Scattered Reflections part 3
Nearly a week of disjointed time had passed when Daniel's case worker triumphantly informed him that she'd found him a new home. Before the unwelcome news could fully sink in, she drove him to a neighborhood far less affluent than that of the Davies's. Many of those houses' yards were unkempt, leaves strewn about, fences in need of painting.
They pulled up in front of a small house with faded blue paint on the siding, a few straggly looking flowers still managing to survive the autumn cold. Daniel followed his case worker up the cracked concrete steps, waited as she knocked on the door. It opened after a few moments of fumbling and shuffling noises.
Daniel squinted, trying to see past the gloom beyond the open doorway, trying to make out the silhouetted form of a tall woman. She greeted them, stepped back to allow them to come inside.
The woman introduced herself. Her name was Liza, or Lillian, or some name starting with an 'L.' Daniel didn't really take note, or pay attention to the conversation between his new foster parent and case worker. It didn't matter anyway. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, watching the woman's gray tabby cat winding around her legs, purring loudly, its eyes closed in apparent ecstasy. After his case worker had left and the woman showed him to his room, Daniel quietly thanked her and stepped inside. He sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his back slightly from her. She took the hint and left him alone.
Sliding from the bed and onto the floor, Daniel glanced around at his new surroundings. The heavily shadowed room was spare, the hardwood floor dull and scratched, the area rug upon which he sat was equally faded, nearly threadbare, but soft to the touch. A twin sized bed, narrow dresser and bookshelf took up the entire small space. Nothing adorned the plain white walls. Daniel noticed the paint was peeling in the corners and around the windowsills. The bookshelf was crammed with dusty books, books lined up, books piled on top. He skimmed the spines, but as soon as he saw the top row—The Hardy Boys Mysteries—he knew he needn't look any farther. Books in foster homes were always the same—books left by other kids, books well-meaning adults thought children liked to read, books that nobody read but looked good when a caseworker showed up.
A square cardboard box with Daniel's name written on it sat in front of the narrow closet. He supposed it contained his belongings from the Davies's home. Staring at the box, Daniel's eyes suddenly filled with tears. He realized his entire life could be packed up in a box scarcely large enough for a television set. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the tears away, forced back his self-pity.
It doesn't matter what happens now, remember? he reminded himself, his fingers unconsciously plucking at the loose threads on the rug. It's just another place. No big deal. You'll get used to it, just like all the other places. You can take care of yourself.
Later on, the woman called him for dinner, but Daniel claimed that he wasn't hungry, even though his stomach was growling. He was surprised when she didn't make an issue of it and left him alone.
The next morning, he woke to find the box unpacked, the open closet doors revealing his meager wardrobe. His books were neatly arranged on the top shelf of the bookcase, transplanting the Hardy Boys to the floor. He wondered how he'd managed to sleep through all that.
Daniel licked his dry lips and took in more of the room, what there was to see. He looked out his window, which overlooked a small but shady backyard. He saw what he suspected was his new foster parent's car, a beat up old Saab. Great, he thought. She's doing this for the money.
He turned away from the window, and that's when he saw it—his father's journal laid out on the nightstand beside his bed. Seeing it out in the open seized the air in his lungs. He tore it off the nightstand and shoved it back into his bag.
"I hope you don't mind that I put your things away," the woman said from the doorway. Daniel spun around, startled by the voice.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"No—I'm fine," he managed to croak out. Daniel glanced around the room, a little uncomfortable with having a stranger seeing him in his pajamas, even if it was her house. He pulled and stretched his T-shirt, ran a hand through his morning hair. She sensed his discomfort and turned away.
"Anyhow, I have some breakfast food—cereal, eggs, toast—whatever you'd like. Come on down when you're ready," she said, and padded away before Daniel had a chance to answer, or thank her.
When he heard her steps reach a distant room, Daniel made sure the journal was well hidden, and poked his head into the hall, looking for the bathroom. He tiptoed to the bathroom, pulled the door closed as quietly as possible behind him, and looked at his face in the mirror. As impassively as though he were gazing at someone else's reflection, he studied the thick scab on his upper lip and the still evident, greenish-tinged bruise that had spread out over the bridge of his nose and mouth. Moving his hand to the chipped brass frame of the mirror, he ran his fingers over the cracks.
How many different homes had he been in over the past six years? How many times had he looked at himself in someone else's bathroom? How many times had he said to himself, "This is the place, things will be better now"? How many times had he believed it?
Not this time.
He finished using the bathroom, wiping down the sink and countertops like he'd learned at the Davies—"This isn't a barn, Dan"—and headed back to the room where he'd slept.
At the Davies he had been schooled in the proper usage of curtains—closed at 7pm, opened promptly at 6 am. Never too early or too late on either end. Standing in this new room, a room with soft curtains, casually allowing the sunlight and the moonlight to enter, Daniel wondered what new rules he'd have to learn.
It bugged him just a little that the woman had put his clothes away. They were his clothes, not hers, and he didn't like having to search for them. He didn't like that she'd gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable. He wasn't comfortable. He didn't want to be comfortable. He knew this was just a temporary placement. They all were. The agency did the best they could, but half the time they didn't know what to do with him. Truth be known, he didn't know what to do either.
When he did make it down to the kitchen, he stood in the doorway, his hands jammed in his pockets, waiting to be invited in. The woman scurried around the bright room, pouring milk in her coffee, and some for the cat. She pulled a dish from a chaotic cupboard tossed a piece of hot toast on it, all the while swaying to music playing from a radio in an adjacent room. Daniel's eyelids fluttered, unnerved by the disorder, the lack of discipline, the higgledy-piggledy way she prepared a meal. There was something about it that made him nervous, that made him want to quiet the room, contain the disorganization. This was the kind of thing that could only lead to trouble.
"Oh, good morning," she said, spinning around toward him, not smiling, but her expression was open, inviting even. "What would you like?"
"Whatever you're having," he said, slinking into the room. In the bright light of the morning sun shining through the windows, Daniel noticed that she was older than any of his previous foster parents had been. Her dark hair was shot through with gray, lines bracketed her mouth and crinkled the skin around her eyes. The tabby cat from the night before lay on top of the table, cleaning its fur. Daniel thought that couldn't be very sanitary. But it wasn't his house, so who was he to say what was what?
"Well, I'm having coffee and toast, but I would think a young man like you would need something more substantial," she said, swinging open the doors to the pantry. "I have some dry cereal…or I could make you some oatmeal. How about some scrambled eggs?"
"Cereal is fine," Daniel said, placing himself in a chair.
"Cereal it is, then," she said, handing Daniel a box. "The refrigerator is over there. Silverware is in that drawer. Bowls are up there. Make yourself at home."
Yeah, right, he thought, gathering up the milk and dishes. They always say that, until you do one thing that they don't like, and then all of a sudden it's their home, not yours…
She brought her toast and coffee to the table and sat down across from Daniel's seat. She sipped her coffee and stroked her cat, watching the young man step lightly around her kitchen. She understood this behavior, this caution and concern on the part of the child in a new home. Daniel was the latest in a long line of foster children she had taken into her home, but he would probably be her last. She was getting too old, and the kids were getting too unruly. She had thought about giving it up all together, but then Sheila, her friend in Children's Services, called her up, begging her to take this one kid—"He's a special one. Bright, quiet. He could sure use a little guidance." Guidance, she had come to know, was code for "He's been in some trouble." Still…
"So, what shall I call you?" she asked, watching him take his seat.
Daniel frowned. Nobody ever asked him what he wanted to be called. They just called him what they wanted to call him. "It doesn't matter."
"Sure it does," she said, dunking her toast in the coffee. "Do you prefer Dan-"
"No."
Her hand stopped midway to her mouth, the toast dripping coffee onto the tabletop. Here was something, she thought. "Okay, how about Daniel?"
He rounded his shoulders, embarrassed that he'd spoken so quickly. "Yeah, that's fine."
"Good. And you can call me Lila, Daniel."
"Yeah, okay," he said. So her name was Lila, then. He realized that he hadn't cared what her name was up until that point. Maybe he still didn't. At any rate, it didn't matter. He wouldn't be here long enough for it to make any difference.
Daniel waited a moment for Lila to ask him another question, and when she didn't, he poured himself some cereal. Occasionally, his eyes would dart toward her, uncomfortable with being watched while he ate. She got the message, and kept her eyes averted.
"Well, I guess now would be as good a time as any to talk about the rules of the house," Lila said, breaking off a piece of toast. "While you're here, treat this house like your home. You're not a guest; you're a member of the household. Households don't run on their own. We all have to pitch in, but don't worry—I won't expect you to do much. I mean, well, look around," she said, offering the evidence of her non-traditional house, "I'm not a stickler for cleanliness. I certainly don't expect you to be, either. Your room is your room. I only ask that you don't leave any food lying around in there. Zuzu here is getting fat enough." Lila scooped the cat off the table and plunked her down in her lap. "Aren't you, Zuzu?"
Daniel listened, waiting for the list of demands and restrictions.
"And as far as anything else, my philosophy is that your main job is to be a student," she said, scratching the cat behind its ears. "Do the best you can, and ask me for help whenever you need it. Oh, except for math. I'm not going to be much help past geometry I."
Daniel nodded. It didn't matter. Foster parents always said they'd be willing to help anyway they could, but they rarely did. Daniel figured out long before coming to Lila's that he didn't need anybody to help him with his homework.
"Anything else? Anything you'd like to know?" she asked.
Daniel straightened his posture and brought the spoon to his mouth slowly. "No. I don't think so."
Lila watched him, his manners impeccable, his back soldier-straight. He was fully dressed, right down to his running shoes, his light brown hair neatly combed and slicked down into submission. She thought he looked terribly uncomfortable. It was a stark contrast to Lila's own slouched posture and sloppy tracksuit she usually wore around the house. She rested her slippered feet on the seat of the chair next to her and pet her cat, wondering where this young man had come by such severe behavior.
There would plenty of time to talk, she thought. She picked up her coffee and took slow sips, enjoying the music that played behind her.
Though Lila, her cat and her cheerful home should have been the salve to help heal Daniel's wounded spirits, he had learned the hard way that appearances were deceiving, and it was best not to trust anyone too soon.
Still, he did allow himself some ray of hope, a fragile optimism that maybe things would get better.
And in time they did. He had trouble sleeping the first few nights as he always did in a new place. When he was able to finally fall asleep, he was plagued by old nightmares that revisited him as they always did, too.
And so he resigned himself to sleeplessness, knowing from experience it was pointless to even try. Though his body was tired, his mind wouldn't allow him to rest, and no amount of reading or distracting himself would change it. Those first few nights, he perched on the old trunk in front of the window gazing through the open curtains at the darkened, silent street.
He didn't think about the Davies, at least not when he could help it. Just too much pain to sort through. One thing he did miss, though, was being able to sit out on their roof, watching the night sky. However, he didn't miss the circumstances that compelled him to the solitude of the stars.
He wondered how Dolores was. If she missed him. He missed her a little. Wondered if some of the tension Mr. Davies had unleashed on Daniel would increase two-fold on Dolores. A few times, Daniel had tried to summon the courage to phone her, but something made him stop every time he picked up the phone. Maybe, he thought, it was best to make a clean start. Maybe that time in the Davies' house was something best forgotten anyhow.
He spent the first few weeks in Lila's house peeking into rooms, not daring to go in. Something told him he needed to be given permission to enter certain parts of the house. One room, in particular, behind two French doors, intrigued him. The doors were usually shut, which told him he wasn't welcome. He'd seen Lila sitting in the room a few times, late at night, usually. He tried to act casual, finding reasons to walk past the doors. It was an office of some sort, lined with books, dark and rich with colors.
"You can go on in," Lila said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Daniel turned to her, at once startled by her presence and her willingness to let him see her personal room. "Go ahead," she said, bobbing her head toward the door.
Daniel grabbed the amber cut-glass doorknob, turned it slowly, and let the heavy oak door swing open. The air was musty and old, and Daniel loved it. His feet carried him to the first case of books, most of them leather bound with gilt stenciling.
"My parents were teachers, like yours," Lila said, taking in the sight of wonder held in his eyes. "They were going to sell the house when they moved to Phoenix, but I decided to buy it from them."
Daniel nodded, a perfunctory show that he was listening, which he wasn't, and while he did so he scanned the books on the shelf. Titles he'd almost forgotten stood before him—Agamemnon, Odysseus, The Acts of King Arthur and his Noble Knights. Authors like family members he hadn't seen in years appeared to him—Malory, Heller, Henry Miller, and Plath. Ayn Rand rested against J.R.R Tolkein, who sidled up next to Bloom and Woolf. These were his parents' favorites, and seeing them again awakened something inside him.
"Do you like to read?" Lila asked.
Daniel pulled an edition of Leviathan from the shelf, cracked it open and began sifting through the words. He remembered his father pouring over these words, in that kind of memory softened over time, yet remained redolent with the thought that somehow this was an important book. The archaic language, flowery and so vastly different than the books he trudged through at school, at first tripped him up. Soon enough Daniel had worked through the syntax and was reading for content. This was food for his soul. He pried open the spot where it had rested on the shelf and took its neighbor down, Four Texts on Socrates. He opened the book and was awash in a memory of his father tracing his son's small finger over the words, reading them to the boy, all foreign and musical.
"That's Greek," Lila said, witnessing Daniel's cheeks and nose pinking up.
"Yes, I know," Daniel said, not taking his eyes off the text, even though the words seemed to waver and float.
"I have the English edition…"
"That's okay," he said, turning the page. Here was the word Athens, and here was Republic—he remembered. His father's hand was warm and dry, the skin on his fingers rough against Daniel's. His voice was low and quiet, close to Daniel's ear. "Andreia. Say it with me, Daniel. Andreia. It means courage."
"Andreia," Daniel said, touching the word.
Lila looked first at the page, then at Daniel, breathless that such an inconceivable thing had just occurred. "You can read Greek?"
"Here. See these words? Kalos kai agathos. Can you say that? Read it with me. Kalos kai agathos."
"Kalos kai agathos."
Lila threw the dishtowel onto the desk and made a feeble attempt to find the word within the text. "Kalos what?"
"Kalos kai agathos, Daniel. Remember that."
"Kalos kai agathos."
"Do you remember what it means, Daniel?" his father asked.
"It means noble and good," Daniel whispered. He closed the book. He couldn't read the words anymore. His eyes were too filled with tears.
"Who taught you how to read Greek?" Lila asked. Her heart wrenching, she raised a hand to Daniel's back, resting it almost tentatively, half-ways expecting him to pull away, but he didn't.
Daniel took a deep, shuddering breath, and whispered, "My father." He looked up and drew yet another book from the shelf.
Lila bit her lower lip and nodded. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had been told about his parents. "Um, your parents died when you were eight, right?"
"Yes," he said, holding but unable to open Le Petit Prince.
"You learned to read Greek when you were eight?" she asked, hoping her voice registered surprise, not shock.
"No," he said, and she was strangely relieved. "I was six."
"Six?" she asked. A few hundred questions popped into her head, but they were interrupted by the sounds of Daniel sniffling and clearing his throat. What she knew about this young man was sketchy, at best. She knew his parents had died in a freak construction accident, that they were teachers. She knew his last placement had turned ugly. She knew he was a good student—bright enough to have skipped a couple of grades, but his records read like a tour of central New York's school districts.
And here he was, this lost boy, reading to her in a lost language, and it occurred to her that she might be the only person on Earth who knew he had the ability to do so. She immediately grieved the time lost to him, the years he could have been studying in a proper school, not just the basics, but the masters. She had known Daniel all of ten days, and already it was quite clear this was no ordinary young man. She never knew, however, just how extraordinary he was. Not until she felt his pain at excavating those stolen memories.
"And French?" she asked, pointing to the copy of The Little Prince in his hand.
"My mother spoke French," he said in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him. He passed her the book.
"Does that mean you can speak French?"
Daniel bit his lower lip, worried his brow, and shrugged. "I don't know."
Lila nodded and let him pass by her, his eyes searching the books, his hands reaching, sometimes just to touch their spines. She opened the book up, its drawings just as fresh and sentimental in her mind as they were when she had first read it. She hoped the French she took in high school would at least allow her to muddle through part of the book, hoped it wouldn't be inappropriate to delve that deeply into the young man's intellect.
"Les grandes personnes ne comprennent jamais rien toutes eules," she read, wincing at what she knew were some strange pronunciations. "Et c'est fatigant, pour les enfants, de toujours leur donner, des explications. Oh, sorry. Explica-see-yon."
Daniel looked at her, his eyelids fluttering, their rims red and puffy. "I don't…I don't remember, I guess."
Lila could hardly breathe. She couldn't take her eyes off his sad expression, off those eyes that held such secrets. She forced air into her body, and said, "Okay."
Daniel looked away, feeling that he should, feeling that he was about to cross that line with Lila. About to allow her in. He'd said enough for one day. More than he ever wanted to. He grasped hold of the cuffs on his shirt, twisted his hands, and said, "Thank you for letting me…um…"
"Any time," she told him. "You are welcome to come in here any time you want."
Daniel glanced up at her one last time, nodded, and was gone.
Lila sat the book on the credenza and pressed her trembling hand to her lips.
Late that night, Daniel, lying awake in his bed, heard a scratch at his closed door, pulling him from his tired thoughts. Climbing from the bed, he went to the door, opened it to find Zuzu, purring against his doorjamb. Daniel stepped back and she trotted into his room without prompting, and he decided it was time for some stargazing. He climbed on top of the old trunk, which he had lined with a tattered blanket, and made himself comfortable, resting his elbow on the window ledge. Soon thereafter, Zuzu jumped into his lap, plunked herself down, and tucked her nose under her tail.
He must have fallen asleep finally because he felt someone touching his shoulder, urging him awake by whispering his name. He blinked, winced at the stiffness of his neck, saw Lila looking at him, concerned. She gently urged him to stand and led him half-asleep to his bed, pulling the covers up snugly around him. Lila rubbed his arm, whispered good night. He felt the bed jostle as Zuzu settled in beside him, ignoring Lila's half-hearted scolding. Daniel felt Lila's hand very lightly touch his hair, pulling a few errant strands from his face.
"Lila?" he whispered.
"Yes, Daniel."
It was probably a mistake, he knew, but something told him he could trust this woman. Something told him she might even appreciate what he was about to say. So he took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "The big people did not understand anything by themselves."
"I'm sorry?" she whispered.
"Les grandes personnes ne comprennent jamais rien toutes eules," he said, embarrassed by his own knowledge. "That's what it means. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" she asked, feeling her heart break for him. "For what?"
"I knew what it meant."
"That's okay. No apology necessary," she said. Her eyes began to burn with slow tears. "There was more, though, wasn't there?"
"Yes," he said, crushing the top of his sheet in his hand. "And it's tiring, for children, to always give them explanations."
Lila smiled, a tear thread across her cheek. "Yes, I'm sure it is."
The faintest of smiles broke over his lips, and he urged himself to go one more step. "My parents taught me Arabic, too."
This new information caused Lila to pause. She merely blinked, shook her head, and whispered, "Well, I can't help you there, bud. I don't think I know one word in Arabic."
"Maybe I could…teach you," he said.
Lila bobbed her head up and down and smiled down at him. "Yeah, I'd like that." She stroked his soft hair away from his forehead and marveled at his knowledge, but more than that, at his capacity to trust. "I'd like that very much. But for now, it's very late, so why don't you get some sleep."
Daniel nodded and felt her hand brush against his cheek. He whispered good night. He vaguely heard Lila leave the room, and he turned on his side, snuggling against the furry warmth beside him. Before sleep fully took him, he began to allow that hope to grow, to believe that maybe he'd found a place he could be safe for a while.
Over the next few months, Daniel forged an unlikely friendship with Lila, who treated him as though he were a favorite nephew, and the arrangement suited Daniel just fine. Lila told him that she had been married once, a lifetime ago, a mistake she would not be repeating. She'd never had a desire for children of her own, telling him that the world was full of kids who needed homes, and she'd been happy to provide one.
Lila was fascinated by Daniel's interest in ancient Egypt and would bring home books she thought he would like, and Daniel would in turn regale her with everything he'd learned from them. They'd sit for hours in the study, the dust in the air shimmering like tiny jewels. Daniel did teach Lila some Arabic, both of them giggling when Lila sometimes mispronounced or forgot the words. She didn't really have a good ear for languages, but her enthusiasm more than made up for it, and Daniel discovered that he had another talent—a gift for teaching, for helping. Something he suspected would never have come to light had he not met Lila. His hopes for a safe harbor were finally granted, and the newfound stability helped ease the constant tightness that had settled in his chest and shoulders until finally, one day, he realized it was gone.
Lila had placed a few calls to private schools in the area, friends of her parents. She told them about her latest foster child, and inquired about scholarships. Her inquiries were usually met with skepticism, but upon meeting the young man, skepticism turned quickly to wonder, and Daniel was offered not two, but three scholarships. Within a week, he was enrolled, placed in classes three years beyond public schools, and seemed to thrive under the new arrangement.
Daniel's need to stifle and drown his fears also eased, yet the temptation sometimes remained. Luckily, his obsession with studying proved to be a satisfying substitute, and he buckled down even harder, never forgetting the promise he'd made to himself—that he was going to make it in this world. Maybe one day he could even do something important enough to change the world for the better.
On his sixteenth birthday, Daniel asked if he could take the GED, which would enable him to leave school early and enter college. So it was that one weekend he took the GED, and the next took the SAT. A month later, he was a high school graduate with a combined score impressive enough for him to choose any university in the country. A prideful part of him gloated over the fact that he'd proven Mr. Davies wrong. The fact that he had grown over six inches that year was another victory. He was no longer a helpless little orphan with nothing to his name. With the scholarships, he finally had something he'd earned all on his own, and no one was going to take it away from him.
The day he left for college, Lila hugged him, kissed him, and told him that if he ever needed anything, she should be his first call. Daniel agreed, and found, for the first time in his memory, that he was going to miss his foster mother. When her arms relaxed her hold on him, Daniel increased his hold on her.
"Thank you," he managed to say.
Lila had no words, only clung to him.
As he settled into his new college life, Daniel again felt the outsider, still much younger than his peers, his inquisitive mind just as alien. For the most part, he didn't mind. He was used to it. Socializing had never been high on his list of priorities, anyhow. Fraternities held no interest for him, nor did the games or rallies. They were a waste of time, too much alpha-male posturing for his liking anyway.
Some of the guys in his dorm thought it was funny to give the teenager a beer or a shot of tequila. They laughed and watched Daniel down the drinks, at the same time, gulping down the contents of their own numerous bottles and glasses. Eventually they would pass out, and when they did, Daniel would empty their bottles of liquor into his glass. He'd toast to them all, the lot of them. Each lightweight, who never realized "the teenager" could drink them all under the table.
He'd kept in touch with Lila for a while, but as his life became busier, the contact was less and less frequent. Plus, much to her surprise, Lila had met a man, and Daniel could tell it was time for her to take the next step in her life. He was happy for her. She deserved someone nice, someone who could take care of her for a change.
Daniel found a small group of fellow archaeology and linguistic students who welcomed him in their academic circle. His intelligence and talent for languages was beneficial to their study sessions, and his gentle, curious nature gradually endeared him enough for them to include him in their social circle, as well.
Many of those study sessions ended with all of them hitting the campus bars and parties, and for Daniel, with freedom came unexpected but exhilarating irresponsibility. In time his friends forgot how young he really was (the fact that he'd put on thirty pounds and topped six-feet tall didn't hurt), and so when he could easily hold his own with each one of their drinks, nobody gave him a second look. The chance to break free from restrictions, the fact that he was on his own was undeniably liberating. The massive amounts of alcohol he and his friends consumed once again offered Daniel the chance to break free from his shyness and doubts.
His first few terrifying, but life-affirming sexual experiences were clouded in hazes of alcohol, smoke and blaring music. The encounters with girls older and much more experienced than him, girls whose names he was later embarrassed to admit he didn't even recall.
He'd been able to prevent his newfound social life from interfering with his studies for a time, but after too many parties in a row, too many missed classes, and one forgotten mid-term exam, Daniel's actions began to catch up with him. When he'd received a notice from his academic advisor for a meeting, Daniel's heart began to pound, and the fear that he may have blown all he'd worked for almost made him physically ill. In fact, he'd had to duck into the men's room on his way to the advisor's office, taking deep breaths, fighting back the urge to vomit. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was still his raging hangover. At any rate, he was terrified.
He'd reported to his meeting, listened to a lecture on how close he was to losing him scholarship. As the advisor spoke, Daniel's hands began to shake and he clenched them into fists to hide the fact. He was made to sit through "We took a chance on you, Mr. Jackson. There are a certain number of professors in this department chomping at the bit to see you fail. Don't let your own lack of judgment be your downfall and their celebration."
Daniel's chest tightened in that familiar ache. He kept his features contrite, repentant, promising to buckle down, to study harder. He told his advisor that he just wasn't used to being on his own yet, and was still adapting, hoping to play his youth and inexperience to his advantage, playing on the man's sympathies.
He was let off with a stern warning, which was more than enough for Daniel. The fact that he'd almost thrown everything away in his first year filled him with a sense of failure, of sheer disgust with his lack of control. He remembered the determined, proud 12-year-old boy he had once been. The boy who had made that vow to prove everyone wrong, and Daniel knew he couldn't let that resolute part of himself down.
His focus once more became single-minded. Nothing mattered but getting those degrees.
And he did.
In turn, he was rewarded with discovering another insatiable thirst within him. A thirst for knowledge. A hunger to solve mysteries deemed unsolvable by others lacking the right amount of imagination and determination. And Daniel would be the one to unlock them.
Professor Jordan had taken Daniel under his wing at that point, and Daniel's enthusiasm and boundless energy offered the older man a new joy for his profession. In turn, Daniel learned everything he could from the professor, recording every story, every theory in his journal. Over the years, the two developed an easy friendship based solely on their common insatiable curiosity.
As time went by, Daniel refused to be swayed by the many nay-sayers who scoffed at or even ridiculed his work and his theories. Even when he'd met Sarah, who loved him unabashedly, with all her heart, the thirst remained all-consuming. Nothing else mattered but translating that stubborn, elusive piece of text, dating that crumbling shard of pottery, or proving the relevance to his theory on the true origin of the pyramids.
When Sarah finally gave up on him, a part of him missed her, regretted turning his back on someone he cared about, but his goal was larger than life, larger than anything human contact could offer. In truth, the very concept of a permanent relationship was alien to him. Even Professor Jordan was disappointed in him, heartbroken, as Stephen had later bluntly informed Daniel. The older man had tried to counsel Daniel, suspecting he was straying off-track, but Daniel, lost in his obsession, found the concern cloying, distracting even, so he began to distance himself, not allowing anyone to divert him from his goal.
In time, as Daniel deep down suspected it would, the life he'd worked so hard to build began to totter, crumble around his feet. Its foundations as fragile as some of the ancient pottery he held in his hands.
The grants were no longer coming in. Many of his more controversial dissertations were no longer being accepted for publication. Daniel once again sought his old solace—a shot of vodka in his morning coffee to steady his shaking hands and wavering confidence. A small glass in the evenings so he could tune out the incessant rambling thoughts filling his mind, a swallow from a bottle of whiskey, just enough to be able to sleep at least a few hours a night. He was careful to restrict his intake to just those few times in a day, and thankfully his willpower remained strong.
He ignored the rumors that found their way to him, as they have a way of doing. Rumors that he was losing it. Genius is one step away from madness, don't you know? Some of those jibes came from the very people Daniel had first befriended in his early scholastic days.
Who knows? Maybe he was losing it. Daniel knew he wasn't a very good judge of what was deemed normal behavior, but strangely enough, none of it really mattered to him. His obsession mattered more. He knew with an unwavering certainty that his theories were right, he just had to find a way to prove them.
For the first time, Daniel found he could empathize with his grandfather. Was this what it had been like for Nick before he'd checked himself into the hospital? That thought alone gave him reason to need an extra shot that night. And then one more.
It all came to head at the end of Daniel's fateful lecture, and his dismissal from tenure. Luckily, he hadn't had much time to dwell on the fact or he probably would have been in danger of ending up on the streets—as much of a vagabond as Mr. Davies had always treated him.
On a cold, rainy day, as dismal and gray as Daniel's spirit, his savior arrived in the form of Catherine, offering him a new mystery to unravel. The Stargate was the ultimate challenge, an immense combination lock to which only Daniel had the key.
The offer, at the time, had at first seemed bizarre, shady even, but when Catherine asked him, 'do you want to prove your theories are right?' the one thing Daniel wanted more than anything, would have done just about anything for, well, that had pretty much clinched it. He suspected he would have taken the offer based on those words alone, even if he hadn't had anyplace else to go.
And, on that secret military base, Daniel had in fact, proven his theories. Unfortunately, he had solved the mystery too quickly to fully quench his yearnings. He didn't want it to be over yet.
When he managed to bullshit his way onto Jack's exploration team, it was not only in the desire to feed his hunger for the new, the unexplained, it was also because he had nothing to go back to. He couldn't leave that base with nowhere to go, with no goal in mind. The fear of going back to nothing—his life in ruins—was far greater, far more terrifying than anything that could have laid at the end of that wormhole.
At the time, Daniel hadn't even considered that he had no idea how to get everyone back. In truth, he'd almost hoped that there was no way back.
What he had no way of knowing was that his life would truly begin on Abydos. All the years of searching on Earth, of wondering what his life might have been, of matriculation and theorizing—here, in the arms of a woman who had never heard of his own planet, here he found a home.
His own home. To his surprise he came to realize that home wasn't a place, and it wasn't a structure. It was a feeling of belonging, of being accepted. It was a feeling of freedom.
It was also the happiest, most joyful place he had ever known, and when joyful, most of the men usually became drunk on Abydonian wine. Strong stuff, with a kick, Daniel spent many jubilant nights with his new friends and family, and just as many quiet days nursing his thumping head.
One night, when the wine had been poured, Daniel decided the men in his village needed to be taught a traditional Tau'ri song, one suitably appropriate for such a night. He gathered them around, his robes slopping over his shoulders, his glasses askew on his face. Abydonian wine, he discovered, affected his speech in a most peculiar way, as well as affected his ability to keep his glasses on straight. He didn't really understand why, but that was a mystery for another time.
"So," he began, clapping his hands together and finding them strangely numb, "there's this song. It's sung to the tune of 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?', which, of course, means absolutely nothing to you." Daniel looked around at the blank faces in front of him, watched one of the men fall over completely. The men waited in rapt, albeit drunken attention. Daniel closed his eyes, hummed a few notes to find an acceptable pitch, and began. "Doooo yoooooour balls hang low? Do they dangle to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over yer shoulder, like a Continental soldier? Do your ballllllls haaaaaang loooooooooooow?"
The men stared at him, some smiling politely, others pulling their hands across their numb lips. Daniel looked around in confusion. No one was laughing. He pushed his glasses up, and said, "You do have testicles, right?"
"Danyel," Kasuf cried out from across the tent, "you are doing it again! The wine has stolen your tongue!"
Daniel stared at the slightly oscillating figure of his father-in-law, and then understood what the man was trying to say. He hadn't realized that he'd reverted to English. "Oh, I didn't translate it! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh," he said, digging his fist into his hip, his hand to his forehead. "Oh. Oh. Oh, okay. So…yes, I can do that. Okay. Yes." Daniel strode around the room, making the corrections in his presentations. "Yes, okay. So, I'm fairly sure the translation is correct. I'll sing it first in Abydonian, then in my language. Or maybe…No, first in Abydonian, then…Yes, okay, I'll sing it to you a couple times, and you try to follow along, go it?"
And so he began again, hoping his translation of an English euphemism would work. When he reached the end, the men howled, slapped their thighs, and lifted their cups to Daniel. Daniel laughed with them, downed a few cups more of the biting liquid, and began again, complete with hand gestures.
An hour later, every man in his village could sing both the Abydonian and the English version.
Years later, when a young Abydonian boy walked up to Jack and asked, "How they hangin'?" in perfect English, Daniel pretended he had swallowed a bug and walked away hacking up a lung.
But after time, the Abydonians settled back into their routines. However, Daniel, having no routine, found one in drinking. With each meal, he downed a cup full of the wine, and each time his thirst needed to be quenched, his glass was filled again. Sha're laughed it off, at first. Then she began to ask the other women in the village if their husbands drank so much. Finally, she conspired with Ska'ara to remove the wine from their tent all together, and whenever they were at a meal to keep the wine far from her husband.
The plan worked for a day or two. But as his body rid itself of the alcohol, his temper increased. He and Sha're had their first argument and Sha're stormed out of their tent in a blur of flying black hair and whirling robes. Instead of going after her, Daniel tore apart their tent looking for the jugs but there were none to be found.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm down, Daniel invited himself into his neighbors' tent—an elderly couple who sometimes struggled with their daily chores. Daniel offered to help the older man with the mastaage pen and when they worked up a sweat and a thirst in the stifling heat, he knew that eventually the wine would begin to flow. When the man's wife poured them their drinks as Daniel knew she would, he made sure to slow his sips, to allow the alcohol to take effect before accepting another proffered glass.
It was too easy to build up a tolerance to the potent, alien wine, and Daniel realized he had to be more careful.
Sha're continued to hide the wine jugs and kept a close eye on him when he left the tent, so under the ruse of the village requiring something more medicinal than wine for treating and sterilizing wounds, Daniel remembered an old recipe he had read for concocting moonshine. He appointed Ska'ara as his helper and together, in the map room, a place Sha're rarely visited, Daniel brewed up a large barrel's worth.
The plan worked well—the moonshine was potent enough to be used for medicinal purposes, and it offered Daniel a respite when he felt the familiar need coursing through his veins. One day though, the plan backfired. He had become enthralled with the glyphs adorning the walls of the map room, suddenly realizing their significance. In his wonder and excitement, he must have refilled his cup too many times because he'd lost all track of time. When he stepped from the room, the stars were out, moons shining brightly. Only there were double the amounts of moons than there should have been. Daniel found it difficult to find his footing in the shifting sand and fell a number of times before he somehow managed to make it back to their tent. He didn't quite remember the entire walk, or how long it had taken.
Daniel suspected that Sha're had been furious with him when he finally did turn up. Again, he didn't quite remember, but he did recall when the nausea had finally overtaken him. Daniel barely made it outside the tent before he violently emptied the contents of his stomach onto the sand. He couldn't stop even when there was nothing left but bitter acid, and he tasted blood in his throat. And even when the acid and bile stopped coming up, he was wracked with dry heaves that left him shaking, huddled in a miserable ball on the cool night sand. He was unable to stand, unable to help Sha're drag him back inside.
Panicked, Sha're had called for the shaman to help her husband. The man looked Daniel over, then chuckled once he smelled the alcohol wafting from Daniel's clothes. He had helped Sha're bring him inside, then had given Daniel a vile tasting herbal concoction to drink, telling Sha're that no illness other than greediness had overtaken her husband.
Daniel had been sick for days with what he supposed was a severe case of alcohol poisoning. Nothing stayed in his stomach and the worst headache he could ever recall seemed to split his head open. He had to keep a cloth over his eyes, for even the dim light streaming inside sent bolts of agony through his retinas.
"This is madness, husband," Sha're had told him, sweat pouring from his body, his eyes glazed. He twisted his limbs up close to his body, shivering in the Abydonian summer. "The drink has summoned a demon in you. Your body does not wish it to be so." She wrung out a wet cloth and wiped it across his brow. "Shhhh, husband. Be still."
He couldn't believe the pain, the nausea, and the fear. Terrible, irrational fear. He couldn't seem to stop crying, and for what reason, he had no idea. Arabic and English, Japanese and German all blended together, a one-themed elegy to his miserable condition. What was worse than the nausea and the pain, was Sha're's quiet disappointment in him.
"Calm yourself, husband," Sha're would say, stripping her husband's body of the rank clothing.
"I'm cold," he would moan, winding his arms around his chest, huddling under the blankets.
"Shhhh, Danyel." The young bride covered her trembling husband with animal pelts, fed him sips of tea from her own hands, cleaned him when he became apoplectic, and reassured him when he cried out in humiliation. "Shhhh."
Then one day, Daniel opened his eyes and saw his new bride sleeping on a stack of sackcloth on the other side of the tent. And then he began to cry again. "What have I done?" he asked himself. He shielded his swollen eyes from the rest of the world and wept for the ruination he had brought onto himself and to this innocent young woman. "What have I done?"
"Here, husband," she said, offering him a bowl. "You must return the goodness to your body."
Daniel looked into the bowl, the contents of which seemed to have more substance than he did. With no dignity left on which to call, Daniel wept. "I'm sorry, Sha're. I'm…I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
She gathered him in her arms and cradled him there, this still foreign man whom she had brought into her tent.
"I'm sorry, Sha're," he choked out between the quiet, helpless sobs. "It'll never happen again. Please forgive me," he implored. In his thoughts, Daniel vowed to never touch the moonshine again. Never take another sip of wine, even during celebrations. Daniel began to fear not only for his sanity, but for the weakness within him that had allowed this to happen. That he had allowed his familiar outlet for escape to become a need.
It never did happen again. In the days and weeks that followed, Daniel resolved that for the rest of their lives, he would never pick up another cup of wine. In those tentative days, Daniel made restitutions and apologies to his neighbors, begged his father-in-law to forgive him, and publicly announced that he would bring only honor to his new home, which is what he did.
Despite his vow, on the day of Sha're's cousin's wedding, someone pressed a cup of wine in Daniel's hand. After a moment of indecision, he raised the cup to his lips, took a careful sip. He nursed the small cup for the entire affair and was silently pleased when that one cup was enough. He no longer felt the need to down an entire jug. Daniel felt a surge of relief, and he had to admit, pride that he had wrestled his 'demon' under control once more. And so he continued with his new life, finding that the contentment and love he had found was enough.
That is until Jack O'Neill and the Goa'uld converged on his home, his sanctuary. In a few short days, all that he had come to rely on was obliterated, and in its wake Daniel found himself back on Earth, a place in which he scarcely could find any comfort. A place where, once again, he didn't have a home.
Jack had offered him a place to stay that first night, and Daniel couldn't help but think he was too old for a new foster father. Foster fathers usually didn't offer Daniel beer, either. He declined the first beer, remembering his promise to Sha're, but when Jack began to question him, Daniel relented, rather than have to own up to his humiliating tale. So he nursed that beer, strangling the neck of it with all his might, hoping to lose the want, the need for more in his stories.
"So, have yourself a little party, did ya?" Jack asked, sipping from his bottle.
Daniel smiled at the memory. "Oh, yeah. Big…big party. They treated me like their savior," he said, allowing himself this moment of happiness. "It was, um…embarrassing."
"It's amazing you turned out so normal," Jack said, his voice dripping with condescension, but Daniel knew the truth. Daniel knew what Jack didn't know, that there was a time when things were decidedly abnormal. When everything he'd ever wanted was shifting away from him, like loose desert sand.
"Well, if it wasn't for Sha're, I probably…" But he couldn't go on. Anyone who needed to know about his terrible secret knew about it, and those people had forgiven him. Jack didn't know, didn't need to know, and Daniel certainly didn't need his forgiveness. "She was the complete opposite of everyone else," he told Jack, taking a seat on the couch. "She practically fell on the floor laughing every time I tried to do some chore that they all took for granted. Like, um, grinding yaphetta flour. I mean, have you ever tried to grind your own flour?"
"I'm trying to kick the flour thing," Jack said.
Daniel laughed, a nervous laugh, born of guilt and secrecy. He popped the bottle to his lips, a show of camaraderie, and laughed again. "This is going straight to my head," he lied, and took another sip seeing as how he felt no ill affects from the first few sips. Maybe it had been long enough. Maybe he could still handle a few drinks now and again.
Maybe he was lying to himself. He felt his skin break out in a cold sweat, and a panic swept over him. He had to get out of there, or he knew this one beer would turn into two, two would turn into a case, and then the promise he had made to Sha're would be gone. And he needed at least one thing to remain.
"What time is it anyway?" he asked, suddenly on his feet. "I must have…gatelag, or something."
"Daniel, for crying out loud, you've had one beer," Jack told him, having no idea the sting in his words. "You're a cheaper date than my wife was."
And there was Daniel's out—a chance to escape being the subject, of being under the microscope for a while, and when the pressure lessened, so too did the desire to empty not just the bottle in his hand, but every bottle in the house. His out was to question Jack about his wife, about his life. Shift the focus, and shift his mindset. That's all he needed. A distraction.
It became his saving grace, taking care of others, watching out for everyone else. Besides, that had always come naturally to him. For some reason, people always implicitly trusted him right from start, which made it all so much easier. If he threw himself into those endeavors, he didn't have to think about himself. He could remove himself from his own life. Jack could never understand why Daniel was always running into trouble. Of all people, Jack should have understood Daniel was only trying to run away from his own trouble.
But try as he might, sometimes trouble found him. Try as he might, he found escaping his demons was impossible, even in another galaxy.
tbc