There were many things Helen Magnus appreciated about the technological advances of the 21st century.
No one could ever accuse her of being a Luddite, for she is often on the cutting edge of technology, but there are times when she feels that the very technology that is advertised to bring people together is only making it easier for the proper subtleties of interpersonal interaction to fall by the wayside.
She missed the necessity for communicating in person, the simplicity of leaving a calling card, and the pleasure of taking a stroll through the city in the early afternoon. She was from a time when men and women made a point to make house calls on friends and acquaintances, and there are always days when she missed the leisurely, yet intimate, pace.
However, she couldn't deny that modern times had gotten efficiency down to an art. And she couldn't begin describe the usefulness of being able to phone anyone in the world at a moment's notice. Sometimes, she had to simply stand back and consider all that had been accomplished in her lifetime, and she is simply blown away by the innovation. Telephones, computers, motorcars, airplanes, and so much more.
Of everything, perhaps what she appreciated the most was the advent of modern film.
No more standing in place for long minutes while the image set, and god forbid no more wasting an entire day for an artist to record a portrait in oils or watercolors. These days, film wasn't even required— just snap a picture and then download it directly into the computer. Instant print, or simply save it on a hard drive for all posterity.
She hadn't fully appreciated the simplicity, or the quality, of the process until she found herself relying on it to remember the face of her daughter. The essence of Ashley, the emotions that spoke to her presence would always remain with Helen, but it barely took a year for the physical details to fade.
She would remember the facts—that she was blonde, beautiful, with blue eyes and one freckle just in front of her left ear while another graced the right side of her neck—but putting them together into the exquisite picture Ashley had been slowly slipped from Helen like nectar in a sieve, until all that remained was a vague but intimate presence.
Which was why, in the years that followed Ashley's death, Helen relied more and more on the technology her longevity had made available to her.
She gazed at the pictures of herself with a young Ashley grinning in her arms, and printed the quick snapshots of an older Ashley that had been taken throughout the Sanctuary. And a select few are of Ashley with others Helen had lost over the years.
There was one she kept on the desk in her office, of Ashley and James on the edge of the Thames.
She'd always loved taking Ashley to England—to the place she would always consider home. When Ashley was younger there had been moments where Helen had wished Ashley could have seen the city as it had been in her own youth, full of mystery, warm cobblestones, and flickering lamplight. But James had always been good at visiting the "historical" landmarks when they visited, so that Ashley would know the places they had grown up together.
Another, one she kept in her bedchamber, was of Ashley and Barney—her protégée before Will had come into their lives. It had been when both of them had been younger; an eight year old Ashley had just delivered a handful of snow down Barney's back, but his eyes had sparkled with mirth despite the nasty surprise.
And she had many, she realized, of Ashley and Henry together through the years. One surreptitiously taken in a rare moment when both were bent low over schoolbooks, eager to complete their assignment so they could go off and frolic. Another of them amidst scraps of brightly colored paper, with various trinkets, toys, and books piled beside them on one Christmas morning before even Barney had been with them. Helen herself was fuzzy in the background, attesting to the fact that James had taken it.
But what Helen belatedly realized was that a simple image couldn't preserve the vibrancy her daughter had possessed. The way she carried herself, or the sharpness of her tone when she'd been confronted with something she wasn't prepared for. Pictures were all well and good, but twenty-twenty hindsight had her wishing she'd thought to invest in home videos.
The only video she had was a confiscated hard drive from an overzealous reporter.
And it's this confiscated footage that Helen is staring at on a lazy Sunday morning, scrolling through the electronic reel with practiced ease.
She focuses on the screen, where Ashley is shyly smiling at the camera. The monitor is muted now, but she's seen the footage enough times to know that the cameraman has just nervously asked her daughter on a date.
It wasn't until she'd seen the film that Helen had realized how much life at the Sanctuary had eliminated chances of Ashley having a life outside of the Sanctuary. She knew Ashley had intimate relations over the years, but none so traditional as to include dates, sweet furtive kisses, and beaus holding doors open. They'd been brief encounters that provided physical satisfaction, and Ashley, to her knowledge, had been fine with that.
But Helen wished she'd had a chance to experience true romance.
And then she sees the flash of a familiar gun, gold plated and unique to Ashley—a gift for her sixteenth birthday. It had been a year that had meant more than her eighteenth, since in their unusual lifestyle she had already accomplished the things that define adulthood. She'd been taught to drive when she was fourteen, in case of emergency, and by sixteen, she'd already taken to using the motorbike. So the gun had been that milestone gift, a symbol of trust and responsibility.
Helen still had the weapon, and every now and then she would take in her hands, imagining the way it had looked in her daughter's. Sometimes she would even level it at an imaginary target, though she never fired it. The handgrip would be warm, and for a split second she could pretend that it was the warmth of Ashley's hand under her fingers.
It never was, but for those few moments, it was as close as she would ever come again.
And for the rest of the time she had snapshots of the past, and memories that became increasingly vague. She had slow afternoons of watching the footage of a warehouse turned slaughterhouse, a eulogy for first a cameraman, and then for the bright-eyed blonde he'd taken a fancy to.
Helen hears Will coming down the hall, and glancing at her watch she realizes it's time for dinner. She pauses the video where it is, and is graced with an up-close vantage of the four of them pressed up against the doors of the shipping unit, creature locked within, their faces all triumphant and relieved. And amused too, at the ridiculousness of the whole situation that only they seem to understand.
She sees her daughter's eyes, crinkled with mirth, and smiles back at the stilled screen.
It wasn't quite a home video, but some days Helen thinks she couldn't have done a better job herself.