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Charlotte sits on the boat, her knees tucked up to her chin, and tries to curl further into herself, breathing stuttered like the choppy waves against the boat. Cosima’s eyes are forward, focused on navigating, and Charlotte tries to think of her reassurance, earlier. I grew up on boats .
It isn’t very reassuring.
Charlotte reads a lot, knows exactly how long it takes for the water to fill your lungs, for your body to sink, for unconsciousness to set in, and how long it takes before the life slowly ebs from your body as you sink, slowly, slowly, slowly, body submerged in murky, cold depths.
Marion watched Titanic with her, once, the two of them curled up under a warm, weighted duvet. Charlotte had watched with wide, worried eyes as Jack sank, lower and lower, underneath the water, felt the weight of her brace against her leg, scraping and unusually heavy, and felt the panic rise in her throat quickly as bile, because that could easily be her.
She didn’t sleep for weeks afterwards, Marion coaxing her with warm cups of cocoa and books on foreign sciences, but all Charlotte could think about was drowning, of the struggle, the weight of her brace pulling her down, the water heavy against her lungs, of not being able to escape.
Cosima stares ahead, busy steering them away, towards land, towards safety, towards SarahandHelenaandAlisonandKira , unaware of the panic that is slowly overtaking her, surrounded by water, because even with a lifejacket secured tightly around her chest Charlotte feels lost, unsteady, and no reassurances of I grew up on boats can make her feel any safer.
There was another clone, another sister, she had read about. One who coached swimming lessons. Jennifer . Charlotte thinks about her, thinks about the way she was different. From the pictures, before she wilted, withered away from a sickness that consumed them all, her shoulders were broad, strong, good for carrying her against currents. When she read the files, because Marion raised her to be like Rachel, self-aware, Charlotte had ached to meet her, because Jennifer could do the one thing that Charlotte could never dare.
Swim.
Charlotte stares out at the water, choppy and dark and ominous, reflecting the starry canopy of the night sky, and she shudders, gripping tighter at the edges of the boats, and Cosima keeps steering them forward, sailing away. She thinks about Jennifer and squeezes her eyes shut, trying desperately to ignore the sound of the waves, the weight of her brace against her leg, and the heaviness settling on her chest like lead.
She thinks about Jennifer, and where she might be, and then Charlotte thinks about Aisha.
Charlotte realizes, with a jolt, that she will never see her again, that Aisha is gone . Like Marion. Lost to her forever. Charlotte had told her stories of sisters she had never met, sisters who had been gone before she had the chance to meet them, and Aisha, in turn, had told her stories about a father and a sister and a baby brother that were taken from her before she got a chance to truly know them.
Aisha was kind smiles and a tentative sort of determination, following a few paces behind Charlotte to go in search for pigs in the forest, because Aisha was not brave by design but she was brave because she had to be. Aisha was gentle curiosity and bright, sun-filled laughter that warmed Charlotte more than any cup of cocoa Marion had ever made her. Aisha was a friend , more than anything.
Aisha was gone.
Charlotte wondered where she was, now, if she was done hurting.
Aisha told her once that in her dreams she could fly, high above the clouds, soaring on the winds of the laughter of those lost to her, eyes bright at the memory of it all.
Charlotte hopes she’s happy, wherever she is.
Charlotte falls asleep to the memory of Aisha, of her laughter and her kindness, and Cosima runs her hands through her hair, and for a moment she can pretend it’s okay.
When she wakes up, there’s land, and then a helicopter, and Cosima holds her tightly to her side the whole time, calls her sister , and Charlotte feels like she belongs, clutching to Cosima as though she needs her for her very existence. The two of them are tethered together, tired and weary and sick , but getting better, slowly.
Aisha didn’t get better.
Charlotte wonders why they deserve it, the cure, wonders why they’re the ones who are allowed to get better when there are so many people in the world who don’t , so many people who get sick and just keep being sick, who are sick until they just cease to be .
Charlotte thinks that, if anyone deserved to be better, it was Aisha.
She thinks, if she could trade places, she would.
Charlotte looks down at the brace on her leg and feels its familiar weight, but the heaviness is nothing compared to the weight on her chest, the weight of surviving , of being the one to live to tell the story of yesterday to someone else.
Cosima seems to notice this, when they’re almost at their destination, wherever it is they’re going, and she holds her hands softly and rubs golden spirals into Charlotte’s skin, and looks at her inquisitively, asking a question without even speaking.
“Why us?” Charlotte asks, and it’s a question with so many layers, and her voice breaks when she asks it.
Cosima looks so tired, and she looks at Charlotte as if she doesn’t know the answer.
Sometimes Charlotte forgets that she is only eight years old, should not be worrying about dying, about sickness, should not be guilty about surviving. She thinks that her sisters forget this sometimes, too, because they look at her and see themselves, small, but with the memories of when it was them .
Cosima looks at her and remembers Cosima, age eight, the Cosima who grew up on boats, the Cosima who just wanted love, who never wanted to be left, who was surrounded by people who kept leaving . Cosima looks at her and remembers Cosima, age eight, whose father told her to always question, always seek further truths.
“I don’t know,” Cosima tells her, honestly, and Charlotte blinks away tears because she thinks about how Aisha was sunlight and how if anyone deserves to be here it’s her, Aisha who was the sun and Aisha who warmed people and Aisha who was brave even though she didn’t want to be, even though she didn’t have to be, Aisha who was brave even though being brave scared her so much it broke her, “but whatever the reason, we have to do something about it.”
Charlotte nods, and they continue on.
Cosima takes her to the home of a kind woman with a heavy irish lilt who tells her to call her Mrs. S. She tucks Charlotte’s hair behind her ear and calls her chicken and she is so very different from Marion, from Susan, that it’s startling.
She looks at Charlotte as though Charlotte is a child, and when she hands her a cup of tea to warm her, she smiles and there is nothing hidden in her gaze.
Sarah has a daughter named Kira who is technically Charlotte’s niece, but they’re the same age so Charlotte thinks of them as cousins instead. Her face is different but Charlotte can see the similarities, in the curve of their face and their nose and the curl of their hair, the way they laugh.
Kira reminds her of Aisha sometimes, bright and shining, and it makes Charlotte ache.
Charlotte tells her about it when Kira asks her why she’s sad, because Kira knows Charlotte before they’ve even met, understands her emotions in ways that sometimes even Charlotte can’t comprehend.
Charlotte tells her about how Aisha lived, and Kira listens attentively, and when Charlotte cries, letting the tears finally fall, Kira cries with her, holding her hand like a tether.
At night the two of them build blanket forts in Kira’s rooms and tell stories, distracting themselves from the weight of it all, and under the light of Kira’s torches they can be children, eight years old and pretending, even though they sometimes pause in their games to listen for Sarah and Cosima, whispering with Mrs. S as though they think they can’t be heard.
They practice their sneaking together, walking light on the stairs, and Charlotte remembers walking with Aisha in a forest that was forbidden to them, remembers the way they stepped carefully over broken branches and dead, crinkling leaves.
Kira pokes her head over the railing to spy on her mother, on Cosima, who is quickly becoming Charlotte’s sister in more than just name, and Charlotte thinks of Aisha, peeking her head outside of her tent to see if the boy who juggles was out with his stones, small smile fixed on her face.
There are days where Kira gets picked up by men in suits and taken to Rachel, and one day Charlotte follows.
Cosima grabs onto her shoulder, holds her back with the same sort of fear in her eyes that Charlotte sees in Sarah’s, but Charlotte just stares up at her and smiles because she knows Rachel won’t hurt her. She knows Rachel.
Marion told her, once that she was made from Rachel, and Charlotte asked if that made Rachel her mother. Marion had made a small little shaking gesture with her head as she continued to braid Charlotte’s hair and told her that Rachel Duncan was no mother, and that was that.
Charlotte remembers painting with her, though, passing on secret messages, and when Kira tells her that Sarah says Rachel is not to be trusted, Charlotte is hesitant to believe them, because there is a goodness in Rachel that she feels, that she wishes to hold onto. She remembers paint strokes and talks about her studies, and thinks, oddly, about baby finches, and knows that there is a part of Rachel that is good .
Rachel is surprised to see her when she walks through the door, eyes wide and brace heavy against her leg, steps uneven, but this is just another thing she and Rachel share now.
Rachel leans heavily on her cane when she greets them, and she smiles, and for a moment it feels real, warm, and Charlotte smiles back at her, wide and welcoming. Kira watches the exchange with curious eyes, always observing, always feeling, and goes with Rachel to hustle like her mother has taught her, to continue weaving her story, gathering information, and Charlotte steps unevenly towards her sister, her genetic template― her mother , a part of her mind whispers treacherously.
“I’ve missed painting with you,” she says, almost boldly, and Rachel smiles at her, and she feels different now, less angry, as though she’s pretending, and her eyes are the same but one of them feels warmer than the other.
“I’ve missed our talks,” Rachel tells her, motioning besides her for Charlotte to sit, “how’s your leg doing?”
Charlotte doesn’t know about the conversation Rachel had with Westmoreland, where he said if anyone deserved the cure it was her. She doesn’t know that sometimes, Rachel thinks about Charlotte, thinks about the little girl who doesn’t know about everything she’s caught up in, and thinks that he’s wrong, that it’s Charlotte who deserves it most, Charlotte who is good and unsullied by it all.
The two of them are so similar that Rachel aches with it sometimes.
Marion raised Charlotte in Rachel’s image, crafted her in her likeness.
Charlotte was raised self-aware, knew about clones from a young age, but they did not make her bitter. They made her curious, bright-eyed and shining, steps uneven, wondering how they were all different, desperate to meet them.
She sits with Rachel as Kira plays with a rat in another room, and they drink tea and paint, and Charlotte is reminded that Rachel is good.
Cosima doesn’t want to believe her, and Sarah just stares, because Sarah is a mother and her first instinct is to protect Kira, but Kira can feel them all and Kira is tired of being protected. She and Charlotte make blanket forts in her room and tell stories of monsters to be defeated, but in their epics there are no princess in towers to be rescued, only heroes shaped like little girls with the weight of too much on their hearts.
Charlotte thinks of Rachel and thinks she is brave like Aisha, who was brave even though she didn’t want to be, even though she didn’t have to be, Aisha who was brave even though being brave scared her so much it broke her.
Charlotte thinks that she wasn’t able to save Aisha, but maybe she can save Rachel, and maybe that is the why that Cosima had not been able to give her.