Chapter 3 – Contact

After breakfast, I found myself staring down at the computer screen, studying the addresses that Jarod had fed into the email address book. The first name that appeared – Ethan's – I decided to skip over. I would probably leave off writing to him until I'd thought of a way to break the ice. After all, I was nothing but the widow of his father – someone who didn't even have the tie of blood to call upon to be the foundations of a relationship. JD I felt equally ill at ease writing to yet – even though he was my son by blood, I'd never known him. Like Jarod and Kyle, the man he was would be an utter stranger to me; and I was already dealing with a stranger in Jarod. I would have to be feeling pretty brave to try to approach him.

Emily was the first name for whom I could summon a face and know that I would be addressing someone I knew. I dashed her off a quick note, explaining what had happened and why I was writing to her from a completely new email account. Not knowing how much Em and Jarod were in contact, however, I kept quiet about my unease and general discontent – I didn't need Em calling Jarod and disrupting his delicate work to comfort a mentally unstable mother. I also dropped Jarod a note, letting him know that his cabin now shone from top to bottom and that I was greatly looking forward to having his company again on Saturday. Those notes were easy.

I then entered an email address that Jarod hadn't had into the address book – the address to the principal of Oakridge Elementary. In my note to Jarod, I had asked how secure this email account was – and if he said that the account was untraceable, I was going to at least write a long note of explanation to Clive. He deserved better than being abandoned on a Friday mid-afternoon. I would tell him nothing of where I had gone, but I would at least say goodbye.

Then I stared at the last name on the list for a very long time, sipping at my cooling coffee: Dr. Sydney Green. He was the man who knew my son better than almost any other human alive – someone whose influence was deeply engraved in the persona of the man my stolen son had become, even though I couldn't recognize it as such when I was with Jarod. I could mine Sydney for information – IF I wanted to actually contact him and do something other than rail at him in complete fury, that was…

At the very least, he owed me that much.

I put the image of Jarod sitting at the breakfast table with me that last morning at the front of my mind. He'd been relaxed and relatively happy about just about everything except the need to leave – and still, there was so much about him that was a complete mystery to me. Sydney, for all that I wished he could just drop off the face of the Earth, held the key to helping me understand Jarod. I wanted to understand Jarod – NEEDED to understand him better than I did.

I had no choice. I opened up a new email and put his name into the To field, left the Subject field blank, and then stared at the blinking cursor as it waited in the message body for me to begin to write. How did I want to do this? I thought for a long time, and then decided that short and blunt might be the most effective. So I typed in:

"Tell me about my son. Margaret Charles"

…and quickly clicked the OK button to send the missive away before I had a chance to regret or delete it. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I again sipped on the tepid coffee as I watched the connection screen drop away. I'd done it – for good or ill, I'd opened dialogue with a monster. I pushed the power button to start the shut-down process and rose from my chair as if needing to put distance between myself and the instrument of my contact.

I had decided while getting dressed that after two days of continuous cleaning, today would be a day to relax. I was determined to pull myself out of my emotional tailspin – and diving into an absorbing book sounded like just the recipe for relaxation. Agatha Christy's _And Then There Were None_ had been a favorite read of mine while I was in high school, but I hadn't had either the opportunity or time to indulge in reading it again for decades. I loaded the 5 CD changer with light classical music that wouldn't intrude on the reading experience and dropped into one of the fabric easy chairs. For today, at least, I would treat this experience like vacation, as Jarod had suggested.

Amazingly, I was actually feeling a little hungry by lunchtime – and by suppertime had only a chapter or so to finish when my stomach growled loudly enough to get my attention. The music had done its job well – I was feeling much more like myself, despite the fact that I would put in another movie after supper just to hear the sound of human voices.

I toasted some toast and made myself some soft-boiled eggs, and reached for a bottle of cranberry juice instead of hot chocolate. I was in the mood for something different, after all. I eyed the computer, sitting quiet and closed and waiting for me on the other edge of the kitchen table. That morning, I'd put out tentative touches to living people – mostly family – to let myself know that I was still alive; had any of those touches been answered?

I cleaned the rest of my egg with the last piece of toast, pushed the plate to the side and then pulled the computer toward me. I turned the device on and, with a hand that almost shook, clicked on the email client icon on the screen. Jarod's program fired up almost immediately – and put up the screen that indicated connection information. I had two emails waiting for me!

I couldn't help it – I whooped! Someone knew I was still alive! I sipped at my juice and opened my inbox. On top was a reply from my daughter – telling me that Jarod had indeed phoned her about my situation and wishing that she had some time off available to come down and keep me company. But she was currently in the middle of research on a rather complex story of internal city politics and corruption, and her editor was starting to put the pressure on for her to finish – so she wouldn't be able to do much before the end of next week. I immediately answered her – telling her that whenever she had the time to come would be appreciated.

The second email I hesitated over. It was from him – the monster.

I hadn't considered that he would be such a prompt correspondent. Jarod had said that he disliked technology and used a computer only for reports. Actually, I'd halfway expected him to ignore me. After all, he'd agreed to help in case of emergency – and this was anything but. I was both curious and a bit fearful about opening the message.

His answer to me was as short and sweet as my demand had been to him:

"What do you want to know? Sydney"

I sat with my mouth gaping open for a moment. It was a legitimate question – but what would be my answer to him? What DID I want to know?

My mind had often spun futilely in trying to imagine what Jarod had gone through those thirty years behind Centre walls. He had told me very little about those days, however – and what little he'd told me about the lives of his brothers and the genetic duplicate that had been made of him had made me sick to my stomach. Did I want to know how he'd been mistreated? Did I want to know just exactly what it was about being a Pretender that made him ashamed?

I nodded to myself. That would make a good place to start. I hit the reply button and typed:

"Tell me why he's ashamed of who he is and what he does. Margaret"

I pushed the Send button with a tight smile of satisfaction. Let HIM stew over a proper response!

I then opened the address book again and clicked on JD's name. My family was all that I had of value – it was time to try to pull it together as much as I could by reaching out to my other son. Perhaps short and sweet to him might be a good way to start too. If it had worked with a monster, it might just work for a son I had never known I had until he was already grown. I gave my message the subject of "Hello" and typed:

"I know you don't know me, but I'm your mother – Jarod's mother. I think of myself as yours too. I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you and hoping that everything is going well with you. Mom"

I re-read what I'd typed and then hit Send That would do for now. I'd wait and see what kind of response I got before tackling contacting Ethan.

I closed down the email program and played a couple of games of solitaire – then found myself missing the feel of a deck of cards in my hands. A couple of favorite solitaire variations weren't included in the collection on the computer anyway. I decided that tomorrow would be a good time to tear apart all the drawers in the house, looking for a deck of cards – or to tell Jarod to be sure to get one when he came for his visit.

I shut off the computer, made myself a cup of hot chocolate, and then popped "Logan's Run" into the DVD player. Fantasy – even one with a message – was more what I was in the mood for that evening.

And, at last, when I went to bed, I fell asleep almost immediately and slept the night through.

oOoOo

I awoke refreshed, but to a howling storm. Outside the house, the wind whipped the trees until they were almost snapping, making the air almost opaque with blowing snow. I carried my clothing downstairs and took a hot shower to try to warm myself up before heading into the kitchen to set the percolator on the stove and make a fresh pot of hot coffee. While running my night clothes back upstairs, I stopped at the entertainment center and turned on the radio to see if I could get some weather reports – only to hear that the storm was expected to worsen over the course of the day.

With a steaming cup of coffee next to me, I opened the computer to see whether I had any email – and lo and behold, I had three messages waiting this time.

The first was from Jarod, telling me that he suspected I'd get tired of housecleaning soon – how could he guess – but that everything seemed to be on track for a visit on Saturday. He seemed upbeat, letting me know that things with his Pretend seemed to be progressing in a satisfactory manner. He also asked if there were any particular vocal groups whose CDs I hadn't found in his collection that I wanted him to pick up – or any movies that I enjoyed that weren't in his video library. I hit reply and let him know that he wouldn't have to worry about either of those problems until I'd worked my way to the bottom of what he had here already. I told him to drive carefully – that the storm seemed to be piling snow on snow in these parts.

The second was a long message from JD, thanking me for contacting him and asking me all sorts of questions about myself, about his father, about Jarod and about our family. I got the feeling from him that he was desperately hungry to figure out who he was and where he fit in – and I spent a good chunk of time answering his questions as completely as I could – and let him know that I was looking forward to getting a chance to get to know him better. I decided that when Jarod finally freed me from this isolated cage, JD would be one of the first people I spent time with.

Sydney had answered me again – his email was the last on my list. I had to give the man credit – he wasn't trying to avoid me. I refilled my coffee cup and clicked to open the message.

"I seriously doubt that Jarod is ashamed of who he is or what he has become. If anything, he has a deep and abiding guilt about the uses to which his work done while in the Centre was put that might appear as shame to one who doesn't know him well. For what it's worth, I share his feelings on that matter. Anything else? Sydney"

That didn't help – it didn't explain why Jarod had closed down when I'd thrown his being a Pretender in his face. Unless…

I found myself blushing in shame as I finally – FINALLY – understood the dynamics of that exchange. He was a Pretender to THEM – to those in the Centre and probably to those he spent hours and days and weeks helping – but to me, he was supposed to be a loving, concerned son seeing to his mother's welfare. I'd blurred that line rather abruptly for him – and in so doing touched the part of him that wasn't what he wanted to be with me. It wasn't shame he'd felt, but anger and shock.

I read the message again – pushing aside the realization that Sydney had indeed helped more than he might possibly know after all. So the monster shared Jarod's "deep and abiding guilt", eh? What had Jarod said – "Guilt can be a wonderful motivator, when used properly."? That implied that Sydney might not have been so willing to help…

"Did Jarod blackmail you into helping me in an emergency? Margaret"

…was the next flaming arrow that I hit Send on before I could reconsider. If I was going to be expected to depend on this man when or if Jarod was unable to assist, I needed to know where I stood with him. Jarod might trust him – I sure as hell didn't.

I eyed Ethan's name in the address book for a while, but then closed down the email client without attempting to write to him. I still didn't know to say to him – what slim thread might actually tie him to me in a family way – and until I could figure that one out, it was best to leave him alone.

I had a few chores lined out for myself to do before settling down with another book from the bookcases. The linens from Jarod's bed were dry and ready to be put back on the bed. I took the time to really look around the basement while I was down there this time, and decided that a broom and dustpan wouldn't be out of line once the bed was made. There was a workbench off to one side, with a stash of carpentry tools and supplies laid on shelves that had been affixed to the basement wall somehow. At the back end of the basement, past the furnace, the washer-drier and the silent generator was a wall filled with shelves – wood cases, really – that had dozens of glass jars stored. I walked up to the shelves and realized I was looking at an old-fashioned pantry filled with home-canned goods. There was fruit as well as vegetables put up God only knew how long ago – each carefully labeled as to content.

I shook my head. I'd done some canning in the early days of my marriage – but since entering my life on the run, not even thought of the process since. Still, the memories flooded in – helping Harriet can tomatoes in the late summer while I'd been pregnant with Emily and, in the days afterwards, being privileged to take a few of those jars to make soup as the days grew colder. Knowing that I'd done the work myself had made that soup taste extra-special – how could I have forgotten?

It took some time to sweep up several decades of dust from the hard-packed floor and swipe down several healthy and aging spider webs from the overhead rafters that were the floor supports for the rest of the house. This wouldn't be a bad place to put down roots, I decided – if it weren't for the fact that it was so far from everything and everyone. It was just the right size for one person to keep clean without too much effort – and in many ways, the décor, while certainly aged, was comfortable.

Lunchtime was approaching, and the work I'd done had made me hungry for a change. I hadn't been stewing about my isolation, but rather spending time with happy and restful memories and non-stressful conjecture. I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and opened a can of soup – and seated myself in a chair where I could look out the window and study the progress of the storm raging outside. It was still blowing hard – and the window casing was partially filled with snow that had lodged against the small ridges of the casing itself.

I poured the end of the coffeepot into my mug and carried it with me into the living room, started up the CD player again with the same selection of music from the day before, and pulled out _The 1001 Arabian Nights_. Again, it was something I'd read a lifetime ago, something that would pull me in and keep my mind rested yet occupied. But it was a bigger book than the mystery; so by the time my stomach told me it was suppertime, I'd only managed to get through half of it.

Tonight I decided I was going to do some real cooking and threw together a casserole that would provide several meals over the next day or so. I had plenty of ingredients – both frozen, canned and dried – to choose from, and so let my imagination and memory of what went well with what lead me. I have to admit that the result was tastier than I'd expected. I'd have to discipline myself to keep from dipping into it at odd hours. My wardrobe was small enough that I couldn't afford to gain any weight.

Once more, after I'd eaten my fill, I pushed my plate away and pulled the computer to me. JD had answered my long message with one of his own, astonishingly open about his doubts and fears about being something created in a laboratory rather than like other people with parents. My heart went out to him – and in my reply, I tried to reassure him as best I could. I should have known that he'd be an emotionally needy person – he'd been raised being told one lie after another, and then ripped out of that lie into a harsher reality than he could ever have imagined. Something told me that once I left this place and went to visit JD, I wouldn't be living alone for a while – and that thought in itself was comforting.

Jarod had written too, reminding me that it was now Wednesday and that he would like to have a shopping list by Friday at the latest so that he could restock me when he came through Dover on his way here. I promised him I'd take a look at what I'd gone through and send the list in the next day or so. Included in his message was a reassurance that his email server was indeed secure but asking why I'd felt the need to ask – so I was honest with him and told him everything. I wanted very much to write to Clive and let him know what had happened and why I'd had to leave the school so abruptly – and I wanted to know that doing so would be safe.

Emily had written too, demanding to know how I was doing being stuck off in a snow drift by myself. To her, finally, I opened a little and expressed some of how I'd felt and the steps I'd taken to help myself combat the depression and loneliness. I actually found that I felt better getting some of those feelings down where I could read them. Perhaps keeping a journal wouldn't be a bad idea too – and I knew this computer had a word processor stored in it somewhere…

Finally I clicked on Sydney's email.

"He didn't blackmail me to help you – he knew he didn't need to. Sydney"

Now THAT didn't make sense to me. Dr. Sydney Green, M.D. was a dedicated employee of the Centre – and it was a declared goal of the Centre to bring Jarod back and force him to resume the work he'd been doing for them. To forward that goal, Jarod told me that the Centre was actively seeking to gain custody of myself or any other member of my family. And yet, this monster – this dedicated and long-time employee of the Centre – was asking me to believe that he would work contrary to the interests of…

I looked up suddenly and eyed the phone. Beneath it, I knew, was Sydney's telephone number – and quicker answers to my questions. The question was, did I want to talk to him – REALLY talk to him? Email was impersonal – distant. If I used the phone, I would deliberately remove some of that distance – I'd be able to hear inflections in the voice, know just a little better what was going on in his mind as he spoke. Did I want that – and did I want HIM to have similar insight into ME??

It was Wednesday night – and I'd not had another human voice in my ear talking to ME since Jarod's call on Sunday. Email helped, but it wasn't exactly the kind of contact I craved, I thrived upon. My sense of isolation and loneliness closed in on me for a brief, agonizing moment – and I knew that even talking to a monster would be better than living another single day without having anyone at all to talk to.

I rose and walked over to the telephone, picked it up and retrieved the little paper from beneath it. There, in Jarod's clear and bold handwriting were the two numbers he'd given me – his own, in case of emergency, and Sydney's. The telephone itself, thankfully, had a long cord tethering it to the wall – long enough that I could bring the phone over to the table and sit down again to think things through again. Breaking silence was a big step – one that deserved thinking through more than once.

I stared at the paper and the second line written upon it, slowly beginning to feel the hesitation build. I'd been dealing with the Centre long enough that I knew much of the drill. If there was a trace on Sydney's line, the Centre would know that I called the moment he picked up the phone. They'd then be able to trace the call back to this cabin – and they'd come for me and in the process destroy Jarod's prized refuge. No! I'd seen in the expression of pride and ownership in my son's face what this cabin – and the option to relax in the myopic shadow of his pursuers – meant to him. I couldn't jeopardize that, not without good reason. I pushed the phone away and pulled the computer closer again. I could wait until Jarod got here to have someone to talk to. Email would have to do:

"You expect me to believe you could steal my son from his family, keep him a prisoner and a slave for thirty years, be involved in the search to get him back – and yet be convinced to help me elude the Centre without being pushed into it? Margaret"

I clicked Send with a vengeance, and then closed down the computer. "Just what kind of fool do you take me for?" I argued aloud as I carried the telephone back to its spot on the end of the counter and placed the little paper under it. I then walked out into the living room. I didn't even pay attention to the DVD I selected, nor did I really try to follow the action-packed storyline. I closed my eyes and let the sound of voices wash over me and give me a brief illusion of being in a place filled with other people – people who weren't looking for me or my son.

And I fell asleep on the couch.

oOoOo

Eventually the cold woke me – to discover the television with a blank blue screen displaying the brand name of the DVD player. I yawned and sat up, having tipped over onto the padded arm of the couch sometime in my slumber, and reached for the remotes on the coffee table to turn off the appliances. I shivered as I rose and turned off the floor lamp and then headed back toward the kitchen for a drink of water before bed.

Outside, however, all was quiet now except for the occasional snapping of a tree branch breaking. I tweaked aside the curtains in my bedroom to look down onto the snowy expanse that was the front yard of the cabin. The sky was crystal clear, with stars gleaming brightly overhead through the barren branches of the trees that encircled the cabin. The moon hung low on the horizon, giving the landscape its eerie blue glow. I could almost see the temperature out there dropping to a deadly low. I shivered again and hurried to climb into my flannel nightgown and crawl into bed, and then laid there for several minutes continuing to shiver until my body had warmed the covers above it enough to counteract my chill.

Once awake, however, I found my mind unwilling to slow down again enough that I could drop off into slumber. Instead, I found myself arguing with that last message of Sydney's in my mind – accusing him of all the horrible things I imagined that he'd done for all those years and listening to the silence of having no answer with increased dissatisfaction. It took me a while to finally begin to pay attention to where my mind was going – and to realize I'd done something other than what I'd intended. Somehow, my effort to understand Jarod had twisted into something else – something that tapped into the deep well of fury that had been locked away all these years.

Whether Sydney deserved to have my wrath dumped about his shoulders was moot – if I wanted to understand Jarod, I'd need to move past that fury. I needed to put it back under lock and key before it became irrepressible. I was disgusted, both with myself and with Sydney when I decided that, regardless of his response or lack of response in the morning, I'd send him an apology. Me, apologizing to a monster – what irony!

Then I almost sat up in bed in surprise. What was I doing? I was almost counting on the monster answering me by morning? How desperate must I be becoming to cling to the idea that someone I'd hated for most of my adult life would answer my email in a prompt fashion?

God, but I was pathetic! I needed to get away from this place! I needed people – REAL people who had no conception of who or what the Centre was. I needed to talk to someone – another adult – about something light and trivial and non-confrontational. If I stayed here much longer, I ran the risk of losing my ability to reason properly – or to recognize danger when it came close. I had almost broken silence that night and called someone whose motives toward both me and Jarod were supremely suspect.

I lay back into my pillow and rolled into a ball on my side, pulling the blankets over my head. I was miserable, and I was trapped.

And somehow, sometime before the sun began to peek in my window, I fell into a fitful sleep.

oOoOo

The day dawned dreary and overcast. The morning weather report was unclear as to whether or not we could expect more snow in the next day or so – but it reported that several of the major highways through Delaware were still being cleared. Not much traffic would be moving today for any reason.

I trudged into the kitchen with my bathrobe- clad arms wrapped around myself, hurried to put together the percolator for some morning coffee, and then stood in front of the stove relishing the sensation of heat from the covered burner. I was tired, I was depressed, and I was cold. That stood to create a less than optimal mood. When Jarod got here, I'd see whether I could talk him into taking me somewhere a little closer to civilization. This complete isolation was just not going to work for me.

I boiled water and made myself some of the instant apples and cinnamon oatmeal that Jarod had fed us that first morning here. With hot food and drink in my belly warming my body and caffeine beginning to stir through my veins, I began to feel just a bit more human. As was quickly becoming my habit, I pulled the computer over to me after pushing aside my empty breakfast bowl and brought up the email client.

Jarod sent me a quick message recommending that I send whatever message I wanted to send to Clive to HIM – and that he would make sure that whatever electronic trail such an email might gather on its way to Oakridge wouldn't lead back to his secure email server or me. I sighed in relief that I'd finally be able to get that message sent out, and decided that I'd leave that one to last.

JD had sent me another long, needy message, telling me about how he'd evidently allowed himself to become quite close with his father – and how Dan's sudden death had taken quite a bit of his sense of security away. Ethan, he told me, was doing much better in that respect – but that he was feeling very alone and lost. He'd never had a Mom before – and from what little he'd been allowed to learn about parenting, he wanted one. I wrote him back a short and encouraging note, feeling less and less secure in my ability to mother a damaged young adult but determined to try when I finally got the chance.

Then, of course, there was the message from HIM, answering my clear statement of distrust:

"I can understand why you feel this way. Were I in your shoes, I'd probably feel the same. Unfortunately, there is little I can do at this time to convince you to trust me, so I won't waste your time or mine trying. Have I answered all your questions about Jarod, or is there anything else I can help you with? Sydney"

I felt as if I'd just been chastised. He thought trying to win my trust in the face of such convincing evidence to the contrary would be a waste of his time? Then again, putting myself in HIS shoes, I could see that without a broader basis of acquaintance, he was probably right. I had to admit that I was slowly gaining a grudging respect for the man and his way of addressing the issue I presented to him without flinching – and without any attempt either to take the discussion off at a tangent or make excuses.

So, once more he'd dumped the ball in my lap: what DID I want to know about my son?

"Why did Jarod finally decide to escape the Centre – and why do they want him back so badly? What is it about being a "Pretender" that makes him so valuable that even I have to hide to protect him? Margaret"

I re-read my question and then sent it away without feeling any tension or satisfaction in the least. I had never completely understood what it was that Jarod had done for the Centre that had been so valuable – perhaps Sydney could make that plainer to me.

I rose and, pencil and paper in hand, went through my panty, refrigerator and cupboards to note down a shopping list for Jarod and his next visit, which I then dutifully posted to him. I kept in mind that I truly wanted to be elsewhere by this time next week, and so didn't order anything perishable. I then spent a goodly amount of time condensing the events leading up to my sudden flight into a short and succinct message to Clive – and let him know that reply to this message would be impossible. I apologized for the need to leave him in the lurch, and hoped that once he had a better substitute school secretary, he could find it in his heart to forgive me. I didn't feel any better after having sent it along to Jarod to forward – but I did feel a certain sense of relief that at least now a very nice and decent man would at least know what had happened to the standoffish woman he'd been working with for the past three months.

By the time I'd finished that last, very difficult message and sent it off, I noted that I had another email in my inbox already. It was from Sydney:

"Jarod left the Centre after a friend of his was harmed in the process of trying to force Jarod to finish a project involving biochemical weaponry. When Jarod produced the finished product, the friend was summarily executed to reinforce the concept that Jarod was nothing but Centre property – without any rights at all. Jarod was gone a week later. What has he told you about his past, what he is and what he can do? Perhaps I can start from there and fill in the blanks to answer your other questions. It would probably be easier on both of us. Sydney"

A friend – murdered? Executed? Just to make sure Jarod understood that he was less than human in the eyes of the Centre? I couldn't say I was surprised, but it was astonishing to have my suspicions confirmed so bluntly. My poor son!

Once more I eyed the telephone. I needed answers – and I needed them in something other than dabs and dribbles. I needed to TALK to Sydney – toward whom I was no longer feeling quite so antagonistic. He'd been doing his best to answer me in short and concise messages – giving me exactly what I asked for – but I needed more. Something told me the greater story was important, especially if I wanted to understand what made my son tick nowadays.

I caught myself rising to bring the phone and the paper with the tempting telephone number to the table and forced myself to settle back into my chair. The danger of a tapped phone line was still altogether too real and too much the kind of thing the Centre would do to its own, IF the hints that Jarod had dropped about the place were any indication and IF what Sydney had just reported were true. What was more, just by answering my emails, it was possible Sydney was putting himself in as much jeopardy as Jarod had put me in by stowing me so close to the Centre perimeter. I had forgotten that he was probably writing these messages at work since his dislike of technology probably meant he had no computer at home. If he was my backup for when Jarod couldn't come for me, then the last thing I needed to do was compromise HIS safety…

"How dangerous is it for you to write to me this way? Margaret"

I hit Send and then sat back, reviewing what I'd asked and shaking my head in astonishment. What was wrong with me? I was worrying about whether or not a monster was in danger? Since when did I care whether this Sydney lived or died?

I sipped at my coffee and faced the truth. I started caring when this Sydney stopped being just "the monster" and began to give me information I'd been wanting for years – when he stopped being just a name to loathe and became an unseen correspondent whose messages I genuinely looked forward to with anticipation.

It was time for me to put the computer away and do something with my day. I remembered I hadn't torn the place apart looking for a deck of cards yet – so I put that on the top of my to-do list, along with finishing reading _The 1001 Arabian Nights_. Maybe by the time I finished reading through another book of fantasy tales, I'd be ready to come out to the computer and begin typing in a journal. It was time for me to use my time creatively.

I walked upstairs, remembering that once upon a time, SO long ago, I used to write poetry. That was something else that had been relegated to being just a memory when I had shifted into survival mode – and something that I could try again while I was sitting around with nothing else urgent to do.

As I brushed out my hair, I saw that it was finally getting long again. After I'd run into the woman on that forsaken Scottish isle who had so reminded me of my old friend, Catherine Jamison, I'd cut my hair and had it permed so as to change my appearance as much as possible. The change had caught Jarod by surprise – I'd seen his eyes widen when he'd finally seen past it to my face. I think he was a little disappointed that I'd changed my looks, and I think I'd unconsciously been gradually letting it get longer and longer between haircuts so as to return to the woman he'd been seeking. I'd gone almost a year now since my last visit to the hairdresser, and my hair was falling well below my shoulders again. I caught it back and braided it, then went back downstairs to hunt for the deck of cards.

I found them at the very back of a utility drawer in the kitchen – just when I was about to give up and try to remember to write Jarod about buying some with his grocery run. They were bent, worn, obviously well-used – and I hauled them to the table to count them out and make sure it was a full deck before shuffling them and playing a quick game that I hadn't tried in years. Of course I lost – but just being able to play without worry of time constraints, children crying or fear of discovery was therapeutic.

I stacked the deck close to the salt and pepper shakers and reached for the computer. It wasn't hard to figure out where the word processing program was – and I stared at the blank white screen for a long time without the vaguest idea of how to begin. I rose and poured myself a glass of grape juice, stored the remainder in the fridge and returned to my seat in front of that infuriatingly empty screen. Who would have guessed that I'd fall victim to writer's block?

Well, there was no help for it then – and I shut the computer off again. It was Thursday, and I hadn't dusted the downstairs since Sunday, so I headed to the linen closet for a clean cloth. Once that was finished, I even dragged out the dust mop and ran it around the edges of the high-piled Persian rug and then ran a manual sweeper over the rug itself. By the time I was done, it was noon – and I was hungry again.

I set out some hamburger to thaw so that I could make a nice, large meatloaf for supper that would provide sandwich makings for while Jarod was here, then opened another can of tomato soup. As I sat and ate it, my mind took me back to the days when Jarod had been a tiny boy entranced by the idea of floating canned shoestring potatos in the warm, red liquid. He'd called them "thistles" for some reason. I decided that when I sent out email that night, I'd ask him to pick a can or two.

It was odd – now that I had so little to keep my mind active, I was having memories of those happier days bubble to the surface much more often. Jarod had been a handful – his intelligence confounding and astounding Dan and me almost from the very beginning. I remembered the first day that my toddler son had demanded to climb up into my lap as I read the morning paper and then demanded that I teach him to read. I tried to put the newspaper down and head for some of his baby books that had words in them – more for the parents' benefit than for the child's – and smiled as I remembered the look of angry determination on his little face as he pointed to the newspaper as what he wanted to read.

Emily had done much the same, come to think of it. I settled back against the back of the chair with my juice glass nestled in my two hands to reminisce. By the time Emily had begun to demonstrate the same intelligence as her older brother, however, we'd already lost two boys to the Centre. I taught Emily, even as I had taught Jarod – but I taught her to keep her ability a secret too. Reading became a subversive activity until she was finally old enough that being able to pick up and read anything put in front of her was more commonplace among her peers.

Dan was gone from our lives, and we moved too often to keep her in regular school; so during a stay in a university town, I picked up all kinds of books on education from the university bookstore – books that taught ME how to teach her mathematics, language arts, social science, and basic science. Luckily, she was more interested in the language arts end of things – something that she could pick up and learn on her own after a while. While her childhood was one of many moves and fleeting friendships with other children her age, I tried to make sure she didn't lack when it came to her education. I was successful enough that she succeeded in earning her high school diploma at 15 by taking the General Education exam from a county official in California, where we were staying at the time.

I missed Emily. She'd applied for and been accepted at Arizona State in Tucson three months after getting her diploma – and the day she'd climbed on the bus for Arizona as I'd stood in the bus station waiting for my bus to depart for Utah had been one of the hardest of my life. But I was proud of her – she'd grown up to be an intelligent, independent and driven woman, determined to become a journalist. By the time my wanderings had brought me back to the east coast, she'd graduated and gotten a job in Philadelphia.

About that time, Dan found me again – found me and, through me, found his daughter. Emily treated her father with respect, but I could see that his prolonged absence throughout her growing years had made her wary of trusting him. She had little to do with him until Jarod snatched her literally from the claws of the Centre and, with Dan, nursed her back to health after a nasty fall.

Dan. No! I wouldn't think of him – it still hurt too much. We'd never felt safe enough to stay together more than a night or two at a time once we had found each other again – and the decades of separation hadn't done OUR relationship any favors either. I still loved him desperately – but if I were honest with myself, I knew that I loved the memory of the man he had been at our wedding more than the man as he was when I found him. We'd both changed – more than either of us could have imagined. We argued over small things far more often than I would have wanted – and couldn't seem to recapture the spark that had been what had drawn us together to begin with. And then he was dead.

This was getting me nowhere except more depressed. I picked up my dishes, set them in the sink to rinse and headed to the living room. I took the time to change the selection of music in the CD changer from Mozart to an eclectic combination of a Beethoven symphony and Rossini opera overtures – and then settled down to polish off the end of Scheherazade's centuries-old stream of tales.

oOoOo

I jolted awake when the book in my lap slid to the floor with a thud. I looked around, a little disconcerted at the dimness of the light in the room. I must have fallen asleep almost the moment I'd read the last page of my book, for the lack of light betrayed the lateness of the afternoon. My music had kept me nicely cocooned in soothing sound, and my nap had been genuinely restful.

I leaned forward to pick the book up from the floor and then rose, a little stiff. Thankfully, the spine of the book was strong enough to have tolerated the fall, so I slipped the book back into the space it had occupied without guilt over damaging it. I turned off the music and turned on the TV to see what kind of news was happening around me – only to turn it off again when the litany of robberies, local politics and national scandals proved less than interesting. I turned off my floor lamp and made my way back to the kitchen.

I hadn't made meatloaf for a very long time – and it took a while to remember exactly what kind of spices I used to put in it. My mother had been fond of onions and sage, and a friend of mine had once told me that Worchestershire sauce could give it a slightly headier taste. I decided to combing the two and the resulting raw mixture SMELLED interesting and tasty. I did manage to remember to slip in an egg just before molding the pink mass into something that looked like a loaf in the bottom of a cake pan. That done, and my hands once more clean of raw meat, I peeled a couple of potatoes and opened a can of peas to finish the meal. If nothing else, I was eating well while in hiding – a change from the last time around.

No. That was something else I didn't like to have to think about – the many times I'd had to run after leaving absolutely everything behind. All too many times, it had meant that I'd had to starve for anywhere from two to four days while I got myself some kind of job – as a cook or waitress, or even a maid – where I could find enough to nibble on to maintain myself until my paycheck. I liked even less thinking about the many times I'd found myself in that position while still responsible for Emily. I was not proud of the kind of childhood I'd been able to provide for my daughter – only the magnificent way in which she'd managed to grow up in spite of it.

While my dinner baked and boiled, I turned on the computer to read my evening's share of email. Surprisingly enough, only a note from Sydney awaited me today:

"I appreciate your concern; although I'm frankly surprised by it, considering the tone of some of your past notes. However, you may rest assured that my many years at the Centre have taught me enough to keep me mostly out of the crosshairs – and the efforts of a talented friend have given an added level of security to this email account. To answer your question, then, the likelihood is that our exchange is not being monitored and therefore my writing to you poses no danger whatsoever. Ask your questions – I will give you whatever answers I have. Sydney"

I let go a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I wouldn't have to let go of my correspondence with the man who knew my son best – at least, not yet. I sat back a bit with a satisfied smile to consider my reply – only to be interrupted by the jangling of the telephone.

I frowned as I rose to answer. Since that call from Jarod on Sunday, I hadn't heard that phone ring once. I picked up the receiver with trepidation. "Hello?"

"Mom." It was Jarod – thank God!

"Jarod! You startled me…"

"It couldn't be helped." He sounded contrite. "I'm calling you to tell you that I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow."

I was fully alert. "Why?"

Jarod was chuckling now – a sound that made me feel just a little better. "I take it you haven't been paying attention to the weather reports, then?"

"Not really," I admitted. "Why?"

"Because there's a snowstorm set to hit that will just about close down your part of the country by tomorrow morning, that's why," he responded gently. "We don't need me stuck in a snowdrift on the turnpike – either trying to drive in or attempting to get back to Baltimore Sunday."

He had a point. "What about the shopping?" I asked him then. I'd gone through a good deal of my supply counting on that shopping trip being accomplished. I could last another week if I scrimped – but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"I called Sydney and told him to expect your call. You can give him a list of essentials to pick up for you tonight, and he can get it to you before the storm closes in. Give him enough of a list to keep you for the week – he can shop in Blue Cove for you."

I blinked. "Call him? Now??"

Jarod's voice took on a cajoling note. "If you want groceries for the week… yeah. The sooner the better, actually. From the sounds of it – and the look of the weather map, this storm is going to close things down up and down the coast for days."

I wouldn't have my son with me that weekend, though. I would be alone for another whole week before we'd get a chance to discuss my exile. The thought didn't make me happy at all. "I'm going to miss having you here," was all I said, fearful that my tone of voice would relay the rest of my feelings well.

"I'm sorry, Mom," was all Jarod said – and then the line was dead in my hands. I really WAS going to have to talk to him about his social skills one of these days…