Copyright © 2008 Julie Nordeen
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
"Miss Gennie, we must stop." SARA's micro-wires rapidly extracted themselves one at a time from Genevieve's head and neck. "The gatehouse just rang in. Your grandsons are on their way up to the house."
Genevieve propped herself onto her elbows and rolled her head around to loosen tight neck muscles. No pain accompanied the retraction of SARA's needles, but their passing brought on a familiar hollowness in her chest, beneath her breastbone, and a craving for freshly baked bread.
"I wonder what they want." Genevieve rose, re-buttoned her blouse, pulled her black cashmere sweater from the closet and headed to the front of the house.
SARA walked beside her without comment. Genevieve noted the absence of SARA's usual humming--Bach or Tchaikovsky most often, but Haydn if SARA felt sunny. Instead, only the regular rhythm of SARA's rubber soles shadowed the clap of Genevieve's leather shoes on the marble floor.
Genevieve stopped in the hall, halfway to the front door.
"I'm so sorry, darlin'," Genevieve said and turned to face SARA. The sting of tears tickled her nose. "I am so easily distracted."
She reached out and embraced SARA. Not quite like hugging her other friends--hard edges of SARA's breast plates and back panels and in between the comfort of the softer gel-channels that filled the spaces between them--but the hug was warmly intended and warmly returned.
"Thank you," Genevieve said. "I don't know what I would do without you."
SARA did not reply. She patted Genevieve's back gently with her long aluminum fingers.
The doorbell rang and as they walked together to greet her grandsons, SARA hummed Haydn's Kindersinfonie.