4. Hope
Maria is born in a sunny, exclusive clinic outside of the city, in a little town called Hartsdale. Annette tugs on her mom's hand and tells her that the name sounds pretty, drawing her mom's attention from the newborn in her arms. They are wheeling her out to the entrance – Annette would have mentioned it going in, she explains, but she thought Mom was pretty busy right then.
Her mother smiles at her winsomely, laughter bringing out the fine lines around her mouth. Dad is the one pushing the chair. He can't stop smiling either. David skips ahead and then dawdles when Grandma remonstrates him, scuffing his shoes against the tile. He ends up holding Annette's hand as they walk out. Grandma says it'll look better for the cameras.
There are a hundred of them, more, beyond the thin panels of glass. They whoosh open before Annette's family in a whisper, letting in the blinding flashes of paparazzi as well as the thick August heat.
"Wave for the cameras, darling," Grandma says, bending down close to her ear. Nodding dumbly, Annette obeys.
There were a lot of argument about this, Annette recalls. Mom and Dad didn't want to let the reporters know where they were. Grandma argued that they needed it, that this was the best way to put the rumors to rest. Annette had listened from the stairs and signed the conversation up to David; the two of them agreed that being on TV would be a lot of fun. Their parents were so stupid sometimes.
Now, Annette shudders under the bright glare of the TV lights and shies back from the microphones thrust into her face. She almost steps on her grandmother's toe, before she casually directs Annette back to the prying reporters.
It's hard to make out the questions from the riot of sound around her, but a few break through:
"Emma! Emma, what do you think of the paternity suit verdict last month?"
"Mrs. Petrelli, how much of this dog and pony show do you expect us to buy?"
"Been about nine months since Christmas, eh, Peter? Did you like your birthday gift?"
Annette takes issue with the last. She seizes the microphone put before her and looks into the nearest camera with determination.
"If it was on Christmas," she says firmly. "Then it was a Christmas gift."
The reporters laugh uproariously, elbowing each other and winking. One of them reaches out to pat her on the head.
"Thanks, kid, that just got me to prime time," he says. Annette does not like his tone.
Grandma's strong, vice-like grip pries the reporter away from her, and the rest part before her to let the family through. They pile into the towncar, Grandma taking little Maria as Dad helps Mom in before handing her granddaughter back to her son with an air of wistfulness. It almost looks like Dad doesn't want her holding Maria.
The car ride passes in drowsy silence for the adults, while David and Annette play the license plate game. All she needs is an 'x' to win when they pull up to the house. The walk is surprisingly bare of reporters – in later years, Annette will learn that it was as much PR engineering as anything; Grandma tipped the reporters in Hartsdale off, but the ones in New York City had no such luck. At the time, she thought it was only natural. If the reporters were in Hartsdale, they could hardly be in New York at the same time.
They say farewell to Grandma as they exit the car. It will take her on to the estate she's sharing with Noah, whom Annette isn't really sure whether to call uncle or grandfather these days. Annette remembers very distinctly slipping from the car cautiously, pressing down one mary jane clad foot and then another. She always marked up her dress shoes, and she doesn't want to this time. She does not, however, remember the strange woman appearing, or how she gets so close to Mom. How she grabs Maria.
Those are all facts she learns later, in school.
A fellow student presents a report, photos and headlines lit up on the wall as he compares the attempted Petrelli kidnapping against the Lindbergh kidnapping. The boy quotes articles that speculate on whether the woman, the rejected plaintiff in a paternity suit, was framed or railroaded. He brings up a court drawing to illustrate his point. Annette blinks at the bright picture, reeling from the shock of the woman's familiar, horrible face. Objectively, she can agree that the woman, the kidnapper, is an attractive, well put together woman. Internally, her stomach roils and recoils. She edges her chair away from her desk, fingers white and tense where they hold her stylus.
One report asserts that the woman, far from being crazed and off her medication, was correct in all her accusations. Maria was hers. The "birth" in Hartsdale was staged – no one ever got a good look at the baby, so there was no way to confirm if she was a newborn or a touch older. And, after all, the boy concludes in his speech, there would always be room for reasonable doubt. Nathan Petrelli had an illegitimate daughter. Why not Peter Petrelli?
The day of that presentation is one of the worst days of her life, worse than the actual kidnapping attempt she barely remembers. It is the first time she stands and walks from a class.
It's not the last.
The pictures from class are more potent than her memories. The red and blue painted walk; Dad kneeling by the woman he bound in frozen time, gentle as he eases her to the ground; Mom standing far back, on the edge of an empty photo, eyes angry and fearful both as she holds her baby daughter close to her chest.
Although her memories of the kidnapping are hardly that, hardly memories, she does remember the aftermath well. Yet more reporters on their doorstep. Months of being driven the short distance to school, since neither Annette nor David could be allowed to walk or take the subway without an adult. Uncle Rene's and Noah's more frequent visits, securing the house and advising Annette's parents on how best to defend it.
It's not long after that Annette is tested for an ability. She doesn't have one, and they make a decision.
"I can't lose you," Dad says, kneeling before her to look her in the eye. "We have to lie. No one can know that you're powerless."
The words feel like a physical push. It makes her stumble, just a little, and Annette's not sure if she ever quite recovers.
The next day, she burrowed down deep against her pillow, evading daylight until deep into midday, when a sharp rap she recognized as being from David roused her. She threw off her comforter, turning over to stare at her ceiling. Her sleep had been rough and fitful, the strange images from her dreams burning behind her eyes.
Lethargically, she dressed and made her way downstairs. Sound came from he kitchen, as well as the cherished smell of her father's mediocre cooking. She breathed it in deeply, ache in her chest as she remembered tilting up on her toes, peering up over the edge of the counter to watch him inexpertly turn pancakes, Mom's laughter ringing out behind them.
She pushed into the kitchen – Dad was long done with cooking and eating, alternating with Mom to clean up the kitchen island. Maria sat at the counter of the island, legs swinging as she pushed around the last bites of her omelette. Her eyes were bright and clear, long hair brushed out and fettered with little pink bows. Her childish resilience gave no sign of her trouble from the night before, and she smiled widely when she saw Annette, leaning as far as she could across the counter to remove the cover from a plate.
"We were keeping it warm," Maria said earnestly.
Annette forced a smile.
"Thanks."
Maria nodded happily, attention quickly turning to their mother.
"Can I go play?" she asked. Mom cast a look from over her shoulder as she set plates into the dish washer. She looked pointedly to the remaining food on Maria's plate. Fumbling with her fork, Maria shoveled the vegetables she'd excised from her eggs into her mouth, swallowing quickly to look up at Mom with wide, beseeching eyes.
Their mother rolled her eyes.
"Go on," she said, making shooing motions with her hands. Maria scrambled off her stroll, racing upstairs as if running to meet a playmate. Mom and Dad shared a look, smiling.
Annette picked at her food, slouching over the counter as her parents talked. She only heard half the conversation, pieces from her mother about work and from her father about the boy she'd had over the night before – any sort of resolution to that problem, however, was spoken of in sign. Annette didn't bother looking up to watch. She didn't really want to know.
Some of her dejection must have shown on her face, because after a time, as she tidied other areas of the kitchen, her mother swept past her, stopping to press the back of her hand to her forehead, a frown lining her face. Annette flinched away.
"You don't seem feverish," her mother said. She lingered at Annette's side, stroking hair from her face to tilt it up, pressing a kiss against her temple. Annette closed her eyes, leaning into the brief touch. Her mother's hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and then away as she moved back to Dad's side. Annette turned to look, tuning out their conversation. Her eyes followed their hands instead – not moving in sign, but reaching out to clasp a shoulder, brush a finger across a cheek.
Something Aunt Claire had once said came back to Annette. Her mother fit with them, she said, because she was used to talking with her hands. It was a running family joke that they all did it, in varying degrees. David and Annette walked and talked; Maria spoke to David and Mom very literally through the music she expressed with her hands. And then there was Dad. His every emotion, so readable on his face, was underlined by expansive sweeps of his arms, frustrated clenched fists, and brief, tempered touches on the hand to ground and focus his children. For all of that, Annette had never liked the way it was with Grandma and Dad – the edged words and manipulating, treacly touches. She much preferred the version from Mom, touches buoying her honest tone, supplementing caring looks.
She wanted to believe that's how it had been with Nathan. Annette swallowed deeply, shivering at the sudden image that overwhelmed her. She could almost see it, Dad with Uncle Nathan, speaking in close conference, Dad reaching out to grasp Nathan's elbow, Nathan angling them away from company as he seized Dad's shoulders. There were so many pictures of them together, some in exactly such a pose. They had been so close.
Didn't that make the betrayal sting more?
Shuddering, Annette pushed away from the table, chair legs scraping loudly against the tile of the kitchen. Both of her parents turned to look, concern in their eyes.
"I'm not hungry," she mumbled, turning to flee.
Her feet carried her upstairs. Her hand was on her doorknob when she remembered the journals still scattered across her floor, the audio files still blinking on pause, the photos of Uncle Nathan lit on her wall. Annette swallowed against her own cowardice, pressing a sweaty palm against her door as if to seal it closed.
The light sound of laughter shivered across the air. Annette caught her breath, turning. Maria. The name felt like an old wound. She could acknowledge it was one she'd been nursing for such a long time, so unfairly, that she'd almost forgotten the person behind the hurt.
Annette padded softly to her little sister's door, caution borne equally of hesitance and guilt. She pushed the door open, listening for a creak that did not come, and took a moment to watch quietly, her heart twisting.
Maria was a singularly lovely child. Her dark hair swept flawlessly long and straight over her shoulders. Her eyes blinked up wide and expressive and ever so sweetly at anyone who looked. Her face was a perfect, chubby little heart. While there were many children who were only beautiful as children, it was evident that Maria would be equally lovely as an adult. And her looks would remain hers forever, frozen by her immortality.
Being jealous of a child is a low, ugly thing, Annette thought.
Her little sister sat in the middle of her pink, orderly room. It was large, almost to the point of engulfing Maria altogether – off to the side there was an alcove with a small desk and lectern, even a smart board on the wall. A folding barrier split the schoolhouse side of her room from her bed and the play area. Of course, Maria was not always cloistered in her room for her lessons – they had at first been free ranging throughout the house. But time and the unexpected comings and goings of Dad had eventually narrowed Maria's territory to what she safely claimed as her own.
Yet, things changed so quickly with Maria – yesterday she was fit enough to go out and then sick enough to be rushed home early, and now she was giggling happily in her room while she pinned barrettes into the hair of her dolls. Annette had no idea what to make of her anymore.
She didn't know what to make of herself.
Did Nathan stand here, she wondered, looking at his powerful, beloved little brother and envy him? Hate him? Of course he didn't. It wasn't possible, she knew, they hadn't had their powers at this age, and Nathan actually did have one.
But it was still the same. She knew that, felt it deeply as a striking pain that made her flinch from her own thoughts. She just wanted to save her family from this. She knew he had too. Why was that so wrong?
"Hey, Maria," she began, before frowning abruptly. It wasn't just any doll whose hair she was styling. It was a ten-inch action figure – with realistic hair – of her dad. "Where did you get that?"
Mom had very strict rules about actions figures of people they knew. Meaning none. Ever. No matter how much Annette had begged as a girl, she'd never been allowed a St. Joan.
"Daddy bought them for me," Maria said, blinking up at her innocently. She leaned over the scattered array of famous personages – and Christ, Dad really was a push over. He'd bought her the entire line. After a moment of solemn consideration, Maria snatched up a dark haired figurine in a trench coat and thrust it at Annette. "You can be Sylar."
"Thanks," Annette said dryly. She turned the doll over in her hands. Unlike the one of her father, his hair was just molded plastic. His arm was out-stretched, fore finger permanently pointing his telekinetic knife outward to his victims. On his face, Maria had carefully drawn in fangs. Inked in blood dripped from them. "You know, Sylar didn't actually eat the brains."
"But in Eclipse..."
"It's just a movie!"
Maria was unmoved by her conviction, continuing blithely, "In Eclipse, Sylar always eats the brains. It's the only way he can get the powers. But Daddy and me don't have to do that, 'cause we're good."
Of all the stupid arguments...
Annette sighed, plopping down to sit cross legged in front of her sister. Maria took it as a cue to play, artfully posing her dad-figurine and preparing battlements around him. Half-heartedly, Annette waggled Sylar at her. When Maria wasn't looking, she dropped him.
"Maria," she started. Maria leveled a reproachful look at her, and she snatched the doll back up, pretending to play. She aimed his pointing finger toward the dad-doll, and Maria made him twitch in imagined pain. Annette's expression contorted in distaste. She dropped the doll again, this time reaching out to grab her sister's hands for her attention. "It's just a movie. Dad's already told us everything that happened. It's bad enough without brain eating."
"It's in the movie."
"And you believe a movie over Dad?"
"Maybe," Maria said sullenly. She looked away from Annette, letting Annette take the Sylar-doll and pulling her hands away. Annette stared at her, eyes tracing over her small face.
"What's this really about?" she asked softly. "Maria, what happened last night? Did something happen with your power?"
"No."
"Was David's music just that bad?" she asked. She tried to catch Maria's eye, eliciting a quick smile before Maria remembered herself.
"No. It was," Maria pulled her knees up to her chest, voice muffled as she spoke into her jeans. "Too much. Too many people."
Annette shook her head slowly. She didn't understand. Too many people meant a power issue, but Maria said that wasn't it. Unless... Annette tilted her head, peering at Maria as realization bloomed.
Too many people. Maria had been a virtual prisoner in the house for nearly a year, seeing no more than a handful of people at a time. And more than that, she lived with the constant knowledge that just being in the same room as the wrong person could kill hundreds of other people.
An empath who was afraid of people. That's what their protection, their "cure" had made Maria into.
"Oh, Maria," Annette whispered. She scooted over to Maria's side, drawing her into a hug. Maria's head fell onto her shoulder, but she didn't let go of her legs. "I'm so sorry."
"I was really excited. I really wanted to go. David's music always looks so pretty. But it was just... it was too much," Maria said. She added quickly in embarrassment, "I fainted."
Fainted. No, she hadn't fainted – she'd had a panic attack.
Annette stroked her fingers through Maria's hair, looking toward the abandoned dolls on the floor. Maria's pink bows from earlier were now in the hair of the dad-doll.
"Dad used to do that," Annette said suddenly. She remembered him sheepishly explaining details of his power to her once, how he'd struggled so hard to control it. How badly he'd failed. "He fainted."
"Really?" Maria raised her head to look at Annette, drawing back. She wiped childishly on at the tears on her face. "That's not in the movie."
Annette dropped a quick kiss onto Maria's head.
"No, it's not." She cast around for the dolls, trying to find the right ones. "Now, are we playing or not? Where's the mom-doll?"
Springing up as if nothing had happened, Maria dashed over to her doll house to retrieve her limited edition Emma Petrelli. Annette settled back, leaning her weight onto her hands behind her and stretching out her legs.
"Hey, Annette?" Maria said, turning as she tried to select the best dress for the mom-doll.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," Maria mumbled, looking down. "For hugging me. Sometimes I wish Mom could do that."
Annette sat up straight in surprise.
"Maria! Of course Mom can hug you! What are you thinking?"
"But not...not while she's talking to me," Maria looked up at her cautiously. "Mom has to look at us when we're talking."
"That's just how Mom is. We can't change that. We can't change David either," Annette added reproachfully.
"I know. But sometimes... I just wish we could be normal."
Annette stared at Maria, completely at a loss for words. Of all the things that set their family apart, she'd never considered Deafness or sign to be one of them. That was just... them. It was part of their family – easy to accommodate and share. Much easier than powers or music, that was for sure.
Maria ignored her. She went about the room, collecting dolls and props to re-enact the Battle of Central Park. Samuel was righteously defeated, Aunt Claire told the truth to the world, and Dad saved Mom. They even kissed, although that wasn't true and although Maria made an ick face even as she explained that was what Mom and Dad holding hands represented. Annette didn't mention the truth, because sometimes the movie was better than reality.
Hours later, when Annette meandered out of Maria' room – ousted supposedly because it was meditation time, but in reality because Annette just didn't "play right" – her mind could not help but turn in ambivalent, frustrated circles.
She'd spent so much time angry at her father for Maria's sake, but she'd used him as a positive example to inspire her. Her Dad, who had turned Maria into an agoraphobe, might just be the best hope she had, that one day she could control her power the way he did. Her Uncle Nathan, whose words and mind she admired so deeply, had betrayed her whole family, their whole kind. And she didn't even know that she disagreed. Their lives would be easier if all of this could just be wished away – Deafness, powers, amusia. Or music, Annette added cynically.
Annette slouched the short distance over to her room, hitting the wall controls as she entered to kill the power to the computers. Photo panels dimmed, disappearing Uncle Nathan from view. Queued audio files died. The electronic whir came to a stop. Annette flopped down onto her bed to stare at the ceiling. And brood.
She had not quite worked herself properly into a teenage funk, despite her best efforts, when a knock at the door came only a few minutes later. Quashing the impulse to tell whichever parent it was to go away, Annette settled for a muted grunt. That was apparently sufficient. The door swung open.
And the lights turned on.
"Your mother wants to know if there's anything you want for dinner this week," Dad said. It was so mundane, Annette had to shake herself, focusing on comprehending the words.
She struggled to sit, looking at her father in confusion as she blinked into the bright light. He looked bemused at her appearance, calmer than she would have expected given the events of the night before.
"Um, no. No preferences," Annette said, rubbing at her eyes. She tilted her head to the side, squinting at him. "So, you're not here to ream me about the boy last night?"
"Ah, so you are ready to talk about it," her dad returned. Annette instantly cursed herself for walking into his trap, and glared back at him.
"Only if you're ready to tell me what happened with Maria," she snapped.
Her dad crossed his arms, leaning back against the door jamb. He looked like he was settling in to fight this out. Annette squared her shoulders and crossed her legs, sitting up straight rather than leaning back against the head board. She gave him an even look to tell him she was just as prepared as he was to dig in her heels.
"Being in a large crowd frightened Maria. We'll find a way to help her. Next time will be better," he said decisively. He gave her a stern look before continuing, "And this isn't about her. So, the boy."
"Edward something," Annette said, throwing her hands in the air. Not like it actually mattered. "We were doing research together. For Mohinder's project. He told me some pretty interesting things about Building 26."
All of the defensiveness and anger dropped instantly from her father's expression, and for a moment, he looked just as vulnerable and young as he did in the photographs. Admittedly, given his eternal youth, he always looked that young, but it was a surprise to see emotional barriers that she hadn't even known were there drop right before her eyes. It was a beautiful, aching reminder of what he must have been like when he was younger. Before the explosion, before his father's resurrection and death, before Building 26. What would it be like, Annette wondered, to have every member of your family betray you?
He swallowed deeply, looking away for a moment.
"Ah."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you. I gave you Nathan's journals, his explanations."
"No, Dad!" she said, surprised at her own vehemence. "You gave me his excuses! All of the pretty lies he told himself about why it was okay to betray his family! None of what he says explains it!"
"Annie, that's all the explanation there is."
"But you could have warned me!" Annette slapped her hand down against the bed. "You always talk about Nathan like he was a hero. You talk about him saving you. Why didn't you tell me what he was really like?"
A very obstinate look entered her father's eyes – one recognizable from his frequent arguments with Grandma.
"He did save me," Dad argued. "He was a complex person."
A disbelieving laugh bubbled up in Annette.
"'A complex person'," she said, staring at him with wide eyes. This is precisely why he needs to be protected, she thought with a wrench. He lets people do such terrible things to him. He forgives them. "Are you listening to yourself? He nearly had you killed!"
"And then he turned around and helped me end it. Annette, I forgave him a long time ago. Why is this upsetting you so much?"
"Because..." Annette's voice trailed off. She picked at the bedspread beneath her fingers, shivering slightly at the hollow feeling she had inside. Softly, she continued, "Because you let me admire him. You let me relate to him."
There was a long moment of silence, followed by her father's quiet footsteps to her side. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, and when Annette looked up, it was into his solemn, understanding eyes. His hair was not nearly as long as in the photos, but it fell forward slightly, into his eyes. Annette had the strong, sudden feeling she was looking into Peter's eyes as Nathan had known them.
"I thought you might." He pressed his lips together, as if trying to decide if he really wanted to continue. Making a decision, he added, "You've always reminded me of him."
Annette flinched, shaking off his touch in horror.
"Dad!" she said, voice breaking with emotion. She trembled, trying to fight off tears. He was right. The awful thing was that he was right. She wanted to hate Uncle Nathan, but everything he'd written made so much sense to her.
"But," Dad started softly. He nudged her just enough to make space for him to sit on her bed, an arm going around her as he sat. "I'm surprised you aren't angrier at me."
"For what?" she asked thickly. She was angry, actually. Very angry.
"For destroying the formula."
Annette lifted her head, giving him a strange look.
"Okay," she said, giving a bitter laugh, "You're going to have to decide if I hate Specials like Nathan, or if I'm jealous and I want to be one."
Dad gave her a quelling look.
"Is it so easy to separate those things, Annie? Are you sure?"
She drew up her legs, huddling against the headboard, pose as childish and sullen as the one Maria had made only hours before. Annette was just a bit braver than her eight year old sister, though. She looked her father in the eye, jaw clenched and voice feeling strained as she confessed to him.
"No."
He nodded quietly, reaching out again to hug her. This time, she went willingly, burrowing her face into his shirt.
"You don't need the formula to be a part of this family, Annie. We all love you," he said into her hair. "You don't need a power."
Annette really wished that she could believe that. But how could she? She wasn't Maria. She wasn't Claire. She wouldn't be there with him forever. They had a few years, decades at best, that would quickly be forgotten against the endless plain of eternity.
"But I can get it for you," Dad offered quietly. Annette pulled back from the hug, looking up at him in shock. "If you want it."
"Daddy..."
He had very strict rules about time travel. He didn't do it. And even Uncle Hiro... he wouldn't do this. He wouldn't risk the damage to the time line just to satisfy his daughter's whim.
"I used it, you know," Dad continued, looking off into the distance. "You must have heard Nathan mention that. My power was... damaged. Taken from me. I needed it back, to save Nathan. So I took it, the formula I destroyed. Nathan told me he wouldn't have done the same thing."
Taken. His power had been taken. Annette stared at her father in confusion. That wasn't how it worked. You were a Special or you weren't. There was no way to remove the powers. Maria would have been cured long ago if it were possible. It was her vain, girlish hopes that made her wish her dad would rejoin the mortal world.
The shock of his words coiled in her, making her want to lash out in return.
"Of course he wouldn't have. He wasn't a hypocrite."
"No, of all things. He wasn't that."
"Your power," Annette started. "The formula gave it back to you?"
Dad chuckled, low and ironic.
"No. It was far more complicated than that. Ask me someday about what happened to Sylar, Annie. It's actually an interesting story."
"But you lost your power," Annette insisted. "It was gone?"
"It was."
"And you took it back?" she asked, anguish entering her voice. All of their problems could have been fixed before they happened, and he undid it. "Can you do it again? Lose your power again?"
Dad clenched his jaw, looking down before fixing her with a dark look.
"No. My father is dead," he pronounced. Annette's eyes widened at the chill in his voice.
That's why he killed Grandpa, she thought vaguely. Her head was spinning. She needed more time to understand all of this, but Dad wasn't done talking yet.
"I just want you to be happy," he said. "I can't... I can't stop being what I am. Neither can Maria. We can try to make it work, but it's always going to be hard. I wish you were happier being yourself, Annie. But if you want to change... if it will make you happy, I'll go back and get the formula for you."
She'd thought the formula was out of the question. That made it easier to envy, to regret. Suddenly, the possibility of being Special dangled before her – fitting into her family, her school, possibly even living forever – and it shook her to the core.
Annette gulped down a terrified breath, looking up into her father's eyes searchingly. I don't want to watch everyone die, she thought. I'm not that strong.
"How do you do it?" she asked. "How do you live knowing we'll all die before you?"
He shook his head minutely, shrugging one shoulder.
"It's hard, Annie. But it's not any harder than living knowing how unhappy you are."
Annette looked away, resting her he head again on his shoulder. She stared at the blank wall next to her bed. Normally, the computer panel would be lit. Pictures of Nathan and her father were still in there, waiting to refresh when she turned the computer on again.
"How could you forgive him?"
"He was my brother. I loved him."
She nodded into his chest. She hadn't really expected a different answer. It still didn't really make sense to her, but she had to accept it. Somehow, it was that simple for him.
"Can you..." she began in a small voice. She pressed her eyes closed, trying not to hear her own voice. "Can you forgive me?"
Gently, Dad disengaged her from the hug, holding her by her shoulders. He waited until she looked up at him, peering through the dark hair that had fallen in front of her face.
"For what?" She could name a million things – being cruel, being jealous, hating her family – but she knew he wouldn't accept any of them.
Annette bit her lip.
"I don't want the formula," she said quietly. She frowned, angry with herself, and clenched her jaw. She repeated firmly, "I don't need it."
Her dad offered her a crooked half smile.
"I'm glad." He reached out, carefully brushing her hair from her face, before touching her on the chin, lifting her face up. "I meant what I said earlier. You really remind me of him."
Annette blinked, furrowing her brow as she took in the words. There was a look in her dad's eye, a slight inclination to his head, pushing her toward a second meaning in his word. And then, suddenly, it hit her. Words behind the words, ones he would never say because they'd been wielded as weapons too much in their family.
There were words parents didn't, shouldn't use: most. Best. Favorite. Certainly not in he context of love. So Dad didn't saying those words. He couldn't.
But it was clear that he meant them.
What a wonderful and terrible thing, Annette thought, staring at him. She turned the words over in her mind, heart clutching irregularly in her chest. Her lips twitched – a connected spasm – and it occurred to her that she maybe wanted to smile. Just maybe.
"So," he began, clapping his hands onto his legs. "about this boy..."
Annette narrowed her eyes at him. Oh, she wasn't letting him off that easily.
"So," she returned, "about how Grandpa died..."
"Right," he said, standing quickly. "We'll talk again. Some other time."
She smiled and stood with him. She turned a hand in a lazy circle, indicating the mess of her room.
"I guess I'll just... work on that project some more," she said. And maybe call Edward later, she thought. She had a little more work to do to make everything right.
"Okay," he said. He leaned down, kissing her on the forehead. "I love you, Annie."
Annette hugged herself. She worried her lip between her teeth, feeling out the words in her mind. There was a lot left ahead, a lot to face and a lot she still felt guilty over. But that was sort of the point. Everything was still beginning. Her father had hardly left her behind. He was right here, standing before her.
"I love you, too, Daddy."
End