V

"oh if i could i'd play out my part

i'd cup my hands and i'd

collect the rain that falls inside your heart. . ."

Monday, September 28, 1987

7:12 a.m.

Mother's voice came from somewhere over my left shoulder.  "Can I fix you something else, darling?"

"No, thanks."  I concentrated on stirring my herbal tea.  "I'm fine." 

She slipped into a chair at the kitchen table and opened the morning paper.  "It looks like we're in for a spell of cooler weather.  Winter will be here before you know it."

The morning sunlight streaming through the trees did have a chillier look about it this morning.  "I suppose I'll have to take the boys shopping soon.  Phillip's grown a foot since last year.  He needs a new winter coat."

"They're having a pre-season sale at Jameson's."  Mother pointed to a large advertisement.  "Twenty-five percent off."

"Maybe we'll go this weekend."

Bringing the cup to my lips, I gingerly sipped the steaming tea.  I was beginning to understand why Lee had always insisted that "normal" was overrated.  If this discussion was any barometer, Mother and I had taken it to a new level.  It was amazing how doggedly we plugged every crack in the conversation with trivialities—shopping, sports, the weather—all in the name of maintaining that blessedly "normal" façade.

We almost succeeded.  That is, if you didn't count the way Phillip invented reasons to stay close to home, completing his chores before he was asked.  Or how Jamie balked at even the simplest request, his mood fluctuating from sullen silence to brash arrogance.  And Mother's countless trips to the front window to make sure the surveillance van was still safely parked down the street. 

Not to mention the fully-trained, fully-qualified field agent who jumped every time the phone rang, alternately hoping and dreading that her section chief would be on the other end of the line.  Even more fodder for the renowned Dr. Pfaff . . . 

Mother's chair scraped the floor as she rose.  The noise caught my attention, as she knew it would.  "The boys will be down any minute," she raised her eyebrows significantly, "so we should get moving."

She meant that her daily game of "let's pretend" was about to start all over again.  I couldn't figure out how she did it.  Just watching her rush from the refrigerator to cooking island then back again filled me with exhaustion.  Since our return from Mrs. McMurty's, she never stayed still for more than a few minutes.  She was forever in the kitchen, concocting some new treat, or in the den, straightening the very room she'd cleaned only hours before.

Only today, she moved with a stiffness I hadn't noticed before.  "Maybe you should let Phillip and Jamie get their own breakfast this morning," I advised.  "They're certainly old enough."

"I'm perfectly fine." 

I flinched at her peppery tone; I was in for it now. 

"Besides, Missy," she continued, "you're a fine one to talk.  At least I haven't spent the past month packing and re-packing a one bedroom apartment."

I squirmed under her gaze.  "There are a lot of loose ends to tie up at Lee's place."

"If you say so."  The butter sizzled as Mother dropped it into the hot frying pan.

I tried again.  "It's not exactly easy, you know.  I have to decide what furniture to bring to the house, what to put into storage.  Not to mention clothes, dishes, knick-knacks . . . it's amazing how much junk he's accumulated in one short year."  That last part was true, at any rate; Lee was the original pack rat.  At least now the silk robes and other lingerie stuffed into the back of his closet were mine.

Mother glowered at me over her shoulder, her spatula poised in mid-air.  "Mr. Melrose called again last night.  He wanted to know when you're coming back to work."

"I haven't decided yet." 

I couldn't face the Agency at the moment.  After my vituperative "debriefing" at Dr. Smyth's hands, it was all I could do to drag myself there twice a week for my sessions with Pfaff.  If I hadn't promised Lee . . .

Mother's exasperated "Humph" showed exactly what she thought of my response.  "Well, if my opinion counts for anything, I think it's high time you went back to work."

"I thought you'd be happy that I was staying home."  I pressed my back against the chair.  "I thought you hated my job."

"That's beside the point.  It would do you good to get back into the world again, instead of holing yourself up in that apartment every day."

"That's not what I'm doing."  

"Hmm-hmm." 

She returned to the stove and stirred the eggs with even more energy than before.  I suppose my protest did sound a bit hollow.  The apartment had become an escape of sorts, but it was the one place where I felt like Lee's wife, not some imposter playing a role.  I couldn't let it go.  

Mother turned off the burner and wiped her hands on her apron.  "Amanda, believe me, I do understand," she said, her tone gently admonishing this time.  "But clinging to the past only makes the present more painful.  I learned that the hard way when your daddy died."

"It's not the same thing at all."  I could hear the timbre of my voice rising.  "Lee's not dead.  He's coming back." 

"I know, dear."  Mother sighed.  "I'm worried about you, that's all."

"Don't be.  I'm fine.  Really." 

"Amanda—" 

I was spared further advice by the sound of feet thundering down the stairs, but the reprieve was short-lived.  As Jamie clomped into the kitchen wearing his football shoes, Mother shifted her attention to him.  "Jamie King!  What have we told you about wearing your cleats in the house?"

"They're new," he said, as if that explained it all.  "The coach told us we needed to break them in." 

"I'm fairly certain he didn't mean in the kitchen."  Mother's frown clearly showed her displeasure at his whiney tone.  "I'd appreciate it if you'd remove them before you permanently scuff my nice clean floor."

Jamie made a face as he grudgingly complied, grumbling under his breath, "It's Mom's floor, not yours."

As Mother pressed her lips together, I jumped up.  "That's quite enough, young man.  Apologize to your grandmother this minute!"

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at his stocking feet.  "Sorry," he muttered, sounding every bit as insincere as he obviously felt.  Jamie's behavior had fluctuated between mildly obnoxious to downright rude all weekend; today wasn't shaping up to be much better. 

"Finish getting dressed or you're going to miss your bus," I told him as the dull beat of another headache began to throb behind my eyes.  I'd have to address his attitude later.  For the moment, I just wanted him safely corralled in school where, with any luck, I wouldn't have to deal with him for the next eight hours.

"I don't know what's gotten into that boy," Mother said as Jamie stomped upstairs.  "It's almost as if aliens swooped down and snatched his body overnight."

I cocked my head.  "Have you been watching the late, late show again, Mother?" 

She shot me a lethal look then stooped to collect the shoes Jamie left in the middle of the floor.  Holding them at arms length, she marched into the laundry room and deposited them in the basket we kept for old shoes.   Still maintaining her grim silence, she returned to the stove.

I twirled the tie on my robe around my finger.  "I'm sorry, Mother.  I was only trying to lighten the mood."

"I know, dear.  I just wish . . ."  Biting her lip, she divided the scrambled eggs onto two plates and set them on the breakfast bar.

I ran my finger around the rim of my mug as I took my seat again.  I knew full well what she wished; I wished it, too.  "Ever since Jamie started playing junior league football, he's been impossible to deal with," I said, steering away from dangerous ground.

Mother shrugged and walked to the sink.  I finished my tea, wondering again if letting Jamie play football instead of soccer had been a good idea.  Joe seemed to think that making some new friends would be good for him, but I wasn't as convinced.  The older group he'd been hanging around with seemed to be having the opposite effect.  He was behaving like a full-fledged teenager all of a sudden—and an insufferable one at that. 

"Maybe I should make him sit out the game this weekend," I mused out loud.

Mother turned on the water and squirted some dishwashing liquid in the sink, pausing to watch the bubbles rise.  "I'm not sure that would solve anything."

"It might make him think twice before subjecting us to that smart mouth of his."

"You're only addressing the symptom, Amanda, not the cause."

"You think I should make him give up football entirely?  It's the only thing he's taken an interest in since we came home."

Shrugging, she scrubbed the counter with vigorous strokes.  When the last speck of dirt had succumbed to her relentless sponge, she turned to me with a sigh.  "You know, in my day, a child would never have dreamed of speaking to an adult like that.  And if he did, it would have been followed by a quick trip to the woodshed."

I groaned.  "That solution's not even going to address the symptom, Mother."

"Probably not.  That boy could really use a man's influence." 

I pursed my lips and looked out the window.  "I'll ask Joe to talk to him again."

I could hear Mother behind me, splashing in the soapy water as she scoured the dishes.  What she wasn't saying came through loud and clear.  Joe was a great guy, but rebellious teenagers were out of his realm of experience.  Now, Lee's teen years would have provided a wealth of personal experience to draw on . . . 

I tore my eyes from the window just in time to see Mother drape the dishcloth over the bar on the oven door.  "Jamie is basically a good boy," she pronounced.  "I'm sure this is only a phase he's going through."

"Let's hope so."

"Sweetheart."  She came up behind me.  "Didn't I tell you that babies were a piece of cake compared to teenagers?"

I smiled, in spite of myself.  "And they don't wear cleats in the house, either."

"No," she chuckled, "they don't."  She pressed her hand to my shoulder.  "Don't you think it's time you told them?"

I felt my throat close.  "I can't.  I don't know how."

"If you wait too much longer, Mother Nature will solve that problem for you.  You're in your second trimester, Amanda."

"I'm not showing, am I?"  I stood up in alarm, my hands patting my stomach. 

Her sharp eyes took inventory as they swept over me.  "No, not really."

I nodded, relieved.  I'd spent a full ten minutes in front of the mirror last night, trying to decide if my condition was detectable to a casual observer.  I'd eventually reached the conclusion that I merely looked fat, not pregnant.  But that wouldn't be the case much longer. 

"I know I'll have to tell them soon, but . . ."  I combed my fingers through my hair.  "I just can't seem to find the right words.  This isn't going to be easy on them.  The boys may know Lee and I are married, but they can't tell anyone else."

"I still don't understand why not."

"It's complicated," I explained, hoping to head-off another discussion of Agency procedures.  Dr. Smyth had made his position all too clear in our interview—officially, Scarecrow was still assigned to the London office and that cover must be maintained at all costs.  "Lee and I are under contact zero orders until his mission is completed.  So, for now, it looks like I'll have to be a single mother.  It's safer that way—for him and for us."

Mother peered at me closely.  "Is that what's stopping you?  You're worried about what people are going to think?"

"No, Mother."  My simmering anger exploded, and I all but screamed, "I'm too busy worrying about Lee to give a damn about what 'people' think.  But the boys are a different matter.  After everything we've sprung on them these past few weeks, I'm afraid a baby might be the last straw.  Especially under these circumstances."

"You're going to have a baby?"  Tensing, I looked over my shoulder into two pairs of astounded eyes.  "You're pregnant?" Phillip accused again, while Jamie continued to stare open-mouthed.  I silently chastised myself for letting down my guard; I'd never heard them come down the stairs.

I slowly turned around.  There was nothing to do now but come even cleaner.  "Yeah, fellas, I am.  The baby is due in March."  I smiled weakly at Jamie.  "I guess you're both going to get the chance to be big brothers now."

He frowned and looked down at the floor.  My cheeks flushing, I rambled on, hardly knowing what I was saying.  "I know this might not be the news you were expecting at the moment, but I hope, in time, you guys can be happy as happy about it as . . . well, as I am." 

Phillip let out a put-upon groan.  "Yeah, whatever."  Snatching his books from the kitchen counter, he grabbed Jamie's arm.  "Come on, worm brain.  You can walk with me as far as the bus stop."

"Your breakfast . . ."

They didn't hear their grandmother; they had already fled the room.  I winced as the front door slammed closed.  Phillip never let his younger brother walk to the high school bus stop with him these days—he considered it bad for his "image."  Evidently I'd now managed to upset both my sons.

I turned to Mother with a sarcastic little laugh.  "Well, that certainly went well." 

She gathered up the untouched plates and dumped the now-cold breakfast into the sink.  "You know what I think," she said, her voice tight.  "You should have told them weeks ago.  All these secrets have to stop, Amanda."

I stared at her through half-lidded eyes.  "Come on, Mother, be honest.  It's not only the boys you think I should have told weeks ago."

She stood up straighter, her hands on her hips as she faced me.  "No, it's not."

The accusation in her eyes looked too much like what I saw in my mirror every morning.  "You don't understand," I began, not sure which of us I was trying to convince.  "The Agency—"

Mother held up her hand.  "I've heard more than enough about that Agency of yours to last a lifetime.  Stop using it as an excuse.  You should have told Lee that he was going to be a father.  Before he left to do whatever it is the two of you seemed to think was so damned important."

"I couldn't."  I bit down hard on my lower lip.  "Other lives depended on him."

"What about your life—and the life of this child you're carrying?  Don't they count for anything?"  Mother tapped her foot hard on the tile floor.  "It was his decision to make, Amanda, not yours.  How do you think he's going to feel when he finds out you took that choice away from him?"

"He'll understand."  At least, I hoped he would.  If only he hadn't left so abruptly that morning . . . no, that wasn't fair.  This wasn't Lee's fault.  I'd had plenty of chances to tell him.

Mother frowned as she returned to her chores.  I didn't know how to explain my actions to her, how to make her understand.  She was one of the fortunate ones who could still think in black and white terms.  With any luck, it would continue to be that way, and the shadowy world of the Agency would forever remain a mystery to her.  In a way, I envied her that; envied her the innocence the dark, impenetrable eyes of men like Addi Birol had stolen from me. 

I shivered as another flashback threatened.  Remembering Pfaff's advice, I fixed my gaze on a familiar object, slowly reciting my mantra until the feeling passed.   I was dimly aware of the ringing telephone, but I couldn't answer it.  I was too busy concentrating on staying in the here and now.  Amazingly, after a few minutes, the swirling panic receded.  Pfaff's exercise was working . . .

"Amanda."  There was a sharp pressure on my arm.  Mother stood beside me, the telephone receiver dangling from her hand.  "That was Mr. Melrose.  He needs to see you right away, darling."  Instinctively, she slipped an arm around my waist to steady me.  "He said to tell you they've found Francine."