by Sandra Elsa
"All the more reason we should go ahead and get married. If this is what his plans revolve around, he should be content to let us alone for at least a couple of years if he thinks we’ve fallen in line with his designs."
"Just as long as you're clear that the marriage does not include consummation."
"I don't have the power to turn off other spells. So even if we did end up together you wouldn't be fulfilling his wishes."
"Don't even go there."
"OK. I'm just glad you're talking to me again." He held up the packet of medication, "Did you want these?"
"Want them, no. Need them? I reckon, if I'm gonna get off this floor."
"Am I allowed to help you?"
"Please."
He kneeled down and scooped me off the floor, placing me on the edge of the bed. "Guess we need to go clothes shopping."
"Hate to buy new clothes so I can cut them to get them over the cast."
"We can buy something that will stretch. Or something with snaps down the outside of the leg. You've got to have more than one change of clothes."
"How do you intend to take me shopping? You're not carrying me around downtown."
"Stopped by the hospital last night. Got a wheelchair, since I'm obviously not going to convince you to remain calm and in one place for a week. You know you've got a hundred and forty-eight messages on your handheld?"
I took it back from him. "Guess I ought to go through them. At least respond to anybody who might have been hoping I’d take their case. Where's my phone?"
"Thought we were throwing it away."
I shrugged. "I guess…But as long as I have it, I want to check messages."
"Anybody particular?"
"No. Just curious. Don't suppose you can get me back to the bathroom?"
"Your wish is my command." He lifted me from the bed and carried me through the living room and down the hall. This time I didn't have to tell him to leave. When I finished, I stood and hopped over to the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. My hair needed washing. Fortunately I’d never wasted time with make-up. I still wanted to clean up. I turned toward the door as it opened. Harrison stood there holding a towel and a washcloth.
"You don't knock?"
"You're not exactly quiet when you move. Figured you'd be dressed since you didn't have a change of clothes or anything to wash with."
I frowned at him.
"But next time I can knock."
"Can you bring the hairbrush?"
He reached around and pulled it out of a back pocket. "Unless you want me to brush it after you've washed."
"Don't suppose we have shampoo?"
Back pocket, opposite side. "Do you need help washing your hair?"
"I'll just wash in the sink." The faucet rose upward in a graceful copper arch allowing plenty of room to get my head under it.
"I'll be right outside if you need help."
"I'm fine. Go do something productive."
He closed the door on a, "Yes, Your Majesty." He's lucky I needed everything within reach or I’d have tossed something after him.
Fifteen minutes later I wrapped the towel around my dripping hair and struggled back into my shirt. With the hairbrush in my hand, I hopped toward the door. He had parked the wheelchair right outside. I sat in it and wheeled myself down the hallway to be greeted by the scent of sausage sizzling in a pan. There were sunny-side up eggs already on the plates next to two thick slices of toast. I watched him from the door of the kitchen as he took the sausage from the pan and placed it on the plates. He looked up with a grin. "Productive enough?"
"Definitely. We gonna sit at the counter or in the dining room?"
"I'd just as soon eat here. The dining room is a bit dreary." He spun a stool around under the counter then crossed the kitchen to grab a second. There was a slant to the floor going in the kitchen and I maneuvered up it to sit next to one of the tall stools, then levered myself from the chair and transferred to the stool."
"You do pretty good in that thing."
"Not the first time I've been injured."
"Tell me about the others." He placed his stool beside mine, then got out forks and knives. "Butter?"
"No thank you. Not much to tell. Shot twice. Hit by a car once. Couple little things."
"You are the coolest woman I've ever met. You say that like getting shot and run over by a car are no big thing. I don't think I ever met a woman with an injury more serious than a hangnail." He filled two glasses with tea then finally sat down.
I sipped the tea then picked up the toast and dunked it in egg yolk. "Probably not in your sheltered life. What's the worst you've ever been damaged? Before the windows anyway."
He laughed and held up a hand. "Hangnail. So where were you shot?"
"Thigh and shoulder."
"And what happened with the car?"
"Broke both my legs. Internal injuries. Thumped my head pretty good." I had the feeling he wanted to jump out of his chair and protectively wrap his arms around me. He didn't. He was learning. "I'm not easy to kill."
"Why would you put yourself in such dangerous positions?"
I shrugged. "When I was shot in the thigh, I'd been hired to find a missing wife. I found her and three others, bound and gagged, alongside two bodies. They'd all been raped and tortured. Their captor came back as I was waiting for the watch to arrive, so I took matters into my own hands. Should I have let him get inside where he might have killed them when the watch showed up?"
He remained silent.
"The car was a husband I busted with his mistress. Wife told him she hired me and when she left him, he took it out on me. Apparently she used my photos to take him to the cleaners." I cut the sausage then speared a chunk and dunked it in the egg.
"So he blamed you?"
"So much easier to blame the person taking the pictures, than to accept the fact that you may deserve what you got. I'm here to tell you that after we get married I don't really give a shit how many women you want to sleep with, because I won't be one of them."
"I guess I can see where you might be sour on relationships. Any personal ones go bad?"
"No." I stuffed a mouthful of egg and toast in my mouth.
"A no that fast usually means yes."
"It means no, and the details of my personal life are not yours to know." I swallowed the toast then followed it with more sausage to curtail further discussion. After I swallowed again, I asked, "Do you even know where your breakfast comes from?"
"Never worried about it too much."
"Two domes about a hundred miles west of here. They actually don't have numbers. Plain and simple, the Turkey Domes. Nobody lives there except the turkeys. Caretakers come in morning and evening to feed them."
"Guess that means we're done talking about Frankie."
"Give the man a prize."
I ate the rest of my breakfast in silence then I slid into the wheelchair and carried the dishes to the sink.
"I can get them."
"I planned to let you wash them. I'll be in my room going through messages."
"You'll let me know if there's anything interesting?"
"If it pertains to our situation, sure."
An hour later I'd deleted fifty-odd advertisements unread. Responded to three potential clients that I would be unable to take on new cases for the foreseeable future and recommended they try Sam Harwid. That left ninety-two messages received from six different addresses.
Over twenty were from Wally, all but one date-time stamped before I'd spoken to him. They were all similar and after five I deleted all but the last two or three which I read to make sure the message hadn't changed. The last one was a simple, "Stay safe. Contact me if there's ever anything I can do for you."
Rollick sent two messages. Similar in tone to Wally's. Charlie, from District Eight Watch, said they were watching my apartment and if I needed anything from it, let him know when I needed somebody to look the other way. Might take him up on that offer. What I real
ly wanted was in my office and I wasn't that close to the District Two troopers.
The rest of the messages came from District Seven.
Chapter 19
The first message from President Drover was a summons to District Seven to be tested and registered. As were the second and third. There were a couple that displayed the rage he didn't show the world. Those arrived shortly after I spoke to him from the hospital. I put them in a folder created just for him. Eventually he simmered down again and issued another summons for testing. This one promising he bore me no ill will. All total there were nine from him. There were two from Harrison's mother begging to know if all was well.
The rest were from Harold Jallahan. They had all been sent within moments of each other but when I opened the first one, I read: "January first 3525." The year of my birth.
**Dear Child,
I pray some day I'll have the chance to send this to you. I don't even know if you're male or female. Or even if you were ever born. Perhaps upon discovering herself pregnant your mother took her own life. I pray that is not the case. It was never my intent.
She was the most beautiful woman in District Eleven and I wanted to make her mine. She had no use for mages, but I thought if she were pregnant she'd come to stay with me. God knows I'd turned off enough birth prevention devices for Jordan and his crowd in the past two years I couldn't see anything wrong with what I did.
But I guess that only goes to prove how insular our community is, how above the rest of the world we placed ourselves. I was wrong. I did a grievous misdeed and I hope someday I get the chance to atone for my actions. Your mother disappeared and my heart is torn for the child I will most likely never know.
Your Father,
Harold Jallahan.
#
The messages went on in that tone, one every six months or so. The first several years described his search for Star. He had no more than that to go on. Then he skipped a six month period but wrote another on the first of the year. Every one included a small part of what his life was about. The thirtieth message was happy.
**Dear Child,
Or should I call you Angela now. After all these long years I now have proof you were in fact born. A brilliant child, your teachers tell me. They showed me your picture and I saw myself. Perhaps when you and your mother return from your vacation, I will finally have the chance to meet you and atone for what I did to your mother. It bothers me not at all that your teachers say you are not gifted magically. Creating a talented child never was my intent.
I'm going to cut this short as I hope to see you shortly."
Your Father,
Harold Jallahan
#
Then message thirty-one.
**Dear Angela,
Or whatever you're calling yourself now as I can only surmise upon discovering someone was searching for her and her child, your mother changed your names...God how she must hate me...
My heart is breaking, but I'll leave the two of you alone now.
Your Father
Harold Jallahan
#
He skipped the next six month period but started back on January first.
**Dearest Angela,
I know these will never reach you, but it's been my custom to start each new year with a letter to you for so long, I don't think I can stop. Not now. Not knowing you are in fact alive. I wrote for so many years not knowing if you even existed, so I will return to praying that one day I get to send these to you, even if I have stopped searching.
This past year has been hell. I've never before felt anybody truly hated me. I've always been the guy people turn to, everybody's buddy and if I'm honest maybe a little odd, but I never knew somebody could hate me as much as your mother surely must. I can't imagine any other reason she would disappear so completely not once, but twice.
I pray you have a good life.
Your Father,
Harold Jallahan
#
From there on they became a once a year event. Each one telling more of his life. The year he was selected as head of R&D was the most upbeat letter since the one he'd written when I was fifteen. Each one also mentioned his hopes that whatever I did in life I stayed healthy and happy.
Then came one dated five years ago.
**Dearest Francesca,
I saw your photo on the front page of the NewsNet and I knew you for who you are. They're saying you blew up a building to divert attention from a known criminal the police were about to capture. I went out to the sight of the explosion where they claimed you nearly died for this man. The explosive device was tainted with magic. As close as I can determine it should have been a very contained explosion. Whoever built the thing was not looking to destroy an entire building but merely a small distraction.
I don't know if you did this or not, but something blew out the containment field. I pray if you have my talent for turning magic off, I find you before you kill yourself for lack of knowledge.
I am relieved the police did not find enough evidence to arrest you. Indeed they confirmed a complete lack of talent so maybe it truly was not you.
Have no fear; I will not track you down, though I do consider sending you these letters.
Your Father
Harold Jallahan
#
I almost laughed out loud. How ironic. Maybe the watch was correct all along about the Girlo thing.
The last message read
**Dearest Francesca,
Forgive me, but I must break my vow not to contact you.
Jordan came to me in an agitated state today accusing me of fathering a bastard mage (There's the pot calling the kettle black) and not registering her. It seems you've met his son and stolen him away.
I would like to say bravo, and wish you a joyous life, but Jordan is determined to find you both and force you back to Seven. It's a silly law, that we must all register and live here, but it is still on the books and he is a very powerful man. I am overjoyed and yet saddened to learn that you are of mage caliber. Overjoyed, because it ties me to you so much more than blood. Saddened, because now that Jordan is aware of you, he will not rest until he controls you.
For the first time in my life I find myself in the position of being jealous of Jordan Drover as he claims to have actually spoken with you, face to face.
Forgive the phone calls, he sits in my office and persuades me to call. I am glad thus far you have not answered. I suppose you must hate me as much as your mother did. I don't know why Jordan assumes I would have any control over you. I've watched your career closely since I found you again and I know you to be a headstrong, willful, young woman. It would please me to acknowledge you as my daughter.
As much as I would like to actually meet you in person, stay safe and keep moving. Harrison is a good man in spite of his father's influence. I don't know if the two of you are together as a couple as Jordan claims, or if as Nan says, you're helping him stay one step ahead of his father, but you could certainly do worse.
Your Father,
Harold Jallahan
#
Tears streamed down my face as I contemplated thirty-two years worth of words from my father.
A small sound made me glance toward the doorway. Harrison stood there. The moment I looked at him he asked, "Bad news? Because I can go home if there's something you need to take care of."
"No. Just something unexpected. Thank you though, for the offer."
He came to the bed and I closed the last message as he tried to peer over my shoulder.
"Do you mind? They're personal."
"Sorry. Just curious what could make you cry."
"I'm not sure if they're even real yet, so I'm not ready to share."
"Who are they from?"
I considered not answering but what was the point. He'd have it from me sooner or later anyway. "Harold Jallahan."
"All right then, did you want to go back to the roof?"
I grinned at him. "Sounds good. You're learning."
"Around you I better."
"Where'd you say the phone was?"
"I have it in my room."
"I'll be at the steps."
Apparently he was getting a rein on his nurturing side. He spun to go get the phone and I got myself in the chair and to the steps. He joined me there and carried me up, placing me on the lounge chair I spent the previous evening in.
"What are you going to do today?"
"I'm going to relax, right here next to you, if I'm allowed."
"Of course you're allowed. It's our house."
He took the chair next to me and laid back with his handheld. We remained in companionable silence most of the morning. I researched Harold Jallahan. If even a tiny portion of his letters represented heartfelt emotion perhaps I'd done him an injustice all these years. I couldn't blame Mom for feeling the way she had. She had no way to know he didn't recognize her as a null. It sounded like perhaps even to this day he hadn't figured it out. He had been an awkward young man following a poor influence, who tried a method all his friends were using. In his case, if he was to be believed, his goal was not to father a child, but to get the girl of his dreams to acknowledge his existence beyond what she exchanged for monetary gain. If he was to be believed. And that was a big if.
What my research turned up was a brilliant, solitary, fifty-five year old man. Never married, except to his work. I started reading what I could find of his published works and found his theory to be sound and applicable to a lot of what I already knew I could do. By the time Harrison went down to get lunch I dashed off a message to Mage Jallahan. I forewent the sentimentality of Dear Father or any form of address at all as I rather figured, To whom it may concern, might be more off-putting than nothing, and I wasn't ready to call him Dad.
**I received your messages this morning. For reasons you have not hit upon, my mother had no desire to be dragged off to District Seven as was happening to many of her friends. Being sensitive to magic, she knew almost instantly that you had got her with a gifted child and chose to depart the area before she had no choice in her situation. You are correct in your assumption that I have spent thirty-two years hating you, and all of your kind right alongside my mother(until she died five and a half years ago).
