Title: It Goes On
Author: UConnFan (Michele)
E-Mail: LoveUConnBasketball@yahoo.com
Story Summary: In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on." - Robert Frost Twenty years post "The Telling"; Surviving the worse case scenario.
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The sound of a seemingly ancient Vertical Horizon song was familiar to Sydney's ears as she heard her daughter, loud music included, come to a stop in the driveway Wednesday morning. Even the generally laid back Gehrig's ears were peaked by the once daily sound. Slowly, the dog stretched to his feet, approaching the back screen door. From her comfortable seat at the kitchen table, Sydney was able to watch her daughter as she hopped out of the car, muttering under her breath as she rolled up the convertible top on her Jeep. The young woman then grabbed her duffel, her mother noting how long and curly her hair had grown in a few short months, and disappeared into the backyard.
"Hey, looking for a temporary roomie?" Claire teased, her grin wide as she stood on the other side of the screen door. Enthusiastically, Gehrig began to howl, pouncing on his youngest mistress with kisses when she slipped into the house.
"Hey sweetheart!" Sydney smiled, standing and hugging her daughter. "I missed you," she confessed, still tightly embracing her.
"It's only been three months, Mom," she pointed out. As the two pulled out of their hug, Claire studied her shoes and pulled hair behind her ear in a familiar gesture as she mumbled, "I missed you too."
With a quick evaluation of the clock, she looked back at her daughter in surprise. "You're early."
"I left at three in the morning," she confessed. It was the only way she could have arrived in Trinidad at ten o'clock, after what was usually a seven hour drive.
"No wonder you look exhausted," Sydney sighed, putting the bagels back in the drawer.
"What are you doing? I'm hungry."
"You'll eat later. Go take a nap. Your room is just like you left it."
"Great, that means it's a mess," she mumbled, slowly standing.
Unzipping her daughter's duffel and encountering a massive amount of laundry, she inquired, "I assume this is for me?"
"I thought you might have missed doing my laundry," Claire shrugged.
The older woman rolled her eyes. "I'm afraid to ask what you've done for the last three months," she sighed. "Go lie down. When you wake up I'll make lunch. I'm going to go put this in the washer," she explained, grabbing the duffel and disappearing down the stairs.
When Sydney reappeared in her kitchen, there was no sign of Claire, and Gehrig had curled back up on his blanket. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she settled down into the family room to catch up on her reading. After amusing herself for nearly three chapters of the book, she crept quietly up the stairs, relieved that the staircase refrained from creaking. Climbing to the top floor, she turned right towards her daughter's room. As was customary, her bedroom door was closed. Mindful of her sleeping daughter, she slowly turned the knob and stepped into the room.
The room was exactly as Claire had left it months before, although on occasion, she found herself entering to check on things. On the bed, her daughter was draped unceremoniously on her belly, her soft snores echoing through the room. Snowy, her oldest stuffed animal, had been rescued from her duffel on the way up and was tucked safely under her arm. Sighing, she leaned against the wall, taking in the surroundings that she had once seen every day.
Photos of friends and family were everywhere, and a photo of Sydney and Claire from the previous year's Christmas card was framed on her nightstand table. Everything in her daughter's room was neatly kept in wooden frames she had purchased from a dollar store and later decorated on her own. All of her various interests were visible, from the massive poster of former University of Connecticut standout basketball player Sam Emmers, now a player with the Sacramento Monarchs, to the framed front page of the local sports section from the day her high school softball team won their division world series. Along the way there were statues of variously dressed teddy bears, stacks and stacks of CD's, shelves of older movies, and the stuffed animals that remained on her bed, all of which had been in her possession since she was an infant.
Knowing Claire was sleeping and safe, Sydney resisted the urge to kiss her daughter, aware that she was a light sleeper. With one more glance over her shoulder, she left the room, silently closing the door behind her. In her mind, she decided to let her daughter sleep a few more hours, accepting the consequence of her sleep schedule being briefly off for a day or so, as she descended the staircase.
Shortly before one in the afternoon, Claire came upon her mother in the kitchen. Sydney had been sitting quietly, drinking iced tea and working on a crossword puzzle. At her daughter's reappearance, she quickly got to work, making the duo lunch. As she went about the preparations, she worked to catch up on all she'd missed in her daughter's life. Claire had the expected difficulties; adjusting to a new person as a roommate, to sharing a bathroom with a floor of practical strangers, and the dangers of meal plan food. Even so, it was obvious she was enjoying herself. Claire had inherited the bravado and fearless nature that her mother hadn't acquired until she was older. Plus, she made several off handed mentions of a young man on the school's basketball team, something her mother made a note to bring up later.
They ate lunch on the deck. Sydney worked to familiarize herself with her daughter's new friends and new life. As much as her daughter had changed, she had changed as well. Being alone could do that to a woman, and although the change was by no means as drastic as Claire's, both knew it was there. Acknowledging that her daughter was surviving, and even thriving, on her own was a bittersweet occasion. The pleasure of knowing that she'd brought Claire into the world and helped make her into a well-rounded, courageous, happy young woman with a good on her shoulders, made her smile. In her mind she could still recall a wobbly toddler's first steps, or the fear in her cocoa eyes on the first day of kindergarten. Now she was out in the world, tackling it on her own, without Sydney's protection or daily guidance. As a mother, her job was now to sit back and hope for the best, offering advice and guidance when called upon.
Together they folded Claire's clothes, unpacking her belongings, debating what she should take back for the remainder of the semester. Half focused on an afternoon basketball game, the two lay in the living room and discussed their Christmas options. To her surprise, Sydney discovered that her daughter continued not only to speak to her an average of three times a week, but continued to call her grandparents at least once a week as well. Claire was excited at the prospect of going to Puget Sound in the upcoming weeks, eager to show her grandmother what she could make from the recipe for a traditional Russian dessert that Irina had taught her the previous holiday season.
Late into the afternoon they began preparations in the kitchen for the next day's massive meal. The china that they used only a few times a year had to be removed and hand-washed from the breakfront. Claire tossed together the first batch of muffins and convinced her mother to allow her to make the cranberry sauce on her own that year. Somewhere along the way Sydney flicked on the radio, the two singing in off-key voices to the music, sharing easy conversation as they went.
Neither was exceptionally hungry as dinnertime rolled around. With the next day's enormous meal looming ahead of them, the older woman had expected nothing less. Instead, she pulled out two plates, a loaf of bread and the cold cuts as the two prepared their own sandwiches. Silence cocooned them as they ate. As she finished her sandwich, Claire was surprised to look up and see the distant look in her mother's eyes. Although her sandwich was gone, it was obvious Sydney's focus was not on her meal. Instead, she took another sip of her iced tea, setting it down on the tabletop before she realized her daughter was looking at her.
"Sorry," she smiled.
"What's wrong?
Sydney sighed, fighting the remainder of her internal battle as she pushed her hair behind her ear. Finally, she met her daughter's curious eyes. "Do you remember how I used tell you, when you'd ask, that I couldn't tell you some things because I used to work for the government?"
Confused at the sudden direction of the question, Claire's eyes narrowed as her voice cracked. "Yeah. Why?"
"I think there's something I want to show you," she decided. Slowly the woman stood, her daughter following her actions in slight bewilderment. Obediently, she trailed her mother through the kitchen and family room and turned up the staircase. Arriving at the top, Claire noticed the sky growing progressively darker through the bathroom skylight as they passed.
Sydney had led her directly to her bedroom, a place Claire was familiar with. As a little girl, the two would sit on her bed and watch movies on her television at night, and when she was extremely young, she'd sometimes crawl into bed with her mother after a nightmare or if she grew lonely. On that occasion she sat down next to her mother on Sydney's traditional side of the bed, watching her mother lean over and open her nightstand drawer. Without hesitation, she reached inside and from the top of the pile of her most personal belongings, she pulled a photograph. Then she handed it to her daughter.
Claire's sharp eye quickly detected the aged nature of the photograph. The picture was of four people. At first she recognized a far younger version of her mother, smiling beside a far younger version of her Uncle Will. On the other side of her mother was a tall, blonde man with his arm wrapped snuggly around her mother. Then to the left of her Uncle Will, was an attractive African American woman who was cuddled up next to her uncle's side. All four were smiling.
"That's you and Uncle Will," Claire grinned, pointing to the appropriate figures.
"Yeah," she softly agreed, "it is."
To her confusion, she glanced over to see that her mother's eyes had glossed over with unshed tears. "Who are the other two people?"
"That..." Sydney carefully took her finger and pointed it to the black woman, "that's your Aunt Francie."
"My namesake," Claire exhaled, finally seeing the woman who had inspired her mother's choice of a middle name. For years she had heard stories about her mother's best friend and former roommate; the woman who had shared her mother's college and younger years. Sometimes, she'd wondered why there were photos of that woman out, but Sydney had explained when she was much younger that Francie had been murdered by bad people a long, long time ago. Even at a young age Claire had known better than to bring up anything that could upset her mother. "Who's he?"
"That's Michael Vaughn," she sighed. "I was in love with him," she explained. Claire's eyes grew as she looked at her mother in awe, waiting for the story to unravel. "Because of my job, I couldn't be with him for a long time. Then we were able to be together. We were so happy. . " she recalled. "Vaughn and I were together when I disappeared."
The pieces slowly began to fall into place as her daughter added, "When you lost two years."
"Right," Sydney sighed. Explaining that part of her life had always been difficult, but Claire was a patient listener; a fantastic sounding board. Best yet, she kept secrets to herself and knew when not to push a subject, an art form that her own mother hadn't always mastered. "When I returned... Everyone had thought I was dead. Your grandparents, your uncles... Everyone," she explained, unable to look at her daughter. "Vaughn was married."
"Mom," her voice cracked, her heart breaking for her mother.
"That was twenty years ago Claire." She looked back up at her daughter, the dim light glittering off of her unshed tears. "When I moved to Trinidad, we stopped talking. We really didn't have much to say to one another once I returned. . ."
"Why are you showing me this now?"
"Vaughn showed up here a few weeks ago. He was just sitting on the back stoop one day when I came back from walking Gehrig," she explained, her eyes drawn back to the photo her daughter still studied. "He needed to talk. . . He's divorced now, things didn't go the way he planned. . . Things didn't go the way either one of us planned," she sighed. Claire's eyes were slightly hazed with confusion as Sydney clarified. "Sweetheart. . .you know I could never regret you. . . That I can't imagine my life without you. . . But there was a time when I couldn't imagine my life without him."
"And you didn't even want to try," Claire calmly added. Glancing back at the photos, she confidently added, "I should have been his."
"Claire -"
"I know Mom, I'm not trying to give you the guilt trip - my father is, who my father is. He's gone now, I can't change that and really wouldn't want to," Claire promised. "It's the truth. In a perfect world, this man would have fathered your children."
"But the world isn't perfect."
"What about Peter?"
"What about Peter? Nothing is going on with Vaughn, but he is back in my life. . . I don't ever want to keep secrets from you that I don't have to."
"Mom. . . You loved him," she shrugged away a sigh, studying the aged photo. "How can you not want to try to get that back?"
"I've had twenty years to think about it Claire, but I won't hurt Peter. Vaughn just needs a friend right now. He's going through a pretty tough time."
"And of all the people in the world, he chooses you, out of the blue?" her daughter returned skeptically. "I'm assuming he lives in Los Angeles, which means the drive was like fourteen hours, which totally invalidates any possibility of it being a spontaneous gesture."
"I don't think it was spontaneous. He's not a spontaneous person," she softly recalled. "I think he just needed someone who understands."
"Yeah, because there are only a few million people in Los Angeles and the surrounding area who could have listened," Claire mumbled. "Are you going to see him again?"
"I sort of already have," she muttered, glancing down at her lap as she tucked hair behind her ear. As her daughter's confusion hung unspoken in the air, she explained. "Last weekend. He came up. Spent Friday and Saturday here."
"I'm not going to ask about sleeping arrangements," her daughter commented.
"Claire!" Sydney's eyes widened and skin burned. "Vaughn slept on the sofa. I slept in my bedroom. Nothing happened. We talked, we caught up on things. It's been twenty years. During a very difficult time in my life, he was the most important person in it."
Rolling her large eyes, the younger woman dropped onto her back, staring at the popcorn ceiling for a moment. "So what's the deal with calling him Vaughn? The guy's name is Michael."
A small smile grew as her mother lay down as well, turning her head to face Claire. "I don't know. He's always called me Sydney. .When we first worked together, I didn't like him. Danny had just died, and I thought he was too young and cocky to be my boss."
"He was your boss?" Her daughter's eyes grew, the tiny tidbit pushing on her hunger for the unfolding saga.
"Sort of," Sydney sighed. "I wish I could tell you everything Claire -"
"You can't, just like I can't know a lot about Grandpa and Grandma or tell my friends that Grandma's even *alive*." Her wide eyes emphasized her slight exasperation. "I know Mom."
"When we became... involved, he asked me why I didn't call him Michael. I just could never call him that, not comfortably," she shrugged. "He'll always be Vaughn to me."
"Sounds very X-Files to me. Or maybe ER with the name thing. They always called poor Dr. Carter by his last name, never John. Did you ever notice that?" Claire inquired, her face lacking anything but curiosity as her mother laughed.
"You watch too much TV Land."
"Nah," her daughter insisted. "No way. TV Land has Dick Van Dyke, Mom! Name *one* show better in television history than the Dick Van Dyke Show!"
Laughing, Sydney rolled her eyes as she teased, "I guess I can't."
"Well..." She rolled onto her belly and sighed. She then continued to study the photo her mother had pulled from her most private of bedroom drawers. "He was cute in his day," Claire approved.
"Not that it matters," her mother slowly corrected, repositioning herself so she sat up on her bed, "but Vaughn is still cute."
Claire shook her head and chuckled. "It's so weird that you called your *boyfriend* by his last name."
"I always called him that," her voice cracked as it dipped far lower than her normal range. "I can't imagine calling him anything else."
"So, when is he coming back? Or do you have some secret rendezvous planned to see him when we're in Los Angeles?"
"None of my plans are that long term."
"Well you can't not call him. I mean, at least call him tomorrow, it's Thanksgiving."
"When will I have time?" she skeptically asked. "You know how crazy tomorrow always is."
"It's just a thought," Claire shrugged. "You could have invited him for dinner, if you really wanted."
"No." Her mother vigorously shook her head. "Thanksgiving is our day. Anyway, we'll have people dropping in and out all day, it wouldn't have been a good time."
"I still like Peter," the teenager sighed, slowly stretching and lifting herself off of her mother's bed.
"I care very much about Peter!" Sydney insisted. "We're not serious, and Vaughn and I are just friends."
"You're such a bad liar Mommy," Claire spoke affectionately, a smile on her face as her head shook. "You want to be friends with this guy about as much as I want to be friends with Bryce O'Neal."
"Oh..." Her mother grew intrigued, leaning closer to her daughter. "The one on the basketball team?"
"We are not having this conversation now," she decided, punctuating her point with a yawn. "I'm sorry Mom, I'm still tired -"
"It's okay Tinkerbelle, we can talk in the morning," she agreed. A tired smile slowly spread across Claire's face as she hugged her mother and kissed her cheek.
"I'm going to bed."
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart."
"Love you Mom," Claire called, hearing her mother echo the same sentiment before both retired to their appropriate rooms.
For all of her nearly eighteen years, Thanksgiving had been a day where you woke early and went to bed equally early. That holiday was no exception, as Sydney padded into her daughter's room to wake her shortly after seven. From the French doors the sun slowly rose in, the warm shades of orange and yellow danced a warm glow over the room. No amount of persuasion ever convinced her mother to relax on Thanksgiving morning. Instead, they were quickly to work, slicing and dicing and preparing all the necessary trimmings, including a stuffing made from scratch.
Since childhood, the warm smell of Bells Seasoning would remind Claire of Thanksgiving. By mid-morning, the smell was spread not only in the kitchen, but throughout the house. Going through the motions with the grace gained from years of experience, Sydney seemed to move effortlessly through the kitchen. A scene that would be seen as chaos to many, was simple management for Claire's mother, and between the two of them, they had everything settled in time for the broadcast of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Before noon the guests started to arrive. With Georgia helping her mother in the kitchen, Claire disappeared into the backyard with Georgia's two sons, the boys she had grown up with, to toss around a football. As she washed vegetables and went about the business of preparing dinner, Sydney watched through the window, unable to stop herself from worrying. Still, she took the opportunity to catch up with her friend, doing her best to try to convince Georgia that Michael Vaughn was nothing more than an old friend.
Nearly two hours before they usually ate dinner, the Bristow kitchen table was spread out with all the food needed for an appropriate Thanksgiving feast. Peter had arrived nearly an hour earlier, sitting briefly in the kitchen before plopping down in the family room with Georgia's sons to watch the remainder of the day's football games. In the beginning of the meal, the group quietly passed around platters and plates, muttering pleasantries as the food was piled. Soon everyone was settled in, the food slowly disappearing as the conversation resumed.
Peter was eager to hear how his former students were doing in the world. One of Georgia's sons had just returned to graduate school at nearly thirty, while her youngest was set to graduate college in the spring. Everyone was curious to hear how life was at Stanford, how Claire was fending in the real world, along with how well she was coping with the Cardinals off-season regimen. In between actual conversation, were compliments on the food, people going back for seconds, and scratching together initial plans for the Christmas holiday.
As Sydney had predicted, various co-workers and friends of Claire continued to drop in until it was nearly dark out. The more the merrier had always been her motto, especially since more people generally meant fewer leftovers. As was customary, Claire put herself in charge of the clean up effort, loading the dishwasher and washing the most fragile of items. Later in the evening, she even went about the vigorous task of putting everything away in the fridge while her mother enjoyed conversation and pie with a friend and Peter on the deck.
"Mom?" Claire stuck her head into the family room just after seven. Confused, she had discovered her mother standing in the center of the room, seemingly fixated on the sleeping telephone. At her daughter's voice, Sydney's head popped up to meet Claire's. "I'm going to go play some air hockey with Jake and Harry, is that okay?"
"That's fine," she smiled. "Harry told me he's going to beat you."
"That's what he thinks," Claire smirked.
"Hey, I want to talk about Bryce later!" Sydney called to her daughter's retreating figure, a grin on her daughter's face as she disappeared out the front door. Briefly alone, she let out a heavy sigh and set her mind. Determined with her choice, she reached for the telephone.
Seven hundred miles south of Trinidad, Michael Vaughn walked back into his small apartment just after five in the afternoon. Outside the sun was dipping progressively lower over the ocean. Thanksgiving at the Weiss' had not disappointed. The kids were getting progressively bigger, their eldest even talking about college options, although he was only a freshman in high school. They watched football and complimented Megan on her cooking, talking about hockey and the weather during the meal. Although Megan always turned him down, he still offered to stay and help clean up before he excused himself, agreeing to talk to Eric sometime during the weekend.
Silence was the only thing to greet him as he sank into his favorite lounger. Now aged, once upon a time it had been where Alex would sit and eagerly wait for him, her little body all but eaten up by the soft blue fabric. Once in a while, she'd even crawl into his lap and he'd read to her or she'd watch a hockey game with him, cherishing the time she'd had with her Daddy. When she was a little girl, the hours after Thanksgiving dinner were always when she'd climb onto his lap, falling asleep in his arms as he watched Sports Center.
Thoughts of a previous life were ended as the phone rang. Logic did nothing to dispel the hope that resided in his heart. Staring at the phone as another ring shook it, he snapped out of his haze and grabbed the object. "Hello?"
"Hi."
The sigh revealed the disappointment he struggled to hide as he relaxed against his chair. "Hey Kate. How are you?"
"I'm fine," she easily replied. "Are you okay? You sounded a bit upset when you picked up."
"No, it's nothing, I'm fine," Vaughn insisted. "Are you fine? Is everything okay -"
"I'm fine," she cut him off. "I'm fine. How are Megan and Eric?"
"Good. Good. Megan cooked too much."
A few hundred miles away, Kate's laughter reached his ears. "She always does. How are the kids?"
"Fine," he smiled easily. "Josh is already talking about college."
"Oh, he can't be old enough!"
"Freshman in high school," Michael reminded his former wife. "He's getting tall, he's even on the JV basketball team."
"Well, that's good for him," she agreed. "Alex called?"
"Yes, this morning," he assured her. "It was a pleasant surprise."
"I didn't even have to remind her," Kate pleasantly commented. "You got the present?"
"Arrived on my doorstep last night. Thank you."
"I'm not that cruel Michael, I wouldn't allow Alex to overlook your birthday."
"Thanks Kate," he repeated. "How was your Thanksgiving?"
"Actually," she stalled as he sensed the anxiety in her voice. "Matt and I got married this afternoon. Nothing big, of course. Just Alex, the justice of the peace and a few of our friends."
"Congratulations."
"I would have told you, but it wasn't something we especially planned. . . We were living together, and he hates the whole idea of promoting living in sin to Alex . . "
"No, no, that's wonderful. That's great Kate, I hope you two are very happy."
"I think we will be," she softly agreed. "Now, are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," he vowed. "Please wish Matt my best. Tell Alex I'll call her tomorrow."
"I will. She's out with friends right now."
"Okay. Take care of yourself Kate, and please let me know if you need anything."
"I will," Kate assured him. "Happy birthday Michael."
"Congratulations Kate," he repeated as they hung up the phone. As the phone hit the hook, he glanced around his apartment. His large chair and cozy apartment suddenly felt suffocating. Outside his window, the metro Los Angeles area held an endless appeal. Slowly, his fingers began to burn with the urge to call someone, but there were no options. He'd been gone from Eric's for barely an hour, and certainly Sydney wouldn't appreciate his call on a day that was clearly devoted to a part of her life that he held no space in. The last part of that thought snapped him, rocketing him to his feet as he grabbed his keys and left the apartment.
The idea of making another impromptu drive briefly rested on his mind before he quickly discarded it. The news of Kate's remarriage was not a heavy burden. Ironically, he'd managed to remain on better terms with his ex-wife than he was with his daughter on most days. Instead, Vaughn remained in his solitude, burying the racing thoughts and quickly passing life milestones in the back of his mind as Springsteen briefly erased his troubles. With the convertible top down, a slight chill in the California air, he used side roads to avoid the holiday traffic. Since his purchase of the car nearly a year ago, he'd found himself escaping in it more and more, enjoying the freedom it offered and the quick escape from the remainder of the world. In the convertible he was just a man, a radio and the open road. Or at least whatever semi-free streets he could find to cruise in his neighborhood.
Two hours disappeared during his drive. Vaughn's only indication of the time was how the sky had darkened, not with the threat of showers, but the imminent fall of night. Putting the car to sleep in his reserved parking space, he sat patiently as the top came up and he locked it into place. The promise of another night alone, a birthday night celebrated with just a repeat of a days old Kings game, did nothing to rush his journey up the stairs. One foot inside his warm apartment, he was already shrugging off his jacket as the light on his answering machine caught his eye. Absently, Vaughn reached over to press the button as he approached his bedroom to change for the evening.
An electronic voice filled the apartment. "You have one new message. Message one:
"Vaughn," a soft, hesitant voice immediately caught him off guard. Already halfway to his bedroom, he stopped to turn and face the machine, imagining her there in his mind. "It's me," she continued, her voice slightly more confident, but no louder as she continued. "I guess you're out... I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. And a happy birthday. I'll talk to you soon," she added hopefully. A moment later her voice could barely be heard on the grainy tape as she spoke, "Bye."
Author: UConnFan (Michele)
E-Mail: LoveUConnBasketball@yahoo.com
Story Summary: In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on." - Robert Frost Twenty years post "The Telling"; Surviving the worse case scenario.
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The sound of a seemingly ancient Vertical Horizon song was familiar to Sydney's ears as she heard her daughter, loud music included, come to a stop in the driveway Wednesday morning. Even the generally laid back Gehrig's ears were peaked by the once daily sound. Slowly, the dog stretched to his feet, approaching the back screen door. From her comfortable seat at the kitchen table, Sydney was able to watch her daughter as she hopped out of the car, muttering under her breath as she rolled up the convertible top on her Jeep. The young woman then grabbed her duffel, her mother noting how long and curly her hair had grown in a few short months, and disappeared into the backyard.
"Hey, looking for a temporary roomie?" Claire teased, her grin wide as she stood on the other side of the screen door. Enthusiastically, Gehrig began to howl, pouncing on his youngest mistress with kisses when she slipped into the house.
"Hey sweetheart!" Sydney smiled, standing and hugging her daughter. "I missed you," she confessed, still tightly embracing her.
"It's only been three months, Mom," she pointed out. As the two pulled out of their hug, Claire studied her shoes and pulled hair behind her ear in a familiar gesture as she mumbled, "I missed you too."
With a quick evaluation of the clock, she looked back at her daughter in surprise. "You're early."
"I left at three in the morning," she confessed. It was the only way she could have arrived in Trinidad at ten o'clock, after what was usually a seven hour drive.
"No wonder you look exhausted," Sydney sighed, putting the bagels back in the drawer.
"What are you doing? I'm hungry."
"You'll eat later. Go take a nap. Your room is just like you left it."
"Great, that means it's a mess," she mumbled, slowly standing.
Unzipping her daughter's duffel and encountering a massive amount of laundry, she inquired, "I assume this is for me?"
"I thought you might have missed doing my laundry," Claire shrugged.
The older woman rolled her eyes. "I'm afraid to ask what you've done for the last three months," she sighed. "Go lie down. When you wake up I'll make lunch. I'm going to go put this in the washer," she explained, grabbing the duffel and disappearing down the stairs.
When Sydney reappeared in her kitchen, there was no sign of Claire, and Gehrig had curled back up on his blanket. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she settled down into the family room to catch up on her reading. After amusing herself for nearly three chapters of the book, she crept quietly up the stairs, relieved that the staircase refrained from creaking. Climbing to the top floor, she turned right towards her daughter's room. As was customary, her bedroom door was closed. Mindful of her sleeping daughter, she slowly turned the knob and stepped into the room.
The room was exactly as Claire had left it months before, although on occasion, she found herself entering to check on things. On the bed, her daughter was draped unceremoniously on her belly, her soft snores echoing through the room. Snowy, her oldest stuffed animal, had been rescued from her duffel on the way up and was tucked safely under her arm. Sighing, she leaned against the wall, taking in the surroundings that she had once seen every day.
Photos of friends and family were everywhere, and a photo of Sydney and Claire from the previous year's Christmas card was framed on her nightstand table. Everything in her daughter's room was neatly kept in wooden frames she had purchased from a dollar store and later decorated on her own. All of her various interests were visible, from the massive poster of former University of Connecticut standout basketball player Sam Emmers, now a player with the Sacramento Monarchs, to the framed front page of the local sports section from the day her high school softball team won their division world series. Along the way there were statues of variously dressed teddy bears, stacks and stacks of CD's, shelves of older movies, and the stuffed animals that remained on her bed, all of which had been in her possession since she was an infant.
Knowing Claire was sleeping and safe, Sydney resisted the urge to kiss her daughter, aware that she was a light sleeper. With one more glance over her shoulder, she left the room, silently closing the door behind her. In her mind, she decided to let her daughter sleep a few more hours, accepting the consequence of her sleep schedule being briefly off for a day or so, as she descended the staircase.
Shortly before one in the afternoon, Claire came upon her mother in the kitchen. Sydney had been sitting quietly, drinking iced tea and working on a crossword puzzle. At her daughter's reappearance, she quickly got to work, making the duo lunch. As she went about the preparations, she worked to catch up on all she'd missed in her daughter's life. Claire had the expected difficulties; adjusting to a new person as a roommate, to sharing a bathroom with a floor of practical strangers, and the dangers of meal plan food. Even so, it was obvious she was enjoying herself. Claire had inherited the bravado and fearless nature that her mother hadn't acquired until she was older. Plus, she made several off handed mentions of a young man on the school's basketball team, something her mother made a note to bring up later.
They ate lunch on the deck. Sydney worked to familiarize herself with her daughter's new friends and new life. As much as her daughter had changed, she had changed as well. Being alone could do that to a woman, and although the change was by no means as drastic as Claire's, both knew it was there. Acknowledging that her daughter was surviving, and even thriving, on her own was a bittersweet occasion. The pleasure of knowing that she'd brought Claire into the world and helped make her into a well-rounded, courageous, happy young woman with a good on her shoulders, made her smile. In her mind she could still recall a wobbly toddler's first steps, or the fear in her cocoa eyes on the first day of kindergarten. Now she was out in the world, tackling it on her own, without Sydney's protection or daily guidance. As a mother, her job was now to sit back and hope for the best, offering advice and guidance when called upon.
Together they folded Claire's clothes, unpacking her belongings, debating what she should take back for the remainder of the semester. Half focused on an afternoon basketball game, the two lay in the living room and discussed their Christmas options. To her surprise, Sydney discovered that her daughter continued not only to speak to her an average of three times a week, but continued to call her grandparents at least once a week as well. Claire was excited at the prospect of going to Puget Sound in the upcoming weeks, eager to show her grandmother what she could make from the recipe for a traditional Russian dessert that Irina had taught her the previous holiday season.
Late into the afternoon they began preparations in the kitchen for the next day's massive meal. The china that they used only a few times a year had to be removed and hand-washed from the breakfront. Claire tossed together the first batch of muffins and convinced her mother to allow her to make the cranberry sauce on her own that year. Somewhere along the way Sydney flicked on the radio, the two singing in off-key voices to the music, sharing easy conversation as they went.
Neither was exceptionally hungry as dinnertime rolled around. With the next day's enormous meal looming ahead of them, the older woman had expected nothing less. Instead, she pulled out two plates, a loaf of bread and the cold cuts as the two prepared their own sandwiches. Silence cocooned them as they ate. As she finished her sandwich, Claire was surprised to look up and see the distant look in her mother's eyes. Although her sandwich was gone, it was obvious Sydney's focus was not on her meal. Instead, she took another sip of her iced tea, setting it down on the tabletop before she realized her daughter was looking at her.
"Sorry," she smiled.
"What's wrong?
Sydney sighed, fighting the remainder of her internal battle as she pushed her hair behind her ear. Finally, she met her daughter's curious eyes. "Do you remember how I used tell you, when you'd ask, that I couldn't tell you some things because I used to work for the government?"
Confused at the sudden direction of the question, Claire's eyes narrowed as her voice cracked. "Yeah. Why?"
"I think there's something I want to show you," she decided. Slowly the woman stood, her daughter following her actions in slight bewilderment. Obediently, she trailed her mother through the kitchen and family room and turned up the staircase. Arriving at the top, Claire noticed the sky growing progressively darker through the bathroom skylight as they passed.
Sydney had led her directly to her bedroom, a place Claire was familiar with. As a little girl, the two would sit on her bed and watch movies on her television at night, and when she was extremely young, she'd sometimes crawl into bed with her mother after a nightmare or if she grew lonely. On that occasion she sat down next to her mother on Sydney's traditional side of the bed, watching her mother lean over and open her nightstand drawer. Without hesitation, she reached inside and from the top of the pile of her most personal belongings, she pulled a photograph. Then she handed it to her daughter.
Claire's sharp eye quickly detected the aged nature of the photograph. The picture was of four people. At first she recognized a far younger version of her mother, smiling beside a far younger version of her Uncle Will. On the other side of her mother was a tall, blonde man with his arm wrapped snuggly around her mother. Then to the left of her Uncle Will, was an attractive African American woman who was cuddled up next to her uncle's side. All four were smiling.
"That's you and Uncle Will," Claire grinned, pointing to the appropriate figures.
"Yeah," she softly agreed, "it is."
To her confusion, she glanced over to see that her mother's eyes had glossed over with unshed tears. "Who are the other two people?"
"That..." Sydney carefully took her finger and pointed it to the black woman, "that's your Aunt Francie."
"My namesake," Claire exhaled, finally seeing the woman who had inspired her mother's choice of a middle name. For years she had heard stories about her mother's best friend and former roommate; the woman who had shared her mother's college and younger years. Sometimes, she'd wondered why there were photos of that woman out, but Sydney had explained when she was much younger that Francie had been murdered by bad people a long, long time ago. Even at a young age Claire had known better than to bring up anything that could upset her mother. "Who's he?"
"That's Michael Vaughn," she sighed. "I was in love with him," she explained. Claire's eyes grew as she looked at her mother in awe, waiting for the story to unravel. "Because of my job, I couldn't be with him for a long time. Then we were able to be together. We were so happy. . " she recalled. "Vaughn and I were together when I disappeared."
The pieces slowly began to fall into place as her daughter added, "When you lost two years."
"Right," Sydney sighed. Explaining that part of her life had always been difficult, but Claire was a patient listener; a fantastic sounding board. Best yet, she kept secrets to herself and knew when not to push a subject, an art form that her own mother hadn't always mastered. "When I returned... Everyone had thought I was dead. Your grandparents, your uncles... Everyone," she explained, unable to look at her daughter. "Vaughn was married."
"Mom," her voice cracked, her heart breaking for her mother.
"That was twenty years ago Claire." She looked back up at her daughter, the dim light glittering off of her unshed tears. "When I moved to Trinidad, we stopped talking. We really didn't have much to say to one another once I returned. . ."
"Why are you showing me this now?"
"Vaughn showed up here a few weeks ago. He was just sitting on the back stoop one day when I came back from walking Gehrig," she explained, her eyes drawn back to the photo her daughter still studied. "He needed to talk. . . He's divorced now, things didn't go the way he planned. . . Things didn't go the way either one of us planned," she sighed. Claire's eyes were slightly hazed with confusion as Sydney clarified. "Sweetheart. . .you know I could never regret you. . . That I can't imagine my life without you. . . But there was a time when I couldn't imagine my life without him."
"And you didn't even want to try," Claire calmly added. Glancing back at the photos, she confidently added, "I should have been his."
"Claire -"
"I know Mom, I'm not trying to give you the guilt trip - my father is, who my father is. He's gone now, I can't change that and really wouldn't want to," Claire promised. "It's the truth. In a perfect world, this man would have fathered your children."
"But the world isn't perfect."
"What about Peter?"
"What about Peter? Nothing is going on with Vaughn, but he is back in my life. . . I don't ever want to keep secrets from you that I don't have to."
"Mom. . . You loved him," she shrugged away a sigh, studying the aged photo. "How can you not want to try to get that back?"
"I've had twenty years to think about it Claire, but I won't hurt Peter. Vaughn just needs a friend right now. He's going through a pretty tough time."
"And of all the people in the world, he chooses you, out of the blue?" her daughter returned skeptically. "I'm assuming he lives in Los Angeles, which means the drive was like fourteen hours, which totally invalidates any possibility of it being a spontaneous gesture."
"I don't think it was spontaneous. He's not a spontaneous person," she softly recalled. "I think he just needed someone who understands."
"Yeah, because there are only a few million people in Los Angeles and the surrounding area who could have listened," Claire mumbled. "Are you going to see him again?"
"I sort of already have," she muttered, glancing down at her lap as she tucked hair behind her ear. As her daughter's confusion hung unspoken in the air, she explained. "Last weekend. He came up. Spent Friday and Saturday here."
"I'm not going to ask about sleeping arrangements," her daughter commented.
"Claire!" Sydney's eyes widened and skin burned. "Vaughn slept on the sofa. I slept in my bedroom. Nothing happened. We talked, we caught up on things. It's been twenty years. During a very difficult time in my life, he was the most important person in it."
Rolling her large eyes, the younger woman dropped onto her back, staring at the popcorn ceiling for a moment. "So what's the deal with calling him Vaughn? The guy's name is Michael."
A small smile grew as her mother lay down as well, turning her head to face Claire. "I don't know. He's always called me Sydney. .When we first worked together, I didn't like him. Danny had just died, and I thought he was too young and cocky to be my boss."
"He was your boss?" Her daughter's eyes grew, the tiny tidbit pushing on her hunger for the unfolding saga.
"Sort of," Sydney sighed. "I wish I could tell you everything Claire -"
"You can't, just like I can't know a lot about Grandpa and Grandma or tell my friends that Grandma's even *alive*." Her wide eyes emphasized her slight exasperation. "I know Mom."
"When we became... involved, he asked me why I didn't call him Michael. I just could never call him that, not comfortably," she shrugged. "He'll always be Vaughn to me."
"Sounds very X-Files to me. Or maybe ER with the name thing. They always called poor Dr. Carter by his last name, never John. Did you ever notice that?" Claire inquired, her face lacking anything but curiosity as her mother laughed.
"You watch too much TV Land."
"Nah," her daughter insisted. "No way. TV Land has Dick Van Dyke, Mom! Name *one* show better in television history than the Dick Van Dyke Show!"
Laughing, Sydney rolled her eyes as she teased, "I guess I can't."
"Well..." She rolled onto her belly and sighed. She then continued to study the photo her mother had pulled from her most private of bedroom drawers. "He was cute in his day," Claire approved.
"Not that it matters," her mother slowly corrected, repositioning herself so she sat up on her bed, "but Vaughn is still cute."
Claire shook her head and chuckled. "It's so weird that you called your *boyfriend* by his last name."
"I always called him that," her voice cracked as it dipped far lower than her normal range. "I can't imagine calling him anything else."
"So, when is he coming back? Or do you have some secret rendezvous planned to see him when we're in Los Angeles?"
"None of my plans are that long term."
"Well you can't not call him. I mean, at least call him tomorrow, it's Thanksgiving."
"When will I have time?" she skeptically asked. "You know how crazy tomorrow always is."
"It's just a thought," Claire shrugged. "You could have invited him for dinner, if you really wanted."
"No." Her mother vigorously shook her head. "Thanksgiving is our day. Anyway, we'll have people dropping in and out all day, it wouldn't have been a good time."
"I still like Peter," the teenager sighed, slowly stretching and lifting herself off of her mother's bed.
"I care very much about Peter!" Sydney insisted. "We're not serious, and Vaughn and I are just friends."
"You're such a bad liar Mommy," Claire spoke affectionately, a smile on her face as her head shook. "You want to be friends with this guy about as much as I want to be friends with Bryce O'Neal."
"Oh..." Her mother grew intrigued, leaning closer to her daughter. "The one on the basketball team?"
"We are not having this conversation now," she decided, punctuating her point with a yawn. "I'm sorry Mom, I'm still tired -"
"It's okay Tinkerbelle, we can talk in the morning," she agreed. A tired smile slowly spread across Claire's face as she hugged her mother and kissed her cheek.
"I'm going to bed."
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart."
"Love you Mom," Claire called, hearing her mother echo the same sentiment before both retired to their appropriate rooms.
For all of her nearly eighteen years, Thanksgiving had been a day where you woke early and went to bed equally early. That holiday was no exception, as Sydney padded into her daughter's room to wake her shortly after seven. From the French doors the sun slowly rose in, the warm shades of orange and yellow danced a warm glow over the room. No amount of persuasion ever convinced her mother to relax on Thanksgiving morning. Instead, they were quickly to work, slicing and dicing and preparing all the necessary trimmings, including a stuffing made from scratch.
Since childhood, the warm smell of Bells Seasoning would remind Claire of Thanksgiving. By mid-morning, the smell was spread not only in the kitchen, but throughout the house. Going through the motions with the grace gained from years of experience, Sydney seemed to move effortlessly through the kitchen. A scene that would be seen as chaos to many, was simple management for Claire's mother, and between the two of them, they had everything settled in time for the broadcast of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Before noon the guests started to arrive. With Georgia helping her mother in the kitchen, Claire disappeared into the backyard with Georgia's two sons, the boys she had grown up with, to toss around a football. As she washed vegetables and went about the business of preparing dinner, Sydney watched through the window, unable to stop herself from worrying. Still, she took the opportunity to catch up with her friend, doing her best to try to convince Georgia that Michael Vaughn was nothing more than an old friend.
Nearly two hours before they usually ate dinner, the Bristow kitchen table was spread out with all the food needed for an appropriate Thanksgiving feast. Peter had arrived nearly an hour earlier, sitting briefly in the kitchen before plopping down in the family room with Georgia's sons to watch the remainder of the day's football games. In the beginning of the meal, the group quietly passed around platters and plates, muttering pleasantries as the food was piled. Soon everyone was settled in, the food slowly disappearing as the conversation resumed.
Peter was eager to hear how his former students were doing in the world. One of Georgia's sons had just returned to graduate school at nearly thirty, while her youngest was set to graduate college in the spring. Everyone was curious to hear how life was at Stanford, how Claire was fending in the real world, along with how well she was coping with the Cardinals off-season regimen. In between actual conversation, were compliments on the food, people going back for seconds, and scratching together initial plans for the Christmas holiday.
As Sydney had predicted, various co-workers and friends of Claire continued to drop in until it was nearly dark out. The more the merrier had always been her motto, especially since more people generally meant fewer leftovers. As was customary, Claire put herself in charge of the clean up effort, loading the dishwasher and washing the most fragile of items. Later in the evening, she even went about the vigorous task of putting everything away in the fridge while her mother enjoyed conversation and pie with a friend and Peter on the deck.
"Mom?" Claire stuck her head into the family room just after seven. Confused, she had discovered her mother standing in the center of the room, seemingly fixated on the sleeping telephone. At her daughter's voice, Sydney's head popped up to meet Claire's. "I'm going to go play some air hockey with Jake and Harry, is that okay?"
"That's fine," she smiled. "Harry told me he's going to beat you."
"That's what he thinks," Claire smirked.
"Hey, I want to talk about Bryce later!" Sydney called to her daughter's retreating figure, a grin on her daughter's face as she disappeared out the front door. Briefly alone, she let out a heavy sigh and set her mind. Determined with her choice, she reached for the telephone.
Seven hundred miles south of Trinidad, Michael Vaughn walked back into his small apartment just after five in the afternoon. Outside the sun was dipping progressively lower over the ocean. Thanksgiving at the Weiss' had not disappointed. The kids were getting progressively bigger, their eldest even talking about college options, although he was only a freshman in high school. They watched football and complimented Megan on her cooking, talking about hockey and the weather during the meal. Although Megan always turned him down, he still offered to stay and help clean up before he excused himself, agreeing to talk to Eric sometime during the weekend.
Silence was the only thing to greet him as he sank into his favorite lounger. Now aged, once upon a time it had been where Alex would sit and eagerly wait for him, her little body all but eaten up by the soft blue fabric. Once in a while, she'd even crawl into his lap and he'd read to her or she'd watch a hockey game with him, cherishing the time she'd had with her Daddy. When she was a little girl, the hours after Thanksgiving dinner were always when she'd climb onto his lap, falling asleep in his arms as he watched Sports Center.
Thoughts of a previous life were ended as the phone rang. Logic did nothing to dispel the hope that resided in his heart. Staring at the phone as another ring shook it, he snapped out of his haze and grabbed the object. "Hello?"
"Hi."
The sigh revealed the disappointment he struggled to hide as he relaxed against his chair. "Hey Kate. How are you?"
"I'm fine," she easily replied. "Are you okay? You sounded a bit upset when you picked up."
"No, it's nothing, I'm fine," Vaughn insisted. "Are you fine? Is everything okay -"
"I'm fine," she cut him off. "I'm fine. How are Megan and Eric?"
"Good. Good. Megan cooked too much."
A few hundred miles away, Kate's laughter reached his ears. "She always does. How are the kids?"
"Fine," he smiled easily. "Josh is already talking about college."
"Oh, he can't be old enough!"
"Freshman in high school," Michael reminded his former wife. "He's getting tall, he's even on the JV basketball team."
"Well, that's good for him," she agreed. "Alex called?"
"Yes, this morning," he assured her. "It was a pleasant surprise."
"I didn't even have to remind her," Kate pleasantly commented. "You got the present?"
"Arrived on my doorstep last night. Thank you."
"I'm not that cruel Michael, I wouldn't allow Alex to overlook your birthday."
"Thanks Kate," he repeated. "How was your Thanksgiving?"
"Actually," she stalled as he sensed the anxiety in her voice. "Matt and I got married this afternoon. Nothing big, of course. Just Alex, the justice of the peace and a few of our friends."
"Congratulations."
"I would have told you, but it wasn't something we especially planned. . . We were living together, and he hates the whole idea of promoting living in sin to Alex . . "
"No, no, that's wonderful. That's great Kate, I hope you two are very happy."
"I think we will be," she softly agreed. "Now, are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," he vowed. "Please wish Matt my best. Tell Alex I'll call her tomorrow."
"I will. She's out with friends right now."
"Okay. Take care of yourself Kate, and please let me know if you need anything."
"I will," Kate assured him. "Happy birthday Michael."
"Congratulations Kate," he repeated as they hung up the phone. As the phone hit the hook, he glanced around his apartment. His large chair and cozy apartment suddenly felt suffocating. Outside his window, the metro Los Angeles area held an endless appeal. Slowly, his fingers began to burn with the urge to call someone, but there were no options. He'd been gone from Eric's for barely an hour, and certainly Sydney wouldn't appreciate his call on a day that was clearly devoted to a part of her life that he held no space in. The last part of that thought snapped him, rocketing him to his feet as he grabbed his keys and left the apartment.
The idea of making another impromptu drive briefly rested on his mind before he quickly discarded it. The news of Kate's remarriage was not a heavy burden. Ironically, he'd managed to remain on better terms with his ex-wife than he was with his daughter on most days. Instead, Vaughn remained in his solitude, burying the racing thoughts and quickly passing life milestones in the back of his mind as Springsteen briefly erased his troubles. With the convertible top down, a slight chill in the California air, he used side roads to avoid the holiday traffic. Since his purchase of the car nearly a year ago, he'd found himself escaping in it more and more, enjoying the freedom it offered and the quick escape from the remainder of the world. In the convertible he was just a man, a radio and the open road. Or at least whatever semi-free streets he could find to cruise in his neighborhood.
Two hours disappeared during his drive. Vaughn's only indication of the time was how the sky had darkened, not with the threat of showers, but the imminent fall of night. Putting the car to sleep in his reserved parking space, he sat patiently as the top came up and he locked it into place. The promise of another night alone, a birthday night celebrated with just a repeat of a days old Kings game, did nothing to rush his journey up the stairs. One foot inside his warm apartment, he was already shrugging off his jacket as the light on his answering machine caught his eye. Absently, Vaughn reached over to press the button as he approached his bedroom to change for the evening.
An electronic voice filled the apartment. "You have one new message. Message one:
"Vaughn," a soft, hesitant voice immediately caught him off guard. Already halfway to his bedroom, he stopped to turn and face the machine, imagining her there in his mind. "It's me," she continued, her voice slightly more confident, but no louder as she continued. "I guess you're out... I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. And a happy birthday. I'll talk to you soon," she added hopefully. A moment later her voice could barely be heard on the grainy tape as she spoke, "Bye."