Finding Home
by Philippe de la Matraque
Sequel to Alien Us
Chapter Ten
Trip checked the time. His bag was packed. He had to leave within the hour. He wanted to stop back by R&D before he left for Enterprise. He had a request to make, but he considered it mutually beneficial, so he thought there was a decent chance they'd agree.
Malcolm was sleeping. Whatever he was dreaming, it wasn't the surgeries. He was too restless for that. He hadn't fallen asleep right away after his time with Trevon in the morning. Mom had brought him some soup to drink, and Trip had talked to him, telling him that he'd every right to grieve his sister, to grieve his family. He told him again that he'd adopted him as a brother and his family was on board. "I can't stay," he'd said. "I have to go back and take care of Hoshi. But my mom and dad, they can be yours, too. They've decided to love and help you, and there's nothing you can do to make them stop."
But now it was time to go. Trip didn't want to wake him, but he didn't want to leave without saying good-bye either. So he got out of the chair and knelt at the side of the bed. Then he gently touched Malcolm's shoulder. When Malcolm gasped awake, he was quick to say, "It's just me, Malcolm. You're safe."
Malcolm's gazed focused on his face. "Trip," he breathed.
Just that moment of recognition! Trip hadn't seen it since the pond. Trip smiled. "I couldn't leave without saying good-bye. I'll take your letters to Hoshi, and I promise to take good care of her until you see her again. If you need anything, let Mom, Dad, or Miguel know."
"I think I met your mother," he whispered.
Trip nodded. "You did. Last night. Malcolm, do you remember a woman with a case? She gave it to you. It's from your sister. She left everything to you. And she left a journal. Maybe it's too hard to watch right now, but she wanted you to see it. She wanted to help you. She was sick, very sick. She knew she could help you. She chose it."
Malcolm's eyes turned glassy with tears. Trip lifted the case from the floor. He opened it and put the tablet with the journal on the bedside table. "It's here whenever you're ready."
He turned his attention back to his friend. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you are going to get through this. I wish I could stay to watch you do it. But I know you will. Keep talking to Trevon. Talk to my mom. She's the one I turn to. Dad's a good listener, too."
He checked the time and sighed. "I have to go." A tear spilled across Malcolm's nose. But his eyes had lost focus again. Trip put this hand on Malcolm's arm. "Bye, Malcolm."
Then he stood and turned to go. His dad was waiting in the doorway and he opened his arms. Trip took the invitation and hugged his father tight.
"We'll contact you," Dad said.
"You can't," Trip told him. "Not once I reach Enterprise. Radio silence. But I'll call as soon as I can." As they parted, he looked back at Malcolm on the bed.
"We'll take it from here, son." Dad walked him into the hall and then the front room. He gave Mom and Miguel hugs and then lifted his bag from the floor and stepped out the door.
No Hoshi. No Trip. No Maddie. "Why would he stay?"
Father. "What's wrong with you. Swim!"
Malcolm shook. More than anything, he felt fear and the urge to run. But Father's hand was clamped onto his right shoulder. He pushed Malcolm forward. Malcolm's feet squished in the mud. The water was now up to his waist. "Please!" he whispered.
"You are a Reed. Reed men to not give in to fear. Swim." The hand lifted.
Malcolm ducked around him, trying to run back to shore. His heart was pounding in his chest. The water slowed his legs. But his smaller ones still moved faster than Father's bigger ones. He looked back. Father was reaching for him. The water was at his knees. Malcolm bent forward and Father's hand brushed his back. Malcolm used his arms and legs and scrambled for the beach. It was easier now. Everything in him told him to run. Just run. He looked back again. Father was still coming. He was shouting something but Malcolm couldn't hear it over his own pulse pounding in his ears.
The last of the water left him behind. Malcolm ran for the boathouse. He had to get away. Away from the water. Away from Father. He ducked inside, into the shadows. He backed up against the wall to catch his breath.
"Malcolm Edward Reed!"
Too close! Malcolm dashed for the ladder and climbed into the rafters. He crawled to the small window on the far side, swung it open, then pushed through to the roof. As quietly as he could, he climbed higher.
"Malcolm!"
Malcolm eased the window closed and ducked back and away so he wouldn't be seen. He flattened himself then rolled away until he was under the branches of the tree out front. He lay there waiting, listening. He could hear Father below. He was calling for him again. Less angry but still stern. "This is ridiculous. You know how to swim. You're a good swimmer. Once you try it, it will come back to you. I wouldn't have allowed you to drown." He was on the ladder. Malcolm was still small for twelve years old. Father was tall. He had a hard time crawling in the space above the boats. But Malcolm could hear him moving toward the window. He closed his eyes and was surprised when tears fell onto his cheeks. He couldn't move to brush them away.
It felt like hours until he heard his father curse then make his way back to the ladder. Mother spoke, but she was muffled, and he couldn't make out what she said.
"No, I don't know where he's gone. I know he came this way but I didn't see him."
"...too soon."
"It's been four weeks! Two since he kicked the pneumonia."
Mother said something else.
"He'll get hungry eventually and come home."
The voices moved off.
Malcolm let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and opened his eyes. He brushed the wetness from his cheeks, but his hands were still wet from the water.
Three hours passed and he was still up there. His swim trunks had dried but left him cold in the evening air. The leaves of the trees brushed against him in the breeze, so he rolled back toward the window to get away from them. He had goose pimples and was shivering.
He'd had a lot of time to think, once he could think beyond 'run' and 'get away.' He had time to agree with his father. He did know how to swim. He had liked swimming. And Father wouldn't have let him drown. He hadn't understood the terror that had gripped him as they had walked onto the beach and into the water. The lake wasn't the fountain. His father wasn't Leslie Morris or his goons. Father loved him.
Malcolm could only conclude that he was a coward. He'd given in to fear. Father was trying to help him past it. And Malcolm hadn't let him. He should have fought it harder. Should have fought it at all. He had hesitated at every step, quaked like a weak child, and run away like a coward. Reed men weren't cowards.
"I highly doubt that you were a coward. I have no doubt that you were a child."
"He doesn't know you as well as I do."
"Don't listen to him, Malcolm." A hand took hold of his. "He's not real. Not here." The hand squeezed. "Aquaphobia born of a traumatic, violent assault is not cowardice."
"How did you get down? Through the window?" Trevon had hoped Malcolm could use words, but it had only been a few hours, and he'd just lost someone else. The images didn't stop. The window wouldn't open. It was stuck or locked. He tried the tree but the thicker branches were too far away. He had no choice.
The thought did occur to him that he might break his neck and die, which would save him and Father the trouble of conquering his fear. Or maybe he'd only break something and put it off for a few more months. He went feet first. The roughness of the shingles scraped his exposed stomach as he scooted his hips over the edge. He tried holding the ledge as he levered his upper body off and down, but his right hand slipped and his left arm wrenched painfully until it popped and his fingers lost their grip. He hit the ground hard enough to knock his breath from his lungs. His shoulder began to throb, and he clamped his mouth shut to not cry out.
Trevon opened his eyes but he could still see it. "Malcolm, what was your parents' reaction when you returned to the house?"
The scene changed. Bright lights, counters with medical supplies, a bed with rails. His left arm in a sling. Dislocated, not broken. Abrasions on his torso. Questions for his parents.
Mother's voice. "He was playing on the roof of the boathouse and fell off."
"He was playing in swim clothes?"
"We'd been swimming earlier. He hadn't wanted to change."
Trevon saw a hint of doubt in the doctor's eyes. A nurse asked his mother to step out.
"Is that what happened, Malcolm?"
He nodded. "Shouldn't play on the roof."
The scene faded.
Was it abuse? Or was it only a father's attempt to help his son gone too far? If Trevon hadn't read the future in the background check, he might have allowed the former. But then, this was only a month since the drowning.
"Why was swimming so important to your father?"
A book of images, photographs, some quite old. The book lay across the legs of a little boy. Trevon could feel a comforting father's arm across his shoulders as his father pointed out his own father, grandfather, his uncles and great uncles. The men in the photos wore uniforms with ribbons on their chests and hats on their heads. Military.
"Navy."
Ah, a word. Telepathic, but a word no less. "Generations of Navy men. But you're not one. You know, that's understandable. An ocean is a very large body of very deep water."
"The Navy is our tradition."
Trevon dearly wished Stuart Reed would leave the room, and thus Malcolm Reed's head. "Malcolm, he's not here. It's just you and me. No one else is in this room. Did he try again, to make you swim?"
Malcolm surprised him by sitting up. He had to pull his hand away to accomplish it. Trevon let him and Malcolm faced him with hollow eyes. He nodded ever so slightly.
"Did it ever work?"
His head turned side to side in mere millimeters.
"Because you are a coward!"
Trevon sighed and tried something else. He turned to where he'd seen Stuart from Malcolm's mind. "Your input is neither needed nor welcome. This is a private discussion between myself and my patient. Either leave or stay silent."
Malcolm's eyes went wide, then they turned to the door and closed in relief.
"That's better," Trevon said. "I'm guessing that tradition is very important to your father."
Malcolm's eyes opened. "Everything."
Still only telepathic. Trevon accepted it. He'd decided not to push until Reed was in a better state.
"What about your sister? Was she expected to follow in his footprints?"
"Reed men."
"Did you want to join the Navy, follow the tradition?"
"Before. And after."
"You wanted to conquer that fear, then. Very hard to do without therapy. You were put in a life and death situation at a very young age. You nearly did die. When you entered that lake, it triggered a trauma response. Fight, flight, or freeze. The cognitive brain can't compete with that. Remember my friend and her canoe? Your body was screaming, 'I'm going to die! I'm going to die!' And your twelve-year-old prefrontal cortex had no say in the matter. You couldn't even achieve rational thought. Only 'run, get away.' What your father appears to have not understood is that it is perfectly natural, especially so soon after three bigger boys drowned you in a fountain."
"She got back in the canoe."
"There were no enemies, no villains in her story. No one tried to kill her. And she was an adult. Those are big differences."
Malcolm was sitting hunched against the wall behind the bed. Trevon moved to the bed and sat with one leg up on it so he could still face Malcolm. Closer but not too close. "When did you surrender your Naval tradition?"
Another scene began to play. Several teenaged boys were beating up someone. Trevon knew their names because Malcolm did, and the only one that mattered was the one taking the beating: Leslie Morris. The latter was unable to defend himself, and his normally smart mouth could manage nothing more than grunts and abbreviated cries.
And Malcolm—and thus Trevon—relished it. This was justice. After a few minutes, they moved forward and delivered a few blows with Malcolm's fists. Trevon rubbed his knuckles but found them whole and bloodless, unlike young Malcolm's. "Take him out on the pier."
Leslie cried and begged as the teens dragged him toward the pier and the water beyond. Leslie grew more frantic the closer they got. Malcolm felt his own fear rise but his anger, his thirst for justice overrode it. He went with them and hit Leslie again in the face and stomach.
"Should we throw him in?" one of the bigger teens asked. His voice was evidence of his enjoyment of this exercise.
"No!" Leslie gasped. "I can't swim!" He flinched, expecting more blows.
Malcolm lifted his head by the hair. "Neither can I," he said, venom in his voice. "Not anymore." And Trevon felt the confidence that he would push his would-be murderer over into the river. Trevon was sickened.
But then, something caught Malcolm's eye. Trevon could see the boy himself reflected in Leslie's tear-filled eyes. And Trevon could feel the revulsion in Malcolm's stomach. He was the bully now. An image of a serpent eating its own tail. Trevon didn't know the reference but he understood. Violence had been done to him, and he had responded in violence.
The anger and rage poured out of him, and he turned his face to the darkened sky. A light. A star. Or a ship orbiting there.
Better than this. Better than us. They turned to one of Malcolm's teens. "Take him to the hospital. He's been hurt enough."
Trevon at that moment wasn't sure what the younger man was thinking, because he himself was overcome with compassion and pride. Except that he faintly heard a woman's voice, calling him, wanting him, coming from the water below as Malcolm sat alone on the pier. He heard but tried to ignore her. Beyond the river was something bigger, more powerful. Air, and space. Limitless space.
"How old were you then?"
"Fourteen."
"And in those two years?" Images flashed by. Some were of Stuart and his attempts to get Malcolm back in the water. Some were Malcolm working with some of those teens, doing their academic work. Doodles of the school blowing up with three stick figures dying in the chaos. Silence at the family table. Glares from Stuart.
"I think I understand. The boys were unpunished. So you fantasized their destruction in explosions at the school. You ingratiated yourself with the older boys by 'helping' with their schoolwork. And through all of that, your father kept trying, kept getting angrier. Am I close?"1
"Very."
"You didn't actually set any bombs?"
"No."
Good. Trevon took a breath. "Malcolm, every bit of that is understandable. Well, your part of it. There was no justice for your assault. Which disappoints me greatly. Did no one take into account that they'd nearly killed you? So you were understandably angry and fantasizing a violent end to them and the school that turned blind eyes to them. And you were not the first traumatized child to lash out in violence. Though, I admit your level of forethought and planning was frightening. But then you did something many of the other victims never managed. You recognized the pattern."
"Hurt people hurt people."
"Exactly. Then you broke the cycle. And you decided your future was not in tradition, but it the limitlessness of space. I felt proud of you."
"Father didn't."
That was audible! "No, I don't imagine he did. I think maybe that's enough for today. Try and eat something. And rest. I will come back tomorrow." He stood.
Malcolm started to move to the edge of the bed. Trevon called out to Miguel in his mind, and the nurse appeared at the door. He saw Malcolm struggling and moved to help. Trevon stepped out. He had a lot to process from today's revelations.
The room was quiet after Trevon left. Father stayed gone; the orcs stayed away. He could hear voices in the near distance, and he remembered a kind woman who made him food. His stomach growled. He was back home, his arm in a sling.
"You coddle him." Father's voice wasn't angry but it still held reproachment.
His mother said nothing as she placed a plate and fork in front of him. His roast was cut into smaller pieces. Malcolm looked to Madeline's plate. She had a knife and a fork, and her piece of roast was in one piece.
Malcolm was confused. Coddling? He didn't know how he could be expected to hold two utensils with only one hand. The sling kept his left hand below the table.
Father said no more. He cut himself a bite of roast and placed it in his mouth. Malcolm lifted his fork and stabbed one of his pieces. Madeline and Mother began to eat. The only sounds were the movement of utensils on plates and glasses being placed back on the table. Only when the meal was done and the napkins rested on the table did anyone speak.
"Malcolm, you're to return to school tomorrow," Mother said.
So soon? Malcolm was disappointed. "Which school?"
"Evington, of course," Father replied. "No reason you should change school. It's those hooligans that should be going elsewhere."
Malcolm was confused again. The law had denied him justice for reasons Malcolm couldn't fathom. But Leslie and his minions were still at Evington?
"I want Malcolm to go to school with me," Madeline said. "Why does he have to go away?"
"Your father went to Evington," Mother said. "And his father and uncle. It's tradition."
"Then I want to go to Evington."
Father leaned back in his chair. "Evington is for men, Madeline."
"That's not fair," Madeline pouted. "All our traditions are for men."
Malcolm agreed that it wasn't fair but he kept that to himself. Tradition weighed heavily on him but left her unscathed.
"We woman can be anything we want to be," Mother told her. "You can grow up to join the Navy, too, if you like."
"Can I be an admiral, like Father?"
Father smiled. "Absolutely. It takes many years of hard work, but I would be very proud to see both of my children command their own ships."
That was enough for eight-year-old Madeline. She smiled and swung her legs under the table.
Mother excused them from the table.
Malcolm was still hungry. More hungry. He looked around and he was no longer at the table. He was in the darkened room where Trip and Trevon had been. He'd found the kitchen before. Maybe he could again.
He scooted to the edge of the bed and lowered his feet to the floor. He stood, looking toward the door. The lower half of T-Rex or Sauron passed by the door in the direction he thought to go. He lost his balance and fell back to the bed. There was a scream. A woman's scream. Madeline!
Trembling, Malcolm stood and lurched to the door. But when he got there, it was quiet. He couldn't see the orc. He turned left and slowly moved down the corridor. A room opened in front of him and he saw her. Madeline was lying on a low table. Saruman and Radagast were standing on either side of her. There was a hole in her chest, and her wrists and ankles were splayed open. And her face. Saruman had her eyeball in his hand. He jerked and pulled it and the nerve right out of her head.
"Malcolm?"
A young man stepped between him and the gruesome scene. He'd seen him before.
"Are you alright?"
Malcolm leaned over to look past him, but Madeline and the orcs were gone. His stomach growled.
"You're hungry? I can make you a sandwich." The young man put a hand on his left arm, turning him toward a larger doorway. The kitchen. "Dinner isn't for a few hours yet. How does a BLT sound?"
He pulled out a chair and Malcolm sat down. He kept thinking of Madeline on the table. They'd taken parts from her and put them in him. He was alive but she was dead. A wave of sadness rushed over him. He saw her again, an eight-year-old child smiling across from him at the table.
"She'd still be alive if not for you." Father's voice. Behind him.
I didn't know.
"That's right, you didn't know. You didn't write, you didn't call."
Neither did you. Not even after I woke up.
"Insubordinate! Watch how you speak to me!"
The young man placed a cup with liquid and a straw on the table. Malcolm pulled it to him and took a sip. Cool water. He drank some more. Then there was a plate with a sandwich in front of him, cut diagonal into two parts. He smelled bacon and mayonnaise. He lifted one of the halves and took a bite. The toasted bread was warm under his fingers and it crunched. The bacon was so flavorful, he forgot his father, though he could still hear his voice. The cool, crispy lettuce and juicy tomato slice contrasted with the hot bacon and warm toast.
Miguel. The young man had a name. He sat down on Malcolm's right with his own sandwich. "Good, huh?"
Malcolm nodded, but found it hard to swallow. His throat hurt. Madeline loved bacon. He was hungry though, so he took another bite.
Elaine wrapped up an extra serving of dinner before she sat down with Charles and Miguel.
"I really hoped I could coax him out for dinner," Miguel said. "Maybe the BLT was too much and he's not hungry yet."
"How did he seem to you?" Charles asked.
Miguel sat his fork down. "I think he's seeing things we can't. Flashbacks, I hope. What his parents did had to exacerbate the trauma. I just hope it wasn't to the point of a psychotic break, something that might end up permanent."
Elaine considered that. "Dr. Trevon said he was cycling through his traumas. Maybe that's all it is, making it hard for him to stay in the moment."
Miguel nodded. "He also seemed sad, like he was about to cry. Maybe that was about his sister."
"Good," Elaine decided. "Maybe he needs a good cry. If he can push the rest away for a chance to truly grieve."
The comm sounded and Miguel reached over to answer. Trip's face appeared and Elaine smiled. "I thought you couldn't call."
Trip smiled back. "Turns out I can until I get half-way there. How's Malcolm?"
"He came out a couple hours ago," Miguel told him. "I made him a BLT. Ate the whole thing. A big glass of water, too."
"Really?"
Charles jumped in. "He didn't say anything, still seemed somewhat out of it."
"His vitals are still good," Miguel added. "Pain relief patches seem to be working. Trevon came back after you left. Not sure how that went though."
"I asked R&D for a favor before I shipped out," Trip said. "I wanna run it by you."
"Why us?" Charles asked.
"Because it would mean a modification to the house."
"Modification?" Elaine couldn't imagine what sort.
"They've been working on a shower that cleans with sound waves instead of water. Malcolm's aquaphobic. He'd be a natural for beta testing it."
"So you want to rip out the shower in his bathroom and install their sound one?" Charles said, pointing his fork at Trip.
"We'll do it," Elaine said. "If we can alleviate one avenue of torment for him, we should absolutely do it."
Trip sighed and smiled. "They said they could do it tomorrow. I wanted your permission first. Maybe Trevon could take Malcolm for a walk or something while they're working."
"We'll be sure to ask him," Elaine said before taking another bite.
Trip's smile faded. "Thank you again for taking him in."
"No need," Charles told him. "We'll take good care of him, Trip. Don't you worry."
Trip turned his head and nodded. "I gotta go. They've got a plasma leak and their engineer asked for help. Love ya'all." The screen went blank.
"A sonic shower should come in handy," Miguel commented. "Won't have to worry about getting his bandages wet. You got any of that pecan pie left?"
"One piece," Elaine replied. "You're welcome to it."
Trevon waited as Miguel helped Malcolm wash and dress. Elaine was in the kitchen wrapping up a breakfast item while Charles was preparing a container for orange juice. Apparently, Malcolm had eaten two whole meals yesterday.
He was pleased the Tuckers were amenable to having a sonic shower installed in his bathroom. Malcolm, to his knowledge, hadn't used the water shower yet, but Trevon didn't think he'd handle immersing himself in water very well at this stage. The technicians had said they needed four to six hours to complete the transformation, so Trevon and Malcolm, with Miguel and Charles in tow, were going on an outing. Miguel was aware of a local park a couple miles away. Elaine had already prepped a picnic lunch for the four of them.
Malcolm had enjoyed his day in the park at the hospital. Perhaps this outing would be comforting to him, so long as there were no ponds nearby.
The weather was cool and partly cloudy. So at least there was partial shade. Miguel was going to see to it that Malcolm had plenty of sunscreen. The desert had burned him badly. His skin did not need a repeat sunburn. Finally, the two of them emerged from Malcolm's room. Malcolm appeared to be physically healthy, given his wounds, but his eyes still darted uneasily to various parts of the living room, no doubt due to unwanted visits from his father or the denizens of Zheiren. He was dressed in regular civilian clothes and a light jacket. Miguel had a blanket on his arm. He also carried a backpack, which Trevon assumed held medical supplies and something to keep himself and Charles occupied while Malcolm and Trevon talked. Trevon quickly returned to Malcolm's room and found something he wanted to take with them.
Miguel led Malcolm through the living room, and Charles opened the door for him. The wheelchair was waiting just there on the sidewalk with a couple portable chairs attached to the back. Miguel helped Malcolm into it as Elaine emerged with the basket and handed it to Trevon as he passed the kitchen on his way out. Charles also carried a basket. Trevon assumed it was the drinks.
Elaine knelt before Malcolm and put a package in his hand. "I made you a breakfast burrito, and there's juice to wash it down."
Malcolm didn't say anything but he did look at the package. Trevon could smell it: eggs, bacon, cheese. Elaine stepped back and Miguel lead them down the sidewalk to the 'driveway' and then to another sidewalk that lay parallel to the street.
Trevon stayed even with Malcolm. Malcolm was looking around but not with the darting tension he had in the house. That was a good sign. He looked at the breakfast burrito and started unwrapping it.
"We're going to a park," Trevon told him. "You enjoyed the one at the hospital, so we thought you'd enjoy an outing. Perhaps we can sit in the grass there and talk some more."
Malcolm took a bite of the burrito as Trevon slipped back. Scenes rolled slowly by as he ate. Houses and gardens; trees, some he knew and some he didn't; birds chirping; a dog barking as they passed. He wasn't completely sure where he was, but it wasn't Zheiren. And it wasn't England or Malaysia. It was where Trip lived. Trip was gone. Hoshi was gone. Madeline was dead.
He dropped the last of the burrito into his lap as the pain in his chest flared. Her heart. He turned over his hands. Her nerves. He had pieces of his sister in his body. And he couldn't have those pieces if she was alive. Why was she not alive?
His throat hurt. The movement stopped. Trevon came back. "What is it, Malcolm? What's wrong?"
"He's back!" Malcolm could hear her as she burst through the door and ran up to him, her blond hair flying behind her.
"Madeline Mary Reed!" Father's booming voice stopped her suddenly, stole the smile from her face. "We do not carry on so. Perhaps you should go away to school so you can learn to act dignified."
Madeline faced their father. If her eyes could have burned a hole through his forehead, Father would have dropped dead right then. She sighed through her nose. Her eyes softened as they moved downward from Father's to his. "Welcome home, Malcolm. We missed you. Shall I carry that for you?"
Behind him now, Father grunted. "He's not an invalid. He can carry it himself."
She glared briefly then turned to stand beside him on the other side. She took his arm and pulled gently to get ahead of Father. "Well, I've missed you," she whispered after they'd gotten some distance.
"Unpack your things, then get washed up for dinner," Father called.
"Yes, Father," they answered in unison.
Somehow, her arm around his eased the tension in his bones that had started building as the term came to a close. She let go to open the door for him.
"Your sister," Trevon said. "It's good for you to remember her." He stood and they moved again.
Malcolm barely noticed.
"Malcolm got full marks at school again this term," Mother said as the forks were laid down.
"I got full marks, too!" Madeline said, only she was looking at him. "I like geometry and art best. What are your favorites?"
Malcolm looked at her. She was how old now? Nine? "Maths and science," he answered.
"I'm still a Brownie but I'll get to be a Guide next year. I'm working on an architecture badge."
Father cleared his throat to stop the conversation. Mother excused them from the table.
Malcolm happily left and climbed the stairs to his room. He closed his door and fell backwards onto his bed. He hated being away at Evington. He dreaded being home. Father had hardly spoken to him the whole journey back. Only in the last half hour did he tell him about his latest tour aboard the HMS Churchill. Malcolm had kept his mouth shut, even as his stomach clenched and he started feeling queasy. Fortunately—or not, as the case may be—the ride was over and they were home.
There was a knock, at his door. He sighed. Father was probably there to complain about him quitting the swim team. He opened the door, looking up, but he had to lower his gaze. Madeline was there, holding a box.
He motioned her in.
"You want to see my badges? Can I see yours?" She sat down on the edge of his bed and opened her box. Malcolm moved to his desk and fished out his uniform shirt from one of the drawers.
She chattered away as they explained each badge to the other for a good twenty minutes. And then: "What happened to make Father angry at you? Before you went away this term, you ran away from the lake. Are you afraid of the water?"
Somehow her asking was easier. "Not the water. Drowning."
She chuckled. "Why should you be afraid of drowning? You can swim."
That was a natural response, he recognized. Especially for a kid to make. Malcolm thought how best to respond. "Are there any mean kids at your school?"
She nodded. "Yeah, there are some bullies. I try to stay away from them and hope they don't notice me."
He gave her a little smile. "Good strategy. Maybe I should have tried that. But they were hurting a younger boy."
Her expression became serious, worried. "You saved him? They hurt you? Is that why you were in hospital? They said you were ill."
"I was ill," he told her. "Because of the water in my lungs."
She pushed aside the badges and scooted to where he was so fast, he hadn't had time to prepare. Her arms wrapped around his neck. "They didn't tell me." She started to cry.
Malcolm didn't want her to cry, but it felt so good in her embrace. So he put his arms around her back. "But I'm not ill any longer. I'm alright."
She pulled back and wiped her eyes. "They just said you were sick and in hospital and then you were home instead of school. And you didn't want to go back. I didn't want you to go back. It's boring when you're off."
Now Malcolm chuckled. And that felt good, too. "I missed you, too, Maddie."
Another year, another heavy, silent ride home, but a smile on Madeline's face to greet him and a knock on his door after dinner. She had a picture book this time. A book of buildings. Grand old buildings, in England, Scotland, France, Czechia, Russia, China, Japan. She pointed out spires and gables and arches, and her face lit up. Malcolm realized that his sister had found her first love.
Another year and he was home every afternoon just like her. But home was in Malaysia, and it was a painful place to be. School was where he relaxed. The pressure was off. He did his work and kept to himself. Father wouldn't allow him to join any clubs or stay after school for any reason except scouts. Mr. Mansi had come to the house to convince Father that Malcolm's progress in scouting should be nurtured and not cut short. Malcolm continued to excel at his studies, and he enjoyed physical education as well, especially tai chi and boxing. He used the computers in the library to look up the requirements for Starfleet Academy, and he counted the years, then months, then days to graduation.
Maddie was the only one in his family that he could trust his dreams to. She had encouraged him, told him not to worry about leaving her behind. Their parents held no weight over her head as they did his. Reed women could be anything they wanted. And when the day finally came, she had defended him to their parents as he left home with one bag and all his hopes. He never again set foot in his parent's home.
But she was dead. Dead and her heart was in his chest. He remembered needing the heart. But why had it come from her? Why did Maddie have to die?
The chair stopped again and Malcolm looked up to see an open field with trees along one side. One tree was spread out above him. A young man he recognized, Miguel, took something from the back of the chair then walked away to another tree with an older man. Trevon took the same sort of thing from the back of the chair and opened it in front of him.
Trevon opened the chair and sat it facing Malcolm. Malcolm, for his part, seemed more present, even as he took in his surroundings. "This is a nice park," Trevon commented. He had caught Malcolm's memories as they were walking. Likely he hadn't intended to broadcast them. "I know you were remembering your sister just now. I had hoped we might talk about her today."
Malcolm only looked at him with glistening eyes. Still, he had finished the breakfast burrito during the nicer parts of his memories. Now he looked away.
"I'm hoping that by talking about her, we can resolve this part of your trauma."
Malcolm's face snapped back to him.
Trevon held up a hand. "By resolve, I don't mean forget or that it will stop hurting. But perhaps it will cease to haunt you. You have questions."
"Why dead?"
Still telepathic, but Trevon decided they'd have to try more sessions outside. Malcolm was holding a hurt but angry gaze steady. "I never met her. But I was told of her. I know she volunteered to be your donor. Doctor MacCormack and I discussed how to tell you, when to tell you. There were no good options. Your father yelling it in the hall was the absolute worst option."
The anger abated, leaving only the pain. Grief he needed to feel. "So they killed her?"
Trevon leaned forward. "As I said, I never met her. I was told she had an incurable cancer and that it was entirely her idea once she learned of your need. Her last words were to give you everything you needed that she could provide, and then give to others. She must have cared about you a great deal."
Malcolm's eyes released a tear. "She was sick?"
Trevon nodded. "Dr. MacCormack said it had something to do with the Xindi attack. I looked into that. A good number of people working in the area of destruction had developed a unique form of brain cancer that defies all known treatments past and present. There were firms attempting to build there. To reclaim the land. Your sister was an architect, I believe. Perhaps that is what she meant."
Malcolm didn't say anything more. Trevon didn't push. Grief needed to be gone through. This was the first time Malcolm was clear-minded enough to face it. "I am sorry for your loss." He meant it sincerely.
Trevon remembered with brilliant clarity the weight of grief after his father died. How odd it seemed that that wonderful man would just now be gone from the universe. How unfair it was that the world kept turning. How impossible that he could manage the rest of his own life without his father to guide him or to offer his wisdom.
But then, he'd still had his mother. She had shared his grief, and they had supported each other. Malcolm's father was toxic and his mother at least unsupportive. He only had his sister, and it was his sister he had lost.
He pulled the PADD from the basket he'd sat on the ground beside his chair. "Do you remember a woman with a case, your last night at the hospital? She needed your thumbprint?" Trip had called him last night to tell him of this.
Malcolm didn't reply. More tears fell and he seemed to be studying his hands. Or his wrists.
"The case she carried was from your sister. It is your inheritance. Part of it is this journal. I was told to make sure you saw the last entry first." Trevon activated the PADD and placed it in Malcolm's hands.
Malcolm touched it and it began to play. Trevon picked up his chair and the basket and walked to where Miguel and Charles were sitting.
"Hello, Malcolm." She was smiling, alive. It hurt knowing she was gone now. "If you're watching this then you know. I would love to be there with you on the other side of this, but I know it can't work that way. When I first learned I was sick, I was rather depressed. I only thought of myself and what I would miss out on or how unfair it was. But when your friend, Trip, told me you were coming home for a new heart, I felt something different. Something I hadn't thought I'd feel again.
"Malcolm, I felt happy. I'm not going to have died for nothing. And part of me can live on in you. I know Mother and Father won't take this well. I haven't told them. They'd try to stop me." She sighed. "I can't imagine this will be easy for you. But don't be too sad. I want this. My brain is losing its battle, but my heart is strong. It can't keep going without a brain, but my heart can keep you going. I want to help you live, Malcolm. Mother and Father won't likely understand or approve. They don't matter. They'll live. You matter. Helping you live matters. And if you should feel that heart beating in your chest, remember that I'm there with you.
"So don't grieve so hard you break our heart. You'll need it. You have a woman to love. I spoke to her once, you know. I liked her. So we have a head start. Love her with all our heart and build a new family, a better family. I love you, Malcolm Reed. I'm proud of all you've done and all you will do. Live, Malcolm. Live, and heal and find your way to happiness."
She kissed her fingers and touched the screen and then it was blank.
Malcolm couldn't hold back the tears. He fell forward off the chair so that he was on his knees in the grass. He doubled over the PADD, holding it to his chest. It hurt like there was a knife in his chest and one is his throat. But it felt different now, too. He understood. What Trevon had said was true. Trip had said it. She had been sick, terminally, and she had volunteered. It still hurt, badly, but he remembered her words. "So don't grieve so hard you break our heart." Our heart. Hers and his. Theirs.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes and really saw the park he was in for the first time. There were trees and flowers and birds and squirrels. Trevon and the two men sat further away. After a time, Trevon stood and walked back toward him.
"Was it helpful?"
Malcolm sniffed but nodded. "She was happy," he whispered.
"I'm sure it doesn't take away all the pain. And remember, you are allowed to feel more than one emotion at a time. You can be grateful for her gift and grieve her passing. But perhaps you'll listen less when your father goads you about it. You know the truth now."
Malcolm nodded.
"Would you like to join us over there. Miguel and Charles were just remembering their Elizabeth. It appears she was an architect as well. You can tell them about Madeline or stay silent. No one will pressure you either way. We're just going to enjoy a pleasant few hours here in the park."
Malcolm nodded again and tried to stand.
Trevon grew closer. "Would you like my help?"
Malcolm nodded again and Trevon put one arm around his waist and another under his forearm and lifted. "The chair?" Malcolm shook his head.
They crossed the distance together, but Trevon let Malcolm get there under his own power. He let Malcolm sit in his chair. Miguel offered his to Trevon and said he'd get the chair. That took less than a minute. The younger man then set the brakes and sat down. Trevon asked about Elizabeth's preferred architectural styles to get the conversation going again. Charles had a wistful look. He pulled a small device from his pocket. "She sent us pictures from Prague two weeks before the Xindi. She loved the centuries in that city. So many different styles. Said the cathedral in the castle was built over a millennium."
He passed the device to Malcolm. Malcolm put his PADD in his lap and tentatively took the device. He swiped through the images slowly. Trevon was eager for his turn. He hadn't seen much of Earth yet, just San Francisco and here. "Madeline," Malcolm began with a shaky voice, "was an architect."
1Summarized from Last Full Measure by Michael A Martin and Andy Mangels, Pocket Books, 2006, New York, pages 150-154.