A Few Days In The Life Of Sara O'Neill
Date Written: June 1999
Author: K. Siegfried (Niamh)
Email: sg1flygirl@yahoo.com or ksiegfried@henry.wells.edu
Category: Drama, Angst.
Spoilers: Matter of Time when we find out Jack was *detained* in an Iraqi prison durning the Gulf War.
Season Info: Prior to STARGATE movie.
Rating: PG for some minor swearing.
Content Warning: None. Well, you might want to have a box of tissues handy....
Summary: Sara O'Neill must come to terms with the death of her husband from a Special Ops mission during the Gulf War.
Disclaimer: STARGATE SG-1 and its characters are property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the concent of the author.
Author's Note: Another Jack and Sara story. I got the idea for this while working on my current novelette. How did Sara take the news that Jack was shot and left for dead? Again, I took a lot of creative license with this story. If you have definite proof that I am incorrect, please let me know.
Being a military wife is a lot like being a cop’s wife. There is a constant alertness that is always present in the back of your mind; the thought that your husband might not one day return. You learn quickly to never expect him home on time for supper, to cherish each day you can hold him in your arms, and never to take anything for granted. Of love, hope, and charity, hope is by far the strongest; the hope God will always bring him home with the same amount of holes you shipped him off with. Every midnight telephone call, ring of the doorbell, or letter in the mailbox could start with the last words you’d ever want to hear. I regret to inform you, misses, but your husband was killed in duty…
It started like any other Saturday, procrastinating as long as possible before I started the housekeeping. Charlie had wandered off to play baseball with the neighborhood kids and I struggled to make him wear a coat. Yes it was October, and a rather mild day for it too, but you never know which way these days go. Could be sixty one minute and snowing the next. Finally he humored me, probably just to get me off his case so he could get outside. Stubborn just like Jack.
I had a date with the vacuum. One that I had been giving rainchecks to since Wednesday. Dragging it out of the closet in the kitchen, I made my way to the living room, starting at my favorite place in the house; the mantle. It always amazed me how much stuff had collected there over the years among the pictures. A painted rock Charlie had given Jack for Father’s Day when he was five. An atrocious looking thing, the colors so badly mixed together that most of them looked brown, but to Jack it was a masterpiece. Smiling to myself, I even remembered the wrapping paper Charlie had used much to Jack’s dismay; the Sunday Sports Section of the newspaper. My fingers brushed over the two dried out pink rose buds that sat in a small crystal bowl. He had given me those after Charlie was born and I had to fight with the nurses from throwing them out after they had wilted. I should really get those preserved one of these days. Jack had his collection of military badges he had traded for with foreign service men in a small frame and I cleaned the dust off, setting it back into its place. There was the little ceramic animal that looked like a cross between a duck and a cow that Charlie had made for me during a summer arts program so many years ago. He was so proud of that; colored in red with purple dots. We named him Snuffy after the Sesame Street character.
Jack looked so handsome in his dress blues, all spit polished. He was so proud of those newly acquired gold bars on his shoulders. Our wedding picture always brought me a smile, his nearly shaved head looking as ridiculous as my long blonde hair. Jack looked so young, but that smile hadn’t changed; his mahogany eyes narrowing and his lips parting as if he was just about to make a joke to the photographer. I looked like I was dying from laughter, his fingers tickling my sides, trying to make me smile for the camera. That’s what made me fall in love with him, you know; a sense of humor that was endless and the ability to make me laugh in a moment’s notice.
I picked up the small two-frame set and traced my fingers over the brass. The first was just a cute thing he had coned my sister into taking. He was kissing my swollen stomach as I stood looking incredibly uncomfortable with my hands on my hips to support my sore back. I remember he had almost fainted when he came home to find that I had cut my hair. You try being pregnant in August with long hair! We’ll see how fast you cut it! Since Charlie was born, I was lucky if I had time to sleep much less mess with fashionable hair. He learned to live with it. Jack always did. The second little frame held the picture of the three of us at the hospital. I looked like a mess; my hair plastered with sweat and dark circles under my eyes. His face was still wet with tears but that smile said it all. Poor Charlie looked like he had just gone through a grape press, reddish purple with a flattened face and cone head. Sometimes I tease him about how funny he looked then and he turns red with embarrassment and says ‘oh Mom.’ I can’t help it; I’m his mother.
Charlie’s recent school picture was next. He’s going to sprout up to be taller than Jack, I know. And probably twice as handsome. Only nine, but I couldn’t help but think my boy was going to grow up and be a man some day. What would he do? Who would he marry? Do I get to be a Grandma? Cart miles before the horse yet again, but what gal doesn’t dream nice things for her children?
A loud knock at the door made me set the picture down and turn off the vacuum. I wondered which of Charlie’s friends it was this time. Misses O’Neill, is Charlie there? Probably Pete Thompson from across the street, wanting to know where the Bloom Street Bombers were playing the Smith Street Reds. Lowering my eyes to the correct height for a nine year old, I opened the door. My heart almost flew out of my chest after I had to adjust my gaze to rest on Colonel Frank Cromwell, suited to the gills in his dress blues.
"Frank, hi!" I opened the screen door, eagerly looking around for Jack. He was probably just grabbing the last of his gear out of the Colonel’s car. Charlie would be so thrilled to see his Dad when he got home from the game! Quickly I tried to think what I had defrosted for dinner and if it would be enough.
"Hello Sara. May I come in?" Cromwell stepped over the threshold, making me take a step back. Where the heck was Jack?
"Sure, I was just doing some house keeping." He closed the door behind him and an uneasy feeling began to churn in my stomach. My mind wheeled; Jack’s probably still at base and the Colonel just stopped by to say he’d be late. I looked at Cromwell and regretted it. He was tense and strained but my brain refused to think unhappy thoughts.
"Sara, you might want to sit down." He said after an excruciatingly long pause, walking past me into the living room. Cromwell’s eyes fell on the pictures over the mantle and he bowed his head.
"Frank, what’s wrong?"
"I have some bad news." Breath vacated my lungs in such a sigh my legs gave out. Thank God I was standing near the couch. The storm in my stomach tumbled fiercely and I felt sick. Oh God Jack, what did you do to yourself this time?
"What did he break now?" I smiled tensely, looking up at Cromwell. He had crossed an arm over his stomach to support the other that was lifted so a hand could rub at his brow. He began to walk in circles, finally slowing to stand beside me. Frank didn’t look at me as he took a seat on the couch with me, leaning forward enough to put his elbows on his thighs to steeple fingers under his chin. I knew he was trying to find the words to tell me something and the stalling was killing me.
"Frank?"
"Jack was shot, Sara." He said it so softly I could hardly hear him. I think my heart stopped beating for a few minutes.
"What?" I touched his arm, but he refused to look at me. "What hospital is he at? I’ll drop Charlie off at my—"
"No, Sara." Frank finally turned to me, and my mouth dropped open. He was crying. "He’s dead." The storm inside spilled over, sending tears to my eyes. My hand lifted to cover my open mouth. I sucked in a strangled breath, releasing it in gasps. Concentrating on his eyes, I tried to read them for any sign, and if it was a nightmare, I wanted to wake up immediately.
"You had me going there, Frank." I blurted out, shaking a finger at him. It had to be somebody’s idea of a sick joke. "Did Jack put you up to this?" I had to blink away the tears to keep him in focus.
"No joke, Sara." Biting my lip, I refused to cry, but the sobs began as it finally sank in. Oh. My. God. There was this indescribable pain that burned in my chest as if somebody had stabbed me with a sword that was a mile wide. My heart shattered into a million pieces. Frank’s hand reached to soothe my arm, but I batted it away.
"No." I shook my head. "He can’t be dead." I closed my eyes and started crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe.
"Sara." His hand rubbed my shoulder, trying to soothe. I was numb inside.
"He promised…he promised!" Gasping, I buried my face in my hands. "He promised he’d come home!"
What was I going to do? Oh God. Charlie without a father and myself without a husband. Charlie! How the hell was I to tell him Jack wasn’t coming home? Why? Why did I marry him? Why did we bring a child into the world? I knew this would happen, I just knew it! Frank pulled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me as I sobbed. I didn’t believe him at all. Jack had promised! He always kept his promises. Jack was going to walk though that door any moment and then I could tell Cromwell he was wrong.
"This isn’t happening. This is not happening." Breaking away from him, I ran to the kitchen, bending over the sink. My stomach turned violently and I heaved, gasping for breath as I cried and retched. Gripping so hard onto the stainless steel, I thought my fingers were going to break. Please let me wake up! Please God, tell me I’m dreaming!
"Sara, I’m—" He had followed me.
"Shut up Frank, he’s coming home!" Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt. My hand shook on the tap as I pulled it up to run cold water, splashing it on my face. I tried to shake the thought out of my head, standing up again to reach for the towel looped through the handle on the fridge.
"Sara, he’s not." A hard hand gripped my shoulder, pressing the truth home. "Jack’s not coming home." Rage seemed to well up from the bottom of my broken soul and I turned towards Cromwell, shrugging his hand away.
"What exactly happened, Frank?" I crossed my arms over my chest. "Did you send him in because you were too chicken shitted to do it yourself?" He looked pained. Good!
"It wasn’t like that. They knew we were coming." I wiped at the water dripping down my face, scrubbing with the harsh towel. "We were sitting ducks even before it began."
"Then was he shot saving your sorry ass?" I spat at him vehemently, taking a swipe with the towel. He backed up.
"Sara!"
"What Frank, a little too close to the truth?" Lowering an arm, I smashed my palm against the refrigerator door and threw the towel to the floor. Clenching my jaw, I wanted to scream.
"No Sara, he was shot! Sometimes it just happens!" He yelled back at me in his own grief and I took a step backwards.
"Do you think I don’t blame myself for this? I am – was his CO for Christ’s sake!" Exasperated, he held his arms to the side and shook. "I couldn’t even get him out of there, Sara!"
"What?" He was crying too. It all just seemed so strange, like it was some really bad movie.
"We had to leave him there." Frank crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, looking out the kitchen sink.
"You…you mean I…I don’t even have his body?" I wanted to see him again, even if he was dead. I wanted to touch his face and those lips that smiled so wide for me. I wanted to hold his hand in mine again. Now he would rot in some Iraqi desert without even the Arlington burial he deserved! "God Frank!"
"Sara, we couldn’t. We’re lucky we got out of there at all." My legs gave out on me again as I slid down the front of the fridge to the floor. I cradled myself and stared at the linoleum. How could Frank do this to me?
"I put my faith in you to bring him home to me, Frank. Now what am I going to do? I have a son without a father. A mortgage and bills to pay. Don’t even have a body to bury."
"You’ll get his full pension."
"I don’t want the fucking money, Frank! I want my husband!" I tried to cry again, but my eyes were dry. He crouched down in front of the stove, joining me on the floor. It seemed so fantastic, so unbelievable.
"Sara." Frank rubbed his brow.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. He’s dead." Hysterical, I chuckled. "And I’m alone." I sighed and looked at the Colonel, so much wanting him to be in that desert instead of Jack. He should be dead and Jack should be here with me.
"Is there somebody I should call? To stay with you and Charlie? Or is there someplace I can drive you to?" I would have killed him myself if I knew it would bring Jack back. Shaking my head, I hugged my legs, gently rocking back and forth. I was coming to the slow realization that this wasn’t a nightmare and that I wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow with my husband and lover in my arms. I wanted to die.
"I’ll call my father." I said after clearing my throat. My fingers reached for the discarded towel, pulling it into my hand. I idly played with the fringe.
"Sara, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask." Frank stood with a grunt, straightening his uniform. I dismissed him with a slight wave of the towel.
"Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out." I mumbled as I heard him open the front door. Drying my face with the back of my hand, I finally stood, reaching for the kitchen phone.
"Dad?"
"Sara, what’s wrong?" My father’s voice was concerned, hearing the tenseness in mine.
"How soon can you get here?" I strangled the towel to keep from breaking down.
"Why Sara? Something happen to Charlie?"
"No, Charlie’s fine." I took a deep breath and released it slowly. "I just need you here, Dad."
"Okay Sara, I’ll be there in ten minutes." Hanging up the phone I wandered out into the living room to the mantle of pictures that opened up my wound until it was deep and bleeding. Jack, how could you do this to me? Picking up that wedding picture, I smoothed a fingertip over Jack’s face and cried in desperation. This wasn’t happening. His face got so blurry it nearly disappeared in a sea of tears.
"Ma?" Charlie, Oh God! I set the picture back up on the mantle and tried to wipe away my tears. I could hear him walking through the kitchen from the back door into the living room.
"Mom?" I tried to settle myself to be strong for my son. No such luck.
"Charlie." I hugged him, nearly smothering him.
"Mom, what is it?" I began to cry again, trying to figure out what I was going to say to him.
"It’s your father, Charlie."
"Dad? What happened?" He managed to pry himself away so he could look at me. "Ma?"
"He was shot, Charlie." His mouth opened slowly and I brushed a hand over his hair. "He’s not coming home."
"What? No!" He howled, the tears rising into his eyes. I hated hurting him more than anything else and I wanted somebody to pay for making me do this to my son.
"Charlie." He sobbed in my arms and I had to try and push my grief to the back burner for him.
"Mom! No! No! Oh God!" He sagged against me to the point I couldn’t hold him up any more. Slowly I lowered him to the couch, still cradling him in my arms. Rocking my son as if he was a baby again, I cried with him, wailing out for Jack.
It was tough; I won’t lie to you. Especially difficult around the holidays. Charlie was doing okay, a few times he had acted up in school but I was sure it wouldn’t be a permanent thing. I had carefully explained to his teachers to give him a bit of slack that he was going through some hard times. So was I. It was difficult to make ends meet at times; Uncle Sam not always religious about delivering Jack’s death benefits. Seems there was some debate over whether or not he was really dead. There are no words to describe the idiocy.
I had a stone made for Jack and bought plots for the both of us. It was a simple little marble thing with his name and rank carved in thick block letters. Even had the Air Force seal engraved at the bottom. Disturbing I know, and you should have heard me explain it to the cemetery. Wait, you want to buy a double plot, set a stone for your husband, but bury nothing? I guess it was just a comforting thought to have some sort of memorial for Jack even though I didn’t have his body. I’d have to wait to place it until spring; the cemetery closed for winter. At least then maybe I could plant some flowers around it. He said he always liked the look of those geraniums I planted in the front garden.
My father had taken Charlie under his wing, trying to do the fatherly things. He could never take Jack’s place in the baseball stands, but it was somebody to play catch with and give encouragement. Somebody to take him to hockey practice when I couldn’t and another person to look up and see watching him play. Dad helped me immensely, always making sure I wasn’t running myself too thin and throwing me some extra cash when things were especially tight.
Charlie was with him when I started to weed out Jack’s things. I figured it probably wasn’t a good thing for him to watch me use up boxes and boxes of tissues as I pulled his clothes from our closet. I had decided to donate the clothing to a local church, but the going was slow, every piece bringing back its own painful memory. If I ever did receive a body to bury, I kept his dress uniform, packing it neatly in a box with cedar chips. Charlie would probably appreciate having the metals and pips as well as Jack’s Blackhawk’s jersey. He might be able to use Jack’s good suit when he got older, although I’m sure the style would be different by then. Oh well. Keep it and decide later had been the motto of the day.
Some things I just couldn’t part with. They just reminded me too much of him. A few sweatshirts still smelled like him no matter how many times I washed them. My eyes started to well over again, realizing I’d never smell the real thing again. Burying my face in that sweatshirt, I sat on the bed and tried to quantify the bottomless pit that had formed in my soul. After awhile, I just couldn’t cry anymore because no tears would come to my eyes. Instead the rage turned inward, chewing and gnawing and slashing as I blamed myself for it. Stupid I know. I wasn’t there and certainly couldn’t have prevented it, but I still blamed myself. You have some rather twisted arguments with yourself that make absolutely no sense whatsoever when you’re wallowing in grief.
The doorbell rang and slowly I sat up. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, not today.
"Go away." I mumbled. Folding up the sweatshirt, I set it next to me. I turned to his dresser. It slid open easily and I picked up a pair of woolen socks. The bell rang twice.
"I’m not answering so go away!" I stomped, clutching the socks. A steady pounding followed another ring. Persistent little runt. Probably one of Charlie’s friends, but they usually only gave it a few rings before leaving.
"Sara?" I heard the front door open. The voice was familiar and mildly disturbing. Frank Cromwell. Dropping the socks, I slowly walked to the edge of the stairway. "Sara?"
"Yes, Frank." I climbed down the stairs grudgingly, really wanting to say that when people don’t answer their doors, it usually means they don’t wish to be disturbed.
"Where’s Charlie?"
"At my father’s." He was being nosy for a man I didn’t really want to see.
"Good. I need you to come with me." He smiled wide. Dressed in his standards, he stood in my living room like he had those four long months ago. The smile faded as he looked at the sour face I was giving him.
"Sara, you okay?"
"Frank, what’s going on?" Would you just cut to the chase?
"Jack’s alive."
"Frank, that’s sick." So sick, I wanted to be ill.
"Sara, he’s at the academy hospital. He’s quite alive."
"I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that." I shook a finger at him, taking a deep breath. How dare he dredge all of this up after I was finally beginning to get over and get on? He had to be some sort of masochistic sonofabitch.
"He was released three days ago from an Iraqi prison." Four months of dreaming could finally be coming true? I just had to be asleep. If I am, and Jack’s alive in this dream, please don’t wake me up.
"Sara, come on. I’ll take you there." I didn’t know what to think, it was so unreal. Could Jack really be alive? Could Cromwell be telling the truth?
"Let me go get my purse." Numbly I walked through the house to the kitchen, picking up my purse from the table. Turning towards the fridge, I looked at the photos and brushed a finger over the one of Jack and Charlie at ball practice. Really sick joke. It had to be. I picked up a pen and scratched a note for my father and Charlie, saying I went to the store. The last thing I wanted to do was get their hopes up and then have to watch them fall. My writing looked so bad, I had to do it again, holding my hand to keep it from shaking so badly. Satisfied that it looked halfway normal, I turned back and met Frank at the front door.
I don’t think I said two words to him in the car. I just kept on thinking about Jack, this nightmare, and if it was really over. Smiling, I wondered how he’d take the news that I had started packing up his clothing to donate to charity. Not even cold yet, and you’re already kicking me out of the house? Christ, woman!
If this was a dream, it was rather vivid. My feet felt like they weighed a ton as I stumbled along, following Frank through the corridors to the ICU. That charming disinfectant smell was overwhelming to my fragile mind and it was all I could do not to pass out in the middle of the hallway. Frank opened up the door for me and I had to prop myself against the nurse’s station to keep from falling over.
"Misses O’Neill?" A tall dark haired woman approached me, extending her hand. I nodded and swallowed, my hand shaking as it met hers. "I’m Doctor Armstrong. Your husband has undergone major trauma, but he will make a full recovery." My other hand flattened against the top of the desk for support.
"I’m sorry, did you say full recovery?" Spots were starting to cloud my vision and I felt extremely lightheaded. Please don’t be joking with me, please!
"Misses O’Neill, are you okay?"
"He ah…he’s supposed to be dead." Tears replaced the spots and I had to struggle to breathe. She pleasantly smiled at me and her hand touched my shoulder. I stumbled at the extra weight.
"He’s quite alive, Misses O’Neill. Do you want to see him?" My hand lifted to cover my mouth that wasn’t quite willing to shut. Drawing in a deep breath, I released it through quivering lips. Oh God, please God, let her be telling the truth!
"Please!" I said weakly and her hand slipped down from my shoulder to take mine. My feet just shuffled slowly and I think I started hyperventilating.
"I just want to prepare you, he looks a lot worse than he is." The doctor led me to a door and I paused, running my fingers over the nameplate in the holder. Maj. Jonathan O’Neill. "You ready?"
I nodded my head and she opened the door. My heart stopped beating again. Jack! He stirred at the sudden noise around him, his bandaged head turning to see who had come in. Slowly he blinked before those mahogany wonders widened, a lazy smile forming over those lips I missed so much. They motioned my name and I raised my hands to my face. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming this.
"I’ll leave you two alone." Faintly I heard the doctor say before she vacated the room. I stared crying again, this time with tears of overwhelming joy. Charlie’s father, my husband was alive!
"Jack!" I could barely speak; my throat was so swollen. His fingers moved, motioning for me to come closer and slowly I approached. "Jack." Sitting in the chair next to his bed, my fingers looped through his, giving it a squeeze. It was warm, soft, and he returned the gesture. I wasn’t dreaming! There were wires and tubes and bandages everywhere but I didn’t care. He was in one piece more or less, and alive!
"He told me you were dead." I touched his chin with my other hand and he turned enough to kiss my fingertips. "I knew it wasn’t true."
"I wasn’t about to have you think I’m a liar." Jack croaked out and I started laughing through my tears. It was all I could do not to smother him with hugs and kisses just to reassure myself he was here. "That I don’t keep my promises." His eyes began to pool with tears. Jack’s hand slipped from mine as he slowly reached up to touch my face, brushing a finger over my cheek to wipe away the tears. I collapsed mine around it, and pressed a soft kiss against his palm.
"Don’t you ever do this to me again, Jack O’Neill. I don’t think my heart could take it." I said to him and those lips parted in his breathtaking smile.
"I promise." I believed him. And he knew I’d hold him to it. His eyelids began to droop and I figured it was just as overpowering for him as it was for me. Taking a deep breath, I dried my face with the back of my hand.
"Charlie’s going to go nuts." Everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be just fine.
"Where is he?" Jack’s eyes closed and his voice was extremely soft.
"With my father. I’ll bring him next time, but I just had to see this for myself." Slowly I stood, leaning down over him to look in his eyes when they opened. I placed a soft kiss on his lips and his hand squeezed mine. "I’ll be back later. You better get some sleep and heal. Charlie’s team is a hopeful for the division playoffs and you’ll want to be there. He’s been practicing his slap shot." He chuckled as much as he could, gently shaking his head.
Jack fell asleep as I brushed my hand over his and I thanked God for this turn of fortune. The fairy tale could continue as planned; husband, wife, and child make three to live happily ever after. I could wake up tomorrow with my arms around my lover and husband, and the thought was enough to make the horrors of the past four months disappear into a very remote corner of my mind.