Leap of faith

I've longed for you

And I have desired

To see your face, your smile,

To be with you wherever you are.

It's a leap of faith, she remembers Locke saying.

She's never really been one to hope; she finds it too dangerous, too risky – pinning your future on faith, hoping it would sprout wings and bring you safely down to the ground. Make no mistake about it; Kate has had her share of jumping headfirst into the unknown but she's never done it with a blindfold about her eyes. She jumps headfirst, knowing fully well that there are equal chances of a safe and unsafe landing. And she kind of likes that idea because it means she has some measure of choice – she can tip the balance of possibility, sway chance to her favor. You can wish the policemen away, she supposes, hope they don't recognize you with that new blonde hair and expensive sunglasses you lifted off some lady. Or you can move – run, duck, fight and shoot back. She picks the latter over the former because she never wants to be at the mercy of anyone, or anything, even as abstract as faith; she figures she'd done enough of that in her childhood, left to the care of adults who couldn't take care of themselves, let alone, a harmless kid. No, she can't trust faith; she'd been let down too many times to make that mistake.

So into adulthood, with the years piling one after the other, she'd forged herself this philosophy, personality and body of a fighter – if she's going to take that leap, her bet won't be on faith or anything else for that matter; it'll be on her and her hard-earned abilities of charm, manipulation, quick-thinking, and physical strength. It has worked well for her, she must say. She's managed to worm her way out of any trouble she'd gotten herself into. The operative words are "worm her way out of trouble" because these qualities were never meant to solve them; that's the one thing she had been taught - solutions were messy, with too many loose ends and even then, they don't come with guarantees. Denial, on the other hand, is an easier route; you can drink your heart out, be too intoxicated to worry over bills, your failing relationships, and your self-destructive streak. Or you can feign love; that beats having to go through the trouble of reporting abuse, possibly filing a law suit and having to admit to yourself the better part of your life has all been a lie. As for her, she'd taken up running because it gives her the illusion of progress, of moving forward, as though real growth was attainable in mere physical distance. Denial was in the family, she assents to that, but Kate never could take anything sitting down.

As such, she finds it hard to believe that two years in that island could shake and uproot what she'd thought was in her blood, what she'd believed to be hardwired to her brain. She finds it even harder to accept that it took only a man to do it. Granted, Jack isn't just any man. He's of a rare variety, the kind that grows on you, with all his brooding and introspective flair, coupled with his seeming paradoxical character. He's a stubborn, aloof control freak. But she's also witnessed the kindest, selfless moments of mankind in him, acts worthy of, at the very least, admiration. And sometimes, in moments when he thinks no one's looking, he surprises her with his self-doubt that retreats as quickly as it appears, just a flash in his eyes, a momentary sag on his shoulders, a hint of frustration in his sighs.

He brings out in her a contradiction, too; that for a self-proclaimed man of science, there's something about him that makes her want to desperately believe, regard risks as possibilities. It comes almost as a dare, a challenge, with his little comments like You're not running now, We should all be able to start over, Just give me something real, anything. When others have dismissed her as a lost cause, put her into a cast-iron label as a criminal, he introduced her to the notion that she just might be worth a second chance. When others would have just assumed, he has the decency to ask – Is that the truth? What is the truth? – as if entertaining the possibility that she just might be capable of it, of the truth, of responsibility, of trust.

On the island, he gave her what she'd never had before – someone to disappoint, and yet at the same time, someone to surprise. Sometimes, that's all where it starts, all what it takes. A little trust, some faith.

And maybe it's the novelty of it, the idea being so new, so refreshing to her, that makes it special for her, that makes her want to hold on, but she's found that even in his absence this thing, dare she say, this hope, is growing stronger by the day.

----

It started out with simple things, things so simple she'd found them negligible, warranting no concern. They were just thoughts after all, random and uncontrived. She'd be driving down the freeway and she'd wonder suddenly what he could be doing right now; if he was finishing up another surgery or perhaps enjoying the afternoon off with his doctor friends at a nearby Starbucks. She would be doing her laundry, pouring detergent over the pile when she'd recall his scent and she can't help but smile at that, because she loved how he had always smelt of salt and fresh, sun-dried clothes. One time, she had been working the late shift at this bar on a stint. And she blamed boredom for it but she'd tried to imagine how his nights were; how he was probably still awake, working on the night shift as well, being the workaholic that he is. She imagined, too, just as she was switching off the lights, calling it a day, that he was heading out himself, both of them catching up on sleep, she hoped, on an empty bed. She missed him, she's willing to own up to that; after all, she wasn't made of stone.

But then they came as erratic impulses, what she calls momentary lapses of judgment, where she would find herself dialing his number on a public payphone in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of the night, only to hang up on the first ring. In between trips, where she'd stumble on rest stops, she would be looking up the papers, magazines, scanning them for news articles of the "doomed flight 815." Sure enough, they made the front page, in some cases, they'd even taken up the whole front page. But curiously, she'd found them insubstantial, lacking the details she needed, wanted to see. She'd been expecting pictures, their pictures, plastered on every cover, with the inside pages peppered with their individual testimonies, complete profiles and personal details, down to their favorite food, favorite castaway. Wasn't it Charlie who said they'd be instant celebrities? It puzzled her then that the articles dwelled on generalities, asking the questions what, why, where instead of getting down and dirty with who and how. Here they were, the strongest contender for the title of the hottest story on the planet, and yet no one was cashing in. One article specified a technicality in their defense; due to the serious emotional and psychological trauma of the events, survivors' names were withheld, it stated. She'd laugh then, caught in the irony of it. Since when had the media decided to grow a heart? But then, even as she breathed in cynicism, she breathed out in relief; she remembered not long ago, when she'd been on the papers herself, in pictures that had been taken in moments she'd consider to be the lowest points of her life. But now the connection had been severed – the name and the face. As far as the world was concerned, Katherine Austen, the fugitive, was dead. And without her picture posted all over town, and potentially, all over the world, she'd thought she could breathe a little easier, maybe even settle down with one name. It dawned on her then, as though by accident, that this could be it, what he talked about – her second chance, her clean slate. She could almost hear him, daring her: We should all be able to start over, Kate. She answered him by taking up a job at a diner, living off minimum wage and the occasional tips and change. She was on her way to her new life. But sometimes, she finds herself waiting for the evening news, for updates about a certain plane crash, and its forty plus survivors, among which, is a spinal surgeon with a crooked scar on his back, a remnant of clumsy stitches and loose threads.

It took her about a hundred of news updates to admit to herself that she wanted to see him.

She raised the stakes when she backpacked all the way to LA. She'd only intended to check up on him, see how he was doing from a distance because she knew a casual hello would never work; just too many questions on both ends. His secretary directed her to a café just across the hospital; he was on a break with his colleagues, she'd said. Sure enough, she found him still in his work clothes, sitting with his friends, chatting comfortably and sipping on latte. She assumed the fellow to his right just cracked a joke because a beat after his animated monologue, Jack broke into laughter, almost choking on his coffee. His eyes widened as if surprised, with just a tad of delighted humor in them, his lips moving to syllables she couldn't read. It's then she felt warmed to her being, which she decided, was the best feeling in the world, the only real feeling she's ever had for the longest time. She stood at the curb, rooted to the sidewalk, with just a stretch of concrete in between her and him. The traffic of vehicles and people are moderate; he could see her if he'd just turn his head, but he was lost in conversation. In that moment, she'd wanted, more than anything, to move, to run to him. She had wanted to be the one sitting across him, be the one to crack the joke that made him laugh, smile. But she stood her ground, as though her feet and legs have just lost all will to run. Their laughter eventually died down, and the conversation had grown to a halt. The guy across him pointed to a car; a new model, he remarked. He turned his head then. But she'd already gone.

It took her a couple of months more to admit to herself that she wanted more than a new life.

She went to England; decided a change of scenery, and a change of name would do her good, would make her forget. By some sick luck, she was greeted by a familiar face, taking a random glance at the television by the waiting area. The rock god himself, Charlie Pace, promising an exclusive, with a catchy tagline to boot: "Oceanic Plane Crash Survivor Breaks the Silence." And, as she'd found out through ubiquitous posters, what better way to break the silence than with his upcoming concert. It looked as though he'd gotten it together and she was happy for him, really. But worry clouded her sincerity as she was confronted with the idea that his happiness just might jeopardize her new-found freedom. She had found a pub later that evening, spent a good deal of her savings on drinks to wait on his exclusive. Post-island life agreed with him, she assessed, as he registered on the screen; maybe a little thinner than he'd been on the island but definitely with a more healthy color. He starts out with an apology, in that charming English way of his, saying that this was his story, and as such, other survivors' privacy would be respected. Asked why he came out in the first place, he answered as though incredulous, "We survived a bloody plane crash, man. It's not something you can chuck out like over-chewed bubblegum, eh. And it sure as hell's not something to be shy about." She wondered when he'd become so wise.

It took her a year to make peace with the fact that she wanted a life with him.

After England, she started for Iowa, to her hometown she'd not been to since she was eighteen years old. She drove by their old house, even passed by Tom's but it wasn't the time to relive the past, not when the future was impatiently waiting. For the most part, the trip was surreal, something she thought she could only fathom in her dreams or maybe more appropriately, in her nightmares. She couldn't believe what she was about to do; but reality always was slow to catch up, always drawn out just long enough so you couldn't take back the things you say, the things you do. She parked the old heap of a truck in front of the familiar building; at one point in time, she'd driven up to the place, just like this, to take Wayne home after he was kept there for days. Disrupting the peace, they had proclaimed. She didn't know what made that one any different, any more worse than the others to warrant jail time; his rumbles at the local bar were, after all, staple for the neighborhood entertainment. She pushed the thoughts out of her head, because they were only making her anxious. She walked to the entrance, caught the eye of the officer at the desk, all the while counting to five. At count five, she did the unthinkable – she turned herself in. And when the cold metal touched her skin, when the sound of the handcuff clicking shut rang in her ear, it's then that reality finally caught up with her, leaving her with neither resolve nor regret to rationalize her actions.

There are, in retrospect, a number of possibilities, a wide range of combinations of circumstances: What if her mother didn't go into remission? What if she didn't testify for her? What if her lawyer didn't have the patience to stick it out? What if one of the jury got the flu that day of deliberation? What if the judge had taken her outbursts of insults and not-so-friendly statements too personally? What if she'd gotten mixed up with the gang wars? What if she'd gotten injured, even killed in the process? What would have happened to her then? What would she have done? It appalls her that she doesn't know and that she could live with that. Sometimes, a little trust could go a long way, could sustain you for years.

It took her two days after her release to get to him.

She finds herself standing in front of the hospital whose name he'd written on the back of a crumpled receipt six years back, in that small room, in that big hospital. She doesn't know what to expect. How has he been? How has his life changed, a wife perhaps, kids? How will he feel?

But it's a leap of faith, and now after six long years, she's finally going for it. She's never been so scared, so utterly unprepared, so sure of herself.

----

She first catches sight of him at the coffee vending machine, banging the thing with unusual intensity and fervor. He relinquishes his claim on his money and instead, slumps back on a nearby bench. He leans back, resting his head on the wall, and closes his eyes. She takes a step forward from behind the corner when a man in white overalls, a fellow doctor perhaps, approaches him and starts a conversation. She withdraws to her cover and decides she can wait a little longer. When they finish, he's back to resting, eyes closed, head leaning on the wall. As he doesn't budge roughly a minute after, she takes a chance and begins to make her way to him. She crosses the hall with a quickness that reminds her of the old days, back when she had to dodge glances, when she had to float through crowds like a ghost, unseen, undetected. It takes her a while to pace herself, realizing that there's no need for that anymore.

She latches onto the vending machine, browsing through the assortment of coffee flavors, all the while snatching glimpses of him. Now that she's closer, she assesses he's gotten thinner, with an unfamiliar shadow cutting deeper along the lines of his cheekbones and his body a bit more slender than what she remembers of him. Aside from that, she thinks him untouched by time. Or maybe, that's what she'd like to think, what she wants; for him not to have changed, for him to be the Jack she'd known on the island, the Jack who always wanted her safe and who always made her feel safe. She fishes out a crumpled bill off her pocket. It takes a moment for her to straighten it out and feed it into the machine. Thankfully, the machine responds, its lights blinking green. She pushes the button for vanilla. In no time, she has the cup on her hands.

She turns to him then, breathing in deeply. She recalls the list in her head which comprised of things she had to say and wanted to say. Maybe it'd be better to begin with the how's and why's. But they'd have time for that later, she thinks. She wants to tell him how she had missed him, how she wanted to call him, hear his voice, hear him breathe through the phone. Or maybe she could skip all the preliminaries and go straight to kissing him senseless.

She decides to stick to something safe. "Long day?"

He squints, opens his eyes slowly like he'd just awoken from sleep. His eyes look ahead and seem to focus on something in a distance but then, tuning out the origin of the voice, he turns his head to where she stands. What happens next, she swears, is something she will not forget, something that will be irreversibly etched in her memory for the remaining years of her life. She sees his eyes squint again, and then widen as if in recognition. And then his face falls into a mixture of raw wonder, sadness and pain. He visibly inhales, his mouth opening slightly as if to gasp for air. But maybe she's mistaken; maybe he was about to say something, maybe he was about to scream, cry, curse. His eyes take on a quality of glass that threatened to break into water, which in turn, threatened to wash away her resolve.

She imagines what irreparable damage she had caused this man, how much damage she's causing him now. But she didn't come this far to be discouraged that easily. She lowers her eyes, focusing her senses on the form and the heat of the cup on her hand. She's never liked the feeling but she knows she's at his mercy now.

"Feels like years." She hears the familiar voice, audibly shaken but still gentle, soothing to her ears. When she looks to him again, his lips are pursed, the beginnings of what could be a smile. There's something that flutters in her chest then, and she finds she's able to smile herself.

"Want to talk about it?" she ventures cautiously.

"I…I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," she says as she took a seat beside him, handing him the coffee. "I hear that's where all good stories start."

He takes the cup from her, and seems to consider his words before speaking. "At the beginning? That could take a while." He takes a sip of the coffee, and gives her a smile, a full-blown one this time. It's vanilla, and he doesn't care for it much really, but she'd gotten him vanilla. "You sure you have enough time to spare?"

"Take all the time you need." No other words could have given her more pride and him, more relief.

"The beginning. Well, let's see, it all began…," his eyes wander off in space, as he starts his story, "when I met this woman."

"You won't believe," he shakes his head, seemingly talking and laughing all at the same time, "how infuriating she is; knows just how to push my buttons, wear down my patience. Stubborn as hell." He turns his gaze to her for a moment but withdraws it just as suddenly. It is at this point that his laughter dies down.

All she could afford him is a shy smile, both shamed and amused by the fact that all he could remember of her was their chain of silly, intense arguments.

"And she has that…smile," his voice is caught in a breath, "that made it all go away."

She doesn't dare look at him then, for fear of what she might see.

"I loved her." He lets the words hang in the air. She can't help but note the use of past tense and suddenly she finds herself unable to breathe.

"Love her." But he corrects himself. She can't decide whether to clobber him or kiss him; both options seem to be viable, but the former did have the tendency to ruin the moment. She decides to go with kissing him but he doesn't give her the chance.

"But she always wanted to run away," he says and then pauses, as if unwilling to go on. "To places I never could follow."

Before he could put another word in, she decides to tell him the truth. "What if she told you, she wanted to stay? For good?"

He turns then, his eyes set on hers. "If she told me that," he manages a small smile, "then I'd believe her."

No, Kate had never been one to hope, never thought much of faith. But she believes in him, as much as, if not more than, the way he believes in her.

And she thinks, that'll be enough.