You never realized just how brilliant your daughter was until it was too late.
You could recite the grades on her report cards from memory, of course. You knew she was valedictorian of her high school class, read in a discarded commencement program that she graduated with a perfect 4.0 in her undergraduate studies. You remember thinking that day that Laura would have been so proud of her.
Laura was always proud of your daughter, always bragging about her achievements. You warned her that Arvin and Emily most likely did not care that Sydney could recite the alphabet both forwards and backwards, that she could count all by herself to 100. "But Jack, she's only three and a half," she had protested as she wrapped her arms around you. "Face it. Sydney's brilliant."
You can still recall the knowing look Laura shot you several months later after you returned home from a particularly difficult mission in Turkey. "Sydney, go get the picture you made from the refrigerator," she had instructed your daughter as she rushed over to inspect you for injuries.
"Another picture for the refrigerator collection?" you teased.
She swatted your shoulder. "She's outdone herself this time, Jack. Honestly, we may need to look into having her skip a grade."
You rolled your eyes. "Laur, could we at least wait until she starts kindergarten before we talk about this again?"
"Fine. Just don't believe me then. But one of these days, Jack, she's going to surprise you." She fell silent as Sydney bounded into the room, her pigtails bouncing.
"Here it is, Daddy!" she had enthused as you scooped her up in your arms.
You had carefully examined the pale pink sheet of construction paper, noticing the details much as Laura probably had. "And what does it say, Syd?"
She looked at you carefully before turning to Laura. "I thought he could read, Mommy," she whispered. Your wife choked.
"He just wants you to read it to him," she whispered back.
"Oh." She wiggled in your arms, and you shifted so that she could hold onto you with one hand and point to her masterpiece with the other. "It says Dady + Momy + Sydney = Famle. See? And there's you, and there's Mommy, and there's me," she finished triumphantly.
"That's a beautiful drawing," you told her sincerely. "Tell me, what are we doing in the picture, Syd?"
"We're at the horsies," she giggled. "Going round and round and round."
You had looked behind Sydney to see Laura grinning at you. She nodded her head imperceptibly at your unspoken question.
Minutes later, as Sydney rushed one last time to go to the bathroom before you went to the carousel, Laura looked at you triumphantly. "She's writing already. Can you believe it?"
"The only word she spelled correctly was her name," you pointed out. "And 'family?' She butchered the spelling on that one."
"Her phonemic awareness is excellent, Jack," Laura replied, the teacher in her becoming evident. "And did you notice what colors she used?" She gestured to the page. "One color crayon for consonants and another for vowels."
"She did nothing of the sort. She—" you paused and re-examined the paper. "Oh God, she did. How on earth does she even know the difference between the two?" You glanced at your wife. "Never mind. I can see what you two have been doing while I was gone."
Impulsively Laura had stuck her tongue out at you. "Oh, come on. If nothing else, find the humor in this. She's writing in codes already. Shouldn't you be proud of her for that?" she had teased. "Your half of her genes is paying off."
Years later you found the picture buried in a stack of Sydney's art work and school papers. You recalled what she had said and groaned. It was really no surprise that Sydney was a double agent inside one of the most insidious organizations of the last century. Between your private Project Christmas sessions and God only knows what Laura did, she never stood a chance at being an ordinary English teacher.
Of course, this didn't stop you from hating Sloane with every fiber of your being for recruiting her.
Even as your shock and fury were running rampant and you were doing your best to not murder a man you used to consider one of your closest friends, a part of you noted that her superiors always ranked her as excellent and outstanding. You read over her commendations—a stunning number to have been acquired in such a short span of time—and threatened to burst with fatherly pride. She might not have been working for the right side, but dammit, she was doing a good job.
Someday she might have even been as good as you.
As you carefully, cautiously, formed an alliance in that final chapter of her life, you found yourself working with her on more than one occasion. After the first time, where she foolishly slipped out of Security Section's radar and flew to Cuba, you were ready to hand her over to the head of the detail. Or maybe just lock her in a cell with a book of Morse code.
But then just days later you were thrown into the most absurd of situations—it was up to the two of you, two genuine CIA agents, to save SD-6 from McKenas Cole. This involved more than rapidly blinking eyes and a few well-timed kicks and punches. This required the two of you, working together, almost as if you were . . . partners.
You were forced out of necessity to form an unlikely partnership over the coming months. You were still the commanding father and senior officer, often coming to your daughter's rescue. But sometimes—sometimes she had to save you.
You told her that day to take the surface streets, knowing the implications that innocuous sentence would have. You hoped that she would allow herself to be put into CIA protection, let the others take down SD-6 and the Alliance, and not get involved out of some sense of duty.
You really should have known better.
After all, hadn't she rushed to your rescue just days earlier as you escaped the movie theatre? She tore through the streets of L.A., reminding you of your own erratic driving, as she tried to show you in the best way she knew that she loved you.
Looking back, you can't remember the last time either of you actually said the words. But your actions, the way you both rushed to each other's aid, always spoke louder than any words or physical touch ever could.
You still wish she had stayed away when SD-6 was taken down though.
Yes, she saved you from Geiger, and yes, she came away from the situation unscathed. But the tightening in your chest that you felt when she opened the door of that interrogation room had nothing to do with the electrodes attached to your body. It was a familiar feeling of fear, one that most fathers probably feel for their daughters. A fear that that little girl who was all grown up would be hurt, whether by words or weapons. Because no matter how old she was, how strong she became, how smart she was, she was still your little girl.
And you miss her.
You miss her, the CIA agent. The seemingly superhero woman who could plan successful missions—even if you didn't always approve of them—to the far corners of the globe. The woman who could speak multiple languages and morph into dozens of aliases. The woman who could fight and defend herself and get out of more trouble than most people even knew existed.
But more than that, you miss the toddler who would run to greet you. The four year old who loved to ride the carousel. The nine year old bookworm. The thirteen year old who used far too much makeup. The sixteen year old with car keys in her hand. The twenty-eight year old woman who cried in your arms.
You miss her.
tbc