The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(48)
Rayla lets out a scornful sigh and pops her knuckles to calm her impatience. The familiar gesture jars me as much as the shocking statements she’s claiming. It runs in the family, I think with a strange thrill.
“And what happened to the Common? Where is it now?” Mira asks.
“Underground,” Rayla says. “The government was successful in their unwavering determination to bury the very idea of its existence. The Common was censored across the country—news reports, the Internet, the arts. Its name has been completely wiped clean from history. People became afraid to even whisper the name aloud in their own homes, terrified of being overheard by hidden surveillance and branded outright as a traitor.”
My grandmother speaks with a passionate, quiet voice, forcing me to move in closer to make sure I don’t miss a single word.
“The Common remains alive only where the government could never hope to censor,” she says, placing her hand over her chest. “Inside of those who still resist.”
She holds no apprehension of speaking the name—I feel a sort of bold energy emanating from her every time she says the words aloud.
“Were our parents members of the Common?” I ask, drawing from her courage.
It seems outrageous that our father would involve himself with such a dangerous cause. He is—was—an important member of Governor Roth’s staff and the protector of our momentous secret. The carefulness of his character would never allow it, the People’s Champion or not. But the dinner party. The journal.
Mira and I know practically nothing about our mother, though, except for the idealistic picture our father painted. I could never bear to see the pain in his eyes when we goaded him for stories of what our mother was like outside of the happy holograms he showed to us. We eventually learned to stop asking. In grief all the little flaws of those we loved are colored over.
But I never stopped wondering about the entire portrait—the sharp edges and hidden cracks. How did she react when someone angered her? What did she look like when she cried? When she screamed? Did she let others see her weaknesses, or did she build a wall as high as mine?
I can’t see any trace of her in the face sitting across from me now, but I know Rayla must keep her daughter somewhere safe inside her heart, melded alongside her fervor for rebellion. Share her with me. Let me see my mother as she once was, before that fatal egg split into two.
“Your mother was on the path of becoming a valued leader. She was eager from a young age, just like I was when I joined at fifteen,” Rayla says, a smile tugging at her lips for the first time.
The pulsating music from below suddenly cuts off, leaving the room in silence but for the quiet hum of the old-fashioned refrigerator in the kitchen.
“Lynn was brilliant. Unrivaled. By the time she was barely older than you are now, she was a growing influence within the Denver community, with her great sense of compassion and charm. I was convinced the cause would burn once more in the hearts of the public when it was her turn to take the helm of the movement. I knew she could give the people knowledge and courage, and under our leadership the rebellion would emerge from the shadows once more,” Rayla says, a vivid pride lighting up her eyes.
Then a shadow darkens her face. “But before she was able to reach her potential, she met Darren and her focus became clouded,” she says.
Rayla looks down at her hands, breaking off her speech. I’m anxious for her to continue the untold backstory of my parents, but I wait respectfully during this interlude, knowing she must be wading through heavy memories.
“And our father? What happened then?” Mira asks, pulling our grandmother back to us.
“Darren was already working on Roth’s staff by then, which I of course did not approve of,” Rayla continues, rolling down the sleeve of her shirt to cover her brazen tattoo. “He didn’t approve of me either, to put it mildly.”
She sharply sucks in a lungful of air and breathes out the rest of the story in a hurry, as if each word is a stab to her tongue that she can only withstand in one painful burst.
“They knew I would never give my consent to their union—it would never last with Darren belonging to a man like Roth. So one day, she just vanished. Out of the blue, gone. I tracked her down in Texas, found out she was with Darren in Dallas. Pregnant. I showed up at their home in Trinity Heights unannounced. But it was Darren who answered the door.”
She pauses, lost in thought.
“And then what happened?” I press.
“Your father demanded I permanently cut off all communication with his new family. He said he was going to protect Lynn and their child. I thought he brainwashed her.”
Rayla stares at Mira and me from across the table, and a long-sought clarity crosses into her eyes.
“All these years I could never answer the question why. But now . . . here it is.” She gestures toward Mira and me. Her illegal twin granddaughters.
She closes her eyes, letting this new knowledge sink in.
Suddenly Rayla rises from her chair and stalks to the far wall, where she stops face-to-face with a photograph of my father.
“Darren must have joined the Common after the death of your mother.”
“He played for both sides . . .” I say, realizing how big the game actually is.
Father smiles in his impressive ceremonial uniform—his Family Planning Division badge fastened over his right breast—enclosed in a gaudy golden frame, completely incongruous with the rest of the apartment.