Her eyes grew wide. “That must be quite a laboratory.”
“Multiple laboratories on multiple planets. Some planets are the laboratory.”
“What happens after the adults are released on a planet?”
“They’re left to develop as individuals and/or as civilizations.”
“So on other planets there are beings who are part human? Are you part human?”
He’d wondered. “I could be. Xenos tinkered with their own DNA, too.” In fact, there was nothing to distinguish a Xeno from a ’Topian, except the former was a few eons more advanced and several eons more arrogant.
He finished his stew and wiped his mouth with the napkin.
“More? There’s plenty,” she said.
“I wouldn’t mind a little more.”
She started to get up, but he waved at her to sit. “I can get it, if I may. You don’t need to wait on me. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No.” She shook her head.
As he stepped toward the stove, the room swayed. He grabbed the chair to steady himself.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m feeling light-headed.”
“Oh! It’s the wine. You’re tipsy. I should have warned you to go easy. You probably have no tolerance for alcohol.”
He put one foot in front of the other and staggered to the stove. He ladled the stew into his bowl without spilling any and carried it back to the table while pondering the curious effects of the alcohol.
“Does wine make people talkative?” he asked.
“It can,” she said. “Alcohol will loosen a person’s inhibitions.”
He wished he’d known that before he’d drunk three glasses. Or had it been four? He’d dodged the most serious questions, but still he’d said too much. He needed to shut his mouth. Besides, he wasn’t the interesting one. “You’re very observant,” he said.
“You don’t have to be that observant to notice when a dish is empty.” She smiled with her whole face, eyes crinkling, and nose wrinkling.
Her smile inspired him to grin, but the compliment had been a serious observation. A keen listener with a sharp mind, she noticed nuances. “You’re good at picking up on subtle clues.”
The smile fell from her face. “I’ve learned to be. Not that it did me much good.” She bowed her head and studied her empty bowl.
He kicked himself, realizing he’d touched on something painful.
“I assumed if I could foresee trouble, I could fix it before it became a problem,” she said.
“Sounds like a wise strategy.” He’d followed it himself, and it had worked, until he’d screwed up.
“Except, it didn’t work. I couldn’t fix the problems, and the anticipation caused a lot of anxiety, and then the problem happened anyway.”
She spoke in generalities, but a hunch told him she referred to specifics. He stilled, his senses sharpening, despite the wine he’d imbibed. “What was the problem?”
“I told you I was married.”
“Like bonded. Yes.”
Her chest rose with a deep breath, and on the exhale she said, “My husband used to beat me.”
“Herian! Fithic!” Chameleon went rigid, but he reached out and covered her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“He broke my nose. My eye socket. Ribs. Ruptured my eardrum. I’ve had more black eyes than a boxer. He knocked me down the stairs once.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’d study the smallest clues, parsing his every word, listening for changes in his tone—and then adjust my behavior to avoid angering him, but it never did any good. Some small thing would push him over the edge. He’d hit me then he’d be sorry, and everything would return to normal—until the tension started to build again, and the whole cycle repeated.”
“A man beating his mate—that can’t be legal on your planet.” It was barbaric.
“It’s not legal. I should have had him arrested and divorced him the first time he hit me. I never should have married him in the first place. But, the violence worsened—after he’d worn down my self-esteem. We’d been married for two years before he hit me, although the insults and name-calling started much sooner.”
“How long were you married?” Chameleon asked.
“Ten years.”
He’d beaten her for eight years?
“Afterward, he would act so sorry and would cry. He would beg me to forgive him and promise it would never happen again. But it did. He wasn’t sorry—but resentful, blaming me further for any tinge of guilt he did feel. His put-downs eroded my confidence. By the time he died, I half believed the violence was my fault, and I was the selfish, worthless, poor excuse for a human being he said I was.”
“It wasn’t your fault, and you are not those things,” he said vehemently. She was intelligent, perceptive, brave, kind. Beautiful inside and out.
“I believe that, now.” She disengaged her hand to grab her glass and take a drink. “Therapy helped me realize that and deal with the guilt over his death.”
Why should she suffer guilt…unless—had she freed herself by taking decisive action? “You killed him?” He didn’t blame her for an instant. The man deserved to die.
“No!” She looked horrified. “He had a heart attack. He was only thirty-nine.” She toyed with the stem of her goblet. “Nobody knew he beat me because I hid the truth. People—his friends, his colleagues, his family—assumed we had a fairy-tale marriage. So when he died, everyone offered condolences, told me how sorry they were. And all I could think was that I was glad the bastard was dead. People praised me for my strength, for holding up so well under sorrow, for not crying in public. I didn’t cry in private, either. All the tears I shed, I shed while he lived.
“I was glad he’d died, and I felt like the terrible, bad person he always claimed I was. What kind of wife feels relief and satisfaction when her husband dies?”
“The kind whose husband brutalized her,” he said. “Your mate wasn’t worth the air he breathed. You have nothing to be ashamed about.” He empathized with her guilt because he’d suffered it, too; however, his had been earned. Her husband’s death had been an act of nature; whereas Chameleon’s carelessness had led to the destruction of a planet and its people.
“Oh, I agree—but it took time and therapy to undo the brainwashing.” She tapped her head. “But the code is still there. It’s been deactivated, but certain situations switch it on again. I still have a tendency to feel responsible for matters outside of my control.” She gave a wan smile. “I’m a work in progress.” She shook her head. “How did we get on this topic anyway?” She rose to her feet, collected the dirty dishes, and carried them to the sink.
Cam gathered the glasses and silverware and followed her. He set the items on the counter and hugged her. He cupped her head in his palm and held her close and tight as if the embrace of his arms could form a barrier to everything bad in her world. If he could, he would protect her forever. The top of her head fit under his chin; her face pressed against his beating heart, her arms wrapped around his waist.
“Other than my therapist, I never told anyone about Dayton,” she said.