It was after midnight before Prissi got in her bed. Although she was exhausted, she tossed and turned as she thought about what her father had and hadn’t told her.
They had sat in the living-room—she sprawled on the couch, he, after carefully draping his frayed gray wings, sitting stiff and upright in a century’s old captain’s chair. Prissi’s strategy had been to work on her father’s past before confronting him with her mother’s history and, finally, her suicide, but, on a whim, she had begun her interrogation by asking him if her mother ever had been a scientist. After a long pause, her father nodded his head yes. Thinking of the pix Pequod Jones had shown her, Prissi persisted. Was it a long time ago? Well, it would have to have been. Was it possible that she was a meta-mutanist? He had never been sure what that phrase meant. After all, how much change was a big change? Growing impatient, Prissi asked if Nora Elieson had worked for Joshua Fflowers. Beryl Langue said that he didn’t know the answer to that, but that he himself had occasionally seen Joshua Fflowers because, back then, Fflowers still went to conferences and spent time with scientists. Prissi decided to return to her original plan. What had Beryl Langue worked on back then? Her father shrugged. Like all scientists, he worked on little pieces of puzzles. Exasperated, Prissi had asked, what kinds of puzzles. Her father took his time before answering that just before mid-century a lot of time and research money had been spent on expanding the parameters of meta-mutancy. Prissi asked if he meant flying. His nod was barely discernible in the low light of the living room. Certainly, flying, in the broadest sense. Even his re-gen work was an off-shoot of flying. Flying and nanotics had been the money magnets. Everything had to be linked in some way to those two topics if it was going to get funding. Just like the money had once been tied to TB, AIDs and nuclear bombs. Wing design, especially deltas, had gotten its share. He had done some work on remige edges. Prissi let her father ramble on about feathers and wing designs even though she didn’t believe it was anything other than a delaying tactic.
When her father finally sputtered to a stop and started to push himself out of his chair, Prissi knocked him back by immediately asking: What else was being researched? Beryl Langue had to think about that. It had been a long time ago. Finally, he said nothing was coming back to him.
Prissi asked if her mother had ever worked on delayed fledging. He shrugged and said he didn’t know the specifics of all of her research. He shook his head, almost as if he were denying what he was saying. Since everything tended to be connected, it certainly was possible that some of what she worked on might have been related. He paused before saying that any efforts in that area obviously hadn’t been useful because delayed fledging still was proving to be an intractable problem.
Prissi started to ask another question when her father stopped her. “Why the sudden interest in the past? I thought science had proved that the last thing a fifteen-year old girl is interested in is her parents.”
Figuring that she had as much right to dissemble as her father, Prissi avoided saying Smarkzy’s name but told Beryl Langue about the lecture on False Paths. He was nodding in approval until she mentioned her idea of the Lost Path. That something wonderful had been discovered and then lost at a company named Centsurety that Joshua Fflowers had owned. The mention of Centsurety froze her father. He stared at her. A finger rose to make a point. He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. Finally, he said, “I suggest you find something more useful to do.”
Prissi always had thought of her father as either too nice or too naïve to lie. But, tonight, after listening to his words, especially after the mention of Centsurety, and noting the hesitations, watching his eyes with their slight shifts and darting glances, Prissi had known that her father was lying to her. In a way, though it was frustrating and made her angry, it also made her feel a new respect for him.
Propped up in her bed, unconsciously smoothing her feathers and massaging her sore shoulder, Prissi gloated that all her father had done was to make her even more eager to find out how her mother was connected to Joshua Fflowers. If she could immerse herself in figuring out that connection, then maybe, just maybe, that would keep the other, bigger question at bay.
But not until tomorrow. As soon as her mind allowed the smallest wedge, the bigger question filled the molasses thick, black, suddenly claustrophobic air of her bedroom.
Why had her mother committed suicide?
The teener’s breathing became shallow and fast as she thought of all the things she had done, or hadn’t done, that would make her mom want to let go of her life. Prissi couldn’t stand it. She swept her arms through the night’s murk to dispel them. When that didn’t work, Prissi changed tactics….