PART FIVE
Boothby gave Chakotay a jaundiced look. His wide-brimmed hat was not enough to shield his face, and the way Boothby's mouth curved, Chakotay couldn't decide if the gardener was teasing him or kept his mouth that way in sympathy with the eyes. The old man pointed the shears at him.
"You want one of my prize roses."
"Boothby, I will be forever in your debt if you can spare me one - "
"I saw you with the girl, sitting over there, on the bench by the pond." The shears moved clumsily as Boothby pointed in the direction of the bench.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"She's blind."
Chakotay shook his head. Boothby was deliberately baiting him. The man did that with every cadet and every ensign. He was a self-styled counsellor who chastised, counselled, advised, philosophised in terms of his art: cultivating flowers.
"I know that. But she's leaving for Indiana at 1630. I thought I could present her with a rose - "
"Which she won't see..."
"What's wrong with touching it and smelling it? Besides, her blindness is only temporary."
"Right. Did you know her father is Admiral Edward Janeway?" Boothby's look challenged him. Chakotay sighed.
"Don't remind me."
"But you like the girl."
Chakotay wanted to walk away and forget about coaxing a rose from Boothby. Of course he liked the girl. He couldn't stop thinking about her. He couldn't stop thinking about her golden hair, her shy smile or her unexpected toughness. He suffered breathlessness every time he entered her room at the hospital. He was falling for her hard and it was unsettling and exciting at the same time. Chakotay looked at Boothby, returned the challenge.
"I like the girl. Are you expecting me to deny it?"
"No, son. I'm expecting you to understand that all things are fleeting. See this rose?"
Boothby put down the shears, tilted his hat a little. His palm very, very tenderly caressed a rose, of a pink and yellow hue.
"It's beautiful."
"It's a peace rose. It is in its bloom, full of goodness and the promise of everlasting beauty. But, son, like all things, this rose will wilt and eventually die. One by one its petals will drift to earth and bemoan their brief existence..."
Chakotay feared Boothby's words. It carried a portent, a disturbing window into the future.
"But while it is in bloom, we must enjoy its beauty," Chakotay ventured.
"Aye. You have a sense of the message."
Boothby bent down to pick up the shears and Chakotay thought he heard the old man's bones creak. Boothby selected a rose. Its petals looked like silk in the late afternoon sun. The rose had gone just past the bud stage, and would within days, flare into its glory.
"Here, son. You give this to Cadet Janeway. I'm sure she will like it. Pretty little thing, is that Cadet Janeway. Did you know she's the best cadet in her class? Always top in her studies."
Of course he knew. Her roommate had been garrulous the day he went to fetch Kathryn's collection of poems. He had thought how perfectly they suited one another. The talkative roommate and the more reserved Kathryn Janeway.
"Thank you, Boothby. This one's just right for her."
"Now, young man, you'd better be off. My roses want me."
"Thank you!" Chakotay called over his shoulder as he made his way to the hospital again. He thought of Kathryn. Her shattered optical nerves were being repaired by the visor, which was specially designed to emit impulses and do repair work over a period of no more than three weeks. In the meantime Kathryn had to put up with being blind until the nerves were healed.
He held the rose like it was a precious gem. He just hoped Kathryn liked roses. He had never asked her.
He made it to Kathryn's ward just in time. Doctor Pulaski was there as well as Kathryn's mother. Their amused looks embarrassed him.
"Amahl...?"
"Kathryn, I thought I'd give you this before you left. Boothby kindly agreed."
"You stole one of his precious roses?"
"Do you want it?"
Kathryn moved in his direction. He placed the rose in her hand. Immediately she brought it to her face and she inhaled its fragrance.
"It must be beautiful. It smells like that."
"It's called a peace rose," he replied, ignoring the looks of the other women.
"Thank you, Amahl. I shall treasure it."
Chakotay thought of old Boothby's words. The rose would wilt and die and with it, all memory of a friendship. He hoped they could remain friends. He hardly noticed that Doctor Pulaski and Gretchen Janeway had quietly left the room. He was watching Kathryn smell the rose, caressing the velvety petals, then bending to smell it again. Her hair was loose and it fell about her face so that somehow, it seemed to him that it hid the visor she was wearing. He could imagine seeing her eyes as she cradled the rose on its short stem.
"Kathryn, I - "
"What is it, Amahl?" she asked, as her hand groped for his.
He held her hand and felt the urgency of denying Boothby's words. Kathryn waited for him to speak. He searched for words, words that would allay his growing fears, words that would supplant Boothby's vision. Kathryn's lips were parted; her breathing became agitated. He lowered his head, touched her lips with his. It burned through him, the sudden, brief, bursting passion as Kathryn's mouth opened under his. He knew he had to stop, but Kathryn's sweetness intoxicated him, made him want to probe her sweet depths a little longer. He held her close to him and groaned when she melted into him. She tasted like nectar, the sweetness swirling around his brain until he couldn't think anymore. His fingers were in her hair, playing with its softness while all the time her lips moved under his. He investigated cautiously, found a reception of moist, incredibly daring depths, becoming bolder until his tongue played with her.
He realised he had to breathe.
When the kiss ended, he felt dizzy. Kathryn ran her tongue over her lips. She was breathing raggedly, but gradually, it became even.
"Will you come to Indiana, Amahl?" she whispered. There was entreaty in her voice, and a promise of something he had never dared to entertain, the thought too unlikely, too wildly improbable. They could be more than friends. His heart was never going to be his again. He had just lost it to the finest girl in the universe.
"Will you wait for me, Kathryn? At Indiana?" he asked.
She pressed her palm, in which she held the flower, lightly against a flushed cheek. Her face was as innocent as the rose. Very briefly this time, he kissed her again.
When Chakotay left the hospital, he made his way to the transports. After a short journey he finally opened the door to his apartment. All the way from the hospital he could still see Kathryn the way she looked just after their kiss.
****
Two days later Chakotay made preparations to visit Kathryn in Indiana. She had given him the coordinates, and he'd spend not just an afternoon there, but sleep over. They would return to San Francisco together the following day. She had asked him to be present when they removed the visor. He felt honoured. More than a week ago, he hadn't known her name. Now, he was looking forward to being with her.
"So I can see you for the first time, Amahl," she said during their vid-com meeting the previous night. Her mother had set up the link and all Kathryn had to do was keep her head straight and she wouldn't move out of his vision.
He had apprehensions about how she would view him. But she had waved his objections when he complained he might not be what she was looking for.
"Besides, you might just decide I'm ugly as a rat."
"Nonsense. If your kindness and your generosity is anything to measure outward appearance, I'd say you are the handsomest man on Earth."
He had been flattered by Kathryn's unconditional praise. He had also become so used to being called 'Amahl' that he had lost the urge to tell Kathryn or her mother or Doctor Pulaski the truth. He tried to rationalise that it wasn't something that he deliberately did in order to retain some anonymity or be enigmatic like Jimbo accused him. Who knew, maybe it was time he adopted his great-grandfather's name. He liked it anyway.
They had to leave for their ship the day after Kathryn returned to Starfleet Medical. Kathryn would then rejoin her class at the Academy. He still wanted to ask her if they could remain in contact through subspace communication. He knew she would be happy at the thought. She had not rejected him like Cadet Ravenscraig did; in fact, he sensed she felt as strongly about him as he did about her. It was a tremendous responsibility. His heart raced with the anticipation of seeing her eyes light up, of going to meet her at her home, of communicating with her while they were in deep space.
"Are you listening to me, Amahl?" Kathryn asked. He could hear the teasing in her voice. Her mouth curved up at the side. She did that whenever she was amused. It looked totally beguiling.
"What? Oh. What did you say?"
"You never told me about your family, whether you had parents, brothers and sisters..."
He sighed deeply.
"N-no," he replied, after a few seconds.
"Why are you avoiding that? You know I have a mother, my father is in deep space on a diplomatic mission and I have a fourteen year old sister who is on a school excursion. What about yours?"
Her last question had been soft, tentative. He knew she was being careful. He hadn't seen his parents in more than five years.
"I have parents," he said, with some difficulty. Kathryn picked up the change in tone instantly.
"I guess you don't want to talk about them..."
"N-No...not really," he admitted. Not now, he thought. Yet he knew that he would take her in his confidence, that the time would be right when he did so.
"That's okay, Amahl. I just thought I'd ask."
They had closed communication after he promised that the next time they talked, he would be standing right beside her holding her hand. He had fallen. It was madness. She liked him. Her face broke into a smile whenever he came to visit. They held hands. The day she left for Indiana, they kissed, deeply. He could still feel her shivering body against his, the way his fingers ran through her hair. She had her arm round his waist. In a moment, as she pressed her body against his and seemed to melt into him, he had moaned against her mouth. Kathryn was young; she had told him that she never had much time for boyfriends. She didn't have one. The way they fitted close together... He knew that Kathryn would be a part of his destiny.
The sharp beep of his vid-com alerted him to an incoming message. Thinking it was Kathryn, he rushed to his small lounge and seated himself quickly in front of his computer. He switched it on. The next moment a face filled the screen.
"Father?"
"Son..."
Chakotay thought Kolopak's face looked gaunt, tired, ravaged. It shocked him a little; it drew from him a reluctant concern, and his reaction surprised him. Where there had been dimples like his own, were now deep grooves. The last time Chakotay had seen him, Kolopak's hair was pitch black. Now there were grey streaks. There was no smile. Chakotay wondered how he could, given the tightness of Kolopak's features. It was his father's eyes that struck him the most. It was sad, a sadness that seemed to be part of his face so that anyone who looked at him, couldn't but think that Kolopak had never smiled in his life, never been a happy man. The guilt he had successfully concealed for so many years, burgeoned, and he tried to suppress its verdant growth.
He needed to remain angry.
The last time he had seen his father, Kolopak had begged him to make a visit to his home. That had been four years ago. He had refused to go, knew that Kolopak would once again encourage him to take the mark of his people, tell him to acknowledge his cultural identity. He did, but he hated his people's backwardness, their disinclination to use technology..
"I'm not coming to Dorvan V, Father."
"I'm not asking you to come, Chakotay. Much has happened that would make the building of new bridges impossible. I know you hate me. I would that you loved me, like you did when you were a boy..."
"I don't hate you..."
Kolopak gave a deep sigh and shook his head.
"Chakotay...son..."
Chakotay looked more keenly, past his old resentment, at his father. Kolopak didn't pursue his old cultural heritage speech like he did in the past. Were those tears that sprang in the old man's eyes? Why did his resentment of his father vanish in an instant when he saw those tears? Something was wrong.
"Father...what is wrong?"
"It is your mother, Chakotay. I would never have called you otherwise. I know how you feel."
Chakotay felt something in his throat, a lump that thickened. It pressed against his conscience. It blinded him for a moment as he pictured his mother: tiny, feisty, courageous Hannah who allowed only him, her first-born, to massage her aching neck when she had headaches. He pictured his mother the last time he saw her, with tears in her eyes, convinced that she would never, ever see him again.
Something was wrong with her. Something serious enough that his father broke his own resolve to contact his contrary, angry son.
"Mama?"
"Your mother is dying, Chakotay. For her, and for her alone, I ask that you come home...please..."
*****
END PART FIVE