Finding Home
by Philippe de la Matraque
Sequel to Alien Us
Chapter Eleven
They stayed in the park until evening. Malcolm now knew the older man was Trip's father. He and Miguel had asked about Madeline, but Malcolm hadn't felt up to talking further. They didn't pry. They talked more about their Lizzie and about Albert and Owen.
Malcolm had dozed off before lunch. Then he and Trevon had separated again. The day was about Madeline though, and Trevon let Malcolm share whatever memories he wanted.
Malcolm was exhausted as they wheeled him back to the house. It was the first time he'd really seen it. It was a one-story ranch style, with brick siding. The older woman he'd met before, Trip's mother, came out to greet them. And she said they had a surprise for him.
Trevon must have known what it was, because he helped him back to his room and turned him toward the bathroom. Malcolm felt his chest tighten. He could be in there. But only so far. The toilet and the sink. He couldn't go any further.
"Your friend, Trip, asked a favor of Starfleet Research and Development," Trevon said. "You have been chosen to beta test this new shower."
Malcolm found it hard to breathe.
"It's safe, Malcolm," Trevon assured him. "You won't drown. You won't even get wet." He gently pushed and Malcolm had no choice but to go in. "It works by sound waves."
Malcolm couldn't see a shower head. There was a drain in the floor, though. There were bars all around and a lower set on each side at the back where there was a bench built into the wall.
No water, he told himself. Trevon sat him on the bench.
"No need to even disrobe, though you could get a deeper clean if you did. Just push this button." He pointed to a spot between the upper and lower bars on Malcolm's left. He stepped back and closed Malcolm inside.
No water, just sounds. Malcolm's hand shook as he reached for the button. At first, nothing happened. Then he heard something, a low, whooshing sound. As it grew louder, there was a vibration through the bench and a brush of air. The whooshing began to pulsate. He could feel it in his ear drums. But there was no water.
"Arms up," Trevon said, from outside the shower.
Malcolm put his hands on the bars. They were warm. If Father was waiting in the room past Trevon, Malcolm couldn't hear him. The pulsing sound waves drowned out any but the closest words. White noise. The wind then died down, the pulsing stopped, and the whooshing went away. Trevon opened the door.
Malcolm didn't rise right away. He needed Trevon to leave. There was another part of the bathroom he needed.
"You can do this anytime," Trevon said. "Do you need assistance to get back to the bed?"
Malcolm shook his head.
Trevon nodded. "I'll leave your PADD on the bedside table. There are other entries you may like to watch. Reach out to me if you need anything. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."
With that, he was gone. Malcolm used the bars to stand and held the counter as he closed the bathroom door. He relieved himself, cleaned his hands, and returned to the bed.
"So, you're afraid of water now?" Father's voice dripped with disdain. "Thought it was just drowning. That my son should be such a coward. You're a disgrace."
Malcolm just wanted to sleep. But he dreaded what awaited him in his dreams. T'Rex and Sauron had both visited as he dozed in the park.
"They should have eaten you instead of sending you back in this wasted carcass."
They didn't send him back. They tried to kill him. But if he argued, Father would only call him out for disrespect and insubordination. Still, exhaustion won out and he fell asleep even with his father still insulting him from the corner. As his mind lost its grip on consciousness, he heard his sister's voice pushing back, saying he was always worth her heart.
"Mom, I think I made a new friend today." Lizzie had come bursting in the back door. "She's from England and has this great British accent. She's an architect, too, just like me."
Elaine smiled at her daughter. "You should invite her over for dinner."
"Oh, she's been here for a while now, visiting her brother."
Elaine woke with a start and was surprised to find herself in bed. She'd just been doing the dishes when Lizzie—. No, that was a dream. But surely this new friend was Madeline. Charlie had told her Malcolm's sister was also an architect after he and Miguel had come back from the park.
It was kind of disturbing. Was her dream just a dream? Or was Elizabeth really visiting? Was she a ghost that Elaine could only experience when she slept? If that was the case—and she wasn't convinced it was—then she'd said Madeline had been coming, too, to visit her brother. On the one hand, it would be nice to think her daughter was still around. But on the other, it was sad to think she was just around to haunt her mother's dreams. Elaine didn't believe in an afterlife as her ancestors had, but a dead person unable to rest was a sad thing. And she didn't want that for Lizzie.
As she made her way to the kitchen, she continued to muse on the idea. It was a common belief about ghosts that they came from traumatic deaths and murders. Lizzie was certainly murdered, but Malcolm's sister had chosen euthanasia to end an illness and help her brother. That, to Elaine, was a loving and noble death, not something that would lead to a haunting.
So, all in all, she believed it was just a dream. Her unconscious mind had taken her unrelieved grief and flavored it with a newly realized commonality between her daughter and Malcolm's sister.
She tried to decide if she wanted warm milk to try and sleep again when she felt a hand in hers. Startled, she turned sharply to find Malcolm her sleepless companion once again. She squeezed his hand. "Are you hungry, dear? You slept right through supper. I can heat up some soup."
Instead, he pulled her toward the alcove, and she realized he was holding something. A data PADD. He sat and she sat next to him. He released her hand to turn on the device. He placed it between them, and Elaine could see a pretty, blond woman on the screen. She looked as if she'd been crying.
He started the video and the woman began to speak. "Why me?" she asked the camera. She had a crisp British accent. "I'm sure many people have asked that over the centuries. But why? I'm young. I'm healthy. Or I thought I was."
So this was Madeline. Elaine saw more commonalities to her Lizzie. The hair, of course, but also the way she moved her hands when she talked.
"I can't just talk to a computer, so I'm going to talk to you, Malcolm."
Beside her, Malcolm choked back a sob. He hadn't expected that. Elaine put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him to her. On the screen, his sister told how she found out she was ill. Mistakes in her plan for a new building. Her boss worried and sent her to a doctor. And then she said how she got sick: the Xindi. Hundreds of people, who, like her, had hoped to make the swath of destruction beautiful and useful again, now had inoperable, untreatable brain tumors. Madeline was quite distressed, understandably. Still, she hoped to see her building built—without the mistakes—and she hoped to see her brother.
That was apparently the first of several videos, dated seven and half months earlier. In her next video, she was noticeably stuttering her words. Their mother visited often, to fuss over her. Elaine would have done the same, truth be told, but she recalled Trip saying his parents didn't even want to see Malcolm. Where was this mother's motherly concern for her son? Madeline complained that it made her feel like a child. Then she revealed that both her parents called her daily.
Elaine held Malcolm tighter. There was a strange dichotomy in their treatment of their children. And then Madeline named it, showing she understood what was happening. Trip had been right. Malcolm's father was too rigid and saw his son's aquaphobia as a character flaw. That Malcolm had not joined the Navy had meant that his father would never give his approval or affection, despite Malcolm's hopes.
But then Madeline turned it around beautifully. She was proud of Malcolm, approved of his choice of career, and had even bragged about him to her friends. He mattered to her, especially as she faced her coming death. She closed the entry when their mother came to the door.
In her third entry, she bemoaned the lack of fairness, the things she never got to do, like see Prague. Oh, Lizzie had loved Prague. And she wished she'd gotten a kitten. Or fallen in love. She envied her brother his life of adventure, his heroism in saving the planet. She'd never even saved one life. She had after all, Elaine realized.
"She saved yours," she whispered to Malcolm, who was now fully crying as he watched his sister sink into depression.
But her fourth video was different. She'd learned of her brother's ordeal, or at least that he'd been dying and her parents had ordered him off life support without even seeing him as it would be too troubling—for them. And she asked if they would even cry for him as their mother did at nearly every visit. Then she smiled. Because Malcolm didn't die. She extolled his ability to exceed expectations. She noted their father showed some concern with her but never broke decorum, while their mother fretted and fawned, hoping in miracles. Again, she hoped she could see her brother again, perhaps if he was sent home to heal.
When the next video played, Elaine saw a marked difference in Madeline. She smiled more and it went all the way to her eyes. She'd recorded this one only a couple weeks before, knowing she'd be donating her heart to save her brother. She felt happy about it. She hid it from their parents, as they'd try to prevent it. And Elaine loved her when she told Malcolm not to grieve too hard, "so you don't break our heart." She exhorted her brother to heal, to live, and to love.
Elaine found she had tears in her own eyes, but happy ones. Malcolm's sister had loved him deeply and had gotten a chance to say goodbye. Elaine never doubted Lizzie's love, but perhaps she'd sleep better if her daughter had had the same chance. Still, Malcolm was deprived of love from his parents, and that had deeply wounded him. Perhaps his sister's very obvious love would help him heal. Even though he wept, he seemed less confused. He pulled the PADD to his chest.
"Whatever your father said at the hospital," Elaine whispered to him, "it wasn't true. She chose to save you. And you were worth it to her."
"I see him," he whispered back. "He says it's my fault. Sometimes she argues with him."
Elaine's chest hurt for him, but she was glad he'd admitted to seeing them. She had thought he was seeing other things last time. "That's your grief talking," she told him. "He's not here. We wouldn't let him in."
"I see them sometimes, too." He started to shake.
"Who?"
"The orcs," he breathed. "Or T'Rex, Sauron."
Orcs and Sauron. The Lord of the Rings. But T'Rex was a dinosaur. That didn't make sense, so who could they be? The reasons he needed a heart? "Are they the ones that studied you? That hurt you?"
He nodded. "They can't be here. They can't be real."
"It's trauma," she said, wishing Trevon was here to explain it. "When they hurt you, they caused that trauma. They're only flashbacks. They can't hurt you anymore."
"Sometimes I get lost."
"It's okay. I do, too," she admitted. "Sometimes I dream my daughter, right here in this room. Then I come here expecting to see her. Tonight I dreamt her telling me she had a new friend." She touched the PADD. "Then you helped me meet her. Thank you for sharing that with me."
"I dream when I'm awake."
"Oh Malcolm, I'm no therapist." She squeezed him again. "But I am a mother. Your parents were wrong to reject you. They may not want you, but we do. And I'm going to do my best to love as your mother should have. If you'll let me."
"I was twelve," he sobbed. "They drowned me."
Elaine was shocked. "Your parents?"
"Bullies," he replied. "Couldn't swim after that."
She was glad it wasn't his parents, but it still shocked her. That is why they withdrew their love. "So no Navy," she reasoned. "They were wrong to judge you for that. My Lizzie loved to snorkel. We taught all the kids. We were at the beach almost every day in the summer. Heck, it was Florida, it was nice most of the year. I can't snorkel anymore. I don't want to see a beach. She was in the water when it happened.
"So, if that's a character flaw for you, then it is for me, too. But I don't believe it is. Neither did Madeline. And it sounds like she knew you better than your parents did, so I'd take her word for it."
He didn't say anything more, even as her arm grew tired. So she stood him up and walked him back to his room. "You should try and sleep some more." She pulled back the covers and even tucked him in. "Is he here?"
Malcolm pointed to the corner.
Elaine turned to the corner. "This is my house," she said, addressing Malcolm's vision of his father, "and you're not welcome in it. You are a bad father and you do not deserve him. So he's my son now, and if you persist in tormenting him, I give him full permission to curse you out in every language he knows."
She looked back. "He still there?"
Malcolm gave one shake of his head. "Good. I mean it," she told him. "If he comes back, you tell him off." She pulled the chair close. "I'll sit here 'til you fall asleep. And I wish you good dreams."
Trevon felt positive about his upcoming session with Malcolm. He'd received a communique quite early in the morning, regarding another nighttime encounter between Elaine and Malcolm. This time, Malcolm had initiated the contact. He shared his sister's journal with Mrs. Tucker and even admitted seeing his father and the inhabitants of Zheiren. More than that, he'd told her, in brief, of his deepest hurt: the drowning. That was the inciting incident to losing his parents' affections.
But Malcolm had only shared inconclusive evidence of abuse thus far. Zheiren also needed addressing, but it seemed the denizens of that country were occasional visitors, while his father was near constant. Still, he'd only just begun to grieve his sister honestly, and that needed more than one day in a park.
Charles let Trevon in and offered him some tea. Trevon declined and asked to see Malcolm right away if he was awake.
Trevon found him sitting on his bed with the open case containing his sister's will. "Good morning, Malcolm. I hope you had a decent night's sleep." He pulled the chair closer to the bed. "Has she left you something?"
"Everything," he answered, audibly though quietly. He showed Trevon a list of bequests.
"Ah, an address in London. Where is London?"
"England, my home." Not audible, but Malcolm still wasn't up to saying more than a few words audibly at this stage.
"England, part of Great Britain," Trevon recited. "I've been told your accent is British. But this wouldn't be your childhood home?"
"A flat. She lived in an apartment."
"And everything in the apartment. You'll have some sorting to do when you get there. But it will be good for you to have a home address that doesn't include your parents."
Malcolm picked up a small, cylindrical container. He shook it.
Trevon guessed what it was. Dr. MacCormack had let him know the hospital had cremated the right hand of Madeline Reed, at her request, so her brother could have something of her. Her parents had received the body. "Ashes," Trevon said. "Just one hand. Your parents had the rest for a funeral."
Malcolm stared at the container before gently pressing it back into the case.
"Would you prefer we talk of your sister?" Trevon asked.
Malcolm nodded.
"Yesterday, you were remembering her. What did you remember?"
"Madeline always welcomed me home."
Trevon nodded. "You were away at school."
Malcolm closed the case then pushed it away from him on the bed.
Trevon guessed. "School was not a haven from your family. And home was not a haven from school. Were you still bullied at school?"
"No one would dare."
That made sense. "Because you were too well known after the incident? Too many intrusive memories then? The lack of justice?"
Malcolm nodded.
"What was it about home, then?"
The scene changed and Trevon felt himself sitting in a vehicle, moving through the streets of Evington Academy. Stuart Reed was at the controls. He cut a large figure as Malcolm was still rather small for twelve. Malcolm occasionally cast a glance at his father, but Stuart Reed never even looked over once. Nor did he say a word. Instead, Trevon's only distraction was the territory going by outside the windows. It seemed an overcast day though it wasn't raining. The architecture there was very different to San Francisco or Mississippi. Many of the buildings and houses looked much older.
"If this is to be a silent trip, can you speed it up?"
There was a change in the location. A mix of modern buildings and technology with the ancient. The time on the control panel had moved forward more than an hour and twenty minutes. When Stuart began to talk, Trevon half expected him to ask about Malcolm's school term. But when he started telling tales of his own tour of duty on the HMS Churchill, Trevon wasn't really surprised. And he felt the younger Malcolm's queasiness and discomfort at the mention of the sea.
Another skip, this time of twenty-five minutes, and Stuart was still talking and ignorant of his son's uneasiness. The vehicle stopped as did Stuart, who exited. Malcolm got out, too, and pulled his bag out from the back.
"He's back!" a young girl exclaimed as she came running from the house.
"Madeline Mary Reed!" Stuart bellowed. "We do not carry on so. Perhaps you should go away to school. Maybe you'd learn to act with dignity."
Madeline glared at her father for a moment before sighing and turning to Malcolm. "Welcome home, Malcolm. We missed you. Shall I carry that for you?"
Stuart grunted behind them. "He's not an invalid. He can carry it himself."
She moved to his other side, pulling him away from Stuart. "Well, I've missed you," she whispered.
That was the scene Trevon had seen on the way to the park. "Was it always like that? Only Madeline showing enthusiasm at your return?"
Malcolm on the bed nodded. The scene faded. "She could be annoying sometimes, but she didn't change, like Mother and Father did."
"I was an only child, so I can only imagine," Trevon admitted. "I've had clients with younger siblings. They can be complex. But she became an ally for you, away from your parents."
Malcolm nodded again. "She encouraged me about Starfleet."
"Did you keep up communication after you joined?"
Malcolm shook his head and his eyes looked moist.
"Was that on your part, or hers?"
"Both," he whispered.
Trevon nodded. "Why on your part?"
"She was home," he said, barely louder than his whisper.
So home also meant parents. "You couldn't talk to her without going through your parents. After four years, she could also leave home and start her career. Why not then?"
"What I was doing. Covert ops." Telepathic again. Malcolm's head was down, perhaps indicating shame.
"You weren't proud of that. Okay, why on her part, do you think?"
"They wouldn't allow it."
"And after she left home?"
He shrugged. "Habit? She didn't say."
"Perhaps it was habit for you both. Do you regret it?"
He nodded. "I only thought of Mother and Father."
"Perhaps she regretted it as well. How did her journal make you feel?"
"Sad. She was sad. Dying."
"But in the last she was happy?" Malcolm had told him so in the park.
"Saving me gave her a reason."
"How did she find out you needed a heart if the hospital didn't contact her?" Dr. MacCormack had been insistent that she'd volunteered.
"Trip. She called the ship coming home."
Trevon smiled. She had finally broken habit. "She called to talk to you, but you were in a medically-induced coma. She talked to Trip instead. She reached out before her decision to donate her heart."
"Her journal was to me."
That was a surprise but a nice one. "She addressed it to you rather than just, 'Dear Journal?'"
Malcolm nodded. "She loved me."
Trevon smiled again. "It sounds like she loved you very much. We do need to get back to your father, but that can wait for a bit. You need time to grieve."
"She was there," he said, audibly.
Trevon wasn't sure how to process that statement. "I don't think I understand."
Another scene began to play, though it was raining outside now. The family was at the dinner table. No one spoke until the plates were empty. Then Mary Reed reported Malcolm's excellent grades while looking at Stuart and not her son.
"I got full marks, too!" Madeline stated. "I like geometry and art best. What are you favorites?" She was looking right at Malcolm.
Malcolm tried to remember how old she was, but answered, "Maths and science."
Madeline went on about being a brownie and working on an architecture badge.
Then Stuart cleared his throat, and Mary dismissed them from the table. So they couldn't even have a conversation. Had Stuart been stewing over Malcolm's aquaphobia the whole term?
Malcolm gladly left the table and went upstairs—two flights. He closed his door and fell back across his bed. There was a knock, and Trevon felt young Malcolm sigh even as he tensed. But when he opened the door, it wasn't Stuart, but Madeline, and she held a box. The scene shifted and it was clear they had been showing off their badges to each other for some time.
Then Madeline spoke again. "What happened to make Father angry at you? Before you went way last time, you ran away from the lake and Father. Are you afraid of the water?"
Children can be very perceptive. When Malcolm replied it was drowning, not water, she pointed out that he could swim. So Malcolm asked if she had bullies at her school. She did but she hoped they wouldn't notice her.
Malcolm joked lightly but said they were hurting a younger boy. Trevon was pleasantly surprised that young Malcolm had shared that primal hurt with her, even as vaguely as he had. She pulled him into a hug. Their parents had only told her that he was ill. Malcolm promised he was fine now, and she let him go before admitting she hadn't wanted him to go away to school. It was boring without him. Then scene faded away.
Trevon understood now. "She's in the stories about your father." Perhaps she had been his descant then.
It had been Charles' idea. Trevon thought it a good one. Deaths of loved ones were always hard, but the hardest ones tended to be the ones without closure, as the Tuckers had suffered. No body, no belongings, no ashes. Their daughter, along with seven million others, had ceased to exist on the day of the Xindi attack. Malcolm hadn't even known his sister was ill until he'd learned of her death. So they were having a memorial service for both Madeline Reed and Elizabeth Tucker.
Trevon met Albert and Owen at the occasion. They seemed happy to be reunited with Miguel, though Albert was also subdued as the occasion required. Elizabeth was his sister, too. Owen had probably not had a lot of interaction with his aunt, and he was a child. He tended to just float in the background.
They convened out in the back yard under a large tree. Charles had had two stones set with small holes dug in front of each.
Charles began it. He spoke of his daughter, sharing endearing stories of her youth. Albert shared a couple, and Miguel talked about her at their wedding, being almost as excited as Albert for him to join the family. She had encouraged them to adopt.
Elaine sniffed. "I've been dreaming about her," she admitted. "Like she comes to visit. She'll tell me about her day, an argument she had with a coworker, or a guy she'd just met. But lately she'd been telling me about a new friend. One who shares her blond hair and love of old buildings. She wore her hair up while Lizzie liked hers down. When she said she had a British accent, I knew she meant Madeline. And it's Malcolm being here that brought them together. In my dreams, Lizzie's not sad. She's not crying, or scared, or angry. She's bubbly and happy and so full of life. It hasn't been easy but it's maybe easier, knowing that. She's happy, and spending hours and hours talking with her new friend."
She wiped her tears with a cloth then held out a photograph. Trevon could see Elizabeth in the center of her family wearing a dark robe and an odd-shaped hat. Her parents were on either side with Trip and Albert down on one knee in the front. Elaine kissed the photo and placed it in the hole in front of her daughter's stone.
Trevon checked with Malcolm, then lifted his PADD. He and Malcolm had worked on the wording all week. "I shall read for Malcolm," Trevon stated.
"When Madeline was born, I was a bit miffed. I'd been hoping for a brother. I had no idea what to do with a sister. I was sent to boarding school, and she went to school locally. She was always excited when I came home. She wanted to spend every waking hour with me. Which was often annoying, but there were times we had fun together, playing when we were younger, swapping stories about our lives apart later. That excitement at my homecoming never went away, and at times, she even came to my rescue.
"I didn't even know she was ill. I was in an unpleasant place myself, cut off from Enterprise. Things got very bad and I was sent back to Earth for a new heart. On the way, Madeline called me. I was in a coma, so she talked with Trip. He told her, in brief, what had happened and of my need for a heart. She told Trip she was sick, but not that it was terminal.
"He told me she came to the hospital to see me the night we arrived. He had tea with her. But she was there to give her life for mine. She left a journal. I saw how she suffered, knowing she would die. But in the end, she was happy."
Trevon then brought up the last journal entry, excerpted to play a particular part. Madeline spoke. "I'm not going to have died for nothing. And a part of me can live on in you. 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 it can keep you going. I want to help you live, Malcolm. Helping you live matters. And if you should feel that heart beating in your chest, remember that I am there with you.
"So don't grieve so hard you break our heart. You'll need it. I love you, Malcolm Reed."
Malcolm had been sitting in his wheelchair as standing for this long would have been too taxing. But now he stood and Miguel helped him bend and set the container of ashes in the hole in front of Madeline's stone.
"Now they can be together, both our girls," Charles said. "We lost them too soon. But we gained a new son, and helping him heal may help us, too."
Trevon then knelt to cover Madeline's ashes while Albert did the same with Elizabeth's photo. Then they all returned to the house, where the kitchen held an extra chair and plethora of dishes from the neighbors. They hadn't attended the service but had come together to support the family for it.
And today, he and Malcolm were joining the table.
Malcolm had progressed a lot in the last week. While he hadn't spoken at the service or really at dinner, he had begun speaking more in their daily talks. Long sentences and memorial speeches were beyond him at this stage. But he'd spoken with Elaine and was opting to do so more often with Trevon. Still, at dinner, he'd seemed focused, following the conversation. He even passed on some foods when they came his way, expressing his dislikes.
Relieving the trauma guilt associated with his sister's death had done wonders. It seemed to stop or at least slow the endless cycle of traumas from one to the next and the next. Malcolm even admitted that Stuart came around less often. Madeline's love for him seemed to give him courage to tune out most of the rantings his mind's version of Stuart was spouting.
Malcolm was still sharing memories often with Trevon, but with more intent. And Trevon often interjected, asking questions that Malcolm answered. It was time, he felt, to return to Stuart Reed. "Malcolm, your father tried to help you get over your aquaphobia by reminding you that you can swim. He took you wading in the lake, but your trauma response took over and you ran from him. Did you trust him then?"
Malcolm was sitting on the bed, back against the wall. His eyes did occasionally glance to the corner or the door, but mostly, he focused on Trevon. He nodded. "Yes and no," he said.
Trevon appreciated the audible response. "Let's take that apart. Why yes?"
"He was my father. He'd never hurt me before. He would have protected me, kept me from drowning." The longer response came telepathically, as expected.
"And why no?"
"He pushed too hard," he responded. Audible, good.
"And yet, when he was taking you home after term, you were very uncomfortable with him. Why was that?"
"He seemed angry. He used to ask me about school. We'd talk about his tour. But he was silent most of the way. He did talk about his tour. But I wasn't part of the conversation."
"Did you feel he was talking at you instead of with you?"
Malcolm nodded. "He was angry."
"You knew that from the silence, the talking at?"
"I thought it was because I quit the swim team."
Trevon weighed that. It was likely. He was only twelve, after all. "Possibly. But since that fact would affirm the aquaphobia remained, could it be that he was angry at you in general?"
Malcolm sighed. "Then, maybe," he said. "Later, definitely."
"So you came home for the summer. What did he try next to help you over your trauma?"
"He didn't," Malcolm told him. "Not that year."
Trevon seemed surprised. "Really? A whole summer?"
Mother's idea, probably.
"We're having a picnic for lunch," Mother said. "Help me carry things."
He trusted her, so he took the basket of dishes while Madeline grabbed the table cloth and napkins. Mother took the food and they all went out the door. It wasn't five minutes before Malcolm picked up on the destination. The lake. He was hungry. He kept walking. But slower and slower until he just couldn't take another step.
It took the others a moment to notice. Father said nothing, but he watched with a I-told-you-so look on his face.
"Why did you stop?" Trevon asked.
I could see the lake. I was quite hungry, but I couldn't move. And they tricked me.
Trevon nodded, so Malcolm continued the memory.
"Malcolm, dear," Mother had said, "it's not much farther."
"I can carry the basket," Madeline offered.
"We won't be in the water," Mother went on. "We'll be on shore, in the grass. It's perfectly safe."
But he couldn't think anymore. He could just hear that voice on the wind, calling him back to the water.
Suddenly, Mother was taking the basket from his hands. "Lunch will be on shore by the lake. You are free to join us." Then she turned and walked on. Madeline didn't. She still looked at Malcolm with a sad expression, but Father took her hand and led her away.
"A kinder approach," Trevon commented as the memory faded. "Perhaps, but you still went hungry."
"I did."
"More of that the whole summer?" Trevon asked.
Malcolm nodded. But Father never spoke to me. Not since the ride home.
"You said, 'not that year'. What happened the next summer?"
That would be harder. He was on a boat, looking across at Father as he rowed them away from the pier. He was wearing a shirt and swim trunks, with a life vest. But he didn't feel safe. He shivered in the heat. The boat rocked with every pull of the oars.
"Malcolm, come join me. No fear here, no pain."
Father didn't seem to hear it. That made him feel worse. He felt like he was losing his mind. Maybe Father brought him out here to throw him over the side. They were at least twenty meters from shore and just as far from the pier behind them. Malcolm tried to take deep breaths, to slow his racing pulse. It felt like his heart was trying to get out past his ribs.
"Where are we, Malcolm?"
"Lake. Boat." He tried it again, the deep breaths. He could feel his pulse increasing.
"How did he get you on a boat?"
Part force, part coercion. Said he wouldn't try again that summer.
"Just that once. And you have a life jacket."
Part of the coercion.
"It didn't help you feel any safer."
"Hoped it would."
Father stopped rowing. He reached behind him and lifted something heavy attached to a chain. An anchor. Malcolm didn't remember the boat having an anchor. Father dropped it over the side.
Malcolm tried to keep his voice from shaking like the rest of him. "Please, can we go back now?"
"Reed men do not beg," Father said. "It's beneath you." Then he took the oars, one at a time, and launched them toward show, as an ancient Greek might have thrown a javelin. They didn't quite make it but bobbed on the surface in the shallow water there. "There's only one way off this boat. Dinner will be served in one hour. I'll expect you at the table."
The boat titled sharply when he dove overboard and starting swimming for shore. Malcolm's knuckles had locked his fingers on the sides of the boat as she rocked. Even after she'd settled, he couldn't let go.
"You felt conflicted."
I wanted to do as he said. To show him I could. To make him proud. I wanted him to see me as he used to. But I couldn't move.
The sultry voice was telling him he'd be fine, that he would swim better if he left that cumbersome life vest behind.
"When you didn't appear for dinner, did he relent? Did he come back for you?"
"No."
It was dark now. Though the evening had been cloudy, the moon had managed to find a clear spot. It shone on the lake and the shore. He could still see the oars. There was also a bundle of sorts near some taller plants there. A towel, perhaps.
"It's quite late now. Did you have any plan?"
No. I thought about pulling up the anchor, but then the boat would only drift. No telling which way it would go.
"Then how did you get back?"
The boat tilted toward shore as a hand dropped a dripping oar over the side. It tilted deeper as a small, wet person pulled herself up and over into the boat. "You missed dinner," she said, as she sat dripping in the seat Father had left hours before. "I saved you some rolls." She pointed toward shore, and he could now see a backpack waiting by the other bundle. "Can't you swim?"
Malcolm felt ashamed but shook his head. "Not anymore."
Madeline didn't laugh or make fun of him. Instead, she looked around. She found the anchor chain on her right and lifted it until it stopped. Then she tried pulling it up, but it slipped back again, nearly taking her fingers with it. She sighed. "If I bring the other oar, can you hoist the anchor?"
Malcolm didn't want to disappoint his one way out. He nodded. He waited for her to dive back in, and for the boat to settle, before he carefully made his way, staying low, to the now wet seat by the anchor chain. The weight of the anchor coming up caused the boat to list. Malcolm focused on just moving one hand in front of the other as he pulled and tried not to panic. Finally, the anchor was at the side of the boat.
Madeline righted the boat as she pulled herself in again, and Malcolm used the momentum to get the anchor on board. Madeline reached over the side to pull the second oar in. "Can you row?" she asked. "I'm knackered."
Malcolm nodded and they each fit an oar into an oarlock. Malcolm was still scared, but he felt a little better with Madeline there and the boat under his control. He used one oar to turn it towards the pier, thankful for the bright moon. "How did you get out here?" he asked as he rowed.
"Out my window," she answered with a grin. She was hugging her knees against the chill. "It was fun. I know where the supports are, where the house is strong. I checked your window first thing. I didn't see you in there, so I figured you were still here."
"How'd you learn that?" He was impressed and talking about it kept his mind off the other voice he could still hear.
"Girl Guides. My architecture badge. We had to study plans and blueprints of a building. I chose home. It's quite old, but Father knew where the papers were. It was quite fun…and dusty. I was hoping for a secret room or tunnel but I didn't find any."
Malcolm turned the boat again as he approached the pier so he could back the boat down the side. He pulled the oar on that side as Madeline jumped out to tie it off. But she suddenly stood and looked pensive. "We need to put the oars back."
Malcolm realized what she was thinking. "He'll still know if the boat is here at the pier."
"We can push it back out," she suggested.
He reminded her of the anchor. She pursed her lips in thought. Then her eyes went wide. "Bolt cutters. You get them; I'll find a weak link."
Malcolm scrambled up onto the pier and gladly ran away from the lake to the boathouse. It was dark inside but he knew where everything was by memory. He grabbed the bolt cutters and reluctantly ran back toward the pier.
Madeline was holding up a bit of chain. "This one has a gap!" she exclaimed. Malcolm knelt on the pier and helped her lift the anchor out of the boat. She kept hold of the link and stretched out the chain around it on the surface of the pier.
Malcolm could barely see a gap. "We can't cut it," he realized. It was too thick. "Maybe we can force it open." He put the cutters down on their side, then he put the link over the blades. Madeline held it taut on the bottom and he did on the top. Then he put his foot on one handle and tried to lift the other. He could feel the tightness as the handles resisted. He put his other foot on the bottom handle and pulled with both hands. The link stayed on the blades but didn't budge. Madeline came and joined him.
"Lift with your legs," she said, squatting down to get her elbows closer to the ground. Malcolm squatted but kept his arms straighter. "On three. One, two, three!"
She tried to straighten her legs, and he tried to lift with both his arms and legs. The handle moved, just a smidge. "On three again," he said. "One, two, three!"
The handles came apart a bit more. Madeline held it as Malcolm checked the link. It looked like the gap might be big enough. He waved her to close the cutters. He removed the link and tried to work the next link out through the gap. It scraped but slipped clear with effort. The anchor was free. They both carried it to the end of the pier and dropped it over with a kerplunk as it hit the water. The chain noisily followed until it disappeared.
They got the oars loose and on the pier. Madeline untied the boat and Malcolm pushed it along the pier then gave it a shove. Momentum kept it going a short distance. It didn't get as far as where Father had anchored it, but without that weight to stop it, it would drift anyway.
"It's cold," Madeline complained. "Let's get back."
She grabbed an oar and ran off the pier and around the banks toward her backpack. Malcolm lifted the oar in one hand and the cutters in the other. Couldn't leave evidence on the pier. He left the pier for good and ran to the boathouse. He dropped the oar outside, put the cutters back, then retrieved the oar and met her on the shore.
"Your clothes should be wet," she told him. "Can you just sit in the shallows and manage it? I can help."
Malcolm told himself he could. He held his breath and took one step into the water. He closed his eyes and took one more. The water was above his ankles. It was quite cold. He couldn't take another step, so he sat down, letting his trunks soak up the water. He splashed it up over the waistband. He worked quickly, wanting to get back to dry ground. He took off the vest to dunk it and Madeline offered to dunk his shirt. He took it off and handed it to her and pushed the vest down into the water.
He got a shock when cold water cascaded over his head and down his back and chest. Madeline had wrung his shirt out over his head. He gasped as she giggled. "If you'd swum," she said, "your hair would be wet, too." She offered him a hand and helped him up. He went to the bundle, confirmed it was a towel, and tried to dry off as best he could. He got a little warmer as he dried his skin. Madeline pulled a towel from her backpack and did the same.
They sat back down in the grass, wrapped up in their towels, and Madeline handed him a napkin with two buttered rolls tucked inside. He ate them hungrily.
Trevon chuckled. "Well, you both staged a broken anchor chain and a late-night swim. Bravo! But how did you get back into the house?"
Fire safety. She'd let out her rope ladder before she got down. We climbed up and she showed me the safe way to get my window. Malcolm let the memory fade.
"That devious side must be in your DNA as she had it, too," Trevon commented. "Did your father believe the ruse?"
"I think he suspected, though he couldn't prove it. His demeanor didn't change."
"You corrupted your sister with your dishonesty!"
Malcolm looked to the corner and glared.
"Your father?" Trevon asked, pointing his thumb to the corner.
Malcolm nodded. "Said I corrupted her."
"She seemed to do the corrupting in that story," Trevon argued. "You seem angry with him. That's a good start. He's not really here, after all. He's a representation of the sense of worthlessness your real father left you. Do you want him to go away?"
"Yes," Malcolm said.
"It's within your control. When he belittles you, blames you, that's your mind doing his work for him. The rejection from your real father created him, in a sense. But you know that you aren't worthless, correct? Your sister believed you were quite worthy of everything she could give you. Your friend, Trip, thought you were worthy to join his family. His family has agreed. You are a good man, a good officer. You're not weak, even now. You're getting stronger every day. Argue with him if you have to, silently. Tell him how he let you down as a father. Try it now."
Malcolm must have let him in because Trevon could now see Stuart sitting sourly in the corner.
"Let you down?" he questioned. "You let generations down. Your great uncle had your aquaphobia, but he didn't disgrace our legacy."
"So you've told me. Many times," Malcolm argued back.
"Watch your tone!"
"No. She gave me permission. It's her house. So bugger off!"
"Who?" Stuart chided, "Your new mother?"
"You don't want me. She does."
Trevon was proud of him for that one. Not only talking back to his father but accepting the Tuckers offer of family. "He rejected you," he added, "because of your post-traumatic stress. Instead of helping through it, he withdrew his love and affection."
"I was a child," Malcolm told his father. "I should have had therapy."
"Reed men—"
"I wasn't a man. I was twelve!"
"I raised you—"
"No, you didn't. Not after that. You stopped raising me and only put me down. I had to raise myself. Only Madeline and my teachers supported me."
Stuart turned red in the face and then simply winked out of existence.
Trevon turned back to Malcolm. "He may come back," he warned. "He uses gaslighting, lies, and intimidation. Fight him with truth." He stood and gathered his things. "I know what you did at fourteen, with that bully. What did your father do that summer before he spirited his family to Malaysia? We'll talk about that next time. But I want you to try and tell me. Try to be verbal, even when it's hard. It gets easier. Just like talking back to your father. Have a good evening, Malcolm. Dr. Perez will be by again tomorrow morning to check your progress. Would you like me here for that?"
"Please."
"Of course," he turned at the door. "Tomorrow then."
Author's Note:
In the past, Malcolm's memories were not italicized because he was living them. He was lost in time, sort of. But in this chapter, when in Malcolm's POV, the memories are italicized because he's choosing to share memories. He's not lost in them. He still feels them but he knows where he is and that these are in the past. So I've set them apart this way. Hope it's not too confusing. Of course, telepathic communication is still in italics for the POV character.
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