Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 32
INTERPLANETARY DUST

November 28, 1994

Foster City, California

Jackie's House
…

Jackie accepted the collect-call charges, and after a few strange clicks, Steven's croaky voice came through the receiver: "Jackie?"

Her instinct was to say his name, but she swallowed it down. The Blonde Brigade wasn't completely out of earshot, sitting in its designated area of her living room. The women were still lobbing questions at her—about Steven. The only privacy Jackie had was the volume of her own voice.

"Yes," she said quietly into the phone. "What's going on? Where are you?"

"Callin' you from a payphone. Sorry about the charges. Send me the bill." He sounded like he had strep throat, hoarse and sick. "Was out for a ride on my bike. You cool to talk?"

She glanced over at her friends. They'd finally stopped their questioning, but her yearbooks were being passed around like joints. They'd probably scour each page, each year, of her high school experience until they found what they wanted.

Jackie covered the mouth piece of her phone and shouted to the bartender, "No more drinks for them, Ray!"

"Got it," he said from the bar and began packing up his supplies. Her friends had little respect for her when they were sober. Drunk, they were terrors.

"We can talk," Jackie said into the phone. She'd rather have this conversation upstairs or at another time. But from her current vantage point, she'd be sure the Blonde Brigade didn't pick up another phone and listen in.

She sat on the sofa farthest from the Blonde Brigade, the one across from the big-screen TV, and kept her voice low. "Do you have a cold?"

"Cigs," he said. "Smoked over a pack at once."

"Why?"

"Jackie..." The line became silent. She feared he'd hung up, but then he said, "Why'd you forgive me for cheating on you?"

"What?" The question represented a dozen others: had he cheated on Ro Skirving? Or Ro had cheated on him. Did a friend of his cheat on someone else? Or maybe he'd cheated financially through his record company, embezzling money from his dad. "That's … it's not relevant anymore."

"It is to me. I've got to know."

"You didn't cheat on me," she said. "You broke up with me in a horrible way, but it wasn't cheating. You didn't intend to be in the relationship with me any longer."

"So how'd you forgive me for that shit?"

Shivers rippled across her body. His pain had broken through the hoarseness of his voice. "You proved yourself worthy of it," she said, "and—and—" she lowered her voice to a whisper—"I needed to forgive you for myself as much as for you. Because I loved you."

A cough hit her ear then silence, and she looked at the Blonde Brigade again. Her friends were deep into her yearbooks, even Ann-Marie, who seemed to be reading messages Jackie's high-school friends had written.

"Sorry about that," Steven said. His voice sounded less sore but somehow worse. "Payin' the price for what I did last night. Self-destruction's simpler than dealing with the alternative."

She laughed, but her shivers intensified, and she began to sweat. "You don't have to tell me. Self-destruction, self-sabotage—they're easier than self-forgiveness."

"When is enough enough?" He was being vague, just as she'd been to him on Halloween night.

"You're a good man," she said. "If I know anything about who you are now, that's it."

"I've done some shitty, shitty things. To you, to—"

"I'm not a priest. You don't have to confess to me—"

"Not confessin'. Just talking." He cleared his throat, and static clogged the line. "Back when we were together, if I'd cut off your arm, but you had no clue I was the one responsible," he said, and the static faded away, "and I cut off my own arm so you could have it … fuck."

"Keep going," she said, but her heart was throbbing in her ears. She cradled the phone receiver between her cheek and shoulder, and she wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. He used to give her hypotheticals like this a lot, to explain himself without revealing too much. "I'm listening."

"Would you want to know I was the one who'd cut off your arm?" he said.

"What would the consequences be for 'me' knowing?"

"You feeling betrayed."

"But 'I' basically have a usable arm again?" she said. "Because yours is sewn onto 'my' body?"

"Yeah."

"Did you help 'me' with physical therapy?"

Her face was reflected in her dark TV screen, and she turned away from it. "So 'I' could use the new arm properly?"

"Went with you to P.T. every chance I got. Paid for it. Helped you with exercises at home."

"Do you love 'me,' or are you with 'me' out of guilt and obligation?"

"Started as the latter," he said, "but it became the former."

Her mind sifted through possibilities, but she had too few facts about his life to guess what lay behind this conversation. "Would 'me' knowing you'd cut off 'my' arm make 'my' life better?"

"I don't know," he said, and raucous laughter blasted through the living room. The Blonde Brigade must've found a hilarious picture or quotation in her yearbooks, and Jackie cupped her mouth and the phone's mouthpiece. She didn't want to raise her voice to be heard.

"I can speak only for myself," she said in a near-whisper, "but I'd prefer knowing the truth, no matter the consequences." Like why Steven was "ruined for her" after Michael raped her. Why he'd actually left Point Place and her behind. "But that's not necessarily the case for everyone. I—" she angled her body away from the Blonde Brigade's general direction, for even more privacy—"I've never told Brooke what Michael did to me in Chicago, and I never will. What happened that night is too complicated to explain to her. She doesn't understand how his mind worked back then."

"He's still responsible for what he did."

"I'm not excusing his assault. At all. He took advantage of my paralyzing emotional state and used my body for his own pleasure. Consent, non-consent, those weren't concepts he understood when we were teenagers. I barely understood them." A lump formed in her throat. She only spoke about that night in detail with her therapist. Sarah voiced doubts about Michael's motives. Asked if certain possibilities existed, like Michael being more aware of Jackie than he'd let on; if he carried any lingering resentment about their past. Jackie had admitted Michael used to be the vengeful type, even calculatingly so.

But in Chicago that night, he was obviously still in love with Brooke. Jackie was just a convenient means to release some sexual frustration.

"Again, I'm not making excuses for him, but he's taken responsibility for what he did." She and Steven hadn't compared many notes about Michael. They both had many years of them, and hers were likely different from his. "Hiim taking responsibility," she said, "doesn't have to include destroying his relationship with Brooke and Betsy. That's how I see it, and that's why I keep silent."

"So life ain't black and white. Should've learned that one by now." He sighed, causing more static to disrupt the line, and his breath transformed into a fit of distant coughing. He'd clearly pulled the phone away from his mouth. "Sorry," he said afterward.

"'First, do no harm,'" she said. "That's what doctors are taught in med school. I read in one of my dad's bioethics books that in ancient Greece, physicians had two main objectives in treating patients: either to do good or to do no harm. So whatever truth you're carrying, if revealing it won't do any good to anyone—that includes yourself—then maybe let it go."

Silence was his only response for longer than she was comfortable, but he did eventually speak. "Does that include you? 'Cause you said you'd prefer knowing the the truth, no matter the consequences."

"Depends on which would have the worse consequences: me knowing or me not knowing."

"And the grasshopper becomes the teacher," he said, laughing. His chuckles were scratchy, like sandpaper rubbing the phone line, and those turned into coughing. "Shit. I really blew out my throat."

She wiped more sweat off her palms, but her blouse was soaked. This conversation had created more emotion than her rusty heart could process. "Hardly a teacher. You should've had me sign that confidentiality agreement. I almost told my mom about O."

"Almost isn't did. It's cool, man." His voice had lost all traces of Steven. It was gravelly sludge.

"No, it's not. I've told you who she's married to." Her eyes flicked toward the Blonde Brigade. Her yearbooks had been put down, and the women were ensconced in a discussion she couldn't make out. "Anders wants O.—"

"I know all about Eliassen and that derivative, poser band he's got," he said. "Red Slate's A&R guys keep pokin' their noses where they don't belong. They can go fuck themselves."

"But what if they put everything together?" she whispered.

"Then they can fuck themselves double."

She squeezed the phone receiver until her fingers hurt. "I wasn't thinking that night. My mom and I have … a complicated relationship. I'll spare you the details, but I tend to be the worst version of myself around her."

"Jackie, let it go—" He coughed to clear his throat again, and his voice became recognizable. "What you've done for me today outweighs anything you almost told her, all right?"

"I-I did something for you?"

"More than I can tell you over the phone, but yeah. I gotta go before this call costs me my life savings."

She bent over her knees with the phone pressed against her ear. She didn't want him to hang up, to face what the Blonde Brigade might assail her with next. "Donna said you'll be at the Formans' house for Christmas."

"Yup. Forman told me you're goin', too, but we'll talk before then. Let me know how much I owe ya when you get the bill."

"I will."

"Thanks. For everything."

"You're—you're welcome. 'Bye."

She hung up the phone, unsure of what he'd thanked her for, what everything entailed. But she fully accepted now she wasn't merely a project to him. Otherwise, he wouldn't have called her when he was in a bad state. He wouldn't have trusted her.

The Blonde Brigade had grown even louder. The women were discussing various cliques in their high school—jocks, rich preps, weird outcast artists—and their voices were far more grating than Steven's had been. Jackie once believed she cared about these women. What she truly cared about was not being alone. Her conversation with Steven finally allowed her to accept that, too.

Hearing him sound so sick, so afflicted with guilt, had cut through her heart's detritus. Her love for him was an energy that couldn't be destroyed. It had been converted through the years, into a form she hadn't recognized until now. It was going through yet another conversion, catalyzed by their new friendship, but it would forever remain a part of herself.

She returned to the Blonde Brigade's seating area, and the women welcomed her back. "That must have been some phone call," Brie said. "What are you so smiley about?"

Jackie touched her lips. The smile was a surprise to her. She'd been unaware of it, but the smile refused to wilt.

"Nothing," she said, yet the warmth spreading through her chest was far from nothing. She was still capable of love. Steven had given her access to that feeling again, and it expanded through her like light into a newborn universe.

"Do you have heartburn?" Deborah said.

Jackie's palm was pushing into the center of her chest. Her apathy toward Deborah, June, and Ann-Marie stood in sharp contrast to her love for Steven, Donna, Izzy, Betsy, Brooke, the Formans, her dad. Of all the Blonde Brigade, she did have some positive feelings toward Brie but no trust.

"A little." Jackie rubbed her heart. "A friend was telling me about her daughter's dance recital. She stole the show."

"I'm sure," Ann-Marie said. "What kind of dance?"

"Ballet—toddler ballet." Jackie was using details from Izzy's life. They were technically true, although the last recital had been months ago—and the next wasn't for another week. Donna had invited Jackie to it, but she hadn't agreed to go yet.

June opened Jackie's '78 yearbook back to the Senior Candids section. Her long, knobby finger tapped Steven's picture. "We know who your mysterious pothead ex-boyfriend is."

"You found his name under the Homerooms section," Jackie said casually. "Good detective work."

"Oh, we know more than that," Deborah said and glanced at Brie.

Brie's legs were crossed, and her wrists were crossed loosely over her knees. Her manner was less drunk and more business. Jackie had witnessed this demeanor at Cosette media events, where Brie put celebrities at ease while drawing out their secrets.

"Steven Hyde," Brie said, looking Jackie in the eye. "Head of Burnout Records, a sublabel of Grooves Records. Son of music magnate William Barnett. Responsible for bringing Degenerate Matter into the spotlight."

Jackie shrugged, tapping into her reserve of nonchalance. "That's more than I know."

"Oh, come off it, Jackie!" Deborah circled her finger in the air. "All you ever play around here is Degenerate Matter."

"You told us he roadies for the band," Ann-Marie said. Her gaze became razor-sharp, but she swayed a bit in her chair. Alcohol had to be affecting her still. Jackie's fifteen minutes on the phone wasn't enough time for her to sober up. "What executive becomes a roadie?"

"I said he roadies for a band, not Degenerate Matter." Jackie clarified, but she'd been caught. "That's what he told me. If you want to know anything more, you'll have to ask him."

"Should we take what she says at face value?" June spoke in that conspiratorial tone Jackie despised, as if Jackie weren't a true member of the Blonde Brigade, just a moon orbiting a distant planet in the group's solar system.

"Insider trading," Deborah said, and Jackie stood up from her chair. "She has company secrets."

Jackie gathered her yearbooks, stacking them on top of one another. "I spoke to him once, over half a year ago. If you're looking for gossip—"

"As much as I love good gossip," Brie said, "I'm more interested in connections. If you have an in with him—" she gestured to herself—"hook a gal up."

"For personal reasons or professional ones?" Jackie said.

"Both. "

"And what would I get in return?"

Deborah elbowed June at Jackie's response and said, "She's really getting feisty, isn't she?"

"She'd be kicked off any TV-show set for her attitude," June said, an answer so idiotic that Jackie grunted. They weren't on television. They were in Jackie's living room. "Just spill it, Jackie. You're friends with this guy."

"I'm as much friends with him as I am Ralph."

"'Ralph'." June snorted. "You've been divorced from him almost two years. Don't you think it's time to call him by the name he actually goes by?"

"Crossing a line, June," Ann-Marie said. She flicked at a piece of lint on her shoulder, but it was stubborn, and she had to pluck it off. "Patricia could use a lesson in dusting, but that's neither here nor there. Jacqueline, whatever you relationship is with this Steven Hyde, it's your business—"

"I have no relationship with him," Jackie said.

"It's your business," Ann-Marie repeated, "and we've no right to pry."

Her word was law, and the rest of the Blonde Brigade didn't question it. Jackie couldn't be sure, though, if Ann-Marie meant for this edict to be obeyed. She'd conspired against Jackie before. Today's gathering, the yearbooks, the positive attitude about Degenerate Matter—all of it might be a conspiracy.

Masterminded by Jackie's own mother.

Hyde returned home after a detour to the St. Anthony Falls. He'd parked his motorcycle in a lot and walked across the Stone Arch Bridge. Below him, the Mississippi River frothed white over the locks and dams, and he'd indulged himself a few thoughtless minutes.

The air had been colder on the bridge than in the streets. Wind blew clouds across the sky in an endless streak of gray, but the sun broke through the thinnest layers. Its light winked at him from above, promising warmer days.

Ro wasn't at the house when he arrived. She'd left him a note in the kitchen, stating she'd be back by lunch and hoped he would be, too. That gave him a half-hour to prepare one of her favorite meals, and he got to it after a much-needed tooth-brushing. A thorough salt-water rinse soothed his throat, as did the lozenges he sucked on while he cooked.

The slam of the front door reached him with perfect timing. He'd just plated the food, and Ro found him in the kitchen as he added extra Pecorino cheese to the dishes. "So you've come home, then?" she said.

He indicated the plates on the kitchen counter. "Rigatoni with roasted cauliflower and brussels sprouts."

"Mm, you have come home." She stepped into his personal space before he could make another move. Peeks of skin showed through her shredded plaid shirt, and her arms slid around his waist. "How?"

Her clothes carried the odor of cigarette smoke, but her breath smelled like mint. She'd prepared for his homecoming, anticipated it, and his body wanted her more than the food he'd cooked.

"Called up a friend," he said. His voice was still rough, but he no longer felt the urge to cough. "Put things in perspective for me."

"How?" she repeated, drawing him closer. "So I can do it myself the next time."

"Started off by not telling me to go kill myself."

She made a face. "I suppose that one was a bit harsh."

"A bit." His hands glided over her back and settled on her hips. "But to be fair, she has a lot less at stake with me than you do. Makes bein' patient easier."

"She?"

"Jackie."

"Oh, so you called Jackie, did you?" Her arms dropped lower than his waist, and she palmed his butt. "Tell me what Jackie said."

She was playing with him, feigning jealousy. She used to do that when they had an open relationship, and he kissed her neck. Her skin was icy against his lips, frozen by the wind outside. Their lunch would be just as cold soon. "Let's eat," he said after a kiss to her jaw.

Her hands squeezed his butt tightly, painfully. "Explain what she did to bring you back."

"Hard to explain." Jackie had a special kind of insight, one that matched his exact wavelength. "She defused my fear, man," he said and moved Ro's hands to his hips. "This fucking depression—it's a reaction to terror. Been realizing that more and more. Brain goes hopeless when it can't handle how much fear's built up."

"I hate your fucking fear."

"You and me both." He backed off from her a little, enough to cradle her cheeks. She allowed the intimate gesture, let his thumbs brush over her earlobes. He craved this kind of physical connection with her, but she rarely granted it without sex. "Weirdest part about it is, as quickly as I sink into this shit, I can rise out of it."

"You used to drink the fear away," she said and pressed a kiss into his palm.

"Yup. But Jackie told me the right thing at the right time, about ancient Greek physicians..."

"Ancient Greek physicians?" She laughed. "Never in a million years would I come up with that, not when I'm watching you disappear."

"Distance from the situation helps," he said, but the truth was Ro became terrified herself when he faded away. He'd tried to confront her about it before, gently, but her fear was knotted up in stories she refused to tell. The snarled threads had sewn shut her eyelids. Prying them open without injury was impossible. If necessary, he'd work around her blind spots the rest of their lives.

"Still think you should cut ties with your triggers," she said and pulled a pair of forks from the kitchen drawer. She passed one to him, grabbed her plate of rigatoni, and dug in without sitting at the table. "It's them that set you off."

"Can't do it." He picked up his plate, too, and leaned his back against the counter. "Would mean cutting ties with people I love."

She stuck a brussels sprout into her mouth. She didn't speak again until she swallowed it down. "Then you'll keep cutting yourself off from me, from the present."

"I'm workin' on it." He put his plate on the counter. The Pecorino cheese was too salty for his taste. He needed water, and he poured himself a glass from the kitchen sink. "But those people are as much part of my present as they are my past," he said, pushing his voice. The water rushing from the faucet was loud, and he'd had to speak over it.

He waited until his glass was full before talking again. "You had a choice to accept all of me or walk away. You didn't have to take the ring."

"I want all of you. That's why I took the ring."

"Includes my past, Spark. Just like me acceptin' you means not knowing much about yours."

"Valid point." She stabbed a brussels sprout with her fork and waved it at him. "I like this fight in you. Gives me hope."

"Good."

She ate the brussels sprout then speared a a rigatoni onto her fork. "Make-up screw after lunch?"

"Sure, but maybe a half-hour after lunch. Don't want to toss it up."

"Gonna fuck me crazy, are you?" She glanced at him sideways. "I should tell you to kill yourself more often."

He cough-laughed. Pavlov never would've hired him as an assistant. He was positively reinforcing a nasty habit of hers. With visions of Ro writhing beneath him, though, he ate his salty rigatoni faster.

December 3, 1994

San Mateo, California

International Gem & Jewelry Show
...

Aisles upon aisles of jewelry filled the San Mateo Event Center, from expensive brands, one-of-a-kind hand-made pieces, and cheap plastic for those with less discerning tastes. Jackie had been invited to the International Gem & Jewelry Show by Brie. Brie was doing a "Save/Splurge"article for Cosette and looking for inspiration. Jackie was just looking.

She'd agreed to go to the Intergem show partly because the invite to Izzy's dance recital had become complicated. Donna was missing the recital herself. She'd been hired to write a freelance article by The Milwaukee Journal, a review of Alice In Chains's show in Milwaukee. The opportunity was too important to reject, but Jackie couldn't spend time with Eric alone. Their relationship had destabilized after Michael's mugging and never recovered.

Not that her relationship with Brie was solid, but the Expo Hall had over a hundred thousand square feet of gems that glittered like stars. Seeing them all would take half a day, and she'd separated from Brie an hour ago. Jackie didn't expect to meet back up with her, but the crowd and noise weren't overwhelming. Plus, the Event Center was less than a ten-minute drive from her house. Escape would be easy, but she felt energized.

Her current location was a small booth. Strands of horn beads hung beside strands of gemstones and hanks of tiny, glass seed beads. It was one of the colder areas of the Expo Hall. No hot lights to illuminate the lack of jewelry display cases, but sweaty shoppers soon elbowed their way into the booth.

Jackie moved aside, to where a few bins sat on a table. These contained loose beads, and her fingers dipped into one. It was full of black lip shell beads, carved into shapes like half-moons and hibiscus blossoms.

Excitement surged in her chest, a type of joy she hadn't anticipated. During her junior year at UCLA, she'd taken two jewelry-making classes as electives. Those two courses had inspired her more than all her communications classes put together. She'd seriously considered transferring to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, but then Dale Fischer derailed her life. No more college, no more dreams.

Just existing.

Her dad had encouraged her to do more, buying her jewelry-making supplies and magazines. Collected brochures from colleges close to their home in Rochester Hills, Michigan. But the wires connected to her passions were severed. She'd never know how her life might've developed had she'd never gone to that nightmare house in Oceanside, California.

A spool of seven-strand beading wire was in her hands. Not good enough for making sellable jewelry, but she could experiment with it. She also had baggies of assorted shell, glass, and porcelain beads. In the vendor line, a woman stood ahead of her. She appeared about Jackie's age and wore a crisp tailored shirt and pencil skirt. Her dark hair was in a messy bun, but she seemed no less professional for it.

"This is my card," the woman said to the vendor. "If you want free samples of the work made with your beads, give me a call or e-mail me."

"I'm sure we can work out a mutually beneficial agreement," the vendor said. She was a plump lady decked out in her own beads. "How long have you been in business?"

"Four years. We plan to have our own table at Intergem next season."

The vendor smiled, flashing gleaming white teeth. "Oh, how wonderful. You know, I..."

Jackie laid her baggies of beads in a half-empty bin. She slid her spool of wire onto the proper hook and left the booth as if she'd never been there.

Defeatism sprouted inside her, blocking all light. She could've been that woman in another life, but the road was too long now, too hard to travel. Going to classes, reading books, getting backaches while twisting and crimping wire—just visualizing it was exhausting.

Twenty-three minutes later, she parked her Miata in her garage and brought her mail inside the house. A Manila envelope had been stuffed into the mailbox. It was addressed from her mom, but she didn't open it. Instead, she poured herself a glass of orange juice from the kitchen. It helped settle her nerves.

She went upstairs to her office afterward with the Manila envelope. This was the safest room to open it in. Tacked to her cork board were photos of people she loved. She'd rearranged the photos and added to them during the last week, including one of Donna, one of Brooke … and one of Steven.

His picture came from a fun afternoon they'd had while dating. They'd spent an hour taking silly photos of each other. It was a duel, using Polaroid cameras from the Fotohut. In the end, Steven's strategy was simply to stare at her. Not blankly but with a faint smile on his lips that shone in his eyes. His love was present in the picture she'd chosen for the cork board. Love of a different kind than existed now, but love for her nonetheless.

While gazing at her friends' faces, she opened the Manila envelope. Inside were two regular-sized envelopes: one new and white and thick, the other worn and yellowed and thin. Along with these was a note from her mom, and this she read first.

My Dearest Jackie,

Anders and I discussed at length accompanying you to Jack's grave in January, but our schedules simply won't allow it. I'm truly sorry. Perhaps next year.

I looked through my records, however, and found a few items I hope will make up for my unavailability in some small way. They belong with you, and now they're in their rightful place.

Love,
Pam

Jackie scoffed at the letter's closing salutation. Even a private correspondence couldn't be signed with with Mom. The charade of their sisterhood was entrenched in Pam's whole being, maybe to the point of delusion. A person could convince oneself of almost any lie. Jackie had done it countless times.

She opened the thick, white envelope, and over two dozen photos spilled out. Half of them were black-and-white. The other half had faded colors, but all were of her dad at various ages. He'd mentioned a missing set of pictures years ago, during a week they'd gone through his photo albums together. Back then, as they went from page to page, he'd explained each picture to her.

She imagined his voice as she looked through these new photos. One showed him as a young boy in dirty, tattered clothes. A few others were taken on the day of his college graduation. He'd grown up during the Great Depression in Wisconsin, a rough childhood, but he'd avoided the draft by a year. In 1948, he attended Badger Business College then the University of Wisconsin Law School.

The photos depicted her dad's rise from poverty. His disdain for the poor had come from his experiences as a boy, but his time in the prison system awoke a more compassionate spirit in him. His empathy had been vital to Jackie's survival. Then God, not the law, forced Dad to pay his dues. A death carried out swiftly and without warning.

She put the photos aside. They'd fill the missing slots in her dad's albums, but they wouldn't scrape the rust off her heart. She examined the yellowed envelope. It was brittle, as if the paper had a high acid content. She pulled her dad's letter opener, a Parisian souvenir, from her desk drawer. The blade slid easily beneath the envelope's flap and sliced the paper open.

A folded letter peeked out. She removed it carefully and unfolded it just as carefully, though her hands were shaking. Her dad's penmanship appeared before her eyes, stealing her breath.

"My most precious daughter, Jacqueline," the letter began.

"Welcome to the world. I could not be more delighted that God gave me a daughter. Your mother worked hard these past nine months to bring you here from Heaven, and I'm going to work hard to give you the best life has to offer. It may mean we see less of each other than we'd both like, but I promise you, little one, the sacrifice will be worth it."

Jackie looked up at her cork board. The pictures tacked to it were blurry due to her wet eyes, but she made out her dad's large hand holding her small one. She'd heard of parents writing letters like this to their newborn children. Donna and Eric had each written one to Izzy and entrusted Jackie with a copy, just in case. She'd never guessed one had been written to her. Or that she'd hear from her dad again in some way.

"If I die—" the letter continued, and her sight filled with a perilous amount of tears. She grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk and dabbed her eyes. "If I die before you've grown, or long after we've spent many joyous years together, please know I'll always be your father. I'll be in the stars above and in the ground beneath your feet. Most importantly I'll be in your heart, just as you'll forever be in mine, loving you."

Jackie let out an anguished cry. She shoved herself away from the letter and desk on her rolling office chair. In the struggle to keep from weeping, she buried her face in her hands. But the grief working through her was woven with a bright, shining thread.

For the first time since his death, she felt her dad's presence with her. His love, and she knew now she wouldn't be visiting his grave alone.