"You live twice, once in reality, the second time, in memories."
-Honoré de Balzac
"I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born."
—Jack London, The Star Rover
Astrid's manicured eyebrows had gone up at the sight of Carrie's number on her caller ID. Sitting back in her office in Berlin, her posting in the Middle East complete for the time, she couldn't think of a more unlikely caller – or, a more worthy foe. What could she want?
"Allo?" she said archly. "Miss Mathison?"
"Yeah, it's me," Carrie said.
"I don't know where Quinn is, so you can stop calling me," she said pre-emptively.
"I know you don't, and that's not why I'm calling," Carrie said flatly. "I need to get the fuck out of here."
"Miss Mathison… Carrie…. I don't quite understand."
"I admit it," Carrie said, somewhat contritely, "You are the last person I ever expected to be asking for help. But…" she almost didn't know how to finish. "He's gone again. On a mission. And I need to get out of the US. I've left the Agency."
Carrie heard a low whistle on the other end of the phone, and then Astrid was quiet for a moment. Finally, she spoke.
"I see. I will not say, 'I told you so.' Let me make a few calls. Your abilities are well respected in the intelligence community in Western Europe. Maybe, there is something here, maybe even in Berlin. But I couldn't say at what level, what, "pay grade", you would say, is available. Would you be willing?"
Carrie took a deep breath. She had half expected Astrid to tell her to piss off, or not even answer. But here she was, being helpful. She had been making this call in her car, alternately looking in the rear view mirror at Franny, who dozed, and herself, who wasn't getting any younger. Where an ache for Quinn had previously resided, she now felt a numbness – like she had been sandpapered beyond sensitivity into something like acceptance. He had lit out, and couldn't be contacted. All the worry in the world wasn't going to bring him back. She sighed.
"I'd be willing, Astrid. I would."
Carrie had already begun the process that Quinn had been so near to completing last Spring. She had gone through all the requisite exit screens, tests, polygraphs, and forms, stating the same reason every time: I have to get out, it's for my daughter. I need to be there for her, I need to create a life for us. I have to get out for Franny. And so the system reluctantly disgorged one Carrie Anne Mathison, now a regular citizen, jobless and filing for COBRA, until she could get herself and Fran signed up for some kind of health insurance under Obamacare. Just another suburban mom, pushing a shopping cart with a baby girl in it. It felt liberating, and terrifying. But she forced herself to start to get used to it.
The morning her final discharge papers were signed, she picked them up and left a copy for filing, and then picked up her final paycheck and last overseas hazard bonus – a nice chunk of change. Walking out of Langley for what she thought was the last time, except perhaps as a visitor, she spied the familiar figure of Saul Berenson, a person she had gone out of her way to avoid since her sickening discovery at Dar Adal's home. He was in an adjacent parking lot, walking towards the building, head down and glasses on, his shoulders in their characteristic stoop. He looked old.
Good, she thought. He should feel burdened. He should feel heavy and sick after what he's done, fucking gone and sold his soul. If he ever had one. She moved quietly behind the "Kryptos" statue until he had entered the building, and was gone. If he made her, he didn't show it. Maybe he was as intent on avoiding her, as she was him. In any case, she didn't care. She just wanted to avoid an awkward "goodbye and good luck." He knew she was getting out – in fact, he had to sign some of her paperwork. But he hadn't called, emailed or stopped by in person. Between Carrie and her former mentor, now the new Director, a huge gulf now lay. There was no bridging it, except to go back in time. And that wasn't happening, no matter how anyone might wish it to. On her last day, she had hugged Max and Virgil, who promised to stay in touch. They probably would, she thought. She also had a surprisingly touching call from former Director Lockhart, who also promised to stay in touch. He probably wouldn't, she snarked, but she surely would miss his wife's lasagna.
She had gone home, and talked to Maggie. She needed to move on, she said. She needed a fresh start. Tears had started up in Maggie's eyes, but she had nodded sympathetically as Carrie described her image of a future life. Just her and Franny. Far away from Langley, from DC, from all the people she knew. Not that she was abandoning family, just ready to do something different. Far away from all the broken pieces of what she thought was her career. That was it, she was done. It was time to start over. "In Europe, I think. You and the girls can come and visit," Carrie insisted.
Though Maggie strongly suspected something had happened between Carrie and Quinn – in fact, knew something had happened by the terribly disaffected way Carrie had acted for the first few months after their Dad's funeral – neither of them brought him up, or even said his name. Something should have happened, Maggie thought. They looked like they belonged together, even in the way they walked together, when Carrie escorted Quinn back to his car, the night of their Dad's long wake. She watched them from the door with fondness and a small degree of jealousy. He was handsome, inordinately so, and obviously fond of Carrie. Maggie half-hoped that Carrie would "walk Quinn to the car" and not come back that night, and go share what they both so clearly needed, the closeness, the rapport, probably a pretty healthy amount of carnal pleasure. That was what Carrie had needed. That intimacy. Not a weekend with their crazy, child-abandoning mother. After that weekend, Carrie hadn't mentioned Quinn again, and Maggie hadn't seen him.
Maggie shook her head, as there was no point in bringing any of that up. It hadn't gone that way, and that was that. Their Dad, a huge Orioles fan, would have said, "Sometimes you swing, and you miss. That's the way it goes." She smiled weakly. "We'll miss you and Franny. So much. But where exactly will you go? What will you do?"
Carrie had looked out the kitchen window, sipped at her water bottle. "I don't know," she admitted. But Astrid's name occurred to her that night, remembering the stilted conversation with Quinn in the truck. German Intelligence was helpful, huh. Well, maybe they could be helpful to her, now. Out of the Agency, sworn to secrecy about her previous life, she certainly wasn't a threat of any kind.
So she had startled Astrid with a call. And Astrid had startled her, by being helpful. Sympathetic, even. Which was surprising, considering the liberties Carrie's team had taken with Astrid's privacy, her home and car. But she sensed something about Astrid: if nothing else, she knew what it was like to be left behind by Quinn. For whatever reason, she decided to assist her, and Carrie was glad.
Not long after, some calls had been made, and lo and behold, a contractor position working as an intelligence analyst was offered to Carrie. The German government still needed skilled contractors to review less-sensitive information, find patterns, and offer opinions about locations of cells, organizations, unsavory types gathering for nefarious purposes, like the Neo-nazi groups that preyed on citizens of Turkish origin, and so many other internal matters. She had a confidentiality clause, of course, but this was still miles below the clearance she had previously held. But what did she expect? Working for a foreign government, almost on demand, and earning a living wage. Jobs like this were almost unheard of. She was delighted to get it. She accepted, and started to get ready.
A few months passed. Visas were applied for, and furniture was sold or shipped. Franny got her first passport, her baby face goggling wide-eyed at the camera, as Carrie made sure to get her head the right size and angle for the picture. Carrie had taken the crib that her Dad made for Fran, along with the rocking chair. What were the odds she'd find someone, and have another baby? Still, the objects were comforting. The condo was listed, her bank account liquidated and transferred to Maggie, so she could wire her the money in a lump sum, when she opened a German bank account. She was at the old place, doing a final cleanout and getting it move-in ready for the realtor who would show it, when she answered a knock at the door. A nervous looking man stood there, scruffy beard, a white button-down shirt looking stiff and new on a barrel-shaped body that was more suited to camo and sweatshirts.
Carrie armed sweat from her forehead. "Can I help you? I'm kind of busy, here."
The guy swallowed. "My name is Rob. I work with Peter Quinn. He asked me to give this to you."
He held out a business sized envelope, her name across the front in Quinn's familiar scribble. She knew what it was. Her heart sank, her stomach almost dropped through the floor. Rob saw her horrified expression, and immediately started to stammer. "No. No, no, no, he's fine. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry to scare you. He's just fine."
Carrie switched gears. Fine? She shifted her eyes up to his, and frowned. "This is a fucking 'If I die' letter, isn't it? What do you mean he's fine? And why are you giving it to me, if he is? Where the fuck is he? Did Dar Adal put you up to this?"
Rob's face turned red. "I know, I know. No, he didn't. Adal, that is. But Quinn really is fine. This is his idea. He can't be contacted. He can't be reached. But he called and asked me to give this to you." He looked down at his shoes, and continued. "I don't know why, Miss Mathison. But I can see why he's been thinking of you."
Carrie dropped her arms to her sides, and threw her head back. She gave a sarcastic bark of laughter, looking at the ceiling. She looked back at Rob, nearly leveled him with her gaze. "Why would anyone do this?" she said querulously, frustrated. Even in absentia, Quinn was exasperating. "I mean, it seriously, what does this mean? 'I'm not dead, but I'm dead to you', is that it? Fuck."
Her eyes were blazing. Rob looked down so he wouldn't have to look into them. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, running out of ways to be apologetic. Fucking Quinn, he owed him one for this. Whatever good it did, Rob couldn't say.
Carrie frowned. "He's fine, but can't be contacted, huh. Well, that's convenient. If and when you should come into contact with him, give him a message for me, will you?"
Rob looked up at her. "Sure, anything."
"Tell him I said to go fuck himself." She slammed the door in Rob's astonished face, and thrust the letter, unopened, into a box of paperwork, keepsakes. A big manila envelope containing Franny's first hospital photo and the tiny, shriveled remnant of her umbilical cord. A photo of her Dad and Maggie, holding a big trout on a line. And now, the sealed envelope from Quinn. Into the archives with the other lost memories, she thought. Fuck it. On with the future, before it gets on with me.
The following week, she and Franny got on a plane to London Heathrow, with the ultimate destination being Berlin, Germany. Their things were on the ship and would be there soon. But for the most part, it really was time for a fresh start. Wherever Quinn was, he wasn't with her. Not in body, and seemingly, not even in spirit. It was as if he had invited her to forget him. And she was trying.
Franny sat in her Mom's lap as the plane left the tarmac, and her mother sniffed her sweet baby hair as the plane put up its landing gear.
"Are you ready for a new adventure, baby? Because, I am."
