Author's Note:
Hey! Because this chapter has taken so long to get out, I'm making it twice as long for all of you who've been so patiently waiting! Thank you again for all your wonderful responses. Your feedback has been inspiring me to keep going, especially since no one can find this story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
~ * ~
"Listen to me now wipe your eyes
Relax your hand and come inside
Lift back your head and swallow your pride
Don't be ashamed in me confide"
- "Elysium," Madness
~ * ~
When I was a little girl I always dreamed of a beautiful house where my family would live. It would be big, airy, full of light, and my mother would come back to us. The house of my dreams was nothing like the den of gloom where I grew up in. My childhood home was big, lots of rooms and windows, but it always felt wrong. There was no warmth in that house, no affection or love. It was cold, so cold and dead, like we were ghosts. I grew up in that house for twenty years and it's like I never lived there at all. I can't tell you the color of the paint in the hallway or the shape of the tiles on the kitchen floor. But I can tell you that I never felt more alone when I was in that house and living with man who was supposed to love me but could never quite bring himself to show it. I vowed to myself, when I finally left home for the last time, that I would never live in a place like that again.
Standing here, in the foyer of my mothers' house, it's like everything I imagined as a little girl. Fading sunlight streams in through the open windows and the pale wooden floors gleam. I can feel my mother's touch everywhere, from the red curtains to the Annunciation icon on the far wall. I never took her forever a religious woman, but then again I never really knew her at all. I knew Laura Bristow, the woman she created, but not Irina Derevko. My mother is as much a stranger to me as Sergei, still faithfully guarding the door.
"She's in her garden," Sergei says in his heavily accented English. "I'll take you to her."
"No, I'll find her myself." Confronting my mother is something I need to do on my own, without the intrusion and supervision of a bodyguard. I've lived nearly all my adult life under surveillance, knowing my most private moments are on videotape somewhere for all to see, but this is too personal, too private. No one is going to see this but my mother and me.
Like Sergei said, I find my mother in her garden, carefully grooming a brilliant row of gardenias. She's wearing a pair of baggy cargoes and tight tank and her long hair hangs loose around her shoulders. She looks beautiful, happy, free. I last remember her locked in her cage, pacing like the animal she was, watching me with clever eyes. In the feeble light she looks so young I can almost imagine the girl she used to be, the girl my father fell in love with, but all I remember is the monster she grew into.
My plan had been to storm into the garden, give my mother a piece of my mind, and get the hell off this island, but I freeze as soon as I see her. I know she didn't hear me coming, but she turns anyway. I may have been out of the secret agent business for two years, but there are some things you never forget, like how to tread silently. But this is Irina Derevko and nothing gets past her. It's like she can sense me, the way she looks up the instant I walk into her garden. She pushes her hat off her face revealing long, sun-streaked hair and big, dark eyes--my eyes. Now I know that's what I'm seeing every time I look in the mirror. I'm not looking at myself or even at my mother, but the reflection of my mother through me. I see the legacy of her betrayal in my brown eyes, the hidden pain and fear a little girl would feel when her mother dies and leaves her all alone. Now when I meet her gaze I see the same thing in her eyes, the pain she felt when she left me. Or at least I think that's what it is. I can never be sure what's real when it comes to her.
It takes her forever to say something. "Hello, Sydney," she says softly. Her accent is thicker, more pronounced, but then again she's been living among her own people for years now. I bet it's good for her, being around people who speak her language and know her customs again, but then I scold myself for wanting anything good for this woman. "She betrayed you, again," I remind myself. "You feel no sympathy for her."
"Hi, Mom," I say icily.
She takes a step forward, but pauses in mid-step. We're staring at each other, brown on brown, and have been since the moment I arrived in the garden. I want to look away, to break her searching gaze, but I'm too stubborn. I'm not going to let her win, even over something this insignificant. "Sydney, I know you're angry with me--" she starts, but I'm too quick.
"Angry?" I yell and take a deep breath to calm down. "You think I'm angry?" My voice is calmer now, but the tone remains just as biting. "I'm not angry. I'm furious. Do you know what you put me through? I can't remember the last two years of my life. The man I loved? He's married. My best friend? He's traumatized. My father? He's aged ten years--and I can't remember any of it. But you--you've known all along! You knew where I was, you knew what happened to me! You listened to me cry and struggle to remember and you never said a word. Not one word." I'm practically whispering and my voice catches on a sob. "I thought you were my mother. I've never been more wrong in my life."
She's staring at the ground as if the dirt is suddenly fascinating to her, and when she looks up again there are tears in her eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you, Sydney."
"Than why didn't you tell me?"
She takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her hair. "It wasn't my secret to tell."
"What?"
"It wasn't my place to tell you. You had to learn on your own."
I shake my head incredulously. "Are you serious? All this time you've known what happened to me and you wanted me to find out on my own instead? That could take years!"
"But it didn't. You're here, aren't you? You've already started to remember."
"Sergei told you."
She smiles. "I'm glad you're here, Sydney."
I wish I could say the same, I really do. I want so desperately to have the mother I've always dreamed of, but instead I have her, Irina Derevko, Russian spy extraordinare. I want to trust her, I want to believe in her, but I think of all the times she's betrayed me and let me down and I can't bring myself to do it again. Not yet, not when I'm this vulnerable, and the way things are going, not ever. I say nothing while she smiles tenderly.
"Come inside when you're ready," she continues. "We'll talk."
Without a word she turns on her heel towards the house. The sun has fully set now and the moon shimmers over the sea. The water catches the light, silvery and slick against the dark night. I close my eyes and feel the wind on my face, the smell of sea in my hair. God, it feels good to be near the ocean again, to be back in this place. It's like I never left here at all. Without taking a single step I know the gate in the northern corner leads to a path down to the ocean; I know my mother planted the lemon tree last summer after a big rain storm took down the original; I know the names of all the flowers and how to care for them; I know I'm the one who planted them.
Shaken, I open my eyes and massage my temples. This place is driving me nuts. I've been here less than three hours and I'm already beginning to lose it. The memories. . .I can't seem to escape the memories. Everywhere I go I'm reminded of a past I can't remember, see a tiny fragment of my life flash before my eyes before I can place it. I'm going crazy, being in this place, knowing it holds all the answers, and being unable to put it all together.
I look to the house, where light breezes out through the curtains and soft jazz catches the wind. That's where the answers are, in that house with that woman. I don't want to face her, but I have to, if I want to know what happened to me. After all, that's the reason I came here, right?
~ * ~
It never really hit me that my mother is a spy until I saw her in her own environment. I only knew her as Laura Bristow, American English teacher, and seeing her as Irina Derevko is a wake up call. There's a sickle and star carving on the wall and Russian books on the coffee table.
"Sit down, Sydney," she says and puts down a weathered copy of "Crime and Punishment."
Again, that stealth way of knowing I'm in the room. I reluctantly take a seat across the room, my eyes never leaving her.
She smiles again. "I'm very happy to see you, Sydney. I was beginning to think you'd never come."
"You could always come to me."
"We know that's not possible. Your father might have been kind enough to provide me with your phone number, but we both know I'll be back in CIA custody the minute I step foot in Los Angeles. I'd be sentenced to death for treason." She looks at me pointedly. "And this time there'll be no Senator to interfere."
"Would that be such a bad thing?"
She laughs and sips a glass of wine. . .or is it vodka? I can't tell from this distance. "Sydney, you don't mean that. You wouldn't be here if you did."
"Maybe I just want to know where the hell I've been for the last two years."
She shakes her head. "You didn't know you needed me to do that. You came here because you wanted to see me."
"And it was a mistake. I just want to figure everything out and go home."
Her smile is soft, even motherly and she reaches out to lay her hand on mine. "You are home."
I roll my eyes and look away. "My home is in LA."
"Not for the last two years."
My gaze is sharp when I turn to her again, but there are tears blocking my vision. "Mom, please tell me," I plead.
"I can't. It's not my story to tell. You'll figure it all out soon enough."
"I don't want to wait. Do you know what it's been like the last few months not knowing where I've been or what I've done for the last two years? Not knowing if I have a child or not, if the family I keep seeing on the beach is real or a figment of my imagination? Do you know what it's like not to know who you are anymore?"
When I look into her brown eyes this time I see myself. She does know what it's like; that's who she's been for the last thirty years. I can see the indecision in her eyes, the way her masterful mind weighs the pros and cons. "I brought you here," she finally says. "You'd been in a fight. You had bruised ribs and cuts--there was blood, so much blood." She pauses for a moment, sips her drink again. "My men found you and brought you here."
"Why?"
"To rest, recuperate. You were nearly dead, Sydney."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "You could have easily dumped me at the Ops Center or a hospital. Even easier, you could have just called 911. There was no reason to drag me all the way here. You had a different reason for moving me."
"I forgot how smart you are."
"Or maybe you're more transparent than you think."
"You have a smart mouth too."
"You didn't answer my question."
"I brought you here for your protection," she explains softly.
"Why?"
"When Sloane defected he gave the reins to me. I had full control of our operation, but he still knew the location of the Rambali devices in our possession. He wanted them for personal use."
"To fulfill the prophecy," I said. "What does that have to do with me?"
"He wanted you for the prophecy. You are the only person who can fulfill it. He was going to kidnap you, torture you--whatever he needed to put you in his employ."
"So you rescued me."
"My intention was to keep you here until I could eliminate Sloane. I never intended for you to get hurt in the process."
"Did you know, about the double, about Francie?"
There's a hint of guilt in her voice. "I'm sorry about your friend, Sydney."
"So you knew."
"Who do you take me for, Sydney? Do you think I'd let a detail like that slip through the cracks? Yes, I knew. Yes, I didn't tell you."
"Why not?"
"You don't trust me."
"So?"
"I don't trust you either. I couldn't tell you because you would have gone straight to your father and he would have gone straight to Kendall. You might have taken out the double, but you would have taken out yourself too. Without Allison in position Sloane would have come after you himself.. .and I couldn't let that happen."
"Why not? Wouldn't that have solved all your problems if the big bad CIA was out of the picture?" My tone is angry, biting, and possibly a bit too cold. Her mask cracks and a wave of hurt washes over her face. "I'm a lot of things, Sydney," she says, her voice raspy. "But I am still your mother and I always will be. I don't know if you believe me or not, but I love you and I would do anything for you. So to answer your question, no that wouldn't have solved the problem. In fact it would have ruined the most precious thing in my life, the only thing that really matters."
"Rambaldi devices?"
"You."
"Me?"
"You're the only real thing in my life, Sydney."
"So you brought me here to save me."
"Of course. I wasn't about to let you die."
"And you didn't have an agenda of your own?"
She laughs again. "Of course I had an agenda. I always have an agenda. But that doesn't mean I couldn't help you in the process."
I glance around the room, at the red curtained windows and pale walls. "How long was I here?"
"Almost two years."
"That doesn't make sense. If you were only protecting me from Sloane you should have let me go as soon as I was healed, but you still kept me here. Why?"
She changes the subject abruptly. "You said you remembered things. What do you remember, Sydney?"
I hate this game, avoiding the real question and telling half-truths instead. I hate being put on the spot like this. I could lie. I could make things up, test her loyalty, determine if she's with me or against me, but I don't. Not this time. Not when I'm so close. So I tell the truth and hope it works in my favor. "I remember this house," I say softly. "I'm standing the porch watching the ocean. I'm pregnant and there's a man with me. He's rubbing my belly, talking to the baby." I watch her while I talk, looking for any sign of reaction. Her face is blank, indifferent, but there's a tiny flash of recognition in her eyes. I smile inwardly; finally, I'm on the right track.
"What else?" she presses.
"I remember the baby. He's young, barely a year old. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He's beautiful, Mom. So beautiful. . ." my voice trails off. "He looks just like--" I catch myself in mid-sentence, but she looks up knowingly. My heart seems to clench so tightly I can't breathe--and like clockwork, the scar on my stomach starts to itch.
"He looks like who, Sydney?"
"No one, nothing," I mumble and jerk out of my chair. I practically run to the window and jerk it open, letting the night air brush my flushed cheeks. After a few minutes my breathing returns to normal and I stop rubbing my scar. My knee bumps the window seat and as I reach down to rub my leg a flash of fluffy brown catches my eye. It's a teddy bear, soft and well loved with a big red heart over a big potbelly. I pick up it up and examine the bright heart as another memory flashes before my eyes.
I'm crouched on the floor, wearing a loose peasant skirt and tight tank top, holding my giggling baby in my arms. Across the room my mother bends down, holding the teddy bear in one hand. "Come here, vnuk," she says. "Look what babushka has." The baby takes off at a start, wobbling across the room on tiny legs to claim his present. My mother wraps him in her arms and presses a kiss to his smooth cheek. "That's a good boy," she says with a laugh. "Do you like you bear? It's perfect for him, isn't it, Sydney?"
"Sydney?" I hear again and it takes me a moment to realize I'm no longer living a dream. I whip around to face my mother, clutching the bear to my chest.
"Sydney, are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost." I think she's right. All this time I've been chasing a ghost and I just realized that ghost is me. I've been chasing myself and my past and the decisions I made two years ago. I feel my breath catch in my throat again.
"Sydney?" my mother asks again as footsteps sound on the wooden floors.
Sergei appears in the doorway and my mother glares at him. "I told you not to bother us."
"He's home," Sergei says and in the background I hear a door slam. Two sets of footsteps sound on the floors, one making a harsh tapping sound.
"Irina?" a very British voice calls out. "We're home." And before I have time to react, he's here--and he's not alone. A young woman, tall, blond, absolutely beautiful clings to his side, and in her arms, his chubby arms draped around her neck, is my baby.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
Hey! Because this chapter has taken so long to get out, I'm making it twice as long for all of you who've been so patiently waiting! Thank you again for all your wonderful responses. Your feedback has been inspiring me to keep going, especially since no one can find this story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
~ * ~
"Listen to me now wipe your eyes
Relax your hand and come inside
Lift back your head and swallow your pride
Don't be ashamed in me confide"
- "Elysium," Madness
~ * ~
When I was a little girl I always dreamed of a beautiful house where my family would live. It would be big, airy, full of light, and my mother would come back to us. The house of my dreams was nothing like the den of gloom where I grew up in. My childhood home was big, lots of rooms and windows, but it always felt wrong. There was no warmth in that house, no affection or love. It was cold, so cold and dead, like we were ghosts. I grew up in that house for twenty years and it's like I never lived there at all. I can't tell you the color of the paint in the hallway or the shape of the tiles on the kitchen floor. But I can tell you that I never felt more alone when I was in that house and living with man who was supposed to love me but could never quite bring himself to show it. I vowed to myself, when I finally left home for the last time, that I would never live in a place like that again.
Standing here, in the foyer of my mothers' house, it's like everything I imagined as a little girl. Fading sunlight streams in through the open windows and the pale wooden floors gleam. I can feel my mother's touch everywhere, from the red curtains to the Annunciation icon on the far wall. I never took her forever a religious woman, but then again I never really knew her at all. I knew Laura Bristow, the woman she created, but not Irina Derevko. My mother is as much a stranger to me as Sergei, still faithfully guarding the door.
"She's in her garden," Sergei says in his heavily accented English. "I'll take you to her."
"No, I'll find her myself." Confronting my mother is something I need to do on my own, without the intrusion and supervision of a bodyguard. I've lived nearly all my adult life under surveillance, knowing my most private moments are on videotape somewhere for all to see, but this is too personal, too private. No one is going to see this but my mother and me.
Like Sergei said, I find my mother in her garden, carefully grooming a brilliant row of gardenias. She's wearing a pair of baggy cargoes and tight tank and her long hair hangs loose around her shoulders. She looks beautiful, happy, free. I last remember her locked in her cage, pacing like the animal she was, watching me with clever eyes. In the feeble light she looks so young I can almost imagine the girl she used to be, the girl my father fell in love with, but all I remember is the monster she grew into.
My plan had been to storm into the garden, give my mother a piece of my mind, and get the hell off this island, but I freeze as soon as I see her. I know she didn't hear me coming, but she turns anyway. I may have been out of the secret agent business for two years, but there are some things you never forget, like how to tread silently. But this is Irina Derevko and nothing gets past her. It's like she can sense me, the way she looks up the instant I walk into her garden. She pushes her hat off her face revealing long, sun-streaked hair and big, dark eyes--my eyes. Now I know that's what I'm seeing every time I look in the mirror. I'm not looking at myself or even at my mother, but the reflection of my mother through me. I see the legacy of her betrayal in my brown eyes, the hidden pain and fear a little girl would feel when her mother dies and leaves her all alone. Now when I meet her gaze I see the same thing in her eyes, the pain she felt when she left me. Or at least I think that's what it is. I can never be sure what's real when it comes to her.
It takes her forever to say something. "Hello, Sydney," she says softly. Her accent is thicker, more pronounced, but then again she's been living among her own people for years now. I bet it's good for her, being around people who speak her language and know her customs again, but then I scold myself for wanting anything good for this woman. "She betrayed you, again," I remind myself. "You feel no sympathy for her."
"Hi, Mom," I say icily.
She takes a step forward, but pauses in mid-step. We're staring at each other, brown on brown, and have been since the moment I arrived in the garden. I want to look away, to break her searching gaze, but I'm too stubborn. I'm not going to let her win, even over something this insignificant. "Sydney, I know you're angry with me--" she starts, but I'm too quick.
"Angry?" I yell and take a deep breath to calm down. "You think I'm angry?" My voice is calmer now, but the tone remains just as biting. "I'm not angry. I'm furious. Do you know what you put me through? I can't remember the last two years of my life. The man I loved? He's married. My best friend? He's traumatized. My father? He's aged ten years--and I can't remember any of it. But you--you've known all along! You knew where I was, you knew what happened to me! You listened to me cry and struggle to remember and you never said a word. Not one word." I'm practically whispering and my voice catches on a sob. "I thought you were my mother. I've never been more wrong in my life."
She's staring at the ground as if the dirt is suddenly fascinating to her, and when she looks up again there are tears in her eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you, Sydney."
"Than why didn't you tell me?"
She takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her hair. "It wasn't my secret to tell."
"What?"
"It wasn't my place to tell you. You had to learn on your own."
I shake my head incredulously. "Are you serious? All this time you've known what happened to me and you wanted me to find out on my own instead? That could take years!"
"But it didn't. You're here, aren't you? You've already started to remember."
"Sergei told you."
She smiles. "I'm glad you're here, Sydney."
I wish I could say the same, I really do. I want so desperately to have the mother I've always dreamed of, but instead I have her, Irina Derevko, Russian spy extraordinare. I want to trust her, I want to believe in her, but I think of all the times she's betrayed me and let me down and I can't bring myself to do it again. Not yet, not when I'm this vulnerable, and the way things are going, not ever. I say nothing while she smiles tenderly.
"Come inside when you're ready," she continues. "We'll talk."
Without a word she turns on her heel towards the house. The sun has fully set now and the moon shimmers over the sea. The water catches the light, silvery and slick against the dark night. I close my eyes and feel the wind on my face, the smell of sea in my hair. God, it feels good to be near the ocean again, to be back in this place. It's like I never left here at all. Without taking a single step I know the gate in the northern corner leads to a path down to the ocean; I know my mother planted the lemon tree last summer after a big rain storm took down the original; I know the names of all the flowers and how to care for them; I know I'm the one who planted them.
Shaken, I open my eyes and massage my temples. This place is driving me nuts. I've been here less than three hours and I'm already beginning to lose it. The memories. . .I can't seem to escape the memories. Everywhere I go I'm reminded of a past I can't remember, see a tiny fragment of my life flash before my eyes before I can place it. I'm going crazy, being in this place, knowing it holds all the answers, and being unable to put it all together.
I look to the house, where light breezes out through the curtains and soft jazz catches the wind. That's where the answers are, in that house with that woman. I don't want to face her, but I have to, if I want to know what happened to me. After all, that's the reason I came here, right?
~ * ~
It never really hit me that my mother is a spy until I saw her in her own environment. I only knew her as Laura Bristow, American English teacher, and seeing her as Irina Derevko is a wake up call. There's a sickle and star carving on the wall and Russian books on the coffee table.
"Sit down, Sydney," she says and puts down a weathered copy of "Crime and Punishment."
Again, that stealth way of knowing I'm in the room. I reluctantly take a seat across the room, my eyes never leaving her.
She smiles again. "I'm very happy to see you, Sydney. I was beginning to think you'd never come."
"You could always come to me."
"We know that's not possible. Your father might have been kind enough to provide me with your phone number, but we both know I'll be back in CIA custody the minute I step foot in Los Angeles. I'd be sentenced to death for treason." She looks at me pointedly. "And this time there'll be no Senator to interfere."
"Would that be such a bad thing?"
She laughs and sips a glass of wine. . .or is it vodka? I can't tell from this distance. "Sydney, you don't mean that. You wouldn't be here if you did."
"Maybe I just want to know where the hell I've been for the last two years."
She shakes her head. "You didn't know you needed me to do that. You came here because you wanted to see me."
"And it was a mistake. I just want to figure everything out and go home."
Her smile is soft, even motherly and she reaches out to lay her hand on mine. "You are home."
I roll my eyes and look away. "My home is in LA."
"Not for the last two years."
My gaze is sharp when I turn to her again, but there are tears blocking my vision. "Mom, please tell me," I plead.
"I can't. It's not my story to tell. You'll figure it all out soon enough."
"I don't want to wait. Do you know what it's been like the last few months not knowing where I've been or what I've done for the last two years? Not knowing if I have a child or not, if the family I keep seeing on the beach is real or a figment of my imagination? Do you know what it's like not to know who you are anymore?"
When I look into her brown eyes this time I see myself. She does know what it's like; that's who she's been for the last thirty years. I can see the indecision in her eyes, the way her masterful mind weighs the pros and cons. "I brought you here," she finally says. "You'd been in a fight. You had bruised ribs and cuts--there was blood, so much blood." She pauses for a moment, sips her drink again. "My men found you and brought you here."
"Why?"
"To rest, recuperate. You were nearly dead, Sydney."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "You could have easily dumped me at the Ops Center or a hospital. Even easier, you could have just called 911. There was no reason to drag me all the way here. You had a different reason for moving me."
"I forgot how smart you are."
"Or maybe you're more transparent than you think."
"You have a smart mouth too."
"You didn't answer my question."
"I brought you here for your protection," she explains softly.
"Why?"
"When Sloane defected he gave the reins to me. I had full control of our operation, but he still knew the location of the Rambali devices in our possession. He wanted them for personal use."
"To fulfill the prophecy," I said. "What does that have to do with me?"
"He wanted you for the prophecy. You are the only person who can fulfill it. He was going to kidnap you, torture you--whatever he needed to put you in his employ."
"So you rescued me."
"My intention was to keep you here until I could eliminate Sloane. I never intended for you to get hurt in the process."
"Did you know, about the double, about Francie?"
There's a hint of guilt in her voice. "I'm sorry about your friend, Sydney."
"So you knew."
"Who do you take me for, Sydney? Do you think I'd let a detail like that slip through the cracks? Yes, I knew. Yes, I didn't tell you."
"Why not?"
"You don't trust me."
"So?"
"I don't trust you either. I couldn't tell you because you would have gone straight to your father and he would have gone straight to Kendall. You might have taken out the double, but you would have taken out yourself too. Without Allison in position Sloane would have come after you himself.. .and I couldn't let that happen."
"Why not? Wouldn't that have solved all your problems if the big bad CIA was out of the picture?" My tone is angry, biting, and possibly a bit too cold. Her mask cracks and a wave of hurt washes over her face. "I'm a lot of things, Sydney," she says, her voice raspy. "But I am still your mother and I always will be. I don't know if you believe me or not, but I love you and I would do anything for you. So to answer your question, no that wouldn't have solved the problem. In fact it would have ruined the most precious thing in my life, the only thing that really matters."
"Rambaldi devices?"
"You."
"Me?"
"You're the only real thing in my life, Sydney."
"So you brought me here to save me."
"Of course. I wasn't about to let you die."
"And you didn't have an agenda of your own?"
She laughs again. "Of course I had an agenda. I always have an agenda. But that doesn't mean I couldn't help you in the process."
I glance around the room, at the red curtained windows and pale walls. "How long was I here?"
"Almost two years."
"That doesn't make sense. If you were only protecting me from Sloane you should have let me go as soon as I was healed, but you still kept me here. Why?"
She changes the subject abruptly. "You said you remembered things. What do you remember, Sydney?"
I hate this game, avoiding the real question and telling half-truths instead. I hate being put on the spot like this. I could lie. I could make things up, test her loyalty, determine if she's with me or against me, but I don't. Not this time. Not when I'm so close. So I tell the truth and hope it works in my favor. "I remember this house," I say softly. "I'm standing the porch watching the ocean. I'm pregnant and there's a man with me. He's rubbing my belly, talking to the baby." I watch her while I talk, looking for any sign of reaction. Her face is blank, indifferent, but there's a tiny flash of recognition in her eyes. I smile inwardly; finally, I'm on the right track.
"What else?" she presses.
"I remember the baby. He's young, barely a year old. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He's beautiful, Mom. So beautiful. . ." my voice trails off. "He looks just like--" I catch myself in mid-sentence, but she looks up knowingly. My heart seems to clench so tightly I can't breathe--and like clockwork, the scar on my stomach starts to itch.
"He looks like who, Sydney?"
"No one, nothing," I mumble and jerk out of my chair. I practically run to the window and jerk it open, letting the night air brush my flushed cheeks. After a few minutes my breathing returns to normal and I stop rubbing my scar. My knee bumps the window seat and as I reach down to rub my leg a flash of fluffy brown catches my eye. It's a teddy bear, soft and well loved with a big red heart over a big potbelly. I pick up it up and examine the bright heart as another memory flashes before my eyes.
I'm crouched on the floor, wearing a loose peasant skirt and tight tank top, holding my giggling baby in my arms. Across the room my mother bends down, holding the teddy bear in one hand. "Come here, vnuk," she says. "Look what babushka has." The baby takes off at a start, wobbling across the room on tiny legs to claim his present. My mother wraps him in her arms and presses a kiss to his smooth cheek. "That's a good boy," she says with a laugh. "Do you like you bear? It's perfect for him, isn't it, Sydney?"
"Sydney?" I hear again and it takes me a moment to realize I'm no longer living a dream. I whip around to face my mother, clutching the bear to my chest.
"Sydney, are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost." I think she's right. All this time I've been chasing a ghost and I just realized that ghost is me. I've been chasing myself and my past and the decisions I made two years ago. I feel my breath catch in my throat again.
"Sydney?" my mother asks again as footsteps sound on the wooden floors.
Sergei appears in the doorway and my mother glares at him. "I told you not to bother us."
"He's home," Sergei says and in the background I hear a door slam. Two sets of footsteps sound on the floors, one making a harsh tapping sound.
"Irina?" a very British voice calls out. "We're home." And before I have time to react, he's here--and he's not alone. A young woman, tall, blond, absolutely beautiful clings to his side, and in her arms, his chubby arms draped around her neck, is my baby.
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