Letter to An Absent Son A. Wasserman (VOY - G) Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything Star Trek, past, present and future. No one should be making any money off of this, so please don't sue. Synopsis: Admiral Paris writes a letter to his son. May not be redistributed to any other Web Site, mailing list or newsgroup without permission. May be printed out for personal use only. (I hope that covers it.) Copyright 2000 by anne wasserman *********************** Letter to An Absent Son Dear son, Son. The word looks so stark, there on the page. I never thought I would use that word in connection with you again. And I'm sure you thought so too. After all, that's what I told you, there at your court martial. The last time I used that word to describe my relationship to you. "You're no son of mine," I said and turned away. Those words have come back to haunt me with their truth. I have no son. You are lost, presumed dead, somewhere in the Badlands and now there is no reason for me to ever use the word `son' again. Which is why I can't sleep at night anymore. I still think about the last time I saw you, there at your court martial. You looked so scared, so young. That was the last time I heard your voice, begging me to help you. The last time I was close enough to you to feel the warmth of your body. And to smell your fear. And, I can admit it now, it disgusted me. A Paris is never supposed to show fear. Or anything else, it seems. Was it your failure that I couldn't admit to or my own? Is that why I didn't help you? Because I would have had to admit my failure, my own part in the play that was your life? It shames me now to think so. I wasn't even home when you were born. I was off on the Al Batani somewhere near Vulcan, if I remember right. After a while, all the planets you've seen, all the people you've met begin to blur, to become indistinguishable. Not that it matters anyway. What really matters is that I wasn't there. When I came home, when I saw you for the very first time, you were already six months old. Experts say those first few months are crucial to parent-infant bonding. Maybe they're right. Maybe that's the reason. Or maybe not. I don't know. All I know is I can't sleep anymore. I had never had a son before. I know, it sounds like a silly statement. Son, daughter, what does it matter? All I know is that it mattered to me. Admiral Paris' first born and only son. I could hardly believe you were mine. You were so beautiful. All that blond hair and those blue eyes . . . When they first gazed into mine, I thought how easily I could become lost in them forever. And, when your tiny fingers curled around my thumb . . . Well, all I can say is that it took my breath away. I wish that I could go back . . . that *we* could go back. Back to that beginning, back to those feelings. If we could, then maybe we could fix whatever it was that went so terribly wrong. Or then again maybe not. You cried, I remember, and stiffened when your mother first put you into my arms. It might have been one of medals had scratched that soft baby skin of your cheek . . . Or maybe not. Maybe you sensed my uncertainty, my hesitation. I also remember I gave you back to your mother rather hastily. Now what I wouldn't give to hold you again. The only thing is . . . I'm fairly sure your reaction would still be the same. I was home when you first started to learn to walk. I remember how you clutched the carefully creased material of my uniform pants in one tiny fist, struggling for balance. Another admission. It annoyed me. But soon I found myself missing that hand when it wasn't there, your fingers wrapped tightly around my thumb Much like I miss you now. Once you started to walk, you followed me everywhere. Do you remember all the times you came with me to Starfleet Headquarters? You would sit quietly in the corner, listening to everything, watching everything . . Watching me. Listening to *me*. People would joke. Say that Command was your *real* home. That there would be no idea for you to attend the Academy . . . That you had already learned everything there was to know about Starfleet before you were even six. Do you remember how they also used to call you the Admiral's shadow? For a while, it seemed as if everywhere I went, you were always right there, trying so hard to keep up with me. Now I turn around and no one is there, just the long-lost echo of your baby feet. And, somewhere along the way, I guess you just got tired to trying to keep up. Did I tell you I can't sleep any more? Instead, I find myself staring out the window, up at the stars, wondering if you're really dead or just lost somewhere out there. I also find myself wondering if you still hate me. Not that that matters any more either. Because I hate myself enough for the both of us. I also remember the day, the hour, almost the *second* you started talking. Not in baby talk, but in full, clear sentences. Do you remember your first word? It was 'no'. You stood there, arms crossed, blue eyes full of defiance . . . Looking back, it almost seems like prophecy. Your second word was, I think, Starfleet. I was, I think, prouder of that than when you first called me Daddy. Now what I wouldn't give to hear you call me Dad again. Not with a three-year old's baby lisp. Not with the admiring tones of the ten year old. Not with the insolent, drawn out tones of the thirteen year old. And definitely not with the panic-stricken voice of the twenty-year old at his court-martial. Just Dad. Said with a love and a warmth I haven't heard in so long . . A love and a warmth I may never hear again. Did I tell you why I'm writing to you? Because I can't sleep? Sometimes I feel as if I haven't really slept since that day we found out you were lost, somewhere in the Badlands among the stars you loved so well. What else do I remember? I remember how, as you got older, everyone thought you were destined to become the Paris family's crown jewel. Your teachers, your friends, your family . . . Everyone thought they knew what you would become, what your future would hold . . . Too bad no one ever asked what it was *you* wanted. What you thought. What you wanted. I also remember how you went from wanting to be right by my side to wanting to be as far away from me as possible. And it happened, it seemed, in the blink of an eye. And now it seems as if you gotten so far away that you will never be able to find your way back. And it's that knowledge that keeps me from sleeping at night. Those same experts that talked about parent-infant bonding also talked about how difficult the teen years would become. But I don't think that even they knew how really difficult it would be. We were like oil and water, fire and ice. I knew what I wanted from your life and you . . . You only knew that whatever it was that I wanted, you didn't. There were times I used to think that if I said yes, fine. Go do whatever it is you wanted to do, you still would have said no. Just to spite me. First you wanted to be in the Coast Guard, then you wanted to fly. I wanted you to become an Admiral. And neither of us would yield. I forgot what it was like to want freedom. I forgot what it was like to want to spread one's wings and try . . . It seemed I forgot a lot of things as I got older. But the one thing I never forgot, no matter how confused, as teeth-clenchingly angry as you may have made me, was how much I loved you. And I like to think that you never forget it either. What's that? I thought I almost heard you laugh, somewhere out in the darkness. It's true, though. I did love you. I still love you. I guess I'll always love you. I guess I should have told you that. Maybe, if I had, I would be able to sleep. But somewhere along the way I did stop telling you and now you're gone and there are no more chances to tell you how I feel . . . I may never be ab;e to sleep again. Did I ever tell you I blame myself for that mess on Caldik Prime? You're laughing again. I can feel it. It's true. If only I had eased up on you, listened to you, *talked* to you instead of at you . . . If only I hadn't made it so impossible for you to admit failure . . . For *me* to admit failure . . . One of the things a parent must do is set standards, make rules . . . It is *not* their job to set those rules, those standards so impossibly high that not even G-d himself could fulfil them. I can see that now. But hindsight is a bitter thing. I wish I could sleep. Your captain called me from Voyager, the day before you left. She wanted to know if I wanted to speak to you before they broke orbit. Do you know what I said? I said I had no son. Prophecy again. Those words are what keeps me from sleeping. They disturb my days . . . haunt my nights. I may never be able to sleep again. Do you know what I'm really afraid of? That if by some miracle you are found, that if you are alive and somehow make it home, that it won't make any difference. Not to us. That it is too late for us to start over. Too late to try and mend something that has been broken for far too long. I can see the dawn now, streaking the sky with faint pink. I wonder if you are alive. I wonder if you are still able to see the occasional sunrise. And I wonder, if you are alive, if you have friends, if you are loved, if you have respect and happiness and joy and all the things that make life worth living? Have you found what were always looking for? I hope you have. Even if it keeps you far away from me. And I wonder if you ever think of me. If you ever miss me. And I think that the answer is no. You're no longer the Admiral's shadow . . . You're no longer *in* the Admiral's shadow . . . And now all I can hear is your sigh of relief . . . But if it means anything to you, *I* miss you. And I'm sorry. And I love you. Dad END