London, April 1962
He sat on the couch in the waiting room, his hands alternating between cupping his face and combing his hair. It had been a long time since he had been so emotional, felt so excited, so scared, and so elated at the same time. The people came and went as he waited. Nurses saying they had nothing to report, his father to get a cup of tea, doctors on their way to other parts of the hospital. But he paid little attention to his surroundings; he was in himself right now.
He let his hands slide from the back of his hair, moving them forward. He never got over feeling his clean, smooth hair. He never went more than six weeks without getting it cut. He stared at his hands. His nails were always trimmed, the skin on his hands kept soft with lotion in the bottom of his bathroom shelf.
He was an honest businessman, and he led his company well. He was very young to be a president, the youngest one they had seen. But he was fair, and he listened, and he created a working environment that the others appreciated and respected. His leadership style had made him successful, but he was very quiet and modest about it.
He thought about his desk at work, on it were the two things that had followed him through prep school and university. Others had wondered about the broken spectacles that looked like they fit a child, and the bit of broken sea shell that he kept, but no one ever asked. Even the love of his life, his Ana, never asked him in all these years. She knew him well enough to know he would bring it up when he was ready. Just as she knew that sometimes in the middle of the night she should wipe his forehead with a warm washcloth as he slept. A loving gesture he knew not of since when he woke in the mornings he couldn't remember having dreamed at all.
The glasses were easier to get than he thought possible, if he could have thought clearly at the time. He walked up to him aboard the ship, once they were on it. "Hand them over." Was all he said, and they were placed in his hand immediately, game over. With adults around there was no argument. He never saw that flaming red hair again.
He found Auntie's house the summer after his first year at university. He wanted to meet her, to see the sweet shop, and to hear his name. That haunted him the most, that he had never asked him his real name, not during that time. Auntie chattered incessantly, as she fixed their tea, about how he had been such a sweet little boy, reading, listening to the radio and taking it all in like an adult, about his doctor's appointments for the asthma. He tried to return his spectacles to her, "Oh no dear, please. You keep them."
He shook his head and placed his hands together in his lap. He got back. Back to London, and he was all right.
He was quick to notice the hand on his shoulder. A younger version of himself would have jumped and turned in less than half a second.
"Ralph" The doctor called him out of his memories. Congratulations. Ana is fine, she did very well.
"And the baby? Do I have a son or daughter?"
The doctor had a gleam in his eye. "She would like to show you herself. Follow me."
There was his wife in the hospital bed. She looked up at Ralph with pure adoration. They had been together since the first year of university and she knew him and loved him for the kind, pure, but old soul that he was.
"Hullo, daddy. Meet your boys."
In her slender hands two little infants were cradled, sighing and sleeping as newborns do. Twins. His own set of twins, he would have to make a call to his best regional vice presidents and let them know.
"Simon" Ralph whispered as he looked into Ana's eyes. And his first child was named, safe in his arms. He picked up the second twin and held him close to his chest. "John" he whispered fiercely, remembering how Auntie had lovingly used Piggy's real name.
"I came home. I was chief, and I came home." He wept again, and his heart was a little lighter.