Author’s Notes: This one is special to me; sometimes, there is nothing more to say.
~~~~~
Fragile as a leaf in autumn
Just fallin' to the ground
Without a sound
Spinning, laughing, dancing to her favorite song
She’s a little girl with nothing wrong
And she's all alone
A little girl with nothing wrong
And she's all alone.
Seven Years, by Norah Jones
She wanted night vision goggles, so she could see everything, even in the dark.
Something pulled at the edges of her memory, sharp and insinuating. Fourteen years old, bruises spanning the length of her shin, blue-jean shorts and a t-shirt with a hole edging wider at the neckline. She’d spent the morning bike riding with her friend Elizabeth; they’d taken a break around noon and had walked to the corner store and bought Nutty Buddys. Elizabeth stayed for dinner, told Sara she’d see her tomorrow, and then went home. It had been pitch black that night, when he came into her room, and she wanted to have had night vision goggles, so she could have seen him coming for her. She would have run or screamed, she would have done anything but lie there and daydream about the skate party on Saturday night and that she might be beautiful after she got her braces off in two months.
The gap between her front teeth had never closed the way the orthodontist would have liked, and after her braces were removed, her teeth stayed straight, but the gap only widened. She didn’t think she would have felt beautiful anyway.
I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand.
Confucius
Anyone would have felt successful after being accepted to Harvard. Nothing mattered but her mind, because her body had not been her own for years. The east coast offered more than an attempt at cultivating her intelligence, it was a long needed escape. Folded clothes and knickknacks were lined with secrets and wedged into three suitcases. She crammed all her worldly belongings into her grandfather’s old, Chevrolet pick-up, and hit the road.
She stopped at a hole in the wall all-night diner on the way to her new life. A man eating the house special –country fried steak and mashed potatoes- drank her in from toe to head, and she smiled at his appreciation. Later, when he emptied himself into her, she was conflicted because she was not as numb as she believed she would be. Freedom aligned itself with recklessness, there were several men in the beginning, when having a choice was still a new concept, but they were mostly forgotten now. She still remembered him, though, his sandy blond hair and hazel eyes, the beads of sweat that slipped down the bridge of his nose and dropped onto her cheek like tears.
Nothing can so pierce the soul as the uttermost sigh of the body.
George Santayana
Acquiring a masters degree was: The Reinvention of Sara Sidle Part Two. Under the California sun she fell in love for the first time, and when she became pregnant, the love of her life offered to make an honest woman of her. She accepted his proposal and they were married three weeks later in a small backyard ceremony. Her parents did not attend, but her mother-in-law had trimmed her rosebushes and fashioned a beautiful bouquet, had given Sara’s arm a squeeze and her belly a rub just before Sara married the woman’s only son.
A month later he was cruising down I-5 on his motorcycle when a car swerved in on him from the right, causing him to veer into the fast lane. Another car must have honked because her husband, the boy who stole her heart and the man she loves to this day, over-corrected and veered into the slow lane directly in the path of a tractor-trailer. Hours later, just as she was beginning to worry, a police officer knocked on the door of their tiny apartment and was as gentle as he could be when he told her that her husband was dead.
She lost the baby a week later, and although the doctor assured her the two events were not connected, she never believed him. Swearing off anything and anyone that forced an emotional attachment, she concentrated on school. She would never admit to having been married, and later in life those who did not know better would say she was a loner and lacked a maternal instinct, didn’t long for a family like other, normal people did. It would be easier to let them believe their preconceived notions than to explain how she had lived every girl’s dream for too short a time. Losing everything had its way of making you want nothing.
In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
Robert Frost
She was tired of literary tragedy and the laws of thermodynamics. A seminar on forensics seemed a good escape from the routine. She found her instructor interesting, and more than a little good looking. Her husband and baby had been dead for barely a year; all she wanted was to be less lonely. When they met for dinner to discuss his field of expertise, she fought an inexplicable attraction.
Fascination turned to friendship, and they lazily sipped their iced tea and looked anywhere but at each other. When he helped her get a job at the San Francisco Coroner’s Office, she told herself he’d have done it for anyone. But the way he looked at her as he bounded out of her car toward curbside check-in told her a different story. “I’ll call you, to see how you’re settling in, or you can call me if you need anything, any help with work,” he’d thrown over his shoulder along with his carry-on bag. He had called, and they’d talked, and she reminded herself every day that she did not love him.
There are places and moments in which one is so completely alone that one sees the world entire.
Jules Renard
Upon the completion of her investigation, done as a favor for him, her one-time instructor offered her a job in Las Vegas. In the solitude of her hotel room, she knew she’d outgrown San Francisco, although she wasn’t sure Las Vegas was exactly what she needed. She and Grissom were friends, so she trusted in their friendship, and e-mailed a two weeks notice to her boss in California. The next day, she told Grissom she’d be honored to work with him.
A hasty relocation and a couple of cases later, there was the first case of its kind, the first, it would turn out, of many, too many; she hadn’t thought of this when she’d signed on for a role as investigator, never thought about being forced to face the issue, and she knew immediately she was in over her head. Finding out the woman’s name, so at least the world would know who she was, so her family would know what happened to her, became a temporary obsession. Grissom approached her and told her she needed a diversion, to take a step back, find a release, her response was lost now, but she remembered she was a little late to the grieving process. It was just beginning, pressing forward with every keystroke, eased when she identified the victim as Pamela Adler. Grief and righteous indignation would take hold of her from time to time, had pushed Scott Shelton in his proper place when he dared touch her. Empowerment in those moments fueled her on, and as much as she hated the death and rape and abuse, there was something about completing the circle that made her grief both less and more.
At the top of her wish list was a pair of night vision goggles, and that maybe her husband would have stayed wrapped around her on a Friday morning instead of going to work, that God would have seen fit to let her have his child, so she would have always had a part of him with her. No magic would make her wish list come true, and there was no going back, so she buried her rape and her dead husband and child in pages and pages of other people’s tragedies, and when she found resolution and justice for others, she pretended it was an adequate substitution for her own.
Don’t play for safety – it’s the most dangerous thing in the world.
Hugh Walpole
Easy flirtation was their cover for something infinitely complicated. It was unspoken but acknowledged in its own way, so when Grissom paid her a compliment she went on as if she hadn’t heard, and when she gave him a glowing smile and hung on his every word, he basked in the role of mentor instead of would-be lover. Another case, a different kind of awakening, but she wasn’t ready to confront Grissom about everything they were denying. Instead, she picked up the phone and called Hank, the EMT for whom she felt an attraction, and whose intentions had been easier to read. What started off as companionship ended in her unwittingly being the other woman. She didn’t love him, but it still stung, to know she’d been betrayed.
Everything I am, and everything in me, wants to be the one you wanted me to be.
When I’m Gone, by 3 Doors Down
All she wanted to do was ask him to dinner, but following him around the lab yielded nothing, and she chalked it up to bad timing. Turning the corner, a hot, orange flash picked her up and flattened her against the wall, slicing open her palm in the process. Glass fell like rain and cut her face; she supposed she should have taken that as a sign.
Taking stock of her life, she realized she wasn’t quite ready to die, physically or emotionally, so she checked his schedule and made her way to his office.
Grissom expressed concern for her state of mind, but the matter was forgotten when she issued her invitation. He shot her down, but at the same time, acknowledged there was something between them. It was typically ambiguous, but she was tired of their routine. She wouldn’t wait on him forever, because forever was no longer guaranteed, had never been, and so she left him standing there and went home to her apartment.
It was no big deal, she would be fine.
After all, it was only a dinner invitation. The sun rose, hours passed, she knew she was kidding herself. By the time the sun was beginning its slow drag across a clear Vegas sky, she admitted it wasn’t just an invitation to dinner. Dinner was a ruse, she’d offered him everything, and he’d told her he didn’t want it.
Pulling a pillow over her head, she gave into the embarrassment, the humiliation, and admitted she did love him, had loved him for years. Of course, she hated him as well, almost, but not quite as much as she loved him.
I was going to buy a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking, and then I thought: What the hell good would that do?
Ronnie Shakes
Something shifted of its axis, maybe the world as a whole, or just the world they’d created, but she knew one thing for certain: they were no longer friends.
Everything she said and did seemed to irritate him, and his irritation prevented him from adequately doing his job. From the looks on the faces of her team members, they recognized his unusual abrasiveness, but weren’t brave enough to say anything. More than once, she walked by his office, intent on discussing the matter with him, but something work related always came through at the last minute: Here’s your file – I solved the case – Do you need help – The perimeter again?
Applying for the promotion had been her attempt to show there were no hard feelings, that he could move on because she was, if only at work. She had the unmitigated gall to ask, in a roundabout way, if he would be able to maintain his objectivity when he considered her for the promotion. He stood there, mouth open like a fish out of water, and she beat a hasty retreat before he was able to comprehend what she was saying.
And then there was Debbie Marlin.
Looking down at Debbie’s corpse she had tried to see the differences. The woman looked too much like her, and now it made sense why she had been banished to perimeter duty yet again. He had been trying to protect her, in his own way. For a moment, she thought maybe that’s what he’d been trying to do all along, that there was something she wasn’t aware of, and that he was only looking out for her well-being.
Standing behind a one-way mirror, she realized he’d been protecting himself, that whatever he felt for her was not strong enough to overcome whatever warred inside him. Acceptance did not come easily, if at all, but a shot of Tequila sliding down her throat eased the burn of his admission and rejection.
Another shot, another shot…
“You know,” she said, downing another shot, “it was too much, and not enough,” she laughed at the bartender. He smiled in a way that was meant to humor her. Strangely, she didn’t know if she meant the liquor or Grissom.
Both, she realized.
I’m going to turn on the light, and we’ll be two people in a room looking at each other and wondering why on earth we were afraid of the dark.
Gale Wilhelm
There were sporadic periods of camaraderie, a nod here and there to a friendship long since gone. In a moment they could go from shared smiles to an all too familiar awkwardness, and she learned to never get her hopes up when he was more than civil, because it could and did change in an instant.
At least his acrimonious “You take the perimeter” banishment had, for the most part, ended. She wondered if he realized that despite everything, they would always work well together. There was constancy in that fact, and relief, and sometimes he grabbed onto it as fervently as she did, that last cord that tied them together.
Murder was never routine, but when a person worked knee-deep in death every night, a routine was developed. Survey the scene, talk to witnesses if there were any, take pictures, swab any and all fluids; it all became rote after a while.
Meticulous as ever, Sara was crouched over a footprint, when she noticed a wallet caught in a low bush a couple of feet away. Fumbling on a pair of gloves, she retrieved the wallet, flipped through it. The picture ID wasn’t of their victim, and as the thought registered, ‘Someone will be coming back for this,’ a deep voice sent her heart rate soaring, “I’ll take that.”
She turned around and stared down the barrel of a .38 Special, took a step back, and the man stepped forward as if they were dancing.
Automatically, she reached for her gun, but the man warned against it. “Just give me the wallet,” he said, and she recognized his face from his driver’s license photograph.
Another man appeared from the partially wooded back yard, whispered something in the other’s ear, and then pointed the gun at her and shot her like it was no big deal. “Oh fuck,” she said, and dropped like a sack of potatoes to the ground.
Convulsions wracked her body, she felt the pressure rising and coughed up a mouthful of blood. “Grissom,” she called out in a surprisingly calm but weak voice.
She heard his voice before she heard his footfalls, frantic, so much fear in the way he was screaming her name, “Sara! Sara! Are you okay? Where are you?”
Blood was coming up, and air was trying to go down, she was swallowing, inhaling and exhaling all at the same time, although it wasn’t quite possible, so she laid there and wondered if she was going to choke to death before Grissom found her.
“Jesus, God no, please no,” he yelled, sliding to his knees beside her. “I’ve got you, I’m here,” he said, grabbing at his phone and stabbing at the numbers. “Yes, I’ve got an officer down, gunshot wound to the abdomen – I need an ambulance right way, 750 Skylark Drive!” She had never seen Grissom so animated, had definitely never heard that exact pitch in his voice before.
Her life didn’t exactly flash before her eyes, but she saw images, her husband and a little girl who seemed vaguely familiar, her grandfather, another woman who was not looking at her, but at Grissom. There was no floating sensation or bright, white light, but there was a peace she hadn’t felt since riding bikes with Elizabeth Riley almost twenty years ago.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen,” he panted, and then blew into her mouth, but she couldn’t figure out why. It dawned on her then: CPR. “You will not die on me, Sara, you will not, do you understand,” and then he was at it again. The counting, his mouth over hers, and she laughed at the irony that the first time their lips met, it was in an effort to bring her back to life.
No matter the circumstances, that’s what his kiss had always represented.
“You will not die, you will not die, you will not die,” he repeated the phrase until he’d said it fifteen times, and then he kissed her again.
To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.
William Henry Channing
Recovering from her gunshot wound had been a difficult process. He had been there, every step of the way, dropping by her apartment at all hours, bearing soup and fruit, and a plethora a vegetarian cuisine.
For two weeks, he’d come by before work, during work, and after work. He stood in her doorway, not knowing what to say, and she was content to let him stand there until he figured it out. Most nights, he kissed her before he left for work, and she let him because it was his way of telling her what he couldn’t put into words.
Two days before she was due back at work, he stopped by her apartment, and invaded her personal space, said in a low, desperate voice, “It shouldn’t have taken this, you will never know how sorry I am.”
She silenced him with a kiss. Too many years of fantasy had built up an unrealistic encounter, a perfect dream that would never be realized the way it was imagined. Reality dictated that he would fumble with her bra until she reached back and unhooked the clasp herself; at an inopportune moment, a hitch in her side made her call for a time out. The term minute man would not be inaccurate, and he could barely look at her, as she tried without success, to hide her smile.
“So, was it everything you dreamed it would be?” he asked, turning over to face her, just a hint of sarcasm hiding his insecurity.
“Hardly,” she said, and then buried her face in his neck. She would not offer him platitudes, she would tuck this awkward bit of togetherness deep inside her heart, relive it from time to time for its imperfect beauty.
“I’ve loved you for a long time,” she said finally, pulling away to gauge his reaction.
“I – Me too,” he said. “You,” he struggled for the words.
Months passed before she told him all about her life, what had happened to her, all she had lost, and the healing she thought an endless goal. With an intensity that surprised her, he laid in bed and did not interrupt once, just listened and let his fingers comb through her hair.
A few days later, they passed each other in the night, he was going to work, and she had just come off a double shift. He greeted her at the door, told her he’d made vegetarian lasagna, that it still had about fifteen minutes left to cook. A quick kiss and he was out the door.
She went into her bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and headed toward the shower. Something on her nightstand stopped her, and she walked slowly closer, picked up the night vision goggles, and read his handwritten note: You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Love, Grissom.
Turning off the light, she clutched the goggles in her hand, sat on the bed. Taking a deep breath, she put them on, looked around and noted that nothing in her bedroom had changed but the color.
Pulling open a drawer, she set them inside, and pushed the drawer shut. She picked up his note, studied it for a long while. Another man had been the love of her life, but she had lived many lives since then, and Grissom was the love of her lifetime.
The truth wasn’t a betrayal of the past, and hope wasn’t forgetting what had happened to her, but letting go was the last stage of grief.
She took a shower, ate a plateful of the lasagna he had cooked for her, and then fell asleep. When she woke up, she cooked Grissom breakfast and waited for him to come home.
