Chapter 14: Each to Each
Valerie fought her way through the pneumonia and slowly recovered from the injuries she suffered in the wreck. She took weeks to recover, often finding herself tired and breathless after taking short walks around the neighborhood.
This frustrated her, which she expressed in strings of obscenities vivid and vulgar enough that Ben himself would blush.
She was fast friends with Walt and Hugo, with whom she shared a love of science fiction and Tolkien. She was also an avid reader of classic literature—quickly becoming a near permanent denizen of the library in his office. She particularly liked Fitzgerald—an expert in the tragedy of hubris, she explained—but her favorite book was Crime and Punishment. She told him that she liked the way that it captured the self-indulgence of wallowing in guilt. He couldn't tell if her comment was intended to needle him.
Ben was not accustomed to entertaining guests, so he was relieved that she was content to spend her days quietly reading. He was less happy when she'd started insisting on playing chess with him every day—she had been a mediocre adversary at first, but she'd learned quickly, and he was concerned that they would soon be evenly matched.
She'd been well enough to move to her own house after a while. They'd managed to recover most of her things from the boat, and she'd been pleased to resume some semblance of a normal life.
In truth, he hadn't initially liked Valerie very much. He didn't understand her immediately, which was an unusual experience for him. She was not arrogant, but she was stubborn—and while she was clearly introverted, she had an outgoing streak, and a brash—sometimes offensive—sense of humor, and it grated on him.
But she had warmed to him quickly and, in spite of the circumstances, had trusted him almost immediately. She'd told him everything—enough for him to piece together her entire life story. Her father was French-Canadian. Her mother had immigrated from an eastern soviet bloc country in the seventies. They'd moved to California when she was still a child so that her father—who had built his wealth in lucrative construction contracts with corrupt clients—could capitalize on the tech boom. She'd been a bit troubled, at times, but she'd hidden it well, and lived up to their high expectations.
She'd confided in him that—in spite of what she accomplished—she'd always felt like there was a darkness in her, and that she used to find relief in doing bad things, because the guilt reminded her that she wasn't an inherently awful person.
He didn't tell her much of anything about himself.
She seemed to like being around him—she particularly enjoyed teasing him. Even when her jokes were met with a blank stare she would burst into laughter. He didn't understand her at all.
Eventually he resigned himself to the fact that she simply liked him. It wasn't that he had disliked her—he'd been suspicious of her, and frustrated that he didn't intimidate her, but she wasn't the worst he'd dealt with.
Hugo had caught him rolling his eyes at her—she'd burst into a comedy routine that had Walt in stitches.
"What?" Hugo had asked.
Ben shook his head.
"A teenage daughter didn't prepare you for this?"
Ben looked startled.
"I'm sorry man," Hugo said immediately, "I didn't mean to remind you—"
"It's not that—it's just—not that." He shook his head again. "She's not a child." He realized that, at twenty-nine, she was twenty years his junior and—in theory—young enough to be his daughter, but the thought seemed absurd. He saw her as a peer—as a friend. It was a startling realization if ever he'd had one.
Over time, he got used to her company. He expected her presence and found himself waiting for her before getting started on any projects around the compound. It became unusual for him to do things on his own.
She asked questions constantly—about the Island, about what they were doing, about DHARMA. It was irritating, to some degree. But it reminded him that there was beauty in this place—that the history was not all bad. And while she pressed him for better explanations of the things that didn't make sense, she accepted it all as true, simply because he was the one telling her.
He described the DHARMA stations to her in some detail. He probably should not have been surprised that she wanted to see them—the ones that were left.
He decided that the Pearl would be an interesting day trip.
"It's my birthday," he told her. "Would you like to go for a hike?"
"It's your birthday, Linus? Did you just bring that up so that I wouldn't say no?"
He raised an eyebrow at her. "You can say no."
"Are you sure want to spend the day hiking around with me?"
"I suppose."
"What birthday is this?"
"Fifty," he admitted.
"Oh my!" Her eyebrows shot up. "Will you part your hair behind?" she asked with a sly smile. "Will you wear the bottoms of your trousers rolled?
"Yes, yes. I grow old."
She snickered.
He'd caught the reference right away. He'd found himself going back to that poem lately, seeing more and more of himself in J. Alfred Prufrock. He'd come to accept that his time had passed. He was content to defer to Hugo—to do what needed doing. Before she'd arrived, he'd spent much of his free time walking along the beach, ruminating over his mistakes, thinking about what he would change, if he could. He would die here, eventually—it was more than he deserved.
He wondered what had brought those words to Valerie's mind—perhaps she saw herself in the enigmatic women Prufrock so feared—and he wondered, if that was the case, how she saw herself in relation to him. Perhaps fittingly, he had no sense of what she was thinking—or what she'd meant by it—and he dared not ask.
They took the van as far as they could and got to walking. He led the way, setting a fairly aggressive pace—determined in some way to prove himself fit in spite of his age. The walk took them up a ridge that offered an incredible view of the entire island.
Valerie had to stop to catch her breath. "It's kind of beautiful," she told him.
He glanced at her. "I suppose it is."
"Ben," she began.
He knew a question was coming.
"A couple of times, Hurley has said something to the effect of 'everyone is brought here for a reason.'"
Ben nodded. "It's something like that—to the extent any of us really understand it."
"Why do you think I'm here?" she asked bluntly.
He took a deep breath. "I don't know—it seems right that you're here, whatever the reason."
"Right?"
"Just an innate sense that you're not a disruption—you're part of the plan. If that makes sense."
"Glad I'm not a disruption," she replied quickly.
"To the Island," he corrected. "Can't say you didn't disrupt anything."
She laughed and touched his shoulder.
He looked over at her, startled, and she met his eyes with a smile. A thought popped into his head—an answer to her question—but he suppressed it immediately.
They reached their destination right about noon.
It was a particularly hot day—and while the Pearl offered a taste of the Island's bizarre history, the adjacent pool of water was, in the immediate, a more appealing attraction.
Valerie started kicking off her shoes the moment she saw it.
"Val, wait," he interrupted, as she stuffed her socks into her shoes.
She paused and stared at him expectantly.
"There are dead bodies in there, I believe," he explained, with a slight grimace.
"Recent ones?"
"Well, no—it's been a decade or two I suppose."
"Okay," she replied, and dove in.
He sighed and slowly unlaced his shoes, placing them carefully away from the water. He rolled up the bottoms of his pants, smiling wryly as he realized that her mockery had been prophetic.
He sat at the edge of the pool and dipped his feet in, watching as she glided through the water, repeatedly diving down and bobbing back up to gasp for air. She swam towards him, mischief in her eyes.
"I think I see something at the bottom," she told him, pulling her wet hair back.
"A piece of the plane?"
"Maybe—it's right under me," she explained.
He looked down, trying to peer into the water. "I can't see anything."
"Like right under me," she insisted, swimming closer to him to give him a better view.
He leaned forward, squinting intently. Before he realized what she was doing, she had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the water.
He emerged, sputtering and displeased.
She laughed.
He was too stunned to immediately chastise her. He swam over to her and started to speak.
She splashed him in the face and started giggling again.
He splashed her back, which only made her laugh harder. He cracked a smile.
He couldn't think of anything to say to her. He watched her treading water as she laughed to herself—until her face grew serious and she drifted closer to him. She blinked slowly. The air suddenly felt thick and heavy in his lungs.
He was frozen, but—at the same time—he felt himself leaning towards her. His heart was pounding, though he didn't quite know why.
There was a flash of lighting and a clap of thunder. The sky opened up, the rain coming down in violent sheets.
It startled them both out of the sunbaked haze they were in.
They climbed out of the water, picking up their already drenched shoes.
"Over here," he shouted to her over the roar of the sudden rain.
She helped him open the hatch to the Pearl station. It hadn't been opened for some time, but it was not too difficult to manage.
She followed him down the ladder and pulled down the hatch door as the lights flickered to life. She looked around at the strange room they were in—with its dusty walls and outdated tv screens. The clattering sound of the rain was muted by the hatch door.
She shivered. Her lips were blue.
His mind flashed back to the moment he first saw her—cold and lifeless in her boat. It had pulled at his heartstrings to see a person so delicate and vulnerable. There was an irony, he supposed, in how utterly lacking in fragility she'd turned out to be.
"Let me see what I can find," he told her. There were no clothes, but there were several musky old towels and a large DHARMA issue wool blanket. She grabbed a towel from him greedily and wrapped herself in it.
She wiggled out of her shorts from under the towel and tossed them onto the control panel. "No time to be modest," she offered by way of explanation. She raised an eyebrow at him.
"I'll be fine," he told her sternly.
"At least it's not entirely my fault that all your clothes are wet?"
He glared at her. "Had we come straight into the station, we would have missed the rain."
"I really do think you should take your pants off."
He considered arguing with her, but she wasn't wrong that it would be uncomfortable to sit around in cold wet khakis. He went to the bathroom and re-emerged with a towel around his waist.
She yawned. "Isn't that better?"
He shrugged and sat down beside her on the floor. "I suppose so."
She grabbed the blanket from him and shook out the dust. She draped it over the both of them and leaned her damp head against his shoulder.
He looked down at her, startled at the sudden closeness. She shot him a look—daring him to take issue with it. He exhaled heavily and leaned his head back against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her lips curling into a half smile.
He was woken a couple of hours later to Valerie gently nudging his shoulder. "I think it's stopped," she told him, getting up. He looked away as she pulled her shorts back over her hips. She tossed him his pants—still damp, but not soaking.
She waited in the bathroom as he dressed himself.
He climbed out to the hatch and unlatched the door. Valerie was right—the rain had stopped. The sun was as bright and hot as it had been before the sudden burst of rain.
She was quiet as they walked back to the van. Every so often he glanced back over his shoulder at her—the look on her face was deeply pensive.
The silence continued as he drove them back to the compound. He looked at her deliberately as he backed the van into its spot, an eyebrow raised questioningly.
"So," she asked, "how was your birthday?"
"Not bad," he replied, "all things considered."
She looked disappointed by his answer.
"Quite a bit wetter than I would have liked," he added.
She laughed quietly.
He opened the door for her, and they walked together towards the houses. The sky was darkening again, and Valerie started to jog.
"It's going to rain on us again, Linus," she called back at him.
But Ben's mind was elsewhere. He stopped in his tracks. He could see his house from here—the kitchen window stared back at him.
This was where Alex died, in this exact spot. He imagined what she must have seen in her last moments—his callous, selfish stare. His words—the harsh, cruel lies that spilled from his lips as he chose himself over her.
He fell to his knees just as the rain started again.
Valerie turned around. He hadn't told her any of this.
She ran back over to him. "What's wrong?"
He looked at her, unable to conceal the grief in his eyes. He sat down in the cold mud.
She sat down next to him.
"This is where she died," he told Valerie, unable to offer a more fulsome explanation.
"Who?"
"My daughter," he told her, staring at the ground. "It was my fault. I could have saved her—my own daughter—I could have stopped him. He shot her in the head—right in front of me—and I could have stopped him." His lip curled in disgust and he looked directly at Valerie. "I chose to save myself."
She bit her bottom lip and squeezed his forearm. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That's a heavy burden to bear."
He nodded.
She didn't ask any more questions. They sat together in the mud and pouring rain for a while. Eventually, he took a deep breath and stood up. He offered her his hand, and she took it, pulling herself to her feet. He walked slowly towards his house—he was already so drenched that he was unbothered by the rain. She matched his pace, trudging along beside him.
"I could really go for a hot shower and some food," she suggested, breaking the silence.
"I can make dinner," he offered. "I can tell you about her, if you don't mind."
"That would be nice, I think," she replied, and opened the door for him. She followed him into the house, and he watched as she trotted off towards his bedroom, flinging a wet t-shirt over her shoulder.
For the first time, he was glad she was there.
Ben had decided to take Valerie's advice. He filled Jack in on what they knew about freighter—giving him enough history to understand the animosity. He warned Jack not to trust anyone that came from it—that it wasn't a miracle rescue—and told him to prepare the survivors for a fight.
Juliet volunteered to go with him to act as a liaison of sorts—and a spy, if necessary.
"Juliet—I've held you here long enough," he told her. "Take the Galaga—go home. Go back to your sister."
She was stunned by the offer. "Are you serious? Or are you only offering because you know I'll decline?"
"I do not expect you to decline," he answered, taken aback. "Take it—please. It won't be safe when the freighter arrives."
She shook her head. "There are so many people here. I can't leave them. If it goes bad, they'll need doctors—I need to be here."
"We have Ethan—they'll have Jack."
She bit her lip. The offer he'd made put her in an excruciating position.
"You are serious," she realized, her head tilted slightly as she stared at him. She reached out and touched his shoulder. It was the first time she'd ever shown him any kind of genuine affection. "You've changed, Ben. Since she arrived—you're the same man, but…" she trailed off, failing to find the words she was searching for.
"It's not her," Ben corrected. He took a breath. "It has nothing to do with Valerie. I—I watched Alex die."
"What?"
"It was just a dream—but it was as vivid as a memory." He didn't want to tell her more than he had to. "The night the plane crashed. I dreamed that a man put a gun to my daughter's head. He gave me the opportunity to save her—an ultimatum. Deliver myself as prisoner, or condemn her to death." He sighed. "I chose myself—I thought I was calling his bluff. I gambled with her life, and I lost."
Juliet frowned at him. "What do you think it means?"
"I don't think there's any hidden metaphor, Juliet. It was just a dream. But it woke me up to the fact that I had spent such a long time with the wrong priorities."
He looked up at her. She searched his eyes, her brows furrowed.
"My own daughter, Juliet. That's not the man I want to be—no more worthy of this responsibility than Charles. Take the submarine."
She thought about it, obviously touched by his sincerity. "No," she told him. "Not yet. I need to help these people."
He nodded. "If that's what you want."
She left with Jack the next morning.
Valerie stepped up behind him as he watched her leave. "You still love her, don't you?" she murmured.
"No," he replied quickly, surprising himself. "I don't think I ever did." He paused to think for a moment. "I suppose I wanted to love her," he continued, speaking with analytic detachment, "but I'm not sure I really understood what that meant."
He turned back to Valerie, her large brown eyes looking up at him with a strange, standoffish hopefulness.
His mind flashed sharply to the heat of her skin under his palms. He swallowed. That dream—or memory, he supposed—had been a storm of sensation and emotion more intense than anything he'd ever experienced. He pushed the thought from his mind.
It was another man's memory—another man's lust.
Her lips curled slowly into a smile. "You'll figure it out," she informed him, patting his shoulder.
He watched as she walked away from him, back towards his house.
She stopped, turning back to him. "Are you coming?" she called over her shoulder. "We have a lot of work to do."