“I don’t know, sweetheart. If they did, I’m sure she gave them a hell of a fight.” Delilah sniffles a few times.
“How is Mason?”
“He’s stable. In and out of surgery, but he’ll come through.” It’s difficult to tell from here, but Delilah’s posture changes a bit. Bad news looms, I feel it in my joints like a coming storm. “They couldn’t save the whole arm. Once he’s healthy enough for travel, he’s going back to HQ. They’ll develop a prosthetic for him in no time.” The room falls eerily quiet, save for the beeping of machines. With Delilah’s back to me I open my eyes entirely to get a full view. “I’ve informed Theia. When you’re well enough, she’d like to speak with you.”
“Is she mad at me?”
I could throttle that woman for making Taylor dependent on her affection. She’s starving for Theia’s approval and receives only paltry portions. Never enough to satisfy, leaving her with a constant hunger.
“No, darling. She’s worried about you, and proud of what you’ve accomplished. The whole region is nearly under our control. Theia is preparing a victory speech to be broadcast on the television stations you commandeered.”
“What victory? I let my brother down.” She heaves another heavy sigh, punctuated by a short fit of coughing. “How has Lucy been?”
Lucy is curled on your couch, overwhelmed with emotion and barely holding herself together. A canoe, held aloft by a rock, teetering on the edge of a waterfall. That is how I am.
“She’s all right. Having her as an assistant has been wonderful. She ably rose to the occasion, surpassing my expectations, which were already quite high. It was also nice to have someone around who missed you as much as I did.”
“I bet,” comes the quiet but obviously disbelieving response.
Delilah chuckles and brushes Taylor’s hair with her fingers. “Trust me. She cares for you very much.”
Bless Delilah for not entirely giving me up. My mental breakdown when we got here, being coaxed out of my inability to function, the obsessive intel checking for a scrap about Taylor. Indicators that I don’t just care very much, but quite likely I caretoomuch.
Delilah pats Taylor’s arm. “Get your sleep, darling.”
She pads out of the room. I’m not sure how long we lie there, both of us awake, minds racing. Taylor erupts in coughs every so often, drowning out the muted sirens from outside.
“Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you come here, please?”
Bidden like a snake from a basket in a bazaar, I rise from the couch and move closer to her. “Do you need me to get a nurse?”
“No. Would you talk to me?” Her throat bobs in failed swallows. I nab the cup of water next to me and swirl the straw around to face her. With a sigh she sucks down some of the water, giving me a grateful half-smile.
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“Tell me a story about your mother.”
Memories of my mother shimmer in a blue-green patina, like an ancient artifact half-sunken into the sea. Sometimes I can grasp them with certainty, and sometimes they are lost forever in the deep. When I look out the window, precious snowflakes sink to the ground. A memory burbles up from the depths.
“Right around Christmas one year, my mother took me ice-skating. Papa lit up the big tree in Rock Center with thousands of lights. New York City at Christmas, it’s wonderful. I mean, for me and rich kids it is. Papa orders any storefront with a window to display for the holiday, so the streets are colorful andlit. Music playing everywhere.” Taylor closes her eyes, hopefully painting a picture in her head. Painting over the horrors she so recently witnessed. “Papa made the rink admission exorbitant, thereby ensuring only wealthy families could use it. The week before Christmas, my mother forced him to waive the admission so all kids could skate. It took a lot of convincing, but she had that power over him. She had that power over most people.” Taylor’s lips show the faintest glimmer of a smile. “I begged and I begged to go ice-skating. I badly wanted to see Santa, though I was on the precipice of not believing anymore. After days of pleading with Papa, he finally let my mother take me. It was lovely weather that night. Big fat snowflakes you could catch on the tip of your tongue. We skated around for nearly an hour until the rink became crowded. Someone got the attention of my mother and I wiggled away from her.”
“To—”
“Shh, I’m getting there.” After giving her a playful scowl, I continue, “So, naturally, the moment she realizes I’m gone, she’s panicked. She doesn’t want to make a scene because it would be dangerous to my safety, and because Papa would find out and be furious with us. She searches everywhere. I’m gone.”
“Sounds like something you’d do,” she murmurs. “Cause trouble.”
“You know it. Finally, it occurs to her there was a specific reason I wanted to go skating.”
“The Santa Claus.” His name sounds foreign coming from her, like she’s only read it in a book. What would a child rebel soldier need with an imaginary gift giver?
“The Santa Claus, yes. She finds me standing next to Santa’s giant red velvet throne. I’ve usurped the role of Mrs. Claus, helping kids get on Santa’s lap, and asking them what they want for Christmas.”
The glimmer of a smile finally breaks on her face. “Was she relieved?”
