She's not really looking forward to dragging up all these old memories, but if it's the cost of her freedom, then she can oblige. The interviewer is a kind looking young woman tapping a black pen against the desk. She's a stereotypical professional with her brown hair and neat suit jacket, black rimmed glasses sitting at the tip of her nose. A plaque on the wall reveals her qualifications: PhD in counseling, military certifications, various pictures of her shaking hands with people whom Sherry assumes are very important. She wouldn't really know; she doesn't get out much.
"Please, take a seat, Miss Birkin." The woman gestures to the chair across from her desk. Sherry winces; she's gone through enough therapy sessions to last her a lifetime. She hopes this isn't another one of those.
Sherry does as she's asked. She's a pretty compliant person, all things considered. She learned early on that fighting didn't get her anywhere.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Birkin. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today."
Sherry nods. There wasn't much of a choice involved, but she'll play along.
"Do you know who I am?"
"You're Dr. Anna Davidson, a professional counselor and military consultant."
Dr. Davidson looks surprised. Sherry points to the wall.
"It says so right there."
Dr. Davidson nods.
"You're very perceptive, aren't you?"
Sherry shrugs. She doesn't see it as being a matter of perspective, just curiosity. After all, she'd like to know just who this person is, that she's handing over her life story to.
"And you know what you're here for today, correct?"
Sherry nods.
"You're compiling information on the Umbrella Corporation in order to bring a lawsuit against them."
Dr. Davidson beams.
"Exactly! The government has been trying for years to bring down Umbrella, but we haven't been able to indict them with the Raccoon City disaster due to lack of evidence. My job is to compile testimony from former members of Umbrella in custody. Unfortunately, a large percentage of those involved with Umbrella are now deceased..."
"Occupational hazard," Sherry responds, a bit of black humor.
"It would appear so," Dr. Davidson responds, not missing a beat. "What I need from you today, Sherry, is any information on your parents you can give me."
"My parents have been dead for six years. I don't really remember the specifics of their work."
Dr. Davidson nods. She seems to be prepared for this response.
"You don't need to tell me just about their work... often, important information can be revealed by talking about things from your daily life. Let's start off with something simple...tell me about the kind of people your parents were."
Sherry shakes her head.
"That's anything but a simple question."
It's still hard for me today, even after everything I've seen, to reconcile the person I knew my father as, and the person he really was. Though, I suppose the "real" William Birkin was probably somewhere in between my dad and the man who's pathogens leveled an entire city. Honestly, I thought my dad was a little bit dense, ironically enough. Then again, I suppose a lot of preteen girls feel that way about their fathers—he couldn't keep the plot line of "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" straight, he either burnt or undercooked everything, and he was always losing track of things: socks, keys, papers... I never knew what the papers were, but he would freak out when he lost a paper. So, when I was a little girl, I just thought he was kind of... you know, amusing? I was the complete "Daddy's Girl," type. I got everything I wanted—material that is. What I really wanted was to spend time with him.
No, he wasn't home very often. Especially towards the end, which is what I remember the most clearly. I think he was gone for a week once. It put my mother into terrible moods—but, she never got mad at him about it. It was always me. I thought it was my fault that he didn't come home. I hated her so much, when I was a little girl... it makes more sense now, though. She didn't have friends, I remember that. And he was her whole life, so I guess she resented me for pulling her away from his lab. After all, as much as I thought of him as being the "nice" one, he never came home to take care of me...
Ugh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to get all teary eyed like this—it's embarrassing. That's just the thing of it, you know? It's hard to look back and realize that the way you remember a person isn't who they really were.
So yeah, towards the end, which is what I really remember, he came home, maybe every other night on a good week. There was one time, it was a Friday night, and I was watching some Batman marathon that went on until what must have been two in the morning. Dad had been gone for about four or five days, and I was tiptoeing everywhere, because my mom was like... a vial of nitroglycerin. So, dad comes stumbling in around one, and I was sitting on the couch, barely awake, and he comes in and just starts crying... it scared the piss out of me. I hate seeing men cry... they do that thing where they shake and all. And my dad, especially towards the end, was a really skinny guy. So, he was just shaking like a blade of grass, and I was sitting there with the TV real quiet so I wouldn't wake mom up, and he collapsed on the couch and pulled me into his lap, and he kept saying, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
And as much as I know I shouldn't forgive him for all the terrible things he did... I can't bring myself to hate him. Just based on that one night... I don't think I've ever seen someone look so regretful.
Yeah, I'm okay. We can keep going. It's fine.
Oh Jesus, you want to know about Albert Wesker? Where should I even start... Wesker terrified me. I know, I must sound like I spent my entire childhood in a perpetual state of fear. I didn't really, it's just, Wesker really was scary. I think he was my godfather, actually. Good thing he didn't outlive my parents; I don't think that man could have taken care of a goldfish. He worked for the police; I was always supposed to call him Captain Wesker. I didn't spend a whole lot of time with him, really. But, he left an impression. He always carried his gun on him, and my eight year old self was convinced that he would shoot me if I did anything wrong. He came over for dinner sometimes, back when things were relatively normal.
He and my dad talked about work a lot... a lot of things I didn't understand. They argued too, but Wesker always won. I think it's because my dad would yell at him, but he never raised his voice. That was how he held power over other people. He forced you to respect him. And my mom would always sit there, completely silent, just scowling. He stopped coming to dinner around the time I was ten. Things weren't too good by then. I'm pretty sure they were still friends, it was just we stopped having dinners for him to come to.
What did we eat? I don't remember really, it wasn't that important. Lots of carrot sticks and cereal, I guess. I do remember though, my dad coming home once while I was making a Hot Pocket. He told me to not eat that kind of junk, and then he made like... three of them. Hah, yeah, he forgot to eat most of the time. Shower too. It was kind of gross, honestly. I try not to remember that sort of thing, because well, who wants to? He was a biologist and all, but he was never really concerned with his personal health. It's kind of morbid, but I think at some point he just accepted that he was going to die early, and made most of his decisions based upon that.
Why do I think that? Well, he came right out and said it. He used to walk around the house in the middle of the night and talk about it. I don't know why... he wasn't talking to anyone. Though, it would wake me up. So, I'd be drifting off to sleep, and then sometimes I would hear him outside my door... "they're going to kill me, they're going to kill me..." This started a few months before he died. I guess he was right.
I loved my dad; I still do. When things were good, he used to call me moi cherie, and read me books at night. And when things were bad, well, I can't justify what he did. He hurt me... he hurt a lot of people. But I can't... I really just can't...
Dr. Davidson clears her throat slightly. Sherry feels herself blush; nothing of what she's said is any use for a court case. She's just been babbling on and on about her sympathy for her poor old dad, who was personally responsible for the lives of a few hundred thousand people.
"Miss Birkin, you are aware of the circumstances surrounding your father's death, correct?"
"Yeah... he was shot by corporate spies, right?"
Dr. Davidson shakes her head.
"Umbrella sent in an internal squad to take him out."
Sherry is confused. She's never heard anything about this, no deviations from the normal storyline.
"Why?"
"Because, he was going to sell them out to the government... a great deal of information we have about Umbrella came from your father. That's not to say that the research he did at Umbrella is anything but morally reprehensible... but, you are right in thinking things aren't exactly black and white."
Sherry sighs. She can feel tears coming on again. It's a relief, to know that perhaps she isn't so stupid in still clinging onto the idea of the person she remembers.
"It's just... it's nice to know, that I'm not that stupid or wrong to still miss him."
"It's not stupid or wrong to feel something. Ever."
Sherry rubs her eyes with the back of her hand.
"So, uh, what do you really need to know?"
Dr. Davidson smiles.
"You're good to go, though I think there are some people from the agency who would like to speak to you however... something about a job offer. Happy birthday, Miss Birkin."
Sherry nods.
"Thank you. Really, thank you."
"Goodbye, said the fox. And now here is my secret, a very simple secret. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye."
The Little Prince