Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: Hopefully I'll have another chapter up tonight, since this one is so short... if not, it should be by tomorrow.
Tell me what you think, especially about the little girl! :) ..Also, does anyone know what's coming next?
Chapter Four: Time
I had changed quite a bit in the six years since I'd given birth—I was a lot more mature, a lot more grounded… I had finished my degree that summer—the summer of '92—and had moved to Berkeley, California to attend grad school that fall. I spent four years in grad school—getting my masters in both psychics and forensics, and then I spent a year going through all the required training to work in law enforcement, working in the lab in the meantime.
By 1997 I was working in the San Francisco lab as a CSI, level one. I knew who I was, I loved my job, and I was proud of my accomplishments… I wasn't exactly sure I regretted giving up my little girl, but I knew if I could go back and do it over, I would have found a way to keep her. Even if it meant giving up everything else…
I hadn't exactly kept in touch with Tom and Erika—it was too hard, for me… and I figured they deserved the chance to be normal parents, without the birth-mom hanging around, making things uncomfortable. But I got a picture of her, every year, on February 16th—her birthday, and I always wrote a letter back. They named her Halle Mae Stevens—Halle because Erika had always wanted to name a little girl that, since she was little herself—and Mae because it was Tom's grandmother's name.
Her eyes stayed blue, but her hair actually turned very blonde within the first six months. I didn't have any blondes in my family, and I found myself wondering if Gil had any in his… In truth, I wanted to hate the man, but I couldn't bring myself to it. The only interaction I'd had with him—actually with him, not with the people who answered his phones—had been gentle and kind.
Her one-year old picture was of a chubby-cheeked baby in a highchair with golden curls at the nape of her neck, blue eyes sparkling, white frosting coating nearly every inch of exposed skin. She had the smallest of clefts in her chin, big dimples, and a single tooth in her smile. She looked happy, and healthy, and well-loved. I cried, but I really was happy.
Her two-year old picture had her with shoulder-length blonde curls—strawberry blonde, almost—and in a pretty pink party dress, a balloon tied to her wrist, and a boxer puppy by her feet. She was hugging Erika, and blowing a kiss to the camera, which I was certain was held by Tom. Her lips puckered beautifully, and I remembered kissing her desperately before handing her away.
Her three-year old picture showed a girl with darker blonde hair, the hints of red becoming more obvious, the blue eyes as striking as ever. She had an all-too-familiar gap-toothed smile. I hoped they would get her braces if her permanent teeth had the same gap—I had always hated mine. She waved at the picture, and I positively ached existing without her.
In her four-year old picture I saw a tall, bright-eyed little girl whose hair was almost brown now—the hints of red still more striking. She was blowing out the candles of a princess cake, surrounded by other little girls—she had friends. That made me feel good. On the back of the picture, Erika had written that they called her their little chameleon, because her hair color had changed so much since birth.
Five-year old Halle held up a butterfly cake for the camera, and was clad in a butterfly wings. She was in a bedroom decorated in butterflies, and her hair was truly auburn now—a brilliant reddish brown that made her eyes stand out, bright and beautiful. The eyes that were her father's—the eyes which hadn't changed, despite the changeling-like nature of her hair, and the dimples… both had remained the same.
Six-year old Halle Mae had her auburn curls up in a pretty pony-tail, and held up a glittery heart Valentine that said, clearly in her own hand-writing, 'To: Other Mommy Sara From: Halle Mae Stevens." She was still writing her e's backwards, but the intent was clear. Erika had written on the back that she now read the letters I'd written, one in response to each of the five other photos, and she had made an extra Valentine for me at school.
Once again, I cried and cried. But she was clearly happy, clearly healthy, clearly beautiful and smart and well-adjusted. I couldn't hope for more than that...