Chapter 28 Chapter 27: Blood is Thicker than Water
I rolled over, feeling deeply refreshed, my body languid and warm in my cocoon-like bedding. The world outside my window was a uniform, soft grey, a thick blanket of cloud that diffused the light and offered no clue to the time. I could hear the distant, muffled rhymes of my family moving through the rooms below, the low murmur of the vid-box, the clatter of a pan, a burst of laughter, but that domestic symphony gave me no indication of the hour either. The house held its breath in that strange, timeless space of a weekend afternoon.
Reluctantly, I was forced to extract my arm from its snug warmth, a minor betrayal against the perfect comfort of my nest. I fumbled across my, beside cabinet, my fingers searching until they closed around the cool, hard edge of my com. I pulled it under the duvet, the screen glowing like a tiny moon in the dim cave of my bed.
15:23. 2Messages
I fumbled with the buttons, squinting, trying to read them without letting the cold air invade my sanctuary.
1 Remember you have an appointment tomorrow 17/08 9:00 with Professor Liza” - Health and Gender Clinic
Damnit. I had forgotten all about that. The clinical memory of her notepad, her probing questions, and my parents' anxious interjections crashed into my peaceful haze. I really did not want to go. The thought of being poked and prodded and analysed made my skin crawl. But I had to. My parents would disown me otherwise; this was their condition for tolerating the intolerable in their eyes. Besides, I reasoned, trying to find anything on the bright side, it was a welcome day off work.
I swiped to the next message, my heart giving a little leap.
2 Dinner sounds great :) there’s a new Ovum inspired restaurant that’s just opened down the street from me, can we meet there 17:00? Remember, you’re paying for blowing me off (Smile-Heart) - Silver
A genuine smile spread across my face, the first of the day. But it was quickly followed by a cold plunge of reality. That reminded me: I had no money. My account was a barren wasteland after the shopping trip with Joel. I must talk to dad, get a loan. The thought was humiliating, but necessary.
The embarrassment was worth it, though, because I really, truly wanted to see Silver. It felt like an eternity since I’d last seen her, since I’d felt the weight of her head on my chest, even though it had only been two days. So much had happened, the dinner, Lord Vincent’s offer, his wandering hands, the dizzying shift in my parents' attitude, a torrent of events I desperately needed to share with her, to process with her. Just thinking about her, about her laugh and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, made me feel all fizzy and warm inside, a sensation that was far more effective against the chill than any duvet.
Maka and Lilli came crashing through my door without so much as a knock, a whirlwind of small limbs and boundless energy. They launched themselves toward my bed, jumping up and down on the mattress with a force that made my still-aching head protest. I groaned and tried to ignore them, burying my face deeper into my pillow, but they were relentless. Two small bodies wriggled under the duvet, their cold feet finding my warm legs, worming their way into my sanctuary until they were nestled on either side of me.
They were identical twins, a perfect genetic reflector image, yet the world saw them as opposites. Maka, like ninety percent of the world, was always seen as a Nate, no matter which cycle he was in. His energy was a constant, physical explosion. Lilli, sweet, deep-thinking Lilli, with her quiet observations and thoughtful frowns, had always been our little Polli. Scientists could talk all they wanted about genes versus upbringing, but their genes were identical, as was their home life. The mysterious alchemy of self-had simply decided to make them who they were. And I always saw them as just that: my little brother and my little sister.
“Mum says: you should get up now,” Maka squeaked, poking my cheek with a sticky finger.
“Yeah, we’re going to have guests tonight!” Lilli said with an excited awe, her eyes wide at the prospect of a party. But then her face changed, her small brow furrowing. The excitement drained away, replaced by a deep worry. She looked up at me, her lip trembling, on the verge of tears. “Mum says you’re going to Sylva.”
Maka, ever the pragmatist, chipped in with the gravest concern he could muster: “They eat people there!”
That was the final straw for Lilli. A single, fat tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another, and then she started crying in earnest, a soft, heartbroken sound. My own problems suddenly seemed trivial. I gathered them both into a giant bear hug, pulling them close, surrounding them with the duvet so we were in a warm, fabric tent.
“They do not eat people,” I said, my voice firm but gentle. “And I am going as something that’s called a diplomat. Do you know what that means?”
They both shook their heads, Lilli sniffling.
“It means I’m going to be a friend. A sort of friend who helps other people be friends.”
Maka gasped, his world view shifting. “You’re their friend?”
I laughed, hugging him tighter. “No, silly. Not yet. But I’m going to see if I can help them and us be friends. Like how mummy and daddy are for you two rascals when you fall out over a toy. They help you talk it out, right?”
Lilli looked up, a small, understanding smile breaking through her tears. She hugged me tighter, her small arms squeezing my neck. “So, you are going to be like their mummy for a while?”
My heart clenched with a sudden, fierce love for her simple, profound logic. I kissed the top of her head. “Yeah, sweetie. Something like that.” I then turned and planted a loud, smacking kiss on Maka’s cheek.
“Err! Germs!” he cried, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve, but he was grinning.
“Now, you two,” I said, untangling myself from our nest. “Go and play. I need to get ready for this big, important dinner where nobody gets eaten.”
They scrambled off the bed, their crisis averted, their fears replaced by the immediate imperative of play. They thundered out of the room as quickly as they had arrived, leaving a sudden, sweet silence in their wake. For a moment, the weight of Sylva felt a little lighter, reframed by the innocent wisdom of a child. I wasn't going into a warzone; I was just going to be a mummy for a while.
I took a quick waterdrop, the steam doing little to clear the lingering fog of my hangover or the new anxiety brewing. Then came the dreaded task: trying to find something to wear. My room was a testament to my fractured identity. Most of my old Polli clothes, not that I’d ever had much, now felt all wrong. They were too small, too tight, or too revealing, designed for a body and a life that felt like they belonged to a stranger. I wanted comfort, a shield. I opted for a compromise: my new, perfectly fitted black jeans and a loose-fitting, comfortably worn-in Nate jumper; not that jumpers had genders, but we all knew they absolutely did in my mother's eyes. I finished with a light dusting of makeup, just enough to look polished without feeling like I was wearing a mask.
It was a little before five when I was done. The guests would be here at five-thirty, so I went down to the kitchen, hoping to lose myself in the simple, mindless work of chopping vegetables or setting the table.
The kitchen was a war zone of delicious smells and controlled chaos. My mother was standing over the oven like a general, commanding my father and the twins to move this platter or lay out those napkins. Under her frilly apron, I could see she was already wearing her best dress. She had also dressed the twins in their matching, stiffly ironed outfits, and even my father was corralled into a crisp shirt.
“Hi, Mum. Do you need a hand?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
She turned, a spoon in her hand, and her eyes did a quick, head-to-toe scan of me. Her smile, which had been bright and busy, faltered and then vanished completely. “Is that what you are wearing?” she said, her voice dripping with a scorn that made me feel ten years old.
I didn’t know how to reply. The comfy jumper suddenly felt like a sack of shame. “Er… yeah?”
She turned fully from her labours, her face a mask of pained disappointment. “Please, dear. I worked so hard. I want this to be a nice night. A special night. For you! Please, could you put in some effort?” Her plea was sharp, designed to guilt-trip and command in equal measure.
“Do it for your mum,” my dad added from the corner, not even looking up from the cutlery he was polishing, his voice a low, appeasing mumble.
The instruction was clear. My comfort, my attempt to feel like myself, was an embarrassment. It wasn't a nice night unless I performed the right version of myself for the audience. I felt a hot flush of humiliation and anger but lacked the energy to fight. I just nodded, mute, and left, trudging back up the stairs to the mounting pile of clothes that felt less like a wardrobe and more like a collection of costumes.
Back in my room, it was a nightmare. I stared at the options, despair mounting. How was the freak supposed to please her mother? What outfit would finally make me look like the daughter she wanted to show off? Not the freak.