by M. A. George
CHAPTER 3
Common sense would tell you—and Sabela’s memories confirm—that my father was irrevocably changed in the moment of my mother’s death. She had been his wife and the true love of his life for sixty-five years.
In an instant, he went from a vigorous, charismatic man to an elderly, feeble shell of his former self. He teetered on the verge of absolute despair, yet somehow willed himself to undertake the care of an infant. Sabela’s inherent maturity, patience, and helpfulness were invaluable as she was abruptly propelled into surrogate motherhood. Though she truly served as my mother in almost every capacity, she conscientiously avoided taking a controlling power over me. I never resented her position of authority. As I grew in years, she was clearly pleased with my transition to becoming her equal.
Over a century of close companionship has made us much more than sisters or friends. She is like my second self, in many ways my better self. We share many personality traits, whether through genetics or the influence of her example throughout my life. We are both compassionate, observant, and uncomfortable being the focus of attention. We share an easy smile and good sense of humor, though I am quicker to jump to sarcasm.
We of course have our differences.
She is eternally selfless and gracious, content with a tranquil existence. Perhaps she surrendered her own aspirations when dropped feet-first into the simultaneous care of an aging parent and a newborn sibling at the tender age of fourteen.
I, on the other hand, am independent to a fault.
In my adolescent years, my father would often quip that if I came upon a sign with a giant pointing arrow signaling “This Way”, I would deliberately turn and run in the opposite direction. My stubbornness has softened over the years, but I still have a tendency to resist advice, especially when coming from my father.
Don’t misunderstand me, I was never a real troublemaker. I have always been a law-abiding rule follower, if for no other reason than to protect the safety of my family. I actually have an innate need to please. I am not deliberately defiant, just determined to do things my own unique way.
Perhaps it is because uniqueness is all I really know.
I’m afraid I have given the impression that I somehow dislike my father. On the contrary, he is the cornerstone of my life. In my youth, I went through every emotion toward him—from holding him responsible for bringing us to Earth (and thus facilitating my mother’s demise), to being overwhelmed with the guilty realization that I wrenched his heart from his chest the day I came to life. The blaming phase was rather brief, and it is the desolate guilt that still sometimes overpowers me.
Sabela assures me that my parents were both elated with the prospect of my arrival. As many parents do, they yearned to provide a companion for their firstborn child, particularly in this foreign world. It was with great excitement that they prepared for my birth. When tragedy struck, my father could have shunned or resented me. Quite the opposite, he became intensely protective of me. Sabela believes it was solely his love for me that kept him from losing himself in anguish.
I know I exasperate him at times. He is so accustomed to effortlessly swaying others toward his own opinions or beliefs. Yet I thwart his efforts at every turn.
It is not that I am somehow immune to his powers (at least I don’t think that is the case). He has a profound moral objection to using unfair tactics, unless given no other choice. While most unsuspecting objects of his persuasive expertise are oblivious to his influence, I am fairly certain I would recognize the deviation from my usual thought processes.
Neither Sabela nor I have ever felt manipulated or coerced into a decision under his control—in Sabela’s case because it has never really been necessary. I, however, have given him more than enough temptation to redirect my thoughts or actions. Though I know he is capable of staying his own hand out of remarkable integrity, somehow I believe it is in honor of my mother that he resists so fervently.
He does not often mention her—I know out of grief that will never subside—but on more than one occasion, he has likened my independent spirit to hers.
The futility of my father’s diplomatic mission surely made its tragic outcome all the more difficult for him to swallow. It would have been a natural reaction to pack his children up and return to familiar territory. Why he did not is a mystery—one he refuses to discuss even today.
Sabela and I have several theories. Perhaps he feared Onontí was still torn by war and therefore more dangerous than our current situation. If in fact the conflict had ended in favor of the rebellion, my father would almost certainly be punished severely—if not executed—as a traitor. Even had the monarchy regained control, what might have been the cost? Everyone my father had known could be gone and forgotten. At least on Earth we had a relatively safe and comfortable roof over our heads.
Finally, there was the bleak reality that all of these possibilities were irrelevant. How likely was it for a 125-year-old ship that had fallen into disrepair to safely make an interplanetary journey? If said ship even existed anymore. Whatever his reasons, my father severed all contact with Onontí shortly after my birth.
Once again, the result is a long and lonely existence for me in New Mexico. The average Onontian lifespan is apparently somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred years. So, I am not yet even middle-aged.
I am becoming increasingly aware that I have seen and done all that really holds interest for me in this world. Perhaps it is that world-weariness that has turned my attention toward this enigmatic human man.
