Verb: to separate into isolated compartments or categories.
If it were an adjective it would be used to describe Dr. Maura Isles. Separate, isolated compartments; work Maura, home Maura. She has perfected the transition between the two. From the moment she sews up the last Y incision of the day to the moment she steps foot into her apartment; the shift is immediate.
Maura at work
Professional, meticulous, well dressed. On the outside, she was perfect. A strong, independent, successful woman whose life did not rely on a man. She was confident, intimidating to some, "The Ice Queen," and a damn hard worker. She was also a woman of wealth, a woman, who if she chose, would never have to work a day in her life. But that was not Maura Isles. Maura Isles craved knowledge, loved her career, and was destined for so much more than the socialite life she inherited.
Yes, work Maura had it together. Work Maura was the epitome of success and happiness. But home Maura? That's a whole different story.
Maura at home.
From the moment she unlocks her door and flips the light, Maura's switch from work to home is a complete 180. Her heels click across the floor as they make their way from the garage entrance to the kitchen, where Maura places her keys and purse in their designated spots (still compartmentalizing certain parts of her life). Slipping off her blazer, she moves down the hall to her bedroom, placing her Jimmy Choos in the correct box and discards her pencil skirt and silk top to their appropriate hangers to be sent off for dry cleaning. In nothing but her matching lingerie set, she slips into her silk robe and heads back toward the living room. She is not sure why she partakes in the following activities in this particular ensemble, but it somehow always ends up that way; makes her feel sexy while performing her unsexy habit.
And so it begins, her addiction (no, she thinks to herself, it's not that bad)... her habit. (Yes, habit, that's all it is). The thing that haunts her, but just can't seem to stop. Standing in front of her neatly organized and well stocked bar cart, she reaches for the gin to make herself a cocktail. The first of many she will pour over the next few hours.
She's not exactly sure when or why this little 'drinking habit' started. It certainly wasn't because she needed the liquid courage. No, of all people, Maura did not need to drink for the courage. She was confident, smart, and beautiful; envied by many. Maura never had to drink to work up the nerve to talk or flirt with anyone. Maura was the definition of sexual confidence and was more than comfortable with her body and her sexual endeavors. As long as she felt safe, knew an experience could be pleasurable for her, or at the very least could learn something from it, Maura engaged willingly. It was exciting. It was fun. It was an experiment.
No, Maura drank to feel. Although she was brilliant at reading emotions in others, she had a difficult time identifying and feeling her own. She needed to make sure she was human; that she wasn't the same as the bodies lying on her table. That she wasn't the same as Charles Hoyt. She needed to know that she was capable of love and that others were capable of loving her. She needed release and the only way she seemed know how was to drink. She hates herself for it. The doctor in her knows how bad it is for her body and how unhealthy, both physically and emotionally it is for her. How illogical it is, but she can't seem to stop. It has become a routine, and for Maura, once something becomes routine, it's hard to kick the habit.
Extremely hard.
It started out being a once a month thing, which soon lead to once a week, followed by once a day. She came home from work and drank. Drank until she felt. Drank until she was sobbing on the bathroom floor just because it felt so good to feel; to have release that she couldn't achieve otherwise.
She drank until she couldn't feel anything.
But, no matter how much she drank or how late she was up, she still managed to wake up bright and early each morning and go complete her morning routine. She had been doing it for so long that she became an expert at covering the slightest hint of being hung-over. She had no problem making the transition between sad, shit-faced Maura to happy, well-dressed, google-mouth Maura. The switch was easy.
Until Jane.
Jane.
Jane did not compartmentalize. As a detective, as a cop, as a person in law enforcement, that was just not a word in the job description. A serial killer on the run at work was still a serial killer on the run at home. There was no separation, no off switch. Her life is her work and her work is her life. Since Hoyt it was almost impossible to separate the two.
Her routine was simple. She stayed up working on cases and she woke up early, just minutes before needing to be at the precinct, and never had time for breakfast or to put together a decent outfit.
V-necks, pastries, and day old coffee became her signature. And she was fine with that.
Until Maura.