“Tell me how you’re holding up,” she asks as we head out to the porch.
“I’m not sure anymore. That’s the honest answer, and who decided to change the locks?” I close the door behind us, but not all the way.
“It was time,” she says, taking my hand, my right one.
Absently rubbing my scarred index finger the way Dick sometimes does, she leads me to the glider, the same one she had when she was growing up, white-painted aluminum with weatherproof floral cushions. We sit down, and I can feel the cold vinyl upholstery through my clothes.
“I guess you knew I’d get into the barn anyway even though my keys weren’t going to work anymore,” I decide. “Same with the alarm code and the safe. I assume you know my new Artificial Research Technician,” I’m not going to dance around what’s going on.
“We’re acquainted,” she answers, her voice low pitched and softly modulated, reminding me of ART again. “How’s everything working for you, Calli?”
“I’d give myself a B minus for today.”
“I’d give you much better than that. At least an A, maybe even extra credit,” she smiles in the dark, her face indistinct in the glow of her miniblues all around us.
“And how would you know about my performance today?” I goad her, seeing if she’ll tell me.
“There’s not much I don’t know about you, dear.”
“And it feels that way, all right,” I admit. “It probably doesn’t bother Carme a bit that she’s watched, studied and adjusted. One thing my sister’s never been is modest.”
She thinks nothing of walking around with very little on, and maybe I would too if I had her body. Mom has no comment, and it’s occurring to me where ART learned his silent treatments.
“I’m not sure how I feel about everything,” I add to the familiar creaky whisper of the glider sliding back and forth, a sound I’d recognize anywhere. “I wish I knew how Carme’s reacting. Is she really okay with all this, Mom?”
“Each of you has always had a decided flight plan that’s the same and different. You’ve always known your purpose. But knowing what’s expected doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. It’s up to you to decide.”
“What if Carme and I hadn’t gone along with it?” I ask as ART informs me in my SPIES that the government shutdown just ended, much earlier than expected.
“You wouldn’t be happy,” Mom says as if she knows it for a fact. “That’s what people don’t understand about free will.”
“There’s no such thing, that’s for sure.”
“Of course there is, and you can do what you want,” she replies. “But if you reject your purpose, if you make it all about yourself, you’ll have no satisfaction regardless of the consequences. Whether you end up an inmate or a rock star, you won’t get the reward you really want. We’re programmed like this for a reason.”
“I just wish all that programming wasn’t on a computer chip that’s missing,” I go ahead and say it. “Is Dad okay? How does my sister feel about it, realizing what could happen if the wrong person gets hold of it? Specifically, if Neva does, because we know she’s after it. Dick told me everything. Well, he never tells me everything. But I’ve got the broad strokes.”
“What do you remember?” Mom asks the same thing he did when I woke up after being drugged for days.
“Probably more than he thought I would,” and I can’t resist answering everything she asks like I always have.
I give her the highlights, including my awareness that she was present inside room 1 with my sister and possibly others when my network was implanted. Sharing the events of the day, I’m mindful that whenever the subject returns to Neva, it’s as if the night gets emptier and colder. I can feel Mom get stony, and I come right out and ask her about it.
“I know she doesn’t like any of us but I’m wondering if her real target is you,” I conclude. “She seems gratuitously scornful and cruel. It seems personal, as if there’s a history maybe I don’t know about.”
Silence. Just like ART.
“When she was a postdoc in one of Dad’s labs at Langley, did something happen between you and Neva?” I persist. “Now would be a really good time to shoot straight with me as I’m trying to figure out what the psycho might do next.”
Mom is quiet as we push with our toes, sliding back and forth slowly and gently, surrounded by darkness and lights.
“I recognized what she was when no one else did,” she finally answers. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t until I’d gotten to know her.”
“How did that happen?”
“I may not be a scientist or an astronaut but I have my value as it turns out,” she says. “If you’re looking for someone who has an overview of everything that goes on at NASA and in the space world, I’m a pretty good place to start.”
“Ask the person who teaches it to everybody else,” I reply. “Plus, you’re exposed to a lot of privileged information. Much of it classified and top secret even if it’s through osmosis,” thinking of projects Dad and I routinely work on.
“She’d drop by my office regularly, insatiably curious about all my lesson plans. We spent a fair amount of time together,” Mom says. “George and I had her over for supper or on the weekends. We were friendly, saw each other daily until I began hearing rumors that clued me in on what she was really up to.”
“How long had you been hanging out by the time you became suspicious?” I inquire, and it bothers me tremendously to think of Neva ever stepping foot on our farm.
00:00:00:00:0
“IT WENT ON a few months longer than it should have,” Mom doesn’t really answer the question. “Your father had several inventions he hadn’t patented yet, and she stole them right out from under him. Can’t prove it but there’s no doubt. Why do you think she has more money than God?”
“Did you confront her with these rumors? Specifically, your suspicion that she stole Dad’s intellectual property?” I ask as we stare out at the night, rocking gently on the old settee glider, our breath fogging when we talk.