A few days go by, and we get nothing done. Instead, we perform more tests; reading, problem-solving, puzzles digitally as well as physically. We even did a session of decoding morse. (Kent wasn't very good at it and ended up hiding in his room, afraid that Father would punish him. (He never did.))
It's obviously just an excuse to try and keep us occupied. Still, we try to come up with a plan in the moments we are able to steal away in private. On paper slips and in the clipboard feature of the tablet we pass between us during the exercises.
But it's a stale process. Every day ends with being tucked into bed. Always at seven pm. Always with the obligatory kiss to the cheek. Never any closer to a plan than we were the day before.
Oh, and also Delalieu visited.
The first time Delalieu had walked in Father had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere behind him and placed James in his arms.
"Watch the kids for me, would you?", he had asked.
"E-excuse me?", the lieutenant had stuttered.
"Only for about half an hour. Ibrahim is on the phone. Tatiana might join in, you know how that goes."
Delalieu had tried to protest. I had said that I didn't need a babysitter. Father had told us to be good then left. And Delalieu was left aghast as he realized that the toddler in his arms was in fact James, and the boy sitting next to me at the table was Kent.
And quickly after that I had to assure Kent that Delalieu was related only to me on my mother's side.
After that, Delalieu comes by every day, usually in the afternoon before dinner. He makes some kind of snack for us (and coffee for himself) and politely small-talks about today's quizzes. Kent and I humor the conversations the best we can, but everyone knows that it's merely a charade of a grandfather and his grandchildren.
Or, everyone except James. James has taken a liking to the old man and goes running towards the door whenever he hears him coming. In return, Delalieu has become quite smitten with the toddler. Which I don't actually understand, because James has tried pulling Delalieu's mustache and taking apart his lapel on numerous occasions. Something I'd personally only find to be annoying, not endearing. But I digress.
Because today James doesn't seem to want to partake in any of it.
"Why is he doing that?", I ask.
James is laying on the floor and huffing and kicking his feet. Misery and frustration, with a hint of confusion, is coming off of him in waves. Kent is sitting with the pieces of enlarged LEGO they had been stacking. He had tried to coax James into coming back and joining him, but he just looks confused now.
"I think he's hungry", Delalieu says. "I was a bit late today."
He was indeed later than usual, and now that he mentions it I notice that I was also in the mood for a snack. Still, it's hardly a reason for laying on the floor and crying about it.
"Then he should have asked for food, shouldn't he?", I say.
"It's not always easy being small", Delalieu tells me as he stands up and walks over to the toddler. "You threw your share of fits back in your day, too, Aaron."
"I'm sorry, but I can't imagine that", Kent says.
Delalieu purses his lips, so that his mouth is hidden by his mustache. He bends down and picks up James, who exclaims a sharp whine.
"We should have some photo albums back at the house", he says as he adjusts James on his hip. "I should be able to go get one if you want."
"That won't be necess-", I start to say, but Kent interrupts me.
"You saw my baby pictures, Warner, don't think you can skip out."
"I'll let you think about it", Delalieu concludes. Then he looks at James, who is pouting at him. "Come, let's go slice some apples", Delalieu tells him, speaking of the apple slice peanut butter combo James had fallen in love with. As he leaves the room Kent comes to sit next to me on the sofa.
"I think we need to do something. Like, something dramatic", Kent says to me.
"What on earth are you talking about, Kent?", I ask.
He glares at me.
"If we don't get something done before the end of the week we'll lose our window because Dad said they're almost done with picking the next commander. And once they're done we're moving to that giant ass boat in the middle of the ocean. And that will make things a million times harder."
I actually hadn't thought about that. Of course, Father wouldn't stay here once the new colonel had moved in, or at least not any longer for him to make sure the order in the sector was maintained.
"So", Kent continues. "I say we find a way to distract him. We might even be able to pull the same trick with the alarm going off. But this time we trigger it."
"The fire alarm", I fill in for him.
He nods. "Exac-"
Someone screams in the kitchen. It's James. Because I don't think Delalieu could sound so screechingly high pitch even if he tried.
Kent stops mid-sentence. The habit of being James' main caregiver has not died yet, and he's probably considering leaving me in the middle of the strategic meeting to go tend to our baby brother.
James screams again. Then it comes. One sentence.
"I want Mama!"
I glance at Kent. It's like he's paused. A computer faced with a RegisterError. This isn't supposed to happen. This scenario doesn't belong here. Doesn't belong now.
It doesn't take long for James to come rushing in. And the wall of fear that came with him almost makes me feel anxious. He runs up to Kent, tears in his eyes, face red.
He wraps his arms around Kent's knee. He brings up his little sleeve to wipe his eyes.
"Addie, I want... I want Mama… When is she coming?"
Kent looks like he has swallowed a rock the size of a fist. James shakes his leg. "Addie, when's Mama coming to pick us up? Where is she?"
And those words seemed to break something inside of Kent.
Silent tears start running down his face. First one. Then another, and another. And he hiccups.
James' own fear is shattered and replaced with concern as he realizes that Kent is suddenly crying.
"...Addie?"
When Kent doesn't respond the toddler glances at me, but I'm just sitting there. Useless. For once I'm actually relieved Kent is blocking my ability, because I don't think I could handle the emotional strain of their combined misery.
Because, of course, James resumes crying. But now for the sake of Kent. It's loud, so it isn't really a surprise that Father comes around the corner, Delalieu close on his heel.
"I am s-sorry you were disturbed, sir, I should have w-watched them better…!"
Father waves off the man. I can tell he's slightly annoyed at the inconvenience, but he won't waste a chance at showcasing his caring-father act.
"Why is everyone crying?", he asks.
"I'm not crying", I snap, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I realize that I sound too defensive. I quickly bring up my hand to make sure I'm not actually crying. To my relief, I'm not. I just feel awful.
Father ignores my exclamation and turns to the lieutenant for a report.
"J-James mentioned their mother...", Delalieu dutifully informs him.
And for a moment it's like our Father, Supreme Commander Anderson, is frozen. James is the one to bring him out of his daze. He walks up to our Father and tugs on his slacks.
"Daddy, where's Mama?"
Father blinks, but then clarity washes over him. He picks up James.
"Sir, if you want I could-"
"There is no need, Delalieu, I'll handle this."
Delalieu blinks. Surprise. Disbelief. A hint of wonder.
"If-if you insist, sir", he says.
"How about you take Aaron on a walk for half an hour?", Father says as he walks up. He nudges me up from the sofa.
"Y-yes, sir. Of course, sir", Delalieu says and waved for me, expecting me to follow.
I hesitate. Kent is still crying and doesn't seem to realize that Father has entered the proximity. Father notices.
"Your brothers and I need some privacy", he tells me. An odd softness to his voice. No malice or scheming.
I don't want to leave them, but I doubt there's anything I can do here and now. Instead, I decide on focusing on checking on Kent afterward.
So I stand up and follow Delalieu out the door, while Father begins to hush Kent behind me.
Delalieu doesn't take me on a walk, in the sense that we were walking. Instead, he brought me to his office where he could tend to his tasks. This was on my request because I know that the daily visits, together with my absence as commander, is already taxing enough to his schedule.
When I was a commander I rarely went here. If I wanted to speak with Delalieu I paged for him or called him. Before I was a commander, however, when my father was the commander of this sector, I actually went here quite frequently.
Lots of people seem to enjoy imagining me learning the administrational work of the ReEstablishment from sitting on my father's knee during office hours. In actuality I was far too old for that when the ReEstablishment gained worldwide power, and by that point I spent as little time as possible with my father. Instead it was here, in my grandfather's office, that I learned to navigate the issues, syntaxed reports and orders of infrastructure, healthcare and living conditions of the compounds.
That did not mean Delalieu and I spent time bonding as grandfather and grandchild. Instead he treated me as one would treat a private in training to take on more administrative tasks. He showed me the ropes.
And I was happy with that arrangement.
It's a simple layout. A desk. A few cabinets. A fax and a printer. A small area in the corner features a few kitchen appliances for making coffee, with an accompanied sitting area. The walls have been repainted.
The Lieutenant fills up a boiler with water as I walk around and reacquaint myself with the view. It's the same bleak, broken skyline. But I can't spot any civilians. They're either in school or at work at this time a day.
As I turn back to ask him a question my eyes land on a framed picture sitting on a shelf.
It's me. Being covered in sunscreen by a woman in a giant, white sun hat.
My mother.
I can't be much older than what James is now. I'm frowning, impatient. Mother looks concentrated. Another woman, much older, is digging through a basket of, what looks like, towels and beach toys.
I have never seen this picture before.
"She died not long after that picture was taken."
I turn and see him looking at the picture. Long since worn out sadness and longing emits from him. Regret.
"My grandmother", I say.
"Yes", he nods. "Do you remember her?"
I think. In the last few days, I've barely trusted my memory for anything; but I'm content to find that the picture does awaken a context inside of me. The smell of chamomile and being scolded for prodding orchids sitting on the window sill. Glasses of hot milk in the evening. A soft lap and bosom to rest against.
No funeral.
"Vaguely", I tell him.
He sighs, but not unkindly. "No surprise. You were very young."
He hesitates. "Her and your mother got along much better."
She wouldn't have let Father do what he did, is what he's trying to say. She would have had you two out of that house and across the state had she been around when he showed his true colors. He doesn't say that he's a coward. A sad and torn up doormat of a man. That he was too late.
But also that he stayed, for some only-god-knows reason.
"What was it? That killed her", I ask.
"Cancer", he says. "She was one of the last ones before everyone else started getting it and it became a problem. It was the same that took the Kents' mother."
I can't help but think he has changed the subject on purpose. Perhaps that's why Father sent me away with him. To have Delalieu explain this to me. I replace the frame on the shelf. Delalieu goes to get his coffee that has finished brewing. He pours it into a cup. Adds cream from a small refrigerator and sugar. I don't ask for a cup.
I think about the picture still. At my grandfather's emotions towards the subjects in the picture. And I suddenly it clicks, my father's strange reaction to Kent and James bringing up their mother.
"I've never seen Father like that. When you said it was about their mother."
Delalieu blinks and looks up from where he is creating swirls in the cream with a spoon.
"He hasn't spoken of her since she died", he then tells me.
"What was her name?" I do not need to know her name.
He needs a pause to think. His spoon stops. Then he looks up. "Catherine."
"He loved her", I say.
Delalieu is not very surprised over my conclusion, still another coating of sadness is added over the already existing one.
"He did."
"But he hated them", I continue, referring to Kent and James. "Just like he hated Mom and me."
Delalieu nods in agreement, but there's something else.
"He… Your father, Paris, was quite fond of you at first, actually", he tells me. He's ashamed to tell me, but guilt is making him want to tell the truth. Whatever sick truth this is. "He had been looking forward to a son. The first two years were quite idyllic, i-if I may say so myself. Paris was always impatient to get home. He didn't actually enjoy leaving you with anyone else. Then your grandmother died, and…" He falters.
"His expectations consumed him..."
I'm four years old and my father says he has a surprise for me. It's my birthday. He says it's going to help make me a man. I've never received a gift before. I'm hoping it's a dog. I've always wanted a dog. He tells me to go wait in his office.
It took six weeks for the wound to fully heal. The year after I was not as naive. By my sixth birthday I had stopped denying it.
I'm two years older than Kent, give or take a few months, and I can't help but wonder if his conceiving had something to do with the timing of my Father's volatile behavior.
But that's not what I'm supposed to be concerned about right now. Instead I need to focus on the here and now.
"James has forgotten their mother is dead", I say.
"It does seem that way, yes."
I frown.
"You don't seem surprised, Lieutenant."
He blinks. Lowers the cup that he was just about to put to his lips. He looks at me, almost confused.
"Well yes, sir. It does seem quite natural, doesn't it?" Again with the slip of my title.
"What do you mean?", I ask, my voice gaining an edge.
He realizes the same: That this isn't something he's supposed to be telling me. That once again, he has been acting out of bounds. That my father may be displeased with him.
"Delalieu please", I say.
"Well...", he says and sits down in one of the chairs. He hesitates. Then, reluctantly, he explains his line of thinking.
"I'm actually not entirely sure, sir, b-but, from my point of view, it would make sense for young James to have forgotten the death of his mother. After all, he is younger than he was at the time of her death, and if everything has reverted to the state that it was, that must go for… well, the brain as well, sir..."
Please leave a review if James made you cry too. I made myself cry with that scene QuQ