She'd had a bad morning, a really bad morning. They said it was because she had been refusing her medication, but they didn't understand. It was the medication that made her irritable. The meds made her feel foggy and slow as if she were an insect trapped in resin.
Her hand fluttered to her throat. The chunk of amber encased in heart-shaped gold filigree was there, safe on its golden chain. They had been told never to take it from her, not if they didn't want to witness a meltdown of epic proportions, much worse than she'd had that morning. The stone contained a perfect tiny scorpion. They would feel the scorpion's sting if they disturbed her things. Spencer, her precocious little boy, had found the gem while digging in the sand and pretending to be Howard Carter looking for King Tut. He's been all of what? Four?
She had so much to do! New lesson plans to devise. New lectures to write. Papers to grade. She was covering a colleague's class on Thomas Merton and the Power of Love. She switched on her iPod, smiled at the first song that came up and put it on continual play. Music soothed her and helped her to work. She reached for the spiral-bound notebook and carefully printed at the top of the page: "Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone – we find it with another."
Nurses peeked in the partially open door to her room every 15 minutes. The patient had never exhibited self-harm tendencies, but the Medical Director felt it was better to be safe than sorry, so she had been put back under close observation since the morning's incident. Now, Professor Diana Reid – the title had been honestly earned and was not a grandiose delusion on the patient's part - was busy scribbling in a notebook, surrounded by piles of open books on the coffee table and on the floor at her feet. For her, that was entirely normal as was her penchant for the oldies song playing over and over on her iPod. Well, if she was going to perseverate, better it be on a love song (of sorts) than on one of her wilder anti-government conspiracy theories. It made the shift go so much easier.
She was startled by the light knock on the door and the pleasant, though hesitant, tenor voice asking, "May I come in?"
She was tempted to say, "No." She was busy, after all, preparing for tomorrow's lecture, but she had looked up and made eye contact with her potential visitor. The pale, fine-boned face just inside the doorway had gentle brown eyes. Long, slender fingers nervously pushed an errant lock of dark hair away from those eyes and back behind his ear where it belonged. She knew that face, even if the name attached to it escaped her at the moment, and she saw no threat in those eyes that seemed more concerned than hostile. She motioned to the armchair at the end of the table but said nothing.
The tall, almost painfully thin young man entered the room with a somewhat diffident air about him that made him appear awkward. That would change, Diana thought, when he got his degree or perhaps when he was firmly established in his own practice and life experience strengthened his self-confidence. He'd be handsome, self-assured, elegant, much as she suspected her Spencer was now, though she saw him so rarely that she had yet to be able to verify her suspicions.
Her visitor pulled his messenger bag off over his head and plopped it on the floor by the chair. "Nice song," he said quietly as he settled in.
This is what she liked about this young resident or junior staff covering for his attending. He was dressed casually in a long-sleeved button-down shirt, loosely knotted tie, khaki pants and Converse tennis shoes. She remembered that he always wore mismatched socks. It was some silly but harmless superstition. Her eyes flicked down for a quick look. Today it was red chili peppers on one foot and green saguaro cacti on the other. She couldn't suppress the faint smile. If the staff wanted to put people like her at ease, then this was the way to do it, not by wearing a white lab coat and barging in with intrusive questions.
"Do you know that John Lennon wrote it for his son, Sean, with Yoko Ono? Many people think he wrote 'Hey, Jude' for his first son, Julian, but that was actually written by Paul McCartney . . ."
"You're wrong," she broke in. "This song is about my son, Spencer. He's such a beautiful little boy, physically and mentally. He's perfect."
The brown eyes widened as he stopped in the middle of his recitation, but he didn't correct her (or redirect her as the staff would say), talk down to her or even try to humor her, so she went on, "The lyrics at the beginning aren't accurate, though."
"How do you mean?"
"Have no fear. The monsters are gone and your Daddy's here," Diana paraphrased the first verse. "William, my husband and Spencer's father, left us. He abandoned us to the monsters. I had to fight them alone to protect Spencer and myself. Will couldn't deal with having a son who was smarter than he was and didn't share his interest in sports. He didn't know what to do with him, so he ran away."
The young man raised an eyebrow at that. It wasn't precisely how he remembered his childhood. True enough, his father had left and maybe having a physically awkward, socially backward, genius son had had something to do with that, but the monsters were another story altogether. They'd never left and they weren't the innocuous bogeymen that his young peers believed lived in the closet or hid under the bed and came out only at night. The monsters he knew could manifest at any time. He never knew what he would find when he awoke in the morning or when he came home from school in the afternoon. He never knew when one of them would take over his mother's mind and turn her into "Mom But Not Mom."
He gazed at the older woman, her head bent over her notebook as she scribbled away. It had been difficult, yes, to parent a parent while still a child, to try to get her out of bed, to take her meds and to see a doctor. He'd made up the grocery list, trying to find nutritious food that could be dumped in the crockpot or, better yet, required no cooking at all. Microwave use was problematic, his mother being terrified that it was some kind of government-sponsored mind control device when she was really sick. He had to be able to carry the groceries home from the market he passed after school, and he had to manage the ATM when he could barely reach the controls.
Despite the difficulties, it wouldn't be fair to characterize this woman – his mother – as a monster. She never, ever, hit him and was never verbally abusive to him no matter how confused she got. She read to him like a "normal" mom even if the material was Chaucer or Shakespeare rather than the fairy tales those other moms read to their children. She encouraged him to study hard and to do well in school just like a "regular" parent. She also encouraged him to explore his interests. He smiled to himself at the memory. What other mom of his acquaintance would allow her son to take magic lessons? None that he knew. Just his mom.
I can hardly wait to see you come of age . . . just have to be patient . . . it's a long way to go, a long row to hoe . . .
The words of the song must have seeped into her mind at some point as, without looking up, Diana complained, "I'd like to see my Spencer more often, but the Government took him away. They keep him in Washington doing who knows what for them."
"I thought you told me he works for the FBI catching criminals, the really bad ones."
"That's what he tells me in his letters, but maybe they tell him to say that."
"I don't think your son would lie to you. I'm sure you taught him to behave better than that."
Diana looked up then and gave him a calculating look. "Perhaps." She was silent again for a moment. "At any rate, I taught him that it would be a waste of his time to try to lie to me. Mothers always know."
The young man flashed her a rueful grin. "Indeed they do." He didn't outright lie to her in his letters, but they were carefully edited versions of the truth. He hadn't, for example, told her about Tobias Henkel and the Dilaudid as he wished to save her the worry. It would do nothing to help her condition. Still, she seemed to sense that not all was as advertised in his life.
Satisfied with his response, Diana went back to her writing, but then paused. "My Spencer is a sensitive child. He deserves to see the good in the world, not just the monsters. He could teach engineering or math here at UNLV. He has doctorates in both, you know, and other degrees as well. He's brilliant! He could do so much with his life. He'd be an inspiration to his students. Most of them are capable when challenged. They only give in to feelings of sloth and entitlement with instructors who let things slide and want to be their "friends." I'm sure he could motivate them." The words poured out in a torrent as if under pressure, and then she seemed to run down. "And I'd get to see him more often," she murmured.
The young man seemed stunned. He pursed his lips as he gave careful thought to his response. "Someone needs to fight the monsters. You know that better than most," he said gently. "You know the monsters aren't stupid. They're insidious, devious and treacherous. The BAU needs all the IQ points it can get if they hope to have any success against them."
"That's true," she said, her voice still shaky.
"Don't worry. He sees good things, too. He and his team catch the monsters so they can't hurt anyone else. They save people from the monsters. You can be proud of his part in that. And he works with good people, people who are his friends."
"He did mention an Agent Gideon and an Agent Rossi. He told me they are the best in the field and have been generous with their time and expertise in mentoring him. I always told him he should try to work with the best."
"You see, he listened to you, didn't he?" The young man gave her an encouraging smile.
Diana wasn't so easily convinced. "I'm not sure they're all his friends, though. He said Agent Morgan was a star football player. Kids like that usually bully and tease my Spencer. They aren't his friends."
"Derek Morgan played for Northwestern. That school is known more for its academics than its sports prowess. I'm not sure what constitutes stardom when statistically your football team is the doormat of the Big Ten." The young man cringed inwardly. If Derek were ever to visit Diana Reid and hear this story – and the young man wouldn't be surprised if Diana were to tell it - then she would be right. He and Derek probably would no longer be friends, but it wouldn't be Derek's fault.
Diana closed a book, but first slipped the flap of the dust cover in to mark her place. "I worry about Spencer," she confessed. "Do you know he graduated from high school when he was 12? What senior girl would accept his invitation to prom? It would be like taking your little brother. The college girls? At best, they treated him like a mascot. Preparing this lecture has reminded me that we humans are herd animals. We're not meant to go through life alone. Spencer needs to find himself a nice girl, settle down and have children. It's a daunting undertaking – I might even say frightening - but at the same time, it's the most rewarding thing one can do. Will and I certainly didn't show him that. We didn't show him how to do it correctly."
"I wouldn't worry about that. He works with female agents. He'll figure it out when the time is right, when he meets the right woman." The young man hoped that this lady, who was so much more perceptive than her DSM-IV diagnosis would lead one to believe, hadn't noticed how he'd gulped before he'd answered. He was still sorting out some unaccustomed feelings he had for Maeve, a woman he'd only spoken to on the phone so far. In no way was he ready to discuss her with anyone else.
"He did mention an Agent Jareau, quite often in fact. I had hopes for them, but apparently he let her slip away. She married a policeman from some place down South, New Orleans, I think, and now they have a little boy."
"Didn't you tell me that your son was that little boy's godfather? How do you think he feels about that?"
"How do you think he feels about that?" Diana mimicked and then frowned. "My, don't you sound like a real, live psychiatrist?" Then again, he wasn't asking about her. He was showing an interest in her son. That was different. That made his behavior acceptable, his question one she was willing to answer. "Oh, he's quite happy about it. He's already plotting how to get his godson into Cal Tech or Yale at the very least.
Did I tell you that that little boy - I can never remember if his name is Henry or Jack – went trick or treating dressed as Spencer? I'm not sure what that entails exactly, but apparently Spencer is his favorite profiler. This child sees my Spencer as some kind of superhero. Can you imagine?" There was such pride and wonder in her voice, the most positive affect she'd shown in some time. "Spencer loves Halloween, even more than Christmas, I think."
"You see, there's nothing to worry about. You just need to be patient. When your son finds the right woman, he'll want to marry and have children with her." The young man flashed an impudent grin. "And then you, Professor Reid, will be a grandmother. Are you ready for that?"
"As long as the woman isn't that computer tech person with the pigtails, rhinestone glasses and abominable clothes. Really, she looks as though she dressed herself out of a Salvation Army donation bin."
The young man's jaw clenched. It was just as well that Diana was busy looking up something in another book and didn't notice. "Do you mean Penelope Garcia?" he asked while trying to keep his voice level, although he knew Diana could mean no one else.
"I suppose. She had some strange ethnic-sounding name," Diana answered, her finger tracing out a bullet point she wanted to quote for her lecture.
"I thought your son told you she was funny, smart and kind." The young man remembered the hitch in Garcia's voice when he'd asked her to help him record a farewell message to his mother when he'd been infected with anthrax. That was another incident that he'd glossed over in his letters. "Plus, she's a Trekker, so they share at least one interest. He could do worse, a great deal worse. Besides, didn't you teach him never to judge a book by its cover?"
She looked up then. "You're right. I did," she sighed. "He wouldn't be very proud of me, would he? But he's been teased about so much. I don't want him to be teased for his choice of a wife as well."
"I've heard a rumor that Penelope has put herself out of the running for that position. She's trying to decide between Derek Morgan and Kevin Lynch, another technical analyst with questionable sartorial tastes, but a good man who respects and cares for her."
"Well, that's what's important. She deserves that no matter how she dresses."
"She does, indeed, and I don't think you have to worry about your son not being proud of you. We all have difficult days when we're not at our best. We all make mistakes. Even Spencer, if you don't mind my saying so. It's part of being human. The important thing is to try to do better next time." That might be an oft-repeated sentiment at the Beltway Clean Cops meetings that the young man attended, but it wasn't a revelation to him from their 12-step program; it was reinforcement of what his mother had always taught him.
There was a quick double rap on the door. "Mrs. Reid, supper in 15 minutes. You don't want to be late." The petite, young nurse with her auburn hair cut in an old-style Dorothy Hamill wedge flashed the young man a "come hither" smile but was disappointed when he remained oblivious.
Diana snapped a book shut. "You need to leave now," she told the young man in a tone that would brook no disagreement.
The young man checked his watch. "I certainly do. I had no idea it was this late. I've had such a lovely afternoon chatting with you, but I do have friends waiting for me. May I visit again?" He'd politely risen from his chair when she stood, then reached down to retrieve his bag which he slung over his shoulder.
"If you'd like." Diana seemed distracted and noncommittal as she shrugged out of her dusty rose housecoat and took the jacket for her pale blue pantsuit from the arm of the sofa.
"May I?" the young man asked, then helped Diana into the jacket.
"Is it a study group where you'll be spending your evening?" she asked.
"Something like that, yes."
"You need to be on time. They count on you as much as you count on them."
"Yes, Ma'am." Hotch and Rossi would be amused by the characterization of the team as a study group, but it wasn't entirely inaccurate. They did barnstorm ideas while developing profiles, each member contributing his or her own area of expertise. They also lent support and encouragement in personal matters. And Hotch would really appreciate Diana's push for punctuality.
"May I escort you to the dining room on my way out?" He offered her his arm, which she took and patted lightly.
"You do your mother credit, young man. Youngsters today so often lack manners."
"Thank you. I try," the young man murmured. He could feel the heat of the blush rising to his face.
They had just reached the entrance to the dining room when a voice called out, "Diana, it's Chinese tonight. You better hurry. You know how George hoards the Crab Rangoon. I saved you a place at the corner table." The young man noticed a red Macy's bag filled with odds and ends claiming a chair at a table in the back of the room. "No one can spy on us there."
"Study hard, young man. Get good grades. Make your mother proud." With that, Diana walked away from him, joining the buffet line and her dinner companion with never a backward glance.
"I will, Ma'am. I will," the young man whispered as he left the air-conditioned sanitarium for the heat of a Las Vegas evening.
Spencer Reid had been deep in thought, silently gazing out the window of the BAU jet since it had left McCarran International Airport on its way back to its hanger at Reagan-National. In the darkness below, the scattered lights in barnyards looked like individual lightning bugs while the lights along the single "main drags" of the rural towns looked like tiny swarms. Off on the horizon was a large patch of brighter light, a cold yellowish-white like a celestial fluorescent rather than the warm pink, red and gold of sunrise. He would have had no idea where they were if the co-pilot hadn't chosen that moment to leave the cockpit on a Coke run to the fridge in the galley.
"November four four zero Juliet Foxtrot switching over to Chicago Center. Good night, Kansas City."
Spencer looked around the cabin. Hotch sat alone, busy with paperwork as always. Derek shifted in his seat against the bulkhead in search of a more comfortable position. Blues guitar, probably Buddy Guy, leaked out until he readjusted his headphones. Rossi, Prentice and Jareau were playing cards around the table. Spencer smirked when he saw the open 5-pound bag of peanut M & M's, the candies being used in lieu of chips. It was a real high-stakes game since "Vegas Boy" wasn't playing.
Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer. Every day in every way, it's betting better and better. Try as he might, Spencer couldn't get the lyrics out of his head. The visit with his mother hadn't gone quite as he'd anticipated, and yet he still clung to hope. Her doctors had told him that episodes like she'd had that morning were occurring less often and lasting for shorter periods. They continued to adjust her medications in the hopes of finding a regimen that would be both efficacious and tolerable to the patient. He'd seen for himself that her room was clean and bright. There seemed to be no evidence that she was being physically mistreated. She even seemed to have at least one friend, and while she might be laboring under the delusion that she was still teaching, she was still interested in reading and learning. Thomas Merton certainly wasn't a part of medieval literature.
Most importantly, he come to the realization that on her meds or off, grounded in reality or in a world of her own, his mother never truly forgot her son. He was still her beautiful, beautiful boy.
There was great comfort in that. Despite it all, his mother's illness and her commitment and his sporadic visits and guilt, the monsters hadn't won. They hadn't taken his mother's love. They hadn't left him totally alone and without family. He curled up in his seat, his head cradled between the fuselage and his chair. The firefly lights below blurred as the jet sped onward and Spencer fell asleep. No monsters would trouble his dreams tonight, and when the jet was on final approach over the sparkling Potomac with the sun coming up behind the Capitol and the Washington Monument, tomorrow would be a good day.