Ghosts Come Calling by Maureen S. O'Brien E-mail address: mobrien@dnaco.net Rating: G Category: S Spoilers: "Death Watch" Summary: Mac visits Diane Schonke's grave. Disclaimer: (ttto "Stand by Me") When you write a tale about Mac's travails, Harm, Bud, Harriet, or AJ, As the case may be -- They won't sue, they won't sue, No, they won't come after you If you just say, "JAG does not be- -Long to me." (So, JAG does not be-) -Long to me. Bell'sario owns it, not me. It's better That it don't be- -Long to me. Author's Note: This story was released once before. I elicited feedback, and got some good comments that necessitated chewing over. But I couldn't quite get the story where I wanted it. Tonight I took a nap and dreamed I was visiting my Grandma O'Brien. While we were talking at a table, my grandpa suddenly appeared. And he's dead. He was dead in the dream, too, so Grandma and I were plenty startled. And after I woke up, I knew what to do with the story. (I don't know that I did it, but thanks, Grandpa.) Dedicated to all the folks we visit in the cemeteries, especially on Memorial Day; for the fine folks who made the Shipper Tape, of which I have made good use in this revision; and especially to HughesFan, who made me think a lot harder about what I was writing here. If I screwed up, it's not their fault. Oh, and it's part of my Nouruz series, if I ever get that done (even though this rewrite is coming out closer to Mehregan). In Iranian tradition, the thirteen days after Nouruz are spent visiting or receiving visits from family, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. Scholars believe the custom derives from the days before Islam or even Zoroastrianism, when the dead were believed to return to their homes after the spring equinox to eat offerings of food and drink. As with Samhain and the Mexican Day of the Dead, hospitality to the dead became hospitality to the living. ===================================================================== Yellow tulips with purple and white iris, fresh from her garden. The flowers' smell blended with that of the green smell of their just-cut stems. It was the smell of old grief, for this was the second spring since their daughter's death. A tin juice can, its top removed with a can opener, its sides stripped of its paper label and as much of the glue as she could pick off with her fingers. Her husband got it out of the car and brought it back filled with water from the spigot at the end of the row of graves. He handed it to her, and she felt the coolness of its sides. Carefully, she placed the flowers in the can. There were other graves they visited here, and more flowers and juice cans had already been set out. But they visited their daughter's last, because it was the hardest. Pete turned to her. "Ready?" "Ready as I'll ever be." But she knew that afterward, the renewed pain would be replaced by peace. They walked side-by-side toward their daughter's gravestone. There were a few other visitors around. There usually were, this late on a Sunday morning in spring. Memorial Day was the busiest, when the American Legion set the little flags fluttering by every veteran's marker. It had startled her last year to see a little flag by her daughter's place. She didn't think of her little girl as a veteran. But her husband's eyes had glistened at the sight. There was a visitor standing close to Diane's gravestone. A woman in uniform. A Raiff, most likely. Jake Raiff'd passed on a few years back, but his wife's place next to him was still empty. Now, who in that family was in the Army or whatever? Marion's little girl? No, she was the one who was a dental hygienist. One of Kay's? No.... Hmm. The way she stood was kind of familiar. Well, if the woman'd just turn around.... Pete stood stone still. She felt something strange about her hands, and wetness on her blouse. My hands are trembling, she realized slowly. I'll spill all the water if I'm not careful. It was Diane. Diane, with her warm brown eyes, always bright with interest and concern. She looked at Diane's picture every day, and yet somehow she had forgotten the living presence of her dear. Frances stepped forward, longing for nothing more than to hold her baby again. But her baby's eyes took a lifetime to show recognition, and she wore Marine green. "Mr. and Mrs. Schonke. I'm sorry," she said in a strange deep voice. "I'm Sarah Mackenzie, not.... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come." "You're that Marine major Harm Rabb told us about, on the phone," Pete said slowly. "Yessir. I wanted to...pay my respects, I suppose. Please, accept my apologies for causing you distress, sir. Ma'am." Major Mackenzie swallowed hard and turned to go. Frances Schonke couldn't let her. "Please, Major, don't go so soon. If you came up all this way to see our Diane, at least let us...." She paused. "If you haven't eaten lunch already, you come and have it with us. And if you have, you can just visit with us for a while," she decided. "We won't take no for an answer." "Are you sure you...." Pete looked at her, questioning. "We're sure," Frances told them both firmly. She had shied away from telling Harm, and she had been too cowardly to write his Major Mackenzie. But her showing up like this.... "Okay," Pete agreed. "Of course, we have to finish visiting Diane first." He turned to the grave and stood in silence, his hands folded and his head down. Frances did likewise, her hands laced around the juice can. The major waited behind them, obviously trying not to intrude. Sweetheart, that Harm of yours finally found your clue, Frances thought or prayed. Problem is, the way your mind works...you just don't do things the way other people do, so it took him a while. But I don't know why you had to let your boss know you were reporting him before you did. I told you and told you to be less trusting, but you never learned.... Frances let the tears run down her face. A little salt water wouldn't do her any harm. Love you, sweetheart. We'll be back to visit soon. Pete blew his nose and headed off for the car. Typical. It was so hard for him, losing his little girl, and he didn't like to talk about it. So they didn't, much, or he didn't. She talked, and Pete listened. But when Pete needed to talk, or went and brooded, she'd found that quiet and a touch to let him know she understood were the best ways. Frances looked up, dried her eyes, and turned around to deal with this stranger who looked just like her Navy daughter did -- or would have, if Diane had lived. Except that Diane had never looked so ill at ease and out of place. What was worrying the woman? "We don't bite, you know." "Is it that obvious?" "Yes." Frances looked at her. "I can't keep calling you Major, and I can't remember your first name for the life of me, though I'm sure you said." "It's Sarah." "Well, Sarah, why don't you help me with these flowers? My back's a little sore this morning. And call us Pete and Frances." Sarah took the can eagerly. Yes, she was the kind that needed something to do to get her mind off things. But Frances shook her head in wonder as she watched Sarah kneel and produce order out of chaos. The iris that had accidentally been cut a little short became the focal point of the arrangement. Even the leaves looked pretty. It was like magic. Sarah stood back and looked critically at her handiwork. "Is that all right, ma'am?" "Frances," she said firmly. "It's beautiful." ==================================================================== House in the suburbs. White picket fence. A treehouse in back. Sarah Mackenzie stopped staring and pulled into the driveway behind the Schonkes. Pete ushered her into the house and Frances brought out a pitcher of lemonade. Mac was relieved to recognize the taste of lemonade mix. If it had been real lemonade, she would have started looking for the pod people. Calm down, she told herself. They have a life, that's all. "I saw the treehouse out back. Was that Diane's?" she ventured. "We built it together one summer, when she was...ten?" answered Pete. "She'd been after me about it for a couple years. When she called up the lumber store to get an estimate on how much the boards would cost, I figured she was serious. It's held up pretty well -- have to replace a few boards most springs, but not this year -- and all the neighbor kids still play in it." He shook his head. "Hard to believe how long that thing's been up there." "Did you have a treehouse, Major?" Frances asked. Mac shook her head. "I always wanted one. I loved climbing trees -- and jumping out of them. I broke my arm once doing that." Pete's lips quirked. "Sounds like you were born to be Airborne, not a Marine. Diane was a little more sensible -- one hand for her and the other for the tree. She saved all her craziness for when she had two feet on the ground." "You served in the Navy, Harm said." "Twenty years. I retired as a captain. It was in the blood; my father and a few of my uncles were in the service during the war, and so were some of Frances' cousins. And after we went to Annapolis one vacation, Diane decided she wanted to join up too." Pete didn't like to talk much, unless he was telling sea stories or talking about his little girl as a little girl. Frances had taken over the conversation when Pete quit holding forth. She was starting to get tired, and all she had managed to do so far for the major was stuff her ears with reminiscences of Diane. She was working up to it. Frances talked around to how she and Pete had met and married, and the early days of Pete's career. "That was when the doctor told us we couldn't have children," Frances finally managed to say. "But he was wrong." Frances shook her head. "Diane was adopted." "Harm didn't tell me that!" "I don't think Diane told him, so I doubt he realized. I'm not sure when Diane did." Frances sighed. "We never really talked about that part of it, though I have a feeling Diane figured it out pretty young. The only brunette in a family of blondes...I just hope she never got teased about it." "Recessives happen." "They do. Just not this time." Frances paused. "We'd been trying for so many years before the doctor told us, and there were always so many children living near us, reminding us of what we couldn't have. Finally, Pete got a shore posting, and we decided it was time to give some little boy or girl a good home. The wait was so long, but when they finally called us, we were so thrilled to have our own little baby. "Right from the start, Diane was a joy. Always cheerful, always laughing, never fussy -- everyone loved her. And she was bright, too. Had the most amazing memory...they jumped her ahead two years while she was in elementary school. We were afraid she wouldn't be able to handle it, or that the other children would resent her. But instead, the older children just treated her like a mascot, and the children her own age rooted for her." Mac's face looked politely interested. Inside, her own memories threatened to swamp her. She remembered being teased. She remembered being angry over her grandmother's death, over her father's drinking and beating her mother, over the way her mother never stood up to him. She remembered hiding her intelligence as far as she could, so that she could hang out with the tough kids. Once she was one of the hoods, nobody messed with her any more. God, she would have killed to have Diane's life. "She was too good for this world," Frances sighed. "All I can figure is that the good Lord knew Diane would be leaving us early, so he figured to make her life here as pleasant as possible." Mac writhed inside. "You're very quiet, Sarah," Frances commented. "I'm sorry. I just thought I'd listen." Frances considered her. Sarah was so different from Diane that it was hard to tell what she was thinking. But it was time to tell her. "A few years back, Diane got interested in finding her biological parents. Not because she felt dissatisfied, you understand. She made that very clear. But she was worried that there might be health problems in the family that she needed to know about; this was just after a friend of hers got breast cancer that ran in the family. So after much ado, she got to see her adoption papers. She never was able to get in touch with her biological parents, but she did learn their names." She handed Sarah a folder of papers. "Please, take a look." Mac opened the folder. The top sheet of paper contained a birth certificate for an unnamed girl. Father: Robert Mackenzie. Mother: Kareen Mackenzie. The birthdate was her own. Her mind went numb. "So Diane really was my twin," she heard herself saying. "No wonder everyone said she and I looked so alike." God. Poor Harm. ---------------------------------------------------------------- And then, for a moment she was back on a lonely highway, in a lightning-lit truck lashed by wind and rain, while the too-handsome stranger beside her suddenly sobered and explained his excessive familiarity. "I keep forgetting I don't know you." She glanced at him for a second, and then put her eyes back on the road. He was serious. "Deja vu again?" "Only every time I see your face, or hear you talk," he said slowly. She glanced at him again. He would have seemed expressionless, if she hadn't seen the intensity of his eyes. "I wouldn't know about your smile. I haven't seen one yet," he added, his eyes flicking to hers challengingly. She stared into the rain and the darkness of the second-worst night of her life. "There's not much to smile about." He looked down, sounding disappointed. "I guess not." She was proof to his smartass smiles, but not to that. Fine, she thought. I'll make conversation. She lightened her tone as much as she could currently manage. "Sounds like I have a twin out there." His jaw tightened and his face froze. He looked like a man who was trying not to cry. Hell. She turned to him, forgetting the road, her mouth falling open with dismay; and she cursed herself for saying anything. "Not anymore," he said. He stared out at the darkness and the rain, somewhere further than she could reach, and she put her eyes back on the road. But her thoughts were on the man beside her. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Mac slammed back into the present. "I was a twin." "Diane always wanted a sister," Pete was saying. "She would have been happy to know she had one after all." Mac didn't care much at the moment. She was trying desperately to think, despite her shock. "I knew my parents didn't have much when I was born, and yes, two babies at once would have been a financial burden...but give up a daughter for adoption? And not tell anyone? And why just one? Why not both?" There was nothing wrong with giving up a baby for adoption, she reminded herself. It sure beat having her and her twin aborted. But...I had a twin! "I suppose you could ask them." Frances looked dubious. "Though I don't know if you'd want to open up that can of worms." "I'd ask my mother if I knew where she was. She ran off." "What about your father?" "I don't...we don't speak." If Grandmother had known, she thought, she would have gone through hell and high water to get Diane back. So obviously, she didn't know my mother had twins. Or maybe they told her that Diane was stillborn.... "Could I see Diane's room?" "Of course." This is what you could have been, her heart whispered. Obviously, Diane was the good twin. Posters of Navy carriers and athletes on the wall instead of metal bands. Shelves full of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, with Marguerite Henry next to Walter Farley. Breyer horses, language textbooks, books about movies. Journals row on row, that didn't even have locks on them. Why not? Mac thought bitterly. Diane didn't have anything to hide. Diplomas from high school and the Academy. Sports trophies. Photos of Diane running races, Diane on class trips, Diane in the car her parents gave her on her sixteenth birthday, waving, looking proud. I stole one of those once, she remembered nostalgically. Really nice ride. Pictures of Diane at her proms, with her clean-cut dates. Pictures of Diane at the Academy. Pictures of Diane with a younger, more innocent-looking Harm. She felt a burst of jealousy and fought it down. I didn't even know him back then, she pointed out. He's my partner, not my boyfriend. What does it matter if his old flame was my twin? But somehow, it mattered. She couldn't help looking. Frances must have seen her looking. "She and Harm were such good friends at the Academy. Diane was thrilled to meet someone else who liked old movies. Sometimes they'd get leave and go visit some film festival together. We worried a little about it, but pretty soon it was obvious they were just friends. Unfortunately. I wanted grandkids to spoil. "But when Diane had sea duty, and she and Harm started writing each other more regularly, something must have changed. Diane called and told us that she and Harm were getting pretty serious. We couldn't believe it at first. But she sounded so certain about her feelings... and we'd always thought well of Harm...." Frances broke off, and Mac reached out to her impulsively. And suddenly, a woman who could have been her mother was crying on her shoulder and holding her as if she would never let go. And she wanted desperately to hold Frances the same way, to be her daughter, to sleep in this perfect room and live their perfect life. But she was not Diane, and none of this love belonged to her. Mac held Frances gingerly, and handed her a tissue from her purse. Frances grasped it convulsively and sat up, trying to dry her eyes without injuring her makeup. Mac carefully looked away while Frances regained her composure. "We never saw her again," Frances choked out. "She never came back from the Seahawk. We never saw her again, because they did an autopsy on her, so we had to have a closed coffin, and...." Frances looked up at her and took her hand. "And when we look at you, we can see her in you -- at least enough to say goodbye." Mac squeezed Frances' hand tentatively. "And I can see enough of her in your stories, and this room, to begin to say hello." "We gave all of Diane's clothes to the Goodwill," Frances managed to say. "But everything else is pretty much as she left it. We...we already had a guest room. And we really couldn't bear to change things. She had everything decorated the way she liked it." And then Mac noticed something that almost stopped her heart. "Did she choose the paint for the walls?" "Oh, yes. She always liked that peach color. Said it made the place look warmer, more homey." "That's what I thought, too." "Are you sure you won't stay for dinner?" "It's a long drive back to DC, Frances. I've got to get started." "Well, if you're sure...but do come back and visit us sometime." "Ma'am," she said compassionately. "I'm not Diane. I can't be your daughter for you, no matter how alike we look." "I know that." Frances looked at her sadly. "But you don't seem to have much family, and we'd be pleased to call you part of ours. Come back when you can." "I...I'd like that," Mac heard herself saying. "We'll see." Frances watched her drive away. Pete stood behind her, and she leaned against him, needing his support in more ways than one. "She's not much like our Diane, really." "No," Pete agreed. "But I can see why Harm likes her." "Was I wrong to invite her back?" she wondered. "Or show her the papers?" "I don't think so. But I don't think she'll be back." "We'll see." That night, in her cozy apartment with its peach colored walls, Diane Schonke came and sat on the edge of Sarah Mackenzie's bed and talked to her. They had the same face. It wasn't like looking in a mirror; they weren't mirror twins, their faces a perfect reversal of each other. Diane's face looked familiar, but it took a moment to recognize it as the face she saw in photos of herself. There weren't many people who kept photos of Sarah -- besides the odd stalker, of course. But there was no denying that Diane made that face a great deal livelier. She seemed to be laughing or smiling every other moment. They had the same voice, really. But Frances Schonke was a soprano, and so Diane spoke at the top of their range while Sarah imitated her own mom's contralto. In short, Sarah was confronted by an imp version of herself. "I'm glad you dropped by," Diane was saying. "Mom and Dad really liked you. Funny how these things work out, huh?" "I can't believe you're my sister." "I can't believe you're a Marine!" Diane laughed. "You've sure had some adventures. No wonder they partnered you with Harm. You are two of a kind -- both adrenalin addicts!" She sobered. "I envy you that, you know?" "You? Envy me?" "I was just another cryppie creature. You're a top lawyer, and a good detective, too. You can hotwire cars and kickbox. You keep up with Harm and watch his back. Me? I wasn't a bad shot, but I would never be much help in a hand-to-hand fight. As I found out." "You're too hard on yourself," Mac told her. "Anyone can get killed, and sometimes it doesn't matter how good you are -- just how lucky." "Yeah, and you got all the luck!" And suddenly, Sarah reached out her hand, desperately needing to touch her twin and prove that she was really there. Diane laughed and grabbed Sarah's hand in her own, and started to armwrestle her. Two hands -- the same size, the same temperature, but with different callouses -- clung together. Two arms strained, and the back of Diane's hand was forced closer and closer to the coverlet -- And the next thing she knew, it was morning. Her covers looked as though she had wrestled with herself and lost, and there was nothing in her hand. But there _was_ a smile on her face. "Cheater!" she accused, and rose to meet the day.