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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
by P_effect
She returns an hour later, looking much more refreshed and able to deal with the trials of the upcoming minutes. Her blue eyes, the clones of my own, look at me sparingly, preferring to focus on Sydney and Mr. Broots. Her whole posture speaks of strength, however temporary it is.
"Mr. Hunter?"
I jump out of my thoughts and look towards...my daughter. God, this is gonna take a little getting used to.
"Yes?"
She motions towards a chair, one which I take. She sits across from me, crossing her legs elegantly. She's got Catherine's grace and my poise, I realize with a small smile.
Sam comes over carrying a black box very gently, careful not to jar or shake it. He sets it down and she opens it up and a purpose, her hands firm and quick. Two hypodermic needles lie before us, bands to help find veins lying next to them. She pulls one out, wrenching her sleeve up and wrapping
it around with one hand, pulling it tight with her teeth in a savage manner.
With her now free hand, she picks up and needle and jams it in roughly, never wincing or flinching once. God she even has my pain threshold. I do the same with a bit less anger and gentler motions, and together we watch the blood fill the vials attached to the needles. The humor of the situation strikes me with all the subtlety of a Mack truck. Most fathers and daughters go out for lunch together so he can meet her latest beau. We draw blood to prove our heritage.
One happy little Centre family. She removes her needle and pulls a cotton ball to the wound, bending her arm up to start the clotting, and handing the blood filled glass tube to Sam.
I offer it to him as well, and he takes it and places them back in the box.
My daughter looks at him with a warning glare.
"With your life, Sam. Understood?"
"Yes Miss Parker. I'll watch them do it all."
"Thank you Sam." He leaves, the doors sliding closed behind him. Broots rises next, fumbling with his hands nervously.
"Ah, Miss Parker?"
"Yes Broots, you can go for the day."
"Are you coming to Debbie's dance recital? She's been begging me to make you."
She allows a small smile.
"Wouldn't miss it for a bound and gagged Wonderboy, Broots. Tell her I'll be there, front and center."
He smiles.
"Tha-thank you, Miss Parker. 'Night."
"Good night Broots," Sydney bids with a smile, and Parker simply nods in acknowledgment. The doors slide open and closed again, and the three of us sit back in the silence.
"I could use a drink," she announces, getting up and going over to a chest and pulling out a bottle of vodka
"Anything, Sydney?"
"I'll take cognac, if you have it."
"Syd, this is my liquor cabinet. Of course I have it." Sydney smiles, and she turns to me, an eyebrow cocked in a devil-may-care motion.
"Anything?"
"What'd you got?"
"Whatever you want. This career choice requires a fully stocked chest." "Bourbon."
She prepares the necessary drinks with the ease of someone who does it on a regular basis, and I can't help but wonder if she moonlighted as a bartender in her college years.
The liquid melts my mouth and makes my insides whizz. Ah, this is one of the many creature comforts I missed. Alcohol.
Not that I was ever an alcoholic, mind you, but I did my share of binge drinking in my days and enjoying a glass of brandy or bourbon late at night with an open book on my lap was one of my favorite pastimes. My daughter gulps hers down with the ease of someone who drank 230 pound line backers under the table, and pours herself a second neat, sipping at this one more moderately. Then she lets out a little sigh of exhaustion, and sits back with a satisfied look on her face.
It's the little things in life you treasure.
Sydney rises next, placing his empty glass on the liquor cabinet. "Parker, can I leave you here and trust you not to kill anyone?"
She ponders the question deeply for a moment, then nods quite seriously.
"I'll restrain myself, Syd."
"Good. I have to finish filling out the twin's most recent result forms."
She smiles at him softly, and he turns to leave.
"Oh, and expect to hear from Wonderboy." He turns. "Jarod?"
"He decided to give me a call and bitch." "I take it this didn't last long."
"I told him to stick it where the sun don't shine."
He smiles, more of affectionate scolding than of anger, and it hits me that this man has probably been the one who raised my daughter for me. I'll have to ask him about it later. The doors open and close once more, leaving us in silence.
And then there were two.
She sighs and leans back, rubbing her face with one hand and watching me out of the corner of her eye. I look down at my drink, examining the nuisances of the ice and the colors that flicker over the surface of the liquor.
It occurs to me that in this moment, the one I've been waiting for for over three decades, has finally come... and I haven't a clue what to say.
I've got no experience in these types of things, and I doubt Doctor Spock has any ideas on the subject either. *What To Say To A Daughter You Just Met After 35 Years of Being Locked In A Cellar By The Man She's Called Daddy*. I
almost laugh.
This would be funny if it wasn't so depressing, I realize. I've been aching to see her, chomping at the bit for a moment alone with her when I can apoligize and talk to her, ask her everything about her life and what I've missed.
All I can do is sip at my drink. She lets out a small sigh, and I look up, only to see her hunched over, her fingers pressed to her temples.
"Shutupshutupshutupshutup..."
Her mantra is achingly familiar. On more than one night, Catherine would sit in her overstuffed armchair, her arms and legs curled up in one large tangle, her head bowed, her voice calling out to silence the invisible voices in her head. Come to think of it, she grasped her temples in much the same
way our daughter is right now.
"What are they saying?"
She looks up at me, but doesn't say anything. I sigh.
"Catie had much the same problem at night-- she couldn't silence them enough for her to sleep."
"I can't silence them enough for me to *think*," she grumbles, and I smile in sympathy. She lets out a bone shaking sigh and looks at me for a moment more before responding.
"It's not them talking. It's Her." I catch my breath. "You hear her? You hear Catie?"
"Yes," she replies with a hissing breath. I'm almost afraid to ask, but I gather up what courage I can and voice my
question in a voice that isn't quite as strong as I hoped.
"What's she saying?"
She looks up at me with her ice colored eyes, one's which are looking a lot older than their 32 years. Her voice is no more stable than mine was as she responds to the query.
"She's telling me...that you're my father."
I sit back, gulping down the remains of my drink. She refills it without a question as I take a deep breath.
"Do you believe her?"
She lets out a long sigh and takes another sip of her vodka.
"I... I think so. I mean, it does make a little bit of sense. I never
really connected with Daddy, even before I came to work at the Centre... As a child, after Momma died, I used to dream that some knight in shinning armor would come along and tell me that I was actually adopted, and that my real parents were nice and kind people who had been searching everywhere for me, and who worked normal jobs and in anticipation of my arrival owned a white rabbit named
Sarah."
She looks up, sensing my confusion at the last bit.
"Daddy never let me have any pets, and the closest I got was playing with the rabbits at the Centre."
"Ah." She lets out a sigh.
"There's something else bothering you."
"Yes."
"Tell me?"
She lets out another sigh and rubs her neck. "Momma never lied to me. And her voice has always steered me down the
right path... And if she's telling me that you're my father, it means that you're my father."
"This is a... bad thing?"
She leans back and looks up at the water designs playing across the ceiling.
"Not entirely. It would mean that now I would know why I always felt weird when I was with Daddy... But it would also mean that it's another lie to add onto the many that surround me. One more untruth in a long line of them, and one more part of me that I thought was real which turned out to be
false."
"I...I'm sure that the part which replaces it wouldn't be all that
bad...In fact, I think, it might be better than what's there now."
She looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine, and for a long moment, I find clarity.
My daughter doesn't want to change anything else. She may hate the lies that surround her with a burning passion that rivals the fires of Hell, but she's afraid of giving them up as well. Being destroyed piece by piece isn't a nice thing, even if a substitute for the removed piece is provided.
Morganna is scared of being torn into pieces in her search for the truth-- afraid of losing the things she's always held to be true.Freedom caries sacrifice, love.
"I... I'm sorry," I whisper, my vocal cords losing their stability. She looks up suddenly.
"Why?"
"I... I've missed so much. I don't even know what to say to my own daughter, and she doesn't know what to talk to me about." I rub my eyes and take another sip, hoping to firm up my voice. "I missed your first steps, first words, first day of school. I wasn't there for graduations and birthdays and ballet recitals. I... I couldn't even be here to help you
through your mother's death." I shake my head, feeling more inadequate than I ever have before.
"Neither was he." I look up, and she looks down at her drink. "I'm just saying... Daddy was here, and even he never came to those things, or saw those times, or helped me through mama's death. Hell, the last time I saw him
outside of the Centre was over two years ago, when he broke into my house so he and his wife could have some place to shower." She gives a hard laugh, and rests her head on her hand.
"Even if you had come back... I'm not used to having a father who might actually care what I do even if it doesn't affect him." She looks up, suddenly aware that she's let too much slip.
"That's even assuming that you are my father, and not just some psyco Raines created." She sips her drink again, and I give a solemn nod of understanding.
"You...you are my father, aren't you." Her voice is soft, and somewhat scared. I swallow and bite my lip.
It's more of a statement than a question, but I nod any way.
"Yes."
She contemplates this for a moment, her crimson lips pursed in thought and her hand holding her glass delicately. Then, with a frame shaking sigh, she looks up and offers me a weak smile.
"I need another drink."
I feel a smile come onto my face and rise, walking over and taking her glass...and then I place my hand on her shoulder, offering some comfort through osmosis. I can't help it-- she just looks so lost, and after all, I'm her father; it's my job to be the comforter and protector. She remains silent, but reaches up one of her hands to cover mine, her long fingers
interlocking with my own.
Serenity.
I depart from her side reluctantly and refill the glass, then fill my own up. I retake my chair with a feeling of closure, letting out a sigh as my bone creak. She looks up and raises her glass. I do the same.
"Salud," we proclaim in unison, and with a soft smile, I drink the first burning gulp.
"It's gonna take a while," she says with a bone weary sigh, and I look up.
"Yes, it will."
"But it's farther than we had before, wasn't it?"
"A hell of a lot farther. We at least know each other's faces now. That seems like an important thing to know."
"It does, doesn't it." We sit back in silence for a long moment, a mutual understanding reached. It's not gonna be perfect, but it's our relationship. It starts now, and I very much doubt it will be easy or quickly perfected. But when Sam comes back with the results, three hours latter, all she does is look at them before smiling with satisfaction and burning them in the
ashtray. We already knew the results.
I have my daughter back.
