October 1st

“The best laid schemes o mice and men Gang aft a-gley;”

God, I’m starting to sound like Flint…well, at least I am quoting Robbie Burns, which is appropriate seeing as though my plan WAS to be on my way to Scotland right now.

Instead, I am on a plane bound for San Francisco.

I had booked this week off months ago, and had made it as far as connecting flight’s airport in Toronto when my pager went off, flashing the emergency code I have come to dread. I called in immediately and Dial Tone patched me through to Hawk.

I was needed in SF immediately. A civilian flight had been booked and was leaving Pearson in two hours.

That was it. My trip was cancelled before it had even begun.

Sigh*

I should be used to it by now. It’s my job after all, and I know Hawk wouldn’t have called me back unless it was very important. As I watched the news on the TV in one of the airport’s cafes, I had an inkling as to what it was…

…a Russian passenger jet had been hijacked on its way out of San Francisco.

No use jumping to conclusions though. I am sure I will be briefed on the situation the moment I land.

I only wish he could have found somebody else this time! This trip is important to me. It is a pilgrimage I made every year…hiking up the highlands to visit my father’s grave on the anniversary of his death.

There it is…that little twinge of pain that hits me every time I think about him. Even after all these years, a little over ten now, the emptiness is still there…

I loved my dad so much. Even as a little girl I pretty much worshipped him…hanging on his every word…following him around everywhere like a puppy. I will always remember him as the big, jolly, handsome Scot…the kind, quiet man who was so patient with me, so quick to smile. Not the aged, fragile, sick cancer ridden shell that he became.

Not the man who begged me to help him end his life…to end his suffering…

What was he like? Well…I think I might have mentioned before that he was much older than my mother. He was also so completely different from her in every way that it’s a wonder they managed to stay married. There was certainly no love there, at least that I could see. It was a business arrangement more than a marriage.

Lord Andrew Burnett was from an old noble Scottish family, a large clan of fun loving, warm, and loyal people. He grew up in the Highlands of Scotland in a beautiful old manor house and estate with his older sister and baby brother…my Aunt Sarah and Uncle Connor, and was well loved and cared for. The Burnett’s were famous for their warmth and hospitality, and their children grew up happy and privileged.

As it is with those of us who grew up in ‘moneyed’ families, the thing that it gave us that was more valuable than any expensive trinket, was the freedom to pursue our dreams without having to worry about 9 to 5 careers and paying the bills.

My father was no exception. Although he dabbled in many different hobbies and career paths after leaving Eton, it wasn’t until his second year at Cambridge that he fell into the passion that would drive him for the rest of his life…

Archeology.

Although he never made any famous discoveries or wrote any important papers, his life truly revolved around his pursuit. I actually don’t think he ever wanted to take his amateur hobby to the next level, worried that the pressures of academia would glue him to a desk and classroom when he would much rather be in the field.

Personally, I think he would have made a fantastic professor. I know, he was so patient with me…taught me so much…

Even after he married and I was born…he continued his travels and explorations. My mother didn’t complain. I think she was happy to get him out so that she could pursue her own thing. Not to mention the fact he always took me with him, getting me out of her hair.

I traveled everywhere with him…to Scotland and Ireland, to Italy and Greece…exploring the sites and taking in the history and culture of each country. As I got older the trips became more exotic. Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Peru, India…Is it any wonder I picked up so many languages?

Even when I became ‘school-aged’ and was sent off to Bryn Mawr to board, I always counted the days till July and looked forward to spending summers with my father.

I remember early one summer; Flint, Dusty, Outback and myself were heading back to base after a brief mission somewhere in New Jersey when our jeep passed several busloads of children bound for summer camp. Outback started speaking fondly of his experiences as a child at the survival camp and Dusty piped in and related his own memories of campfires by the lake.

Flint didn’t join the conversation, instead staring intently at the road…I knew from the look on his face that camp had probably been about as ‘pleasant’ an experience for him as school was. I remember reaching out and laying my hand on his arm. He looked up shocked for a moment, and then smiled sadly at me before turning his eyes back to the road…his free slowly, gently covering mine.

Anyhow…when they came to ask me how rich society girl spend their summers, I had to admit I had no clue. Well, I knew what my girlfriends had told me about camp…but I had spent my summers traveling. A month in Scotland visiting family, a month on ‘adventuring’ with my father…I don’t think I missed much on much!

As I got older the trips with my father became fewer and far between. Not that he didn’t go, just that I no longer accompanied him as much. Other things started to peak my interest…boys being one, acting being another…and I spent less and less time with my father. I went to summer school at Julliard in NY, visited friends at their cottages in Vermont, hung out on the beach at the Vineyard with some local boys, spent more time in Scotland with my cousins…

Had I known I would have so little time left with him I would never had gone off to do my own thing so often. But that 20/20 hindsight is a killer…I have to keep telling myself that it was a natural process, our growing apart. I was a teenager…I was letting go of the apron strings and testing the waters on my own. But still, I can’t help but look back now and regret all the times I told him I was too busy to accompany him on his latest foray, that I had other plans and that the new story would have to wait, that I couldn’t go out to dinner with him that night because I had a date with Greg, that cute boy from Exeter…

My father was diagnosed with stomach cancer when I was 19. Unfortunately, the doctors had not caught it early enough and the prognosis was very poor. He lived only 8 months after the initial diagnosis…and those months were riddled with pain. In his last weeks he was so pumped full of morphine that he didn’t even recognize me when I came to visit.

There were so many things I wanted to say to him, so many things I wanted to ask him. I wanted him to be in the audience when I dazzled the crowd in The Taming of the Shrew. I looked for him in the crowd when I accepted my Diploma from Julliard, then from Trinity. I needed him to comfort me when I left Shawn…to take me on his lap and tell me I was too good for the likes of him anyhow…and I want to introduce him to Dashiell, who I think he would have loved.

I want to travel with him again and explore the ruins of some ancient city, I want to hear the stories again, hear his voice again…

I want to ask him if he is proud of the woman I have become.

I want to tell him that I love him.

Now all I have left is a cold stone monument in the wilds of Scotland. A tall obelisk carved with an elaborate Celtic weave where all members of our clan, past and present, are buried deep in the soil of their homeland.

I can still hear the haunting sounds of the pipes as the laid him in the ground…

I miss you daddy…

I miss you so much.

______________________________________________________

Back to The Bard's Fics!
Back to Authors Page!