Summary: Shortly after his twelfth birthday, Jake finds a clue in a box of his mother's old things. His journey leads him to a surprising discovery which will change his life, and the life of his father, forever.
A/N: This story will be in three parts, the first of which is from the perspective of Catherine and Vincent's twelve-year-old son Jake. As the summary implies, this will be a SND, post-season 3 story which picks up twelve years after the events of the series. Expect some angst and tears.
As always, I live for feedback, so let me know if you like the story.
He wasn't running away from home. Not exactly.
But having packed up a small bundle, Jake set out on a Saturday morning just after breakfast. In his pocket, a jumble of coins rattled, a whole $7.85 he had saved from picking up pennies in the park and accepting quarters from little old ladies who needed their groceries carried home from the market. Unlike the other kids, Jake never spent his meager rations on ice cream or sodas. Subway rides were few and far between. Instead, Jake saved his money for that one day…
The yearning within him had always been there, he realized a few weeks earlier, on his twelfth birthday. While he had tried to describe it to others, no one understood. No one except his father could quite comprehend the desire to go to the world above, because for most people, it was not forbidden. But even the great mountain of a man who had raised him could not quite understand the ephemeral longing his son described.
Jake knew that Vincent was special. His physical features were certainly different from everyone else. But Jake understood the deeper differences, the empathic gifts his father rarely spoke about.
"I can sense the presence of others, even before they enter a chamber," Jake had confessed to him softly, not long after his birthday.
Vincent had simply nodded.
"It can be disconcerting, I know. But you will grow accustomed to the feeling. In time, you may be able to discern who is coming and their general mood."
"Really?" Jake had asked, both excited and curious. While he knew his father had special gifts, he had never realized their full extent.
His father had made a noise of assent and the corners of his mouth turned up a little, as if in a half-smile. In all his years growing up, Jake had rarely seen his father actually break into a real smile. While Grandfather had said that Vincent did not like to scare people with his sharp teeth, Jake knew there was more to it than that.
His father had always carried a sadness about him, a long-suffering melancholy which he wore like a mantle about shoulders. It often shrouded him from the casual glimpses of joy everyone else experienced, although Jake knew that he could pass through that curtain. Only Jake ever seemed to bring his father real joy. And until he had turned twelve, his father's emotions were the only ones he could feel. While their connection did not extend across long distances, he would know his parent's touch anywhere.
"I wondered if you would develop this ability," Vincent had said, speaking deeply in that way he used when teaching his son important lessons. "I confess, I had hoped it might not come to pass."
"Why not?"
"Feeling others in a way they cannot feel you can be… lonely."
Jake had nodded thoughtfully, not having considered that aspect. Of course, his father was well versed in loneliness. Of everyone who lived in the tunnels, only Vincent needed to cover his face in order to go above. And even then, he never ventured out into the city except under cover of full darkness. While Jake had little experience with the world above, he knew from others that it could be a cruel place full of hateful people.
Eric once told him about the semester he had spent attending university in the world above. The other students had bullied and teased him, first for his thick glasses and then for his worn clothing. Almost any difference seemed fair game to treat others with derision, and Eric had quit college to return below after only a few months.
Still, others had flourished in their pilgrimages topside. Samantha had not only completed a four-year degree, but she was hired on at a small elementary school as a kindergarten teacher. While she shared an apartment with three other young women, living above suited her. Still, she returned below every month for a full weekend in order to maintain her relationships with family.
Of course, Jake also suspected that she came back often in order to tempt Jeffrey into giving life above a try. The young man had been grieved by Samantha's decision to leave, but nothing could budge him from the tunnels. "This is my home," he had said, and Jake understood all too well.
The tunnels were Jake's home and likely always would be. While he did not resemble his father on the outside, on the inside, he knew they were very much the same. He had always been quick tempered and strong, his blood seemingly heating to a boil when provoked. And while his hands sported regular nails instead of deadly claws, Jake knew he had a mean right hook. Cullen had seen to it that he knew how to fight, and scraps with the older children usually ended with him as the victor.
But beyond the physical, Jake disliked the world above. That world had not only cast off his father as a baby, but it had stolen his mother. Greedy, evil men had put her in an early grave and in the process, they had irrevocably taken something from Vincent as well.
"Your mother was the love of my life," he had always told Jake. But it hurt Vincent to speak of her, and Jake tried not to press him too much for stories.
Jake knew that his mother had been kind, intelligent, and incredibly beautiful. While a painting of his parents hung in a place of honor in his father's chamber, everyone who knew her said it had not done Catherine's likeness justice. Still, the impassioned image of the woman seemed exceptional to him.
Perhaps that thought was what had initially spurred Jake into venturing above - the sudden realization that he might find a real life picture of his mother. Grandfather had mentioned that her disappearance had been in the newspapers, and his father had once informed him that they kept old copies of those papers at the library. While Jake knew he could ask for such things, that helpers might assist in getting them so he would not need to take on such an adventure, Jake resisted that easy avenue.
Still, the idea of going above, on his own and without the other tunnel children, felt daunting.
As the days following his birthday passed, that unease slowly transformed into excitement. The danger of being caught was tempered by the knowledge that he looked like everyone else - on the outside at least.
Then a snippet of conversation caught his ear, and Jake knew the time had come for him to act.
His father and Grandfather were in the older man's library, a half-finished chess match set between them, half forgotten amid their discussion. Grandfather was talking about an old friend who had died a few years earlier, a helper named Peter.
"Susan sent word that they were clearing out the last of his things from storage. He had several boxes of odds and ends. Things from Catherine's apartment."
The name caught Jake's attention, and he froze on the upper level, suddenly conscious that if he descended the iron ladder into Grandfather's library, he would hear no more about this matter. Instead, he held his breath and remained very still, hoping not to catch his father's attention.
"Peter sent along most of her personal effects years ago," Vincent said quietly. "What more could he have kept?"
"Mostly papers, I gathered," Grandfather answered. "But also some photographs. Perhaps Peter thought they might be too much for you to deal with… back then."
Vincent nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps."
But the word kindled something in Jake: photographs. So, there were actual pictures of his mother out there, not just grainy prints from the newspaper? And he was just now hearing of their existence?
"Perhaps Jacob would like to see them?" Grandfather suggested, and Jake's heart soared at the idea.
But his father only took in a deep breath and remained silent, his outer impassivity hiding a maelstrom of emotions within. Just the thought of viewing Catherine's likeness in a photograph panicked his father, Jake realized, as though seeing her again would rekindle a lifetime's worth of pain and grief. But Vincent also wanted what was best for his son.
Letting out a sigh, he told Grandfather, "Send word to Susan that I will pick up the boxes. Whatever Peter kept of Catherine's, it should belong to Jacob. Although I cannot fathom what he might learn from pictures and papers that he has not already heard from her friends here."
With that, the discussion ended.
Slowly, Jake backed away from the ledge, intent upon leaving the chamber through the upper level rather than be spotted by his elders. However, just as he was almost out of sight, his father glanced up at him. Vincent's expression seemed inscrutable, but Jake thought he noted just a bit of appreciation at his stealthiness.
A few days later, Jake found the rumored boxes of papers in his father's chamber. Vincent glanced at the boy as he entered before turning back. The boxes totalled five in number, and they looked old and dusty. On the outside, someone had written in black marker, "Catherine Chandler" along with some numbers.
"These were some of your mother's things," Vincent stated. "A helper had been storing them for a long time. Peter. Do you remember him?"
Jake recalled a tall man who always wore suits like the businessmen above. His lined face had curved easily into a smile, and Jake remembered the man tended to study him intently.
"He was a doctor," Jake stated, remembering a few checkups when his fevers and ailments worried Grandfather overly. The man had once even taken him above for an X-ray when Jake had broken his arm.
"Yes, and an friend," his father confirmed. "He was the doctor who delivered your mother, when she was born."
This detail garnered Vincent his son's full attention.
"Really?"
He sounded incredulous, but his father smiled slightly.
"Yes, really." With a glance at the boxes, Vincent turned back to him. "I'll leave you to explore. Keep whatever you wish, and I'll find a place for the rest."
His father left him alone in the chamber.
Jake barely waited a heartbeat before reaching for the lid of the nearest box. But inside he found very little of note. Printed documents and copies of forms. Many of them were medical records, old bills, and the like. While most contained his mother's name, none had any of the pictures he so desperately sought.
The next box held books. Most of them were legal textbooks, and as he flipped through them, he noted a feminine handwriting in the margins. Most of the books contained legal opinions, and he quickly discerned that his mother's notes were key holdings and important precedents. Setting the box aside, Jake decided to peruse the texts more thoroughly later. While he enjoyed seeing his mother's handwriting and her insights, the books themselves held none of her essence.
The third box had pictures - both albums and envelopes with loose photographs. Jake grinned as he pulled out the largest album, a thick volume with a leather cover. Inside, he found family photos of people he had never seen before - a blond man and dark-haired woman he supposed to be his grandparents. And between them was a little girl with light brown hair.
His mother.
Throughout the course of the album, she grew from a tiny baby to a toddler and then a child of four or five. The next album picked up at that age and demonstrated her growth all the way to young adulthood. By the end of the tome, he could truly see the features in the young woman, his mother's eyes. She resembled the woman in the painting with his father.
The pictures themselves illustrated a childhood like Jake had never known. The backgrounds included extravagant apartments, trips to exotic locations, and greenery. So much greenery. He felt especially enchanted with a picture of his mother high up in a tree. Based on the buildings in the background, Jake supposed the photo to have been taken in Central Park, and he wondered if he carried the picture with him whether he might find that exact spot and the same tree.
Other pictures in the box were not in albums, but each individual envelope seemed to hold hints about his mother's life. In one, she appeared to have spent a summer in Europe with friends her own age. Jake recognized the Parthenon, the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and other landmarks. In another, she had half a dozen photographs of her in a graduation cap and robe, some with her father and others with friends.
After that, the pictures seemed to chronicle a life in which Catherine rarely reached for a camera. Most were from parties with unfamiliar faces. But a few seemed to stand out, and Jake took note of the people who remained in his mother's life the longest.
To his disappointment, there were very few pictures depicting the last years of her life, the years when she would have met and known his father. Disappointed, Jake returned the pictures to the box and put the lid back on. While he had finally found the treasure trove he had been seeking, the complete absence of his world, of everything in his life, felt… haunting. How had his mother lived above, so separate and apart from the tunnels?
Two more boxes remained and Jake glanced at them dejectedly. But he also knew that it would be better to complete his initial exploration before his father returned. So far, the effort had left him emotionally drained, and he could only imagine what perusing such boxes might do to the man who had loved her so completely.
Upon opening the next box, Jake's jaw dropped. On top was a black and white photograph, a head-shot of his mother. But she looked nearly unrecognizable. Her face had been cut and the cuts sutured, but the criss-cross of injuries left her skin bruised and puffy. Her eyes, open and vacant, seemed haunted by trauma.
Quickly, Jacob turned the photograph over, and on the back he noted a date written in pencil.
Catherine Chandler
Attacked 4/12/87
Found 4/22/87
Suspects unknown
Nodding slowly, Jake realized the picture had been from the night his parents had first met, when his father had found her in the park and carried her below. But none of the stories from his childhood had ever detailed her injuries so thoroughly. Swallowing tightly, Jake buried the photograph in the side of the box, determined that his father should never see it.
The pages beneath turned out to be a series of police reports. They explained the circumstances of the attack on Catherine Chandler and her mysterious disappearance for ten days afterwards. Then, beneath that, he found a supplemental report dated over eight months later. In that report, seemingly related, he read about how the men who had attacked his mother on that fateful night had killed another woman. But someone - or something - had ripped the men to shreds. Thankfully, there were no pictures of the men, but Jake had an uneasy feeling about who could have done such a thing.
While no one ever mentioned his father in such terms, it was common knowledge that Vincent served as the protector of the tunnels. When centuries sounded an alarm, he was the first to respond. And though no one ever said anything directly to Jake, he sensed in the others a deep, sometimes frightened respect for his father, for actions he had apparently taken in the past to protect the community.
The next box contained other newspaper clippings about his mother. They included a picture of her in the society page with a man Jake did not recognize. One reflected an obituary for a man named Charles Chandler. He quickly deduced that the man was his other grandfather. But soon, the contents grew darker.
In another clipping, he read a report of Catherine's mysterious disappearance months before she was found dead in her apartment. Several newspapers carried the story, with regular issues bringing up the lack of progress by police.
Jake knew a little bit about that. He knew his mother had been kidnapped, that his father had searched for her in vain for months. And then, shortly after Jake's birth, she died. No one had ever told him how she died exactly, only that she had been killed and he kidnapped from her as a newborn baby.
"For a long time, the knowledge that you were out there, that you needed him, was the only thing that kept him going," Grandfather had admitted to him once.
And so Jake had grown up knowing that in no small way, his father continued to draw breath every day because of the existence of his son. Somehow, that fact both comforted him and left him uneasy.
At the very bottom of the box, Jake found a ream of printed paper. The stack had been tossed in haphazardly, but the sheets seemed too neatly placed to have ever been gone through individually. Curious, Jake began to read through them.
After several minutes, he discerned that they were related to his mother's disappearance. Each entry contained a date and a few lines of text. Most were meaningless.
White female in Apartment 40, 82nd Street.
Another noted: Prostitute on Broadway, named Candy.
One was simply an address, without any context: 1906 6th Avenue.
Page after page of similar entries followed. Quickly, Jake noticed that most of the entries were clustered around the dates of the newspaper entries. And then it dawned on him.
They were tips. One of the newspaper stories had included the number for a tip line, and these printouts were all the tips the police had received about his mother's disappearance.
With this in mind, he looked through the entries again. And again, they seemed as meaningless and unhelpful as they had likely been to the police. But as he went to put the papers away, the bottom page fluttered out of his hand and fell on the floor. Reaching down to pick it up, Jake noted something strange.
The date.
Jake knew very well the date of his mother's death because it coincided with his own birthday. However, this last tip had been submitted months after her death. And rather than offering a description or some other tidbit relating to his mother, the tip contained only an address.
In Brooklyn.
Furrowing his brow, Jake felt a strange sense of something as he stared at the address. Then, very deliberately, he took the paper, folded it into a neat square, and put it in his pocket. After replacing the lid on the box, a whim overtook him and he went back to the box with pictures. This time, he sorted through and found one of the most recent pictures of his mother, one that had been provided to the newspapers to run in the papers. It showed her with a thoughtful half-smile, and Jake felt warmed by the light in her eyes.
But before could do more, Jake sensed his father approaching. Apprehension flowed from the man like water from a dam threatening to break, and Jake knew his father had no wish to see the contents of these boxes. The feeling came through so strongly that the boy nearly staggered under the weight of it.
Recovering himself, he was ready and facing the doorway as Vincent entered.
"I felt you coming," he told his father with excitement. "I could even feel your mood. Just like you said."
Vincent paused for a moment, regarding his son. "You are learning quickly," he remarked. His calm voice did not betray the underlying current of disquiet Jake felt from his father.
"Are you okay?" he asked automatically.
And just as quickly, his father's mood seemed to fall away, as if hidden behind a curtain.
With a nod, Vincent said, "I am well. Only… sometimes the memories are difficult to bear."
Very deliberately, his father looked away from the boxes holding the remaining contents of his mother's life.
Jake did not entirely understand his father's pain, but he nodded anyway. The thought of his mother brought Vincent such pain. And yet… there was a sweetness to that pain which he endured willingly, almost eagerly. While Jake knew he was too young to comprehend the feelings of adults, he also wondered at their strangeness and unnecessary complexity.
Still, a thread pulled at him, like a call from afar.
That call reminded him of when he thought someone whispered his name in the Chamber of Whispers or when a voice called out to him in that moment between sleep and wakefulness. It was the sound of shouted voices near the base of the falls, all animation and no distinction. He could not put a description to the allure of that feeling, but it tugged at him all the same.
"I want to go above," Jake said suddenly, the declaration springing from his mouth with a spontaneousness he did not expect.
Vincent did not react, at least not outwardly. But Jake could sense his father's sudden fear, a deep-seated unease at the thought of his son going where he could not follow.
"What draws you above?" he asked with deliberate casualness.
Taking a deep breath, Jake took stock of his own emotions before answering.
His mother. He needed to know more about her. He needed to seek out whatever footprints she had left behind before her death. But beyond that, he needed to follow the strange siren's call which pulled at him so strongly.
"I need to find myself."
The words seemed to materialize of their own volition, but his father nodded quietly as he took them in. Something about that statement resonated within his father, Jake felt, and though he was only twelve years old, he suspected he might be allowed far more freedom if he pushed the issue.
"I know part of me," he said quietly. "I have a good life here. A safe life. But there are pieces of the puzzle which don't yet fit. I feel them calling…"
A deep expanse suddenly opened between them, and Jake could not feel his father's emotions. But he could tell from the elder man's expression that he battled against fear and unease. When someone had been living for only one person for so long, the thought of losing them could verge on an irrational phobia.
And Jake had to acknowledge - his father perhaps did rely upon him too much for the will to live.
Slowly, Vincent asked, "And to find these pieces, you must venture above?"
"I think so, yes."
Squaring his shoulders, Jake stood as tall as he could, hoping to convince his father of his maturity. After all, at the grand age of twelve, he was nearly a man. And men were afforded greater latitudes below, more freedoms in addition to greater expectations. Even the younger men like Jeffrey and Eric were called upon to help with all manner of work. While Jake hoped to be counted among their number someday, he also knew that he had much to learn.
A long silence stretched out between them and Jake waited. He knew better than anyone not to push his father. The man absorbed and processed new information slowly, deliberately. And this instance was no different. For long moments, Jake simply allowed time to take over, giving up the decisions to fate rather than pressing harder for what he wanted.
Finally, his father said softly, "Then you must follow your heart."
Jake followed the address first, impetuously taking the subway to Brooklyn and then using a map to find the address printed on the paper in his pocket. While it took most of a Saturday afternoon, he eventually located the building identified in the tip sheet from his dead mother's forgotten possessions.
It turned out to be an assisted care facility, a place where the old and infirm were left to make due with inadequate staff and underpaid administrators. For over an hour, Jake watched the building from across the street. And in that time, he noted several instances of deliberate indifference.
Older patients tried to venture out, but those paid to assist them kept them indoors. A few made it to the smattering of rocking chairs on the facility's front porch, but even they seemed devoid of will. Their blank eyes did not make contact with him, and Jake felt his empathy rising as he watched them rocking back and forth over and over again.
But other observations lifted his spirits.
He saw a middle-aged nurse, both gentle and firm, walking among the older patients. She had a particular way about her, and Jake relaxed as he watched her work. Her black hair and dark skin stood out from afar, and the magical way she moved reminded Jake of old Narcissa.
On that day, he saw nothing strange, nothing to draw his attention. Returning to the tunnels, he gave his father only a bare account of his venture, noting the cost of a subway ticket. The next morning, a Sunday, Jake found that his father had left him an extra dollar and no expectations of performing chores in the tunnels. Grateful for the money, Jake took the subway back to Brooklyn.
This time, when Jake spotted the attentive nurse attending to the patients sitting in rocking chairs outside, he mustered the courage to approach. The woman raised an eyebrow at him, taking in his humble but warm tunnel garb even as she seemed curious about his sudden presence.
"Excuse me," he said with as much courage as he could muster. "What is this place?"
The dark-skinned woman let out a small snort. "Have you never seen a nursing home before?"
He shook his head. The elderly who lived below remained part of the community. Those more able bodies assisted them as necessary, but they still contributed and belonged.
"This is a long term care facility," the nurse explained patiently. "People come here when they cannot take care of themselves. Is there someone in particular you're looking for?"
"Yes," he said, surprising himself. "But she isn't old."
The woman narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, and he noted that she wore a name tag: Harper.
"Miss… Harper," he read, flashing her a smile. "Do you ever have… younger people come here?"
"Not children," she said, nodding to him "Kids usually go to-"
"No, I mean…" He stopped, and in a flash remembered the picture in his pocket. Slowly, reverently, he took it out to show the woman.
He felt Harper's reaction as clearly as he witnessed it - a feeling of stunned surprise followed instantly by suspicion.
"You know her," Jake said with excitement.
Harper thrust the picture back at him and would have rushed inside without another word, but he moved to block her retreat.
"Please," he begged. "Is she here? May I see her?"
The nurse froze, his plea clearly rooting into her heart. But she also resisted him with a flash of nervous dread. She feared him, Jake realized, or at least she feared what he might represent.
"She isn't a resident here," Harper told him in a low, raspy whisper. "At least not anymore."
Hope caught in his chest, and Jake briefly forgot how to breathe.
"But she… was?"
Expelling an uneasy breath, Harper hissed quietly, "Many years ago. She came in as a coma patient. Then one day, she woke up. Had to relearn everything - how to walk, how to talk. How to feed herself and dress. It was a long process."
"So she forgot… everything?" Jake asked, the pleasant feeling of hope turning to ash within him.
Harper nodded slowly, her face awash with sympathy. "I don't know if she's the woman you are looking for, honey. And whoever she might have been before, she is someone else now."
But even as Jake began to mourn this new loss, he felt a rush of determination. "Is she here?" he asked again.
With a shake of the head, Harper told him, "No, she moved out on her own years ago. She still comes by now and then to visit and read to the other patients, but…"
Jake sensed something unsaid from the nurse, a key bit of information that he needed. So, with his most earnest expression, his eyes full of tears, he reached outward with his empathic senses and allowed her to feel his need: the desperation of a son forever denied his mother's love.
Harper's resistance crumpled, and he sensed that she had to stop herself from pulling him into a motherly hug.
Clearly angry at herself for speaking, she divulged, "I can't tell you this. If anyone asks, you didn't get it from me. But there is a diner five blocks from here…"
She gave him the address and a comforting squeeze of his shoulder. But before he could thank her, she offered one last thing.
"Child, I don't know what you are hoping to find, but try not to have high expectations."
Jake squared his shoulders, intending to exude the sort of quiet confidence his father always demonstrated.
"This morning, I woke believing she was dead. What could be worse than that?"
Harper answered him with a sad smile and said, "It's hard to explain. But sometimes death is more merciful than life."
The corner diner had large windows and small booths lining the outer walls. But as Jake entered the eatery, he paused to take it in. A rush of sound greeted him - coffee machines percolating, the stove whooshing as the chef fried food in the back, the sound of silverware scraping against plates as a busboy loaded dirty plates into a bin. In one corner, a small television hung from the ceiling and Jake could hear a reporter talking about the weather. And above all that, he was met with the conversations of dozens of people as they struggled to be heard by their companions over the general din.
The lunch rush had the diner full, but Jake spied an empty seat at the counter and slid onto the backless stool. At first, the waitress did not see him, but Jake did not mind as it gave him a chance to study her.
Dressed in what he assumed to be the diner uniform, a yellow dress and white apron, the woman moved quickly with deft hands and a forced smile which never quite touched her eyes. And she rarely paused as she spoke in a friendly tone patrons, taking orders, poured coffee, delivering food, and ringing up bills. Her light brown hair held streaks of gray, and she kept it pulled back into a tight ponytail. Only a few whisps of hair escaped to frame her face, soft but worn with age lines. In some ways, she looked completely different from the picture in his pocket. But Jake immediately recognized the woman by her warm green eyes.
Twelve years had passed, twelve very difficult years according to the nurse at the care facility. This woman had awoken in an unfamiliar world, her former life forgotten. Everything forgotten. Of course she would not be the same as in his picture.
Before he could do anything else, she turned to him, perhaps sensing the weight of his gaze. By now, the lunch crowd had begun to thin and she noticed that Jake was sitting by himself and not accompanied by an adult.
She gave him the same raised eyebrow that Harper had used earlier, and he wondered if she had learned the expression from the nurse.
"Are you here all alone, kid?" she asked.
"Yes."
With only a momentary expression of surprise, she placed a rolled napkin with silverware in front of him along with a menu.
"What can I get you?"
She asked the question perfunctorily, but Jake sensed nothing else from her beyond amusement at serving a child. Her eyes betrayed no recognition, no keen and deep understanding of their connection. He was just like every other stranger here, a customer to be served and bid farewell before she could collect her tips.
He knew about tips from Samantha, who had also worked as a waitress when attending college above. Most waitresses received very little salary at all and relied on tips as their majority income. He knew he would need to factor that in along with tax when calculating what he could afford to order.
"Well?" she prompted him when he continued to stare at her, still processing his emotions.
"Um… what's good? Here. What's good here?" he managed.
Her eyebrow quirked again and this time the edges of her mouth almost raised into a smile.
"For the best bang for your buck, I recommend the grand slam," she said. Her tone was devoid of any Brooklyn accent, but more than that, he recognized care and education in her voice. She did not sound like a waitress. But she did have the patience of one, he realized, as she sighed and told him, "I'll give you a minute to look over the menu."
And then off she went, seeing to other customers, refilling water cups and the occasional coffee. She rarely seemed to stop for long, her feet and hands always moving.
Jake forced himself to look away from her and study the menu before him. Thankfully, it not only described the contents of each meal but many items also had an accompanying picture. Unfortunately, the grand slam was not in his budget. At $7.50, it would consume most of his funds while leaving too little for a tip, let alone subway fare back to Manhattan. Instead, his eyes lowered to the "a la carte" portion of the menu, and he settled on one scrambled egg and one sausage patty for $2.50.
When she returned to take his order, he spoke in a clearer voice, having rehearsed it in his mind.
"Anything to drink with that?" she asked. "Orange juice? Milk?"
He looked down at the menu, indecisive. Both juice and milk were an extra dollar, and he hesitated at the cost.
Taking pity on him, she noted, "Water is free."
"Water, please," he said quickly, handing her back the menu.
Her eyes twinkled. Finally, she did flash him a genuine smile as she noted, "Coming right up."
Jake sat in the diner for an hour, mostly just watching the waitress as he ate as slowly as he had ever consumed a meal in his entire life. She seemed to be aware of his attention but did not confront him about it. Every five minutes she would ask if he needed anything else. Finally, she put his bill beside his plate, and Jake removed the few dollar bills in his pocket to pay it. He was sure to include an extra dollar for tip, even though that left him with less than $5.00 in his pocket.
If he returned again - and Jake had every intention of returning - he would need to budget more carefully.
By the time she took his money and rang the check into the cash register, the diner had emptied to only a handful of patrons. She moved more slowly now, pausing to chat with the other staff and the cook in the back. She seemed respected by the others, clearly older even though she joked and conversed like an equal.
Finally, the waitress stopped in front of him, and he could feel her curiosity morphing into annoyance.
"You going to stay here all day, kid?" she asked.
Instead of answering, he blurted out, "What's your name?"
The question startled her and she stood a bit taller, as though it were a conditioned response.
"What's yours?" she shot back.
"I'm Jake. At least, that's what everyone calls me."
She gave him a nod. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Maggie. Short for Margaret."
"Maggie…"
He repeated the name in confusion but then quickly understood. Of course she would have a new name. She had no memory of her earlier life, so why would she remember her real name?
Swallowing hard, he flashed his best, friendly-stranger smile. "Nice to meet you, Maggie."
She glanced from him to his now empty plate. "Can I take that?" she asked, a gentle reminder that he had finished his meal and should be moving along.
"Um, yes, of course. Thank you." Slowly, he slid off the stool at the counter, never taking his eyes off the woman. "Um… goodbye. I guess."
"Have a nice day."
She said the words perfunctorily, he knew, but Jake committed them to memory regardless. She watched him as he turned to leave, and Jake could feel her eyes following him in amused curiosity. But deep within him, he felt nothing else from her. No recognition. No flashes of love and acceptance.
As he stepped outside, he sighed, remembering Harper's admonition.
She is someone else now.
The truth of the statement hit him full force, and he fought against a wave of tears. The woman he had just met most certainly inhabited the body of Catherine Chandler, the woman who had given birth to him twelve years earlier. But she was not his mother. She retained no memories, no thoughts or aspirations marking her as the woman his father had once loved. Still loved. Would always love.
While Jake had no way of knowing whether her personality was even the same, he did know that he had to tell his father.
He had to. But…
Tears appeared on his cheeks, and Jake wiped them away furiously. No, telling his father that his mother was actually alive but was not his mother would only break the man's heart anew. It would be like showing a child their greatest, most cherished wish and then setting it on fire in front of them. Jake could not do that to his father, could not cause him that pain.
And yet… she was alive.
How could such a thing be possible?
And more still, did not the fact that she was alive mean that anything was possible?
To be continued...