Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy)

by Cidney Swanson

  The only thing remaining upright in the room was the large thermos–like object holding a developing copy of me. After grabbing a pair of gloves from a drawer, Hans approached the clone–container. I found myself drifting along the wall to watch. With practiced and precise motions completely unlike what he’d used to trash the office, Hans disassembled the container. He removed a tiny disk—an actual Petri–dish—and set it carefully on the desk. Then, fumbling for a moment within his inner jacket pocket, he brought forth a syringe holding a clear liquid.

  I knew what he meant to do. Hans would accomplish the task I’d come here to perform. But the task felt completely different now that I’d seen that possible–Sam: the one who could grow to maturity free from my pain. I’d seen her, and there was no way to pretend I hadn’t.

  As I watched him destroy the tiny organism, felt his horrible delight, I was glad I hadn’t had to do it myself. It was the difference between observing a kill and pulling the trigger. I didn’t know what the law said about week old blastocysts, but I knew Hans’ intent was murderous.

  It put my step–mother’s annual heartache about a miscarriage in a completely different light. I hadn’t understood why she felt sad about someone she’d never met. But I got it now. She grieved for someone she had seen, if only in her imagination.

  At that moment, Radio Hans settled into a round of self–congratulatory cheer.

  I left the building.

  Quickly, I made my way out of San Francisco. I drifted across the San Joaquin Valley, eerily still in its blanket of winter fog. Up into the foothills I ghosted, silent and swift, until I neared Las Abuelitas.

  The highway before me curved sharply: Deadman’s Curve. Home lay just ahead. I rippled solid a few miles short of my house, craving a good run. The air felt icy after my hours of insubstantiality, but the ground beneath my feet comforted me. I focused on the sound of my shoes slamming down upon bits of gravel. The air passing through my lungs burned, a fierce and fiery cold.

  As dawn drew near, a lone bird called, and the sky passed from sterling to pale gray in the east. The back of our house, facing west, lay in darkness. As I drew nearer, I rippled invisible again so no one would notice me returning. I passed our pool, flat and still in the breezeless dawn, a heavy mist rising because Syl kept the pool heated through winter. Dad had forgotten to cover it last night, which would make my step–mom crazy when she noticed. A warm swim sounded wonderful after my shaky run. But my parents would rush me to the doctor to check for signs of insanity, swimming before sunrise on a winter’s morning.

  Then I smiled. I could swim. I just couldn’t come solid. I glided towards the water, curious what I’d feel. Crossing to the deep end, I crouched and dove head first. I could sense the instant that every part of my invisible body crossed from air into water. A thousand tiny fingers whispered past me as I shot through. Passing through air never really felt like anything, but water? It made me think of slithering my fingers back and forth through a bowl of seed–beads Sylvia kept upstairs.

  “They’re therapeutic,” Sylvia had said, shrugging, when I asked her what the seed–beads were for.

  It was a great comparison. Seed beads had smoother, slipperier edges than grains of sand. Pushing around through my swimming pool felt slithery as well. I’d expected the water might feel thick and stretchy like glass. Water seemed more … tickle–y. A thousand times more playful. I kicked off the sides, back and forth. Pushing through my pool required less effort than “swimming” upwards through air. No, that wasn’t exactly right, I decided. It came back to something Sir Walter had said about expectations. I expected water to require effort, and I adjusted my motion accordingly. When I’d “jumped” down from Sir Walter’s castle tower in France, I’d expected to “fall” and had been surprised when I found it took effort to make my way to the ground. Expectations: they all fell apart when I lacked substance.

  The kitchen lights flicked on and I heard Dad’s truck revving up as he backed out our long driveway. I felt reluctant to leave the pool, just like a little kid when the lifeguard says it’s time. But Syl would come knocking on my door if I didn’t start making noise in my room.

  I took one final glide through the pool, from end to end, and stepped back into air. I didn’t have to dry off. Cool! When I slipped through the sliding glass door, a delicious hug, I heard Sylvia humming. She was making French Toast, and her version was definitely worth getting back inside my skin for. I ghosted upstairs and lay on my bed, waiting for Christian to come “wake” me.

  Several minutes ticked past on my clock. I’d cut it pretty close if I wanted to hide what I’d done last night from Christian. As I thought this, something inside me twitched in annoyance. Because, no, I didn’t want to hide this. Hiding things always backfired. So I was telling Christian everything, and he could just deal with it.

  The drive to school passed in silence after I launched the first grenade at Christian. I could feel the emotions rolling off him. His seemed clearer or crisper than those I’d felt from Hans. Christian felt angry, but there were other quieter emotions as well. Helplessness, I thought. And … panic? Yes, he felt very panicked by what I’d revealed.

  “Christian, I’m sorry for all the things you’re feeling right now. I didn’t act right by you. I see that.”

  “No, Mademoiselle, I believe that you do not see at all clearly in this matter.”

  We drove another quarter mile in silence.

  “Do you understand the reason for which I agreed to accompany you to your village of … of origin?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed as I turned onto Main Street. “You’re here to keep me safe.”

  “Non, Mademoiselle. Safe–keeping: that is but my job. It was never the raison … the reason for which I agreed.” Christian stumbled in his English, probably because he was so angry with me.

  “It wasn’t?” I looked over at him, puzzled.

  “My reason for accompanying you is this: my father, having discovered a last living descendant of the woman he loved, could not bear to lose her. He loved you for yourself, already, without doubt, but upon discovering your identity? My father felt paralyzed. He knew not how to, at once, pursue the downfall of a man most wicked and keep safe a child most précieuse.”

  I drove right past the school parking lot. If Christian noticed, he didn’t say anything about it.

  “Mademoiselle, you are young. You know nothing of loss, of what the loss of a child can do—”

  “What?” I slammed on the brakes and shoved the car into reverse. Turning to the right, I drove two streets down and into a quiet parking lot. We were completely alone, cut off from anyone’s view by the large yews bordering the cemetery grounds. “How dare you?”

  I grabbed Christian’s arms and slipped into invisibility. From my formless state, I hurled image after image at him. Hans, striking down Maggie and my mother. Me, staring at the cold ground where they’d lain my mother’s ashes. Birthdays without her. Kids jeering at me for my odd silence. Hours spent weeping at her grave.

  I felt Christian join me, becoming insubstantial beside me.

  Forgive me, he said.

  I couldn’t form words. Tearlessly, I mourned. For mom, for the tiny Sam–in–a Petri–dish, for the happy childhood I’d missed out on.

  With the compassion of one who’d known suffering, Christian enfolded me, whispering soothing words to me in French. Eventually, even when you’re invisible, the tears run out, the grief quiets.

  Forgive me, he asked of me once more.

  Yeah, I replied. I do. I guess Sir Walter left out some of my … history.

  Who can guess at the sorrows borne by another? asked Christian.

  As he spoke, I saw an image flash through his mind and roll into mine. Christian, kneeling beside a grave—the grave of his wife and daughter. I felt his emotions wash over me: Loss. Grief. Despair.

  No one should be asked to bury their child. Christian’s words reached me as a whisper. The child of my flesh, she was not. The
child of my heart, she will always remain.

  You had a daughter? I asked. Sir Walter said you were married, but you’re so young … I let my words trail off. I couldn’t tell if Christian wanted to continue talking or wished for silence.

  In a display of his confidence in me, despite my youth, my King, Le Roi–Soleil, commanded that I be married to Marie–Anne, one of the Queen’s ladies–in–waiting. Marie–Anne was pregnant already with Louis’ child when we were wed. I knew little of love, less of being a father.

  But I loved them, murmured Christian. By God’s holy wounds, I loved both as my own. He fell silent.

  I felt like a horrible person for having yelled at Christian. How lonely, to have lost someone hundreds of years ago. My own separation from Will seemed like nothing compared to the depth of that loss.

  Something inside me shifted and I vowed to be kinder to Christian.

  That’s why you agreed to watch over me, I said. For your dad’s sake. So he wouldn’t have to go through … what you went through.

  Indeed, replied Christian. He has seen what you have seen of my past. But I do not desire that he be forced to live through it himself. Mademoiselle, I must beg forgiveness for my thoughtless speech earlier.

  No worries, Christian. I felt him puzzling his way through my words. It means ‘I forgive you.’ An idea came to me and I solidified in the empty cab of my car. “Come with me,” I said aloud.

  Beside me, Christian’s form shimmered back to solidity. The sun caught the gold of his hair and it gleamed.

  Opening my door, I stepped out, gesturing for him to follow. I led him to my mother’s grave and sat. The grass over the plots looked barely alive; Las Abs wasn’t at its best in February.

  “I showed you the bad stuff. When things were worst for me,” I said, staring at Mom’s headstone. “But it wasn’t all bad.”

  To one side of her grave, a trio of violets had pushed through the cold earth.

  “Show me,” said Christian.

  I hesitated, looking around.

  He spoke again. “It is not necessary for us to assume chameleon form in order to share thoughts. Although, touch is helpful, certainly.” He smiled at me, tilting his head to one side. “Have you never tried this with your … petit–ami?”

  “With my boyfriend?” I shook my head. “It’s not as easy for me and Will. I’m pretty sure we have to be invisible to, um, shuffle things back and forth.”

  Christian extended an elbow gallantly my direction. I snorted a tiny laugh, but threaded my own arm through the crook of his. Closing my eyes, I brought back small happy memories. Mom and me, making snickerdoodle cookies together, then giving up and just eating the dough. Dad waltzing with my mom late one night when they thought I slept. All of us eating s’mores around a merry campfire with a million stars wheeling overhead. I sent Christian image after image: things I had sealed off, even from myself, for years.

  The ground grew cold and then freezing beneath our jeans. I opened my eyes and we stood, Christian pulling me up beside him like I weighed less than a feather.

  “I fear we are badly en retard—late—for classes,” he said.

  I groaned. “Sylvia’s already gotten a phone call from school, that’s for sure. We should head over to school. I’ll make something up.” I sounded braver than I felt. I’d never skipped classes.

  “Wait,” said Christian. “Before we leave, if I might presume …”

  In the still and cold of the cemetery, Christian sent me an image of his beautiful wife, Marie–Anne. In his memory, she stared at him with an impish grin as they sipped wine together. Dipping her finger in the goblet, she flicked some of it at him, laughing.

  “Looks like she had spirit,” I said.

  “She was, in temperament, very like your friend, Mademoiselle Li,” said Christian.

  Then he sent me one last memory. A single lovely thought. A small girl, clutching one of his fingers with her chubby hand. More than a baby, but not yet old enough to walk on her own. She had long curls of gold, eyes black as night and skin like porcelain. She laughed as she took an uncertain step forward. She was more than pretty; she took my breath away.

  “My Madeleine, while she lived,” Christian murmured.

  The image faded and I found my eyes clouded with tears. Blinking them back, I gave Christian’s arm a squeeze. “She’s so lovely.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his jeans and dried his own eyes. “She was, indeed.”

  I wondered where he’d found a handkerchief in Las Abs. It must have survived Sylvia’s Paris–purge.

  “Mademoiselle Sam, I beg of you, let us have no more secrets. No more clandestine voyages of questionable safety.” Here he smiled at me and it was like sunshine after a foggy morning. “If you believe you must risk your life for something important, please allow me to come alongside and provide assistance. For the sake of those who love you.”

  “Deal,” I said. “And there’s something else. I’ve been thinking about my secrets. Your dad said how the time for keeping what I can do hidden from everyone is maybe coming to a close.”

  “Mademoiselle?” Christian looked alarmed.

  “I don’t mean I’m telling everyone. Just, I think it’s time I tell my folks the truth. And I thought maybe Bridget Li, too. Gwyn’s mom.”

  “I confess I should find great relief in this,” said Christian.

  “Tonight, then, when my dad gets back from the berry farms, okay?”

  “As you suggest,” he said, with a tiny bow.

  I was in plenty of trouble when I drove home after a half–day at school. The vice–principal hadn’t been half so incensed as Sylvia. She was in kitchen–scouring–mode, never a good sign.

  “When your father gets home tomorrow,” she said, attacking a pile of crumbs by the toaster, “We are working out the details of a prolonged grounding.”

  “Dad’s staying the night in the valley?” I asked.

  She shook her tea–towel fiercely over the sink. “You know your dad and his berries.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry, Syl. It won’t happen again.”

  “She took me to see the resting place of her mother,” said Christian. “The fault is mine, and I will share in any punishment you think fair.”

  “Oh, no.” Sylvia set the tea towel onto the counter gently, like it was made of glass. “Oh, Sammy, come here.” She didn’t wait for me, instead closing the space between us, her arms wide. Sylvia gave great hugs even though she was shorter than me. “I didn’t even think about what time of year it was.”

  I hadn’t either. We were only days away from the anniversary of my mom’s death.

  “I’ll explain about school to your father,” she whispered, holding me tightly. Pulling back, she looked me in the eyes, compassion written across her face. “You need some alone–time?”

  I did. I felt exhausted. Maybe Christian could get by without a good night’s rest, but I suddenly felt like I was about to fall over where I stood. “I’ll be in my room,” I said.

  “I shall ground myself as well,” said Christian, bowing to both of us as he crossed to the hall behind the kitchen, as if retreating to his room. Of course, I knew he wouldn’t stay there for long.

  Hearing Christian’s door close, I dragged myself to the stairs. Tread by tread, I ascended, growing more exhausted with each step. I felt Christian’s icy form passing me. There was some comfort in knowing I could sleep in safety, with him invisibly watching my room. Kicking the door shut behind me, I flopped on my bed.

  Right before I drifted off, I thought of one last thing. “Christian? We’ll talk to my folks tomorrow when Dad’s back.”

  Very well, Christian replied.

  In the back of my mind, remote but persistent, I heard Christian singing again, the French song of love and loss. I caught a fleeting image: Christian, smiling over the form of a young woman with a tiny baby in her arms. And then I drifted to where I heard and saw nothing at all.

  A few hours later, Sylvia stuck h
er head in to see if I wanted dinner. I wanted sleep a whole lot more, and whatever incoherent thing I mumbled must have gotten the point across. She closed the door and left. This time in my mind, I heard Christian chanting Psalms. Vespers, I said to myself, remembering the old–fashioned word as I drifted back under clouds of warmth.

  Christian woke me one more time that night. My clock read 1:39AM. This time he wasn’t chanting Psalms or prayers.

  “Fire!” he called. “Your house is afire!”

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  * * *

  HELISABA ES MORTA

  · WILL ·

  My sister held out her hand for the aged journal Pfeffer had stolen two years earlier. Sir Walter gave the black book to her.

  Seeing it again made me stop and think how Pfeffer must’ve been on our side back when he sent the book to us. As my sister flipped through pages, I spoke. “I’ve been so pissed off at Pfeffer, I didn’t even think how he gave us that book. That’s not something he’d have done if he was on Helmann’s side at the time, huh?”

  Sir Walter nodded. “Those are my thoughts as well. I fear Pfeffer was … persuaded to join Helmann.”

  The thought of Helmann persuading anyone made the hairs on my arms rise.

  “Here,” said Mick, her voice all soft and scared–sounding. “Is this what you’re looking for? Three words that changed your cousin’s life forever?”

  Her finger pointed to some scribbles in the margin. The same thing written several times in a row.

  Helisaba es morta.

  It meant: Elisabeth is dead.

  “Mon Dieu!” whispered Sir Walter, the rest of his breath escaping heavily. “Mademoiselle, I believe you have discovered it.”

  Chapter Twenty–Five

  * * *

  BURNING THINGS

  · SAM ·

  I sat upright, feeling my heart pound from the sudden awakening. “Are you sure?” I couldn’t see or hear anything fire–like in my darkened room. I maybe smelled smoke, though.