Leaving Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  How could anyone in the early days of this new society understand that genetic engineering would produce a child as amazing as Phoebe or comprehend that her adult intellect would be treated like a national investment? Certainly not the man who called everyone from all corners of Ashwood to the front door when his first-born child was brought home. Even with the soft grief building in our home for the coming loss of Paul, Phoebe’s pain carried more power. After pressing controls to close the blinds and lock the door, I put my arms around David. He lowered his head to my shoulder. While upset at a watcher existing in our home, I hoped that person was vigilant so nothing happened to her while we kept vigil for Paul.

  Chapter 9

  David pulled himself together. The DOE needed him to review a report. I had two important calls to make. The first was to Raima, the best independent attorney available in the upper Midwest. Years ago I had convinced her to represent our business interests when all I knew was that because of a government screw-up I had become a significant landowner. In the early post-depression era, the government had little to use beyond devalued money and endless land to settle wrongdoings against citizens.

  Visits to Raima’s offices provided tantalizing dips into a luxurious lifestyle enjoyed by few. The century-old ten-story building she owned in downtown Minneapolis served as both offices and home. She’d purchased the building from a failed creative agency when the kids and I lived in the city. We watched workers update an exclusive dinner club on the first floor, build out her law practice on the next five levels, and finally finish her home on the penthouse level including a rare rooftop garden.

  Raima was shrewd and driven and bitter as hell about all her family had lost in the Second Great Depression. The combination fueled her ambition. When we were both featured in a national publication as successful female business leaders, I came off as smart and CEO-like. Raima dominated the story with confidence.

  “How are you doing, Annie?” The remnants of Raima’s Middle Eastern tones added power to her voice. Her athletic body and long silver hair attracted men, who were often unsure how to deal with her strength. “And how is Paul?”

  “I wish we could be sitting in your living room and drinking a glass of wine while we talk about all of this.” Whether the height of the building, the view of her part of downtown Minneapolis, or the fantasy of escaping my responsibilities, I spoke the truth.

  “A transport can be at your gate in a half hour. Come spend the evening.” She put down a pen. “We’ll talk about business and family.”

  “Sometime soon, but not tonight, Raima.” Suddenly I was aware of my unwashed hair and casual attire. The day had escaped without a shower. “The experts give Paul two to six weeks. Miracle of miracles, Phoebe, Noah, and John have come home for extended visits. We’re having dinner as a family tonight. Andrew will be here tomorrow.”

  My father-in-law had a quirky relationship with Raima. She turned on her sexual charms around him and he loved the game. Many years ago Raima stepped in to wrangle an agreement out of a federal agency when a suit close to Paul’s heart was in deep trouble. His gratitude assured that she ate well from the Regan’s South Dakota ranch and Ashwood.

  “Is he able to have visitors? I’m open tomorrow evening.” Her manner calmed with the offer.

  “He is weak, but loves talking with people.”

  “I’ll be there at six.” She pressed a tab on her bracelet communicator. “I’m on a short rein right now, so what does Hartford, Ltd., need?”

  I told her of discoveries in the ABF intelligence reports and my suspicion that Deshomm might contaminate the consultants. “We’ve entered some minor deals that gave Deshomm access to business data through well-hidden subsidiary arrangements. Those deals can’t be undone, but I need to build some internal walls quickly and find a new intelligence consultant.” I paused. “As much as I hate to admit this, David made a better call on Sadig than I did. I’m not sure of timing, but I have to replace him.”

  “Tell me about these internal walls?”

  I told her about a new governance structure, then walked through how John’s Giant Pines proposal led me to consider creating a formal non-profit research foundation within the corporation with possible branches in appropriate units. “We can’t afford to bid against the multi-corps for university-originated research projects, but I think we’ll be able to grab our share with our facilities and expertise.”

  “Send me your notes. I agree that you need new intelligence support and a new chief security officer,” she said. “Let me give those some thought overnight. I would suggest you have deeper personal security when you’re away from Ashwood. I get nervous when you’re here with just a driver and some gear attached to your clothes.”

  “With the armored, drone-resistant transporter and the gear, I feel safe.”

  “Well, you think about that as you shower, then after enjoying family dinner talk with David.” A man’s voice called her. “And hold off on any big decisions until we meet tomorrow.” She waved and disappeared.

  Reyes Milan, my long-time confidante and former Bureau of Human Capital Management supervisor, once served as a legal guardian for Phoebe, Noah, and Andrew. Now he worked less and lived in Duluth where his children had settled in healthcare careers. Global warming brought earlier springs to Minnesota’s North Shore so Milan began our hologram visit with a tour of his flowering gardens. “My wife grew up on the Iron Range in Virginia. You probably didn’t know that.” He lifted a rose bud, barely opened, my way. “Her father was an engineer who came here to work for a mining company.” Milan had executive presence even in his garden. “Not the easiest life for her mother in those days.”

  “I still don’t understand what can keep you busy in Duluth.”

  “Anne, remember, in my world it doesn’t really matter where I live.”

  From the moment Milan disclosed his guardian status for two-month-old Phoebe and her unborn brother, my husband felt less a full father. Like a bitterly divorced couple, the two still maneuvered through this tricky relationship. Milan never second-guessed our parenting decisions or changed the kids’ education or service year plans, but we always knew he could. For David, Milan stood as a symbol of government tyranny. For Milan, David’s emotions were not worth acknowledging. Strict implementation of Bureau protocol could have stripped David’s children with Tia from our family home, but my confidante never raised that threat.

  His bald head caught sunshine, shone briefly. “How’s my Phoebe? And how is it to have her at Ashwood?”

  It wasn’t worth asking how he knew she was here. “You probably know better than I do, Milan. I’m worried.”

  He spoke from a garden bench. “She’s not well suited for her life. I’ve been told her work is brilliant, but there are concerns about her stability.”

  “Is that on information from the watchers?”

  An ultra-calm look directed beyond me told me he wouldn’t disclose how he knew these facts. “I’m calling for a favor, Milan. I need to find the best intelligence consultants available outside the multi-corps or government spheres. Two or three people who can work quickly and brilliantly with Hartford.”

  “Deshomm’s heating up, Annie?” He waited. “Going to tell me more?”

  “Not yet. Do you know anyone you might recommend?”

  “Madison Clark and Theo Vicktor. They’re only bound to each other and not to any bank, multi-corps or government agency. Both worked in the too-big-to-fail universe and delight in helping small businesses succeed. I’ll have them call you.”

  “What do you know about the ABF Group? They’ve been under contract with us for a couple of years.”

  “They’re good at what they do. They’ve been relatively secure, but Hartford, Ltd., is very small potatoes in their client list.” Milan stood, obviously distracted by something beyond our hologram. “Clark and Vicktor would be
a better match. They work well in crisis interventions.”

  “Thanks.” I wanted more of his attention, even a cup of tea together. “Any chance of seeing you in our neighborhood?”

  “I’ll be there if anything happens to your father-in-law.”

  Milan remained one safe haven. His words brought tears to my eyes because I didn’t have to be the tower of strength for him. “It’s rough to watch him deteriorate. I’ll miss him.” I calmed before continuing. “David’s not doing well. Faith is wonderful with Paul, but then she comes to me to cry. Amber seems to be the one Paul wants around the most and she’s been super.” A cough started, the first in hours. “Now we’ll mix in the guys and Phoebe.”

  “Any of the other grandchildren have plans to visit?”

  “The South Dakota group visited last month. Andrew has managed to squeeze time here on his way from Alaska to Michigan.”

  “I have to go, Anne. Keep in touch.” He tipped his head and disappeared. Abrupt departures were always his mode of operation.

  Ignoring our water conservation practices, I stood in the shower longer than usual before giving myself the pure luxury of a half hour to get ready for our family dinner. I pulled on a linen dress and pinned up my hair. Paul would appreciate the effort, but in all honesty, I did it for myself. It just felt good.

  Chapter 10

  Business operated twenty-four/seven so David and I chose when we took our downtime and made sure others filled the void. The tradition of an early family dinner reflected Ashwood’s agricultural tradition. For Paul’s sake, there was a holiday feel as we gathered for dinner.

  In the dining room Phoebe stood talking with Terrell, the only man who could bring out her soft side. She had not changed her clothes and appeared strung as tight as a violin string—thin and delicate yet incredibly strong until that moment when one snaps. Terrell laughed softly, sensitive to communicating with someone who might be startled by the full sound of his voice. Ashwood’s cook when Phoebe was born, Terrell once nurtured a serious little girl’s silly side with singing, dancing, baking.

  Amber, dressed in rose cotton pants and a white shirt, hugged Phoebe, an old world gesture almost extinct in the metro. She stepped back as Phoebe’s arms did not rise. Our daughter’s eyes glittered with outer-world reflection as well as the narcissism accepted in the Intellectual Corps.

  “I was in Europe too long,” Amber said to cover the moment. “It’s so good to have you here.” She laughed, a woman comfortable with life.

  “I forgot that you’re quite pretty.” Phoebe looked Amber over for a fraction too long. She raised one hand as if to touch Amber, but instead smoothed her own hair. “I wish I knew how to pin my hair up. You taught me years ago, but I’ve forgotten the trick to using long pins. I should shave mine off.”

  Nothing announced metro resident more than unisex dark jumpsuits, boots, and bald heads. Faith with her long hair and curvy body would never be confused with young women raised in the city who were more likely to be flat chested because of poor nourishment. All slightly disconcerting.

  “No Phoebs, you’re not going to shave off your hair and look like unisexual groupies.” Noah slid his hand through her curls, the kind of easy intimacy they had as children still visible. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  Watching Noah and Phoebe entertained me. They remained attractive—curly dark hair, tall bodies, and European faces. So few full-blooded Caucasians were accepted in the Intellectual Corps that Phoebe stood out with her fair skin.

  David helped Paul to a chair next to Faith at the round table, and we began our meal—the most complete gathering of Ashwood’s Regans in a half dozen years. Amber, our adopted daughter, sat next to John and talked easily about experiences traveling. Some found John’s communications abrupt, but not Amber. I knew him to be the most like me, one who would worry about the future while living in the moment.

  Paul, his voice barely more than a whisper, asked questions about their lives beyond Ashwood. I watched Phoebe and remembered all of them as youngsters. She had tried to mother her brothers, and then Faith when she came along. I tried to catch David’s eye, but he was lost in the moment’s richness.

  Our visiting kids ate the simple chicken, fresh vegetables, and biscuits as if home tasted good. Noah slid half a biscuit with honey butter on Phoebe’s plate, replaced peas and mushrooms when those disappeared.

  As the kitchen staff served dessert, Phoebe lowered her head and withdrew from conversation. Had she been a child, I would have left my chair to go to her side. Some odd emotion or sensation seemed to overtake her. Noah put a hand on her arm. She shrugged it off. Persistent, he extended his arm around her shoulders. I couldn’t overhear what he said to her, just saw that when she turned toward him she had tears in her eyes. I began to move, but David stopped me.

  “This happened a few times on our drive home,” he said with his mouth near my ear. “Like a communication device bothered her. But she had a wrist model on and it never pinged. Something is going on, but she seems unaware.”

  The odd grimace left Phoebe and was replaced by an expression that could only be anger. I wondered what Noah said, but noticed her lean into his shoulder for comfort. John and Amber laughed at an old joke Paul shared. David raised his glass and tapped a spoon against his coffee cup.

  “I’ll keep this simple.” The Regan patriarch role moved across the table from father to son. “Dad, you have been a forceful role model for each of us as well as the small army of children and workers who called Ashwood home through the years.” He smiled only for his Dad, a kid wanting to show gratitude. “Thank you for making the difficult decision to leave South Dakota and share your life with us.” The smile wobbled a bit before David lightened his tone. “You even brought these young people home, something a whole lot of holidays couldn’t do.”

  Led by Noah, our children stood and applauded, then left their seats to gather around Paul. Phoebe kissed Paul’s cheek and left without touching the fresh berry torte prepared special for her. I followed behind her, confused at the tones of her whispers and protests as she walked toward the front door. Obviously she had an embedded communicator, but I couldn’t understand who would raise such emotion.

  “Ahlmet, I’ll kill you if you ever come near me. Do you understand?” Phoebe’s words bounced from one hard wall to the other in the front hall where wood floors met slate and tall metal doors trimmed in bullet-resistant glass. One hand, long fingers splayed, slapped a wall. She stamped one foot and then the other. “You scum.” When she placed her forehead against the wall I ran to help. Her spine appeared to dissolve.

  “I need help in the foyer,” I blurted into my own communicator. “Now.” I reached her before she made it to the floor, her eyes opened in fear, her hands grasping at the smooth plaster.

  “Phoebe, lean on me.” Although taller than me, she may have weighed a hundred pounds. I supported her, eased us to the floor. Already the limpness began leaving her body, but she stayed against my chest and curled her palms into fists as she cursed in a language I didn’t know.

  Sadig, napkin in hand, and Terrell arrived first. Phoebe shook her hands free, extended one to her old friend. “Damn bugger’s got control of me,” she said as he carefully helped her up. The transformation was amazing. I pushed myself up.

  “Phoebe, are you all right?” As my question ended, she would have toppled once again if not for Terrell already holding her elbow. I saw her body slip as her eyes remained defiant, then frightened. “Close the dining room doors and send Dr. Frances to the front hall,” I ordered.

  We carried her to the family room where the odd pattern repeated over and over for the next hour. It was an excruciating performance that exhausted Phoebe while our resident doctor attended. I sensed Phoebe knew the cause, but her speech was incomprehensible.

  “It’s not a seizure disorder. I’m not detecting hallucin
ogenic drugs in her system.” Frances told us. “But she’s not very strong and her heart rate needs to slow. I’m going to take a chance and administer a sedative.”

  Phoebe’s thin arm reminded me of starving youth workers, of the metros who ate only wrapped sticks and bullets or used chemicals to stay childishly thin. Frances pulled a capsule from her medicine bag. She snapped it under Phoebe’s nose and held one half in each nostril.

  “It’s like something outside is controlling her body,” I said from Phoebe’s side. “Is it possible someone is using her communicator to do this?”

  Sadig and Frances shrugged at the same time.

  “What can we do?”

  Frances checked the time. “I don’t know what to expect next, but my kids are in study hall for the next ninety minutes so I’ll stay. Why don’t you check back in an hour. Maybe we’ll know more.”

  A psychiatrist by training, Frances had come to Ashwood to care for young Phoebe’s horrific night terrors. She developed a select group of other, never named, patients in the southern estates region. Her government-assignment still remained general medicine, caring for patient overflow from the neighborhood clinic built on our land.

  Two staff still cleared the dining tables when I returned looking for family.

  “Anne?” David surprised me by walking out of the kitchen. He carried a pitcher of water. “Phoebe left quickly. Did she go to the lab?”

  “Where are you going with that pitcher?”

  “Dad.” He tilted his head. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s walk and talk. Dinner must have been exhausting for him.” After a quarter century of marriage, David knew walk and talk to be more than a social gesture. “Phoebe went through an odd sort of collapse. She’s in the family quarters with Frances.”