Normal

Chapter II: The American Dream


Miss Parker’s drinking binge lasted around two and a half months. Almost every day was wasted in a haze of cold glasses of whatever was on the menu, eating junk food and watching television. She only ever watched the news. Her whole world was being graphically dissected.

The CIA stepped forward, as did the DOD and the ATF. They all had various hands in the national and international, internal and external investigation of the Centre. More horrific evidence floated to the surface everyday. Blue Cove was polluted with reporters and tourists, eager to catch a whiff of the scandal.

Footage of heinous acts was shown, prefaced by warnings from grave newscasters. The footage of Lyle on a killing spree that she had viewed not so many years ago made it to CNN, an exclusive. The faces were blurred, but they all died the same way. Allegations of numerous rape and murder attempts by him came forward, along with evidence that several murders he may have been involved in were covered up.

The horror backed up, day after day. The FBI held press conferences every morning, detailing how far, how wide, the Centre’s cold hand had reached. There were tearful scenes of children finally being reunited with their parents. Theirs were stories of fear and betrayal, of running for their lives and never losing hope. The good and the bad seemed to come forth in alternating waves, but never did it stop.

She saw Jarod on the news one morning, standing on the steps of the Centre in a suit. He was behind the reporter, talking to several other men. He looked up, and straight into the camera. She knew it was deliberate. He was letting his family know where he was, that it was safe to come out. She saw him many times after that.

Sydney and Broots visited. Sydney diagnosed her with depression. She figured he just barely managed to keep from dropping the word ‘alcoholic’ in there too. She let him sit on her couch and attempt conversation while she drank. Broots brought Debbie once or twice, knowing Parker wouldn’t want to appear drunk before the girl. But that meant she had to lock herself and the bottle in her room. She despised herself for avoiding Debbie. Sometimes Broots came over without Debbie, without a word. He just cleaned up a bit, opened the curtains, brought her food and cooked up some meals. She left one of her credit cards on the bench for him, but he didn’t take it.

On the worst morning in two and a half months, Miss Parker was drunk by eight am, mainly because she’d been awake all night. Her head pounded, and she switched off the television, but the sunlight still hurt her eyes. She and the bottle waltzed into the bathroom. She wanted a bath. She stared at the mirror for a long time, and forgot the water was running. It overflowed, the water running across the tiles. Unbalanced, she tried to hurry, but slipped, the bottle hitting the mirror and shattering it, the broken glass falling with her.

When she regained consciousness, she was naked on the bathroom floor, bleeding from a long gash on her arm. The water was still flowing, her balance was still off. It took several tries for her to sit up, and by then she was crying, holding her aching head with her bloody hand, catching her reflection in the shards of mirror beside her.

For the first time in her life, Miss Parker looked nothing like her mother. It was then she knew things had gone too far.


****


Boutique grocery stores on the Upper East Side were not safe from trolleys with squeaky wheels, and Miss Parker had the eerie impression she was being followed by Raines. Which she was not. She attempted to ignore it, strolling along at a serene rate with a serene expression on her face, serenely taking bland over-priced items off of cutely arranged shelves and dropping them in her non-squeaking trolley, doing her best to maintain her state of absolute serenitThatThat was her goal for the week. Maintain serenity. It was difficult with the grating squeak following her up the aisle.

Parker sped up, ignoring tender hearts of artichokes being marinated in an elaborate dressing, packed pleasingly in shapely jars. The squeak behind her stayed regular, so she tore around a corner, narrowly avoiding knocking over a pyramid of gourmet dog food, and high-tailed it to the other end of the store. There she resumed her serene pace, and paused over several blends of coffee. She didn’t look up as someone trundled up beside her and paused too. If they wanted coffee, they would have to wait until she was done.

A long arm reached over her cart to retrieve a jar right next to her. Parker bristled, looking up to well and truly lose her serenity at the offender, and almost dropped the jar she was holding. Jarod gave her a faint smile. She put the jar in her cart, and shoved off, heels clicking. He kept pace beside her, and she did her best to ignore him. She put sugar in the cart.

“Not even a hello for an old friend?” he asked hopefully.

Miss Parker put flour in her cart, although she had no idea what she would use it for. She tried not to look at him, but gathered details all the same. He was wearing blue jeans and a red top. She could see that out the corner of her eye. He pushed his trolley out of the way, and gripped hers. She stopped, reluctantly meeting his gaze.

He looked good, better than she had ever seen him. He was as fit and strong as usual, the tight red sweater emphasising his broad chest, the jeans showing off his narrow hips. His hair was longer, almost past his jaw, tousled and half in his eyes. He looked relaxed. That was the difference, she decided. He looked relaxed for the first time in his life.

“What?” she demanded. He sighed.

“Your line is, ‘Hello Jarod, how are you?’”

“I don’t do small talk,” she said scornfully. She went to push the trolley past him, but he blocked her.

“Sydney says you’ve been in New York for almost a month,” he said. She tried to abandon the cart and walk away, but he stepped in front of her, “I’m surprised you crawled out of the bottle long enough to-”

She slapped him, hard. Several customers turned to stare. Jarod nodded. “I deserved that,” he said. He touched his hand to his cheek, grimacing ruefully, “If you ever decide to really hurt me, I’m in trouble.”

“If I ever decide to really hurt you, you’ll be dead,” Miss Parker said dangerously. He smiled.

“You sound like your old self again.”

She turned back to her cart, reclaiming her serenity, clicking along evenly. Jarod walked beside her, curiously studying the contents of her cart. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, snagging some designer candy off a shelf and dropping it in beside the tofu and yoghurt. She took it out and put it back on the shelf.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“An apartment near here,” she said noncommittally. He probably already knew.

“I’m staying in-” he began.

“The Village,” she finished for him. He regarded her with surprise.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Just figures,” she said idly. They rounded a corner, starting another aisle. She peered at some potato chips – baked, not fried.

“I know you asked that I- that I… not see you,” Jarod said carefully, “But I wanted to make sure you were okay. Sydney said you were hitting the bottle pretty hard, and then abruptly decided to come here. He hasn’t heard from you, and I…”

“I’m sober,” she said softly, still staring at the potato chips, “I’m not taking twelve steps, but I’m as sober as I need to be.”

“How sober is that?” Jarod asked.

“I only drink at night to help me sleep.”

“Miss Parker-” Jarod began, sounding horrified.

“I’m kidding,” she said, smiling to herself, and finally met his gaze, “I stayed dry the first two weeks I was here. Then I went to a bar, to test myself. I had one drink, and then went home. It’s not an addiction.”

They walked in silence for a little while, finishing two aisles. Miss Parker was back where she had begun, and she, Jarod and the cart lined up at the checkout. He studied the magazines on the rack, and then helped her load the contents of the cart onto the conveyer belt. She saw some expensive cookie dough ice cream emerge from her cart, and wondered when he had snuck it in.

Jarod paid. She was happy to let him, and they stepped out into the cold afternoon air. Miss Parker was glad she was wearing her jacket, as they strolled in the direction of her apartment block, and snuck glances at Jarod. He didn’t seem cold, just content, juggling three bags of her groceries.

“Did you find her?” she asked after a while. A smile appeared on his face.

“Yes. I haven’t met her yet; I’ve been making some preparations. She’s coming to Christmas. They’re all coming to Chris,” s,” he said.

“Here?”

“No,” he said, and gave her a slightly embarrassed look, “Blue Cove. It kind of feels safe.”

“With that many FBI milling about, it ought to,” Parker said.

“You’re invited, you know. You, Sydney, Broots and Debbie. It’s going to be kind of big – there’s my dad, and mom will be coming, and Emily, who’s bringing her partner, and Ethan and Jem-”

“Jem is the clone?” she broke in.

“Yes. He’s decided his full name will be Jeremiah, and Jem, J-E-M, for short,” Jarod explained hastily, “So Jem will be there, and Sydney said he may come, to make his peace, and Broots and Debbie said they’d love to, and-”

“And I’m sure Lyle and Raines and even my dead pseudo-father would be delighted to come, and we can sing carols and be one big happy family,” Miss Parker said sarcastically. Jarod lost his enthusiasm, his jaw tightening. They walked along in silence for a few moments.

“You could at least pretend to be happy for me,” he said quietly.

“Why?” she asked scathingly, “Because I should be glad your life is turning out so swell whilst mine is going down the drain? Because we were bestest buddies when we were kids, and now the Centre is gone, we should just take up where we left off?”

“Your life isn’t going down the drain,” Jarod said.

“Isn’t it?” she asked, “Does this look like the embodiment of all my hopes and dreams, Jarod? One step away from alcoholism, clinically depressed, jobless and alone?”

“I destroyed the Centre to set you free, to set all of us free,” Jarod said. She laughed.

“Some freedom. I more a prisoner now than I ever was at the Centre. I always knew it would be you or me who lost in the end, Jarod. Hell, I always knew it would be me,” Parker said. They had reached her building, and she beckoned the doorman over, shoving her grocery bags into his arms and taking the ones Jarod held. He looked crestfallen, like a whipped puppy.

“You haven’t lost, Miss Parker,” he said softly.

“Haven’t I? I’ve lost my mother, my father, Tommy, everything I’ve ever known, loved or understood. And in the process you’ve gained your freedom and your family. That feels like losing to me,” she said. She shook her head slowly, unable to keep the sadness from her eyes, and turned away from Jarod, from all that had gone before.

“Miss Parker…” he said, but she walked away, the doorman trailing after her.

“Goodbye Jarod,” she called over her shoulder, tears trailing down her cold cheeks “Have a nice life.”


****


Jarod was in her kitchen, making her breakfast the next morning when she emerged form the bathroom. She watched him dunkbreabread into an egg mix near the stove, and considered beating him to death with the fire extinguisher that hung near his head.

“A view of the park, nice. This apartment must be costing you an arm,” he said without looking up, unintentionally shortening a colloquialism.

“Do you *ever* consider etiquette?” she asked.

“I do,” Jarod said, and gave her a small, sly smile, “That’s the only thing that stopped me from wandering into the bathroom when you were taking a shower.”

Parker flushed, and he laughed. “You wish,” she muttered, tightening her robe about her. She went to sit at the kitchen bench, as Jarod poured her some coffee. He leaned forward over the bench dramatically.

“Would I have seen anything interesting?” he whispered, and waggled his eyebrows at her.

“My bad karaoke,” she retorted.

“Heard that,” Jarod said, nodding, “Not the kind of show I was after.”

“All you’re getting,” she said, sipping her coffee. Jarod turned back to the stove, flipping two slices of fried French toast onto a plate and slapping another two soggy slices in. He set the plate and a knife and fork in front of her. She eyed him warily, “I’m going to tell you right now, I’m not looking for a chef or a maid.”

“Not even live-in?” he asked, and winked.

The idea of Jarod living with her rolled through her thoughts, met with mixed emotions. She nibbled on the edge of the toast, refusing to admit it was good. Jarod was in her sanctuary, temporary as it may be, and this was unsettling in the extreme. He shed unwelcome light on her still too raw edges.

“You have to stop invading my privacy,” she said quietly, “You’re living in the real world now, without need for secrecy and conspiracy. You can’t go around breaking into someone’s home every time you want to visit.”

“You wouldn’t let me in otherwise,” Jarod said. He turned, flipped the toast, and then faced her again, “I tried to leave you alone but I can’t. I can’t accept that I’m not in your life, or that you’re not in mine. And now that I know how unhappy you are…”

“You want to fix me?” she asked, without malice, “You can’t fix all the world’s ails, Jarod, and you can’t fix me. I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“What do you want from me?” Miss Parker asked abruptly.

“I don’t want anything-” he started to deny, but she cut him off.

“Bullshit, everybody wants something. What is it that makes you want me in your life?”

Jarod turned away. He flipped two pieces of French toast onto a plate, but did not turn back to face her. “I’ve known you most my life,” he said softly, “You and Sydney. You’re the only past I have. Just because I’ve found my future, doesn’t mean I can abandon all that has come before. I couldn’t separate myself from the Centre, not truly, because you were both there. Because it would be like cutting off a limb. You two know me better than anyone. And I don’t know anyone like I know you.

“Sydney is a father-figure, I’ve always known that, which makes it particularly difficult now – I already have a father. But that’s something I’m willing to work through, in order to keep him close. After all this time, I need to forgive him, finally, without prejudice. And I need to begin again.”

He turned around, finally, and his heart was in his eyes. “And if I need to spell out what you are to me… well. Maybe I’m not that brave a man,” he murmured, “I just know I need and want you in my life, now more than ever.”

“And what about what *I* want?” Miss Parker whispered harshly, “Did you ever stop to consider what I want?”

“Yes,” Jarod said, then shook his head, “No. Maybe… maybe in relation to what I thought you *needed*.”

She pushed her toast away, half eaten. Poured herself another cup of coffee, and longed for a cigarette. Jarod studied his hands. She sighed. “I’m not… I’m not okay with what’s happened, Jarod. It was sudden, too sudden, and I wasn’t expecting my life – my world – to be interrupted so. I don’t know if I can go on without a clean break. I don’t know if I can survive, knowing all that has gone before and pretending it never happened.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly.

“Don’t I? Every time you’re in my sight, I have this driving urge to slap a pair of handcuffs on you. What do you want to happen? You and I hang out, go out, I be your girlfriend and you be my boyfriend? I don’t even know if I can *like* you,” Parker said.

“You haven’t tried. You’ve never tried,” Jarod said, “You’ve been filled with their lies so long-”

“And didn’t it ever occur to you that I *let* them do it?” Miss Parker interrupted.

“Did you?” he asked.

“I’m not stupid,” she said. She shook her head ruefully, her damp hair clinging to her neck, “It wasn’t that I couldn’t see what was going on, it was that I blinded myself to everything that was happening.”

“Why?”

“To maintain the status quo,” Parker said. Her fingers looked long and white on the deep blue of the bench, and she stretched them out, her mind ticking over, “To hold onto my reality. It may have been the worst reality in the world, but at least I understood it.”

“Even when they killed Tommy?” Jarod asked angrily, “Did you understand when they put a bullet in his head?”

There was a drawn out silence. A tear dropped on the bench, and it took Parker a moment to realise it was hers. She looked at her ring finger on her left hand. She had found a ring amongst his things, a diamond in a simple setting. She’d never had the strength to wear it. “You can bring yourself to accept anything with time. He died for me, nothing I do can ever change that. Should I die with him?”

“Haven’t you already?” Jarod asked sardonically.

She threw her cup at him. Jarod ducked, and it shattered on the tiled wall behind him. They stared off. “Is that my cue to leave?” Jarod asked. She nodded. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, regarding the mess he had left in her kitchen, and then her. Finally, he nodded, and let himself out.


****


He left her alone for almost a week. Miss Parker wondered if he had gone for good, but on a sunny day with a cool breeze, she sat on a bench in Central Park and suddenly knew he was behind her. She took the cup of coffee he offered when he sat next to her. Nearby, a man played the cello.

Jarod was wearing a turtleneck and a thick woollen overcoat, and took off his black leather gloves. One fell to the ground, and she picked it up. They sat in meditative silence. Miss Parker stretched the soft leather fingers of the glove, and put it on. It was too big and loose, making her hand look small.

He dug several crumpled pieces of paper out of his pocket and passed them to her. Miss Parker unfolded them. They were letters, one from Broots, one from Debbie, one from Sydney, and even one from Ethan. She scanned them, but put them in her pocket before reading them all. The glove on her hand made her feel clumsy as the too-long fingers caught against the paper, the pocket and the zip.

“I want to-” Jarod checked himself, paused, and tried again, “I would like to ask you out. On a date.”

Miss Parker looked at him. He seemed so humble, watching her earnestly, a lock of dark hair falling across his eyes. She lifted her hand, the one without the glove, and pushed it out of the way, the tips of her fingers running across his forehead. It was the tenderest contact between them in almost thirty years.

“Okay,” she said softly. Jarod’s mouth dropped open.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” she said.

“Well… when?”

“Now,” Parker said, and watched the cello man.

“The day is half gone,” Jarod said, a little humour in his voice, “There are 8,968 park bes ins in Central Park, you know.”

Miss Parker laughed. “How did you find me?” she asked, “My apartment is near the North End.” Jarod leaned close, his nose brushing her hair. It was a very intimate gesture.

“The carousel,” he murmured. Bittersweet warmth flowed through her.

“My mother used to take me to ride it every time we came to New York,” she whispered. Jarod smiled.

“Then we’ll start there.”

*