Asimov's SF, March 2008 by Issue 03 # March

Author:Issue 03 # March
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-07-10T14:00:56+00:00

This Is How It Feels

As Nathan hurried to pack his son’s lunchbox—sandwiches, fizzy drink, an apple included more in hope than expectation—he fought back pangs of sorrow for the other lunchbox, the Flower Fairies box he’d never pack again. Forget Jenny, he told himself. She was never my daughter.

He watched Christopher fussing over breakfast, scooping individual Coco Pops from the bowl and crushing them on his tongue until his teeth looked like brown stumps. “Eat up, lad, or we’ll be late.”

“But I’m waiting for the milk to go chocolatey!” said Christopher, with the timeless priorities of an eight-year-old boy.

Nathan glanced at the clock. “Well then, while you’re waiting for that, why don’t you put your things in the car?”

Christopher scampered upstairs and began clattering around in his room. Nathan checked that his own briefcase held everything he needed—client reports, product updates, background reading for any unlikely spare moments. Then he packed up his laptop, on which he’d been completing last-minute work before breakfast.

On his way to the front door, Nathan dodged aside as his son threw a half-empty backpack over the banister, down into the hall. He bit back the instinctive rebuke. Christopher ran downstairs until he reached the fourth step from the bottom, then jumped the rest of the way.

Nathan’s eyes stung as he remembered how Jenny used to do just that: the same jump down the stairs, the same windmilling of her arms as she landed…. The grief swept over him like a palpable wave, making him stagger backward.

“Dad?” Christopher kicked his backpack down the hall to the door. “You all right?”

“It’s nothing,” said Nathan. He rubbed the implant-port behind his right ear. It’s nothing. It’s not real.

But it felt real.

“Have you got everything?” he asked. “I thought you had football this afternoon.”

“Oh yeah!” Christopher’s grin shone with enthusiasm. “I’ll get my kit.”

Knowing that, if left to himself, Christopher would spend far too long choosing which of his replica shirts to wear—he had five Manchester City players, plus assorted England stars past and present—Nathan said, “I’ll get it. You finish your breakfast.”

He loped upstairs to forage for shirt, shorts, socks, and boots. All the while, he was conscious of the clock ticking out the moments of the morning. He had to get his son to school, but beyond that lay the client meeting at half past ten—in Oswestry, normally a routine drive away. But driving wasn’t routine any more.

Downstairs, Christopher had finished his cereal, in the process spreading chocolate stains across a surprisingly wide area. Nathan sighed at yet another delay. “Go wash your face and brush your teeth.”

At last they headed outside, greeted by garden sparrows sounding rather more cheerful than the bleak drizzle warranted. “We’ll be late,” Christopher said happily, as he climbed into the silver dual-fuel BMW.

Nathan’s wife usually drove Christopher to school, but whenever Yvonne went on tour, Nathan took over—cramming yet another task into a crowded day. He sometimes thought about employing an au pair, but he was already too close to becoming the kind of father who only saw his children at weekends.

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