The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(49)
The idea that my newfound aunt had been interested in me would’ve been funny, in a Jerry Springer sort of way, if it weren’t for the fact that I had also been drawn to her. But she’s right—the attraction hadn’t been of the kind I feel for Mira. Still, I’m glad we found out the real situation before the night was over.
“So do I call you Aunty?” I ask, making another attempt to cheer her up.
It seems to work. She smiles, her infectious grin back in full force. I recognize this smile. On several occasions, I saw it on my own frozen face when I was in the Quiet. Would Liz say that our initial attraction, if that’s what it was, was some kind of narcissism? Or would she bring up some Freudian crap to explain it? I’m not sure, nor do I know why I so often wonder what Liz would say.
“No way,” Hillary says in response to my question. “No Aunty, please.”
“Aunt Hillary, then?” I say, trying to sound innocent.
She rolls her eyes. “Please. I’m twenty-seven—way too young to be an aunt to someone your age.”
“Fine, Hillary it is,” I concede. We share a smile, and then I say, “So I have a grandmother and a grandfather? But they would hate me?”
“I’m afraid they likely would,” she says. “If you’re right about having a Leacher—or Reader—father. I should get used to saying this more PC term, I guess. I’m sorry, Darren, but as soon as I was old enough, I left Florida behind—mainly to get away from your grandparents.”
“I see,” I say, but I’m not overly upset. A few minutes ago, I didn’t have an aunt, and now I do. That my biological grandparents are *s is something I can deal with. Maybe the ones on my father’s side are better? Unlike Hillary, I have two sets of much less f*cked-up grandparents from my adoptive moms.
“How much do you know about what happened to my mother?” I ask, wondering if Hillary can shed some light on my parents’ murder.
“Not much,” she replies. “I tried to find out what happened with Margret in New York. What I learned was all public information. She got married and was murdered with her husband shortly thereafter for some unknown reason.” Hillary looks thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I just realized that if your father had really been a Reader, that could’ve been why they were killed.”
I nod. “Right. I’m beginning to suspect the same thing.”
“If so, it had to have been the Traditionalists,” she says, and I see angry color blooming on her face. “Not the ones connected to my parents, but probably some other group. As crazy as my parents are, they wouldn’t kill their own daughter. At least I hope not.”
“That’s a redeeming quality for sure,” I say drily.
We sit there silently. She’s deep in thought.
“It has to be the Traditionalists,” she says again, as though she just had an epiphany. “Your existence goes against everything those f*ckers stand for.”
“You mean the whole mixing of the blood taboo?” I say, surprised by how detached I feel about the whole thing. It’s as though we’re talking about someone else, not me.
“Yes. In fact, I can hardly believe you even happened. That a child that’s both us and them could even exist,” she says wonderingly.
“Why not?” Readers seemed to believe such a thing possible, though highly undesirable.
“We have something like an urban myth that says that nature wouldn’t allow such an abomination to even exist,” she says, making a point to do air quotes around the word abomination and looking at me apologetically. “Mainly, this comes from these legends of Leachers raping Guide women. According to these myths, there have never been any children in such cases.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You guys think the two groups are sexually incompatible?”
“Yes, but I take those stories with a big grain of salt. I believe that a lot of Leachers happen to be exactly like our Traditionalists in their attitude—the ancient Leachers, especially. This means they wouldn’t have had sex with their enemy, under any circumstances, even to rape them.”
“Yeah, given what I heard from my Reader friend Eugene, you might be right. He couldn’t believe a Reader would ever donate to a sperm bank out of risk of this ‘horrible’ occurrence,” I say, surprised by the bitterness in my voice. It sucks to think you’re forbidden to exist.
“Exactly. Those ancient Leachers would’ve killed the prisoner women instead. I’m sure of it,” she says. “All this just makes your existence that much more revolutionary.”
“What’s so revolutionary about it?”
“Oh, come on. Just think about it. What’s the best way to mend centuries-old feuds?”
“I know the answer you’re looking for is to intermarry, but I’m not sure it’s that simple—”
“It is,” she says confidently. “This was the reason why kings of warring nations sometimes married into each other’s families. It’s also why Americans—products of the melting pot—have forgotten many, if not all, of the prejudices of their European ancestors, who hated each other’s guts.”
My skepticism must be showing on my face because she continues, “I’ve thought about this a lot, Darren. There are examples all over the place—I’m an anthropologist, after all. If you have two groups who hate each other, you need to break the group identity that results in the whole ‘us versus them’ setup we talked about earlier. And what better way to break such identity than having children around that are representatives of both groups? Especially when they are as charming as you.” She winks at me playfully.