Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (11 page)

“They were here about David?”

His hands settled on the back of a chair, fingers spread, age spots and raised veins snagging my attention. With so few urban baby boomers surviving the big
D
, Sarah and Paul were among the oldest people in our new economy. Decades of living each day outdoors hid their age until moments like this reminded me how fortunate we were to still have David’s parents in our lives.

“The media will be reporting the ambush of a mixed U.S. consulting and military leadership group at the Asunción airport overnight. No one knows who is responsible for that action.” Paul’s face lost elasticity giving him the look of a general facing battle. “That’s all we know, or at least all the DOE will say.” Shakiness started in my upper legs, a forgotten reaction to extreme danger. “The DOE sent Milan and one of their executives to tell me before news stories are released.”

A chair whirled on its casters as Paul pushed it aside on his way to where I stood. His arms folded around me, blocking the morning sun with well-worn cotton over well-developed muscles. I closed my eyes in the safety he offered. We leaned on each other in silence.

“So he’s alive?” A father’s voice mixed defiance and doubt, not unlike David’s challenging the Bureau’s therapist about treating Phoebe’s night terrors.

“No one said anything else.” My lips quivered, and I brought one fisted hand to my mouth. “He has to be alive.” On Paul’s chest I let tears fall even as I released my fingers to stretch my own arms around his body. “We need to tell Sarah and the children before one of them hears the morning news.”

“If you’ve told me all you know, I’ll talk with Sarah.” He brushed a hand down my back as we moved apart. “If you want to wait, we’ll join you and the kids.”

“What am I going to tell them, Paul? Watching Phoebe these past two nights already has me worried. David’s her rock of strength.”

“You’re wrong about that. She worships David, but she leans on you. You’re the one she wants when the night is bad. You’re the one she calls mother, and there’s no role more sacred.”

Family breakfast would be served in twenty-five minutes—sleepy boys, Phoebe reading at the table, Sarah drinking strong coffee. “Paul, there are two more things I need to tell you.” I took a deep breath before touching the first painful topic. “Milan is legal guardian for Phoebe and Noah. If David …” I faltered, looked to the floor for words before telling David’s father hard information about our world. “The way Bureau protocol works for children of intellectuals, legal guardianship is usually not held by their parents. Because of Tia’s instability, protocol ruled.”

“Phoebe doesn’t need to know that.”

A horse-drawn wagon carried laborers to produce gardens on the far edge of Ashwood where a single farmer had tried to make a living. Potatoes grew right up to a small yard area remaining around his two-bedroom house. “You’re right, but I’m trying to tell you that if anything happened to David, Phoebe and Noah could become wards of the Bureau.”

I had no magic bullet to change this reality. Paul now knew one of our secret burdens. 

“David and I explored every possible legal action to break the contract that was signed before the kids were conceived. No one is willing to take on the case.” I drew in a breath, saw Paul’s unwillingness to accept that his grandchildren could be taken away. “No one,” I repeated. “Milan assured me he expects everything to remain unchanged.” I didn’t tell him about the temporary waiver. “Sometimes it’s uncomfortable to remember that, beyond being a friend, Milan represents the Bureau’s interests.”

“Well, let’s take him at his word.” Paul, on his way to the door, stopped. “What else?”

The words came out like the impatient question of an action-oriented man already thinking of the immediate task of breaking the news to his beloved Sarah.

“Andrew Smithson is my biological son.”

He blew air through his nose and made an undecipherable sound before speaking. “Goddamn if timing isn’t everything. Three kids who need you now and an orphan boy dropped into our house with a whole different set of needs. When does he arrive?”

I didn’t respond immediately, struggling with surprisingly defensive emotions raised by Paul’s tone. Just yesterday he and David encouraged me to open our home to Andrew regardless of the boy’s DNA. Today the reality of this child, my son, sounded like a burden to the family. “Not until next week.” I moved from my window view. “I don’t want to tell the children about Andrew today. Maybe we’ll know David is safe soon, and we can focus on my son’s arrival.”

I hadn’t had my wits about me to seek access to the child’s files. Andrew might have any assortment of metro behaviors, might detest estate dwellers, carry a personal weapon. Clarissa had kept him safe so I hoped he would be a good kid. I’d have years to learn his face, his characteristics, his dreams. If only David could be here.

“I love David so much that I can’t imagine him in such danger.” I bit my lip, held it between my teeth, knowing that losing David would be deeper and more painful than my first experience as a widow. “I know life goes on, but this life is one we built.”

“Hold on, Annie. This is my son. He’ll find a way to get back to you.” My father-in-law and friend returned to my side. “You two are the best matched of all our boys and their wives. Inviting us into your lives made Sarah about as happy as she has been since the depression. Don’t ever doubt that you and all the children are as much Regans as David.” He gave me a squeeze. “We’re family.”

My father-in-law was more of a rookie in experiencing the loss of immediate family in an unnatural order. The families of David’s siblings owned land that served as the Regan home address for seven generations. My family and first spouse shared wall space in a Minneapolis mausoleum.

For Paul, family still implied the sweet trail of genetics. I saw family as a fluid collection of people bound by emotion and experience and expectation—like Magda and Lao and the children who grew up at Ashwood. David and I, with our children, created a core family, but as a survivor I let my love grow beyond those with a common last name.

Paul held open my office door, placed a roughened hand under my elbow, and escorted me from the office building with the kindness of an older generation. We supported each other as we walked through the windowed passage, speaking quietly and projecting hopeful thoughts into the thin information we knew about David’s disappearance as if practicing what to say to Sarah, Phoebe, Noah, and John.

I saw the boys, faces freshly washed and dressed for the day, lounging in our family quarters. Before they could see me, I snuck past the door to the kitchen to my old friend.

“Terrell, could I talk with you for a second? Maybe in your office?”

Morning meal preparation stumbled along, workers not used to Terrell’s methods. Sarah, who knew the team and the kitchen, was absent. He wiped his hands as he followed me to his office.

“I know what you’re going to say about David. The DOE hasn’t shut me out of their employee communications yet and I read about the ambush in the morning briefing report. When I saw that transport leave, I figured they came with bad news.” He folded his arms across his chest, but the softness around his eyes told me of his empathy. “How you doing?”

“I’ve known far better days. We’re trying not to get ahead of ourselves.”

“I remember your wedding out where the kitchen gardens are now. He built you a rocking chair as a surprise and made you sit in it while he filled a plate at the buffet. That’s how I guessed you were pregnant.”

Stories of shared history make my world a little brighter—when you lose all the people who know all the special stories about the big and little times of your life, having others build new memories is a gift.

“This is going to be rough.” I hung my head, rubbed at my nose. “I can’t fall apart. I have to talk with the kids.” He gave my back a small rub. “Can you hold family breakfast until I buzz you?”

“Phoebe’s out reading next to the porch,” he said. “I haven’t seen your boys.”

“They’re hanging out in our quarters. They wait there for David or me before breakfast.” I thought ahead to change my morning schedule to be there for the kids. “Thanks, Terrell.”

Our girl sat in a porch rocker, slippered feet pushing herself back and forth as her eyes traveled down her reading tablet. Not even the creak of floorboards brought her head up.

“Morning, sweetie,” I said as if this morning was the same as the past ninety days of summer. “I love watching you read out here where the flowers smell so good.” She raised her head, eyes telling me some other place and story still held her mind. A hair clip held back curls. “I need to talk with you and your brothers before breakfast, so turn off your reader and walk with me.”

“It’s Daddy.” Voice quivered around the most important word of her vocabulary. “I couldn’t find him when I dreamed last night.”

I took one hand, held it in both of mine as we walked. “You’ve been on the same wavelength so long.”

“Is he dead?” The question should never come from a young child’s mouth.

“Ambushed. That’s all we know.”

“Oh, Mommy.” Thin but strong arms circled my waist. “Oh, Mommy.”

“We have to think positive thoughts, Phoebe. Don’t let your mind race ahead.” Lowering my head, I kissed the top of hers. Birdsong marked the time as morning, early worker sounds carried from the production areas, conversation bits could be heard as day laborers left the dining building. I rocked Phoebe in my arms, connected to David through another living, breathing human who also loved him. “The boys need to be told before they hear the news from somewhere else.”

Terrell moved a worker aside as Phoebe led us through the kitchen. She held my arm across her shoulders so we walked in awkward unison.

None of the family joked about our son John’s extra sensory perception. Sarah suggested he inherited the gift from my Native American great-grandmother. I dreaded what the Bureau of Human Capital Management might want from our boy when they discovered his gift during mandated assessments.

Our youngest child waited at the door to our family gathering room, his six-year-old face still and pale under a light summer tan. Noah stood slightly behind, favorite stuffed dog in one hand. “What’s happened to Daddy?” John asked. “How will he get home?”

My hand slid away from Phoebe as she rushed to embrace John. “Johnny knows Dad’s all right,” she cried. “You wonderful brother.”

Shrugging her off, he came to me. “What’s happened to Daddy?” he asked again, this time tearfully, the eyes he inherited from David latching to mine before he tucked his head into my ribs. Noah followed. I didn’t know the answer. Phoebe joined us, and my arms stretched to surround her.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” I promised. “Right now that isn’t much. Daddy was in a group ambushed by people in Paraguay. Do you know what
ambushed
means?” Two boys nodded. “Our government is working really hard to find Daddy and bring him home.”

“I’m going to go find him,” Noah said. “I’ll call the transport driver, and he’ll take me to Paraguay and we’ll find him.”

“That’s stupid,” Phoebe said.

“Shhh, Phoebe,” I stopped the childish disagreement. “Noah doesn’t know geography yet. After breakfast you can show him where to find South America.” I gave each head a kiss. “First we have to eat breakfast. We have to live each day just like Daddy is away on a business trip and we’re waiting for him to come back.” Three worried faces suggested skepticism. “I’m not saying we aren’t scared. But we need to keep ourselves strong and healthy so we can be ready to step up and do whatever we’re asked to do when Daddy comes home.”

Antwone knocked on the door. “Ms. Anne, there is a media person at the front door. Wants to talk with you.” His eyes stayed focused on Phoebe, a little girl known for a big smile, who now had tears sliding down her face. “She says she’s got history with Director David, Ms. Anne. And she might know something about something happening where he’s gone?”

“Send her to the main entrance of the DOE building.” From the days after Tia’s death I learned never to face media without a DOE spokesperson. Still curious, Antwone left.

I kept my arms around the kids while I notified Lao of a media person who made it through our security gate. His voice told me she wasn’t the only attempt. David was a big DOE consultant name. There would be curiosity about his disappearance. At that moment, three young people were my priority, not media management.

“Let’s blow our noses, wash our hands, and go to breakfast. I think Grandma and Grandpa will want to be with us.” Noah stayed close while John and Phoebe pulled away. “One more thing. There will be news stories about Paraguay until after Daddy comes home. If any adults from outside Ashwood ask you about this situation, say nothing.” They stayed quiet, kids learning more about life in the government fishbowl. “Talk to your grandparents or me any time you hear anything or you feel worried or scared.” I smoothed Phoebe’s hair then pulled them all close one more time. “I love you. We’ll show everyone how we stay together as a family.”

Walking to breakfast, I could only hope I told them the truth.

Chapter Twelve

Terrell messaged me when news of the Paraguay ambush broke on local outlets while the kids and I ate breakfast.  The very first story focused on David, our family, and his involvement with Ashwood. Before dishes were cleared, more reporters and citizen journalists crowded Ashwood’s gates and jammed our communications.