Chronological markers: this scene fits in as a deleted scene from The Umbrella Academy, season 3, episode 2, around 24:30 (in the middle of the day, around the time when Klaus and Five take a break near the 'World's Biggest Ball of Twine').

Suggested soundtrack: Proleter - April Showers ; Moriarty - Jimmy. TW: evocation of pregnancy denial and cancer.

April 3 2019, 11:58 am

"I am still stunned by this beautiful April sun that has settled over The City. 'In our time' - meaning back in our old 2019 - the sky was perpetually gloomy, if not downright awful, as it had more or less always been. I wondered what had changed, and I have only one answer: us. And I have a hypothesis about that."

"Recently, even though it paradoxically dates back to 1963, I had the chance to observe how the sound waves released by Viktor's emotional turmoil could cause clouds to gather, bringing rain, snow, or storms. Looking back, I think he had always been in a state of despair that I can't fully measure, if not depression. And after seeing him this morning, happy and at peace, with his fresh haircut, I think I can tell why - today - the sun shines so brightly over The City. In that sense, and even though it breaks my heart that he had to leave her in 1963, I must say that Sissy Cooper deserves the thanks.

I, too, look at myself in one of the shop windows, as I head south down 7th Avenue. I admire my haircut again, also freshly done this morning. I doubt that what I see will ever fully match what I feel, as my body and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. But at least I feel like I'm starting to find myself again. Now all I need to do is get rid of this hippie tunic.

I still don't have any money, and it's starting to be a burden. I was upfront about this with Hoàng Thị Liên when she offered to have lunch with me today. I struggle not to call her Granny. Her voice sounded intrigued on the phone when I introduced myself as a niece, just stopping by The City. She didn't really have time to chat. Surprisingly, there was a lot of noise and music around her. She just quickly gave me the meeting time and place. Hearing her rushed by something other than the schedule of her TV drama is very strange, honestly.

As I turn onto Crescent Avenue, The City's equivalent of Broadway, the first theaters appear, with their large posters of musicals or world-renowned plays. Here, the passing taxis sometimes feature the faces of the latest young stars or advertise the names of big-budget productions. I saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show here with Klaus, a long time ago. What an incredible show that was.

Granny used to live near the Warden fabric market, west of Argyle Park. Through the connection of Reginald Hargreeves - now I know - she worked as a bespoke tailor, sewing the most refined garments in her modest little apartment for The City's elite. She also made the uniforms for the Umbrella Academy, something I only discovered much later. And I was able to tell at a glance, upon seeing the Sparrows' red blazers, that those were not her work.

I wonder what became of her here. Why and how she differs from the person I knew. And - if I don't exist in The City - why she emigrated here. Five thinks we were born scattered across the world, which was indeed my case. Into a family of Vietnamese origin, like so many in France after decolonization. Just like the so-called Lila bears the features of that India which is now so dear to me, while speaking with a strong British accent. Granny and my mother settled here when I was five, with 'financial compensation' from Hargreeves, as I later found out.

What we all are, I don't know. I wish I could understand. And despite myself, as with each of my doubts now, I lower my eyes to the tattooed pattern on my forearm. I have so many questions for this woman who may no longer be my grandmother. I just hope I won't be too shaken to string three words together.

As I walk past the theater doors, often surrounded by clusters of bulbs topped with neon signs, I look at the stationery stamped with the Hotel Obsidian's logo on which I've written the name of our meeting place: 'April Showers - after-spotlights Suppers & Brunches'. The name amuses me, because - definitely - today the sun is beautiful.

I find the place. Nestled between an upscale concert hall and a sort of cabaret where champagne, feathers, and sometimes ballroom and drag performances take over the evenings. There are modern-style glass doors, green woodwork, and a beautiful floor. It's a place like none I've ever seen Granny in. But I know she didn't live the life she might have dreamed of.

It doesn't take me long to spot her, sketching in a notebook at a table covered with a pristine white tablecloth, a small glass of sweet liquor within reach. She wears a black outfit with a simple cut but slightly sparkly, and her hairstyle is worthy of the dramas she used to watch. As I approach, I see she's perfecting the sketch of a garment, just as I often saw her do during my childhood, with the TV on. Her makeup is flawless, and her garnet earrings catch the light.

As I approach, she doesn't look up immediately, I see her adding a few final touches to her sketch. I know my outfit doesn't quite meet the place's 'dress code,' as Klaus would have said, and she eventually lifts her wrinkled eyes. Those eyes that were always sparkling with mischief, even when she was about to say something sharp. And she says to me:

"You're four minutes late. I almost ordered my meal."

This voice, this tone, this biting cynicism at every moment and in every place. At least that hasn't changed. So, as I would with my grandmother, I reply:

"At least I see you've gotten a head start with a white port."

She raises an eyebrow, as if I've pleasantly surprised her, and I sense that she's analyzing me. She's inspecting the surface of my face for minute details, features she recognizes as familiar. I do resemble what my mother looked like at the same age, that's a fact. And I look a lot like many of my distant cousins, to the point where we were sometimes mistaken as part of the same sibling group. She gestures for me to sit across from her.

"You claimed to be a niece. Whose daughter are you, again?"

I smile calmly, but inside my heart is pounding against my ribs. I know the family well: my grandmother had three sisters, two of whom I knew well, giving me a slew of 'cousins.' And if the context hasn't changed, then the little lie I'm about to tell her will work.

"Thị Mai's. The one who wanted to be called Georgia."

The aunt who emigrated to the USA in the 1980s, after cutting ties with the rest of the family, both in France and those who had returned to Vietnam. The one about whom she only ever heard again through a death notice around 2015. The sister she never tried to find again.

"That's not the branch with the ripest apples. But then... that old hag had reproduced before leaving the scene."
She lifts her glass of port and takes a moment to drink in silence, then adds, with her eyes almost closed:
"What's got into you contacting me out of the blue? Have you inherited the regrets she never had?"

I sigh, as for a brief moment, the lie I chose stings a bit. But the fact is, it worked. I shake my head and, this time, offer her a semblance of truth:

"I'm interested in... genealogy."

The very classy waiter in a black apron - about whom Klaus would probably have had a slew of flowery compliments - places the leather-bound menu in my hands and asks what I'd like to drink. I don't want to impose or cost too much for the one who is hosting me without knowing me at all. Granny has always been like that: mean, but with a form of generosity through food. So I also order a port, and she shoots the waiter a murderous look and says:

"Bring us the daily menu as well. For heaven's sake. Service is supposed to be included, not optional."

He places the menus in our hands and then leaves us to decide what we want to eat, clearly used to getting slammed every lunchtime. She then lifts her chin, now looking at me with her small, aged eyes.

Got it. In that case, you could translate it as:

"That outdated tunic... It's very eco-friendly to shop at Oxfam, but at least you could coordinate the colors. And what's with that haircut? Is it a deconstructed style or a gardening accident?"
I can't hold back a quiet laugh. Really, damn. Even if she doesn't recognize me: I've missed her so much.
"I like to experiment," I tell her, and she shrugs.
"Sometimes, experimentation ends up looking like a fashion crime."

For a moment, I would almost want to hug her, even though I usually dislike that, but she wouldn't understand. My eyes fall on the sketch she's still scribbling.

"Do you live around here?" I ask her, and she looks at me sideways.
"I'm a costume designer for musicals. Here in the spring and fall, and on Broadway in the summer and winter."

Despite myself, a somewhat sad smile comes to my lips. I see that in a way - in this timeline - she had the life she couldn't have having sacrificed everything to raise me with Mom. And it wasn't easy, even with two of them. But despite the touch of tenderness that grips me, she looks at me with unwavering resolve.

"You told me you're broke. Do you know there's something very useful called a job? Your audacity is impressive; it's what made me want to invite you."

It's not worth defending myself about that: otherwise, I'll spend the whole meal being judged on just about everything, I know. I simply smile at her, letting her words flow past. After a brief silence, she takes a sip of port and proves that my words have indeed been taken in:

"Genealogy, huh? Sit up straight, or I'll put you in a corset."
I nod and shift a bit in my modern-style chair.
"On that side of the family, all I'm missing are the details about you and your daughter."

She opens the menu, without looking at me, and flips through it, even though she certainly knows it by heart.

"That will be settled before the end of the appetizer, then," she states. "I only had Kim, and cancer took her in 2009. No need to choose the cheapest dish by the way: I make good money. But don't get the salmon, it's awful here - a real hospital dish."

As soon as the waiter sets down my port, he stiffens upon hearing this and walks away. I frown now. So in this reality, my mother is also deceased. In the same way. The same year. Cancer is a real shit, in all timelines. I might have imagined it would be this way, but hearing it stated so plainly tugs at my heart, even after all these years. Like my grandmother used to do, I see her hide her sorrow, but the slight furrow between her brows doesn't fool me. I won't push her further on this topic, as I never did before, but she is the one who adds:

"She knew what it was like to fight; she'd always done it, long before this fucking disease. But the universe is not fueled by merit."

It's the first time I've heard such words come from her lips, and I'm pleasantly surprised. Just for this, I think I'm glad I came to endure her sharp looks. But, of course, deep down, the question that's now gnawing at me is...

"And what about 'Marine'?"

It feels almost strange to say that name I don't use. The one I wanted to shorten and make more unisex when I was barely thirteen. The one Klaus occasionally uses to piss me off. The Western name my mother gave me in addition to my Vietnamese name. But I see her gaze harden as she swiftly stare at me.

"What did you just say?"

I'm a little taken aback, and somewhat alarmed by her surprise. Now, I'm wary of this reality, and probably with good reason. I stammer:

"I mean: Bạch Liên".

Unfortunately, the fact that I'm able to give her my other name seems to take her breath away even more. I think I've just touched on something extremely sensitive, clearly even more so than the death - terrible as it was - of her own daughter. Suddenly, I feel awkward bringing it up, even though it's paradoxically about me. But one thing is certain: I exist, or I certainly did exist, for her reaction to be as intense as this.

"I'm sorry to ask you this," I say, fully aware of the pain - very real - that mentioning these two names seemed to cause her. But she simply asks:

"How do you know that?"

I don't understand, and I shrink back in my chair. As the waiter returns to take our orders with a thousand precautions and a terrified look, I decide to lie just a little more:

"I... while going through the civil records, the birth certificate came up..."

I don't know how I managed to say something so pertinent while my mind is racing in every direction. She almost throws the menu she was holding at the waiter.

"I'll have the tournedos. Cook it less than the sole-like meat you served me last time. And I don't want too many green beans."
After stammering that I'd like the same thing as her, I also give my menu back and cross my hands under the white tablecloth.
"Is... is it a problem that I know?"

Now, I'm asking the question frankly. But I need to know, even more than when I sat down here. She can surely see that I'm troubled but that I mean no harm by asking this. She squints and takes another sip.

"I have no reservations about discussing it," she tells me. "Kim would have wanted her fight to be supported by the rest of the family, when everyone else judged and abandoned her, except for me."

In my eyes, she probably senses my confusion.

"It's not easy to give birth when you were unaware of the pregnancy until you heard the child's first cry. To be judged for past actions you don't even remember. To be judged again for not bonding with that child in the early hours, and for having given in when offered the chance to give them a better life than you could have provided."

I feel pain hearing this, and she surely senses it, even if she can't guess how deeply I empathize with the circumstances of that unexpected birth. She doesn't know - actually - that she's also talking about mine. The whole first part, what my mother went through at my birth before the family's gaze eventually softened as they saw me grow up, I had never suspected. But her last sentence, though, makes my breath quicken.

"These are certainly not the stories of a happy family you were hoping for," she says in response to my silence. But I interject instead: "What do you mean by 'a better life'?"

She blinks and takes another sip of her port.

"We didn't have much at that time, and that's putting it mildly. Especially to raise a child as unique as what we were told. We were in shock, it was still so fresh. Kim was young - deep down - and devastated. I don't think she was completely clear-headed when she agreed. About what she was doing. About how being separated from her baby would gradually consume her, month after month."
She drinks the rest of her port in one go and raises her finger to order another.
"No one can picture what it feels like."

I stare at her now, not because I don't understand what she's telling me, but because what happened in this reality has become clear to me. My hand moves unconsciously over the tattoo on my arm as my astonished eyes suddenly sting. And I think back to the check stub, that Klaus always carried with him where he kept his most precious belongings.

"You gave her away".

I won't use the word 'sold': I don't need to hurt her more than I already have. And yet, I know it would be fitting, as the truth has just come crashing down on me with the weight of the entire universe. It's now clear to me that - in this timeline, and unlike the one I come from - I am one of the children that Reginald Hargreeves 'adopted'.

"She regretted it," she tells me. "Of course she regretted it. And so did I."

For the first time, she sits still, not on the verge of uttering any harsh words.

"We tracked down the child. We followed them here, even though we had nothing. I found this job, worked night and day - I'm proud of that, you hear me. And Kim never stopped trying, until her last day."

My heart is tight, and my hands are trembling. Luckily, the tournedos hasn't been served yet, or I wouldn't be able to cut it. Suddenly, I think back to the bunch of assholes we faced on the balcony of Hargreeves Mansion when we arrived. Those who thoroughly beat my unfortunate fellows before kicking them out. I struggle to remember them all.

"She only saw the cradles pass by from afar in Argyle Park: she was never allowed to get close. She could only catch glimpses of the rare times the Hargreeves kids went out for bowling or for a scheduled visit to the barber."

Finally, she mentioned the name, and my gaze instinctively turns toward the boulevard, where the large posters of the little bird of Destiny are visible, as they are everywhere. She knows that I recognize them: everyone in this city can't stop talking about them, especially Marcus, who seems to stir up the crowd's hormones, but also the others. I've remembered the names Sloane, Fei, and Alphonso. And she carries on.

"She learned from the news that the inaugural class of the Sparrow Academy had been launched. She understood from the papers when he transitioned, and then when he had his 'accident.' It was too late, anyway."
She takes a deep breath and adds:
"The truth was that Christopher didn't know her."

I no longer tremble, as the pieces have aligned in my mind. I feel like under a long, intense April shower. I don't know what 'accident' she's referring to, but now I understand that strange feeling of twisting inside when we arrived at Hargreeves Mansion. My unease in the presence of the Sparrows' cube, which seemed to probe me in return, while everyone else was preparing to face off. The one with an ego inversely proportional to his small size, with a vile sense of humor and a judgment as cutting as Granny's, multiplied tenfold as in an atomic reaction. The one who made Diego writhe in pain by infiltrating his nervous system's energy, just before electrocuting him. The one who is actually and ironically me.

This morning, while smiling at Viktor, I wondered who I might have been with a different upbringing, a different self-confidence, a different context. What my life might have been in another timeline. And I recall Five's words about 'Doppelgängers', since it seems this time that I truly have one. A 'being' that is no longer me, but what I could have become at some point. Which wouldn't necessarily stop it from wanting to kill me, whether out of 'paradox psychosis' or otherwise.

I say nothing, just sighing faintly, stunned by what time and space have brought me once more. And then, looking at this grandmother who is not exactly mine with eyes that shine, as the terrified waiter places the two plates in front of us, I murmur:

"Maybe if he knew all this, Christopher would be less of a jerk."

Notes:

Sometimes, there are both sensitive and obvious directions to take in writing this story. To some extent, it writes itself at times, simply through the internal logic of the characters.

It has always been obvious to me that Christopher was Rin. Because he is made of pure energy inside that mysterious cube, and because his nasty personality is a hundredfold extrapolation of the one Rin inherited from Granny. But what happened to him? Rin needs an answer to that question too...

This chapter also allowed me to explore the pain of those women who gave birth to some of the 43. The ones who - perhaps - ultimately fought for their children claimed by Hargreeves.

Any comments would make my day!