Chapter 12
It's time to put the children in school now. September is coming and I want them to meet other children, to get out and live, to learn and play and make friends. The problem is that they don't have real names yet.
I manage to let them know they shouldn't talk about their past with strangers, especially other children. They've seen so much violence and hatred they don't understand in our society it's…inappropriate for kids their age to talk about it. Carter gives them my speech for me, which I write down for her. I let them know what is acceptable to discuss, if they wish, basic background about our relationship and such. But no violence. No starvation. I don't want them to be pitied, they should be respected for who there are, not what they've suffered and lived through.
They seem eager to meet other children. We've been to the park a lot and they always get along great with the others. But I'm worried about their names. Boy and Girl are horrible names with which to saddle your kids. I've been thinking about names we could use temporarily but try as we might all I come up with are Bart and Lisa, or Maggie. Carter would so beat me over the head with a hockey stick if I did that.
The anticipation of school is building up in all of us, me because I'm worried about them but, more significantly, because I'll be on my own while they're living it up in the classroom. I'm pretty self-centered, I guess.
It's about a week before their first day of school when the Twins come up to me while I'm dutifully watching a rerun of the Simpsons. Girl climbs up onto my lap and snuggles against my chest before sliding in next to me so Boy can sit on my other side. We do this often, so I'm not expecting the ambush.
"Father, we'd like to ask you something."
I nod quickly, slightly confused because they never ask me questions while we're alone. They usually wait for Carter in case I can't answer, or to use as a translator.
"When can we have real names?" They ask together, as though they've rehearsed.
I wave my hand at each of them invitingly and they seem to understand that they can choose whenever they want.
"I want you to name me, Father." Boy says confidently.
Girl jumps off my lap and disappears to our bedroom. She runs back with a picture in her hand, a picture of Charlie. They've never asked about the boy in the photograph, and I suspect Carter must have said something. "This was your son?" she asks, climbing back onto my lap.
I take the picture from her and nod affirmatively.
"Mother says his name was Charlie." I nod again, gazing into the face of my son. "Can I be called Charlie?"
You know those moments when you're drinking something and someone says something funny or shocking, or both, and to avoid gagging you let it fly? That didn't happen. But I imagine it would have if I had been drinking. Instead I'm coughing, which is actually a huge achievement for me because it may truly be the first noise I've successfully made that involves my throat. Needless to say I've frightened them and they hop from my lap, Boy running off to find Carter.
I didn't mean to scare them, or to offend Girl for her choice. It just took me by surprise. I'm not too hip with children's names anymore but I'm pretty sure Charlie is still a boy's name. Maybe not. Charlene, Charlize, Charlotte. It's actually a pretty cute name for a girl. I never thought about it but it does seem to fit her nicely.
I'm still coughing but I motion her back to me as I slide to my knees on the floor. She steps into my open arms and accepts my apology.
Boy runs back into the room followed closely by a worried Carter, who'd got her cell phone in hand. I smile at them reassuringly, trying to get my cough under control.
That's when I realize something is different. In the back of my mind I remember how to speak, I can feel it in my throat what it's supposed to be like. And I know I feel it now.
And for the first time in over ten years I can speak. "Charlie."
Carter's phone drops to the floor.
I start coughing again. I never realized how much talking tickles the throat. The girl pulls away from me, concerned by my apparent seizures.
"Father? Did you say something?" Boy asks, stepping closer, looking up at me.
The girl pulls back from me further so she can see my face. I think she was so concerned by my coughing that she hadn't been listening closely. "Father?"
She has light blond hair that falls across her eyes. I push aside a stray strand and smile lovingly at her. "Charlie." I repeat, and listen to myself. My voice is weak and scratchy, barely audible, but I can definitely hear the name come forth from my lips. "Charlie." I hug her again and she giggles excitedly against my chest. I hold my arm our for the boy to join us and he's soon giggling alongside his sister, laughing at me and my attempts at human speech.
I'm busy thinking of a name for him, options flying through my head, people I knew, acquaintances, names I liked. Nothing is good enough. I think about my friends and the most important people in my life. My father, Daniel, Teal'c, George Hammond, Charlie Kawalsky, Thor, Bratac. Yeah right. I glance up at Carter and I've found the perfect name.
"Jacob."
They don't understand me, but they heard my attempt and pull back to watch me carefully. I grab my son's hand and place my other hand on his shoulder.
"Jacob," I repeat and take my daughter's hand as well. "Charlie."
Carter has tears in her eyes, whether from hearing me speak or knowing that my son is named after her father, I'm unsure. But her smile is beautiful and Jacob and Charlie are happy.
Jacob O'Neill and Charlie O'Neill become their legal names, with no grand attempt at making Charlie more feminine. It's perfect the way it is. Jake and Charlie.
Daniel comes over to celebrate with us, for it is certainly a day to celebrate. My kids are no longer nameless, in fact, they are deliriously happy with their new monikers. I know they won't be changing them. And I was the first to say them, the first words I spoke were the names of my children. I'm a sentimental fool, I admit it. I can talk, who cares what I say, I can say it now.
Though not really. At this point the words I manage are like nails on a chalkboard. I'm not saying I was ever a famous tenor, or a Frank Sinatra or Mel Torme, but this is just ghastly. Not pretty at all. But I can speak and with time I know that all will be well.
TBC
Author's Note: Short and sweet, but I had to get it out. -Bixata
