A/N: Hello again! This will be the last chapter till next Friday night, seeing as I'll be on my family vacation. Let's see, what else to I have to say...I have lots of lurkers. Please, review!
Disclaimer: Bones is not mine, so don't sue! All characters created by my warped mind do, however, belong to me, but that's not saying a heck of a lot. :o)
-CHAPTER 4-
"Are you coming, Rach?" Mrs. Wood yelled from the bottom of the staircase.
Rachel sighed. It was her mother's tone that prompted her to spring to her feet, nothing else. She had no burning desire to soak her shirt through with sweat under the stifling summer sun, selling dusty junk at the annual family garage sale, especially considering recent circumstances. Rachel knew that there was no graceful way out of it, though. She had been roped into it from the start.
"Yeah, just gimme a sec!" Rachel called from her bed.
True to her word, Rachel arrived out in the front lawn within minutes. Her eyes scanned the property, and soon she was nodding her head with approval. Six card tables were lined up in three neat rows of two.
One table housed fragile, delicate china sets, old jewelry, and some stone figurines. Another table proudly showcased holiday decorations: old strands of Christmas lights, last year's inflatable jack-o-lantern, and even a cardboard cutout of a turkey. Three tables were draped with clothes, organized by color and size. The last table was piled high with gardening supplies and simple tools like hammers and screwdrivers. An old lawnmower and treadmill were stuck out in front of the tables.
Mrs. Wood approached Rachel and patted her shoulder. "Not quite as much as we had last year, but I suppose that means we've collected less junk, eh?"
Rachel spun around, obviously startled. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, less junk." Her heart took its time quieting. She had been particularly jumpy lately.
With a laugh, Mrs. Wood turned her back to Rachel to go help out a rather chubby, old man who seemed to be interested in the treadmill.
Rachel's gaze wandered over to a family standing nearby one of the tables of clothes. A skinny female hovered over her daughter's back, greedily pawing through the mounds of shirts. Presumably a husband was yelling to his son to stop playing with the lawnmower. The sight brought tears to Rachel's eyes again.
They're probably perfectly normal…no secret adoption, no FBI dad, no famous author mom…just normal people going garage sailing on a normal day, she told herself with disgust.
It really was amazing that the they had managed to keep such a life-altering secret from Rachel for so long. Wouldn't the Woods feel guilty for keeping this from her? Wouldn't they feel to some degree responsible for keeping Rachel from her rightful parents?
"Hey, Rachel, come here for a minute. I've got something to show you," called the gruff voice of Beth.
Sighing, Rachel gathered her wits and joined Beth nearby the table of tools. She couldn't help but to feel somewhat superior to Beth. Rachel was, after all, the daughter of Doctor Temperance Brennan and Special Agent Seeley Booth. And who was Beth? Just the offspring of a homemaker and a plumber.
"What?" Rachel asked, somewhat annoyed that her thoughts had been interrupted for some stupid reason.
Rachel tried to tune out her sister's spiel about the pros and cons of gardening with fertilizer rather than straight soil. It was pointless; how was listening to her sister's newfound knowledge of planting going to help her find her parents?
Just then, Rachel had an idea of sheer brilliance. Quickly, she thought up a lame excuse to get Beth off her back. Her lecture was becoming more and more boring by the second.
"Um, I think I heard Mom calling me, m'kay?" And with that, Rachel trotted off in the direction of her mother.
Mrs. Wood was counting dollar bills when she saw Rachel approaching from the corner of her eye. "Everything alright, dear?" she asked Rachel, not bothering to look up from her sorting.
"Uh, yeah…Hey, Mom, I heard Dad talking about there not being enough…masking tape…and I was wondering if you needed me to head down to the supermarket to get some." Rachel mentally slapped herself…masking tape? Was that really the best she could come up with?
Mrs. Wood set down the pile of bills. "Actually, we could also use some more tacks to hang up signs. Would you mind much, Rach?"
Rachel's face immediately lit up with a smile. "No! Not at all! I'll be back in twenty minutes tops." Rachel didn't give her mother a chance to reply, for she was already bounding towards the shed to grab her bike.
Clumsily, she hooked her helmet on and slung her knapsack on her shoulder. Within minutes she was barreling down the driveway and down the street, but she wasn't headed for the supermarket. She was pedaling at full speed to the local library.
If she was going to find her parents, she was going to need to do it quickly. Rachel was already having difficulty keeping her mind on something, anything, other than her parents. She had to see them. She had to be with them, to hug them, to talk to them. It was killing her inside. There was no way in hell she was ever going to let this go.
She jammed her bike into the rack and fiddled with the lock. There wasn't a moment to spare; she only had twenty minutes to check out every book written by the good doctor and to purchase masking tape and tacks. Why hadn't she been smart enough to have allotted at least a half an hour?
The shelves of dusty, old books were intimidating to say the least. Rachel had to barge her way through several rather tall, stodgy old men and their biddy, gray wives. Rather hastily, she made her way towards the science fiction section and began to sift through titles and authors.
The task proved to be easier than she had anticipated; all seven of her mother's books were lined up next to each other where they should have been alphabetically. A shiver ran down her spine. In her very hands, Rachel held possibly the only bit of contact she could ever hope to have with her mother. It was almost as if they were written to her, for her.
Nonsense, she thought. Temperance didn't write these with the intention of me reading them. She doesn't even know that I know she exists!
Clutching the books to her chest, Rachel made her way to the librarian's desk. She tapped her foot impatiently while she waited in line. The plump woman ahead of her smelled like a mixture of cheap perfume and pipe tobacco, and her tacky purple dress was probably two sizes too small.
After another few minutes, it was finally her turn. She dropped the books on the counter with a thud and grabbed the yellow library card from her back pocket. She watched the old librarian take her time checking out the books; Rachel thought in vain that if she stared long and hard enough, she'd somehow will the woman to pick up her pace.
As soon as her card was back in her head, she dashed out of the library and threw her books in her knapsack. She probably had ten minutes left to make a dash for the supermarket.
As Rachel strolled through the craft aisle of Georgia's Good Ole' Goods: Your Local Supermarket, she thought about what to do next. Obviously sitting here in the suburbs of Philadelphia wouldn't do, especially when she knew that her real parents were out there.
But it wasn't like Rachel could just walk up to the parents she'd always known and say: "I'm going to Washington D.C. to meet my biological mother and father that as of twenty-four hours ago I had no clue existed." Yeah, that would definitely go over well.
This is when things got complicated. Rachel loved the Wood Family; after, they had raised her. Disregarding all of the facts, Lauren and Steven were her parents. But how could you ignore the existence of real parents? Rachel had to meet them. There was no doubt about it.
And what would happen afterwards? Rachel knew deep down that after meeting them, she wasn't going to be able to leave them. She wasn't going to be able to walk out on her own flesh and blood.
"Excuse me, Miss. That'll be four dollars and fifty eight cents, please."
"Huh?" Rachel looked up, and then realized that she was in line at the supermarket buying tacks and masking tape. "Uh, yeah, sure."
She slammed four crumpled dollars and two quarters, one nickel, and three pennies on the counter. Taking her purchases in hand, she swiftly left the supermarket and hopped on her bike to head for home. She didn't want to be there, but it wasn't like she could hop on a plane and head to Washington D.C. on her own.
"Did you get those tacks, Rachel?" asked Mrs. Wood. She was sticking a neon yellow price tag on a rusted trowel.
"Yeah," Rachel said, extending the shopping bag, "right here."
Thankfully, there seemed to be a lull with business. Rachel took the opportunity to take refuge inside the cool air-conditioning. Beth and Brandon were probably in the backyard playing some silly game, and it was safe to say that her parents hand their hands full with the garage sale.
Rachel booted up the computer and shuddered at the memory of last night. Shaking off the disconcerting thoughts she had muddled in her mind, she quickly logged in and began her work. She had a plan; granted, it was crazy, and she probably had no hope of it ever working, but she knew it was something she had to do for herself. Hesitantly, she dragged the cursor over to the big, blue "e" and double clicked.
Trying to hold back the tears, she typed in the words into the address bar. What am I doing? What's gotten into me? All of this added stress must be affecting my ability to process common sense, she told herself. I shouldn't be doing this.
And yet Rachel continued on with the deed. She had acted on an impulse, but she didn't care. Drastic times called for drastic measures, and Rachel was fairly certain that this was as a drastic time.
Still trembling, Rachel slowly willed the cursor to click in the box labeled departure. Her heart quickened its pace, and soon it was pounding so loudly Rachel thought that everyone in the house could hear it. She inhaled and typed the letters: P-H-I-L-A-D-E-L-P-H-I-A. Now she was sweating. Before she could give herself the chance to protest, she swiftly brought the cursor down to the arrival box and typed: W-A-S-H-I-N-G-T-O-N D-C. In a rush, she completed the rest of the needed information. Rachel decided to leave tomorrow morning. It was probably best that she didn't give herself the chance to chicken out. When she was satisfied, she clicked the next button.
She quickly scanned the results brought up on the screen. There was a train that left at 6:55 A.M. from 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and arrived at Union Station in Washington D.C. at 8:15 A.M. The fare was only forty-three dollars, which was less than she had expected.
So it was settled. She printed out the information and shoved the now folded piece of paper in her pocket.
That night, long after the garage sale ended, long after everyone had gone to bed, Rachel stood over her bedside folding a yellow t-shirt. The flap of her brownish, warn leather suit case was bent open, revealing several pairs of folded jeans and a few shirts and sweaters. Tucked to the corner was a pile of all seven of her mother's books.
When she was finally satisfied with her handy-work, she slid the suitcase under the bed. Snuggling in her blankets, Rachel felt somewhat content. She shut her eyes and imagined her parents as they were in the Polaroid, all happy and whatnot. Tomorrow, she'd be in Washington D.C. Tomorrow, she was going to find them.
Hmm...this is when things get interesting!