A/N: Ow! Those damn pitchforks are sharp! Put down the weapons and back away slowly, muchtvs and romie, at least for now. 3rd and final chapter. I'm not making any promises, mind you, but there may be another trilogy in the works that takes up where this leaves off. And, apologies in advance for the (maybe?) heavy handed baseball metaphors. All of the Aw! of the finale coupled with the baseball season hiatus just clouded my brain.
Disclaimer: I don't own. I just love.
And So It Began: Chapter 3
December 27, 1985:
"Kirsten, Kirsten...slow down a minute, OK? What's going on?" Sandy's got the phone tucked into his neck as he tries to simultaneously pack for their trip and make some sense out of the sob-filled voice on the other end of the line.
"Sandy, I can't...I can't go on our trip. My dad's got some...thing, a business thing, on New Year's Eve, and...he says I have to be here."
"What?! Kirsten, we planned this trip! The mountains, the skiing...what do you mean you can't go?"
"Sandy, he's my dad..."
Suddenly, he's very, very angry. He's not sure whether his anger is directed at her or at Caleb, but he can't stop to figure it out now. "Kirsten! Damn it! When are you gonna stop saying 'how high?' every time he asks you to jump for him? He does it for sport, just because he knows he can! And you let him, you practically beg for it, because it's the only attention you ever get from him! One word from him, and now there's all this drama...it's like you don't even matter, like we don't matter!"
"Sandy, I can't." There's steel in her voice, reminiscent of her mother at Thanksgiving. "I just can't. Not right now. If you love me, you'll understand."
"I do love you, but I don't understand! Kirsten, I...can't you see what he's doing to you? To us?"
"I have to go, Sandy. I can't have this conversation any longer." A pause, and then she says hesitantly, "Will I see you at school? After New Year's?"
Sandy can't help himself. "You tell me, huh? Or maybe I can expect a call from Caleb?" He continues nastily, "It's his call, right?" and slams down the phone. He takes the small ring box out of his pocket and, for a brief moment, contemplates how satisfying it would be to throw it right out the window. He can't do it, though. That would be admitting that something had permanently changed, that it was truly over.
She sees him around campus, some, that winter, Che hopping along behind him. He hasn't called, and she doesn't have the courage. She throws herself into her studies, getting wrapped up in details that are value-neutral. As long as she doesn't think about herself, about Sandy...as long as she focuses on her classes, she can hold it together. That's the way she gets by.
As for him, he sees her, too, from a distance, rushing by, in a series of more outlandish thrift store outfits. She's cut her hair; what was once a smooth fall of blonde has morphed into a ragged mop, streaked with pink. He hopes that means something, but he's not exactly sure what he hopes that means. He doesn't call.
May 1, 1986:
When Kirsten opens her door to head off to the library, she finds a small, bedraggled looking bouquet of wildflowers tied with a ribbon, hanging off of the doorknob. There's also a flier rolled up and stuck among the flowers. As she unrolls it, she sees it's familiar; they've been up all over campus for the last week--The annual May Day march for worker solidarity. As she glances down at the bottom, she sees a handwritten note: "We've missed you. Meet us at Cody's at 3?" She knows instantly who it's from; the flier alone would have told her, never mind the fact that she recognizes the familiar printing at the bottom from countless other notes, although unlike the ones that she's carefully hoarded all these months, this one doesn't have an S. or a crudely drawn dog paw print as a signature.
As she approaches the bookstore, her hands begin the unconcious twisting that they do when she's nervous. She briefly considers just not showing up, but in her heart she knows that's not fair to Sandy, nor to herself. She enters, wondering just where in the vast expanse she might find him.
Law books? No, he's probably had enough of those. Art History? Is that being too presumptive? Popular magazines? As nervous as she is, she laughs to herself. Since when does Sandy read magazines, except for maybe The Nation?! She tries to think...last year, May Day...and suddenly she knows just where to go. As she enters the History section, she sees him sitting on the floor, seemingly engrossed in what she knows is a copy of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. Only the fingers of his left hand, tapping a jerky rhythm on his knee, betray his nervousness. Che's sitting quietly by his side, but when he sees her he lets out a joyous little bark and puts his paw on Sandy's leg to get his attention.
Sandy looks up and smiles at her under his mop of hair. "Kirsten!" His relief is evident. As she sits down next to him, Che limps over and licks her hand, tail wagging. She pets the little dog, saying quietly, "Hi, Sandy. How...how have you been?"
"Oh, you know...I'm...what about you? You look...different. I mean, uh, beautiful, but, you know, different."
She glances down at her outfit, runs a hand absently through her cropped hair. "Yeah, I...teenaged rebellion, I guess. Too little, too late, huh?"
"Aw, hon--, Kirsten, it's never too late, is it?"
"I don't know. Maybe..." She fiddles a little with the fringe on her sweater, takes a deep breath, and then looks up at him. "Why did you want to meet, Sandy?"
He says simply, "I've missed you. Every day, since December, I...I can't tell you how many times I've picked up the phone and then put it down..."
"No, I should have called you. It's just...you're right about my dad, Sandy. I can see it so clearly now, but I don't know what to do. He's my dad. I love him."
"I love you," Sandy says quietly.
"I know..."
"There's a 'but' coming, isn't there? Kirsten, I never wanted for it to come to a point where you had to choose between me and your father. I don't like the man, I don't like the way he treats you, but none of that matters...I would spend a lifetime of teeth-clenched smiling if it meant you and I could be together."
"You deserve better than that, Sandy. We both know it. Please...I can't ask you for that. It's too selfish."
"Playing the martyr doesn't suit you, Kirsten. We can make this work, I know it. You know it, too." He can feel his frustration building, hear the barely concealed anger in his words. Of all the things he wants to feel right now, anger is not one of them, but he can't make it go away.
She's crying now, silent tears tracing their way down her face. "I've got to get away, Sandy. From everyone; from everything. As soon as school ends, my friend Sarah and I are going away."
"Sarah? Lives-in-a-mail-truck, won't-touch-her-trust-fund Sarah?"
Through her tears, she sniffles a laugh at the characterization. "Yeah. Two vagabond princesses in a mail truck. I don't know who I am anymore, Sandy. I don't know if I ever have. I have to go...I'm sorry..." She gives Che a last pat, stands up, and rests her hand in Sandy's hair. "Goodbye, counselor. I'm counting on you to save the world."
"Kirsten, don't..." he struggles up from his sitting position, but she's already vanished down the aisle and out the door.
At the very least, knowing that she's gone, he can control the wild beating of his heart every time he sees a blonde woman on the street. Cold comfort.
June 19th, 1986:
When the phone rings, he's staring off into space. He picks up, saying automatically, "Alameda County P.D., Sandy Cohen speaking. How can I help you?"
"Sandy?" The female voice is unfamiliar.
"Yes, ma'am. Who am I speaking to please?"
"Sandy, it's Rosemary, Rosemary Nichol. Kirsten's mother? I know I shouldn't bother you at work, but I remembered our conversation from Thanksgiving, and I had hoped that I could reach you there."
Sandy feels a sudden surge of dread. "Mrs. Nichol! Is it Kirsten? Has something happened to her? What...? Why are you calling me? What is it?" He waits for the worst. Car accident? Murdered at a rest stop?
"No, oh no, nothing bad. I'm sorry, dear, if I gave you that impression." Sandy breathes a little easier, knowing that, whatever is to come, it doesn't involve death or injury.
"OK, Mrs. Nichol, why are you calling?"
"Dear, I told you to call me Rosemary, and the reason that I'm calling is because my stubborn daughter will not. She's got entirely too much of her father in her, if I can say that without being indiscreet." She laughs gently, and then continues, "She's sent me postcards, from her trip. She and her friend made it all the way up to Vermont. Can you imagine?!"
Sandy doesn't have a clue where this is heading, but true to his lawyer training, he prompts, "Vermont, huh? I hear there are a lot of cows up there." He wants to hear more, wants to know why Rosemary Nichol has picked up the phone to find him.
"Oh, yes, I believe there are." She pauses, and then says, carefully, "Sandy, I know it's not my business to interfere, but I felt that I had to tell you that I'm very close to my daughter. She's told me what happened, about the trip, and after, and between you and me, if I may be so bold, she's being a damn fool. And so are you."
"I'm not sure what you mean, Mrs...uh, Rosemary."
"Ultimatums and words spoken in anger are not the ways in which relationships are built, young man," she responds tartly.
"Mrs....Rosemary, I want it on the record that I did not give Kirsten an ultimatum. I merely said that her father makes her jump through hoops. I'm sorry, I know he's your husband, but he does. And I couldn't stand to see her bow to his whims, when they're clearly so arbitrary."
"No offense taken. But surely you see that my daughter is in a difficult position, whether or not you placed her there, and I don't for one minute think that you did. She loves you, Sandy, but she loves her father, too. Do you love her?" She laughs gently again and then continues, "You really have brought a breath of fresh air to this family. I truly cannot believe I've just asked you such a rude and intrusive question."
All he can think to answer is, "Yes, I love her."
"That's what I thought. Even though I've only met you once, Sandy Cohen, I do believe I've learned some lawyering skills from you. Never ask a question to which you don't already know the answer, correct?"
For the first time in many months, he can feel himself smile. "Yes, ma'am."
Her voice turns brisk, the Newpsie leader coming out. "So. You love her. She loves you. Any questions?"
He stops smiling then, and says somberly, "Just the one. You know."
"Caleb?"
"No, we can get through that, I think. If there's a we, Kirsten and I. But I don't know..."
"Never underestimate the power of a mother lion, Mr. Sandy Cohen. She'll always do what's best for her family. This mother lion is no exception."
July 4, 1986:
Tilden Park, the annual picnic that the P.D.'s office holds. Parents, foster parents, children, social service workers and the lawyers who serve them, their defenders and protectors, all brought together. The smell of grilling meat is in the air; people are mingling, chatting, cups of punch in their hands. Sandy's coaching second base for the kids' team. He scoops up a kid who has enthusiastically run herself right past second into the outfield and deposits her safely on the base. When he looks up, he spots her. She's standing on the outskirts of the crowd, nervously clutching her hands together in a gesture he knows well.
As he jogs over to greet her, he rubs his suddenly sweaty palms on his shorts. He comes to a stop, a safe distance away, and says, "Kirsten. Hello."
"Hi, Sandy." She comes a little closer, and he backs up, trying to keep space between them.
"So, how was your trip?" He despises himself for the awkward small talk, for his mingled fear and hope at her sudden appearance.
"Oh, you know...well, I guess you don't....um, good. It was good."
"Good." After an awkward pause, they both begin to speak at once.
"I've had a lot of time to think, Sandy, and I--"
"Kirsten, what do you w--"
They both stop speaking, and then Kirsten blurts out "Sandy, I love you." She stops short, and then adds quietly, "I just wanted you to know that."
At that moment, the child Sandy had helped earlier yells, "Mr. Cohen! Should I run now?"
He turns to see the boy at bat hit one directly towards the first baseman. It's an easy out, and having earlier witnessed her enthusiasm for flight he yells back, "No, sweetie! Stay on base! You're doing great right where you are!"
He doesn't even have time to turn back to Kirsten before she's crossed the distance, and he can feel her presence, warm and strong against his back as she wraps her arms around him from behind. Her words, although spoken quietly, sound in his ears as loud as any stadium announcement. "I haven't exactly figured out who I am, Sandy, but I know who I want to be. And I know that I can't be that person without you." And as he watches, the first baseman goofs the catch; the boy rounds first. When he gets to second base, he takes the girl by the hand and together they run past third, and then reach home.