I jerk a little at seeing my mom in her lab coat in full 3-D holo. This was maybe two months ago. She had just had her gray-streaked blond hair cut short-a little above her shoulders. I remember her constantly trying to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ears, something she used to do unconsciously when her hair was long enough for a ponytail. It drove her crazy the way the hair kept falling back in her face. She swore never to cut it again. I can see, as she stands there speaking to the camera, the brass-colored bobby pins over each ear.
I will myself not to cry. The last thing I need is for Ryan to jump into the role of comforter. I can't let him feel a few tears give him the right to slip his arm around my shoulder. Or lean in to console me at a time when I might not have the strength to resist.
The front door opening startles me. I hear Debby yell through the house. Everyone seems to yell as they come in my front door. Hmm, is that odd, or the way it works at everyone else's house too?
"He's in his room," I yell back. Meaning Dylan. Debby took Dyl to school each morning. Today, Dad would pick him up. If I remember to call and remind him. For the zillionth time I feel impatience over getting my driver's license. I would never forget to pick Dylan up. And it really upsets him when that happens. Dylan is obsessive about time and clocks and punctuality. Well, obsessive about nearly everything, but that's who he is.
I push the volume button on the remote and hear my mother's voice. Again, I clamp down on my nerves and fight back tears. I raise my chin and watch objectively. I'm looking for information, clues. This is no time for sentimentality. Not while in company.
We watch and wait for something to happen. There is my mother, in her white lab coat, near the giant laser controls. This close to the screen, I can almost reach my hand through the room and touch her. She stands talking to one of her coworkers, who nods as she speaks. My mom then walks over to the back wall, where a dark screen or fabric hangs from the ceiling. It looks more like a backdrop than a targeting center.
Ryan taps his foot impatiently. I imagine he's plenty bored by now, probably thinking I should have fallen under his intoxicating spell by now and wishing he was at football practice. But he watches the screen, then we both gasp at the same time.