A/N: This one was hard to write. Sorry it took so long! I've been busy with school, mostly, and haven't had much to time to myself. Anyway, thank you to all my wonderful readers, reviewers, and followers!
I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter Seven
The phone's ring shattered the silence, cutting through the air like a knife. No one moved. The phone rang again, breaking the spell. Margaret reached into her pocket and withdrew the device, glancing at the caller I.D.
"It's my mother," she said flatly. "Sorry, but I'll have to take this."
America simply nodded, and she answered the phone. Her mother's irate voice screeched at her, so deafeningly that Margaret recoiled and had to hold the phone away from her ear. The shouting on the other end was loud enough that America could hear everything said as clearly as if the device were on speaker phone.
"MARGARET! Where the heck are you?! What were you thinking, running off like that? And at a time like this...!"
"But Mom, I told you I was going-" Margaret was cut off.
"We're supposed to be leaving for your grandfather's house right now! If you'd pay attention to somebody other than yourself now and then, you would have known that. If you're not home in fifteen minutes, we're leaving without you. Get back here now… and get your head out of the clouds while you're at it!"
"But couldn't you just swing by the park and pick me-" Margaret was cut off again as her mother hung up. Margaret stared blankly at her phone.
"But I could've sworn no one told me about this trip… I must have really screwed up to make her this mad," she muttered to herself. Turning back to America, who looked more than a little awkward standing there, she attempted a smile that came out more like a grimace.
"I'm sorry, but I really need to book it home," she told him, and then added to herself, "Even if I sprint the whole way I probably won't make it back in time… of all the days to not bring my bike…!"
"If you need a ride, I have a truck parked just over there. I can drop you off near your house," America offered.
"Sorry, but my parents told me not to accept rides from strangers," Margaret said with a grin.
"Hey! I'm not a stranger, we've met officially. If there's anyone you can trust, it's me- after all, I'm the hero!" America said this all with what he probably thought was a dashing grin, and he even struck a heroic pose at the end.
The previous tension had been successfully diffused, leading Margaret to laugh and gratefully accept his offer. They walked together over to America's bright red pickup truck and clambered in. America turned slightly in his seat and addressed Margaret.
"Do you mind telling me where to go? I know the street address already, but I'm not sure exactly where it is. This place sure has changed since the last time I saw it…"
"When was that?" Margaret asked curiously.
"I forget the year, but I think it was just before WW1," America said casually.
"You… you've been around that long?" Margaret stammered. A terrible feeling was forming in the pit of her stomach.
"Yeah, ever since the colony days… heck, even before that." His eyes grew distant, no doubt seeing memories of things centuries past. Shaking himself from his thoughts, America managed a nostalgic, weary smile and put the vehicle into gear. As they drove out of the parking lot, Margaret absently pointed in the direction they should go. She reflected on what America had said and dearly wished she hadn't.
"We're immortal," she realized aloud, voice shaken with horror. Oh, she'd suspected it before then, but denial is a powerful thing. If you do not want to know something, sometimes you can enforce your own blissful ignorance, even if all the signs around you indicate the cold reality you don't want to believe. But now Margaret had forever lost her shield of obliviousness, and was left standing defenseless in the face of a terrifying truth.
"You didn't know? Our kind lives for as long as our people and lands remain."
"But… that means…" she trailed off, unable to finish.
"You're going to outlive everyone you've ever known." America's voice cracked with sorrow, and for a second he faltered, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. But then his expression of pain was veiled as his will hardened. He pushed on ruthlessly.
"That's part of what I was trying to warn you about. Not only will your lifespan surpass those of your family, but you won't even get to age normally. Physically, your aging process could last for centuries before you reach maturity. Most likely, you'll be stuck looking sixteen for at least several human lifespans."
Although the words were harsh in their bluntness, America's tone was soft- sorrowful, as if he held a deep and hidden regret. He winced internally even as he finished speaking. He was being far curter than intended, but he had to be. There was no room for ignorance… not here, not on this subject. He was all too familiar with the pain that accompanied watching everyone leave you behind, and not knowing why.
For a long moment, Margaret couldn't speak. Her world was fracturing all around her, and any hope of maintaining even the façade of normalcy, any hope for a regular life… all of it was fading. The only thing that prevented her from breaking down into tears of despair right then and there was the desire to remain strong, or at the very least appear so, in front of America. She still had her pride, if nothing else. Cut all losses and keep her pride, wasn't that just what she'd always done? Maybe later, in the privacy of her room, she could suffer the heartbreak and grieve the loss of the life she'd wanted. But for now, she could not afford to be so vulnerable.
They rode in silence the rest of the way. Margaret gave the directions to her home, her voice blank and her face set as stone. It was no mask that she donned; her thoughts and feelings really were so numb. America pulled up alongside the curb a house or two down from Margaret's. He didn't want to risk her family seeing her get out of his truck. He felt a little guilty about it, but reasoned that it would be better to avoid the hassle of explaining to complete strangers why he'd dropped their daughter off. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"I screwed this entire thing up," America thought to himself dismally.
"I'm sorry," was all he could say. Margaret finally tore her empty gaze from the window and looked up at him.
"Don't be," she said. "Thank you for telling me the truth. And for the ride."
"No problem," America replied, lacking his usual boisterousness. "Look, do you think maybe we could meet up at the park again sometime? England and Canada will want to meet you… I think you'll like them."
"…Sure. That will be nice," Margaret answered dully. Out of a sense of courtesy, she gathered any last shreds of happiness she could and mustered an attempt at a smile. It was pathetic.
"If I give you my number, will you text me about a time and place?" she asked.
"Oh… sure."
She gave him the number, stepped out of the truck, thanked him again, and waved goodbye. Then, without another word, she turned around and began the short walk the rest of the way home. As she walked, she thought about the immediate future. It would not take long before her family realized something was off about her. For every year that passed and she stayed the same, people would notice. She had hoped to never tell a soul about her new identity as Washington D.C., thinking that nothing much would change in her life. But now the clock was ticking, and one day she would have no choice but to face her family with the truth.
"Not today," she decided. "Maybe later, when I know what to say, I'll tell them."
The ride to her grandfather's house was long and awkward. Perhaps not as tense as the one she'd just had with America, but the extended duration of it certainly made it harder to endure. It was obvious that something was wrong. The lighthearted atmosphere her family had enjoyed on previous road trips was nowhere to be found. Margaret's mood was already morbid, but the attitudes of those around her hardly helped. Her father glowered at them all and acted is if it would be the end of the world if their family was a few minutes late. His driving was that much more aggressive. Margaret's mother, on the hand, had completely lost the angry tempter she'd had before and now acted morose. Her eyes were suspiciously red, but she would not say if she had been crying when Margaret asked in concern. Kate was oblivious as always, content to put on her headphones and listen to her music, ignoring all else. Margaret would have happily joined her, except her own headphones had been lost the day previous and she had yet to find them. In the end, to entertain herself she resorted to looking out the window and counting the trees their family's minivan zipped by.
Margaret could not have been more relieved when they finally pulled up in her grandfather's driveway. Everyone piled out and they were quickly welcomed in to the warm old house by a tall, elderly man with a halo of white hair.
"Grandad!" she cried, springing forward to hug him.
"Maggie!" he laughed, kindly blue eyes shining down at her. Not to be outdone, Kate tackled them both into a colossal bear hug.
"And Kate! I swear, you girls get taller, prettier, and smarter every time I see you! Must be the genes from your Grandma – they sure as heck weren't from me!"
They all laughed. Margaret beamed, momentarily forgetting all the troubles of the day.
"It's so good to see you!" she enthused.
"Likewise. Has school started yet?" Grandad asked as they walked further into the house.
"No, not yet. It will in about a week."
"Well, good luck. You're going to need it!" he chuckled. "I always said school's a prison."
"Excuse me," Margaret's mother interrupted, "But is everything in the kitchen?"
"Oh yes, yes! The pantry is stocked, I went grocery shopping the other day. Are you sure you don't want me to cook? You can go take a load off in the-" Grandad was cut off as Mom interrupted, looking slightly terrified at the prospect of Grandad fixing dinner.
"No, it's alright. I'll cook tonight."
"Nobody ever wants me to cook," he complained, making his slow way to the living room. Margaret and her father followed, but Kate went after Mom into the kitchen to help fix dinner, no doubt with the ulterior motive of ensuring that a proper dessert was made. Margaret looked around at the living room's décor, recalling where each piece had come from, and the multitude of small stories that came with each. She marveled at how well her grandfather had settled into this house in the course of only a few months. The season after Grandma had died was hard for them all, but most especially Grandad. Still, even without his other half, he always managed to fill whatever place he inhabited with life. The old house he'd moved into when he came up north to be closer to their family was no exception. Already, it seemed so much warmer and brighter and more welcoming than the neglected, haunted place it had been before.
No sooner had they all settled, Dad and Grandad on the couch and Margaret in a nearby chair, when Dad's cellphone rang. He looked up the caller ID and grimaced.
"Sorry, I need to take this," he explained quickly, springing up and leaving the room to go talk privately. Margaret watched him go curiously, wondering what it could possibly be.
"So, it's just me and you," Grandad declared, breaking the silence.
"Brings back memories," Margaret said wryly. Back when they all lived down south, she and Kate were often left at their grandparents' house while their parents worked. While Kate and Grandma both loved the outdoors and habitually went out into the garden, Grandad had stayed indoors in the library or living room and Margaret had kept him company.
"That was back when you thought I was interesting," Grandad teased.
"I still do!" Margaret protested. "In fact…"
She moved from the chair and flopped down next to him, snuggling into the couch and smiling as she echoed the precious words she used to say every day.
"Will you tell me a story?"
"Why, what kind of story, young lady?" Grandad asked in mock seriousness, but he smiled in glee nevertheless.
"Any! Any kind you want," Margaret said. At that moment, it was her phone's turn to go off, only instead of ringing it was the ding that signaled a text message. Scowling, Margaret fished her phone out with the intention of turning the stupid thing off. She'd had enough with phones for one day. But as she did so, the screen was lit up with the message:
"Hey Margaret, this is the heroic Alfred F. Jones! Here's my number, send me a text when ya can! The others want to meet you."
Margaret hastily turned the phone off, but by then it was too late. Grandad had read the text. His expression clouded for a long moment, before it cleared and he looked at Margaret with sharp, knowing eyes.
"I just thought of a story I haven't told you yet. It's the story of a man I used to know."
Both relieved and curious, Margaret nodded for him to continue.
"You know I served in the military. I was in the Air Force, worked as a mechanic and part of ground crew. I never actually flew, but I knew many who did. There was one odd young pilot in particular who I remember with strange clarity to this day. He was a brilliant flier, fiercely patriotic, and was one of those types you just couldn't help but like. Nothing was ever dull with him around. But there were moments, when we talked and laughed, that I felt intuitively that something was different about him. Out of the blue he'd say something that sounded just a little too… old, for a young'un like him. He acted too much like a veteran for someone who'd supposedly volunteered right out of college. Sometimes he'd get this faraway look in his eye, and even though I knew it was impossible, I could've sworn this wasn't the first war he'd seen."
Here the old man paused in his tale to catch his breath. Margaret was fully enraptured by the story, and leaned closer.
"I still don't know what possessed me to do what I did. I looked up the old military records, dug around and did some research. My findings… they were unbelievable, but there was no denying the evidence before me. The same face, the same name, the same person…. Record after record of that very pilot throughout history, never changing. As far as I could tell, he'd fought in every American war this country has seen. That man… if he was a man, was surely immortal."
"But isn't that impossible?" Margaret asked quietly. It was a rhetorical question. She knew the truth already.
"And that is why I never told a soul. Besides, I figured if he really was some kind of super human, the last thing I wanted to do was bring down trouble over his head by mentioning his name to the paparazzi and authorities."
There was a long moment of silence as his story ended.
"This is part where you call me out on telling a tall tale."
"I can't," was all Margaret said.
"Dinner's ready!" her mother called from the kitchen. Grateful for the escape, Margaret stood to go, but her Grandad's hand on her arm stopped her.
"You know, I never forgot the name of that man," he said.
"What was it?" Margaret asked, feeling as if she were walking to the noose.
"Alfred F. Jones. A strange coincidence, isn't it?"