Childish Folly

Damn my sentimentality. Damn me. Damn everything. All I had to do was sneak in, get what I was after, and sneak out. Cake, right? Yeah. Woulda been, for someone not me. Hell, I shoulda hired someone else to do it. But no, I thought I could do it my own self. Stupid.

When I was a girl, I had this locket my Ma’d given me that her Ma’d given her and so on and so forth, back through history, presumably all the way back to Earth That Was. I always thought it was magical, and I’d always cherished it with all my heart. Thought I was some kinda gorram princess when I wore it. Anyway, it had some pretty deep sentimental value. When I ran off from home, I left it there, in its hiding place. Didn’t want to so much, but it wasn’t as though I had a whole load of time to grab things. It was more Ma shovin’ a sack of a clothes and food and a handful of credits at me and frantically whisperin’ for me to get the hell off planet ‘fore Pa found me.

You’re prol’ly askin’ yourself, now why would this damned fool woman risk her life for a silly gorram locket, sentimental value or no? It’s a valid question. Maybe one I shoulda been askin’ myself a time or three million ‘fore I set off on this damned fool trip. Maybe I did ask myself, but, well, I ain’t exactly been what you’d call completely sane here lately, so rationality ain’t a thing I’d’ve listened to anyway. Plus, I had my own compellin’ reason to get it back.

Reckon I coulda done it and got away without anyone bein’ the wiser. Ain’t like my folks lived in some swank estate with alarms or guards. No, I grew up on a little farm, in a little house with my folks and my brothers. I knew every inch of that house by heart, that the third step up to the bedrooms squeaked, that there was a bad patch of floor by the wall near the door, that the kitchen floor creaked no matter how you walked. It hadn’t changed much in the eleven years I’d been gone. Most of my brothers were grown and out on their own. I reckoned the youngest two, maybe three, were still there, finishin’ schoolin’ and helpin’ out ‘round the farm.

The nostalgia hit me as I was casin’ the house. I had so many memories of that house, of my Ma, my brothers. I remembered how Ma’d always felt sympathy for me, bein’ the only girl in a house full of boys, how I was the only one’t had to learn all the decorum and manners and stupid female pastimes – cross stitch, piano, dulcimer, singin’, paintin’, drawin’, cookin’, fashion, readin’ so as to appear intelligent, sittin’ quietly lookin’ pretty… the list could go on forever – and she’d let me run and play with my brothers when my Pa wasn’t ‘round. Mostly, we played Alliance and Independents. Sometimes, it was Cops and Robbers. But, no matter what we played, it was always fun. Nobody ever snitched on me, my brothers and me were close. Hell, bein’ the oldest, I’d helped raise most of ‘em. But we all knew I was the one who had to get married off to some rich man so Pa could make a goodly ‘mount of money off of me.

Reckon that’s why I’d had seven brothers. Pa kept hopin’ he’d get some more girls he could sell off to make his life a little easier, bring him up in the world a little more. Reckon it’s why he was such a hardass when it came to me. Older I got, the more boy my Ma kept poppin’ out, and the more it fell to me to make him a small fortune. Ain’t like my Ma’d taken any issue with havin’ so many babies – she’s Catholic and believes in bein’ as prolific as possible, in the most literal sense.

Anyway, I got in the house just fine. Pa never did mend that broken lock on the window in the back. I skipped the third step, and made sure to step to the very left of the seventh one as I made my way upstairs. Walked down the hall, into my old room. What a shock for me to see I now had a little sister. She was prol’ly seven or eight and was just a spittin’ image of me as a child, a halo of blonde hair framin’ her cherubic face. I stood there for the longest time just starin’ at her. Guess Pa’d finally got his wish. Poor kid. I hate to think what she’s got in store for her future, trained from birth to look like a doll and act like a pretty lapdog for some rich bastard to tote ‘round on his arm like some kinda trophy.

Even bein’ from a poor family, I’d been considered a prize ‘cuz of my looks. I don’t say it outta arrogance; more to explain how a poor farm girl came up in Persephone society and attracted the attention of a man like Mr. Christopher Barnett. He was beautiful. Young, handsome, romantic, charismatic, actin’ all chivalrous… everything a young woman wants in a future husband. When he began payin’ court to me, Lord but there was a stir ‘mongst all the other young ladies. I was hated for catchin’ his eye, but I didn’t care ‘cuz I had what I wanted. I let myself fall in love with him, and it came real near to destroyin’ me… but lookin’ back, I don’t reckon I’d change any of it, cuz I’d rather be who I am now than some arm candy trophy wife. So, I didn’t envy this kid, whoever she was, ‘cuz chances were, she wouldn’t get lucky like I did and escape it all.

I pulled up the loose floorboard and retrieved my locket, which’d been taped to the bottom side of the floor near the back. Surprised me that little girl hadn’t found it. Or maybe she had but’d left the locket there, like buried treasure that she was guardin’. I was walkin’ back down the hall when it hit me. I wanted to see my ma. Couldn’t say why, ‘cept that shed always been so good to me, she’d always loved me. I reckon everything good in my came from her. So I stood in the doorway and watched ‘em sleep – my folks. Kept thinkin’ ‘bout how things mighta been different. And that’s when I heard the hammer cock. Damn.

Reckon my dear old Pa’s a mite lighter sleeper these days’n he was when I was doin’ all my sneakin’ out as a teenager. Or maybe God has a sense of humor and woke his ass up at just the wrong moment. Either way, it spelled major disaster for me, all thanks to my sentimental nature.

He didn’t recognize me at first. Or at second. Ten years surely does change a person. I ran away a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with proper manners and the last vestiges of baby fat still in place to make me look healthy. Now, I was this black-haired… and God only knew what color my eyes were at that moment, unrefined woman with a body that spoke of hard, manual labor and exotic dancin’. ‘Course, the old man wouldn’t recognize me, I wasn’t in some silly frippery with frills and frocks, and his oldest child was ‘bout the last person he expected to be silhouetted in his bedroom doorway at three in the mornin’.

But Ma knew me. She maybe even knew ‘fore Pa had her turn the light on. Maternal instinct bein’ what it is makes it so you can’t not recognize your own child, your own flesh and blood, and I saw in her eyes that she knew. But she held her silence, presumably just in case her damned fool husband didn’t make the connection. So, I was left with the decision as to which name to use.

It was a conundrum, all right. I could hope my dear old Pa wouldn’t recognize his own kid after eleven years and use the name I’d adopted, the identity I’d become to try and smooth talk my way outta the situation, and possibly get turned into the Alliance for the reward on my head as Imrhien Fargis. Or, I could own up to my real name and hope he’d take pity on me and let me go… Not likely, so, it’d prol’ly be more like him handin’ his own daughter over to the Feds for the price on my head as his kid. Or he’d do like he intended when I was 18 and sell me off into slavery. Or he’d hand me over to Christopher, who more’n likely had his own price on my head. Either way, either name, spelled big problems for me, really. The only question was, did I want to risk my alias bein’ blown? No. cuz he could still recognize me after I’d given it, or someone else coulda, and then I’d have to start all over runnin’, and I’d never be able to go back home or see the people who’d become my family.

I didn’t even address him. I just looked at my mother, the woman who’d given me life, morals, religion, who’d understood who I was even if I didn’t, and said “Mama, I’ve missed you.” My Pa blinked. Ma frowned. I reckon she didn’t think much of me ‘fessin’ up right off. I could see her thinkin’. I could see her tryin’ to decide whether to run and embrace me, or deny I was her daughter. The cool, healthy green of her aura was clouded, thrummin’ with muddled colors of indecision and emotion, reds and oranges and blues and browns and blacks. I nodded to her, almost unperceivably, to let her know it was all right.

She said my name. “Alexandra.” From her, it was almost like a blessin’. The name was so foreign to my ears anymore that it mighta been. Only one who’d said it to me in the last eleven years was Td, who’d figured me out. ‘Course it’d be appropriate at a time like this to think of him, then to think of Duncan. I wondered if I’d ever see either of ‘em again, or anyone else I loved, like Belize, Lily, Sabrina, Seana, Lorie, Nack, Lauralai, Amyla, Cholgosh, General, Alison, Gray, x0x0, Neutrino… The list went on and on for miles. After I didn’t show up back home in a few days, they’d all know somethin’ happened, and they’d maybe come lookin’ for me, but by then, it’d be too late.

Pa got up outta the bed, revolver still aimed dead on me, and walked toward me, almost like he was inspectin’ me. I could see that mind workin’, and I wasn’t likin’ the ideas I was seein’ there. He smiled, and it was this cold, almost evil smile, ‘fore he spoke. Gave me chills to hear his voice, like somethin’ bein’ dragged over gravel. “Well, well, well, Alexandra MacLaren. ‘Bout time you showed up back home.”

Oh yeah. I was in deep trouble.