3
Time in seclusion: 00:51:29
Leading into and out of the kitchen were two doors. One led directly to the living room, while the other spilled into the inner hallway where the two bedrooms could be found. From a certain position by the latter door – back pressed against the right side of the frame, head tilted to the right, neck twisted upwards and to the left – one had a semi-unobstructed view of the smaller bedroom. Jack had learned of this position eight minutes ago and had since spent the passing time surreptitiously observing Sydney.
Every so often she'd come into view as she unpacked her suitcase. Once she had a pair of shoes in her hands, her eyes darting around the room to see where she could store them without tripping over them later. Another time she had been shaking the wrinkles out of some jeans as she tossed a white T-shirt over her shoulder.
Except for how he was essentially spying on his own daughter, this act of surveillance felt very domestic, very normal to him. Perhaps that was because he'd spent much of Sydney's teenage years watching her every movement from afar since he'd convinced himself that it was for the best, that he needed to keep his distance if he wanted her to remain safe.
Backing away from the doorway, Jack grabbed onto the nearest countertop edge to steady himself as he inhaled a sharp breath and blinked away a sudden onslaught of emotion. God, what is wrong with me? he asked himself with disdain. I'm asked to spend a few days with Sydney and I fall apart? This is insane. I can do this.
But despite his silent pep talk, he knew the truth was being uttered by the nagging voice in his head he'd been trying his hardest to ignore. No, you can't, Jack. You can't do this because this is too normal. Especially for you.
This voice was growing louder and more insistent by the second.
"Sydney, have you—" he started to ask aloud, his voice coming out as a low, muddled croak. Clearing his throat and clenching his jaws, he tried once more. "Have you had any dinner?"
"No, not yet," she shouted back, and he could make out the sound of her sliding a drawer shut. "My class ran late and I barely had enough time to throw some clothes together before Vaughn came to whisk me over here."
"Are you hungry? I could probably make us something to eat."
"Hey, that'd be great. But if you don't feel like cooking, I could do it. It's not a big deal."
"No, no, it's no problem," he insisted as he began examining the contents of the cupboards and refrigerator. "You finish unpacking and I'll take care of dinner."
"Or we could, you know, do it together."
Jack twirled around to find Sydney grinning at him from under the doorframe that separated the hall from the kitchen. You were just standing right there, Jack. Remember what you were doing there?
When she saw a corner of his smile falter ever so slightly, she raced to his side, her eyes large and worried. "Dad, are you okay? Is something wrong?"
"No, I'm fine," Jack recovered seamlessly, the small smile now back to its previous pristine condition. "I was just appalled to learn that whoever stocked this place apparently has an affection for starches because we don't have much to work with. There are a few bags of dried pasta, some jars of tomato sauce, some boxes of macaroni and cheese, a handful of potatoes, two loaves of bread…"
"Pasta sounds good," Sydney offered as she scrutinized Jack with concern. "Do you want to get started on that while I work on a salad? There is something green and leafy in that refrigerator, isn't there?"
"Yes," he replied, ducking his head from her mindful stare. "I think I saw a head of lettuce in one of the bottom drawers."
"Cool."
They worked in relative silence, the sounds of their labor – water splashing into a pot, a knife slicing through crisp lettuce leaves – being the only noises heard in the room until Jack grunted something unintelligible under his breath as he used a pair of scissors to open a package of dried rigatoni.
Looking up mid-stroke from the tomato she was cutting, Sydney raised an eyebrow and asked, "What?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just… Do you remember going through this phase when you were little where you refused to eat everything except for pasta in a specific shape?"
"Yeah, I was…five," she drawled as the memory slowly began to take form in her mind. "And the pasta had to be…shells. Right? If they weren't shells, then I'd refuse to eat them?"
"Yes! And you drove me crazy with that because I couldn't figure out why you'd latched onto that shape. It made no sense at all."
"I thought they were pretty." Her hand crept up to her mouth as a series of giggles filled the room. "And they reminded me of the ocean."
"Oh, you will not believe how frustrated we became with your obsession over those pasta shells," he said, his glazed eyes revealing a man caught in the past. "You would throw a fit if we tried to sneak anything else on to your plate. And your poor mother, she drove to every supermarket within a 30-mile radius buying up all the pasta shells she could find because we weren't sure how long your phase would last. We were convinced that…" His words trailed off as he saw Sydney look down at the floor, her gaiety gone. Nice going, Jack. "I'm sorry. I… I hadn't meant to mention…her."
"One of us was bound to, Dad," she replied with a failed attempt at indifference. "It's kind of inevitable these days, isn't it?"
"Yes, well…" The boiling water that was bubbling in the pot on the stove next to him pounded in his ears, as did the sound of Sydney's knife striking the cutting board with each slice through the tomato. You know you want to ask. You know you're going to ask eventually, so why not just get it out of the way now? "Sydney, have you…have you spoken to your mother again since we last talked?"
"No. Well, yes," she corrected without looking in his direction. "Technically, yes, but it wasn't planned and I don't plan on penciling in visits to her on my calendar. I only went to see her again because she'd said something about me to someone over at the Operations Center and I wanted to set her straight, let her know that I don't consider her my mother, that nothing's changed just because she's more visible now. I haven't forgiven her for who she is or what she's done." With each resentful declaration, her knife came crashing down upon the cutting board with a loud crack, the sound growing more deafening with every downward movement of her hand.
Jack watched her transfer her rage and pain onto the defenseless tomato and cringed. Sometimes the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it? "You can't do this," he whispered to Sydney as much as he was whispering to himself.
"I'm sorry?" The blade of her knife, which was being raised upward, glistened under the kitchen's florescent lights.
"You can't do this."
"Make a salad?"
"No. You can't allow yourself to be blinded by your anger towards your mother."
Setting the knife onto the countertop with deliberate calm, she took a moment to collect her thoughts before looking her father directly in the eyes. "You're kidding me, right?"
"Sydney, you can't—"
"What do you expect me to do? Pretend like I don't know the things I know? That when I look at her, I don't ache and see files that belong to the CIA agents she killed? That I'm still supposed to believe she's sweet Laura Bristow, who read me stories until I fell asleep and insisted on making my Halloween costumes by hand? Well, I can't do that."
"And I'm not asking you to," Jack insisted, feeling as if his heart was being squeezed in a vise as he watched Sydney attempt to compose herself. He wanted to go to her, apologize for broaching the subject, promise to never mention it again. But you won't. You can't. "I know you're upset, and you have every reason to be. But you can't emotionally close yourself off to her like you've been attempting to do because…you're not succeeding. Every time you push her away and say she means nothing to you, you're only feeding into her power, making her stronger."
Through the film of tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes, Sydney gaped at her father as if he was speaking gibberish. "What are you talking about?"
"I know this sounds crazy, but I know your mother and I know how she works and I know you're playing right into her hands. She wants you to despise her, Sydney. She wants you to hate her so much that she's dead to you. That's when she'll turn that anger around and use it against you. She'll weasel back into your heart somehow and play on your sympathies for having wanted her dead."
"How can you possibly know that's what she's planning to—"
"Because!" Jack barked as his breathing grew shallow and his vision blurred. "If nothing else, Irina Derevko is a master manipulator. She played me for years and I will not allow that to happen to you."
A lone tear trickled down her cheek as Sydney witnessed this small explosion of Jack's pain. After years of believing they would never see eye to eye on anything, she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the fact that it was her mother's betrayal that was bringing the two of them closer together.
It only took two long strides for her to be hugging her father, the right side of her face pressed against his shoulder, the scent of Irish Spring filling her nostrils. Slowly, she felt his arms go around her back. "I've tried to be like you, Dad. I've tried so hard to keep my emotions buried, but I see her and then I start to remember… What can I do? Tell me what I should do."
This is your chance, Jack. This is the opening you've been waiting for. His voice a prime example of a seasoned agent forcing his emotions below the surface, he told her, "I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to be honest."
"Okay."
"Do you hate her?"
"Yes." The answer was swift and unwavering. Jack couldn't help but feel a sense of victory as a corner of his lips twisted upwards.
"Do you love her?"
"Y-yes." This time the answer was more reluctant and less certain in delivery, but there was no doubting the truth that lay behind it. Pulling away from Jack, Sydney ran the back of her right wrist across the bottom of her nose, her eyes searching his face for evidence of anger or disappointment. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her words heavy with guilt. "I don't want to, but… I see her and everything starts coming back… After all these years, she's still tied to a lot of my happiest memories."
"It's okay," he assured her as he held her in a steady gaze. "I know how hard it can be to…remember." She'll always remember. Laura will always come first. Always. "Now, Sydney, this next question is important. It's something your mother may use against you in the future. Since you've learned that her death was a hoax, have you ever wondered why she never came back for you after she disappeared?"
"What?" Sydney staggered a few steps backward, her mind reeling from the unexpected question. "What does that— No. No, I haven't."
Jack narrowed his eyes, his disbelief to her answer radiating off his body. "I need you to tell me the truth," he growled.
"I am!" The sudden shift in her father's demeanor was triggering every alarm in her head. The agent within her wanted to know what he was up to, but the daughter within her just wanted someone – anyone – she could openly confide to about her damaged family. "I swear, I've never wondered about that."
His body slouched a bit, almost as if his knees momentarily buckled from relief. "Okay. That's good. Now, have you ever—"
"I think the pasta's ready," she cut in. She knew it was absurd, but somehow, for some reason, she felt the need to be on guard.
Jack swung his head to the right and caught sight of the boiling pasta water on the brink of spilling over the lip of the pot. Turning off the burner, he looked back towards Sydney with the intention of resuming their conversation, but saw she'd returned to her knife and tomato. The girl who'd cried and begged for help was gone. "Sydney, we should—"
"Why don't we focus on dinner?" Her voice was tight – strained – and she didn't acknowledge his presence by raising her head when she spoke.
She's on to you. Jack could feel sweat begin to gather along his hairline. "But we really should—"
"Dad, we're going to be spending at least a couple of days together, so let's pace ourselves, okay?"
She knows. Arvin's trained her well. Defeated, Jack turned to face the stove and bowed his head. "You're right. Let's eat first."