Summary: Grissom angst. A single event can change everything.
Dedication: To my friends who encouraged me to write this and who beta-ed.
A/N: Yeah, I know, I know. I wasn't going to write another story. Blame Ann (wp1fan) for this. She begged me for a story idea, so I came up with something. Then she bailed on the story, but I wanted it to be finished.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CBS has bigger things to worry about than me playing with their characters in this story.
For the second time today, I find myself inside a sanctuary. What qualifies as a holy place varies by culture, but tranquility is a common element. It's almost a universal requirement for prayer or meditation. Yet, for the second time today, I draw no comfort from my surroundings. I can find no peace.
Neither circumstance lent itself to serenity, but I feel this goes deeper. My turmoil involves more than outside events. I have to wonder if the problem is with me.
Possibly.
"Probably," Catherine would say if she were here. No, her words would be more direct and far more colorful. "And it's something you should be worried about," I'm sure she'd add.
That may be true, but at the moment, I don't care. Not now. Not while the doctors are uncertain about Sara's prognosis or how extensive the damage is. Uncertain of how radical their treatments will have to become to save her life.
Until I know that she'll recover, and at what cost, thinking about my own peace of mind seems too selfish. It's also futile – because I know that an important piece to that puzzle is lying in a bed on the floor above me. I've never admitted it before, but my fate is bound to hers. How can I wonder what my future holds when I don't know what her present will bring?
I know only one thing: For the first time in my life, I truly comprehend fear.
The shift had started normally enough. I checked the progress of my evidence. I fed my tarantula. I put off another stack of paperwork. I walked into the break room, but nothing seemed wrong.
I handed out the assignments, keeping one in particular for myself. It wasn't because I doubted my team's ability. In fact, I gave them cases deemed more "important". But I feel the need to handle some crimes myself, even if they aren't high priority.
Havenwood is a nice street, in a nice neighborhood. Its very nature served to highlight the profanity of the synagogue's desecration. Taking in the vandal's damage, I felt my anger rise. Not only because of the sheer hatred that motivated them, but also because I know they will probably get away with their crime.
The synagogue served a large congregation. It hosted religious services and acted as a community center. There would be thousands of fingerprints in here, and piles of trace evidence that would never hold up in court. Oh, there's a chance the criminals used a rare brand of spray paint, and they paid for it with a credit card. They may even be dumb enough to brag about their exploits, but I had no illusions about the situation as I went to work.
I did admire the rabbi's stoicism. The defilement had to be painful, but he showed no signs of anger. I could tell from his expression that he knew my efforts would probably be pointless, but he thanked me kindly and offered me coffee. His only reference to the desecration was to ask when they'd be able to start the cleanup and purification.
Gathering the scant evidence, I headed back to my Denali in a foul mood. My cell phone started ringing almost immediately after I turned it back on, and that did nothing to help my attitude. There are days I hate that technological innovation. Days when I want to be alone with my thoughts until I return to the lab.
Luckily, I did answer.
"What's the problem, Gil? Do I have to send you an engraved invitation? This stiff isn't getting any deader. Or any fresher smelling."
"Hello to you too, Jim," I replied calmly. I didn't try to decipher his comments. Brass would let me know what was bothering him.
"Yeah. Look, are you sending someone to this scene or not?"
I remember climbing into my SUV in a state of confusion. I gave that case to Greg and Sara. The location was in the desert, but it wasn't that far from the town. Even if they needed to finish something in the lab first, they should have been there by now. I told that to Brass, and his worried tone ignited the initial spark of alarm in the pit of my stomach.
I hung up then, quickly checking my messages. There were a lot. Some were from Jim, and I ignored those. The rest were from Greg. For the last forty-five minutes, he'd left a message every five minutes.
None were from Sara.
I could feel my unease grow, and that only added to my discomfort. Panic isn't a part of my makeup. The unexpected emotion bothered me as I paged through Greg's messages. It would have made more sense to play them back in order, but I went straight for the most recent one.
"Grissom, it's Greg. God, where are you? Call me back. I'm at Desert Palms. They're taking Sara up for surgery …"
I didn't finish the message but dropped the cell phone on the seat beside me. I put the Denali in gear and turned on the rarely used emergency lights. The details of the trip to the hospital are a bit vague, but I remember one refrain running through my mind. What could have happened to Sara on the way to a scene?
Walking into the surgical waiting room, I sought out Greg immediately. He sat there, seemingly lost, as he stared at a clipboard on his lap. He actually leapt up when I called out to him. We both ignored the disapproving scowl from the receptionist.
It's habit, but I scanned him automatically for clues. The only thing amiss was a bit of dirt over one knee on his jeans. He had no cuts or bruises. There was no visible blood. That suggested there was no shooting, no accident. But his agitation was clear and it fed my own.
"What wrong with Sara?"
"I don't know. They won't tell me anything. I'm not family."
I gave him a nod, understanding his frustration. There were new federal laws that protect patients' records and privacy. But they also meant it was almost impossible to get any information from a hospital without signed consent from the patient.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
Greg jumped at that, and I realized I was barking. A nurse actually told me to be quiet.
"Start from the beginning," I said in a calmer voice.
He swallowed and looked away as he composed himself. "I noticed that Sara didn't look that great back in the break room, you know?"
I hadn't, but I didn't share that with Greg. Cold fingers of guilt were massaging my spine. What had I missed? Would things have turned out differently if I had been more attentive? It was pointless speculation; I still didn't know what was wrong.
"Go on," I urged.
"Well, I teased her about having a hangover. She, uh, didn't think that was funny."
Again, I didn't respond, at least not verbally.
"Yeah, Sara gave me that same look. Okay. We were driving to the scene. Sara was really quiet, but she was shifting around, like she was in pain. I asked if she was all right. You know her. She didn't want to admit she was sick but finally said she might have a bug."
Greg stopped suddenly, and he looked at me nervously. "I offered to turn around and take her back right then. I told her it wasn't a problem. But she said she was okay. Said that if she felt worse, she'd just wait in the car."
"It's okay," I assured him. I was well acquainted with Sara's stubbornness.
"Well, later, maybe ten minutes, Sara sort of grunted and curled up. She started moaning, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. I didn't even ask, but I turned around and started back for the city. We hadn't gone that far when she yelled for me to pull over."
He paused for a moment and his head made small side-to-side movements. His voice had become more agitated as he told me the tale. I decided he was trying to pull himself together, or he was having some internal debate over how much detail to include. Taking a gulp of air, he continued.
"I did, and she grabbed the box of tissues and went behind some scrub. It took a while, but she started walking back. At first, I didn't think anything was that wrong. Well, besides being embarrassed. You know, Montezuma's revenge is bad enough when no else is around."
"Greg," I growled impatiently. His rambling was due to nerves and perfectly understandable, but it wasn't helping my composure any. Sara was in surgery, and I wanted answers.
"Sorry. It took a minute, but I realized she wasn't embarrassed. Well, at least that wasn't why she hadn't come back. She was having trouble walking. Before I got to her, she was on the ground. Sara started hurling. Big time. Like everything she ate in the last week."
"Greg!"
"Right. So, I'm thinking food poisoning. But she was in a lot of pain, and she screamed when I touched her side. And she was burning up, and I couldn't remember if fever went with food …"
"Sara had a fever?"
"Yeah. Really high. What's wrong?"
His question came after I had turned around. I didn't want him to know how upset his statement made me, but I don't think I hid it very well. I'm sure my refusal to answer didn't calm Greg any.
It's very dangerous to operate on someone with a high fever. The normal course of action is to put the person on antibiotics first, bring down the fever before proceeding. If the doctors went ahead and operated, that meant something was very wrong. Something severe enough that it warranted the risk.
"Appendicitis," I said aloud, my mind grasping for an acceptable answer. The condition isn't normally serious, but if the organ bursts or is on the verge, it requires immediate surgery. It seemed to fit the symptoms, and more importantly, it was treatable.
"That's what I thought, but Sara said it was removed when she was in college."
After turning back around, I think I shrugged. Fever implied infection, but the other symptoms were too vague. I'm not a doctor. There wasn't enough information to determine what was wrong. All I knew was that it was a dangerous situation. Greg was already on edge, so I didn't share my concerns when I told him to continue his story.
"She was really weak, and she started shivering. I helped her back to the SUV and grabbed the blankets from the back. I rushed her to the hospital. She kept getting worse." His voice cracked at the memory. Fear covered his face, and he looked at me imploringly. "I didn't call 911. I figured I could get her to the hospital faster than an ambulance could reach us and drive back into the city."
I gave him another nod, and I saw him let out a long breath. For the first time, Greg's youth struck me. This experience rattled him. He had made definite advances in the last year, but in many ways, he still hadn't seen the worst of what the job will bring. Of what life will bring.
"I'm sure you did the right thing," I told him, and the look he gave me felt like a reward. For some reason, that made me feel better. At least for a little while.
"They let me stay with her at first. Sara couldn't really talk at that point. She was out of it. The nurses wanted to know where she'd eaten, if she had any allergies, did drugs, things like that. I tried to call you."
"I was in a temple. I had my cell phone turned off."
"Oh. Well, I got kicked out when the doctors came to check on her," he said, giving me a sly smile. It did little to soften his stricken expression.
"But I hung around the door. They did full panel blood work and started antibiotics. Sara was dehydrated, so they were pushing IV fluids. I heard someone order a CAT scan, but I don't know if that was for her or not. There was a lot of jargon; I don't know what they were saying. An orderly found me then, but I heard them say that the operating room was ready."
"Did they say anything to you at all?"
The edges of his lips visibly whitened at that question. I waited for him to answer, but I could tell he was hesitant. That only fueled the burning in my stomach. What could he be holding back? My impatience must have been noticeable because Greg swallowed and rushed out his answer.
"They said if Sara has any family in the area, it might be a good idea to call them."
"She doesn't," was all I said before I found myself back at the chairs.
I think I was aware of Greg taking a seat beside me. My memory of that time isn't very clear. All my attention had turned inward. I was having trouble believing that Sara's condition was that critical. If I had learned one thing in life, it was that the unexpected happens to everyone eventually. But I wasn't ready, I wasn't able, to accept that Sara had been its victim this time.
"I can't do this," Greg said in shame, handing over the clipboard.
The nudge brought me out of my shell. I looked down in confusion at first, until I realized he'd been trying to fill in Sara's admission paperwork.
"I grabbed her wallet from the glove box, but I don't know the rest."
I took the paperwork, Sara's license and insurance card from him. Those had helped him fill in most of the forms, but there were questions about her medical history, family and emergency contacts. I wasn't even sure of all the answers. I knew I'd have to get some of the information from Sara's file at work, but I didn't want to leave.
I heard the grunt of surprise when I wrote in 'deceased' in the spot for her father. I stopped then, not willing to write 'incarcerated' under mother. If Greg didn't know her father was dead, he certainly wouldn't know her mother was in jail for his murder. Sara's secret would be safe with me.
At that point, a nurse inquired about the forms. I explained I needed to get some of the information from work. She gave me a kind smile and took the paperwork, explaining what to do when I did get the rest of the answers. Her calm professionalism reminded me of my other responsibilities. I had evidence, and Jim was waiting with a possible homicide. I couldn't leave, though. Not yet.
I called Sofia to head to Jim's scene, knowing that Greg was too upset to handle the case, especially by himself. Any gratitude I'd earned earlier vanished when I told him to take my evidence back to the lab. We both couldn't stay here, but that fact didn't sit well with him.
He only left after I promised to call the moment there was any word on her condition. His determination in standing up to me came as a shock. Normally, one harsh word was enough to get him to back away, but his concern for Sara was strong. I walked with him to the garage, offering what I hoped was a supportive smile after completing the chain of custody paperwork. It faded as soon as he opened the door. The sour reek of sickness poured from the interior. To his credit, Greg ignored it and continued with his duties.
I called Jim next, letting him know what had happened. His battery of questions took me by surprise. There was a depth of feeling there that I never knew existed. I guess I never considered that Sara touched so many other lives. Once again, I promised to call when I learned anything new and made my way back to the surgical ward.
I'm not sure how long I sat in the waiting room, but eventually a nurse told me that they were moving Sara to the recovery room. I asked about her condition, even though I knew she couldn't legally tell me. But the law didn't cover looks, and this nurse had practice. Her guarded smile and compassionate eyes conveyed a clear message – Sara was alive, but she wasn't out of the woods yet.
My next move probably crossed a number of ethical lines. I waited in the surgical ward for a while before I made my way to the recovery room. It wouldn't do any good if I got there before Sara came to. I found the nurse in charge, pointed to my badge, made vague comments about 'time-sensitive evidence' and weaseled my way in to see her.
For what seemed like an eternity, I just stood at the foot of her bed. I don't know if the scene was out of a dream or a nightmare. There were so many tubes and wires connected to her body. It should have been frightening, but the beeps or whirls of the machinery proved Sara was still alive. And she was pale enough, even against the harsh, white sheets, that it was easy to imagine how she would look in a coffin.
Eventually, the nurses started whispering to one another and giving me questioning looks, so I moved to Sara's side, gently calling her name. Bit by bit, her head turned towards me. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in her eyes, even as I doubt that I'll ever truly comprehend all the emotions behind it.
I hesitated, but only for a minute. It was disturbing, but she had just come out of surgery. It was natural to think she'd be confused. I mustered the best smile I could, hoping it gave her some support. Then I reached for Sara's hand.
Before my fingers could touch her, she pulled her own hand away and her eyes fluttered shut. The movements had been slow and painful, but they left no doubts.
Sara didn't want me to touch her.
I can hear the sniffles and muffled voices moving behind me. I don't need to look around; a couple has joined me in the hospital's chapel. They're also seeking solace. I respect their privacy, but in the funereal silence, even their muted voices carry. It's clear they lost their child. That's a pain I can only imagine. It's something I've never experienced; not directly, at least.
There's a small part of my mind that's wondering if the death was due to illness or accident or if my lab will be meeting with these grieving parents later. It's not something I dwell on. I don't know which is odder: That I can think of work at all now, or that I now think so little of it.
I've known Death well for most of my life. I've seen it in all its forms. I don't remember the first animal I autopsied. You'd think an event like that would stand out, but it was just one of many. It was the first step that led me to a life where I deal with the dead more than the living.
A Life of Death; there's probably a Zen statement hidden in there somewhere, but once again, I find I don't care. It's not important to me. I'm not sure what is important any more.
For years, I lived by the creed that a criminalist has to be detached. I tried to enforce it with my team. It's not callousness, but a brutal reality. We deal with all the depravity humanity can muster on a daily basis. If we allow ourselves to become involved, the work would overwhelm us.
There was a time when I would never consider the possibility that you could become too detached. It seemed contradictory to all my experiences. But then Sara came to work at the lab. At first, I thought she was living proof of my motto. She became involved, and that caused her pain.
Then I learned the truth. The pain was already there. It never left her, but it hid just below the surface. I never gave much thought to what happened to the survivors after we closed a case. There were always new crimes to occupy my time. Sara became a living face for all those forgotten victims.
Now I see her differently. I won't tell Sara that, because it would make her angry, and I'm not sure I could explain it to her. I do feel sorry for what happened, but she's not a victim I pity. She's evidence that life goes on. She's strong, a survivor who fights to help people, no matter the personal pain. I admire her for that. But that strength came at a price, and I am only beginning to understand the impact my feigned indifference had on her.
I'm not sure when I first realized I had become too detached. The walls I built to keep away the horrors of the job became too thick over time. Those fences were to protect me from work, but work was all I had. It defined me. So the walls became a permanent part of who I am. And they kept me away from all humanity.
I have to live with the consequences of that. There's nothing I can do about that now. The past is as unchangeable as it is unforgiving. I wonder if Sara knew the truth when I first saw her. Had the doctors already explained it to her? Did she blame me? Or was her anger more general?
I guess I should be happy that she was strong enough to be pissed at me.
After exiting the recovery room, I rested my head against the cool pane of the hallway window. The sun was rising, bathing the city in a reddish tinge that faded to pale golden light. Finally, I headed back to the lab. I didn't want to leave, but visiting hours wouldn't start for another hour or two, and I needed to complete Sara's paperwork.
I don't know how I got to the lab. I don't remember the trip at all. My mind was filled with the image of Sara. I think I was still trying to accept how sick she was. When I walked into the building, work stopped. Techs herded to the doorways instinctively, all of them looking at me for answers. I hadn't seen anything like it since the day a returning criminal had shot Holly. I tried not to think about that.
"What happened? How's Sara? You said you'd call."
Greg's accusation hung on the air. I was the supervisor. It was my responsibility to look after the team. I wasn't the only one who wanted answers. I only wished I had any comfort to give them. I turned around to find a hallway full of her co-workers. Friends, I corrected myself. They were my co-workers, her friends.
"She's in recovery. I only saw her for a minute. I don't know anything else."
Despite my statement, they peppered me with questions. I did my best to answer them, my voice carrying a calm that I didn't feel. One by one, they went back to their labs. When I walked to my office, I was alone.
It took a few minutes to find her file. It took longer for me to comprehend what I found. Sharon Grace. I knew the name, but my mind took a moment to place it. That was the supervisor of the San Francisco lab – Sara's old boss. Why was she her emergency contact?
I realized then that I didn't know much about Sara's other family. Were her grandparents alive? I think she has a brother, but I don't even know his name, let alone where he lived. I had no idea if she was close to her foster family, or families. Who would she want to know about her illness? Who else would care what happened to her?
I had assumed she would list me as her emergency contact, but I could see why she didn't. I know more about her than anyone in Vegas – except possibly her counselor – and I know very little. The logic in the decision was clear, but it still stung. I felt like I had failed her on some level. And it meant the doctors wouldn't talk to me about her condition.
I contacted the hospital, and I impatiently tapped a pen as my call was transferred. It was early, but I phoned the San Francisco crime lab and left a message for Sharon. Hopefully, she knew how to get in touch with those that Sara cared for. I also hoped to get details from her. I was hanging up the phone when Catherine entered my office. Her appearance was unexpected, and I had too many surprises already.
"What are you doing here?"
"Brass called me. How's Sara?"
I stared at her, and I felt a sudden flush of anger. Her inquiry struck me as false; it wasn't that long ago she stood by while Ecklie tried to fire Sara. We hadn't talked about that yet, but I couldn't count the number of times Catherine acted unprofessionally, and no one tried to fire her. I knew the two of them weren't great friends, but her actions smacked of disloyalty.
I suppose I didn't attempt to hide my anger or doubts, because Catherine's expression showed her astonishment. A true sadness replaced it; she understood things weren't square between us. A weak smile finally settled on her face.
"Are you okay?"
"No," I sighed honestly. Catherine was still my friend, and she knew when I was being evasive. Besides, I had too much on my mind to dwell on her. We would deal with other things later. I recounted the few details I had, but skipped over Sara's reaction to my visit.
"Did you have anything to eat?"
"No."
"Why don't you go home, grab some breakfast and take a shower before you go back to the hospital? I'll take care of things here."
I studied her for a moment, and Catherine nodded her head in encouragement. I got the impression this was a peace offering. Her motives didn't really matter to me. It freed me to spend more time with Sara. And I didn't think to ask how she knew I would be going back to the hospital.
I updated Jim on the way to my home. I showered quickly, keeping my cell phone in the bathroom in case Sharon returned my call. When it did ring, I almost put myself in the hospital reaching it. Unfortunately, it was Ecklie. He wanted to know what had happened, but he didn't seem too upset that I didn't have any details yet.
I looked in my refrigerator, but my stomach rebelled at the thought of eating. I settled for juice. It proved to be a wise decision; after Sharon's call, I wouldn't have been able to keep anything else down. She finally reached me as I was driving to the hospital. Her words registered with a deep chill. An internal abscess had ruptured, and the infection had spread. Sara had peritonitis.
"It all started as a scratch."
I could hear his words in my mind. The ancient memory came back with a force that startled me. Old Man Johansson – that's the only name I ever knew him by – lived a few blocks from my childhood home. He had a wooden leg that he would routinely remove to show off his stump. The tale of how he lost his real leg to an uncontrollable infection was sufficiently gory to enthrall nine-year-olds, but it had become ominous.
"Just a scratch, I tell you! So small, I didn't even notice it at first. No bigger than that one on your arm, Gilly."
My mother's generation was the last to truly comprehend the danger of infection. A simple cut could be fatal. Death could be so quick it left grieving family members stunned, or the victim could slowly die over years. Plagues wiped out entire communities in days. That was a hard reality for people who grew up with antibiotics to grasp. We took those wonder drugs for granted.
But infection is still an efficient killer. There are occasional stories of rare bacteria that do hideous damage, but even the common strains can be lethal. If it spreads too far, it can overwhelm even a healthy body. There are strains that are resistant to most drugs, and the medications that are effective are toxic themselves.
I had to pull over for a minute, and I grasped the steering wheel tightly. Peritonitis is deadly. An infection was spreading through Sara's body. The bacteria were multiplying and attacking the lining that protects her abdominal organs. Any of them could be lost to disease. Even with treatment, patients don't always recover. If the infection got into her bloodstream, it would become systemic. She would probably die.
When I did reach the hospital, I completed the last of the paperwork in a daze. I had thought it was hard not knowing what was wrong with Sara, but I almost wished I didn't know the truth. I never suspected anything so severe.
I found Sara's room quickly, but I moved into it slowly. I told myself I was trying not to disturb her, but I knew I was afraid she wouldn't want me there. I realized I had a selfish streak then. I had to see her. I needed to see her breathing myself.
A nurse was busy taking her vital signs. I frowned when I read the display over her bed. One hundred and four point six. Her fever was higher than it had been in the recovery room. That was bad, and my stomach began to twist around a cold knot. I mentioned the change to the nurse.
"It's only a tenth of a degree higher. That's a normal fluctuation. Body temperature changes through the day."
I knew that, but his indifference rubbed me the wrong way. I decided I didn't like this nurse, even if he moved with a grace that came with years of practice. I probably scowled the entire time he was there. Once he left, I pulled up a chair and waited for Sara to come around. I was careful not to wake her. I wanted to talk to her desperately, but her rest was more important.
I traced the multitude of IVs and tubes and leads connected to her, wincing each time I reached the point they broke the skin. Sara was always svelte, but in the hospital bed, she looked gaunt and frail. I took some consolation that at least she was in a regular room; it wasn't bad enough for her to be in ICU.
I watched her with a sense of despondence. An infection was waging war within her body, and there was nothing I could do to help. I couldn't recall the last thing I said to her in the lab. It stuck me that it might be our last exchange, and it wasn't important enough for me to have remembered. I felt my eyes watering, but I didn't let the tears flow. That would comfort me, and I didn't feel like I deserved any comfort.
A few minutes later, Greg eased his way into the room and tied a bunch of balloons to the bed's footboard. There was no way he could have completed shift and gotten here this early, but I didn't say anything. I couldn't blame him. He was shaky, but it wasn't noticeable unless you really looked. I briefly tried to imagine what that trip from the desert to the hospital must have been like for him, but I stopped quickly. The images my mind supplied bothered me too much.
I pulled him to the corner of the room, and in a soft voice I explained what I knew. I didn't want to scare him, but Greg deserved the truth. I let him know how serious the situation was. He had a hint of panic in his eyes, but he kept his composure. I felt a touch of pride then.
I talked him into going home. Sara's sleep was drug-induced, and there was no knowing how long it would be before she came around. Greg needed his own rest. The ordeal had left him physically and emotionally drained.
Brass came in shortly afterwards. He'd already gotten an update from Greg in the lobby, and he went straight to her side. I saw the lone tear on his cheek. I never realized how close they'd become, and I moved away to give him some privacy. Jim only stayed long enough to place a chaste kiss on her forehead and brush a few strands of her hair away from her face.
I went into the bathroom and soaked a washcloth in cool water. A haggard face observed from the mirror. I went back and I wiped the sweat from her face and neck. I think it was more for my benefit; I needed to do something. After I put the cloth away, I settled back in my chair and waited silently. I kept looking at the temperature readout, hoping to see it start to drop.
"Grissom."
My name came out as a dry whisper, but I was sitting by her side on the bed in an instant. I felt relieved when she didn't object to my presence. Her eyes had a fevered glaze. She was very weak, and a new sheen of perspiration covered her face, but she was awake. I was taking any positive sign I could find.
Sara's lips moved in a way that was both a grimace and a smile. When her tongue ran over her parched lips, I scanned the room and found the cup of ice chips. I steadied the cup for her, but my motives weren't wholly altruistic. I used the opportunity to cover her hands with my own, selfishly drawing reassurance from the contact.
"How do you feel, sweetheart?"
The endearment came out of its own accord. I tensed for a moment, and I used the excuse of putting the cup away to ease over what could have been an awkward situation. If Sara was aware of what I said, she made no mention of it when she answered.
"Cold."
It's one of the body's paradoxes. A high fever could leave a patient with chills. I smiled and tenderly adjusted her covers. I asked if she knew where she was, and she nodded. A deep sadness settled over her. I wouldn't understand why until later.
There was a mechanical hiss, and Sara's eyes sluggishly closed. I followed the source of the sound. The morphine pump delivered minute doses of the potent painkiller at regular intervals. It would be a few minutes before it wore off enough for her to come around. I stole another chance to touch her. The heat from her skin was disturbing, and my fingers didn't linger long.
When her eyes opened again, Sara rolled her head around to the pump. She then gave me a knowing smile. "I like the morphine," she told me in a stage whisper. "I really like it."
I grinned broadly. I knew her jovial attitude was only because of the drugs. They masked a deep pain. Her health was still in question, but her antics cheered me. "You're supposed to like it."
"Too bad you can't get these to go," she added. Her voice was low and unsteady, but she was coherent.
"You won't need one soon. You'll be home in no time," I said soothingly, hoping my words would prove true.
"No. For you."
"Why do you think I need one?"
"So you can find your bugs. Long lost bugs. Lots of bugs."
I actually laughed at that. It wasn't fair; Sara couldn't control her body's reaction to the morphine, but I had been tottering on a nervous brink for hours. I needed a release, and her humor provided it. I saw her lick her lips, so I got up to retrieve the ice.
"Morphine will help me find my bugs?" I asked as I again held the cup to her lips.
Sara chewed a few of the frozen slivers and dropped her head back to the pillow. She turned it to track my movements. There was no humor in her eyes.
"Uh, huh. You'll relax enough to find the ones that crawled up your ass and died."
With that, she shut her eyes and drifted off again. I stood there thunderstruck for a moment before I put the cup away and sat down. My mood was sullen, even though I knew the drugs were probably responsible for her answer. Or so I hoped. I had been thinking her rejection of me in the recovery room had been a fluke, but I sat there uncertainly.
Doc Robbins found me in that position when he hobbled in, a potted plant cradled in his free arm. My mental calculations were quick: The distance from the lab, the time needed to purchase a gift. Some creative timekeeping was going on at the lab. I didn't care.
"How's she doing?" he asked softly after setting the plant down.
"I'm not sure. We didn't have a chance to actually chat."
My answer must have conveyed some of my vexation, because Al started chuckling. I glowered but that didn't stop him. "Is the morphine causing hallucinations?"
"I hope that wasn't what was going on."
"Ah. Her responses are a bit unfiltered," he guessed. "That's not unusual. Did you find out what was wrong?"
"Peritonitis. From a ruptured abscess."
"Good lord."
Any bedside manner Al had once mastered had grown rusty working with the dead. He didn't try to hide his concern. I hesitated, but I finally asked what he thought about her recovery.
"It depends on where the abscess was and if it did any damage. Was it in an organ?"
"I don't know."
I explained that I hadn't thought to ask Sara's emergency contact. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. It seemed others had also assumed I would serve that purpose. I know why she didn't pick me, but it hurt to acknowledge that she hadn't trusted me with the true story of her childhood. It made me wonder what other secrets she was keeping from me, and that sent me back on a fretful path. What she told me was bad enough; how terrible was the rest?
Al called my name. I then gave him a condensed version of Greg's account. He moved to read the displays, and he examined the tubes surrounding her. His eyes followed one in particular until it disappeared under the sheets.
"There's a drain on the right side, but I can't tell how high up it is. That would be from the incision."
"It's not her appendix," I said. Al looked at me keenly. I tried not to blush. I had already told him that. His expression softened, but I didn't acknowledge his wink.
"It could be the gallbladder, the bile duct or the liver. They're all on the right side. Or it could be something to do with the intestines. Or something else. I can't tell," he admitted, his eyes darting to different parts of her anatomy. A playful grin crossed his face when he looked up at me. "I could lift up her gown to see where the incision is, but I value my life too much."
"Smart man."
We both looked down. By all appearances, she was still asleep. Doc was the first to speak, and I automatically grabbed the ice. Holding the cup for her – and thus her hands – was becoming a safety for me.
"I'm sorry, Sara. I didn't mean to wake you."
"I'm not awake."
"Then stay asleep. You need your rest. We miss you at the lab. I'll visit later."
"Thanks, Doc," she said, her eyes finally coming open. She managed to lift her hand a few inches from the bed in a good-bye wave. I moved in with the ice, and she looked at me oddly.
"Grissom."
The way she said my name wasn't a question, but it wasn't a statement, either. I knew the morphine left her confused, but I didn't know if she recalled her earlier comments. I couldn't tell if she was surprised I was there, or if she was surprised that I was still there.
"Hello, Sara," I said softly, holding out the cup. She didn't take the ice this time, so I put it back and waited patiently for her to talk. She never did before drifting back to sleep.
A shadow falls over me and I look up. The woman bears a look of compassion. My eyes dart to her collar. She's a minister, and she's been talking to the grieving parents behind me. We've never met before, but that doesn't faze her. She doesn't speak, but tilts her head slightly. I force my lips into something resembling a smile and shake my head. She nods and leaves me alone.
For the second time today, I find myself admiring the emotional strength of a clergy member. Our jobs are more alike that some people think. I deal with the physical aspects of crime. They deal with the emotional aftermath. I'm not sure who has the harder work. I see the gore and the violence. They mend the shattered souls.
There is one clear distinction. They cannot build walls to protect themselves. They have to be able to reach out to the victims on a personal level. I lost my faith in the Church years ago, but I do respect what it takes to serve. Of course, they also see the good – the births, the weddings. The public never invites me to Sunday dinner.
I wonder if their empathy comes from their faith, or if the empathy draws them to their calling. Either way, I doubt I could do their job, even if I still believed in organized religion. In order to be available to another, you have to open yourself to them. You have to risk taking their pain.
How much pain does Sara have? I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything. I didn't understand what she meant then. Her words stung at the time and for a long while later. I thought she was insulting me. It added to my doubts that she could ever return my feelings, because she didn't understand my reserved nature.
Nature or nurture. It's an eternal question. I no longer know how much of my reservation comes from my personality or how much of it is self-imposed. I was never outgoing, but I used to connect more with people. The ability is there, somewhere, under years of emotional debris.
I only hope I get the chance to use it again.
Sara had settled into a deep sleep that lasted for hours. Truthfully, I was glad. Rest gave her the strength to fight the infectious battle inside her body. My eyes locked on the display. Temperature was key. A drop would signal when the drugs were defeating the bacteria. If it rose, it meant her condition was getting worse.
Others from work began to show up in a steady stream. No one stayed long, not wanting to disturb her. I vacated my chair by her side to take one in the corner. It allowed others the opportunity to pay their silent respects. The similarity to a wake was disturbing, but I failed to keep that image out of my mind.
Catherine arrived before noon. She urged me to go home and rest, but I ignored her. I did take the coffee and donut she brought me without question. She stayed for a few minutes, talking of inconsequential things. It helped to calm me, and I gave her a smile of gratitude.
I only left when the nurses came to change her dressings, and then I never went further than the hallway bathrooms. Mainly, I stayed in my corner chair. It gave me a clear view of Sara – and her unchanging temperature readout. Twice more, I got up to wipe the sweat away from her face. I responded to co-workers who talked to me, and I made sure the unfriendly nurse kept me well stocked in ice chips. I would be ready when she regained consciousness.
That happened slowly. She muttered in her sleep, and the weak cries stabbed at my heart. Her eyes would open for a moment or two. Once I saw her lucid interludes were lengthening, I inched my way to her side. She finally focused on me, and the confused mix of emotions was clear. Sara took the ice chips this time, and I swore it made her happy when my hands covered hers.
"You are here," she said weakly after settling back on the pillows.
I was anxious. The simple act of lifting her head to take the ice had exhausted her. Her temperature wasn't dropping. I didn't know exactly how long it took intravenous antibiotics to start working, but I knew it was faster than oral medication. I felt there should have been an improvement already. I knew the nurse had been keeping a careful watch on it. I wasn't the only one worrying, and that fact worried me more.
I was also bothered on a personal level. There had been doubt in her statement. She didn't expect me to care. My selfishness shamed me. Sara was hurting, fighting for her life. I didn't deserve the luxury of feeling sorry for myself.
"I've been here all day," I told her. "I visited you in the recovery room. Do you remember?"
"Not really. Things are a bit blurry."
"Blame the morphine."
I guessed she remembered her commentary on where my bugs were. I didn't say anything when she blushed. The red flush highlighted how pale she was, and it didn't look good. I retreated to the bathroom and rinsed out the washcloth. I tried not to react to her shocked expression as I returned. She thought I had abandoned her. I gently bathed the sweat away, and my humble efforts earned me a smile. I decided then it was the greatest treasure I had.
"I called Sharon. Sharon Grace, your emergency contact," I explained when Sara looked confounded. "Is there anyone else I can call for you?"
"No."
Her answer was weak, but I doubted it was solely due to her physical condition. Her childhood was a nightmare that I could only imagine. For all practical purposes, she had no family. She never did. The last thing she needed were reminders of her isolation.
I shook the ice cup and smiled reassuringly when she nodded. That time I slipped a hand behind her head for support. I didn't plan it, but my fingers lingered in her hair, and they brushed against her cheek after I lowered her gently to the bed. It wasn't sensual; the hair hung limply. Her skin was clammy.
"Don't do this."
I pulled my hand away quickly when I saw the moisture spilling from Sara's eyes. She was too weak to be crying. I didn't know what I had done wrong. The morphine pump hissed again before I could ask, and she once again slipped away from me.
I had to get out of there. I couldn't stand still, and I feared my pacing would disrupt her rest. My hands were in my hair, and I wandered the hallway feeling lost. What had I done? I frantically thought of ways to make things better, to correct my mistake. But I didn't know what was wrong, so I had no idea how to proceed.
I stopped in front of a vending machine. The acid from the soda mixed angrily in my stomach, but the pain focused me. My discomfort was nothing compared to Sara's. I would be strong for her. She didn't need me, but I would do the best I could for her. I sipped the remainder of the liquid slowly. I spent the time forcing my own emotional turmoil away – or at least under the surface. It should have been easy. I'd been burying my feelings for years.
My breathing had returned to normal by the time I reached her room, but she wasn't alone. Nick sat in the bedside chair, and he was leaning forward with a broad grin. I stepped into the bathroom to get a fresh washcloth, and then I double-checked the ice level. It was becoming a ritual, and I found that made me feel useful.
"I want you to avoid the purple lizards for the next week. Okay? No more dates with them at all."
"No dates purple lizards," Sara replied in a sleepy voice.
"Right. And no Spam pizzas."
I stopped and stared at Nick. I had enjoyed Sara's drugged state myself, but I hadn't actively teased her. It seemed almost cruel, but I noticed a hint of a smile on her face, even if she still hadn't opened her eyes.
"I don't eat meat."
"I'm not sure Spam is meat. Don't forget you have to ride your unicycle around the room three times a day while singing Doris Day songs."
"You're full of it, Nick."
There was a small, drugged grin when she opened her eyes. It changed into a confused grimace when she spotted me. Nick looked from me to Sara and back again. I couldn't decipher his expression. He touched her hand gently, and asked if she needed anything. Nick paused to stare at me before he left. I had no better luck discerning his motives the second time.
I approached her carefully, and she tracked my movements. She reminded me a trapped animal, unsure if I brought pain or comfort. I held up the washcloth and waited until her head made a bare nod before I stepped forward. Her eyes closed, and I let the cool cloth rest against her forehead for a long moment. She looked at me when I took it off, and I nearly lost my control. There was a rawness there that hurt to watch.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Can I do anything?"
Sweat gathered around my brow. She seemed ready to cry again. What was I doing wrong? Her expression softened, and she looked away sadly. "No one can. It's too late."
"Sara, you're going to be fine," I insisted urgently. She could have been referring to me personally, but I irrationally feared she was giving up. Depression was common after major surgery. She had to fight. I couldn't lose her. "Talk to me. Please."
I scarcely used that word with her, and when I did, it was normally sarcastic. My honest plea must have reached her on some level, because her head rolled in my direction. I realized I was holding her hand, and my eyes dropped to it. I was going to set it down, but I felt her fingers curl ever so slightly around mine. Our gazes locked, and I tried to read the swirling emotions there.
"You don't know, do you?" she finally asked, but it came out more as a statement.
"What?"
"I guess it doesn't really matter."
Her words drifted off and I felt her fingers going lax as the morphine entered her body. I didn't let go. I couldn't. I sat there cradling her hand in mine. I could feel the warmth of her skin, but it wasn't comforting. Instinctively, I looked to the display. Her fever still hadn't diminished.
I stayed by her side until the drug's effects began to fade. The first sign was her hand scarcely squeezing mine. The haze cleared slowly, but Sara didn't speak. I didn't talk. I didn't know what to say, and I didn't want to upset her again. I thought Sara was pleased by my presence, but that wasn't completely true. She was sad and maybe a bit angry as well. I was confused, but I told myself it was probably the drugs or the pain.
I didn't break eye contact until footsteps moved up behind me. A man in a white coat stood there reading a chart – Sara's physician. I started to let go of her hand again, but she weakly held on. I shifted position to give the doctor some room, but I kept our fingers interlaced.
"Are you family?"
"No," I answered, wincing afterwards. It wasn't in me to lie. I knew I was going to be kicked out, but the doctor saw our hands. The corner of his lips turned up for a moment, and he addressed Sara.
"Are you feeling any better? Be honest."
"Not really," she admitted.
I had to smile, even if it was wry. Despite her frail voice, she made the admission sound like a great character flaw. It almost earned me an eye roll, but she didn't have the strength for it. I tightened my fingers gingerly, and she looked at me with a strange emotion.
"I want to talk to you about your progress," the doctor said, giving me a brief, pointed look. He then turned to Sara questioningly.
My eyes followed, seeking permission to stay. What I found there shocked me. There was fear that I'd leave and there was hurt. It wasn't due to her injuries, though. It was personal. She didn't want me to go, but she didn't want me to stay. I stared at her, unable to comprehend the situation.
"You don't have to stay."
"I will if you want me to," I said, adding a smile when she agreed.
"As I told you after surgery, you had an abscess on your right fallopian tube. When it ruptured, it significantly damaged the surrounding tissue. There was no way to save it or the right ovary. We don't like to do complete hysterectomies on women your age, but if the infection spreads, we won't have a choice. Do you have any children?"
I think the doctor included me in that question, but I was unable to answer. I only saw the loneliness in Sara's expression when she said 'no'. Her head rolled to the side, away from me. I kept my hand wrapped around hers, but she didn't return the pressure.
"I'm sorry. Remember, at this time, it's only a possibility. We'll try every other option before we resort to surgery. We'll see how you react to the antibiotics. We may change them tomorrow. There are stronger ones we can use."
I jerked my head back to look at the temperature display. It was easy to read between the doctor's lines. The current course of treatment wasn't working. The infection was winning. I wanted to ask the doctor questions, but I was afraid of scaring Sara. She was already so worn out. My fright wouldn't help her. It would distract her, and she needed to focus on regaining her strength. Besides, the doctor was continuing on in the drone of a man who was compassionate but who had many other patients to tend.
At some point, he pulled back the covers to examine her incision, but I wasn't watching. Sara had never given me permission to see her nude, and I wouldn't steal an opportunity when she was too weak to object. And I didn't want to see the raw scar marring her body, no matter how small it was.
The feel of Sara's grip tightening around my hand caused me to look back in alarm. The strength in that squeeze was more than she'd displayed all day, and the effort was costing her. It didn't take long to figure out why.
"You're hurting her!" I snapped angrily, but the doctor finished his examination and pushed some buttons on the morphine pump. I felt Sara's hand relax as once more she drifted away from me.
The doctor wrote something down on her chart, humming under his breath. The noise irritated me, but I don't why. I wasn't thinking at the time. I didn't know what to think. Or maybe I didn't want to think. I was still lost inside myself when the doctor called out to me.
"I said, we won't be releasing her until the infection is brought under control. We may have to do more surgery if it spreads. Have you reached her family?"
"She doesn't really have any," I said, but the full impact of my statement eluded me.
"Well, she's young, and otherwise in good health. I'm optimistic that she'll live, but you have to understand that there can be complications. If her condition doesn't improve soon, we'll have to switch to stronger medications."
"And they're dangerous," I droned emotionlessly. I couldn't spare any feelings for my voice. They were all focused in conflicting directions. I could tell the doctor was covering his worries with a forced optimism, and that was forefront in my consciousness. Some stray thought was tugging at the back of my mind, but I couldn't bring it into focus. I was too concerned about Sara's condition to think of anything else.
"Right, but like I said, she's young and strong. Now, once she's home, she'll have to take it easy. Wait until the pain is gone, but it will be at least six weeks before you can resume intercourse."
I stared as he left the room. I don't think I remembered to thank him, and I know I didn't correct his misconceptions. I mechanically retrieved the cup of ice slivers, and I stood beside the bed holding it in my hands. The exchange had left me bothered, but that fact was slowly working its way through my brain.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't notice Sara's hand moving forlornly alone on top of the cover. It wasn't until she whispered my name that I thought to move back to her side. I moved the cup to one hand and used the other to cover her searching fingers. Her eyes found mine, and the fear gradually was replaced by embarrassment.
The silence was uncomfortable this time. Sara seemed conflicted. Again, I sensed she didn't want to be alone, but she also wasn't completely comfortable by my presence. I didn't know what to say. That stray, disconcerting thought was making itself known more forcefully, and it was growing into a fear.
I automatically held up the ice. She whispered a soft agreement. Thoughts of keeping that cup ran through my mind; it seemed to be the only way I could connect with her. Again, I supported her head, and I felt some relief that she took more of the ice that time. I needed a positive sign, and I was taking my portents wherever I could find them.
She didn't speak at first, and I didn't push. I put the ice away, and I touched her hand. When she didn't object, I wrapped my fingers around her. The effects of the doctor's examination lingered, and the set of her face showed the pain.
"It wasn't like it really matters," she finally whispered. "It wasn't going to happen."
It took me a moment to understand her statement. I'd been lost in her eyes. Poets called them windows to the soul, but I found the view they offered was disquieting. I'd never seen her seem so fragile or so lonely.
"Didn't you ever want to have children?"
She turned her head and stared into the distance. I winced when I saw the moisture gathering in her eyes. I hated that she wasted the energy to snort, albeit weakly. "Could you see me as a mother?"
I think I shrugged. The desire to have children is normal – it's how the species propagates – but that urge varies widely. I never considered what Sara's thoughts on the subject were. I supposed I assumed it wasn't a priority for her. I saw no reason why it was something she had to avoid.
"Sure."
Her gaze came back to the present, and there was a hint of anger under the pain.
"You know what my childhood was like."
I tilted my head, and I regarded her sadly. Had fear kept her from having her own children? Fear wasn't something that I associated with Sara, but as I was learning, there was a lot I didn't know about her.
"You're nothing like your mother. You'd never hurt someone." I kept my voice soft and soothing. I didn't want to insult her by dismissing her concerns as baseless, but I had no faith in them. My stomach joined my head in trying to get my attention.
"How can you say that?"
"I know you."
"I've hurt you."
I felt her hand trying to pull away. I didn't let go, but I didn't resist. I moved my hand with hers, and she stopped after a moment. I couldn't argue with her statement. She had hurt me. But that was different, and I knew I had hurt her. I didn't want to discuss that. Even if I were ready, she wasn't. She needed to save her strength. I changed the direction of the conversation.
"You would never hurt a child, Sara. Never. I know that. And you know your childhood wasn't normal. You would never continue the cycle."
My words did little to dispel her doubts, but she forced her lips into a brief, thankful smile. "There's more to it than that. You have to be able to love them. I don't know if I would know how. That's not something I've ever had any luck with. I never had the practice. It takes two to love."
I sat there speechless as guilt welled up within me. I remained silent as I watched her head turn away. I think she was embarrassed at her statement. The drugs were causing her to admit hidden pains. I gently brought her hand back towards me. My other hand joined in wrapping around it. It was all I could do to comfort her. Words eluded me as Sara silently slipped away.
A muscle cramp forces me to sit back against the wooden bench. The seat has a thin cushion on it, but it wasn't designed for hours of sitting. I stretch and look around the chapel. The colors are muted and probably chosen to be soothing. I find them depressing. I think I'd find a field full of flowers to be depressing right now.
Sara never regained consciousness. The physical strain, combined with her emotional loss, exhausted her. I stayed with her, although I felt totally useless, doing nothing more than holding onto a limp hand. I watched over her until visiting hours ended, and a nurse made me leave.
Earlier today, I was upset that I didn't remember what my last conversation with Sara had been. I don't have to worry about that. I doubt I'll ever forget what we discussed in her room. I only regret I didn't say more. I didn't understand the full impact of it. I was too concerned about Sara's health to pay attention to what she was telling me. And she said more with her eyes than with her mouth.
It wasn't until I found the solitude of this sanctuary that my mind finally wrapped itself around our conversation. Guilt racks me that I didn't do more, and I know I may never get another chance. I don't know if Sara blames me, or if she thinks I thought she blamed me for never having a family.
Actually, I'm not entirely certain how she feels about children. She never answered my question about whether she wants any. Sara seemed so heartbroken, but I imagine that is normal. Even if she didn't want to have a family, the choice may no longer be hers. It's a loss that can never be replaced, regardless of her plans.
Besides, if it were important to her, she could have started a family years ago. Most of the male population of the lab was eating out of her hand from the day she got here. It had to be the same in San Francisco, and when she was in college. Nothing stopped her.
I wince as a I stretch. It's not from the muscle pain. My thoughts may be true, but I am rationalizing – and being irrational. I saw the look in her eyes. The idea of being a mother is very frightening to her. That means she's thought about it; she must have considered the idea. But Sara has convinced herself that she is incapable of loving her children properly.
I don't believe she's right. I know Sara has a terrible temper, but I cannot imagine any circumstance where she would deliberately harm a child. She would never repeat the abuses she suffered, no matter what they were. I rub my beard as I realize that I don't know what those details are. I never pressed, and Sara didn't volunteer. She was so upset already, and seeing her upset hurts me. I didn't want her to continue. I'll have to live with the knowledge that I may never know her whole story.
I rub my face wearily, and I check my watch. I'll need to leave for work soon. I don't want to go in, but things will be tense tonight. Everyone will be worried about Sara. At the very least, I owe them an update. I won't mention she may never have children. I don't think that's something she would want me to share.
She does want a child. I really think so. She may have decided that she can't do it, but she couldn't get rid of the feelings. I saw the longing in her eyes. Or maybe it was a desire to just belong; to have someone to love and to love her back.
She grew up in a family. It was dysfunctional, but she thought it was normal through her formative years. Humans are social creatures by nature. She would have crafted some sort of bonds. Sara doesn't trust people easily, and that's not hard to believe given her background. Was she ever able to bond to her foster families? Some of them care, but some are only interested in the money. The violence would have been missing, but did she know any affection?
Has she ever known love as an adult?
"Mr. Grissom?"
I start violently. Adrenaline rushes through my body, and I turn around thinking a doctor has found me to tell me some terrible news. Instead, I find a short man watching me with a concerned expression. It takes a few seconds, but I remember him. It's Rabbi Mencken. I blink as I realize it's been less than twenty-four hours since we met.
I sit back down with an audible sigh. My heart is beating hard in my chest, and my innards are burning around a cold lump. I don't want to be rude, but I don't want to talk to him about work or his case. I have nothing to tell him. My only contact with the lab was to get Sara's file.
To my surprise, he only asks if I need anything. I shake my head and briefly explain the situation. He offers some general words of consolation and leaves me to my grief. Once again, I am abashed by my selfishness. I feel guilty that I have nothing to offer him. I have ignored all my other responsibilities. I don't really care, but I do admit it's selfish.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, and I lean forward as I bring my breathing under control. I start to push away my self-reflections as inappropriate, but I realize I shouldn't. Not this time. I understand why I have no peace, and that is because my relationship with Sara is too unsettled. Just as my fate is bound to hers, so is my inner tranquility. I cannot be at peace when I have left her in turmoil.
Sara came to Las Vegas because of me. She admitted that she still cares, if in an offhanded way. And I have been emotionally unavailable to her. I have never considered Sara in all my decisions about Sara. Everything was about me. My needs, my fears, my desires – that's all I ever considered. I never thought how my actions would affect her. Did she lose her chance to have a family waiting for me?
Great. I finally have an epiphany, and I truly may be too late. I'm certain Sara would enjoy the irony of the situation. I hope to tell her some day. But I have only found the problem; the solution eludes me. What do I do now? It's not like I can change an entire lifetime of habit immediately. I don't even know that Sara is willing to give me the chance. This could have been an epiphany for her as well; she may decide life is too short to wait for me.
I will make an effort. I owe her that much. She was happy I was there. She sought out my hand, even in a drugged haze. There still has to be some feeling left. I once was able to respond to people. I can do it again. It will take some time, but I hope she'll see I'm trying.
But what do I do if she wants a family? Could I be a father? It's not a decision that can be made lightly. It's not like agreeing to shave my beard, or even to get another job. It's a lifetime commitment. Major changes would have to be made, and I don't know if I'm capable. Could I deny her something that important? I have trouble communicating with Sara and letting her know I care. That's bad enough with an adult, but it would be cruel to a child.
Our child. My mental picture is vague, but I see Sara smiling at the baby. For the first time today, my smile has some real joy to it. The concept isn't distasteful. Sara may have reservations, but I think she would be a wonderful mother. I'm more worried about my abilities as a father. But I like the idea.
I let out a sigh. I'm getting ahead of myself. Sara may not want to have children, even if it remains a physical possibility. Her reaction could have been a result of the fear, pain and drugs. More importantly, she may not want me.
No matter what, I have to address my 'emotionally unavailable' issues. I wish I had a clue where to start. Emotions were never my strong suit. I'm a creature of logic. Can I approach this logically?
Start at the beginning.
I need to get her a present. Everyone else brought plants or flowers. She likes to read. I was surprised by her reading choices. At home, Sara's coffee table and bookcases were full of books about art, everything from Bauhaus to Western masterpieces. I have some at home she'd like. It doesn't seem like much, but I have to begin somewhere.
I stand up unsteadily as my body joins my mind in mayhem. I'll go to the lab for a bit, at least long enough to give everyone an update. I have to remember to swing by my townhouse for the books. If I can, I'll catch a nap. I'll be back here as soon as visiting hours start in the morning.
I lift my eyes to the ceiling, and I direct a look in the general direction of Sara's room. It's a futile gesture, but it helps. I try to push aside the specter that she may not live. That is one reality that is too painful to dwell on. I can know no calm until I fix things with Sara, and if I lose her, I will never be at peace again.
The End