Page 55 of Homebound
“Gemma,” he interrupted her, her name in his flowing accent music to her ears. “I can handle myself. You, on the other hand…” He stopped struggling for words.
“I, what?” She was standing a foot away looking down at him, searching his eyes for something…
“Stay alert. Don’t go into anyone’s cell alone. If you must go, never turn your back on an inmate.” His tone was flat as he gave her the warnings.
She hung her head. “I won’t.”
Strangely defeated, she walked out of the cell without saying goodbye. She didn’t know why she expected anything different. He didn’t care if she lived or died.
She was locking his door when something caught her attention. Something was wrong with the bars. Where she clearly remembered them all being straight, two were now noticeably bent, curved to opposite sides as if someone tried to pry them apart.
In her mind’s eye, Gemma saw him standing there holding the bars in his strong six-fingered grip as the Obu had been assaulting her practically at his feet. And his eyes had been dark, shimmering, and a little wild. Her heart thumped against her rib cage and her head started to ring.
The intensity of the moment burst something within her releasing a warm flow, and she couldn’t be there any longer. Without looking back, she hobbled away nearly slipping on the water she’d splashed on the corridor floor.
Chapter 16
Gemma woke up early. Pale diluted light of waning moon barely lightened the neat square of the window covered by faded linen drapes.
She snuggled deeper inside the covers. Prison helpers were allowed one day off each month, and today was one of hers. Today, she didn’t have to get up and go to work in the harsh winter predawn. Today, she didn’t have to get on her hands and knees to clean someone else's mess. Today, she didn’t have to get her chafed hands dirty, shrug off crude remarks of crass inmates, or deal with Arlo, OO, Marigold, and Little Green Man.
She used to wait for her days off like a child waits for Christmas.
Now she was antsy, restless. It would be long twenty-four hours before she saw Simon again.
Sleep slowly seeped out of her. Her body had gotten used to waking up early, and she found herself too preoccupied with thoughts that buzzed around her head, most of them about Simon, but also about Arlo and his shady business, and Ruby’s new kitten, and Uncle Drexel’s injury. She even wondered, with no particular concern, how Zeke and his wife were going to name their new baby. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of having children and had planned to name her future son Foy, after her brother.
She still thought Foy had been legendary.
Gemma squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her threadbare blanket over her head to ward off the cold in the room and to hide from reality. She wished like hell Foy had lived. Then their mother wouldn't have been so stupidly adamant about staying on The Islands after the mandatory evacuation orders. Foy would’ve found a way to get them all to safety. She was sure he would’ve eventually gotten them to Meeus.
What would Foy think of Simon?
Interesting question, that, considering how Foy had been trained. To him, aliens had always been the invaders. Ironically, had Foy lived, Gemma’s life would have likely turned out differently, and she and Simon would have never met.
Gemma threw the covers aside and stood up. It didn’t matter now. Foy wasn’t coming back.
Sounds of footsteps and muffled voices reached her ears - Herise was up now, getting breakfast ready.
She didn’t want to leave her room and mingle, and neither did the family expect her to. Instead, Gemma pulled up a chair. Shivering in her underwear and an old thin shirt that served as a nightgown, she assumed the first position and, holding the chair’s back, went into plie, slowly, keeping her back straight like she had been taught by the pillars of the ballet mastery back in The Islands.
She got on with the workout using the back of the chair as a barre, her body easily slipping into the familiar postures and moves. Gradually, her blood ran faster and warmed her to where she no longer shivered. She performed leg stretches noting how her body had lost its former supple flexibility. She’d kept up with the workouts as much as she could but most days she was simply too physically exhausted to swing her legs around.
She propped her bad right foot on the chair’s back and gave it a disgusted look. The swelling had gone down and the crooked bones showed in their full impairment. Ballerina's foot it no longer was.
Bending down to where her nose touched her knee, Gemma wondered why she stubbornly clung to her warm-up routine when her dancing days were left so firmly behind her. It’s not like she had a sedentary job and needed more exercise in her life - as if. Yet her identity remained rooted in dance and she still thought of herself as a dancer.
Perhaps in time, after she trained as a seamstress, or a nurse, or whatever, she’d reinvent herself and let go of her old identity to become something different but if she let it go too soon, she was afraid she’d cease to exist.
After the workout, Gemma dressed and quietly opened the door. The house was quiet, with Aunt Herise and the kids having eaten and left. Uncle Drexel was sitting at the table, his arm in a sling, reading some printed material with an air of great concentration.
“Good morning, uncle. I’m glad to see you up.”
“Morning, Gemma.” He raised his eyes to hers, and his were quite gloomy. “I’m about to go lay down again. I’m feeling unwell.”
“Is your arm a little bit better today? I hope Dr. Delano’s treatment is working.”
“I can’t tell. I’m in pain and the wounds look red. They smell. It’s disgusting.” His words implied strong emotions but his tone was apathetic.
