It wasn't easy to go see her.
There was that little matter of his job, not to mention his wife. The former was harder to avoid than the latter, even if it should've been the other way around. Margo looked the other way once she knew. That was their marriage; they kept secrets, had affairs, but both of them were too careful of their reputations, their standing, to divorce. And Jack just made things more complicated.
His job was what tethered him there, and kept him from hopping a flight to Australia purely on a whim. He was needed there every day, all the time it seemed. But every now and then there'd be a few days where he wasn't blocked in by surgeries. Those were the times where he'd give his wife a chaste kiss, and tell her that he had a conference in Toledo, or a patient who had requested him specifically in Seattle. She would nod, tell him 'good luck' or 'be careful' and then out the door he would go.
He'd take a sixteen hour flight at some odd hour of the day or night, always in business, and always by the window, so he wasn't disturbed by the person seated next to him. He'd avoid drinking on the plane, making sure he wasn't wasted when he landed.
Then he'd end up in front of the small house in Sydney, usually in the early evening. His visits followed a pattern.
"What are you doing here?" The woman with the thick accent asked. Carol was a small thing, blonde, in her early 30s. When he'd first met her she'd been charmed by the idea of a man with money, someone who appeared responsible. He was older than her, and that only added to her attraction he thought.
He sighed, "Why am I ever here? I want to see my daughter."
"She's sleeping." Carol practically hissed.
"She's three. It doesn't matter if she's sleeping or not. She barely remembers me even when she's awake." He protested.
"Yes she does," she replied quickly, and he raised an eyebrow. "That song you sang to her. Catch A Falling Star? She remembers that."
"Are you going to let me in or not?"
In response, she opened the door wider, and stepped aside to let him pass. "I never understand why you don't come earlier, in the daytime. You know so you could actually see her. Maybe even interact with her."
"I have a few times if you remember correctly." Christian reminded her, eager to skip this part, and just go see his daughter.
"Twice," she interjected.
"I told you, I have a strict schedule." He replied, a lie that slipped through his lips as easily as truth did. "I take what I can."
"No, what you do is you stay on the outside so you don't have to get involved. You show up so you don't look like a complete asshole, but you don't stick around because then you don't become part of this."
"I am a part of this." He turned away from the door, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught, but not entirely surprised. "I am her father."
"Wrong. You're just some guy I fucked because I was in love with the thought of being rebellious. I wanted to do the rich guy." She laughed bitterly, as she shook her head. "Tell me, is this how it's going to be for the next fifteen years? Nighttime visits without any contact. Is this your master plan?"
"Have you been listening to your sister again? Because that woman has always had it out for me." In the past he'd had run-ins with her sister. Lindsay consistently tried to stop him from seeing Claire, just hadn't succeeded. Yet.
"You're right, she has. And you know what else? Lindsay's right. I shouldn't let you see her. This isn't fair to me, and more importantly this isn't fair to Claire." She crossed her arms, and he sensed that this was an argument he might not win. "What am I supposed to tell her when she starts asking about her father?"
"Don't you think it's a little early to be –"
She talked right on over him. "Am I supposed to tell her that he has another family somewhere else? That he chose them over her? You think she'll want to see you then? You think she'll want you anywhere near her?"
Christian stared hard with narrowed eyes. He hated threats and ultimatums. "You will do no such thing."
"Won't I?" She raised an eyebrow. "You can't stop me, it's not like you're ever here. You fly in every three, four months or so, and you're gone before the nights over. Does that make you feel like you've done your job?" There was a look of disgust on her face. "I'd hate to see how you treat your son."
He stabbed a finger in her direction. "You leave my son out of this." She didn't seem at all deterred by his gestures. To her credit, she wasn't the type to back down and go running scared from a fight. It just wasn't beneficial to him right now. "What is it that you want from me?"
She cocked her head to the right just slightly, pausing to take a breath, to think rationally instead of just yelling and nitpicking. "I want you to come clean. I want you to tell your wife, and then I want you to actually come here and visit like a normal person. I want you to spend time with her, not just pop in when you have time. I understand that you have a life back there, that this qualifies as a mistake on the unblemished record of Christian Shepherd, but the least you can do is own up to it. At least you can make the best of a bad situation."
He knew his answer before she was halfway through her monologue, but he waited until the end because, like with everything, he preferred that this was dealt with calmly and civilly. "I can't do that."
She gave a shaky sigh, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Then I want you to leave."
He expected that. "I'll be on my way as soon as I see her."
"No," she shook her head. "Now. I want you to leave now, and I don't want to ever come back."
"You can't stop me from seeing my own daughter." He told her, intimidation creeping into his voice. The old standby.
"What are you going to do? Go to court?" He looked away from her. They both knew he wouldn't do that if he had any intention of keeping this quiet, of carrying on with his life back in the states like nothing had ever happened, and he'd never known anyone with the names Carol or Claire Littleton. "Stop trying to fool yourself into thinking that you even care that much."
He took a few steps closer to her, never touching her. "You can call me a horrible father. But think about what kind of mother you are, depriving her of her father."
"Get out," she said, dropping her voice, barely louder than his own. "Get out or I'll call the police."
"Don't bother," he replied, looking at her for a second, taking her in like it was the first time he'd ever really seen her. Then he was out the front door.
As he got in his rental car, he took one last look at the house. He found the window that went into his daughter's bedroom, trying to imagine the way she looked when he'd last seen her. They grew so fast when they were this young. Carol stood in the doorway, robe pulled tight across her chest, and in the streetlights her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. They stared for a moment, before she closed the door, effectively shutting him out of both their lives.
And just like that the pattern was broken.
So he'd go back home to his wife and his son, and talk about the horrible speaker at the conference, and tell them how glad he was to be home. Margo would ask when he thought he'd be gone again and how the number of trips he took was just insane, and he'd tell her he thought he was done for awhile. Then he'd sit down with his scotch while Margo would cook, and Jack would do homework, and they'd all pretend that nothing was off, that nothing was wrong and they were perfectly content with their lives.
And on another continent, a three year old girl would wake up, unaware that her world had changed.