Chapter 6: Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

For the past week, she has been trekking up to Santa Barbara to meet with Vaughn: three sessions down and God only knows how many to go. Plain and simple: her current stalemate sucks. Arriving at quarter to one for her one o'clock appointment, she checked in with Kristen and exasperatedly thumbed through a magazine. Kristen observes Sydney from behind the desk as she schedules appointments on the phone. At 1:00, Vaughn paged Kristen. She informed Sydney that Dr. Vaughn will see her now.

"First door at the top of the stairs."

Sydney nodded at Kristen, following her directions and making her way through the renovated Victorian they converted into offices. The door to his office was open; she knocked and walked in. It's tastefully decorated in a navy blue color scheme; additionally she imagined he won a game of rock, paper, scissors with Max, because the beautiful bay window boasted a superb view.

"Hello." She greeted.

Sitting at his desk, Vaughn gazed up at her, "Afternoon." They silently communicated back and forth about where Sydney should sit: ultimately she plopped down on the couch. "Do people usually lay down or sit up?"

Vaughn chuckled, "Whatever floats your boat."

"I'll sit up," she decided, propping up against a pillow.

Not starting immediately, Vaughn stared at Sydney for a few moments. She mused whether this was how he began all sessions or just hers. More silence and discomfort occurred until she chose to stare out the window while he stared at her. Finally, probably in a sheer act of desperation, he cleared his throat, "I want to do some word association."

This was absurd. "Alright."

He flipped to a clean sheet of paper and initiated to scribble down his words as well as her responses. He started: "Night."

"Pier." Which was not a total attempt at a lie to get him interested, but one of her favorite places to go after sunset.

He flatly continued (still avoiding her eyes), "Santa Monica."

"Beeper."

"You just threw your beeper in the Pacific."

"Technology."

"Zamboni."

"No, coming home with you after the game is my favorite part"

"Ice."

"Hockey."

"Then maybe we can go to that hockey game."

He based his word selection on her responses. She devised to use her theory to her advantage; that was until he blew it out of the water with his next word: "Home."

Upset, she retorts, "Destroyed."

"You're house was destroyed, presumably with you and your friends inside."

"Fire."

"Bomb."

"What we saw... at the church... every time we think we've seen the worst…"

"Weapon."

"Nuclear."

"You called SD-6 instead of the C.I.A.! That is unacceptable! You should've called me!"

The correlation returned, he must change directions every four or five words. He proved her new theory correct when he said: "White."

"Lights." More specifically, ferris wheel lights.

"I'm sorry to call you, I just didn't know who else to call."

"Black."

"Darkness."

"In this job, you see darkness..."

"Red."

Are we going through the colors now? Do these damn things actually have a purpose? -- other than to reopen her wounds. None of her responses elicited reactions from him. Lauren must have been more aware of Vaughn's memories than Sydney believed. She must dig deeper, be more obvious.

"Bozo Hair."

"When you first walked into my office with that stupid Bozo hair, I thought you were crazy."

Sydney's heart broke: how appropriate. He resumed, still oblivious; and abandoned the colors. "Hate."

"Sloane."

"I just wanted to rip his finger right off again."

"Love."

"You."

"Ask yourself, would you betray someone you love?"

That got a reaction from him: mortification. He hesitated before writing it down. He let it pass, and radically changed the theme. "Meetings."

"Warehouse."

"Your counter mission is…"

"Appointments."

"Barnett."

"Judy?" Looking up at Sydney for the first time, Vaughn stopped the word association and directly inquired.

For a moment, Sydney felt a flash of triumph. Did she bring a memory forth? Excitedly, she leaned forward and inquired, "How did you know that?"

"She's a psychiatrist in Los Angeles who I've worked with before." Vaughn enlightened, "She also taught one of my graduate courses."

God. Damn. It. Frustrated at her quick assumption, she shook her head. It wasn't going to be that easy. "No, she's the CIA psychiatrist."

"Syd, I have no way to confirm that."

There it was again: the distracting and painful 'Syd' he occasionally allowed to slip. "You could call the number I gave you."

"I did. It doesn't work."

Sydney snapped, "Try again. Or, let me try."

"No, Sydney…"

"Why the hell not?"

He didn't need to answer her. Sydney realized why. Leaning back on the couch, she digested her frustration and sadness. "You don't believe me. You think I'm some fruitcake. You want to institutionalize me. You might feel a slight bit of compassion for me, but it wouldn't change the fact that to you, I never even existed."

"You don't need to be institutionalized," Vaughn commented quickly, while he tapped his pen slowly against his pad. "I think we should continue."

Choking up, she batted her eyelashes in an attempt to maintain her dignity. She won't speak, that would reveal how his conduct tortured her. Glancing over at him, she refused to get her hopes built up just to be shattered again by convincing herself that there's a hint of heartache in his eyes. She cleared her throat, "No. I think it's my turn."

"What?"

"I have some questions to ask you."

"Uh..." Vaughn paused, tossed aside his legal pad, and agreed. "Okay."

"Tolstoy."

"It's like Tolstoy long."

"Long." He responsed.

"Dentist."

"You need a dentist. Do you have one? Because I can get you a name."

"Pain."

Does he remember or does he just not like the dentist?

"Torture."

"I've got bad news for you, man. I'm your worst enemy. I've got nothing to lose."

Vaughn wrinkled his forehead. "More pain."

Damn it, he just doesn't like the dentist.

"Invisible Friend."

"Who am I talking to? ... You're invisible friend."

"Childhood."

"Guardian Angel."

"My guardian angel."

"Saint Michael."

"What?" That's not funny, if he thought that was funny, he did not know funny. Was he mocking her?

"Saint Michael, the patron Saint in Catholicism. He battled Lucifer; he's considered the primer Guardian."

Fucking Dogma. Frustrated she moved along: "Past."

"Future."

"That's too obvious. You're not answering me truthfully; I answered you."

Vaughn fired back, "That was the first thing I thought of; but, fine."

Max was right in the coffee shop; he does have an attitude problem.

"Vatican"

"Yeah, I'll break into the Vatican with you."

"Rome."

"Trattoria di Nardi"

"Well, the food's so good it's almost worth the risk."

"Italian."

"Nice."

"I am hungry. I'm starving. I mean, we're going to be together anyway, why can't we be eating? Aren't you hungry?"

"France."

"Rambaldi."

"Da Vinci meets Nostradamus -- personally, I don't buy it."

"ET."

"ET?" What the fuck?

"Carlo Rambaldi; effects artist."

She brushed away the random factoid, "Manchurian Candidate."

Taken aback, he paused and narrowed his eyes. "Frank Sinatra."

"October 1st."

"It stopped on October 1st. The Day we met."

"Palindromic number."

That killed her.

The day they met was just a palindromic number to him. She almost openly wept at his response, however her pride prevailed. After that he declared the meeting was over; that was the first session. The second session got slightly better until her story caused him to request her to stop calling him "Vaughn." She was definitely getting to him, just not in the way she wanted to get to him. The third was like the second, more talking and questions.

And now she's here for her fourth appointment, another stalemate for sure. Sydney knows the routine by now and is already climbing the stairs when Vaughn pages Kristen.

Showtime.

He sits in a chair, without his legal pad (which he never used again since the word association). He smiles and she takes her seat on the couch; at least they perfected the standard welcome.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"How are you today?"

"I'm better, you?"

"Can't complain." Vaughn nods. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Shouldn't you be calling the shots here? After all, I'm certifiable." Sydney retorts a tad snider then she meant.

Vaughn smiles, "No. Not today."

Sydney jumps on the opportunity he presents her; she will lead the discussion, and she'll bombard him with triggers for every second of their time together. "How's Donovan?"

Vaughn tries to hide his surprise. Sydney tries to hide her triumphant grin. "Your dog."

"He's fine." Vaughn slowly says, "Old and pudgy, but healthy."

"That's good; he was always adorable." Sydney answers honestly. Today will be a good day. She contemplates her next move, and opts to question: "Vaughn, do you keep a diary?"

"Sydney, I don't believe that's any of your business."

"Sorry. I ask because I have heard that it is therapeutic to keep a diary or daily journal. You being a therapist and all, that seems like a legitimate question. Plus, your dad kept a diary, though you told him that only girls kept diaries."

Vaughn doesn't initially react. "What do you base your assumptions on?"

"What makes you think they're assumptions?"

"Considering I never told you those details of my life, I assume they are assumptions. Of course, you do know what they say about assuming."

"Exactly, Vaughn: don't make an ass out of yourself. What makes you think you never told me? Then again, maybe I'm a psychic like your Aunt Trish: the crop circle worshipper, the 'crazy one' in the family. Did she ever have sessions with you?"

Sydney observes him half smirk, unnerved, and half nod before saying, "I thought we decided that you were going to address me as Dr. Vaughn."

"No." Sydney curtly retorts. Reiterating, she presses the issue: "What makes you believe you never told me?"

"I think I never told you, because I have no memory of telling you; and memories are the only truths that we have."

"That's not true."

"You don't believe so? Why not?"

"Because you have no personal memory of…" Sydney says the first thing they pops into her mind, "Uh… the Civil War, but the Civil War definitely happened."

"Yes, however all of those have tangible sources -- diaries, pictures, letters - which validate a soldier's memory."

"Well," Damn, he does have a point. "Well, what about the things the solider forgot to mention. Does that mean they didn't happen?"

"Perhaps it does; or perhaps it means they were so negligible that it doesn't matter."

That was low. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her visually hurt, however her voice reveals truly how much she resents his remark. "I think you're wrong. You theory is just a defense mechanism for not accepting what I have to say to be true and that those memories don't exist anymore."

"And why don't these memories exist anymore?"

For the past four days she's been going over their pending conversation in her head. He will not react well, and she's been avoiding the topic like the plague, because she doesn't want to lie either. However, today he directly questioned her, meaning, she needs to answer. Truthfully.

"Because the CIA erased them."

"Erased them?" He repeats, and she nods.

"Okay." He's calm, but his tone is disbelieving. "How, furthermore, when and why did they do this?"

"Truth?" Sydney leans forward, moving closer to him. Is this more psychoanalyzing? He's remaining more composed than she imagined he would. Whether he's truly interested or not, she answers. "You thought I died, and you couldn't handle that. Your depression was beyond the point of drug therapy or psychological help, to such an extent that you were a danger to yourself. The CIA felt you would be a good candidate for a newly invented technique to remove specific memories from your brain."

"Memories of you; of us?"

Sydney nods.

"Your death."

"My supposed death."

Vaughn imbibes what Sydney says for a moment. He gets up and paces the room, before looking out the window. Sydney tentatively rises from the couch.

Slowly, he says, "You died in a fire."

"So it seemed."

Shakily, he says, "There was nothing left... Not even a body to cling too... Just ash... And a few bones... and..."

Sydney freezes. That is actual pain that she is hearing. Could it be true? She moves closer, "Yes, they identified the body through DNA found in the teeth."

She dares to move closer, as he continues, "I dropped you off... and I remember thinking that if I'd come in with you... Or if you hadn't gone in... If you had just spent the night at my place... if .... then… You wouldn't have died... I could've stopped it somehow... I was so careful before.. "

"Vaughn..." her voice cracks. She almost can't believe what she's hearing.

"It was my fault... I just couldn't accept that... It wasn't fair... Your friend lived and you died, I couldn't understand... I..." She grips his hand and they move closer to each other. An embrace that Sydney had expected to receive last week in his home. "It was my fault…" She silences him with a kiss and a whisper, "It wasn't your fault."

"What wasn't my fault?" Vaughn asks, snapping Sydney out of her daydream. She stares at him, blushing. Oh. No. How much of that had she said out loud? Bitterness takes over, and she says quickly, "Nothing."

Vaughn reiterates. "The CIA erased my memory?"

She sighs, feeling a sense of déjà vu. She repeats what she had informed him in her daydream.

"Why would the CIA care about my personal issues?"

"Because they're your co-workers, but many of them are also your friends."

"It seems extreme."

"Your situation was extreme."

"Why am I not still working for the CIA?"

That's a damn good question, one that she doesn't even have the answer to. "They couldn't let you remember anything once you'd gone through with the procedure --"

"Then why didn't they just transfer me to a different department?"

"It was too much of a risk if you stayed. Plus, in order for you to forget what you needed to, most of your time at the CIA was erased."

"How long did we know each other?"

"Two years."

"And how long did I work for the CIA before that."

"You joined in 1994."

"So about a decade." He rounds off the numbers, "You're insinuating I don't remember a decade of my life."

"Vaughn, the doctor conditioned you not to remember."

"You mean brainwashed me."

Sydney's facial expression says, 'you could put it that way'. "Vaughn, I'm not lying. I need you to believe me."

"Why?"

"Because what we had is important to me, not something I'll easily let go of."

He ignores her innuendos and steers the conversation elsewhere. "So from a CIA agent to a psychologist? That's quite a jump..."

Sydney composes herself and thinks. "Well, you always were a good listener."

"So, it doesn't have anything do with my mother being in the field."

Sydney shakes her head. Vaughn presses on, "But you already knew that, right."

Sydney shakes her head again, "You rarely talked about your mother. You just mentioned your father. And how you wanted to follow in his footsteps and join the CIA."

"My father was a Lieutenant Colonial in the U.S. Army." He shoots her down.

She shakes her head. She can't believe this. "No he wasn't," she whispers.

Vaughn looks at his watch, and then at the clock. He rises from his chair and heads towards the door. "Time's up." He opens the door -- she gets the hint.

Defeated, she gets to her feet and passes by him to exit the office. She looks at him, and lowers her eyes. Then she sees it: the band around his left wrist that she recognizes all too well.

That bitch told her it was fixed. "Your watch stopped."

He hesitates, looking down at it and then back to her.

She nods, knowingly. "Why didn't you get it fixed? I mean, it used to keep perfect time and it was a gift from your father. Why wouldn't you get something like that fixed?"

"Because I haven't had time to get it fixed."

She smirks. "You haven't gotten it fixed because of something your father told you. He said 'you could set your heart by this watch.' And that makes you wonder..."

"My father never said that."

"Didn't he?"

"No."

"But I was right about everything else."

"Yes, the watch stopped."

"When?"

"Uhh... about a week ago..."

"The day I came to your door?"

"I don't know. I went to put it on one day and it wasn't working."

Sydney nods, knowing the answer in her heart; and for the first time in two weeks a foreign emotional sweeps over her: hope.