Chapter Twelve: A Learning Experience

In the week that passed, Jim found that if he really wanted to find someone, he would succeed no matter what. Whether that meant having to go to the most prestigious glamour fests to find out that Diana Gordon had been a successful movie star, or to the lowest of lowly neighborhoods to find out that she had sunk all the way to bottom-zero by the time everything was said and done.

Jim sat in a dingy bar, taking up a whole booth with newspaper articles, clippings, data sheets, finances—even medical reports. It was amazing what a son could acquire when he gave the receptionists and medical technicians a story about how his mother abandoned him at a young age and how he just wanted to be reconnected with her one last time before….well…according to the smallest tidbit in a newspaper, the 'before' had already happened.

For a starlet who had been famous enough to be applauded and commended highly by anyone in the upper middle-class region, Diana Gordon's good name had been robbed of all class as the singer/show-woman had drank herself under the table, was caught up in drugs, and the life of crime had overwhelmed her state of mind so much that she'd taken her own life. The only thing she had left behind was a diary, which Jim was reading with a grim expression that steadily became grimmer as he turned each page.

He'd found out through the articles that his mother had died when he was twelve, only two years after she'd abandoned them. In the diary, he read pages and pages where Diana had written how greatly she'd despised getting 'hitched up' to their father, and had the children she'd never wanted nor cared for. According to her, it had ruined any chance of her ever making it into the 'picture shows' (movies) because the C-Section scars had bunked her out of any movie slots, and she never felt as confident in her appearance again. In the diary, Diana wrote how happy she was now that she'd left the 'little shits' with their father, and even though she liked 'the girl' a little more because she had taken after her, Diana still couldn't have stood another minute with their 'tyrannical' father.

The passages went on, and on. Jim hadn't even gotten through half of the diary before he placed it under the pile of newspaper clippings, including the obituary, and asked the bartender if he could have another drink and, yes, please leave the bottle.

He pulled out his cellular phone from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, dialed a number from memory and then waited.

"Oswald," Jim greeted dryly when the receiver had picked up.

"Jim." The voice on the other side sounded so pleasant. "It's nice to hear from you again."

"Are you busy?"

Even though Jim could hear the distorted voices in the background that no doubt belonged to a bunch of men arguing about price deductions, Oswald said calmly, "No."

"This is about what we discussed before."

"Ah…Give me a moment." Oswald returned politely.

There was a short pause, and Jim noticed that the voices in the background started fading, then there was nothing; Oswald had enclosed himself in a quieter location, and at this, Jim was surprised that he felt a little grateful.

"What did you find?"

He glanced at the diary: "It doesn't look good."

"Meaning?"

"Mom died when we were twelve."

"I'm sorry; that's unfortunate."

"From what I've read in her diary," Jim said uneasily, "that is the good news. I'll bring over what I have."

"Tonight."

"What?"

"We'll meet tonight," Oswald declared, "once Sylvia goes to sleep."

"That would be best. I don't want her overhearing."

"I figured as much."

They hung up without saying good-bye. This was becoming all too customary, even for Jim's taste.

Sylvia sat in her office at Lean on Vee's, primarily going over budget rates. The club wasn't exactly hemorrhaging money, but there was plenty still to teach young Delilah when it concerned budgeting for more than just fancy holiday decorations, and the like. After she had the time to go over this month's bills, Sylvia called for Delilah, who came into the office, appearing more nervous than what was deemed necessary.

"Please close the door." Sylvia said without looking up from the finance book. She flipped a page as Delilah did as she was told, and she stood in front of her expectantly.

Sylvia looked up at her when the woman remained standing.

"Well, have a seat." She chuckled, gesturing to the chair in front of her. "Don't look so scared, Dee. You look like I'm about to throw a book at you for Christ's sake. Here…." She placed her martini in front of Delilah. "Have a drink, it'll calm your nerves."

"Sylvia..."

"We've talked about this." She warned.

Delilah smiled weakly and corrected herself, "…Liv."

"Before we begin, this is just a learning experience, okay? It's nothing you did wrong. You are not in trouble."

"I'm guessing if I was, I wouldn't get to drink this."

Sylvia looked at her once more, noticing her odd behavior. It wasn't like Delilah to walk on egg shells around her, never the less, anyone. After a moment of watching her, Sylvia sighed in resignation, stacked the bills and papers together and folded her hands on the table.

"What's up?" She asked casually.

Delilah's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and she quickly placed the martini back on the desk. Unnerved, she asked, "What do you mean 'what's up'?"

"I mean it like it sounds. You're acting strange."

"'Strange'?"

"Yes. In the time that I have known you, you've never been nervous. Ever. Not even when these assholes are destroying my furniture or shooting bullets at one another." Sylvia stated calmly, sitting back in her chair. "So, tell me. What's going on?"

Delilah chuckled, "It's nothing, really."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Well, it has to be something. You're shaking like a leaf in the fall." Sylvia pointed out. "Is it a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Parents? I can understand if parents are causing you some stress; believe me. I'm all too familiar with that department. Is it a sibling rivalry—Come on, young lady, tell me: what's wrong?"

Delilah started giggling halfway through Sylvia's rant-slash-interrogation and the casualness of her voice. That had been Sylvia's point as she smiled, too, when Delilah finally cracked under the lack of tension. The young Goth took in a long breath and then exhaled, gathering her thoughts.

"Well, my boyfriend and I…we've been trying to have a baby."

"And….?"

"Well, I think I might be…you know…but I don't know."

"Have you taken a pee test?" Sylvia asked practically.

"We've done one, but…I think it's wrong."

"What does it say?"

"That I'm pregnant."

"Well, there you go!" Sylvia returned happily, gesturing to her. "Happy day!"

"But they're wrong."

"The test or…?"

"The test. I can't be pregnant."

"Why is that?"

"We use condoms."

"You're trying to have a baby, but you're using condoms?"

"Well, we stopped using condoms, only yesterday. I can't be pregnant now—we've been using condoms up until this point."

Sylvia looked at her for one serious minute before she burst out laughing. Delilah jumped; it'd been a while since she'd heard Sylvia laugh, genuinely. The sound was perky, bubbly, and Delilah couldn't help smile when she saw Sylvia put her head on the table, trying to sober up. When she did, Sylvia straightened in her chair, smiling at her.

"Dee. Nothing is 100% effective. Condoms, IUDs, the sponge—none of it. They're, what, 99% effective, but you still have to account for that 1%. Personally, I've used an IUD for the past five years, and that's still not 100% guaranteed."

"So…I could be?"

"You could be." She handed her the landline phone, adding, "Call the Women's Health clinic in Gotham General. Set up an appointment, get looked at. If anyone can tell you whether you're pregnant or not, it'll be them. The gynecologists—not the general health nuts."

"I can't."

"What do you mean 'you can't'?"

"The last time I went, it was for a pap and it didn't go like it should have."

"I'm not understanding you."

Delilah shifted in her chair uncomfortably, saying, "It's like…it's hard to explain."

"Would I be able to convince you to go if I made an appointment myself?"

"That might help…yeah."

Sylvia called Gotham General, and they transferred her to Women's Health. A same-day appointment was set up so that both she and Delilah could be seen. Sylvia offered to go first and have Delilah in there with her, so the latter could see that nothing would be painful. When the appointment was booked, Delilah watched Sylvia expectantly.

"When?"

"Today," Sylvia answered. "Actually, in a couple of hours, so get your shit together and meet me at the front door in twenty minutes."

Delilah raised her eyebrows incredulously.

"What? It's amazing what you get when you're polite to customer service. Really, the only one thing of value I ever learned from Fish Mooney."

"You're actually going to get one with me?"

"Well, I'd say I'm overdue for one anyway. What better time than the present!"

Delilah and Sylvia then headed to the front. Delilah went ahead to get in the car while Sylvia watched her protectively until the car door closed. She turned to Dagger and Chilly who were waiting; Sylvia said softly, "I'll be gone a couple of hours."

"You still want us to train that Demetri kid?" Dagger asked wryly.

"Yes. What makes you think I don't want you to train him? He's a smart kid; he'll be fine."

"Roger. Whatever you want, Lark."

Sylvia smiled beautifully at the both of her guards and then she hopped into the car with Delilah, who sat in the passenger seat, nervously fidgeting with her hands. As they sped off to Gotham General, the radio was cranked up and all you could hear from the Mustang was Cyndi Lauper's hit, 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'.

The business meeting had finished prior to Jim's call. When the Heads of the Families had driven off, Oswald was mildly grateful for the quiet that came afterwards. In the silence, he sat in the living room, uncertain as to what he would tell Sylvia when the time came. Really, it depended on the material Jim had found.

Oswald had expected this much to come from his investigation. It was Gotham, after all. Nothing good ever came from the city…then again, he had Sylvia, didn't he? While she wasn't inherently pure of heart and innocent as his mother had been, Oswald could be happy that Sylvia wasn't.

They'd been through a lot together, that much was true.

And tonight, it was their anniversary.

He'd hardly expected any good news to come from searching for Diana Gordon. A starlet disappearing off the face of the earth without so much as a blip on anyone's radar? There was no way that had ended blissfully. Oswald had expected it; so, he'd already created a fail-safe, just in case.

Sylvia was still out, running her club. In her absence, Oswald had tasked Olga with a few instructions that would make their bedroom something out of a romance novel: rose petals on the carpet and bed covers, candles on the dresser, and end tables ready to be set alight. It wasn't the plan that Oswald had in mind, in fact, it was so generic and universal that it made him want to pitch the entire idea into an exploding supernova.

There wasn't enough to be done to express his love for Sylvia. And there never would be, it seemed.

And this news that Jim would bring. How would Oswald tell her? How could he?

The knock on the door had been earlier than he had expected. Oswald frowned, glancing at the time; it wasn't even three in the afternoon, and Jim was already here? Well, Oswald considered thoughtfully, Sylvia wouldn't be home until well past eight; she normally didn't leave the club until the last patron had left and after she'd made sure all of her staff was gone for the day.

Gabe was right: 'Mother Hen to us all'.

He answered the door, saw that it was Jim, and he reluctantly stepped aside so as to let the former detective into his mansion.

Jim carried a black messenger bag, no doubt it contained everything he'd found on his mother. Oswald watched him through leery eyes. Hostility was unnecessary, but hadn't they agreed to a time of the day?

Apparently not where Jim was concerned.

Oswald watched him sit in the living room. He joined him.

"The time we agreed upon wasn't sufficient?" Oswald asked coolly.

Jim ignored him and said unhappily, "Vee isn't here, is she?"

"She's out."

"I figured as much. I have a few errands to run before the day is out…." He explained gruffly, placing the messenger bag on the floor. Almost irritably, he gestured to the other arm chair and Oswald, not being one to anger the detective, sat across from him.

"More of Strange's Monsters to pursue, no doubt."

"More than I can count."

"More to catch."

"And bring them in. The city needs protecting."

"You're a police officer in all, but name. Except instead of catching criminals, you're catching monsters."

Jim glanced at him as though someone had told him the very same thing. Perhaps it had been such a regular observation made known to him that he was almost surprised that Oswald would have made the same notion. Spoken so casually, too.

Not wanting to confirm it with a comment, Jim handed over the messenger bag. Oswald took it, placed it in his lap, and perused the contents with ease. When he found the diary, he met Jim's eyes with mirrored discomfort.

"If you were like your father and Sylvia was like her mother, I doubt I want to read what is written in here."

"It's not flattering," Jim admitted as he leaned back in the chair stiffly.

"I should say not."

Taking his warning under advisement, Oswald turned the pages until he was in middle of the diary. Jim waited for clear indication that he was right; Oswald's eyes flickered over the pages, then he looked up.

"She had a colorful vocabulary," He noted with a subtle smile. "I guess I know where Sylvia gets hers."

"You're telling me." Jim agreed, nodding. He glanced at the scotch decanter on the mantle piece and said with a surprisingly polite tone, "Do you mind….?"

Oswald made an encouraging motion and Jim quietly thanked him, getting up from his seat to pour the decanter a third of the way into the glass, then sat back down.

"Actually…." Oswald muttered as he flipped another page through the diary. "I might have one too."

He began to make himself a drink but before he could do so, Jim was already pouring a second glass as he said, "I'll do the honors."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And for a second, it was as though their familial bond—even if only by marriage—nearly seemed normal. Oswald, the husband; Jim, the brother…brothers-in-law partaking a drink together without harsh words or threats of any kind. Even if it took place while reading the abominable words that Jim and Sylvia's late mother had written prior to completing suicide in her own dingy apartment.

Jim handed a glass, half-full, to Oswald, who took it thankfully.

"She doesn't leave much to the imagination, does she."

"She did not want to be married to your father for too long," Oswald agreed, and he added, "for the past 50 pages, she's made that very transparent."

"We never noticed."

"Never noticed what…." Oswald said distractedly.

"Their rocky marriage."

Oswald looked up at Jim, who rested an ankle over his knee as his thumb smoothed over the crystal cut glassware. The latter seemed to speak to him, but it wasn't made clear whether or not he was knowingly speaking his thoughts aloud. Oswald closed the diary, and placed it on the arm of his chair.

"Most children are blind to it, I think." He said softly. "Whether they just don't see it, choose not to believe it, or otherwise."

"It's like this city."

"Pardon?"

Jim met his gaze, saying, "Our father kept us…well, me…sheltered from Gotham's terrors. Sylvia knew what the city was like before I ever did. Her eyes were open to the truth. I romanticized what Gotham was, or rather, what it wasn't. It took me years to see what Sylvia was trying to tell me."

"Yes. She's quite perceptive."

"Not just that. She told me that the world isn't just black and white. 'It's gray, blue, purple, and lots and lots of red', she said."

"As perceptive as she is, I wonder if she knew anything about this." Oswald uttered, picking up the diary and sifting through its pages pointedly. "Your mother's resentment for marriage, having children."

"If she saw it, she said nothing to me. And if she knew it, she wouldn't have said anything. She wanted to protect me just like Dad."

"Mother Hen to us all." Oswald muttered, recalling what Gabe had said on the night Mr. Bell had departed.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"I'm sure it is 'nothing'. What'd you say?"

Oswald cleared his throat, this time feeling a little embarrassed. He said lightly, "One of my men—or rather, many of them—refer to Sylvia as a 'Mother Hen'. She's fairly protective over all of them, the servants, her staff..."

"…You." Jim muttered.

It was Oswald's turn to look at Jim as though he might have misspoken: "I'm sorry?"

"She's protective of you." Jim repeated, moving the hand that held his scotch towards Oswald as he lowered his ankle to the floor so he could sit upright and lean forward. "You have no idea how protective. It's actually really aggravating."

"It's not one-sided, I assure you."

"I bet."

There was a quiet moment in which the fire's soft crackling embers were the only thing heard in the entire mansion. Jim took a long drink and he gestured towards the messenger bag.

"With the diary, there are articles." He said hoarsely. "Articles about how Mom was famously known for singing arias, the usual. She was in show business from the time we were toddlers, up until the time she and our father were divorced. All of it was kept quiet, at least from us."

Oswald looked through the articles in the bag, noticing that what Jim said was true. Diana Gordon was not quite a legend, but she'd been renowned for some time before her demise, which was even less documented.

"Her diary entries and the newspaper articles link up," Jim stated as though he would save Oswald the time and energy of trying to decipher that for himself. "The celebrity headlines stopped around the time I was eleven—Vee, ten."

"Why is that?"

"She started getting more into your line of work than in show business," Jim responded, disgruntled. "More arrests, more drug busts—her criminal life took over, took everything she had from her, including her house and car, until she had nothing at all. In the diary, she calls it 'bank-rat-cy'."

Oswald quirked an eyebrow at him curiously.

Jim explained, "She thinks someone was out to get her. Knowledge of her abandoning us got out to the press, leaked through every single newspaper company and network, and that brought down her reputation."

"As vicious as the media can be, I'm surprised that they would have such a passionate response to a woman who would leave her children behind. As unfortunate as it seems, having children didn't ruin her life," Oswald pointed out. "Leaving them did."

"It appears so. But that's not what her diary would have you believe."

"It appears Sylvia dodged a bullet."

"Yeah, but none of this is good either." Jim deliberated, getting to his feet. "It just confirms what she suspects; our mother abandoned us. So now, she has a mother who never wanted her—us—and a father who she believes never loved her."

Oswald looked up at him from his seat, saying, "So what are you proposing?"

"I'd rather Vee not find out about any of this."

"Any of it?"

"Our meeting, the investigation, what we found, the diary—any of it. It would destroy her."

"You expect me to hide the truth from her?" Oswald questioned, standing up as well.

"Well, you're pretty good at it anyway: keeping secrets, hiding truths, lying, typical criminal background," Jim said with a sarcastic grin. "I figure this is your bread and butter. Isn't it, Oswald?"

"I'm a criminal, but I'm an honest criminal."

"Yeah. 'Honest'."

"If you think—"

"She doesn't learn about any of this," Jim warned, pointing to the messenger bag. "This would destroy her."

"If we keep this from her and she finds out from someone else that we did—"

"Then so be it! You know what she's capable of, you know how she reacted when a butler left. Think of the consequences, think of what will happen when she finds out that her own mother never wanted her!"

"Fine!" Oswald resigned unhappily. "You have a point."

"Good. I'm glad we can agree on something." Jim mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I have a few things to take care of before the night is out. Do you care to…." He waved his hand at the messenger bag, the diary, and the newspaper articles.

"I'll take care of it."

"Thanks." Jim mumbled. He drank the last of the scotch, adding, "And thanks for the drink."

Oswald watched him for a moment. He looked as though he might say something, but after further thought, he reckoned he'd stay humble and let the former detective leave.

Oswald stared at the fireplace. His eyes were on the fire, but his mind was elsewhere. Occasionally, he glanced at the clock that sat on top of the mantle piece. It read 8:05 P.M. Soon, Sylvia would be coming home, if not already walking up to the front door. And still, he hadn't summoned the energy or the will to put the messenger bag or the diary away.

He never intended to destroy the evidence. He never intended to hide the truth from her. As such, in his right pocket of his trousers was a tranquilizer dart with enough sedatives to knock out an elephant. He figured if Sylvia didn't like the news, he could put the dart in her neck and she'd go right to sleep—if he even found the opportunity to do so.

The alternative was obviously much more appealing, not to mention safer. Oswald knew himself by now. What Jim said was true; he could hide many truths. How was this any different? How, indeed.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted his thoughts to the present, to the mansion; he heard the soft footsteps of Sylvia's padded bare feet. He glanced up to see her walking into the living room, appearing tired, but otherwise, content, as well as holding her heels in one hand. When she saw that he was still up, Sylvia's head slightly tilted to the side with curiosity.

"Ozzie."

She said his name with such a soft timbre, it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. A light electric impulse teased his fingers and tickled a larger digit of his. Just hearing his name leave her lips—it never got old.

"I didn't think you'd be up," Sylvia said, sitting across from him. She leaned forward, and gave him a kiss.

He returned it.

"I have some news." Oswald said calmly, although his heart was beating so hard, it threatened to beat right out of his chest.

"What is it?"

He pushed the messenger bag towards her feet with his cane, a dark cloud seemingly looming overhead. He wouldn't admit to anyone that sometimes Sylvia scared the ever-loving shit out of him. During moments like this, he wished to God that she didn't. Even now, he could feel his body shivering out of nerves—the idea of lying to her was becoming more appealing.

"I started an investigation," He informed with forced calm. "I had hoped to give you some closure regarding your mother's disappearance. It's not as comforting as I hoped it would be."

"My mother? I haven't really thought of her…" She pulled the diary out of the messenger bag, and looked at Oswald inquisitively. "What's this?"

"I'm certain you know what it is."

"A diary. My mother's diary?"

"Sylvia…."

"Where did you get this?"

"Like I said," Oswald said with a small encouraging smile. "I had someone running an investigation..."

Sylvia held up a hand and Oswald immediately silenced. It wasn't like him to do so, but he figured under these conditions, it was probably best. He worriedly nibbled on the inside of his cheek; a part of him was baiting his hand to reach for that tranquilizer dart already as he watched her.

Her eyes grew watery, cloudy. Still, she kept flipping the pages, reading. She was halfway through before she sniffled, putting the book down on her lap. Oswald watched her carefully, waiting for that ticking bomb explosion, waiting for—well, waiting for any reaction.

"So…Mom didn't want me. Either of us."

"Yes, it appears that way." Oswald consoled.

"And these?"

Sylvia ran her hands through the newspaper articles.

"Pigeon…."

"How did she die?"

"Suicide."

Sylvia's sad chuckle made Oswald's heart dip into his stomach.

"Well, I suppose she would have rather died than ever try to…." She began, but her voice trailed off.

"Honestly, Pet…You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would." Oswald uttered uncertainly.

"I'm surprised you didn't choose to hide this from me, to tell me a happy ending, instead."

"I admit that it has crossed my mind. I've lied to my mother, Falcone, and, really, everyone in between." He said guiltily. "And I'd say I'm very good at it. I can lie to you."

"Really."

"Yes. It's not that I can't. I just won't. My mother always said that a truth with a tear is better than a lie with a smile. I had hoped to give you good news…I won't deny that I thought about throwing all of this in the fire, and telling you a happier ending. As perceptive as you are, as brilliant as your mind is, I knew eventually you'd find out—somehow, someway—I would rather you find out from me than from someone else."

"That's sweet." Sylvia said, smiling endearingly. "As for this" (She put the diary on the floor) "I call it a 'learning experience'."

"A 'learning' experience? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I know, now, what kind of mother she was. This diary, these newspaper clippings—She has shown me just what type of mother I neither wanted nor wish to become." Sylvia said softly. "However, in doing that, she's also shown me what type of mother I want to be…when we have our child."

"Well, I suppose that's…." Oswald began, but when he registered her words, he looked at her, confused.

Sylvia stood, walked over to him, took Oswald's hand in hers, and placed his palm over her stomach.

She kissed his cheek and whispered, "Happy Anniversary, Ozzie. You're going to be a father."