Parable of the Talents - Octavia E Butler Page 0,169

two years to have a baby. We worried about his age. We worried about the way the world was—all the chaos. But we wanted you so much. And when you were born, we loved you more than you can imagine. When you were taken, and your father was killed… I felt for a while as though I’d died myself. I tried so hard for so long to find you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I shrugged uncomfortably. She hadn’t found me. And Uncle Marc had. I wondered just how hard she’d really looked.

“I didn’t even know whether you were still alive,” she said. “I wanted to believe you were, but I didn’t know. I got involved in a lawsuit with Christian America back in the forties, and I tried to force them to tell me what had happened to you. They claimed that any record there may have been of you was lost in a fire at the Pelican Bay Children’s Home years before.”

Had they said that? I supposed they might have. They would have said almost anything to avoid giving up evidence of their abductions—and giving a Christian American child back to a heathen cult leader. But still, “Uncle Marc says he found me when I was two or three years old,” I said. “But he saw that I had good Christian American parents, and he thought it would be best for me to stay with them, undisturbed.” I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not sure why I did.

She got up and began to walk again—quick, angry pacing, prowling the room. “I never thought he would do that to me,” she said. “I never thought he hated me enough to do a thing like that. I never thought he could hate anyone that much. I saved him from slavery! I saved his worthless life, goddamnit!”

“He doesn’t hate you,” I said. “I’m sure he doesn’t. I’ve never known him to hate anyone. He thought he was doing right.”

“Don’t defend him,” she whispered. “I know you love him, but don’t defend him to me. I loved him myself, and see what he’s done to me—and to you.”

“You’re a cult leader,” I said. “He’s Christian American. He believed—”

“I don’t care! I’ve spoken with him hundreds of times since he found you, and he said nothing. Nothing!”

“He doesn’t have any children.” I said. “I don’t think he ever will. But I was like a daughter to him. He was like a father to me.”

She stopped her pacing and stood staring down at me with an almost frightening intensity. She stared at me as though she hated me.

I stood up, looked around for my jacket, found it, and put it on.

“No!” she said. “No, don’t go.” All the stiffness and rage went out of her. “Please don’t go. Not yet.”

But I needed to go. She is an overwhelming person, and I needed to get away from her.

“All right,” she said when I headed for the door. “But you can always come to me. Come back tomorrow. Come back whenever you want to. We have so much time to make up for. My door is open to you, Larkin, always.”

I stopped and looked back at her, realizing that she had called me by the name that she had given to her baby daughter so long ago. “Asha,” I said, looking back at her. “My name is Asha Vere.”

She looked confused. Then her face seemed to sag the way Uncle Marc’s had when I phoned him to ask about her. She looked so hurt and sad that I couldn’t stop myself from feeling sorry for her. “Asha,” she whispered. “My door is open to you, Asha. Always.”

The next day Uncle Marc arrived, filled with fear and despair.

“I’m sorry,” he said to me as soon as he saw me. “I was so happy when I found you after you left your parents. I was so glad to be able to help you with your education. I guess… I had been alone so long that I just couldn’t stand to share you with anyone.”

My mother would not see him. He came to me almost in tears because he had tried to see her and she had refused. He tried several more times, and over and over again, she sent people out to tell him to go away.

I went back home with him. I was angry with him, but even angrier with her, somehow. I loved him more than I’d ever loved anyone no matter what he