AN: Okay, inspiration struck hard for this one. Reviews, comments, criticism, always welcome.
I think I'm getting old. Well, at least the mirror seems to be telling me that. You'd still think I was beautiful though, and I have to smile at the thought. Kristoff still finds me attractive too—one of the many reasons we're still together. You were right about him too, he's a much better person than either of us ever thought, once you get past his shell. You probably want to know why the mirror's saying I'm old? Yeah, I think I found a wrinkle—and what do you mean just the one?! I remember your sense of humour too. I miss you, Elsa. Oh, hey, you'd probably like my skunk-stripe, which I now swear is Joan's fault from everything she goes through at fencing practice; at school; with her friends. God, life's not easy sometimes.
That scar—you know the one—it still itches sometimes. If the knife had hit me slightly differently, if it glanced off my rib, well, you might never have seen me again. I hate to think about it, but it's true. I don't know what saved me; but after… you saved me, and I guess I saved you too. Why am I even thinking about all this during my shower time? Because I'm nearly there in telling Joan the story. I can only remember one more morning, and it wasn't a good one, and then I disappeared and you worried.
I wash my hair twice, then run the conditioner through it. It's as long as you'd remember it, and I'm still damn careful at work. It's always pinned up and back, out of the way. Everyone still questions why I take such long showers—though I swear Joan still takes longer. It's my downtime, the rush of water, the white noise just makes it a moment, something clear and simple, and I stand under the shower head where it's warmest. It's a moment in time, I don't have to think, or act. It's… meditative, I guess is the right word. It's one of the few places I can truly clear my mind. I'm learning to appreciate the way that you could do that was something special.
When I'm dry enough—by which I mean I'm not leaving puddles behind when I walk—I throw on a robe and walk out into the master bedroom. Dry my hair, brush it, then I wonder if I should braid it again or just leave it for the morning. I'm thinking morning. I throw myself onto the bed, still wearing my robe. I land hard enough that it slips open a little and Kristoff reaches over, pulling it closed again. He's a good guy, and he could honestly have me any time he wanted—or I wanted—but things don't always line up. Oh, sure, we do try to, but sometimes plans fall through, and other times we're just too tired after a hard day's work.
Our bodies' needs don't always line up with those of our emotions. We try to make it match, but it'll never be 100%. I'm not sure I want it to be either. Sometimes its nice only having to be responsible for myself, and to myself. I think Kristoff feels the same way. We don't talk about it much, because it doesn't happen much, but it does happen. And yes, sometimes when we're not in the mood to participate, we'll still help. I think I've been caught out a few times, but maybe I like the idea of getting caught sometimes. What, you think that time you walked in on me was an accident, Elsa? Okay, mostly, yeah, because I didn't expect you home so damn early, and maybe I was a little too, ahem, focused on the task at hand to hear the door.
I'm blushing now, and smiling, because I can just see the mortified—yet very curious—look on your face. You were adorable. And I think that's probably enough of that. One last thing, though: Phil's hosting a tournament, foot and mounted, with the other SCA crowds around the city. Joan's entering as a foot combatant—and as part of the grand melee. Junior category for both, of course. Not for another couple of months yet, but training's going to get intense. Help me keep her safe.
Now Wednesday's turning into a whole lot of averageness. I mean, sure, hump day and all, but there's been nothing exciting going on all day. Even the summer heat's going, but I still have to swipe an arm across my forehead every now and then. It's getting quite warm under the bed I'm welding into this machine. Stainless plate, folded edges. The old bed—or the welds on the old bed—cracked and broke, and there's enough holes in the thing they just want to get a new one—redo the entire thing from scratch. That's my day, pretty much of all it, cramped, uncomfortable, and with only my welding torch for company until it's break time.
Audrey's here too, and she really gets along with the guys. God, she's as rough and tumble as they are half the time, and she doesn't bat an eyelid at some of the jokes. Sure, they're funny, but sometimes I'm glad they're not all looking at me. I mean, not like that, but… damn, I just can't find the right words. We get done a bit before our usual time, so we just help the guys give their workshop a good clean. Everyone appreciates a clean workshop.
As I pull into the driveway I remember I got a text while driving home. It's Joan—Tina's there, and I know it's against her parent's wishes. There's no good answer here, and I'm trying to decide on the best course of action. No matter what happens I'm going to end up betraying someone's trust; and no matter what, someone is going to be getting into a whole heap of trouble. I have the job of deciding who that is. Well, at least my day isn't average anymore. Woo freakin' hoo.
Wait, Kristoff's home too—he should've done something. Something responsible. He has to have. In the front room Joan's sitting rigidly on the couch, staring blankly at the door I just walked through. Tina's sitting there just as stiffly. Kristoff, you idiot. Too responsible. Then again, maybe it is the right thing. Joan's going to hate us. Us. I won't let Kristoff take all the blame for this. Tina can hate us too, if she wants. The Belafonts though, they might actually trust us. Not a good trade, but it might be a step in the right direction. A costly one.
I can hear a car skidding into our driveway, and hurried, angry steps. The door opens and standing there is—holy shit. Weaselly—I mean Westley—Belafont. Makes a bit more sense now. Time has not been kind to the man, and I have to cover my mouth lest he see me laughing at his blatantly obvious toupee. It's not even a good one. I… I'm not sure how he managed to get a wife. I wondered why that voice on the phone sounded oddly familiar the other day. Weasel—Westley. Westley, he grabs Tina roughly by the arm, hauls her up from the couch and practically drags her to the door. I step up, standing in his way. It's clear I'm not the same person I was eighteen years ago.
"Don't you dare hurt her."
"I won't lay a finger on her." It's all bluster. He's not used to people standing up against him. Used to think his money could solve every—huh, maybe that's how he got a wife.
"Weasel—Westley," I mumble an apology so quick I doubt he noticed it. "That's not what I said."
"I'm not going to harm my daughter. My own flesh and blood."
"Then maybe you should stop trying to drag her through my house. Give her some dignity. She's been busted, she knows it, and running away won't help matters."
Tina glares at me, and I'm sure Joan's trying to light me on fire with her mind, but Westley drops Tina's arm, escorting her onto the porch.
"And Westley, just because you can't trust your daughter doesn't mean I don't!" I have to shout, he's already back to his car. Last year's something or other, fancy sedan thing. I don't care for it.
"Mom, Why?!"
"Because sometimes life just sucks," and I collapse into one of the armchairs by the sofa. My voice is a lot softer when I can speak again. "You know I didn't want to do that, right?"
"I could see it all over your face while you helped dad sell her out!"
"Joan, please. Not now." Sometimes I hate being a parent. I have to be the bad guy, and when that happens—when I just need a moment to get over that kind of system shock, I can't find my center. Now I'm afraid if Joan says one more thing I'll explode at her instead of the people that deserve it. The tension's too much and I jump with fright when I feel a hand against my shoulder, strong and firm. I think Joan said something, because she's storming off, but I guess Kristoff got to me just in time. I let out a tense little sigh. At least I haven't done anything terminally stupid. Joan deserves an explanation, but… later. When we've all calmed down.
"Okay Reindeer King, you think that was really the best move?" Yeah, maybe I'm still a little angry—but it's not like I meant to throw it in his face.
"Just take a deep breath, Anna. It's not the end of the world." Uh oh, he just used my name, no feistypants, no dear. I think I went too far.
"No, it's not." There's a pregnant pause, and it's like I could pluck the tension from the air. "I…"
"Deep breath, you'll be okay." Um, what? Did I miss something? I must have.
I take that deep breath, let it out. Another. Trying to let go of my anger and tension. "I didn't really hear what Joan said when she stormed off."
"How could you not hear that?" But he's not angry, he's confused. I can tell when I turn to look at him. "I'd swear the neighbours heard it. Across the road."
"That bad, huh?"
"Let's just say it doesn't bear repeating, except for the part where she never wants to see us again." Well, that would explain why Kristoff was trying to reassure me. It's not like Joan—not like her at all. I'll give her some space, it's not like she'd try to run—crap. I'm halfway up the stairs before Kristoff realizes what's going on. I skid to a halt in front of Joan's room, using the door handle as an anchor to stop myself. I can't hear anything from inside. Double crap. If she was sulking at least I'd hear some music or something. Door's locked, of course. There's a jingle from downstairs, and I almost fall down the stairs to the ground floor. I hear an engine revving by the time I get to the door—why did we think it was a good idea for her to get driving lessons over summer?
Kristoff reaches the door just as Joan's speeding down the street, tyres screeching against the asphalt. He puts a hand out and just kind of sags against the door frame.
"Shit." Deadpan. Eloquently put, Reindeer King, and I roll my eyes.
Joan's out there, in our car, it's dark, and she hasn't done much night driving. I'm worried for her. No, I'm terrified of what might happen if something goes wrong. If I get that call. I can't let that happen. Then another factor pops up. She took off heading east. The Belafont's place is to the east. Oh, this is so not good. I run into the garage, grabbing my helmet and my leathers. I toss the van keys to Kristoff—the van's here becau—doesn't matter, it's here, so we can cover more ground. Now I have an idea of my daughter's plan it's even worse, because if something happens she's not the only one at risk. I'd feel responsible if anything happened to them. It's a desperate move on her part, almost clichéd, really, but some things just don't change.
I think that's our car ahead, and I'm chasing taillights. I wish I had some way to bring Kristoff in on this, but I left my phone at home. Bad idea anyway. Need like a helmet radio or something. Wait, something just pulled out of the Belafont's driveway—station wagon. There's a flash of platinum in the rear view mirror. I have to admire my daughter; smart enough to switch cars. Damn it, she's got your brains Elsa. Why? Why would you curse me like this? Oh, look, there's Tina. Both of you young ladies are in so much trouble.
We hit downtown, and even on my bike I lose them in the cross traffic. I find an empty space on the side of the road and pull into it, turning my bike off. I have to think Joan actually planned this. She managed to get away too quickly, and it was like Tina was waiting for her. Which is really unhelpful right now, because I've just lost my daughter—our daughter—and only child to a simple act of disobedience. Please let her be okay. She has to be okay. She has to be, because when I find her, I'll kill her myself.
I'm hyperventilating on the sidewalk, trying to take all this in. I've gotta sit down before my legs collapse. I'm losing it. I feel so small and alone right now; I feel like an absolute failure. I forced her out. I wasn't even paying attention when she stormed off. I mean… would I have realized? Would I have known? Was she waiting for me to race up the stairs so she could raid the keys from the kitchen? I'm impressed, and appalled, and really, really scared. She's only fifteen, out there, in the world. I wasn't ready at fifteen. I don't think she is either.
I check my watch. It's taken me about quarter of an hour to pull myself together. Enough that I trust myself to drive home, defeated. Kristoff's there, on the phone, giving someone an earful. Belafont—but I don't hear Tina's name. It's like the universe hates me tonight. Better check my phone—maybe the battery died. That'd be just perfect. I pick it up, checking for messages. Several, from Kristoff, trying to call me home. One, from Joan. Three minutes old. Shaking like a leaf, I sit at the table.
I'm safe.
I don't know why I was crying, or how long, but Kristoff walks in, sees it, and pulls me into the warmest hug I can remember in a long time. I show him the message and I can see his relief, too. I'm too shattered to even think about food, but I'm not going to protest the hot chocolate he presses into my unresisting hands. The mug is nice and warm, and I have to smile for him. We'll get through this. We're no good to anyone right now, but we'll be better in the morning. I can sleep—I'm exhausted after the events of this evening—but I'm still so scared for Joan. Kristoff wraps his arms around me, and the fears can't get to me for a while. Long enough for me to drift off and pray I don't get nightmares.
I wake up at 3am. I look at the messages on my phone.
I'm safe.
It's enough.
