Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy)

by Cidney Swanson

  Sir Walter was taking no chances that anyone would be able to figure out that any of us were connected, or important to one another. “Your danger would increase significantly if my cousin suspected you to be in league with me,” he’d said. Sir Walter had checked where my parents’ long–distance phone calls came from. He’d acquired phones registered to owners in those locations. Not fail–safe, but at least calls from Nayarit, Mexico or Ontario, Canada wouldn’t stand out as unusual to anyone who might be monitoring calls to my family.

  I shuddered. Monitored described me all too well.

  Sylvia was keeping a close eye on me, too.

  “What is it? Did I overcook the granola again?” She pulled the lid off the half–gallon jar, sniffing the cereal.

  “No,” I said. “I’m just not in a granola mood, I guess.” I carried the bowl to the sink.

  Sylvia caught something in the way I shuffled.

  “Aunt Flo here for a visit?” she asked.

  I guffawed. Syl had a million ways to describe menstruating, and none of them involved the word “period.” She opened the freezer and pulled something out.

  “You need chocolate,” she said. “Lucky for you I froze some chocolate croissants from Bridget’s last fundraiser.”

  Chocolate croissants sounded good. Really good. I sat back down at the kitchen island as my stepmother clattered through a narrow cupboard of baking sheets, lined up on end. She found the one she wanted for re–heating croissants. Then she plunked two more on the marble in front of me. Warped from use, the pans rocked back and forth, chattering to one another in the quiet kitchen.

  “After croissants, we’re making double–chocolate chocolate–chip cookies,” she said, smiling.

  “Bet you don’t miss having your period,” I said, figuring I’d just go with her assessment of the cause of my doldrums. I remembered the day I’d asked her why she and my dad didn’t have a baby. I was eleven and longing for a sibling. Sylvia had told me of her first husband’s vicious abuse, how he’d landed her in the hospital with heavy internal bleeding. “They took out all my baby–making–parts to stop the hemorrhaging, sweetie,” she’d told me. “They saved my life, and got me help to leave the relationship, but only after he’d destroyed something infinitely precious.”

  Across from me, my step–mother frowned, clutching a sponge. “Do I miss the aches and mood shifts? Not so much. But, the power to reproduce …” She applied the sponge to a stubborn spot on the counter. “Something irreplaceable was stolen from me, Sam.”

  I swallowed. Eerie coincidence, Sylvia’s choice of words about her abusive first husband.

  “Promise me you’ll never grant anyone that amount of power over you,” said Sylvia, crossing over to rub my back. Then she sighed. “Sorry for the heavy. Turning forty–one must really be getting to my biological clock. It seems more final than forty, somehow.”

  I turned to hug my step–mom. “You still managed to become a great mom, you know.”

  She smiled, blinking back tears, and kissed the top of my head. “And you’re a great daughter, Sammy.”

  Down the hall, Christian opened his door, keeping up the illusion that he spent his nights downstairs.

  “Ooooh–la–la, that’s more like it!” Sylvia said, all signs of sorrow brushed aside. “Now you’re a handsome California hombre.”

  Christian flushed. Sir Walter had provided his son with contemporary clothing, but it had been contemporary for Paris, not central California. Sylvia had recently suggested a trip to La Perla, Las Abs’ one and only retailer of clothing. I had to admit the fit of his new jeans was an improvement over the hyper–fashionable Parisian jeans. He looked friendlier, somehow. Less of a stand–out in our homogenous town. Not standing out was good.

  “Gwyn dispatched unto me an electronic messenger,” announced Christian as Sylvia passed him a croissant.

  “She texted you,” I corrected. So much for not standing out.

  Christian bowed his acquiescence. “She states that she is bored and wishes for an escape from her mother’s patisserie. Sorry—bakery.” From a back pocket, he removed his personal knife and fork from a container called a cadena.

  Sylvia sighed and shook her head.

  “The personal knife and fork? Really not necessary,” I murmured to him, repeating what Sylvia must have told him already a dozen times.

  Christian ignored me, and I remembered his response last time. Your belle–mère lacks servants. It troubles me greatly that she takes it upon herself to launder my clothing and clean the dishes upon which I dine. Allow me this small courtesy, the using of my own fork and knife. These, at least, shall not be added to her labors.

  “Honey, ask Gwyn if she’ll bring some of those dark chocolate chips with her,” said Sylvia.

  I sent a quick text.

  My step–mother turned to Christian. “Today, I am instructing you in the fine American art of making chocolate chip cookies!”

  “Most excellent,” said Christian, reaching for a second croissant.

  Sylvia bustled from pantry to counter to fridge, setting the ingredients upon the island.

  “Mise–en–place,” said Christian. “I saw this style of preparation demonstrated upon the small electronic theater.”

  “The TV,” Sylvia automatically corrected him. “So what’s mise–en–place mean anyway? I’ve never known.”

  Christian shrugged, looking just like Sir Walter. “It means simply that prior to cooking, everything is brought to its proper place.”

  Its proper place. The opposite of me and Will. His proper place was here, at my side, like the cubes of butter beside the bag of sugar. Not far away on another continent.

  Christian licked his fork and knife clean and replaced them in the cadena.

  “So,” began Sylvia, “Does everyone in France carry their own, er, personal silverware?”

  Christian turned to me, alarmed as to how he should answer.

  “It’s an old–fashioned thing,” I said. “The knife doubled as a weapon in a pinch.”

  “Mm–hmmm,” intoned Sylvia.

  “During the reign of Louis Quatorze, knifings were so common in the streets of Paris that the king ordered all knife–ends to be blunted,” added Christian.

  “Wow,” said Syl, her back to us.

  “I bet not everyone complied, though,” I said, bumping Christian’s shoulder.

  His knife had a wicked looking point and resembled a dagger more than a butter knife.

  Gwyn’s arrival a few minutes later put a stop to the discussion of seventeenth–century cutlery.

  “You have no idea how bad I need chocolate chip cookies,” said Gwyn, flopping onto a bar stool beside Christian. Leaning well into his personal space, she held a jar out for Sylvia. “As requested. Dark chocolate chips.”

  “Does not your mother prepare these cookies daily?” asked Christian.

  Gwyn shook her head at him, hair flying, grazing Christian’s face. “That’s so cute that you think she lets me eat them.” She chucked him under the chin. Then she put her hands on her hips and frowned, clearly in preparation to impersonate someone.

  “On–ry foh custumah! Foh custumah!”

  “Your mom doesn’t talk like that,” I said, a little shocked at Gwyn’s irreverence.

  “My aunties do,” retorted Gwyn. “I was doing them.”

  “And I’m sure they deserve your respect,” said Sylvia, trying to look severe.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Gwyn. “My culture’s all over respect for elders.” She winked at Christian, her four–hundred–year–old crush.

  Sylvia passed the flour to Gwyn. “Measure eight cups into the bowl. We’re doing a quadruple batch.”

  Christian sat with his brows pulled together, clearly trying to puzzle something out. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle,” he said to Gwyn, “But is the culture of the Chinese indeed given to respect for elders? Because you display less of this toward your mother than I have ever encountered, in all my years.”

>   Gwyn turned to him with eyebrows pulled high. “Is this sarcasm?”

  “Indeed, it is not,” declared Christian. “I have often observed your irreverence towards the woman who gave you life.”

  A smile played at one edge of his mouth. He was trying his hand at sarcasm.

  Gwyn stared at him. She let out a little huff of indignation. Then she grabbed a pinch of flour and flicked it at him. “I—am—plenty—respectful,” she said, punctuating each word with another flick of flour.

  “That type of behavior belongs outside,” warned Sylvia.

  Christian, epitomizing respectful behavior, obeyed my step–mother at once, stepping out through the sliding glass door. And Gwyn couldn’t resist chasing him, flour–sack in hand.

  Sylvia chuckled. “They make a very cute couple. I would have thought he was more your type, but I guess not?”

  “No,” I agreed. “Not even close.” I hadn’t spoken much about Will recently with my step–mom. It hurt too much.

  Gwyn and Christian burst back inside, laughing. A gust of wind brought in the scent of pine through the door.

  “War’s over,” said Gwyn. “Christian has agreed that I’m the pinnacle of daughterly devotion.”

  Sylvia passed Christian a towel. He was covered in flour. He walked to the sink and dusted himself off.

  My stomach growled, loud in the silence.

  “Guess I’m still hungry,” I said.

  “Me, too,” murmured Gwyn, eyes devouring Christian.

  “It’s all these good smells,” said Sylvia, scooping the first dough–balls onto the cookie sheets.

  As Christian reached for a cookie–scoop to help my step–mother, I caught the soft nutty scent of flour on his clothes. It mixed with the scent of pine from outside.

  The smell of Will.

  I left the kitchen so I could have a good cry by myself, and Christian, may God bless him for it, let me go alone.

  Excerpted from the personal diary of Girard L’Inferne.

  Circa 2006

  It is with great pain that I admit that not all of my new children are progressing as I had planned. So bright, their promise even three years ago. But as they pass through puberty we see signs of discontent, of rebellion even. Those who were first to volunteer for tasks requiring self–sacrifice three years ago now hang back, eyes to the floor. Matron keeps me informed as to names, refusals to participate. They will be terminated, of course, before they realize it might be possible to escape.

  In addition, I see all too clearly that a high number suffer from mental psychoses. I had thought that it was possible such persons could serve me as Helga has served me. But even her usefulness is now tainted. While she thinks my eye wanders, she acts in ways contrary to my wishes. I can no longer trust her.

  The fault, unfortunately, stems from my own DNA. Fritz is optimistic that the markers for such psychoses can be eliminated, eventually, so that a cleaner strain of my own make–up might be passed to the leaders of the new humanity for which I labor. But I have no wish to wait as long as he says this will take.

  Not if there are other possibilities.

  Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  SAM–COUNTRY

  · WILL ·

  Sir Walter didn’t figure it was safe for us to stay in a playground–for–the–rich like Nice for too long. “Pfeffer knows my habits,” he said. “And I am ashamed to admit that in addition to sloth, I have been guilty of luxuria, the sin of indulging too heavily in the good life, as a result of a few rather judicious investments this past century.”

  Mick laughed. “Not really a temptation Will and I had to face before meeting you!”

  “I believe we should return to my more humble dwelling outside of Carcassonne,” said Sir Walter. “Neither Helmann nor Pfeffer know of its existence.

  We arrived at the small house early in the day. Into the living room where Sam and I had kissed, where she’d slept at my side. I felt this awful hole open up inside my guts. Once again, I tried stuffing all my Sam–feelings down to my toes. The insides of my sneakers were getting crowded.

  I turned my attention to the conversation between Sir Walter and my sister.

  “And the proximity to Montpellier, where Helmann has another building, means we can study for an extended time a building owned by Geneses.”

  “I wonder if this one will be stuffed full of bodies,” said Mick, her brow crinkled. “You said they seemed to be sleeping?”

  “So it appeared to me, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir Walter.

  “Maybe this is stupid, but do you think Helmann is imprisoning people?” she asked. “Like what you did for me back in Nice, except with malicious intent?”

  “Sir Walter and I talked about that,” I said. “Like, maybe Helmann is piling up his enemies in empty buildings across Europe.”

  Sir Walter spoke. “However, Helmann’s policy has always been to kill his enemies.”

  “So maybe these are people he wants to wake up and question or torture or something,” I suggested. “Like he couldn’t get to it right away, but he wants to be able to find them later.”

  Stroking his goatee, Sir Walter grunted. “It is as good a suggestion as any. But why acquire the use of buildings for this purpose?”

  “It wouldn’t have to be for that purpose,” I said. “It might just be like, hey, I caught these dudes in the banlieues and I want to be able to find them again and oh, look, I own a building right over there.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sir Walter, giving his beard the deep–massage treatment. “Monsieur, Mademoiselle, if the building in Montpellier does, in fact contain invisible bodies, I propose that we bring one of them into solid form.”

  The color drained from Mick’s face, but she didn’t voice an objection.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said. “You know how fast me and Sir Walter can ripple away if we need to.”

  She nodded. “It’s what we’re here for. To figure how to stop Helmann.”

  “I propose making the attempt by myself,” said Sir Walter.

  Mick looked relieved.

  I felt bummed, but if he went by himself, at least my sister could spend the day normally, inside her own skin instead of inside a wall. I could do that much for her.

  “Sure,” I said.

  It could have been a really nice time for me and Mick, except every hour in this house felt like torture to me. Everything here was Sam. My loneliness for her got so thick I could’ve used it for a pillow.

  Wandering down the hall, I saw the little room that had been hers. I kind of hovered at the doorway ‘cause there was this voice in my head going, this is a dumb idea, Will. You know it’s gonna make it worse, right?

  I crossed over the threshold and into Sam–country. The little white bed was all made in the corner. And suddenly I couldn’t make myself go another step, ‘cause what if it smelled like Sam in here? Man, that would probably kill me. I leaned against a wall beside the door and sank down to the ground, my knees bent up in front of me. My eyes closed on a tiny prayer. Please, let her be safe. Please let her be okay. Please. I knew it probably irked God how people only talked to him when they needed something, and I was no exception, but it felt good, reminding God to maybe think of her.

  When I opened my eyes, they felt all wet, so I didn’t get up right away, because really, the last thing I needed was my sister worrying about me. I pulled my sleeve across my face a couple times and just sat there, hanging in Sam’s once–upon–a–room, wishing I could see her face again.

  Outside, a little bit of sun was trying to shine through the clouds. It would almost make it, a patch on the wooden floor growing brighter, but then new clouds would roll past and the floor would get dark again. I stared at it: light, dark, light, for long enough that the little spot on the floor moved, creeping over towards that white Sam–bed I didn’t want to think about. Finally the sun won the fight and this shaft of light shot through the window and under the frame of the bed, lighting up something white–col
ored on the floor.

  My pity party had gone on long enough at this point, and I stood up to grab the whatever–it–was. It looked a little like a pillow case or maybe a kitchen towel, and I figured I’d save Sir Walter crawling under the bed when he noticed it twenty years from now.

  I could feel the sun warm on my skin as I reached for the white fabric. The south of France definitely had the advantage in winter weather over Paris. Down the hall, Mick was muttering again, the computer on the receiving end of her complaints. I glanced at the item in my hands, about to ask Mick if she’d seen a laundry pile.

  Then the words stuck in my throat. It wasn’t a dishrag or pillowcase. It was a girl’s tee shirt. One of those little skimpy shirts without sleeves and skinny little straps for the shoulders and I thought my heart was going to fall on the floor in front of me, I swear, because this shirt was Sam’s. I thought about just taking it straight to the trash, which was what anyone with a brain would’ve done, but of course I didn’t have a brain when it came to Sam, so I just buried my face in it in case it had any Sam–smell left.

  Which it did.

  Man, I’m such an idiot at times.

  Before long Mick noticed me standing there in the hall huffing like a glue–sniffer, and she saw my face, wrinkled up like an old apple, and she went all big sister and tried to come give me a hug.

  I dropped the shirt on the ground.

  “I’m going for a run,” was all I managed to say before tears started leaking out my eyes.

  My big sister stepped aside and let me go.

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  FOCUS ON THE PRIZE

  · SAM ·

  I couldn’t get Christian to agree to return to the small Geneses lab in San Francisco. And I understood it was crazy to try. So, once I realized he wasn’t going to change his mind, I only had one small problem left to overcome: how to ditch Christian so I could go alone.