The Quiet Pools

“It’s almost like we were a comfortable place to light, and she was paying her keep by running the house and being cuddly. But it’s not comfortable anymore, so she’s ready to move on. A butterfly. Pretty, but—”

“No commitment?”

“No commitment.”

A skeptical smile flickered across Meyfarth’s face. “You opted out of your marriage at the three-year option. So what do you know about eternal love?”

The dig was neither unexpected nor unfair. “I’ve been thinking about my marriage, too,” said Christopher. “Trying to learn from experience, you know? Maybe there’s no mystery here. Maybe it’s just like the first time—right idea, wrong people.”

“I think that lets you off the hook too easily, Chris.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and smiling dolefully. “I was counting myself as the chief wrong person.”

“Are you ready to give up?” asked Meyfarth. “Is that what we’re talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Christopher said tiredly. “Why don’t you ask me a different question?”

“All right,” Meyfarth said, settling back in his chair. “There is something you said earlier that I’d like to go back to. You said your father loved Sharron. How do you know? You weren’t a witness to it. And Lynn-Anne was.”

The question stopped Christopher for a moment. “I didn’t mean a hard question,” he said, and sighed.

“Did he tell you he did?” the arty suggested.

“No. I don’t think so. He wasn’t comfortable talking about her. This is strange, because I’m sure I’m right, I’m just not sure why. I think that part of it—a big part—is that he never married again. As though it wouldn’t have been right to replace her. Never even came close, as far as I’m aware.”

“He had a child—you—with another woman, and lived with her for fifteen years. That isn’t close?”

“I don’t think they were even lovers,” said Christopher. “They never acted like they were.” A pause. “Did I tell you Deryn wouldn’t let me call her ‘Mother’? She always kept the lines drawn. ‘I’m not your mother, I’m your incubator,’ she’d say. And laugh. But somehow it never felt like a rejection.” He smiled bitterly. “At least, not until she left.”

“Did your father love her?”

“What? Deryn? No.” Christopher frowned. “Yes. But not the same way.”

“What way?”

“He—” Christopher stopped and studied his hands. “I don’t suppose I really know how it was different. It just seems like it would have to be.”

“That he would have been closer to Sharron? More affectionate? Happier?”

“Yes.” An afterthought. “It’s hard to tell when my father is happy.”

“Funny,” said Meyfarth. “Loi once said that about you.”

Christopher looked up sharply. “Are you going to start that, too?”

“What?”

“Telling me I’m like my father. I’m not. I’ve told you that— we can hardly survive a weekend together.”

Meyfarth nodded in a way that somehow was an acknowledgment rather than agreement, pursed his lips, and considered. “Christopher, I see something here, but I’m not sure you do. Maybe it comes from sitting on this side of the room for so long—the patterns come to be familiar.”

“Patterns?”

Meyfarth nodded. “Families have a way of reinventing the same mistakes.”

“Spell it out, will you?”

“Lynn-Anne lost her mother, early. You lost your mother—”

“No. I told you, she—”

“You lost your mother early,” Meyfarth repeated. “I don’t care what semantic games you played in the family.” He paused. “Lynn-Anne blames your father for her mother going away. Do you blame him because yours did?”

“No.” The answer came quickly, emphatically. “She left us. ”

“Broke her contract. Flew to Sanctuary and never came back.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate her?”

Christopher shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Why not?”

Shakily, he drew a deep breath. “Her job was done, really. It was like saying good-bye to a good teacher. You don’t want to, but when it’s time—”

“A good teacher?”

“A very good one.”

“Did you love her?”

His eyes moistened. “Yes.”

Meyfarth waited, but Christopher did not fill the silence.

“This isn’t a good sign,” Meyfarth said finally, offering a compassionate smile. “We’re down to monosyllables.”

“Then ask better questions.”

There was a crackle in Christopher’s voice, something potent, something uncontained.

Meyfarth studied him levelly. “You said your father didn’t like to talk about Sharron. Does he talk about Deryn?”

“No.”

“What’s the last thing he said about her?”

A shake of the head. “I don’t remember.”

“The last thing you can remember, then.”

Christopher was squirming as though pinned to a dissection table. “He just doesn’t talk about her.”

“Anything.”

“He won’t talk about her when I do.” The words came out in a rush, a little ampoule of poison bursting.

“When did he talk about her?”

“I don’t know.”

“When she left? What did your father say when Deryn left?”

He shook his head again, frowning. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t want to remember.” The words were a needle.

“I don’t want you to try to make me hate him.”

“You touched it a moment ago, didn’t you? When you said you loved your mother. Tell me what he said.”

Pleading. “I can’t remember.”

“Ask your fifteen-year-old self. He remembers.”

Suddenly, he was up out of his seat and shouting. “I don’t want to remember!”

“Then you don’t want to be well,” Meyfarth said calmly. “What did you say to him? When you knew she was going.”

Christopher’s eyes were seeing somewhere else. “I asked him to make her stay,” he whispered. “He said —”

“Yes?”

“Oh, God—”

Meyfarth’s voice turned hard. “You have to speak the truth about your own life, Christopher. If you don’t, the lies are going to own you forever.”

A shivery breath escaped Christopher’s lips. His face was knotted with pain.

“He said—” He swallowed and started again. “He said we were better off without her. She wants too much,” Christopher said, his voice rising. “He said, why should I try to stop her? I’ll be glad to say good-bye.” He blinked hard, squeezing out the tears that were welling in his eyes. “God damn him.”