The smirk relaxed into a true smile and he sighed a breath of acquiescence.
“It’s really good to see you, Celia. I’m glad we stayed friends.”
“Me, too. We superhumans have to stick together.”
* * *
Two years after her father’s death, Celia West and Arthur Mentis had a daughter, Anna.
Celia lay on her side in the hospital bed. The baby lay nested on a pillow, sheltered within the curve of Celia’s body. Anna had a round red face, scrunched-up eyes, and a fine fuzz of coppery hair.
Arthur sat by the bed, leaning on the mattress, his chin on his hands, watching the baby and wearing an odd half smile.
“What’s she thinking?” Celia asked.
“It’s very strange,” he said. “She thinks in feelings. She doesn’t have colors or sounds or images yet. But she has ‘warm’ and ‘cold’ and ‘hungry’ and ‘sleepy.’ She’s a little of all of them at once, like she can’t sort it all out. Right this minute, though, I look at her and feel ‘safe.’ I’ve never really looked at babies before.” He was staring at her like she was an interesting scientific oddity.
Celia could see it now: Anna’s teenage years were going to be hell with a telepath for a father.
Celia puckered her face to keep from crying. She’d spent far too much of the last nine months crying.
“What have we done?” she said. “What’s she inherited? I’m going to be watching her every minute to see if she flies, or shoots lightning, or talks to animals. If she has a power … what are we going to do? What do we tell her? I’m so scared for her.”
“I think that’s normal for any parent.”
“I want her to be normal.”
“You don’t get to make that choice.”
She looked at Arthur. “You want her to have powers.”
“Celia. I want her to be happy.”
Anna stirred, opening her toothless mouth in a wide, wet yawn that made both parents smile.
Celia couldn’t stop the tears this time, and her voice cracked. “I keep thinking he’d have been such a good grandfather.”
“Perhaps.”
The baby slept, for now.