Secrets (takes place after Easters of the Dead)


Sheldon wrinkled his brow. What was happening here? "Amy, I thought -"

"Oh, Sheldon, I- I-" She covered her mouth and shook her head at him, vehemently, her eyes wide.

"Will one of you tell me what is going on?" said the voice from the phone.

"Sheldon thought he was already dead! That's what is going on!" Amy yelled and then ran from the room, down the hallway.


The bedroom door was open, but it was dark inside. Sheldon stepped into the doorway. "Amy?"

He heard a whimper. He reached over to turn on the light, and Amy was opposite of him, huddled in the corner, on the floor. When the light came on, she shielded her eyes. She looked, he thought, like a terrified wild animal.

"Amy?" he asked again, softer this time. She didn't move. He walked over to the corner. "Amy?" No reply again, the upper half of her face still behind her hands. He crouched down and put his hands on her shoulders. Amy curled away from him, turning her body so her face was against the wall. "Amy, come here," he tried to say it as gently as he could.

"You're angry. You're very angry. I heard you shouting. Don't touch me, you're angry with me."

Sheldon closed his eyes involuntarily and sharply sucked in his breath. Why would Amy say that? Does she really think I would ever . . . He shuddered. He couldn't even think the words.

"No, I'm not angry with you. I'm confused. And even if I were angry with you, you know I would never hurt you. Please, I don't know what to do." He sat down on the floor behind her, careful not to touch her. "I'm frightened, too."

She looked up then, turning her her head to look at him. "Oh, Sheldon, that's not what I meant. I've never been frightened of you. Just another example of what a horrible person I am, letting you believe something else that isn't true." Putting her head down again, a sob came out.

"Amy." Sheldon squeezed in closer. He barely put his arms around her shoulders, not wanting to alarm her further; instead of resisting, she sank back into him. He pulled her in closer, her back to his chest, and he kissed the top of her head. He wrapped his arms tight around her shoulders, which suddenly felt so frail to him. "It's okay now. Let it all out."

He rocked with her while she sobbed, great raking sobs, tears and snot falling onto his arms that crossed in front of her. If it had been anyone other than Amy or Ada, he could not have done it, endured it. But she had once held him this way, when he didn't think he deserved it, and it was the least he could do in return. At last, her sobs started to quiet. He kissed her hair again. "I'm going to go get a washcloth. I'll be right back."

Amy nodded, and he let her go. He washed his arms, running the water in the sink until it was warm, then wrung out the washcloth so it wouldn't drip.

"Here," he said, returning with it, "let me do it." Sheldon washed her face gently, and then dried it with the same tenderness. "Better?" he asked. She nodded again, but then shivered. "Are you cold?"

She didn't answer, but the chattering of her teeth gave her away. "I think you may be experiencing a little bit of shock. Here, come with me." He stood and took her hand. Leading her to the bed, he pulled the blankets down. "Get in." He reached down and took off her shoes before she lay down. Kicking off his own shoes, he crawled in next to her, covering them with the blankets, even their heads. He rubbed her arms quickly. "Better?"

"Yes," she whispered, shivering against him.

"Can you talk about it?" he asked. "I wish - I think . . . I need to hear what you have to say."

"I'm so sorry, Sheldon, I know what you think, and I don't blame you for being angry -"

"Shhh, not that. I'm not angry with you. As I said, I'm confused." He took a deep breath. "I was shouting at your mother. She said you thought your father was dead, and she let you believe it. Is that the truth?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I don't remember exactly how it started," Amy wailed, the treat of more sobbing in her voice.

Sheldon moved closer, so their faces were very close in the weird half-light seeping in through the blankets. He placed his palm along the edge of her face. "It's okay, it's okay. Just tell me what happened. Start wherever you want."

Amy took a deep shaky breath, no doubt from her recent crying jag, but no further sobs escaped. "I never knew my father. I don't even know his name. Mother would never say." She paused and looked at him, questioning.

"Go on. It's okay if I already know it. Just tell me however you need to tell me."

Amy nodded and turned her head slightly, seemingly looking somewhere over his shoulder. "Before I went to school, Aunt Flora came to stay with me every day while Mother went to school; she was finishing her degree, you know. And then she went to work at the newspaper. I don't remember what I thought then. I had Barbie dolls and Ken dolls, and I remember playing they were married, but I don't remember if I thought that was strange or not. As you know, I didn't go to kindergarten; Mother didn't want me to go to school until I had to. Something about peer pressure, I think. But Flora taught me everything you learn in kindergarten. She taught me to read, too. She was always telling me how bright I was. And beautiful."

"She was a wise woman," Sheldon whispered.

Amy didn't smile, but she glanced up at his eyes and he saw a glimmer of the promise of a future smile there. "When I did go to first grade, I was an outsider immediately. I hadn't been there for kindergarten so I didn't know anyone, I was dressed like a porcelain doll in frilly dresses, and I already knew how to read. This was when reading was taught in first grade. Do you remember that?"

"Yes and no. I wasn't in first grade very long."

"Oh, right. Anyway, as you know, they wanted to advance me, too, but Mother wouldn't let me. So, because I could read already, I read silently, by myself, while the teacher taught everyone else to read. That was the year I first read The Secret Garden and The Little Princess. I loved them both, I was crazy about them. In both of them, the girl is an orphan. I thought that's maybe what I was. A few kids in my class had parents who were divorced; for a while I thought my parents are divorced, but I asked Mother and she got angry. She told me it was a inappropriate question, of course she wasn't divorced. So then I latched onto this idea that I was an orphan, that my parents were dead. That my real parents were beautiful and cool and would let me dress like the other kids. I asked Flora if I was adopted - I knew not to ask Mother again - and she told me no, that Mother was my real mother. I asked her if my father was dead, and she told me to ask Mother. I kept asking, but Aunt Flora wouldn't say and I think that convinced me. Finally, I got the nerve up to ask Mother. I think I said 'my father is dead, isn't he?' but I'm not sure exactly how I phrased it. But I do remember what she said. She said 'he's dead to us.' I didn't know the difference then, I was six. But now I see how it was all my fault. I asked the question wrong, I took her answer too literally. I wanted to be in a book so badly, I thought it could be like The Little Princess, that everyone thought my father was dead but then he would come rescue me."

"Amy, you just said you were six. You didn't know."

"But I should have!" She weakly pounded a fist against Sheldon's chest. "You would have! I was a gifted child, I should have been able to think about it properly, I should have reached the correct conclusion. Or asked more questions."

Sheldon shrugged. "I don't know what I would have done. Maybe I would have asked more questions. But I was always encouraged to ask more questions. Pop-Pop and MeeMaw always encouraged my curiosity. Your mother . . . " He stopped. It would not be helpful to bring up his opinions of Amy's mother right now. "Is that the last time you and your mother talked about it? When you were six?"

"Yes. No. Sort of. When I was in fourth grade, there was a huge argument."

"Between you and your mother?"

Amy shook her head. "No, between Mother and Aunt Flora. About me. That year, they would separate the boys from the girls and the girls would be shown a film about getting your period. But your parents had to give permission. Of course, my mother didn't, and I was the only girl sitting alone in the library. I knew all about it, of course, not from my mother but from recess chatter. I knew about sex and the whole thing. The basics, at least. Well, and a great deal of misinformation, too. Anyway, Flora asked about my day when I got home from school and for some reason I told her how embarrassed I had been to be left out. Flora stayed for dinner that night, which was unusual. It was horrible meal. I could feel all this tension in the room, and I didn't entirely understand it. Now, when I think about it, I think Flora was just waiting, and I think Mother knew what was going to happen. But nothing happened until I went to bed. Then I heard shouting from the kitchen, and I went to sit on the stairs to eavesdrop. I don't have your memory, I don't remember all the words, but Flora was mad at Mother because she didn't let me go see the movie. Mother said something about the less I knew about that part of my body the better, and then Flora said something about that just leads to girls thinking they're dying when they have their first period." Amy passed sharply and looked straight into Sheldon's eyes. "I'm sorry, is this too much detail for you? And about that?"

"Um, well, it's not the trajectory I anticipated for this story, but go on. I want to hear it because it's important to you," Sheldon said.

"Anyway, they kept fighting and then Flora said something about that if she didn't tell me about sex, I'd make the same mistake that Mother had, and I'd give my body to the first man who even looked at it. They were yelling at the top of their lungs. I had never heard anything like it. You know my mother, she's so worried about appearances and doing things for property's sake. She's never, ever yelled at me like that. She just frowns and manages to look at me like I'm the most disappointing thing she'd ever seen . . ."

Amy stopped talking, and, for a moment, Sheldon thought she was going to start crying again, he thought he could see the tears welling up in her eyes again. He smoothed his hand down and back up her arm.

She took a deep breath, seeming to gather herself. "The next part I remember clearly, because I never knew that Flora was getting paid to take care of me. Mother said, 'You may be my aunt, but we both know that you're also an employee and I can fire you.' Then Flora said, 'But you're not the one signing my checks, are you?' Then Mother said, 'Don't you ever mention him in this house again.' Flora left after that. She slammed the door so loudly the house shook. I ran back to bed. She didn't come back for two weeks. Mother told me she was on vacation, and I was to go to our neighbor's house when I got home from school. I hated it there."

Amy stopped talking again. Sheldon wondered what she was thinking, if she was thinking about Aunt Flora. He had not known Aunt Flora well at all; by the time he had met her, she was so very ill and then she passed away. But he had always assumed her love for Amy was unconditional, just like his MeeMaw's had been for him. But what if it wasn't? Was Amy thinking that, too?

"But Flora came back," Sheldon prompted. "Did you ask her about it? The fight? Did you ask about the checks?"

Shaking her head, Amy continued. "No. I'd get in trouble for eavesdropping; and I didn't even put it all together then. I think I was in shock about the whole thing. It wasn't long after that Mother sat me down and talked to me about my period. To be fair, she was honest and answered all my questions. Now, I realize that it was extremely uncomfortable for her to do that, because of how uptight she is. I'm surprised Flora wasn't sent to do it. Mother even told me about sex. I pretended I didn't know anything. I thought maybe she'd finally tell me about my father if I acted innocent. But she didn't. She just talked about how a woman's virginity is the most important thing she will ever own, and it's only meant to be given to one's husband. That giving it up before marriage was a sin and lead to a life of hardship. So I asked her when she had gotten married, and she told me she never had. That's how she knew it was sin and a hardship, because she'd been living with it. I thought she meant me, that I was the sin. I guess I was, sort of."

"Oh, Amy," Sheldon reached up and brushed her hair. "I didn't know you ever thought that."

There was a very weak shrug from Amy. "I didn't ask about him again. Or anything else, really, about her past. Not for a long time. Our relationship was really bad after that, for a few years. I guess I just didn't care about what had happened to her, all I could think about was how angry I was with her. It was the worst age for that to happen. I would refuse to do things to spite her. It's when she started bribing me, making deals to get me to do things. I threw myself into science, because my mother preferred the humanities. I insisted on harp lessons, because Mother doesn't like the harp, she thinks it's indecent to straddle something like that. If it weren't for Aunt Flora trying to keep us calm, I don't know what would have happened."

Another pause came, and then it stretched out between them. Sheldon waited for Amy to pick up the story again, but she just kept looking over his shoulder, staring at something he could not see or understand. "You seem at peace with her now. I know you're not close, but you seem . . . okay, I guess."

"It got better after I went away to Harvard. What a series of fights we had about that! She wanted me to stay close to home. I don't know what happened, but one day she changed her mind. Just like that. Anyway, the day before we left for Massachusetts, she sat me down and talked to me again about my virginity is a gift. She had been telling me every week for years. But this time she told me how she met my father, how young freshman girls were naive, how men used flattery, I don't even remember it all. But it's the first I learned he had been her professor, that he was married but she didn't realize it, she didn't even think about it because she was so enamored or whatever." Amy sighed. "I'm sorry, this is boring you. I just realized, saying it like this, it doesn't even seem real. It seems like a soap opera or something. A 1950s morality play, not something that would have happened in 1980. Even my mother, she seems trapped in another time."

"But it did." Sheldon said softly. He had never thought about Amy's mother being out of time. His own mother was so morally strict, he assumed that was the state of mothers everywhere. "Did your mother ever say what happened to him, your father?"

"No. She just said it ended badly, that he couldn't be a part of our lives and she didn't want to talk about it again."

"Did you ask?"

Amy closed her eyes for what seemed a long time. Sheldon waited. Finally, when she opened them, he saw they were wet with tears. She whispered, "I think I knew. I think I've always known. I just didn't want to admit it. And I'm so ashamed I did the same thing I hated my mother for doing, I let you believe it, too. Because it was easier. Because it didn't hurt as much. Because having a dead father is tragic, yes, but not in the same way. Because, at least if he was dead it wasn't because of me. Because if he were alive, wouldn't he want to know me? Why didn't he want me? Why didn't my mother want me? Nobody wanted me."

She closed her eyes again, and Sheldon reached up to brush the tear off of her nose. "I wanted you, Amy. I'll always want you."

Pulling her in close, holding her tight, he let her cry again, this time gently.


The new whiteboards had been Amy's Christmas gift. They were floor-to-ceiling boards, hung on tracks so that they could slide in front of the bookshelves. They both gave Sheldon more space than he'd ever had to work, and they hid some of the more unsightly contents of the shelves.

But that Saturday morning, three days after Amy's revelation, he stood in front of the expanse of white, not having a single thing to compute. Rather, he had too much to compute. Amy was gone, she had left him to go see her mother. He had offered to come with her, even though his mother-in-law's house was on his top five list of most dreaded destinations; but she had said no, this was something she had to do alone. He couldn't help but think of her, curious what she was thinking on the drive, what would happen between them.

Sheldon looked over and down at Ada, playing contentedly on the floor. She had two of her little dolls in her hands, and they were very clearly having some sort of conversation. He could hear jabbering all morning, only making out the occasional word. This filled him with pride: his little homo novus, already giving science lectures that she just didn't know the words for yet. Amy said she was telling stories, but Sheldon was certain he knew better.

Then he frowned. Was Ada content? Granted, they had had their usual early Saturday morning television and cuddle time, before Amy had gotten up. But did she know she was . . . wanted? That she has been longed for, created with desire, anxiously awaited, loved from the very first second she had noisily entered their lives?

"Ada?" he said, crouching down to her level.

She looked up at him, and, in the both gangly and incredibly limber way of toddlers, she was standing and rushing toward him almost instantly.

"Daddy!" she cried, putting her arms out to him, still clutching her toys, her face the same unabashed joy he had seen so often on Amy's face. Sheldon pulled her in close for a tight hug.

Work was hopeless now. "Would you like to spend all day playing with Daddy today?"

Ada pulled back and nodded rapidly.

Sheldon grinned at her. "Would you like to go the park?"

"Yes!"

"Let's go. But first -" he gripped her arm as she started to turn "- remember the new rule: you have to use the toilet - I mean, the potty - before we leave to go anywhere. Because we most certainly are not using the public restroom at the park."

She swirled away from him, already scampering toward the bathroom. Once that was finished, other preparations were completed, his usual messenger bag replaced with Ada's bag, and all the straps on the stroller were secured.

At the park, he swung her gently and sighed softly. Amy was right. There could be no denying it the sunlight: Ada's hair was lightening. It was already lighter than Amy's, which he hated, and in the brightness of morning there was a copper glint. Just like his mother-in-law's. It didn't seem fair to him in the least.

"Higher, Daddy!"

Welcoming the interruption to his thoughts, Sheldon said, "Do you know that if I just push you higher that only increases your kinetic energy? But if you learn to pump your legs, you will raise the overall center of mass of your body, effectively raising the height of your sw-"

"Higher!"

No stranger to a strong command issued by the females in his life, he pushed higher, and he grinned at her squeals. When they quieted, he slowed the swing until it stopped, and then he walked around to the front to raise the safety bar. "See, Ada, physics is fun!"

"P-sics is fun," she repeated, stumbling over the new word.

Sheldon picked her up and kissed her cheek. "My little genius. Let's go home and practice, so that you can enunciate clearly when your mother comes back."

Pleased with the distraction his daughter was providing him, Sheldon had considered staying longer, but his fear of the public restroom won. It was probably better to get home sooner rather than later. At home, he tried to get Ada interested in her new set of Duplos, the one he had been saving for when she was the recommend eighteen months of age, but she was more interested in trying to start a tea party with him. Drinking pretend tea from a tiny wooden cup, Sheldon was suddenly surprised to find how much he was enjoying this fractured, nonsensical half-conversation and fake food with her. It had snuck up on him, this joy: here he was, doing one of those things he had once told Amy he was afraid of, and it wasn't driving him crazy. What a strange week it was turning out to be: a week off work, doing something he had dreaded but then turned out to be both successful and for the best; a carefully plotted and executed plan that contrasted with Amy's surprise upheaval. And yet, in the midst of that disruption to their calm lives, there was still Ada to tie them down, the stability she required in her life providing him with the constancy he also craved.

Later, after lunch, he decided to introduce her to one of his favorite things. He held her in his spot while he read the newest issue of Amy's Agent Carter comic book aloud to her. Ada seemed to greatly enjoy this activity; she didn't seem as distracted as she was earlier during the Duplo phase of the day, and she constantly pointed out pictures to ask "What's that?" Then, as the story progressed, she fell silent and then she fell asleep against his chest. He looked down at her long eyelashes and wondered how it was possible that someone could ever have one of these wonderful creatures and not want it.

After Ada was put in her crib, his thoughts turned to Amy. Having such a wonderful day bonding with his daughter only made him feel worse for his wife, who never experienced the joys of reading with her father. Before long, he found himself pacing. At last, Amy's key turned in the door.

"Amy, you're home!" He lunged at her, hugging her, and he was pleased to feel her return it after her initial surprise. "Tea or cocoa?"

"Tea will be fine," she said. He took that as a good sign. She hung up her purse, while he put the kettle on.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. He wanted to tell her about his day with Ada, and the new phrase they had practiced, but he would save that for later.

She nodded and sat down at the island. "She doesn't hate you, if that's what you're worried about."

"I've never been worried about that."

Amy smiled. "She actually asked me to give you this." Amy slid an envelope across the counter to him.

Sheldon raised his eyebrows and started to open it. "What does it say?"

"I don't know. It's still sealed."

Sheldon opened it and read the monogramed notecard.

Dear Sheldon,
I apologize for my behavior during our phone conversation earlier this week. You had every right to be angry. I realize now, far too late, that you really are the best thing for Amy. I heard fierce protection in your words that night. I know that my daughter and granddaughter are safe with you and loved by you. I have lived long enough to know the importance of those things. I sincerely hope we can begin again.
Yours truly,
Cynthia Fowler

The kettle started to whistle behind him just as he finished, and he passed the note to Amy to read as he busied himself making tea.

"I think she's sincere, Sheldon, I really do," Amy said, putting it down.

"I don't know why, but I do, too," he said, passing her a mug. "Was she contrite with you? You deserve a much larger apology that can be contained on any stationary."

His wife nodded. "Yes. I'm glad I went to see her. It's not perfect. Our relationship will never be perfect, I know. Maybe not even happy. But it's . . . a start." She paused. "I think she was - maybe still is - angry at herself, ashamed of herself. She's such an intelligent woman, and she feels like she forgot herself for a few weeks and then had to live with it for the rest of her life . . . " Amy took a deep breath, and Sheldon waited for her to continue. "In her mind, she thought she was protecting me. Because she knew my father would never be involved in my life, so she thought the less expectations I had about him, the less I knew about him, the easier it would be for me. But she told me she didn't expect it to be so hard. Not motherhood only, but . . . she said she sees a lot of him in me, and that's been very hard."

"But that's not your fault," Sheldon said, protesting softly. He thought of Ada, who still looked so much like him, except for her changing hair. How much he had wanted her to look like Amy, but genetics had a different plan. Only sometimes, certain expressions on her face reminded him of Amy.

"I know, but I can sort of understand. When I look at Ada and I see you . . . for me, it's a happy feeling, but if you weren't you . . . I'm not saying I think it was the correct way to handle the situation, but . . . I can see that." She shrugged softly. "He was a scientist, too, a professor of chemistry. He spoke fluent German. He played the violin. You were right, he paid for Harvard; he went there. And Flora's salary, of course. Money for my clothes, too, and the harp lessons. They never spoke again. Mother would get the checks in the mail from his secretary. Sometimes Mother would call her to ask her to relay to a message, but the answer always came from the secretary."

While she spoke, Sheldon walked around the island to sit next to her. "Did you ask her? Are there . . . do you have any siblings?"

Amy shook her head. "She really doesn't think so. There aren't any children listed in his obituary, so none with his wife. She gave me a copy; it's long, he was very distinguished in his field. Do you want to read it?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes." Amy pulled the folded clipping out of her blazer pocket. She carefully opened it on the counter between them, pressing it flat. Sheldon was startled by the picture. It was an older picture, of a young man, but his smile, that wry smile . . . It was smile Sheldon knew well.

He looked over at Amy. "Would you like to read it to me?"

"Very much." And she started to read.


AN: Thank you in advance for your reviews!