Ellen chews her way through her meagre food ration as slowly as possible, trying to draw out the process of eating to its fullest extent. The food she's been served helps her. She doesn't know exactly what she's eating, but it's tough and fibrous and she would call it unpleasant except at least it fills up her mouth and her stomach.
She closes her eyes and tastes the flavors -- unfamiliar, but at least there's something to taste. She should value that, and she does.
"What do you think it is?" she asks the woman sitting next to her. "Tree bark?" It's a joke, or at least Ellen thinks it is.
"Heaven knows, awful stuff," the woman says. She's an older woman, her face carefully made up but not quite obscuring a network of fine wrinkles, her white hair neat and tidy, only her clothes the hodge-podge of warm and bulky that most people wear. "I'm going home. Come with me."
Ellen settles back to chewing, thinking the words were directed at someone else, but after the woman pushes away her plate, she puts her hand on Ellen's arm. "I'm going home. Come with me," she repeats.
Ellen hesitates for a moment. There's something wrong here, but she's not sure she can stop it. "Finish eating, first," she says. And when the woman looks stubborn, she adds-- "It's impolite to the cooks not to."
The woman nods as if this is an argument that's needed in the midst of stringent food rationing.
After they've finished eating, the woman puts her hand on Ellen's arm again, and directs her through the hallways and out into the cold. Snow falls, the air bites Ellen's throat, but Ellen doesn't think of going back in. "It's not very far," the woman says. Ellen thinks of home and fingers the PINpoint in her pocket, and holds the woman's body up as they struggle through the snow and across slippery expanses of wind-swept ice. Ellen is watching where she steps, keeping her head down to keep snow out of her eyes. When she sees where they're going, they're almost on top of it, but it's nothing but splintered wood beams and piles of rubble.
"Oh, Suzonne, where is it?" the woman asks in despair, looking at Ellen.
Now Ellen knows what's wrong. "Shh," she says, and leads the woman back toward the shelter. Half way back, they're met by a younger woman, with a rosy round face that clearly isn't meant to look so thin. "Oh, I was so worried," she says.
"Suzonne?" Ellen asks, relinquishing her charge.
"No, no, just assigned to care for Donis," the younger woman says distractedly, pulling her hat down over her ears and wrapping her arm around the confused older woman. "We don't know where Suzonne is. All we know is that Donis lived in that apartment building for fifty years, and she's incapable of remembering that it's not there any longer."
Ellen looks at the ruins, and thinks of home. She closes her eyes against that vision. Horrifying. "Was she there ... when it fell?"
"No..."
But Ellen doesn't hear the rest of the story, because Donis tries to turn and go back, and it takes both of them to persuade her back into the shelter.
The next time Ellen sees Donis, she's in the middle of a crowd. Ellen has just finished a shift of mopping; she joins the edge of the crowd, leaning on her mop.
Donis is spreading tarot cards out in front of her, slowly, dramatically, with perfect audience awareness and perfect timing -- and Ellen would know. Whatever is wrong with her memory hasn't taken this from her; she moves with the efficient grace of endless experience.
Donis looks up and sees Ellen. Recognition dawns in her eyes. "Suzonne!" Donis barks. "Come sit by me."
Ellen's first instinct is to back away, but the crowd parts for her and looking around she sees only friendly faces, though some are impatient with this interruption.
"Suzonne is still learning," Donis says. "But she's talented for a beginner."
Given her part, Ellen plays it, coming to kneel, a supplicant at the altar of experience. What else is an actress to do?
The next time she mops, Ellen finds herself recognized as Suzonne as often as she's recognized as the food waster. She had gotten a lock on the part she was expected to pay; there never was so penitent a person as Ellen Fanshaw when she wanted to be.
But that will never do for Suzonne. Not penitent, no... Quiet, and respectful, and underneath that, an occasional flash of passion, a core of steely, unshakable compassion. Suzonne doesn't only see, Suzonne cares.
The people who recognize Suzonne are looking for every hint that Ellen drops. She tells them that the future is out of their hands; she tells them that today is nevertheless full of opportunity. She tells them that winter will never end; she tells them there is still hope. She tells them whatever she feels, and Ellen Fanshaw is a person of contradictions, and she has been quiet too long. Suzonne might seem quiet, but she's perfectly capable of drawing out the questions she longs to answer.
And the next time Donis calls for Suzonne, Ellen doesn't hesitate.
no subject
She closes her eyes and tastes the flavors -- unfamiliar, but at least there's something to taste. She should value that, and she does.
"What do you think it is?" she asks the woman sitting next to her. "Tree bark?" It's a joke, or at least Ellen thinks it is.
"Heaven knows, awful stuff," the woman says. She's an older woman, her face carefully made up but not quite obscuring a network of fine wrinkles, her white hair neat and tidy, only her clothes the hodge-podge of warm and bulky that most people wear. "I'm going home. Come with me."
Ellen settles back to chewing, thinking the words were directed at someone else, but after the woman pushes away her plate, she puts her hand on Ellen's arm. "I'm going home. Come with me," she repeats.
Ellen hesitates for a moment. There's something wrong here, but she's not sure she can stop it. "Finish eating, first," she says. And when the woman looks stubborn, she adds-- "It's impolite to the cooks not to."
The woman nods as if this is an argument that's needed in the midst of stringent food rationing.
After they've finished eating, the woman puts her hand on Ellen's arm again, and directs her through the hallways and out into the cold. Snow falls, the air bites Ellen's throat, but Ellen doesn't think of going back in. "It's not very far," the woman says. Ellen thinks of home and fingers the PINpoint in her pocket, and holds the woman's body up as they struggle through the snow and across slippery expanses of wind-swept ice. Ellen is watching where she steps, keeping her head down to keep snow out of her eyes. When she sees where they're going, they're almost on top of it, but it's nothing but splintered wood beams and piles of rubble.
"Oh, Suzonne, where is it?" the woman asks in despair, looking at Ellen.
Now Ellen knows what's wrong. "Shh," she says, and leads the woman back toward the shelter. Half way back, they're met by a younger woman, with a rosy round face that clearly isn't meant to look so thin. "Oh, I was so worried," she says.
"Suzonne?" Ellen asks, relinquishing her charge.
"No, no, just assigned to care for Donis," the younger woman says distractedly, pulling her hat down over her ears and wrapping her arm around the confused older woman. "We don't know where Suzonne is. All we know is that Donis lived in that apartment building for fifty years, and she's incapable of remembering that it's not there any longer."
Ellen looks at the ruins, and thinks of home. She closes her eyes against that vision. Horrifying. "Was she there ... when it fell?"
"No..."
But Ellen doesn't hear the rest of the story, because Donis tries to turn and go back, and it takes both of them to persuade her back into the shelter.
The next time Ellen sees Donis, she's in the middle of a crowd. Ellen has just finished a shift of mopping; she joins the edge of the crowd, leaning on her mop.
Donis is spreading tarot cards out in front of her, slowly, dramatically, with perfect audience awareness and perfect timing -- and Ellen would know. Whatever is wrong with her memory hasn't taken this from her; she moves with the efficient grace of endless experience.
Donis looks up and sees Ellen. Recognition dawns in her eyes. "Suzonne!" Donis barks. "Come sit by me."
Ellen's first instinct is to back away, but the crowd parts for her and looking around she sees only friendly faces, though some are impatient with this interruption.
"Suzonne is still learning," Donis says. "But she's talented for a beginner."
Given her part, Ellen plays it, coming to kneel, a supplicant at the altar of experience. What else is an actress to do?
The next time she mops, Ellen finds herself recognized as Suzonne as often as she's recognized as the food waster. She had gotten a lock on the part she was expected to pay; there never was so penitent a person as Ellen Fanshaw when she wanted to be.
But that will never do for Suzonne. Not penitent, no... Quiet, and respectful, and underneath that, an occasional flash of passion, a core of steely, unshakable compassion. Suzonne doesn't only see, Suzonne cares.
The people who recognize Suzonne are looking for every hint that Ellen drops. She tells them that the future is out of their hands; she tells them that today is nevertheless full of opportunity. She tells them that winter will never end; she tells them there is still hope. She tells them whatever she feels, and Ellen Fanshaw is a person of contradictions, and she has been quiet too long. Suzonne might seem quiet, but she's perfectly capable of drawing out the questions she longs to answer.
And the next time Donis calls for Suzonne, Ellen doesn't hesitate.