Daughters of Men: Chapter 9
Not-so-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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Not-so-small Decisions
I WOKE UP SOBBING AND ALONE. Desperate to stay awake. Desperate to go back to sleep. Desperate to find them. Desperate to forget.
Just a dream. Just another goddamn dream. I didn’t even know who they were. I cried in the predawn blackness until hot tears soaked my hairline and stickiness clogged my throat. When my whimpers turned into choking gasps, I rolled over and coughed myself into snuffling stillness. I’d lost them. Over and over again.
Feverish and trapped by sweaty bedding and months of nightmares, my body yearned for the cool air teasing my exposed cheek, but I couldn’t move. One at a time, over and over, one or the other, I always lost them. Or could never find them. Lifetimes of searching in an endless loop that made no sense and woke me with a terror that left me depleted. A hollow pang of failure filling my gut every morning. Breakfast of damn champions.
I’d been lucky the past few nights, but the stress of the party, or that glass of wine—or maybe the robbery—if only I could remember exactly what I dreamed, then I could work my way through it. Analyze the psychology of it. Then next time I could be aware—on some level at least—that it was just a dream. I tried to pick my way through the vaporous threads of images and feelings, but no matter how I tried, they wafted just out of my mind’s reach. Drifting away until the next time they captured me in their weave.
Some time passed—minutes? hours?—when Nina Simone reminded me it was a new day. I’d dozed off again, and was beyond disoriented, fumbling for my phone and knocking it off the nightstand. Flopping over the side of the bed, I groped until my fingers found the smooth rectangle, but she was belting out the last verse by the time I summoned enough will to open my eyes and swipe the alarm’s shut-the-hell-up option. With effort, I heaved my upper body back up onto the bed and lay there, exhausted.
My head hurt. It was still black in my bedroom, making it that much harder to keep my eyes open. God, I hated daylight saving time in the spring. Waking up in the dark sucked. I spotted a few angels perkily zooming around near the ceiling and made myself focus on them, fighting the urge to go back to sleep. Wasn’t it Saturday? Why had I set my alarm so early?
Eileen. Eight o’clock pickup. Get up.
My subconscious was a better mother than me. I groaned and stretched, arching sideways across the bed and rolling onto my stomach. I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. And why was I so sore? My muscles felt stiff, and I could sense bruises along my spine. Had I fallen?
Oh. Right. Stiffly, I rolled again to stare up at the ceiling. Nothing like kinetic memory to bring it all back. The white sparks swooped closer as if in agreement.
“Hi, guys. What are we going to do about Cara?” I watched them zip among themselves and then tighten into a somewhat more unified cluster. “Marshaling the forces? Be strong and do what we can? Is that it?” Some broke away, some disappeared, and others reappeared; and as I spent the next several minutes watching their haphazard display, my mind wandered.
The memory of Cara crying in her underwear sharpened my thoughts. When she’d told me of her impossible situation—when I’d seen how genuine her tears were—my maternal instincts had kicked in. It had never occurred to me to doubt her. I’d just wanted to help her. But should I doubt her? I pondered that as the angels careened around my room.
I didn’t think she’d lied to me, but maybe she was lying to herself. Maybe she’d had a one-night stand, and her brain had created a fantasy that her baby had no father out of guilt that Adam wasn’t the biological father. That sounded crazy enough to be true. Seriously twisted and in need of a psychotherapy session or two—make that two hundred—but possibly true. And even if she was mentally off-balanced, she was still a terrified young woman who needed help. But maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to believe her story just because she believed it. Adam’s concern could be because the woman he loved was nuts.
“What do you think, guys?” A vivid, lightning-blue spark appeared among the white. It was striving to communicate something, though as usual I had no idea what, coming close and hovering just above me. I could reach up and touch it—if it was really there.
How crazy was I? I’d seen and felt things my whole life that I couldn’t explain, and yet I was convinced they were real. Did that mean I was delusional? Or just extra-sensory-enabled? I’d accepted that there was more to my world than I could explain, so wasn’t it only fair that I accept there might be more to Cara’s world, too? Unless facts convinced me otherwise. Crazy is as crazy does.
I clicked on the bedside lamp. Squinting, I rescued my cell from the carpet and used the edge of my white comforter to brush off a dust bunny. I needed to vacuum. My least favorite chore. Eileen was great about helping around the house, but I hated vacuuming so much that I felt guilty for asking her to do it.
It was only six-thirty. I had an hour before I needed to leave, so with a little effort I could accomplish some mom duties and leave the day open for Eileen. And possibly work in an afternoon visit with Cara if she was up to it. I indulged in another groan, but made myself sit on the edge of the bed and lean forward until gravity forced me to choose between standing and falling on my face. I stood and stumbled to the shower, shedding my pajamas along the way.
An hour later, I felt better. My body had shaken off the fatigue—helped by a hot shower and two mugs of organic Sumatra—and our little house was tidy. I’d finally vacuumed the bedrooms and cleared the junk mail and school papers from the kitchen table. I’d even washed dishes, started the laundry, and set out fresh food and water on the porch for Pebbles. Not for the first time, I realized how lucky I was to have only Eileen and a cat to look after. I wasn’t exactly the Carol Brady type. Of course, if I had an Alice…
I let that thought entertain me as I grabbed a banana and my keys and stepped out into the fresh salty air. Our house was barely more than a cottage, tucked among scrubby woods at the end of a gravel road, but it was perfect. I could see marsh through the trees and knew the river was glistening just out of sight, down the sandy path I’d walked many times with my dad.
Years ago, my father had built this place as a starter home—a promise to my nervous mom that everything was going to be fine, even though she was barely out of high school and already expecting me. He wasn’t much older, but he’d loved her enough to work two jobs and call in every favor to get his friends to help build it. Somehow, they’d managed, fighting mosquitoes and the hottest summer on record. Or so my grandmother had told me.
I climbed in the Bronco, and with a twist of the key and two pumps on the gas pedal, it woke up and greeted me with its throaty rumble. Shifting into reverse, I backed out of the driveway slowly, appreciating how the windshield framed a quaint snapshot of our little house. Yellow slices of sunshine warmed the pitched roof and weathered wood siding, and wisps of fog meandered among the ten-foot pilings. This whole area was in a flood zone, but after surviving four decades of hurricanes, I trusted our home to keep Eileen safe.
The Bronc bounced down the pitted gravel road we shared with two mobile homes, stopping in a cloud of dust at the end. After checking for traffic—mostly cyclists this time of year—I turned north onto smooth pavement and settled in to enjoy the early morning views. The narrow strip of land on the west side of River Road was too marshy for more than a pocket or two of old houses like mine, though it did allow for the occasional westward-facing beauty protected behind a gated driveway. The eastern side flanked the peninsula dividing river and ocean waterways, a much larger area developed with neighborhoods and side streets. But along both sides of the road were stretches of river and marsh, or woods and marsh, offering scenes of light and mist across the low wetlands.
I rolled my window down and stretched to lower the passenger window, too. The chilled morning rushed into the cab, but with my thick fleece hoodie and the Bronc’s trusty heater, I was comfortable. Inhaling deeply, I let the damp air refresh my body as it whipped strands of my hair out the window. Who needed sleep?
Well, apparently I had needed it since I’d fallen asleep in front of Sal’s house. How long had I slept? Last night I’d thought it was only a second or two, but if I wasn’t even aware of him taking my cup…? It was after two when we’d pulled up at his house, maybe two-fifteen or so, and it was almost four when I’d gotten home this morning. Twenty minutes driving time, so…I must’ve slept an hour! What in the world had he been doing? Watching me sleep?
That was nuts. He either had the patience of a saint or…no, he just had the patience of a saint. Sure, it was creepy if he’d watched me sleep, but even though I still knew nothing about him, he seemed safe. Or rather, I felt safe with him. He was too self-contained for me to label him as safe, because only people who were hiding something acted like he did. I should know. I’d have been terrified when he’d manhandled me if I hadn’t already known something was wrong.
A sweeping bend in the road coincided with the turn in my thoughts. The donut shop drama had started with one of my friends, some sort of energy or being, shoving me backwards as I was getting out of the truck. A clear sign that I was not supposed to go into the shop. Almost at the same time, Sal had reacted, forcing me down—but what had he reacted to? The yelling that marked the beginning of the hold-up had come after Sal had grabbed me.
On autopilot, I turned off River Road and headed toward Eileen’s school. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed a single pretty view, and the city traffic and stop lights didn’t demand my attention, either. Based on the timing alone, it was clear to me now that Sal had known something was wrong before—just like I had. Actually, hadn’t I asked him about that last night? I knew I’d asked him how he’d seen so many details about the robber, because it was ridiculous how much information he was able to give. Even the officer taking notes had looked flabbergasted. I mean, it was one thing to have a photographic memory, but how had he even seen that much from the parking lot?
All this thinking was making me tired again, but I struggled to remember the details—as someone who most definitely did not have a photographic memory. We’d been parked in the first spot, directly in front of the glassed entrance, so Sal would’ve had a clear view of the man in line. But, still, there must’ve been at least fifteen feet between that guy and the Bronco—and weren’t the building’s windows tinted? And what about the gun? Who in the world could identify the type when it was in someone’s hand that far away? And who would even notice? It was a gun! Hadn’t he been frightened? I had been, and I was stashed at his feet! Photographic memory or not, it all seemed odd.
Odd? Jesus, Lila. Think!
I’m trying! I knew I’d been using that same inane word since the ladder debacle—and he’d tried to keep me safe then, too, though he’d ticked me off. And there was something else. Something he’d said…
I was almost to Eileen’s school now, but I didn’t want to lose this train of thought. There was something, something I was missing. He’d warned me to be careful, and I hadn’t listened—no shocker there—and he’d caught me when the ladder lurched off the track. Which reminded me that I still needed to call someone to come fix that….
Focus! What did he say about the ladder?
Just to be careful. And then the track had broken, and he’d caught me, and I’d realized how hot he was—literally—and had given him a half-assed thank you. And he’d said something about the screws. That the screws were different on that part of the track.
Shelves at least a dozen feet high and no direct lighting, and he’d said the screws were different.
How could he possibly see that? How could they even be different? Weren’t screws all the same? They certainly looked the same when all you could see were the heads—and that was presuming you were close enough to even see the heads!
I pulled into the school’s pickup line and automatically scanned the milling kids and piles of sleeping bags, but my brain was grappling with whether Sal had super vision—like, extreme comic-book-style super vision—or he had… or maybe he was…
I couldn’t even come up with an alternative. So it was either a superpower, or something so fantastic that I couldn’t even fathom what it might be. I felt a little woozy. First Cara, and now this. No, that wasn’t right. First there was me, with all my everyday strangeness, then Sal with his, and then Cara with hers. What the hell? It wasn’t even a full moon.
Eileen spotted me first and ran over with a huge grin that instantly made all seem right in my world. I leaned over and opened the back door so she could toss her stuff on the seat, and opened the front door for her, too, eager to wrap her in a hug as soon as possible.
“Hey, Mom! I missed you!” She snuggled in my arms for a few seconds before I realized the car ahead of me had moved. Reluctantly, I pulled away to drive, but took her hand in mine.
“How was it?”
“Fun! I only slept for like an hour, but I’m not tired at all! Just really hungry!” She was hyper from lack of sleep.
“I brought you a banana. I’ll scramble eggs when we get home.”
“Thanks!” She peeled it and took a huge bite, but that didn’t stop her from talking. “So how was the party? Do you like the guy?”
That’s my girl. Always direct. I skimmed through the parts I could tell her as I maneuvered through traffic.
“It was fun. We played pool a little bit, and Maureen made us chocolate fondue. You’d have loved that….” I paused to see if that was enough, but of course it wasn’t. She was even better at the raised eyebrow look than I was. “He seemed nice.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what did he look like? What’s his name? Do you like him? Come on, Mom. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”
I squirmed at the role reversal. Shouldn’t I be having this conversation with her in a couple of years?
“Well, honey, I mean…he seemed nice. He said his name was Sal, and he’s really tall. Blond. He’d actually come into the store a few days ago. That’s how Maureen met him.”
“He said his name was Sal? You think he was lying?”
How does she do that? Pick out the one nugget most people would overlook? “Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he’s a spy, and it’s his alias.”
“Or he’s wanted by the Feds.”
“Or he’s an illegal alien.”
“Or a real alien!”
By now we were giggling, tired and slaphappy. It was good to have her with me again. She finished the banana, and we rode for a few minutes in cheerful silence when she suddenly spoke again.
“But you don’t like blond men.”
I was at a loss for how to respond. Her father had been blond, so I didn’t want to agree too quickly, but mostly I was just wondering how in the world she’d picked up on that. It’d been years since I’d even gone on a date.
“You don’t.” She reached out and patted my arm. “It’s okay. Y’all can be friends.”
“Thanks for your permission.”
“Is he really tall?” She waited for my hesitant nod. “Well, so…if he’s got muscles—the hard work kind, not the gross steroid ones—then he might have a chance. If he dyes his hair.”
“I didn’t realize I was so superficial.” As if Mr. Olympian in a fig leaf wouldn’t be all that and more for any other woman on the planet.
“You’re turning red! You do like him!”
“Geez, honey! I’m going to remember this when you have your first crush. Fair’s fair!”
“So you have a crush on him?”
Oh. My. God. I hadn’t had enough sleep for this.
HE HAD AVOIDED SLEEP AND INSTEAD chosen to wander the dark streets. At first the gray cat had escorted him, its tail upright and jaunty; but when he had reached the end of its territory, it had remained behind, yowling as he had walked on alone.
Other life had rustled and crept around him—night was ideal for scavenging insects and small mammals—but most of the humans slept, sequestered in blackened rooms with locked doors. Several blocks away, thumping bass had swelled and receded as a car sped along in the night’s stillness. Technology had made some humans nocturnal.
Not the woman, though. Her sleep had been deep and motionless. Even her breaths had been shallow. To eyes less attuned than his, her chest would have appeared unmoving, and no other ears would have heard her faint respirations and the slow beats of her heart. A small death, it was once called—and for good reason. Even her body temperature had lowered. In a different age, her eventual reawakening would have been unpleasantly notable—for her. In all likelihood, it would have decided her fate. Humans used to do much of his work for him—albeit with a high margin of error. Long experience had taught him that culling the person, while expedient, was not always the most beneficial solution.
Tinted by the squalid hues of the streetlight, her skin had looked yellowed as if by sickness. Her fractal’s trauma could not have physically affected her, but her body must have needed a respite to offset the psychological stress of the evening’s events. And even in flattering lighting, it had been obvious that she was not well-rested.
Her child always slept well, of course.
His pace had quickened then, although he had no destination in mind. His body had simply wanted to step away from his own thoughts, like a fractal of himself. And so he had continued to walk, past the sleeping humans and their myriad creations, along cracked sidewalks and brick-paved streets, until the night sky began to lighten.
As the pearlescent clouds had taken shape against the darkness, he had found himself at the river’s edge again. At the same bench, beneath the blooming dogwood tree. A homeless person slept on the concrete slab, and so he had walked further and lowered himself onto the next. From there, he had watched the displaced person in her uneasy slumber, feeling a strange sense of solidarity with the nameless woman.
Now, with sounds of the wakening city rumbling in the air, the woman opened her eyes, stretched, shivered, and shambled off to hide among those who did not want to see her.
It was cold, he supposed, looking down at his arms. There were minuscule beads of moisture on the backs of his hands, and the fabric of his shirt and pants felt damp. The modulators regulated his body well, and small fluctuations in ambient temperature rarely registered in his conscious thoughts. Internal sensations were another matter.
He stood up to begin his trek towards dry clothes. Ones that were not faintly scented with chamomile and patchouli. Eventually he would have to sleep, and he needed to keep his subconscious free of references to Lilith Ann Givens.