In her children's eyes
Disclaimer:all characters in this story are the property of Gerry Anderson and i own nothing
a special thanks to mcj for allowing me to borrow some material from her
Today is Alan's birthday. In a few hours we will all be downstairs to eat breakfast and I am sure the boys will pretend to forget just to annoy him. I do not know what I will be doing or how I will react, I know I am supposed to act cheerful today, but I need time to grieve. That is why I am awake at the crack of dawn, a scotch in my hand, an album in my lap and sitting in the balcony where I can see the sea and the last of the evening stars. And feel the mists of memories that never fade. Today maybe Alan's birthday, but it is also Lucy's death day. Lucy, my beautiful angel, who died giving birth to my wild child Alan.
In a moment of insanity after her death I did something that I regret until today. I either burned or tore every picture of her in this house, save one, our wedding picture. But I don't need pictures to see Lucy, she is always in my heart and all I need is to close my eyes and I see her there, shining down on me. I might not have Lucy's pictures, but I have our sons' and when I look at them, I see Lucy looking back at me. She is there, in all of their pictures and for that I am glad, at least most of the time. I tighten my grip on the photo album in my lap and take a quick sip of the scotch. I am getting ready for my yearly journey down the memory lane and I know it is going to take every ounce of courage I have. I open the album at the first picture.
When I first look at Scott's picture, I see myself when I was younger. I see the same unruly black hair and sapphire blue eyes. I may not see Lucy right away, but she is there, she has to be. After all Scott was our first son. Scott got from his mother the two qualities that define him the most. His seriousness and his incredible ability to listen and provide comfort. That is when I see Lucy in Scott's eyes. When he is listening to one of my problems with his head resting on his left arm, his eyes deep in concentration and his usually clear forehead creased with worry lines. Yes, Scott is so like his mother then, I knew it years ago when she died and it was he, barely nine years old, who took me into his arms and stroked my back. When I was too depressed to look after Alan, he gave him his bottle and rocked him to sleep. You turn your back for a minute and he grows ten more years emotionally and mentally. If I had to use only one sentence to describe Scott, it is he is my shoulder to lean on and my right hand to work with. I turn the page.
When I look at John, I still don't see Lucy. Instead I see the blonde locks and crystal clear blue eyes of my father. Yet when John sits on the window sill, looking into space with a tear falling down his cheek, I remember how he is so like his mother. John is the most sensitive of my children and I know why. I think that John is the only person who ever loved Lucy as much as I did and the day she died, she took the part of his heart, that allows him to live with others , away. I see Lucy in John's eyes when he is sad and lonely. He sits in the armchair the same way she used to, with his knees up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. I see her when anyone of us has wronged him and his lips quiver with agony and betrayal. The one thing that comforts John in the world was one of Lucy's favorite things. John finds his comfort in the sky, the space, that planets, the stars. He is most peaceful when he is sitting on the roof of our house, staring through a telescope into oblivion. He sits then, still the same way his mother used to, crossed legged on a cushion, his arms holding the telescope gently and with care. And I know why. It was his mother's. Once, as a child, John was asked to draw a picture of his mother and he drew a picture of a star and wrote under it "my mother, the brightest star in heaven". John is the part of me that can never forget Lucy, maybe because I believe she is a star , up there some where, looking over me. I turn the page.
Once on Halloween Virgil decided to dress up as a girl and when I saw him, I nearly had a heart attack. Give the boy a wig and a dress and he is magically transformed into his mother, He has the exact same curly chestnut hair and hazel eyes. I can't lie , sometimes it pains me to look at Virgil, but it is not just his face that scares me. It is his hands. Virgil's hands , just like his mother's were, almost always smeared with paint of different colors and textures. When his fingers are not dirty and painting, they are clean and playing the piano. When Virgil plays the piano I remember the days when Lucy and I would wait till the kids were asleep then sneak into the living room, giggling like thieves breaking into our own house. Then I would lie down on the couch and she would sit by the piano and play us a tune. Her eyes used to glow with beauty and pride when she played, and now I see that exact same look in Virgil's eyes. I see them light up and sparkle and I see Lucy's shy, eager smile slowly creep on to his face. The face of an artist. Virgil is his mother in many ways , but he tries to subdue this effect, mainly to keep my sanity. While John is the part of me that will never forget Lucy, Virgil is the part of me that helps me remember her the way I want to and for that I would be a liar if I said that Virgil doesn't have a special place in my heart. Actually I would be a liar if I said it about any of my children, but Virgil's part is closer to the center. I turn the page.
When Gordon was born, both Lucy and I were a bit speculative about him being our son, actually we were almost certain that he must have been switched at birth. With his flaming red hair and shining green eyes, he looked like no one on either side of the family, but DNA tests assured us that he was our son and our hearts too assured us of so.
Gordon may never know it , but he is so like his mother. Like her, Gordon is a leader and life lover. Back when she was young, Lucy earned a medal for keeping her mind straight and saving herself and four of her classmates who were stuck in a blizzard. Gordon has done a similar thing a few years ago, when he earned a medal for saving a few drowning children. You might say that anyone would do that, but there are smaller things in life that make me see Lucy in Gordon's eyes. He is full of mischief and derives great pleasure from a good laugh that reminds me of how precious Lucy saw every moment of life was. Gordon knows it the best , as his mother did, as they have both been in near death situations. Gordon is our leader in things that add simple joy to our life. Whether it is something as silly as singing carols in Christmas or going camping in spring, it is always Gordon who pushes us into enjoying ourselves. Gordon is the part of me that still loves life without Lucy. I see her in his mischievous smile when ever he is coming up with a plan and whatever the outrageous plan is, I follow it. Lucy would have wanted that. I turn the page.
While everyone agrees that John looks like my father, everyone practically swears that Alan must be my father's reincarnation. John may have taken his physical features, but Alan has also taken his spirit. Most people sat that Alan has nothing from Lucy, but I know that they are wrong. It is only because they don't know Lucy as intimately as I do that they can not see it. I see it almost everyday in his behavior, in his essence and I think I can best call it his pride and temper.
Alan is the one person in this house that if he is mad or angry, no one can rest. Some would say that we spoiled him, but it is not that. Sometimes, on days like this, I want to blame someone for what happened to Lucy and involuntarily my mind drifts to Alan. He can make a small, stupid mistake and I would explode at him. At that moment I would see Lucy in Alan's wide, shocked eyes that slowly become harder and you can practically sense the anger building within him. Alan may have a shorter fuse than Lucy but their anger is the same. It rocks the house and makes the other boys beg me to apologize and I always eventually do. Alan's pride is so like his mother's, masking the hurt and pain behind a curtain of anger. He holds up his head in the same way she used to and like she I can see the glinting tear of sorrow under the piles of wrath. Sometimes I fear that I have driven Alan away from me. Outside of home he is known for being a social animal and always being able to adopt to any circumstances with a smile very much like Gordon's, but the moment he steps in the house he becomes quiet and silent. I see Lucy in Alan's purest emotions of anger, hate, hurt, love and appreciation. He is the last thing that Lucy has given me and I try my best to keep him close to my heart. Alan is the only one who has never felt Lucy's warm, comforting embrace, but he gets it from all of us we try to compensate his loss, as he has lost the most by not knowing her. Alan is the part of me that will never get over Lucy's death, but it accept it reluctantly. I close the album and stare as the now bright sky.
It took me a few years after Lucy's death to decide what to write on her tombstone " Lucy Marshall Tracey. Devoted wife of Jeff Tracey and beloved mother of Scott, John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan. Go my bright star and angel to where you shall rest, for you have left with me pieces of your heart that shall be my own comfort ". I have taken my time to grieve today and I will try to act as a rested man. I open my door and I can already hear my children
I pass Virgil as I go down the stairs, where he is hunched with that sparkle in his eyes as he professionally wraps Alan's gift. I enter the kitchen to see John sitting at the table with his knees up to his chin, discussing a problem with Scott, who is sitting with hid head resting on his left arm. I see Gordon teasing Alan , with that mischievous smile on his face, asking innocently why Alan looks so gloomy. I see Alan trying to mask his disappointment with a carefree look. Virgil comes down and my children all turn to face me, an implicit question on their faces. I smile and I see the look of relief in their eyes. Yes, Lucy, today I am a rested man as I have taken my time to grieve, but it is not just the grief that has released me. It is seeing you all around me, in the faces of our children as we sit down to eat breakfast. Their chatter is you, their expressions are you, their gestures are you and their souls are you. I turn to Alan and put my arm around his shoulder and say " Happy birthday ,son". He doesn't mask the tear of happiness and sorrow that slips down his cheek as he hugs me tightly. I feel my own tears clouding my eyes as I grip the back of his shirt. He may have never felt your embrace, Lucy, but I swear he hugs just like you.