******
I don't know what made me snap; by this, I mean I can't pinpoint the moment that I decided I could not live this life anymore. It must have been before the airport; I know that – my motions that day had a sort of inevitability about them.
I suppose it happened one night on a roadside; but now I'm being trite. It must have happened slowly, steadily, like the tears. Days of ignoring life over a brushed-steel desk and nights of missions in high heels and bustiers and weekends with Weiss spilling tequila in splashes over the wood-veneer coffee table; all these pieces of life blurred together and covered the surface and let me pretend I was not eroding.
But I realized (perhaps I was the last to know) there was nothing left; I was threadbare, and nothing in this life I had was going to change it. I hugged my father when I left for Detroit, he hugged me back, a bit stiffly, and touched my hair. My guilt was palpable, even then, even though I did not know what I planned to do. As I walked away, I did not look back at his face.
******
My mother tilts her head to one side as I exit the plane, lower lip caught in her teeth, and announces that I need a decent meal and a better coat. I brush her off, call her "Derevko" and remind her I can take care of myself (although I do not believe it).
Four months of existing on my own has left me thinned out, sunken, at times I wonder if I am actually fading. My skin is too pale, soon it will be translucent, to match the rest of me. This life I'm living is no better than the one I exchanged for it, so there's no harm in exchanging it again. At least, this is what I tell myself.
One of her minions arrives with a large plate of steak and braised vegetables and a tureen of lobster bisque. I glare at him before he walks away and stalk off to the bathtub someone has already filled with hot water.
******
She sent me three-course meals, she sent me designer clothes, she sent me mission briefings, and one Wednesday, she sent me Sark.
It shouldn't have surprised me, really, she has been slowly replacing all the missing parts in my life; she would try to replace him, as well.
And she likes to keep every part of my life within her fold.
He wore a tailored grey suit and slim black shirt, untucked, open at the collar. He was polite, solicitous even, pouring us glasses of his favorite wine. He leaned back in the chair and drew his fingers in odd circles on the tablecloth, and looked past me, high on the beige walls near the crown molding, when he grew serious.
I listened, and drew the ends of my hair through my fingers, and trailed one hand around the rim of my wine glass. He cocked his head to one side when he asked me questions, and I looked him in the eye when I answered, and when the moment came, I let him slide the thin straps of my satin dress down my arms.
I cannot say I regretted this moment; after all, I have lost myself for lesser things.
******
The tiny house at the edge of the hills is mine; it has a garden in the rear and a tiny fence (not picket, though) in the front, and down the sloping hill on one side is the pond, the place where I sit and stare across the lily pads.
I do not bring my mother here, though doubtless she knows of its existence. (I bought it with the money she paid me, after all.) She probably has it bugged.
Not that she would have anything to hear. I pad down the hallways in silence, and in the evenings I leave, walking out to sit by the pond. I sink into the stinking black mud, threadbare scarf drawn around my shoulders, letting me catch the scent of cedar and cloves and a life less complicated.
******
Sark followed me to the house once, pulled off the roadway in his dark roadster, and with one arm resting on the rolled-down window and still wearing his mirrored glasses, he watched me. He did not get out of the car, and I did not invite him in.
When I returned to the villa, he was waiting by the pool. He did not mention the house, merely passed me a dossier on our new contact and discussed the op tech for our latest mission. I pushed back my departure and ordered our favorite meal, to show him my gratitude.
******
He props himself up on one elbow, fingers rubbing his too-short hair.
"You're punishing yourself again."
I hike the sheet further up my chest and raise one eyebrow at him.
"What makes you say that?"
"Your hands." He lifts my left hand up, thumb running across my fingers, pressing it to his lips. "You're being careless again. All those little cuts."
I pull my hand back from him and slide it beneath the sheet. "It's just the new equipment."
He twists his lips down and tilts his head a bit. His eyes are sharp as ice.
"You've gone to great lengths, to atone for things."
I don't answer, fingers toying with the edges of the sheet.
His voice grows more quiet, pensive.
"What will you do to atone for this?"
I kiss him then; the only way I know to distract him, to stop his questions.
When the room is dark, when he has finally gone to sleep, I lay on my back and study the woodwork, and wonder if he knows what I am planning.
******
I walk out of the airport after the mission.
It should have been so simple; all I had to do was get on the plane. Walk to the proper (private) gate, nod at the attendant; I did not even need a ticket. They are paid to recognize my face.
But I walk past the gate, made a hard left like I am going to the ladies room, and when I see that sign I just keep walking. Past the private gates and the larger ones of the commercial airlines, past the moving sidewalks that pull the lazier travelers along, past the long rows of tastefully decorated lounges for the most frequent customers. I walked past the long lines at security and baggage claim and out the double-doors by the taxi stand, and I just keep walking.
My mother is waiting on the plane for me, and she will be wearing black. I wonder if she wears it on purpose, some sort of symbol, or if she does it unconsciously, like lying. Sark will be with her, of course, head tilting to one side and mouth twisting into a frown. He, at least, will know why I have gone, even if he cannot approve.
******
I have nothing more than my op tech and three crisp hundreds in my purse, but I know my father's number by heart. I twist the payphone cord around my finger as I wait for him to pick up, and my other hand clenches like a fist around the threadbare wool scarf, hidden deep in the bottom of my bag.
I wonder how much of myself my mother has been able to replace, and how much simply wore away; I wonder if he will still recognize his daughter when he looks at me.
I wonder if the CIA will try to throw me in prison.
And yet what little I have left, I will give them. This is all I can offer, this meager attempt to atone.
A click on the line, and a voice I remember.
"Bristow."
"Dad?"
A pause, and then his voice, quick and choked.
"Sydney, when are you coming home?"
"Now."
I smile, and wonder if this is what it is to feel again. I suppose this feeling is gratitude; I know I can live for the moment on these choked emotions and half-sentences.
I suppose we all learn to live for lesser things.