Déjà Vu
By Rey

Chapter Summary: When dreams come true, one marvels. When nightmares come true, one… marvels also?

Chapter Notes: The words between quotation marks here are supposed to be spoken in Bahasa Indonesia, but translated into English in reality to avoid reading hiccups. (Suggestions about the problem of representing the languages are welcome.)

Chapter 1: Déjà Vu

It feels… eerie, like a dream. This is what I've been hoping practically since I knew the meaning of "adoption" and what it entails, and now…

Three tiny, cherubic faces peeking out of the blankets barely move, peaceful in sleep. Tufts of black hair, vaguely recognisable as being wavy to me, lie on the three pillows, uncovered for now.

They are perfect, lying there in the baby buggy unfortunately meant just for twins, which I've bought just now alongside other paraphernalia and supplies.

I've always hoped for a pair of twins: one girl and one boy. My not-so-enthusiastic ventures into romance didn't amount to much, but women don't need to marry to be able to adopt anyway.

And now I've got a set of triplets. True, legally they are my big sister's children, given my low rate of salary, but Nessa did confess to our family that she hasn't any passion about little kids.

My hand reaches out towards the lumps underneath the green, purple, and yellow blankets, but then retracts again. I don't want to disturb their sleep, before I've got to.

I've got to admit to myself, though, that in a way I feel unworthy to be their mother. Other than my inability to provide for them, there's also the fact that they've still got their own birth family.

They've got their own mother, my neighbour in fact, who's got six other children of her own before she found out she's pregnant with triplets. They've also got their own father, a motorbike fixer…

My jaw clenches, my hands as well. The longer we're held up here on the curb outside the maternity hospital, the more doubtful I'll be. Where's Nessa? She promised she'd be here now!

I stand up, readjust the various straps criss-crossing my body, and look round as best as I can over the top of the baby buggy's half-closed canopy. Out here by the road, we're like vagabonds…

There's the air pollution to take into account too. Plus, my wristwatch showed it's nearly midday, a few minutes ago. Sound pollution will follow suit, on the lunch rush, then. Doubly bad for the babies.

Nessa hates it if she's contacted when she's driving. But if her car doesn't show up soon, I'm going to harass her. I'm a mother now; my consideration is no longer just myself or Nessa.

I crouch down again, try to conserve my energy, try to distract myself with mooning over my new babies, try to forget that – no, just… relax…

But just as I'm getting more relaxed, with one hand thrown over the baby buggy to prevent it from sliding away and the other hand playing with the green blanket of the nearest triplet…

"Hello," I growl into the receiver of the phone, which has just rung, after fishing it hastily from out of my waistbag. "Where are you?" Nessa, just in time.

But I definitely don't like her answer of: "Still trapped out here. Just go on to the restaurant by the hospital, okay? I'll meet you there. Hopefully I'm free of the traffic jam soon enough."

"Could've told me earlier," I hiss, quite irritated by now. I'm trying not to think about how to navigate the not-so-smooth, not-so-deserted curb on the way to the said restaurant with all these.

But she just laughs. "Motherhood changes you," she remarks amusedly. "Glad I'm not the mum in charge." Oh, we've decided to raise the triplets together, but… well, she's spot-on.

It still doesn't change the fact that we've been out here for a quarter hour for nothing, though, and I've still got to bring the triplets safely to the restaurant while being encumbered by these bags.

"Don't take too long." What can I say otherwise? Her car can't sprout out wings and fly here, after all, just as my eye can't be one hundred percent good even with the thickest specs available.

I'm beginning to rue deciding to audition for a discounted musical tutorial on the same day as when I'm picking up the triplets from the hospital… Fewer belongings to carry could help much, right now.

Nessa sounds apologetic, in her farewell. Still, it doesn't change the fact that, in addition to the baby buggy and the baby bag, I've got to carry my violin and guitar cases plus my humongous backpack.

It doesn't change the fact that we won't get anywhere if we – no, I – don't move now, too. So, sighing and grumbling, I stand up again–

And promptly return to crouching with a whimper. My head spins! What's wrong with me? I was okay this morning, before I went for a shopping spree for the little ones, and I was okay just now too.

The spinning, oddly and unfortunately, doesn't abate the longer I stay still. Dizzy spells aren't new, for someone who's got hypotension problems like me, but… but…

I grit my teeth, and force myself to stand, to ignore how the world seems to tilt every which way, to blink away the darkness clouding my paltry sight. My body won't defeat me.

My ears ring with stuffy silence when I manage to stand upright. My hands fumble numbly with the handle of the baby buggy, even as I'm fighting to stay vertical. What's wrong with me?

No, no, I can't walk in this condition, whatever my pride says to the contrary. I've got babies to consider now. Better wait till the spell ends on its own. The mint inhaler might help wake me up.

But where is that damned thing? I can't remember. I can't move, too, or I'll tip sidewise and never get up again. I need… I…

I stagger from a new, harder attack on the insides of my brain. There seems to be something wrong under my foot, but I can't care less about it right now.

I drop heavily on my haunches, leaning almost bonelessly against the baby buggy, which strangely doesn't slide far. I feel cold and clammy, all over. Is this what people call "shock"? But why?

Somebody touches my shoulder. Nessa? Mami? Papi? Or somebody else? I don't understand what the person is saying, regardless. My brain feels sluggish and numb.

But I do register it, somehow, when the same person tries to pry my hands away from the handle of the baby buggy. I think I say "No," but I'm not certain. I can barely hear anything.

One person multiplies into several. They talk all at once, panicked, but why? Hands pat my shoulders, try to relieve me off my bags.

I let them. As long as I'm not separated from my babies, I let them. And they don't. Hands usher me onto something that feels like a bed, then one, two, three bundles are set on my lap.

The sounds, faint and nearly incomprehensible, shift several times. We're moving, maybe, but three wriggling bundles are in my possession, so I don't mind, I don't care.

I'm coaxed into a lying-down position, when the sounds are suddenly dampened, leaving only strange beepings. Something is fitted over my nose and mouth, then sweet, cool air fills my airway.

My brain wakes up slowly but surely, like an unfurling flower bud. My ears follow suit, then at last my eye. The sight and sounds – and smells – that greet me are no more comprehensible, however.

The being that's fitting what might be a blood-pressure measurer round my left forearm seems to be made up of metal, entirely, with too many appendages attached to its body. It also talks like a robot.

Worse, I can't understand any word of it, save that it's most likely a question, judging from the tone. Is this a prank? But I was alone, and Nessa wasn't due to arrive for some time yet.

The robot-like being leaves after the measurement, thankfully. I quickly yank away the oxygent mask, sit up and look down at my lap, where all three babies are issuing distressed noises.

Great… No help from Nessa and Mami, no way to tell where we've ended up in, too. And come to think of it again, where are my belongings? If the babies fuss because they're wet or hungry…?

But what shall I call them, to get them to calm down? I haven't even named them. Their birth parents left the naming to Nessa and me. I can't call them One, Two and Three, can I?

The eldest, a girl, wrapped in purple blanket, seems to be the fussiest, so I pick her up first, carefully, awkwardly. Despite the unusual circumstances, however, I find myself amazed by the eexperience.

Now's the first time I truly pick any of them up. The nurses in the maternity hospital helped put them into the baby buggy and arrange everything in there, so I didn't actually touch them.

And now, I find I'm loathed to let her go. If I had two more set of arms, her brothers, now staring up from my lap, would be in my arms too at the same time.

She's so trusting. There's a special kind of thrill, when she stops whimpering and snuggles deeper into my arms and begins to nuzzle my breast, seeking for nourishment.

I'm her mother, to her young mind. Judging from how her brothers are beginning to squawk and reach up with their hands and feet, they have the same thought in mind. I am their mother.

Reality asserts itself, nonetheless, when all three babies are beginning to bawl in earnest. I've got no milk to offer even the one in my arms, after all, and all of them seem to be quite hungry.

Trying to balance a kicking and punching newborn in one arm, while attempting to soothe two more kicking and punching babies on one's lap with one free hand, is hard, I'm finding out.

The situation is exacerbated when somebody, though thankfully a human this time, walks into the scene of chaos and seems to ask me using the same unintelligible words as the robot did.

I throw him a look, then stare pointedly at the displeased infants crowding my person. I don't know how to ask for the baby bag, since we don't speak the same language, but I do hope he gets the hint.

God takes pity on me, it seems, because he goes out again and returns with all my belongings, with the bags stuffed in the baby buggy. I give him a grudging smile.

It takes some awkward, ginger manoeuvring to lay first the eldest, then the middle, then the youngest on the empty space of bed behind my back. And all the while, the man just… gawks.

Well, I've got to admit, I doubt I'd take it kindly if he helped me. I may be inexperienced when it comes to taking care of newborns, especially three at once, but I think I won't like any interference.

I don't mind that much, however, when he just helps supporting the nursing bottle for the baby girl, while my hands are occupied with the same task for her brothers. After all, I've only got two hands.

The close proximity to a stranger, a man no less, discomfits me a little. But then again, everything leading up to now right from those dizzy spells has been discomfitting, not to mention bizarre.

Speaking of bizarre… Why's the man not garbed in a doctor's or nurse' uniform? Am I so far removed from everything that the uniforms are vastly different? But here's a hospital, right?

I frown at his grey shirt, decorated with badges, whose shoulders sport what look like military rank bars, though my hands never waver. He meets my gaze, when I look up.

His eyes are blue-green, that I know, and that unnerves me. Indonesians have black or, much more rarely, dark brown or dark grey eyes. Tourist, then? Or visiting doctor?

Different language. Different people. Different everything. What's happened to me and the babies? It's feeling more and more like the substance of a mystery novel!

The maternity hospital is small and not so well known, though well maintained. I doubt foreign mothers choose to deliver their children… there? Here? No other explanation to be had, though.

Still, if this man's a doctor, why's he so awkward now, as he's helping me situate the brothers on my shoulders to burp? He's awkward with the sister too, and she's just one baby.

I'm thankful that he's helping us, truly I am. I'm even more thankful that the little ones aren't accidentally harmed in the process. But really, the string of situations I've been facing defy credulity.

It shows, when we've put the triplets back in their buggy, and I'm beginning to return the formula-making paraphernalia into the baby bag. He stares at the various things like he's never seen them.

I stare at him. He gazes back at me. I think both of us are confused… He, more so than I am right now, especially when I'm pulling out my phone to call Nessa.

The plan is crushed before I've got the chance to delf further into the phone for her number, though. There's no signal here! Odd. I've got no problem in the maternity hospital before…

The man reaches out a hand, palm up. Dejectedly, and feeling no harm in doing so, I drop the phone into the waiting hand with a listless shrug. "No signal," I try to explain.

He stares at me for a moment, perhaps puzzled by my language, or maybe attitude. But he soon fiddles with the phone, even going as far as turning it here and there, as I check round the buggy.

The additional baby supplies and paraphernalia that I've bought, stuffed in the compartment under the buggy, and also in the pouch at its back, and even on the free space inside it, are still there.

At least the triplets won't starve, and will be rather well taken care of for some time, then. They just need names. It's their basic right. They need those for introductions, at least to this helpful man.

My family bounced names round tentatively since a month ago. We didn't want to jinx it, in case our neighbours changed their minds about this adoption, so there's nothing definite yet. And now…

I had three names stored, ones that none of my family ever knew, though there's no spare chance to research about them yet. No time for that though, now.

I look up from the sleeping triplets. The man is still busy with the phone, although hopefully he'll return it to me in tact. No time like the present, right? So I tap gingerly at his hand.

He looks up and stares at me silently. The cerenity is incongruously a bit disturbing, so I hasten to introduce myself, while pointing at my chest, "Valerina." Then I simply point at his chest.

Thankfully, he seems to get what I wish to know, for he pronounces carefully something that sounds like, "Llobee," in the same calm tenor. Is he Welsh? The name sounds Welsh…

Before I can ask, though, he gestures at the baby buggy. Assuming that he wishes to know the names of the triplets, I do just that, as best as I can without words.

"Vinolita," I pronounce, gesturing at the baby girl in purple blanket lying on the middle, then hold up one finger to indicate that she is the eldest.

"Vinosena," I continue, gesturing at the baby boy in green blanket lying on the left, then hold up two fingers to indicate that he is the second in the set.

And, "Vinodika," I wrap up, gesturing at the baby boy in yellow blanket lying on the right, then hold up three fingers to indicate that he is the youngest.

He seems to ask something, or maybe tries to confirm something. I really hate this inability to communicate… I can't detect his facial gestures, and can't deliberately make them myself.

Maybe he thinks, rightly, that I'm frustrated, because then he points at the triplets one by one, starting from the eldest to the youngest, before repeating the word, clearly and slowly.

Did he perchance just say "triplets"? Can I trust him and my own deduction and think that he's saying "triplets," that he's helping me learn this foreign language?

I decide to take the plunge. I repeat the word as best as I can to him, while waving at the triplets as a whole. To confirm it, I even say it again afterwards.

He nods, or I think he does. The artificial lighting in the room is good, but not defined enough for my sight, unlike natural illumination. Well, I've got to take what I can get.

I repeat the word to myself, relishing how it reverberates in my throat and moves in my tongue. I love learning about new languages and cultures. This case is extreme, true, but it's still the same.

He… smiles at me, I think, and nods again. I smile back at him. The first word that I learn is how to address my children! What new mother won't be flattered by that?

Well, but reality is eager to reassert itself, too. I'm a new mother, yes, an inexperienced mother, and now my temporary helper is only a foreigner man who's as awkward as I am in handling newborns.

Wallowing in misery won't help us, though. So I reach out a hand, palm up, for my phone. I'll hopefully find some connection outside of this building. Or at least, I'll be able to gauge the location.

It's surprising, and flattering, that Llobee snags my cases and backpack onto his own shoulders, after returning the phone to me. He shakes his head when I try to relieve him off those, too.

I give him a smile, as grateful as I can make it, then snag the baby bag for myself. Manoeuvring the baby buggy through places with this dim lighting won't be easy, but at least it's something.

He leads me out of the room. I try to be at least two steps right behind him, but it's hard, and not only because of the insufficient illumination that I've expected.

I'm continually distracted with the scenes we're passing by. How not? We seem to be in a hospital, judging from the atmosphere and some familiar clues like racked lories of tools and meals, but…

We've just passed by an orange somebody with odd head and eyestalks! And Llobee walks on as if it's a usual occurrence. And in addition to that, there are various kinds of robot everywhere.

Where are we? Or when? I'm beginning to doubt that I'm still in Indonesia, however ludicrous it sounds, or even on earth. Are we somehow in the future?

My hands on the padded handle of the buggy tighten on that thought. The future. It would explain so many things. And yet, I don't want to believe it.

It's hard to deny, though, when a woman spots us and hurries towards the buggy, cooing in that foreign language, or maybe yet another foreign language. She's followed by two more, three, five…

We're crowded in no time at all, and I can understand none of what they're babbling and cooing at the babies, and not because they're speaking baby-talk.

Llobee extricates us just as swiftly, but the damage is already done. I've got to try to calm the triplets before we can move on, while terrifying thoughts buzz in my brain. Worse, we're now a spectacle.

People, wherever they are, are the same in some regards, I'm finding out. They like to gawk at other people's misery and talk about it. Llobee doesn't help much. He seems discomfited, himself.

It's a relief, in a way, when we're finally free from the bulk of the building and the gawking people. The cool, fresh air invigorates me as well, in addition to the various greeneries about.

But now I'm finding out that the lighting isn't far better than the artificial illumination inside the building. How come? It was midday when I got dizzy! The fainting spell didn't feel that long.

Llobee looks back at me, and reaches out a beckoning hand. I wasn't aware that I've halted on the middle of the paved path. I didn't realise, either, that he looks so young and… short.

I hurry along as fast as I can. But, oddly, he doesn't continue walking when I've drawn level with him. He stares at me instead; puzzled, maybe, or thoughtful.

I stare right back at him. He's just a few centimetres taller than I am, surprisingly, so it's easy to meet his eyes. I thought all Caucasians are tall… He must be just one-hundred-and-sixty-something.

Even odder, he seems to… slump, after a little while. So it's not only me who's frustrated by all these. Pity, I accidentally make somebody else suffer, a total stranger no less.

I'd better let him go, then? But I also hate the idea of braving this alien world alone. Oh, I'm selfish at the core, I know that well, however much I despise that part of me.

Maybe, I can provide us some way to go about this? I can learn the language from him; I might even be able to know of some place to stay for a while from him. How to convey those to him, though?

Still, I must try. "Llobee?" I begin tentatively. Next, I point at the buggy, say the word that he taught me, then point at myself and say my name. Hopefully my face looks bewildered enough.

It seems he gets the message, since he nods and begins to walk again, but I can't be certain. It's nice, still, not to stay standing for so long in the open. People have begun to gawk at us again…

Despite my hope for him to help solve the problem of our lodging, however, I hesitate anyway as we halt by what looks like a tiny wheelless car. Do I trust him enough to go along with this, actually?

Too late to back down, maybe, and I don't have any other choice, but my heart still squeezes uncomfortably when the man helps me transfer the triplets into their basket.

I truly hope I haven't made a bad judgement. A young man helping a young woman find a lodging can prove disastrous for the young woman. But the triplets do need the lodging.

I distract myself: trying to get comfortable in the lone passenger seat, as Llobee's loading the baby buggy somewhere behind me; not easy, given how big the baby bag and basket are, so it works.

There's no more distraction to be had, unfortunately, when he slips into the driver seat, and the canopy of this odd car slams shut automatically. The engine goes alive with a hum, and we're away.

I can see nothing outside. Everything's a blur. How fast does this peculiar thing go? The engine's droning is soft and… effortless. An expensive vehicle, then? Is he wealthy, if so?

I am… uneasy. What does he want with me, if he's wealthy enough for a great car? Can I just barter some things with one or two days of lodging for me and the little ones, so I'm not indebted to him?

Then comes the question: What can I use for bartering? My musical instruments? My phone? My tablet computer? None of those will have any value to him!

The slowing of the car doesn't molify my anxiety any. Now I can see lush trees outside, and people – humans – walking by, as we climb a wide winding street. It seems to be the typical countryside.

There's nothing like this in a megapolitan like Jakarta, and I was in Central Jakarta just hours ago, at the most. What has happened to me and the triplets?

I clutch hard at the padded sides of the baby basket, but not only because the car is performing a sharp turn while on a forty-five-degree angle upwards.

I'm truly alone, then, if my conjecture that we've been flung however many years into the future – or even another world entirely – proves correct. No Nessa, no Mami, no Papi… Nobody.

I stare at the triplets, who are beginning to wriggle and make discontented noises, without comprehension. Nausea churns in my belly, as chill not caused by the outside seeps into my bones.

I'm alone. The babies can't be counted, since they're too little still to lean on mentally and emotionally, so I'm alone here, wherever here is. How to get back? Can I even get back?

I'm aware that we've stopped. I've even realised that the canopy has popped up, given the gust of cool breeze caressing my face and the basket. But Llobee has to tap my shoulder to truly rouse me.

Even then, he has to tug lightly at my upper arm to get me out of the seat. I use the task of fitting each triplet with a cap round the head and ears as the excuse to linger afterwards.

I simply don't want to… go, to see the further evidence that I'm instead a foreigner in an alien world, to begin a new life here and forsake everyone and everything that I've known. I just can't help it.

It doesn't help much, that we're now standing right in front of what looks like a house, or maybe a cabin, perched on pillars, pretty similar to some Indonesian traditional or coastal homes.

Outer looks can be deceiving, after all. Sadly, I don't have any other choice or distraction right now. Llobee is beckoning me onwards, and the car's canopy has just clamped down behind my back.

Encumbered only by the baby basket plus its precious contents, I follow him. The sloping lawn under my shoes, with its watery, earthy smell, comforts me, and gives me courage to ascend the stairs.

Surprisingly, once we're inside and Llobee's clicked on the light, I find out that the space is… barren. It looks like a living-room, or a parlour, but it's… empty. The floor isn't even carpeted.

It's not surprising, then, that he leads me across the room to another door tucked on the far corner of the opposite wall. My footsteps reverberate on the wooden flooring, in tandem with his.

The next room turns out to be populated, but sparcely. It seems to be a kitchen plus dining-room of some sorts, judging from the various pans hanging on the wall, though I spot no stove underneath.

Llobee motions at the table set on the middle of the room. Taking it as invitation, I place the basket of whimpering babies on it, then wait for him to sit before I follow suit. He's the host, after all.

I place both hands flat on the table, disregarding the light coating of dust. I feel… weird. If I close my eyes, this can feel like an expensive holiday in the mountains. It's… wrong.

I'm actually glad, when one of the triplets breaks into a squall, followed by the other, then the last. I'm grateful for the distraction, though not the smell of urine now permeating the basket.

I'm even gladder, when Llobee hurries away, only to return with the baby buggy and bag. The triplets may make a good distraction, but there's no reason to prolong their suffering for my benefit.

I slip a hand underneath the blankets, checking the nappy of each baby. This way, I find out that the nappy-wetter is the one with the green blanket… Umm, Vinosena? His siblings just accompany him.

I extricate him carefully, awkwardly. To my utter surprise, though, Llobee spreads the spare rubber sheet and another blanket on the table before I can put him there, without any request from me.

I shake my head, when the man then motions at the other two. No, they're just empathising with their brother. I smile wrily at him, hoping he'll help me further, with them this time.

Before that, though… I fish out a cloth wipe from the baby bag, mime dipping it into water, then motion with it at the nappy-wetter flailing and screaming on the table before me.

How relieved I am, that he hurries away to the sink that I didn't see before on the far corner, and comes back with a basin of warm water, and even an unasked-for towel.

And he blushes when I beam at him in gratitude. Sweet… It makes me want to blush, though, in turn. Crazy. I didn't expect for this kind of awkwardness with him, somehow, when I fretted about things.

I end up bathing Vinosena, given the large amount of warm water available. It makes me rush here and there in panic to prepare everything, so that he can be quickly bundled warmly once more.

Despite the hastle, though, it's… amusing, somehow, that I'm coaxing Sena to cease squalling in Indonesian, while Llobee's singing in his own tongue to… Lita, judging from the purple blanket.

We're like a married couple, I feel, as I'm taking Lita from him next, after returning Sena to the basket, and he's soothing the neglected Dika in the same way. It's… shocking, and a bit odd.

No wonder, that we just stare at each other when the triplets are once more stowed in their basket, now smelling strongly of baby-product perfumes and each suckling on a pacifier.

Well, but I can never stand awkwardness, especially awkward silence. "Thank you," I tell him with a smile, while waving my hands at the various paraphernalia scattered on the table and round it.

He nods, before saying something, which I assume is the equivalence of "You're welcome." So I imitate him, to which he nods again, then I ask, "Thank you?"

Shortly, I'm learning my third word in this language. Far better than being trapped in awkwardness, in my opinion. Llobee seems to share the view, thankfully. He's even taking the lesson further.

I'm learning the alphabets like a kindergartener now, from something that quite resembles a usual tablet computer, while feeding the triplets with water, having decided better about the pacifiers.

Alphabets turns into writing Llobee's name, then mine, with which I find out that his name is actually spelled "Ljobin." Then we move to nouns about the kitchen, then verbs…

then I'm actually learning about where the utensils and appliances are and how to use them, while replenishing the thermos of hot water for the babies' formula and watching Llobee make dinner.

Not a bad start, really, and I do hope – very, very much – that this will persist as long as we're stuck together in here. I'd welcome any bright light in this predicament.

I'd welcome a chance to have some dinner in peace and take a shower afterwards, too, actually, but Lita prevents me from taking even the first spoonful of whatever's in the bowl Llobee hands me.

I've totally forgotten that, although Sena has relieved himself, Neither Lita nor Dika have, yet. Worse, Llobee dares to chuckle at me, as I'm groaning into my hands.

He ends up reerecting and situating the baby buggy in… I don't know where, still chuckling, while I'm dealing with Lita using yet another basin of warm water that he's provided for us.

I'm torn between grousing and sniggering at my own predicament. In the end, I do neither, as I'm busy coaxing Dika to offload in the sink, using my mum's technique, to prevent further disaster.

Well, hopefully, though I'm quite aware, from Mami's stories about Nessa's and my babyhood times, that we can't expect such thing from babies, especially newborns. I must gear up for night vigils.

I'm beginning to appreciate baby-caring mums everywhere, now, especially my own mum. Taking care of a baby is hard, especially when there are three of them at once, and today is only the first.

On returning, preceeded by footsteps tapping lightly on hollow wooden floor, Llobee seems to suggest that I stow away the triplets before meal, by motioning at the basket then at the door.

But I'll be too anxious about them to eat if so, I think. So I shake my head, and look down at the content of my bowl, after supplying the triplets with their sound-making toys.

I'm a picky eater, usually, but right now my belly feels like a Black Hole. Besides, the smell of the vegetable-and-meat-cube stew – sour, delicious, and a bit sweet – is somehow… familiar.

Anyway, it's food, and hopefully Llobee's not drugging me, or even poisoning me. So, after saying a short meal prayer, I look up at him, nod in greeting before meal, then dig in cautiously.

He follows suit. I didn't realise before that he didn't touch his meal because of the same cause. Such great guests: I and my charges have kept the host away from his meal, one he made himself no less.

Llobee falls away out of my focus, though, once the first spoonful comes in contact with my tongue. My hair stands on end. The taste and texture are indeed familiar, somehow.

I'd usually call this blend of sour and salty and sweet and bitter odd, unpalatable even. But now… And worse, Llobee's staring at me again, with a solemn look, as if he knows.

What's wrong with me? Does he know what's going on and just doesn't tell me? Because of the language barrier? Or because of something else? Something nefarious, even, maybe?

I plop the next spoonful back into the bowl, feeling sick. And just so, a much larger hand folds over my trembling fist gently, hesitantly. My eye meets that of blue-green.

The hand squeezes warmly, before retracting itself. I slump against the top of the table, twining my ankles with the legs of my stool. His gesture, as well-meaning as it is, only makes me more agitated.

He says a short something, softly, while miming bringing a spoon to his mouth. I take it he means "Eat." I repeat that automatically, somewhat in a daze.

Now I wonder, if my ease of learning this language stems from something other than my lasting fascination with cultures and languages. Was I… another person… before… this?

My thoughts skitter away from the topic before it can fully form. No, I can't break down now, I mustn't. It's too early. Everything's still too strange. I can't.

My hands curl into fists again. It's getting harder to breathe, too. Llobee wraps his hands on mine; he anchors me; but it's not enough. I need… I need…

What's that sound? It's familiar. Music, so familiar, singing of safety, of belonging, of… home, coming from everywhere. I remember pesky heavy makeup, elaborate layers of dresses…

I shiver. Feelings of camaraderie, righteous anger, defensive care and deep-rooted love seep into my marrows. The music fades away afterwards, but the feelings linger.

Llobee's staring at me again, knowingly. Is he the originator of the music? But there's no instrument on him… The sensation of unnerving déjà vu has thankfully faded alongside the music, though.

I smile shakily at him. He smiles back, and squeezes my twitching hands. Huh, true, then, he must be the culprit, however he did that. I don't care, for now. I just don't want to experience that again.

I try mightily not to think on the sensations the taste evokes, as I'm finishing the content of the bowl. I shake my head, when Llobee proffers another ladleful of the stew to me, once the bowl's empty.

I learn the words for "No," this way, followed naturally by "Yes." It's better than thinking about or doing… other things. I don't know what I'll do, once I've mastered this language.

It's a releif, that I and the triplets are then ushered back into the empty vestibule, then past one of the two doors set against the opposite wall, nearly indistinguishable from the wooden panelling.

The room turns out to be a bedroom, with an adjoining tiny bathroom big enough for a sink, a toilet seat, and a shower stall. The baby buggy stands beside the small, minimalistic bed framed by steel.

There's a small writing desk opposite the buggy, with a stool under it, and there's also a chest of drawers on the other side of the buggy, with its top half taken by shelves, but they're all empty.

Empty, like me. I guess it's truly a new beginning, for me and the kids, but it still feels chilling, to see all these. And there's no telling till when Llobee's willing to shelter us.

We visit his bedroom next, set right beside mine, identical but for the framed photo on the bedside writing desk and the lack of a baby buggy. He doesn't often live here, then? Or is this cabin new?

On returning to my assigned bedroom, I find out that, other than Dika, the triplets are all asleep. Maybe they liked the inadvertent rocking while I was carrying the basket here and there?

It takes only one whimpering cry from him, anyway, for Llobee to scoop him up, as I'm setting down his siblings in the buggy, hopefully for the night. I can't repress a smile on that.

The sight of one baby girl and one baby boy lying side by side, though, creates a havoc in my mind, similar to the episode in the kitchen. I hastily look away, and motion for Llobee to set Dika down.

He gives me a look, maybe the same knowing look, but I pretend I don't notice, this time. My poor nerves have been frayed too thin today, by so many things, while it seems the day isn't ending soon.

Dika seems to have another idea, still, regardless of my preferences, though Llobee seems to back down for now. He erupts into whimpers again, when the man puts him down beside his siblings.

I've got no other choice. Snagging one of the three cocooning padded blankets from underneath the buggy, I swaddle him with it as best as I can, in anticipation of the cooler air outside our room.

I doubt I could deal with three sulking babies, right now. Better leave the other two sleeping in peace here, while I'm sorting things out with Llobee with this one limpet clinging to me.

Well, that's my first thought. I can't stay irked with him for long. How not? He calms down almost right away once I'm rocking him in my arms! Sweet… I'm the one who doesn't want to let go, now.

Llobee ushers me out of the room, once I've pulled the canopy of the buggy down on Lita and Sena, to hopefully give them more warmth. To my relief, though, he's not aiming for the kitchen.

My stay here feels more secured, as he unearths the rest of my belongings from the odd car and helps me put them in my bedroom. At least I don't have to worry about lodging tonight.

I'm surprised, though, that it's evening already. I'm rather worried, too, that there's little illumination outside. I can't see anything at night with no artificial lighting!

One hand sneaks down, fingering my waistbag, which has never left my person since this morning. Torch; at least I've still got my torch, and a few spare batteries. Safe. Don't think about later, not yet.

Uh, but the air feels rather cold, and damp, , while I'm wearing just a thin short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of jeans trousers. It'll be even colder throughout the night, then? What about my babies…?

Still, I appreciate the chance of being on the move, and we do spend the time touring each and every nook of the cabin and under it. I do, really.

I don't think about other things when I must focus on my paltry sight, that's why, and that's quite a welcome change. Dika seems to enjoy the rocking too, or maybe my arms, since he's now asleep.

This way, I also find out why the cabin is built on pillars: The ground isn't level, sloping sharply sometimes. In fact, now I know that the back door, where the kitchen is, is level with the ground.

The impromptu tour lends me a sense of security, of stability, despite the minimal illumination. I don't know if Llobee in fact intended for that effect, but it does work, and I'm grateful for that.

I could do without the bag inspection afterwards, though, despite its usefulness to show him that I've got but a spare T-shirt in all my belongings here. He's a man and I'm a woman, after all.

It heartens me, that he's just awkward as I am in this, but still. I don't know, too, how to convey that I don't usually wear something I've just bought right away, and the T-shirt sadly fits that criterion.

I don't know what to feel about the T-shirt, actually, seeing that the familiar, blue globe of earth is presented proudly on its front, supported by a pair of hands. Homesickness threatens, just on that.

I set it aside, in the end. I can't bear it, knowing I might never return to everything and everyone that I've known all my life.

All this life, maybe… No, no, better not think about that. I'm actually glad, that Llobee picks up the T-shirt and plasters it to his front, gives me a look, then points at the T-shirt while… asking something.

I assume he wants the T-shirt, so I nod at it, give a relinquishing gesture with my hand, and turn away to check if the triplets are still asleep. It's a win-win solusion, I think.

A bit of payment for all his generosity, as well, though quite paltry still. I can't stand being indebted to anybody, other than my family. Maybe I'll find something or some way to repay him better, later.

I don't know how he does it, but he somehow entices me for a second helping of dinner, once we return to the kitchen, sans the triplets. The eerie music might have something to do with that.

The T-shirt is laid on the table by the dishes, but I don't pay heed to it. The blue-green orb shown on the screen of his tablet computer interests – and unnerves – me more.

"Naboo," he says, while pointing at the unfamiliar and yet so familiar globe. I shiver. The name is so familiar. I can't be surprised, thus, when I can spell it using the new alphabets on the first go.

I'm not surprised, but ill. How can I know? Who am I? I am Valerina Evandia Subagio, right? But then why do these things seem to resonate with me? I'm not from round here!

He changes the display to another planet, this time with white scattered throughout it in addition to blue and green, then announces, "Alderaan." My nausea just got worse, on that.

A remote part of my mind whispers something, faintly; maybe a name, maybe a concept, but I force myself not to care. I'm not from round here!

I hate it, that he looks at me knowingly again. I hate it even more, that I can perfectly write down the name of the planet, as if I've ever done that countless times before. Who am I?!

Thankfully, he ceases torturing me with those, after that. Instead, blushing, he shows me images of women's paraphernalia, including underware, while motioning at me each time.

Another kind of torture, really. But at least, though blushing just as hard, in this way I can somewhat communicate the fact that I do need those. And this way, I learn the words for "this" and "that," too.

The mixed senses of displacement and familiarity get stronger when he next shows me various… space-faring ships, I think, in a sundry of poses too: in deep space, nearing a planet, in atmosphere…

My gaze lingers on what looks like a small yellow fighter-plane and a small graceful space-ship. They look particularly familiar. I can't help the inexplicable longing that fills me on seeing them.

It's a relief, in a way, that one of my charges erupts into hysterics before I can explode, myself. I flee the dining table as if electricuted. Llobee follows, fortunately or unfortunately.

Somehow, I'm not surprised it's Dika who's wailing as if the world's ending, though his siblings are waking up as well, bothered by his loud noises. I'm beginning to recognise their subtle differences…

"Clingy, aren't you?" I mutter at his howling, flailing form; partly fond, partly exasperated. He's not wet, and he's rejecting the bottle of water Llobee hands me too.

As expected, he begins to calm down once I gather him into my arms. Tired and irritated, I pinch softly at his pert, tiny nose with a grumble.

My hand got thwacked by his fist, for that. I laugh; and just so, my irritation evaporates. Swinging him round and chattering at him got me his cooing delight, moreover, buoying my own spirit.

I'm puzzled, that Llobee turns out to have placed Lita and Sena into the baby basket, but set Dika down in there anyway. I begin to understand his purpose only a moment afterwards.

He points at the baby bag, at the triplets, at me, at himself, then at the T-shirt that he's lifting up with the other hand. We're going shopping for my necessities, then? But he's done so much for me!

Maybe I look doubtful, for he repeats the gesture more insistently. When I shake my head, he just hooks the baby bag up on one shoulder and hands the baby basket to me.

Huh, I never knew he could be – and would be – this… assertive. It's almost… adorable, and I rarely say that about men. Crazy me, thinking of thoughts like this during such a delicate, difficult time…

I lift a hand, palm outwards, hoping that the gesture transfers as "Wait a moment. I need some time." Without waiting for his response, though, I quickly get to work.

The triplets need warmer clothes, if we're to have an evening outing in a place as cool as this. Some contents of the baby bag must be discarded for the time being and replaced with necessities, then.

Llobee seems to catch up fast with my train of thoughts, anyway. In a trice, he's already helping me with Sena, while I'm dressing Lita in the additional thick socks, trousers, mittens and jacket.

After the baby bag is repacked, with just a tap on my shoulder and a gesture at the door, the man's away with the said bag, presumably to his car. After dressing Dika, I follow suit with the baby basket.

We feel truly like a married couple, now. It's… wrong, somehow. Llobee's sweet, undoubtably, but he's… not the one, both to me and to the part of my mind that I dub "the déjà vu place."

Strolling at his side down the supermarket lanes after a short car-ride, with him shouldering the baby bag and with me rocking the baby basket in my arms, the feeling morphes into a slight discomfort.

It's worsened when, by ones and twos, people from both genders and all ages begin to crowd me and coo at my equally discomfited charges. What's with these people and babies?

Or is there something about triplets that's so important to their culture? Triplets aren't as numerous as twins, as far as I know, but they're only a passing curiosity round the globe – or rather, on earth.

Huh, this can be a very, very big problem. Unfortunately, I know no way to ask or confirm about this to Llobee, who's acting as a buffer again now.

The longer we linger in the supermarket, though, the more I'm convinced that triplets hold a special value to these people. The wheelless, huge hovering cart that Llobee's steering gets full fast.

I widen my eyes pleadingly at him, when yet another person dumps a tin of something into the cart, while carefully putting yet another tiny plastic disk onto the blankets in the baby basket.

He just shakes his head. He doesn't look surprised, though, I note. But maybe he's a native of this place, hence he's perfectly aware of this oddity, and maybe it's also why he's been helping me.

Strange, and interesting, but unnerving. I can do nothing but go with the flow, thanking everybody with the sincerest smile I can muster. I'm grateful for the gifts, but can't wait till we're away.

Llobee helps me sort the gifts on a more or less secluded corner, explaining with gestures the purpose of each item whenever possible, noting the items that I prefer and replacing those I don't.

He also uses the chance to teach me about numbering and this place's money, which turns out to be the little plastic disks people have been giving the triplets in equally-great quantity to these.

That lesson, alongside my awareness that I actually have no money, makes me more cautious when I'm selecting toiletries and other things for myself, not only because many things here look strange.

Even after paying for everything, however, there's still a pile of those left in the baby basket, though of smaller denominations. I feel even more uncomfortable than before. We're not beggars!

Strangely, Llobee actually flinches away, when I try to hand the changes to him, to repay his help. Huh, is there a lore round here that says money given to a set of triplets can't be repurposed?

I daren't hand the money to him, because of that, when we're shopping for my necessities at the clothing store beside the supermarket in the same building, which is apparently a shopping mall.

Given that, also, I say "No" when he hands me items which list double digits on the price-tag. I ignore his glare by buying some more baby paraphernalia for my little ones, with the gift money.

I may be ignorant of this place's currency rate and prices, but I doubt double-digits, especially the high-end double-digits, mean well to someone's purse.

I haven't counted on his tenacity and tricks, though. Before I can go pay for my purchases, he waylays me, holding out a stack of simple but tasteful clothes, whose price-tags I'm forbidden to see.

I rue his emerging assertiveness, now. He's herding me like a naughty child down the lanes of expensive clothes! Buying just one piece of everything I need doesn't satisfy him, too.

In the end, I'm a somewhat-proud owner of three short-sleeved T-shirts, one semi-formal shirt, two pairs of shorts and two others of casual trousers, three pairs of pyjamas, and six underclothes.

Even so, the exasperating man is still dragging me and the by-now-sleeping triplets to a footware store, after an appropriate fawning from many people – including the casheer – at the clothing store.

Deep at night, just as the triplets are waking up and whinging, maybe for sustenance, maybe because of the night's chill, we ride home in an uncomfortable silence, with big bags in the boot.

I can't fathom why Llobee's this mad at me, not because of he's short at least five hundred Credits. If one Credit can buy a large-sized tin of baby formula, five hundred Credits isn't something light, at all.

But yes, he isn't, somehow, judging from how he shoved his purse into my waistbag before we got into the car, despite my attempts to evade his purse-clutching hand. It's… confusing, and upsetting.

We separate into our own rooms still in a stony silence. All three rug-rats are sobbing in chorus by now, but he acts as if he didn't hear them. Above all, it pains me the most. He seemed to like them.

By the time I manage to feed, change, soothe and situate all three of them in the baby buggy, I'm ready to bawl, myself. I'm tired physically and mentally, confused, upset, sticky, smelly, sleepy…

I can barely divest myself. I can barely stumble into the bathroom. I can barely remember his instructions about the various things in it. I accidentally exchange the soap for the shampoo, too.

The warm shower water doesn't wake me up. The comfy bed, though dusty and thus sneeze-inducing, doesn't lul me to sleep either. In the end, I just sit on it, blankly watching the babies sleep.

I barely stir, that's why, when there's some tapping on the door. How not? The sound barely registers in my brain, which feels like a dull sludge.

Still, a vaguely-familiar fragrance manages to wake me up a little, especially when it's accompanied by a warm mug pressed gently into my hands. Unthinkingly, I lift the mug to my lips and sip from it.

Several sips later, I'm awake enough to register that Llobee is kneeling at my side like an attentive servant, dressed in pyjamas, and looking up intently at me. In worry? In anger? I can't tell.

I stare back at him, even more confused than before. "Llobee?" I manage to get out. But he doesn't answer, just pushes the mug back gently to my lips.

When I'm finished with the drink, he just… vanishes, still without a word, as though he's never there in the first place. That hurts me, I've got to admit.

I shake my head to that feeling. No, today's been too tiring already. I mustn't complicate it with any other thing. The triplets are all asleep; I must use the chance to rest as well.

Three tiny peaceful faces, peeking out from a sea of blankets and capped down to the ears. I'm truly their mother now. They've got nobody else here. I mustn't doubt myself. They're mine, I'm theirs.

I pull the canopy gently down on their makeshift bed, to conserve more warmth and filter out the dust, then wriggle into my own bed for the night, holding my breath so I won't sneeze from the dust.

Whatever will be, will be. I'm too tired to fret, and fretting won't give me any solusion to our predicament anyway. I just hope… just hope…