Disclaimer: I didn't create CSI. Not mine. The poems I quote also aren't mine, but I figure the poets would forgive me, since sharing their work is a gesture of admiration. The poets are cited in the footnotes, in the order their poems appear in the story.
What I've Got
I just realized I can't get myself out of this. I'm trapped under a car in the middle of the desert and I can't pull myself out. I just have to wait for someone to find me.
Except...
The fear of death is a whisper in the back of my mind. The sun is beating down onto the desert sand. I suppress the fear. I should lie still, try not to sweat. I just need to rest, to save my strength. And hope they find me.
I've always wondered what death would be like. Ever since my dad died, at least.
I can't give in. If I let the fear take over, it will turn into panic, and nothing will kill me faster right now than panic. This would be really lousy time to die. I've never been happier than I have been this past year.
I know this job is risky. Of course I do. But I also know, for me, the job is worth it. Even now, I know that. It's who I am. I hope he knows that. If I survive this, I'll have to tell him.
When he realizes I'm missing, he's going to be so distraught. He's going to look for me until he finds me, even if he thinks I'm dead.
I close my eyes against the glaring sun. For some reason, I think back to a chemistry class I had in high school.
"Over billions of years," my teacher, Mr. Arce, said, "even a diamond, the hardest substance found in nature, will dissolve completely. Every physical object exchanges molecules with its surroundings."
I was half-heartedly taking notes, but his next sentence froze my hand as it struck me to my core. It was a simple statement, but to me it explained not just chemistry, but human nature.
"Things blur at the edges."
Something tickles my cheek. I open my eyes. The slight movement scared the yellow-green butterfly that had landed there. I watched it flutter away, hoping it was a good omen. I've always loved butterflies...I thought back to the murder of Debbie Marlin, a woman who reminded Grissom of me. That case had upset him, even though we weren't romantically involved yet. Imagine what it would do to him if he found my body. He'd be heartbroken. I have to survive this. I can't do that to him.
It's funny that I'm more worried about what my death will do to him than what it will do to me. Maybe it's because I don't really believe in an afterlife, so when I die my suffering will be over, while his will just be beginning. Or maybe I'm just used to the idea of dying.
I sought out Dr. Grissom after his presentation. I saw him outside the auditorium, talking to my boss. They didn't notice me.
"She's very clever and dedicated," I heard Nhung Murphy, director of the San Francisco CSI, say, and I hoped she was talking about me, because that would mean Dr. Grissom asked about me, that he was interested in me. "If she has a flaw (and everyone does) it's that she gets too caught up in her job. She sacrifices her personal life for her work. She would sacrifice her life for her work."
Hearing this, I walked away, because now I knew for sure she was talking about me.
The sun is beating down now. I'm going to have one hell of a sunburn.
I'm afraid, but I have the feeling my fear is nothing compared to what Grissom's going though.
My dear, dear Grissom...
She was right about me, you know.
"You put yourself in needless danger," Murphy said.
"I broke the case!"
"And if you'd been killed?" she said challengingly. I'd never seen her so angry. In fact, this was the first time I'd seen her angry at all.
"That's the risk I accepted when I took this job. Our job is to catch the killers and give closure to the families, no matter what."
"No, not 'no matter what.' Not no matter what!" Her accent got heavier as her anger rose. "One case is not worth your life, not worth all the other cases you could solve, not worth you, Sara Sidle."
I didn't know what to say. I stared at her defiantly. Maybe I couldn't have been so defiant if I actually believed what she was saying.
She sighed. "Go home, Sidle," she ordered.
I heard scrambling movement somewhere behind me and opened my eyes in time to see something small and fast dart beneath the car. Maybe a mouse. I closed my eyes again and tried to block out the pain and the heat and the thirst. The flashbacks were sharply detailed and vivid. I often wondered it it's true that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. I never really believed it, but it would explain these memories I'm seeing. But my memories aren't flashing before my eyes, they're going by slowly and clearly. I'm dying slowly.
"I'm sorry I was harsh with you," Murphy said the next time she had a chance to speak to me privately, a couple of days later. "But I wasn't wrong."
I just looked at her.
"There's a forensics seminar next month. Hattie's giving a presentation on detecting deception. There's a criminalist coming in from Seattle to talk about trace on footprints, and an entomologist from Las Vegas."
I forgot to be mad at her. "That would be Dr. Andrew Ling and Dr. Gilbert Grissom, wouldn't it?" I'd read papers by both men.
"Yes," she confirmed. "I'm planning a little fun after the lectures. I'd like you there."
Something brushed against my leg, jarring me back to the present. I turn my head, trying to get a better look, but it's out of my line of sight. But I can feel it moving, walking along the edge of my body, like it's taking advantage of my shadow to stay out of the burning sunlight. Smart whatever-it-is. I stay still, imagining the mouse I thought I saw earlier. When it comes into sight, I yelp. What is that thing? It looks like a spider, a yellow-tan spider with too many legs, a misshapen head...it looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. It's almost as long as my hand, and has what looks like an oversized, venomous beak. And I'm pretty sure I count ten legs. Its front legs are long and thick, the rest seem almost atrophied. It looks at me with its two black, beady eyes, then it settles in the shadow next to me. I stay still, reminding myself what Gil keeps telling me: bugs aren't like people; if they don't feel threatened, they won't hurt you.
Suddenly I want to laugh. Here I am, trapped under a car in the middle of a desert, and I'm scared of this little animal just because I don't know what it is? I smile, but only briefly, since the movement hurts my dry lips.
He would probably know exactly what this thing is. After my heart stops pounding, I find the creature strangely comforting, as if Gris had sent an avatar to ease my loneliness. It reminds me of the part about the sea serpents in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:
O happy living things! No tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart
And I blessed them unaware.
Grissom! If only you could see this!
I was early to the seminar, which was held in a small auditorium with white-painted brick walls. A few other people were already there, scattered in groups of twos and threes. There was one loner, a forty-something man in the front row, reading a book. I don't know why I decided to sit by him. Usually I would also choose to sit alone. Maybe it was a shared loneliness that I recognized in him.
The same black line that was drawn on you
Was drawn on me
And now it's drawing me in
Sixth Avenue Heartache...
And that line read "Do not cross."
For whatever reason, I took the seat beside him. He acknowledged me with a quick nod, then returned his eyes to his book. I caught the title: Masterpieces of English Poetics.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, noticing my glance. "Not typical reading for a cop."
"Actually, no." I gestured toward the stage, where the first speaker was setting up. "My friend Detective Aizawa quotes poetry all the time. And you don't look like a cop. I was just wondering what you're reading."
"'The Road Not Taken.' Frost."
"All I can think about when I read that is deciding my major in college."
He took a good look at me for the first time. His look was appreciative, but not lecherous. "I think of deciding where to go for college. I never had a doubt what I wanted to major in."
My eyes dropped away from his gaze, and I saw the poem on the next page of his book. "e.e. cummings' 'Grasshopper.' Appropriate for an entomology lecture."
"Have you heard of Dr. Grissom?" he asked conversationally.
"I heard he's brilliant, but a little dry," I replied.
"Do you like bugs?"
"I like the pretty ones: butterflies, dragonflies, fireflies, Halictid bees..."
He rewarded my blatant attempt to impress him with the sweetest smile I've ever seen.
By that time, the auditorium had filled up, and Dr. Murphy took the stand, welcomed everyone, and introduced Detective Hotaru Aizawa.
"Words have power," Hattie began. "Whether your suspect tells you the truth or lies to you, she's told you something about herself..."
After Detective Aizawa's presentation was over, Dr. Murphy stood again. "Our next speaker is the renowned forensic entomologist Dr. Gilbert Grissom."
The man I'd been sitting with stood up and took the stand. Every time he looked at the audience, I felt like he was looking right at me.
After the seminar, Dr. Murphy revealed the surprise she'd been planning: a model crime scene, including clues that related to the lectures. "You'll work in teams of two. First team done gets a gift basket. Kai, you work with Dr. Ling. Dashiell with Hattie. Sara, you're with Dr. Grissom. Don't ask for hints; you won't get any. Treat it like a real crime scene. Don't disturb evidence. Begin."
Grissom looked at me, and I smiled shyly. I hadn't spoken to him since his presentation, and I wasn't sure what he thought of me after talking to Dr. Murphy. I didn't know what to say to him.
Fortunately, Hattie chose that moment for some friendly taunting. "You're going down, Sidle. That gift basket is ours."
"In your dreams," I replied with a mild smile.
Dashiell got in on the trash-talking. He addressed Grissom. "Having Sara on your side won't save you, old man."
"We'll see about that, won't we?" he replied in a neutral, professional tone.
The sun was getting lower. The strange arachnid that had been my company suddenly scampered off, disappearing in the bushes, leaving me once again alone.
After the crime scene simulation, I accompanied Grissom to his hotel room. I'd invited myself up, since I figured he was too much a gentleman to do anything that would appear improper. I didn't really intend to seduce him, but I had in the back of my mind the stories I'd heard of hook-ups at seminars like this. And I'd noted he wasn't wearing a ring.
"You were impressive," Grissom said as he poured the gift basket champaign. "I never would have thought to look for fingerprints underneath the desk."
"you were pretty amazing yourself," I said flirtatiously. "I mean, of course you noticed the ant, but if you hadn't figured out the killer had arthritis, we never would have solved the case."
We spent the next few hours talking about our most interesting cases, our coworkers, and poetry. We exchanged e-mail addresses and promises to keep in touch, and I left.
A cool breeze ruffles my sweat-soaked hair. For a moment, I imagine it's Grissom's comforting hand.
At least I have someone to mourn me when I die. Someone to plan my funeral. I didn't always.
How will he react? Will he quote poetry to comfort himself? I wonder what he'll go with? Poe's "To One in Paradise"? Oscar Wilde's "Requiescat"? Something by Shakespeare?
Hattie told me, years ago, that poetry has power. It can relieve emotions, as well as enhance them. It can help you see things differently. It can inspire you, and give you courage. I wasn't sure I believed that, then. I do now.
If I survive this, I'm going to tell Grissom exactly how much he means to me.
Should I write a message in the dirt, just in case? What, though? "No regrets"? Something hokey about love? I'll think about it.
He'll be so sad. He loves me so much right now. If only this could have waited for a few years, after the honeymoon stage wears off...when we've had more time together. This isn't fair.
"Sara, wait for me," he called down the hall.
I held the elevator door, and muttered inaudibly, "What do you think I've been doing?"
He stepped in beside me, and I let the door close.
"You're here late," I commented.
"So are you," he pointed out.
"Yeah," We didn't look at each other. 'This is ridiculous,' I thought. Since the beginning of our friendship, I'd been attracted to him, but lately we'd been flirting more and more, gazing at each other, dropping hints and hoping for the other to make the first move. I wanted to grab him and kiss him right there, but...security cameras, and...what if I'd been misinterpreting his signals?
Messengers
They are not, my feelings,
And yet, how strange,
For my heart to her
Has been delivered.
"Some case," I said to break the silence.
"Aren't they all?"
"Not really. Remember the Sutton case?"
"No."
"Exactly."
A smile crossed his lips, but he still didn't look at me. We walked out to the parking lot. If he feels anything for me like what I feel for him, I wondered, why doesn't he say something?
Why will you not clearly tell me that you hate me?
Uncertainty weaves a sadly tangled web.
"Goodnight, Sara."
"Grissom?"
He turned to me with hope in his eyes.
My eyes dropped away from his gaze. They settled on his lips instead. "I'll see you tomorrow." I began to turn away.
"Does-the-offer-still-stand?" he asked suddenly in a rush of breath.
I turned back, a smile on my lips. "For dinner?" It had been almost three years since I'd asked him on a date, and he'd refused.
"Yes." His hands were visibly shaking.
"When and where?"
"Would...five this evening work for you? I'll pick you up?"
"That would be great."
He took me to an Italian restaurant. We were both nervous. There were frequent, lengthy pauses in conversation, but I was happy.
"Tell me something, Gris, why did it take you so long to ask me out? You knew how I feel about you."
He reddened at the directness of my question. "I'd rejected you. I was worried that I'd change my mind only to find out...you had too."
"If you really believed I could get over you so easily, you're not as brilliant as I thought," I said, trying to joke.
He looked up at me with a sheepish smile.
Her cheeks are roses red and white,
Her mouth a cleft red rose;
But ah, she is too natural quite -
Her tongue's a thorn, he knows!
"I was afraid of what you'd say if I was wrong."
I dropped my smile and jocular tone. "Gil, the Debbie Marlin case...I was in the observation room...when you interviewed the suspect."
Grissom froze up and couldn't look at me. "I don't know what to say. You could have...said something."
"I couldn't be sure you were talking about me, or that you weren't just making it up to get to the suspect. I was afraid that if I...tried again, it would hurt our friendship."
He was quiet for a moment, then only said, "I'm sorry."
I gazed at him. "You're not too late."
The waitress placed the bill on the table, and I reached for it while I thought he was distracted. He had the same idea. Our hands clasped over the bill.
Cupid, playing blindman's-buff
Seized my Psyche's floating tresses.
"Here is silken chic enough
To dispense with any guesses
This is Psyche's golden fleece:
She's my prisoner past release."
But the lookers-on declare
Love was caught in Psyche's hair.
"I asked you out; I should pay," he said.
"I asked you first, you just finally accepted," I argued.
"I make more than you do."
"A restaurant will look less suspicious on my credit card charges if anyone checks."
"I'll pay cash."
"Then why don't we split it?"
He agreed to that, and that's how we would pay for all of our dates.
When he drove me home, he asked if I wanted him to walk me to the door.
"Of course. That's what a gentleman would do," I replied.
"A gentleman would also pay for the meal."
"Don't be such a chauvinist."
At my door, I turned to him, put my arms around his neck, and kissed him.
Our first kiss was firm, lingering. Maybe he'd heard I didn't like saliva, or maybe he wanted me to set the pace, because he didn't try to stick his tongue in my mouth, or fondle me, or do anything else that every single one of my previous boyfriends had done on the first kiss. I could feel his passion, but his kiss was also full of respect, and I wanted respect from a lover more than I wanted passion.
I licked my dry, cracking lips. It was finally cooling off, and it seemed darker. I opened my eyes to see if the sun had set, and saw storm clouds gathering in the west. Lightning flickered in their dark recesses. I noted that the car was in a depression. Rain might bring relief to my parched lips, but it might also bring water to my lungs.
Has Gil realized I'm missing yet?
On the Mount of Kamo
Pillowed by the rocks
Am I;
Unknowing, is my darling
Still waiting, on and on?
I hope he gets over me. I want him move on, and never be as lonely as we were before we met.
Grissom, standing by a gravestone. Weeping. The wind blowing.
There was no color
to my heart, but with you
it is dyed and now
That it might fade
Is beyond imagination.
I can't think like that. I have to stay strong, for him.
But in the back of my mind is a Japanese poem Hattie once quoted: "...yesterday I did not know that it would be today..."
Hattie was sitting alone in the break room. I took a deep breath and joined her. It seemed dark, and the window glowed blue with twilight. "I know why Murphy didn't want you on this case," I said, diving in because I know if I tried anything else I'd lose my nerve. "I looked up your file."
The detective glanced up at me. "So you know I was raped." I couldn't believe how casual and innocuous she made the word sound.
I nodded. "And that you were in the hospital for two weeks."
"Two broken ribs, a mild concussion, and a broken right wrist. That's when I learned to write with my left hand." She lifted her cup of coffee to her lips, then looked out the window. "I was off duty when it happened, but I had my weapon. He had a knife. He put it to my neck before I could even think of reaching for my gun. It didn't happen because I was weak, or because I made a mistake; it just happened. It could have happened to anyone. I accept that. The injuries healed, the fear faded. They never caught the guy, but we have his DNA on record if he ever shows up. What bothers me now...is people who assume it makes me less able to do my job, people who think I can't keep perspective on rape cases."
"Did you think you were going to die?"
"When I felt that knife against my neck...yeah, I did."
"What was that like?"
"There's a poem by Ariwara no Narihira:
"I have always known
That at last I would
Take this road, but yesterday
I did not think that it would be today."
"Everyone's day comes sometime," I said, almost to myself.
"Whether you worry about it or not," she added. "So I don't. That's how I can do my job."
"A good philosophy," I said, "but does it help when you're actually in a situation like that?"
"I'd decided I would do whatever would give me the best chance to survive, even if that meant doing nothing. I didn't move. By the time he left, I was in too much pain to reach for my gun."
A raindrop hits my arm. It's followed by a few more before the floodgates open. Rain pours down.
The gloomy evening mists have not yet cleared,
And now comes rain, to bring still darker gloom.
It takes a few minutes for the cold to replace the day's heat. The water begins to pool around the car. I cup my hand to catch some rain to take the edge off my screaming thirst. The cold water snakes around me. I feel it rise, millimeter by millimeter. It occurs to me that the tire tracks that might have led them to me are being pounded into mud. I have to find a way out, or I'm going to drown here. I reach as far back as I can, and try to dig a trench in the mud at the sides of my legs.
I wonder if my arachnid friend found shelter from the storm.
Who saw the petals
Drop from the rose?
I, said the spider,
But nobody knows.
After we brought the last of my boxes into his house, I fell into the sofa, sighing with fatigue. "You know, actually living together might be the tricky part," I commented.
"I like challenges," he replied. He turned on his CD player, and a moment later the room filled with the sweet notes of the Moonlight Sonata. He stretched his open palm toward me. "Will you dance with me, my princess?"
"I'm no one's princess, and I'm not sure I even remember how to dance."
"That makes two of us."
I smiled and took his hand. He pulled me to him, and pressed his other hand on my mid-back. I tilted my head up and closed my eyes, and felt his breath against my lips. I strummed my fingers across the back of his neck. He pulled me closer. I turned my head, and he trailed his lips across my cheek. Then we danced.
The water keeps rising. I have to strain my neck to hold my head above it. My nails dig into the mud, but my hands are going numb, and I'm so exhausted.
I'm still not ready to say goodbye. Catherine, Nick, Warrick, Greg, Brass, they're like a family to me. More of a family than I've ever had before. And then there's Gil.
Through the stillness of the night, love,
To a heart that's longing for you;
Swiftly as a bird in flight, love,
Fly, my darling, fly to me.
Oft when twilight shades are falling,
I can sense your presence near me;
And your sweet voice softly calling,
Calling to me tenderly.
When my eager arms enfold you,
Never more to let you fly away;
Dear, forever I will hold you,
To my heart, eternally.
I'm not sure how long my strength will hold out. And the water's still rising. I can honestly say I've never been so scared in my life. At least, not this kind of fear.
"Happy anniversary," I said as I slid an envelope across the table.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He opened the card. His face lit with glee when he saw the rollercoaster tickets inside. Then he presented me with my anniversary gift: a small jewelry box.
My smile wavered. I hoped it wasn't going to be a ring. I thought I'd made my feelings about marriage clear: while love might survive in a legally structured symbol of permanence, I didn't want to be asked to throw on a shackle to prove my love. Besides, everyone would find out. So far we'd managed to hide our relationship from everyone we knew, and frankly I like it that way: it gave the whole thing the extra spice of the forbidden.
I nervously opened the box, then smiled with relief and happiness as I took in the beautiful gold necklace within. The pendant was a black pearl embraced in gold wire. "It's beautiful!"
"If you think that's beautiful, you should see your smile right now."
My smile grew even brighter. "Oh, you're so getting lucky tonight."
I loved watching him blush.
My hand slips in the mud, plunging my head into the water. I come up sputtering and coughing. I keep working on getting out as the water keeps rising. It gets so high, I have to hold my breath to keep digging.
Finally, my legs slide out. I wiggle my way through the mud and water out of the car, then I shriek as feeling floods back into my legs. I think they might be broken. I've never been in so much pain in my life. Between the cold rain and the injuries, if I don't pass out, I'm going to go into shock. I need to find shelter. If I can walk.
I push myself up, and stumble through the darkness. The pain in my legs consumes my body, consumes my thoughts, explodes with each step. I spot the outline of a hill, and make my way toward it. My hand touches rock, and I begin to crawl. I stick my hand in what feels like a cactus, and a new pain enters my body, but it's soon engulfed by the old. I keep dragging myself up the slope. My hands touch something that feels different. It takes me a moment to remember what dryness feels like. I pull myself forward, and realize I've reached a crevice deep enough to keep the rain off me. I lie down. The slope is steep, and rocks jab into me, but I can't move anymore.
My consciousness begins to drain away, but then another sensation enters my awareness. Something moves against my back, then coils up between me and the rock overhang above me. There's only one snake that size in this part of the country: a rattlesnake.
I'm far past laughter, but it still strikes me as absurd that I've lost count of the things poised to kill me right now.
But the rattlesnake is only interested in my warmth. After getting comfortable, it doesn't move.
Here, soaked through with cold and pain, between a rock and a rattlesnake, I finally find rest.
Time must pass. Somehow, I'm still alive. It might be day now. It feels warmer. The rattlesnake slithers off me, and I think to myself, "There goes someone else who abandoned me."
And then it rattles. This doesn't make sense: rattlesnakes only rattle when they're warning something off, and I haven't moved.
"It's a rattler! It's just a rattler."
The voice sounds familiar. I moved my hand enough to knock loose a rock. I hear it clatter down the slope.
"Wait a minute..."
Warrick. It's Warrick's voice.
Movement. He's climbing down.
"Oh my God...Sara! I found her! She's over here! Get the paramedics; she's hurt bad."
"Is she breathing?" Catherine calls.
"I think so. Yeah. She's alive. Barely." I feel his hand slip around mine. "Listen Sara, we're going to get you out of here. You're going to be alright. Can you hear me?"
I can't answer.
He lets go of my hand and moves away. The paramedics arrive and pull me onto a stretcher. Pain shoots through me, but I don't have the strength to scream.
"Sara?" This is Grissom's voice. Tired, desperate.
I find strength to move my lips. "Grissom." No sound comes out.
"Sara." This time he speaks my name with relief and tenderness.
I don't know if they give me something, or if I fall asleep, or pass out, but a comfortable, peaceful darkness takes me.
Endnotes:
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
The Wallflowers, "6th Avenue Heartache."
Fujiwara no Motokata, Kokinshu 480.
Anonymous, Kokinshu 1037.
Arthur Grissom, "Too Natural."
Caroline Duer, "A Vignette."
Kakinomoto no Hitomaro, Manyoshu 223.
Ariwara no Narihira, 100 Poems from the Japanese. Trans. Kenneth Rexroth.
Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji. Trans. Edward Seidensticker.
Margaret Wise Brown, "The Secret Song."
"Manu Rere." The Languages of the World. Kenneth Katzner. Original source: The Maori Song Book. Trans. Sam Freedman.