Crown Of Thorns

Chapter Six: Daddy Knows Best… Sort Of

Dad and I are out in New York together, spending the afternoon as father and daughter, and not as Rebecca Braddock, artificially-aged test-tube baby, and Warren Worthington, super-hero and billionaire CEO. It's a rare treat for both of us, because it means we can just forget about everything for a few hours and just have some fun being with each other. At the moment, we're sitting in Central Park and watching the world go by – and I'm trying my hardest to ignore the fact that my baby is making my back ache like nobody's business. Dad notices my discomfort after a moment or two, and says "Hey, firecracker, you okay in there?"

I nod. "Yeah, Dad, I'm fine – it's just the baby's got so big, it's pushing on everything and making it really painful to move." Dad nods in response, a knowing expression crossing his blue features.

"Oh. I see," he says simply. "You know, when Betsy got to this point with Tom, I really had to wonder when she was going to hit somebody for asking if she was okay. You're… not going to do that, are you?"

Laughing, all my pain forgotten for a moment, I shake my head. "No, Dad, you'll be okay – Mum would really kill me if you came home with a black eye that I'd given you. I think we both don't want that happening, don't you?"

"I guess not," Dad replies, rubbing his chin as if he's deep in thought all of a sudden. "Can't have anybody ruining these perfect looks, after all."

"Dad," I say, one eyebrow raised pointedly. "Shut up."

"Ah. You're into that 'losing your sense of humour' stage as well, I see," Dad says, winking. "Well, okay, sweetheart: if it'll make you happy, I won't say another word." He pauses for a moment, and then gestures with his thumb towards a brightly-painted carousel that is set up only a couple of hundred feet away. "Hey, you want a ride on that?" he asks me, his eyes lighting up like two bright beacons as he spots its brightly-painted roof and wooden horses. I think I can guess why he wants me to have a ride on it… "I'm sure I've got some spare money somewhere." Pulling his wallet out of one of his jacket pockets, he waves a ten-dollar bill in front of my eyes like it's a worm on a hook, and I'm a fish waiting to be caught. It's a good plan, too, because it makes me smile right away, and try to push myself into a more comfortable sitting position so that I can stand up more easily. Dad sees me moving and jumps to his feet, offering me his hand and helping me up as he does so. It's a relief, because I've hated being unable to get to where I want to go as easily as I used to be able to.

"All right, Dad, you win," I say, grasping his wrist and pulling myself up before straightening out my clothes and exhaling deeply. "But you have to do it as well, all right?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me, Rebecca," Dad replies, before he takes my hand in his and leads me over to the carousel, where he pays the owner the full ten dollars and asks that he and I be the only people allowed to use it for the next fifteen minutes. When he's made sure we won't be disturbed, he leads me up the steps to where the horses are stood, and helps me mount a pretty white one that has pink ribbons in its real hair mane, which spills over its porcelain neck in curvy waves. Its blue saddle is lightly padded and the leather stirrups take a little getting used to, but otherwise it feels just right. Dad finds a horse next to me that looks very similar, except its mane has blue ribbons and its body has a slightly larger, thicker build. Pulling himself up into its saddle, Dad makes sure his wings don't get in the way and then nods to the carousel's operator to start the thing up. Tinny organ music starts to echo out from the speakers at the base of the carousel, but Warren gestures to the owner to switch it off almost as soon as it's begun. It's a relief (I really hate cheap-sounding music – especially cheap-sounding music that I didn't ask to be played), but I think I ought to make it look like I'm not happy Dad made that decision for me, just for appearance's sake.

"Did you have to do that, Dad?" I ask him as the carousel starts to rotate, slowly at first but then gaining speed very quickly. "I might have wanted to listen to the music, you know."

"Would you?" Dad asks, sounding a little taken aback. "I thought you hated that kind of music?"

That surprises me – I know it shouldn't, really, but it does. It's nice to know that Dad's taken the time to find out what I do and don't like; it makes him seem more like my real father, somehow. I'm sure Uncle Scott would do those sorts of things too if he'd switched places with Dad, but hearing it coming from Dad's lips makes it sound even better, somehow. "Well, yeah – but you still should have asked first."

Dad rolls his eyes. "I should have known you'd say something like that. You've got too much of your mother in you. No wonder you keep trying to get into the Danger Room when everybody else is asleep…"

If I were able to fold my arms across my chest right now, I would. As it is, all I can do is give Dad a withering glare as my horse moves elegantly up and down, carrying me gently along with it. "I do not keep doing that!" I say, indignantly. "Who said I did?"

"Hank tells me he spotted you trying to steal the keypad code for the door the other day," Dad replies, urging his horse forwards with his heels out of reflex. "Why would Hank lie to me?"

"I wasn't looking for that," I retort, sheepishly. "I was… I was looking for his stash of Twinkies. I was hungry, and I knew Hank would have something sugary somewhere, but all I found was a couple of Snickers bars and a bag of Skittles. I still ate them all, though." I can feel red heat crawling up my neck, even though there is a cool, gentle air current blowing across my face. "God, I felt like such a pig – and I felt even worse when Hank caught me in the act. I was such a mess…" I can feel Dad trying to stifle a laugh – but he doesn't manage it, and splutters helplessly for a couple of minutes before he can compose himself enough to reply.

"I see," he gasps, "so what you're saying is, Hank told me that because you stole all his candy?"

"That's exactly right," I say, glancing to the sky in quiet desperation. I've often heard people describe the feeling of wanting the ground to open up and swallow them whole, and right now I think I'm feeling it tenfold. It wasn't exactly a very dignified moment, that's for sure – Hank caught me surrounded by wrappers and with a mouthful of Skittles still lying half-chewed in one chocolate-smudged cheek. I'm still not entirely sure why I did it – I just got this weird urge to find something sweet to eat, and I knew Hank would have something like that, so before I knew it, I was there at his desk rummaging through his stuff. Perhaps my baby is a telepath itself, I don't know. I'll have to ask Hank about that at my next check-up, I suppose.

"Okay, Rebecca," Dad tells me, a little more solemnly. "I believe you."

"You… do?" I ask, a bit taken aback even though my telepathy completely backs his words up (That's twice today that Dad's managed that – I must be losing my touch…). "Really?"

"Sure," Dad replies. "Betsy used to get all sorts of weird cravings when she was pregnant with your little brother. She even said she wanted to eat some clay once, as I recall, so don't worry about it."

"When you put it that way, Dad… it's hard for me not to," I say, twisting my lips into a wry smile.

When we have finished with the carousel, Dad and I walk a little way along the path to the east and find an ice-cream vendor. Dad finds his wallet again, but I shake my head and open my purse, pulling out a five-dollar bill. "You paid for the ride, Dad. Let me get this one."

"You sure?" Dad asks, sounding a little concerned. I laugh, and nod assertively.

"Yes, Dad, I'm sure. I think I can manage to buy us both an ice cream, don't you?" I tell him, and then turn towards the vendor to ask for two simple vanilla ice creams with crumbly chocolate fingers poking out of them. Handing one of them to Dad, I pay the vendor and try to put the change I get back into my purse without spilling the rest of my money all over the ground. It's a tough task, and in the end I have to ask Dad to take my ice cream so that I can use both my hands to tip the coins back into a sealed pocket and then put my purse back into my handbag. When I'm completely finished, I take my ice cream back from Dad and lick it gratefully, pulling the chocolate finger out and sucking it free of ice cream before finishing it off in four quick bites.

"Hmm," Dad says thoughtfully, as he swallows a mouthful of his own ice cream. "Needs some strawberry sauce, I think."

I roll my eyes. "Dad… can't you just enjoy it for what it is?"

"Well, sure I can, honey," Dad replies, "but that's no fun, is it?" He slips an arm around me and rubs my shoulder encouragingly. "Sorry, sweetheart. I'll try not to say stuff like that again, I promise."

I'm about to reply when I suddenly feel my baby kicking. "It's moving. My baby's moving," I say, awed (even though I've felt it happen before, the whole sensation of feeling my baby kicking still fills me with a sense of wonder. It's nice to feel life as it's supposed to happen, instead of life that's been grown in a test tube), and quickly grasp Dad's free hand with my own, so that I can guide him to where I can feel the movement. "Can you feel it too?"

As Dad feels my baby pushing at my belly with its feet, he opens his mouth to say something, but then he closes it again, and simply smiles broadly before he finally finds the breath to speak. "Sam's a lucky guy," he whispers. "I remember feeling your brother kicking that way before he was born – it was probably the best thing I've ever experienced." One side of his mouth tweaks itself upwards gently. "I'll tell you something, Rebecca – I knew right then that my boy would be kicking field goals before he was five years old."

"I suppose the thought never occurred to you that he might want to play real football?" I say, returning Dad's lopsided smile. Dad shakes his head, taking his hand off my stomach and rubbing his brow with it, looking exasperated.

"I see your mom's got to you about that already," he says. "I suppose if I asked you to come watch the Giants with me this weekend, you'd say no, then?"

"I would," I agree, shrugging sheepishly. "Sorry, Dad."

"Yeah, I thought as much." Dad shrugs, and takes a rueful bite out of his ice cream. "Oh well. Plenty of time to change your mind, I guess – I'll get you to come to a game with me yet."

"Do your worst, Dad," I reply, one eyebrow cocked slightly. "You won't get anywhere, I can tell you that right now."

Instead of saying anything right away, Dad simply leans forward and kisses me on the forehead with a brief, gentle touch of his lips. "Don't worry, honey. I wouldn't dream of making you do anything you don't want to do – but you have to promise me you'll let your old man play catch with your kid. Maybe I can take them to see the Giants instead?"

"You're not going to give up on this, are you?"

Dad grins. "Sorry, kid – it's my duty as a father to pass on the sacred knowledge of football. You just can't argue with destiny."

"Is that right?" I fold my arms and regard Dad with a questioning look. "You know, Mum would probably say that this is just like a man to make sport sound more important than it actually is." I let my face split into a wide grin, soaking up Dad's wounded expression gleefully. "And you know what? I think she'd be absolutely right."

Slapping his forehead with his free hand, Dad looks at the sky for a moment or two, as if he's looking for inspiration from somewhere. "Forgive her, gods of football, for she knows not what she's talking about."

"You're right, Dad, I don't," I tell him, truthfully. "I still don't understand why sports are so important – every time I see Bobby, or Scott, or you, watching baseball or football on the television, it passes me by completely. It's just two teams of guys hitting or kicking a ball from one place to another, and it never seems like there's any point to it, you know?"

Dad shakes his head, his thoughts conveying a sense of hopeless disappointment. "Oh, Rebecca, you have so much to learn." He leads me over to a park bench and pats the seat beside him. "Let me tell you why team sports are so important…"

At the end of the day, Sam helps me into bed, tucking our duvet around my feet and kissing me gently on the forehead. "There ya go, darlin'," he says softly. "Hope your dad didn't drag you around too much."

"No, but he did tell me more than I ever wanted to know about why football and baseball are so important," I reply, rubbing my brows tiredly. "Promise me you'll never do that?"

Sam laughs. "Okay, honey, I promise. Never was much of a football fan anyway. I'm a Kentucky boy – all we ever play is hog-tossing."

I can feel my jaw dropping at about three hundred miles an hour. "Please tell me you're joking, Sam," I say, forgetting that my telepathy can tell me that in an instant. Winking, Sam chuckles again, and touches my chin gently with the index finger of one hand.

"Yeah, I'm jokin'," he says, much to my relief. "Most people north of the Mason-Dixon expect us Southerners to do stuff like that anyway – they see movies like Deliverance and then they all think we're dumbass hillbillies." He pauses. "Nah, I always liked throwin' a football around with 'Berto, Doug and the rest of the New Mutants. Dani was a real good offensive tackle, I can tell you that for nothin' – in fact, I probably still got bruises from our last game, an' that was about two years ago." His smile widens. "Promise me you won't try to do the same thing, okay?"

I sigh. "I promise, Sam."

"Good girl," Sam says, sounding more than a little relieved, before he walks around to his side of our bed and slides himself under the covers gently. "Goodnight, darlin'. See ya in the mornin', okay?" We kiss then, and Sam turns over in order to get a little more comfortable. In a few moments, he's fast asleep, and in a few minutes more, so am I.

The first sign that something is wrong is an unfamiliar weight on my legs. It wakes me slowly, by degrees, as parts of my brain take longer than others to get back to a conscious state. Trying to sit up and shift over a little to switch on my bedside lamp, I find that I can't move. The weight on my legs is pinning me down, making it impossible for me to go anywhere. Reaching out with my telepathy, I try to see if I can sense anything unfamiliar in the room as Sam snores beside me, completely oblivious. My mind makes contact with something – and bounces painfully off it, like a rubber ball thrown at a brick wall too hard.

Then my bedside lamp is abruptly switched on, causing me to shut my eyes reflexively. When I feel confident enough to open them a little, it's almost like looking into a mirror. A dirty, cracked, crazily-uneven mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.

My clone-sister is looking back at me, grinning devilishly at my obvious expression of surprise. Her hair is cropped close to her scalp, and she is dressed in a single-piece black body glove which bristles with bladed weapons – one of which she has drawn and is holding almost casually in her slender right hand. "Hello… sister," she giggles blackly, tracing the blade briefly along the edge of her own jaw as if it is nothing more deadly than a feather. When I glance down at Sam's sleeping form for a second or so, her expression darkens visibly, and she shakes her head, the blade whipping out to press against my neck. "Don't," she says, her voice like cold diamond. "Wake him up and you both die. Try and fight me, and you both die."

Okay. Looks like I'm going to have to play by her rules. "What do you want?" I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and even. I won't give my clone the satisfaction of knowing she's got to me. Since neither of us can apparently read the other's mind, keeping my face clear of any obvious movement is probably the best way of keeping her in the dark about my emotional state.

"What, no small talk?" my clone cackles, clearly sounding like she's enjoying this – and enjoying it far too much, at that. "No chit-chat?" She shifts position slightly, so that she is closer to my face. "Good. I'm here to give you a message, sister, nothing more." She pauses, as if she's expecting me to rise to the bait and ask what that message is. When I don't speak, she twists her face in disappointment, and then presses ahead with what it is she has to say. "All right…if that's the way you want to play it, I'll make this as simple as possible: our father has been watching you ever since He made sure you got yourself pregnant. Consider this fair warning that He can collect on his investment any time He chooses."
"Sinister?" I say, finally stung into speaking by what my clone has said. "What does he want with my baby?"

"Everything," my sister says, gleeful triumph smearing itself across her – my – face. "Both of us belong to Him, sister – just like your child." Her smile widens, oozing vicious triumph like poison from a gland. "If He wants to see the results of His experiment up close, He will. Trust me on that one."

"I won't let him," I say, coldly. "I won't!"

My clone laughs, a raucous, braying sound. "Like you have a choice in the matter, sister." She pauses, and then touches a box at her belt. "I'll see you around, Rebecca." And then she vanishes from my room, air rushing to fill the sudden gap as she teleports back to wherever it is she calls home.

And all of a sudden, despite Sam's presence, I feel about ten times more alone.