The facility reminds me of when I took national tests in high school. A big learning auditorium there is a console set up at every seat. We each play the game and character that got us into the conference. My game is Battlestar Galactica and my character is Starbuck, which is what everyone calls me.
At the last minute I get a bad vibe and refuse to play. The organizers that I have dubbed the PTB, Powers That Be, pretend that they are letting me go but I know something is up. My two oldest brothers, who were watching my daughter, help me leave. But when we arrive at the parking lot the younger brother’s, Neil’s, Hummer H2 is gone.
Instead my cousin’s partner, Hols, shows up in an El Camino the same shocking shade of orange as his waist length locs. In the back is a huge easy chair of a stroller. The guys unload it. Worry in his dark eyes the older of my brothers, Ken, asks, “Are you going to be okay from here?”
“Of course,” I reply putting Jess in the stroller and walking away. As we move away from the facility I hear the guys hop into the El Camino and pull out of the lot with a squeal of wheels on concrete.
It is a stunning day with clear skies that allow me to see forever. Passing a lovely park I decide to have lunch at the cafe. Jess shovels down a banana then scampers off to the playground to frolic with the other toddlers. A few of the other parents make eye contact and nod as we acknowledge the moment and enjoy our respective drinks. I finish my green smoothie, gather my daughter, and head home, which is not far from the park. There is a phone in the stroller and I use it as we make the fifteen minute walk.
Home is an apartment in an old mansion that’s been turned into a fourplex. It’s beautiful, Spanish in style with white painted stucco and a red tiled roof. I unlock the gate in the front wall and cross the brick courtyard with its merrily bubbling fountain. We are close to the other tenants two of whom have children close to Jess’s age. We go inside. Behind the house is a large backyard in which Jess would like to play.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s time to make dinner.” I tie back my coily hair and we begin. At two her help only tends to prolong the process but it also makes it more joyful. My husband, Winston, comes home. After giving us a hug and kiss he washes his hands and sets the table. I turn the phone from the stroller off. By the time he returns from changing his clothes we are ready to sit and eat. As we are clearing the table there is a knock on the door.
“You let in the agents,” I say to Winston. “I’ll go get the coffee and dessert.”
The woman and two gentlemen are seated at the dining room table when I come back with the tray. Jess is on Winston’s lap. The toddler is wearing fuzzy, footie pajamas and is half asleep, her long lashes casting shadows on her round cheeks.
Although one of the men, dark blond hair streaked with grey and faded blue eyes, is clearly older it is equally clear that the woman is in charge. One of those people whose race and ethnicity are hard to pin down she has light tan skin and dark, curly hair ruthlessly pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. They are all wearing suits that could have been bought from the same store. Or issued from the same organization.
I inform the agents, “We don’t have cream but it’s whole milk. Since it’s late I also brought decaf.”
Coffee gets poured and doctored all around. The third agent, a twentysomething Asian man with brown skin and springy, bone straight hair so black it has blue highlights speaks first. “Why did you leave the facility?”
“I changed my mind about participating in your project. They said I was free to go. It’s not like I’m hiding. By the way, if your people in the van outside would like coffee or tea, I
“We could convince you.” This was the woman speaking. For someone so delicate looking she has a low, almost gravely, voice.
Winston replies, “And start an international incident? We are French citizens.”
“Besides,” I add. “You know about this building and the people in it. You can do nothing to force us here.”
“You have to leave, sometime.” The woman again.
I take a sip of my coffee. “Agent Carlisle, you are really endearing yourself tonight. Do try the pan
Agent Carlisle tries the desert and makes a sound of appreciation before leaning back in her chair. “No worries about your families?” The older agent looks vaguely uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going but continues his silence.
Pushing away my now empty cup I reply, “You keep making it easier to say no.”
Winston says, “Their superiors have left them ill-informed. They have only the barest inkling of what this place is, of what we are.”
I can’t help my smile. “Shall we show them?”
Jess starts to giggle.
Note: This is one of the rare dreams that isn’t a nightmare that I am in as myself. Slightly idealized- as if I’d gotten 6 months with a personal trainer and was walking around with Hollywood lighting. But still me.