"John? Do you remember what Vera said when we were playing the game?" she asked, referring to the car game they had played when leaving the jungle.
"Dog, wasn't it?"
"Do you think maybe she knew?"
"Mon, she's a year old. She's way too young to even understand that game."
"I know," she said, sitting back up to look at her daughter. "That's why I'm wondering."
"Our baby's not an x-file. She just said one of the few words she knows. It's barely even a coincidence."
Monica nodded and brushed a few silky strands of Vera's hair from her face. She wanted to push John to support her on this, but knew better than that, so she bit her lip and dropped the subject.
She loved her husband. There was no doubt about that. She'd loved him almost since she first met him, perhaps even then, but everything was overshadowed by the search for Luke, and it was certainly not the time to even think about the man who so desperately needed her help. The vision of Luke's body turning into ashes had bonded her to him, and she suspected him to her though he would never admit it to himself. Seeing him recoil so suddenly from the sight of the little body, looking away, blinking, his brow furrowed with confusion as he looked again; she knew he'd seen what she'd seen. She tried to talk to him then, but it was not the right moment and she began a long history of not pushing him when he resisted.
After her ritualistic task force had been removed from the case, and the FBI had concluded their investigation, and John and Barbara were left to mourn for the child who was taken too soon, something had changed. She'd been haunted by him, and felt helpless, and she was still curious about his vision, about whether or not he would admit to it. She called him one day. Just a social call, to see how he was doing. And he wasn't doing well. She could tell that he was isolating himself with his grief. Barbara was no doubt lost in her own grief. Monica could sense that they needed help, but she didn't know how to provide it, or even what they needed. She was only 23, so new to the FBI, to adulthood, to life. Now, as she looked back, she was amazed at her own brazenness. To call up a married man and ask to see him… it's a wonder he said yes. Perhaps he needed her, the connection that she had to Luke, to further his mourning; perhaps he felt the same connection as she did. She didn't know, and back then, she didn't care. All she knew was that something was pulling her towards him, and she felt powerless to resist it.
Had she played a part in his divorce? She had never been sure. Barbara had nearly lost it when she learned that John was carrying on a friendship with her, but John had reassured her a hundred times over that there was nothing going on. She had even tried herself, reaching out to Barbara in friendship, trying to arrange some sort of gathering, but Barbara regarded her as something to be forgotten, an unwelcomed reminder of the child she'd lost and the failure to find him in time.
An angry phone call from Barbara, a year after Luke's murder, finally wised her up. Barbara had said some hateful things, demanding she stay away, that she'd done enough damage. She never told John, but merely wrote a letter that she felt was properly expressive of her intentions – that she only wished to be there for John, that she felt a connection to him that extended no further than friendship, that she only wished to help. Barbara never responded.
The request for a divorce came a year after that. John called her in tears, not knowing who else to turn to. She went to him immediately and sat with him for hours, just listening, sometimes just granting him silence. He'd lost his son and now his wife, and he felt like she was the only one who could possibly understand. Why he thought that, she had no idea for she had no children, no husband, just a string of lovers who meant little to her if anything. Still, she was touched.
