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Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly masochistic, Jack likes to pretend that Laura really existed.
Only for a few moments, maybe, he tells himself, as if that makes the delusion better. As if it hurts a little less to just imagine a moment snatched away rather than a day or week or more. Because, then – of course, of course, he tries to figure out which moments they were, and he's not stupid enough to let himself linger on the thought. Masochistic, yes, but there are limits to it and doing a 'Best Moments' rewatch of his married life is probably beyond any tolerance levels he possesses.
He doesn't mention this to anyone, of course, and he is reasonably certain that not even Arvin would suspect him of being that stupid, even in the dark recesses of his subconscious. (Arvin, Jack thinks, is probably charitable enough to imagine Jack armoured all over now and not still raw and bloody, like fresh meat on the slab.)
Sometimes, the moments slip through when Jack's not paying attention, as if testing for a weak spot.
Sydney's fifth birthday appears when he is stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel. The bathroom window is open to let out the steam, and next door are baking. The smell of vanilla wafts in and takes up residence in his hippocampus and Jack's hand hesitates over the terrycloth as Laura takes the cake out of the oven, flour and sunburn and effort etched into her face.
The second day of their honeymoon sneaks up on him when he is on a mission and otherwise occupied. He is walking on the beach with the mark when a nearby bather yells as a jellyfish stings his leg and Laura yelps when she steps on a broken piece of dead starfish, Laura's hand on Jack's arm as she hops on one foot.
8th July doesn't make any apologies for waking him up from a reasonably sound sleep with the sound of Laura crying in the bathroom, furious and frustrated that her period had arrived despite their best efforts. For a moment he's disoriented and his eyes automatically seek the light from the bathroom, half-levering himself up to roll out of bed when he remembers that it's just his brain playing tricks on him.
(When he rolls back down he closes his eyes against the realisation that Irina probably wanted the child more than Laura did, and for no reasons he could ever forgive.)
"Jack," Arvin asks over coffee, his suit immaculate and his sunglasses on against the glare of the morning light, "how are you sleeping?" They are outside, sipping espresso and making small talk for the benefit of the CIA operatives Arvin is sure have been tailing them for the last few months. On the other side of the street are roller bladers, their ankles and wrists taped up and shiny helmets on their heads. The slope of the street takes the beginners by surprise, turning their usually graceful adult forms into pin-wheeling childish figures, scrabbling against each other for purchase.
If Jack closes his eyes, he can see Sydney's first bike and the nasty fall she took. She was a brave girl even then, though, and hadn't cried. Jack wouldn't have even noticed anything was wrong if he hadn't been woken up early by a screeching bird in the yard and come downstairs to see the front door wide open.
Outside on the sidewalk Sydney's mouth is trembling and there is no one watching Laura when she presses her immaculately lipsticked mouth to Sydney's bloody knees. Sydney gives a sudden sob of sheer relief. "Don't tell daddy I fell," she says, and Laura nods and scoops her up.
Watching it all in a rerun, Jack thinks that he is bloody enough without salting his wounds daily. "I'm sleeping just fine," he tells Arvin shortly, and takes a too-large gulp of his espresso. He is going to have an extra-large glass of whiskey before bed that evening, and the image of Irina's mouth smeared with Sydney's blood isn't going to wake him up once.
*
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