Origins - Chapter 5/7
Title: Origins
Gift: Fic and Fic Song
Recipient: afrakaday
Pairing/Characters: Sharon O'Dwyer, Andrea Hobbs, Andrea/Sharon, Andy Flynn and Jackson Raydor as minor supporting characters
Rating: K for all chapters except for Chapter 3, which is MA
Word Count: 42,000 total (divided among 7 Chapters and an Epilogue)
Synopsis: Sharon O'Dwyer and Andrea Hobbs' challenging childhoods prepare them for meeting one another in college. Growing together and apart, they mature and age, up to present day.
Trigger Warning: PTSD and gun violence in Chapter 5
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show
A/N: This was written for the 3rd Annual Gift Exchange at majorcrimes. Thank you defyingnormalcy for her beta and for shepherding me through the process of writing and posting my first ever fanfic. This gift is primarily a fic, but in the Epilogue, there's a link to an original song that one character writes for the other. afrakaday, based on your requests, this is backstory, AU romantic history, and Andrea/Sharon. Happy holidays and happy new year!
CHAPTER 5
Winter turned to spring. Spring turned to summer. The seasons changed but the state of Sharon's soul, didn't.
She was miserable inside.
Instead of waking every day with a contented smile and the boundless hope of what was to come, she was like a walking corpse, going through the motions, believing she was doing the right thing, but feeling guilty for not being happy as she did so.
That summer, Jack came home from college and told her he'd heard Andrea was spending the summer assisting a clerk in the Quebec government. He asked, gently, why Andrea didn't visit and why she and Sharon didn't talk on the phone. Sharon shook her head, explaining that they'd tried talking a few times in the first couple of months, but Sharon felt like it distracted her, it was too much of a juxtaposition, it pulled her mind and heart away from her family and made her dissatisfied with her current situation. In short, it was too hard to hang up and it hurt too much the following days. So, she and Andrea had agreed to cease contact. She thanked Jack for his concern and asked him to stop sharing news about Andrea.
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By the end of summer, Sharon had completed the classroom portion of her Police Academy training and had started as a member of the force. She looked forward to the field experience she would get on her twelve month probationary period. After that, assuming she passed, she would graduate from the Academy and be assigned her own geographic patrol.
Her life adopted a predictable rhythm. She and her mom worked at opposite times of the day, so that an adult was always available to wait on her dad and take him to doctor's appointments. Sharon supported her brothers' educations as much as possible, helping with homework or attending events that one’s parents usually attended. When she showed up in uniform, her brothers brimmed with excitement, proudly introducing their big sister. Those were her happiest moments. It made her feel, fleetingly, as if her life wasn't a disjointed collection of circumstances: her life made sense, the pieces fit. After all, she had always wanted to help people. In this career, she was doing just that. Maybe law had been a temporary flight of fancy. Being a police officer was tangible work that matched her dedication to service and her attention to rules and procedures. And, instead of going into law school debt, she was putting food on the table, now.
One evening, after a few months of wearing the uniform, she answered a call at the high school. During a PTA meeting, a couple of figures were spotted graffitiing the dumpster behind the cafeteria. By the time Sharon arrived, they'd run off. As she took statements from the witnesses, Principal Weaver approached, interrupting.
"Sharon? Sharon O'Dwyer?"
"Principal Weaver," Sharon nodded, formally.
"I didn't know you were back in town," he reached out to shake her hand, as he struggled to control the surprise on his face.
They spent a minute catching up, Sharon well aware that he was hiding his disappointment. She'd been a star student who'd earned a great scholarship. He'd even written a recommendation letter himself. He didn't need to say it for Sharon to know what he was thinking: she was the last person he'd expected to see working as a cop in her hometown; he, and all her teachers, had thought she'd use her intellect and drive to earn an advanced degree, move to a big city, and build a white collar career. Sharon was ashamed, even as she stood erect and professional in her crisp, blue uniform. At the same time, she felt guilty for being ashamed: she should be proud of her service, and she certainly had nothing but the utmost respect for other officers and those who’d devoted their lives to the force.
It was encounters like this that momentarily shattered her masquerade of satisfaction. She took out her frustration by throwing herself even deeper into her work. She studied the structure of the force, promotion patterns, and management positions. She was determined to find a way to live up to the expectations of her high school teachers, while still being of service to the public, and her own family. She was convinced there was a way to do it all.
The following summer, which was the same time she would have graduated from college, she passed her probationary period, graduated from the Police Academy, and became a Patrol Officer.
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The moment Sharon was assigned her beat as a Patrol Officer, unsurprisingly, she became intensely protective of it.
Her first month, she responded to the occasional noise or suspicious persons complaint, but mostly, she attended Neighborhood Watch meetings, visited local service stations and shops to build rapport, and reported to her Field Training Officer. She even drove through the area when she was off-duty, just to memorize every street and storefront she could. Like everything else she’d ever done, she took her job seriously and committed herself fully. With each passing day, as she listened to her radio, visually scanned her surroundings, and developed relationships with locals, she truly felt that the people who lived and worked in her beat, were her responsibility.
One evening, her sixth week on patrol, she answered a call that came through from dispatch. Three separate neighbors had called 911 to lodge a noise complaint. Usually, noise complaints were about loud music or barking dogs. But this time, it was a complaint about loud yelling, coming from the residence of a Marlene Ette.
Sharon had already learned the quickest route to the apartment complex, thanks to her personal project to map the neighborhood. She was at the scene in three and a half minutes. For a normal noise complaint, after parking, she would have moved briskly but not in a hurry. However, as she reached the bottom of the outdoor staircase that led to Marlene Ette’s second floor apartment, she could hear the yelling herself. And what she heard, sent her highly developed protective instinct, into red alert.
She took the stairs two at a time, reaching for the weapon she’d only ever fired at the range. She’d been a good shot in training; apparently, she was able to harness her laser-like focus for precision shooting as well. Now, as she neared the apartment door, the yelling of a male voice and the crashing of objects being smashed, grew louder, and for the first time, Officer O’Dwyer drew her weapon.
She banged on the door forcefully and called, “Police!” The soundscape didn’t change. She banged again, hollering, “Police! Open the door!” The indistinguishable yelling from inside the apartment didn’t stop. But now, she heard a woman’s voice too: it rose up as a scream of pure terror.
Sharon pointed her weapon at the door lock, careful to aim towards the door frame and the external wall of the building, not towards the interior of the apartment where someone might be standing. Right before she pulled the trigger, something occurred to her and she reached for the door handle. It opened, easily. It hadn’t been locked.
As she pushed open the door with her foot, she held her gun in front of her, senses more peaked than they’d ever been. She kept announcing her presence as she walked into the open kitchen and living room. “Police! Officer O’Dwyer! We’ve gotten noise complaints. We’re here to check on the situation.” She used the term “we” as if she represented the entire force. And in that moment, she did. She channeled everything she’d learned, everything she’d come to believe, everything she’d seen in the eyes of her superior officers and mentors.
She stepped carefully over broken dishes and picture frames, which appeared to have been hurled with the intention to injure. She found the hallway and moved quickly down it, continuing to announce her presence. The yelling and cursing was now discernible in between the human growls which were designed to intimidate. The sobbing snarls revealed a hurtness, beneath the venom. “...bitch...drove him away...made him hate me...it’s your fault...I hate you...you can join him…”
The woman’s screams turned to pleading, just as Sharon reached the open doorway to the bathroom. A young man stood over a middleaged woman, who cowered in the bathtub. The curtain rod had fallen to the floor, the shower curtain creating a white carpet upon which the woman’s fresh blood was highlighted. A wound on the side of her head was a height match for the blood on the tile wall. Her nose looked broken; blood poured from it.
The young man looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with Sharon, apparently noticing her for the first time. His reaction was uncanny. He didn’t flinch with fear or even anger. It was as if Sharon’s presence simply flipped a switch in his head. His dispassionate expression said: this is the end of the road; it’s now or never. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a firearm, aimed it at the woman’s head, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.
Or almost pulled the trigger.
He crumpled to the floor, clutching his right shoulder where Sharon had shot him. Sharon collected his dropped gun and put it in her waistband. The woman’s screaming didn’t stop, in fact, it morphed and intensified. It was like the horror of what had just transpired was dawning on her anew, and it was even more terrible in her memory than when she’d lived through it moments ago.
Sharon kept her gun aimed at the young man. He was groaning and wincing with searing pain as he rolled back and forth on the floor, over the fallen shower curtain. “Sir, this is Officer O’Dwyer. Please do not attempt to get up.” Sharon pressed the talk button on her radio and called in the incident to dispatch. As she delivered the report, the woman’s voice evolved yet again, threatening to drown out Sharon’s attempted communications.
“My son! My son!” The woman started to cry, apparently caught between wanting to reach for the young man and wanting to run from him.
Sharon’s Field Training Officer appeared in seven minutes, along with three other officers and an ambulance with two EMTs. The young man, whose name was Michael, was simultaneously arrested and given medical treatment.
Sharon gave her own statement to her fellow officers and was asked to hand over her gun. She blinked back, momentarily confused. Then, just as quickly, she remembered that since she’d fired her weapon and shot someone, she’d become the subject of an internal investigation, before she’d be allowed to continue serving. She nodded, handing over her gun as well as the suspect’s weapon.
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It was only fifteen minutes.
From the time she’d gotten the call from dispatch to the time the other officers arrived on the scene, it was only fifteen minutes.
Three minutes to drive to the complex. Two minutes to park and run up the stairs. One minute outside the door. Another minute entering and surveying the front room. One minute down the hall, making eye contact with Michael, and firing her gun. Seven minutes for backup to arrive.
Less time than it took her to cook spaghetti.
In the days that followed, Sharon relived the details of those fifteen minutes over and over again.
She’d heard the diagnosis. Twenty-one year old Michael Sylla had had a psychotic break. He claimed that what happened, didn’t happen. He said that he had dreamt something similar, but in his dream, he’d shot his mom in the head.
He’d been raised by his mom, Marlene Ette, and a step-dad whom he hated. He’d moved out at eighteen and started searching for his birth father. He’d found him, in a cemetery, six months ago. Apparently, his father had killed himself two years prior. His father had never had a psychological diagnosis, but acquaintances and colleagues reported that something wasn’t right with the man. His symptoms seemed like those of an untreated manic-depressive. Perhaps there was a genetic connection between what his father had and what had snapped in Michael.
Michael had come home to stay with his mom until he got his own place. Marlene reported that he’d always been moody and unpredictable, ever since he was a kid. But what happened that day was a side of him she’d never seen. It was like he’d been possessed. Since Sharon had been pulled off patrol until she was cleared for duty, she found herself obsessively researching anything related to the case, including the fact that psychotic breaks most often happen before the frontal cortex is fully developed. At twenty-one, Michael was at the prime age. He was only two months older than Sharon.
As the depositions and pretrial hearings commenced, Sharon was told she’d be given back her weapon and be able to return to patrol, after undergoing a mandatory evaluation by a psychologist.
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On the prescribed day, Sharon arrived at her appointment with Dr. Annie Gunnerson. The woman was in her fifties and had been evaluating members of the force for most of her career. Sharon had never talked to a psychologist and had no idea what to expect. All she knew was that this woman held the keys to her continued career. Sharon needed Dr. Gunnerson to pronounce her fit to serve so that she could get back to work, as soon as tomorrow.
Sharon had always been great at passing tests. But for the first time, she hadn’t known what to study or how to prepare. So she sat stiffly in her chair, waiting to be told what to do or what to say. Dr. Gunnerson took her seat across from Sharon, and smiled.
Dr. Gunnerson asked Sharon to call her Annie. Then, Annie asked Sharon what she would like to be called: Officer O’Dwyer or Sharon.
“Either way is fine with me,” Sharon replied, not caring since it would only be relevant for the next sixty minutes of her life. But as soon as the words left Sharon’s mouth, she started to wonder if her answer would impact the evaluation. Maybe that’s how psychologists worked: they read into everything you said and did, and assigned meaning to it. Sharon had no idea what meaning could be assigned based on her name choice, but she decided to play it safe, betting that since Dr. Gunnerson had offered her own first name, first names must be psychologically preferred. “Actually, you can call me Sharon.”
Annie went on to ask Sharon general questions about Sharon’s childhood, her family, her work, her hobbies, her romantic relationships, and her home life. In short, Sharon’s answers were “good,” “good,” “good,” “no time,” “no time,” and “good.” Annie asked follow-up questions and Sharon obliged, only because she imagined some level of detail was required in order to pass. Sharon glanced up at the clock, more than once, wondering how deep into the hour they would get before Annie finally asked about the incident itself.
With only five minutes to go, Sharon couldn’t resist the urge to organize the conversation and make sure they discussed what was needed in order for her to pass. Perhaps Dr. Gunnerson wasn’t keeping track of the time. “Don’t you want to hear about the incident?”
“There are lots of things I look forward to hearing about. But you’ve shared a lot for one day. I appreciate the opportunity to start to get to know you a little bit. Thank you.” Annie looked at the clock and continued. “In fact, we’re about at time for today.” Annie stood up and so did Sharon. Sharon’s heart quickened, assuming Annie’s positive demeanor meant that Sharon had been cleared for duty. Sharon wanted to be handed a rubric with a test score on it, but the rules of this whole experience continued to elude her.
“So, what happens now?” Sharon asked, “Do you need to sign something for me?”
Annie reached out and handed Sharon a business card with an appointment time written on the back. “I’ll see you every Tuesday, from three to four. I look forward to seeing you next week.”
“I’m sorry?” Sharon cocked her head, honestly confused. “Did I…Did I say something wrong? Am I not cleared?”
“You didn’t say anything wrong. Not at all. You can resume patrol tomorrow. You and I will continue to meet, even while you go back to work.”
“So I’m cleared for duty,” Sharon repeated, relieved, but still befuddled. “In that case,” Sharon inquired politely, “I’m not clear on why we would continue to meet.”
“Well, Sharon, it’s normal for people to see a therapist after experiencing trauma.”
“I’m sorry,” Sharon released a small ironic chuckle, “I’m not the one who needs therapy. It’s Michael Sylla who needs it. He’s mentally ill. He’s diagnosable.”
“You know, Sharon,” Annie motioned to the chair Sharon had vacated. Sharon sat down again, obediently. “People come to therapy for a variety of reasons. It’s not just for people with mental illnesses. Many mentally healthy people see a therapist just for personal development, to have more joy and ease in their lives. And some people find therapy helpful for certain periods of time, after living through a traumatic event or in order to work through a particular emotional injury.”
Sharon decided to accept the premise of Annie’s argument, and jump straight to what concerned Sharon. “How long do I need to attend appointments?”
“I’m not sure. It depends. We’ll decide together, as we go along.”
Sharon remained respectful, asking gingerly, “And, out of curiosity, what if I decide that I don’t need any more appointments, beyond the one today?”
“Well Sharon, I am recommending to your superior officer that you begin attending weekly sessions, starting next Tuesday and until we decide otherwise. And I’m asking you, personally, to give the process a chance. Just a small chance. Come back next week, and let’s chat again.”
Sharon kept her thoughts to herself, because she was at the mercy of Dr. Gunnerson. As friendly a frame as “Annie” was trying to create, the message was actually that these therapy sessions were mandatory, until Annie and the PhD hanging on her wall said otherwise. So, Sharon nodded, smiled, and said, extending her hand, “I’ll see you next week.”
As Sharon stood up again and walked out of Dr. Gunnerson’s office, she vowed to play whatever game was needed in order to end these waste of time appointments, as soon as possible.
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In the days and weeks and months that followed, the slow wheels of the justice system started to turn and Sharon was forced to relive the details of those fifteen minutes, over and over and over again, in depositions, pretrial hearings, and in court itself.
She wasn’t only a witness to the attempted murder of Marlene Ette, she was the officer responsible for preventing the accused from following through. She’d shot Michael in his right shoulder, intentionally, knowing it would stop him from successfully firing, but that the wound would be repairable, not fatal.
Despite the fact that her supervisor and fellow officers personally commended her for acting quickly and correctly in a tricky situation, being under the lens of the justice system made her revisit every in-the-moment decision she’d made. Could she have stopped Michael in a safer, less physically damaging way that didn’t involve her shooting him? Should she have entered the apartment sooner and prevented Marlene from receiving a concussion and broken nose? Sharon was most disturbed as she wondered whether she had read the situation accurately. Was Michael actually about to the pull the trigger or was he bluffing? In other words, was it even necessary for her to have shot him?
The choices she had made seemed inevitable at the time. But the images seared in her brain kept begging her to come up with alternatives. She saw Michael, writhing on the floor, his shoulder shattered and losing blood by the minute. She saw Marlene in the tub, first afraid for her own life, then afraid for her son’s life.
Sharon woke up from nondescript nightmares, unable to recall any dreamstate details. All she knew was that she woke up afraid, heart beating, and with an ominous feeling that she was going to do the wrong thing and either kill someone or fail to stop someone from being killed. After a week, for some reason, the fear evolved and became incredibly specific.
When she’d wake up, sweating, she’d get up from the couch where she slept and make sure the front door was locked and the stove was off, and then she’d tiptoe down the hall and press her ear to her parents’ bedroom door and to her brothers’ bedroom doors. This night terror she'd developed was that she was going to do something wrong that would lead to the death of one of her family members.
That fear, rational or not, started invading her waking life, too.
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After weeks of therapy sessions where Sharon kept her soul closely guarded, she started to trust that what she whatever she said to Annie was honored as private. Slowly, Sharon realized that their sessions weren’t a series of pop-quizzes where she needed to scramble to find the right answers. Their conversations were opportunities for Sharon to say anything, feel anything, and have it be okay.
So, Sharon decided to share about the faceless, plotless nightmares and the irrational fears that accompanied.
Annie, as always, was patient and non-pushy. After a few sessions of talking about the fear, then thinking about it in between sessions, Sharon shared a revelation. She told Annie that this fear didn’t feel as new as she’d first thought. She recognized that she’d always had this fear, in one form or another, since she was nine years old. She believed, back then, that if she did the “right” thing and followed certain rules for living that she made up in her head, then her dad would survive.
And, since her dad did survive, at some place within her, she believed she had made that happen, by doing the right things and by being “good.” Sharon choked up in front of Annie, for the first time. “I’ve always lived that way, I think. With some need to protect other people. Because I imagine that if I don’t, they’ll die. And that mission, that all important job to keep my family alive, that has ruled me, my whole life.”
Annie echoed what Sharon herself was realizing. “At some level, it sounds like you know this, but I’ll just say it aloud: you’re not responsible for your dad’s life. You're not responsible for your mom’s life. You’re not responsible for the lives of your brothers. Your dad’s cancer was beyond your control when you were nine. It was beyond your control two years ago when it came back. And it’s beyond your control now. You can be emotionally supportive to yourself. And you can be emotionally supportive to your family members, within reason. But you can’t actually control life and death.”
Sharon started crying, soundlessly; it was like someone was telling her things she'd never been allowed to think, much less feel. The only person who'd ever told her something similar, was Andrea.
Annie didn't stop Sharon from crying. After a minute, Annie continued speaking, gently. "It's okay to feel. It's more than okay to feel. You've been carrying a lot, for a long time. From birth, almost. And now, you're in a profession and a personal position in life, where you're still caring for others. It makes sense that you feel the pressure. And that makes it hard for you to cut yourself slack or give yourself anything.”
"Andrea…" Sharon heard herself whimper, before she could stop herself.
"Who's Andrea?"
Hearing Andrea's name on her therapist's lips made Sharon fall into a deeper sob.
Andrea and feelings about Andrea were something Sharon had intentionally buried. She could almost make herself believe that their time together had never existed. But now, unbidden, visions of Andrea were flowing forth. And the other person in the room was making Andrea more real, just by mentioning her.
"She was right. She knew all this about me. She knew that being responsible for other people gives me purpose. And I knew that too, at some level. But I didn’t care. That didn’t seem like a problem. Is it a problem?” Sharon suddenly broke through her own bubble, instantly self-conscious, looking up at her therapist with the eyes of her child self, wanting to be comforted and be told that she’d done everything right, but also wanting to learn, to discover, if there was another right way to be.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you’re asking.” Annie smiled gently, aware of Sharon’s desire to follow a set of unspoken rules. “We’re put in situations, as children, where we don’t actually have a choice in terms of how we feel and how we react. Our survival is objectively dependent on the adults who raise us, so if they’re in jeopardy, we’re in jeopardy too. It’s never fair when a child, like you, feels she has to carry a literal or emotional burden, for her family. But you don’t need to feel bad about anything you felt, or did. It’s a wonderful trait to be generous and giving, and to care deeply about other people. But now, as an adult, you have the ability to evaluate your life and those around you, and determine what you want to give and what you can give. You also get to learn how to give to yourself, because you deserve that. You deserve life and happiness, just as much as anyone else.”
Sharon let the intense, often conflicting, feelings flow through her. She existed, for the remainder of that session, in a nonverbal state of emotion. No words came to mind except for one: Andrea.
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All week, Sharon floated through work and errands and caring for her family. On the inside, she conjured a cloud of memories, each one sweeter than the last.
It was suddenly clear to Sharon that Andrea hadn't said anything out of line their last night together. All Andrea had been trying to do was support Sharon. Andrea didn’t demand that Sharon give her anything; she just wanted Sharon to be happy and for Sharon to make a decision that was healthy.
Andrea was the only person, outside of a few teachers and now her therapist, who had ever really encouraged Sharon to make herself the focus of her own desire to give. Sharon had always done so much for her family in fundamental, tangible ways, that as much as they loved her, they didn’t truly know her. She’d become, intentionally or not, a commodity to the O’Dwyer household.
The next therapy session, Sharon started talking a mile a minute, unloading every meaningful detail about Andrea and how Andrea had been with Sharon and how Sharon had felt in turn.
"Sharon, I don't know if you can tell, but when you talk about Andrea, even when you describe something simple and factual, you smile. In three months of working with you, it's the first time I've seen happiness on your face."
"Being with Andrea was the only time in my life I've ever truly been happy. And I was so happy. Unbelievably happy."
"I believe it. You're exuding it right now.”
“So what does that mean? What do I do?”
“Well, I have a couple of questions. First, just so I understand, you haven’t mentioned where she is now. Have you stayed in touch?”
Sharon explained that no, they hadn’t spoken in two years, and she imagined Andrea was either starting her second year of law school or her first, depending on whether she’d taken a year off or not.
“Okay, second question,” Annie continued. “What was it about you during those years that enabled you to let yourself have some joy? Is it possible to evoke that state of mind even now, in small ways, in your current life?”
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From the time Sharon started teasing apart her need to be responsible for other people, she started to feel less and less compelled by that need.
It was like by talking about it, it demystified its power and called it out into the open where it could be seen and evaluated.
Sharon performed the same actions: working her beat, paying the mortgage while her mom paid the utilities and groceries, attending school events for her brothers, taking her dad to his hospital appointments and talking over treatments with doctors. But, she felt lighter as she did it all.
She even started to find moments for herself: a few hours here and there, where she’d read or paint or just take some time to close her eyes and breathe.
After twenty-two sessions, Dr. Gunnerson informed Sharon that they’d reached the max number of sessions that insurance would provide, given Sharon’s steady mental health.
“Therefore,” Annie said warmly, “our time together has come to an end. But whether it’s with another therapist or with someone you truly trust, I do hope you continue giving yourself the opportunity to let yourself feel. This kind of personal work is actually a form of giving to yourself. And, since I know the practical is important to you, I’ll say this: the more in touch you are with yourself, the better able you'll be to do your job."
Sharon smiled, appreciative that Dr. Gunnerson understood how Sharon’s heart and mind both operated.
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Sharon’s third year as an officer, Julian became old enough to get a job. He started as a part time shelf stocker at a grocery store. Sharon wouldn't let him work more than fifteen hours a week. She wanted him to stay focused on school and extracurriculars.
At the end of Sharon’s fourth year on the force, she was promoted to Field Training Officer. She supervised police officers who were about to graduate, or had just graduated, from the Academy. She enjoyed the responsibility of helping officers transition from the classroom portion of their education into the real world. She loved thinking about duty and conduct, and what it means to come into contact with the members of the public you are charged with protecting. She passed on all of her philosophies to the police officers she supervised.
Whereas some of her colleagues found it a drag to provide guidance to newbies, Sharon relished the opportunity to support and coach others. Also, most of her colleagues hated the extra administrative paperwork and the writing of reports, but Sharon loved that aspect of her job. Her penchants didn’t go unnoticed by her superiors. She was told that between her job performance and her AA in criminology, she was on track to become a Sergeant.
When Julian graduated high school, he elected not to go to a four-year college. Sharon was disappointed, but tried not to show it. She knew she couldn't live her unfulfilled dreams through him. He started at the vocational school in town while he continued to live at home. He wanted to become an electrician; he had a mind for how things worked. Sharon knew that competent electricians could make good money and even own their own business. Most importantly, Julian seemed happy on his path, so she was happy for him.
That same year, her dad was pronounced cancer-free and started work again. Instead of going back to sales, he took a job at a meat distribution plant. It kept him off his feet for more hours of the day and since it wasn’t commission-based, he didn’t push himself as hard. He seemed satisfied with this new chapter of his career. Meanwhile, more and more, Sharon felt like she was finding her home, in the force.
When William and Dennis were high school juniors, they started talking about joining the army after graduation. Sharon introduced them to an ROTC recruiter who explained the benefits of getting a four-year degree and joining the army with the possibility of becoming an officer. After graduating, they both enrolled at the state university on ROTC scholarships.
Her sixth year as an officer, she was promoted to Sergeant. As Sergeant, she became the Field Supervisor for a squad of police officers. She disseminated instructions and assignments, oversaw the performance of their duties, and performed follow-up investigations for less straightforward crimes. In business parlance, she was basically the manager of a department. And she loved it. She loved having a team.
Marky was her only bird still left in the nest. He was seventeen, which was young for his graduating class. He had grown up sweet and sensitive, but stubborn, like her. She tried to talk him into college, but he'd made up his mind to join the Police Academy, saying he wanted to be a police officer, like his sister.
With both of Sharon's parents working full time, and with the boys out of the house or almost out, Sharon imagined how her family would do without her presence. And she knew they would do just fine.
That didn’t hurt her ego; it set her free.
At twenty-eight, Sharon started to think about what she wanted, for herself.
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Sharon called a Montreal directory and asked for the phone number of Marie Carpentier. There were five. Sharon asked for each street address in turn and stopped the operator when she heard the one she recognized.
“Hello?” A male voice answered in a French Canadian accent.
“Hi,” Sharon stroked her hair, nervously. “I'm calling for Marie.”
“Marie? Oh, she's our landlord. She doesn't live here anymore. Do you want her number?”
“Yes, that would be great, thanks.” Sharon’s heart dropped as she realized she wasn’t the only person who’d gotten ten years older. “Do you know why she moved? Is her health okay?”
“Oh yeah, last time we saw her she seemed fit as a fiddle. She moved to Ontario to be close to her family.”
“Her family?”
“Yeah, her granddaughter and her granddaughter's girlfriend. They live across the border. In Michigan, I think.”
Sharon started to feel lightheaded at the mention of Andrea, and at the mention of Andrea having a partner. It wasn’t a surprise. Andrea didn’t exist in some time capsule, where Sharon had last left her. But what shocked Sharon was how much it hurt, to hear confirmation that Andrea had moved on with her life.
Sharon had finished her marathon mission of helping her family survive. And, when she got in touch with herself she realized that what she wanted most in the world was to hear Andrea’s voice again. She wanted to know that Andrea was okay, that she was happy and fulfilled and safe. She wanted to find her, reconnect, and become friends again. But, if Sharon was being truly honest with herself, she also wanted to turn back the clock, to pick up where they left off, to pretend like the last eight years had been a momentary pause in an otherwise unbroken storyline.
Now, it was hitting Sharon that there was no time capsule that had been buried; there was no rewind button on the clock.
“Okay, I’ve got Marie’s number here. Are you ready to take it down?”
Sharon nodded, plaintively, as if the person speaking could see her gesture.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
Sharon hung up, suddenly.
Heart racing, she leaned back against the wall and let herself feel everything flowing through her, just as Dr. Gunnerson had encouraged her to do, years ago.
Sharon tilted her head up, unseeing eyes pointed toward the ceiling, silent tears starting to flow. She acknowledged the painful reality: she had chosen her lot in life, and that lot didn't involve Andrea.
There was no going back.
So it was time to move on.
✢✢✢✢✢
Sharon’s goodbye party warmed her heart.
Her squad was sad to see her go, a fact which surprised her. She was known for being a stringent enforcer of rules, both those on the books and those she instituted. But within the structure of the world she’d created, the people on her team experienced a sense of safety; they felt cared for, fiercely.
Her superiors were the only people more disappointed to see her go. She was honored they’d given her great recommendation letters as she’d started to look for opportunities in California. She’d been most interested in San Francisco, but Los Angeles was the only city that seemed to be hiring out-of-state transfers at the moment. She would have to take night classes on state laws and she’d have to pass a few tests, but assuming all went well, she had a job as a Sergeant in the LAPD.
This wasn’t the circumstance in which she’d originally envisioned herself moving west.
But she was finally doing it.
And that in itself, felt great.
For someone so independent and self-sufficient, ironically, her initial LA apartment was the first time she’d ever lived alone. Suddenly, when she put dishes away, they didn’t move to new places the next day. Instead of having to enforce rules for which shoes needed to be removed in which room, she just enacted her own internal protocols. She monitored a jurisdiction, in which she was the only citizen.
Logistically, financially, and emotionally, it was incredibly simplifying to not be balancing the budget for a family of seven. Even on a police officer’s wage in a big city, her highly optimized frugality allowed her to survive, and even save.
She learned to give herself things: material as well as intangible. And, as she settled into the speedy, yet always sunny, pace of LA life, she found herself experiencing pleasure, joy, and even contentment.
Now that her life was trimmed down, without so many people pulling on her emotional heartstrings and financial drawstrings, she felt like she had so much more space and time. In addition to focusing on her own happiness, she made a plan for advancing in the force.
CHAPTER 6...
Gift: Fic and Fic Song
Recipient: afrakaday
Pairing/Characters: Sharon O'Dwyer, Andrea Hobbs, Andrea/Sharon, Andy Flynn and Jackson Raydor as minor supporting characters
Rating: K for all chapters except for Chapter 3, which is MA
Word Count: 42,000 total (divided among 7 Chapters and an Epilogue)
Synopsis: Sharon O'Dwyer and Andrea Hobbs' challenging childhoods prepare them for meeting one another in college. Growing together and apart, they mature and age, up to present day.
Trigger Warning: PTSD and gun violence in Chapter 5
Disclaimer: Not my characters or television show
A/N: This was written for the 3rd Annual Gift Exchange at majorcrimes. Thank you defyingnormalcy for her beta and for shepherding me through the process of writing and posting my first ever fanfic. This gift is primarily a fic, but in the Epilogue, there's a link to an original song that one character writes for the other. afrakaday, based on your requests, this is backstory, AU romantic history, and Andrea/Sharon. Happy holidays and happy new year!
CHAPTER 5
Winter turned to spring. Spring turned to summer. The seasons changed but the state of Sharon's soul, didn't.
She was miserable inside.
Instead of waking every day with a contented smile and the boundless hope of what was to come, she was like a walking corpse, going through the motions, believing she was doing the right thing, but feeling guilty for not being happy as she did so.
That summer, Jack came home from college and told her he'd heard Andrea was spending the summer assisting a clerk in the Quebec government. He asked, gently, why Andrea didn't visit and why she and Sharon didn't talk on the phone. Sharon shook her head, explaining that they'd tried talking a few times in the first couple of months, but Sharon felt like it distracted her, it was too much of a juxtaposition, it pulled her mind and heart away from her family and made her dissatisfied with her current situation. In short, it was too hard to hang up and it hurt too much the following days. So, she and Andrea had agreed to cease contact. She thanked Jack for his concern and asked him to stop sharing news about Andrea.
✢✢✢✢✢
By the end of summer, Sharon had completed the classroom portion of her Police Academy training and had started as a member of the force. She looked forward to the field experience she would get on her twelve month probationary period. After that, assuming she passed, she would graduate from the Academy and be assigned her own geographic patrol.
Her life adopted a predictable rhythm. She and her mom worked at opposite times of the day, so that an adult was always available to wait on her dad and take him to doctor's appointments. Sharon supported her brothers' educations as much as possible, helping with homework or attending events that one’s parents usually attended. When she showed up in uniform, her brothers brimmed with excitement, proudly introducing their big sister. Those were her happiest moments. It made her feel, fleetingly, as if her life wasn't a disjointed collection of circumstances: her life made sense, the pieces fit. After all, she had always wanted to help people. In this career, she was doing just that. Maybe law had been a temporary flight of fancy. Being a police officer was tangible work that matched her dedication to service and her attention to rules and procedures. And, instead of going into law school debt, she was putting food on the table, now.
One evening, after a few months of wearing the uniform, she answered a call at the high school. During a PTA meeting, a couple of figures were spotted graffitiing the dumpster behind the cafeteria. By the time Sharon arrived, they'd run off. As she took statements from the witnesses, Principal Weaver approached, interrupting.
"Sharon? Sharon O'Dwyer?"
"Principal Weaver," Sharon nodded, formally.
"I didn't know you were back in town," he reached out to shake her hand, as he struggled to control the surprise on his face.
They spent a minute catching up, Sharon well aware that he was hiding his disappointment. She'd been a star student who'd earned a great scholarship. He'd even written a recommendation letter himself. He didn't need to say it for Sharon to know what he was thinking: she was the last person he'd expected to see working as a cop in her hometown; he, and all her teachers, had thought she'd use her intellect and drive to earn an advanced degree, move to a big city, and build a white collar career. Sharon was ashamed, even as she stood erect and professional in her crisp, blue uniform. At the same time, she felt guilty for being ashamed: she should be proud of her service, and she certainly had nothing but the utmost respect for other officers and those who’d devoted their lives to the force.
It was encounters like this that momentarily shattered her masquerade of satisfaction. She took out her frustration by throwing herself even deeper into her work. She studied the structure of the force, promotion patterns, and management positions. She was determined to find a way to live up to the expectations of her high school teachers, while still being of service to the public, and her own family. She was convinced there was a way to do it all.
The following summer, which was the same time she would have graduated from college, she passed her probationary period, graduated from the Police Academy, and became a Patrol Officer.
✢✢✢✢✢
The moment Sharon was assigned her beat as a Patrol Officer, unsurprisingly, she became intensely protective of it.
Her first month, she responded to the occasional noise or suspicious persons complaint, but mostly, she attended Neighborhood Watch meetings, visited local service stations and shops to build rapport, and reported to her Field Training Officer. She even drove through the area when she was off-duty, just to memorize every street and storefront she could. Like everything else she’d ever done, she took her job seriously and committed herself fully. With each passing day, as she listened to her radio, visually scanned her surroundings, and developed relationships with locals, she truly felt that the people who lived and worked in her beat, were her responsibility.
One evening, her sixth week on patrol, she answered a call that came through from dispatch. Three separate neighbors had called 911 to lodge a noise complaint. Usually, noise complaints were about loud music or barking dogs. But this time, it was a complaint about loud yelling, coming from the residence of a Marlene Ette.
Sharon had already learned the quickest route to the apartment complex, thanks to her personal project to map the neighborhood. She was at the scene in three and a half minutes. For a normal noise complaint, after parking, she would have moved briskly but not in a hurry. However, as she reached the bottom of the outdoor staircase that led to Marlene Ette’s second floor apartment, she could hear the yelling herself. And what she heard, sent her highly developed protective instinct, into red alert.
She took the stairs two at a time, reaching for the weapon she’d only ever fired at the range. She’d been a good shot in training; apparently, she was able to harness her laser-like focus for precision shooting as well. Now, as she neared the apartment door, the yelling of a male voice and the crashing of objects being smashed, grew louder, and for the first time, Officer O’Dwyer drew her weapon.
She banged on the door forcefully and called, “Police!” The soundscape didn’t change. She banged again, hollering, “Police! Open the door!” The indistinguishable yelling from inside the apartment didn’t stop. But now, she heard a woman’s voice too: it rose up as a scream of pure terror.
Sharon pointed her weapon at the door lock, careful to aim towards the door frame and the external wall of the building, not towards the interior of the apartment where someone might be standing. Right before she pulled the trigger, something occurred to her and she reached for the door handle. It opened, easily. It hadn’t been locked.
As she pushed open the door with her foot, she held her gun in front of her, senses more peaked than they’d ever been. She kept announcing her presence as she walked into the open kitchen and living room. “Police! Officer O’Dwyer! We’ve gotten noise complaints. We’re here to check on the situation.” She used the term “we” as if she represented the entire force. And in that moment, she did. She channeled everything she’d learned, everything she’d come to believe, everything she’d seen in the eyes of her superior officers and mentors.
She stepped carefully over broken dishes and picture frames, which appeared to have been hurled with the intention to injure. She found the hallway and moved quickly down it, continuing to announce her presence. The yelling and cursing was now discernible in between the human growls which were designed to intimidate. The sobbing snarls revealed a hurtness, beneath the venom. “...bitch...drove him away...made him hate me...it’s your fault...I hate you...you can join him…”
The woman’s screams turned to pleading, just as Sharon reached the open doorway to the bathroom. A young man stood over a middleaged woman, who cowered in the bathtub. The curtain rod had fallen to the floor, the shower curtain creating a white carpet upon which the woman’s fresh blood was highlighted. A wound on the side of her head was a height match for the blood on the tile wall. Her nose looked broken; blood poured from it.
The young man looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with Sharon, apparently noticing her for the first time. His reaction was uncanny. He didn’t flinch with fear or even anger. It was as if Sharon’s presence simply flipped a switch in his head. His dispassionate expression said: this is the end of the road; it’s now or never. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a firearm, aimed it at the woman’s head, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.
Or almost pulled the trigger.
He crumpled to the floor, clutching his right shoulder where Sharon had shot him. Sharon collected his dropped gun and put it in her waistband. The woman’s screaming didn’t stop, in fact, it morphed and intensified. It was like the horror of what had just transpired was dawning on her anew, and it was even more terrible in her memory than when she’d lived through it moments ago.
Sharon kept her gun aimed at the young man. He was groaning and wincing with searing pain as he rolled back and forth on the floor, over the fallen shower curtain. “Sir, this is Officer O’Dwyer. Please do not attempt to get up.” Sharon pressed the talk button on her radio and called in the incident to dispatch. As she delivered the report, the woman’s voice evolved yet again, threatening to drown out Sharon’s attempted communications.
“My son! My son!” The woman started to cry, apparently caught between wanting to reach for the young man and wanting to run from him.
Sharon’s Field Training Officer appeared in seven minutes, along with three other officers and an ambulance with two EMTs. The young man, whose name was Michael, was simultaneously arrested and given medical treatment.
Sharon gave her own statement to her fellow officers and was asked to hand over her gun. She blinked back, momentarily confused. Then, just as quickly, she remembered that since she’d fired her weapon and shot someone, she’d become the subject of an internal investigation, before she’d be allowed to continue serving. She nodded, handing over her gun as well as the suspect’s weapon.
✢✢✢✢✢
It was only fifteen minutes.
From the time she’d gotten the call from dispatch to the time the other officers arrived on the scene, it was only fifteen minutes.
Three minutes to drive to the complex. Two minutes to park and run up the stairs. One minute outside the door. Another minute entering and surveying the front room. One minute down the hall, making eye contact with Michael, and firing her gun. Seven minutes for backup to arrive.
Less time than it took her to cook spaghetti.
In the days that followed, Sharon relived the details of those fifteen minutes over and over again.
She’d heard the diagnosis. Twenty-one year old Michael Sylla had had a psychotic break. He claimed that what happened, didn’t happen. He said that he had dreamt something similar, but in his dream, he’d shot his mom in the head.
He’d been raised by his mom, Marlene Ette, and a step-dad whom he hated. He’d moved out at eighteen and started searching for his birth father. He’d found him, in a cemetery, six months ago. Apparently, his father had killed himself two years prior. His father had never had a psychological diagnosis, but acquaintances and colleagues reported that something wasn’t right with the man. His symptoms seemed like those of an untreated manic-depressive. Perhaps there was a genetic connection between what his father had and what had snapped in Michael.
Michael had come home to stay with his mom until he got his own place. Marlene reported that he’d always been moody and unpredictable, ever since he was a kid. But what happened that day was a side of him she’d never seen. It was like he’d been possessed. Since Sharon had been pulled off patrol until she was cleared for duty, she found herself obsessively researching anything related to the case, including the fact that psychotic breaks most often happen before the frontal cortex is fully developed. At twenty-one, Michael was at the prime age. He was only two months older than Sharon.
As the depositions and pretrial hearings commenced, Sharon was told she’d be given back her weapon and be able to return to patrol, after undergoing a mandatory evaluation by a psychologist.
✢✢✢✢✢
On the prescribed day, Sharon arrived at her appointment with Dr. Annie Gunnerson. The woman was in her fifties and had been evaluating members of the force for most of her career. Sharon had never talked to a psychologist and had no idea what to expect. All she knew was that this woman held the keys to her continued career. Sharon needed Dr. Gunnerson to pronounce her fit to serve so that she could get back to work, as soon as tomorrow.
Sharon had always been great at passing tests. But for the first time, she hadn’t known what to study or how to prepare. So she sat stiffly in her chair, waiting to be told what to do or what to say. Dr. Gunnerson took her seat across from Sharon, and smiled.
Dr. Gunnerson asked Sharon to call her Annie. Then, Annie asked Sharon what she would like to be called: Officer O’Dwyer or Sharon.
“Either way is fine with me,” Sharon replied, not caring since it would only be relevant for the next sixty minutes of her life. But as soon as the words left Sharon’s mouth, she started to wonder if her answer would impact the evaluation. Maybe that’s how psychologists worked: they read into everything you said and did, and assigned meaning to it. Sharon had no idea what meaning could be assigned based on her name choice, but she decided to play it safe, betting that since Dr. Gunnerson had offered her own first name, first names must be psychologically preferred. “Actually, you can call me Sharon.”
Annie went on to ask Sharon general questions about Sharon’s childhood, her family, her work, her hobbies, her romantic relationships, and her home life. In short, Sharon’s answers were “good,” “good,” “good,” “no time,” “no time,” and “good.” Annie asked follow-up questions and Sharon obliged, only because she imagined some level of detail was required in order to pass. Sharon glanced up at the clock, more than once, wondering how deep into the hour they would get before Annie finally asked about the incident itself.
With only five minutes to go, Sharon couldn’t resist the urge to organize the conversation and make sure they discussed what was needed in order for her to pass. Perhaps Dr. Gunnerson wasn’t keeping track of the time. “Don’t you want to hear about the incident?”
“There are lots of things I look forward to hearing about. But you’ve shared a lot for one day. I appreciate the opportunity to start to get to know you a little bit. Thank you.” Annie looked at the clock and continued. “In fact, we’re about at time for today.” Annie stood up and so did Sharon. Sharon’s heart quickened, assuming Annie’s positive demeanor meant that Sharon had been cleared for duty. Sharon wanted to be handed a rubric with a test score on it, but the rules of this whole experience continued to elude her.
“So, what happens now?” Sharon asked, “Do you need to sign something for me?”
Annie reached out and handed Sharon a business card with an appointment time written on the back. “I’ll see you every Tuesday, from three to four. I look forward to seeing you next week.”
“I’m sorry?” Sharon cocked her head, honestly confused. “Did I…Did I say something wrong? Am I not cleared?”
“You didn’t say anything wrong. Not at all. You can resume patrol tomorrow. You and I will continue to meet, even while you go back to work.”
“So I’m cleared for duty,” Sharon repeated, relieved, but still befuddled. “In that case,” Sharon inquired politely, “I’m not clear on why we would continue to meet.”
“Well, Sharon, it’s normal for people to see a therapist after experiencing trauma.”
“I’m sorry,” Sharon released a small ironic chuckle, “I’m not the one who needs therapy. It’s Michael Sylla who needs it. He’s mentally ill. He’s diagnosable.”
“You know, Sharon,” Annie motioned to the chair Sharon had vacated. Sharon sat down again, obediently. “People come to therapy for a variety of reasons. It’s not just for people with mental illnesses. Many mentally healthy people see a therapist just for personal development, to have more joy and ease in their lives. And some people find therapy helpful for certain periods of time, after living through a traumatic event or in order to work through a particular emotional injury.”
Sharon decided to accept the premise of Annie’s argument, and jump straight to what concerned Sharon. “How long do I need to attend appointments?”
“I’m not sure. It depends. We’ll decide together, as we go along.”
Sharon remained respectful, asking gingerly, “And, out of curiosity, what if I decide that I don’t need any more appointments, beyond the one today?”
“Well Sharon, I am recommending to your superior officer that you begin attending weekly sessions, starting next Tuesday and until we decide otherwise. And I’m asking you, personally, to give the process a chance. Just a small chance. Come back next week, and let’s chat again.”
Sharon kept her thoughts to herself, because she was at the mercy of Dr. Gunnerson. As friendly a frame as “Annie” was trying to create, the message was actually that these therapy sessions were mandatory, until Annie and the PhD hanging on her wall said otherwise. So, Sharon nodded, smiled, and said, extending her hand, “I’ll see you next week.”
As Sharon stood up again and walked out of Dr. Gunnerson’s office, she vowed to play whatever game was needed in order to end these waste of time appointments, as soon as possible.
✢✢✢✢✢
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the slow wheels of the justice system started to turn and Sharon was forced to relive the details of those fifteen minutes, over and over and over again, in depositions, pretrial hearings, and in court itself.
She wasn’t only a witness to the attempted murder of Marlene Ette, she was the officer responsible for preventing the accused from following through. She’d shot Michael in his right shoulder, intentionally, knowing it would stop him from successfully firing, but that the wound would be repairable, not fatal.
Despite the fact that her supervisor and fellow officers personally commended her for acting quickly and correctly in a tricky situation, being under the lens of the justice system made her revisit every in-the-moment decision she’d made. Could she have stopped Michael in a safer, less physically damaging way that didn’t involve her shooting him? Should she have entered the apartment sooner and prevented Marlene from receiving a concussion and broken nose? Sharon was most disturbed as she wondered whether she had read the situation accurately. Was Michael actually about to the pull the trigger or was he bluffing? In other words, was it even necessary for her to have shot him?
The choices she had made seemed inevitable at the time. But the images seared in her brain kept begging her to come up with alternatives. She saw Michael, writhing on the floor, his shoulder shattered and losing blood by the minute. She saw Marlene in the tub, first afraid for her own life, then afraid for her son’s life.
Sharon woke up from nondescript nightmares, unable to recall any dreamstate details. All she knew was that she woke up afraid, heart beating, and with an ominous feeling that she was going to do the wrong thing and either kill someone or fail to stop someone from being killed. After a week, for some reason, the fear evolved and became incredibly specific.
When she’d wake up, sweating, she’d get up from the couch where she slept and make sure the front door was locked and the stove was off, and then she’d tiptoe down the hall and press her ear to her parents’ bedroom door and to her brothers’ bedroom doors. This night terror she'd developed was that she was going to do something wrong that would lead to the death of one of her family members.
That fear, rational or not, started invading her waking life, too.
✢✢✢✢✢
After weeks of therapy sessions where Sharon kept her soul closely guarded, she started to trust that what she whatever she said to Annie was honored as private. Slowly, Sharon realized that their sessions weren’t a series of pop-quizzes where she needed to scramble to find the right answers. Their conversations were opportunities for Sharon to say anything, feel anything, and have it be okay.
So, Sharon decided to share about the faceless, plotless nightmares and the irrational fears that accompanied.
Annie, as always, was patient and non-pushy. After a few sessions of talking about the fear, then thinking about it in between sessions, Sharon shared a revelation. She told Annie that this fear didn’t feel as new as she’d first thought. She recognized that she’d always had this fear, in one form or another, since she was nine years old. She believed, back then, that if she did the “right” thing and followed certain rules for living that she made up in her head, then her dad would survive.
And, since her dad did survive, at some place within her, she believed she had made that happen, by doing the right things and by being “good.” Sharon choked up in front of Annie, for the first time. “I’ve always lived that way, I think. With some need to protect other people. Because I imagine that if I don’t, they’ll die. And that mission, that all important job to keep my family alive, that has ruled me, my whole life.”
Annie echoed what Sharon herself was realizing. “At some level, it sounds like you know this, but I’ll just say it aloud: you’re not responsible for your dad’s life. You're not responsible for your mom’s life. You’re not responsible for the lives of your brothers. Your dad’s cancer was beyond your control when you were nine. It was beyond your control two years ago when it came back. And it’s beyond your control now. You can be emotionally supportive to yourself. And you can be emotionally supportive to your family members, within reason. But you can’t actually control life and death.”
Sharon started crying, soundlessly; it was like someone was telling her things she'd never been allowed to think, much less feel. The only person who'd ever told her something similar, was Andrea.
Annie didn't stop Sharon from crying. After a minute, Annie continued speaking, gently. "It's okay to feel. It's more than okay to feel. You've been carrying a lot, for a long time. From birth, almost. And now, you're in a profession and a personal position in life, where you're still caring for others. It makes sense that you feel the pressure. And that makes it hard for you to cut yourself slack or give yourself anything.”
"Andrea…" Sharon heard herself whimper, before she could stop herself.
"Who's Andrea?"
Hearing Andrea's name on her therapist's lips made Sharon fall into a deeper sob.
Andrea and feelings about Andrea were something Sharon had intentionally buried. She could almost make herself believe that their time together had never existed. But now, unbidden, visions of Andrea were flowing forth. And the other person in the room was making Andrea more real, just by mentioning her.
"She was right. She knew all this about me. She knew that being responsible for other people gives me purpose. And I knew that too, at some level. But I didn’t care. That didn’t seem like a problem. Is it a problem?” Sharon suddenly broke through her own bubble, instantly self-conscious, looking up at her therapist with the eyes of her child self, wanting to be comforted and be told that she’d done everything right, but also wanting to learn, to discover, if there was another right way to be.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you’re asking.” Annie smiled gently, aware of Sharon’s desire to follow a set of unspoken rules. “We’re put in situations, as children, where we don’t actually have a choice in terms of how we feel and how we react. Our survival is objectively dependent on the adults who raise us, so if they’re in jeopardy, we’re in jeopardy too. It’s never fair when a child, like you, feels she has to carry a literal or emotional burden, for her family. But you don’t need to feel bad about anything you felt, or did. It’s a wonderful trait to be generous and giving, and to care deeply about other people. But now, as an adult, you have the ability to evaluate your life and those around you, and determine what you want to give and what you can give. You also get to learn how to give to yourself, because you deserve that. You deserve life and happiness, just as much as anyone else.”
Sharon let the intense, often conflicting, feelings flow through her. She existed, for the remainder of that session, in a nonverbal state of emotion. No words came to mind except for one: Andrea.
✢✢✢✢✢
All week, Sharon floated through work and errands and caring for her family. On the inside, she conjured a cloud of memories, each one sweeter than the last.
It was suddenly clear to Sharon that Andrea hadn't said anything out of line their last night together. All Andrea had been trying to do was support Sharon. Andrea didn’t demand that Sharon give her anything; she just wanted Sharon to be happy and for Sharon to make a decision that was healthy.
Andrea was the only person, outside of a few teachers and now her therapist, who had ever really encouraged Sharon to make herself the focus of her own desire to give. Sharon had always done so much for her family in fundamental, tangible ways, that as much as they loved her, they didn’t truly know her. She’d become, intentionally or not, a commodity to the O’Dwyer household.
The next therapy session, Sharon started talking a mile a minute, unloading every meaningful detail about Andrea and how Andrea had been with Sharon and how Sharon had felt in turn.
"Sharon, I don't know if you can tell, but when you talk about Andrea, even when you describe something simple and factual, you smile. In three months of working with you, it's the first time I've seen happiness on your face."
"Being with Andrea was the only time in my life I've ever truly been happy. And I was so happy. Unbelievably happy."
"I believe it. You're exuding it right now.”
“So what does that mean? What do I do?”
“Well, I have a couple of questions. First, just so I understand, you haven’t mentioned where she is now. Have you stayed in touch?”
Sharon explained that no, they hadn’t spoken in two years, and she imagined Andrea was either starting her second year of law school or her first, depending on whether she’d taken a year off or not.
“Okay, second question,” Annie continued. “What was it about you during those years that enabled you to let yourself have some joy? Is it possible to evoke that state of mind even now, in small ways, in your current life?”
✢✢✢✢✢
From the time Sharon started teasing apart her need to be responsible for other people, she started to feel less and less compelled by that need.
It was like by talking about it, it demystified its power and called it out into the open where it could be seen and evaluated.
Sharon performed the same actions: working her beat, paying the mortgage while her mom paid the utilities and groceries, attending school events for her brothers, taking her dad to his hospital appointments and talking over treatments with doctors. But, she felt lighter as she did it all.
She even started to find moments for herself: a few hours here and there, where she’d read or paint or just take some time to close her eyes and breathe.
After twenty-two sessions, Dr. Gunnerson informed Sharon that they’d reached the max number of sessions that insurance would provide, given Sharon’s steady mental health.
“Therefore,” Annie said warmly, “our time together has come to an end. But whether it’s with another therapist or with someone you truly trust, I do hope you continue giving yourself the opportunity to let yourself feel. This kind of personal work is actually a form of giving to yourself. And, since I know the practical is important to you, I’ll say this: the more in touch you are with yourself, the better able you'll be to do your job."
Sharon smiled, appreciative that Dr. Gunnerson understood how Sharon’s heart and mind both operated.
✢✢✢✢✢
Sharon’s third year as an officer, Julian became old enough to get a job. He started as a part time shelf stocker at a grocery store. Sharon wouldn't let him work more than fifteen hours a week. She wanted him to stay focused on school and extracurriculars.
At the end of Sharon’s fourth year on the force, she was promoted to Field Training Officer. She supervised police officers who were about to graduate, or had just graduated, from the Academy. She enjoyed the responsibility of helping officers transition from the classroom portion of their education into the real world. She loved thinking about duty and conduct, and what it means to come into contact with the members of the public you are charged with protecting. She passed on all of her philosophies to the police officers she supervised.
Whereas some of her colleagues found it a drag to provide guidance to newbies, Sharon relished the opportunity to support and coach others. Also, most of her colleagues hated the extra administrative paperwork and the writing of reports, but Sharon loved that aspect of her job. Her penchants didn’t go unnoticed by her superiors. She was told that between her job performance and her AA in criminology, she was on track to become a Sergeant.
When Julian graduated high school, he elected not to go to a four-year college. Sharon was disappointed, but tried not to show it. She knew she couldn't live her unfulfilled dreams through him. He started at the vocational school in town while he continued to live at home. He wanted to become an electrician; he had a mind for how things worked. Sharon knew that competent electricians could make good money and even own their own business. Most importantly, Julian seemed happy on his path, so she was happy for him.
That same year, her dad was pronounced cancer-free and started work again. Instead of going back to sales, he took a job at a meat distribution plant. It kept him off his feet for more hours of the day and since it wasn’t commission-based, he didn’t push himself as hard. He seemed satisfied with this new chapter of his career. Meanwhile, more and more, Sharon felt like she was finding her home, in the force.
When William and Dennis were high school juniors, they started talking about joining the army after graduation. Sharon introduced them to an ROTC recruiter who explained the benefits of getting a four-year degree and joining the army with the possibility of becoming an officer. After graduating, they both enrolled at the state university on ROTC scholarships.
Her sixth year as an officer, she was promoted to Sergeant. As Sergeant, she became the Field Supervisor for a squad of police officers. She disseminated instructions and assignments, oversaw the performance of their duties, and performed follow-up investigations for less straightforward crimes. In business parlance, she was basically the manager of a department. And she loved it. She loved having a team.
Marky was her only bird still left in the nest. He was seventeen, which was young for his graduating class. He had grown up sweet and sensitive, but stubborn, like her. She tried to talk him into college, but he'd made up his mind to join the Police Academy, saying he wanted to be a police officer, like his sister.
With both of Sharon's parents working full time, and with the boys out of the house or almost out, Sharon imagined how her family would do without her presence. And she knew they would do just fine.
That didn’t hurt her ego; it set her free.
At twenty-eight, Sharon started to think about what she wanted, for herself.
✢✢✢✢✢
Sharon called a Montreal directory and asked for the phone number of Marie Carpentier. There were five. Sharon asked for each street address in turn and stopped the operator when she heard the one she recognized.
“Hello?” A male voice answered in a French Canadian accent.
“Hi,” Sharon stroked her hair, nervously. “I'm calling for Marie.”
“Marie? Oh, she's our landlord. She doesn't live here anymore. Do you want her number?”
“Yes, that would be great, thanks.” Sharon’s heart dropped as she realized she wasn’t the only person who’d gotten ten years older. “Do you know why she moved? Is her health okay?”
“Oh yeah, last time we saw her she seemed fit as a fiddle. She moved to Ontario to be close to her family.”
“Her family?”
“Yeah, her granddaughter and her granddaughter's girlfriend. They live across the border. In Michigan, I think.”
Sharon started to feel lightheaded at the mention of Andrea, and at the mention of Andrea having a partner. It wasn’t a surprise. Andrea didn’t exist in some time capsule, where Sharon had last left her. But what shocked Sharon was how much it hurt, to hear confirmation that Andrea had moved on with her life.
Sharon had finished her marathon mission of helping her family survive. And, when she got in touch with herself she realized that what she wanted most in the world was to hear Andrea’s voice again. She wanted to know that Andrea was okay, that she was happy and fulfilled and safe. She wanted to find her, reconnect, and become friends again. But, if Sharon was being truly honest with herself, she also wanted to turn back the clock, to pick up where they left off, to pretend like the last eight years had been a momentary pause in an otherwise unbroken storyline.
Now, it was hitting Sharon that there was no time capsule that had been buried; there was no rewind button on the clock.
“Okay, I’ve got Marie’s number here. Are you ready to take it down?”
Sharon nodded, plaintively, as if the person speaking could see her gesture.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
Sharon hung up, suddenly.
Heart racing, she leaned back against the wall and let herself feel everything flowing through her, just as Dr. Gunnerson had encouraged her to do, years ago.
Sharon tilted her head up, unseeing eyes pointed toward the ceiling, silent tears starting to flow. She acknowledged the painful reality: she had chosen her lot in life, and that lot didn't involve Andrea.
There was no going back.
So it was time to move on.
✢✢✢✢✢
Sharon’s goodbye party warmed her heart.
Her squad was sad to see her go, a fact which surprised her. She was known for being a stringent enforcer of rules, both those on the books and those she instituted. But within the structure of the world she’d created, the people on her team experienced a sense of safety; they felt cared for, fiercely.
Her superiors were the only people more disappointed to see her go. She was honored they’d given her great recommendation letters as she’d started to look for opportunities in California. She’d been most interested in San Francisco, but Los Angeles was the only city that seemed to be hiring out-of-state transfers at the moment. She would have to take night classes on state laws and she’d have to pass a few tests, but assuming all went well, she had a job as a Sergeant in the LAPD.
This wasn’t the circumstance in which she’d originally envisioned herself moving west.
But she was finally doing it.
And that in itself, felt great.
For someone so independent and self-sufficient, ironically, her initial LA apartment was the first time she’d ever lived alone. Suddenly, when she put dishes away, they didn’t move to new places the next day. Instead of having to enforce rules for which shoes needed to be removed in which room, she just enacted her own internal protocols. She monitored a jurisdiction, in which she was the only citizen.
Logistically, financially, and emotionally, it was incredibly simplifying to not be balancing the budget for a family of seven. Even on a police officer’s wage in a big city, her highly optimized frugality allowed her to survive, and even save.
She learned to give herself things: material as well as intangible. And, as she settled into the speedy, yet always sunny, pace of LA life, she found herself experiencing pleasure, joy, and even contentment.
Now that her life was trimmed down, without so many people pulling on her emotional heartstrings and financial drawstrings, she felt like she had so much more space and time. In addition to focusing on her own happiness, she made a plan for advancing in the force.
CHAPTER 6...