Mother To The Woman
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Doctor Who
Copyright: BBC
Author's Note: This episode contains spoilers for "The Angels Take Manhattan". My apologies for any mathematical confusion regarding the Pond-Williams family's ages.
"The child is father to the man." – William Wordsworth
New York, 2012
River Song held on tightly to her mother's red-nailed hand as they turned from the grave of Rory Williams to the Weeping Angel who had sent him there. It was very quiet among the clipped lawn and orderly headstones; the only sounds to be heard were their own voices and the Doctor's ragged sobs. A distant corner of her mind was worried for him. She had never heard him cry like this before.
"Look after him," said Amy, not breaking eye contact with the Angel. "Be a good girl."
This motherly cliché spoken to a middle-aged ex-con was an old joke between them, but this time, neither of them could laugh. Always guarded about her deepest emotions, even now, Amy was using their own private code to convey a last I love you.
River's eyes stung. She could not have kept watch over the Angel if she tried. Still, a sense of inevitability kept her strangely calm, almost detached. The last mystery of her childhood was a mystery no longer. She knew, as she had always known, that goodbye was not always goodbye forever.
Amy's last words were for the Doctor, which River considered only fitting. Her hair flickered like flames as she turned away from the Angel.
"Raggedy man … goodbye."
Then she was gone, and River's hands were cold and empty. A new name had been carved onto the headstone … just as she had ordered.
Rory Arthur Williams
and his loving wife
Amelia Williams
New York, 1969
Dying hurt. Melody Pond knew how to fix it, but that didn't make it any easier. She did not understand why the lady from the photograph in her room – she recognized the lady; no one else in the world had hair like that – would shoot her. What had Melody ever done to her? Who was she anyway?
She doubled over, coughing gold dust, bracing against the brick wall of the alley where she was hiding. The gold was too bright. Someone would find her. Madame would find her, and they would put her back in that horrible space suit and make her kill the Doctor, who was a bad man, but why couldn't someone older do it instead –
"Melody?" exclaimed a woman at the end of the alley.
"Are you sure it's - "
"Who else could it be?" She interrupted the man standing behind her. "Melody? Sweetie, please, come out of there."
"Don't be scared," added the man. "We won't hurt you."
Melody tried to run, but her legs collapsed under her, and she fell onto the pavement. She froze like a deer in the headlights as the couple approached her, illuminated by the light from her changing body. They looked ordinary, in their forties or fifties, the man half bald, the woman wearing glasses. Still, fear and fury made her tremble as she recognized the china-doll face, the hazel eyes, the fiery red among the gray.
It was the lady from the photograph.
"You shot me," she accused, struggling to sit up and glare at them. Never show fear, Madame had said.
The lady's face crumpled – an expression Melody had only ever seen on her own face in the mirror, never on Madame or any of the soldiers. The lady was crying.
"The space suit scared me," she confessed, leaning into her companion's shoulder. He put an arm around her, watching Melody with a grave kindness as foreign to her as the lady's tears. "I didn't know it was you. If I'd known, I'd never … I'm so sorry, Melody."
The space suit had scared Melody too; that much she could understand. But nobody had ever cried for her before.
"Who … who are you?" Melody whispered. "How do you know my name?"
"I'm your mother," said the lady. "And this is your father. We've been looking for you everywhere."
Smiling, Melody's mother stepped forward and held out her hand, the cerulean polish on her fingernails gleaming in the light. Something about that blue, richer and lovelier than any other color, caught Melody's attention, and in a moment, she knew why.
Madame and her soldiers didn't paint their nails. This couple were civilians.
They were safe.
With one final flare of gold, she reached out with her own small hands to let her mother pull her to her feet.
New York, 1999
Sunflowers blazed beside Amelia Williams' hospital bed, but not even their glory could bring youth to her white hair and withered face. Even her hands, still polished and manicured in defiance of the nurses – golden today, to match the sunflowers – were wrinkled and spotted with age.
"Don't forget," she rasped for the dozenth time, gesturing to the envelope next to the bouquet. It held a street address, scrawled in a shaky, misspelled handwriting that showed just how much the former writer and publisher was losing control.
"Leadworth. England. Promise me you'll go."
"I promise," Melody repeated, squeezing the old woman's hand. "But can't you tell me why?"
"It's my dying wish, young lady," Amy retorted, a hint of the old spark flaring in her hazel eyes. "What other reasons do you need?"
"Don't say that." Melody choked back her tears. "Don't you dare say that. You're not dying. You can't!"
"Can't I?" Something appeared among the wrinkles of her mother's face that might have been a smile. "You make dying sound like a bad thing. I'm just going to find Rory, that's all. He must've been so bored without me, don't you know?"
Melody laughed, and a sob escaped with her laughter.
"I know, Mum, I know … but what about me? What will I do without you?"
"Don't be stupid, Melody." Amy moved her other hand across the blanket, taking her daughter's hand between both of hers in a surprisingly strong grip. "You and me and Rory – we're family. We always find each other, no matter when, no matter where.
Be a good girl, Melody. You'll see me again, I promise."
Amy's hands went limp, and the beeping machines around her bed became suddenly quiet.
Melody Williams bowed her head and cried like a child, feeling the bullet pierce her heart all over again.
Leadworth, 1999
Seeing the little red-haired girl run down the street, tugging a blond boy along by his too-large necktie, both of them ignoring her as a complete stranger, jolted Melody to a standstill. She had seen and done many strange things in her lifetimes (some of which, thanks to the persistent Silence, she didn't even remember). Thanks to a drunk driver and an English fog, she was now a thirty-six-year-old white woman in the body of an eight-year-old black child, which was not only strange, but very inconvenient. She knew perfectly well that time was, from a non-linear subjective view point, nothing but a ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff. She had even hoped for this.
It still took her breath away.
"Oi!" called Amelia. "What are you lookin' at?"
Rory shrugged apology on his playmate's behalf, making Melody smile – some things never change, I guess – and immediately putting her at ease. After all, these children had raised her and made her who she was. It was about time she repaid them.
"You look like you're having fun," she said. "Can I play?"
Amelia looked her over from head to toe, paused, and nodded, making Melody feel absurdly proud to pass muster.
"I'm Pond. Amelia Pond. This is my Raggedy Doctor – at least, right now he is. His real name's Rory, but don't tell anyone. Alien names are secret, don't you know?"
"Hi," said Rory, waving, with that wry, patient smile his daughter knew so well. "Nice to meet you."
Amelia held out her hand and Melody shook it firmly. Around their joined fingers, she could feel Time swirl like a scattering of gold dust, linking past to present to future. Every beginning is an ending in disguise, and vice versa. The child is mother to the woman. Oh, Amy, you were right: we'll always find each other. Mother, Father, I love you so much. I love you more than you'll ever know.
"I like your nails," said Amelia, smiling at the crimson paint on Melody's coffee-colored fingers.
"Thanks. I can show you how to paint them. But right now – let's run!"
They hurtled down the street, shrieking and giggling, just three children on a summer afternoon. Never dreaming how very, very far they would have to run someday, just to run back to each other.