Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear John,

I never knew my father. As I was growing up I used to wonder about him: who he was, what he looked like, what kind of a man he was. My mother used to tell me that we were better off on our own. Thinking back now, I guess it was her way of putting my mind at ease. I don’t know what happened. See, my mother had me when she was very young, barely sixteen years old. Was my father too young as well? Did he even know about me?

At times, I was angry with my mother for not telling me. Other times - with my father, for never coming back into my life. Today, I know that sometimes it’s just too complicated. And no one is to blame.

I’m your father. You’re named after me. Your mother and I were never married.

You were born three weeks ago. Your mother and I have decided that she’ll be the one raising you. I can’t tell you much about why, only that it had to do with my job. I’m not trying to make excuses. That’s just the way it was. Maybe, one day, I’ll get a chance to explain.

I don’t know if things will change, or when. I don’t even know if or when you’ll read my letters. But here I am all the same. Maybe my father never wondered about me, or even cared. But I do care. And I want you to know that.

If you ever read my letters, this is why I’m writing them: I wish things were different, I hope one day I get a chance to be in your life again, but if I don’t, if you end up wondering about me like I used to wonder about my dad, if you’re angry with me (which you have every right to be) - I want you to know that I never forgot about you.

Yours,

Dad.

This is the first letter my father ever wrote to me. The first out of one thousand three hundred thirty seven. He’d written them throughout my life and had them saved in a deposit box. I have all of them now. I managed to arrange over six hundred of them in chronological order and make some sense of my father’s life. Some of them are very emotional. I still tear up when I read them. Some are over three pages long. Some are a mere two paragraphs. Some are written on yellow pad paper. Some on napkins. There are two that were written on toilet paper. They all start with ‘Dear John’ and they all end with ‘Yours, Dad.’ He never said that he loved me or missed me, not in so many words. But he wasn’t a man of many words. And all of his letters have an ‘I love you’ in every line.

I miss him. I never met him and I miss him more than I could ever tell him. I guess that’s what he felt as well. Some things are just too big for words.

My father died almost sixteen years ago. I wasn’t even ten years old then. If you’re old enough, you probably remember it. It was a hard one to miss. See, my father died saving the life of the President Elect during an assassination attempt. His face was on TV for weeks afterwards.

I remember having every single program that featured it Tivoed. They used the same picture on all of them. And pretty much the same words. But for me… imagine you were a ten year old boy who never knew your father. Now imagine you find out who he was from the news about his heroic death. Years later, when we upgraded our streamer, I convinced my mother to keep our old Tivo. I took it apart and saved the hard drive. I still have it. All those recordings are still the only thing I have of my father. Well, at least they used to be, up until very recently.

Apparently, that wasn’t the only time my father was on TV. Which is very uncharacteristic for someone who’d led a life so secretive that it took me over a year and a lot of connections to find a thread leading to him. Anyhow, the first time he was on TV was about half a year before he’d died. I don’t have that one Tivoed, but, hey, you can watch it on YouTube. And I have, many times. That was when my father was being murdered by a terrorist cell in Berlin. Remember the averted attack of 2016? That’s when it happened. My father was meant to be sacrificed as a ‘warning’ to the western world. He was gassed with Sarin, and the footage was broadcast all over the world.

At the time, I was too little to watch the broadcast. But that was the day my mother came home in tears, sat me on the sofa, and told me that my father, whom I’d never met, had died. She didn’t know much about him, but she told me all she could. She said that my father had a very dangerous job, which I already knew, since that was the reason he couldn’t be in our lives and help raise me.

Many people never get to know their fathers. I guess, I’m no different. But the thing is, I’ve lost my father many times. The first was the day I was born. Of course, I was too young to remember. I always knew that Richard, the man who raised me and was the father of my two step sisters, wasn’t my real father; my mother married him when I was four years old. When I was little, all my mother ever told me was that my real father loved me very much, but that he couldn’t be in our lives anymore, because it could put us in danger.

For years, I knew that my father was out there. There were little presents he’d send, some postcards. And money. I remember my mother telling Richard that she’d asked John (which was my father’s name) to stop sending the money but he never listened. And Richard used to tell her to let it be, that he didn’t care, because any man worth his salt would want to make sure their child was taken care of.

I’m ashamed to say that it made me angry. My father made me angry. Because we didn’t need his money, we were rather well off. What I needed and wanted was to have him in my life. But he never even came to visit, never called. Richard is a great man, and he is an even better father. If I hadn’t known, I would never have guessed that he wasn’t my real dad. He loves me and my sisters as if we were all his own. And he loved my mother very much.

My mother died about a year ago. Ovarian cancer. They caught it rather late, and by that time there wasn’t much anyone could do for her. She was gone less than three months following her diagnosis.

And that’s how all of this started.

For the last three days of my mother’s life she was unconscious. The pain was bad, and they had been increasing her opiate dosage gradually. When she knew she wouldn’t be able to remain lucid for long, she asked to speak to me. And that is when she told me about the letters.

Apparently, about four months after the Sarin broadcast (oh, we did find out my father didn’t die on that day), she went to see him at the VA in New York, where he was doing his rehabilitation. She said she pleaded with him to see me, get to know me. But he was too ashamed of being an invalid and he said he didn’t want his son to see him like that. She said he was very angry and very sad when she saw him. And, before she left, he told her he was sorry, for everything. That he’d fucked it up and there was no going back, no do-overs for him, not with me. But right before she left, he’d given her a key to a safe deposit box. He said that when I grow up, I should open it. Because there I’d find everything I ever wanted to know about him and how much he loved me.

My mother said that she was going to give me the key on my eighteenth birthday. But she didn’t. At the time, she was too weak to explain why. Mainly, it had to do with her thinking I had let it go by then. But she had that key on her ever since the day my father had given it to her. And she finally gave it to me when she was on her deathbed.

The first time I’d lost my father, as I said, was the day I was born. Then, the second time, was when we thought he died in Berlin. The third time was when he really died, half a year afterwards. And now, having read his letters, I feel like I’ve lost him once more. Because, in a way, I got to know him, what kind of man he was, how much he loved me, how much he regretted having left me, how much he wanted for his life to have turned out differently.

I think the last time was the hardest. And that’s why I’m here, in Virginia, sitting in my car, having driven for three hours in traffic.

I’ve never been to a mental institution in my life, let alone a long term facility. In general, hospitals give me the creeps. I spent three months sitting by my mother’s bed, watching her die in agony, seeing the life in her slowly fading away. The smell of the freshly mopped floors, a hint of bleach in the air, brings those memories back.

I have an appointment. It’s a private facility, and getting access wasn’t easy. The person I’ve come here to see is only allowed visitations from her close family.

See, when I mentioned using ‘lots’ of connections, I meant my mother’s colleagues. My mother was a homicide detective. She used to work cold cases - murders from a long time ago that were never solved. In a way, this is what I’m working now - a cold case, the story of a man who died a long time ago. I know who killed him. I know how he died. What I want to know is how he lived.

When I first found the letters, I quit my job and set out on a journey to find the truth about my father. Turns out, it’s not as easy as it sounds. The kind of job my father had, the kind of life he led - there's no trail. Or almost none. At first I tried hiring a private detective, who told me straight up that he wasn’t very optimistic. And he was right. Because a week later he called and said that he hadn’t managed to find a single lead. That’s when I went to my mother’s place of work. Everyone knew me there. My mother’s colleagues pretty much raised me. They felt they were doing it for me as much as to honor her memory. They pulled every favour they were owed. And in the end, I managed to find out that there was one person who would be able to fill in the rest of my father’s story. And maybe help me sort through the remaining seven hundred letters that are still out of order.

And it was one my mother’s colleagues who managed to get me a pass into the closed ward in the mental institution in Virginia.

The nurse behind the counter has Jennifer written on her little tag. She seems to be in her late forties. She’s busy typing something into the computer on the desk in front of her and chatting with a young woman in a flowered dress, who’s half-leaning, half-hanging over the countertop with her feet swinging in the air.

“Excuse me, Miss,” I say, approaching cautiously and taking out the letter I’ve been given granting me access to the patient I need to see. “Hi,” I add, when Jennifer stops laughing and shifts her eyes from the young woman to me.

“Hi yourself,” Jennifer replies, and her face gets an amused expression that I’m oh so used to. “What can I do you for, pretty boy?” she asks then, and both she and the other woman giggle.

I sigh and probably roll my eyes at the ‘pretty boy’ remark. It's not unusual for strangers to show more familiarity with me than I'm comfortable with, but I’m too close to my goal to care. I hand her the letter and steal a look at the woman to my right.

She’s stunning. And I mean - stunning . In my whole life I haven’t seen anything even remotely as adorable as she is. She’s petite, slender, and, even seeing her hanging from the countertop, I know I’m much taller than she is. She’s wearing a short sleeved blue dress with large pink flowers. It reaches right above her knees and I can see her long legs, slightly bent in a casual manner, her feet in simple sandals hanging in the air. Her skin looks so white that she appears to be made out of porcelain: her face, her long neck, her shoulders, her arms, even her hands and fingers. Her hair is a light tint of red, it’s long, almost reaching down to her wais t. It’s a beautiful mess of curls and waves, and it frames her face with several rogue strands that just make me want to move them away, so that I can see more of her. But what hits me deep to the bone and makes my throat go completely dry are her eyes - they are cerulean blue, almond shaped, large and smiling . And I find myself just looking into them, forgetting where I am and what brought me here.

She seems to be young, much younger than I am. I’m twenty five years old. I’m not sure she’s reached her twenties yet.

“You’re staring!” she says finally, following a long pause in which neither of us has spoken.

I feel like a moron, so I avert my eyes and mutter an awkward apology. She laughs. And, of course, it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard: giggling, rolling, ringing, with a little cute snort at the end.

That’s when Jennifer hands me back my letter. When I look down at her, she seems uncomfortable, shifting her gaze from me to the girl and back again.

“This is awkward,” she mumbles, typing something on her computer again.

“Is there a problem?” I take my letter and raise both eyebrows.

“Uh… no. Not per se.” Jennifer looks at the girl. “Mr. Quinn is here to see your mother, Franny.”

Oh, right, the Mr. Quinn bit. See, I was born John Diaz, Jr. Then, after Richard married my mother and two years later officially adopted me, my last name was changed to Samuels. It wasn’t until about half a year ago that I finally took my father’s last known name, Quinn.

The thing is, the sound of each of our names makes us both gasp. Me - because Franny is who I’ve been looking for as well. And it’s not just because she happened to be the daughter of the only woman who could tell me about my father. The other, more important reason is that in the same safe deposit box i n which I found my father’s letters there was a separate pile, consisting of over two hundred letters addressed to someone named ‘Franny’. They weren’t meant for me, but I’m ashamed to admit that I had a look at some of them. They all start with the words ‘Dear Franny’ and they end with ‘Yours, Peter.’ At first I thought Franny was my half sister, my father’s other child. But from the little I read, I know better. She meant the world to him. She was the daughter of the woman he loved deeply. And, just the way I was constantly on his mind, so was Franny.

I’m about to find out why Jennifer calling me Mr. Quinn had made Franny jump off of the counter and stop smiling. But before then, I do some quick math in my head. The last letter addressed to her that I found was written on her fourth birthday, which was shortly before he died. She must be twenty years old now.

“Quinn…” Franny says. And just like that, we both stare at each other.

Not knowing what else to do, I offer my hand. “John.”

Those beautiful blue eyes fill with tears as she nods. “You’re John Jr.”

I have no idea what she knows about me, so I just nod. “Yes. But John is enough.”

“You’re the boy in the pictures in the book,” Franny nearly whispers, voice choking. My face must show the confusion I feel, because she clears her throat and explains, “Your father’s book. Great Expectations. The only thing of his my mother still has with her. There are nine pictures of you tucked between the pages.”

“Oh…” is all I can manage.

I always knew my mother had been sending my pictures to my father over the years. Nevertheless, it’s just all too sudden and too overwhelming.

“Francis Mathison,” she says, taking my hand into hers so softly that I feel a pinch in my chest. Then adds: “Franny.” Although, I think we already established that.

“John Quinn,” I say again. I know that she’s aware of who I am. But something just makes me say it. My father’s name. Both his names. Having finally found someone who knew and loved him enough to be to sad remembering him, who meant so much to him that he’d written over two hundred letters to her in the first four years of her life.

Franny takes me to the hospital park. It’s vast, green, and filled with flowers. It’s a beautiful summer day and she seems to fit right in, glowing even more with the sun on her face and the sky above paling shamefully compared to the deep blue of her eyes.

We sit on the grass under an old tree, and I tell her a little bit about myself, concentrating mostly on the part that brought me here. Franny listens intently, never taking her gaze off of my face, nodding at appropriate moments, commenting when needed, asking all the right questions. She says she’s sorry about my mother’s passing, and I can see that she really means it. She has one of the most expressive faces I’ve ever seen, and I feel myself more and more at ease as I talk to her, telling her all I can remember about the last year of my relentless search for any trail of my father.

“He was such a great man,” she says when I pause, wondering what else I can tell her.

With the burning of tears in my eyes, I steady my voice before asking, “Did you know him well?”

“Oh no. Not at all. Not as well as I wanted to. And definitely not for as long as I wished to. I was very little when he died.”

“So, it’s mostly from your mother then?”

A dark shadow runs over Franny’s face when I bring her up. “Yes. And no. My mother… she’s not well,” scoffing at her own remark, motioning with her eyes around us, “... obviously . She’s been here, on and off, for the past seven years. Lately it’s more on than off. She’s always been sick. You know that, right?”

I nod. “Bipolar disorder, right?”

“Yeah. It was always poorly managed. And rather severe, from what my aunt tells me. She kept it together for a while after I was born and for some years later. But at one point the lithium wasn’t enough anymore. She was on different cocktails of neuroleptics for a while. Then… we don’t know if it was the disease or the drugs. Things just got worse and worse. She’s had several shock treatments. For a while, they helped. But not really. She always ends up back here. This time is the longest. I’m not even sure she’s getting out anymore.”

She looks away, a thin watery film glistening in her eyes, and I feel a strong urge to move closer and put my arms around her. “Jesus, I’m so sorry, Franny. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Thank you.” Franny manages a small smile. “And you don’t have to say anything. But you asked if most of what I know about your father is from my mother…” She sits up, seemingly trying to gather her thoughts. “Partly, yes. But not because she ever talked to me about him. Or to anyone for that matter. My mother… she doesn’t talk much about what she’s feeling. Her therapist says she internalizes her emotions. I’m not sure if it has to do with her disease or if that’s just how she is. But…”

When she’s silent for a while, I ask, “But what?”

“I think she talks to him. Your father, that is. All the time. Especially when she’s sick. She’s… it’s all a blur with her. She’s in and out of it sometimes and I never know if she’s lucid or just talking to the people I can’t see.”

“Hallucinations?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes, she’s asking me about my studies, we have long conversations about my boyfriends. Sometimes… she talks and I know it’s not real, that she’s not really talking to me . And I’m pretty sure a lot of those times she’s talking to your father. Or sometimes, she gets mad at me… and she says, ‘Quinn would understand. No one else ever could.’ ”

I’m at a loss of words. I look at Franny, this young fragile girl, who’s been dealing with her mother’s illness for most of her life, and I feel deeply ashamed for burdening her with my own pain. Big deal, I never knew my father. Compared to Franny, I had a happy life, two loving parents, a stable home. It makes me think about my own mother, how wise she was, how strong. I miss her so goddamn much. She used to say that the one thing that she learnt doing what she did was that no pain is greater than the other. She said that no one can know the depth of our feelings, what moves us do things, good and bad both - no one, but us. Nobody can fully understand the depth of the other person’s hurt.

Suddenly, I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to get up and leave, go back to work, let the dead be dead. Because what was I thinking I would find out, really? I know what my father was to me. I know what I was to him. Does it really matter what he was doing all those years that I didn’t know him? But mostly, I don’t want to cause more grief to Franny’s mother and, inadvertently, to Franny. I know I should find a way to tell her about my father’s letters to her, but it can wait. I can take her phone number, call her some time later. But not here, not right now. Somehow, it feels wrong to lay it on her. She’s got enough on her plate.

I’m about to say that I should be going, when Franny puts a hand on my forearm. When I look up, her eyes are a mix of wistfulness and longing. “You were my friend,” she says, and my heart sinks, because I know what she means even before the rest of it is out. “I used to look at your pictures and imagine you were my older brother or something. For years, as I was growing up, my mother had that book in the drawer of her nightstand. She still does. Even here. I used to sneak in and look at your pictures. I’d pretend to talk to you, about my school, my friends, my teachers.”

“Franny…” I don’t know what to say… again . What do you say to that?

“I’m embarrassing you, aren’t I?” she laughs, throwing her head back, and I find myself waiting for that little snorting sound at the end.

“A little,” I admit, chuckling as well.

Franny crosses her legs underneath her, arranging the skirt of her dress over them. “When I think about your father… it’s like a dream from a long time ago. But it’s so real, too, you know? He had this thing about him… he was always present . He was there . With me and my mom. He was very ill. But he kept an eye on us. The last time I saw him, he was protecting me. When I was older, my mother told me that he really didn’t need to, because it was his mind that was sick and it made him see the situation worse than it really was, but that’s not how I remember it. I remember being scared. And I remember your father telling me that I was always safe with him. And when I think about him now, that’s what my mind goes to - that feeling. Of knowing nothing bad could ever happen to my mom and me when he was around. It was the scariest day of my life back then. But all I remember is feeling safer than I ever was before and after that.”

And that’s how I know that ‘later’ is not good enough. I have to face it, and I have to tell her now .

“He loved you very much, Franny,” I say, and she lifts her eyes to my face, a little puzzled. “You know how I told you about the letters that he’d written to me over the years?” She nods, and I reach into my bag to take out a pile of papers tied together with a blue string. “He’d written to you as well. There are two hundred twenty seven letters here. All addressed to you. He’d write letters to us when he was away on missions. He explained that at times he would have to spend days sitting and waiting, and in those hours he could write up to three or four letters.”

Her hands are shaking as she takes the letters, her fingers moving slowly, flipping through the corners. And all I can think of is my father, the way he lived, how I know nothing about it really, but that he seemed to leave a huge impression on the lives of the few people who knew him. The way he loved others that made one little girl miss him so much, all these years later. And I know I can’t leave, not now. Because, despite not knowing anything about Franny as I was growing up, not the way she did about me, I feel it too: there’s something connecting me to her, and there has been for a long time - my father.

“Do you think your mother would be up to me seeing her?” I ask cautiously.

Franny lowers the letters to her lap and wipes the corners of her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I think so. Yeah. It might actually cheer her up. But she’s in a therapy session right now. It’ll be at least another half an hour.”

Pushing the heaviness of our conversation to the side, we both admit that we’re famished and head to the hospital cafeteria. Franny gives me a fair warning about the food, especially the coffee. And she’s not wrong - it tastes like sewage. We each buy a sandwich and head outside again - it’s too beautiful a day to be hiding indoors. Her hands full with the food and the drinks, Franny asks me to keep the letters in my bag for the time being, which I happily agree to. When I put them back and turn around, she laces an arm through my elbow and smiles at me.

“You’re nice, John,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Just as I imagined you.”

We find Carrie, Franny’s mother, on the bench in the park. I’d seen her picture. She looks older now, but she’s even more beautiful in person. She stands out. Ok, she does and she doesn’t.

She does , because unlike every other patient I’ve seen here, she’s dressed in her own clothes - an elegant dark beige pants suit. Her hair shimmers in the sun like a meticulously tidy field of pale golden wheat. If I hadn’t known better, I would have taken her for one of the visitors, maybe even a staff member. On her lap is a yellow pad, and she’s scribbling something on a page that seems to be too crowded already. Her left hand firmly clasps the top of the pad while she bears down with her pen, slightly hunched over, adding more and more text to the already scarce blank spaces. Her hair keeps falling on her face, almost obscuring it. From time to time she pushes it away, tucking it behind her ear, and I can see her furrowed brow, her narrowed eyelids, her mouth moving from side to side.

And that’s how she doesn’t stand out in here. Because, much like everything and everyone in this place, she seems to exist in a bubble, completely disconnected from the world around her, like she’s here, but not really, not in her head. Whatever she’s writing seems to consume all of her.

“Mom?”

Franny’s voice seems to collapse the bubble. Her mother flinches, dropping her hand on top of the paper and raising her head. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then seems to decide against it and just eyes her daughter, then me. At first she studies me from head to toe, and, to be frank, it makes me feel like I’m made of glass and she can see right through me. She shifts her large perceptive eyes to Franny before meeting mine again. A shadow runs across her features like a ripple, dragging a slight wobble of muscles and wrinkles in its direction.

“Mom, this is John. He’s…”

Franny doesn’t get to finish. “John Jr.,” Carrie says, and this time the wobbling is more pronounced. She doesn’t take her eyes from my face. I’m wondering if it’s her training that makes her that good with faces, or if she’s looked me up as well. “Same eyes, same mouth, same hair,” she remarks and then, as if we weren’t there, she uncaps her pen again and goes back to scribbling in her notepad.

“Mom, stop,” Franny pleads, almost too abruptly, sitting next to her mother and putting a hand on top of the page.

“I’ll just finish here, Fran. Give me a fucking minute.”

Franny sighs, raising an apologetic glance to my face. I think I manage a half smile and a reassuring nod. So, we just wait for Carrie to finish whatever she’s doing: Franny - nervously fidgeting on the bench; me - just standing there like a dork with my hands in my pockets and my bag hanging from my shoulder.

“I’m not crazy,” Carrie mutters, turning the pad to the side and adding another sentence, connecting it to something else she’s written with a curving arrow that extends all across the page. “This is actually very important.”

“I never said…”

She interrupts me, shooting a smiling look in my direction. “C’mon, Johnny, we’re in a mental institution. You don’t have to say it.”

Nobody outside of my family has ever called me Johnny . Right away I’m thinking about my mother again and feel my eyes watering.

“So, you’ve found me,” Carrie says suddenly, slapping her pad against her lap and leaning all the way back to get a better look at me.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, you didn’t think you’d get a pass to come and meet with me if I didn’t agree to it, did you?”

Trying to think back to all the trouble that people went to to get me here, I realize she’s right: it’s a private, highly sensitive medical facility - getting in here without her knowing about it and agreeing to meet with me would be kind of impossible.

“Mom! You knew John was coming? You never said anything!” Franny protests.

Carrie shrugs a shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Why would I? What’s it to you, anyway? You don’t even know who he is. Ok, maybe you do now . I figured he’d want to come talk to me about his father. And it’s probably a private matter. Right?”

She looks at me expectantly, probably waiting for me to say that yes, it is. But I see is the hurt in Franny’s eyes, the way they darken at her mother’s words, the way her lips purse just slightly as she seems to fight back tears. All I can think about is how lonely it must have been for her, knowing her mother was grieving for the same person she was, but that she wouldn’t be able to talk about it, because her mother wasn’t capable of voicing her own pain. Carrie never knew about her daughter sneaking into her bedroom to look at my pictures, to hold my father’s book. She never knew how deeply Franny had missed a friend she’d lost.

Before I get a chance to answer, Franny stands up and starts to leave. “Right. I know. I’ll leave the two of you to talk and catch up.” She leans in and places a hand on her mother's shoulder, kissing her head. “I’ll see you later on tonight, mom.” She turns to me, then, stands on tiptoe (and I still need to bend my head for her to reach it) and presses her lips to my cheek. “I’ll talk to you later, John. It’s been real nice to meet you.”

“Franny, please stay,” I spit out before I know what’s hit me. I just don’t want her to go. First, because I do know how much she’s missed my father. And second, because, in all honesty, I feel quite intimidated by her mother and dread being left alone to be interrogated by her, which is what I fear is going to happen.

“No, Mom’s right. It’s a private thing. Your thing. You guys should talk alone.”

“It’s not, Franny, really. I mean, it is . But not like that. Please, I’d like it if you stayed. Unless you need to go… then…”

Franny looks at her mother who just smiles, looking at the both of us, and nods her head. I wait for Franny to lower herself back onto the bench and then take a seat right behind her, half turning towards Carrie.

“You look so much like him,” Carrie says after a long pause. “He’s older now, his hair is almost all white, but you remind me of how he used to be, all those years back.”

For a moment, I’m confused. My first thought is - Carrie doesn’t really know who I am and who I came to talk to her about. I open my mouth to ask her if she’s sure we’re talking about the same person, when Franny turns around briefly and gives me a glance of warning. I remember her words now, about how her mother drifts in and out of reality. And I let out the air I’ve been holding.

What do I do? Do I go along with it? Ask her what my father looks like now, fifteen years after he died? What they talk about? If he’s asked about me?

“Um… right,” I manage, finally. “I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about him from before, though.”

Carrie arches a puzzled brow. “From before ?”

“Yeah. Before he died.”

She scoffs and lets out an impatient and slightly amused chuckle. “ Died??? Oh, you mean the assassination attempt on Keane? Pfft! He didn’t die . He was badly injured. But he survived. And he had to go away. He couldn’t come back for a long time. But he’s back now. Has been for awhile.”

“Uh-huh…” Now I really don’t know what to say or think anymore.

“Mom,” Franny comes to my rescue, “you know Quinn died. You went to his memorial. You’ve kept his book with John’s pictures inside. With your picture. Remember?”

“Bullshit. I kept the book, alright. But I don’t have it anymore. I gave it back to him. The first time he came to visit me here.”

“Mom…”

But Carrie is gone again. She flips the page of her yellow pad and starts filling it with more words. Her hair falls into her face, creating a curtain shielding her from the world around her and hiding her out of sight. Franny sighs, shaking her head and gives me an ‘I told you’ look. I’m not sure what to think. It’s just all too real and too weird.

“Miss Mathison?” I start.

Without looking up, she waves a hand in my direction. “Carrie, please .”

“Carrie,” I correct myself, “when was the last time my father came to see you?”

She’s quiet for some time, just writing, drawing neatly aligned boxes around some of her lines, then adding some arrows and question marks.

“Three days ago,” she says finally, without breaking her concentration. “He comes every other week. It’s a long drive from where he lives now. But he never skips a day. He reads to me. Then talks to me. We catch up. He tells me about the old days when my mind gets… foggy. He doesn’t let me forget.”

Chapter Text

Dear John,

Five months ago, I didn’t kill a man.

And now I’m left wondering if 217 people are dead because of the decision I made that day. 217 people and one eight year old boy.

I’ve written so many letters to you that I don’t even remember if I ever told you - killing people is what I do. I kill when I’m told to, who I’m told to, where I’m told to. I’m in no position to question my orders, never have been.

Did I ever stop and ask myself if the target was legitimate? Was the intel sufficient? I did. More so lately than ever before. There might be a reason for that, but I really couldn’t tell you what it is. I feel myself growing tired, weary, cynical. Do they call it burnout? When what used to feel like a calling turns into a moral dilemma, a constant struggle? I used to believe in what I did, in what WE did. I don’t think I do anymore.

I never thought myself naive, nor did I see myself as someone who blindly follows orders. But the big picture was never something I was striving to grasp. I’ve spent the last ten years or so looking at the world through the scope of my rifle. If you’ve never done it, you can’t understand what it does to you. I mean what you see, the way you’re able to focus, when the world collapses into a tunnel of that telescopic device.

It clears your mind, it settles your thoughts, and it leaves just the two of you: you and your target. In that moment, right before you squeeze the trigger, before you take a life, you have to be able to see yourself, your purpose, to know that you’re on the right side of the bullet that you’re about to fire. At least for me.

Five months ago I lost that.

They say every time you take a life, a part of you is is taken as well. I think people who say that never took a life. Not the way I did. 173 people died by my hand. I’m not counting those I killed when I was in the service. Just since I took this job. Those are the people whose names I knew. I didn’t always know why I was tasked with killing them. But I believed in the cause. I still do.

The truth is, I don’t think a part of you dies when you take a life. I think there’s actually a part of you that grows bigger, until it’s impossible to contain anymore.

I’ve questioned my orders before. But I never disobeyed them .

When I told the man who’d tasked me with the assassination to go fuck himself, I said that killing that man would serve no purpose to national security. I’m not sure if any of my other targets were for personal or political gain. Some probably were. But this one got to me. I told him that killing that man would wreck a woman whose life they’d almost ruined once before. But the truth is, it would wreck ME FIRST.

When I was first assigned to the operation I was told I was going to kill a traitor. And, for a while, that’s what I thought, too. I don’t think I could ever explain to you how enraged and disgusted I used to feel even being in his presence. To the very end. A part of me still does, despite all I’m telling you. Unless you served in the military, you can’t really understand what it means - seeing one of your own, an officer, a Marine, betraying everything we stand for.

But the thing is, by the time I had him in my line of sight, inside the scope of my rifle, he wasn’t just a traitor anymore. He was a soldier. He was sent by his country to fight somebody else’s war. He was captured and left behind. For eight years, every bone in his body was systematically shattered, every bit of his spirit bent until it broke. Would I survive that? Would anyone? I don’t know. Would I turn against my country? I don’t know. I’m part of the world where turning people into assets is a dark necessity. The truth is, that man was turned not because he was blackmailed, not because he chose to take the wrong side, not for his personal gain. Eight years of torture… leaves you with nothing. I’ve seen people break in much less.  Within WEEKS you lose hope of it ever ending, you start praying for death. After a while, you don’t even pray anymore - you’re just gone. Eight years is a long time. I can’t wrap my head around how long it is. Can you?

But he survived. He was a Marine who was turned against his own country. And, maybe, it was BECAUSE he was a Marine, a soldier, a father, that it became possible. You don’t strap a bomb to your chest unless you believe in what you’re doing. And he did.

I don’t know if I’m making any sense anymore, or why I’m telling you all this.

On the day that I came to carry out my orders, I raised my rifle, and, for the first time, instead of my target, all I could see was myself. I was a soldier, too. I’m of value to my superiors for NOW, true. And , just like him, I’m expendable, too. One day I’ll make a mistake, see or learn something I wasn’t supposed to, participate in a mission too sensitive… and someone will be looking at the back of MY head through the scope of THEIR rifle. We’re nothing but tools for our country. And, truthfully, I can live with THAT. What I couldn’t live with is being a tool in the hands of a man who was targeting a POW, an American soldier, casting him aside after everything he’s been through, to save his own ass.

In the end, all that man wanted was peace. He’d lost eight years of his life, endured what nobody ever should, was broken by the enemy, then broken by his country, had lost his wife, his children. Just like him, I’m a father, too. And it took a lot less for me to walk out on you than it took him.

When I was sitting in a house across the lake from where he was staying with the woman he loved, the woman who saved him in every way a person could and should be saved, all I could think about was you. You, your mother, the life I could maybe have, the peace I was craving myself. It might be too late for me, but it wasn’t for him. He deserved better than a bullet in the back of his head by an unknown assassin, sent by the same people he’d spent most of his life protecting. We all deserve better. Because, in the end, we’re all the same - some more broken than others - but we’re all men, fathers, soldiers. And I knew that if I took his life, a part of me WOULD actually die, and it would be the only part that I have left, having lost or given up everything else - my ability to live with myself.

Yesterday, that man died anyway. He will remain a traitor, the man responsible for the deaths of two hundred and seventeen Americans. He will remain a traitor i n the eyes of almost everyone he ever loved, including his wife and children. I can count on one hand the people who actually knew what he did, the sacrifice he made. In the end, he was the man he always wanted to be - a soldier, doing his duty, giving his life because of the possibility that the man who’d sent him to his death was right, and that the events that he’d helped set in motion would change the world one day. For his children. And for you.

I don’t know if any of my letters will ever find you, but if they do, I want you to be one of the few people who know: he WAS a traitor, true, but in the very end, he was a hero, too. At least that’s how I’ll always remember him. He left behind a family, two children, a woman who loved him and saw him for who he really was, who had faith in him, who saved him, and who watched him being publicly executed when she was five months pregnant with his child. I don’t even know if he knew he was about to become a father again when he died. I hope he did. I hope what he did was for that kid as well.

If I hadn’t disobeyed that order, if I had killed him like I was told to, WHEN I was told to, that child may never have existed. I’ve killed 173 people, all enemy combatants, all for my country. And yet, right now, all I can think about is that it was the one life I DIDN’T take that somehow makes up for all that. Am I making any sense?

Yours,

Dad.

This is one of the longest letters my father ever wrote to me, but I know it by heart. When I was angry with my father for having left me as I was growing up, I had no idea who he was, what he did or how he felt about it. Now it makes me feel remorseful, distraught and guilty. I do realize that I had every right to be angry at the time. But then I remember this letter, I take it out, read it again, and I cry. Because at the same time I was envying my friends for having their dads teaching them how to ride a bike, my own father was out there, slowly dying inside, making sure there are still carefree kids and their dads, owning up to decisions that I hope I never have to make in my life.

All I want to do, reading this letter, is be that boy again. I often imagine seeing him on the street, recognizing him, running to him and hugging him with everything I am. In that strange fantasy, despite being just a little over four years old, I know about his letter, and I understand everything  my father is going through. And when he picks me up and I throw my arms around him, I tell him that he’s my hero, and he always will be.

I love you, dad, I want to tell him, I don’t want you to save the world anymore. I just want YOU. I don’t care if you can teach me how to ride a bike or build a tent. I’ll be okay just knowing that you found the peace you were looking for. No kid was ever more proud of his father than I am of you. I hope I gr ow up to be half the man that you are .

I don’t believe in God. So I don’t believe in the afterlife. I don’t think the dead are going to a place where they are able to watch the living. So I won’t bore you with saying things like ‘I hope my father is watching, and I hope he knows how I feel about him.’ The truth is, he doesn’t. He never did. And, no matter where this journey ends up leading me, I’ll have to live for the rest of my life with the knowledge that whatever I find is just for me. It won’t bring him back. He will never know that he’s the voice in my head, the place I go to when I need to make decisions that seem to pale next to the ones that he had to make.

My father was a killer. I’ll probably never wrap my head around that . By the time he died his scalp count was most likely much higher than one hundred seventy three . I don’t know what it feels like to take someone’s life. I hope I never do. But, having read my father’s letters, all I can really hope for is to be able to face my boring ordinary life, to own up to my trivial everyday failures, with half the integrity he had.

It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together. Thank God for the Internet, right? And Google. Which is funny, because Google is where I work, or used to work, although I am pretty sure my position is still waiting for me in Mountain View. But that’s a whole different story.

At first, it was the number - two hundred seventeen . I wasn’t even five years old at the time of the Langley bombing, but I remember that figure - it was all over the news for a long time. So, I knew who my father was talking about pretty much right away. Although it wasn’t until I found out about Carrie and her daughter that I was able to figure out some other parts of it.

I still don’t know why my father thought that the man responsible for the bombing was a hero. There’s no record that I could find of him ever being exonerated.

One of the first things Franny told me was that I was lucky, because at least I know who my father was. Apparently, she doesn’t. But I think I do. I think Franny was the child my father was talking about - the child that never would have existed if he hadn’t disobeyed an order. It’s one of those mind blowing things that just takes your breath away, thinking that my father was the reason I can sit across the table from this remarkable young woman today, watching her demolish her breakfast, smiling and laughing as she chatters non stop about her studies.

When I first came here, all I wanted was to find out more about my father, to fill in the void in my own life. With every passing day I discover that mine was the life least broken. When I think about Franny, Carrie, Jessica, Dana and Chris Brody, all I can see is a trail of lives sidelined and cast aside, sacrificed on the altar of the clandestine war that my country has been fighting for ages, forgotten, left with nothing but shame and wonder. And that’s when I hear my father’s voice in my head most clearly. I know he would probably tell me to let it be, to live my life, to be happy. But I can’t. I know he wouldn't. And he didn’t .

And that’s how I finally find it in me to ask Carrie what’s been bugging me ever since I got here.

“Was Nicholas Brody Franny’s father?”

“Yes,” Carrie says.

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t try to deny it. We’re alone now. It’s almost ten PM. I’m walking her back to her room. Her arm is laced around mine and she’s slightly leaning on my shoulder.

It’s been about a week and a half  since I first came here. I’ve spent almost every day with Carrie. Sometimes Franny is here as well. But most of the times it’s just the two of us. We’ve grown close. In a weird way that I can’t really explain, besides the obvious. I guess I remind her of a man she loved and lost. And to me she’ll always be a part of who my father was, the woman he loved, the last glimmer of light he’d seen in the world that had consumed everything else he ever wanted.

Carrie still spends hours at a time writing in her notebook. And I still haven’t found the courage to ask her what it is that’s so important that she’s trying to figure out.

And then there’s that tiny little insignificant issue of Carrie claiming that my father isn’t dead. I’m not sure what to make of it. She's brought it up again at times since the first time we met. And when she does, she’s being very particular and deliberate about it. I know by now that she’s not mixing up tenses. Sometimes, when she appears to be apprehensive and upset, she talks about the past, what used to be, before it ended, before he died. And yet sometimes she can recite entire conversations that they supposedly had just days or weeks ago, line by line. It’s all so real that I don’t doubt the fact that it actually happened. I just don’t know if it happened in Carrie’s mind or in real world. And, quite frankly, I try not to think about it.

Ever since I showed her my father’s letters, she’s changed. I’ve never seen anyone throwing themselves into anything with more determination and dedication than that of Carrie sorting through almost a thousand and a half little pieces of paper. She’s completely lucid now, most of the time, anyway. She has the letters in her room, arranged all over the floor and the walls. She’d managed to read through all of them in less than three days. And by that time, she already had part of the ones I thought I had in chronological order completely reshuffled, having added about three hundred more to what now is beginning to look like a real story, a timeline, a fragment of my father’s life.

She’s read that letter - she knows I know. So, that’s all she says - ‘yes’ .

“You never told her,” I say, as she keeps walking silently by my side, taking lungfuls of the crisp night air.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“No, Carrie, I don’t. My father wrote that Brody wasn’t a traitor, that he was a hero. Is that true?”

“Yeah.”

“So, he wasn’t responsible for the bombing?”

“No.”

“ Shit , Carrie…”

She smiles, looking up at me. It’s a special kind of smile: a little sad, a little wistful. It’s the kind of smile she usually has when I say or do something that reminds her of my father. She leans her head against my upper arm, tightening her grip around my elbow, and just sighs.

“I never knew, John,” she says then.

“Never knew what?” I arch a puzzled brow.

“What Quinn did. What he didn’t do. Not until I read that letter. I never knew he was supposed to kill Brody. He never told me. Nobody had. I think Saul probably knew. If he were alive today, I’d kick his lying ass.”

“Was that true? What he wrote about Franny?”

“Probably. If he was across the lake from my cabin, planning to kill Brody…” She pauses, looking around and motioning with her head to one of the benches near the entrance to the hospital compound. “Do you mind if we sit there for a while longer?”

I’m exhausted, it’s been a long day, but I smile, cover her hand with my palm and nod.

We sit down and neither of us moves or speaks for a while. Then, Carrie wiggles closer, and I put my arm around her.

“It’s been twenty one years, Carrie,” I say.

“I know. And everyone who ever knew about it is dead.”

I wait for her to lift her eyes to my face, and I wink, squeezing her shoulder. “Not everyone .”

She chuckles, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “You know one Quinn being my fucking conscience was bad enough.”

“Yeah, sucks being you, I know.”

Carrie takes her time, gathering her thoughts, digging through those memories. For some reason, I don’t think she needs to dig too deep. The more I get to know her, the more I realize that she’s probably one of the most brilliant and fascinating people I’ve ever met. The things she sees, the patterns in her head, I could never even begin to grasp.

And then she tells me. Everything. Her voice is steady, her face nearly expressionless. If it weren't for the turmoil in her eyes, she could be just a CIA operative debriefing a colleague on an operation, and not a woman telling the most painful tale of her life. She’s staring ahead, but I know that she really isn’t: she’s looking at the images of that time, engraved in her wondrous mind, as she shares them, possibly for the first time in her life.

When she’s done, we’re both silent. Me - because I’m blown away with awe and horror. Her - I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“You can tell Franny if you want,” she says in the end, the first one to break the silence.

I shake my head. “It’s not for me to tell, Carrie. It’s not my place. But you should. And somebody should tell Brody’s family as well. I realize you can’t go to the press and clear his name. But his family has the right to know. His children have been living with a shadow over their heads, believing their father was a traitor, a mass murderer… for over two decades .”

Her eyes flash with impatience and exasperation. “Pfft… Exactly! It’s been over two decades . Jessica remarried. Dana and Chris went on with their lives. Probably moved far away from here, started their own families. Dana didn’t want to do anything with her father even back then, when he tried to tell her the truth.”

“She was sixteen years old, an angry teenager. She might feel differently about it now.”

“Or she might not . She might feel that you’re stirring things that she’d worked hard to leave behind. It’s not exactly something you spend your life trying to remember .”

“It’s not exactly something you forget either! ” I feel the anger rising inside me. It’s not easy to get me unsettled, but Carrie is getting there. “It’s one thing to have other people know, look at you, your kids, see the family of a traitor. It’s a whole different pile of shit to look at yourself in the mirror and think that they are right to.”

Carrie huffs a string of curses, frees her arm from around mine and sits up, half-turning to me. “Ok. Let’s say I agree with you. Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. Say, you come to Dana. Say she agrees to meet with you after you tell her what it’s about. Which is a big ‘if’, and I hope you understand that . But let’s say she does . You sit there and tell her that everything she’s believed about her father throughout her whole life was a lie. Why should she believe you? Do you even know how many conspiracy theories were circulating online at the time? No, of course you don’t! Well, I do know. Because it was my business to know. We had a special division of analysts working just on that - looking at conspiracy theories posted online, analysing the number of hits, reading the comments. There were at least two that I can remember that came quite close to what really happened. So, tell me, why would what you say to Dana, or Chris, today , sound any different?”

“It wouldn’t ,” I say, leaning closer. “You’re right. They wouldn’t listen to anything I have to say. But, Carrie, they would listen to you . Because they know you, you were there. They know what you did, who you were. Coming from you it’s not just another conspiracy theory.”

“Right,” she scoffs, waving her hand and rolling her eyes, “coming from a crazy woman, straight from this place.”

“Carrie…” I struggle to steady my tone before it gets completely out of control. “Carrie. You’re not crazy. Half the time I don’t understand why you’re in ‘this place’. But that’s a whole different topic. My point is, you’re mentally ill - not crazy. Not when it comes to the job you used to do, to the memory you have. You were committed to a mental institution, twice , back in those days. And, like you just said, Jessica still came to you when she needed help locating Dana. You’re the inside source, bipolar or not, they might just believe you if you come to them.”

Carrie takes a lungful of air, intending to retort. She holds it in for a while, then lets it out through pursed lips.

Feeling that I’m finally getting my point across, I take it as a cue to push forward. “And what about Franny?”

“What about Franny?”

“They are her family. And she’s theirs, their half-sister.”

“They’re her blood relatives, not her family. She has a family. Don’t let your little escapade interfere with other people’s lives. Franny was fine. She hasn’t asked me about her father for ages, not since she was a baby, not until you came along. It’s a romantic notion, Johnny, nothing more - finding your father. Franny feels infatuated with it, hell, maybe even with you. And it’s fine, it’s a cute phase. But it’s not going to be cute at all when she knocks on Dana’s door and is told to go away. Because the chances are that’s exactly what’ll happen. And who’s gonna be here to pick up the pieces? You?”

I feel my voice jumping a couple of notches again. “First of all - I just might . And second - Franny’s not a baby anymore, she’s a twenty year old woman, who knows what she wants. She’s aware that finding out the truth may lead to heartbreak, and she wants to know anyway. So, she’ll be sad for a while. She’ll survive.”

I say that with a heavy heart. Because ‘infatuated’ is an interesting word. Hearing it, hearing Carrie say that Franny might feel like that about me , makes me feel weak in the knees, despite being seated. Because that’s how I feel about her . And I know that seeing Franny heartbroken, her dreams shattered, will most likely wreck the hell out of me.

Carrie shakes her head, giving me a small smile. “Johnny, you’re here to find out about your father. Actually, you have more of him in you than you realize. He was like that - always wanted to right all the wrongs in the world. For the life of me I could never understand how he lasted five minutes at the Agency, let alone fifteen years . He wasn’t cut out for it. He says in that letter that he never strived to see the big picture. The truth is, he never could . Squeezing the trigger was always easier for him, carried more moral clarity. He could never stand what we did in human intelligence, the price it cost. What happened to Brody’s family was a small price to pay for what he accomplished. I don’t expect you to understand that. And neither will they, not today. Trust me.”

It’s getting nowhere, and we both know it. I’m beginning to feel worn down, all my arguments hitting the same brick wall. I sigh. “I don’t think so, Carrie. If it were me, I’d want to know. For me, for my children, I’d want to know the truth about my father. That’s why I’m here, and that’s what Franny wants. And I’m sure, so would Dana and Chris.”

“Maybe…” Carrie whispers, deep in thought. “Or maybe they don’t care anymore. Nobody does.”

With that, she stands up abruptly and walks to the front door. Just like that. She’s gone in less than a minute, leaving me on the bench, where I sit awhile longer, thinking about her story, then about her last words.

Would I care? After all these years? Hey, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here because I never knew my father. Because I want to learn everything I can about him, meet the people who used to be in his life. Dana and Chris knew their father, loved him, respected him. And he was snatched away from them, along with everything good they ever believed about him. The stain on his name had probably followed them for years, everywhere they went. Maybe it still does.

And then there’s Franny. She wants to know. And I know just how badly she does. Because I’ve been exactly where she is now. My mother hadn’t given me my father’s letters until three days before she died. Because she thought I’d let it go. You don’t let something like that go. Ever. Not when you feel like a part of you is missing. I’m still too close to her passing to be angry with her about making that decision for me. But I know one day I might come to resent her for that, at least on some level. What if she didn’t get sick? Did I have to lose one parent to find another? Was she ever going to tell me?

I rub my face with the palm of my hand, pick up my bag and stand. I’m too overwhelmed to think about it right now. As I walk to my car, I take out my father’s letter, that same letter. It’s the only one that I took back from Carrie. She doesn’t need to date it. And I need to hold on to it.

I read it again. And again. Three times before I reach the parking lot. Strangely enough, having just learnt the whole story, it doesn’t change the meaning, doesn’t bring any new feelings or thoughts. When I slip into the driver’s seat and shift the car into drive, all I can hear is my father’s voice in my head - sometimes, what you’re left with, the only thing worth fighting for, is the ability to live with the decisions you’re making. And a part of me knows right then and there that I will really never truly understand my father until I’m brave enough to do what I know he would have done in my stead.

I love sleeping in. I really do. I think it goes back to my college days. I was in pre-med. Yeah, yeah, I know - I was in pre-med and today I work at Google. As I said - long story. But the thing is, I used to study so hard that I almost drove myself to exhaustion. I’d get out of the library past midnight, then spend another two or three hours studying in my dorm room, and I’d always be up by six AM to go for my morning run, then hit the pool when it was still empty, then go over some of the material again, while fueling up on coffee before going to class.

I think nowadays I’m just trying to make up for that. They say the sleep deficit never goes away. Mine is about four years long.

In Mountain View, my day never starts before ten AM. Seeing how I’m a team leader, I can do pretty much anything I want. Some days I even work from home. Here in Virginia, I pretty much have the first half of the day free: Carrie has therapy sessions all morning, Franny has classes. So… I sleep. Sometimes until noon. Then I hit the gym, do my ‘morning’ workout, go to the pool, have lunch for breakfast and head to the hospital to meet with Carrie.

On the morning following our conversation I’m awakened early. And by ‘early’ I mean a little past nine AM. At least ‘nine’ is the only digit on my phone’s clock view that I see before I read the caller ID and flip from my front to my side.

“Fran?” I ask in a sleepy voice, trying not to yawn out loud.

I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I shoot up into a sitting position, my sleepiness as good as gone - she’s crying, sobbing, mumbling something about her mother. My mind starts racing, picturing the worst, and I don’t even know what the worst is. She’s barely coherent, but in the end I manage to put it together - Carrie had told her, first thing in the morning. She’d called her, asked her to come to the hospital, and she’d told her about her father.

I don’t know if I’m happy about it anymore. I’m definitely relieved nothing worse had happened. And I can understand Franny being this overwhelmed.

“Where are you?” I ask finally, when she quiets down.

“The hotel lobby. Downstairs.”

I quickly swing my legs to the side of the bed, scouring the floor with my feet to find my slippers.

“What are you doing downstairs? Come on up.”

“I didn’t wanna wake you.”

I laugh out loud and hear her joining in. “Yeah, well, it’s a little too late to worry about that . C’mon. The door is open. I’ll just wash up.”

I’m still brushing my teeth when Franny barges into the bathroom. It’s not like I’m not decent or anything, but I gasp in surprise and a little embarrassment nevertheless. She doesn’t seem to care. I’d left the door to the bathroom ajar, and the moment she pushes it wide open she crashes into me, both arms around my waist, her face burrowing into my chest.

“ Fwan… ” I try, slurring miserably around the toothbrush in my mouth. Seeing how she just holds on to me tighter, I awkwardly lean to the side and over her head, spitting out the toothpaste and swallowing whatever’s left in my mouth. My hands and face still dripping with water, I wrap my arms around her.

Her voice sounds like it’s coming from deep inside a cave as she sobs into my pajama top, her breath tickling my chest. “It was you, wasn’t it? You told her to tell me.”

“Well… yeah.” There really is no point in denying it. I don’t know if Franny is mad at me for interfering, but that’s the truth.

“She told me everything. Everything . About my father. And yours. What he did.”

“Good thing? I mean… you ok?”

She nods vigorously and her face rubs against me as her arms draw an even tighter circle around my torso. I stroke her back.

“Ok then. Shall we move out of the bathroom?”

Franny giggles and snorts, lifting her puffy face. “Sorry about that…”

“It’s fine.” I nudge her out of the bathroom then follow myself, closing the door behind us.

Wiping her tears, she eyes me with a sheepish grin. “You’ve got toothpaste all over your chin.”

Right. And all over my mouth. It’s turning bitter and starting to burn. Muttering an apology, I go back and rinse my mouth, finish washing my face, and finally dry my hands.

Back in the room I find Franny sitting on the edge of my bed, looking both lost and excited.

“So…” I lower myself next to her, not really knowing what to say. “Welcome to Wonderland, Alice.”

She snorts. “I know, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean… I still can’t believe it.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and looking at her sideways. “It’ll take some time. Give yourself a break. It’s a lot to take in.”

I haven’t known Franny for that long, but I should’ve known better than to make foolish suggestions like this one. Carrie and Franny have a peculiar resemblance thing going on: usually, there is none, but when Franny gets this stubborn and unyielding expression on her face, like the one she has now , I swear I can forget I’m looking at her and not her mother.

“I don’t want time!” she spits out. “And I don’t need a break! I finally have a family - a brother and a sister out there - and I’m gonna find them!”

“Fran…”

“What? Oh, don’t you Fran me now! You of all people know how it feels. When you can just… arghhhhhhh…”

I’m trying to have a serious conversation with her, but it’s not easy, not when I look at her, all puffed from tears and glowing with excitement at the same time. I find myself laughing when she makes that cute growling noise, and it’s not helping my case at all .

“Fine, you’re gonna find them. Then what?”

“I dunno. I’ll have them.”

I laugh again. “Good plan. What if they live in Seattle?”

“So?”

“ So? What about your studies? You can’t just up and leave mid-semester.”

“Oh yeah? Yeah?” I almost know what’s coming when her eyes crinkle to the point of forming two defiant slits. “What about your job ?”

“My job will still be there when I’m done. Your classes won’t.”

“Yeah? What if Google goes under?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Google will be here to turn off the lights long after we’re all gone. Google and cockroaches. One of the cockroaches will say ‘Ok, Google, turn off the lights’ and that’s how the civilization will come to an end.”

Franny giggles. “Smartass.”

“Yeah, well, somebody has to be.” I’m pretty sure I manage to regain my concerned expression. “I’m serious, Franny. And it’s because I know how it goes. It can take time. And in the end, you’re not even sure what you’ll find. They might not be alive anymore. They might not want to talk to you. Are you really ready for that?”

She presses her face to the side of my shoulder, worms both her arms around one of mine and nods. “I need to, Johnny. Right now. I really need to.”

I heave a deep sigh. “Fine. Let’s do it right now then.”

By the time she lifts her face, it’s already beaming with a smile brighter than any I’ve seen to date. “You’ll help me?”

“Yeah.” I sigh again. “I can’t very well have you go to Seattle on your own.”

“We don’t know they’re in Seattle ! You just made that up!”

“Well, we will know in about five minutes.” I reach under my wrinkled blanket to fetch my phone.

I can’t see my own face, but I’m quite sure I have a smug grin smeared all over it. Usually, I’m pretty shy. Really. My career was a head spinning success. I know lots of pretty powerful and well-connected people, and I’ve been leading a team of software engineers, most of whom were compiling their own linux kernels when I could still walk under the table without bending my  head. I finished college first in my class and, to my parents’ dismay, instead of continuing in medicine, started learning programming from scratch, on my own.

But the thing is, I don’t like talking about any of it, or showing it for that matter. I earn more than enough to provide my future family with a very comfortable and carefree life. I barely spend any of the money I have, I dress like a penniless college student, and I drive an old beat-up Buick. I hate being the center of attention to the point of feeling nauseous just thinking about it.

Except now, with Franny. The way she looks at me, the admiration in her eyes, just makes my chest puff out on its own. I want to show off in front of her, to see her astonishment at what I can accomplish. Come to think of it, outside of my family, she’s the only person in the world who knows my life story, why it turned out this way. A part of me wants so badly to make her proud that I feel dizzy when she does. And I feel very dizzy right now as she hugs my arm even tighter, looking into my eyes with adoration and joy.

Well, it takes a little longer than five minutes . I place three phone calls, run a couple of internet searches, pull some old archives, send two messages. Franny doesn’t move from my side the whole time, fidgeting nervously and clinging to my arm, looking into my phone. In the end, one of my mother’s colleagues comes through.

“Here,” I say, handing her the phone. “Jessica is in New York, Dana is in Chicago, Chris is in… Milwaukee? Ok, at least it’s close to Chicago. You sure you don’t wanna call first?”

“Yep. Sure. I wanna go. Just go. Like you did. Whatever happens, happens.”

“I see…” Throwing my phone back onto my bed, over my shoulder, I slap my palms against my knees. “So… road trip?”

I guess it’s only now that it really hits her, because her eyes widen and well up. “Oh God… you mean you’ll come with me? For real?”

“Of course I will. Unless you don’t want me too…”

Ok, it’ll take a week, or at least the whole drive to Chicago, for my left ear to stop ringing. Franny shrieks right into it as she lets go of my arm to hug all of me, dropping happy kisses all over the side of my head, laughing and screaming.

I look at the time. Believe it or not, they still serve breakfast downstairs and I’m up. I guess stranger things have been known to happen. But not stranger by much.

“Ok. But ! I’m ordering room service. We should have breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“I already had breakfast. We don’t all sleep until noon.” She smirks at me.

“You’ll have another one with me. It’s a long drive, even to NYC. Especially this time of day.”

“Fine, what have they got?”

I open the hotel home site on my phone, log in and hand it to her. We both order pancakes, some bacon and freshly cut fruit. And, of course, a pot of coffee. I realize I might want to check out, at least until we’re back, so I start gathering my things and throw them into my travel bag.

When I look up again, Franny is lying on her back, her arms thrown to the sides, her eyes closed. She’s smiling in anticipation and joy, and the pants I’ve been folding drop out of my hands. I have to swallow to water my drying throat. She’s so goddamn beautiful, in her light low cut jeans, her sleeveless top going up above her belly button, exposing a wide band of soft white skin that makes my vision blur and go black and white for a second.

Ok, I need to concentrate on getting ready.

“Fran…” I start, but my voice is way too husky, so I have to clear my throat once more. “Fran, get off my bed.”

Grinning impishly, she opens her eyes and flips to her side, propping her head on her folded elbow. “Why?”

Good question. Because I’m a man and there isn’t a whole lot of blood left in my head when I look at you like that.

“Uhm… I could use your help here. It’ll go a lot faster if we get my things ready together. We still need to stop by Maggie’s house and pack your things. And we’ll have to stop by the hospital to let Carrie know that we’ll be gone for a couple of days. You were the one who wanted to leave right now , remember?”

Smiling wider, she looks at me long and hard. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Ok, maybe not sure , but I feel like she can read my bluff and then some. I do my damndest to keep a convincing expression, though, even lifting both eyebrows and motioning around me, as if to say, ‘are you gonna help me here or what?’

Within seconds Franny is on her feet, grabbing the pile of my clothes from the back of a chair and folding them. Sighing with relief, I walk to the bed and pretend to busy myself with tidying it up. That’s when I feel her arms sliding around me from behind, her hands coming to rest on my chest and her head pressing against my back, right between my shoulder blades.

“Thank you, Johnny,” she whispers, just standing there. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!!!”

Boy! Am I happy she’s hugging me from behind .

“Um… Fran?”

“Yeah?”

“My pleasure. Now - packing.”

We’re too early to catch Carrie, as she is still in her therapy session. Franny is anxious to hit the road, so we do just that.

We’re almost to New York by the time I finally manage to get through. Carrie’s allowed to have her own phone with her, which makes things easier.

“How’s Franny?” is the first thing she asks.

Stealing a look at my companion, I smile. “Excited. Mostly.”

“Oh, good. She was rather shook up when she left here this morning.”

“Yeah…” I’d say!

“Fuck, Johnny… what if they don’t want to see her? What then?”

“I dunno. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Carrie, she’ll be fine. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Don’t leave her.”

“You know I won’t.”

There’s a long pause then. I check my BT connection to make sure the call is still on.

“It’s a shame you had to leave today.”

“How so?”

“Your father. Today is Wednesday. He comes on Wednesdays, every other week. I told you.”

I feel cold shivers rippling through me, originating at the base of my spine and creeping up, spiking goose bumps along the length of my arms. For some reason I remember all those horror movies where it gets really cold when the spirit of a dead person appears. It’s a silly thought, I know, but it just pops into my head.

I don’t know why, but I do believe Carrie. Especially now, seeing how she’s been more present, more lucid since the first time we met. Something about it just doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t know if she meets with my father on Wednesdays every other week, but she sure talks to someone. And to say that I’m curious would be a huge understatement.

I look over at Franny, who’s eyeing the skyline as we approach the city, nearly bouncing in excitement. I can’t turn around now. Not even on the off chance that Carrie’s telling the truth about meeting my father. If he is alive, if he did survive… well, we’ve both waited long enough. Another two weeks is nothing compared to twenty five years. And also, if he’s even half the man I’ve built him up to be in my head, he’ll understand how important this is. He’d do the same. For Franny he would.

After all, if it weren’t for him, for who he was ( is? ), Franny wouldn’t be here.

“Tell him I miss him,” I say in the most resolute voice I can manage. “I’ll see him in two weeks.”

Carrie hangs up and I remove my BT piece.

I can feel Franny’s eyes on me. “She still claims he’s alive?”

“Yep.”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea…” I sigh. “But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Chapter Text

Dear John,

I don’t remember who said this, if it was a quote from a book or a movie, and I’ll probably get it wrong, but someone once said that the greatest miseries in the world were caused by wars. And when the wars were over, nobody ever remembered what they were about.

I’m not sure about the last part. I think people who start wars, people interested in them, will always remember why they happened . But I can tell you for sure, the misery part is certainly true.

This mission was supposed to last a little over two months. It’s been a year and a half, and we’re still here.

We drove past a village today, about fifty miles south of Aleppo. I remember it from the last time I was here, shortly after you were born. It was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. We were allowed to pass through on foot; things were different in those days . There was joy in that town back then, pride, a sense of self sufficiency and safety. Children circled around, saluting us, asking for candy; that’s who US soldiers were to them at the time, visitors bearing treats. We’d see them running to madrasa, carrying school books, laughing. You could smell the smoke rising from the taboons, the women baking bread, arranging the dough on top of stone ovens. The aroma was so enveloping , so welcoming- my mouth still waters just thinking about it. The villagers waved as we walked by and I waved back before walking on, turning around to follow them with my eyes until they disappeared in a cloud of dust.

I remember a girl with a purple dress and pink hijab, no more than ten years old. She ran towards us unafraid, carrying a pile of freshly baked flat bread and a can of sheep yogurt. We were parched and famished, so we sat at the side of the road, not far from her house, and ate. Her mother came over when we were about done, with a bukraj of hot coffee that she’d made especially for us.

See John, this would never happen now. We’re not allowed to travel on foot, and we have strict orders to shoot any locals approaching the vehicle, women and children being no exception. Convoys have been ambushed for stopping to help a wounded child, have hit a road mine after their changing route.

We passed that family’s house again today. I recognized it because of the distinct blue mosaic on the wall next to the taboon. That wall was just about the only part of the house still standing. All of it, the garden, the stone oven… they were nothing but a pile of rocks and ashes. There was a piece of purple fabric peeking from between the ruins. I wondered if it was that little girl’s dress; I wondered what atrocities happened to her, to her mother.

When I look around me now, remembering the country that used to be here, I’m not sure what we’re still doing here, if there's anything left in this world that’s worth saving.

A part of me wants to tell you that I miss home. While there’s another part that just laughs and laughs when I think about it. I don’t have a home. I don’t even remember the last time I did.

I guess what I miss most is that state of mind, the feeling of hopefulness, sense of purpose. Looking around me, I’m not sure I can ever get it back. In my sleep, I hear women wailing over the bodies of their children and I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or if it comes from a neighboring village. I see piles of bodies, gassed or just executed by a fire squad, left to rot where they were gathered, and I can’t tell if it happened today or half a year ago.

When the world is in such fucked-up shit, when you’ve seen it from up close, how can there ever be hope again?

We’ve been driving for almost twelve hours. About three miles back, our rear tire blew. I’m not sure when it’ll be safe enough to stop and change it. Or if we even have a spare.

I can’t say shit like ‘I hope one day it’ll all be worth it’. Because NOTHING is worth what’s happening here. And there’s no end. Not one I can see, anyway.

I guess what I’m saying is that half way across the world there’s still an illusion of peace. And maybe that’s worth fighting for. I’m imagining you in college someday , going on a road trip, with some friends, maybe a girl, driving through little towns and villages, seeing people going about their lives, children running on the streets.

Maybe that image is why I’m still here. Because really, there’s no other reason I can think of.

Yours,

Dad.

Most of the letters my father wrote to me were from when he was away on missions. Usually, they don’t have any clues as to where he’d been. It took me days, sometimes weeks, of research to be able to figure out where he was at the time and when it happened. Now, I definitely know more about the world I live in, the horrors happening in it every day, than I ever cared to.

There are almost two hundred letters that he wrote while in Syria. He was there towards the end of the civil war, the country was in ruins. Some of his letters, both to me and Franny (Syria is where the letters to her started), are darker than others. But they all have some things in common - my father’s stubborn and undying wistfulness, his ability to see the beauty that used to be, and his hope for Franny and I to one day live in a world of peace and innocence.

And that’s just another thing that we have in common. See, I know where that quote is from. It’s something that Ashley Wilkes said in Gone With the Wind. When Luna, my baby sister, was sick and we spent a week in her isolation room (which I’ll tell you about some other time), that was the book she was reading. Gone With the Wind is far from being my kind of story, and I hate Scarlett’s guts, but my sister was too weak from the treatments, and I used to read it to her. Luna still claims that I’m missing the point of the story. I don’t care. Maybe I am more like Ashley than I am Rhett Butler. When I look at things that are lost, I don’t like seeing the sharp outlines of the new reality - my mind goes immediately to how things used to be, or how they could have turned out differently.

But that’s me. My life is quite ordinary and uneventful. All in all, I didn’t know much sorrow or misery. What blows me away about my father, though, is that doing what he did, having seen the horrors that he saw, he could still feel like that, clinging to this life, looking for reasons to keep fighting, imagining a better world for us. I don't ever want to see a tenth of what he’d seen, but I can't help wondering: if I had, if I had lived through what he did, would I be strong enough to keep my hopes from turning into ashes?

Despite what my father wished for me, I didn’t take a road trip when I was in college. In fact, this one, with Franny, is the first I’ve ever been on.

Our ride here to New York was quite uneventful. We arrived early. Jessica and Mike weren’t home yet, so we wandered around, strolled through Central Park, laughed our heads off, sitting on a bench and making up backstories for people around us.

Jessica is not really a part of Franny’s newly found family. We’re here mostly for the other part of our journey - the part where we want to tell the people in Franny’s father’s life about the man that he was in the end. It wasn’t until we were half way here that I’d asked Franny why we were even going to Jessica’s. I knew why I wanted to. But it was Franny who insisted we start in New York. She just looked at me, shook her head, and she said that if she loved a man, married him, had two kids with him, stood by him as he followed the call of his duty, was told she’d probably lost him, yet waited for him for eight years, then found out he was a traitor, a liar and a murderer, she would want to know the truth. Even two decades later.

When she said that, I swear I had tears in my eyes. My feelings for Franny are all over the place, which is why I’m not even trying to sort through them. But in that moment I almost stopped the car and kissed her. When we left, I didn’t mind going with her so that she could reunite with her half-siblings. I never told her about my conversation with Carrie, or my father’s letter (she still hasn’t read all of them). But she knew anyway.  She said it wasn’t about whether or not Dana or Chris would accept her and want to have her in their lives, as long as we told them the truth.

Jessica and Mike are very kind to us. But it’s not an easy conversation. Jessica is crying, and, what hits me the hardest, so is Mike. I think it wasn’t until I saw tears in his eyes, that I felt my own throat squeezing shut. Apparently Mike was Franny’s father’s best friend. Carrie never mentioned him.

Four years ago, right before I quit my career in medicine, my best friend died. Suicide. All the signs were there. For months beforehand he was barely sleeping, had lost weight. He’d call me at weird hours, asking to meet, then he’d just sit there, not saying a word, unable to touch his food or drink. But I was so absorbed in my studies at the time that I managed to miss it, all of it. I know it’s nothing like what happened with Mike and Brody. But I know what it feels like - to lose someone this close to you, to wonder if you should have seen it coming, if you should’ve noticed something, tried to stop it.

As I said before, outside of my family, Franny is the only one I’d ever spoke to about this. And right then and there, when I look at Mike and my eyes fill with tears, I feel her hand slipping into mine.

Jessica has over twenty photo albums of her family from the period of time she was married to Franny’s father. They’d just started to have them all digitized, so she transfers everything she can find on her MacBook to my phone and promises to send us more when they are done.

They even suggest that we stay the night at their house, seeing how it’s past eleven by the time we get ready to leave. They have a son together, Jeremy. He’s in summer camp now, so they offer us his room. But Franny seems anxious to be on our way to Chicago, or, as she calls it, ‘the real part of the road trip’ , so we politely decline.

We all hug for a long time before parting. Jessica warns us that getting through to Dana might be a little challenging, because in all those years she’d refused to speak one word of her father. She suggests it might be better if she gave her a call, prepared her a little maybe. I leave it up to Franny to decide. In the end, she thanks Jessica for her kind offer and says that we’ll take our chances.

As we start to walk away, Jessica grabs me by the wrist. We stop, turn around, and, steadying her voice, she shakes her head.

“Thank you. Both of you. I know it’s been a long time. And none of it matters anymore, probably to anyone. But…” She squeezes my hand, then reaches for Franny’s as well. “I don’t know if I can ever explain to you what it feels like: finding out that the man you loved, dated since you were barely out of highschool, thought you knew, had family with... is a murderer, a traitor, betraying everything he was sworn to stand for, what you’d spent your life helping him uphold. It shakes you, from time to time, it just comes back. And you keep wondering - how could you have been so wrong about something so important?” Letting go of our hands, she embraces us both one last time. “Thank you. For taking the time to let me know that I wasn’t.”

We’re on our way to my car, when Franny suddenly turns to me and gives me a mischievous smirk of a stare. “Are you mad at me?”

I think I know what she means, so I just raise an eyebrow. “Why, you think I should be?”

“I dunno. You haven’t said a word since we left. And you’re acting kinda… detached .”

I’m just tired. But she does have a point. She did something that took me quite by surprise and not in a good way. When Jessica asked if we were ‘together’ , and I’d just opened my mouth to say that ‘no, we are not’ , Franny fired that ‘yes, we are’ , wiggled backwards, cuddling in the triangle between the back of the sofa and my tucked leg, unceremoniously wrapped my arm around herself, and been calling me ‘honey’ and ‘sweetie’ for the rest of the evening.

“Are you shy?” she giggles, turning around and walking ahead of me now, skipping and bouncing backwards.

“You know I am. That’s not the point,” I grumble. I’m not really mad. But it did make me feel very uncomfortable, and we will need to talk about it.

“Then what is the point? What, you’re against…” making a mocking face, “... public displays of affection? ”

I smile, shaking my head at her. “I’m not . When the affection is established, I can be quite affectionate.”

“Uh-huh. So… wanna stay in NYC tonight, go to a hotel, fuck my brains out and establish the affection?”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. Not because I’m embarrassed or taken aback (I’ve come to expect that kind of talk from Franny - she’s what you’d call ‘a free spirit’ like that). But there’s a part of me that squirms and twists every time she uses that word, even more so now, when she talks about us. I hate the ‘f’ word, in all its variations. And Franny and her mother use it a lot .

“Awwww,” Franny laughs, when I say nothing, and just roll my eyes. “Is it because I said ‘fuck’ again? Would you rather I said make loooooove?”

I take out my car keys. “I dunno. I just don’t wanna talk about it right now, ok?”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, Fran. Just drop it. You wanna grab something to eat before we hit the road?”

“Don’t change the subject. Do you want to?”

“What?” I let out an exasperated sigh and force myself to throw her words back at her. “ Fuck your brains out? No, I don’t.”

“Liar,” she exclaims, laughing, grabbing my keys and sprinting to the car. “My turn to drive.”

Smiling, I follow. I’m not lying to her. She’s everything I ever dreamt of in a woman: kind, smart, understanding, perceptive, caring, self-conscious. It sure doesn’t hurt that on top of all that she’s also mind-numbingly beautiful. And sexy… So goddamn sexy. Most of the time she’s not even aware of it, which makes it so much harder to resist. I’m a guy, no different from any other guy. I’ve had fantasies about being with her ever since the first time I saw her. But I promise you , that in none of those, when my mind jumped ahead to us holding each other afterwards, did I whisper to her ‘Did you like it, baby? Did you like the way I fucked your brains out?’ I mean… ARGH!

I’m not old fashioned or anything. I guess I’m just wired differently. It’s not like I never had a random sexual encounter in my life, of course I did. It’s just not something that I enjoy or care to repeat. Franny is the complete opposite. For her, at least from what she tells me, having sex after a crazy party is just a fun way to finish a great evening. A part of me envies her for being able to enjoy life like that, completely unrestrained. While there’s another part that wants to find every guy she ever slept with and do unspeakable things to them for laying a finger on this girl without having their whole heart in it.

I take the passenger seat and buckle up, waiting for Franny to start the car. She doesn’t. Feeling her eyes on me, I turn to face her.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” and she reaches for my hand.

“Hey, don’t worry about it…” I say, giving her a small wink. “ ...honey. ”

“I just…” she stops, taking a deep breath and holding it in.

“Fran, I know.”

“I thought you…”

“I do.”

“Really? Then why?”

I half turn to her and reach with my hand to move a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Because we’re both very emotional right now. Too overwhelmed. I know it sounds kinda dorky, but I wouldn’t even know where to start if I tried to sort through everything I’m feeling these days. A lot of it involves you, and a lot of what involves you has to do with my father. I think we both need some distance… some time. I dunno, to get perspective maybe. You understand?”

She arches both eyebrows, giving me the most incredulous and ridiculing stare I’ve ever seen. “I’m not saying let’s get married , you stupid nerd. I was just thinking… you know… hot, crazy, naked, senseless fucking each other’s brains out. Coz you know… you and me - would be hot .”

“Uh-huh…”

“What, you don’t believe me? Let’s go and I’ll prove it.”

I roll my eyes, lean over and give her a kiss on a cheek. “Just drive already.”

Franny takes road trips seriously, as it turns out. About an hour into our ride she stops at a gas station, runs into the store and comes back with a bag full of Twinkies, granola bars, mini donuts, ho hos, Grandma’s Cookies, Funyuns - you name it. It’s a hot night and we start with the ice-cream sandwiches, which, apparently, is both our favorite.

Whoever said road trips can be a bonding experience evidently never met Franny and myself. We argue about everything, from air conditioning vs open windows, to the music we listen to. And, while some of those fights get really loud and intense, almost all of them end in us laughing it off.

I say almost, because when we got to what kind of music we like, I actually had to jump out of the car in the middle of the night to chase Franny down the road, when she decided she’ll just ‘walk to Chicago’ if I was going to ‘be like that’ . And by ‘walking’ she meant ‘running’ . By the time I realized she wasn’t coming back, she’d disappeared from view. Come to think of it now, I should have probably just driven after her. But at the time I panicked, got out of the car and ran after her. When I finally caught up, it was way past midnight, and the road was dark and empty. I was so scared that I did something I’d never done in my life before that moment - I picked her up, kicking and screaming, and threw her over my shoulder, carrying her back to the car, being beaten the whole time. I’m in fairly good shape, but, for my weakening heart, this was one exercise too many.

It’s not like we don’t like a lot of the same music. The whole argument was about what was more important in a song: melody or lyrics. To cut a long story short: I’m the lyrics type, Franny’s the the one for melody. It got out of hand rather quickly. And, well… you know the rest.

Finally, we settle on Franny’s collection of movie soundtracks, which we both agree is really nice. We play ‘21 questions’, then the ‘Fortunate/Unfortunate’, then some twisted variations of ‘The Name Game’. Franny is a very sore loser. I get punched, yelled at and even kicked on occasion every time she gets stuck on a word and loses points. But after her little jogging exercise, I’m done being ‘Mr. Nice Guy’, and when I can beat her, I’m merciless.

It’s almost three AM when I start feeling too tired to drive. I switched with Franny right after her escape attempt, telling her that the next time she wants to bail, she’ll have to jump out of a moving car.

She offers to drive again, to let me sleep, but the road is too dark and empty. Quite frankly, I don’t think I’d be able to sleep knowing that she’s driving alone. And I know she’s tired as hell herself.

It’s midsummer, traveling season, and the first motel we find is booked. The guy at the front desk tells us that we’re gonna have to try our luck at the next motel, which is about thirty miles down the road. I’m not sure either of us is in any shape to drive that far and start wondering if we should just sleep in the car, when he calls us back, telling us that he does have one room available after all.

I’m so exhausted that I could literally fall asleep standing. So, when we find that the room has a single king-size bed, I don’t mind bunking on the floor. I tell Franny that I’m just going to grab a quick shower and that she should take the bed.

I’m almost to the door to the bathroom when I hear her clearly irritated voice behind my back.

“What’s your fucking problem, Johnny?”

I swing around. “What?”

“You know what! You’d rather sleep on the floor than share a fucking bed with me?”

Here we go again. “Fran, it’s not about sharing a bed with you. Just let it go. I’m way too tired for this right now.”

“I don’t get it! And I ain’t letting it go . What? You find me repulsive ? It’s a king-fucking-size bed. You won’t even know I’m there.”

My voice jumps up so fast that I don’t have time to control it. “I don’t find you repulsive. Why do we have to go over it again??? I can’t , alright? It’s my problem. Like you said, I’m a stupid dork . Just leave it at that and let’s go to sleep.”

“You’re a fucking moron, that’s what you are!” She nearly yells.

“Fine. Can I go take a shower now?”

“ Fine. ”

“Jee, thanks .”

“Just… get the fuck out of my sight!” When I do just that, slamming the door behind me, I hear her adding: “And I wouldn’t sleep with you anyway. Not even if you begged me to!!!”

I fall heavily against the door, feeling myself close to tears. I don’t know if she’s also feeling too tired, too emotional, too vulnerable, but I want to go back out, wrap my arms around her and hold her until she stops this bullshit .

That’s when I hear a soft thump at the other side of the door, as Franny leans against it.

“You there?” she asks, in a softer, lower voice.

I chuckle, looking at the closed space around me, then half turn my face. “ That’s a safe bet.”

She laughs faintly, but it dies out soon enough. “Johnny… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, sweetie,” I reply, and my eyes open wide. Did I just say that?

Before I get a chance to overanalyze what I just said, I hear Franny giggling. “You called me ‘sweetie’.”

I rub my face with the palm of my hand and smile. “Yeah.”

“You are being a moron, you know that, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Look, I’m not saying let’s start a relationship or anything. Let’s just… I dunno…”

I snort, lightly knocking on the door. “ Fuck each other’s brains out? ”

“Maybe…”

“Fran… please. I can’t deal with it right now. Can we just leave it at that? At least for the time being?”

She huffs and I realize that I don’t need to see her to know what her face looks like right now. “Fine. Take a shower already. And hurry up. I need one too.”

I’ve never minded sleeping on the floor. It’s a warm night. I took one of the pillows and an extra blanket from the closet, and I was out like a light.

The first time I wake up is when I feel Franny sliding under my cover, molding herself into me from behind, her arm creeping around my side until her hand comes to rest on my chest. I feel her face pressed against my back, her breath seeping through my t-shirt.

“Fran,” I call, but there’s no answer.

When I turn around, I realize she’s sleeping. Maybe she was sleepwalking? I really don’t know that much about her. I wait for her breathing pattern to become even slower, then carefully pick her up and carry her back to bed.

About an hour later it happens again. And, like the first time around, when I lower her onto the bed, she keeps holding me, even in her sleep, reluctant to let go. I wait for her arms around my neck to relax, gently release them, and tuck her in. Making sure she’s really asleep, I sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t know that I’m buying her ballsy ‘fuck my brains out’ routine. I can’t help feeling that there’s more to it, to the way she clings to me, seeks physical contact.

When she comes to me the third time, I find out what it is. It’s probably almost dawn, or right before. The room is pitch dark. I can barely make out Franny’s face right in front of mine. But I can see that her eyes are open now. And it’s the way she looks at me, boring deep into my soul, all shaking, the way she clasps my t-shirt, that makes me gasp for air.

“Please… don’t leave me,” she whispers.

My heart breaks so hard that I’m pretty sure it makes a loud cracking sound in the night. I pull her towards me, all of her, hiding her next to my chest, drawing the blanket around her. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this protective of someone in my whole life. I’m not thinking about what I feel about her anymore, or about what it means. All I want is for her to stop shaking and sleep in my arms, where I can keep her safe from whatever has her so scared.

“Johnny,” she calls, lifting her head to look at me, “don’t leave me,” she pleads again.

“I won’t,” I assure her, smiling when she sighs in relief and nuzzles her face between my cheek and the pillow.

“Promise?”

“I promise, baby.” I don’t care how it sounds anymore, what it means, or what she’ll read into it. “Just go back to sleep, Fran. I’m right here.”

Minutes go by in which neither one of us speaks or moves. I know Franny is not asleep, because her fingers are scratching lightly against my chest.

“I’m scared,” she murmurs finally.

I just draw her closer, wrapping my arms around her even tighter. “I know.” I stroke her hair, then place a soft kiss on top of her head. “Do you wanna tell me what you’re scared of now or in the morning?” making sure she can hear the smile in my voice.

She wiggles closer, snuggling even deeper into me, giggling softly. “In the morning. Ok?”

“Ok, sweetie.” I rub her back, trying to calm her shivering. Then I laugh again. “So... you like it? When I call you ‘sweetie’?”

I feel her nose wrinkle a bit next to my cheek. She tugs on my t-shirt. “Yeah. But now I like ‘baby’ better.”

“Ok. ‘Baby’ it is.”

She lets out a long sigh, that tickles my ear. “Just… say it again.”

I close my eyes, feeling myself starting to drift off as well. “Goodnight, baby…” I whisper.

The last thing I remember thinking about is that we should probably move into bed. But I feel Franny going limp in my arms, her breathing becoming slower, deeper, and I just hold her closer.

Franny is afraid of many things. When we wake up the following morning, still on the floor, her face nuzzled into my neck, right under my chin, her arm around me, that’s the first thing she tells me.

But most of all, she’s afraid of the dark and of losing people. She slept with a light on in her room when she was a little girl. She still does. And, growing up, she’s lost almost everyone she ever cared about, my father being the first one.

“Goddamnit, Fran. There’s a lamp on the nightstand. Why didn’t you turn it on? Or at least say something?”

She lowers her eyes, rubbing her nose with her fist, then presses her forehead to my chest. “I dunno… I was so… last night… I was… the things I said to you… I was afraid if the light bothered you…”

“Jeez, Fran! That I would what ? Walk out on you? Leave you here alone?”

“I dunno…”

“Oh silly...” I laugh, cradling her head in the fold of my elbow.

She chuckles softly, but her smile fades when she lifts her face. “I was just… I dunno what I was. Stupid . And rude . I’m not usually like that, I swear.”

“ Scared ,” I correct her, and I feel the tingling of tears in my eyes. “ You were scared . And you shouldn’t be, Fran. I promised you. And I meant it. I meant everything I said. Just give me some time… Between my mother dying, my father’s letters…” My vision blurs and I feel a large drop rolling from the corner of my eye, across the bridge of my nose, before falling onto the pillow. “And you. You’re so in a middle of it all. In a good way. But in a scary way, too. It’s just all a little too much, too confusing, too… jumbled together.” I slowly move the cute strands of morning hair that keep falling onto her eyes. “ God , you’re beautiful… and you say stupid things like ‘I find you repulsive ’.” When she smiles, I draw her closer, putting my chin on top of her head. “And you’re right , it doesn’t have to mean anything . But right now, you’re kind of a part of everything. And I can’t… I just can’t.”

She nods, “It’s ok,” and I can feel her lips forming a kiss, burrowing into my neck.

It tickles and sends shivers down my spine at the same time. “ Not helping,” I laugh.

Reluctantly, Franny sits up, using both her hands to gather her long hair and tie it into a sloppy knot behind her head. I look at her and wonder if one day I’ll actually get used to seeing her do that every morning, because it threatens to redefine both ‘cute’ and ‘mesmerizing’ in my personal dictionary.

Before hitting the road, we have breakfast at the diner nearby. Usually, Franny sits across the table from me. But not this time. She snuggles under my arm and finds out that I’m actually very comfortable with public displays of affection, when I pull her even closer to me. Somehow, we both need it: her - being physical with me, feeling me next to her all the time; me - allowing myself to be emotional around her, but mostly, letting her know that my father might have not had a choice in leaving her, but I do . I’m not nearly as strong, as skilled, or as brave as he was, but…

See, one of the first things that Franny ever told me was that the last time she ever saw my father he’d asked her a question. She said that she was too overwhelmed, too scared, and she only answered in her head. It was also the first time I ever saw Franny cry in front of me, not just the tears welling up, but really sobbing, saying again and again that she still wonders if he knew what her answer was.

“Hey.” I set my coffee cup on the table and squeeze Franny’s shoulder. I wait until she lifts her face to mine and smiles, then press my forehead to hers. “You know you’re always safe with me, right?”

She worms an arm around my neck. “I know,” she whispers, and we just sit there for a while, holding each other, needing each other, and for the first time feeling the past not hurting as much.

Dana works as a nurse at County General. We’d caught her on her day off.

When we first drove up to her house, we were both concerned. Between what Carrie had described and Jessica’s words, we knew we’d be lucky if she didn’t just throw us both down the stairs and call the police when she heard why we came.

As we leave, slowly making our way back to my car, we’re both in tears. We hear Dana’s voice behind us and turn around just in time to see her running after us, a huge Tupperware box in her hands.

“I noticed you liked them,” she says, catching her breath and looking at Franny, who just stares back, still holding my hand. “The tehina cookies. I have another batch already made. You take these.”

Dana’s face is puffy, her eyelashes forming dark wet spikes, her cheeks still tear stained. In my whole life I’ve never seen anyone cry that hard for that long. I don’t remember when it happened in the story that Franny was telling, but at some point Dana just bent forward, as if breaking in two, and let out one of the most heart shattering wailing sounds that I ever heard.

Not knowing what else to do, Franny leaped towards Dana, wrapping her arms around her and placing her head on top of her hunched back. I just sat there, my throat strangled with tears.

Apparently, the reason Dana refused to talk about her father all these years wasn’t because he was a traitor or a murderer. Because, as it turns out, the last time she saw him, he told her that already. And she’d turned him away, having said the most hurtful and horrible things she could think of. She never saw him again, but she never forgot his face, his voice when he spoke to her. Because deep down in her heart she knew that this time he was telling her the truth.

She kept crying when I recounted to her what her father did, about the last weeks of his life. I shared that Carrie said he had promised to come back one day for her, because it was Dana who was still on his mind, even after everything that she’d thrown at him. I wasn’t sure if one day it would be of some consolation, but I wanted her to know.

I look at Dana, standing there with a box of homemade cookies in her hands, and my heart breaks over and over. I remember my mother telling me that living with regret over something you can never change or take back, is the hardest thing of all.

“Oh, Gosh, thank you. You’re so nice,” Franny smiles, wiping her own tears.

“Nice? Oh Jesus… you’ll never know what it means to me. What you did. Everything you said, the trouble you went through. And… Oh God, just knowing you.” Dana laughs through her sobs. “I have a sister . Oh my fucking God! And your mother? How is she?”

“She’s… as well as can be expected,” I feel Franny’s fingers lock tighter around my hand and I give her an encouraging smile, squeezing back.

“Oh, thank God. Say hi to her. You’ve got my phone number, right? And you come to visit. And we’ll come too. You’ve got to meet my daughter, when she’s back, and my husband. Both of you. Are you coming back to Chicago after visiting Chris?”

“I think so, yeah,” I answer instead of Franny, who’s hugging Dana and crying again.

“Please stop by if you do. Tomorrow night? I’ll make a nice dinner.”

I see Franny nodding against Dana’s shoulder and I nod myself, smiling. “We will.”

I’m not sure where I stand on love at first sight (I’m probably warming up to the idea at this point in my life… uhm, just saying, yeah?), but when I meet Chris Brody (yes, he still has his father’s last name, never changed it), I learn that there is in fact such a thing as friendship at first sight.

Funny story about meeting Chris, though.

So, we drive to Milwaukee, right? Because that’s where Chris lives, and Franny was adamant about not calling ahead. With the afternoon traffic, it takes about two hours to get there from Dana’s house. The thing is - Chris’s not home, he’s at work… in Chicago . And no, I’m not kidding. Apparently, he’s a surgeon. He lives with his family in Milwaukee, but works in Chicago, at County General of all places, where he commutes to once a week for two to three days, operates, then goes home.

His wife, a very pleasant woman who appears to be in her late twenties, a clever looking curious toddler in her arms, tells us that he won’t be back for at least another day, so it would be pointless for us to wait for him.

Just like that, we drive all the way back to Chicago. And just like that, my rear tire blows in the middle of nowhere.

C’mon, ask me if I have a spare. Of course I do. Did I remember to fix it since the last time I had a puncture? Of course I didn’t.

At this point it’s not annoying anymore, it’s not even ridiculous. It’s just absurdly funny. I drive the car off the road and we get out and lean against the door, laughing like two morons and eating Twinkies. I’d call my insurance, but there’s really no point. That car is so old that it’s not worth the trouble. As far as I’m concerned, they can tow it and keep it. Which is what I suggest to Franny: we catch a ride to the nearest town, buy a new car. I can pretty much afford any car, but something used and comfortable with a large tank and of good old american quality would do.

C’mon, ask me if Franny is ready to part with my old car. No? Not gonna? Good thinking!

Here’s how it goes. Me: “Fran, it’s just a friggin car! ” Franny: “It’s not just a car, it’s your car! The one you were driving when we first met!” Me (snorting sarcastically): “Listen to yourself! First met! As in a week and a half ago! ” Franny: “I don’t give a fuck! We keep it. Forever! It’s a part of you, I’m not letting some motherfucker tow it.” Me (thinking): Would you stop being so goddamn perfect??? (out loud): “Fine. What do you suggest we do?”

Before she has a chance to answer, a huge yellow RV with red stripes stops right in front of us. With a smile that makes his wheat-colored mustache spread almost from ear to ear, a man jumps out. He’s probably in his early thirties, a little overweight, wearing light blue jeans and a wrinkled short-sleeved shirt. His name, apparently, is Roger, and he’s traveling with his wife Linda and their three kids (we learn all that in the mere two minutes that it takes him to evaluate our situation). He grabs my spare tire, as well as the newly punctured one, and tells us to ‘hop in’. Which we do.

Roger’s plan is simple: he’s gonna take us to the nearest gas station, where my tires will get fixed, then drive us back. The fact that he doesn’t know us and it’s not on his way? “Who cares?” he says, dropping into the driver’s seat. “Two hour detour tops. Nothing compared to knowing you’ve helped someone on the road, right honey?”

Honey just smiles back at him, while filling two plates with what turns out to be one of the best homemade chilis I’ve ever tried. Their kids - a seven year old boy, three year old girl and a six month old baby boy - gather around us with millions of questions and one not so good-smelling diaper, which Franny offers to change.

When she comes back, glowing and giggling, having given up on trying to stop the baby from grabbing her rogue auburn strands, framing her face, my heart races and my throat dries up on its own. As she comes to take a seat next to me, I put out an arm for her to cuddle into, and, when she does, sitting the baby up on her lap, I draw them both in. The baby is babbling and grinning, looking at our silly delighted faces hovering over him. When I try tickling his belly, he grabs my hand and stuffs the side of my palm into his mouth. I laugh - he’s teething, gently nibbling with the bumps on his gums.

Franny softly slides her slender fingers up my forearm and they curl around my elbow as she places her head on my chest. Just like that, I’m done - I want it, all of it. It was never a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’, from the moment I laid eyes on her for the very first time. Now, the only thing that’s holding me back is the need to sort through all the overwhelming events of the last year, clear my head, let the dust settle on the past, so that I can take this woman into my arms and never let her go.

I lean back, pulling Franny with me, and my stare wanders out the window. Here I am, Dad. On a road trip. Just like you wished for me. I’m not in college anymore, but hey, who would have thought - your son is a nerd and a bit of a late bloomer. I don’t have friends with me, but I do have a girl - the most mind-bogglingly incredible girl I’ve ever met. We’re surrounded by laughing, carefree children, and we’re passing little towns and villages, where people still live their lives in that illusion of peace that you wanted to protect. I guess, you did it. Because we’re all still here. And I wish you were, too.

“Thinking about your Dad?” I hear Franny’s voice, and I realize that my eyes are teary again.

I’ve always been rather emotional - my second youngest sister Mia calls me a ‘cry baby’, and rightfully so. But in the past week and a half I broke my own personal record.

I hide my face in her hair, holding her closer. “Yes. And you.”  

So… I google people. Shocker, right? While we’re waiting for Chris to finish his day, I run a simple search. It doesn’t take long. If I met Chris on the street, I would never have guessed that he’s one of the most promising spine surgeons in the country, first in his class at Columbia medical school, offered the most prestigious spot for a subspecialty when he finished his neurosurgical training.

He meets us outside, wearing a pair of worn jeans, a faded t-shirt and carrying an old, tattered backpack over one shoulder. Shaking both our hands, he asks if we’d like to grab a bite to eat while we talk. Once we introduce ourselves, he changes plans and suggests we get takeout, inviting us to the small apartment he rents in Chicago, which he basically just uses as a crash pad on the days he works here.

He doesn’t own a car. Ok, he does , but his wife’s the one who uses it. He says she’s the one who really needs it, with two small kids and all. He himself takes the L within Chicago and commutes via train back home to Milwaukee. When he said his apartment was small, he meant it: one bedroom, small living room, tiny kitchen and a bathroom.

I’m used to people who don’t live according to their status or income: where I come from, in Mountain View, I’m surrounded by them, some might even say I’m one of them. But in all honesty, I never thought I’d meet a neurosurgeon like that. Coz, you know that old joke? What’s the difference between God and a neurosurgeon? As in… God knows he’s not a neurosurgeon?

“Drinks?” Pouring himself a glass of what appears to be a fine single malt Scotch, Chris gives me and Franny a questioning stare.

We still need to drive to a hotel if we’re staying an extra day to have that dinner with Dana, which she just called to confirm, inviting her brother as well. So I shake my head and politely decline.

“I’ll drive,” Franny whispers to me, as if reading my mind. “Have a drink.”

We talk for a long while. Unlike the rest of his family, Chris doesn’t get very emotional. It seems to me that he got closure many years ago. The only time I notice him getting slightly unnerved is when I get to the part about his father not being the Langley bomber after all. His eyes remain dry, but I can see his knuckles on the hand holding the whiskey glass pale from the tension, his Adam’s apple moving up and down from the need to swallow more often.

As soon as I’m done talking, he asks to be excused. There’s a small balcony looking over nothing but the neighboring city block. Chris steps out, leaving the door ajar, and just stands there, his back to us, for a long while. His eyes glisten in the dim light when he walks back in and approaches. He shakes my hand, then waits for Franny to stand up and they embrace.

His voice is a little unsteady, too, as he kisses Franny’s head and tightens his grip around her. “Always wanted a younger sister.”

Chris is not a man of many words. He’s quiet, thoughtful. He’s one of those people who make it appear as if life has been easy on them, when in reality, if you know where to look, you can see that it was the exact opposite.

He sits next to us, getting more comfortable, and, instead of asking more questions about his own family, starts drilling both me and Franny about ours. He’s not just being polite, it’s not for the sake of making conversation - he seems really interested. And that’s how someone I’d just met and barely know anything about becomes the second person, other than Franny, who knows about my life and the choices I’d made. It just happens, the words flowing out of me, as if I’ve known Chris for ages, the same way it happened when I told Franny.

“The couch is a pull-out. And you’re both staying the night,” Chris announces, rather than asks, when we’re done discussing my recent employment history. He doesn’t ask if we’re together, and he doesn’t assume either. I guess he just knows. At least that’s the feeling I get. He goes into the kitchen and reappears at the door holding a bottle of wine. “Sis?” he winks at Franny. “You won’t be driving after all.”

“Sure,” Franny blushes a little and, when Chris goes back to open the bottle and get the glasses, she moves closer to me, hugging my upper arm and looking up. “You ok with that?”

I smirk. “Are you asking me if I’m gonna sleep on the floor? Coz I think we both know how well that ends.”

“Mphhh, I know, right?” She pulls down my head and presses her lips to my cheek. “It’s just been such a perfect day. And I’m really enjoying this. I’d like to stay.”

“I know, baby,” I whisper, snuggling closer to her and smiling back into her eyes, as she seems to melt at me using her new favorite term of endearment again. “I’d like that too.”

When Chris comes back, he drills me a little more. He says that he understands why Franny is here, now he wants to know how I fit into the picture, other than the obvious (which he says, pointing at us sitting in each other’s arms). And that’s when he does get emotional and tears up, when I tell him about my father, what brought me on this journey, about his letters, to me and Franny both. Neither Jessica nor Dana asked me about it. But I guess I really needed to talk. Because the time just goes by, it’s way past midnight, and I’m still talking, reciting some of his letters, letting my tears well up when I feel like it, and not being ashamed of it.

I leave the small light next to the sofa on, slide under the blanket and hold it up for Franny. After last night, there really is no point in pretending we can sleep on separate ends of the bed. She takes her place between my arms, fitting right in, nuzzling her face where it belongs - right under my chin, inhaling me deeply and tickling my neck when she lets out a whole lungful of me.

“Enough light?” I ask, stroking her hair and sofly tilting her head back so I can look at her. She nods, smiling, eyes half-closed. “Enough blanket?” Another nod. I wink. “Enough me?”

She stretches her arms all around me: one from above to behind my back and one between my neck and the pillow, cradling my head in the fold of her elbow. “No,” she whispers, looking deep into my eyes. “But there will be. One day.”

“Yeah. I think so,” I smile.

She’s quiet for some time, her eyes resting on mine, calm and dreamy, the tips of her fingers trailing lines and circles all over my face.

“I know what you are,” she murmurs in the end with an impish smile that makes my toes curl.

“What?”

“You’re your father’s gift to me.”

I guess my face starts twitching miserably, because Franny’s eyelids flicker and she whispers, “It’s ok, let it go.”

And I do. Whatever I wanted to or could have said to that, it just falls away. Just like that, I’m crying, really crying, not even hiding my face, feeling my tears flow and roll free, letting Franny wipe them away with her gentle fingers.

So are you, I’m thinking, with a new wave of longing and tenderness building inside of me, growing larger and larger.

I fall asleep in Franny’s arms, in Chicago, far away from home, on a fold out bed in a tiny apartment rented by a man we’d met mere hours ago. Yet I’ve never been this content and at peace, feeling a complete sense of belonging. I think about my father’s letter again, about him never having a real home, but missing the feeling of it, the state of mind that comes with being hopeful and having a sense of purpose. Usually, as I’m drifting off, in my mind I tell him that I miss him. But not tonight. Because I can feel him, both deep inside me and all around me, like he was never really gone.

And maybe that’s why tonight is the first time I dream about my father, ever . We’re sitting on a peer: I’m all grown up, like I am now, he’s still young, like he was the day he died. We don’t talk. Everything around us is still, peaceful. The water is so clear that we can see the sky as if it went all the way to the bottom of the lake. My father looks at me and smiles. I want to ask him if he’s proud of me, if I turned out to be everything he ever wanted me to be. But somehow, deep in his wise, calm, steely blue eyes, there is an answer already. So, I just move closer. And now, suddenly, I’m a little boy again, no more than six years old. My father puts an arm around me, leans down and kisses my hair.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper to him.

“I won’t,” he promises.

Chapter Text

Dear John,

I guess I should wish you a Merry Christmas. Funny thing about these letters is that I have no idea if you’ll ever read them. Nevertheless, it’s Christmas 2008. It's hard to believe you’re more than a year old already.

I’m in Moscow, at the German embassy. A friend dragged me to this Christmas party. Truth be told, I’d rather celebrate with the Russians on the outside - at least they seem to know HOW to . Problem is, their Christmas is not for another thirteen days, and I need to leave tomorrow.

My friend Astrid is just about the only person here who knows how to party. Can’t say the same about her ability to hold her liquor, though. This wouldn’t be the first time I drink her LITERALLY under the table. Not that I’m much better off tonight. Sorry for the napkin: I’m surrounded by three dozen embassy admins and yet NOBODY seems to be able to find a piece of paper .

Oh, and the little hearts on the margins? WASN’T ME !

Astrid and I first met shortly after you were born. We were both lonely. And we grew very close very fast. Hopefully by the time you’re reading my letters, you’ll be old enough to understand what I mean. The first couple of months we spent all the time we could together, following each other all over the world.

I was lucky. And not just because I met her. Once I realized that what I felt had more to do with grief over losing you and your mother than any true feelings for her, I was ready to cut and run. But before I could fuck it up again, she stopped me. She said she could let me lose her as a lover, but she wouldn’t let me lose her as a friend.

I’m not one for giving advice, and I definitely shouldn’t be giving ROMANTIC advice to ANYONE. But you’re my son, and hopefully by the time you’re reading this, you’ll have been dating for some time.

When bad shit goes down, emotions run high, get jumbled up. You can mistake those emotions - like loss and grief - for feelings for a person. You seek companionship, intimacy, and, when you find it, it’s really easy to confuse that with love.

I doubt most women would be as understanding as Astrid. She saw through my crap, and she never let me go. She wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship to begin with. And that’s the only reason I didn’t end up hurting us both and losing one of the best friends I ever had.

So, those are my drunken words of wisdom for today: never make potentially important decisions when you’re an emotional wreck. Take some time. Let yourself heal.

Merry Christmas, John,

Yours,

Dad.

P.S. Astrid asked me to add something in the interest of full disclosure. She said there’s a saying about people like me giving romantic advice - ‘the blind leading the blind’. She’s not wrong. So you should probably take everything I just said with a grain of salt.

Some of my father’s letters were light, even a little funny, like this one. It actually is written on a napkin, both sides, and it has little hearts drawn on the margins. I guess that was Astrid. Some of the hearts, as well as some of the words, have little pen smudges around them. It makes me smile every time: I imagine them both a little tipsy, sitting at the table with their drinks, fighting to take the pen from the other person’s hands.

Oh, and there’s also a note from Astrid on the side.  Between ‘Merry Christmas, John’ and ‘Yours’ there’s a little wedge sign, and underneath is a drawing of a baby with a huge pacifier (I guess… me?), with the caption, ‘Johnny, he means to say he loves you and misses you!’ written in an elegant, albeit slightly irregularly shaped, cursive.

This letter means a lot to me, despite perhaps not being as emotional or as touching as some of the others.

Astrid was the only person in my father’s letters who is mentioned by name. So, long before I found Carrie and Franny, I found Astrid. That is , I found out who she was .

Astrid never married, didn’t have children. By the time I was able to locate her family, her father was long dead. But her mother was still alive. We spoke on the phone, and, with her permission, I flew to Germany to meet with her. She didn’t know anything about my father - never met him and had never even heard of him. But she still had boxes of stuff from Astrid’s apartment in the attic, and she said she didn’t mind me going through them.

It took me almost a full day. But in the end, I found a single item that connected Astrid to my father - a photograph. On the back it said ‘Weihnachten, 2008’ . Weihnachten means Christmas. And there they were. My father, much younger than in any of the other pictures I’d found of him, sitting at the table with a whiskey glass in his hand, another three empty ones next to him. And Astrid, standing behind him, one arm around him, across his upper chest, the side of her face touching his. She’s holding a martini, looking like she’s about to tip over.

In that picture, unlike any others I have, my father is smiling, his eyes crinkled, his face dimpled the way mine gets when I smile like this. And under his free hand on the table is that napkin, the one I’ve seen so many times, with the little hearts on the margins. And that’s what makes this letter so special to me - that photograph of my father, taken at the same time as he was writing it.

Astrid’s mother said she didn’t know anything about the circumstances surrounding her death. The only thing she’d been told was that Astrid died in the line of duty. Astrid was in German intelligence, so her mother said she never really expected more details than that. She didn’t ask me to keep her posted in case I found out more, but I promised her I would.

I found out what really happened to Astrid this very afternoon, from Carrie.

It’s been almost three weeks since our little road trip. Believe it or not, Carrie’s almost done sorting through both my and Franny’s letters. I don’t know if she started a new cocktail of meds or if it’s the newly found sense of purpose that came with the task I’d given her, but she’s doing better. She’s been moved to an open ward, even given a pass to go outside for a few hours twice a week.

She still writes in her notebook, claiming that she’s trying to figure out something very important. And she still insists that she’s meeting up with my father every other Wednesday. As you probably remember, three weeks ago he came by just after Franny and I left for New York. So last week, when it was time for him to visit again, I was waiting. I came to see Carrie at the exact hour that she’d told me he’d be there. Surprisingly, though, I’d apparently “just missed him”.

Franny and I have a plan as to how to try and solve that mystery once and for all. Ok… Franny has a plan, because she knows the hospital and the staff way better than I do. I’m no expert, and I’m far from being objective, but it seems to be worthy of an ex-spy’s daughter.

So far, all we know is that there is indeed an older gentleman coming to see Carrie every other Wednesday. Next month will be one year since she was admitted this time. Apparently, the gentleman started showing up shortly after she was first allowed visitors. Despite not being close family, he was given a special pass, much like the one I have.

We weren’t able to find out the name under which the pass was issued, nor could we get security camera footage of his visits. But the nurse who spoke to Franny referred to his first visits as a ‘disaster’: following each one, Carrie would have a complete meltdown that required her to be medicated, restrained, and isolated for days afterwards. Franny and I both thought it odd that the man whose visits caused that much disruption would be allowed to continue seeing her. According to the nurse, so did the staff. However, his pass granted him unlimited access, so the visits continued. Thankfully, soon enough the psychotic breakdowns that followed the early meetings ceased.

Personally, I couldn’t begin to imagine how to even start making sense of all that. Given that we’re not hospital staff, and all patient information is privileged, we are left with whatever bits and pieces of facts Franny can manage to draw from the nurses she’s been particularly friendly with. Well, that, and Carrie, whose version of events we do know, and who’s becoming more and more reluctant to talk about it every day.

Franny has an exam in the morning. It’s almost eleven by the time I drop her off at her aunt’s house after the visit with her mother. Neither of us said much during the drive to Maggie’s. The story of Astrid’s death wasn’t an easy one to stomach. And now, on top of that, I’m troubled by the fact that I’d promised her mother I’d let her know if I found out more.

When Franny asks if I’m ok, if I’d like her to come up to the hotel room with me so that I won’t be alone, a part of me wants to say yes. Instead, I hold her for a long time before getting back into the car and driving away. The truth is I need to be alone right now, even more than I need her.

Which is why instead of going up to my room, I take a long walk.

The thing about having someone’s voice in your head, about submerging yourself into somebody else’s life the way I have with my father’s, is that you don’t get to pick and choose which emotions you feel. I can’t wrap my head around Astrid’s senseless death. I don’t know if I’m even equipped with a mechanism to deal with this kind of pain.

It’s not the first time since I found my father’s letters that I’ve taken a stroll in the middle of the night. Sometimes I imagine him walking besides me.In my head, I talk to him and try to imagine what he’d say back. He’s here with me tonight, but he doesn’t speak. It’s just me, my thoughts, and a deep sadness that takes hold when I think of all the pain my father lived with, that he carried inside him, all the time.

I’ve read all of my father’s letters many times, including those he’d written to Franny. They cover a range of topics, a number of events in his life. Some are humorous, some dead serious. What they all have in common is that they show him to be a deep, soulful, caring man. Remembering now what he told Carrie about himself shortly after Astrid’s death, that he claimed to have no heart, I feel an outrage rising inside me. How could someone so insightful about other people be so wrong about himself? My father was all heart; in fact, it defined him. It was the driving force in how he felt, what he believed, who he loved.

Back in my room, I sit at the desk in front of my MacBook, staring at the email I’ve just written to Astrid’s mother. I’m drunk. Hammered , actually. Unlike Astrid, I can hold my liquor. And the content of the minibar lying empty on the table is a testament to that. Some people are mean drunks, some are funny drunks… I’m a sad drunk. I drink when I’m deeply upset, and it usually makes me much sadder.

The pointer of my mouse hovers over the delete button. The email I’ve written all-in-all is quite nice: it’s concise, compassionate, factual. And it’s the truth. The same truth that’s been driving me along this journey for the past year. But what I really want to say to Astrid’s mother is that my father loved her daughter very much. That she was probably his closest friend for many years. That he’d inadvertently caused her death, which probably sucked the last of the ability to live with himself out of him. That there’s a small voice in my head that keeps whispering that, despite missing my father, wishing he were still here, a part of me is happy he didn’t live long enough to carry that burden.

In the end, though, I click ‘delete’ and slam the lid of my MacBook shut. Stumbling to bed, not even bothering to change or take a shower, I think how some truths are better left untold. Astrid’s mother believes her daughter died in the line of duty. Knowing what really happened won’t take away the pain of losing her. If anything, the senselessness of it will just make it harder to bear. Some stones are better left unturned.

I wake up the following morning with a bitch of a hangover. My head is splitting and all I can think about is getting my hands on some aspirin and a can of beer. I wish I could tell you that what happens next makes it all go away, because the first thing I feel is Franny lifting the edge of my blanket and sliding underneath. Let’s just say that despite not curing my hangover on the spot, it definitely takes my mind off of it. Before I even open my eyes, I feel a smile spreading all over my face as my arm just goes around her, helping her cuddle closer to me.

“Morning, snuggle buddy,” I hear my own voice, still hoarse from sleeping, as I take a lungful of her scent, burying my face in her hair and feeling the joy of a new day replacing the sadness of last night.

“You slept in your clothes???” I feel her hand sliding over my jeans and my t-shirt. “What the fuck, Johnny! Jesus… you reek of booze! You said you were fine! That you just needed to be alone and wanted to turn in early! You lying dirtbag!!!”

I laugh, grabbing her hand and wrapping her arm around my chest, holding it in place until she stops fighting. “Shut up and hold me,” I sigh, my own arms drawing a tighter circle around her.

“I’m so mad at you,” Franny says, giving herself away when placing a lingering kiss somewhere along my jawline. “And being all cute and cuddly ain’t getting you out of having your ass kicked.”

“Fine,” I grumble, smiling. “But so that you know, the hangover is doing a hell of a good job of kicking my ass already.”

“Yeah, well… you deserve it, you lying ass motherfucker.” Franny never lets someone else have the last word. She’s still huffing, pushing with her elbows, furrowing her brow, but I can see the change in her eyes even before she pulls herself up, frames my face between her palms and presses her lips to my forehead. “You stupid, stupid moron,” she whispers as she does, running her fingers through my hair as if trying to soothe the hammering pain inside my head.

This (minus the hangover) is how all my mornings have started ever since we got back from Chicago. Franny is a force of nature, and I can neither control nor resist her. It’s not like she didn’t understand what I was trying to tell her about needing more time to figure things out. And it’s not like we didn’t have the same conversation at least a dozen more times. I even showed her my father’s letter (yep, the one with the hearts and all). I know she’s trying. But being friend-zoned is not her definition of fun (to say the least ). So, she takes what she can.

The very first morning after we got back, I woke up with her in my arms, wearing a hotel bathrobe. She called it ‘the ice-bucket, the bathrobe and the sleeping spouse’ con, which, apparently, was an old trick to make a maid open the hotel door for you. I didn’t ask where she’d gotten the bathrobe, allowing myself a certain degree of deniability in case I’m called to testify in court one day. But, fearing what other tricks she had in mind, and not really being opposed in the end to waking up in her arms, I just gave her the key.

“I’m gonna wash up, take a shower and order breakfast. Did you finish studying? What time is it?”

Franny lifts herself up on her elbow and gives me an impish smile. “Almost eight. We’ve got time. I’ll leave before I hit traffic. You’ll just have to do me and I’m all set.”

Laughing, I knock her down and pull the blanket up to our ears. “I’ll do you, you pain in the butt. Can I just brush my teeth first?” When she nods, giggling and snorting, I kiss her forehead and dig my fingers deep into the silky curls of her hair.

Because, see, Franny’s new joke , despite how it sounds, is not about sex - it’s all about the hair . It came to replace, albeit not completely, the recurrent motif of me fucking her brains out . But let me back up a couple of weeks and explain...

Ok, maybe a hell of a lot more than a couple of weeks.

My baby sister Luna was seven years old when she was first diagnosed with ALL, which stands for Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a type of blood cancer. We were told that in kids it’s the most common type of cancer and that the survival rate is actually quite high. She had all her treatments and went into remission, just like everyone said she would. About a year and a half later, though, she had a relapse. This time around, in addition to more aggressive treatment, she also needed a bone marrow transplant. Her blood type is very rare, as is mine - AB minus. Despite a nearly world-wide search for an allogeneic donor, no one was found. As Luna's half-sibling, and with none of her full siblings having the same blood type, I was the closest HLA match.

So, following an aggressive treatment designed to kill every bit of Luna’s sick bone marrow, she was transplanted with mine. I was allowed to stay with her around the clock in her isolation room following the harvest they’d done on me, since I also had to be hospitalized and our bone marrow was (and still is) identical. To this day, Luna calls me Twinsie , because if someone were to test our blood for DNA, it would come out a perfect match, as if we were identical twins.

Her oncologist, who keeps in touch with us to this day, called me a ‘miracle donor’ because, despite my marrow not really being that closely compatible, it just took. And, surprisingly, Luna required some of the lowest doses of immunosuppressants of the many patients he treated over his career. Which is not to say that she didn’t develop other complications down the road, but that’s really a whole other story, and has nothing to do with my marrow or Franny’s joke about me doing her.

At the time of her marrow transplant, Luna was nine, and I was almost fifteen. Prior to her relapse, she’d been able to grow back all her shimmering dark hair. Needless to say, mere weeks after she started this round of treatments, she lost it all again. And she was inconsolable. While we were scared to death of never finding a bone marrow match to save her life, my beautiful baby sister was in tears day and night over losing her hair a second time. In the end, my mother, who had very long hair at the time, cut it off to make her a wig.

Luna never took it off, not even when she slept. It’d get all tangled and I’d spend an hour in the morning brushing it and making it look pretty and tidy again. And that’s how it started. At first I just wanted to find a way for her to sleep without ruining the wig every night. I watched tons of youtube videos and learnt how to make a simple French braid. But, soon enough, Luna got really hooked on it and wanted to spice things up, so I had to become more and more creative.

In all the years since, even after growing her own hair back, Luna never let anyone else touch it. I think I did her hair for her up until the time she entered high school. Hell, I still do sometimes. My second younger sister, Mia, who’s a hard core feminist and a lesbian, and whose ability to tease me is worthy of becoming an Olympic sport, still tells her friends in th e LGBT community that her brother is the best gay boyfriend a girl could ever dream of.

So, about two weeks ago, Franny and I were at the mall when the strap of her purse gets tangled in her hair. Franny has the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen: it’s an unruly auburn mess that takes my breath away every time. She usually wears it down, because she can’t stand messing with it in the morning. So she just runs a comb through, adds a couple of hairpins and she’s good to go. On that day, after I’d spent over twenty minutes separating her head from her bag with her fidgeting and cursing the whole time, she’d said, “That’s it. Barber’s shop. Let’s go.”

Just thinking about her cutting off that beautiful hair had me panicking nearly to the point of throwing her over my shoulder again and dragging her home. Instead, I dragged her to the nearest pharmacy, bought a good hairbrush, some scrunchies, and clips, sat her down in front of me right there in the mall, and, for starters, made two simple braids that wouldn’t get caught in things.

Since that day, I haven’t been allowed to sleep past noon. In the morning, before study group or an exam, Franny barges into my hotel room, jumps on my bed, her back to me, hands me the brush, and says, “Do me.” And, well… I do her.

So, one shower, two aspirins, and half an hour later, instead of the usual unruly mess, she has two neat Dutch braids. I’ve tried over a dozen different braids on her. This one is not my favorite, but it takes care of all the crazed side strands that irritate the hell out of her when she’s studying, so this is my go-to for exam days.

Her back still to me, Franny examines herself in her little makeup mirror, then stretches an arm above and behind her head, hooks it around my neck and draws me in for a loud kiss on a cheek.

“I’m pretty,” she giggles into my dimple.

“Mphhhh… Duh. Although I can’t really take credit for that,” I laugh. “So, am I forgiven for drinking alone last night?”

“What??? No!” she huffs, smacking me on the head. “For that I’m gonna need dinner. And groveling. And I mean… serious groveling.”

“Fine.” I get up and make my way to the table, grabbing two pancakes and stuffing both into my mouth. “I can do dinner and groveling on Monday.”

“Monday??? And I’m supposed to what? Be mad at you for four days?”

“Yep. I’m going home for the weekend, remember? So, either forgive me now, or suck it up for four days.”

“Oh, crap… I forgot… is that today?”

Pouring a coffee for myself, I steal a look in the mirror by the door, muffling a faint laugh at the sight of her fidgeting and looking at down at her hands. “Yep. Leaving in the early afternoon. I might have time to have lunch with you before I go. But the groveling will have to wait.”

“Yeah,” Franny replies absentmindedly, looking straight-up miserable now. “But you’ll be gone… like four days! More even...”

Yeah, I’m so not gonna grovel. “That mean you’ll miss me?” I turn around, leaning against the table and sipping my coffee.

“What? No! I’ll be mad at you!”

“Be my guest.” Smiling, I cross the room and sit next to her. “ Very mad?”

Her lower lip is protruding and trembling. “Well… yeah!”

I put an arm around her and pull her closer, until she stops resisting and just tucks her face into my shoulder, nearly in tears now. “Too mad to come with me?” I smile into her hair.

Franny’s head shoots up, her eyes searching my face, her expression shifting between disbelief, exasperation and wistfulness. I’ve known Franny for over a month now - long enough to expect anything at this point, from exhilarated shrieking to punching me in the eye. I’m hoping for the former .

“You motherfucker…” she mutters in the end, her voice betraying her and her arms worming around me. “You were gonna ask me all along, weren’t you?”

“Actually, it’s not just me. It’s Luna’s birthday on Saturday. And my very own baby sister, with whom, as you very well know, I’m closer than with anyone in the world , said, and I quote , that I shouldn’t even bother showing my face there if you’re not coming.”

Franny giggles, “She didn’t…”

“See for yourself.” Without letting go of her, I reach for my phone and open the family group chat. It really doesn’t take long to show her how excited everyone is to finally meet her, seeing how for the last three weeks Franny was all me, my sisters and Richard talked about. “So…” Barely able to contain my emotions as I watch her scrolling through the messages, I slam my palms on my knees. “How about you message them that we’re coming, I’ll get dressed, then drop you off at the university so you can leave your car parked here, then I’ll go to Maggie’s, pack your things, and pick you up after your exam?”

Speechless, Franny buries her face in my upper arm, nods, then lifts two overwhelmed teary eyes to my face.

“Wait… should I just pretend to be you when I message?” she asks, as I grab a pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt from the bag I packed yesterday and make my way to the bathroom.

“Why? Just tell them it’s you.”

“Ok…”

For a short while, all I hear is Franny’s giggling and continuous incoming messages tones. Then, there’s the sound of a notification coming from Franny’s phone. I smile, sticking my head out of the bathroom.

“Mia got to you?”

“Yeah… she added me to the group… I think. Jesus, Johnny… I’ve never been in a… I mean, we have group chats… With some of my friends, and for study groups. But…”

“What, Maggie doesn’t have a family group?” I sit back next to her as she shakes her head.

“I dunno… maybe.”

It breaks my heart, and I swallow around a lump in my throat, looking at the new notification on my phone, saying “Mia added Franny to Samuels Family group”. I’m still thinking about how to say what I want to, when my father (and to avoid further confusion, I’ll just call him Richard from now on) saves the day. Between the millions of emojis, funny gifs and selfies that Mia and Luna throw at Franny, welcoming her to the group, I see a single message from him, reading:

-Welcome to the family, Franny. I’ve just finished making a room for you. I hope you guys make it here in time for dinner. Mia has promised her world famous musaka, it’s Johnny’s favorite. Did he tell you? You’re not allergic to eggplant, are you? I guess we’ll all get to know you better soon. Can’t wait to meet you. You guys drive safely, and goodluck on your exam!!! Have my fingers crossed for you.

Seeing Franny’s hands shaking as she tries to type a reply, I softly take away her phone and put it on the bed next to me. Within seconds, she’s on my lap, hiding in my arms and sobbing into my chest.

“You’re gonna be sorry, believe me,” I try to joke, rocking her from side to side and stroking her back. “They send like thousands of messages everyday. You might wanna silent the chat. You’ll get sick of it before you know it.”

The breath of the laughter through her tears seeps through my t-shirt, as she stubbornly shakes her head against my shoulder. “I won’t.” She holds onto me tighter. “Can we see mom before we go, though?”

“Actually, that was the plan. She gets her pass to go out today. So I’m taking you both to lunch before we leave. That sound good?”

She nods. “Johnny?”

“What, baby?”

“Happy…” is all she can manage.

“So am I, Fran.”

My home is the happiest place in the world. I know it’s a presumptuous thing to say - many people feel like that about a place they grew up in, as they should. I’ve had a lot of friends, and I’ve visited a lot of their homes. Some were nicer than others, some really nice. And I’m sure there are other families like ours out there. But I’m just gonna stick to my version. Sue me.

I don’t think I remember ever having dinner just the five of us. Growing up, my sisters and I never had to ask permission to bring friends over. Anyone was welcome and greeted as if they were our long lost relatives. All my friends adored having sleepovers at my house, or just dropping in after school to spend an afternoon with me. My mother used to work late sometimes, but Richard, who’s one of the most published scholars in the field of psychiatry, has a small practice and saw his patients in a special separate room we have, so he was always around. Busy or not, he’d always make time to meet me and my sisters when we’d come home from school and sit with us as we devoured our lunch. He’d know when to engage my friends in a casual conversation and when to leave us alone to do our kid stuff.

My family is loud, loving, giggly, snuggly and liberal. Too liberal at times. My mother used to say that if there was a movement to fight for cats’ rights to mate in public without being disturbed, one of us would surely go on the barricades to defend those rights. My parents never cared about our grades, although I have to say that, having three straight A students, they could afford not to. They also said they didn’t really care what we end up doing when we grow up, as long as it was something we were passionate about. My mother did have a bit of a hard time when I decided not to go to med school after all, but I think it was mostly because of all the work that I put into finishing pre-med. Mia is studying law at Yale, having scored ridiculously high on her LSATs. Luna, the little dreamer that she is, has no idea what she wants to be, so, for now, she’s majoring in French language and literature.

My sisters and I were always crazy about each other. I’m closer to Luna for many reasons, one of which is her being very much like my mother, who was my favorite person in the world. But Mia has always been my best friend, despite the above-mentioned fact that if teasing me was an Olympic sport, she’d be a gold medalist. Growing up, we used to do all kinds of crazy things together, like baking pies in the middle of the night. Come to think of it, I don’t think I remember our kitchen ever being empty or our house not filled with the smell of food. We’d make a mess, going bananas and throwing things at each other, and then spend the rest of the day cleaning up before my mom came home. Luna’s oncologist used to call us ‘The Three Samuels’. He said that he could always tell when my sister had been admitted for treatment or neutropenic fever because he’d get out of the elevator on the Oncology floor and hear the three of us screaming and laughing while playing scrabble in the lobby.

All that, and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier coming home than the moment I hold the front door open for the woman I’m falling insanely in love with.

I’ve wanted to bring Franny here ever since the first time I met her. It has nothing to do with getting a girl to meet my parents. What Franny and Carrie have given me by sharing their time is a debt that can never be repaid. And, while my father is the voice in my head when I make decisions and wonder about everyday things, he’s also the voice in my heart when it comes to thinking about people’s ability to love. Even if I fail to live up to the kind of man he was in many other things, I need to be able to hold on to the way he loved, how he gave it all he had left in him, despite having lost, been robbed of, or having sacrificed everything else.

People say that when you love someone, you want to give them the world. I don’t know about that. I’m not even sure I know that it means. But I’ve seen the yearning in Franny’s eyes when I talk or message with my sisters, with Richard. I know Carrie did all that was humanly possible to love and raise her, give her a home. And I know Maggie was there to pick up the pieces when she couldn’t. Franny is tough. She can be stubborn, childish, and crazy at times, but she’s one of the strongest, most mature people I’ve ever met. She’s never complained about having to grow up too fast. I guess, bringing her here, all I really want is for her to know what it feels like when the world exists just for her and around her. Because along with my feelings, this - my home, my family - is what I have to offer. And I want her to know that it’s all hers, if she’ll have it.

The moment we’re through the door, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds it’s a mess of shrieks, laughter, arms being thrown around, kisses and smells of dinner coming from the kitchen. I drop both our bags where I stand just in time to catch Luna flying into my embrace. I honestly can’t tell you much about what happens afterwards, except that there’s a storm of mirth and bliss swallowing us both.

Watching my sisters surrounding Franny, smothering her with love, I start laughing, tears of joy stinging my eyes. She fits right in, as if she’s lived here forever, joking and giggling, showering my sisters with the sprinkles of that same kindness that had brought me to my knees when I first met her. I can see that she’s a little embarrassed, self-conscious, stealing overwhelmed glances in my direction. When Mia starts pulling her into the kitchen to try her new smoothie recipe (Mia makes smoothies, it’s her other thing), Franny says she’ll be right there and leaps back to me, into my arms, shaking with excitement.

“It’s ok, baby. Go,” I say, cupping the side of her beaming face in my palm and leaning down to place a kiss on her temple. “I’ll take our things upstairs, start unpacking, and I’ll be right down. Mia makes the best smoothies in the world…”

I don’t even get to finish before Mia yanks Franny out of my arms and throws her own arm around her. “Yeah, yeah, kiss-ass… you go, do your thing, we’ll be just fine here.” Then, having noticed the watery film in my eyes, she stands on tiptoe and drops a ringing kiss on my cheek. “Awwww… you cry-baby. Get outta here.”

“I thought I heard a commotion.”

We all turn around to see Richard emerging from his study, puffing on the long Gandalf pipe that we got him for his fiftieth birthday, and looking just as wise and mysterious as Tolkien’s famous wizard (minus the long beard).

“Hi, Dad,” I sigh as he crosses over and gathers me into his embrace. I’m almost a foot taller than he is, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a little boy every time he puts his arms around me, hiding my face in his knitted vest.

“My sweet beautiful boy.” I feel his palm covering the back of my head, stroking my hair. “Too long. It’s been too long . We’ve got some catching up to do.”

Richard is not just the man who raised me as if I were his own child, never failing to make me feel like I was the most special person in the world, just as he did with my sisters. He’s also the man who, having just buried his wife, my mother, and the love of his life, stood by me and encouraged me every step of the way when I quit my job and embarked on a journey to find out about my father. Frankly, I’m not even sure what he means by ‘catching up’, because there hasn’t been a day in the last year that he didn’t call or message, asking about my progress, listening to me, nudging me to keep going.

“I’ve missed you,” I say, tightening my hold on him.

“I’ve missed you too, love. But hey, first things first…” He pulls away, smiling, and turns around. “This beautiful young lady here must be Franny.”

“Hello, sir,” Franny murmurs, motioning to take the hand he offers, but finding herself pulled in for a long hug instead.

“Oh, nonsense! Sir? In this house I’m called Richard or Dad, my dear. You take your pick.” He moves away a little, smiling into Franny’s eyes, then puts out an elbow. “You haven't been offered a tour around yet, have you? May I have the honor?”

“Dad!” Mia protests. “We were about to have smoothies!”

“Oh, I can’t compete with her smoothies,” Richard winks at Franny, who giggles delightedly. “Raincheck then? I’ll help Johnny getting you all settled upstairs. Save some for us.”

“Yeah, and… hands off,” I add, shooting a warning look at Mia, who seems to be just as infatuated with Franny as I am, which in her case… let me put it this way: it wouldn’t be the first time that I come home with a date just to have my sister try (or jokingly trying) to charm her way in.

“I’m sorry… am I missing something or do you have an exclusivity claim?” Mia laughs, propping her hands on her hips. “Coz last time I checked you were too busy trying to sort things out.”

“Yeah!” Franny stands by her, looping her arm through my sister’s elbow and giving me a defiant stare. “You keep sorting your things, and I might just bat for the other side, see where that takes me.”

“Fine!” I squint my eyes, trying to work through a wave of jealousy rippling through me. “You do that. See how Mia likes to be woken up at seven am when you sneak under her covers.”

“I just might!”

Mia cracks up: “I’m sorry… you have this gorgeous woman sneaking into your bed every morning and you still haven’t hit that? Gosh, Johnny, you’re an even bigger sissy than I thought!”

My face feels as if it’s on fire. I can’t be sure, but I think assuming that I turn crimson red is probably a safe bet. Even if I weren’t shy, having my sister commenting on my sex life always gets to me. And knowing that it’s just the beginning in the long line of teasing that will surely stretch over the entire weekend just makes it worse.

“Hey, she’s just kidding.” Hearing Franny’s voice, I let out the breath I’ve been holding, as she wraps her arms around my waist and leans into me. I smile and am about to say that I know, when she reaches up, bending my head until her lips press into my ear. “And I don’t really care how long it takes you. You’re all mine,” she whispers, and I feel her mouth forming a smile, followed by a kiss on my neck that sends shivers from the base of my skull to the tips of my toes.

I lift her off the floor, picking her up so that her face is level with mine. “I am, baby,” I say, kissing the tip of her nose then rubbing it with my own. “You guys have fun. I’ll be right down. Wanna take a walk around the neighborhood after dinner?”

Franny nods, beaming even harder, squeezing my neck between her arms and nuzzling her face into mine. I set her down and steal a victorious look at Mia. She just huffs, rolls her eyes and laughs. It’s not a competition, but I feel my heart racing and my chest puffing out all the same.

“Ok, up we go? Let’s get you all settled before dinner,” Richard says, picking up Franny’s suitcase and some of the shopping bags: we had to stop at the mall because I forgot to pack her toothbrush, and, since we were there, we picked up some presents for Carrie, Maggie and Franny’s cousins. One of the handles slips out of Richard’s hand, and a pair of delicate beige mittens falls to the floor. “Oh my, are you getting some Christmas shopping done already?” he laughs, picking up the mittens.

“Um, no.” Looking a little embarrassed, Franny takes them from his hands and puts them back in the paper bag. “It’s for my mom. Her hands. They get really cold when she’s writing outside in the park.”

Richard lifts an eyebrow. “In the middle of July?”

“Yeah. Well, not just in July. She’s had this going on for a while now. If she doesn’t keep her hands warm, they get super cold and turn all blue. She says it really hurts. So she wears mittens, just in case.”

“Oh…” I can see a shadow crossing Richard’s face, as his eyes dart from Franny to me and back. “And this… turning blue has been going on for how long?”

“It’s not all the time. Only when her hands get cold. And… jeez, I don’t remember how long… but years . At least three years. It started when she was hospitalized about three years ago, I think.”

Clearing his throat, Richard smiles, pointing to the bag. “Well, those are a very thoughtful gift then. Beautiful mittens. I’m sure Carrie will love them.”

I know Richard all too well not to wonder about his sudden interest in Franny’s mother’s cold hands. When we enter my room, I drop my bag and turn around.

“So, what was that about?”

“What was what about?” he smirks.

“Oh, don’t start, Dad. Carrie’s hands turning blue. Something about it bothers you. What is it?”

Richard is a psychiatrist now , but his first specialty was internal medicine.

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head, looking at me. “Have you seen it happen? How bad is it?”

I shrug. “Yeah. It’s bad. She says it really hurts, and her hands turn almost black when she’s cold. She can’t write when it happens.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Uh-huh what, Dad?”

He puts a hand on the side of my face and kisses my cheek. “Probably nothing, love. But let me look into it. I don’t like to speculate. Does Franny have power of attorney? You think she could help me have a look at her mother’s file? I have a colleague who works there, but I don’t want to sneak around.”

“No, I think Maggie does, her aunt, Carrie’s sister.”

“I’ll see what I can find out and let you know.” With that, he leaves me to unpack our things and strolls downstairs, into his study.

After dinner we’re all so full that we can barely breathe. But that doesn’t stop us from having dessert - Mia’s hot apple pie with a side of Luna’s homemade vanilla ice-cream - in the way of the best and oldest of the Samuels family traditions: splayed on the sofas in the living room, around our old, beat-up coffee table. For as long as I remember, this has always been our favorite time of day - sipping coffee or tea, having dessert, and talking. When my sisters and I were small, this is when we’d tell our parents about our day at school. Later on, when we grew up, it became a time for just kicking back, relaxing, talking about politics, current affairs, movies, books - you name it.

Today, surprise-surprise , the topic of conversation is me. I barely have time to stick the first spoonful of pie into my mouth, when Mia opens hers, thus commencing what appears to be a weekend-long torture, taking Franny down memory lane, paved by phrases like ‘Remember when Johnny…’  or ‘Oh, and the time when Johnny…’. You get the picture. Strangely enough though, despite being shy and easily embarrassed, this time I’m just cracking up, we all are, so hard that after a while none of us is sure if what makes our stomachs hurt is the food in them or laughing our heads off.

Franny is sitting next to me, cuddled under my arm, her legs tucked underneath her and her head resting against the side of my chest. From time to time I catch her eyes on me, a concerned expression asking if I’m ok. I give her the most reassuring smile I can muster, touch my palm to the side of her face, and place a grateful, lingering kiss on her forehead. Because the truth is, I’ve never felt safe having someone hold my life, with all its embarrassing details, in their hands. But with Franny, I just do.

I draw the line when Mia and Luna are done with my awkward, nerdy adolescence and begin to nip at my dating days.

“Wanna get outta here?” I whisper to Franny.

“Yep. Let’s go.”

We peel ourselves off the sofa, telling everyone not to wait up then kissing them goodbye.

“Hey, I was just getting to the good parts!” Mia protests, trying to tempt Franny into convincing me to stay.

Little does she know who she’s dealing with: “Well, I guess Johnny will have to tell me the good parts on his own ,” Franny replies defiantly, taking my hand and positioning herself in front of me.

Literally hiding behind her back, I stick my tongue out at Mia and wrinkle my nose.

Mia laughs, “Oh God, she’s a keeper . Never let her go, you moron.”

“I won’t,” I say, putting an arm around Franny from behind and kissing her head. “Ready?”

Right outside our house we flip a coin and choose a random direction. It’s almost sunset. The street is a painting of stripes: deep, darkening shadows alternating with shimmering yellow, bathing in the orange glow of the departing sun. It’s still warm, so we’re both wearing short sleeves. I have our coats hanging over my right arm, just in case it gets colder later on.

Two blocks down the street I stop, turn Franny towards me, and undo her braids. Running my fingers through the golden waterfall of her curls, I look into her eyes, deep cerulean pools of bliss and joy, resting on my face with a calm and trust that makes me want to stand here and look at her forever. When we first left my house we were still holding hands. Now, as we turn to continue our stroll, Franny leans against my side and we lace our arms around each other.

I’ve lived most of my life in this neighborhood. I show her the kindergarten I used to go to, then my elementary school. We meet people that I’ve known since I was a little boy. They wave at me, sometimes stop to ask how I’ve been, how my family is. I introduce them to Franny, who smiles, shakes hands, asks questions, listens to our conversations. We pass by the elderly neighbors, sitting on the benches in the small park down the street. They all know me, so we stop by for a quick chat, even sit down watching some of them play chess, before continuing on our journey.

We’re in no rush. I can’t explain why or how, but it feels as if time is no longer linear, as if the past, the present, and the future exist simultaneously, condensed into a single moment that stretches throughout my life. I think I actually smile, remembering Star Trek Deep Space Nine (I’m a nerd, we’ve covered this, right?). In there, the wormhole aliens tell Sisco that he exists only in a certain moment in time, the moment his wife died. To them, linear time means nothing, and so they see his whole life boiling down to that one moment. I know that if I were to meet them, this moment, right now , is where they will tell me I exist.

Without even realizing where I’m taking us both, we turn into a small park and I just stop. Because right then and there, I know why. It’s funny how we ended up here because of a one in two chance of flipping a coin. But here we are, in the same place where it all started. And by all, I mean all of it.

Right in front of me, there’s a little bench. It’s my mother’s. She used to sit here when I was a young boy, playing in this park. I don’t even need to close my eyes to still see her there. I remember her so vividly, with a book, lifting her eyes from time to time, waving and smiling at me. I remember her sitting here pregnant with Mia, then with Luna. Then, being older, I recall sitting alongside her, watching my sisters playing and running around.  

When I was a little over nine years old, almost sixteen years ago, this very bench is where my  mother found me when I ran away after learning my father was killed. Everyone was shocked, watching the news of the assassination attempt on the President Elect, so I just sneaked out. I remember running here, numb, angry, devastated, until I collapsed on this bench and cried. When my mother found me, I couldn’t even speak. Neither of us could. We just sat here - her holding me, me cuddled into her - and we cried for a man who was never even a part of our lives.

I didn’t go to retrieve my father’s letters right after my mother had given me the key to the safe deposit box. I stayed with her, sat by her side, until the moment she died. I went to the funeral, helped my sisters and Richard arrange the service, and then I just took off and drove to Baltimore. When I came back to Philly, I parked in front of our house, but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. So I walked, letting my legs carry me, my head buzzing with pain and grief, anger and remorse. This is where I ended up, on this very bench. This is where I opened the first of my father’s letters. This is where I knew that nothing in my life would ever be the same.

I sat here, for hours, reading my father’s letters, crying, not even knowing which parent I was grieving for anymore. Nobody came looking for me. My mother was gone, and my family didn’t even know where I had gone. I think I read over two hundred letters on that day alone, some several times. Even after the sun went down I continued, using the flashlight on my phone until the battery ran out and I was left in the dark, just sitting here, holding two piles of letters that connected me to a man I would never meet.

This, all of this, is what I tell Franny when she lifts her concerned eyes to my face and asks me if I’m alright.

“C’mon,” she says in a quiet, strained voice, taking my hand and pulling me towards the bench.

I sit down, fully expecting the pain to come back, to feel the burning of tears in my eyes, but, strangely, it doesn’t happen. The sense of serenity and resolution that takes hold is unlike anything I ever felt. I hold my arm out for Franny to cuddle underneath it, but instead, she quietly sits on my lap, lifting her legs so that I can gather all of her close to me, then linking her own arms around my neck.

I lower my head onto her shoulder, closing my eyes and smiling, feeling her fingers in my hair, on my face, caressing and stroking. And then I chuckle at the thought that crosses my mind: the last time I sat here, I was holding two piles of letters, ready to embark on a journey that I now realize is over. It’s ended with my holding the most precious gift my father has ever given me, the feeling of him all around me, living on, through Franny, through me. For weeks, every time I thought of her, I thought of my father. And it’s true that, these days, everything in my mind leads back to her. But at the same time, now when I think about Franny, she’s just Franny. She’s still connected to my father, and I guess she always will be. But what’s changed is that what I feel about her has nothing to do with grief or loss anymore.

“Johnny…” I hear her voice, soft and tentative, a little unsure, and I raise my head. “Do you think…” She stops, lowering her eyes, taking deep breaths, and I know her well enough to realize she’s trying to hold back tears.

“What is it, baby?” Touching my hand to her face, I slowly lift it to mine.

She swallows. “Do you think… tomorrow maybe… or… whenever… I mean… if you feel up to it, or when, if it’s ok… Do you think you could take me to see your mom?”

I let out a sigh of relief, laughing softly, my arms drawing a tighter circle around her. “Oh, baby…” I kiss her face, feeling her tears under my lips. “Of course I will. We can go now if you want.”

Franny nods, smiling as I wipe her cheeks, then considers it. “No. Not now. I think I’d like to stay here for a while. That ok?”

“Yeah. Me too. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Ok.” Settling more comfortably on my lap, Franny buries her face in the curve of my neck. “What was she like?”

“Mom?” I smile. “Oh wow… she was… tough. Very stubborn. Very direct. Headstrong. She was one of the most feared homicide detectives in Philly, I think, if not the. Ruthless and uncompromising. She was passionate, about everything she did. And she was the most loving and caring wife and mother you could ever imagine. Richard used to say that she had this gift: she could just hold you and make it all better…” The words choke in my throat so I stop, thinking that nothing I could ever say about my mother would really do her justice anyway.

“I wish I had known her,” Franny whispers.

“Yeah, I wish that too.” I kiss her hair and hold her closer. “She would have loved you like crazy.”

“You don’t know that,” she snorts. “But thank you.”

“Actually, I do.” Sitting up and taking Franny with me, I smile. “You know those ‘best parts’ that Mia was ‘getting to’ right before we left? She’d probably find a better way to tell it… but the thing is, I’ve only dated two women in my life. I mean, seriously dated. Both were long relationships. And, Mia’s favorite part was that in both cases I was absolutely sure I was going to marry them. One I even proposed to. I can tell you more details later if you want… or you can ask Mia - you’ll make her weekend. But I’m telling you this, because… see, Mom hated them both. She never said anything, not in so many words. She wasn’t one for giving her opinion on our life choices. But I just knew. She said they couldn’t possibly love me, because they didn’t really know me. I was always shy, and I never talked about myself, not even to the women I was thinking of spending my life with. But Mom never bought my ‘shy’ story. She said I just haven’t met the woman with whom I felt safe enough. She used to tell me to stop planning my life and just date a girl, without thinking about the future, to have fun, see where it takes me.”

Franny lifts her head from my shoulder, arching a sly brow. “No shit!”

“I know, right? Remind you of anyone you know?”

“So, basically , if your mom were here she’d tell you to take your head out of your cute ass and fuck my brains out ?”

I laugh until I snort. “Not in those words, hopefully . But basically, yes.”

Franny is quiet for a long moment, just looking at me, her fingertips sliding along my jawline, her eyes getting hazy, her smile slowly fading away. When she speaks again, her voice is nearly inaudible.

“I don’t think I can do that, Johnny. Not anymore.”

“Why the hell not?” I spit out, cold shivers running up and down my spine, before realizing how snappy I sound. When she just swallows, unable to shift her eyes from mine, I squeeze her shoulder. “Fran? Why not?”

“Because I can’t,” she whispers, her tears welling up. “I can’t just have fun with you anymore. I love you. So much, Johnny. I don’t want to just see where it goes. I want you, all of you, just for me.”

“Fran…” I start, but my throat shuts close, making it nearly impossible to even breathe.

“It’s ok.” I feel her fingers shaking as she touches my temple, trying to give me a reassuring smile, that just breaks my heart. “You don’t have to… say anything. I know you need time. And it’s fine. And even if you never… ” she pauses, taking a deep breath to steady her voice. “If you don’t feel like that, if I’m just a part of your father’s story, like you said, it’s fine.”

Franny presses her lips to my cheek, exhaling sharply, then worms her arms around my neck. I’m not sure if I black out for a moment, but it all goes dark. Something inside of me expands so fast and so hard that I nearly cry out, feeling my emotions building up, cascading out of control.

“Fran,” I say again, this time hearing my voice loud and clear, as I softly pull her away from me.

My arm shoots up her ribcage, my hand sliding against her back, deep into the lavish abundance of her hair, until her whole head is cradled inside of my palm. I lift my other hand to her face, just the tips of my fingers, my thumb smudging the tear stains. Without another word, I lean down and cover her mouth with mine.

We both still, not even breathing for a while. Then I feel the air rushing back into my lungs. I kiss her again, softly, just my lips against hers, barely brushing at first, almost questioning. Her hand creeps to my chest, her fingers making their way up, trailing alongside my throat. She pulls me in just slightly. With a small sigh that makes the blood thump loudly against the inside of my skull, she leans even deeper into me, as her lips part under mine. I smile against her mouth, right before kissing her again: she tastes like cinnamon, apple pie, vanilla ice cream and something that I know is just her - sweet, with a faint saltiness of tears.

My lips find their way to the side of her nose, trailing kisses from there all over her face.

“I do love you, Fran,” I breathe against her skin, unable to break away from it, to stop kissing her, and I hope she can feel my mouth curving up in a smile, when I add: “But I am going to have fun with you. So suck it up.”

Under my palms, right next to my chest, I can feel the laughter vibrating inside her even before it rings in my ears. Her fingers curl around my hair and she tugs on it, forcing my face away from hers.

“That so? How about you kiss me like that again and I might just consider it,” she says with a mischievous smile, that quickly goes away as I pull her in and happily do exactly what I’m asked to. “You motherfucker…” Reluctantly, she breaks away.

“What did I do this time?” I quip, squinting my eyes.

“You’re fucking shitting me, right? You couldn’t have come to your senses a day earlier? Or four days later? I can’t very well have my way with you in your parents’ house!”

“Yeah, well… consider it my one-time rightful revenge - you've been sneaking into my bed, every morning, for three weeks. You think those were hot showers that I was taking afterwards?”

Franny snorts, looking a little remorseful, but mostly smug and insanely shameless, wiggling closer. “I’m sorry...”

“Uh-huh, like hell you are,” I laugh as I frame her face with my hands and kiss her so deeply that she gasps.

Too much happiness can tear you apart, I swear. Because this is how I feel, how we both feel. And knowing that it’s just the beginning, thinking and talking about all the things we want to do together, drives us both to near insanity.

I’m starting to worry that the walk back is going to take us twice, if not three times, as long as it took us to get here, seeing how we can barely manage ten yards without stopping to hold each other and kiss until we’re both out of breath. Luckily, when we’re about halfway home, the sky rips open with a bright flash of light and a deafening roar of thunder. People who say that kissing in the rain is sensual and romantic probably never tried it themselves. It sucks. Within seconds, despite trying to hold our coats above our heads, we’re both drenched. So, the rest of the way is significantly shortened due to the fact that we just start running and don’t stop until we’re inside the hallway of my parents’ house.

It’s almost two am and the house is mostly dark, except for the small light in the living room that we usually leave on. I guess everyone’s asleep. For a while we just stand there, dripping with rain water, laughing.

“C’mere.” Pulling Franny into my arms, I run my hands over her hair in a somewhat futile attempt to dry it as much as I can. “I should’ve taken an umbrella. God, you’re soaking.”

Franny giggles, taking a step back, then another one. Her back against the wall, she grabs the belt of my jeans and yanks me towards her. “See if I care,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“We should probably go upstairs and change… into something dry…” I’m trying to gather the last of my conscious thoughts, a nearly impossible task in light of the fact that right then and there Franny slips her fingers under my t-shirt and I feel her hands roaming over my chest.

“Probably…” she whimpers, muffling a long moan into another urgent kiss, then gasps as I lift her up and press her against the wall. “Maybe later…”

The last thing I remember thinking is that we’re not gonna make it three days, and I find myself wondering just how thin the walls in my parents’ house are. Following a very rational and mature thought along the lines of “Oh, what the hell…”, I’m preparing to carry her upstairs to my room when we both freeze at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“Dad…” I exhale sharply, setting Franny down and swinging around.

Understandable lack of blood in my head combined with the sudden motion makes me dizzy. As soon as the haze lifts, I see Richard sitting on the sofa and leaning over our coffee table, papers and textbooks scattered about, puffing on his pipe and eyeing us with an amused smile.

“Nice walk?” he chuckles, and I feel Franny squirm under my arm and hide her face in my chest.

“Yep,” I say. Because, really, what am I supposed to say, standing here, panting, dripping water and aroused as hell?

“I’ll make some tea. Wanna go upstairs and change?”

“Yep.”

“You do that. I’ve got something I wanna run by you both.” He smiles, then adds: “Take your time.”

“Yep.” Seeing how there’s no way in hell I’m going to become more eloquent than that, I grab Franny’s hand and pull her after me.

Franny’s bag is still in my room. I’ve barely had a chance to close the door when we both start cracking up, leaping into each other’s arms again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my life,” Franny giggles, breathless. “But hey, Richard is kinda cool… This one time I tried to sneak home with this guy, Maggie caught us making out in the…”

“Baby…” I place a palm over her mouth. “How weird, on a scale of say... one to ten, is it that I don’t care for stories about you making out with some other guy?”

She gives me a smirk of a stare. “Jealous?”

“Duh…” With that, I dig into her travel bag and retrieve her pajamas. “Change and let’s go downstairs.”

I pull my t-shirt over my head and drop my jeans where I stand, fully intending to go to the bathroom to change, when I feel her arms sliding around me from behind.

“Richard said we can take our time,” she whispers as I turn around in my soaking boxers, just to find her in her underwear, molding her whole body into mine. With an impish smile, she motions with her head towards my bed.

I take a deep breath, cup her face in my palms, and kiss the tip of her nose. “Let’s make a deal. You stop torturing me for the next three days, and when we get back I promise to make it worth the wait.”

She pulls me closer, the tips of her fingers running up and down my spine, against my bare skin. “How worth?”

With a confidence I never knew I had, I give her a long, promising kiss. “ Very.”

Richard comes back carrying a tray with three steaming cups of mint tea. Franny and I grab ours, happily wrapping our shivering cold hands around them. He sits on the sofa adjacent to the one we’re currently occupying, crossing his legs and taking another puff from his pipe before giving me one of his rather irritating know-it-all smirks. I have a feeling I know what’s coming and I’m in no mood for it, but I don’t want to sound disrespectful, our recent hallway performance being embarrassing enough.

“You know…” he starts, smiling wider, “you can stay in Johnny’s room. We were actually wondering if we should bother at all setting up the guestroom when…”

“Dad…” I grumble in a begging voice.

See, remember how I said my family was too liberal at times? This is probably a good example.

“Fine. All I’m saying is that just because you’re here, there’s really no reason for you two not to feel…”

“Dad!!!”

“Ok, ok!” he raises his hands in a surrendering gesture. “All I’m saying is…”

“Dad, let’s just assume I know what you’re saying and you understand that if you keep talking about it I’m gonna have an embolism…” I laugh, leaning back and putting my arm around Franny who, free spirit or not, is blushing miserably and trying to hide her face in my shoulder. I draw her closer to me, cross my legs, and look back at Richard. “So… what’s up? You said you wanted to talk to us about something?”

“Yes.” Gathering some of the papers, which appear to be printed out articles from the New England Journal of Medicine, Richard stacks them together and thumps the bottom edge of the pile against the coffee table. He looks at Franny. “It’s about your mom. Just… don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. Actually, I think, if I’m right, it’s very good news.”

“My mom?” Franny’s eyes dart from Richard’s face to mine. I nod and give her a calm, encouraging smile, waving for Richard to continue.

“You know how I asked you all those questions about… um, the mittens you bought? And your mom’s hands turning blue sometimes?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

Richard clears his throat. “I’ve spoken to your aunt Maggie when you guys were out. I hope it’s ok. I didn’t want to start a whole official inquiry before getting a better picture. So I needed to ask her some questions about the last seven years of your mother’s worsening condition. She says hi, by the way.”

Feeling Franny tensing up more, I set my cup on the coffee table and take her hand. “Dad, what are you saying? What inquiry?”

“Well, I’d like to have a friend of mine, the head of a Rheumatology department, take a look at her file and maybe come down there to examine her. But I wanted to make sure I had something to present him with before I made the call.”

“Rheumatology? How’s that…” It’s been over four years since I was in pre-med, but I’m trying to dig into some of the knowledge that’s still there. “You mean… Oh, you think Carrie’s hands… What is it called, dammit…”

“Raynaud’s syndrome,” Richard smiles, coming to my aid, then looking at Franny again. “It’s nothing serious, not in your mother’s case. And it’s not a disease on its own. It’s more like a… symptom. And, based on some things that Maggie has just told me, it’s not the only one.”

“I don’t understand,” Franny mutters, looking at me. I think I do, but I motion for Richard to continue.

“See, Franny, there’s a good chance that your mom isn’t sick. I mean she’s sick, alright. But I think that what's been sending her back to the hospital all these years isn't just her bipolar disorder. And there may be a cure.”

Chapter Text

Dear Franny,

I just got home about a week ago. I went to put all the letters I’d written during my last mission into a safe deposit box and only now realized what a huge pile it’s become.

I usually write to Johnny, every time I’m away on a mission. He is my son. You never met him, and you probably never will. I hoped you would. I hoped I would. I write letters to him on any piece of paper I can find, including some questionably clean napkins and one time, I think, even a folded tile of toilet paper. At least for now, I still have this notepad. So, fingers crossed.

I never mailed any of my letters to Johnny. And I know I will never send any of these to you. But they help me hold onto something besides where I am, or what I do. I used to have this image in my head, of a man finding my bag near my cold body. He would read the letters I wrote to a boy I never knew. And, although he will never know who I am or who Johnny is, at least somebody will remember.

I hope to see you again soon. You’ve helped me very much. I don’t think I ever had more hope for leaving this life behind than when I held you on my knees. There was more peace around your sweet little head than I’ve had in a lifetime.

I didn’t g et the chance to buy a present for you this year. Things have been really hectic where I’ve been. But I still have the one I got in Damascus for your second birthday . And he’s sitting right here, looking at me, and listening with those long, fluffy ears to my stories about you. He is very brave. And he’s been a real friend to me. He is also getting suspiciously good at assembling a rifle. I’ll be sad to let him go tomorrow. But I’ll be happy, too, because he was always meant for you.

From the way the things are looking, I’ll soon return to the place I’ve been the last two years. But I found some time to come and see you and your mom. Your aunt told me you had moved away. So, I walked straight to this guy who could make things happen, and I asked if he needed help in Europe. I flew in yesterday and found you early this morning, when your mom was taking you to school on her bike.

You have a real family now. It’s great. This guy, Jonas, he seems nice. And he seems to be really good to the both of you. She really got out, didn’t she? Good for her.

I have some things to do here today which I can’t tell you about, but I’ll be taking a late train to Ramstein. There is an American Air Force base there, and a buddy of mine promised to give me something which will go nicely with your Halloween costume. It’s a long ride, about seven hours in one direction. But I should be back before tomorrow evening.

I can’t wait to see you. With all these letters it feels like I’ve known you for so long. You’ll probably never even know who I am. It’s fucked up. But at least you will finally get to have your birthday present.

I’ll keep an eye on you whenever I can as you grow up. You were my total reset point in the darkest of places. And I will always be grateful for that.

Yours,

Peter

You know how I told you that I always carry the letter my father wrote to me about Brody? This letter is the one that now Franny always has on her. It tells a story from her childhood that she had never before connected to my father.

When Franny was about three years old (around the time this letter was written), she and Carrie lived in Berlin. At the time, Carrie had a boyfriend, this guy named Jonas, a lawyer that she met while working for Otto During. If you ask me, I’m not sure I have any memories from when I was that young. But Franny does. She doesn’t remember much of that time, but she remembers the man she and Jonas met in the park that day, after she’d spent the whole afternoon nagging him about going out in her Halloween costume.

Apparently, she was supposed to be a butterfly, which was the costume that Jonas had bought for her online weeks before Halloween. But Franny being Franny, even then , she vetoed it and demanded to be a fighter pilot. You know, like in Top Gun? Because, apparently, being three years old and despite her mother’s objections, she’d seen that movie six times already. So, they went out to the park, Franny got ice-cream (again, despite Jonas’s objections), and she got to show off her fighter pilot jumpsuit, with wings and all.

Franny remembers being cold and sad. Because Halloween wasn’t anything like her mother told her it would be: people just went about their business, no one wearing a costume or trick-or-treating. Nothing like in the pictures she’d seen of her cousins celebrating back home.

Strolling down the alley in the park, they were stopped by a man whom neither of them had seen before. Jonas wanted to keep walking, but the man crouched down next to Franny and told her that he thought her costume was incredibly cool. So, they started talking. He said his name was John, that he was an American, had been away from home for too long, and that he missed the spirit of Halloween just as much as Franny did. She complained that she couldn’t go treat-or-treating like her cousins did back home, and he said that, being an American, he would love to oblige. So, she said “Trick or treat,” and he apologized for not having any candy. He then reached into his bag, retrieving a plush bunny with long fluffy ears that he’d supposedly bought for his daughter, despite not knowing when he’d see her again.

And that wasn’t all. When he handed her the bunny, he slipped something into her palm, covered it with his hand, and winked. I guess Franny was always too smart for her own good, because she understood that it was supposed to be a secret gift. She didn’t open her fist until the man walked away and Jonas looked in a different direction. What he’d given her was a dark metallic pin of real pilot wings to go with her costume. In return, she’d offered him all she had - her half eaten chestnut ice-cream.

We know now, having read this letter, that the man they ran into was most likely my father. He’d carried Franny’s favorite plush rabbit, Hop, with him from the moment he’d gotten it for her in Syria. Not even Carrie knew that. She remembers that Halloween, when Jonas and Franny came back and told her the story about a nice stranger they’d met. She said she flipped out and almost bit Jonas’s head off for letting her baby daughter talk to strangers, let alone accept gifts from them, given the danger her past life carried with it which, apparently, Jonas never fully grasped. But she didn’t have the heart to take the bunny away from Franny, seeing how by the time they got home, he already had a name. And she never knew about the pilot wings - Franny was loyal like that, and secret meant secret.

She still has both. After reading my father’s letter, she ran to Maggie’s storage room and found Hop in one of the boxes. He was mostly intact, other than one of his ears needing stitches, which we did together.

This letter means the world to Franny. First of all, she says, it’s because we’re both mentioned in it, along with my father’s hope that we would meet some day. Which we now have . Almost sixteen years after his death. And second, and this wrenches my soul every time I think about it, is the reason she remembers the man she’d met when she was just three years old. Growing up, she didn't know anything about her father except that his name was Nicholas. After meeting this man, though, she'd say her father's name was John, and that he was a pilot serving overseas, a long way from home. She figured he must have been a pilot, or how else would he have had real pilot wings?

I don’t know how much of this story happened exactly the way Franny described. After all, she was very little at the time. And maybe it wasn’t my father. Maybe it was some American tourist far from home , missing his family. But having read my father’s other letters, having listened to Carrie’s stories about him, it’s something that I have no trouble believing he would have done . He would travel fourteen hours by train to get a small piece of metal, just to see a smile on the face of a little girl whom he loved as if she was his own daughter.

True or not, this is the one image of my father which both Franny and I share. And for me, it’s the moment where he exists, for always : walking away, then turning around to smile at Franny one last time, biting into the waffle cone of her ice cream, and giving her a small military salute.

Needless to say, Hop came with us to Philly as well. After dropping Franny off at the university before her exam, I drove over to Maggie’s to pack her things. Getting a message from Franny reminding me to not forget Hop was one of those ‘pat yourself on the back for knowing the woman you love as well as you do’ moments, because the fluffy plush ex-black-ops assassin (um, let me refresh your memory - ‘getting suspiciously good at assembling a rifle’…) was the first thing I stuffed into her travel bag.

Today is Saturday, Luna’s birthday, which we’ll probably get back to later. We first got here to Philly on Thursday. We’re not leaving until Sunday night. Can you blame me for counting the hours? No? Good. Because it’s torture. The past two mornings I woke up with a throbbing emptiness between my arms. It’s bad enough not being able to fall asleep, tossing and turning, thinking about Franny sleeping in the next room, my mind swirling with images and memories of her smell, her taste, the feeling of her next to me. It’s even worse waking up without her having slipped under my covers, because we both know it wouldn’t end in cuddling anymore.

I wonder, after starting his journey in Syria eighteen years ago, sleeping in the trenches and climbing walls on my father’s back, if Hop would have imagined that one say he’d be sitting on his son’s pillow, being placed there by the woman he used to snuggle with when she was just a little girl. On both mornings I opened my eyes to find him sitting there, my consolation prize, ears fluffed and all, holding a note from Franny. The first one read, “I’ve decided that being this cute and sexy even in your sleep should be made illegal. Off to consult with Mia on how to pass a law against it. Or have breakfast, whichever we manage first.” The second one was a mere continuation, “Seriously, stop it. There’s only so much a girl can take.”

We spent yesterday keeping ourselves busy. It wasn’t difficult, seeing how word travels fast around here, and by early afternoon we had more invitations to brunches, lunches, dinners, and drinks from my friends and extended family than we could possibly accept. We started by having breakfast with my sisters while discussing Luna’s birthday dinner. In my family, we don’t throw surprise parties, or any parties for that matter. My mother always said that the birthday person should be given a choice of how they want to spend their special day. So, usually, we hang out with our friends in the morning and the afternoon, and then have a fun family dinner in the evening.

After breakfast, Franny and I went out, did some shopping, drove to visit my mother’s grave, then met up with some of my friends and had dinner at my aunt’s (my mother’s sister). We tried going sightseeing but ended up sitting on the same bench where we first kissed the night before, spending several hours, talking, laughing and making out. Later on, in the evening, Luna announced that it was ‘her birthday eve’ now, so she should be the one to choose the movie. None of us, except Franny, had to ask which. It’s a good thing we’re all rather fond of ‘Cool Runnings’, because over the years we must have watched it hundreds of times. And last night was no exception.

It’s early afternoon on Saturday now. Luna is out with her friends, having started her own celebration. We stayed behind, fully intending to help Mia make dinner, but having been told to get our ‘horny asses’ out of the kitchen about half an hour later. My thought process being severely compromised by the intermittent lack of proper blood flow to my head, I can’t really remember what it was we did to earn that . I mean, how does stuffing vegetables into each other’s mouths instead of chopping them, or kissing in the middle of the kitchen for that matter, account for being called a ‘horny ass’? Beats me. Anyhow… We were told to get out of the house and do something useful for once, after being handed the shopping list of all the things Mia needed to make the cake.

So, we got the groceries. About two hours ago. And now, we’re on my mother’s bench again, enjoying the afternoon sun and feeding each other strawberries. Ok, we were feeding each other. Now it’s just Franny feeding me. I’m lying flat on my back, my head in her lap, her hands running through my hair, my arm looped around one of hers, my fingers leisurely caressing the inner side of it. The best I can describe my condition is “strawberry flavoured goo” . I could fall asleep like this. Strike that - I could spend my life like this.

“Johnny,” Franny calls, tickling me behind the ear.

“Shhhhh… deliriously happy person trying to maintain solid state of matter here,” I smirk at her, barely opening my eyes.

Laughing, she peels and cleans another strawberry and stuffs it into my mouth. I keep her hand near my face, trailing soft lazy kisses from her fingers to the inside of her palm.

“I love it here,” she says, taking a deep breath and leaning back.

I turn my head, kiss her tummy and bury my face in it. “I love it here.”

Franny giggles. “Seriously, Johnny. I mean I really love it here. In Philly.”

“Yeah?” I smile at her. “We can come back every weekend.”

“I know. But I was thinking… it’s not too far, right? It’s what? Like a two hour drive?”

“Without traffic, yeah.” I gently scratch the inside of her arm. “You’re really serious?”

“I think so. I mean, I could transfer to Penn. Especially if Mom really gets better… I don’t see why not.”

We’ve been talking on and off about what we’re going to do next for the past two days. I’ve been staying at the hotel for the last month. It’s getting kind of ridiculous at this point. My plan was to rent a place for us in Virginia, near Maggie’s, preferably with a separate apartment for Carrie so that she could stay with us when and if she gets out. Going back to Mountain View is out of the question now. And frankly, I don’t care. Yesterday, I called to ask for a letter of recommendation so that I could start applying for jobs in the area, and was told that they could actually offer me a remote position, one where I would have to fly in once or twice a month. That’s what’s great about Google, they are willing to go the extra mile for the people they want to keep.

“So… Philly?” I ask.

“Well, Dana did invite us to come and live in Chicago…” Franny sticks out her tongue at me.

“Veto,” I call, feeling myself shiver despite the warm sunny day. “I’m not one to put my foot down, but, unless you really want to go, Chicago winters are where I draw the line.”

“Kidding,” Franny laughs, caressing my face. “But not about Philly. Actually… I don’t care where I live… as long as…”

“...As long as it’s with me?” I finish her sentence, feeling my grin spreading from ear to ear.

“Yeah, you smug monster.” She tickles my neck until I start squirming and snorting.

“Yesssssss!” I throw my hands in the air, above my head, in a victorious fist pump. “I win!”

“God, you’re impossible when you’re happy, you know that?”

“ Your fault,” I quip, turning to my side, sliding my arms around her hips and waist, and burying my face in her tummy.

Franny giggles when my nose and my kisses tickle her, but holds my head even closer to her. “My fault,” she murmurs, playing with my hair. “I think I can live with that.”

When we finally get back home, Mia takes one look at us and concludes that we both now appear to be sufficiently calm and mellow, and thus allowed back in the kitchen. I’ve known Mia since the day she was born, that girl has never given up that easily. I give her a narrow-eyed stare and cross my arms over my chest.

“Bullshit. You’re running late, aren’t you?” I say, daring her to retort.

Squinting her eyes back at me, Mia lifts up a skillet. “I swear to God, you smartass…”

In my family, things are never done late. We were all raised on military time, which was one of my mother’s quirks. So, I just laugh, give her a truce kiss, roll up my sleeves, and the three of us pick up where she left off.

Mia is a great cook - she takes after our mother. I often tease her that being a hard core feminist and all, in the end she’ll end up being a housewife, baking cookies and driving her kids to soccer practice. I get punched and kicked every time I say that, but it never stops being funny.

I know my way around the kitchen, and I could probably cook a decent enough meal if I cared to try, but I’m more of a sous-chef: I lose interest rather quickly, unless you keep nudging me and giving me specific tasks. As for Franny (clearing throat here…) - not so much. She tried to fix a breakfast for me once at Maggie’s. Oh man… let’s just say we ended up spending the whole morning scrubbing the kitchen, after which I took her out for brunch.

To take our minds off of being near each other, constantly brushing arms and shoulders, I teach her how to properly hold a chef knife, chop greens, work fast with cold butter for the pie crust. She has more determination and stubbornness in her little finger than most people have in a lifetime. She picks up fast, beaming and giggling as Mia and I serve as her own personal cheerleading squad, making complete fools of ourselves, dancing, reciting cheers, and waving imaginary pompons. Ok, they’re not always imaginary - sometimes we use bunches of parsley or coriander.

“Definitely Philly,” she says, when I take a break and stand behind her, wedging my chin into her shoulder.

“Ok,” I smile as I link my arms around her, digging through her hair with my nose and planting a firm, lingering kiss in a soft spot right under her earlobe.

We’re halfway through dinner when Franny’s phone buzzes. It’s an Amazon notification, informing her that the delivery drone has just left a package on our front porch. Inside, there are three birthday presents for Luna: one from Jessica and Mike, one from Dana and her family, and one from Chris.

See, after being weaved into my family’s chat group, Franny decided to create her own. She called it The Brody Family group. It has me, Franny, Jessica, Mike, Chris, and Dana. I don’t really belong in there, but seeing how there’s no arguing with Franny, and how Chris and I struck up a friendship and have been talking and messaging on a daily basis for the past three weeks, I kinda had no choice in the matter. Long story short, Franny told them where we’re spending the weekend, not sparing any details about my family, and now Luna is looking at three birthday presents from people she never even met.

My family knows about our road trip, of course. That is to say they know about me and Franny driving half way across the country in order for her to be reunited with her half siblings. I didn’t think it a good idea to tell the part about the secret CIA operation, however old and irrelevant, over the WhatsApp group chat. So, we tell them now. Everything - starting from reading my father’s letter, through Carrie’s story about Franny’s father, and ending with us embarking on a journey to bring closure to the family of a man whose personal tragedy and sacrifice were sidelined, trumped and forgotten.

I only now realize how deep I am down the rabbit hole. My father was a covert operative, a member of a Special Operations Group, sent to carry out targeted assassinations all over the world. Carrie started off as an analyst, later on becoming an intelligence officer, then station chief. Seeing the deepening awe and horror on my sisters’ and Richard’s faces, it’s the first time that I fully grasp just how submerged I have become in that world over the past year. My father didn’t go into details about his missions in any of his letters. But I guess I got the picture very early on. By the time I met Carrie, I had a very good idea about the kind of work they did. I’ll tell you this - it’s one thing to read spy stories, to watch movies about intelligence operations, but it’s shocking on a whole different level to learn about real people, literally standing on the sidelines of history, fighting a clandestine war that no one will ever hear about.

Feeling deeply touched, emotional, and overwhelmed, Luna asks for Jessica’s, Dana’s and Chris’s phone numbers, so that she can thank them for the gifts. She calls, and soon enough everyone is laughing, screaming into the phone. About five minutes after calling Dana, they are all on a Hangouts group video chat: Jessica, Dana, Chris, and my whole family, chattering and cracking up like they’ve known each other for ages, talking about going on a joint vacation sometime, and, of course, jokingly setting up mine and Franny’s wedding date. As usual, I’m trying to avoid the attention, staying in my chair, sipping my chardonnay, and smiling at the joy on Franny’s face. It really doesn’t help when the Hangouts keeps crashing and, as usual, despite my family knowing for a fact that my work at Google has nothing to do with the Hangouts app, they blame me for all of Google’s shortcomings and demand that I fix it.

I’m thinking about my father, gone for many years, whose letters nevertheless made it all possible. As if reading my mind, Richard crosses over and takes a seat next to me, placing a hand on my forearm.

“That’s a hell of family you’ve got there,” he says, smiling and clicking his wine glass to mine.

“Yeah.” I struggle to steady my voice, trying to keep it low.

“Hey…” Seeing my tears welling up, he puts an arm around me and moves closer. “You’ve got a lot to show for yourself, for what you’ve done in the past year, love. You should be proud. I know your father would be.”

“Dad… thank you,” I mutter, lowering my eyes. “But I really didn’t do anything. It was all my father. His letters, the people in his life. I was just lucky to have found them.”

“Nonsense, Johnny. Nonsense. Many people write letters. Many people read letters. Your father was an extraordinary man, true. I wish I had known him, gotten a chance to shake his hand. He wanted to let you know he’d never forgotten about you. So he wrote those letters to you, to Franny. But you didn’t just read - you listened. You never dismissed one word that he’d told you. And look where it took you. Both of you. Franny got to have a family she never knew she had. Those people got to have closure, were allowed t o remember their father with the dignity they were robbed of years ago. You could’ve read your father’s letters and gone on with your life. But you didn’t. You honored him, his memory, by letting him become a part of your life, of who you are, a voice in your head.”

I can’t speak, feeling my whole face twitching, fighting the tears flooding my throat. I just nod, slowly moving closer and putting my arms around him.

“Every father should be so lucky, Johnny,” Richard says, stroking my hair and patting my back. “I know I am.”

After the emotions settle, Luna opens her presents, and then we all gather in the living room to have cake. At this point, having something with actual sugar in it is not such a bad idea, really, given the fact that we’re already a little tipsy from the wine when Mia and Franny come to the room carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels and two six-packs. To settle all the legal issues, in my overly liberal family we’re allowed to drink at home from the day we turn eighteen. My parents always believed that the twenty one year old law was kinda stupid: if you’re old enough to have sex and get married, you should be old enough to get legally drunk at your own wedding.

Mia takes her place next to Richard on the adjacent sofa, while Luna and Franny snuggle next to me chatting across my chest, depriving me of a free hand to hold a drink.

“Oh, this is such bull!!!” I hear Franny exclaim, jolting me out of my thoughts, as I look down to see her inspecting the top part of Luna’s thoracotomy scar. “You can barely see it!”

“Pfft… You can see it, believe me. Every time I go on a first date with a guy who doesn’t know about the transplant, I have to wear a top that goes up to here!” Luna motions with her hand to right under her chin.

“Why? What kind of a jerk would have a problem with a surgical scar?”

“The kind of jerks that Twinsie goes out with,” I grumble, drawing Luna closer to my side.

She giggles, stretching an arm across my chest. “Yep. And one of them almost became an organ donor himself, courtesy of Johnny nearly bashing his brains out.” Not my proudest moment.

Franny’s eyes open wide with a mix of bewilderment and shock, that for some reason makes me feel damn good about myself. “You didn’t!!!”

“Hey! She goes to prom with this college guy, then calls me an hour later, in tears, because the piece of shit said he ‘never went out with a chick who had a dead man’s heart’ .”

“Took three of my teachers to break them apart, after Johnny barged there and just started beating the crap out of him.”

And was arrested. And almost ended up with a criminal record. And would probably do it again in a heartbeat.

All-in-all, I’ve always been shy and quiet, stayed out of trouble. I can hold my own in a fist fight, but in my whole life I only had to twice . Once was on the ‘family tree’ day, after presenting mine and telling everyone that Richard was my stepdad and I never knew my real dad, but I knew he was a soldier. I was nine years old then, and it was shortly after my father was killed. One of the class bullies had the misfortune of throwing a comment along the lines of “Yeah, right. That’s a nice little story your mamma told you”, going on and on and saying things about my parents that I wouldn’t repeat if my life depended on it, not even now, being older and understanding what they mean.

I honestly can’t tell you much about what happened afterwards. The next thing I remember is sitting on my mother’s lap in our car, in the back seat, shaking and looking down at my bruised, bloody fists. I remember thinking that my mother’s arms around me were like willow branches, soft, but unbreakable. I cuddled into her embrace. She looked like she was about to start crying herself, but she never did. I kept whispering that I was so sorry, and she just held me tighter, letting the superpowers of her arms do the magic, until I quited down. I never saw that boy or stepped foot in that school again. Later that night, my mother got a phone call from the principal, telling her she needed to come down there the next day, meet with that boy’s parents, so that they could ‘sort things out’. Remember how I said that I hate the ‘f’ word? Well, Mom didn’t. Right there, in the middle of the living room, with me, Mia and Luna around, she yelled and cursed, telling the man that he really doesn’t want her in the same room with the parents who’d raised a monster like that. Because he’d have a much bigger problem on his hands than a little boy pounding a bully with his fists for insulting his parents.

The second time was on Luna’s prom night. By the time I got there, my beautiful baby sister, the kindest soul I’ve ever met, was standing in the corner, covering her upper chest with her hands and crying, while her date was standing nearby with his buddies, still joking about her walking around with a heart that she’d gotten because ‘some jerk didn’t wear a helmet’. Just like the first time around, it was as if a switch flipped in my head, everything around me going dark. And well… you can kind of imagine the rest.

I think I’ve mentioned that Luna’s leukemia relapsing wasn’t the last of the complications she developed down the road. One of the chemo meds that she was given as part of her treatment had damaged her heart muscle. By the time she was fifteen, she went into complete congestive heart failure and was put on a transplant list.

That was when I decided to quit medicine. Maybe for most people, the effect would have been the opposite, seeing the wonders of modern medicine at work and all. But Luna’s operation was only three weeks after Barry, my closest friend at the time, committed suicide following almost a year of being constantly bullied and abused as a med student by one of the residents he was assigned to.

You ask any doctor and they’ll tell you that it’s just something that they all had to go through: the long hours, being overworked, being humiliated during doctor’s rounds, constant lack of sleep. And almost all of them will have a story of someone in their class, or someone they knew, snapping under pressure, just like Barry had. I was the one who found him in his dorm room, when his classmate called worried that he didn’t show for morning rounds. Barry was smart, a brilliant student. He knew what he was doing. By the time I got there, he was lying on his bed, in a pool of vomit, with two empty vials next to him: phenobarbital and diazepam.

I was also the one who, on that very day, with Barry still lying on the coroner’s table, stormed into my mother’s precinct and told her that I didn’t care how, but I wanted to see criminal charges that would stick against the shithead that rode Barry to death. My mother knew that putting her arms around me wasn’t going to fix it this time. So she got to work, found more students who were willing to come forward and file formal complaints against the guy. Knowing that building a case of bullying someone into suicide was nearly impossible, she dug deeper, found other stuff. By the time she was done with him, not even his sleazy uptown lawyer was able to get him from under the pile of charges against him. He ended up taking a plea bargain, so he didn’t serve time. But he lost his medical license, and will never practice again.

When Luna was in Thoracic Surgery Intensive Care following her heart transplant, I stayed with her around the clock. The first night, she developed an arrhythmia and chest pains, her potassium levels not stabilizing. The intern on call, Jessie Langdon (I remember his name because we keep in touch to this day), freaked out at first, tried to call his attending, only to be told that dealing with postoperative arrhythmias was part of his training, and that he should attempt to treat before calling for help. Nervous as hell, he kept apologizing. He was being constantly paged to tend to other patients, seeing how he was covering not just the unit, but also the thoracic surgery ward and the surgical ER. But he did everything by the book, first giving Luna oxygen, then Morphine for the pain, attempting to correct her electrolyte levels, giving her something to slow down the conduction, and finally, when nothing helped, sedating her and shocking her new heart into normal sinus. He even found the time to bring me a cup of coffee and sit with me, when I was waiting for Luna to wake up after the cardioversion.

The following day, during morning rounds, I sat there and watched Jessie as he was scrutinized by his peers. Some were fellow interns, others appeared to be residents. Jessie just stood there, wearing his wrinkled scrubs, after over 24 hours without sleep, while every other smartass in the room found something to say about the latest guidelines, and how he should have been more aggressive from the get go.

With the image of Barry’s lifeless body in my head, I just snapped, lashing out at the attending, asking him how he could just stand there and let shit like that go down. He spoke back in a condescending tone, calling me ‘son’, and telling me that constructive criticism, healthy competition, reviewing the latest guidelines, and discussing treatment was an essential part of raising a competent generation of young doctors. I said that I wasn’t his son, that I knew a thing or two about my sister’s condition, that I’ve seen Jessie’s conduct and would put my sister’s life in his hands every day and twice on Sunday, and that there’s a time and place, not to mention a way, to conduct discussions and hold a session of constructive criticism, other than in front of a patient and a family member. Being closely familiar with me and my family, he said that he understands what I’m saying, but, as a future medical student, I should prepare myself, because becoming a good doctor takes patience, humility, and sometimes having to face being put on the spot in front of my patients and colleagues.

When they moved on to the next patient, Luna tugged on my hand and didn’t stop until I moved her monitor cables aside and half-lay next to her, feeling guilty for her having witnessed my outburst. She snuggled next to my chest and put an arm around me. “Twinsie,” she whispered, “promise me you’re not gonna let them treat you like that.” And I promised, know ing for certain th at after finishing my undergraduate degree, I wouldn’t be stepping foot in a hospital unless it’s to visit a family member. See, that attending was right: it takes patience, dedication, and, what’s more, to put up with that shit, for years, you gotta really want it. I admire people who go through that every day, knowing that medicine is their calling. But I realized then and there that I just wasn’t one of them.

Looking at my sister now, I smile. She’s laughing, telling Franny about all kinds of makeup she’d put on her scar to try to conceal it, listening to Franny’s ideas about sexy tops she can wear with the upper part of her chest still hidden. For some reason, Luna makes me think of my father. She’s been sick for most of her life. She’s small for her age and always will be, has to take five different kinds of medications every day, and we all know her new heart will eventually fail as well and she’ll need to go through all of that again. But I’ve never heard her complain about how hard it’s been on her - she’s just as happy, loving, caring, and full of life as she was when she was seven years old, before it all started. Carrie keeps saying that having a stroke, dealing with disabilities, broke my father in many ways. I surely don’t know him as much as she did. But somehow I have trouble believing that he would ever let it define him, take away the man he’d always been.

“C’mere, gotta check something,” I say, freeing my arm from around Franny and adding it to the one holding Luna. She starts giggling and shrieking, knowing what’s to come, as I pull her in, put my head right under chin and my ear to her chest, pretending to listen to her heartbeat. “Yep. That’s the one. This one’s my favorite. I hated the old one anyway. Was giving you too much trouble.”

All I can hear is her laughter ringing in my ear, vibrating inside her chest, as she drops loud kisses into my hair and slides her fingers into it. “Stop, it tickles…” she squeaks, giggling harder. Then to Franny: “See? This is why Twinsie is my favorite brother.” Like she has another one. Then back to me: “If this one’s your favorite, what are you gonna do in ten years when I get a new one?”

“Probably love it even more,” I retort, knocking her down and tickling her for real now.

Luna’s request to pick a movie is unilaterally denied. Birthday girl or not, we all agree that ‘Cool Runnings’ is good, but it’s not two-nights-in-a-row good. Instead Franny, as an honored guest and a star of the evening (with her family’s story and all) gets to choose. Wanna take a shot at guessing what we end up watching? Ok, I’ll give you a hint. Here it goes: “Highway to the Danger Zone, fly into the Danger Zone…” Anyone? Yep. Top Gun. Coz rejecting one 80s movie had to carry a punishment, right?

Richard dozes off half way and, kissing us all goodnight, drags himself upstairs. Mia and Luna just drop where they sit, both drunkenly laughing one second and snoring the next. I get three throw blankets, use two to tuck them both in on separate sofas, and save the last one for myself and Franny, who’s hammered but still going strong. Cuddled together, cracking up at my passed out sisters’ snoring, we make it all the way to the end of the movie, downing two more beers each.

“Bedtime?” I ask, turning off the TV and smiling when she lazily stirs next to me. “Or we can go for a short walk, sober up a bit.”

Franny makes an attempt to stand up, only to crash back into my arms. “Ok, that rules out the walk… thingie…” she slurs, looking up at my face and trying to focus her eyes.

“C’mon.” Pushing the throw blanket out of the way, I grab her elbows with the intention of helping her to her feet. “Up we go.”

“To… bed?” She closes one eye, tilting her head to the side and letting out a loud hiccup.

“I’d say ,” I laugh. “C’mon, I’ll take you.”

Franny waves her hand in an undefined drunken gesture. “As in… or lose me forever?”

“Huh?” I lift one eyebrow.

Another hiccup. “Like the movie… Like the… the…” she motions with her head to the TV set. “The… Top Gun. Like the song. ” Imitating Meg Ryan’s voice: “Hey, Johnny, you big stud! Take me to bed or lose me forever…”

“Oh boy…” I snort.

“No seriously…” blinking, she reaches up and plants a sloppy kiss on my mouth. “How ‘bout that?”

“How about you walk a straight line and I promise to consider it.”

“Johnny…” Two more hiccups. “For what I have… in mine… in mind … no need for I… for me to walk.”

I laugh out loud. “I know, baby. But what can I say - maybe it’s a weird thing of mine, but have a strong feeling that I won’t particularly enjoy being barfed at during sex.”

“Who said anything about… I’m not gonna…”

I can guess what she was going to say next. But within seconds, having dropped her head onto my chest, she’s passed out. I sigh, hoping that I’m better off than she is, carefully picking her up and carrying her to the guest room upstairs. Once there, I lower her onto the bed, reluctantly unlinking her arms from around my neck. I remove her shoes, tuck her in, and sit with her for a while, stroking her hair and making sure she’s really sleeping and not feeling nauseous.

Hop is sitting on the other pillow, looking kinda lonely and helpless. I shake my head, pick him up and stuff him under Franny’s arm. She smiles, stirs in her sleep and draws him closer, all the way to her face.

“Ok, you black-ops badass,” I say to him, running the back of my fingers along his fluffy ear. “Tonight’s your last watch. I’ll take over tomorrow.”

With that, having kissed them both, I stand up, and, stretching, stumble to my room.

I was hoping that the alcohol in my system would make it easier to doze off, not wanting to end up tossing and turning until the wee hours like I did the last two nights. Surprisingly, though, it just makes things worse. For starters, it’s a typical Philly summer night, hot and humid. The central air is humming, creating an irritating background noise that seeps into the foreground.

Everytime I close my eyes, I’m falling. There’s no up or down, just around. I’m not certain how much time passes, it feels like hours. At some point I flipped to my front and stuck my head under the pillow to try and muffle the humming of the air conditioner. It’s all been quiet for a while now. I imagine I’m in the sea, deep blue shimmering in the morning sun, so bright that it hurts my eyes. It stretches across the arms of the windrose in all directions, kissing the sky everywhere I look. The calm after the storm. Except there's no shipwreck, no pieces floating around. It’s just me, my life, the whole puzzle of it that finally feels complete.

I’m drifting in and out, but the sea remains. At one point I realize that I’m looking for my father, remembering the dream I had. Because I’m standing on a pier, the old wood squeaking under my bare feet, crisp splashes of water dashing through. The pier isn’t connected to the shore, there’s no house in the distance like there was in my dream. There’s nobody else around, yet there is, I can feel their presence. As if the sea and the sky are not just blue, but a mix of different colors: made of memories, letters, stories, voices - all of them here, creating this vast, barely attainable, deep color of peace.

I feel a gentle, tickling sensation on my back as if the breeze off the water is moving through the folds of my t-shirt, sweeping and soothing. Slowly emerging from my half dream, I find that I’m still in bed, lying flat on my front. The stroking sensation is becoming more palpable, more distinct, and before I have a chance to turn towards it, a wave of heat ripples through me as I feel Franny’s mouth at the base of my neck, her hair brushing against my bare skin.

Her hand travels along my arm from behind me, down my shoulder to the back of my hand, where her fingers lace through mine. As I turn to my side she slides into my arms. For a long while neither of us speaks or moves. The longing is still there, yet the urgency has dissipated. I’m fully awake now, but the dream, its sense of bliss and serenity, seems to have seeped into the edges of the real world. Franny’s eyes are the sea: clear, translucent, inexhaustible blue, a boundless abyss of trust and joy.

Her head is cradled in the fold of my shoulder. Her fingers stop wandering aimlessly across my bare back and slowly find their up, until her entire palm rests on my cheek.

“Hey,” I say finally, kissing her thumb as it brushes over my lips.

Franny smiles, closing the distance between our faces and replacing her thumb with her mouth. It’s a short kiss, warm, soft and mind-numbingly tender; and even in that fleeting moment, as my eyes close, I can still feel the slow, rocking rippling of water, with the pier gone, the both of us just there, just being. Torn away from the world, keeping each other afloat.

She pulls away, her eyes opening wide and piercing into mine again. There’s a slight trace on my lips, where she pressed hers. It’s sweet, a little minty, and I find myself snorting softly and pulling her closer to me. “Toothpaste. Busted ,” I laugh, going in for another taste.

“Yeah, well… you know… I was… you know,” she murmurs, fidgeting and looking adorably self-conscious all of a sudden.

I laugh harder, “It’s not bad, actually. Lemme try again…” And I kiss her even deeper, tingling with craving and joy.

“I’m not… drunk anymore,” she quips, and instead of her lips my kiss bumps into her widening smile.

“Coincidentally…” Wow, big word to utter in my condition. “... I’m not sure I care anymore.”

I guess I’m not very convincing, because there’s still uncertainty in her eyes, as she places her hand gently on my face. “I know we said… I said… and we’re still here… But… God, I need you…” Then adds with a sheepish smile: “And I’ll be quiet, I swear.”

I laugh again, thinking that if I love her just one tiny bit more I’ll literally go insane. “You’ve got me, Fran,” I whisper. “And also…” I’m pretty sure I have smug grin spreading all over my face, as I add: “You won’t.”

I feel her go limp in my arms, relaxing and giggling softly, as she smirks at me: “Confident…”

“Maybe.” Just to prove my… uhm ‘maybe’ point, with my mouth still on hers, I slide my hand under her top, nearly losing it as I feel her breath hitching, then quickening, her heart pounding against my palm.

Her lips break away from mine, parting in a silent gasp. My arm around her tightens its grip, as I kiss her face, whispering her name, with my other hand still under her shirt, caressing and circling. I’m losing myself in her, in her sweetness, in her scent, in her touch, in the small sounds she makes. And I don’t think I ever wanted to be lost so badly. Because I know I’m getting myself lost in the place I want to stay in, with the woman who will always show me a way back if I need it.

Her face mere inches from mine, her eyes filled with more joy and adoration than I can bear, Franny starts fumbling with her pajama top, struggling to free it from underneath herself.

I can’t help a soft laugh. “Baby… c’mere,” I lift her up and pull it over her head, then carefully lay her back into my arms as I slide down the bottom as well.

She weaves an arm between my neck and the pillow, throwing the other one around my shoulder, and leans into me. A part of me wants to push the blanket away and look at her, all of her, but I can’t release my hold, violent shivers rippling through my own body as I keep running my hands over hers.

“Don’t stop…” I smile, feeling her fingers slip down my back, creeping under the waistband of my pajama bottom.

Letting out the air she’s been holding, Franny kisses me, faintly at first, barely a whisper of a touch, then more firmly, with growing impatience. I lift myself slightly, just enough to help her slide down my pants. Smiling, with my hand resting on her bare hip, I pull her towards me.

“Oh, God… Johnny,” she whispers, pressing against me, every inch of her, her arms enveloping my head and neck. She’s shivering, trembling even harder every time I move my hand alongside her body.

“You ok?” I ask, wrapping a blanket around her and tucking it behind her back. “Cold?”

Franny bursts into laughter, wrinkling her nose and rubbing it against mine, then kissing me languorously as her fingers slip into my hair. “No.”

As I gently push her back into the soft pillows, rolling on top of her, raising to frame her between my elbows, I look down. God, she’s beautiful, inside and out, all of her. I don’t think I ever felt so completely trusted, and so completely safe. I know there and then that I’ll spend the rest of my life making her happy. It’s the way her eyes rest on my face: deeply vulnerable, calm, reassuring. The way her arms wrap around me, as if I were the most precious thing she’s ever held.

I guess we both know that the first time won’t last: we’ve wanted this, each other, too much, for too long. It’s almost bittersweet. Almost. Because I wouldn’t trade it for the world, not a single bit of it. Not when I feel all of my senses jumbling together, whirling into a knot so tight that I can’t figure out which is which anymore.

She’s gone first. I burrow my arms between her and the mattress, lifting her up, holding her even closer to me. She’s writhing, spasming, sobbing into my mouth, wrapping all of her around all of me, squeezing, needing me so much that I wish I could dissolve into her. I kiss her face again and again as I reach to stroke her hair, whispering to her.

Until I can’t. My vision gets smudged and blurry, the world darkening, just before I’m crashing into the bright light, soaring and falling at the same time, bursting with agony and pleasure unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I bury my face into Franny’s shoulder, my mouth pressing against her skin. I’m not sure I’ll make it, gasping for air, feeling my throat closing shut. And that’s when I feel Franny’s fingers in my hair. She’s kissing my head and whispering to me now, caressing my back and my shoulders.

I collapse into her embrace, twining my arms underneath and around her body, and I let myself go limp. We’re both still panting as I raise my head from her shoulder and put it next to hers. She turns her face to me, teary and smiling, then suddenly laughs, tightens the loop of her arm around my neck and slams her lips into mine with a force that knocks the wind out of my lungs. Before I know what’s hit me, I’m kissing her back, laughing myself. Because in that one sloppy, open mouthed, grateful kiss there’s everything she is: the sweetest, most astonishing force of nature, a tornado of kindness and joy.

“Again?” she asks, a mischievous smile curling in the corners of her mouth as she breaks away just enough to look into my eyes.

“Fran…” I finally gather enough strength to push myself up, my elbows still shaky, and I lean down to nuzzle my face into hers. “Count on it.”

If I had to pick a theme for this night (um… other than the obvious, yeah?), I think “again” would kinda be “it”. We finally pass out in the early morning, when it’s already light outside and the sun is spilling into my window, filtering through the shutters and casting stripes of yellow glow over my bed and our limp bodies. Before I finally gave in and succumbed to the exhaustion, I remember thinking that I should probably turn off the air conditioner: the rising temperature outside makes it go into overdrive, the tiredness makes us both shiver from cold . Franny is already out, and I’m too drained to even look for the blanket that’s crumpled somewhere near our feet. I know the remote is on my nightstand, but I can’t bring myself to lift an arm to reach for it.

I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been, but I wake up feeling like I’m in a deep frozen state, shaking all over. With enormous effort, I turn the damn air conditioner off. After dropping the remote on the floor, I fall back against my pillow and look down. Franny is sleeping on top of me. Ok, not exactly on top. She’s all bent over, her legs laced with mine, her head resting on my abdomen. One of her arms is stretched up alongside my body, her hand on my chest, mine on top of it, our fingers entwined. Her other arm is around my hips. She’s all curled up around me, deep asleep, not bothered by the cold.

I bury my fingers in her hair, hoping to wake her up just enough for us to cuddle under the blanket. She stirs, murmurs my name, tucks her face into my abdomen, and falls back asleep halfway into dropping a tickling kiss into my belly button. Right. I’m too drained to pick up the fridging air conditioner remote, but this has an effect on me that would probably mean another “again”, except that it'd risk us both ending up in the hospital on an IV drip.

Willing my muscles to make one last effort, I manage to rise just enough to grab Franny and pull her up towards me. Fishing for the blanket as well, I throw it on top of us, turn to my side, and gather her into my arms, fully intending to doze back off and not wake up until it’s either time for dinner or there’s a nuclear attack (whichever comes first, really).

Except, that’s when Franny wiggles deeper into me and starts kissing my chest, her hot breath scorching my skin as her hand roams over my back.

“Sleep,” I laugh, lifting her face and kissing her.

“But Johnny…” she’s exhausted herself, barely moving, but she kisses me back even deeper.

Then, with a teasing smile, she places a hand on my hip and presses herself against me, proving her point by letting me know that she knows that I’m back in the game. She’s not wrong. Against all common sense and better judgment, as if my arms had a will of their own, I draw her closer, my breathing becoming fast and shallow again.

“See, it works!” she giggles.

“Yeah it works. It works because at this point it’s more like a permanent condition, soon to become my official cause of death if you don’t stop.” I grumble, still smiling, and heave a long exasperated sigh, which, for some reason, comes out more like a groan, as Franny’s hand slips down from the small of my back . Laughing, I grab it, bring it up and secure it next to my chest to prevent it from… um… wandering. “Ok, new ground rules.” I say. Then, re-considering my phrasing, add: “More like… ground facts.”

With the tip of my finger I draw an invisible line from her forehead to her neck, moving away the curly rogue strands. Dropping kisses all over her beaming face after each sentence, I start laying out said facts. “One - I love you so much, and saying ‘no’ to you kills me more than you can ever imagine. Two - yes, I’m a horny twenty-five year old man, although I don’t think my age has anything to do with it, since I’ll probably never be able to take my hands off of you. Three - Dad’s taking Mia and Luna to visit his sister in DC today. They won’t be back till it’s almost time for us to leave. So… taking into consideration one-two-three… Four - if we sleep until… say, lunchtime…” Burying my fingers in her hair, I lean to give her a long, promising kiss: “Let’s just say we’ll be alone in the house for at least a couple of hours and you won’t have to be quiet anymore.”

Sighing delightedly, Franny tucks her head under my chin and curls next to my chest. “Fiiiiiiiiiiine.”

“Look at it this way,” I say, pulling the blanket higher up and wrapping it tightly around her. “We’ve probably set a record that we’ll never beat.”

“Bullshit,” Franny scoffs, slurring and in a sleepy voice. “We’ll beat it tonight…”

I don’t think she’s joking. Also… I can’t really say I have an objection.

It’s past ten at night when we park outside Carrie’s hospital. On our way we passed my hotel and, quite frankly, were very tempted to take our asses up to my room and not leave until somebody starts worrying and calls an ambulance. But I know that Franny has missed her mother and is dying to share Richard’s news with her.

Holding her hand as we approach the main hospital campus, reveling in the bliss of this new normal, I’m thinking that I’ve probably never been this happy. A little over a year ago, I literally flushed my life along with everything I had accomplished down the drain, rushing head first into a quest that seemed doomed and hopeless from the start. I was hoping to find something, somebody, to learn a little more about the kind of man my father was. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that at the end of it I’d feel like I’ve known him my whole life, his voice becoming the driving force in everything I do, not to mention having found more people that connect me to him than I dared hope. Between planning my life with Franny, having my job back, and the chance of Carrie finally getting the treatment she needed all along and getting out of the hospital, I don’t think I could ever ask for more.

Franny is jumping and skipping, flushed with excitement, talking non-stop about our plans for the future. I’m just smiling, holding her hand, thinking that I would give her the world if I could, but will settle for offering her everything I have. This afternoon, when the hunger finally dragged us out of bed, we had a quick lunch and went out to see the houses for rent in the area. We both know that we’ll stay in Virginia for at least another couple of months, waiting for Carrie to finish her rheumatology workup, start the treatments, and be put back on the mood stabilizers that used to keep her bipolar disorder in check before what appears to be Lupus, according to Richard’s friend, whacked her out of control. But hey, we went to check out the houses anyway, just for the kicks of it.

The minute we step into the lobby, I know something is wrong. There’s nothing that warrants it really. But it’s one of those weird thoughts you have when you realize that too many things have been going too well in your life. I’m not superstitious, but I feel a sudden shiver at the base of my spine and goosebumps rising along the length of my arms.

By the time we get out of the elevator at Carrie’s floor, I know something’s happened. Maggie is there. She’s standing in the corridor outside of Carrie’s room, talking to one of the senior physicians. She’s wearing sweatpants and a pullover, her hair all over the place. It’s half past ten at night, so it can’t be good.

Franny stiffens, squeezing my hand and looking at me for answers that I don’t have. I try a reassuring smile, put an arm around her, but I don’t think that’s going to solve anything.

“Hey. What’s up?” I ask Maggie, who sighs with relief as she sees us approaching, saying goodbye to the doctor and asking him to keep her posted if, and I quote, “it gets worse”.

“What’s up?” she says in exasperation, placing her palm over her forehead. “I’m an idiot! That’s what’s up. I just knew it. I shouldn’t have. I should have waited for you. Or waited to hear more from your father... “

“Maggie, slow down. What happened?”

“I don’t know! I have no fucking idea. And I'm really not sure you want to go in there . Franny, maybe. But you… it'll just make it worse.”

“Make what worse? Why?” I can see tears welling up in Franny’s eyes, her face draining of color, twitching. “Is Mom ok? What’s going on?”

Maggie’s expression softens. She exhales and steps closer to Franny. “I don’t know, honey. I think so. I mean she was fine just this afternoon, we had coffee at the house, talked. She was looking forward to seeing you, saying how much she missed you. But I just had to… I mean, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

“Why? What did you say?”

“Nothing! That’s the thing. Nothing that should’ve upset her. Not to this extent, anyway. I spoke to Dr. Samuels, your father, this morning. He said his buddy might come down tomorrow to start some tests, maybe even move her to a general hospital for the rest of it. So I figured I’d tell her. I mean it’s the best news we’ve had in years.”

Ok. That’s a start. I give her a slight nod. “Aaaaand she didn’t take it well? I’m guessing?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know what she read into that. All I kno w is tha t on our way here she was just quiet, staring into space. I didn’t want to leave her, but Bill’s coming home from a work trip tonight, so I figured I’d go home, make dinner, then come to visit her later. And then I find this! She’s not making any sense, talking about people taking her away tomorrow, because ‘she got too close to solving it’.”

“Solving what?”

“I honestly have no idea. Actually, maybe you should go in there, see if you can figure out what she’s talking about. Because it’s got something to do with you, Johnny. Your father - Peter Quinn, I mean. Something about people being after her for whatever she’s apparently figured out.”

I look at Franny who’s shaking all over, tears running down her face, and I don’t know what to do. On one hand, I don’t want her to walk in there, see Carrie like that. I don’t even know what ‘like that’ looks like at this point. On the other hand, who am I to keep her away from her mother? She’s been dealing with her illness her whole life, and surely saw things that I can’t even imagine.

“Ok, I’m gonna go in,” I say in the end, seeing how standing in the hallway and discussing it isn’t going to solve anything. “You ok coming with me?”

“Yeah,” Franny wipes her tears, holds on to my arm and tries to smile.

We find Carrie pacing her room. It looks nothing like it did when we were last here. Just four days ago, she had my father’s letters all over the walls and the floor. Both mine and Franny’s. I used to sit here for hours at times, amazed at her ability to hold so much information in her head, to remember where everything was, as she’d go through them, moving them around, sometimes without saying a word, sometimes explaining to me why she did that. She’d find a detail in one of the letters, so insignificant in my eyes that I wouldn’t even remember it having been there, and she’d tell me a story about it. It didn’t always have to do with my father. Sometimes it’d be something she’d remember him mentioning that connected to a point in history, an operation that I knew nothing about, or a political event that nobody ever heard of. Then the letter would fit in a different point in the timeline, and she’d fix the order.

The letters are still here, but they are not on the walls anymore: they’re piled up on the floor in the corner. Instead, the walls are covered with photographs, printed out news articles. They all have highlighted parts, in different colors, grouped together. And they have strings of matching colors, like a huge spider web, stretching all over the room - a diagram, a puzzle of such complexity that I wouldn't even know where to start looking to try to figure it out.

“Mom, what is this?” I hear Franny’s voice and I look down to see her eyes wide open, frozen, a stir of sorrow and desolation. She’s been here before, many times, I realize. Maybe not in this very room, but over the years she’s seen it all. “What are you trying to solve?”

Carrie swings around, only now noticing us in the room. Not even bothering to look at Franny, her eyes lock on me, her features become chisel hard, her lips pursing.

“You stay away from her!!!” she roars, crossing over before I even realize what's happening, grabbing Franny’s hand and yanking her away from me so hard that she cries out in pain.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Carrie…” Shocked and torn between getting to Franny and making some sense what’s happening, I try to get closer. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Carrie takes a step back and pulls Franny after her, further away from me, her eyes boring into mine with undisguised hatred and mistrust. Her knuckles turn nearly white as she squeezes Franny’s wrist even harder.

“Mom, let go! You’re hurting me!” Franny screams, and I’m beginning to see black at the sight of her writhing in pain.

With all of my senses dulled by fear, anger and despair, I take another step towards them. The sound of my own voice, razor sharp, nearly strident, startles me. It slashes through, as if it’s somebody else's, carrying that same ‘f’ word that I’ve always derided - it just bursts out, like a spear, an essence of boiled down grief.

“Carrie, for fuck’s sake, what the fuck are you doing?”

“What am I doing? Pfft,” she scoffs, starting to laugh. “I’m getting my daughter away from you. You won’t use her to get to me, not this time. I was right. All along, I was right. And you’ll never find him. He’s safe. I’m keeping him safe. You people will never touch him again.”

“Carris, who’s ‘us people’? Keeping whom safe? I don’t understand.”

“Like hell you don’t. Don’t give me this shit. You know exactly what I’m talking about. And who I’m talking about.  You’ve been lying to us. To me and to Franny. It was all a lie, a way to get closer to me. That’s why you kept asking when he’s coming. The letters, the stories… all a cover story.”

“What cover story? Why would I lie to you? Carrie, just… let’s just… just tell me what it is that you think I…”

Before I get a chance to finish, she lets go of Franny’s arm and steps closer to me. “You’re not his son. You’ve never even met him. Probably never heard of him before you were assigned. You’re just the right guy - right looks, right age, good training. Well, fuck you. All of you. You can take me away tomorrow, stuff me into another shithole. But you’ll never find him.”

Chapter Text

Dear John,

Jesus, this is probably my lowest point - paper wise. I wish I had time to look for a notepad, or at least a napkin, but my watch begins in less than half an hour, and it’s a hike from where I am now. I know I could probably wait until later on tonight. The thing is, I can never put off writing to you. Because where I am, doing what I do, I never know if I’ll get another chance .

I met a man once, in a bar, Special Forces veteran as it turned out later. I didn’t know him, and he didn’t know me. We were just sitting next to each other, drinking, complete strangers. Then, he turns to me and he says, “This fucking world is so big, and we’re so little. And yet after a certain point, you just know there’s no place in it for you anymore.” He went on to tell me a story about standing in line in the supermarket one day, shortly after he came home. He said there were two people arguing and screaming at each other over who was there first. He said a part of him wanted to laugh, thinking how petty and ridiculous they were, how senseless it was: fighting over a place in line, when he’d seen his friends being blown to pieces in front of his eyes, villages burning down. But at the same time there was a part of him that wanted to weep, because all he could think about was how much he wished he could find his way back into that world, where saving five minutes by being first in line was the biggest of his worries, or at least seemed important at the time .

He said life was a string, a line, sequence of events. Except that our string was much shorter than others. Not because our lives ended, but because there’s a point after which it doesn’t stretch forward, but gets twined in a knot. Once we’ve seen what we have, been where we’ve been, we can’t fit anymore, can’t move on. And the more we try to untangle that knot, the tighter it becomes.

It’s been years, but I still remember his words. Every so often I’ve tried to quit, hoping to live a normal life, see if I can have a place in yours. And every time, even before I submitted my resignation request, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get out. I don’t know if it makes any sense to you, but I think that man was right: after a while, we all hit the point of no return. Having seen what I’ve seen, I just don’t think normal is possible anymore. And maybe there’s more to it. Maybe, having done the things I’ve done, I’m not sure I even deserve it.

Yours,

Dad.

This letter is the only one that Carrie wasn’t able to date, not even approximately. She said it could fit in at any point of my father’s life, both the years she’d known him and beforehand.

It’s written on three tiles of toilet paper, folded on top of more layers, edges sealed and held together by industrial strength sellotape. When I first found my father’s letters I had this one scanned, afraid that it would fall apart. I have the copy at home, but the original is still in one piece, even though some other letters, written on notepad paper, are starting to look a little tattered. My father knew what he was doing with his sellotape, I guess.

This letter was the one that started my journey. I know I keep calling it a ‘journey’, while it was more like an inquiry, a quest. But this is what it felt like to me. Because I ended up discovering more about myself, the world I live in, the people in it, than I ever would have if I had never gotten to know my father. His letters, his voice, his pain were just the driving forces behind it. And it all started with the need to understand this one.

What do you say to that? If you don’t know someone, never have, if you don’t know what they did, if you have no idea about anything else in their lives - what do you say to a person who feels they’ve been out there, fighting, doing things that most people prefer not to know about, and now feel not only that they have no place in this world, but that they don’t even deserve one?

My first reaction was anger. I remember reading this letter, over and over, and wanting to scream at my father, tell him that of course he could have a place in my life, all he needed to do was show up, or at least pick up the phone. This wasn’t the first letter I read, so I already knew my father never forgot about me, that he loved me, thought about me all the time. I wanted to say to him that I don’t care about the people in the supermarket, or how unimportant and petty their little problems would seem to him. He was important. I was important. He was my father, and we would’ve worked out a way to make him fit, find a place for him in the world.

For days after reading this letter, maybe over a week even, I couldn’t read any of the others. I just stuffed them into a drawer in my room and walked around, brewing and stewing in my own pain, my own grief. Until one night, I was sitting in our living room, flipping through TV channels, but really just staring into space. Richard came to sit next to me, carrying two glasses of vodka on the rocks. It was about two weeks after we buried my mother, and, looking at his concerned face, I immediately felt guilty for making him worry about me, when he was grieving for his wife, whom he loved from the moment they met until her last breath.

“C’mon, Johnny, you’re not gonna let an old man drink alone, are you?” he said, after I shook my head ‘no’ at the glass he’d offered me.

“Dad, I’m fine. Really. Just need a little time to…” Reluctantly taking the vodka, I was looking for the right words to assure him that he shouldn’t worry about me.

“You’re not fine, love. Not even close. None of us are. So how about you take a sip, think about it, and tell me why I haven’t seen you read any of your father’s letters lately.”

“Because I don’t understand,” I replied, feeling the despair taking hold again.

“Do you want to?”

“What? Of course I do. I just don’t know if I can. I mean, how can you possibly understand someone whom you never even met?”

“Sure you can, Johnny. Your father wrote over a thousand letters to you. In a way, letters are even more personal, more intimate, than having a conversation. People write letters, sometimes never intending to send them, just so that they can let some things out, draw themselves out, feel like they are being heard. A lot of my patients begin to open up after I ask them to write a letter.”

“I know, Dad. But… maybe it was a way for him to be heard, but how am I supposed to listen ? When I can’t even ask him about anything he’d written? Can’t say anything back?”

“Ah,” Richard smiled, leaning back and taking a sip from his drink. “You do know that listening is not about asking or talking back, right?” I said nothing in return because, seriously, what was there to say? He was right, I should be able to just listen. He cleared his throat and continued: “Is this about that toilet paper letter? The one with the veteran?”

“Yes,” I said. And then, having thought about it, added: “No. Not just that one. It’s about all of them, Dad. Everything he was saying, everything he was feeling about me, the things he wrote…”

When I paused, Richard nodded and put a hand on my arm. “And yet he never quit, never showed up. He loved you, and missed you, and needed you. And you needed him. But you wonder if his job was more important to him.”

I slowly shook my head. No, I wasn’t that self-absorbed. “No. I think he really couldn’t. Quit, I mean. I just don’t understand why. We could’ve… we would’ve… I dunno, Dad. I need more. And he’s gone. I can’t tell him that it wouldn’t have mattered to me: what he did, where he was. I would’ve loved him, been proud of him.”

“You know I have two patients who are veterans. They both cope with PTSD, one of them also with disabilities. There’s a support group that meets twice a week, not too far from here. They both go. If you want, I could ask if it’d be ok for you to talk to them, ask them questions. They’re great guys, very decent people. I know it’s nothing like talking to your father. But what he’s telling you in that letter is really nothing unique. I’m sorry if it sounds insensitive, but it’s the truth. The inability to relate to people, to the everyday things the rest of us put so much meaning into, the feeling of guilt, not being able to find their place in the world, to even talk to their families, hold their children… I could go on and on. But the thing is… they all go through it. And it has nothing to do with how supportive their loved ones are, how much they try to help them re-enter. Do you think you’d like that? To sit down and talk with them, I mean.”

I said I would. And that’s how it started. It took more than meeting my father’s patients just once. We talked many times and still keep in touch. I spoke to other veterans who were willing to share their experiences as well. I went to support groups for the families of veterans and spoke to wives, husbands, parents, children. And after a while, they were all me, and they were all my father. I wasn’t angry anymore. All I wanted was to hug him, hold him close to me, listen, let his words, his pain, seep through me, knowing that it would never make it better, but realizing that all he wanted, all they all wanted, was to be heard.

***********************

The moment Carrie lets go of Franny’s hand and turns her attention to me, Franny runs out of the room. I call after her, leap to the door, but she’s already gone, disappeared from view. I look at Carrie, who’s still screaming, wild-eyed, flushed with rage, throwing words at me that still don’t make any sense. I want to go after Franny, see if she’s ok, but I can’t move, can’t leave Carrie like this, not without at least trying to make some sense of it.

I hear myself talking, trying to reason with her, calm her down, but my own words barely register. After a point, I’m not even sure what I’m saying anymore. I’m grasping at straws, doing my best to stay afloat, to follow through. Her words get harsher, more hurtful, by the minute. I realize she’s gone, there’s nothing I can say to get through to her. I’m trying to hold her as she’s thrashing against me, hitting me with her fists. But I can’t let go. I feel the burning of tears in my eyes and I think I’m actually crying, keeping my arms locked around her. I hear myself telling her that it’s going to be alright, we’ll figure it out, she’ll be fine, and I don’t even know which one of us I’m trying to convince.

The tears blurring my vision, I can barely see her anymore. All I’m left with are my memories of her before today: how kind she was to me, how patient, how much time she spent helping me make sense of my father’s life, how happy she was every time she saw me, how her eyes would light up when she’d see Franny. I don’t feel the pain of her punches. Instead, I’m trying to hold on to the image of her walking besides me, leaning against my arm, smiling. And I tell her that I won’t let go, no matter what she says or does, I’m not giving up on her.

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave now.”

Startled by the voice that’s not mine or Carrie’s, jolted out of the numbness and throbbing with pain all over, I turn around. As I do, my grip around Carrie loosens, and she breaks free, darting back and pressing against the wall. There’s a nurse in the room, accompanied by two orderlies.

“Sir? Please, step outside,” the nurse asks again.

“Just give me a minute!” I snap, turning back to Carrie, who suddenly looks like an animal of prey surrounded by predators, cornered, helpless. Her face wobbles and her eyes pierce into mine, the anger gone, replaced by fear. I position myself between her and the people in the room, only now seeing the restraints they are carrying. “Hey, you don’t need that! She’s not hurting anyone. Let me talk to her. Just leave us alone, let me stay here with her.”

The nurse's features soften as she approaches me, motioning to the two men to stay where they are. She places a hand on my forearm. “Mr. Quinn… John, you can’t stay here now. You’re going to have to let us help her, do our job. Please, step outside. I promise I’ll come to talk to you when we’re done.”

I hear Carrie scream again, a deep wailing sound that shatters my soul, and I swing around to see the men approach her, grabbing her elbows as she squirms and fights them off.

“Get away from her!!!” I growl, leaping towards them, blind with rage.

“Stay back! John, I’m not gonna ask you again. Step outside or I’m calling security.”

Disregarding the nurse’s words I’m trying to reach Carrie, when one of the men puts a hand on my chest. “Take your hands off of me and let her go!”

“Johnny! Johnny!!!” It’s Franny. She’s back. I hear her voice behind me as her hand closes firmly around my wrist, right before I get a chance to take a swing at the orderly. “Johnny…” she pleads in a much softer voice, as I stop and turn to her. “Let them do their job. There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“Fran, I can’t…” I feel myself deflating, letting go of the orderly’s arm. “We can’t. She needs…”

“She needs help, Johnny,” Franny says softly, stepping closer and placing a hand on my waist, gently nudging me towards the door. When I still don’t budge, she puts her other palm on my face, making me finally tear my eyes from Carrie and look at her. “Baby, you can’t help her. But they can. I know you want to. Believe me, I do. But Johnny, there’s nothing you can do for her right now, and neither can I. Not when it’s this bad. C’mon. We need to leave.”

I let her lead me out of Carrie’s room, into the corridor. As we walk away, Carrie’s screams follow, every one of them slashing through me like a spear, making me flinch and squeeze my eyes shut. Franny puts an arm around me, stroking my side, leaning against me, but she doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t let me stop either.

The moment we’re outside, I still. My lungs expand with a violent force, gulping the cool night air as if I’ve just emerged from being underwater for too long. I know the screams in my head can’t possibly be Carrie’s because we’re too far away, but I still hear them and I can’t shut them out.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Franny whispers, worming her arms around me and holding me tight. “I shouldn’t have left you in there. Jesus, you’re shaking. C’mere.” She pulls my head down and kisses my eyes, my face, my mouth, her hand sliding up and down my back.

I gather her to me and exhale sharply, letting it go. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” I find her arm, the one that Carrie grabbed and twisted, and carefully inspect the pink impressions of her mother’s fingers. “We should go to the hospital. It might be broken.”

“It’s not. It’ll bruise, but it’ll be fine.”

I kiss the inside of her wrist, then hold it next to my chest, covering her bruises with the palm of my hand. “Not the first time, huh?”

“Probably not the last either.” Franny huffs a soft chuckle, leaning into me.

For a while we just stand here, holding each other.

“What now?” I ask, hearing the helplessness in my own voice.

Franny looks up and reaches to caress my face. “We should go.”

“What are they gonna do? Sedate her?”

She nods, swallowing tears. “Sedation… give her something to calm her down, restraints, isolation. It might be a while before we’re allowed to see her again. Could be days.”

“Shit…” I rub my face and squeeze the corners of my eyes, then cover Franny’s head with my palm and kiss her forehead. “You want me to take you to Maggie’s?”

I don’t know why I say that. We were planning to go to my hotel, never intending to spend another night apart. God, it was just half an hour ago and it feels like a long forgotten dream. With the tears welling up in my eyes just from thinking about how happy we were, I look at Franny. She smiles, stands on tiptoe and kisses me.

“I’m coming with you,” she says in a calm, resolute voice that spreads through me like a warm ripple. “Johnny, nothing has changed. Nothing. Not between you and me. I know it’s a shock. But that’s Mom. That’s how she’s always been. She’s sick. Even if Richard’s right, and I hope he is, it’s going to take time, we know that. And even then, who's to say she won't go off her meds again or something. We can’t let it ruin our lives. I’m not going to Maggie’s unless it’s to pack.”

Relieved and heartbroken at the same time, I place my hands on the sides of her head. Whispering that she’s right, and that I was a moron to even think that, I kiss her temple at first, then let my mouth caress her face, the breath of my words brushing against her skin. Franny closes her eyes, and I feel a tear drop under my lips.

“I know.” I press her against me, my arms drawing a protective circle around her. “I love you so much, Fran, so much,” I repeat, stroking her hair.

Her fists clutch at the t-shirt on my back. “Don’t leave me, Johnny,” breathing a plea into my chest.

“I won’t,” I promise her again, like I did in that motel room, almost a month ago. “You know I won’t. You don't have to deal with this alone, not anymore.” She nods, and I lift her face to kiss her again. I don’t stop until she goes limp in my arms. “You ok to go?” I ask.

“Yeah. Just a little shaken up. You’d think I’d be used to it by now… But somehow it always gets to me.” She hides her face in my chest and draws a deep breath. “But it’s nothing that a drink and going to sleep next to you won’t fix.”

Reaching into my pocket for the car keys, I smile into her hair. “Luckily, I can help with both.”

Back at the hotel, I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar, and we head upstairs.

In my room, I drop our travel bags on the floor and open the door to the small balcony. It’s a warm night, so I’m thinking we’ll sit there, have a drink, and talk for a while before going to bed. I drag two chairs outside and put them next to each other, placing the whiskey along with two glasses on the small table. As I turn around, I see Franny sitting on the bed, fumbling with her suitcase zipper. Her hands are a little shaky and I’m about to ask if she’s ok, when she stops and lifts teary eyes to my face.

“When you asked if I wanted to go to Maggie’s… Jesus… I thought that was it. You were gonna bail. I mean, seeing that shit… I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

I cross over to her and, without another word, take her bag. Opening it, I find Hop and her pajamas first. I place Hop between our pillows, while her pjs go on her favorite side of the bed (the one from which she’d always slip under my covers). Then I pick up the suitcase and go to the closet. I unpack the rest of her clothes, folding them neatly next to mine, stuffing the things that need washing into the hotel laundry basket. Finally, I open the upper compartment of the closet and put her emptied suitcase away.

“Officially moved in,” I say, back by the bed, reveling in the beaming of her smile. I crouch down in front of her and slide my arms around her hips. “Too bad it’s just for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll find an apartment.”

Franny leans down and cradles my head in the loop her arms. “I love you,” she murmurs next to my mouth, and kisses me so hard that, before I know it, her embrace is the only thing that prevents me from tipping over.

Don’t ask me why I even bothered dragging two chairs onto the balcony. You’d think I’d know better by now. The moment I take my seat, preparing to open and pour the whiskey, Franny makes her way between the rail and her own chair and takes her place on my knees. Smiling, I wait for her to pull up her legs and curl into a ball next to my chest. Which she does, and for a moment the world falls away, leaving just the two of us.

I cover the side of her head with my palm, press my lips somewhere along her hairline, and we both still. I know that sooner or later we’ll have to deal with it. But not yet. I let my mind wander into the sea in my dream last night, hold onto the image of us in the water, far away from the shore, each keeping the other afloat. Slowly, the blue of the sky begins to seep through layers and layers of despair. I feel my muscles relax and my heart rate slow to the point of making me dizzy. From the depths of my memory there emerges a phrase, ‘parasympathetic backlash’, the calm overshoot after an adrenaline rush.

I don’t think in my whole life I ever crashed so hard after flying so high. I imagine Franny going through that as a little girl, time after time, trapped in this vicious circle, never knowing when the happiness would turn bitter in her mouth. I wonder if the shadow of her mother’s illness is always there, on the back burner, like a warning - don’t get too comfortable, shit can hit the fan any minute. But then I know that this time it wasn’t. Remembering how completely, incandescently happy she was these past couple of days, I feel my arms growing more taut around her.

“I wanna go back,” she mutters, as if reading my mind.

I don’t know if she means Philly or the state of mind, and it doesn’t really matter. “We will,” I promise.

Franny slowly shakes her head. “I was hoping you’d never have to see that. Stupid, I know. I mean, who was I kidding, right? But ever since you got here, everything changed. Even Mom. I don’t think I’ve seen her this stable… this happy in years. She never told me stories about her life back then. I’d ask, and she’d shut me out. I think we've been closer this past month than we've ever been before. And a part of me just hoped… you know…” Her voice breaks. “... that it was over. All of it.”

She starts crying and I hold her, fighting my own tears and stroking her hair. Nothing I can say or do will make it better. I realize this is part of my life now as well. And we’ll just have to live with it, pull each other through, one meltdown at a time.

“We’ll figure it out,” I whisper as my lips touch her face, smudging the tear stains.

Franny stiffens and lifts her head. “Figure what out?”

Taken aback a little by the confusion in her eyes, I draw a deep breath. “You know - your mom, what happened, why she’s like that all of a sudden.”

“She’s like that because she’s sick , Johnny. There’s nothing to figure out.”

“I know. But… something happened, right? Like you said, she was doing so much better. Something must have triggered it. Maybe one of the letters. Or something I said, or did.”

“Johnny it has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Something always happens. It doesn’t matter what triggered it.”

“But Fran, she was so specific. All those things she said, about me, about my father, about protecting him. The pictures on the wall, the articles, all the connections. They just didn’t seem random.”

“Oh, they are not.” Franny sits up and gently takes my hand into both of hers. For a long moment her eyes remain fixed on our joint hands, resting on her lap, as if she’s gathering her thoughts. When she finally looks up and starts to say what she was about to, something in my face makes the words choke in her throat. I feel her fingertips dig into my skin. “Oh God, Johnny, you thought… You hoped he was alive. Your father?”

At first I don’t answer, suddenly slapped with that same realization. The pain is physical, deep and visceral, so excruciating that I stifle a sob. It nearly tears me apart, exposing a wound that I thought had long closed.

I feel my lips moving. “I don’t know,” I say finally, not even sure I spoke those words out loud.

Franny gasps, letting go of my hand and grabbing my shoulders. She wraps herself around me, squeezing hard until the numbness is gone. Her palms lie firmly on the sides of my head, forcing my scattered and disoriented glance to settle on her face. “Baby, but you do. You do know. You know your father’s been gone for many years.”

My eyes begin to burn with tears. “Maybe,” I utter, nearly inaudible again.

“Johnny, no! No ‘maybe’. God, I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen this, I should’ve talked to you about it before. It’s all in her head, Johnny, all of it. Jesus, and I’ve been helping you try to find out about the man that comes to see her. Johnny, I never believed it was your father, I thought you understood that. I should’ve said something. God, I can’t see you like this, and it’s my fault. I’m so sorry.” She wipes my tears with her thumbs, then presses her mouth to my eyes as her arms wrap tightly around my neck. “I’ve been down that road with her so many times. I forgot how easy it is to fall for it.”

I exhale through pursed lips, trying to steady my voice. “What road? What do you mean?” I ask finally, although I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

“Getting caught up in it. Caught up in her grandiose delusions.” Franny’s lips tremble. “Baby, she’s not just brilliant. She’s very convincing, and like you said, very specific. About five years ago, when she was out, she saw something on the news. And she was convinced that there was an imminent attack. She had the whole thing figured out. She pulled every favour she was owed, called everyone she knew. She tried to contact the CIA, then the FBI. Even before it all blew up, we had people watching our house, following her. I know now that they were probably government agents, but she had me convinced they were trying to shut her down. Even after she was locked up, I believed her. She’d ask me to deliver coded messages to this… something she called a ‘safe house’. There was nobody there. She was in a closed ward and didn’t have access to the computer, so I’d sneak in the articles she needed to complete that diagram of hers. She even asked me to go see a reporter, somebody she knew, who she claimed would believe her. Johnny, I was detained and questioned for six hours… CIA or FBI, I don’t even know. I was a kid , fifteen years old. I didn’t know anything, but they kept grilling me. Because she’s an ex CIA operative, a national security risk. And when she goes off the rails, I guess they’re afraid that she’ll blurt out something she’s not supposed to.”

I feel the blood turning to ice in my veins. “Oh God,” is all I can say, pulling her towards me and shrouding her.

“You understand, of course, there was no attack. And the worst part is - it wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t the last, either. Usually I can see through it. I let her talk to me about it, and I listen, but I don’t get caught up in it. It’s never easy. Because Mom is very determined. A part of me always knows that it’ll end up blowing up in my face, but there’s also a part that remembers that she wasn't always delusional about these things. She’s saved lives before, when nobody believed her. And it’s not something you can ignore, when she screams at the top of her lungs that an attack is coming, people are gonna die, and nobody is listening to her.”

I’m starting to feel dizzy again, my head throbbing with fury and helplessness. It all comes crumbling down and I don’t even know what ‘it’ is. I'm not sure anymore if I'm even still hoping my father is alive, or if I care why Carrie would believe that. All I want to do is grab Franny, pack up our things, and take her as far away from here as possible. She’d told me before about some of the things she’s been through, and so has Maggie. She’s been caught up in her mother’s crusades since she was just a little girl. But nothing’s hit me as hard as the image of her locked in an interrogation room, for hours, scared and alone.

“Johnny, I’m not telling you this just to complain about my life. She’s my mother, I love her. She tried to protect me from that life, to give me a stable home. And there were times when it worked. But some things never changed and never will. She is who she is, and when she’s sick, she can’t control it. Whether she’s out to save the world or someone she thinks is your father, even if it were real, that’s her choice, her battles. I won’t let her suck you into it. I don’t wanna see you get your heart broken when you realize it was all in her head. Because it most likely is. Whoever she’s been meeting with, or thinks she’s protecting… Baby, it’s not your father.”

I’m about to say that I don’t give a damn about who the man is anymore, when my phone begins to ring. It’s still in my pocket, set to vibrate. I dig it out, fully intending to switch it off.

“Crap…” I huff, seeing the caller ID. I only now notice multiple message notifications on the status bar. “Dad,” I answer, rubbing my face. “I’m sorry. I… We’re back, we’re alright. I was going to call you after we go to…” I look at Franny, unsure how much she wants me to tell Richard about what’s been happening.

She smiles, takes the phone from my hand and puts it on speaker. “Hi, Richard.”

“Hi, sweetie. Oh, it’s so nice to hear your voice again. We’re all missing you like crazy already. Both of you. I’m sorry to call so late. I tried messaging. Got worried when I didn’t hear back. Usually when Johnny travels he calls or messages to let us know he’s gotten there safely. It’s a silly thing we have.”

“No, it’s not silly at all. It’s nice,” Franny says as she looks up at and nods for me to go ahead and tell him.

“Dad, we didn’t call you because… Something happened. We went to see Carrie and… she’s… she’s not ok, Dad. She’s in isolation again.”

I go on to give him the short version of events. Except there is still the full version in my head and, as I speak, it all comes back: Carrie, wild-eyed, infuriated, and out of control, her words, hurtful and confusing, her soul-shattering wails, my own reluctance to walk away.

With horror I realize if they hadn’t thrown me out, I’d be sitting in that isolation room right now, holding her hand, trying to understand what happened to the kind and caring woman that I met a month ago, hoping to be able to tether her just enough to get through. And yet, I recognize that everything that Carrie threw at me is built around a single premise that’s fundamentally false: I am who I say I am, Peter Quinn was my father. This alone should’ve been enough for the whole delusion to come tumbling down like a house of cards . Except it wasn’t. If Franny hadn’t dragged me out, I’d probably have been arrested for assaulting the hospital staff. How on Earth did I end up here?

Richard’s voice jolts me back. I guess somehow, despite the haze of confusion and anger, I managed to keep it together and fill him in.  “Ok, I’ll just change, tell Mia that I’m leaving, and be on my way.

“Dad, don’t. I mean, thank you. But from what Fran tells me there’s nothing we can do for her tonight. It’s late, and it’s a long drive. We’ll keep you posted in the morning if anything changes.”

Richard considers it, then sighs. “Fine. But you won’t have to keep me posted in the morning. I’ll be there first thing.”

“Dad…”

“Johnny, it’s not up for debate. I’ll be there. As I said, a colleague of mine works in that hospital. And I’m done playing nice. Carrie needs to be put back on lithium and the rest of her usual cocktail before it gets worse. We’ll see where we go from there.”

There’s no changing Richard’s mind when he gets like this. He’s a fairly level-headed man all-in-all, calm and rational, but not when it comes to his children needing him. When Barry killed himself, Richard was at a conference in Singapore. He was in the middle of a lecture, sitting on the panel, when he got my mother’s message. He didn’t even go to back to his hotel to get his stuff. He headed straight to the airport and didn’t stop until he found me at the university, threw his arms around me, and let me cry on his shoulder.

I rub my face and shake my head. “Ok. We’ll see you in the morning,” I say. “But please go to sleep now. It’s past midnight.”

“I will, I will,” he laughs. “Stop being your mom about it. You guys ok though? Need to talk?”

I look at Franny. She nods and strokes my arm. “We’ll be fine,” I answer finally.

“You should have a drink. And go to bed. I’ll see you bright and early.”

I steal a glance at the whiskey. “Done deal. Night, Dad. Love you. Drive safely tomorrow.”

“Love you too. Both of you. Just get your minds off of it. You’re not alone. Alright? Night.” I’m about to hang up when I hear his voice again. “Oh, before I forget. Max was looking for you. Did he reach you? He said you weren’t answering, so he called here.”

“Oh, I’ll check my messages. The phone was on silent when we were at the hospital. Thanks. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

I have three missed calls from Max and four messages. I look at the time and check when he last went online. It’s too late. He’s probably asleep, and none of his messages indicate anything urgent. I give Google Assistant a voice command to remind me to call him tomorrow at noon.

I haven’t seen Max in over a year, since my mother’s funeral. He’s an old family friend, but of all of us he was closest with Mom. In fact, she met him first. He was part of the team that was installing a software upgrade at her police station at the time.. It was getting late, and she invited him over to our house for dinner. Knowing my family, you can imagine how it ended.

My sisters and I were kids then, and we were all fond of Max. Luna calls him Uncle Max to this day. He’d always bring presents, spend hours playing with us. He was especially close to me, and later on became the reason I went into programming. He was the one who taught me my first programming language - Python. It’s still my favorite. Max and I used to play Codewars in Python: he’d make up a problem, and I’d have to write a short program to solve it. As I got better, he started limiting the time I’d have to solve each problem, as well as the number of attempts I’d be allowed to run it without errors. He’d write his own as well, and then show me several other ways to approach it. His way of looking at numbers fascinated me. I program in seven different languages today, and I don’t think I ever build an algorithm without hearing his voice in my head.

On the day of my mother’s funeral, Max cried his heart out. He never left my side, but he never said a word. He was a lonely man, didn’t have any children, had never been married. I always thought he was secretly in love with my mother, but on that day I knew it was something entirely different, a connection that ran even deeper than that. I’ve been meaning to grab a beer with Max and maybe ask him about it. We tried setting up a meet several times over the last year, but somehow never got around to it. Max lives in California now, teaches at CalTech. We used to see more of each other when I was in Mountain View. He flies to the East Coast for business every couple of weeks, but we’ve never managed to sync our schedules. I hope he’s around and can make the time, because I can’t wait for him to meet Franny, and vice versa.

“Is that Max, your mom’s friend?” she asks, when I put the phone on the table next to the whiskey glasses.

The first time I told her about Max, she said her mother used to have a friend named Max as well at one time. He and Franny were somewhat close as she was growing up.

“Yep.” I prop her higher up on my lap. “You’ll love him.”

This is the first time since we got back that Franny’s smile isn’t sad or forced, and I promise myself that we’re done talking about the terrors of this evening.

As if the fog is lifting in front of my eyes, I realize that even if Carrie is right, about any of it, now or in the past, this is not our fight, neither mine nor Franny’s. This is where it ends. Carrie will be a part of my life because she’s the mother of the woman I love. Maybe she’ll get better, maybe she won’t. We’ll deal with it either way. My father was caught up in Carrie’s crusades partly because it was his job, and partly because he loved her. Maybe he couldn’t get out, or maybe he didn’t want to. I love him very much, and I respect and admire him even more. He did his duty, lived his life, gave away his heart with a passion and integrity that are beyond reproach. I guess it rubbed off on me more than I thought. Because over the course of the last month, as my father has become a bigger part of me, Carrie has blended into his story. But I’m not my father. Whatever happens to Carrie, I’ll be there: for her, for Franny, for Maggie. But this is where I draw the line. I won’t let it define our lives.

I smile back and place a hand over the side of her face.

She stretches up to meet me halfway for a soft kiss. “Richard is the nicest man I’ve ever met. Well, except you.”

“Yep. Give him a coupla more days and he’ll adopt you. And I speak from personal experience,” I laugh, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels. “So, beautiful, can I buy you a drink?”

Franny sits up, looping one arm around my neck. “I dunno, handsome. Are you planning to get me drunk and take advantage of me?”

I snort a chuckle as I bury my face in her hair, kiss my way through until I reach her ear, and then let my mouth travel down her neck. “After last night… and, well, this afternoon, you really think I need to?” I whisper against her skin, making her shiver and smiling when her fingers tangle in my hair.

“You’ve made your point, you smug motherfucker,” she giggles. “Now where’s my drink?”

We don’t talk much after that. Small sips of whiskey spread waves of heat through our bodies, slowly dulling our minds just enough to let go. I cradle Franny in my one free arm, reveling in the feeling of her splayed over my chest, my cheek resting on the top of her head. Every time I take a breath I feel her weight as she rises and falls on top of me, and for some reason it makes everything inside me feel lighter, more grounded.

“Johnny, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “This is not how we wanted to spend the night.”

I turn my head slowly and kiss her forehead, pushing with my lips to lift her face. “Fran, it’s just one night. And it probably won’t be the last. At the risk of sounding like a bumper sticker: that’s just life, and we’ll take it one shitty night at a time. Tomorrow we’ll find a nice place, move in, see how things are with your mom. If all goes well, in a couple of months we’ll move to Philly, you’ll transfer to Penn. Like you said. This doesn’t change anything. And we’ll have plenty of nights to make up for this one. I promise.”

“Ok,” she murmurs as she rubs the side of her face against my shoulder, then gives me a smirk of a smile. “So… what kinda place do you have in mind?”

“Ah. Let’s see.” I push us both up a bit, getting more comfortable, set my empty glass on the table and throw another arm around her. “I was hoping maybe something like the second one we saw today?”

“The one with the wind chimes?”

“Yep. And we’ve got to get us some of those. But yeah… I was thinking: small, cozy, big windows, lots of light, a little balcony or a backyard where we can sit in the evening before going to bed, nice kitchen… oh, and we gotta get one o’them ridiculously large beds.” I rub my nose next to hers.

“Yeah,” Franny laughs, tugging at the shirt on my chest. “That place also had a ridiculously large bathtub.” She winks and and I feel my heart rate skyrocketing.

“Huh… ok, thanks for putting that image into my head. That’ll make it easier to doze off.”

She plants a long caressing kiss on my mouth. “Something tells me you’ll doze off just fine.”

I wake up the following morning surprisingly rested. If you’re the kind of person who likes to sleep in, you know what I’m talking about. Usually I can tell what time it is even before I open my eyes. It goes like this: if my head feels like I’d rather have a bullet in it then get up - it’s before eight in the morning; if my every brain cell screams ‘coffee, or I’m shutting down again’ - it’s between eight and ten; anything along the lines of ‘I could murder a four inches tall pile of pancakes right now’ or ‘please-please-please tell me I have aspirin and some beer in the fridge’ - um, you get the idea.

I’m lying on my side, my head on the pillow. That's as much sense as I can make of my spatial orientation. My face is buried into something that feels and smells like my own t-shirt. And my arm is resting across something that feels nothing like Franny, at least not the part of Franny that it was holding when we finally fell asleep. Without opening my eyes, I move my hand in an attempt to identify what it is that I’m hugging.

“My leg,” I hear a laughing answer. Again, the spatial analysis is all screwed up, because her voice is coming from above my head.

I roll to my back and open my eyes. Immediately, I snort - I could think of snugglier ways of waking up next to her, but I know right away this will always be my favorite. Franny is sitting on my pillow, her back against the headboard. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, which looks more like a dress on her, reaching almost down to her knees. Her hair is tied in that sloppy knot that I adore so much, and, on top of all that, she has her reading glasses on. Oh, the reading glasses… Every time I see her wearing them, I can’t help a smile: they are delicate, with a slim rim, but they completely transform her face and make her look like a cute science nerd.

“Hey, come back!” she protests, wiggling her legs impatiently. “You were so warm and cozy.”

I laugh, roll back onto my side, throw my arm around her thighs and, just in case, pull up my knees and trap her feet between them. “Better?” I kiss her hip and rub my face into it.

“Much. Now don’t move until I finish this chapter.”

I smirk, looking up. “Whatcha doin’?”

Without taking her eyes off of her iPad’s screen, Franny slides her hand between my shoulder and my jaw and tickles me. “Trying to keep my mind off the gorgeous naked man sleeping next to me.”

“By doing what?” Curious to know what could possibly top the naked me, I put a finger on the edge of the iPad and tilt it towards me. “Combinatorial Optimizations?” I read out loud, cracking up. “Yep. That’ll do it.”

“What? I have an exam on Thursday.” Franny grumbles. “And for the record, it doesn’t do it. I’ve been reading the same chapter over and over for the past two hours. This is the fifth time.” As I weave my head between her thighs and the iPad, kissing her tummy and moving around the folds of the t-shirt with my nose, she giggles and adds: “And you’re not helping!”

“Who says I’m trying to?” I laugh, sliding my palm up her hip. “Besides, you said the problem was me being naked and sleeping. Well… one problem solved. Speaking of the other, though…” I tug at her sleeve. “Cute evening gown. But you’re seriously overdressed for the occasion.”

“Funny story about that… At some point you were getting too distracting, so I tried to go study on the balcony. But you know, I had a feeling you wouldn’t appreciate people gawking at your naked girl. Hence the evening gown. I’m confiscating it, by the way.”

“Fine, it’s yours. But it’s still in the way.” I take the iPad, put it on the nightstand, remove her glasses, and pull the t-shirt over her head.

Laughing, Franny slides into my open arms and leans into me with a soft sigh that makes me ache for her all over. “I intend to get used to this,” she breathes out a whisper as I kiss her deeply once, then gasps my name when my mouth slides to her neck and my hand shoots up her ribcage.

There’s a knock on the door. With an exasperated groan, I drop my my head onto Franny’s chest. She’s trembling with laughter. We both take our best guess at who seems to be making a habit out of having the worst timing. At the same time I mutter “Dad,” and Franny giggles “Richard.” Huffing, I emerge from under the blanket, pull myself up and kiss her.

“See if you can get used to this,” I laugh.

She grabs my t-shirt and her pajama pants, kisses me once more with a long frustrated moan, and slides from under me. “Bathroom. Go. You get dressed, I’ll get the door.”

I slump onto my front and growl into the pillow. A moment later I’m hit on the head with my jeans, a fresh shirt and a pair of boxers. Franny doesn’t throw like a girl. And she’s gonna pay for that. But for now, I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom.

I get dressed and wash up quickly. It’s a quarter past ten, and I realize we still have time to have breakfast. As I stick out my head, my toothbrush still in my mouth, I’m about to suggest that they order room service when I see Richard unloading Tupperware boxes onto the table. I roll my eyes and nearly choke on the toothpaste: leave it to my family to come visit someone at the five-star hotel with a truck full of homemade food.

“Dad, this is… you’re insane.”

He unpacks two more boxes and turns around. “You won’t be complaining when you see what Mia made for you.”

Great, now I’m choking on toothpaste and saliva. Because I have an idea. There’s only one acceptable kind of comfort food in my family, and I can hear my stomach making familiar happy noises.

I rinse my mouth, wash and dry my face, and step out to find myself in Richard’s embrace. Before I get a chance to move away, he opens one arm for Franny and pulls her in as well. I don’t think you ever grow out of feeling safe and protected while being held by a loving parent. The wave of relief that washes over me is every bit as powerful as the ones I used to have as a young boy, crying over something that happened at school and having Richard scoop me into his arms. I see Franny burying her face in his shirt, him stroking her hair, and I tighten my hold on them both and allow my head to drop onto his shoulder.

“So,” Richard says finally. He kisses both our heads, lets go of me and holds Franny just a tiny bit longer. “How about we have breakfast. It’s probably cold, but it’s still delicious. I had to leave early because I wanted to stop by the hospital before coming here. I have some good news. Let’s eat and talk.”

The boxes with food have my mother written all over them. First of all, just as I suspected, the largest one has a huge pile of her french toast. It carries the smell of my childhood that will follow me everywhere I go. Mia is the only one who can make it just as good. We all know the recipe, but neither Luna nor I have ever been able to come even close. But it’s not just the food or the smells, it’s the way it’s packed: every box has a note attached to it, some more than one, and every note, be that a couple of words or a funny drawing, makes you smile or laugh. My mother used to do that with our lunch boxes, the food she’d pack for us when we’d go on trips, and later when we went off to college. Even the leftovers in our fridge always have these little notes on them. As we set up the table, the three of us, we pass the notes to each other and laugh.

We sit across from Richard, as usual not needing more than one chair: Franny sits on my knee, her back to me, my arm securing her around the waist. For a while we just chatter and stuff our faces with cinnamon-flavoured, maple-syrup-dripping heaven.

“Ok,” Richard starts, following a momentary pause. “So, my colleague managed to grant me access to your mom.” He looks at Franny and smiles. “She’s doing fine, all things considered. She’s a little drowsy from the Haldol they gave her last night, but I’ve made sure they are not going to give her anymore. She’s back on lithium as of this morning, and we’ll start the rheumatology workup, do the blood tests.”

“Is she going to need to be moved? To that other hospital, I mean?” Franny asks cautiously, tensing up.

“Well, that would be ideal. But I spoke to her about it and it seemed to be increasing her agitation. As a mental patient committed to an institution, she doesn’t have a say in it. We could get Maggie’s consent and move her anyway. But I don’t like forcing these things. I don’t think it’s worth unnerving her even further. So I did my best to explain to her why I think the tests are necessary, and my friend, the rheumatologist, will be here in the afternoon to give her an even better picture.”

“Thank you.” Franny places her arms on top of mine and slides her hand into my palm. “So, if he’s allowed to see her, that means…” She takes a deep breath to steady her voice. “...Can we? Johnny and I? Ok for us to visit? Because usually I can’t go there for days after they put her in isolation.”

“I know, dear. That’s usually how it works. Which is why I insisted on coming and talking to her myself. She seems more… lucid. If they don’t give her more Haldol and she stays calm, I’ll see how she is after the workup. You might even be able to see her later in the afternoon.”

“Oh wow, really?” I feel Franny’s fingers spasming around my hand and I squeeze back.

“I can’t promise, of course, but…”

“No, I know.”

Richard stands and crouches next to us, placing one hand on my back and one on Franny’s forearm. “I know something like that never gets easier,” he says to Franny, then shifts his gaze to me. “And seeing it for the first time can be a soul-wrenching experience. Which is why I’m not leaving. I’ve written consult emails to some of the best specialists in the world, people who’ve dealt with psychiatric illnesses exacerbated by an organic cause, have more knowledge about it than I do. Carrie will get the best treatment possible, I’ll make sure of that. And she won’t be put in isolation unless it’s absolutely necessary. You’ll get to spend time with her the moment she’s feeling up to it. It won’t be days. I promise.”

I think we’re both close to weeping in relief. Instead, we let Richard hold us again, thanking him over and over.

“Ok. So, I’m off to the hospital. You guys had planned on going to see apartments, right? Which is what you should do. Go out, have fun, take your minds off of it, let me handle it. I’ll keep you posted.”

He starts to leave but as I hold the door open for him, he stops and looks at me. He seems to be bothered by something.

“Dad, what is it?” I ask.

He clears his throat and looks at Franny. “Maybe nothing. But I did have two questions I wanted to ask. I’m not even sure it’s relevant… Maggie mentioned something this morning. She said your mother had another power of attorney? Do you know something about it? Who it might be?”

Franny shakes her head. “I thought it was just Maggie.”

“Apparently not. She said that some of her decisions were overruled in the past, but the hospital staff never told her who the person was.”

“Can they even do that?” I lift an eyebrow.

“They can, if the person is indeed empowered. It’s a little shady, though. Seeing how they went against Maggie’s wishes. I found it peculiar, so I thought I’d ask.”

“Do you think that… person… can interfere now? Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Not really. At least I hope not.”

“And the other thing?” I remind him, as he turns to leave.

“Oh, yes. Maggie said Carrie claims your father is alive. That he comes to visit her? I’m sorry to bring this up, but you never mentioned it.”

It’s true, I didn’t. I realize that was the only thing I never told Richard. I don’t even know why. I guess I was afraid that if I start talking about it, I’d let myself really believe it. But I’m too overwhelmed and confused to think about it right now.

“You think… it’s connected? The man, the other legal guardian… You think it’s…”

“Your father? No.” Seeing my face twitching, Richard pulls me into his arms again. “I’m sorry I brought it up, love.”

“It’s ok, Dad,” I say, moving away and studying his face. “But you do think it’s important. Why?”

“It’s…” he takes his time to formulate his reply. “It’s something I’d like to look into. Not because it’d change anything in Carrie’s course of treatment. But… I don’t wanna throw empty words. Somebody came to me for a consult about a year ago… it might not be related, but I need to talk to that person. I’ll let you know if I find out anything more concrete.”

I want to know more. I feel that same desperate, bitter hope fluttering in my heart again. Franny touches her hand to my back. I look down, meeting her eyes. She says nothing, but I hear her all the same. This is not about me, nor is it about my father. This is about Carrie. I remind myself of the promise I made last night: Franny and I stay on this side of the line. And I let it go once more.

We spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon going to open houses. We both know it’s going to be a temporary place, just until Carrie’s condition stabilizes and we can move away. But it’s going to be the first home we share, and we want it to be just the way we imagined it.

The money is not an issue, so we end up seeing some really nice apartments and houses. They are all too big, but Franny takes mental notes of the things she might like to have when we have our own place, and there are more of us.

I know I have a rather ridiculous history of being too serious about a relationship from the get go. I also realize that this time seems no different. I mean, Franny and I met about a month ago, got serious about it just yesterday, and here we are - moving in together. But it is different. For both of us. We didn’t talk about it, it just happened. We haven’t mentioned marriage or having kids, but neither of us can imagine spending another day apart. I can remember the time I didn’t know anything about my father, but for the life of me I can’t recall not loving Franny. And when she mentions ‘more of us’, I’m not thinking about when we’re going to have kids or how many. I just know we will.

The moment we cross the threshold to our new home, we both know it. It’s a small apartment on the top floor of a five-storey building: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, small living room, medium-size nicely utilized kitchen, a tiny balcony overlooking the park downstairs, wooden floors. It’s filled with light everywhere you go. There’s a small skylight in the living room. Franny jumps into the bright square on the floor, looks up, squints and bursts into laughter. I watch the sun shimmering in her auburn curls, caressing her skin, casting gentle shadows under her eyelashes, bathing her in its warm glow, and I turn to the realtor.

“We’ll take it,” I say. She nods, smiling, and begins to fumble with her tablet, looking for the lease agreement, mumbling something about not remembering the exact amount of rent. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll take it,” I assure her.

I step into the light and touch both hands to Franny’s face. She opens her eyes and my breath hitches. They will always be the sea in my dream: calm, glimmering, boundless blue that I’m willing to drown in.

“I always wanted a skylight,” she whispers with a faint smile, barely past shy.

I kiss her, tasting the sun on her lips, brushing my fingers over the sparkles of light in her hair. And I make a mental note myself: in that big house, our own house, when there are more of us, I’ll have a skylight for her in every room.

We sign the lease and get the keys on the spot, giggling in delight as we make a ritual out of hooking them to our keychains. We’re waiting to hear from Richard if we can go visit Carrie today. In the meantime, I go online, log onto my hotel account, and check out effective this afternoon. Then we call Maggie and tell her that we’ll be coming by to pack up Franny’s room sometime later in the day. She sounds both sad and happy, tells us she can’t say she didn’t see it coming. We take pictures of our new home and send them to both our family’s chat groups, getting cheers, internal design tips, and furniture recommendations from my sisters, Jessica and Dana. Chris says he hopes we get a pullout couch, so he can crash at our place when he comes to the East Coast. We promise we will.

We have lunch at a small bistro near our new apartment. Then go in again. The place is empty. Completely. We’ll have to sleep in sleeping bags until the furniture arrives, but we both agree that we’re not trading it for the luxury of the hotel. We take measurements, make a list of all the things we need. There’s a small park right next to the building where we settle on one of the benches, go online, and order everything on the spot.

We almost finish unpacking the first shopping trip we take together: basic toiletries, dry food that doesn’t require refrigeration, towels, soaps, shampoos - everything we’ll need until our furniture arrives in a couple of days. In the end we decided to forgo the above-mentioned sleeping bags in the favor of the Pottery Barn inflatable bed that Maggie offered to give us. We’re about to leave and drive to my hotel to pack our things and check out, when Richard calls.

Carrie is doing better. She met with the rheumatologist and had some tests done. He puts her on the phone. She sounds a little drowsy still, slurring her words, talking slower than she usually does. She says she wants to see us, then starts crying. Neither of us knows what to say. I feel myself choking back tears as well. It’s one thing studying about mental patients facing the remorse after an episode of acute psychosis, remembering everything they’d said and done, realizing they were betrayed by their own thoughts, unable to help it, hurting those closest to them and knowing they’ll probably end up doing it again, and again, and again. It’s a whole other depth of anguish seeing the woman I’ve come to love and admire so much go through that. We promise her we’ll be on our way and wait for her to quiet down.

Just before leaving, we stop at the door, holding each other and looking around. We barely spent an hour here, but we miss it already. It’s not easy to kiss when neither of us can stop smiling, but somehow we manage to draw it out.

On our way to the hospital, we plan the rest of the week. The despair and helplessness of last night seem to be finally fading into the background, leaving us both with even more hope than we had coming back to Virginia.

By the time I see the white minivan appearing out of nowhere from the left and heading straight towards us, it’s too late. I hit the brakes and try to steer away, but even before the screeching of the tires registers in my brain, I know it’s lost. There’s a deafening thump, followed by the sound of shattering glass as the car rams into the driver’s side door. My body explodes with pain as if every bone has been split and crushed. I open my mouth to scream, but my lungs refuse to fill with air. I think we’re airborne, thrown into a roll. I hear metal creaking against the asphalt, Franny crying my name. The world is spinning, beginning to fade. There’s a sharp piercing sensation ripping through my middle that nearly tears me apart. And it all goes black.

Chapter Text

Dear John,

You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met. I used to come by and hang around when you were younger. Usually, you wouldn’t notice me. I tried to stay out of sight or mix into the crowd. Especially if your mother was there. But there were two times when I couldn’t keep away. And we actually talked.

The first time was in the park where you used to play, not far from where you and your family live. Before that day, I’d watched you play there many times, sitting in my car. You were a little over five years old. I don’t know what gave me the courage to come closer. Maybe it was the fact that your mother was at the hospital - she’d just had your sister Mia - so I knew I wouldn’t be recognized. I sat on the bench where she’d usually sit. I did that because I saw you stealing looks at it from time to time, as if expecting your mother to be there. I knew you wouldn’t realize that the man sitting there with a book was your father, but it made me feel that in a way I was giving you something you needed.

You kept looking at me, and after a while you came and sat by my side. You said it was your mother’s bench, and asked which kid was mine. I guess to you, every grown-up in that park had to be watching over one of their kids. Well, so was I. But I told you that I didn’t have a kid, and that I was just there to read my book. I don’t think I’ll ever forget those words coming out of me, the way they tore me apart. You didn’t want to go, and I didn’t have the heart to send you away. You were probably missing your mother, wanted to feel closer to her. And I was thinking that I might never get another chance to be this close to you.

We didn’t talk for some time. I went back to reading my book. You sat near me, swinging your legs and looking around. Then you said that you just had a baby sister. I asked if you were glad. You said you wanted a little brother, but that girls are cool too. Then, all of a sudden, you looked straight at me and asked why I was sad. I said I had trouble at work. Which wasn’t the reason, but wasn’t a lie, either. Your stepfather came to take you home. He didn’t like what he saw and I can’t blame him. I probably should’ve told you that talking to strange men on the street wasn’t a good idea. And I hope he did.

The second time we met was just last week. I’d just come back from a two-year long mission. I’m leaving again tomorrow. I followed you and your mother to the mall. Mia is three years old now, and I guess along the way you found out that having a sister wasn’t so bad after all. Because I never saw you let go of her hand.

I didn’t intend to keep following you around. I was at the bookstore, looking for something to read on the plane. I turned around and there you were, just you and Mia. She wanted to look at one of the books from the higher shelves, and you tried to hold her high above your head so that she could reach it. I asked if I could help. You set your sister down and politely asked me if I didn’t mind getting the book for you. When I handed it to you, you thanked me and looked straight at me again. I know you didn’t remember me from the day we met three years ago. All you saw was a stranger. All I saw my biggest joy and my biggest regret, the one lost chance that I’ll never live to forgive myself for.

Your mother called your name and we both turned around. I realized too late that she wasn’t supposed to see me. I think she recognized me, but she never said anything. She took your hand and you were all gone.

I don’t know if you remember me. I’m not even sure you will if you read this letter. And I guess it’s ok.

Yours,

Dad.

I remember. Dad, I remember. I’m running. I’m in the park. I keep saying those words, over and over, afraid that if I stop, I’ll forget. This is what I want to say, what I will say, once I find him. My voice is that of small child, ragged and serrated, interrupted by my labored breathing. It goes up and down, syllables swallowed, then repeated. I remember. I re...member. There are too many people around, too many other voices. I’m very little. Everyone is so much taller than me, I’m not used to that anymore.

“...you out, ma’am. Move away from the door…”

I look around to see who said that, but people keep walking by.

“...know how to check for the pulse?..”

Of course I know, I finished pre-med. A girl’s voice. She’s crying. Mia? I remember, she was holding my hand, at the mall. But I’m not at the mall, I’m still in the park. I’m running, looking for my mother’s bench. Looking for the man with a book. I know him. I know why he’s sad. I need to tell him. I know he’s not a stranger.

“...see him breathing. That’s good. I’m going to see if I can slide in a cervical collar through the…”

I don’t remember the park being so big. It used to take me just a little over a minute to run from one end to the other. I should see the bench by now. The man. I see other benches, other people. But not the one I’m looking for. I run harder, faster. I feel like I’ve been running for a long time now. But I’m not getting tired. My legs are so light that I can’t feel them.

“...you hear me? Johnny! Johnny, please, open...”

Mia? I look around, call her name. But no. The voice is older. Mom? Something inside my chest flutters and folds on itself, crumbles into a tiny knot. I feel sad, lost. I know that even when I find the bench, she won’t be there. She’s not at the hospital either. She’s gone.

“...unresponsive to voice and painful stimuli. Twenty-five year old male, visible penetration trauma…” Crackling noise, radio static.

Sirens. Voices. Screeching of metal. Loud pounding. I stop to see where the sirens are coming from. The park is empty, there are no fire trucks, no ambulances, no police cars. No people. The benches stretch along the alley, as far as the eye can see, both ahead of me and behind me. A mirror image. Anywhere I look, it’s the same. Which way should I go?

“...t’s the ETA? When can we get in?...”

I start running again, choose a random direction. My left arm hurts, I hold it across my chest with my right one.

“Johnny, don’t move. Can you hear me?”

Cold fingers on my right hand, releasing my grip on my left forearm. It drops lifelessly along my body. I scream in pain. Why does it hurt so much? I can hear you. I feel my mouth moving, my jaws unclenching. Metallic taste in my mouth.

“Baby… it’s ok, don’t try to talk.”

“Fran…”

The voice fades away. I run harder. Fran. I know this name. I say it in my head, then say it out loud. My skin tingles at the sound of it. A burst of energy rips through. I don’t see the end of the alley, but I’m laughing, I know I’ll make it. This time I’ll find him. Why this time?

My own voice again, except now it’s older, lower, a voice of a man. “I’ve been here before.”

“Is this the one you wanted?”

I look down. There’s a book in my hands. Velveteen Rabbit. Mia’s favorite. I know it by heart.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say, and I sound even younger than I’m supposed to be.

I lift my eyes. I’m at the bookstore. I don’t remember how I got here, I just did. It doesn’t surprise me. It’s not weird. I was running in the park, now I’m in the bookstore. I think this is where I wanted to be, because I feel relieved.

I look up. I don’t think I’m supposed to be this small. I should be older, taller. My eyes drift higher: dark jeans, grey shirt, black jacket. He’s holding a book, a different one, a grown-u p’s book: thick, soft cover, no pictures on the outside.

“Do you like it?” I ask, and immediately feel so silly. How’s he supposed to know if he likes it if he hasn’t read it yet? He’s going to read it on the plane!

But then, suddenly, I know he’s read it already. It’s happened before, yet it’s happening now, too.

“I guess it’s alright,” he turns the book back and forth between his hands, then shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t think I finished it.”

How can you not think that you finished a book? Don’t you know when you’re done?

He crouches town, I look into his eyes. They are so blue, so wise, so kind, and so sad that it makes me want to weep. He places a hand over my left arm, his face softens.

“Does it hurt?”

I nod. It hurts so much.

“C’mere.” He opens his arms and I step closer, hug him around the neck with one hand, feel him shrouding me.

Just like that, I’m saying the words again, the mantra. So that I won’t forget.

And I haven’t: “I remember, Dad. I remember you,” I say. His arms tighten around me. He says nothing, just holds me. I rest my head on his shoulder, smell the leather of his jacket. “I remember,” I breathe into it.

“I know, baby.” A different voice, a woman’s voice. Franny’s voice.

I slowly raise my head from my father’s shoulder. My eyelids tremble. They feel heavy. I only manage to open my eyes a tiny crack.

Sirens, loud voices, pounding of metal against metal.

“Hey,” a hand touches my face, cold, shaky, but soft and tender. “It’s ok. Don’t move. I’m right here.”

My throat is squeezed with something from outside. It feels weird, confounding. I want to move my head towards the voice, but I can’t.

“Don’t… Johnny, there’s a… collar something… cervical, maybe? On your neck.”

My eyes aren’t even open yet, but I huff a chuckle, feeling the smile spreading over my face. My heart spills a burst of joy all over my body. Don’t ask me why. It’s the way she says it, trying to get the correct term. Probably not funny, but too adorable to bear. Or maybe it’s just me, and how I can’t help but thaw at the sound of her voice, even before I know where we are and what’s happening.

The dream is gone. I realize now that I’ve had it before, many times. Ever since I read my father’s letter. I don’t remember him. Neither the first, nor the second time we met when I was a child. You know how I said that some of my father’s letters were very emotional? Made me cry? This one’s the worst. I was a grown man when I read it. Old enough to have children of my own. I imagined what he must have felt like, stealing precious moments with me, a child he never got to know. How painful it must have been for him, looking at me, his flesh and blood, knowing that all I see is a stranger, nobody. I cried many times after reading this letter, angry with myself for not remembering, for not recognizing him when he needed me to.

In my dream, I’m always a young boy, looking for him. And I want to tell him that I remember, I know who he is. But until today, it would always end in the park, with the alley stretching in all directions and me running until I wake up. I’d never made it to the bookstore.

I hear Franny’s voice: “I don’t know if I put it on properly. I’ve never done it before.”

Right. The cervical collar. The accident. I open my eyes all the way, look around. Jesus-Fucking-Christ. I’m neither religious nor do I swear, but this is what pops into my head. We’re in a crumpled soda can, or at least this is what my car looks like from inside.

I’m unable to raise my left arm to check the collar. It’s slumped on my lap. When I try to move it, a sharp pain slices through me.

“It’s broken. Don’t move it. They said you should keep it still so it’s not damaged further,” Franny says.

I’m guessing ‘they’ are the paramedics outside. They can’t get in, waiting for the firemen to cut through the carcass of the car. That’s why Franny was the one putting on the collar. I lift my right arm, only now realizing that Franny’s been holding my hand. Before checking the collar, I reach out, groping for her face. I feel her taking my palm, placing it against her cheek, then pressing her lips into it. Her face is wet.

How long has she been sitting here? Trapped in this nightmare, waiting for me to wake up, not sure if I ever would? I slide my thumb against her skin, touch her hair.

“I seriously gotta stop sleeping in like that,” I say, going for a joke.

“Not funny!” She nearly screams.

She’s right. Way to lighten the mood, dumbass. “Ok… ok. I’m sorry, I know. You have my permission to punch me when they get us out.” I get the feeling that if I don’t shut up, she’s going to punch me right now. So, I do what she asked: check the collar. Seriously, I did an ACLS course about four years ago - I’m not even sure what this thing looks like anymore, let alone how to put it on. But hey, it seems to be doing its job, since I can’t move my head. The straps seem to be holding fine. “Not bad,” I smile, reaching for her hand again, then wink, not even sure if she can see me doing that. “For an Applied Mathematics major, I mean.”

Franny huffs, a low hissing sound bordering on a growl. Forget punching, I think she’s going to kill me. Make it look like an accident. Ha! I almost say that out loud, catching myself at the last minute. My sense of humour has a tendency of hitting an especially dumb and acute phase when I’m scared.

“Are you ok?” I ask finally, palpating her head, neck, arms and legs as far as I can reach.

I’m fighting the collar to to get a better look at her. I can’t move. Something’s holding me down so hard that I can’t even move my legs. I’ll just have to wait for the paramedics to pull me out. With an enormous effort, I tilt my head and my shoulders just enough to look at her. She’s pale, eyes red and puffy. Her is face stained with tears, lips trembling as she takes deep breaths trying to suppress muffled sobs. There’s a patch of blood in her hair, just above the right temple. It seems dry, and so does the bloody smudge on her cheek. There’s no blood anywhere else. I sigh in relief.

“I’m ok,” she nods frantically, w eakly giving me the most reassurin g smile she can muster.

But she hit her head. I lift a finger, hold it in front of her nose. “Follow it with your eyes.”

“Johnny, stop!” She grabs my hand, pulls it down onto her lap, and squeezes it between hers. “Sit still. They already checked me for a concussion. I’m fine.”

She’s doing her best to keep her composure, but I can see the terror in her eyes every time she looks at me. Her fingernails dig deep into my skin. She’s shivering all over. I lift my right arm, motioning for her to come closer so that I can hold her. She shakes her head.

“Fran, c’mere. This side is fine. It’ll be ok.” I steal a sideways look at the firemen working on the frame of the back door. “They’ll be in any minute. We’ll go to the hospital. So I’ll have a cast for six weeks, big deal. It could’ve been much worse. We’re both ok, that’s what’s important.”

I see her tears welling up. “Johnny, you’re not ok. It’s not just your arm.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I mean, I feel a little dizzy and nauseous, so I guess I do have a mild concussion, my left arm seems broken, there’s some tightness in my chest, and I’m trapped in my seat. But other than that… I open my mouth to tell her all this, but the way she winces makes me stop. I feel a cold shiver spiking goose bumps along my arms. Franny lifts my hand and bends my elbow, bringing it to my front. I gasp sharply, my eyes widen. There’s a long metallic object jammed into my abdomen, a pipe of sorts. There’s nothing pushing me down. The reason I can’t move is because I’m pinned to the back of the driver’s seat.

“Careful,” she whispers, letting go of my hand as I run my fingers along the pipe. “It goes all the way through, Johnny. The seat too. Can’t you feel it?”

No, I can’t. My palm slides down, to my thighs. I can’t feel anything below the pipe. Every inch of my skin goes nu mb all at once as I picture the sharp metal, inside my body, slicing through my spine.

“Is there… bleeding?” I hear my voice through the ringing in my ears, strained and husky.

“No. Not much. They said the pipe might be blocking it.”

“Good… good… they’re right.” I smile at her and reach to hold her again. “Hey… I know it looks scary, but they’ll fix me. C’mere, Fran, you’re shivering.”

She climbs over the gearbox and crawls to my side as I wrap my arm around her as tight as I can. “You promised. You promised you won’t leave me,” she breathes into my shoulder.

“I won’t.” I gather her closer and rub her back, then slide my fingers into her hair. “They’ll get us out, take us to the hospital. I’ll have surgery to remove the pipe. I’ll be fine.”

I feel her body relaxing a bit at the sound of my voice. Talking calms me down as well, takes my mind off the fact that I might never walk again. I’m not even sure she realizes that. And I’m not about to bring it up now. We’ll cross that bridge when we ge t to it. I take a deep breath, feeling the growing need for more air. T he thought that I might lose consciousness again and leave her here terrified and alone scares me more than the prospect of being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.

“Listen…” I stroke her head, settling it on my shoulder. “Once they get into the car, they’ll check me, probably put an IV in, give me some fluids.”

She nods against my chest. “Yeah, they told me. They wanted to put one in through the window, but they couldn’t reach far enough.”

Her voice is more steady now, he r trembling begin s to subside. I’m becoming more dizzy. I’m trying to recall what I know about trauma. “They can’t remove the pipe here, right? So they’ll have to cut it around me. It’ll look scary, but that’s what they need to do. If they remove it, I could bleed. They might even need to take me out along with the seat. I’ll be on my side. They’ll bring me to the hospital, probably to the trauma room first. I don’t know if they’ll let you come with. They’ll probably need to examine you as well in the ER. Oh, and call my Dad. He’ll come to stay with you.”

“I already have. He’s on his way. Mia and Luna too.” Franny kisses the apex of my shoulder and rests her forehead against it.

“Ok, good. So you won’t be alone. From the trauma room they’ll take me to surgery, remove the pipe, stop the bleeding if they need to. I don’t know how bad it is, but I’m guessing I’ll be in the ICU for a couple of days, may even be even sedated.”

“Ok.” I think I hear a faint hint of a smile in her voice as she reaches to caress my face. “Johnny, I’m ok. You don’t have to talk me through all of it.”

I press my lips into her palm. “I know, baby. I just don’t want you to be scared. Listen, my head still feels a little funny. If I black out again, just let them know. And don’t worry.”

“I won’t, I promise…”

Her voice begins to fade away, as if it’s coming through a tunnel. The ringing in my ears is louder now, muffling nearly every other sound. My chest tightens further. I’m still talking to her, telling her that if they discharge her, she should ask Mia or Luna to take her home for a while, get some rest, take a shower, explaining that the surgery might take a long time and she may not be allowed into the ICU right away. I don’t want her to wander around the hospital.

It becomes harder to finish a sentence. I need to take a breath in betwee n words. My vision starts to blur. I barely exhale before I need to draw in more air.

“Fran… ask… oxygen…” I point to her window, where the ambulance is parked.

I don’t want to scare her, but I need help. Something is wrong, and I can hardly manage to get a word out without gulping for air . My head is heavy, as if I’ve been without sleep for days, my eyelids draw down.

Franny leaps to what’s left of the window, now just a tiny crack , and calls for help. Her voice is tense, but calm and steady, confident. I think I passed out for some time because when I open my eyes again, I almost gag from the sickening and noxious stench of plastic. I hate oxygen masks. And the oxygen itself doesn’t help much.

I know it’s bad when I can’t hold Franny’s hand anymore. I grab my throat, wishing I could tear it open to let more air through. My mind is foggy, but I need to think. The paramedics are still on the outside. Trauma. High kinetics. Blunt force. Tightness in the chest. Dyspnea. Progressing fast. With trembling fingers I push deep at the both sides of my trachea. One finger barely goes in on the left, two fingers on the right.

I reach for Franny, pull her closer to me.

“Ask… needle. Large bore… IV. Tension…”

“Sir, is your breathing getting better?” I hear a concerned voice coming from the window at my side of the car.

I vigorously shake my finger, try to squeeze my hand between the bent metal. “Tension… pneumo…”

Paramedics are trained well. I know I don’t need to explain myself. He doesn’t ask if I’m a doctor or how I know. I hear him yelling at the firemen to just ‘yank it open’, then calling his partner. He rips open the packaging on the IV cannula and slips it through along with some antiseptic wipes.

“I can’t reach your chest. Can you do it?”

“Yes…” I grab the cannula.

With my one working arm, I start counting the intercostal spaces from the top. Was it the second or third? I can’t remove my shirt: t he bottom is held in place by the pipe, and the top won’t go down far enough. Through the shirt, then. I’m trying to uncap the needle.

“Johnny, I’ll do it. Just show me where.”

Oh God, I’m not having her stick me in the chest with the needle. No way in hell. I shake my head, pushing her hand away.

Franny is slender, small, and fragile. I have no idea where she finds the strength. She gets ahold of my t-shirt collar and rips it open, then yanks it down, exposing the upper part of my right chest. Before I can protest, the cannula is gone from my hand.

“Show me where.” She smears the antiseptic all over the opening.

I take her finger and place it in the middle of my clavicle, moving it down until I reach the second intercostal space. I expect her to be petrified, indecisive, hesitant, but her hand is as solid and as stable as steel.

“How deep? What angle?”

I point straight to my chest. “All… the way…”

She drives the cannula in without another word. I wail in pain. The textbook didn’t say anything about it hurting like a motherfucker! I guess when they teach you to do that on somebody else it’s kinda besides the point, huh? As I scream I feel the air rushing in, my chest expanding.

“Ok… Ok… it’s in. What do I do?” Franny places a firm hand on my face making my eyes focus again.

“Remove… the needle. The white cap… pull.” She does, leaving just the plastic catheter in my chest. I try to smile. “Throw... away.”

“Done.” She comes back to me after handing the needle to one of the paramedics. “Is it better? There’s like… hissing… like air coming out of it. Should it?”

“Yeah, it should,” I mutter the first sentence without needing to take a breath in between words.

I feel every muscle in my body relax , going limp. But I lift my arm, drag Franny closer and press her to my side. My breathing slows down gradually as the air that was trapped inside my pleural cavity flows out, allowing for my lung and my heart to expand properly. The fog in my head begins to dissipate: I’m guessing it was less due to the concussion more as the result of my plummeting blood pressure.

Broken arm, impaled on a pipe, most likely severed spine, having had nearly suffocated to death, and all I can think about right now is Franny and how she never ceases to blow me away. I’ve seen needle decompressions done in textbooks and videos, I never performed one. I’m pretty sure the first time I’d be freaking out. I don’t think Franny even knew what she was doing and why. If she was nervous, she never showed it.

“Hey, how’s it goin’ in there?” I slightly turn my head to see one of the paramedics peek through my window. He looks pale, beads of sweat on his brow, relief in his eyes.

I take the dreaded oxygen mask off and hand it back to him, then give him a thumb up. “Decompressed…” I chuckle.

He shakes his head in awe and disbelief. “Duuuude…” I laugh, causing myself to cough. He exhales with an astonished whistle. “This goes into my collection.” I raise an eyebrow and he takes out a small black notepad. “You know, some shit that I see on the job that like really fucks with your brain? I write it down. Oh man…” He looks at Franny. “And you… you are my hero. You wanna come ride with us, you got it, girl. I mean… holy shit you nailed it.” I’m thinking literally. We high-five through the crack using just the tips of out fingers.

“How long before you guys get us out?” I ask.

“I dunno… five-ten minutes top. I mean the back door is done, but we’ll probably need to take you with your seat. So it’s better if we have more room to maneuver.” He slides in a blood pressure cuff. “Franny, you mind? Like you did before.” As Franny fumbles with wrapping the cuff around my arm, he smirks. “So, you guys are married or… Sorry, just curious, you don’t have to answer.”

I open my mouth before I even know what to say, when Franny slaps the velcro in place and fires: “As soon as he gets his ass out of the hospital.”

Ok, that works too. Um... so, my jaw remains dropped until my throat dries up completely, which, to tell you the truth, doesn’t really take as long as you’d think, all things considered. I swallow, do my best to shake my head, and snort a soft chuckle. Great! She says shit like that and I can’t even kiss her. Friggin’ pipe… Friggin’ collar.

“Oh, that’s bitchin’! I’m Ralph by the way,” Ralph starts pumping the cuff, then suddenly stops and deflates it. His eyes squint and dart from Franny’s ballsy and confident face expression to my amused one. His grin widens. “Nah-ah. I ain’t takin’ your blood pressure right now. She just proposed to you, didn’t she?”

I sigh and roll my eyes, then pull Franny’s hand to my lips and kiss her wrist. Yep. Ralph, meet Franny and welcome to Wonderland. “She did.”

“Hey, if you need a minute I can…” he points with his thumb to behind his back.

I smile. “We’re ok. She knows my answer.”

Yeah, so where were we? I think I blacked out for a second and it wasn’t from concussion, hypoxia or blood loss. Oh yeah. So, what I’m saying is… people get engaged in all kinda weird places. But if you ever hear of one that tops being pinned to your car seat with a pipe through your gut, you let me know.

Chapter Text

My dear friend,

I was a navy brat. Did I ever tell you? Well, if I didn’t, I’m pretty sure your little ‘inquiry’ (see what I did there?) revealed that much. But yeah, I was. My father was a career officer, made commander by age twenty eight. I was actually born in Sasebo when he was stationed in Japan, in a little hospital outside the naval base - a fun fact my sister Megan likes to bring up every election day , never failing to invoke a long debate as to the legitimacy of my US citizenship.

The story I wanted to tell you happened when I was nine years old, ten at the most . I know , because these were the only two years we lived in Point Loma, and when you're a navy brat, moving around as much as we did, you learn to stockpile your childhood memories into mental drawers labeled with the names of military bases .

I remember coming home from soccer practice one day to find my dad in the kitchen, in full dress uniform, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a wrinkled piece of paper in the other. He was reading his notes , mouthing the words of the eulogy he’d written to commemorate a man  with whom he’d served for many years.

He was crying. My father, my hero, the man who commanded warships, led men into battles, the single object of a dmiration around which my entire universe revolved, was sitting at our kitchen table, big tears rolling down his face .  

I don’t think I’d ever seen him cry before, and maybe that’s why when he finally looked up t o see me standing there, I broke into tears myself. Despite my being too old , he sat me on his knee, wiped my tears with t he handkerchief he always carried in his breast pocket, and asked if I minded listening to his speech to see if it was good enough to read ‘off-books’.

I probably wasn’t old enough to understand what he said , because, quite frankly, I really don’t remember much of it. But there was one thing , one line, that’s stuck with me to this day: “When a soldier dies in the line of duty, a star flames out in or nation’s sky.”

 As you can imagine, having raised three little nerds, I know today that as beautiful as my father’s metaphor was, the science of it was fundamentally flawed. It’s physics, you see. The thing is, a lot of the stars we see today have been gone a long time: collapsed under the weight of their own gravity, turned supernova, red dwarf - you name it. But, the universe being as vast as it is, their light still reaches us, decades - even centuries - after they burn out. For all we know, they’re still there, still alive, still shining. And they will be for many years to come.

I know, I know - there I go again, off on another tangent about ‘life, the universe and everything’. But just bear with me, ok? I have a point, I promise.

See, last night an Amazon delivery drone landed on our porch with a birthday present for Luna from three people she’s never met: one Dana Brody, her brother Chris, and their mother Jessica.

Half an hour later, a s I watched them all chat on Hangouts as if they’d known each other their whole lives, I remembered something that Jules once t old me, something you’d said the night you guys decided to keep Johnny. You told her you weren’t sure you could be a father. That with all the things that were done to you, and the things you’d done to others, you sometimes felt you were dead inside, and had nothing to give. 

And that’s when my father’s words - or should I say my ‘nerdified’ version of his star metaphor - came back to me. 

It’s been sixteen years, you know. More, come to think of it - it’ll be seventeen this January. Seventeen years. That’s how long you’ve been gone. Yet not a day goes by that I don’t see you, a flicker of that fierce , brilliant light, still blazing its way through the universe. Still fighting to get home. 

Still shining. In Johnny.

His whole life, even before he knew who you really were, the kind of man you were, you were the brightest star in his sky. And now that, at long last, he’s gotten to know you, now that I see you in every choice he’s made, in th e faces o f these people whose lives he’s touched, I just know: for as long as he lives, for as long as they all live - you will never be gone.

It’s been seventeen years. Yet every passing day the son you never knew is becoming more and more like you. I wish you could see him now, Peter. You’d be so proud. 

Seventeen years; and every time I get an envelope in the mail without a return address I still get that same flutter of anticipation I did all those years ago getting a letter from you.  

Dead inside, you say? A man with nothing to give? For Christ’s sake, Peter: in your letters alone there’s more life, more love, more courage to face the pain of your own choices, more dignity to live with t hem, than most people have in a lifetime.

Seventeen years, you stubborn, self-loathing fool. Seventeen years. And you’re still missed. Still loved. 

(not to mention still owe me that cross-country road trip)

Ok. Off to sleep now. It’s a long drive to Virginia in the morning traffic. Just got off the phone with Johnny and Franny: Carrie seems to have gotten herself into some kind of trouble again. 

Shocker, I know. But we’ll sort it out. I’ll keep you posted.

Good night, Peter.

Yours,

Richard.

The moment he steps out of the elevator and onto the 4th level of the Winchester Medical Center parking garage, Richard knows he’s not alone. And, while ‘knows’ may seem like too strong a choice of words under the circumstances, it’s true. In fact, he knows not only that he’s been under constant surveillance from the moment he left Philadelphia this morning; he also knows by whom .

“You can come out now,” he sighs, approaching his car and fishing the keys out of his jeans pocket.

Sure enough, the single long shadow cast by a concrete support pillar splits into two, the smaller taking a step in his direction.

“Hello, Richard,” it says. 

“I’ve been trying to reach you, you know? You could’ve just picked up the goddamn phone.”

The man considers this. Then shrugs. “I needed information.”

“Infor…” Richard stops, blowing the rest of the word out of his mouth with a jaundiced snort. “You’re really something, you know that? All of you. This entire… Jesus, I don’t even have a word for it. This is insane.”

The man chuckles. “Spoken like a true expert. Which, of course, you are, doc.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me. I’m not the one poking around other people’s medical files and arranging for rheumatology consults.”

“Everything I did was done legally with the signed consent of her power of attorney.”

“Was it? Because I recall signing no such consent.”

Richard feels the blood drain from his face and pool in the pit of his stomach. It is true, then. All of it. 

The initial shock of the realization is followed by a deluge of anger. “That’s because you wouldn’t show your face in that hospital if your life depended on it, would you? Not as her power of attorney, anyway. Not after what you’ve done.” He shudders, still struggling to fathom the magnitude of it. “You lied to her. You’ve been lying to her this whole time. For months .  Years! You lied to everyone. Julia, me, Johnny… Jesus Christ - Johnny. Do you even know what it’ll do to him if— when he finds out?”

The man appears unfazed. “Do you?” he asks, quietly, matter-of-factly, his voice sending another chill down Richard’s spine.

“Do I?”

“Really, Richard? So high on your horse you can’t smell the stench of your own hypocrisy?” When Richard just glares back, the man folds his arms. “I wonder,” he starts, as if taking pleasure in drawing it out. “What would Johnny say if he found out that the man who raised him, the man he’s been looking up to his whole life… oh wait, how did you put it so eloquently in your letter last night? Oh - ‘the single object of admiration around which my entire universe revolved’...” He makes a long, deliberate pause. Richard’s eyes widen. His heart stills before leaping forward so hard it smashes against his sternum. The man nods, satisfied. “What would Johnny say were he to find out that that man, that ‘object of his admiration’,  has been lying to him his entire life?”

The initial shock subsiding, Richard regains his composure, though his palms still feel clammy and his voice, when he finally speaks, is splotched with emotion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Narrowing eyes, “Are you certain?”

“Am I certain that snooping around people’s homes and reading their personal correspondence doesn’t make you an expert in their personal affairs? Pretty damn certain, yeah.”

The man bobs his head, mouth twisted downwards. “Touché. I suppose. Although - how much of an expert do I really need to be in order to tell the young man in the ICU bed upstairs that the wild goose chase he’s been on this past year and a half was a rather… nonsensical affair, seeing as the man who knew his father better than anyone was right here all along.”

Richard gulps. “Again. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Again - perhaps. But then, again, does it really matter?” The man steps forward. His frame is rather short and thickset, and Richard knows him to be perfectly harmless, yet he finds himself backing away all the same. “How many letters were there, Richard? Tens? Hundreds? Before he died? And what about a fter? Your little hobby? Those letters you still write? Your lifeline to your best buddy? The one lost soul you couldn’t fix?”

Richard’s fists ball. “Don’t… talk about him like that.”

“Like what? Like he was one of your little pet projects? C’mon, Richard. I’ve seen the letters. His letters to you, anyway. The man bared his soul to you. You know more about him than Carrie, me, Astrid, Frannie, Dar, Saul, hell probably everyone in his life put together. And yet you let his son, your son, scour the Earth - literally - scraping for breadcrumbs.”

“I was going to tell him.”

A sneer: “Were you now?”

“Not that it’s any of your business. But yes, I was. I am. I had my reasons—”

“Did you?” the man interrupts, stepping even closer. “Interesting. So, what you’re saying is: Everything you’ve done, the secrets you’ve kept all these years, the lies you told - you had your reasons? Reasons that, perhaps, someone who doesn’t know shit about you or the nature of your relationship with your family would not be able to understand even if they knew all the facts?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Well, then…” The man pushes the rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose and shifts his weight on his feet. “Let’s make a deal: I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and let you do what you think is right when it comes to your family. And you will extend me the same courtesy and trust me when I tell you that, as horrendous as my actions may appear to you, I have my reasons for everything I’ve done.”

_____________________

He steps into the lounge of the locked ward he to find Carrie in the exact same spot where he’d left her ten hours ago following the frantic call from Franny about the accident.

After the rather unsettling encounter in the parking garage, he’d considered going to a hotel or taking Franny up on her offer to crash at their new place. Driving back to Philly at this hour was definitely out of the question. 

As was spending the night at the hospital. 

Following the surgery, Johnny was moved to the SICU where, according to the charge nurse, he will remain, on a vent and heavily sedated, for at least another two days. Having spent as much time around hospitals as he has - with Johnny when he was little, then with Luna, and, most recently, with Julia - Richard knows the drill all too well. 

While he couldn’t convince Franny to leave Johnny’s side (although, to be fair, neither could hospital security), he did manage to send Mia and Luna back home. He himself briefly considered spending the night folded in a chair in the family room but, upon further deliberations, decided against it. As much as there isn’t a place he’d rather be, the last thing he wants is for Franny to feel like she needs to divide her attention between the man she loves and his emotional wreck of a stepfather. 

And emotional wreck he is.

Between getting the call, almost causing an accident himself on his way to the hospital, the eviscerating six-hour wait outside the operating room, and the grim expression on the surgeon’s face - he doesn’t remember derailing this fast, nor this hard, ever.

Maybe that’s why, instead of going to a hotel and drinking himself into senseless oblivion, he’d chosen to come here instead. There’s nothing he can do for Carrie, he knows. Not before the results of the tests come back; definitely not at this hour. Yet, the moment he pulled out of the hospital compound, his car seemed to have steered itself over here as if it had a will of its own.

He crosses the room and, careful not to startle her, slowly lowers himself by her side on the knee-high sill of a heavily barred window.

Balled into a tangle of bruised limbs, her blank stare remains locked on an invisible spot in the distance. 

The whole drive over he’d been wondering whether or not he should tell her about the accident. Seeing her now, though: her knees drawn up to her chest, her ashen, expressionless face, the dark-purple crescents under those pale, murky eyes - the textbook image of life flattened by antipsychotics - he knows he can’t.

“How’re you doing, Carrie?” he asks instead, inching a little closer.

At first, the only indication that his presence has even registered is the ever so slight wobble of her jaw muscles followed by the downward curve of her cracked lips. He finally gets his answer some interminable minutes later as, glistening in the dim light, a single tear comes to an inevitable stop as it pools in the wilted slope of her mouth.

Heaving a sigh, Richard places a soft hand on her forearm. 

“I know,” he whispers. 

And more tears follow.

They stay quiet a while longer, the hurt-laden silence occasionally interrupted by the muffled chatter outside.

At last, Carrie blinks, still gawky and sluggish, and he notices her mouth moving - listless, slow motions at first - until the sound finally finds its way out.

“You don’t have to do this,” she slurs, nearly inaudible.

He gently squeezes her arm, smiling. “I know. But I’m happy to, Carrie. Always. You know that.”

She tears her gaze from the middle distance and logily shifts it onto his face. “You hate me,” she says, her voice thick, painfully emotionless, and dry-crackled. “You always have.”

He slowly withdraws his hand, feeling his own eyes prickle. “I don’t hate you, Carrie.”

She lets out a weak, bitter laugh. “You all hate me.”

“Carrie—”

“Don’t.” Her eyes may be jerky and misted over, but their piercing stare is just as fierce as he remembers. “You think I killed him,” she rasps, grinding every word with great difficulty. “You all do. You. Your Julia. Even Johnny. He doesn’t... say it. But he…” tapping her temple, ”...thinks it. Every time. He doesn’t want to. But he does.” Turning the finger against him, “And so do you. You... always have.”

Richard shakes his head. “That’s not true, Carrie.”

She scoffs softly, and for a long moment says nothing, clearing a path through the drug-blended soup of her mind. 

“I came to see her, you know,” she manages finally, attempting to sit up higher. His brow furrows, and, with some more effort, she chews up the rest of it. “Julia. And Johnny.”

Julia being gone for almost two years now, he can’t help but wonder whether, with the effect of the drugs in her system wearing off, Carrie is starting to lapse back.

“Not now,” she snorts, as if reading his mind. “Then. When…” A gulp: “After the memorial.” She waits for him to nod. The words seem to come easier now. “What you said back then. That I couldn’t fix it. But that I could do something. For him . I thought about it. And I came to see them.” 

The realization drops like an anvil on Richard’s chest. He didn’t know. Julia never told him. And, all things considered, could he really blame her? After the fight following his visit to the VA that had nearly cost them their marriage, they barely talked for months. They definitely never spoke of Quinn again until the day she died. Not even on Johnny’s sixteenth birthday when, as soon as he brought up Quinn’s letters, she shot him one of those incinerating looks of hers, reminding him, once again, that Johnny was her son, and anything pertaining to his relationship with his father - her decision. 

The thin-veiled jibe in Carrie’s incredulous tone snaps him back. “She never told you.”

He looks up to see her head slightly tilted, long strands of straw-colored hair strewn over her right shoulder. 

“No.”

She huffs. “Well. Seeing how she nearly threw me down the stairs, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

He closes his eyes, sighing deeply. Knowing Julia, especially during those times, he has zero trouble picturing that outcome.

“She was…” He looks out the window. “It was rough.” The understatement of the century. “On all of us. She never admitted as much, but… she blamed herself. All those year s, she was the one who kept him at arm's length. Away from Johnny. Whenever I’d bring it up, she’d say maybe one day, when Johnny’s older. And then…” he shrugs, chin trembling, “...it was too late. Just like that. No more ‘one day’ s. I don’t think she ever forgave herself. Not really. Or believed that Johnny had.”

Carrie wipes under her eyes with the heel of her palm. “It wasn’t her fault.” Her face hardens. “He wanted to get out. Start over. Have a family. And if he did, he would’ve...” Her words fracture. “That boy… His boy… Those pictures… If he had—”

Her voice trails off and he reaches to place a hand on her arm again. “I know.”

She shakes him off. “But he didn’t , did he? Because I didn’t let him. Because I needed him. Because I couldn’t let go.”

“Carrie—”

“Don’t.” She glares at him. “Don’t you dare make excuses for me. You, of all people - don’t.”

Richard leans forward, holding her stare until he’s certain he has her attention. “I, of all people, won’t.” 

Her eyelids flutter, sending a new barrage of tears down her face, and he moves closer.

“Carrie,” he breathes, sliding both arms around her as she half-folds, half-crumbles against him. 

For a time he just holds her, a coiled twine of limbs, tears, and guilt, tentatively stroking her ruffled hair. 

“He loved you,” he says, followed by a long moment of silence that eventually distills into a soft chuckle. “He hated himself for it half the time, that’s for sure. But he did love you.” 

She shudders: a stifled sob or a stifled laugh - he can’t tell. 

He smiles again, covering her head with the palm of his hand and resting his cheek on top of it. 

“He loved you, Carrie, he did, but not as the love-struck, mindless pawn you’ve built him up to be in that guilt-ridden mind of yours.” 

She looks up as if to protest, but, in the end, says nothing. Richard tightens his arms around her, shaking his head. 

“What he did, Carrie, he didn’t just do it for you; or because of you. He did it because he wanted to. All of it. Because he had to. Because that was his shit, from the day he came into this world until the day he died: his stubborn, inherent inability to walk away when he knew he was needed. That was what killed him. And the saddest part of it is: he’d always known it would.” He feels her hands clasp at the shirt on his back as he adds: “And so did you. I’ve no doubt that deep down you’ve known it all along. If it hadn’t been for you, Carrie, or your mission - if it hadn’t been for the president, even - sooner or later, it would have been for something or somebody else."

______________________

Five days later
Winchester Medical Center
Surgical Intensive Care Unit

When I was a little over five years old, I almost died.

True story, I swear. I know I’ve talked your ear off about Luna spending a lot of time in and out of hospitals, and, later, my mom, but the truth is - it was I who had started this - proud(?) - family tradition.

It began with a case of a bad cough. At first, I continued to go to preschool because there was no fever. But then, one day, it got so bad I had to be sent to the nurse’s office. 

I wasn’t taken to the hospital right away. First, I had my ‘O₂ sats’ measured, which - and I only remember this because of all the times my mom told and re-told this story over the years - was ‘not a number starting with 9’ (the nurse’s way of explaining to me why the ‘machine was beeping’).

Needless to say, the number - which was 78, by the way - didn’t need to be explained to Richard who, having gotten the call from the principal, barged into the nurse’s office, all rattled and pale, mere minutes after I’d first gotten there. 

The reason it was Richard and not my mom was two-fold. One - my school was within walking distance from where we lived, and, as I’m sure you remember, the office where Richard sees his patients is located in the base unit of our brownstone. And two - at the time, Mom had just given birth to Mia. 

Which is where it gets real funny. Because, see, you’d think that, having a two-day old baby and all, the reason Mom wasn’t there was her needing to rest and take care of my sister (or any either-or variation of that scenario). But no-no-no-no-no. For my family, and especially my mother, that’d be too - I wanna say ‘trivial’, but let’s just go with - boring. The truth is, at the time my mother - Mia strapped to her chest in a baby sling - was at the medical examiner’s office identifying the body of a suspect in an investigation she’d been leading the day her contractions started. 

I know, right?

And, by the way, the word you’re looking for is ‘anyhooooowwwwwwwww’...

So, anyhow, my ‘sats’ not being too good, plus my constant coughing and wheezing, the nurse gave me some oxygen and two rounds of inhaler . Which helped. My ‘sats’ went up to a number that did start with 9 and Richard all but collapsed with relief, clutching me to him and refusing to let me down as he carried me the entire way back to our house and up to my room.

When Mom got home, Richard told her that it seemed like a bad case of something he called ‘upper respiratory’, and that it would be better if she, who was breastfeeding at the time, stay away from my room for a couple of days. Needless to say - there was yelling. And I mean - boy, was there yelling. 

Mom being volatile, impulsive, and hotheaded, yelling was not a rare occurrence in our house. My parents never really fought - not to the best of my memory -  but they did argue. A lot. Well, Mom argued. Richard mostly just sat there with that little ‘irritatingly calm’ (Mom’s words) smile of his, listening to her blast off, until the wind went out of her sails. At which point, he’d make his arguments, usually in a tone infinitely more gauged and measured. Mom would smile, hiss something along the lines of ‘I hate you, you know that?’, they’d kiss and laugh about some insult or other she would have hurled his way in the heat of the argument. And that would be it.

And so it was that night. As overprotective as Mom was, eventually Richard had succeeded in making her understand that her presence in my room would not only fail to change the outcome of my illness, but may actually lead to her and the baby getting infected as well.

By the evening, my fever was all kinds of ‘ three-digit numbers starting with 1’ - Richard’s attempt to cheer me up seeing how I seemed to really dig the nurse’s joke. My breathing, though, wasn’t too-too bad yet and, after the inhaler I’d received earlier, the cough didn’t bother me as much, either. So, we, Richard and I, had the whole evening to ourselves, because - and I quote - “we ditched the girls” and were therefore free to do whatever we want, even eat dinner snuggled under the blanket in bed (which, if you lived in the house run by my mother, you’d know to be a capital offense).

That night Richard never left my room, nor my side. I couldn’t sleep. So, to take my mind off the eruptive and impressively persistent coughing spells, we spent those hours playing Dungeons & Dragons and working on our most important, not to mention secret, project at the time - the “Supersoldier” comic (which I’ll tell you about some other time because, seeing how it has to do with my father, it deserves its own spotlight).

Until, that is, at the break of dawn my coughing went from persistent to constant, and I had to go to the hospital.

Long story short (and yes, I know that ship has sailed), it was Pneumococcal Pneumonia.  

In the emergency room, a chubby nursing student named Art went from ‘hey, lil’ dude, I’ll just put this clip on your finger to see what a good job you’re doing breathing’ to looking really worried really fast. Because at 57%, be that ‘sats’ or school grades, you’re not doing a very good job.  

From the ER I was rushed to the PICU where they put in two chest tubes to drain the fluid around my lungs, and two days later, despite the best efforts of the doctors and nurses there, I had to be intubated. 

I won’t bore you with the details of what happened next. The bottom line is: I ended up spending four weeks in intensive care, two and a half of which I was heavily sedated and hooked onto a bunch of machines that, for a time, were barely enough to keep me alive.

Now, why am I telling you all this, you ask? And I mean, other than the fact that I got nothing better to do seeing how it’s the middle of the night twenty years later and I’m in intensive care again having trouble sleeping because the bubbling noise from my chest drain chamber combined with the random beeping of pumps and monitors make for a lousy lullaby? Well, since you asked nicely… here’s the thing: see at the end of the previous paragraph there’s that word ‘sedated’? That’s why.

I think it’s safe to say that most people get to experience the wonders of general anaesthesia at least once in their lives. But if you think for a moment that being put under to have your appendix removed is the same as being sedated for two and a half weeks in intensive care - think again.

You know how people say it’s important to talk to unconscious patients because “studies” have shown they can hear and feel everything that goes on around them? Well, I won’t go so far as to refute that little myth altogether, but I will nitpick at some of it. 

First of all, let me just state for the record that I’m not talking about those in a coma, vegetative state, or any other organic reason for being unconscious. I’m talking about people who’ve been made unconscious by controlled chemical means, specifically those intentionally sedated.

See, the real question is not whether those people can hear or feel what goes on around them but whether or not they will remember any of it once the sedation wears off. 

The simple answer, as you can probably guess at this point (and I won’t bore you as to why that is), is no: most people will not remember a thing.

Not at first, anyway.

Right now, still recovering from major surgery and two days post-extubation, I can say with absolute certainty that I have no recollection of events, nor do I have any sense of the time  that passed between being wheeled into the trauma room with a metal rod sticking out of my middle and waking up in this very bed three days later.

If you’ve ever worked or spent some time in intensive care, you may find it hard to believe. And I don’t blame you. See, whether it’s three days or two and a half weeks, nobody is out cold the whole time. For one, and this is something I learnt when Luna was recovering after her heart transplant, most patients have their sedation intentionally reduced on a daily basis for a short period of time just to make sure ‘they’re still ok in there’. But most importantly, contrary to what you’re used to seeing in movies, when you’re sedated you don’t just lie there motionless and undisturbed in a neatly arranged bed: they do things to you, things like bandaging, repositioning, bathing and a whole bunch of other stuff that you better hope you never find out about. And - trust me on this - no amount of sedation will keep you under when two buffed-up men pick you up by the bedding and flip you over to the other side.

My point is, by intensive care standards, seeing a supposedly heavily sedated patient suddenly open their eyes, or reach for your hand, or even appear lucid enough to blink ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to your questions is nothing to write home about. In fact, if you believe Franny, at one point during the time that I was sedated after the accident, I seemed sufficiently coherent to cough a snicker at one of my surgeon’s jokes.

Which brings me to why I’m telling you all this. See, I know now that Franny had never left my side, and that Richard, Mia and Luna took turns being the second person allowed during the visiting hours. I know it, because that’s what I’ve been told, not because I remember them being here. Here’s the thing, though: I may have no recollection of laughing at my doctor’s jokes, or scribbling something (apparently wildly intimate and embarrassing) on Franny’s iPad, or seeing any of their faces hovering over me… 

...But! Based on what happened twenty years ago when I had that pneumonia, I know for a fact that one of these days I will.

See, twenty years ago, when I finally came to after my two-and-a-half-week long nap, at first, I didn’t remember a thing. The last thing I remembered was Sarah, the nurse that, according to Mom, both Richard and I had a bit of a crush on, and Adi, my absolute favorite attending, preparing to ‘tube’ me. 

I remembered them trying to cheer me up as they tossed back and forth quotes from my favorite movies, like “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die” or “Sanka, man, whatcha smokin’? I’m not smokin’, I’m breathin’” or “Hey, laser lips, your mamma was a snow blower”, and so on. 

I remembered Adi saying she was going to give me a medicine that would make me feel very sleepy. And I remembered Sarah telling me she thought I was incredibly brave, and that I had done a ‘real good job trying to beat this thing on my own’ but that now they were going to have to help me. 

She said I better wake up real soon because she had all kinds of ideas for the second issue of the “Supersoldier” which, despite the circumstances, had made me super-excited seeing as, at the time, other than Richard and myself, she was the only one who had read the first one. 

And then, right before everything went black, she squeezed my hand and nodded as I slipped into her palm my most prized and treasured possession - a stainless-steel military-issue ball chain with two identical dog-tags bearing the name Donovan John P. - making her swear she’d pass it on to Richard for safekeeping, and that she’d make him swear he would not take it off until I was awake.

And that was it. 

For the next two and a half weeks, there was nothing: no dreams, no voices, no faces. No sense that time had passed either. As far as I was concerned, all of a sudden, it was not Sarah smiling down at me, but Mom. She was telling me to try and lie still and take nice, big breaths so that the doctors could see I was strong enough for the tube in my mouth to be taken out. And all I could think was: Didn’t they just put it in? Why are they taking it out so soon? What if I’m not ready?

It took months for some of the memories to come back. Years for others. Some are still popping up in my head to this very day. There’s never a specific time that these flashbacks occur, nor a trigger that I can think of. They just happen. And they are not really flashbacks, either. More like images: flat, two-dimensional, low-color sketches stripped from all context. 

In some of them, I see Mom reading in the big armchair next to my bed, her hand in mine, her legs tucked underneath her. She’s not always wearing the same clothes, which is how I know they are memories of different occasions. Same for Richard. And my aunts Celia and Megan. And my grandparents. Even Sarah. 

Actually, it was remembering Sarah seated in that same armchair, wearing normal clothes - as in not scrubs - knitting, and singing, as opposed to running around with blood samples and syringes, that made me ask Richard about it. See, up until that point I’d never given the flashbacks much thought, assuming it was my once-sedative-soaked brain looping over what happened and spitting out random images. And it wasn’t until Richard told me that Sarah indeed at one point spent a night on her day off filling in for my parents when Mia had bronchiolitis that I knew those were indeed actual memories.

Over the years, I’ve had dozens of them. And I’ve been able to identify every single person that made an appearance, family or staff. 

Except one. 

That is to say, I hadn’t been able to identify that person - past perfect - until this very morning when, out of the blue, as I was trying to get some shut-eye while waiting for doctor’s rounds, I had that flashback again. 

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know that, right?” I hear a voice that makes me break my pretending-I’m-asleep routine and smile from ear to ear.

“The pulse?” I ask, eyes still closed.

…because being connected to a medical monitor is like being plugged onto the world’s most sophisticated lie-detector. 

Richard laughs. “Nah, you got that one down to an art twenty years ago.”

My grin widens and I let out a sharp snort. That I did. 

I spare us both the pointlessness of asking what did give it away. We both know a father, especially a father like Richard, doesn’t need a medical monitor telling him something is troubling his child.

Still smiling, I finally open my eyes. I look at him long and hard, sliding my thumb back and forth over the hand he has latched over mine, then squeezing it. 

“Dad,” I whisper, tasting the tears in my mouth.

“Right here, love,” he replies. And, just like he used to do when I was little, he lifts my hand, with all its infusion tubing and wires, and presses a firm, lingering kiss into the crease of my palm.

For a time I say nothing, letting the three-letter word that has come to define most of my life hang between us. Dad. Three letters. Capital “D”. He may not be my father. But he’s always been - and always will be - Dad. 

I don’t know if it’s the residual effect of the drugs in my system, or some kind of long overdue grief response to the fact that, according to both spinal surgeons involved in my case, my spine had been irreversibly damaged, but, all of a sudden, my eyes fill with tears so fast the inside of my head feels as if spitted by searing iron.  Nearly blinded, I fumble for Richard’s hand as he gets up from his perch in the visitor’s chair and, moving aside the intricate twine of tubing and cables, seats himself down on the edge of my bed.

“Hey…” he smiles, brushing the hair away from my forehead. “What is it, love?”

I close my eyes, sending the tears across my temples, and I let out a short, croaky laugh. Love. that’s what he’s always called me. Not Mia, not Luna, not even Mom. Just me.

Richard’s hand disappears into his breast pocket, producing the handkerchief he’s been carrying around for as long as I can remember. He pats my face and my eyes with it, stroking my arm as he does, and something inside of me makes a spurting sound like a dam that’s been finally broken.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, barely uttering the words as they roll off my tongue.

Richard furrows his brow, visibly puzzled. “Did you hurt me?”

I blink at him in a futile attempt to focus my sight through the new film of tears. “All this time I was waiting for my father to show up. Looking for him. Obsessing over the “Supersoldier”, and the dog-tags, and… all of it. All of it for a man I never really knew. Who was never there. While you were… And still are...” A shuddering sob chokes up the rest, before I'm even sure I know what it was.

His stunned silence is swiftly resolved into the sound I least expected. Soft and thick, every shade of charm, amusement, and joy rolled into one - it’s the same kind of laugh that never once failed to snap my mother out of whatever had her fired up at the moment.

“Oh my God, Johnny! What are you…?” 

He’s still laughing as he leans down and, burrowing his arms between me and the pillows, scoops me up with the same ease he did twenty years ago when I was a scrawny, scared, wheezing and puffing forty-pounder. 

Carefully pulling himself back into a sitting position, he cradles the upper part of my broken body next to his chest like you would a baby, pressing his cheek to the top of my head.

“You’re the sweetest goofball the world’s ever seen, you know that?” he chuckles, running a hand through my hair and kissing my temple. “Not to mention the best son a father - any father - could ever hope for.”

I smear my tears across his shirt-sleeve, snorting a laugh of my own. “I love you too, Dad.”

My forehead pressing against his neck, I feel his face crease into a big smile. He tightens his clasp on me, rocking me softly from side to side until my breaths catch the rhythm and start evening out.

“I would’ve given anything for your father to have been there, Johnny,” he whispers into my hair. “Given up anything.” 

My hands spasm, the tips of my fingers digging involuntary into his back. He doesn’t need to say ‘even if it meant giving up you, your mother, your sisters, and twenty two years of the happiest life a man can dream of’ - when you’re swaddled in your father’s embrace, your ear to his chest, you don’t need a medical monitor to know that his heart is about to burst open.

I pull myself up as best as I can, clutching him to me with everything I have, and everything I am. And I breathe him. My face buried in the crook of his neck like I used to do when I was little - I breathe his familiar, flannel-soft, enveloping warmth as I slowly come down from the dizzying peak of arguably the most harrowing realization I’ve ever had: Had my wish come true, had I had my real father, I wouldn’t have had Richard. I wouldn’t have had Dad. This Dad. My Dad. The only father I've ever known, whose hand  in mine I knew even before I opened my eyes just moments ago. Because that is the hand I’ve been holding my whole life, through thick and thin, through joy and heartbreak, for as long as I remember needing a hand to hold.

“I was the lucky one,” he says softly, stroking my hair. “I was the one who got to teach you how to ride a bike, and build a tent, and shave, and drive, and tie your prom tie.” 

I smile, and we both chuckle at that one, because… well, I guess for that last bit you had to be there. Let’s just say there’s a reason I ended up choosing a job where I can wear a t-shirt to work. 

He kisses my head. “I wish it had been him, love. I wish that more than you’ll ever know. As much as it tears me apart just to think about it. I wish he could’ve gotten to know you, to watch you grow into the wonderful person you are. Never apologize for loving your father, Johnny, for not giving up on him. God knows he deserved it. And more. You both did.”

We stay like that a while, clasped in each other’s arms, wet from each other’s tears. The nurse comes in to replace my fluid bag and ask if I’d like something to help me sleep or if I am in pain. I say ‘no’, and ‘no’, and she bids us good night. We follow her with our eyes and, as soon as she's out of range, we both snicker.

“She’s no Sarah, alright,” Richard quips, carefully laying me back on the bed and arranging my pillows.

I smile. No, she’s not. But then again - who is?

“You think she still works here?” I ask when we both finally settle.

He looks dumbfounded for a moment. “Who? Sarah?”

“Yeah.”

Left eyebrow tugged upwards, he gives me a coy, one-sided smile. “And by here you mean at Penn, right?” 

It dawns on me then. And I laugh, not at all surprised that my sleep deprived brain, having just spent an hour or so recalling the last time I was in intensive care, had coincidentally placed me in the same hospital. And city. And state, for that matter.

“She does,” Richard says, getting more comfortable as he tucks one leg underneath him.

My turn to lift an eyebrow. Which he acknowledges with a wink.

I prop myself up on a folded pillow, clasping my hands on the back of my head. “Go on.” 

“That’s it.”

I narrow my eyes. “Dad…”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. Spill.”

He spreads his arms, laughing. “There’s nothing to spill. I swear.”

“Uh-huh. So, you just happen to know that she still works at Penn.”

“We’ve kept in touch.”

“Did Mom know?”

“What?! Dear Lord, Johnny, of course she knew! It was nothing like that!”

“Is it now?” I just can’t help myself. “Like that?”

He shakes his head at me. “I won’t dignify that with an answer,” he snorts.

I show my teeth. “So, yes.”

“So, no.” Knowing all too well I’m not about to just let it go, he gives in. “Fine. I called her after the accident, because… I dunno, seeing you here just brought up all those memories, and I…” He coughs. “Anyway. We hadn’t talked for years, so she asked if it’d be ok if she stopped by. She wanted to see you , actually. I said you were still sedated. But she drove over anyway. She was very pleased to meet Mia, who was just a couple of weeks old the last time she saw her. And Luna. And Franny. We had a nice chat over coffee and she went back home.”

Every muscle of my face responsible for making up cheeky smiles comes to life at once. “She came all the way here, huh? Just to see me.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re just gonna stick to your story. No matter how lame.”

“You’re two for two.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Is she at least single?”

He sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head again in exhausted exasperation. “Actually, yes, she is. Divorced. Recently.” I open my mouth and draw a breath but he raises a finger. “And I’m widowed. Even more recently. So, how about we leave it at that, for now. And…” he adds two more fingers to form a “scout’s honor”, “I solemnly promise that should the topic become relevant in the future, you’ll be the first one to know.”

I exhale loudly, snorting a laugh as he pinches my nose with his knuckles.

I let it go, alright. For now. Which, knowing me, won’t be for long. Because just looking at him, his eyes glossed over with that subtle hint of a shine, a faint blush spreading down to his shirt collar, a flicker of bashful smile, I can’t stop grinning. We’re not wired to think of our parents that way. And I’ve never spoken to Richard about any of the girls I've been with, either. And yet, I feel strangely emboldened all of a sudden, barely suppressing another snort when I picture my palm landing between his shoulder blades as I offer something particularly moth-eaten from my expanding bumper-sticker-cliché repertoire , such as “Mom would want you to move on” or “You’re too young to give up on love” or (and this is my absolute favorite) “Go get her, Dad!”

As if reading my mind, he gives me that  irritating, know-it-all smirk of his. “I’m not saying no,” he winks. “I’m saying not now.”

And I’m the king of bumper stickers…

“Dibs on the best man,” I quip. 

And we burst into laughter so loud that two of the nurses outside stop chatting, apprehensively glancing our way.

Picking up the iPad on which he'd been leafing through, I imagine, the latest updates in psychiatric care, Richard moves back to his chair.

“You should get some sleep, love,” smiling a soft kiss on my forehead before sitting down.

I squeeze his hand as it slides out of mine. “Ok,” I whisper. And I close my eyes, fully intending to commit to the task, when I suddenly remember what had kept me awake in the first place. “Dad?”

“Mmm?”

“Speaking of Sarah…” He begins to sigh, but I shake my head. “No, not that. Remember… when I started having those memories of being sedated? Of you, and Mom, and Grandma, and Sarah?” He nods. I take a deep breath before forcing myself to continue. “There was… someone else.”

I see a faint twitch flicker across his face muscles, and I’m not sure I know what to make of it. 

“Yes?” he asks, when too much time has passed with neither one of us talking.

“A man,” I say. And this time, as his eyelids flutter and his mouth quivers, I’m quite certain I struck a nerve. “Before… when I first remembered it, I didn’t know who it was. I thought maybe it was someone who worked there. But…” I wince. Suddenly, the image is as clear in my mind as if he’s sitting right here, right now. “He was… the way he looked at me, something on his face, the way he just sat there… I think… I think he was crying. His eyes… he had blue eyes, big and pale and with those tiny dark flecks and... I remember because they were so… “ a gulp: “... sad. And kind. And… tired. He looked tired. Like… not just physically, but, you know, really tired. His eyes were red and puffy, and his hair was all messed up and tousled… and...”

I pause and, without another word, Richard puts away the iPad and rises to sit beside me again. Through a thickening mist of my own tears, I see his eyes begin to glisten. 

“Johnny…” He takes my hand, looking down at our joint fingers as if unable to bring his gaze to meet mine.

I swallow. “Dad?”

He pulls my hand to his face, pressing his lips to my whitening knuckles. And he nods. “Yes.”

And right there I know that that ‘yes’ is not an invitation to ask my question. 

It is my answer.  

“Was that my father?” I ask anyway, my voice splintering down to a crackled whisper. “Was he there when I was sick?”

Meeting my eyes with a sad, wavering smile, he nods again. 

“Yes.”

For the longest time I don’t know what to say. Or think. I wish I could tell you that my mind is racing, that I feel happy, or angry, or relieved, or betrayed. But my mind is jammed. And I feel nothing.

Of all the pictures I have of my father - and there are five, by the way, a total of five photographs that my year and a half long quest added up to - I realize now that the image of him in my head is the only one I’ve ever really wanted. Because there, even though he may not be smiling or looking his best, he’s looking at me. And what I see on his weary face in that one stolen moment, every bit of longing and pain in his steely-blue, sorrow-drenched eyes, every wisp of his dark stubble, every twitch of his clenched jaw, every curve, every imperfection, every wrinkle: all of it - all of him - is mine.

“He was in Islamabad,” I hear myself saying, realizing that my brain’s not stuck but rather blearily attempting to fit this new piece of information into Carrie’s timeline. “When I was at the hospital,” I clarify, although, judging by Richard’s expression, he hardly needs it. “He was in Pakistan.”

He bobs his head, slowly. “That’s right.”

I balance my weight on my elbows and push myself up. “So…” I pause, thinking. Knowing my mother and how determined she was when it came to not letting my father anywhere near me, something just doesn’t add up. “...He came back because I was sick? Because Mom called him?”

Richard clears his throat. “He came back, yes. The very night he’d received the message. I don’t know how he managed it, but he did. He stuck around for four, maybe five days. Stayed at the hospital’s parking lot the whole time. Then… the worst was over, you started to get better; and he went back.”

He looks up to meet my eyes and it’s only now that I notice the tear streaks marking his face.

“He only saw you that one time,” he says, every muscle in his throat visibly spasming as he strains to push the words out. “Sarah arranged it, actually. He sat with you. The whole night.” He smiles, a real, big smile as the tears finally roll free. “He held your hand. And he talked to you. The whole time he was there.” A stifled laugh: “He even tried to sing to you. Awfully off tune from what I hear  - Sarah told me, I wasn’t there, of course. But he did.”

He’s silent for a minute that feels like all eternity to me. Mostly, because something in the way he’s holding my stare tells me that what he’s about to say next will answer a question that I’ve never even known to ask.

“He read the first issue of the ‘Supersoldier’,“ he says. 

And now we’re both openly crying.

I open my mouth unsure what it is that I even want to say, or should say, or can say, for that matter.

Richard squeezes my hand. “I had it xeroxed for him the following morning because he wanted to have a copy.” He shakes his head. And I hold my breath as if bracing for impact. “God, he loved those comics so much, Johnny,” he adds, eyes locked onto mine. “Every single one of them.”

Another interminable pause follows. Except that this time around I don’t feel numb. In fact, I seem to be feeling everything at once, hit by an avalanche of emotion and buried underneath it. 

Comics, he said. Plural. Every single one of them.  

There are twelve, you see. Twelve issues of the “Supersoldier” comic. But there weren't twelve back then. We'd sketched them all by the time I turned nine, about a year before my father was killed. But there’s no way in hell he’d read ‘every single one of them’ when he came to see me at the hospital. Because at that point, we were still working on the second one.

And that’s how I know. No, not just ‘know’. That’s when I see it.  All of it. And yes, I know it’s just a figure of speech, but I do. I see it. I look at Richard, his grief-riddled face, his red, teary eyes, his sad, quivering smile, and it’s like I can see that same pained expression in an endless mirror-generated display composed of images representing every single time we’ve talked of my father.

“He came back because I was sick,” I hear my own voice rewinding our conversation and finally dropping the question marks. “But it wasn’t Mom who called him.”

Richard doesn’t reply. And he doesn’t have to.

I let my elbows collapse and, falling back against the pillows, I fold the grief-stricken mess of him into my arms as tight as I can. 

"Jesus Christ, Dad…"

...the postcards, the gifts, the dog-tags, the fund, the visit to the VA, the letters - every little thing that I have of my father, this whole time...

“...it was never, Mom, was it?" I sob. "None of it." And, feeling his arms clench around me, I bury my face in his hair. “It was you.”