You never realized just how brilliant your daughter was until it was too late.
When she began high school you had one of your trainees break into the building to access her permanent record. The grades you saw—English, A; Algebra I, A; Physical Science, A; Geography, A—reassured you, led the trainee to ask why you were smiling so much. For then you knew your suspicions were correct. Sydney was able to move past her mother's death, as much as it pained you to dwell on that fact, and focus on her life, her schoolwork.
And with her family background and grades like that, it was only a matter of time before an intelligence organization snatched her up.
Why did it have to be Arvin of all people? you silently groan to yourself now, then shake your head. You don't have time to focus on the past.
But another part of you disagrees, tells you that that's all you have left. That you can't afford to lose the precious memories you have of your daughter, that you can't let the images of this strange woman with dark, curly hair replace the images of a wide-eyed, gleeful little girl.
You know Jack rolled his eyes every time you called Sydney brilliant, especially if you said it in her presence. "You don't need to give her such a big head," he would admonish you later. For some reason your retort, which included an innocent comment about the size of her ears, always led to a thwack on your arm. You find you can smile now at the memory.
You amble into your office and uncover a safe. After entering the proper combination, you let the door open and its contents spill out. You try not to open it too often, but on nights like tonight . . . it's necessary. For your mind, for your soul, for the sake of your husband and daughter—wherever they are.
It's taken you twenty years to accumulate these artifacts, items that are far more valuable to you than any work of Milo Rambaldi. There are the requisite photographs, which you carefully page through, swallowing occasionally and trying to keep the tears at bay. But it's the more uncommon items that have you biting your lip and haphazardly searching for a box of tissues.
Old ticket stubs. Matches from the restaurant you went to on your one month anniversary. A locket Jack gave you the first Christmas together—you had only been dating a few months, you recall, and he was nervous that you wouldn't like it.
Letters to Santa Claus tied up with a red ribbon. The earlier ones include requests for Barbie dolls and roller skates. The later ones plead for her daddy to be home in time, for her mommy to come back to her.
A lock of hair from Sydney's first hair cut. You cried so much at the hair salon that day that Jack lorded that over you for weeks.
The collection of letters—notes, really—that Jack left for you over the years. On your pillow, on his pillow, on the windshield of your car, mailed from faraway locales. Short, long, serious, funny—it wasn't the notes themselves, it was the fact that he took the time to write them that made you love him even more.
At the very bottom of the safe is a metal box with a magnet on it that Sydney painted one snowy day when she was home with the flu. You carefully open the box and begin to peruse the refrigerator collection. That's what Jack always called it, teasing you as you tried to find room for one more drawing on the large appliance.
It's hard to believe that some of these papers are almost thirty years old; several are curled and yellowed with age. But in your mind you still see them as they were when chubby hands placed them in yours, eager and excited to show off her latest creation. Hearts, flowers, horsies—she always did call the carousel horsies, you remember now—rainbows, Mommy, Daddy, Syddey. These were the subjects of the refrigerator collection.
You rummage through the bright colored pieces of construction paper, turning each over to read the date and comments that a young Jack and Laura added, using Sydney's words, of course. "Me and Daddy playing at the horsies. April 7, 1979." "Happy Birthday, Mommy! 1978." "Me and the Easter Bunny. 1980."
"Me and Mommy and Daddy at the long thing over the water. June 1, 1980." You silently chuckle to yourself now, remembering Jack's face when Sydney dictated that to him. You both looked over her head and grinned, trying your best not to laugh. To a small child, the pier was just "the long thing over the water," more or less. It was one of her favorite places—second only to the carousel. Sydney could spend hours at the pier, staring through the slats at the water below her, watching the boats as they passed, just absorbing her surroundings.
She always was observant, perceptive. Wise beyond her years, Emily used to say. The more you watched her, the more you agreed with that long-ago statement. It never ceased to amaze you that she was so perceptive, that her eyes and heart caught so much more than most people ever noticed. Perhaps because she was alone for most of her life, she was able to attune herself to others in a way that few people do.
You just never expected her to be so perceptive about you.
You had just finished a call with one of your top associates when one of your young agents came running into your office. You looked up at her coldly, ready to kick her out, when through her pants you heard the one word that mattered most. "Sydney."
As she gulped for air, you finally heard what she was saying and rushed to turn on the nearby television set. Flipping some switches, you were finally able to intercept a local LA station, where a car chase was in progress.
"You're sure this is her?"
"Positive. Our CIA liaison says that Agent Bristow was removed from FBI custody an hour ago. At about the same time, four cars were taken. This one's her."
"Interesting." You had steepled your fingers together and summarily dismissed her, watching the coverage closely. They were gaining on her, you realized as your eyes narrowed. And she had blocked herself into a corner. You leaned in as the car stopped, hearing the officer on the megaphone order her out of the car.
You like to think that you and Sydney realized her only option at the same time, for you had no sooner whispered "Keep driving" than she did just that—off the pier and into the water below.
You jerked your head back as you continued to watch the news station. Of all the times for your daughter to obey you, it had to be now . . . but had she survived? Was it even possible?
You nodded your head grimly, even if was just to yourself, as understanding washed over you. She would survive. Of that you were certain.
And as soon as she surfaced, she would know. And Jack would know.
Mommy never died.
It looked like Sydney's Christmas wish from long ago was finally going to come true.
She finally had her daddy back. And soon she would have her mommy too.
You blink back tears as you remember the way she would hold both of your hands, how excited she was when all three of you were together. She loved you each individually, but she was happiest when you were both with her. Her family.
Your family.
You flip through the papers, searching for one piece of artwork in particular. You finally find it at the bottom of the pile, and triumphantly pull it out to stare at it. This is one of your most recent acquisitions, something you stole from Jack's house just a few years ago. The day Danny was murdered, you remember now. While Jack was flying across town, trying to save a man he had never even met, you were busy rifling through old boxes and grabbing a few more relics for your collection.
It's almost ridiculous how long it took you to finally track this picture down. Each time you broke in—for a senior agent, Jack's own security system is severely lacking—you searched through boxes and filing cabinets, only to come up with nothing. On this trip, though, you ventured down the stairs and crept into his office, finally finding it at the very back of a desk drawer. Obviously, it had been special to Jack too.
But he had had it for twenty years. It was your turn now.
You can still remember the day you urged Sydney to show this off to Jack. She was four and so excited that he was back from one of his trips that seemed to last forever and ever in her eyes. This one stayed on the refrigerator the longest, you suppose; you know it was still there on that final day you drove to the university. Jack probably took it down after he learned you truly were, although apparently even he couldn't bear to destroy it.
"Dady + Momy + Sydney = Famle."
It's one of those pieces of art that only a mother and father could love, you think fondly to yourself as you stare at the misspelled words and the oddly shaped images that are supposed to be "the horsies, going round and round and round."
But in the end, isn't that what it's all about? Jack. You. Sydney. Together as a family.
You briefly had the chance to be a family again during your stay in Los Angeles, but it's been two years since that reunion. Even though you're not certain where Jack is now, you know you'll find him. You always do.
But you're not so sure about finding Sydney. And you miss her.
The baby they placed in your arms after too many hours of labor. The little girl with pigtails who wanted to be just like you. The six-year-old you hugged tightly on that fateful morning, knowing that your "Be good. I love you," held so much more meaning than it ever had before. The teenager you watched from afar as she navigated her way through a changing world.
The young woman turned agent who surprised you and your operatives on more than one occasion. The woman with streaked makeup and bright blue hair that you met for the first time in the middle of Taipei.
The daughter who rushed to hug you even as U.S. Marshals ordered you to stand down.
You miss her.
tbc