The Perfect Weapon Ending 2 Part 1 Section 4
He nodded and in formal Russian responded. "Are you certain? I would be glad to assist you."
"Nyet, I said! Nyet, nyet, nyet! Didn't you hear me?" She called out impatiently, in a mix of English and Russian, rubbing her temple. No, she needed to clean this mess up herself. But what was he offering? Really?
"How about," he began to suggest slowly, returning to English. "If..."
"How about, if you're so damn eager to assist, that you get me that wastebasket over there?" She pointed, also returning to English, better, she had always thought, for plain speaking.
He smiled slowly and did not move. Began to tap his fingers on the wall.
She groaned. Relaxed. Realized a moment later that she had relaxed the minute he began to tap his fingers, such a Jack move... She exclaimed, "Okay, okay! Will you please get the wastebasket for me?" He nodded and took a stride toward the wastebasket. Under her breath, she muttered, "How can he be a smartass without saying a word?" And too, Anglo-Saxon was a much better language for swearing.
"I heard that," Jack said returning to face her. He looked from the wastebasket to her face then back again and began to lift it.
"I swear, Jack Bristow, if you shove that over my head...." He lifted it again. She was stuck within the pile of shattered glass and could not move. "Jack, you bastard!"
"Irina..." Jack said, handing her the basket, which she snatched to her abdomen. "You just spoiled my entire game plan. You b****." They looked at each other and smiled. Then they each started as they realized what they had done. Jack spoke first. "If you change your mind, and want some help, I'll--"
"You think I can't do this on my own!" She said accusingly, gripping the wastebasket in both hands.
"You're wrong. I know you can. But at this point, I just think, based upon my experience that--"
"It must be nice to be perfect!" She growled at him. "To know everything."
"It is. It is. Let me tell you all about---" He said. Then sighed, rubbed his chin. Was he trying not to smile, she wondered, as he continued in that tone that had never ceased to aggravate her, "Or perhaps I'm not perfect---"
"Perish the thought!"
"Perhaps I'm not perfect, I just know how to say when I'm wrong and apologize. A skill you never learned as I recall."
She ground her teeth. He was still the most amazingly annoying human being on earth! "And let me guess. You'll be glad to tell me precisely how I'm wrong, you---"
"My pleasure!"
He flung the words at her, but she realized slowly, these words were not weapons. They were just... Jack. Just a typical argument in which he was irritating the hell out of her as only he could. Automatically she held the wastebasket over her chest as she saw his eyes flick to her breasts to gauge the level of her irritation.
Damn him for knowing her so well, she thought as he added softly, the softness of his tone merely ratcheting up her irritation, "I think everyone can use a hand now and then. Why don't you let me---"
"GO AWAY," she snapped without thought, as he looked at her. She looked down. What did he see now when he saw her? She would have to ask him. But not yet. Now... she needed to ascertain what she wanted to see when she looked in the mirror. "Did you hear me?" She asked, jerking her head up, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Did you? I told you---"
"I was just asking!" he snapped without thought.
"I said, GO AWAY!"
"Fine!" He snarled.
"Fine!" She glared at him and pointed toward the bathroom.
He twirled around, went back into the bathroom and slammed the door hard. She heard him mumbling inside. She shook her head and broke into a smile. That quick temper of his, she thought for the thousandth time. Honestly!
Honestly...That had been... real.
Wait.
That had been a real moment. That argument had been real. That had just been... them. The two of them.
That had been... fun. That business with calling each other b**** and bastard. That had been real. It had been real earlier this morning too, she thought. Remembering how she had flung at him, 'You lying bastard.' How he had responded, 'Pleased to meet you too, you cowardly b****.' That had been funny, actually, now that she thought about it, smiling again.
And now that she thought about it... Now that she could see. What if this night, or rather this morning, had been a second chance, a second chance at meeting each other again? Meeting the people they had become, with all the past between them? Would he, truly, be pleased to meet the person she was? Whoever that was? She was not quite sure herself. Maybe... she wanted... No, needed, his help, his hand, to ascertain the answers to these questions? And who had he become? Who did he want to be? Did he want her help to answer those questions too?
She looked down at her feet and carefully shifted them. Gathering her muscles, she gave a quick shove and leapt away from the pile of shards. She walked over to the door. Lifted her hand to knock, but at the last minute just put her hand on the smooth wood. "Jack," she whispered. "Jack." She leaned her head against the panel as relief began to swamp her. That had been Jack. The old Jack and...in those watchful, cautious eyes, the man he had become. Could he become her Jack again, or some... new version? Together, could they....
On the other side of the door, Jack had whirled around as he realized that he had been speaking with some combination of... "Laura? Irina?" He shook his head, hearing that combination of English and Russian as they had argued. She could provoke him so easily, it was... He put his hand on the door and whispered, "Whatever." Whatever... you will be when you integrate yourself, he thought, suddenly. Like... I had to do. Have to do. Can't we do this together? Then he leaned his head against the door and whispered, "Become whatever you were meant to be. Find yourself."
And that combination had been ... Laura and Irina, some combination that was.. real. They had had some real moments tonight, this morning. Those moments were what gave him the courage to hold the hope that had kept him going. That moment when she had called him a twit for not letting her see his insecurities, when they had just kissed and loved with no pressure, when, most tellingly, their minds had connected with that poem, "The Second Coming." That connection he felt with her in that moment had been dangerous, the openness between them so complete, without barriers, as always the connection between their minds the one that fed everything else. Fed...
Spinning, spinning in that widening gyre....
He neither knew nor cared who was the falconer and who was the falcon. He just wanted her, the real her, to come to him. Or rather, whatever she was to be to come to him and they could find what they could be, individually and together. He wanted to lift his hand and have her take it. Or she could lift her hand. Who cared, as long as their hands met? Then they could begin, he hoped, a new journey together. A difficult one to be sure. But....
Don't let things fall apart, honey, he thought. Pick up those pieces and make something new. He dropped his hand and began to pace.
She walked back over to the pile, put the wastebasket next to her and began to pick up the pieces.
Catching sight of her face, cut into tiny pieces in the pile of reflective glass at her feet, she tried to piece the puzzle of her life, his life, their life, back together. How did he see her? She tossed a shard into the trash. Who did he see?
Did Jack look at her and see any tiny little remnant of Laura in her? Did she?
She picked up another sliver. Would this pile never end? She felt like Sisyphus trying to push that damn boulder up the hill. Was that who she was? Doomed for eternity to seek but never find? Or... had she been dooming herself?
She stared hard at herself in all those bits and pieces of shattered glass. Who was that? Was there any part of her that was... the best part of her... Laura?
She nodded, remembering moments of connection tonight. When they had kissed, when she had called him a twit. That poem. And these last months there had been other moments. Unwilling connection on his part, largely, she knew now or part of his plan. Or both, he might have decided to use those moments as they happened. Doubleplays. Like the word games, in her cell, on the plane. The shared memories, especially the night they had conceived Sydney. Even that 'bimbo of Bangkok' line. She still had to pay him back for that comment. Putting her makeup on with a trowel indeed. Such a smartass. And...the toaster story in that train. That had been, she realized, the first time he had truly seen Laura in her. That connection, right there. She had thought then that she had him that easily. Thought he was her Jack, just waiting, as he had always waited. Like he was waiting now, she realized with a slight gasp and began tink, tink, tinking the glass shards a little faster.
Jack raised an eyebrow as suddenly the pace of the tinking accelerated. Her mind must be starting to do what it did best, click along in a logical fashion. C'mon, he thought, tapping his fingers against the frame of the closed door. Sliding his hand down the frame, he carefully turned the knob and opened it soundlessly, just a fraction of an inch. C'mon, figure it out, so that we can figure this out together. So we can find a way to make the crooked ways straight, so we can... I don't know what or how we'll do it, but if you are willing to try, then I will too.
Use your strengths, Irina, she told herself. You can do this. She nodded. Try the if-then combination.
If, however, Jack saw her in some way, some tiny little way, as Laura, then he might have...pushed her to find that part of herself again.
If Jack pushed, then he would push hard.
If Jack pushed hard, then it would hurt.
And god, she had hurt this morning.
Carefully picking up the sharp shards, she looked at them, then up at the bureau. The mirror was irretrievably broken. She supposed they'd have to pay for it. She'd have to pay for it. But.. She shrugged and tossed each piece into the wastebasket, there was nothing else to do but clean up and pay up.
And with each tink, tink tink of glass into the wastebasket, she let go. Let her mind go and suddenly, she felt it click into gear in a way it had not in so long, not personally. So long had she allowed her logic to be skewed by self-absorption, her clarity of vision obscured by the veil of self-delusion. But Dave's words had sliced right through it. Ripping that veil away, allowing herself to feel pain. Just as Dave's death, finally realized this morning, had ripped through her layers of self-protection to allow her to feel Jack's pain at that death. Death, there had been too much death, death of hope and faith and love, worst of all, she thought as she tossed another shard into the trash.
"Laura, you're into logic. So let me ask you this....If someone -- just for a moment, imagine that if-then combination. If someone has trust issues and you fail to catch them when they need it, then...
If then
If then
If then
If that woman weren't already dead, then I'd track her down and kill her myself.
If Dave had wanted to kill her, then what would Jack do? That was a foolish question. She knew what Jack would do. What he had done. Jack had set her up for Madagascar and the death penalty.
If Jack had set her up for Madagascar, then he must not see her as Laura.
If Jack had not seen her as Laura, then he must see her as.... Irina Derevko.
If Jack saw her as Irina Derevko, then he saw her as ... Oh. My. God. A female enemy operative.
If Jack saw her as a female enemy operative, then he would do what he did best. People have patterns.
He had just pulled a screw and skedaddle on her.
And she had not realized it. He had played her.
"That son of a b****!" She exclaimed. "He did an in and out on me! I'll... I'll..." She didn't know what she was going to do, but he was going to pay for that. She'd decide later. Now, she needed to keep moving. But honestly! "I'm going to kill him, torture him...."
Oops, Jack thought, smiling widely as he saw his face in the bathroom mirror. She had figured it out. This was a good sign. If she could put that puzzle together, she was on the right track. She was chasing the truth and would find herself. Perhaps he should get out the screwdriver and remove that camera? Or... if he really wanted to irritate her, he could ask her to help him take down that mirror. That would be best, it was always fun to irritate her. That was as good a place to start as any.
She muttered imprecations as she picked up a shard, more angry at herself for not seeing it than at him for playing her. She threw a shard of glass into the metal wastebasket with such force that it splintered again. She automatically jerked back to avoid the glass.
Why hadn't she see it? She had been blind. Blinded by her own needs. Now. And... she admitted, then. Then, she had wanted everything she could take, everything he could give. Now...she had done the same. People have patterns. Patterns, known patterns, could be a weakness. Of course.
Then she nodded. Of course he had played her. It hurt her pride but the truth was that anyone could be played. Anyone. If their weaknesses were exploited by the very person who knew them best, then it was almost easy. After all, isn't that what she had done with Jack? Had planned on doing with Jack when she returned? With Sydney? Using their love, their desire for love and a family, to further her game plan? She smacked her leg. He was or.. had been planning on doing it to her. Had been... She hoped. Hoped it was over. Hoped he had been, past tense. She was going to have to have faith that this symmetry play...she groaned. Of course, it was a symmetry play. Jack's favorite. She had always preferred the mirror play, but actually her favorite, between them anyway, was the chase game. Maybe someday they might have a chance to play that chase game she had wanted so many years before, she had the perfect place for him to find her and....
Oh, stop day dreaming and move it along, she told herself, tossing another shard into the can with a loud TINK.
At some point this morning he had changed his game plan. Had changed it from a screw and skedaddle into something much more dangerous, the game of truth and consequences, as he had said. When he had begun to push her to see his truths, see his pain, Sydney's pain, pushed, pushed, pushed.
If Jack had pushed so hard, then he must want something.
If Jack had loved Laura the way she thought, no, knew he had loved Laura, then... he would want Laura back.
If Jack wanted Laura back, then...he would push to find her, the way she had always thought he would chase her when he found out the truth. Was this morning his version of the chase game? Her head snapped up, her senses scenting truth. Had he been chasing Laura, the kernel of Laura that he thought or... hoped.. lay within? He had spoken of her true potential... Is that what he had been chasing, pushing her to find herself?
Damn it! It was a circular argument, the kind Jack loved, but she hated and... Wait. A circle. But... a circular chase game.
She needed to get out of that circle. So he had been pushing her, chasing her to find... herself. So that they could find each other again? Is that what he wanted?
What did she want?
Out of nowhere, came a little voice.
What do you want?
Only... it wasn't a little voice from nowhere. It was Dave. Damn Dave. Lifesaving Dave. Who was going to give her the means to save herself.
I want him... to hold onto me forever.
Yes, she wanted that. She wanted her family back. She wanted Jack. She wanted Jack to be hers. She wanted to be Jack's. She wanted her marriage. She wanted to be happy. She wanted Jack to be happy. She wanted Sydney to be happy. She wanted to see her grandchildren, which in some terrible turn of the screw might well be the grandchildren as well of a man she had killed. The children of a man who loathed her for that loss. Could Sydney and Agent Vaughn overcome that twisted connection between them? How? If only... No, that was not productive. What if she... She shook her head. Again, it hurt her pride to admit it, but her imagination failed her. An apology would hardly be sufficient. What in the world could she do to help Sydney find happiness in this situation? She needed help with that one, she knew. Needed to swallow her pride, overcome her stubborn prejudice that going it alone was the best option and just...ask for help. What if she asked Jack for help? He would... He had said he would help her. And it had been real, not part of some game. Hadn't it? It wasn't just another step in some game he was playing, was it? This was a risk.
Well, what did she have to lose?
The truth was that no matter which way she looked at it, no matter in which language she spoke or thought, no matter how long she chased after Rambaldi, even found the solution to Rambaldi, the answer was still the same. Still found again in Dave's voice at the wedding.
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge and if I hae all faith, so as to move mountains, but do not have love, I have nothing.
What did she have to lose by trying to find Jack again, find herself? By taking the risk that he would reject her? Her pride? Looking at her bare fingers, her bare waist, her nudity that seemed awkward now that she was alone, she knew the answer. She had nothing, so there was nothing to lose by trying. By trying to find what she wanted.
She wanted Jack to look at her the way he had so long ago, with such love and longing. The way she knew she had looked at him, touched him, she swallowed, needed him. She wanted... to see in Sydney's eyes something other than a reflection of the combination of fear and longing and loathing she knew she might have seen in her own eyes looking at her own mother that day she had offered Sydney's picture to her and been rejected, had her daughter rejected as nothing more than a pawn in a game.
She shivered in the warm room. As she looked up and watched the sun in the eastern sky, she remembered the cold sweat that had overwhelmed her that day Dave had forced her to look in the mirror and face taking responsibility for her actions. Then and now.
Then and now. The choice was in her hands. She put the last shard into the waste can and stood up and began to pace, keeping the portfolio on the bed in the corner of her eye. Sighing as she realized that in her haste to avoid the horror of Dave's words, she had gotten up and left the papers in a mess. She had to clean that up too. In a minute. Right now, she needed to review one last time, try and find the answer to the question that she feared most.
What were her options? What if… Option A was to just continue on her path, the path she had trod for so long. Option B was to continue for the moment, then come back or…. Leave him clues, play the chase game and then… She shook her head. Those were both risky. And… they hadn't gotten her what she wanted before. So. Option C. Tell the truth. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. So help her…. She needed to have faith. Faith that he would forgive. Hope that he could find whatever it was that one might need to forgive. Which certainly included courage, in addition to love.
Courage. Should she just march in and tell him the truth? Would he... want her? The real her? Did she know the real her? What did he see when he saw her?
Look in the mirror. See yourself. Truly see what you are. See what you have become. Then see your own real potential.
He must see potential. But how, how did he? How could he?
Because, God, she thought, how did you, how could you forgive this betrayal? This was the question she feared most. This was the question that made her faith tremble as surely as her fingers. She clasped her hands together acknowledging that Dave had not forgiven her. He had...
With trembling hands, she picked up the portfolio, forced herself to read those words again. If Dave had not forgiven her, then it was unlikely that Jack had either. But, wait. Dave had run out of time. She was going to hope that in time, he might have found a way to forgive her. Well, if she had come back and, she winced, asked for forgiveness. Oh, damnable pride. And stubbornness. She grimaced as she repeated Jack's words of just a few minutes earlier.
I just know how to say when I'm wrong and apologize.
Yes, yes, she knew that. Just give me a... minute.
And too, Jack and Dave were not the same. They had many similarities but where Jack had that quick temper, Dave had a long fuse. Jack, she realized now, could hold a grudge, tap into that coldness within, whereas Dave's anger burned much hotter and flared hotly until it burned out. She would never know if his anger at her, at himself, had ever burned out. She hoped it had, but now all she had were the angry words in front of her. Angry words at her. At himself.
I will never forgive myself for not seeing the truth.
Of course, that was one reason why he had been so angry. His own anger at himself. The worst anger was the kind you directed at yourself. The kind she knew Jack must have focused on his inability to see through her, the kind that pricked at pride.
Could it be... Could Jack forgive, in part, because he had forgiven himself for not seeing the truth, for having been outplayed? Had Jack forgiven himself? If he had, then... he might be able to forgive her. But first, she sighed. He had told her what he wanted her to do. As if she didn't know!
I just know how to say when I'm wrong and apologize.
She sighed again. Well, he didn't need to hit her over the head with it. She got the point, thank you very much.
She began picking up the scattered pieces of paper from the file. Gave up trying to organize them for the moment, they were too messy, too hard to organize. They could do it later. Jack could tell her the entire story as they worked together on this project, she decided. Then wincing, corrected herself. If he agreed to work with her. As she stacked the papers, she realized again how thorough Dave had been. He had included nearly every written item he had on Jack. Here was a note about his dissertation and a joke about some manual. That 'manual', what was that about? She still did not know. Some operative, she thought derisively. For years the men had made jokes about some manual and she had never succeeded in finding out what it was.
What else... Oh. She stopped dead. Here was a small copy of her favorite photo of the two of them, the one Dave had taken in the doorway of their kitchen that wonderful day. Seeing the love and innocent joy in their faces, she bit her lip in regret, wondered if Jack had saved that photo. Or the one he had taken of her the night of the jewelry, the one he had loved so much of her head and shoulders, glittering in gold in the sunlight streaming through the western window. She remembered, as she pulled the papers together, looking at her face in the mirror holding that photo up next to her, trying to see what he saw in that photograph.
Well, she knew what she had seen in those photos in her hidden portfolio. He would owe her for those, she smiled widely. She could talk him into reshooting those, or rather, she hoped she could. No guarantees, this time. Just hope.
Then she smiled. Here were some notes from Jack and Dave to each other, the contrast between their handwriting pronounced. Dave's so clear and straight, Jack's slanted to the left in a scrawl. The notes were about that reading at the wedding. They must have been passing notes in class or at work in some meeting, she decided. Then she stopped to remember the argument about this pedantic detail that she had been forced to listen to more than once. Dave, he could be like a dog with a bone. And like a dog with a bone, he had saved, buried all these notes, all this...detritus of their lives that unearthed had somehow, someway become the point, the path she had been seeking. Forget Rambaldi, this portfolio was her version of the Holy Grail, she thought wryly.
How perfect, she thought, turning the paper over to put it back in the file. How typical. Jack had wanted the translation that read, "Love never ends." Dave had wanted the translation that read, "Love never fails." Dave... she smiled. He had argued that love did not fail, people did. That was Dave, always so intent about accountability. Jack had preferred the other translation, of course he would, so... afraid of being left, wanting, needing to know that love was forever.
She hadn't cared what reading Jack had chosen, what translation Dave would read. What difference did it make, she remembered asking aloud one day when the argument between the two of them had gone on endlessly and they were supposed to be on their way to the movies. She remembered Jack looking at her curiously, saying, "You're the English student and you don't think the words matter?" She had wanted to scream at herself, making that error, had covered by saying, "You know I have no interest in scripture."That was when, if she remembered correctly, Jack had suggested that she was being blind, that she should look upon the words like any other piece of literature, if nothing else. Then he and Dave had gone back to their argument, as she had tugged the two of them out of the house. In the end, Dave had done what Jack wanted.
In the end, she closed her eyes, remembering Dave in his dark suit, his hair carefully brushed, too long, as was everyone's hair in the seventies, his tie too wide, too bright.. As was everyone's in the seventies... If Jack had saved any wedding photographs they would all be laughing at them today. If Dave had lived. But somehow, she thought as she took a deep breath, Dave was still here with them. In this room. In their hearts. Because Jack had been right. Love never ends.
She...hoped it didn't. Hope. That was what she had. She turned the sheet over, put her hand on it, trying to feel Dave, who had touched this paper once. Took a deep breath, then another. Told herself she could do what needed to be done. Putting her hand up to wipe her forehead, she looked at her fingers and saw ink on the tips, on the callouses at the base of her fingers, on the outer side of her palm. Looking down at the paper, she realized she had not seen the words printed there. Her hand, her too-large hand, had obscured the writing. The ink that had rested on this page for so long, the sweat of her hands had managed to activate it, smudge it. Picking up the paper, she realized that the handwriting, still Dave's was different. Not the same as the writing on the front, it matched the later script. This must be... But why would he have written a note about Jack's breakdown on the back of this note from the wedding, she wondered as she deciphered it, blurry as it was around the edges now.
should say when I see....Forgive?....Honest truth is I don't know how...ruinous... forgive a weakness or strength?... Has to see repentance.... dead... He could... think.... generous ... told her...people you love deserve.... But... no... deserves.... No... grace only... Forgiveness is a gift....
She sighed with relief. There on the paper, in what was the center of her hand, where her palm had not been so flat to the paper, were...
Just as Jack's strength is a gift, grace is too. It's a gift, not what we deserve, but what someone chooses to give us out of love. Too bad she chose to throw it all away.
People have patterns, she thought.
But... people also have choices.
She nodded as she heard Dave's voice in her head.
"That would be a fatal mistake. Don't do it."
No, I won't this time, Dave, Irina thought, putting the paper back carefully into the portfolio and taking one last glimpse of the passage from the wedding on the front of it. I promise.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part....
She looked down at the pile of fractured glass enclosed within the confines of the wastebasket as she wound the closure around the portfolio. How ironic, she thought, as she read the notes and put them away. This portfolio had held the key all along. Dave's love, showing her -- and Jack, she would bet -- the way. Honesty, brutal honesty, caring, compassion, anxiety, anger, all from his love. Pointing them in the right direction, the way home. Home, she thought, looking up in the direction of the bathroom. Home...Safe haven. She shook her head. What a terrible joke. On her. The gods must be laughing. The Greek gods, that is, who always punished hubris, the arrogance of mortals. The arrogance that she had thought she worked best alone, that she could find what she wanted, needed, alone. Hubris, the origin of so many Greek tragedies. She ground her teeth, as she remembered earlier in the night Jack's smartass comment.
"The definition of a tragedy - did you ever take any of those classes for which I paid? Hmm, maybe I should put in a claim with the KGB for restitution for those classes. Can you tell me which I office I should contact for a claim form?"
She slapped his stomach, then wincing at her own actions, whispered, "Jack…" and gently caressed his skin. She knew by the way she had seen him rub his abdomen when no one else was around that his ulcer was probably full blown by now.
He shrugged off her non-verbal apology and continued...
Of course, he had shrugged it off. He was Jack, who always wanted the words. She nodded. The words. She needed to find the right words. She closed her eyes, trying to find them, even as she heard him, earlier in the night, speaking softly.
As he had said, "The definition of a tragedy is that it's an unnecessary loss, that it could have been prevented by courage, or better timing, or better luck, or most sadly, just the smallest effort to overcome human weakness."
Her weakness, one of them, was that she had thought you could find safe haven alone.
The bigger weakness? Not asking "What if?" Or perhaps worse, not answering the question when it had been put to her. When Jack had bared himself, so much of himself to her and she... had not answered.
"What if... my arms became your querencia?" Jack had asked that night of the jewelry.
Now she was ready to give the right answer. If only she knew how.
Querencia.
"How?" Laura had asked after getting up from her bed and with shaking hands, dialed Dave's number.
"You'll find a way. When you open yourself up.... you'll find a way. You'll find your way as you help him find his. Don't you think?"
And she had that night of the jewelry. She had given herself to give to him, had thought he wanted a whore and discovered... something else. Had found he wanted a queen. Had wanted her to be...
The look in his eyes, the warmth of his touch, the love in his every aspect... She had seen herself as he had seen her. Full of possibilities. Endless, limitless possibilities when he had said, "I love you, Laura. Don't ever forget that. Doubt that. You can be whatever you want with me."
The greatest question remaining was... How did she see herself?
You can be whatever you want to be.
But...that wasn't precisely true, she thought.
I want to be... Laura again, she knew. Remembered how at the beginning of the night he had asked what she wanted, how she had told him she wanted to hear him say, "Laura, I love you." And when he had, finally, after the debacle in the bathroom, it had not been what she wanted, his voice, his posture, his touch, the very air around them replete with sadness and regret. That was gone, that Option A.
And the truth was, Laura was gone. She had died the minute she had driven the car into the river. No, earlier when she had made the decision to do so. Or later, when day by day by day ticked by in an endless stream of "Tomorrow, I'll find a way back."
She shrugged her shoulders, moved her arms in circles, trying to loosen her muscles. No, trying to loosen her skin, which felt tight and ill-fitting. Irina...Irina, she thought, didn't seem to fit either anymore, now that she knew what she wanted. Option B was gone. And it had never made any one happy, any way. But...
Option C was to become... Whatever? She smiled, then groaned, hearing Jack's voice in her ear. What a smartass. Option C was to become "Whatever". Whatever she wanted to be. The best of Laura, the best of Irina, integrate them both into something, someone... How, how would she do it? Jack... She bit her lip and looked in the direction of the bathroom.
I would be glad to assist you... If you change your mind and want help....
She would have to ask for help.
"Dave, what if I fail?"
"Laura..." Dave said softly. "You won't. Try your best. You have it all within you. You and Jack together can have everything. As long as you both let go and trust each other. You will catch each other. Isn't that part of what love is?"
"But..." Laura had said.
"You're afraid. But look at it this way. You have so much to gain and so little to lose. Will you be any worse off if you try?"
She nodded. That was logical. "Good point."
"Laura. I have faith in you."
She had stopped, stilled by that comment. In the silence, she heard him tapping his pencil.. No. It wasn't his pencil, it was that obnoxiously-large class ring of his. That tapping he would do whenever he was trying to concentrate that always drove her crazy. This was no exception.
"Stop the tapping!" She exclaimed. "It's a nervous habit that you really must break."
"And avoiding the issue is a habit you really must break. You can do it. I have faith, don't you?"
"You do?"
"Of course. If I didn't, I wouldn't have tried so hard."
"I know. Enemies agree. Friends argue, right?"
"Right. And... But I should tell Jack myself about this conversation. I may have stepped over the line."
"May?" She burst out laughing. "Dave, do you actually recognize that there are such things as lines and boundaries between people who love each other?"
He was silent. "That's a good question. But the truth is, you know, I guess, I don't believe in lines and boundaries. Not when it comes to loving each other. But there are definite lines that can be crossed the other way. So, I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"No, you're not! Not if it works. I know you. The most important consideration you make on any decision is whether or not the tactic is effective."
"If I could have thought of some... gentler way to do it, then I would have. But sometimes it's best to just--"
"Go for the jugular? Hit someone over the head with a mallet? Pull the rug out from under their feet?"
"Are those Jack's options A, B, and C?" Dave laughed.
She laughed too. Jack and his options. "But I understand, Dave, why you did it the way you did it. Because... let's face it." She laughed. "I'm somewhat stubborn, so..."
"Just a little," he teased back. "But put that stubbornness to good use and find your path together."
"I will. I... I guess I owe you."
"All you owe me is to do your best to make each other happy."
"Dave," she said suddenly. "Have you had a conversation like this with Jack?"
"No. Welllll, not exactly. I've told him to try and be more open and to listen to his feelings, from... time to time--"
"Oh, that incessant, endlessly-annoying water dripping on stone technique you use?"
"It's called persistence, Laura, persistence. You make it sound like torture."
She could hear the grin in his voice and snorted. "I'm so going to whip your ass the next time we play Screw Your Neighbor."
"You usually do. Those are good times."
"Ha. What you really enjoy is when you and Jack tag team to irritate me." She sighed melodramatically. "Luckily for you both, I allow it."
"You get irritated and angry just to make us happy, I'm sure, Miss Generous."
"Yes. Happy." She paused and looked down at her hand, those rings. "Happy. I will... I heard you, Dave, today, you know."
"Good, that's all I ask."
"No, it's not."
"No," he laughed. "It's not. It's no use hearing and not doing. So..."
"I promise to do my best. Do you want me to cross my eyes and hope to die?"
"It's stick a needle in your eye, brat."
She had shuddered. She had made an error. She could make no more. Professionally or personally. Being Laura would further cement her role in his life. Jack... She loved him. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted to be happy. She wanted to be Laura. Laura would have the love and someday, maybe, at least in part what she had seen on the journey to this place, that journey to Jack and their life together. It had been a circle, a happy circle, she had thought.
Now of course, she thought, looking down at her left hand, bare of the circlets of golds that had encircled her finger, her waist bare of that chain, she thought, she had been wrong. Wrong. Those circles had not been infinite, unbreakable. They had had a break in them, an opening she had created with a lack of faith, an opening through which she had left. Thinking she might find freedom of some sort. She closed here eyes. Could she close those openings? Could she repair the break? Could she make the connection again?