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Twenty-Six : Umi

"Oh darling, sweet child, my beautiful Benna," my mother croons, stroking my face and kissing the top of my head repeatedly. Her tears are in my hair, and my tears are streaking down my cheeks onto her fingertips. Any anger I held is shoved aside for the moment, joy and relief pushing front and centre. "I've been thinking about you every day without fail for two years. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see my precious girl again."

Corin hovers awkwardly near the table, hands shoved in his pockets. I catch a glimpse of him from the confines of my mother's embrace, and it jolts me back to the present situation. I un-entangle myself.

"Why didn't you take me with you?" I demand, grabbing my mother's forearms and trying to pin down her gaze. She sniffs loudly, dries her eyes.

"I know I owe you an explanation," she says with a firm tone. "And it will come." She tears her eyes from me to consider Corin, still standing there silently. I am not sure whether to introduce him. "First let's get you to a bathroom."

Too overwhelmed to do much else, I let her lead us out of the antechamber.

The place is a concrete labyrinth. The three of us clomp along corridors, our footsteps echoing off the walls. My mother takes us down narrow passageways, through heavy metal doors and past rungs implanted in the wall, leading up to securely shut hatches in the ceiling. After guiding me to a bathroom facility - and that's a generous description, let's just say there's definitely no gold plated toilet seat - we settle in what appears to be a communal living area.

The room is large, rectangular, and you guessed it, concrete. But there are two thick plexiglass hatches embedded into the ceiling, each letting in a smear of evening sunlight to complement the dull burn of the lamps set into the walls. The furniture is mismatched and random. An old, overstuffed sofa, armchairs of faux leather like the one in the motel room, low tables set about for resting cups of tea or stacking books. People are chatting earnestly, or sitting at one of the many shiny white dining tables, scrawling in notebooks. Most of the residents here, I notice, are adults. But there are a few teenagers gathered on floor pillows in a corner, sharing a bowl of popcorn and laughing quietly. A pretty, full-lipped girl flicks a sheet of hair over her shoulder, and the gesture is so familiar and so schoolyard like, that I almost want to cry. A few faces turn curiously towards us. But we must be particularly uninteresting, because after a cursory glance, they avert their eyes.

"After dinner we tend to relax." My mother says, easing herself into a floral-patterned armchair near the door. Corin and I follow suit. I make sure to sit opposite her. So I can keep her in view. I feel like if I turn away for one moment she will disappear again, and this time we won't be reunited. "This is the Commonspace."

"What's scheduled for the rest of the night?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. It's not as painfully cold down here as it was up in the forest, but it isn't exactly warm.

"We don't bother with schedules." My mother replies. She tries a smile, but it's wobbly. After her emotional outburst, I think she senses my two years of grief and rage and is ... unsure. How to behave around me. I don't blame her. Even I am unsure how to behave.

"Oh."

We sit in silence for a moment. There's no background noise here, nothing but the murmur of low voices and clattering of crockery as people's mugs hit their saucers. No viewscreen that I can see. No music.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," she tries again, smiling encouragingly. She reaches out and places a hand on my knee. I notice she is still wearing her wedding ring. A sparkling row of diamonds glitters in the dim light. "I certainly have a lot to tell you. But I'm not sure where to start. It's been so long, darling. How about you ask me what you most want to know, and I'll start there and try my best to cover the rest."