Part 12: Morning Has Broken

The pizza comes in a special foil-lined bag, and it's still hot when he gets home. He's getting used to the roller-coaster of hope and fear rocking together through his gut, because he registers relief that the trailer is still standing, but the emotion doesn't overwhelm him as it did in the car while he was driving. He stashes the bags inside, grabs a tarp from the jeep, covers it with a blanket and sets out a picnic on the wide expanse of desert outside. It's a clear night. He wants stars. He's craving space, after days cooped up in the trailer, and the oversized pizza pie seems to demand it. He pours orange juice, plain for Savannah and vodka'd, as promised, for Sarah and himself. He sets out a little desert tray with sampler squares from the different chocolates. He leaves the bag with the new cell phones inside. There is time enough for business later.

Sarah has taken off the bandage while they were gone. Her hand still looks a little bruised and scabby, but she's moving it more easily. The work she has been doing on the tiny, technical cyborg parts has been exercising her hand and helping her rehabilitate the sprain. When she sees Savannah break out the art supplies, he suggests that some therapeutic art might be good for her, and she accepts a sketchpad from Savannah.

"This is amazing," Sarah says. She is savouring a bite of pizza. "I can't believe it was still hot when you got here."

"Magic," he says.

"It feels that way. God, I can't even remember the last time I..."

She trails off, looking troubled again, and he presses her. "What, Sarah?"

"I just...forgot for a second. About all of it. And I can't...can't ever do that. Because that's when they'll come."

"You know that isn't rational."

"And John is out there, and he's...who knows where he is. Far enough in the future to send people back for us. So he's seen it, he's seen the worst, and he's out there in it, and I'm..."

"You're having pizza and vodka coolers and Mexican chocolates in the desert, under the stars. John loves you, wherever he is. He would want you to..."

"No. We aren't there yet, Ellison. You and I, we aren't there yet. Don't talk to me about him."

Well, she is communicating about her feelings directly, at least. That's something. He puts up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. Backing off."

Savannah has been watching this volley with interest, and when the silence lingers, takes her chance at jumping in.

"Aunt Sarah, did you have a daddy?"

Sarah looks baffled by the question. "What?"

"Did you have one?"

"Yes..."

"Did he sing to you?"

Sarah frowns and gives him a look. "I don't get it."

But Savannah won't relinquish the attention. "We used to eat outside like this, on blankets," she tells Sarah. "My daddy and me. And he used to sing to me."

Sarah is still plainly baffled, so he jumps in. "That's nice, Savannah. What did he sing?"

She hums a few bars of an old Irish drinking song, and that seems to break Sarah out of her trance. "Yes, I had a daddy," she says. "He was an army man. He didn't sing much."

"Did he sing at all?"

"You know, I think he did. We used to go camping for a long weekend, every summer when I was a kid. We'd drive up to the country, rent a cabin. We'd roast hot dogs and marshmallows and sing at the campfire..."

"You know, I think I saw a guitar inside," he says.

"Do you play?" Sarah asks him.

"No. Do you?"

"John did."

And again, he has unwittingly reminded her of his absence. But Savannah is too excited, and he can't disappoint her. Whatever guilt issues Sarah might have about letting go, he knows they owe Savannah this moment. He brings out the guitar, then, in the absence of anyone who can play it, lays it beside the pizza box for ambience.

"Well?" he prompts. "What did you sing?"

"Do you know Morning Has Broken?"

She is a better singer than he gave her credit for, and it's a song he knows well. Savannah loves it; she has the whole thing memorized by their third time through. But he senses that Sarah is holding back from letting herself be in the experience, and she keeps fingering the sketch book like she can't wait to be rid of them. He motions to Savannah to quiet for a moment, packs up the remains of the dinner, then lets Sarah retreat into the trailer for some solitude.

He teaches Savannah to light a proper bonfire. Then he pulls her onto his lap and regales her with the songs of his own childhood and the stories he learned on his father's knee. When he finally tucks her in---to his own bed tonight, to leave Sarah in peace---she asks him to sing for her. It seems they have a new family lullaby, and he supposes there are worse anthems one could have than this one in times like these.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day

--

It's morning, and the air is cool again. He wakes to find Savannah's scrubbed, pale eyes watching him intently.

"Morning, Uncle James."

"Good morning, Savannah."

"Aunt Sarah didn't sleep last night," she reports.

"Oh?"

"She's been drawing in the sketchpad. She won't let me look."

"Oh. I see."

"She's back in the bedroom now. She's put up the curtain. I think we should leave her there."

He washes, he eats. Then he follows Savannah outside to the little work area Sarah has set up for them. He sees that she has Savannah making her own cyborg diagrams. He had thought Sarah was handling that, but then he remembers that she told him they all need to learn. He gets the last of Savannah's new sketch books, sits down beside her, and picks up a robot finger. He starts drawing.

--