there, deeply surprised at herself. She had never told the story to anyone, though she had lived with it almost every day for fourteen years. She had never dreamed of telling it to anyone. She had assumed that she would take it to the grave with her.
Not that it was disgraceful in any way—merely private.
And here she had told it—at length and without reserve—to her adolescent daughter, to someone who, until the moment she had begun talking, she had considered a child—a peculiarly hopeless child.
And that child now looked at her solemnly, out of her dark eyes—unblinking, owlishly adult, somehow—and finally said, “Then you did drive him away, didn’t you?”
“In a way, yes. But I was furious. He wanted to take
you
. To
Earth
.” She paused, then said tentatively, “You understand?”
Marlene asked, “Did you want me so much?”
Insigna said indignantly, “Certainly!” And then, under the calm gaze of those eyes, she stopped to think the unthinkable. Had she really wanted Marlene?
But then she calmly said, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Marlene shook her head and, for a moment, there was that sullen look on her face. “I think I probably wasn’t a charming baby. Perhaps
he
wanted me. Were you unhappy because he wanted me more than he wanted you? Did you keep me just because
he
wanted me?”
“What horrible things you’re saying. That’s not it at all,” said Insigna, not at all sure whether she believed that or not. There was getting to be no comfort in discussing these things with Marlene. More and more, Marlene was developing this dreadful way of cutting under theskin. Insigna had noticed this before and had put it down to the occasional lucky blows of an unhappy child. But it was happening more and more often, and Marlene now seemed to be wielding the scalpel deliberately.
Insigna said, “Marlene. What made you think I had driven your father away? I had never said so, surely, or given you any reason to think so, have I?”
“I don’t really know how I know things, Mother. Sometimes you mention Father to me, or to someone else, and you always sound as though there’s something you regret, something you wish you could do over.”
“There is? I never feel that.”
“And little by little, as I get these impressions, they get clearer. It’s the way you talk, the way you look—”
Insigna gazed at her daughter intently, then said very suddenly, “What am I thinking?”
Marlene jumped slightly and then gave a short giggle. She was not a laugher, and that giggle was as far as ever she went—usually. She said, “That’s easy. You’re thinking that I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I don’t read minds. I just tell from words and sounds and expressions and movements. People just can’t keep what they think hidden. And I’ve watched them so long.”
“Why? I mean, why have you felt it necessary to watch them?”
“Because when I was a kid, everyone lied to me. They told me how sweet I was. Or they told you that when I was listening. They always had a look plastered all over them that said, ‘I don’t really think that at all.’ And they didn’t even know it was there. I couldn’t believe at first they didn’t know. But then I said to myself, ‘I guess it’s more comfortable for them to make believe they’re telling the truth.’ ”
Marlene paused and then abruptly asked her mother, “Why didn’t you tell Father where we were going?”
“I couldn’t. It was not my secret.”
“Perhaps if you had, he would have come with us.”
Insigna shook her head vigorously. “No, he wouldn’t. He had made up his mind to return to Earth.”
“But if you had told him, Mother, Commissioner Pitt wouldn’t have let him leave, would he? Father would have known too much.”
“Pitt wasn’t Commissioner then,” said Insigna with absent irrelevance. Then, with sudden vigor, “I wouldn’t have wanted him on those terms. Would you?”
“I don’t
Not that it was disgraceful in any way—merely private.
And here she had told it—at length and without reserve—to her adolescent daughter, to someone who, until the moment she had begun talking, she had considered a child—a peculiarly hopeless child.
And that child now looked at her solemnly, out of her dark eyes—unblinking, owlishly adult, somehow—and finally said, “Then you did drive him away, didn’t you?”
“In a way, yes. But I was furious. He wanted to take
you
. To
Earth
.” She paused, then said tentatively, “You understand?”
Marlene asked, “Did you want me so much?”
Insigna said indignantly, “Certainly!” And then, under the calm gaze of those eyes, she stopped to think the unthinkable. Had she really wanted Marlene?
But then she calmly said, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Marlene shook her head and, for a moment, there was that sullen look on her face. “I think I probably wasn’t a charming baby. Perhaps
he
wanted me. Were you unhappy because he wanted me more than he wanted you? Did you keep me just because
he
wanted me?”
“What horrible things you’re saying. That’s not it at all,” said Insigna, not at all sure whether she believed that or not. There was getting to be no comfort in discussing these things with Marlene. More and more, Marlene was developing this dreadful way of cutting under theskin. Insigna had noticed this before and had put it down to the occasional lucky blows of an unhappy child. But it was happening more and more often, and Marlene now seemed to be wielding the scalpel deliberately.
Insigna said, “Marlene. What made you think I had driven your father away? I had never said so, surely, or given you any reason to think so, have I?”
“I don’t really know how I know things, Mother. Sometimes you mention Father to me, or to someone else, and you always sound as though there’s something you regret, something you wish you could do over.”
“There is? I never feel that.”
“And little by little, as I get these impressions, they get clearer. It’s the way you talk, the way you look—”
Insigna gazed at her daughter intently, then said very suddenly, “What am I thinking?”
Marlene jumped slightly and then gave a short giggle. She was not a laugher, and that giggle was as far as ever she went—usually. She said, “That’s easy. You’re thinking that I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I don’t read minds. I just tell from words and sounds and expressions and movements. People just can’t keep what they think hidden. And I’ve watched them so long.”
“Why? I mean, why have you felt it necessary to watch them?”
“Because when I was a kid, everyone lied to me. They told me how sweet I was. Or they told you that when I was listening. They always had a look plastered all over them that said, ‘I don’t really think that at all.’ And they didn’t even know it was there. I couldn’t believe at first they didn’t know. But then I said to myself, ‘I guess it’s more comfortable for them to make believe they’re telling the truth.’ ”
Marlene paused and then abruptly asked her mother, “Why didn’t you tell Father where we were going?”
“I couldn’t. It was not my secret.”
“Perhaps if you had, he would have come with us.”
Insigna shook her head vigorously. “No, he wouldn’t. He had made up his mind to return to Earth.”
“But if you had told him, Mother, Commissioner Pitt wouldn’t have let him leave, would he? Father would have known too much.”
“Pitt wasn’t Commissioner then,” said Insigna with absent irrelevance. Then, with sudden vigor, “I wouldn’t have wanted him on those terms. Would you?”
“I don’t
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