Chapter 16 - Like Oxygen #2
Marlowe purses her lips. I’ve picked up the odd mention of her parents here and there, but she never talks about them at length, and she doesn’t give details when she does bring them up.
“Their loss,” Devyaan shrugs.
“You said you were an army brat,” I say.
“Hmm. They met in the military. We relocated a lot, and I went to boarding school in whichever city we were in. My theory is that they’re so intent on old comforts because of all the new environments we were exposed to. How boring.”
“A boarding school baby!” Beau says.
Khrys raises an eyebrow. “I went to boarding school, what are you trying to say?”
Beau holds out their hands in placation. “That those institutions produce some beautifully poised women. Duh.”
Marlowe slips her hands over Vee’s ears. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Did you like any of them?” Khrys cocks her head.
“They were okay, but I’d have preferred to go to a normal school and see my parents more. They certainly didn’t think they got their money’s worth. I like to think I have a pretty successful career, but they don’t agree. Then again, I think I’ve always been a disappointment in their eyes.”
“What more could they have wanted?” I ask, absentmindedly stroking a hand over her hip and drinking up this insight into her life.
“I don’t really know. I just know that I always fell short of their expectations, forever compared to their colleagues’ kids. Asking them what more they wanted from me was always deemed ‘talking back’, so I stopped asking.”
“I missed my ma like crazy when I was at school, but she worked so hard to enrol me. I never felt like I could say that, or tell her that I hated being there,” Khrys says thoughtfully.
“Well, we know not to turn into our parents,” Marlowe murmurs, reaching out to push the curls back from Vee’s face. He’s still lost in his slate, having checked out a while ago. She watches him for a moment. “I need him like oxygen. I want him to be able to tell me anything.”
“Well, as passengers aboard a big metal bucket shooting through space, I’m sure we can all agree that oxygen is good.” Khrys raises her glass, eyes twinkling with amusement. The rest of the crew follows suit, and her lips curve.
I can’t help but laugh and echo the words ‘oxygen is good’ along with Marlowe.
The mood has shifted, and her shoulders relax against my thigh.
I try to picture a young Marlowe, but my brain doesn’t work like that.
All I can imagine is that she’d be friendly with her peers, determined to learn and make the best of her situation.
She’d chafe against being silenced, and rebel in small ways.
She’d grow into this fascinating, flawed woman.
“What about you, Tanisira?” Khrys asks.
I blink, having missed the segue in conversation. “What about me?”
“Are you where you want to be?”
It takes me a moment, because the answer is no longer so clear-cut. “No.”
As lunch winds to an end and people drift off, a cramp shoots through my stomach. I bite back a gasp at the suddenness, but Marlowe doesn’t miss a thing.
“What was that?”
I wave her off, riding the next few out. It’s like someone is ramming their fist into my womb. But she hovers, eyes tracking my movements until realisation dawns.
“Oh,” she drags the word out. “Your period?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
“What was that noise for?”
Marlowe looks bemused. “I don’t know... I guess I just thought of you as so tough that you experiencing period pain seems weird.”
“There’s misogyny in there somewhere,” I grit out.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Butches deal with that shit enough as it is, you don’t need it from me.”
I’ve been called butch before—always by Tellurians—and though we don’t have the term in Suryā-Vānī, I know something of the struggles women like me go through.
I wear masculine clothing in my free time, and if long hair wasn’t so revered in my culture, I’d probably cut most of mine off.
The way I carry myself, the way I talk, and my physique means people sometimes have no idea what to do with me.
And yes, I’ve been given strange looks when mentioning my period before.
So I appreciate Marlowe acknowledging prejudice.
“Are your cramps always this bad?”
“Always. I fucking hate having periods. All these advancements, and they can’t figure out a way to circumvent them.”
“It must be bad if you’re swearing.” Marlowe bites her lip. “What do you normally do?”
“What do you mean? Nothing. Why, what do you do?”
We still haven’t left the greenhouse, and she squints up at the canopy overhead. “I honestly can’t remember. I had a hysterectomy after Vee was born, and I don’t get them anymore.”
“Lucky,” I say under my breath.
“Oh, you’re so grouchy when you’re menstruating. It might be the cutest thing ever.”
I have to stop and look at her to determine whether she’s being serious or not. I’m not necessarily someone who gets PMS, but I could consider it right now. I could consider murder right now, in fact.
Marlowe grins, and I can see she’s trying to break the tension.
“Come on, Tee,” she says, steering me out of the greenhouse. “We’ve still got some repairs to do today but let me take care of you for a little bit first.”
Another cramp hits before I can assure her that I don’t need the attention.
After all, I’ve lived through this for over two decades.
My sister has Polycystic Ovary Syndrome and only gets periods irregularly; I can’t count the number of times we’ve wished we could switch.
I’d take hirsutism any day. I don’t generally think about my gender or my sex much—it never mattered until I joined the IAF—but once a month, I’d do anything to have been born without a uterus.
I don’t want children, so it seems like a cruel joke that I have to suffer this at all.
Marlowe guides me to the spa, claiming that I need a hot bath, and a shower just won’t do.
What follows is something I’ve never experienced before.
She ignores my protestations and makes me sit in the corner of a pastel blue room with a mug of tea and painkillers before she disappears.
And whilst I watch, wide-eyed, she bustles around with an armful of clean clothes and towels, blowing me exaggerated kisses.
She’s trying to make me laugh, and I appreciate it even though it doesn’t work.
She insists on helping me into the bath: a huge, copper tub with vintage taps and pretty pearl detailing. And then she pulls up a stool, tells me to close my eyes, and washes my hair.
It’s uncomfortable being cared for like this. It’s also the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
I blame my hormones for the tears that try to leak down my cheeks in response to her hands lathering shampoo into my roots. She’s gentle, and it hurts. I slide down in the tub, ducking my face under the water to wash away the evidence before resurfacing. Through wet eyelashes, I catch her eye roll.
“You fought me every step of the way,” she says sarcastically. “Why stop now?”
I shrug, looking away, back down at the mountain of bubbles that hides my naked skin. The room smells like lilies and strawberries, and the lights are a soothing, warm hue.
Her hands pause in my hair, and I barely refrain from whimpering. I shouldn’t get used to this.
“No one’s ever done this for you, have they?” Marlowe asks in disbelief.
“No.”
“Because you didn’t let them?” She sounds as though she wants that to be the truth of it.
The truth of it is that no one has ever cared whether I was in pain or not. Marlowe’s fingers running through the wet strands of my hair are more than just wonderful—they’re inaugural.
Every time I feel her breath coast across my face, mingled with the steam of the bathwater and the scents of nature, my heart flutters. This is a gift, and she doesn’t even know it.
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t want her to be upset. Someone in her life showed her this kindness, and now she’s bestowing it on me. But it was never modelled for me, and you can’t miss something you never had, right?
But Marlowe is stubborn, and even in my ‘delicate’ state, it seems she won’t be swayed. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I sigh. “No, no one ever offered to do this for me.”
There’s a pause.
“Is it really sad a part of me is glad about that? It means I get to be the first woman who took care of you when you needed it.”
Her words slice through me in the loveliest, deadliest way.
“Marlowe,” I whisper, closing my eyes. A part of me wishes she wouldn’t say things like this to me, but how could I not want to hear those honeyed words?
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just... new to me.”
The next thing I know, her hands are sliding down the slopes of my shoulders and over my chest, meeting at my sternum. It’s not sexual; Marlowe sinks forward, pressing her cheek against the top of my head, enveloping me in her arms.
“You deserved to be looked after, Tee. I’m sorry you never were.”
Shit. My eyes prickle, but I don’t dare move, not wanting to break this embrace. Which might, arguably, be the one thing I’ve needed the most for years.
After my bath, Marlowe helps me into a soft dressing gown she found in the guest changing room. She must have raided the med bay thoroughly because a box of tampons sits next to my clothes alongside a heat patch that will stretch across my stomach.
It’s almost unbearably thoughtful, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I catch her hand as she goes to leave, and she startles before melting into my arms. Pressing her close, I nudge her jaw with my nose, drag my mouth up to hers and kiss her deeply, wanting to show her how much I appreciate today.
How much I appreciate her. I would tell her, but I’ve noticed that sometimes my honesty can scare her.
I don’t want to take her out of the moment.
So I just hold Marlowe tighter, speak my thanks into her skin with my tongue.