FIC: The Pursuit of Happiness.
title: The Pursuit of Happiness
universe: Die Young & Sell Your Soul
characters: Alison, Warren, C.C, and Chris Howlett.
word count: 2300
note: This was written for the allstars month at Brigits_Flame. The prompt was "erudition."
It was never a question of not loving them enough. Love had nothing to do with it.
In a perfect world, everything would fall into place like the final piece in a jigsaw puzzle. It would feel like a triumph instead of a divide, and she would do what she wanted because it was right. But what was right for her was not quite right for them, and she saw it in her husband's face when she showed him the email. There -- a tightening. Just around the edges of his mouth, like a delicate origami structure flattened by a fist.
"I've been waiting my whole life for this," said Alison.
He said nothing. He read the email again. She stood by the chair he sat in, every tendon in her body taut, rising on the balls of her feet. She was the kid in the candy store praying for her mother to say yes.
"How long?" he asked at last, cleaning his glasses on the edge of his sleeve.
"I don't know," she said. "It's not specified. It's really dependent on what we find there, how receptive the South American government is, and how cooperative and welcoming the tribe is--" she stopped herself, swallowing down her passion and holding it within her. Now was not the time.
"How long?" he asked again.
"It could be a few months," said Alison. "Or -- a year, maybe."
"Which do you think it will be?"
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. He knew she was evading the question, and she did, too. "Probably around a year. Maybe longer. But, oh, Warren, this is the chance of a lifetime!" Her eyes were burning, and her mouth stretched into a smile that she couldn't keep off her face. "I've done archaeological work before, I know, but this isn't just digging up old clay pots! This would be an opportunity to examine the tribe's ancient culture and habits and live with their descendents, study the way these people live without our modern sensibilities and amenities. I'll never get the chance to do this again. And most people will never get to do this in their entire lives. Don't you see?"
He saw -- of course he did. He saw her practically bursting with the feverish intensity of an academic faced with an opportunity to see twenty years of work come to life.
"I understand that," said Warren, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. He closed his eyes. "But you're not going to be on paid leave for a year. We'll be totally reliant on whatever I bring in, and with two kids about to go into high school..." he shook his head.
"You've been doing well," said Alison.
"I haven't gotten a decent royalty statement in months," he said flatly. "And until I finish the next book, we won't see any money unless there's a huge spike in sales. So I wouldn't bank on that."
"You didn't tell me that."
"I did," Warren said. "You just don't listen."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Alison's teeth clenched. She had never wanted anything this badly in her entire life. It was like she was sixteen again, aching for that new car, that brand new album. But this time it wasn't frivolous. This time was real and her bones felt like they'd vibrate right out of her skin if she didn't get what she wanted.
And she wanted this more than she'd ever wanted anything in her entire life. And Warren knew it -- he could see it in the way she clenched her fists, hear it in the way her voice grew hurried and loud and bright. But he wasn't as thrilled as she was. Not nearly.
It wasn't fair, she thought, that Warren got everything he wanted. He didn't have a nine to five job. He followed his dream to publication, and wrote the kinds of things he'd always wanted to write. He had fans all over the world, websites dedicated to discussing his novels. And Alison worked. She researched. She taught students. And she loved it. But this opportunity was something else entirely. Something new. Something perfect. Something that would give her life a real purpose. And Warren only sat there like an immobile piece of furniture and said nothing at all.
"You've always done everything you wanted to do," said Alison. She tried not to sound like a spoiled teenager, and although she kept her voice soft, she couldn't control the mosquito's whine of resentment that edged into her tone. "I've supported you. I could've asked you to get a real job. I could have, and I didn't. I know we've been ... at odds, lately. But this -- you know how important this is to me."
"It's not just about us anymore," Warren snapped. "Back then we were young. We were able to do anything. We didn't have a mortgage or medical bills or two fourteen-year-old kids. What about them?"
They'd had the argument about the kids many times before this, and they'd have it again many times after. They both loved them to pieces; of course they did. But Warren took care of them. He stayed home with them. He picked them up from school, he packed them lunch, he drove them to sports games, and he went to all the parent-teacher conferences. Alison didn't do that. She didn't have the time. She spent more of her evening grading papers and researching ancient Peruvian peoples than with her family. But she truly did love them, even though Warren did most of the work.
"It'll just be for a year, Warren," Alison said.
"Will it?" asked her husband, looking her right in the eye. "Will it really?"
And to that, she had no real answer.
--
Warren wasn't speaking to her. He'd say little things: "Pass the salt, please," or "What are your plans for dinner?" and was the perfect portrait of civility. But she knew better. She knew that a lukewarm Warren was a very upset Warren indeed.
She tried to broach the subject with him a few more times, but she'd been so anxious that she'd used her words like a weapon, shooting them at him as if he were a threat.
"If money's such an issue," she grumbled, "why don't you hurry up on that book of yours?"
"I'm working as hard as I can," Warren said, and shut himself in his study so that she couldn't bother him.
There were little arguments. More than there used to be. When C.C. and Chris had turned twelve, the dynamic between her and Warren had changed for no discernable reason at all. She told herself it was because dealing with preteen twins was not the easiest job in the world, and because Warren's mother was gravely ill, but if she was being honest with herself -- and Alison rarely was -- it was because she realised that she was not happy.
A woman is supposed to feel content when she has a loving, creative husband, two well-behaved and beautiful children, a reasonably comfortable income, and a nice suburban home. This is what Alison had told herself, what her mother had told her, what books and movies had told her. And she'd tried to listen to the norm -- she'd convinced herself for twelve years that this situation was the mark of a fulfilling life. That her children meant everything, that this job that this life that this future was a great one. But she knew that wasn't all she needed. Somewhere along the way, she'd hit a snag in the road, fell into a pothole and remained there, stagnating while everyone else rushed by at warp speed.
The nights she spent in the Harvard library, in her office in the anthropology division -- these were the best nights. Not the nights they sat around the coffee table as a family playing Apples to Apples or squished together on the couch watching reruns of Friends.
This opportunity would make her happy. It had to, because if it didn't, Alison felt a creeping sense of fear that nothing else would.
She opened that email every day for a week. Opened it, left it up on her screen, and stared at it, neglecting calls and work and Minesweeper. She stayed extra hours in her office, unable to leave the email for fear it would simply vanish into thin air, and one night, as she stayed three hours overtime in Cambridge, she set her jaw, and began to type.
--
"I'm leaving," she announced the next morning at breakfast.
C.C. stopped, a forkful of pancakes halfway to her mouth. Chris nearly choked on a glass of orange juice.
"What?" C.C. spluttered.
"On an expedition," Alison said. "To Peru. It's for my research -- you know, on the indigenous peoples and their history -- and it's very important to me and to the world at large. There are discoveries to be made."
"What about us?" her daughter continued doggedly, fixing Alison with a narrow-eyed stare. Warren had said nothing, lips pursed and jaw working like he was chewing something, but he hadn't even taken a bite.
"I love you very much," Alison said, because she did. "This is very hard for me," she said, because it was. "But this is also something I must do for myself. To be happy. When chances like this come into your life, sweetie -- well, you've just got to grab them while you can."
She remembered as a child that she'd never thought of her parents as people; real people with hopes and dreams and feelings. She'd thought they were there for her and for her alone, that they had evolved past the childish need for validation and passion. To C.C. Alison was nothing more than what a mother was said to be -- a woman to serve her, to care for her, to support her.
"I'll be leaving in a month," Alison said, and this time Chris really did choke and his sister pounded him on the back until he held up a hand to show he was all right.
"A month," the twins said in unison, Chris croaking out the words.
"For how long?" C.C. asked.
"I don't know," Alison said. "A year at most."
"That's not what you said earlier," said Warren, thunderclouds passing across his face. He looked ever more like the moody stereotypical writer these days. "You said--"
"I know what I said," Alison said, raising her voice. "I know what I said. But I must do this." You can't stop me, she thought, challenging her husband with a stony-faced stare, chin jutting forward.
Without a word, Warren shoved his chair away from the table and stomped into the other room.
"I'll be home sooner than you think," Alison said. She reached over to put a hand on C.C.'s shoulder and the girl twisted away, staring out the window. Chris pushed fruit around on his plate. "I promise."
"I don't believe you," C.C. said.
"I'll write," said Alison. "Every week. I promise."
C.C. stood up, forcibly scraping her chair against the linoleum floor. "I'm not hungry anymore," she said as Alison opened her mouth, and practically raced out of the room, leaving a full plate of pancakes behind. Chris stayed at the table, poking at his breakfast, and when Alison smiled encouragingly at him, he didn't even look up.
--
March 4, 2007
Dear Chris & C.C,
Things are going well here. We've discovered so much! It seems like the proverbial fountain of wisdom! I've been living with locals in their huts, wearing an approximation of their fashion -- they're not so backwards as the first world might like us to believe.
I'm afraid I won't be coming home in six months after all...
--
December 1, 2007
Dear Chris & C.C,
You wouldn't believe the spider I saw today -- it'd make your hair stand on end. It was very large, very hairy, but was otherwise harmless. It gave me such a fright that I fell backwards into a stream! My colleagues and new native friends spent the rest of the day laughing at me for my childish behaviour.
We've discovered some wonderful ancient relics that may be part of a very important ritual, and we believe it's best to keep digging around so we don't miss anything. Unfortunately, this means I won't be able to come home when I said I would -- Dr. Jiminez and I agree it's best to postpone for few months, but I think of you every day...
--
May 19, 2008
Dear Chris & C.C.
Happy belated birthday, my darlings! I do wish I could have been there to cut the cake with you. I'm crossing my fingers as I write, hoping that all your wishes come true.
I hope you received my last letter -- I'm not sure if it made it. I think by now you understand how dreadfully important this work is to me, and I know you'll understand that I must stay until at least December to make any impact at all...
--
August 29, 2008
Dear Chris & C.C.
...Afraid this Christmas I'll still be in South America...
--
January 14, 2009
Dear Chris & C.C.
My new year's resolution is to make it home for your birthdays this year -- and I really do mean it. Give my love to your father...
--
January 1, 2010
Dear Chris & C.C.
I apologise for the huge gaps in between letters -- I've been trying, but the mail system seems to be getting worse every day. But I've been writing faithfully every week, whether I can send out the finished products or not.
I will be home in April. And that is a promise.
--
January 20, 2010
Dear Mom,
Don't bother.
C.C.
universe: Die Young & Sell Your Soul
characters: Alison, Warren, C.C, and Chris Howlett.
word count: 2300
note: This was written for the allstars month at Brigits_Flame. The prompt was "erudition."
It was never a question of not loving them enough. Love had nothing to do with it.
In a perfect world, everything would fall into place like the final piece in a jigsaw puzzle. It would feel like a triumph instead of a divide, and she would do what she wanted because it was right. But what was right for her was not quite right for them, and she saw it in her husband's face when she showed him the email. There -- a tightening. Just around the edges of his mouth, like a delicate origami structure flattened by a fist.
"I've been waiting my whole life for this," said Alison.
He said nothing. He read the email again. She stood by the chair he sat in, every tendon in her body taut, rising on the balls of her feet. She was the kid in the candy store praying for her mother to say yes.
"How long?" he asked at last, cleaning his glasses on the edge of his sleeve.
"I don't know," she said. "It's not specified. It's really dependent on what we find there, how receptive the South American government is, and how cooperative and welcoming the tribe is--" she stopped herself, swallowing down her passion and holding it within her. Now was not the time.
"How long?" he asked again.
"It could be a few months," said Alison. "Or -- a year, maybe."
"Which do you think it will be?"
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. He knew she was evading the question, and she did, too. "Probably around a year. Maybe longer. But, oh, Warren, this is the chance of a lifetime!" Her eyes were burning, and her mouth stretched into a smile that she couldn't keep off her face. "I've done archaeological work before, I know, but this isn't just digging up old clay pots! This would be an opportunity to examine the tribe's ancient culture and habits and live with their descendents, study the way these people live without our modern sensibilities and amenities. I'll never get the chance to do this again. And most people will never get to do this in their entire lives. Don't you see?"
He saw -- of course he did. He saw her practically bursting with the feverish intensity of an academic faced with an opportunity to see twenty years of work come to life.
"I understand that," said Warren, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. He closed his eyes. "But you're not going to be on paid leave for a year. We'll be totally reliant on whatever I bring in, and with two kids about to go into high school..." he shook his head.
"You've been doing well," said Alison.
"I haven't gotten a decent royalty statement in months," he said flatly. "And until I finish the next book, we won't see any money unless there's a huge spike in sales. So I wouldn't bank on that."
"You didn't tell me that."
"I did," Warren said. "You just don't listen."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Alison's teeth clenched. She had never wanted anything this badly in her entire life. It was like she was sixteen again, aching for that new car, that brand new album. But this time it wasn't frivolous. This time was real and her bones felt like they'd vibrate right out of her skin if she didn't get what she wanted.
And she wanted this more than she'd ever wanted anything in her entire life. And Warren knew it -- he could see it in the way she clenched her fists, hear it in the way her voice grew hurried and loud and bright. But he wasn't as thrilled as she was. Not nearly.
It wasn't fair, she thought, that Warren got everything he wanted. He didn't have a nine to five job. He followed his dream to publication, and wrote the kinds of things he'd always wanted to write. He had fans all over the world, websites dedicated to discussing his novels. And Alison worked. She researched. She taught students. And she loved it. But this opportunity was something else entirely. Something new. Something perfect. Something that would give her life a real purpose. And Warren only sat there like an immobile piece of furniture and said nothing at all.
"You've always done everything you wanted to do," said Alison. She tried not to sound like a spoiled teenager, and although she kept her voice soft, she couldn't control the mosquito's whine of resentment that edged into her tone. "I've supported you. I could've asked you to get a real job. I could have, and I didn't. I know we've been ... at odds, lately. But this -- you know how important this is to me."
"It's not just about us anymore," Warren snapped. "Back then we were young. We were able to do anything. We didn't have a mortgage or medical bills or two fourteen-year-old kids. What about them?"
They'd had the argument about the kids many times before this, and they'd have it again many times after. They both loved them to pieces; of course they did. But Warren took care of them. He stayed home with them. He picked them up from school, he packed them lunch, he drove them to sports games, and he went to all the parent-teacher conferences. Alison didn't do that. She didn't have the time. She spent more of her evening grading papers and researching ancient Peruvian peoples than with her family. But she truly did love them, even though Warren did most of the work.
"It'll just be for a year, Warren," Alison said.
"Will it?" asked her husband, looking her right in the eye. "Will it really?"
And to that, she had no real answer.
--
Warren wasn't speaking to her. He'd say little things: "Pass the salt, please," or "What are your plans for dinner?" and was the perfect portrait of civility. But she knew better. She knew that a lukewarm Warren was a very upset Warren indeed.
She tried to broach the subject with him a few more times, but she'd been so anxious that she'd used her words like a weapon, shooting them at him as if he were a threat.
"If money's such an issue," she grumbled, "why don't you hurry up on that book of yours?"
"I'm working as hard as I can," Warren said, and shut himself in his study so that she couldn't bother him.
There were little arguments. More than there used to be. When C.C. and Chris had turned twelve, the dynamic between her and Warren had changed for no discernable reason at all. She told herself it was because dealing with preteen twins was not the easiest job in the world, and because Warren's mother was gravely ill, but if she was being honest with herself -- and Alison rarely was -- it was because she realised that she was not happy.
A woman is supposed to feel content when she has a loving, creative husband, two well-behaved and beautiful children, a reasonably comfortable income, and a nice suburban home. This is what Alison had told herself, what her mother had told her, what books and movies had told her. And she'd tried to listen to the norm -- she'd convinced herself for twelve years that this situation was the mark of a fulfilling life. That her children meant everything, that this job that this life that this future was a great one. But she knew that wasn't all she needed. Somewhere along the way, she'd hit a snag in the road, fell into a pothole and remained there, stagnating while everyone else rushed by at warp speed.
The nights she spent in the Harvard library, in her office in the anthropology division -- these were the best nights. Not the nights they sat around the coffee table as a family playing Apples to Apples or squished together on the couch watching reruns of Friends.
This opportunity would make her happy. It had to, because if it didn't, Alison felt a creeping sense of fear that nothing else would.
She opened that email every day for a week. Opened it, left it up on her screen, and stared at it, neglecting calls and work and Minesweeper. She stayed extra hours in her office, unable to leave the email for fear it would simply vanish into thin air, and one night, as she stayed three hours overtime in Cambridge, she set her jaw, and began to type.
--
"I'm leaving," she announced the next morning at breakfast.
C.C. stopped, a forkful of pancakes halfway to her mouth. Chris nearly choked on a glass of orange juice.
"What?" C.C. spluttered.
"On an expedition," Alison said. "To Peru. It's for my research -- you know, on the indigenous peoples and their history -- and it's very important to me and to the world at large. There are discoveries to be made."
"What about us?" her daughter continued doggedly, fixing Alison with a narrow-eyed stare. Warren had said nothing, lips pursed and jaw working like he was chewing something, but he hadn't even taken a bite.
"I love you very much," Alison said, because she did. "This is very hard for me," she said, because it was. "But this is also something I must do for myself. To be happy. When chances like this come into your life, sweetie -- well, you've just got to grab them while you can."
She remembered as a child that she'd never thought of her parents as people; real people with hopes and dreams and feelings. She'd thought they were there for her and for her alone, that they had evolved past the childish need for validation and passion. To C.C. Alison was nothing more than what a mother was said to be -- a woman to serve her, to care for her, to support her.
"I'll be leaving in a month," Alison said, and this time Chris really did choke and his sister pounded him on the back until he held up a hand to show he was all right.
"A month," the twins said in unison, Chris croaking out the words.
"For how long?" C.C. asked.
"I don't know," Alison said. "A year at most."
"That's not what you said earlier," said Warren, thunderclouds passing across his face. He looked ever more like the moody stereotypical writer these days. "You said--"
"I know what I said," Alison said, raising her voice. "I know what I said. But I must do this." You can't stop me, she thought, challenging her husband with a stony-faced stare, chin jutting forward.
Without a word, Warren shoved his chair away from the table and stomped into the other room.
"I'll be home sooner than you think," Alison said. She reached over to put a hand on C.C.'s shoulder and the girl twisted away, staring out the window. Chris pushed fruit around on his plate. "I promise."
"I don't believe you," C.C. said.
"I'll write," said Alison. "Every week. I promise."
C.C. stood up, forcibly scraping her chair against the linoleum floor. "I'm not hungry anymore," she said as Alison opened her mouth, and practically raced out of the room, leaving a full plate of pancakes behind. Chris stayed at the table, poking at his breakfast, and when Alison smiled encouragingly at him, he didn't even look up.
--
March 4, 2007
Dear Chris & C.C,
Things are going well here. We've discovered so much! It seems like the proverbial fountain of wisdom! I've been living with locals in their huts, wearing an approximation of their fashion -- they're not so backwards as the first world might like us to believe.
I'm afraid I won't be coming home in six months after all...
--
December 1, 2007
Dear Chris & C.C,
You wouldn't believe the spider I saw today -- it'd make your hair stand on end. It was very large, very hairy, but was otherwise harmless. It gave me such a fright that I fell backwards into a stream! My colleagues and new native friends spent the rest of the day laughing at me for my childish behaviour.
We've discovered some wonderful ancient relics that may be part of a very important ritual, and we believe it's best to keep digging around so we don't miss anything. Unfortunately, this means I won't be able to come home when I said I would -- Dr. Jiminez and I agree it's best to postpone for few months, but I think of you every day...
--
May 19, 2008
Dear Chris & C.C.
Happy belated birthday, my darlings! I do wish I could have been there to cut the cake with you. I'm crossing my fingers as I write, hoping that all your wishes come true.
I hope you received my last letter -- I'm not sure if it made it. I think by now you understand how dreadfully important this work is to me, and I know you'll understand that I must stay until at least December to make any impact at all...
--
August 29, 2008
Dear Chris & C.C.
...Afraid this Christmas I'll still be in South America...
--
January 14, 2009
Dear Chris & C.C.
My new year's resolution is to make it home for your birthdays this year -- and I really do mean it. Give my love to your father...
--
January 1, 2010
Dear Chris & C.C.
I apologise for the huge gaps in between letters -- I've been trying, but the mail system seems to be getting worse every day. But I've been writing faithfully every week, whether I can send out the finished products or not.
I will be home in April. And that is a promise.
--
January 20, 2010
Dear Mom,
Don't bother.
C.C.