Author's Notes: Yay! RBFOD 'verse story!
:crickets:
Anyway. DG and Cain are not mine; the rest of this motley little crew is. This takes place a few years before "Terra Firma"; Jules is about three, Ashby is about seven, and Em is a newborn.
This piece is kind of a combination of "Scrutiny" and "Trip Around the Sun"; its focus is on a single OC and her past, only set in the confines of the RBFOD 'verse. It should become clear WTF I'm talking about as you read. I think. Hopefully, these elements won't deter anyone from reading; if they do, I totally understand. I do have two new standalone, general (and canonical character centric, woohoo!) pieces that should be posted sometime this week.
There are more notes at the end, because I'm insanely verbose tonight.
Thank you to Alamo Girl, Meredith Paris and Bee for the beta, squee and all around general awesomesauce.
Musical inspiration for this piece: "Goodbye Again" (Vertical Horizon) and "Roll Me Back In Time" (Sara Evans).
This is for to nadeshiko1, who, when I mentioned this crazy bunny, threatened me unless I wrote it down. :)
Goodbye Again
Part of her knew she should have recognized the tall blonde the minute the front door opened and the slightly discolored bell clattered against the dense, etched glass in tired announcement. She had a sliver of evasive memory, one that whispered fleetingly, disorienting, indefinably, through her subconscious as she watched the woman lead two small children to the counter. She knew she'd seen that softly rounded, kind face before and should have been able to place the woman.
But she couldn't, not for the life of her.
Mostly, she realized much later, it was because she'd walked out on that life so long before that it was like a dissipating dream, fading into untraceable nothingness, its blurry remnants floating and disappearing into the morning light before she'd even opened her eyes. She hadn't thought about that life lately, about the ones she left behind; how could she expect herself to recognize someone she'd spent only a few weeks with?
If you were a decent mother, you should have known it was her. But since you're not, you can't expect anything more. You have no right to expect anything from her.
The lack of identification frustrated her as she dipped the worn scoop into the buckets of ice cream. The metallic, grooved edge of the insulated carton pressed and indented painfully against her arm as she packed the ice cream into two dishes. As she pulled down the glass partition, she was unable to move her gaze from its reflective surface, and stifled a disappointed sigh, the same one she had every time she passed by a mirror--endless reminders that she was lifetimes from where she once had been.
Far away from where she had wanted to go. Far away from who she had wanted to be.
Her face was worn now, lined and weathered by reminders of goals and desires long since failed and abandoned. Her blonde hair had tinted to a dulled grey, the streaks unfurling her once animated curls. Her shoulders rolled forward with the heavy, burdensome weight of wandering in circles, seeking but never finding that which she had set out to chase so many annuals before. Her eyes were hard, the flecks of blue within green dulling with the tarnished dream that still haunted her all this time later. It hurt to smile now, only because she hadn't had much to smile about in a long time. It was as though her face--all of her--had forgotten how to be happy.
She'd been in Central City for almost thirty annuals, propelled there by hearing--and believing--that this was where she supposed to be. She was too young to be fenced in, especially by a mistake, a lapse in judgment. She was too special, too talented to be anywhere but here. She knew in her heart of hearts she'd done the right thing. What she'd left behind--that wasn't her. She wasn't someone's wife, and she definitely wasn't someone's mother.
She was the ingénue with the golden voice and an even brighter road laid out before her feet for the taking. She'd basked in--had been blinded by--the beautiful, warm light of being dubbed "the next big thing" . But that light had started to fade somehow, evading her and slipping behind the dark clouds of reality in the big city entertainment business. She'd chased her hopes and dreams halfway across the Zone and back as they threatened to move on without her, seeking the success she had been promised--and had convinced herself of. But as the bleak actuality of the Sorceress's coup spread and its darkening effects began to wash over the city, dreamers--like the opportunities she'd come to Central City to find--fell into uninterested supply. Its loss left her feeling cold, listless, restless.
The ironic thing was, she really was a cut above the rest, so unlike the other "artists" that had come to Central City with the same dream; they'd all left within an annual or two. While they returned to their families and "normal" lives, dragging their wounded pride, broken hearts and battered suitcases as they hitched rides out of town, she did not run. She did not back down or give in, allowing the burning pain of rejection fuel her fire, propelling her forward against the mass exodus of the defecting, failure-ridden throng.
It had been so easy to pack her own suitcase, leave her childhood home, never look back; to live her life on a wing and a prayer--on her terms. For all her annuals and disappointments in Central City, she'd never had the urge to pull out the dusty brown leather suitcase.
She'd sometimes wondered if she'd had something waiting for her, whether or not that would act as an impetus to get her to throw in the towel, pack up and head back.
But there wasn't anything worth wanting there, and she knew she had nothing to offer them anyway. If she were to make a mark in someone's life, it would be on stage with a powerful, moving performance; not in finger paintings or haggling over bills.
So she'd stayed, and refused to yield. She'd look at the oval mirror each morning and tell herself aloud that she was not a quitter. It worked for a few months, maybe an annual, until even the mirror didn't believe her anymore and started peeling its lacquered paint away, chips falling to the floor of her cramped one-room flat, leaving her as the sole audience member to her one woman show.
She'd tried to hold on to her principles as long as she could, looking for work only in respectable and musically inclined venues. But eventually, the necessity to eat far outweighed remaining true to the wishes and dreams that had been the only thing she'd brought from the tiny cabin on the outskirts of the realm. She'd swallowed her pride and talked to Tom, who owned the ice cream parlor housed on the first floor of her apartment building, and asked for a job.
She'd started working in the parlor with a thick scarf wrapped around her neck to protect her vocal chords. This was only temporary, she'd announced to coworkers and customers alike; she'd get back on her feet in no time, find her star-making role, and then Tom would put her picture up on the tiled walls and tell his customers that he knew her once upon a time.
That never happened.
She still sang each night; only it was to an audience of scraped metal stools teetering on a mismatched, scuffed and uneven black and white tile floor, red and white checkered napkins, and the hums of the cooling refrigerator and churning ice cream maker.
She still danced each night; only it was with a mop or broom, sometimes a sponge as she wiped down the countertop.
Her singing and dancing had been downgraded to hobbies meant solely to pass the time. Working at, and then owning the parlor, had been upgraded into her life's work. That which was supposed to be short-term had turned permanent. That which had been steadfastly ignored and entirely loathed evolved into the only thing she wanted.
She was now living the life she'd fled from--with a husband, two sons and a job she'd once termed banal those many days before.
My, my, how things change, she pondered, still starting at her reflection in the partitioned glass. The dreams must have diverted when I wasn't looking. And obviously my sense of direction is hideous--how did I end up here when I meant to go the complete opposite way?
Childish giggling drove her from her reverie, and she realized she'd gone into her own little world again. She slid the two cups of ice cream across the top shelf and smiled at the tykes as they talked animatedly with Jasper, her son, at the cash register.
The younger of the two had straight hair; the other one was older and looked very much like the woman who had brought her in, complete with blonde, curly hair that was quickly falling loose of the bows trying unsuccessfully to keep her pigtails in a neat line. The woman had a hand on that little girl's head and was smiling politely as their companion excitedly announced she had a new sister.
Jasper leaned on his elbows toward the girls, who scooted up to the warped wooden countertop, the rounded tips of their Mary Janes bending backwards as they pressed against the baseboard. "You know what that calls for, don't you, girls?"
The little ones' eyes opened wide, and both shook their heads. "No. What does it call for?"
Jasper reached across and took a spoon out from the cutlery tray. "Extra sprinkles!"
Two squeals of joy pierced through the condensation mist centered between the outside door and its hot summer day and the coolness of the ice cream. Jasper grinned as he dumped colorful toppings onto the girls' dishes.
When spoons left cups and headed toward mouths, the blonde woman cleared her throat. "What do you say, girls?"
"Fank fou," they replied in tandem, cheeks puffed to kingdom come as they hastily ate their treat.
The woman gave an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. They're normally much more polite."
Jasper waved her concerns away. "They're beautiful little girls. Both yours?"
The woman shook her head. "The one in the pigtails is. The other one is my…niece of sorts."
Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Of sorts?"
"It's complicated."
They both turned and looked as the door flung open again. A man in a Royal Guard uniform strode to the woman's side. "Everything okay?"
"I told you, Jeffrey, we're fine."
"Cain'll have my," he lowered his voice, "ass if you keep taking the girls on 'normal' excursions."
"They're kids. They need fresh air and ice cream in the middle of July. Besides, Cain's too busy with DG and Emily. As long as I return Jules to him relatively unscathed, we'll be fine."
The store proprietor knew those names well, and walked from her perch behind the freezer to join the conversation.
Jasper turned to her. "Hey, Mom. What's up?"
"Nothing," she said, smiling briefly. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." She looked between the Royal Guardsmen and the woman she assumed was the Royal Governess. Are you telling me that one of those girls is Princess Julia?"
The blonde woman nodded. "The one with the straight hair. The other one's mine."
Jasper looked amazed. "A real princess in our store, Ma. We should have her sign a napkin or something, tape it to the wall."
The woman's stomach tightened. Her desire to leave her mark was to be superseded by a four annual old. The gods had a sick sense of humor. "I don't think that's appropriate, Jasper."
"Probably not," her female customer agreed. "We're trying to bring the girls up as normally and quietly as possible. And from the way they're inhaling that ice cream, I think we'll be back here often. Might make for an embarrassing scene later on. She's quite sensitive."
The proprietor nodded. "A good plan." She motioned to the rows of ice cream. "Can I get either of you anything?"
Both adults shook their heads. The Guardsman smiled wistfully. "I remember when this place was run by old Mr. Lehigh. Not much has changed."
"People feel safe with what they know," Jasper agreed. "We waited five annuals to change it to Weston's. We'll have to wait another twenty before doing anything about the décor, even with as ugly as it is."
The blonde woman laughed, tilting her head back, and Mrs. Weston's body ran cold, ice slipping through her veins, numbing her. That laugh. Those looks. That face.
That laugh was Daniel Lowry's laugh. That face was Daniel Lowry's face. Only…Dan Lowry's face had her coloring and curly hair as complements. Half of him, half of her.
Oh, dear sweet Ozma…
Mrs. Weston took a step backward, crashing noisily into the silverware container. Jasper looked concernedly at his mother. "You okay, Ma?"
Unable to find her voice, the proprietor nodded. "I need to go check on something in the back," she murmured hoarsely, turning quickly on her heel and fleeing into the safety of her locked office.
Sinking down into the chair, she put her head in her hands as she tried to calm her racing heart. The face had triggered something in the back of her mind from the moment the woman had walked into the establishment, but it was the laugh--the deep, free, amused-at-anything laugh that she'd heard so many times as a young woman--that finally let the final piece fall into place.
The woman out there with a Royal Guard, a Royal Heir and an apparent daughter of her own was her daughter. Ainsley.
Adele slid her chair away from the desk, opened the door a crack, and watched around the doorjamb as Ainsley and the Royal Guardsman talked with Jasper. There was no flicker of recognition to her half-brother, just as there had not been with Adele.
Given the fact that you left her when she could barely see past the end of her nose, what else were you expecting? That your motherly instincts--which have never failed you in the past, of course--would kick in and you'd have a happy, tearful reunion? She'd fall into your arms and forgive you for your sins of abandonment, of starting over in a life where you made sure there was no room for her?
Of choosing yourself over her?
She'd spent so much time believing staying in Central City had been the right choice. It wasn't until she'd met, fallen in love with and married Tom's son five or six annuals after she'd left, that she'd finally realized the profundity of her actions. She'd abandoned a helpless infant, leaving her in the care of someone she didn't know well enough to trust.
Her relationship with Dan Lowry had been a complicated one, to say the least. He'd "come from the wrong side of the crack in the O.Z.", according to her father, whereas she was brought up in an upper-middle class home, never wanting for anything. She desired the world and her family happily handed it to her.
At seventeen, she'd snuck out to a concert in the Realm of the Unwanted, and met Dan Lowry as they both tried to avoid the throngs of dancers packed into the small hall. He was twenty-one, a musician, and completely wrong for her. So of course they dated.
She'd found out she was pregnant two months later. She'd never told Dan outright, but she hadn't wanted the baby. He did, though, so enthusiastically, for he thought it was a symbol of their love. But she hadn't really loved him; she liked him, but definitely did not want this for herself.
She tried the best she could, giving birth to a baby girl a week before Christmas, but she was smothered. Stifled. By Easter she was in Central City, finally breathing and living on her own. Finally happy. Finally away from the failures and mistakes.
She'd been stupid to think she'd never run into the man or the girl again. She'd been naïve to think she would always outrun her past. She'd been foolish in believing that part of her didn't exist anymore, that it could be swept under the rug and wholeheartedly ignored. She was unwise to think her actions irrelevant and inconsequential.
Should she say something? Should she introduce herself? It would be so easy to call out Ainsley's name, to reveal the truth about the woman in the ice cream shop. But after that, what to say?
How was she supposed to try to find explanations and answers to questions she still did not know how to ask? And who to ask them? Both deserved answers just as much as they deserved the questions.
Why did you leave? Why didn't you ever come back? What am I to you?
She may not have realized it twenty annuals before, but she did have something to go back to; someone. She'd squandered so many opportunities--her first career, her first shot at motherhood. They were irretrievably broken, and she felt profound sadness for all that she had missed.
She also felt anger. Why didn't you ever come looking for me?
These were your mistakes, Adele. You can't expect everyone to fix your problems.
That was the trouble with her life. She expected too much. The only thing she was good at was failing.
She drew herself from her self-loathing reveries and watched Ainsley in the main room of the establishment. She was her father through and through--tall and with a mischievous glint in her eye. But those eyes held heartbreak; Adele could see that. Ainsley's shoulders slumped slightly, almost unnoticeable in their arch forward. Tired but not defeated. When she smiled at the girls finishing their ice cream, Adele saw Dan's playful nature in the half-curved lips of the blonde.
She saw a wedding ring on Ainsley's finger, and felt an unexpected pang of jealousy at having to add that to the list of things she'd missed.
Because it's always been about you, hasn't it, Adele?
She was probably better off without you. She's obviously close to the Royal Family--even if she is from the wrong side of the crack. She's made a name for herself, a life for herself, in spite of you.
Was it worth it?
She knew the answer to that one.
She's not your daughter, Adele. Never has been. Never will be. That girl is a Lowry through and through. And the only person you have to blame for that is yourself.
She wanted to shout out her apology, tell Ainsley that she was a changed woman who did understand the errors of her ways. She wanted to say that the gods had punished her time and again for leaving; it was the only explanation as to why she was hiding in the back office of an ice cream shop instead of up on stage singing opera. Ainsley's life had not gone unnoticed.
Except by her own mother.
The two little girls had joined their chaperones at the cash register again, and Ainsley bent down to pick up her daughter--your granddaughter--and rested her expertly on one hip. The two little ones waved goodbye to Jasper and the four turned to the door.
This time, it was Adele who was left behind. This time, it was her front door that slammed shut. This time, it was she who was unsure as to whether or not she'd ever see the departed again.
Ainsley had left without so much as a goodbye.
So did you, Adele. So did you.
FIN
A/N 2: Remember how I said I was working on missing moments between Jeb and Doc? Well, they're no longer moments; they're a big old two hundred page epic entitled "Don't Look Away" (or, the Really Big Prequel of Doom). You can learn more about how Jeb and Ainsley became "JebandAinsley", Adele, Adora, and this funny little Resistance Fighter named Brigid over at my writing site on Live Journal; that addy is in the profile.
It's rated M for my mother would be mortified if she knew what I'd written. AKA, the money scene's in Chapter Three.
Enjoy! And thanks for reading!