I am not really so hard to read. For all their labeling and diagnoses you
would think that someone would be able to figure me out. They must have
dozens of analysts around the world whose sole objective is to deconstruct
Derevko.
Some are too prejudiced to try. Jack, above all, fears to look me in the
eye. He is afraid I will see through his mask of contempt. I wish he would
try and see past mine. But they have been in place too long, our masks.
Erected decades ago as armor for our own private Cold War.
Some are simply too confused to make much progress. Agent Vaughn is one of
these. He knows how he should feel about me. But he looks and sees
something achingly familiar in me. And I can see that he has grown to
respect me. Reluctantly, but he has.
It pains me to know that Sydney cannot read me. She can read my emotions
well enough but ,y heart breaks with the knowledge that she has to wonder
if my feelings are genuine.
We used to play a game together. We would try to read each others minds. I
could see immediately whatever she wanted in her eyes. She would laugh and
say, Mommy, you're magic. I would smile at her and tell her that Mommy
always knew what she needed. Then it would be her turn and she would crawl
up into my lap and take my face in her hands. She would bite her lip and
look up into my eyes seriously. I would see the puzzlement in her eyes.
Before long she would break into a smile, with cherubic dimples forming on
each side of her pouting little lips. Her way of signaling defeat. Every
time we played this game I thought the same thing. I only wished that she
would see that all I wanted was for her to know that I loved her.
Now she is so grown up but nothing has changed. Her eyes are more serious. And they are much darker than when she was a child. More like mine. I hate that. They are my eyes now. When I look into them they swirl like an ocean that holds mysteries I'll never know the depth of.
Perhaps I am impossible to read. If I cannot read her, when her eyes are so like mine, it must be the same with me.
Now she is so grown up but nothing has changed. Her eyes are more serious. And they are much darker than when she was a child. More like mine. I hate that. They are my eyes now. When I look into them they swirl like an ocean that holds mysteries I'll never know the depth of.
Perhaps I am impossible to read. If I cannot read her, when her eyes are so like mine, it must be the same with me.
