Notes: This story is actually entitled: Painted Desert Series: The Box as it is story two of a series. All of the stories are to be J/C in nature. Comments, and constructive criticism is encouraged. Begged for actually... I can't improve unless you tell me what I do wrong. Don't worry, I'm not fragile... Oh yeah, pure sap...

This entire series is the fault of one song: "Beautiful in My Eyes" by Joshua Kadison. I blame...er, credit him wholeheartedly! The series doesn't really follow his songs, but they have given me lots of fodder for future stories. Also, the Painted Desert Series has gone interactive! After the box is posted, Elizabeth Janeway will be free for questions, if you have questions about Kathryn or Chak or the family or just whatever, fell free to ask... but expect her to answer in the form of a story. . .

Legal Stuff: The characters and situations used herein belong to Star Trek and the gang up on Mount Para...in other words, they are not mine... This pursuit is purely for my, and perhaps your enjoyment. Feel free to share with anyone you like as long as no profit is made and the story with disclaimers et al remain intact.

Author's Second Note: This story as well as the first is told from the perspective of Elizabeth Marie Janeway. I don't think there is a hanky alert required here...and no, not all stories will be told completely from Elizabeth's perspective.

March 1998

by Jackee C.

We buried my father today.

His ashes were interred along side my mother with quiet dignity. Though Starfleet banners flew over Cochran National, and the event was broadcast via subspace to all who desired to honor his passing, Admiral Tuvok had managed to prevent a media frenzy as had occurred two months earlier…when she'd died. After the ceremony he'd given us handwritten messages from our father. And the messages had led us here - back to our family home.

So there I sat, staring at what I'd found tucked away in their room, half afraid to even touch it. But the gentle brown of its finished surface begged to be touched, and it found its way into my lap. The memories flowed over and through me as I held it. Her face, faintly lined, as she turned it over to him, asking that he give it to us. . . His gentle smile as he promised. . .

As I continued to examine it, I realized that this wasn’t the same box I'd seen that day; it was larger. And Kolopak now possessed its mate. That they'd both had a share in preparing them for us was obvious as the boxes bore the mark of both of them. The smooth maple of the wood brought to mind many times watching my father working his gentle magic with wood. It had only been a hobby, but all our homes contained reminders of his handiwork.

The lid was framed with a delicate sand design in gentle tones, highlighting the warmth of the wood. The image within the frame made me want to laugh and weep at the same time. It was a desert, painted with soft watercolors. It was their desert: a painting we'd seen many times throughout childhood, though we'd never learned the meaning of the secret smiles they'd shared whenever the subject was broached. There was a difference in this desert though, it held an oasis.

Pulling myself back from the images of the small image and any possible symbolism that it might contain, I ran my hand along the front of the box, activating the catch. It rose obediently with a slightly mechanical motion to reveal several rows of storage disks. A small player lay nestled in one corner, a disk already loaded.

I'm not sure what I expected to find inside the box, jewelry, perhaps some bauble that meant a great deal to them, or even something for my medicine bundle. Whatever the case, storage disks wasn't it. Confused, I activated the play button. There was a gentle hum as the mechanism activated, and then I was pulled back in time as the sound of her throaty laughter filled the room. I gasped in surprise, immediately drawn into the scene displayed on the inside of the open lid.

Her hair hung in long rich waves that my father was playing in. It looked as if they were sitting in a medical bay, years earlier. "Stop it!" she slapped at his hands. "We're recording…"

My fathered pulled his hand back, feigning hurt. "Fine," he muttered, mischeif dancing in his eyes. Mom gave him a laughing reprimand with her eyes before turning back to fully face the screen. His eyes caressed the side of her face a moment longer before he too faced the view screen.

"My darling Elizabeth," she began. "Your father and I are recording this on the day of your birth. We want you to know how happy we are to have you as a part of our lives. . ." The message continued for several minutes, Dad even lifted a dark-haired, blue-eyed infant into the range of the video pick-up. Of course I'd known it had happened, but it was so odd to actually see them as new parents fawning over their first child. I had to laugh at their playfulness.

When the message ended, the screen faded to black and mom's face appeared again. She was nearly three decades older, yet beauty and quiet dignity clung as an indelible possession. The time index was for several days before she'd died.

"My darling Elizabeth," she began again. Her voice was much softer, more subdued. "You're no doubt wondering what this is all about. I think it's best that I tell you with a story. Many years ago when I first met your father, he used to tell me stories. Some of them I loved, some I hated; but without fail, all of them touched me deeply. It was," she smiled gently, "almost a sickness with him. But somewhere along the line, I caught it, too."

She turned away from the screen and picked up a box - my box, I realized. She ran a finger gently over it. "Life isn't certain, Elizabeth. You know that. We all die, but what we leave behind is what is important. You and your brother and your children are all part of us, part of what we'll leave behind. And that's a rich, rich blessing. But there's more that we can give you, an additional inheritence: our stories. Contained in your box, and in Kolopak's box are our stories, you father's and mine, and a bit of yours as well. Keep them as a reminder of life, and of our love. "

She kissed the tips of her fingers and turned them toward the screen. "Never good-bye, my daughter. Our stories live on."

I found myself mirroring the motion, touching my fingers to the screen. The image froze and flickered slightly at my touch, but it didn't matter; my view of the screen was somewhat blurred.

"Never good-bye, Mom. Our stories live on."

This story is followed by Subtle Changes Back to PDS Main Page