A/N #1: Just giving a quick shout out. The way Stephen Bartowski's Intersect works was completely my 12 year old son's idea. I asked, he answered, and I ran with it. Some of Stephen's backstory MAY have been inspired by my son as well.
A/N #2: For those of you who I freaked out with the opening scene, please don't dismay. It is pivotal to the plot, at the end. That scene is not revisited until the end. I figured being married for 60 years was a pretty good run. I apologize if I caused undue angst.
September 27, 2021
Westside Medical Center, Los Angeles, California
Filling the quiet hallway connecting the waiting room where they had been and the room where their son was waiting for them was only the sound of Sarah's heels on the gleaming white tile floor. It was as if they had stepped into a different world. No more hospital smell, no overhead paging. The walls were painted a light pastel color, trimmed with a shiny hardwood veneer, perfect and unscuffed. Scenic paintings and potted plants lined the path down the hallway. This was Ellie's research space, where she had continued her neurology research begun in Chicago.
Coming back to California had been an easy decision in 2012, once Sarah had regained all of her memories after they had learned of Sarah's pregnancy. Devon had sacrificed a position as a department head to be a staff cardiac surgeon again, but he had been willing for the sake of their family. The work Ellie had done for the government at the time had helped to propel her quickly into another research position in California- her original dream, before she had given up on it to leave for Africa with Devon so many years ago.
Sarah felt the tendons in her hand pinch, the bones beginning to ache as she understood how tightly Chuck was holding her hand. She saw him rubbing his other hand down the side of his jeans, wiping the sweat from his palm in his nervous state. His eyes were still pink and puffy, she noted, instantly knowing her son would pick up on it, and worry.
"Chuck," she said softly. He stopped his forward movement, his shoes squeaking lightly on the floor. She saw his eyes shift towards her while he kept his body facing forward. "He's going to freak out if you freak out. Ok?"
He nodded, still not turning to look at her. The grip on her hand relaxed, and he leaned heavily against the wall, seeming in that moment to need the wall to hold him up. Without speaking, he turned to look at her. She had gotten used to his gray hair, peppering the sides and concentrating at his temples, a few errant strands in the hair he combed back from his forehead- she even found it attractive in a strange way. He had thought of dying it before, fretting about it making him look old now that he was 40. She had assured him that was not the case, even as he always teased it was just a ploy to make her look younger.
Now, she thought with a pang of sadness, it did make him look older. Two days of constant fear, anxiety, and sleeplessness had worn him down. Dark bruise-colored smudges were visible under his hazel eyes, the skin taut over his cheekbones and the lines around his mouth pinched. He looked haggard and pale, careworn like she almost never remembered him. Almost, she thought with an involuntary shudder. The thought brought a painful memory to the surface, and she forced it down, afraid he would see something on her face, and not wanting to contribute to his malaise in the moment.
"It's not fair, Sarah," he said softly. "After everything we went through...to get to that point. You know, just us...normal. Didn't last, did it?" he scoffed bitterly. "Or maybe we never really were. He's been like that since he was so small and we...we…" He closed his eyes tight, making the lines on his forehead prominent. Sarah had always said normal was relative, and he tended to agree. He had begun to hate that word, its definition constantly changing over the course of his life. Maybe there was no normal, but what he had wanted for his family, deep down, was something that neither he nor his wife had ever had as children. Peacefulness or calm, situations that would create memories for his children to cherish as they got older-not the constant struggle both his and Sarah's life had been as they had grown. And now armed with this terrible information, he feared all the peace he had experienced up to now was just a facade, a falsehood, and that no more of that, even faked, would ever be possible again.
"Don't do this now, please," she asked him gently. As deeply as his state of mind troubled her, her young son had to come first. "He needs you to be strong right now. You're one of the strongest people I know. Show him that."
She watched him as her words registered. He gently shook his head, as if clearing the fog of misery around him. His cheeks were flushed, embarrassed for forgetting even for a moment to be the father his nine year old son needed. He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back and standing his full height. She returned his lopsided smile with a grin, though still able to see the sadness in his eyes. He made a valiant effort to hide it, but she could always see it when it was there. She did know him better than anyone.
They approached the door, hand in hand, the one to which the receptionist had directed them as they had entered this wing. A nurse, dressed in scrubs but with a research badge, turned the corner as Chuck and Sarah waited. "Mr. and Mrs. Bartowski?" she asked. Sarah nodded. "My goodness, your son is the spitting image of his father," she said congenially, shuffling past them with a smile.
"He certainly is," Sarah said warmly, squeezing his hand just a little tighter, knowing Chuck would most likely have taken that internally and spiraled in silence.
Through the rectangular window in the door, Chuck could see into the room before the door was opened. He could see his son, seated on a high-backed exam table. He wore a hospital gown, obviously taken from the pediatric supply, since it had dinosaurs on it. Perhaps a tad too small, considering his nine year old son was the size of a normal twelve year old. He had a Nintendo Switch in his hand, tilting the controller as he was enthralled in whatever game he was playing, his focus intense.
Like a balmy tropical breeze, Chuck felt the emotion sweep through his insides, an intensely warm and engulfing feeling of love and protectiveness towards his child. Whatever disturbing emotions still inside him disappeared under the flood of love he felt-love that forced the calm, because he knew nothing was more important in his life than his family. His greatest source of strength was, and had always been, love. He had forgotten that in the hallway-so entrenched in guilt and pity, until his wife reminded him of the truth.
He turned the doorknob, smiling widely, without a trace of angst. "Dr. Woodcomb should be in shortly," the nurse said behind him as Sarah followed him inside.
"Dad!" Stephen yelped excitedly, immediately tossing aside his video game, and jumping down off the table to run up to them. Stephen grabbed Chuck around the waist and squeezed hard. It was bittersweet for Chuck, realizing how tall his son was, nostalgic for when he had been small enough to lift up and hold, still glad just his presence in the room was enough to still evoke that kind of response from his son.
"Hey, kiddo," he responded, rustling his hand through the messy mop of brown curls on top of his son's head.
"That took forever!" Stephen proclaimed, glancing and smiling at his mother. The nurse smiled, walking out the door.
"It certainly did," Chuck said genially.
"What did Aunt Ellie do, Stephen?" Sarah asked, motioning for him to sit back down on the exam table.
He scooted back on the table, picking up the game and starting to play again, paying half of his attention to it, the other half to his mother. "She put me in this giant white tube that made a really loud humming noise. MRI, she said. That stands for magnetic resonance imaging," he said, proud of himself for remembering as well as sounding sophisticated to his parents. "It took pictures of my brain with a huge magnet. Aunt Ellie said if there was any metal in the room it would fly through the air because the magnet is so strong. That would have been cool," he said with a toothy grin.
"Dangerous, Son, not cool," Chuck said, wondering when he had started to sound like his father.
Stephen looked up, almost rolling his eyes at Chuck. "Come on, Dad. You wouldn't think that was even a little bit cool if Mom's keys flew through the air and stuck to the MRI machine?"
Sarah smirked, covering her mouth to keep from out and out laughing. "Ok, well, maybe a little. At your age. But I know better now," he said lightly, smiling himself. Sarah lifted an eyebrow, obviously questioning the veracity of Chuck's assessment. Stephen smiled knowingly.
"Did you ever have one, Dad?" he asked innocently.
Sarah saw the smile fade, and quickly answered for him. "He did, a long time ago. He fell out of a tree when he was about your age and got hurt."
Stephen seemed to ponder Sarah's words for several seconds before he said anything else. "Not because of the thing in your head?"
Chuck blanched, looking as if he was going to be sick. Sarah stared, wide-eyed, urging him to converse. She nodded ever so slightly, encouraging him. "It's ok," she mouthed the words.
Chuck stepped forward, sitting beside his son on the exam table. "Sort of. It's a long story. I want to explain it so it makes sense to you, at least a little bit. It's called the Intersect. The thing in your head. In our heads."
"Intersect?" he repeated. "Like lines on a graph?" he asked.
"Kinda. Things overlap, thoughts or memories or whatever. Things that aren't normally connected seem connected...things make sense differently than you'd think...or to other people who don't know how it works," Chuck explained.
Stephen stared, his bottom lip dropping as he gaped at his father-explaining perfectly how he had obviously been absorbing the world since he was a small baby. His blue eyes shone with admiration, comprehension dawning, like a tangible thing Sarah could feel. As uncertain and frightening as this revelation had been these last few days, it was almost worth it to see them connecting like this in such a touching way. The warmth of the emotion filled her chest, swelling up into her throat.
"Wow, Dad. You do get it. I always thought I was just weird, you know? But I knew you had that happen-you get that funny look on your face, like someone is shining a flashlight in your eyes and you swallowed yucky medicine at the same time," he laughed. "Oh, and then you make this other face...like a little twitchy smile, like when you know the answer to a trivia question but it's not your turn yet."
Sarah's hand flew up to her mouth, pressing down hard to keep from bursting out laughing. Chuck's mouth curled up on one side. "Yeah, your Mom kinda thinks it looks like that, too," he said, eyes wide in exasperation and humor. He pressed his lips together hard, turning back to his son. "You are not weird, just different. Special. Like a superhero-you know, like you have a special, secret super power."
"Just like you, Dad, right?" It was so honest, so genuinely thought and spoken, coming out of the mouth of his son. He choked up, struggling with all his might to keep his face neutral, even as Sarah saw his lower jaw trembling slightly before he clenched it tightly.
"Yes," Sarah interjected, knowing Chuck couldn't speak at the moment, judging by the look on his face. "Just like your Dad. But it's a secret, Stephen. We never told you because no one knows. It's very important that no one knows. You know, like Superman? If anyone knew Clark Kent was really Superman...well, it would ruin it, right?"
Stephen accepted this without question, nodding as she talked. Chuck looked on, amazed, saying very softly, only to her, "Nice one, Mrs. Bartowski."
"I'm picking up the nerd lingo, right? It only took 15 years," she mumbled quietly at his wide smile.
"Nobody else has it? Just us?" Stephen asked, his eyes narrowing as if he didn't quite believe it.
"Not any more, no. Just you and me," Chuck said. Only answer what he asks, he told himself. He struggled internally against the urge to just tell him all of it, knowing at the same time all of it was too much to take at nine years old.
Stephen's face scrunched up, like he was thinking. "Mom, you had it, didn't you? While I was in your tummy?"
Now it was Sarah's turn to blanch, her face going slack at the memory all of that brought forth. No one had ever brought that up in conversation, she knew. Was that some form of memory from an old flash? Absorbed from some conversation overheard when he was young, or just intel he had gleaned from other evidence they may not have even suspected existed? This is going to take some getting used to, she thought silently. "I did, for a little while. But it didn't work for me. It works best in your Dad. And now you. Aunt Ellie knew how to remove it-so she did, while I was pregnant with you."
"Why not from you too, Dad?" he asked innocently.
The whole story was too complicated, too convoluted, and not something that made any difference to his life, Chuck knew. Choosing his words carefully, Chuck said, "Because it won't ever hurt me. It was hurting your Mom. That's why Aunt Ellie figured out how to take it out."
Chuck saw the shift as Stephen's brain was working-curiosity turning to anxiety. "Will it hurt me? Can Aunt Ellie take it out?" he asked. Chuck looked up sharply, searching for Sarah's eyes, uncertain of how exactly to answer. Astutely, Stephen saw the exchange. "You're both kinda freaked out. You've been acting really weird ever since Saturday. Is that why?"
Chuck wrapped his arm around Stephen's shoulder, crushing him in an embrace. "No, it will never hurt you. I promise you that," he swore. "We were just...surprised, that's all. I wish you would have said something earlier if this was happening all the time. Obviously the girls knew something was up. The way Abby reacted. How long did they know?"
"I don't know, Dad. You know Abby. She's always nosy and poking around and asking questions. Probably a long time," he answered. "They don't know what it is, though. She calls me a dork enough as it is," he grumbled as he finished. Sarah shrugged, as Chuck nodded in agreement, knowing his daughter all too well. "You didn't answer it all, though. Can Aunt Ellie take it out?" he asked again, more intent this time.
"No, Son, she can't," Chuck answered, breaking the news as gently as he could. "You are special, like I said. Even more special than I am. I wasn't born with it the way you were."
He looked worried suddenly, picking at the hem on the hospital gown as his fingers fidgeted. "Is that why it's so weird? Why you're freaking out?" he asked, his voice receding.
"No one is freaking out. Do I look like I'm freaking out?" Chuck said, forcing a smile onto his face. It was too stiff, not warm enough to be real. He was deflecting, but he didn't know how else to proceed.
Stephen twisted the hem on the gown, over and over, a nervous habit that seemed amplified. His skin flushed two shades of pink darker as he sat, moving his hands before he spoke. He didn't look up when he spoke again. "You look like you did when I was really little and Mom was in the hospital and Mrs. Tucker stayed with me."
Chuck felt like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water down his back. He felt his blood rushing behind his ear drums, bizarrely punctuated with a light ticking sound that seemed out of place. Pulling himself back to the moment, he tried to focus. His eyes darted along the floor, seeing the source of the noise-Sarah's heel clicking against the floor as her knees were knocking together, both legs visibly shaking. The anemic pallor of her face made Chuck almost jump to his feet, fearing she was about to faint. She stumbled backward, bumping into the chair beside the table and falling into it, her knuckles white on the armrest.
Forcing his eyes back toward his son, finding his voice, stammering, Chuck continued, "St...Stephen, you remember that? You weren't even two," he added, his voice hushed with wonder.
"I remember a lot of stuff," he said quietly. He kept his face turned away, but Chuck could still see something, a question and a simmering doubt, as well as trepidation that made his eyes stay wide and unblinking.
His little Intersect-ed brain, Chuck thought. As amazing as it was frightening. He squeezed and released his son over and over, as time seemed to stand still in the awkward silence.
"But that's the first thing I remember...like at all, in my whole life. An ambulance came to the house and they put Mom on a stretcher. I remember Mrs. Tucker was wearing a shirt with pink flowers. She played with me and put me in my crib. And when you came home-you had a blue shirt on that was all wrinkled and your...your face looked like it did when you came in just now." Stephen looked uncomfortable, as if he was saying something he thought he might get him into trouble.
Sarah could hear Chuck breathing across the room, heavy breaths, as he fought to control his voice. "I was worried about your Mom then. That's all," he said, all inflection from his voice gone.
"No, Dad," Stephen insisted sharply. "You were sad. And you're sad now. I don't get it," he pouted, tossing the gaming console aside.
Chuck looked quickly to Sarah, seeing her leaning back in the chair, her head tilted back against the wall. It was familiar, the way she was looking at him. Comforting even in desperate pain herself, empathy and sympathy commingled into a gentle expression that was as close to a hug as she could give him without approaching him. Tamping down the shock and astonishment she felt with that knowledge, she worried more about her husband's reaction to this topic than how she internally felt. She knew Chuck was perilously close to breaking down-but he kept his arm around his son, speaking very slowly, channeling a calm strength from the deepest part of himself. "Everyone gets sad sometimes, even adults. Even your parents. That's normal."
Stephen was quiet for only a second. "There's sad, like when we thought Chewie ran away. But you were a different kind of sad then. Not like that time. Or now." His eyes wide and luminous, Stephen looked up at Chuck. "Why does this make you sad?" he asked.
It was too much, the memory piled with his son's questions, and he felt his eyes mist. Just be honest, he told himself. "Because I don't want you to grow up too fast. I know what that's like. And I didn't want that for you or your sisters." His voice nearly broke, defeat saturating the words as he realized the root cause of his misery even as he was trying to explain to his son.
Just a blur of motion seen out of the corner of Chuck's eye, he saw Sarah lift her head from the wall. He could feel her eyes fixate on him, instantly knowing what he would see on her face had he turned away from his son. He let it surround him, assured in the certainty that she was reaching out with emotion to support him. His son's eyes never shifted away, but Chuck could see him thinking.
Suddenly seeming so much older than nine, Stephen reached up and wrapped his arms around Chuck's neck. "It's ok, Dad. I still think it's pretty cool. Don't worry, ok?"
He squeezed his son in return, stifling a sob as he rested his chin atop his son's head. He felt Stephen squeeze harder as his son realized his father was weeping, offering comfort and reassurance despite the discomfort of witnessing his father's troubling affect.
Sarah had implored Chuck to be strong for his son. She should have known, from the example Chuck had always set, that Stephen, even as young as nine, knew he could be strong for his father as well. At exactly the right moment. Not the Intersect this time-but still Charles Bartowski at his best. Putting others before himself. Sarah's eyes were full of tears as she watched them, immediately locking eyes with Chuck the second he opened them. Emotion bowled Chuck over, perhaps once and for all teaching him that as much as he loved his family, the actual depth of that love knew no bounds. Every day it grew, and bounced back to him again. "I won't, I promise," he whispered, holding his son fiercely, in the moment never wanting to let go of him.
September 27, 2021
Santa Barbara, California
Gretchen Henderson shut the door to her apartment hard, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the chain to secure the door. Chastising herself, she paced around her living room until she forced herself to sit. That was the purpose of the peephole, wasn't it? If you don't recognize the person knocking at your door, don't open it.
It's ok, she told herself. He's gone. A thousand questions flooded her brain, none of which she had any answers for. She surveyed her rooms-the living room where she sat, the kitchen across the counter at the room divider. Cluttered but comfortable. Lived in, she said. Everything looked as it always had. Everything was fine, she told herself again. The tea kettle on the stove top began whistling loudly, a plaintive bleating sound that startled her in her frantic state. She gasped, covering her pounding chest with a chubby hand, forcing herself to calm, telling herself it was only the kettle.
"Kids!" she called. If the water was ready for tea, it meant their mother would be here any moment to pick them up.
Should she call the police? She thought to herself. And say what, exactly? A strange man had knocked on her door, then realized he had the wrong address? Calm down, she told herself. Then just randomly realizing he was on the wrong street? He had seemed genuine, hadn't he? Now it was nagging at her, pecking away at her peace of mind. She second-guessed the entire interaction. Why would someone lie about being lost? Why was she almost certain he had been lying?
Gretchen walked into the kitchen, reaching to the magnet on the side of the stove for the potholder. Grabbing the hand-knitted blue square, she grabbed the handle of the kettle, picked it up gingerly, and placed it onto the cold burner. She spun the dial on the stove and shut it off. The white porcelain cup had the tea bag waiting, the string and paper bob twisted over the side of the cup and resting against the saucer. Steam rose as the hot water flowed into the cup, the delicate amber stream seeping into the water slowly. Still gripping the handle with the pot holder, she was about to set it back onto the stove when the doorbell rang, startling her anew.
The kettle clattered unevenly as it hit the burner, boiling hot water piping out through the spout. Tiny burning droplets speckled the back of her hand, and she rushed to the faucet to turn the cold water on, running her skin under it to soothe the fiery pain. She heard the scurry of feet-the children running to the door.
"No! Wait!" she shrieked, tripping over her feet as she ran out of the kitchen, not able to form the words needed to express her fear and dismay that just flinging the door wide might not be safe.
Cozette turned back, noting the shrill in her babysitter's tone, even as her brother quickly undid the lock and pulled on the handle. Standing on the doorstep was their mother, her usual fatigue from a hard day's work visible on her face and dragging down her shoulders. She smiled, the warmth in the expression lighting her eyes and making the weariness seem to disappear. "Hey, guys," she said softly, slowly stepping into the room.
The smile faded as Gretchen yanked her arm, almost making her stumble on her heels, quickly pushing everyone out of the way and slamming the door shut, locking it instantly. Both children looked confused. "Gretchen, what is it?" she asked.
"Oh, Dear, I just had a bit...bit of a fright is all. Burned my hand. Come have some tea with me while the children pack up their homework. It's all done, Deary, so you can go home and just relax," she said companionably, using the monotony and mundaneness of the routine to calm her down again. The children disappeared down the hallway, leaving the two adults alone again.
"Something is bothering you, I can tell. What happened?" the younger woman asked, as she pulled the kitchen chair away from the table, hearing the legs screech along the linoleum.
Whispering, afraid the children would hear her, Gretchen said, "Strange man was just at the door. I shouldn't have opened it, I know," she said, shaking her head in self-reproach. "He said he was looking for someone, and did he live here, at my address."
"There are a lot of doors in this complex, Gretch," she offered with a weary smile. "I got lost a few times in the beginning. I think it took the whole six months before I knew which staircase to take."
"I know, I know," Gretchen grumbled. "I don't know why it's bothering me, getting under my skin and spooking me." She crossed her arms on the table. "Did you ever just really get the feeling like you were being lied to? For no reason whatsoever?"
The younger woman frowned, wondering at the strangeness of the conversation and where it was headed. "Maybe, I guess. Certainly dated a few in my time," she mumbled. She smiled weakly, running her finger across the rim of her tea cup. The two women sat in comfortable silence, slowly sipping their tea. A conversation between the children in the background was slowly increasing in volume as they sat, signs that they were packing their things to leave.
"How about recently?" Gretchen asked suggestively, lifting her thick gray eyebrows as she peered over the top of her tea cup, gently blowing away a trail of steam with pursed lips.
The younger woman laughed nervously. "Oh, no, please, Gretchen, not you too," she pleaded. "I'm not ready for that. Neither are the children." A sadness washed over her face, accentuating the weary fatigue.
A soft, sympathetic smile transformed from the fretful frown. "How long ago did your husband die, Sweetheart?" Gretchen asked her.
Gulping a mouthful of tea that was far too hot, panting open mouthed to soothe the burn, she said in a strangled voice, "Jacques died in a car accident two years ago. When we were living in Paris. That's why I moved back here...to be near my parents. It was so awful and...and...well, they were willing to help. Until my father got very ill. But you know that, Gretchen," she added. "Their birthday is at the end of next month. Last year it was awful," she grimaced, a bad memory twisting her features. "I'm trying to fix it this year, you know."
"They love you, Dear," Gretchen replied, reaching across the table to grab the younger woman's hand. "Just spend the day with them. You work so hard, and they miss you so much. I think that would be quite special."
Gretchen continued to smile at her, but noticed quickly that her gaze had drifted away from her tea cup, to the pile of mail sitting on the counter next to the table. A folded newspaper, with several white and yellow envelopes neatly stacked on top, was prominent in view, the awkward angle causing the sealed mail to slide slowly forward, gravity acting on the slanted angle. At a perpendicular angle to the letters was a piece of notepaper, the edge frayed as if it had been ripped from a bound pad in careless haste. Gretchen had the worst handwriting of anyone she knew, but a scribbled, cursive C and B were visible, followed by squiggly trails meant to be letters but were in actuality just wavy lines. "What's that, Gretch?" she asked.
Gretchen's eyes drifted over to the note, the unease of the previous encounter making the hair on the back of her neck rise and goosebumps appear on her arms. "Oh, goodness. That was who that strange man said he was looking for. Charles something. I think the last name was Polish. Ski something or other."
Gretchen had been focused on the note, trying to discern her own sloppy handwriting. What drew her attention was the sound of the tea cup smashing on the linoleum floor, right after it slipped from a hand that shook as if with palsy. She couldn't move quickly enough to stop the younger woman from sliding out of the chair as she fainted dead away.
Lurching forward, Gretchen plowed out of the chair and crouched down next to the unconscious woman. "Hannah?" she called, gently patting a cold and clammy cheek in an attempt to revive her. Gretchen continued patting at her cheek, nervous and quickly descending into panic, knowing with dread her initial instincts about her previous visitor had been correct. But completely clueless at the moment as to what it all meant.
A/N: Don't freak out. It's not what you may be thinking.