Disclaimer: Roswell, its characters and situations, are owned by the WB. No infringement intended.

Author's Note: This story is the part of an evolving future storyline. All the stories currently in this storyline are included in order on the Future Arc page.

For as long as she could remember, she had wanted to grow wings.

It wasn’t that she aspired Icarus-like to touch the sun. And it wasn’t that she was particularly adventurous. If anything, she had always been too cautious, too serious to pursue adventure with any of the vigor that came as naturally to her cousins as breathing. Nor was it that she needed to escape from her home, that she was unhappy with her life, with her parents and her brother and the rest of her family.

It was hard to explain, even to herself.

She knew it had something to do with who she was, with who and what her family was. But she also knew it had something to do with evenings like this one.

She found her parents in the living room. They were sitting side-by-side, her mother’s smooth dark head tucked into her father’s shoulder. There was a quietness in their voices. The television was dark. Their books were open in their laps. As she watched them, her mother lifted her head to look at her father, to whisper or to read him a passage from her book or to laugh at a private joke. Her father put his hand up to her cheek then slid his hand down and around the back of her neck to stroke it. He used his fingers, the heel of his palm. He was massaging her mother’s neck, Claudia knew; he was trying to relax her, but.... Claudia had to turn quickly away. There was something in the gesture that was more than itself, something she couldn’t name. It was too sweet, too selfish for naming, as if she had found herself uninvited in the midst of the most private dream.

Standing in the doorway to the living room, she realized that she had always felt like this, like she was a visitor in her own life, standing on the sidelines, quiet and subtle, waiting to be invited in. It wasn’t her parents’ fault; she knew this absolutely. They weren’t the only reason she felt this way. But this feeling, wherever it came from, whoever’s fault it was, was why she had always wanted to grow wings; she knew that too.

And this feeling was why she needed to talk to them.

She cleared her throat. "Mom, Dad. Can we talk?"

They leaned away from each other to look at her. Their expressions were open and questioning, soft with the unspeakable tenderness they felt for each other and for her, their well-loved child.

She knew they loved her. She had never doubted their love for an instant. She had never been jealous of her baby brother the way other teenage girls used to the undivided attention of her parents for sixteen years might have been. She was jealous of other things, of the palpable feeling between her parents, of the way her father put his hand up to touch her mother’s neck.

Her parents had always been like this with each other.

Her mother spent most days writing and most evenings reading journal articles or novels. In the evening, she would wait for Claudia’s father to come home, sitting on the sofa in the living room, serene and comfortable, her elbow propped on the arm of the sofa, her dark hair spilling over her hand where her head rested. Each evening, her father would bend down to kiss her mother lightly, then he would take a book down from a shelf (the living room was lined with bookshelves), open it, and begin to read as he walked back to sit down beside her mother. This was the way her parents found each other after a long day apart. They would curl up together on the sofa, reading. Eventually they would get up to make dinner, and they would expand their enchanted circle beyond themselves to include Claudia and her brother. But they always needed to find each other first.

"I’ve been thinking," Claudia said, not sure where else to start the conversation.

Her mother smiled gently. "What about, sweetie?"

Claudia noticed that her parents’ fingers were twined together, inseparable. It was a reminder, she knew. She took a deep breath. "I’ve been thinking about school next year. I’m definitely sure that I want to go to Harvard." She thought about the envelope, creamy vellum and heavy, squished between the back of her dresser and her bedroom wall. "I’ve been accepted."

"That’s wonderful!" her mother exclaimed as she leapt up from the sofa to hug Claudia.

Her father’s arms came around both of them a minute later. "We’re proud of you. But we’re not surprised," he said, his voice warm with approval.

Her mother nodded, a gesture more felt than seen. "We knew you would be accepted, Claudia. We never doubted for a minute...." Her words trailed off. She examined Claudia’s features carefully, almost one-by-one, then glanced worriedly at Claudia’s father before returning her gaze to Claudia. "Is something wrong?"

Her parents’ wordless interaction renewed Claudia’s flagging resolve. It was another reminder. She said baldly, "It means that I have to leave home."

Her parents exchanged another look and waited for her to say more.

"Boston is far away," Claudia continued. "And Harvard’s expensive."

"Money has never been an issue," her father said, looking closely at her. "What’s really on your mind, Claudia?"

"I don’t know," she admitted, "not exactly, anyway." She let her eyes wander to the window and noticed that the sky was deepening into twilight blue and the grass needed cutting. "I’m afraid to leave."

"That’s normal..." her mother said softly.

"And I’m afraid *not* to leave."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had said it. She had told them that she needed to leave, that she needed to grow wings. But would they understand?

Her eyes wandered back to the window, and she noticed that her mother’s tulips, the bulbs her mother had painstakingly planted last fall while Joshua sat beside her playing with his chubby baby fingers in the dirt, needed watering. Their bright heads were drooping in the spring heat.

Claudia remembered how her father always teased her mother about trying to grow flowers in arid New Mexico. Whenever he noticed the stubborn, fragile flowers, he laughed and shook his head, saying that her mother’s tulips were definitive physical proof that she was an inveterate optimist. And whenever she caught his teasing, her mother agreed, laughing up at him, her head tipped back and joyful, asking him, wasn’t he glad she was so stubborn.

Her mother would water the tulips tomorrow, Claudia knew. She would put on a floppy-brimmed hat and sunscreen, and she would kneel down in the garden, watering and weeding until the bright heads stood tall, danced in the breeze. Claudia would help her.

But that was tomorrow.

Right now, Claudia wondered if her parents understood. She studied them. They were quiet, thoughtful, their hands twined together once more.

"We want you to go to Harvard," her father said firmly, his eyes very serious. "Even though it’s far away. Regardless of the cost. There was never any doubt."

"You need to do this," her mother said. Her voice was calm, accepting, her eyes sincere.

They understood, Claudia realized.

Their words, their voices, their faces said the same thing, that they understood. They understood that she needed to grow wings. They understood that she loved them but she needed to be apart from them to find out who she might possibly be supposed to be.

"So, should we make dinner or order in?" her mother asked.

"Let’s order in. It’s easier, and we’ll have more time to talk about Claudia’s plans for next year." Her father smiled at her as he started towards her brother’s bedroom. "I’ll wake Josh from his nap."

Her mother picked up the telephone. "Pizza all right?" she asked.

"Pizza’s great," her father called back. "You girls can pick the toppings."

As she watched and listened to her parents, Claudia thought about the way they were together and her plans for college. Perhaps in Boston she would find someone who could understand her as well as her parents understood each other, someone who might put his hand up to touch her neck like her father touched her mother’s neck, in a gesture that would be too sweet, too selfish for naming.

But that was September.

Right now, Claudia wanted to make sure her mother didn’t put anchovies on the pizza.

END

Author’s Note:

This story is a style exercise, inspired by a short story by Kirsty Gunn, "Everyone is Sleeping," from her 1999 collection, "This Place You Return To Is Home." Various parts of this story reflect and occasionally adapt Ms Gunn’s story, especially the paragraph that begins: "She found her parents in the living room...." Homage, not infringement, intended.

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