Daughters of Men Read online

  DAUGHTERS OF MEN

  J. Martain

  Copyright © 2019 J. Martain

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, without prior written permission from Jennifer Martain and Reserved Seat Press.

  Reserved Seat Press LLC: 3600 S. College Rd, Suite E-176, Wilmington NC 28412

  This book is a work of fiction, set in a fictionalized version of the Cape Fear Region of coastal North Carolina. The characters and events portrayed in this book are also fictitious. Any similarity to real people, living or dead, is coincidental and not the intention of the author. References to locales and public names are used for atmospheric purposes only.

  Cover art by Mark Weber / www.weberillustration.com

  To my parents, who believed I’d finish this book before the world ended.

  Contents

  DAUGHTERS OF MEN

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Normal

  Acceptable

  Coffee and Elvis

  Perspective

  Too Much Input and Not Enough Info

  Abnormally Sociable

  Many Versions of Normal

  Small Decisions

  Not-so-small Decisions

  Reasons to Believe

  We All Make Choices

  Puzzles and Puppies

  There’s Always More

  My Story—Her Story

  More to Chew On

  Suppressed or Repressed?

  Ruminations

  Guilt and Gifts

  Leaps

  Final Preparations

  Time to Trust

  When the Wind Blows

  And the Lightning Cracks

  There Is No Calm after a Storm

  Feeling My Way

  Altered

  Company for Breakfast

  Finally

  When You Care Too Much . . .

  Trust No One, Except Maybe the Alien

  A Bigger Picture

  Rules and Regulations

  How Many Rights Make a Wrong?

  This Is Pain

  Processing Error

  Touch

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Wilmington, North Carolina — Thirty-one years ago

  My arm had gone numb a couple of blocks back, but that was a good thing. Mimi’s fingers weren’t cool or soft today. She’d hitched my hand up high and tight to her hip, and I didn’t like her skirt’s bumpy, see-sucker fabric. It was all puckery like her mouth.

  She stopped and stood on her tiptoes, but everybody else kept moving. Feet kicked me, legs bumped me, and then a man’s bottom smooshed my cheek. I gagged at the smell of cigarettes and hot wool and he turned to look down at me.

  “Sorry, child!” His dark face was drooping and sweaty over his buttoned-up shirt, but a speck of light sparkled near his ear, so I smiled as my grandmother dragged me away.

  I wasn’t sure why she was so mad. She hadn’t even seen the Push-Up dribble on my dress yet. I licked the last of the fruity stickiness from my mouth and rubbed my face on my shoulder before peeking up. Her hairdo was set in perfect swoops, her lips shiny and red, her forehead smooth and dry—but when she was like this, her beauty was kinda scary.

  She pulled me past a tall boy slurping a popsicle, and I ducked so I wouldn’t get slobber in my curls. She always liked to fancy me up for the parade, but it was so hot this year. I wished she’d just let me wear shorts like the other kids. They had hineys in their faces, too, but at least they looked cooler. My new ankle socks were scratchy, bunched around my toes, and already gray from other people’s shoes. I imagined my feet free and naked in my sandals and forgot to watch where Mimi was going.

  My arm stretched wide as a lady pushed between us, but my grandmother jerked me in front of her and glared at the woman.

  “So sorry!” the lady called out, but Mimi had already hauled me deeper into the maze of legs and heat.

  I was starting to feel dizzy. What if I fainted and she didn’t stop? I grabbed her skirt with my other hand and kept going.

  “Lilith Ann!” I felt her frown, but couldn’t look up. “Lila?”

  A little white light popped in front of my nose. Hey, angel. I don’t feel so good.

  “Lila, sweetheart, we’re almost there.”

  The tiny light danced in front of me, and my eyes crossed.

  “Here, honey . . . this way.” She pulled me between bodies and around feet and suddenly I felt a hot breeze on my face. Her hands swept across my forehead and lifted my chin. “Better? You’ll be able to see all the floats now!”

  My eyes focused, and the angel winked out of sight. I was standing on the curb, above a group of kids sitting with their bare legs stretched out into the street. No sitting for me, but at least my grandmother had found me fresh air and a good spot to watch the parade. I leaned back into the puff of her skirt and her fingers trailed up through my hair, twisting it into a bun. Maybe she wasn’t mad at me after all.

  Once the parade started, I was so busy waving at all the Misses and Tiny Misses and the Shriners in their little zoomy cars that I’d forgotten all about the heat. I laughed and covered my ears when the marching bands boomed past and clapped and cheered at the drill teams. I wanted to flip batons like that! And the horses! So beautiful and proud with their high steps and smiling riders. The way they could snap around in figure-eights and rear up like that—I wanted to be a cowgirl!

  “Look, Lila! The Azalea Belles are coming!” Mimi pointed down the block, and I bounced on my toes to see the frilly float making its way toward us.

  The Belles! I wanted to be a Belle! They all wore ginormous, poofy crinolines under candy-colored dresses and had fancy hair hanging in ringlets down their backs. They must’ve been picked because they were the prettiest girls in Wilmington, but I still wanted to ride that float and wave to all the little kids like me one day. They were famous!

  “Isn’t she lovely?” My grandmother pointed at the Junior Miss Christmas waving from the red convertible passing in front of us. She glittered like a snowflake in her white dress—and I remembered the stain on mine. Mimi seemed to be in a good mood again, but she hadn’t noticed my mess. Yet.

  What I needed was water and a rag. What I had was drool and the hem of my dress. I turned and waved at the Belles with one hand, lifting my skirt with the other for a quick spit and rub. Luckily, my favorite ice cream was pale orange and faded away enough to keep me from getting yelled at. I hoped. And I was a lot cooler with—Oh! I dropped the fabric and froze.

  I’d flashed my panties at the Azalea Belles! Had they seen? Had everyone seen? Please no, please no, please! But the Belles were still smiling and waving, and the people beside me were still cheering. And on the other side of the street, they were all smiley and waving, too—except for one man.

  He was really tall, his frown easy to see over the crowd, and his curly hair was so blond it reflected the sun in a strange way. He reminded me of a picture in Mimi’s big Bible—one of the scary ones with shining, winged angel-men swooping down over all the sinners frozen up to their eyeballs in Hell’s black ice.

  My angels weren’t scary, but the ones in her Bible always looked that way to me. Like they didn’t care what happened to the people they were supposed to watch over. He turned in a slow circle and goose bumps prickled my sunburn.

  I tugged Mimi’s skirt, but she kept waving at the Belles, their float nearly between the man and us.

  What’s he doing? I blinked, but no sparkles. Angels? The man stopped. Is he bad? He turned his head toward our side of the street. Where are you? What is he . . . ? I squinted, but didn’t see angels.

  “Mimi!” I yanke
d her arm. “Mimi! Mimi!”

  “Lilith Ann! Stop th—”

  “That man—”

  “Don’t point!”

  “He’s—”

  “Manners!”

  The float stopped in front of us, and I jumped to try and see over it. Where was he? What was he doing? The girls were waving at me, but I couldn’t see! And all the whistles and cheers were too loud! Why wouldn’t she just look?!

  And then, even in all that noise, I heard my grandmother say something that would’ve gotten me a mouthful of soap. It just wasn’t fair.

  Normal

  He watched openly, but the knot of humans fretting for their espressos and no-foam-skinny-double-lattes did not react to his attention. By now, he preferred it that way. To most humans, he was as indiscernible as their own silvery fractals, while to him, humans were barely worth seeing compared to the gleaming forms in constant motion.

  Like moonlight on streaming water, the fractals shimmered and reflected off their humans in an endless spectacle of individualism. Stepping free of their originators, most gestured in exasperation or walked away from the long line. Two opened insubstantial mouths as if to engage nearby humans in voiceless conversations, but as always, none of the fractals were cognizant of each other.

  One impulsive fractal disregarded the drink being handed to its human and instead wrapped lucent fingers around a plate of pastry samples. Idly, he counted “one . . . two . . . ” before it faded away. Whatever mundane impetus prompted the separations, fractals never lasted long, always dissipating into nothing after barely more than a second.

  Of course, that was not technically accurate. The humanesque energies transmuted into more than nothing. And sometimes it was more of a flicker, like a dancing flame sputtering its last burst of heat and light. But the familiar spectacle did not really interest him, so he turned his head toward the entrance and waited.

  Within moments, the heavy door grated open and there she was. Fractals generated by two of the male patrons sauntered in her direction before vanishing—yet neither human did more than look at her. The variance in behaviors was understandable. While she had appealing features and proportions, there was something about her that communicated completeness. Like a closed circuit, the lift at the corner of her lips indicated a live current, but her unfocused gaze prevented a connection.

  Her stance was equally neutral—body slightly angled toward the crowded room, but arms crossed in a self-protective gesture. For several seconds she maintained a boundary of personal space at the end of the jostling line; then, with a barely perceptible glance at her left shoulder, shifted forward to stand closer to the woman in front of her. Before he could wonder why, the door was thrust open again, and a desperate addict lurched across the threshold.

  “Long line!” the red-faced man complained to her back, but nothing in her demeanor indicated that she had heard him. She did, however, seem to be aware of the man’s fractal, and twisted away as it leaned around her in search of the substance it craved.

  Definitely noteworthy.

  A seven-year-old child able to detect him among a crowd of people was a curiosity, but not without precedent. Children were often more aware than their conditioned guardians. Yet, for her to exhibit singular characteristics this far into her life span, he had to acknowledge the woman’s uniqueness; and, for the twelfth time in as many days, he wondered why he had waited so long to research her.

  No. Lying to himself served no purpose. He knew why he had not. The true question was, what else had he overlooked by choosing to ignore her?

  The line moved forward again, but as she settled back into her stillness, an iridescent fractal stepped from her body and faced him. Fascinated, he realized he had become the examinee as it studied him for several long, considering moments before disappearing.

  ✽✽✽

  The guy in the gray sweater was getting on my nerves. Even from the corner of my eye, I could tell he was handsome, but seriously. Hadn’t his mother taught him not to stare? I’d never seen him in the coffee shop before, but it didn’t matter whether he was a wannabe stalker or my long-lost soulmate; I hated being stared at. And he was so obvious about it. I kept my crazy behind closed curtains, and his was just out there on the front porch for anyone to see.

  Except no one else seemed to notice him at all. Amid the chaos of energies surging around me, the space he occupied felt like a void. There were too many people in here this morning, each with their individual emotions and thoughts and interactions. The barrage was overwhelming; yet, I could sense that none of it was directed at him. Or emanating from him. As exhausted as I was, part of me found his lack of aura comforting. It’d be nice to sit near him and take a nap. Except that I was rushing to work. And he was still staring.

  Definitely not normal.

  A tiny spitz of orange light flashed in front of me, and I knew my assessment was accurate. I needed to get my coffee and get the hell out of here.

  Jesus, get a grip, Lila. Smile and take your latte . . .

  “Thanks, Tessa,” I managed—and even threw in a cheery, “Smells great! Have a good day!” The pretty barista frequently spent her paycheck in the boutique, and she deserved my extra effort—even if I’d have preferred to just grab the damn cup and high-tail it for the door.

  Thankfully, it was a quick walk to work. One block south toward Market Street and one block west toward the river, and then I was cocooned by musical thunks of bamboo and warm scents of hemp and silk.

  At the sound of the wooden chimes, Maureen looked up from the blueprints spread across the counter.

  “Another bad night?”

  “Not really, why . . . ?” Her answering hesitation lasted a beat too long, and I hurried to fill the silence. “More changes to the layout?” I should’ve at least tried to de-puff the bags under my eyes, but I’d put the last of the cucumber in my daughter’s lunch bag.

  Perfect brows lifted behind artfully blonde bangs. “The ceiling’s high enough for a mezzanine . . . ?”

  “Sounds fancy. Marble staircase or glass elevator?”

  My boss scrunched her nose and resumed studying the plans. “If we build out a loft, we could keep the office up there, and paperwork and boxes out of sight.”

  Her attention successfully redirected, I stowed my purse under the counter and joined her. “Good idea, and then we could expand the accessory section here . . . ”—I should’ve asked for an extra shot in my latte—“ . . . and add another display for handcrafted work.” The new location would open in a couple of months, and I needed to rally enough energy to help her get to the finish line. “Your margin is greater on the jewelry from the Kure artists’ collective. Or you could—”

  The chimes interrupted to announce our first shopper, and I was saved from further brainstorming. Helping elderly Miss Kate freshen her wardrobe was simple enough, and an hour later I had hopes that the rest of the day would be just as easy. But right as she settled the plump shopping bag at her bony elbow, the door opened again. Gray sweater man.

  His muscled body filled the entrance, yet he seemed completely oblivious to Miss Kate’s cheeky, wrinkled grin as the diminutive lady edged around him. Once on the sidewalk, she peered back through the storefront window with an exaggerated “Oh. My. Gawd!” and a theatrical hand flutter at her chest. There isn’t a sheet of glass in existence that’s thick enough to block her Southern drawl, and Maureen struggled to turn a giggle into a welcoming smile for the man.

  My own smile, however, was as false as a streak of lipstick. Had he followed me here? Maureen glanced my way, no doubt wondering why I wasn’t greeting our new customer, but she recovered with a bright expression and stepped around the counter.

  “Welcome to The Urban Nymph! May I help you find something special?” Her tone was too vibrant—and why did she look sideways at me when she offered to help him find something?

  I busied myself with rolling up the plans, centering the rubber band over the A in the contractor’s name.
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  “Perhaps a gift?” she prompted.

  “No.”

  My head bobbed up at his monosyllabic answer, and I saw Maureen swallow.

  “Well, you’re more than welcome to look around . . . ”

  She took a small step backward, and an angry huff rose in my throat. Manners!

  His attention shifted to me, and then back to Maureen, a small frown marring his bland expression. “I appreciate your invitation . . . ?”

  “Of course! We’ll be right here if you need anything.” Maureen seemed happy to let the moment slide and turned to straighten a rack of blouses, but I kept an eye on him.

  As if memorizing a maze, he spiraled outward from where he was standing, pausing at each grouping of items, occasionally trailing one finger down a sleeve, or across a fold like he was incorporating a tactile sensation to mark his path.

  “He’s hot,” Maureen whispered when she rejoined me.

  “He’s not.”

  “No ring . . . ”

  “No manners.”

  “Oh, come on, Lila!” she hissed, flashing a warm smile in his direction. “Even Phil says you should—”

  “Not. Interested. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

  Heavy tussah curtains separated the dressing and storage area from the front of the store, and now the thick silk shielded me from Maureen’s exasperation. With the boutique nestled in downtown Wilmington’s pricey historic district, our square footage was limited, but a previous owner’s overzealous gut-job had left plenty of space among the exposed pipes and ductwork overhead. Two dressing areas were defined by hanging muslin, and along the back wall, from eight feet high to the shadowed recesses of the ceiling, were rows of wood shelving. Stacked with neatly labeled containers and made accessible by an antique rolling library ladder, this was where we kept overstock items.

  The ladder’s massive oak frame was my refuge now, and I pushed off with my left foot and climbed the rungs while the ladder moved along its track. I loved the rumble of the cast iron wheels against the rail overhead, and knowing that Maureen could hear the gravelly scrape of metal on metal made me feel better. She’d know I was working with inventory, and maybe, just maybe, by the time I reappeared she’d be focused on plans for the new store again. She was always trying to set me up, which was really, really annoying. I was closer to forty than thirty and had a thirteen-year-old child. Couldn’t she just leave me alone?