*
"Well, Mr. Rossingnoi, personally I always thought [I]Sgt. Pepper's Lonely
Hearts Club[/I] is better than [I]Magical Mystery Tour[/I]."
"Ms. Foley, even though [I]Magical Mystery Tour[/I] is my favorite of their
albums, I believe we're both wrong. [I]Abbey Road[/I] is the best album."
She beams, he took the bait. Even he is either extremely thick or an
extreme fan boy.
"Sir, I believe we could spend the entire night debating which album is the
greatest."
"Very true, and on that note I say we call it a night. If you excuse me, I
have other guests to attend too." he finishes his champagne glass, puts it
on the table, and leaves.
Too Easy, Sydney thinks, grabbing the glass and darting down the hallway.
She doesn't become cocky though, because something could still go wrong.
She use the device to copy his fingerprints; subsequently she uses the
gloves and the recording to open the vault. The Self-Portrait was on a
12X18 sheet of canvas. Sydney rolls it around her leg, and starts to close
the safe. Then her name catches her eye. There is a package, about the
shape of an oversize book, with her name on it. Recalling what her mother
said, she grabs the package too and rushes to escape.
*
Relaxing in her seat, Sydney takes out the package from her mother. She
places it on her lap and stares at it. There's no reason not to trust her; she
hasn't lied to Sydney yet. Nothing explosive, the metal would have set off
alarms during the security checks. Sydney rips off the brown paper wrapping
to reveal a photo album. Hesitantly, she opens to the first page. The pages
are filled with pictures documenting the first six years of Sydney's life. Her
mother and father, smiling and holding her. Sydney at a Halloween, at a
dance recital, at the park. She flips through a few more pages. Overcome
with emotions, she slams the book shut.
*
Sydney returns from her mission, a complete success. Keeping her promise,
she now walks through command post, with her mother's necklace wrapped
in a small box.
"I got your gift, the album. Thank you, it was, nice." She slides the box
through the opening in Irina's cell.
"You're welcome. I spent many hours reminiscing over that; I thought you
might want it." Irina's face glows as she unwraps the box and puts on the
necklace, "Thank you. This time in here has been the longest I've ever had
it off. I never took it off, even when I slept. Your father hated it. Very
suspicious why I always wore it. I told him the truth, I liked it. Of course
that was a very simple explanation. He wouldn't have understood one much
more complicated. Look at me, rambling on." Irina coyly smiles and stops
talking.
Sydney is intrigued, "Why's it so meaningful?"
Irina pauses, "You're like you're father, the complete truth is too complicated.
Let's just say someone who was a very dear friend gave it to me on Christmas
yore."
Sydney wonders why she uses the past tense; Irina seeming to read her daughter's
mind, "He," She looked as if she is going to shed a tear. "He died."
"I'm sorry." Sydney says quietly. She truly is, in some small way. She knows what
it's like to lose someone important to her, and this person, whoever he might be,
obviously was very important to Irina.
"So am I." Irina repeats softly, "So am I."
There is a long pause, before Sydney says she has to go.
"You still don't remember, Michael. Even after the photo album." Irina asks her
daughter's back.
Sydney turns around, "I only looked through a few pages. And where do you come
off calling Vaughn, Michael? Why so informal? You of all people should..."
Irina cuts her off, "Michael, it's he's name. Why not put it to use. You remember --
and know -- him as Vaughn, your handler, confident, faithful servant, but do you
remember him as Michael? Your mentor and best friend? I'm surprised and
disappointed, that you don't. I bet your father never told you, did he?"
"Told me what?" She thought her mother and she were past these psychological mind
games.
"You knew Vaughn, as you call him, as a child."
Sydney says defensively, "No I didn't. I would remember."
Firmly telling Sydney, "You did."
This is ridiculous, Sydney thinks. If I knew Vaughn, why don't I remember. Why didn't
he remember?
"You cried for a week when he moved away." Irina begins. "You were so young and so
confused and so very, very angry. You wouldn't talk to anyone; locked yourself in your
room. I tried to explain to you that people pass through our life in cycles, that some
come and go, and few stay forever, even if you want them to. That life is a constant
moving motion, always churning and changing. I said, you'll meet a new best friend and
a new boy, which only got you more upset. You were too young to understand. But you
never talked of him again after that. Maybe that's how you tried to ease your pain, by
trying to forget he ever existed. You locked his name and the memories surrounding him
so deep inside, that after all these years, and after what your father did to you, and even
after being reunited, you just willed yourself to forget."
Irina pauses for a moment, letting her words sink in. Hoping this revaluation would unlock
whatever memories Sydney is forcing herself to forget. "Chemistry wasn't the only reason
you felt like you could trust Vaughn immediately. You warmed up to him quickly. He gained
your trust in record time, that's because you had a history. And he felt the some way about
you when you first met."
"He had an instinct." Sydney remembers the day the walked into Vaughn's office for the first
time.
"That's right. For the first four years of your life he was it. You hated everyone else except
for him and me. He did make parenting easy, since you copied everything he did. He was
polite, you were polite. He didn't argue, you didn't argue. Quite the God sent, he was."
Irina smiles, showing as she has throughout the conversation, real emotion.
Sydney thinks she might have seen her suppress a smile. And then suddenly, like the light
is turned on, or the floodgates opened, memories coming streaming back to her. "The last
time I saw him was his fathers funeral. He sitting alone on the sofa, willing himself not to
cry. I remember I gave him a hug. He was cold. He just walked away."
*
"Well, Mr. Rossingnoi, personally I always thought [I]Sgt. Pepper's Lonely
Hearts Club[/I] is better than [I]Magical Mystery Tour[/I]."
"Ms. Foley, even though [I]Magical Mystery Tour[/I] is my favorite of their
albums, I believe we're both wrong. [I]Abbey Road[/I] is the best album."
She beams, he took the bait. Even he is either extremely thick or an
extreme fan boy.
"Sir, I believe we could spend the entire night debating which album is the
greatest."
"Very true, and on that note I say we call it a night. If you excuse me, I
have other guests to attend too." he finishes his champagne glass, puts it
on the table, and leaves.
Too Easy, Sydney thinks, grabbing the glass and darting down the hallway.
She doesn't become cocky though, because something could still go wrong.
She use the device to copy his fingerprints; subsequently she uses the
gloves and the recording to open the vault. The Self-Portrait was on a
12X18 sheet of canvas. Sydney rolls it around her leg, and starts to close
the safe. Then her name catches her eye. There is a package, about the
shape of an oversize book, with her name on it. Recalling what her mother
said, she grabs the package too and rushes to escape.
*
Relaxing in her seat, Sydney takes out the package from her mother. She
places it on her lap and stares at it. There's no reason not to trust her; she
hasn't lied to Sydney yet. Nothing explosive, the metal would have set off
alarms during the security checks. Sydney rips off the brown paper wrapping
to reveal a photo album. Hesitantly, she opens to the first page. The pages
are filled with pictures documenting the first six years of Sydney's life. Her
mother and father, smiling and holding her. Sydney at a Halloween, at a
dance recital, at the park. She flips through a few more pages. Overcome
with emotions, she slams the book shut.
*
Sydney returns from her mission, a complete success. Keeping her promise,
she now walks through command post, with her mother's necklace wrapped
in a small box.
"I got your gift, the album. Thank you, it was, nice." She slides the box
through the opening in Irina's cell.
"You're welcome. I spent many hours reminiscing over that; I thought you
might want it." Irina's face glows as she unwraps the box and puts on the
necklace, "Thank you. This time in here has been the longest I've ever had
it off. I never took it off, even when I slept. Your father hated it. Very
suspicious why I always wore it. I told him the truth, I liked it. Of course
that was a very simple explanation. He wouldn't have understood one much
more complicated. Look at me, rambling on." Irina coyly smiles and stops
talking.
Sydney is intrigued, "Why's it so meaningful?"
Irina pauses, "You're like you're father, the complete truth is too complicated.
Let's just say someone who was a very dear friend gave it to me on Christmas
yore."
Sydney wonders why she uses the past tense; Irina seeming to read her daughter's
mind, "He," She looked as if she is going to shed a tear. "He died."
"I'm sorry." Sydney says quietly. She truly is, in some small way. She knows what
it's like to lose someone important to her, and this person, whoever he might be,
obviously was very important to Irina.
"So am I." Irina repeats softly, "So am I."
There is a long pause, before Sydney says she has to go.
"You still don't remember, Michael. Even after the photo album." Irina asks her
daughter's back.
Sydney turns around, "I only looked through a few pages. And where do you come
off calling Vaughn, Michael? Why so informal? You of all people should..."
Irina cuts her off, "Michael, it's he's name. Why not put it to use. You remember --
and know -- him as Vaughn, your handler, confident, faithful servant, but do you
remember him as Michael? Your mentor and best friend? I'm surprised and
disappointed, that you don't. I bet your father never told you, did he?"
"Told me what?" She thought her mother and she were past these psychological mind
games.
"You knew Vaughn, as you call him, as a child."
Sydney says defensively, "No I didn't. I would remember."
Firmly telling Sydney, "You did."
This is ridiculous, Sydney thinks. If I knew Vaughn, why don't I remember. Why didn't
he remember?
"You cried for a week when he moved away." Irina begins. "You were so young and so
confused and so very, very angry. You wouldn't talk to anyone; locked yourself in your
room. I tried to explain to you that people pass through our life in cycles, that some
come and go, and few stay forever, even if you want them to. That life is a constant
moving motion, always churning and changing. I said, you'll meet a new best friend and
a new boy, which only got you more upset. You were too young to understand. But you
never talked of him again after that. Maybe that's how you tried to ease your pain, by
trying to forget he ever existed. You locked his name and the memories surrounding him
so deep inside, that after all these years, and after what your father did to you, and even
after being reunited, you just willed yourself to forget."
Irina pauses for a moment, letting her words sink in. Hoping this revaluation would unlock
whatever memories Sydney is forcing herself to forget. "Chemistry wasn't the only reason
you felt like you could trust Vaughn immediately. You warmed up to him quickly. He gained
your trust in record time, that's because you had a history. And he felt the some way about
you when you first met."
"He had an instinct." Sydney remembers the day the walked into Vaughn's office for the first
time.
"That's right. For the first four years of your life he was it. You hated everyone else except
for him and me. He did make parenting easy, since you copied everything he did. He was
polite, you were polite. He didn't argue, you didn't argue. Quite the God sent, he was."
Irina smiles, showing as she has throughout the conversation, real emotion.
Sydney thinks she might have seen her suppress a smile. And then suddenly, like the light
is turned on, or the floodgates opened, memories coming streaming back to her. "The last
time I saw him was his fathers funeral. He sitting alone on the sofa, willing himself not to
cry. I remember I gave him a hug. He was cold. He just walked away."
*