Chapter 4 – Closing the Distance

I reached out for the telephone receiver and slowly dialed the number written on the paper next to Sydney's name. The wait while the telephone on the other end of the line rang once and then a second time seemed like an eternity. And then, suddenly, there was the soft noise of the connection being made – and then a softly accented voice, a rich baritone, in my ear saying, "This is Sydney…"

I frowned for a moment, my mind twisting. That voice – the accent – it sounded familiar to me for some reason. My mouth opened and closed without making a sound. "Hello?" that rich voice asked again. "Is someone there?"

I rallied my courage. "This is Margaret Charles," I finally managed to say in a relatively clear voice.

"Oh." He actually sounded almost as nervous as I felt. "Mrs. Charles. Jarod said you would be calling." Again the familiarity danced just beyond the reaches of my memory, stymieing my attempts to pin it down. And again, I evidently was slower in response than he was expecting. "Mrs. Charles – are you all right?"

"Yes," I answered shakily. Something about that memory was disturbing, even though I couldn't bring it to mind. I shook my head, dismissing it until I had the time to think it through more carefully. "Jarod said you could do some shopping for me, since he couldn't make it?"

"Yes, he told me when he called that a shopping trip would be what was needed – and that you would have to tell me what to buy," Sydney responded very properly. "Do you have a list for me then?"

"I don't have any money to repay you," I admitted in chagrin.

"That's not an issue," he told me firmly. "Jarod made ample reimbursement available for whatever you might need back when we set up this agreement." That astonished me – Jarod had said that he'd gotten Sydney to agree to play backup to him, but not that he'd given him money… "Could you read me the list, please? If I hurry, I can shop for you and deliver your goods this evening, before the storm hits. I don't fancy driving in a blizzard…"

"OK," I answered, my brain finally kicking into gear. "Let me look at the list I gave Jarod yesterday." I moved toward the table and then sat in front of the computer. "Do you know where I am?"

"Yes," Sydney replied. "Jarod gave me very clear instructions."

I had my copy of the message I'd sent to Jarod in front of me now, and I read it off over the phone line by line. When I finished, Sydney read my list back to me. "That's it," I told him.

"Verrry good. I'll get going, and call you when I'm finished and on my way…"

"Call from the end of the drive," I informed him, "so that I know that it's you and not…"

"I understand." Something told me he understood all too well – and sympathized. It was quite possibly the most unnerving statement of the entire conversation as yet. "Very well. Until then."

God – he was going to hang up on me already… "Wait!" I called out to him.

"Yes?" .

"Does everyone at the Centre always hang up before they say a proper goodbye?"

Sydney's chuckle was a deep and heartfelt one, with more than its share of astonishment. "You've noticed that from Jarod, haven't you?" he commented, still chuckling. "Had I known that telephone etiquette would be needed, I would have taught him much better habits, believe me! As it is, I'm usually just grateful that he continues to stay in contact."

"So it bothers you too?"

"I've learned to deal with it," he admitted gently. "I consider it part of the price I pay now for his keeping in touch when he could just vanish completely."

That did it. I HAD to have a chance to speak to him directly about so much – and letting him get away immediately after delivering groceries was a good way to squander an excellent opportunity to have that discussion I'd been wanting for days now. "Will you have eaten already when you get here?" I asked suddenly, a whiff of meatloaf that smelled nearly done reminding me of the hour. "I may not be able to reimburse you myself for my groceries, but I can at least give you a meal for your time and trouble…"

I do believe I caught the man by surprise. To be honest, I had surprised myself. "You don't have to do that…" he soothed.

"Nonsense. I have a meatloaf that I was going to have for Jarod this weekend that is too much for me to eat by myself," I told him, feeling more and more certain about my decision. I just wouldn't think about whom it was that I was inviting into my parlor – literally and figuratively – I was hungry for simple human companionship, and even that of a monster was better than nothing at all. "I can boil another potato and add some more peas to the pot to make the meal complete…"

There was a long moment of silence, during which I could almost imagine the gyrations his mind was making. "Allow me to bring desert, then," Sydney bartered with me cautiously.

"All right," I agreed, and then gave a small sigh. "Thank you."

"No," he contradicted me kindly, yet firmly, "thank YOU. Until later then."

"Until later." I was ready for the sound of the connection breaking then, and was unsurprised when it came as expected.

I looked around the kitchen, gauging the presentability of the place to a first-time guest, and found that I'd done a fairly good job of keeping up with the small tasks there. What's more, after I peeled that extra potato and pulled an entire package of frozen peas to accompany the meal, I'd have enough time to do a quick once-over to the rest of the house too.

It wasn't until I was almost finished dust-mopping the hardwood around the Persian rug in the living room that it struck me just for WHOM I was tidying my house– and then I marveled at myself. I must certainly be desperate for company if I could be induced to do a fast, concerted dust-and-dust-mop job in order to impress a monster. What the Hell did I care what this man thought of me or my house-keeping skills?

I carried the dust mop through the kitchen and out into the screened back porch to shake out. Who was I fooling? This was nothing more or less than catering to my obsession with absorbing what little security I could get from superficial contact with other human beings. Leaving aside entirely the fact that I was hoping that Sydney would have the kind of answers about my son that I had genuinely despaired of ever hearing – simply having another living, breathing person in the room with me to talk to was important enough that making a good first impression was a priority.

It had taken Jarod two hours to shop for the place in the first place – I estimated that, granted a firm knowledge of where things were in the more local supermarket in Blue Cove, I had perhaps a little more than an hour from the end of my call to when my phone would ring. My impromptu house-cleaning had taken a little less an hour – and it was while I was finishing setting the table for two and then draining the potatoes that the phone began to ring. "Hello?" I answered.

"Mrs. Charles," purred that smooth and disturbingly familiar accented voice in my ear. "I believe I'm sitting at the end of your driveway. Do you wish me to knock at the front or back door?"

"Back," I answered. "It's closer to the kitchen."

"Very well," Sydney said gently. "I shall be there momentarily."

"See you in a bit," I replied – to what I realized then was a dead line. Ah well, I reasoned, he was on a cell phone – sometimes the protocol and etiquette was different with those little gadgets… And then I heard the sound of a quiet, powerful engine pulling close to the back end of my house, then suddenly being shut off, followed by the firm sound of a car door closing. I left the door to the back porch just barely closed and shivered as I watched a well-bundled man in a well-fleeced overcoat, thick-knitted winter scarf, gloves and beret climb from a dark blue luxury sedan and make his way through the mid-shin level snow to the trunk of his car. He proceeded to extract a goodly number of white plastic grocery sacks and slogged his way through the snow to the porch.

"Where do you want these?" the rich baritone voice asked as the well-bundled man stepped past me into the porch and then followed me into the warmth of the kitchen.

"Let me help you!" I exclaimed, closing the door against the freezing temperatures outside and then rushing to relieve him of the sack with the gallon jug of milk and the one that seemed filled mostly with canned goods. "On the counter," I indicated – turning my head to look at the expanse of empty counter space. With an ease that demonstrated some practice, the plastic bags were deposited one by one on the counter until the man was no longer encumbered.

"Where would you prefer I put my coat?" the accented voice asked next. As he stood, he began peeling warm driving gloves from large and graceful hands.

"There's a hook by the back door," I pointed and went to quickly distributing my week's supply of groceries in their appropriate places. "I want you to know how much I appreciate this."

"It's no trouble at all," he replied, his back to me still as he shrugged the heavy coat away and then stuffed gloves in one pocket and scarf in the other before hanging it from the hook. He finally pulled the beret from his head and smoothed the silver hair it exposed back as he rested the beret on top of the coat and turned. Then, finally, I realized why his voice had sounded so familiar – and it hit me like a fist in my stomach. My face must have mirrored my emotion, because Sydney's expression immediately became concerned. "Mrs. Charles? Are you all right?"

"It was you!" I could barely make my voice above a whisper. I was so stunned at the enormity of my revelation, my dinner and my remaining groceries were forgotten. "You came… called it an "interview"…" I shook my head in disbelief. "It was you…"

Sydney looked at me as if he hadn't the slightest idea what I was talking about – and then suddenly it seemed as if he had a revelation of his own. "Ah! I understand now…"

"You stole my son!" I finally managed to spit with my voice restored to some semblance of its regular volume.

His silvered head shook slowly, and the expression on his face became understanding and patient. "Actually, you're remembering my brother, Jacob. It was Jacob who did all of the intake on Jarod – I know, I saw the documentation."

I frowned. "Brother?" I repeated suspiciously.

"Twin brother, as a matter of fact," Sydney nodded easily. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his wallet, opened it, extracted a small somewhat used-looking photograph and handed it to me. "Jacob is on the right – I'm the one on the left."

I looked down and blinked. It was a very old black and white photograph of two young men fresh from a tennis match – two young men who looked exactly alike, and looked almost exactly as I remembered the very professional interviewer from NuGenesis looking. I peered up into the face of the much older version and could easily see the resemblance.

"So you didn't…"

"I was told nothing about how Jarod came to the Centre when he was assigned to my care – and later, when a ruse was arranged to return Jarod to his parents, we both were told that you and your husband had died in an airplane crash. I swear to you, Mrs. Charles, I didn't know that I'd been lied to about him until after Jarod escaped and I was in a position to discover the documents I told you about." He had a sorrowful look in his brown eyes. "I may have done many things I'm not proud of over the years or may have allowed things to happen that never should have taken place – I don't deny my responsibility for anything that I genuinely HAVE done or allowed. But I swear on my brother's grave that I did NOT have anything to do with the theft of your son."

I could feel the conflict in myself beginning a small throb in my right temple. The monster was in front of me, not denying the immense evil he'd done that I'd known about but offering me what he hoped was proof that the even greater evil that had started it all was not his doing. As for me, the realization that I actually wanted to believe the man's claims was almost more than I could handle. All I could do was stare at him – unable to formulate a decent response.

"Perhaps it would be better if I left you now," Sydney said when I continued to stare at him mutely. "Thank you for the invitation – but it might not be the wisest idea…"

"No." I shook myself loose of my shock. "I offered you a meal to thank you for your time and trouble on my behalf – please stay."

"Mrs. Charles," Sydney's smile at me was a sad one. "You don't have to…"

"I've already added the extra potato and extra portion of peas. I can't eat all of this by myself, and I don't want to waste it," I threw at him as the first excuse I could think of to delay his departure. "Besides, I was hoping…"

Sydney's brows – heavy and silver, had climbed his forehead in astonishment. "Yes?"

My chaotic emotions made me brutally honest. "I was hoping that maybe I could ask you some more questions in person – and I haven't had anyone to really talk to in over a week…" I shuddered at the thought of being alone again so soon. "Please. Don't go."

Monster or not, this Sydney had a very warm smile. "Very well," he acquiesced, his voice soft. "I have to admit, the meal smells very tempting – I AM hungry – and it IS cold outside."

"Sit down, please," I invited him, gesturing at the table as I went back to putting the few remaining groceries still on the counter away. Among them was a package of lemon cake that hadn't been on my list that must have been his promised desert – I could enhance it a bit with some of the vanilla ice cream I still had from Jarod's shopping trip a week ago. "Would you prefer tea or coffee?"

"Tea," was the instant answer. "Coffee would keep me awake all night."

I moved to fill the tea kettle and set it on a front burner to heat. I moved the meat loaf to a platter and sliced it, then turned the boiled potatoes and peas each into bowls. "It isn't very fancy…" I began, carrying the serving dishes to the table.

"It has been a very long time since I've had a home-cooked meal I didn't prepare myself," Sydney told me with gentle frankness after another appreciative sniff of the air. "This will be more than sufficient."

Damn it! I must have been truly attention-starved, because it was all I could do to not stand back and stare again. Sydney was proving to be in person the antithesis of the kind of monster I'd always pictured him to be. His manners were gracious, cosmopolitan and automatic, his speech refined and precise – and he had yet to shrink from anything I'd thrown at him. Despite this, I could tell that he was ill at ease – his hands as he waited for me to finish pouring the boiling water into the teapot and finally sitting down with him to eat were toying with the edge of the napkin that sat next to his plate.

Finally, however, I was finished puttering – and I gestured at the food in front of us. "Help yourself. Bon apetit."

"Merci," he smiled at me and reached for the platter of meat loaf after unfolding his frayed-edged napkin into his lap.

"You're French?" I asked to cover my nervousness.

"Belgian," he responded, taking two of the slices and slipping them onto his plate. I smiled secretly to myself – at least the man had brought an appetite to the table.

I took the platter from him so that he could reach for the potatoes. "Tell me about Jarod – please!"

The brown eyes caught and captured my gaze for a brief moment, then fell to take in the size of portion he wanted. "That's a big order," he commented slowly. "What about Jarod do you want to know?" He chuckled as he put the potatoes back in the middle of the table and then looked up at me again. "I think we've been at this point once before – just not face to face."

He was right – and I chuckled with him. "You're right." Then I sobered. "It's just that I feel sometimes that…" I sighed. "The Jarod I knew was a little boy of four – the Jarod that found me again was a man of thirty-nine. I'm having a hard time finding the boy in the man."

Sydney nodded slowly, waiting patiently for me to finish taking potatoes before handing me the bowl of peas. "You find him a stranger to you," he stated simply, startling me with the precision of his assessment.

"Yes," I admitted, thoroughly unnerved. Jarod tended to do the same thing – zero in precisely on the painful point I was trying to communicate obliquely – and I wondered if that was a skill he'd learned from his mentor.

"Jarod is a very complex individual," Sydney began, almost as if standing at a university lectern. "He was generally deprived of close social ties while a child and adolescent, so he is both hungry for intimacy and terrified of it. The rules of polite behavior were never considered "necessary" by those in authority…" I could tell that his voice had grown hard and frustrated – he'd evidently disagreed with that assessment. "…so his social skills were fairly lacking when he entered the larger world. Any manners he has acquired are either those he picked up by mimicking me or those he has found a use or need for since he escaped. Ending phone calls properly being a notable exception…" he grinned at me, and I found myself chuckling and grinning back.

He offered, and I nodded agreement, to his pouring us both some tea – and he took up his teacup and sipped appreciatively before resuming. "Jarod is curious, very bright, empathetic to an amazing degree, deeply loyal to those he feels close to, deeply bitter against those who he feels either did him harm or who take pleasure in harming others." He glanced at me quickly. "I would imagine you know a great deal of that already."

"He never talks about… what happened at the Centre… though…" I prompted when Sydney fell silent and chewed at his food thoughtfully for a long moment.

"I'm not surprised," he replied eventually. "You have to understand – we BOTH were lied to in regards to the uses the research we did was eventually put. Situations and problems were presented to us in one light – and the answers we supplied were then used… abominably." He grimaced and sipped at his tea again. "And then there were the times when Jarod was subjected to experimentation when I was either on holiday or obliged to be elsewhere by my superiors – times when I would return and literally have to nurse him back to physical or mental health before we could continue our work together..."

"What did they do to him?" I breathed, my eyes filling with tears. I had known instinctively that his experiences in the Centre were bad – but actually hearing about them was worse than I'd imagined.

Sydney shook his head at me, his eyes filled with sadness. "You really don't want to know, Mrs. Charles. The important thing is that he survived those times with his sanity and his personality intact."

I met his gaze determinedly. "Those experiences are part of what make him who he is today, though – aren't they?" Sydney looked down into his plate and nodded reluctantly. "How can I know what things to avoid mentioning if I don't know…"

He leaned his forehead into his hand with the elbow on the table for a long time – a gesture of defeat and resignation. "What is the very worst possible thing that you can imagine him going through?" he asked finally, raising his head and looking at me with brown eyes that had every last glimmer of emotion hidden.

"Oh!" I stared at him with my mouth open and my bite of meat loaf suspended, forgotten, in front of my face. My mind raced – I had imagined so many nightmarish scenarios over the years… "Did they torture him?"

"Physically, yes. Mentally, yes. Emotionally, every SIM we ran had an emotional facet to it that twisted everyday feelings into obscene parodies of emotions that could be considered a form of emotional torture. Jarod was given drugs to make his heart stop – and then revived in order to study the effects of near-death experiences on intelligence and sanity. He was confined in sensory isolation tanks for extended periods of time to study the effects of isolation on cognitive function. When I was absent for any stretch of time over forty-eight hours, Jarod was put to whatever kind of bio-medical experimentation that a sick mind could possibly concoct – and then expected to bounce right back into his normal routine of running SIMs the moment I returned."

I could no longer stop the tears from flowing down my face – and I could see that each point Sydney was making was equally painful for him to enumerate. "Stop," I breathed, begging mercy for us both.

"Did he ever tell you what a SIM was?" Sydney demanded – and I shook my head. Jarod had mentioned the term a few times, but never explained himself. "A SIM was a simulation – enhanced by providing physical and environmental props to help him climb into the mind of whomever it was that he was supposed to simulate. Preparatory sessions would have emotional and psychological information fed him via bio-feedback or simple programming methods to facilitate his assuming the persona in question – be it serial murderer, test pilot or commando. Sometimes the answer required of him was to feel and think the way the person simulated did in order to understand a past event – what was done, when, why and how. Sometimes the answer required was to think through and predict responses and consequences of actions yet to be taken. During the SIM, Jarod's persona was to be completely submerged except as objective observer and narrator to the internal thoughts and feelings of the simulated persona. I was there to provide a compass for the investigation – to ask the questions needing answers – and to keep pushing when giving those answers violated all the boundaries of even a submerged sense of humanity."

Sydney's brown eyes snapped. "Can you imagine the kind of damage that does to the native persona? Can you imagine the kind of remedial treatment needed to disassociate Jarod from the SIMmed persona when finished – all while trying to meet the schedule of output expected by others in authority that pressed for Jarod to be wrenched from one simulated persona and dumped immediately into preparation to simulate another with little or no recovery time allowed?" He seemed to catch himself and see the state that I'd managed to get myself into as I listened to him, and then he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"

I was now sobbing. I'd wanted to know – God forgive me, I'd thought I needed to know – and Sydney had been right in that I really didn't need to know the particulars after all. I'd be having nightmares for weeks, just imagining again things that would fit into the hellish vision I'd just been given. But I shook my head. "No," I managed finally, forcing myself to breathe deeply and get control of myself again, putting my long-forgotten fork down and wiping at my wet cheeks. "I asked – you answered. You did nothing wrong."

We both needed a very long moment in which to compose ourselves again – time that we spent pushing our half-eaten meals away from us and using napkins from our laps to blow noses and wipe at eyes. I hadn't expected Sydney to react so negatively to the information that he carried inside him – or to have been quite so brutally illuminating in filling in the blanks about my son. If I felt as if I'd been verbally pummeled, Sydney looked as if he had received this verbal beating far too many times already – and was numb.

"There is a very good reason Jarod doesn't want you to know everything he went through," he said finally, very gently. "I honestly wouldn't question that reason very deeply, if I were you. I know I wish to God I DIDN'T know what I know – or remember the part I played."

I wiped at my face again, hearing in my mind the "guilt can be a wonderful motivator, when used properly," that Jarod had used to describe how he'd gotten Sydney to play along with keeping me safe. What I was seeing in the face of the man I'd long considered a monster wasn't just guilt, it was a soul-crushing sense of responsibility and blame that was even worse than anything Jarod might heap on him. For the very first time, I began to understand and even sympathize with the monster – not a monster anymore. He was a man who'd been made to do things – horrible things – or stand aside and allow other things to happen either through simple absence or intimidation. And none of it had been of his own desire or inspiration. He'd been a tool in the hands of the real monsters – his sin had been in being an unwitting and unprotesting tool for too long – but what I'd never paused to consider was the damage that had been done HIM in the process too. Jarod had called him a victim too – only now did I see what he meant.

I couldn't hate this man anymore. "Sydney," I asked, wondering at my temptation to reach across the table for one of those large, graceful hands to comfort him and receive comfort in return.

He turned eyes that were bleak on me. "You haven't heard enough yet?" he sighed.

"Only one more question, I promise." No – of the evil I'd heard more than enough, but there was one other thing that I needed to know.

He picked up his teacup and found the liquid in it had cooled considerably. I watched him drain the cup and then pour himself some more with hands that visibly were shaking. "Ask your question," he stated at last, holding his refilled teacup in front of his face like a miniature shield.

"Do you care about Jarod?"

The teacup slipped an inch or so, allowing very astonished brown eyes to gaze into mine. "What?"

I reached for my own teacup in defense and, as Sydney had done before me, drained it and then refilled it. "Jarod isn't sure whether your help to him now, since his escape, is a matter of not having to hide your feelings anymore or a ruse to try to get him to trust you enough to bring him back again," I explained carefully, then sipped at my tea to gather my courage. "As a mother, talking to the man who raised my son, I need to know – do you care?" The defensive teacup across the table from me slowly lowered back to the table. Sydney stared at me for a very long time, and I could see his mind racing a mile a minute. "It's a simple question," I defended myself, "a yes or no answer…"

"It isn't that simple," he countered quickly. "I understand Jarod's uncertainty – I had to deliberately encourage it for so long…" He took a long breath. "I knew that if I ever showed any favoritism or emotional bond for Jarod, the objectivity of my work with him would come under scrutiny and Jarod would most likely be reassigned to another mentor immediately – someone who might not be so vigilant at protecting him from the abuses of those in authority. So I kept my emotions completely hidden when I was with him – I could be supportive and mentoring without any obvious emotional ties forming on my part toward him for him to hang onto. Jarod…" His face grew distant as he searched his memories. "Jarod tried so hard to construct those emotional ties anyway, though – especially as an adolescent. He made me a Father's Day card one day and tried to give it to me – and I forced myself to throw it away in front of him."

I couldn't help it. The tears, so close to the surface from before, began to flow again. My poor son – no wonder he wasn't sure where he stood with the one person he knew best of all!

"He'll never know that later – once he'd been taken back to his space – I pulled the card out of the trash." He gazed at me directly and intensely. "I still have that card put away safely – where nobody will ever find it – along with several other mementos of Jarod that are meaningful only to me." The gaze intensified. "You are the only person, other than myself, who knows that."

"Thank you," I breathed – and this time I did let myself reach out to cover one of those large hands that lay so still on the table. Sydney had answered my question quite adequately. "Thank you."

Slowly his other hand moved to cover mine. "No," he said very softly, his emotions very close to the surface. "Thank YOU."

I haven't the slightest idea where the feeling came from, but I felt my heart turn over with those soft, accented words. He withdrew his hand almost immediately and pulled his plate forward again with a shaky "I need to do your meal more justice – you're a very good cook and this is too good to leave behind."

He was giving me a chance to retreat from the raw emotions of the moment – and I accepted that the moment indeed needed to be short. "I hope you'll let me give you part of this," I responded quickly as I reached for my own plate again. "I told you I wasn't going to be able to eat all this by myself – and meat loaf sandwiches can be very tasty for lunch."

"That's very kind of you," he smiled at me, and I smiled back. No, he wasn't a monster anymore.

oOoOo

As if by mutual, unspoken agreement, we tried to keep our conversation light and away from distressing topics from that moment on. I spoke proudly about Emily and her career and reputation, he spoke equally proudly of his son Nicholas – whom I eventually gathered was somewhat estranged from his father. We spoke of books that we'd each read recently – discussing the ones we'd both read as far as likes and dislikes.

Along the way, I think we both began to relax – and finally began a cautious banter that relied upon our shared generational age and apparent shared preferences in reading, music, and a general dislike of televised fare as a base. Sydney's humor was dry and surprisingly subtle, often requiring more than a moment or two for me to catch on, where mine tended to be blatant and, more often than not, unapologetically earthy. I made another pot of tea and we adjourned to the living room where, with some Mozart playing in the background, we filled another hour or so with the kind of conversation one might expect between old friends.

I also discovered that Sydney was most likely the source of that impish smirk that Jarod displayed every once in a while – as was he the probable progenitor of several of the customary gestures and mannerisms that I'd come to associate with my son. When I pointed that fact out, I swear I saw the man blush slightly just before taking the time to point out to me some facets of my own personality that Jarod had obviously inherited. Sydney was an astute observer – and some of his points made ME blush too.

But all too soon, our time was finished, and leftovers had been packed for storage and/or transport. The light outside the kitchen window had long since faded away, and I could hear the sound of the wind beginning to stir the trees outside as a prelude to the storm that had been predicted. Sydney had let me help him back into his heavy overcoat, and now stood looking down at me with an odd, warm look on his face.

"You know," he began cautiously, "I was more than a little nervous about coming out here this evening…"

"No more nervous than I," I confirmed with a nod. "I wasn't exactly sure what I was getting myself in for."

Sydney looked as if he was getting ready to pull scarf and gloves from his pockets, and then thought better of it. He stepped closer and took one of my hands in his. "When it comes to Jarod, I always thought… hoped… wanted to believe… that by making sure that he didn't bond tightly with me, he'd be able to bond with his real parents someday. Once I found out you and your husband weren't dead – I was certain that I'd been right. I'm glad Jarod now has you in his life – and I'm sorry about the death of your husband."

Yes, it was time to lay cards on the table – cards that I only now understood as having been dealt to me. "I've long wondered what kind of man raised my son all those years in that horrible place," I told him in as gentle and soft a voice as I could so as not to tweak at the horrible shame I now knew he carried about with him. "But now I don't have to wonder anymore. I'm glad you were the one Jarod spent those years with – and I want to thank you for doing such a good job of raising my son for me."

I'd surprised him – and the tear that slowly found its way to his cheek startled me almost as much. "Mrs. Charles…"

"My friends call me Peg," I corrected him quickly.

"Very well, Peg…" he accepted the correction with a slight bow, "…I don't deserve your thanks – I don't deserve anything but anger and accusation from you OR Jarod…"

"No, Sydney." I closed my hand on the one of his that had been holding on to mine so that the pressure that kept us connected was as much me as him. "I think we all have had our heartaches – and while I will forever resent the fact that you had my son when he was kept away from me, I don't resent YOU anymore." It was true. I resented the lost time, but I finally knew that the man who'd been the beneficiary of that time to be gracious, gentle, intelligent, witty – and most of all, anything but a monster. I would save my venom for those who deserved it – the men who had orchestrated my son's abduction and perpetual incarceration and who kept hounding him AND me.

A second tear dropped on the opposite cheek. "You are an incredible – and very beautiful – woman, Peg Charles. I wish our meeting could have come about under more happy circumstances – because I believe it would be an honor to have the opportunity to know you better." His gaze was intense.

I blushed. What I wouldn't have given to have the freedom to spend more time with this man without fear of discovery! "We still have email…" I suggested finally when, as the emotions drifted toward being too raw again, Sydney gently freed his hand from mine and pulled out his scarf and began to wrap his face protectively.

"That we do," he agreed, pulling his gloves from the other pocket. "And you have my cell phone number," he reminded me gently.

"Yes, I do." What was more, I wouldn't be afraid of using it – or at least, I wouldn't be afraid of speaking to the man on the other end of the line anymore. But we both knew that phone conversations would be dangerous. "If I need your help again…"

"Don't ever hesitate to call," he finished for me, then added, "…but don't feel you have to wait until then. Thank you again for a delicious meal and a delightful evening, Peg."

I don't know what made me do it, but I stepped close and threw my arms around his neck to hug him close. "Thank you for coming," I said into the knit scarf near an ear.

His arms came up to hold me back and, for a short time, we clung to each other tightly. We had come so far so fast, it was hard to let go and resume being distant strangers. I didn't know if it was so with Sydney, but I knew that this evening had changed me in small ways I wouldn't even begin to appreciate for a while.

oOoOo

"So… Did Sydney get you your groceries?" Jarod asked after we'd exchanged our usual greetings. Outside the kitchen window, the storm that had been promised was howling, making the late morning light diffuse.

I picked at my piece of lemon cake – knowing that half of the remains had gone home with Sydney. "Yes, I'm very well-stocked for the week," I replied quietly.

"Are you… you didn't argue with Sydney, did you?" Jarod asked, obviously curious and concerned that his arrangements hadn't been bollixed by the need for contact after all. "I mean, I know how you feel about Sydney and…"

"No, sweetheart, we didn't argue. I even fed him dinner to say thank you for coming out on such a cold night and shopping for me," I told him calmly.

"Really!" I think I'd surprised Jarod with that statement about as much as I had with my shortened hair. "He stayed for dinner?"

"He did me a favor – and I didn't have money to pay him for his time," I explained with a chuckle. "People do that when others do them favors, Jarod…"

"I know that," Jarod sighed in exasperation when I wasn't satisfying his curiosity in the way he was hoping. "It's just that… I mean… What did you talk about?"

"You," I answered with total honesty. "Some of the time, anyway."

Jarod sounded very guarded all of a sudden. "Me, huh?"

"Of course," I affirmed. "You are the person we have in common, Jarod – the topic on which we both could speak in order to start an acquaintanceship." I took pity on him then. "I asked him some questions – questions that I don't think you would want to answer – and found out some of the things I needed to know."

"About me?"

"Yes, and about the Centre."

"Mom…"

"I'm not going to apologize, Jarod," I told him firmly. "When I lost you, you were four years old. When I found you again, you were already long past being a grown man. Sydney could help me understand you better – and I took advantage of the opportunity to talk to the one person who probably knows you better than anybody else does. Besides…" I took another bit of the lemon cake. "…can't I spend a little time getting to know one of your old friends a little better?"

"I don't know that I'd call Sydney a friend, Mom," Jarod retorted, the bitterness in his voice obvious.

"All right," I allowed, "your surrogate father then."

"What the Hell?" he blurted, sounding genuinely angry now. "What did he tell you?"

"Enough, Jarod," I replied gently, not letting his emotions rock my own. "I understand some of your reactions better now – and that's what's important."

"Damn it!" Jarod sputtered, "I asked him not to tell you…"

"Jarod, Jarod, sweetheart…" I put on my best soothing mother voice. "What Sydney did or didn't tell me is between me and Sydney. He brought me the groceries, as you asked him to – I fed him a meal that I'd intended to feed you. We had a long and very interesting discussion on a number of topics – you being only one of them. And really…" I smiled to myself. "…that's all you need to know. I seriously doubt that Sydney betrayed anything you specifically asked him not to. He doesn't seem to be the sort who would make a promise and then not keep it."

"He gave me his word," Jarod had evidently calmed down slightly, "and I know that Sydney NEVER breaks his word."

"Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?"

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. "No," he admitted so very reluctantly, "I suppose not."

"So…" I prompted, determined to move on to a lighter topic, "tell me about your Pretend. We didn't get a chance to talk like we would have if you were here – so I want to know everything."

"Everything, Mom?" My move had worked, his voice sounded lighter.

"Details, Jarod. I'm an interested second party. So spill!"

oOoOo

By Monday morning, the storm had blown itself out to sea – leaving behind a thick blanket of snow completely hiding the evidence of any vehicle having been in my yard recently. I'd finished two more mystery books and worked my way through several of the more modern vocal CDs while I did a more thorough cleaning of the house on Sunday. I also spent a great deal of time writing back and forth to JD – and letting Jarod know that when I was finally released from my snowy exile in Delaware, I wanted to be given enough of a new identity that I could settle down with JD and attempt to give this unintended son of mine a little emotional support and stability. I was done running – I wanted a life back.

I made my coffee and, as was my habit, turned on the computer while waiting for the percolator to finish the job. I had three emails that morning, and I waited until after I had toasted myself some toast, soft-boiled myself an egg and poured myself a fresh cup of coffee to open them.

Emily demanded to know how well I had weathered the storm – and promised that she was taking some time off that next weekend so that she could come down and spend time with me here. After I read Jarod's next note, I wrote Emily back and explained that Jarod's Pretend seemed to be resolving itself faster than he'd anticipated – and that when she got here, there could possibly be the three of us. I then wrote Jarod and let him know the good news – that the three of us might actually get to spend some time together as family at long last.

Sydney's note I saved for last. When I opened it, I gasped and almost spilled my coffee into my laptop's keyboard – for in the place of the text was a beautiful picture of a red rose. In small letters at the bottom was written: "Peg - Enjoyed the meat loaf all weekend long and still have enough for sandwich for lunch today. Hoping you stayed safe and warm during the storm. Let me know the next time you want me to go shopping. Sydney."

I hit reply. "Sydney – Glad you enjoyed the meat loaf, because my share is almost all gone too now. Thanks for helping me eat it. Jarod wasn't too happy when I told him I'd spoken with you about him – hope he doesn't give you too much of a bad time. And you can shop for me anytime – if you'll stay for supper again afterwards. Peg." I hit send – and sat back to nurse my coffee. I was writing to a friend, not a monster. A friend.

What a difference a week had made.

By evening, Jarod had written back promising to look into reasonable alternatives for a new and more permanent identity and locale for me and JD – but warning that making the arrangements to actually take up such a life might take a while. JD had written again, sounding more and more despondent about himself and his life. I turned around and wrote to Ethan again, hoping that putting a bug in the brother's ear might result in some more immediate help on that front.

Sydney had replied – as I had hoped he would. "Peg – Yes, I got a rather urgent call from Jarod not long after you spoke to him. I assured him that I'd not said a word about matters he'd asked me to promise to keep to myself – but I also let him know that I felt you had a right to know virtually anything you wanted within reason. As you say, he's not pleased we're actually communicating. In a way, you and I are opposite "sides" of his life, finally in contact in a way completely outside his control – it's bound to make him nervous. Remember, he's both curious about and terrified of intimacy – and that includes the relationships of those important to him. You and I speaking without his knowledge or permission – despite the fact that it was he himself who made our face to face discussion possible – threatens the stability of his relationship with each of us in his mind. Sorry to sound so much like a shrink. Sydney."

I laughed and hit the reply button. "Sydney – You ARE a shrink, or haven't you noticed those funny letters after your name on your desk nameplate? Peg."

By morning I had my response: "Peg – You're right – there IS a collection of incomprehensible letters on my nameplate! How could I have missed them? Actually, I have a bad habit of pontificating about everything I see from a psychiatric point of view, mostly because I have so few opportunities to talk about anything else. I would hope that you and I could find other avenues of discussion eventually to help me break that habit. Sydney."

There it was again, that vague feeling of something within that I hadn't felt in a very long time – along with the sudden realization that my communications with Sydney had begun to ease a huge and empty hole in my life left when Dan died.

Perhaps Jarod had reason to feel threatened after all…