Charlotte
***
I knocked on the door softly but she was already awake. I carried the tray over and balanced it on the edge of the bed.
"Morning, honey."
"What's this?"
"Breakfast."
"'I'm not sick," she narrowed her eyes at the toast like it was some kind of medicine.
"No, it's just for fun," I chuckled, taking a slice for myself.
Her concept of fun seemed poorly developed. She reached for some toast and I saw a black mark on her shoulder.
"What's that?" I asked, and pulled the sleeve up to reveal a tattoo of a small black cat.
"A cat. Same as Mum's. I've always had it," she replied, twisting round to admire it.
What mother would tattoo her own child? And as a baby? What mother feared enough to need a permanent mark to identify her? But as it had turned out, hers fears had been realized.
"Mum! What about Mummy? Do you know where she is?" How could I have missed this?
"She left when I was little," she shrugged, reaching for more toast.
"Left?" I repeated, cautious, "Do you mean... she died?"
The toast drooped in her fingers, then dropped, unnoticed, as she stared at me, heartbroken.
"Ok, no, right: she left," I amended quickly, "Just wanted to be sure."
She prised the dropped toast off the doona and put it back on the plate.
"She missed her family. She went to go see them," she said softly.
Maybe her family were Souls. Maybe that's why her father had come here, looking for her mother.
"Can we find her?" I asked.
She shook her head, staring at the floor.
"She left years ago."
"No. Ok. Back to Daddy then."
Years ago? The girl would have been too young to remember, surely… But maybe it only felt like years.
"Where would we look for him? How can we find him?"
But she had done with talking for the moment. I would have to continue my investigation by myself. I was lost in thought as I pulled the buttery doona cover off the bed and stuffed it into the washing machine, and gave her clothes another spin in the drier to warm up.
She'd been abandoned by her mother. No sign of her coming back. And her father…
Maybe her father had abandoned her too. I had seen this before. Well, the parents hadn't actually abandoned the child. They'd been taken, and had returned as soon as they were implanted. But the child froze up. He never reconnected with his parents. They even tried implanting him with his Comforter. It had sound fine in theory, direct contact between patient and physician. But the child had just shut down. I had been afraid of that when I had first met this one. Every step she took away from that end buoyed me, and every step back spliced my heart with fear.
I pulled her warmed pants and top out of the drier and dropped them on her bed. She held them to her chest, delighting in the warmth.
"Sammy needs a walk," I said, "You coming?"
She looked at me, surprised.
"I might be seen," she said, uncertainly.
"Yeah, and?"
She had no reply. That basement theory was looking better all the time.
"Come on, we'll go together."
***
Dog walked, next item on the agenda was clothes. I took her to a smaller place, women's and kids clothing, handmade. I knew she was easily overwhelmed, and was hoping this place wouldn't be too much. But it turned out that I was the one more affected by the experience.
She trailed about the racks, choosing as if her life depended on it. I waited, letting her wander. Another customer came in, a Seeker, and she stilled at the sight, easing behind a mannequin. But lots of humans still had this reaction to Seekers, a residue of historical misunderstandings. Finally she chose a few things to try on and disappeared into the changing booth. The Seeker took the booth next to her.
She came out slowly, wearing a new pants and top combination, remarkably similar to the old, and carrying the Seekers gun. She carried it like she knew what it was too, both hands confident on the grip, index fingers flat along the trigger guard, thumbs hovering around the safety. My heart just about collapsed.
"Oh geez! Where the hell did you get that?"
"She kicked into mine when she was changing," she said, looking at the other customers thoughtfully. The partition between the changing rooms didn't reach the floor.
"Shit," I whispered, pressing my palms into my cheeks, waiting for my heart to steady itself.
She glanced at me with delight at my swearing. Delight because it was novel, or familiar?
"It's not loaded," she told me, like this was reassuring.
"Oh great. Isn't that nice." I knocked on the change room door anxiously.
"I won't be a minute!"
"Yeah, uh, we don't want the change room, it's just that we found something you might have misplaced?"
There was a puzzled silence.
"Like your gun?"
"Oh!"
The door opened instantly and she handed back the gun without a word.