of hair clinging to his mostly bare scalp. Maybe my grandmother had brought me once. His donut shop had been open since before I was born.
I could picture myself holding Mimi’s hand, looking up at her smiling, red-painted lips, her auburn hair set in fashionable curls, as I pointed to a powdered confection behind the glass case. I wondered if that was a real memory or just a child’s leftover daydream.
“What are you thinking about?”
His question caught me off guard, and I shrugged. “How did you…? What happened tonight?”
“What are you asking?” His tone was neutral but he shifted his gaze to the cat. As if called, it sauntered out from under the bush and stretched in the pool of light from the streetlamp.
“I’m asking how you could give so much information. To the police, I mean. How’d you know all that? And before, in the truck…” Bad idea. Bringing that up might make him ask questions, too.
“You heard me tell the officer. I have a photographic memory. It is not unheard of.” He sounded defensive, as if I’d accused him of lying.
I copied his pose facing the windshield and wrapped both my hands around my cup. It was still a little warm, but not nearly as comforting as…I leaned my head back against the seat. It was late. This night had been beyond bizarre, and I was exhausted. I’d slept well the past couple of nights, but all the months before had left me drained. And poor Cara…how was I ever going to…
“Lila? Will you be alright driving yourself home?”
Confused, I turned my head toward the dulcet sound of his voice. The light had found his eyes now, and warmed his smoky gray irises to glowing ashy embers, as if he was slowly burning inside. I wanted to bring his face closer to mine so I could feel his heat again.
He pulled back.
Why was…? I’d dozed off! My cup was on the dashboard, and I’d slipped down in my seat. Wriggling upright, I tried to get my bearings. Oh, God. Had I said that I wanted to touch him out loud? He was staring out the windshield again, his jaw raised and tight.
With a lithe plop, the scruffy cat leapt onto the hood and startled us both. My nervous laugh was too loud, but Sal seemed to relax a bit. He managed a smile for the tabby, which was now rubbing against the windshield in front of him.
“It is late, Lila. You need to sleep. Will you be alright driving yourself home?”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll roll the windows down and play some music.” A huge yawn stretched into a grimace as I tried to hold it in. “Well! That was ladylike. Sorry.”
“I could…if you need me to, I would drive you home.” He spoke to the cat, but I could’ve sworn he blushed.
“Oh! No. Thanks, though.” I forced energy into my voice and straightened my back. “I’m fine, really. I wouldn’t have you go to that much trouble.” Hopefully my own blush was as hard to see.
“Then I wish you a restful night.” The words were normal enough, considering, but they sounded thick. His right hand moved to the door, and I grabbed his left.
“Thank you. For tonight and the ladder. And the other day about the coffee,” I babbled now, my words rushing out at the wrong time and in the wrong order, “You were sweet about the water, and I know Maureen twisted your arm to come, and thanks for putting up with Phil, and for keeping me…somehow you knew, and…” My palm was starting to sweat, and my lungs were out of breath. I folded my hands in my lap. “Anyway, thank you.”
“You knew before I did. Just like you knew—” he stopped and closed his eyes. The handle creaked, but he didn’t open the door.
Just like I knew what? Could he tell there were things I kept from everyone? Or could he sense them, too? Is that why he’d pushed me down? I touched his arm again—intending to ask—but now his skin was scalding hot.
“You’re burning up! Are you sick…?” Instinctively, I reached for his forehead, but he slid my hand down his cheek and placed it back in my lap.
“Neither one of us shares easily.” His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist once, a swath of fire that made me shiver. “Be careful. I want you to be safe.”
And then he was outside, and I was driving away. When I slowed to turn at the cross street, I looked in the rearview mirror and he was still standing there, watching me as the cat twined around his ankles.