Title: The Mourning of Transgressions
Author: Jennifer N
Distribution: Credit Dauphine. Anyone else, please ask first.
Questions, comments, and complaints may be sent to [email protected]. (I love getting e-mail, hint, hint. g)
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, etc. The character of Hope belongs to me.
Summary: When tragedy strikes, a brooding Jack must reconcile the past and come to terms with the present. CD Challenge.
Rating: PG
Classification: Angst/Drama/AU
A/N: When I began writing this, I intended to have it finished in time for the May/June CD Challenge. Except the deadline passed and I was not even close to finishing. Oops. I even managed to write yet another belated Challenge piece ("Costly Transgression") before returning to this. By then the June/July Challenge was posted. Since I already had some of its requirements in my story, I decided to challenge myself even more: finish this story with all of the elements from both challenges. Crazy, yes, but I assure you—they are all there. All 11 of them.
A huge "muchas gracias" must go out to my three beta readers, Becky, Stephanie, and Kat. Thank you so much! I appreciate all of your help!
And now, without further adieu . . .
The Mourning of Transgressions
Hold on
Hold on to yourself
for this is gonna hurt like hell.
--Sarah McLachlan, "Hold On"
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven," the priest intones. "A time to be born, and a time to die . . . ."
You look to your right as Will hands Francie a dry handkerchief to replace her tear-soaked one, their gold wedding bands gleaming in the sunlight.
Agent Weiss clears his throat and swallows, trying to keep his emotions in check. His face holds the same shocked expression he has been wearing since he entered your office on that fateful day.
Dixon has his arm around Diane, clutching her hand as if his life depended on it. In all the years you have known him, you have never seen him display such a look of anguish.
Marie Vaughn stares at the priest as the tears pour down her face, perhaps remembering another funeral long ago. She never expected to be present at this one.
They are all here—Will, Francie, Weiss, Dixon, Marshall, Marie, Devlin. You suspect that half the CIA showed up on this cold day for the burial of two of its finest agents.
It wasn't supposed to end this way. After all the missions and counter-missions, after all the mad dashes and near-misses, after all the times you had to save them from themselves, you rejoiced inwardly when SD-6 was destroyed three years ago and Sydney was unharmed. You watched as she and Agent Vaughn finally admitted what others had seen for years, and you proudly walked her down the aisle at her wedding. Six months ago you sat in a hospital, waiting for a weary Vaughn to inform you that you had a granddaughter. After all of her years in intelligence, Sydney wanted to be surprised by something good and chose not to find out the sex of her baby. They were so happy that day.
They were happy every day. And they included you in it, even though they didn't have to. You were closer to Sydney than you had ever been, having dinner with her and her family at least once a week. No longer confined to sixty second conversations, you could converse about the more normal lives you now possessed—a high school English teacher on extended maternity leave, a paper-pushing CIA agent, and a CIA deputy director, respectively.
You remember when the trip was first mentioned, during dinner on Christmas Eve.
"We've been talking about going to France early next year," Sydney mentioned as she carried dirty dishes to the sink. "Marie hasn't seen Hope in a few months, and I would love to show her off to all of Michael's family over there."
"You're going to fly with an infant across the country and then over an ocean? Sydney, think about this. Think about your fellow passengers, for goodness sake!" you blustered even though you knew what your daughter's response would be. Your granddaughter was so well-behaved she probably wouldn't cry the entire trip. What you were really thinking about was the sudden irrational fear you felt.
"Hope is such a good baby, I don't think she'll be a problem, isn't that right, sweetie?" she finished as Vaughn walked in the kitchen holding Hope.
"Can you afford this trip?" you continued, looking for a way to change her mind. Not that you would halt the trip; once Sydney had her mind set on something, there was no stopping her. You knew that better than anyone . . . well, besides Vaughn.
"Yes, sir," Vaughn answered quickly as he shot a look at your daughter. He seemed to be pleading with her to not start a fight on Christmas Eve. "The money's not a problem."
"You might be able to help us, though, in securing Michael's vacation time, Dad," Sydney interjected. "We'd like to be able to stay two weeks if possible. Since I'm on personal leave this year with the baby we only have to beg one employer for time off," she finished with a dimpled grin.
"I'll see what I can do," you answered as you tried to quell the fear rising inside of you. You do not make decisions based on emotion, yet at that moment you felt like putting your daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter in a CIA safe house. Why, you didn't know, except that your instinct told you to.
*****
You drove them to the airport, not a safe house, on January 31.
"Sydney, I think you packed more on this trip than all of your missions combined," you commented as you lugged two large suitcases through LAX. "I thought you had learned to pack light."
"That was before Hope came along," Vaughn said with a laugh. Sydney glared at both of you for all of five seconds before a giggle escaped from her lips.
While waiting for their flight to be announced, you were the one who held Hope as your daughter gazed at the two of you with an amused expression on her face.
"You're good with her," she commented as you quirked an eyebrow at her. "Really, you are. It makes me wonder what I was like as a baby."
"Very much like what you see here," you answered in a short voice, fighting for the control that you cling to. "You were an angel, just like she is."
"Dad—" Sydney stopped, her eyes welling up.
Just then, their boarding call was announced. "Syd, it's time to go," Vaughn said as he picked up the diaper bag.
Reluctantly, you hugged your granddaughter one last time and shook Vaughn's hand before passing her to him. "Take care of them," you ordered. He nodded quickly. The kid's still afraid of you. Good.
"Sydney—"
"Dad—"
"Enjoy your trip," you said aloud; there was so much more left unsaid.
She looked at you, and she knew. "I will," she replied. Then, before you knew what was happening, she grabbed you into a hug, the kind she used to give you when she was five years old. Your arms went around her, returning the hug for the first time in years. "I love you," she said quietly, and then she was gone.
You didn't know then that that was the last time you would see your daughter alive.
Sydney called you from Marie's house to let you know that they had landed safely; you knew this anyway because you vigilantly checked the flight's progress on the airline's website. She e-mailed every few days to update you on their trip. "We're hoping to schedule a side trip to London," Sydney commented in her last e-mail to you. "Hope's passport will be filled by the time she goes to kindergarten!"
On February 12, Sydney called and left a message on your answering machine. "Dad, you don't need to bring the car seat when you pick us up at the airport. Hope is going to stay with Marie for an extra week. Marie will fly with her to L.A. on February 21, so you just need to pick up the two of us on the fourteenth." There was a brief pause, then she added "I love you, Daddy."
You thank whoever's listening that you didn't delete the message. It is now a treasured keepsake.
On the afternoon of February 14, you were talking to Devlin in your office when Agent Weiss barged in. You both looked up at him in annoyance, silently asking him what was so important. Without a word he walked over to the television and turned it on to an all-news channel.
"What you are looking at are the remains of Flight 47. The flight originated in Paris and after a stop for fuel in New York, was on its way to Los Angeles," the reporter told viewers as the bottom of the screen read "PLANE CRASH NEAR MEMPHIS."
You are an intelligent man. You are fluent in multiple languages; the English language should not be so hard to grasp. Yet what the reporter said made no sense in your brain. You struggled to realize what Weiss and Devlin already understood as you stared at the screen in horror.
"Sydney," you whispered as you saw a news flash—"NO SURVIVORS."
*****
The rest of the day went by in a blur. Weiss and Devlin sat with you in your office, watching with horror as the coverage unfolded. The airline confirmed that there were no survivors as the camera panned over the emergency workers who were trying to make sense of the wreckage. You absently heard a second reporter inform the audience that one of the rescue workers was being taken to the hospital with a broken arm after taking a serious fall onto the wreckage. You wondered how they could be worried about a broken bone when your daughter just died in the wreckage that idiot fell on.
Devlin had the presence of mind to call for Dixon and Marshall to join you, to learn the news from you before it got out in the CIA office.
Weiss called Marie; he volunteered for the job, wanting to help in some way. He knew Marie far better than you did, so you let him. "Just make sure that Hope is all right," you ordered, and he nodded.
You searched through your Palm Pilot for the phone number of Sydney's friends. Tippin, Tippin. There it was—Tippin, Will and Francie. You dialed the first of the many numbers listed, not sure if it was a home, work, or cell phone number. Someone picked up on the third ring.
"Hello?" Francie.
"Francie, this is Jack Bristow." You paused as you tried to decide how to tell her—break it to her gently or just say it? "Sydney and Vaughn were in an accident," you began carefully.
"Are they all right?" she asked fearfully. "Was it because of . . . you know . . . ."
"It had nothing to do with their work," you finished for her. "It was a plane crash. Francie, they're dead." That was the first time you said it out loud. Dead. You hated the way that sounded; you hated the cold reality setting in.
She gasped and began crying. "Do you want me to call Will?" you offered.
"No," you thought she said, although you were not certain. "I'll do it."
"I'll be in touch once we make funeral arrangements," you told her and then disconnected the call.
*****
People file past the caskets one last time before they are lowered into the ground. You notice some approaching Weiss and Francie, commenting on the eulogies they gave. You really should go over and talk to them, but you can't. There is someone else who needs your attention.
Hope rests in your arms, where she has been the entire service. True to her mother's word, she didn't make a sound. You stand up and walk over to the caskets, showing them to the uninterested little girl. She will not remember this day. She will not remember her parents, a comment that you have heard repeatedly since the plane crash. It will be up to everyone who loved her parents to make sure she learns who they were, what they stood for, what they fought for. She will need to hear about Vaughn's childhood from Marie, Sydney's friendship with Francie, Weiss's version of Sydney and Vaughn's relationship.
"Need a hand?" a quiet voice asks behind you. Turning slightly, you see Francie standing behind you, arms outstretched. Hope goes to her eagerly, fascinated by the necklace that she is wearing.
"Thanks," you say in a low voice. You hate to bring it up, but you have no choice. "Will you be at the reading of the will?"
"Tuesday at three," she confirms. "Do you have a baby-sitter for Hope?"
"No," you admit. You have hundreds, if not thousands of contacts, but none dealing with child care.
"She can stay with Olivia at day care," Francie volunteers. "I already spoke with the day care and they said it's all right."
"Thanks."
"If you need anything, anything at all, call us. We're only a phone call away."
"I'll do that."
*****
The reading of the will is painful yet straightforward. Personal items are divided up without any disagreement from those present; what's left will be liquidated and put in a trust for Hope. Your only surprise comes when the attorney reads the section of the will regarding custody of Hope.
" . . . guardian will be Jonathan Donahue Bristow, maternal grandfather . . . ."
You blink quickly and look at Marie. You assumed she would get custody of Hope, or maybe Francie and Will . . . but not you. Never you.
As the reading comes to a close, the attorney hands you a sealed envelope. "From Sydney," she says simply. "She brought this by just a few weeks ago. I never dreamed I would actually have to give it to you."
"Thank you," you say woodenly. You clutch the envelope as if it were a life preserver and walk outside. You hear the footsteps approaching but don't bother to look up.
"Mr. Bristow, we were thinking that maybe Hope could spend the night at our place if that's okay with you. I mean, you've had her 24/7 since . . . since she got back from France . . ." Will trailed off. "We'd like to help out, honest."
You nod your head once, still staring off into the distance, and then head for your car. You have some reading to do.
*****
The envelope taunts you all night from its perch on the end table. You are drawn to it, pick it up . . . but you can't. Because after it's read, Sydney is gone forever. So instead you pace through your home, glancing at the envelope, purposely turning away from the envelope, holding it in your hands, delicately setting it back on the end table, holding it up to the light to try to reveal its contents, pacing in another room so you don't have to see the envelope.
After six hours of pacing, you give up. Carefully lifting the envelope, you open the flap and remove the paper that is inside. You notice the date at the top, January 28. Just three days before they left for Paris. Seventeen days before she died.
Dear Dad—
You can't do this. You thought you were ready, but you're not. Hastily you stuff the piece of paper back into the envelope and place it inside the fireproof safe in your office. Someday you will have the strength to read Sydney's last words to you, but you doubt it will be anytime soon.
You try to fall asleep, but it is pointless; sleep will elude you for yet another night. You give up at 2 a.m. Grabbing two sets of keys, you lock the front door and take off in your car. You drive around aimlessly for awhile, but you know deep down where you will end up.
Sydney and Vaughn's house.
You put your spare key into the lock and slowly open the door. You don't know why, but for some reason you expected the house to look different, as if it too were in mourning for its owners' passing. Other than a fine layer of dust, everything looks the same as it did just a few short weeks ago when you loaded two heavy suitcases in your car for the trip to LAX.
You walk through the house, stopping often as the memories overtake you. You remember the first time you came here. Sydney was flushed with excitement. "This house is perfect, Dad," she enthused. "It's got a large living room, a kitchen with all of those appliances that I don't know how to use, and three bedrooms. And the master bedroom even has a walk-in closet! It's in a great neighborhood, too, just down the street from Francie and Will, with great schools for . . . when we start a family," Sydney finished, hesitating at the end. You knew why she hesitated. She was afraid you wouldn't want them to have children; after all, look what happened when you, a CIA agent, decided to raise a family. You're glad she didn't listen to you.
You see their wedding picture hanging in the living room; you remember that their marriage certificate is proudly displayed in their bedroom—"so that one of the first things we see in the morning is proof that we're not dreaming," as Sydney so eloquently put it. Over the mantle . . . over the mantle is their first, their last, official family portrait. The adorable baby, in a red crushed velvet dress with shiny black shoes. The mother, looking younger and happier than you had seen her in years. The father, bursting with pride and love for the two ladies he was posing next to.
You can almost imagine that you are here late at night baby-sitting while Sydney and Vaughn go out with friends to dinner and a movie. Hope is upstairs sleeping peacefully, and you are downstairs with all of the lights off except for one lone lamp in the living room. A part of you still expects to see the front door open at any minute and a laughing young couple enter, hushing each other with admonitions of "Don't wake the baby."
But that will never happen again. There is no baby sleeping upstairs. There is no laughing young couple, more in love than you had ever seen two people. There is just a cold, dark house that is no longer a home.
You continue your journey upstairs and quietly creep into Hope's bedroom. You always crept into this room, always afraid that you would be disturbing your granddaughter. She never found you to be an intruder, though; she always welcomed you with coos of delight. She didn't know about all of the ruthless murders you had committed, the double-crossings, how you abandoned your own daughter, her mother. Hope only knew that you were someone who loved her. Someone who would die for her, you concluded silently to yourself. As that 747 was crashing to the ground, you hope that Sydney understood how much you loved her. You hope she knew that you would take her place if you could.
Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you glance around the room and try to determine how long it will take to pack up. There is an empty bedroom in your house waiting for all of these possessions, but no one had had the heart to move it just yet. The work must be done, however; Hope needs to sleep in her crib again and be around familiar surroundings—her mobile, her storybooks, her bath toys.
But even more than that, she needs her mother and father.
That is your job now—to be both father and mother. You hope you don't do such a horrible job this time.
You go up into the attic and retrieve a few empty boxes. Returning to Hope's bedroom, you fill one box with clothes labeled "6-9 months" and "9-12 months." Another box is filled with Golden Books, Berenstein Bears, Mother Goose. In the third box you toss stuffed animals—a puppy with a "L.A. Train Station" label, a whale you remember was bought at "the pier"—whatever Vaughn meant by that—and a worn teddy bear. Teddy. You forgot he existed, never noticed him before in the crib. Yet here he is, bringing back more memories . . . .
You were in Minneapolis when you received word that you had a daughter. Three days later, when you finally got to head home, you bought a plush teddy bear in a tiny gift shop in O'Hare while you waited for your next flight. When Sydney could talk she named it simply "Teddy," and it slept with her every night until she was nine or ten. If she'd realized you bought it, she probably would have trashed it after her mother died. Instead she clung to it; obviously it became a treasure to her, a good memory of her childhood that she wanted to pass down to her own daughter.
You clutch Teddy and sink into the rocking chair by the window. Emotions which you have held in check for so long come crashing to the surface all at once. The sobs shake your body as you cry into this poor, defenseless toy. You cry for yourself, for the two lives cut short, for the little girl who will have no memory of her life here. For the family and friends and co-workers who each mourn in their own way.
Eventually the tears subside, although the hollow ache inside does not. You sit in the rocking chair and watch the sun come up.
Sometime after 7 a.m. you hear a creaking downstairs. Going to investigate, you discover Will Tippin walking through the downstairs, turning off all of the lights you left on during the night.
You clear your throat. "Hello, Mr. Tippin," you say formally.
He jumps, although at least this time he does not scream. "Jack! I mean, Mr. Bristow," he stammers.
"Jack is fine."
"I didn't realize you were here. I was driving to work and I noticed the lights were on . . . I used the spare key Syd gave me when they moved in. I just wanted to make sure no one was robbing the place, honest."
A slight smile turns up your lips. The poor kid thinks you're going to shoot him or something; he might as well have both hands up in the air. "Trust me, I'm not 'robbing the place,' to use your words. Just packing a few things for Hope."
"Oh. Do you need any help?"
"No. Yes. No," you answer. "What I mean is," you continue as you look at Will's confused face, "I don't need any help at the moment; I'm just packing some of Hope's clothes and toys. But it would probably be best if we went through the house as a group before Marie returns to France. Now that the will has been read things can be removed from the house. Would you and Francie be willing to help?"
"Sure. Just let us know when, okay?"
"Of course. I believe you need to get to the paper, don't you?" you inquire as Will looks at his watch.
"Late again," he mutters to himself. "See ya later, Jack," he calls as he heads for the door.
"Will?"
"Yeah?"
"How was Hope last night?"
Will turns around and faces you. "She's a great baby. Not a single problem. If you ever need a baby-sitter, let us know."
"Thank you," you answer to the closing door in front of you.
*****
The following Saturday a small group convenes in the driveway of Sydney and Vaughn's house to complete the undesirable task of going through an entire house of belongings. Weiss gets all of Donavan's extra toys and food and loads it into his car; he has kept the dog since January 30, the night before the fateful trip began. He then joins Will and Francie in the nursery, packing up everything and loading it into a small moving truck. Diane boxes up all of the linens to be taken to a women's shelter. While one of her teenagers empties the contents out of the two cars in the garage, the other supervises a toddling Olivia and a babbling Hope in the kitchen. Marie sorts through all of the dishes and cookware; most will also be given away, except for Hope's child-size dishes and the fine china Sydney ordered when she and Vaughn were engaged. This, like so many other things, will be stored. Dixon helps you go through all of the business paperwork that is needed as executor of the estate—bank statements, credit card bills, mortgage. Going through the desk you stick a half-empty pack of postage stamps in your pocket and place a journal and three small framed photographs into a box of things to go through later.
By noon it becomes evident that everyone is physically and emotionally tired. You propose that everyone follow the moving truck to your house, set up Hope's room, and call it a day. Everyone heartily agrees with this suggestion. It will take much more than one day to go through a lifetime of memories.
*****
Somehow you make it through that first month, then the second. A schedule slowly emerges; although you have full custody, it is really shared with all those who loved her parents. Hope spends her days with Olivia, either at day care or with Francie on her days off. Her nights are full, including time spent with the Dixons, Tippins, and Weiss.
You e-mail pictures to Marie once a week; she flies to L.A. every other month. You are a doting grandparent . . . parent . . . legal guardian. You are not sure what to call yourself anymore. For the nineteenth time today you curse the incompetent mechanics who put you in this situation.
Hope continues to grow bigger; she'll be talking any day now. But there will not be a "da da" or a "ma ma" to answer her calls.
You do things that you have never done before, not even when Sydney was a child—you sing lullabies, you call the day care at least three times a day to check up on Hope, you refuse to schedule meetings after three o'clock in the afternoon, fearing that they will run late and you will lose some of your precious time with your little girl. Your observation skills are lacking these days too. One day you even wound up lost in the woods at a local park because you were busy pointing out different birds to your wide-eyed granddaughter.
Sydney and Vaughn's house is slowly emptied of its belongings. The cars were the first to go, sold to a friend of Dixon who owned a car dealership. Linens and dishes were taken to the women's shelter, where they were joyfully received. Some furniture was given away; other pieces went to friends and family. The desk was shipped back to France, returning to its original home. The kitchen table found its way to Weiss's apartment. The china cabinet graced Will and Francie's dining room. An oil painting was hung in a place of honor in Francie's restaurant, while Vaughn's lucky coin rested next to a yo-yo in a certain agent's office. The bookcases were all crammed into your house, complete with all of the books that the two avid readers had collected over the years. You thought to yourself that you rivaled the local library in reading selection. What is left goes into storage. You don't have the strength to go through it yet.
You try to sell their house, but in the end, you can't. Instead you rent it out to a group of graduate students who desperately want to live in a real house, not an apartment, for a change. They make sure that they promptly pay the rent each month and that no damage is done to the house after they realize they are renting from a top CIA agent. It's good to know you haven't lost your touch.
Before you know it, it is August. You wrack your brain trying to remember Sydney's first birthday party . . . only to realize you were in Italy that day on business. While your daughter was putting her fist into a cake, you were investigating the murder of a no-count agent. You vow that this will not happen a second time; instead, you host a small birthday party with more adults present than children. Everyone tries their best to smile and laugh at Hope's fascination with her cake, but they are too busy trying not to notice Sydney's dimples and Vaughn's eyes recreated in this tiny body.
*****
They say that time heals all wounds. You think a fool must have said that. Instead of healing, you feel like your chest has been ripped open and your bloodied heart beaten to a pulp.
You made it through Thanksgiving. You made it through Christmas, with a little help from your good friend Jack Daniels. A new year dawned and it didn't affect you; you just made sure Hope was still covered up in her crib as the clock struck midnight.
It was the first week of January when the problems began.
With the Christmas and New Year's rush over, stores were now advertising Valentine's Day. How it was just six weeks away. You couldn't look at one of those posters without feeling the bile rise in your throat. Each one was a reminder of what was taken away from you on the day that love is celebrated.
This time you cursed the airline who had left you with such a hatred for a seemingly benign holiday.
You are not the only one affected by the Valentine's madness. Francie comments that she burst into tears the day she saw the older children making red and pink hearts at daycare. Will has to beg off a special holiday story about how cupid's arrow struck happy couples. Weiss and Dixon comment that they are grateful they work in the sterile office of the CIA, where decorations like hearts and candies are not allowed.
It reaches a fevered pitch on the morning of February 14. As you drive to the cemetery, Hope making up songs in the backseat, the all-news radio station reminds listeners that today is the one-year anniversary of "that tragic plane crash" which was bound for L.A. It offers a hollow "our thoughts and prayers are with you" before playing an advertisement for a Valentine's dinner special.
You fight the cold and spend twenty minutes at their graves, staring at the tombstone. In the end, a person's life is boiled down to their name, date of birth, and date of death. It doesn't matter that the two names on this tombstone stand for a man and woman who put their lives on the line on a daily basis for their country. It doesn't matter that they were well-loved and respected. All that is important is their name and two days from a calendar.
Hope continues her songs and lets you know that she doesn't want to be held anymore. Gently setting her down, she toddles over to the tombstone and touches it. You doubt she knows what it is, that this is where what little remains of her parents are buried. Yet she sits down in the middle, between where the two caskets were lowered into the ground, as if she is sitting between her parents once again. You try to swallow the sudden lump in your throat before lifting Hope and walking away.
Today you are playing hooky, something you never did very well. You were always too devoted to your job. That has all changed. Now your attention is focused on the squirming girl in your arms.
Several months ago while going through some of Sydney's belongings, you found a journal. You debated whether to read it or not; in the end, you decided to read the first page and then judge whether or not to continue. "The Story of Michael and Sydney" was emblazoned on the first page in bold script. The journal began with the first day Sydney walked into the CIA and closed with the destruction of SD-6 and their engagement. After reading it you understood why they enjoyed spending their anniversary at the pier, why they liked taking train rides. You decided that today you would show these places to their daughter and try to relate some of her parents' story. You know she won't really understand you, but maybe it will make you feel better.
You wearily pull into your driveway that evening after dinner with the Tippins. You gently remove Hope from her car seat, hoping not to wake her. It's been a long day for both of you, and you both need rest, although you're sure only one of you will sleep through the night. You carry your toddler into the house and to her room. She opens her eyes only once, when you are undressing her, and says "Da da," looking straight in your eyes before returning to her peaceful slumber. Your heart breaks just a little more.
After depositing her in her crib—and realizing that before long it will need to be replaced with an actual bed—you walk to your office and open the safe.
It's time to catch up on your reading.
*****
The last time you tried to do this you read through the salutation before putting it away. This is the first time you have opened that envelope since that night almost a year ago.
With shaking hands you remove the single page from the envelope. For the last time, Sydney will speak to you.
January 28
Dear Dad,
A few years ago I would have never dreamt of leaving you with custody of my child. I didn't know you, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to. You were just this distant dad who sold airplane parts. What a difference a few years makes . . . so much has happened in the last few years. Sometimes the truth hurts; sometimes we find out things about ourselves that we don't like. But we still have the chance to change these things and redeem ourselves. I did this when I learned the truth about SD-6.
I don't even know if you realize it, but you have redeemed yourself in the last few years as we have grown closer. I finally feel like I have a father again. If that isn't enough proof, how about this—even Francie likes you. I never thought that would happen! (No offense.)
I'm hoping this never happens, but the day may come when you get to redeem yourself for my childhood. For years I never thought I would have children; I knew that didn't fit into SD-6's plans for me. But I always dreamed that the day would come when I would be going to the park and the zoo and story time at the library. When SD-6 finally shut its doors I knew that that dream could someday be reality.
One of the first things Michael and I did when we found out I was pregnant was revise our will to protect our child. There was never any doubt who we wanted to have custody of our child—you. We have grown so close in the last few years, and I know without a shadow of a doubt how regretful you are that my childhood turned out the way it did. I understand why you did what you did, but it didn't stop the pain and sorrow growing up. I also realize that the father you always wanted to be, the father you were deep down, is no longer dormant but with me every day. I see it in the relationship we have and the relationship you have with Hope.
So in the event that the unthinkable happens to Michael and me, I want you to take care of Hope, and any brothers and sisters she may have in the future, and give them the childhood you wanted to give me. I know you'll do a great job, and if you ever feel like you can't make it . . . remember, I'll always be watching.
I love you. Never forget that. And always remind Hope of my love for her.
Love,
Sydney
You are crying long before the page flutters out of your hands and onto the floor.
She knew. She knew how much you loved her, and she loved you in return. She loved you so much she trusted you with her baby.
As the tears rush down your cheeks, you can feel the healing begin. You have mourned long enough. The healing will not be immediate, and the pain will never fully go away, but it is time to let your precious Sydney go.
Epilogue
"Are you sure you want to do this?" you ask Weiss again. "Because you know you don't have to."
"I know, but I want to," he answers as he plays with another of those childish yo-yos.
You hesitate for just another moment as you look him in the eye, then nod. "Okay. I'll have the attorney draw the papers up. You can sign them when you get back from the honeymoon. The renters are moving out in a week, so as soon as they give me their keys back, the house is yours."
"Thanks, Jack," Weiss says, shaking your hand over and over. He then waves at his fiancée, soon-to-be wife, and shouts, "We can buy the house!"
"Really, Eric, at least half of L.A. just heard you," Marie chides. "I know you're getting married tomorrow, but please try to contain yourself."
"Yes, ma'am," he solemnly salutes her before winking.
The priest clears his throat. "Excuse me, are we ready to begin?"
Weiss looks around. "I think so. We've got the bride," he points to his fiancée, "the groom," pointing to himself, "bridesmaids, groomsmen . . . hey, where's the flower girl?"
"Here I am," Hope calls from the back of the church, basket in hand.
"There's my three-year-old buddy," Weiss enthuses, scooping Hope up for a hug.
You sit back on a hard pew and observe the scene around you. The group that has come together so many times dealing with tragedy is now celebrating. While everyone recognizes that the best man will not be present, you are trying to focus on the happiness instead of the sorrow. A part of you was surprised when Weiss asked if Hope could be the flower girl, but when you thought about it, it made sense. Weiss thinks of her as a daughter, and she adores him; it's evident in the looks she gives him. She especially loves the stories he tells. You wonder what stories he will tell her when she is older.
The anxious bride-to-be runs through the ceremony three times before she is satisfied. "Okay, be here tomorrow by noon for pictures," she instructs the wedding party.
Hope skips to where you are sitting, her basket flailing and petals flying everywhere. "How many times do I have to do that tomorrow?" she asks warily.
You laugh. "Only once, Hope. Tonight was just for practice. Tomorrow you only have to do it one time."
"Good," she answers decisively. She reminds you so much of her mother right now.
"We'd better be going so the flower girl can get her beauty rest," you tell her as she dutifully takes your hand and you walk outside.
"Hey, Hope, want to hear one last story?" Weiss calls as he walks across the parking lot towards you.
Hope looks at you. "Sure. But wait for Uncle Eric to walk over here," you tell her.
Weiss picks Hope up in his arms. "Okay, Hope, it's a wedding story. Ready?"
"Ready!" she gleefully tells him.
"Once upon a time, there was a man named Michael and a woman named Sydney—"
"Hey, those are my mommy and daddy's names!" Hope interrupts.
Weiss pretends to look surprised. "Really?"
"Really!"
"Well, isn't that interesting," he says as he looks over at you. "Anyway, these two loved each other very much. But there was a bad man who didn't want them to be together."
"What was his name?"
You are almost certain you hear him mutter "Devlin," although Weiss simply says, "That's not important, ladybug. So, Michael and Sydney had to work for a long time to beat the bad guy."
"But they did, didn't they?" Hope asks, her eyes shining.
"They sure did. And after they beat the bad guy, they decided to get married. The end."
"No," Hope says.
"What?" you and Weiss ask simultaneously.
"You forgot to say 'and they lived happily ever after'!" Hope reminds him.
You and Weiss exchange a glance. What do I say? he seems to be asking you.
You shrug slightly, not knowing what to tell him.
"Well, they didn't live happily ever after, ladybug," Weiss tells her. "But they were very happy together."
And that much is true. They loved each other very much and enjoyed a happy life together.
It was just not long enough.