And Lore couldn’t leave without one more try. “We could both start afresh,” she said. “You’ve got skills. It wouldn’t be hard. We could move, find another flat. Somewhere where Billy and the others couldn’t find you.” Spanner said nothing. “We could take new names. Get real jobs. You have skills. It’s never too late to start again.”
“Isn’t it?” She looked up, and Lore was reminded of the ancient look, the soft pain she had seen that first night on Spanner’s face when she had seen how badly injured Lore had been.
“No,” she said, but even to herself she did not sound convinced.
Spanner laughed, but it was a sad laugh this time. She scooped up the nearest pile of cards. “Well, it lasted longer than I expected that October night, and it was more fun.”
“Please, Spanner. . .”
“No. We’re different. This may not be what you feel you deserve from life, but it’s the level I’ve found, the place I call home. It’s where I belong.”
“No. It’s where you think you belong, because you believe you don’t deserve any better. But you do. We all do. There’s a chance here, with this.” Lore nodded at her own pile. “Don’t dismiss it.”
But Spanner was already getting up, flipping the switch on her screen, pulling up a swirling graphic in vibrant colors. Lore picked up a suitcase in each hand, paused. “I’ve entered my new address in your files.”
Spanner said, without looking up from the screen: “I’ll see you again. You’ll always need me.”
I stood and stretched, turned off the camera light, looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. Morning in Ratnapida.
A bath first.
The tub took a while to fill. I don’t remember thinking anything in particular.
I climbed in but felt no urge to use the soap. Gradually, the water stilled. My face came into focus on the surface, between my bent knees. I looked at the reflection curiously: brown hair, gray eyes, good bones. The gray eyes watched me back. This was me. I didn’t need Sal Bird anymore.
This is what my father would see when I met him tomorrow. What would I say? How would I explain how I had lived the last three years? I wouldn’t, not right away. It would be enough that I was here. At last.
And then I was filled with a sudden energy, the need to call, to meet Oster and show him my real face, to wait for Magyar outside the plant afterward. I reached for the soap.
I was toweling myself dry when the screen chimed. I wrapped the towel around myself and took the call.
“Magyar!”
“You haven’t called yet, right?”“No, but as soon as my hair’s dry—”
“Too late. Your father’s here, demanding to know where you are.”
That couldn’t be right. I hadn’t called him yet.
“Look, if . . . if you need more time, I can foul up your employment records to hide your address.”
“No.” It came out crisp and decisive. “I mean, yes, hide my address. I’m coming in to see him.”
“Now?”
“Right now.” My hair could dry on its own.
I don’t remember getting dressed, or whether I took the slide or walked, but I do remember the sheen of Magyar’s hair in the street light outside the plant, and I remember walking through the gates next to her, carefully, as though my body were built upon bird bones, hollow and light. And I remember the door.
It was pale wood: ash, something like that. Very pale. There was a nameplate: p. rawlin, superintendent. I stood in front of it, my face about four inches from the grain, long enough to worry the assistant. He shifted slightly behind me, and Magyar gave him a look. I closed my eyes. My father was behind that door. Whom I had loved, then hated, and did not know at all. I took one last look at Magyar, who nodded.
The handle was one of those old-fashioned knobs. Brass. Slippery under my sweating hands. It turned easily.
Dark red carpet. A desk, a big slab of some dark wood. A man climbing to his feet as the door shut behind me—the plant superintendent. To the right, a woman in a brown suit. A quick glance from her pale eyes to me and then from me to the man sitting on the left side of the desk. A strange, eerie silence. Then the superintendent, Rawlin, saying something at the same time that the door swung shut with a click and my father jumped to his feet, face eager, hands open: “Lore!