Strolling down the empty street, Carrie and Franny moved through the raw afternoon, bundled up, but still feeling the cold. Bleak winter light shone down on the mother and daughter, as Carrie pushed the toddler in the stroller, trying to get some fresh air despite the dark season, the cool weather, and her own internal landscape – dense clouds, heavy rain, and just about to go black. The child was cheerful, even thought she was just getting over a cold: Franny's nose was red. Carrie's nose was too, but not for the same reason.
When they arrived, the park appeared deserted. Bare branches pointed at the sky, like skeletal fingers accusing the sky of some ineffable decision that had resulted only in human suffering. Maybe the sky was to blame, Carrie thought blackly, something had to be. But as she turned the memories over in her mind again, like worry stones worn smooth from use, she came back to the same conclusion that she always did. The blame was hers. Her blond hair swung next to her cheeks, shielding her swollen eyelids from view. She always tried to control her crying on the way out – she reminded herself she could always cry on the way home. She pushed the stroller over frozen ground to the toddler playground, and unfastened Franny's safety belt. She set the toddler on her feet. "There you go, sweet girl. Go play," she said, watching the girl wobble off. She sat down on the nearby bench to wait for Billy.
As she always did, started at the top of the regret list, and worked her way down: Carrie's "what-ifs", miscommunications, regrets, mistakes, and downright stubborn bullheaded errors that had led her to this state of anxiety. About the only positive thing she had to say about her situation these days was that the outcome was unknown. Meanwhile, she was still functioning; she had her sister, her daughter. She went to work, albeit a different kind of work than she had done previously, but one that suited her current purpose. She had a few friends, new and old, and forced herself to spend time with them.
But though she did her best to continue to go through the motions like a normal person, she was emotionally crippled. God, she was wounded, she walked around all day, every day, feeling like she had a carving knife stuck in her chest. Nothing she could tell herself would lighten the pressure in her heart, so much worse at night, when there was no one to talk to. When it was late, and fear for him nearly ate her alive. At those times, deep in the night, she couldn't silence the self-recriminating internal voice that said, "It's my fault, it's my fault, it's all my fault." Then, lying in the dark in her childhood bedroom, she would jam her fist in her mouth, and weep.
It was late December, and it had been almost six months since she had heard from Peter Quinn. She winced at the memory of the moment of shock – the moment she realized that he was already gone, and that she had no way to contact him, that no amount of blackmail applied to Dar Adal was going to reveal his contact information – there simply wasn't any. This was followed by a long summer of tears and regrets, an autumn of silent depression, and a pensive winter of simply waiting, fearing, hoping, rationalizing. Going over the same ground again and again, like a madman looking for a lost coin. Inside this miasma of inescapable guilt, lay crux of her pain: the feelings she had for this man who had so briefly touched her, held her. Most difficult of all, Quinn had created hope in her, hope now held in a pending state, until she could find him. Hope for love, acceptance, pleasure; hope for something like a normal life.
Her daughter, once so difficult for Carrie to accept and love, had become her saving grace. The only bright spot in her weary world. Franny squawked cheerfully on the playground, trying to pick up fistfuls of sand with her woolen mittens. Carrie smiled weakly and heard a voice next to her, say, "Whoo, if she isn't growing," and give a low, cheerful laugh.
"Hey," Carrie said, giving a genuine smile for the first time that day. "How are you, Billy." She stood and gave him a brief, tight hug.
"I'm doing alright. My brother and his wife came over last night, left me a mess of meatloaf. I'm stuffed like a tick." He sat back, gave a satisfied sigh, and then went quiet, watching Franny's solo playground antics.
Billy had been her Dad's "Park Friend", met while strolling in the park with Franny during the time Carrie was overseas in a danger zone. Her Dad, Frank, along with her sister Maggie, had been Franny's caregivers when Franny was a baby. Carrie had been overwhelmed with motherhood, and because of her ambition, topped with a big helping of post-partum depression and trauma, she had taken a post overseas. Working as Station Chief in Islamabad was a "dream job", as she described it to Maggie. But of course, since the Station was closed to dependents, she had left the baby here, and Frank had been a stand-in Dad for her kid. It was during those park visits that Carrie's Dad had befriended Billy, who in turn, became something more than a Park Friend to Carrie, after her father's death.
She hadn't seen Billy for a few weeks, and was glad to meet up with him. She had so few unjudging confidantes, and Billy's companionable silence allowed her to feel and say just about anything, or nothing at all. More than once, he'd listened to fractured parts of her tale, and, handing her a folded handkerchief, offered a quiet word or two of encouragement while she wept.
They exchanged pleasantries about the cold weather, the price of gas, her plans for the holidays, and reviewed Franny's latest list of accomplishments. "She can finish all the sentences in "Goodnight Moon," Carrie said, trying to contain her pride. "Oh, I have no doubt," smiled Billy, "She's gonna be a genius. Like her Mama." Carrie gave a crooked half-smile. She scuffed her feet on the gravel below the bench, and sniffled.
Small talk exchanged, they sat for a moment, and then Billy spoke.
"So," he drawled quietly, "Any word?"
Her kind old friend, sweet and concerned, was giving her an opportunity to speak about the matter that burdened her heart. Of course, she had never shared the deepest truth, that Quinn was overseas with a Black Ops group – that was just too radioactive for general consumption. All Billy knew, was that Carrie's "beau", as he referred to Quinn, was missing overseas in a dangerous military operation, and that she was losing hope that she would ever hear from him again.
She felt the lump in her throat grow.
"Not yet," she croaked. She stared into the distance, vision blurring through the tears that began to fill her eyes, and thought back to that single afternoon, and single moment when she had him in her arms, and in her life.
Things came to a head the night after her father's funeral. In the street outside Maggie's house, Quinn and Carrie walked slowly, chatting, enjoying the feeling of peace and safety, listening to the summer night wind. The canopy of trees above rustled, giving a feeling of shelter, as did the proximity of Quinn's bulk. He had been indulging his quirky humor that night, sipping Irish Whiskey, and smiling shyly whenever he could catch her eye. His shoulders were relaxed and his step was light – she didn't think she had ever seen him so content.
They had reached Quinn's pickup, and turned to face each other. His eyes, always so intense, seemed a deeper blue that night above the neck of his dark suit. As their conversation tapered off into a silence thick with emotion, his eyes searched her face, as if he desired to keep her there, memorize her. Her funeral dress fluttered around her bare knees, and she shivered. His expression, all night so tender, changed as she watched. It morphed something more eager, hungry. He dove for her mouth, and kissed her.
The years of suppressed passion between them burst into tinder, blossom, flame. Quinn's lips were soft, and a thousand times gentler than the rough and ravenous fuck-buddy she'd always imagined him to be. Careful, so careful, he was, like she was made of glass. His passion became more insistent, while his tongue searched her. He turned her, pressed her back into the truck, and brought his hands up to stroke her hair, her face. She was pinned, and put her arms around his neck, her hands into his hair. This was no routine seduction, no quick satisfaction of hormones. Quinn's kisses were telling her wordlessly that he loved her; she could feel it, feel him, giving himself over to this larger, uncontrollable awareness. And she was going with him. All the fear and pain that he felt for them both had been burned away by his yearning, into something lasting, something pure. One by one, other things, people, ideas, fell away, leaving him falling into her, dimensionless, ethereal. He moaned and his hand stroked her cheek. He slipped his lips down the side of her neck, sighing. And then, something broke loose inside her, and she turned away.
He stood back, disappointed, but compassionate. She thought her relationships had never worked out, had assumed that nobody would ever really love her and want to be with her, because of her bipolar disorder. She felt the same passion he did, felt the barriers between them breaking down like so much tissue paper. But she insisted she'd just fuck up anything they had, if they got involved. Quinn resolutely insisted that he had seen her at her worst, and when Carrie stated that with her, things always end badly, he said, "Until they don't." She had known he was a friend, she had known he was reliable, but she hadn't known how steadfastly he believed in her. His love was unwavering, his concern for her well-being was permanent. He wasn't proposing one hot night, nor even a series of them. He wanted the whole thing; was standing at the door of a real life with her. All she had to do was let him in. But years of conditioning and belief hamstrung her, and she couldn't bring herself to even try.
"Well, you think about it, Carrie," Quinn had said. He stroked her hair and cupped her cheek with one large hand, and she turned her face to kiss his palm. Then, eyes shining with something like adoration, he got in his silver pickup and drove off.
That was the last time she'd seen him.
She sighed. It was time to take Franny home, it was getting cold. Billy was shifting in his seat too. "I hope you have a good holiday, Carrie," he said, "and that you get what you want for Christmas," he said thoughtfully. She hung her head. He gave her another hug, and they parted ways, walking in opposite directions across the park.