SUMMARY: A sequel to "Midday Interlude". We know the end. But it's in how we get to the end that we find hope.
Interlude: Sunset
A/N This is a sequel to "Midday Interlude". Thank you for the wonderful reviews! This is the logical conclusion to that story; reading it will give you the time and place and some characters. You know what's coming, and it will be sad. This is a trick I learned reading translations of medieval Chinese stories: everyone knows how the story ends. What's important is how we get to the end. There is a character death in this story.
I'm posting this as a one-shot even though it's long. It's a single day's events and I want to keep that frame.
This story contains a sizeable number of original characters, not found in the canon of the show. Here's a list to make it easier to recognize who's who:
Cast of Characters:
Cpt. Jane Rizzoli-Isles, Boston Police Dept. (ret.)("Mother")
Dr. Maura Rizzoli-Isles ("Mama")
Dr. Angela Garner, Jane and Maura's daughter, the narrator
Mark Garner, husband to Angela
Jack Garner, Maura Garner ("little Maura"), Angela and Mark's children
David Rizzoli-Isles, FBI, Jane and Maura's son (who is deaf)
Cpt. Frankie Rizzoli, BPD (ret.), Jane's younger brother
Gloria Rizzoli, wife to Frankie
Thomas Rizzoli, Jr. (TJ), Jane's nephew
Raymond, Jane and Maura's gardener and caretaker
Monsieur et Madame Picot, bakers, friends of Jane and Maura's
Antoine, owner of Jane and Maura's favorite bistro
References are made to the following persons, who do not appear in the story:
Jane's parents, Frank and Angela Rizzoli, both deceased
Maura's parents, David and Constance Isles, both deceased
Tommy Rizzoli, Jane's youngest brother (deceased), father to TJ
Lydia Rizzoli,Tommy's ex-wife, mother to TJ
Detective Barry Frost, Detective Vince Korsak, and Lt. Sean Cavanaugh, Jane's colleagues, deceased.
Dr. Susie Chang, Prof. of Criminology, Michigan State University, Maura's former colleague
Madame LeGrande and Signora Castiglione, Jane and Maura's neighbors and friends
######
Part One: Gather the Family
Mama is on the phone, talking in rapid-fire French. She is arranging rooms at the large pensione two streets away, a room for Frankie and Gloria, and one for TJ; David will stay in the third bedroom here. They are supposed to arrive on the same plane today, into Marseilles, and will take the bullet to Nice; they should be there by suppertime. Mama has arranged a car to bring them here.
It is a family gathering, but not a happy one. On Saturday Mother had a hemorrhage, doubled over in the bathroom in such pain that she could only moan horribly, vomiting copious amounts of blood. Mama called an ambulance and she was rushed ten kilometers to a hospital in Nice; on Wednesday her doctors gave Mama the grim news that liver and kidney failure were so advanced that there was nothing they could do. The prognosis could be measured in days; a week or two at the most. She was released at her own and Mama's request, wishing to reach the end in her own home, with her own family. My Mother Jane has always known what she wants; and even she, as stubborn as she is, knows when to stop beating her head against a wall.
Since recovering from her stroke five years ago, Mother has seemed stronger, more vigorous, more interested in living than dying. Knowing that there are grandchildren to dote over, even an ocean and a continent away, has given her more zest. We brought the children here, two years ago; Jack was not quite three, and Maura only eighteen months. (I couldn't help it; even though Mama thought we shouldn't name the baby after her, I have always adored the name.) Mother was in heaven. She held Maura endlessly, smiling, cooing, even singing (Mother never could carry a tune, but "her little girl" didn't care.) She played cars and Legos with Jack on the dining table, and read him to sleep at night, and told him stories of cops'n'robbers that kept him wide-eyed. Mama told me later that nothing helped complete her recovery more than playing with her grandchildren.
But the signs were there, and she could not hide them from Mama, who is a sharp-eyed diagnostician. Even I, a pediatrician, could see the deterioration. So when we returned to Seattle we kept bags packed, and put our business associates on notice that we might leave for Europe at any time. And we waited for Mama to call.
She called on Wednesday night.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon here, and I was in surgery; she called Mark after the hospital said I was unavailable. They talked for a while, he said, but the gist of the message was "get here at once." She needn't have explained; we all knew the reason.
On the flight over, while Mark and the kids slept, I agonized over my inability to find a position in France. The economy there was poor at the moment, and finding a post, even for a trained surgeon, had proven extraordinarily difficult. So when Seattle Grace offered me a job, I accepted. Mark found Seattle a friendly climate to begin his own engineering consulting firm, where he could hire other people to slog through wet mine bores, while he made decisions in a warm, dry office. I guess we are permanent West-coasters, at least for the foreseeable future.
"Merci, madame. Merci beaucoup." Mama hangs up the phone. We sit at her rustic dining-room table. Mother is on the sofa in the living room, resting; Mark and Jack have gone out to buy pastry for dessert. Maura is crawling about under the dining table, making brrrp-ing sounds.
Mama looks younger than her eighty-one years. Her skin, I suppose. So well cared for. And her hazel eyes are still clear, and her smile is bright, though I know she wears dentures now. But I notice her bare arms, and I'm concerned at how thin she seems to be. I ask her if they are eating well.
She says yes, that while they don't cook much any more, the neighbors bring them food regularly. Madame LeGrande brought them a lovely roast chicken earlier in the week, along with a tasty comfit of goose that they can keep in the fridge. And Signora Castiglione, who lives next door (and was enchanted to know that Mother was of Italian descent) supplies them with an abundance of homemade Italian dishes; This morning she brought a bowl of homemade ravioli and sauce, and a salad and bread, which became our supper. Mother ate little. She tried to make small talk with us, but she was clearly in pain. She refuses to take the medication they have given her for it. It makes her dopey, she says. She is still stubborn.
But despite this community's kindness and care, Mama is thin. And worn. The suffering Mother is going through, and the pending loss of the love of her life, are taking their toll.
She sits quietly, meditating. Then, apropos of nothing, she says "I always thought I would die before Jane."
I had to agree. Mother was always so tough. Mama was strong, but, it seemed to me, more fragile. I expressed some surprise that Mother should have been plagued with such ill health.
"Well, you know, your Mother's had a hard life. She was shot three times. She was stabbed, oh I lost count, and she was in more fistfights and wrestling scuffles than I care to remember. She broke several bones. She dislocated each of her shoulders several times. She was terrorized by a deranged murderer for three years. She was stabbed through the palms of her hands. She's been hit on the head, burned. And there was a period in her life when she drank far more than she should have."
I told her I didn't remember ever hearing about that.
"It was when you were little. Not long after David was born. It's a long story. We worked it out. But her body has taken a beating. And she was never very diligent about taking care of herself. I was always nagging her to eat right, go to yoga with me, calm down. Your Mother is the classic Type A personality."
She pauses, tears up. I reach behind me for the box of tissues on the sideboard.
Her voice breaks in a sob. "She was always so good for me."
She cries. It is not the first, nor the last, of cries, and she has every right to cry. Indeed, to weep. All I can do, all she wants me to do, is hold her hand, let her give vent to her sadness, and fear, and rage.
She goes to the small bath to freshen up, and while she is there, Jack and Mark return, bearing lovely fruit filled pastries, and right behind them, Uncle Frankie and Aunt Gloria, and my cousin TJ. And David. My beloved brother, whom I haven't seen in six years. I give Mark a quick peck – I'm sure he'll forgive me – and throw myself into David's waiting arms. I've received holiday cards, and presents, and emails vaguely describing his activities, and I've had to be content with that, knowing that the nature of his work requires that he be vague. He hugs me spectacularly. Fortunately he's not armed. Why someone who does what he does – he says he interprets intelligence data – should carry a weapon, I don't know, and he's never explained it. But I know he knows how to use one. Mother taught him.
We separate, and I look him over, as he does me. His delicate, light-boned face, slight build, blond crew-cut hair, and wire-rimmed glasses give him a scholarly look, which belies the fiery enthusiasm he brings to everything he does or says. We begin an animated conversation in sign, which Mama soon joins, after another athletic, but gentler, hug for her. We don't pause to translate verbally, which I'm sure makes the others feel left out, but for the moment all I want to do is find out everything about David. He apologizes for the sparse communication, and not visiting; he's been traveling a lot, and he goes where the Bureau sends him. He is happily busy, and he has other news: he has a girlfriend, a woman who also works for the FBI. They've been dating for about a year, and may be moving in together; they have even discussed (very cautiously) marriage. I can't help but ask..."Is she...?" "Yes. She hears." I apologize, and he says not to, it's a natural question.
He asks, "Where's Mother?", and Mama hugs him again and takes him into the living room to see her. As we set the pastries out, I get reacquainted with my relatives. Uncle Frankie is three years younger than Mother; he's gained some weight, and has a thin fringe of the same slate-gray hair as Mother, around an otherwise bald pate. He retired from the BPD with the rank of captain, same as Mother, and bought a security consulting business, which he's recently sold. Gloria is still handsome, but withered; being the wife of a cop is stressful, and she seems not to have borne up under it as well as Mama. My uncle, unlike his older sister, made it through his career with hardly a scratch, and not through lack of bravery; but Gloria was nevertheless constantly worrying about his safety, and the anxiety alone drained the life out of her.
My cousin TJ smiles, hugs me with less vigor but no less affection, kisses me on the cheek. He has his mother's pale blond hair, which he wears shoulder-length, and the tall lanky Rizzoli build. TJ has never lost the melancholy he has carried since his parents' divorce, and still mourns the loss of his father; Tommy passed away at the age of sixty-nine, after first working in construction, and then running a successful concrete contracting business. He had been thinking about retiring, but was still putting in a full week's work, when his heart gave out. Lydia did not appear at the funeral. She has apparently just disappeared. TJ has always felt abandoned by her. He went to the Boston Conservatory, where he studied jazz; he's a musician who nominally lives in Boston, but travels with his band most of the year. He's single; that and other evidence leads me to wonder if he may be gay, but the subject has never come up. Given the nature of my family, that should be something he wouldn't keep from me, if it were true. But TJ has always had trust issues. And it's really none of my business, anyway.
I pick up little Maura, and we all gather around the table, Mother at the head in her wheelchair, Mama next to her, constantly touching, the occasional soft kiss. They are still, as always, very much in love. We are eating pastries, drinking herbal tea, and talking. Rizzolis talk. Sometimes all at once. Loudly. The only ones who contribute little are TJ, who is pensively quiet, and Mother, who seems content to listen and take in the miracle that is her family, and on occasion make a sarcastic jab at Frankie or Mama, or get into a humorous signed exchange with David which only half the table understands. I, of course, am in it up to my eyebrows. While I'm a Garner now – I took Mark's name, he won the toss – I'm still a Rizzoli-Isles by blood and birth, and one of the first rules was (despite Mama's emphasis on manners), if you don't speak up, you're screwed.
I notice that Mother's eyes are drooping, her head lolls. Mama is leaning back against her chair, blinking sleep from her eyes. It's time for bed. I know Mama has a big day planned for tomorrow. I stand. I bid everyone goodnight, and ask David if he'll help me get Mama and Mother to bed before we go upstairs. Everyone else stands, and in a twinkling the table is cleared, the plates and mugs are rinsed, and Mama and Mother have been kissed and hugged goodnight. In moments everyone has gone to the pensione, which is a five minute walk from the house on a warm summer night. David pushes Mother back to their bedroom, while Mama leans on me for support; she is very tired. Mother kisses me and David. "Goodnight, baby" she says to me, and I don't mind at all. Mama kisses us, and says "thank you" to both of us. I wish she wouldn't thank me. She's my mother, for heaven's sake. What else would I do?
Part Two: I Give You This Day
It is five o'clock in the morning. I shake Mark, kiss him provocatively on the shoulder, and run my fingers through his rust-colored hair, which gets his sleepy attention. I tell him I am going out to do the marketing, and will he listen for the children if they wake up? He mumbles his assent, and his disappointment. It won't last long; we'll have time for a little quiet, but lusty, recreation when I return. But getting to the shops early allows more choices.
I pick up my list, which I compiled with Mama yesterday, checking with her to make sure my French is accurate:
Boulangerie
Pain
biscuits au beurre
charcuterie
bacon
jambon fumé
saucisson d'été
pâté de foiede poulet
épicerie
fromage à pâte molle
oranges
cornichons
tomates
compote de pommes
œufs
Mama keeps almost no fresh food in the house, cooking so irregularly that she is afraid it will spoil. They employ a young couple of the village as household help, and they do the marketing for such items when necessary. But today that is my chore. There are several modern, gleaming supermarkets a few minutes drive away, on the highway to Nice, where I could get everything in one place. But, first, I don't have an international driver's license, and second, I truly love visiting the small local shops, and chatting with the shopkeepers who all know my parents and smile at me simply because they know I'm their daughter; I get to bask in the glow of the friendships they've won over their years here. I take a moment to look in on them, and they are sleeping peacefully, Mama resting on Mother's shoulder, her arm around her waist; Mother's breathing is easy and regular. Collecting some canvas bags from behind the kitchen door, I step out into the cool summer morning.
As I pass out to the street I see Raymond, who, with his wife Annette, work as cooks/housekeepers/gardeners/caretakers for the house. Mama hired them when Mother had her stroke, and they've given excellent service. They are both students, and the money they earn allows them to live in their own apartment, and not with Annette's parents. Raymond is digging a new flower bed in the small front garden, and has his shirt off, sweating despite the cool of the morning; he will finish before the day heats up. I chat for a few moments, take a microsecond to admire the view he provides, before mentally slapping myself into remembering that I'm a married woman. I am indeed; but it hurts no one to admire, and Mark would agree. As would Mama.
It only takes a short time to finish at the market and the deli, and I walk out of my way to visit the Boulangerie Picot, the owners of which have been my parents' friends almost since the day they arrived here. There is another bakery, closer to the house, but the Picots are special friends. Madame and Monsieur Picot are at a table on the sidewalk, enjoying coffee and a croissant, as well as, in Monsieur's case, a glass of brandy; he tells me this has been his breakfast for forty years. He and Madame no longer take such an active role in the operation of the business, although Monsieur still visits the ovens in the basement every morning. His son, daughter, and son-in-law now do most of the work, and stand to become full owners in the near future, when their parents retire.
They ask, of course, after Mother. Everyone knows Mother is ill. Perhaps they do not know how ill she really is. I tell them the truth, and they look so sad that I wish I hadn't. But better to be prepared now than to be shocked by the inevitable news later. They both hug me, and maybe we all shed a few tears. But I also tell them that the whole family has come to visit, and that we will be having a happy day today, with all of us together. I buy the bread, I buy the cookies. They try to tell me I don't have to pay. I insist. We argue, pleasantly. Eventually I win, and hand their daughter the money.
The house is still quiet when I return; everyone is still in bed. That was my plan. I put the groceries away; go back to our room, undress and am about to slip under the sheet, when Mark turns to me, looks me over, and makes my day by saying, "God, you are beautiful."
What I have to say thereafter is for his ears only.
######
Breakfast is active and loud. Mama and I are making omelettes, I manning pans at the stove while she sprinkles cheese and herbs, and turns the eggs onto a plate for the next person, while I start another one in a second pan. By tag-teaming pans we have the whole crew fed in record time. David roasted bacon in the oven while I was doing the knife work. Mark made coffee, And Jack buttered the toast. We're a good team.
As they did last night, Mother sits at the head of the table with Mama right next to her, but this time David sits on Mother's other side while I hold Maura in my lap, Jack between Mark and I. The only thing remarkable about this is, for me, the consciousness that it will not last long. Soon, we all know, that space at the head of the table will be empty. We are all determined to make the most of this time together.
Whatever her inner demeanor may be, today Mother is, it seems, a little better. She is smiling, conversing; she even laughs, albeit weakly, from time to time. I believe she is determined to enjoy this time as much as we are. As we are cleaning up, Mother waves me to her side. I sit down next to her, and she grips my forearm with a strength that surprises me. "What the hell has she got in her head?" she rasps at me, and I simply assume my most innocent expression. Mother is shrewd. It's hard to hide anything from her for long. She was after all, a detective, and a damn good one.
"I have no idea, Mother." Unlike Mama, I'm physiologically capable of lying, although I don't like to. Especially to Mother. But it's a white lie, to make Mama happy.
"I'll just ask David."
"He truly doesn't know. I'm sure."
"Well, I hope she hasn't planned anything fancy. I hope she's not planning to drag us to Paris, or Florence, or somewhere. I'm just happy to have you all here." She pauses to wheeze, close her eyes, get her breath. "I'm damned if I'm pleased by the occasion."
"Mama loves you. She isn't planning anything elaborate. Just what you're comfortable with, whatever'll make you feel as good as possible."
"I'm dying, Angie. I don't want to spend most of a day cooped up in a van, even a luxury van, with this bunch. Even if they are my family." Another wheeze, another breath.
I can't help but smile, feel heartened. That's Mother. The sarcasm is her natural habitat. She lives there with ease. How close to leaving us can she be, if she jabs at all of us like that?
"Trust your wife. She knows you. She'd do anything for you."
She scowls. Then, grudgingly, smiles. "Well...all right. I know she wants to make me happy."
"That's right, she does. And you want to make her happy, too. That's what I've always loved about you both." I stand up, put my arms around her, cradle her head against my stomach. I bend over, touch my lips to the top of her head. "I love you."
She whispers against my body, "I love you more."
And I believe her.
######
Mama has arranged a large wheelchair van, big enough to accommodate all ten of us. It's quite comfortable, even though we'll spend only about half an hour in it getting to the destination Mama's chosen. I and Mark are the only others who know where we're going, because she needs some straw bosses to shepherd the whole crew.
Rizzolis. Herding cats would be a piece of cake by comparison.
We are in the van, Mark and I singing in English and French to keep Maura and Jack occupied. David, who is an accomplished lipreader as well as being fluent in several versions of sign, mouths the words silently, making extremely silly faces that keep my children (and Mama and Mother) laughing. The children have never met David, but they know he is deaf, and they treat it as an unremarkable fact; David, who has never for a moment been free to indulge in self pity (our parents' influence, of course), has a natural and easy humor about him, which my children found enchanting as soon as the strangeness of his silence wore off. This despite the gravity of his work and what I know was the daunting nature of his difference. David may be our parents' most impressive achievement; I, after all, started out with all the advantages of sight, hearing, speech, and movement; David had to conquer a barrier of silence in a world that assumed hearing was a given, and conquer it he has, with courage, aplomb, and laughter. He was born, I believe, with a prodigious intelligence and an indomitable will; the best clay for the four hands of the potters to shape.
He was my best friend when we were children; and has only been supplanted in my heart by one other, my husband. I am delighted to see him again, tempered only by the distressing circumstances that bring us together.
The day is warm; warm enough to be comfortable, but not oppressive. The fresh air of the Alpes' maritimes is soon replaced by the salt tang of the sea. I forget, living in the small mountain village my parents call home, that only a few kilometers away is one of the wealthiest, most famous stretches of coastline in Europe. We drive past row after row of white, high-rise hotels, surrounded by the semitropical vegetation of the Mediterranean climate. I see Mother's face transform from grumpy perplexity to happy comprehension.
Mama has always hated tourist destinations. Not so much because of the crowds, but rather the commercialization, the constant pressure to buy something. Not that she isn't a world-class shopper; she just likes to do it on her own terms, in her own time. Whenever we took vacations it was always to some out-of-the-way place, where we could enjoy natural beauty, historic significance, or – as here, just outside the town of Beausoliel-sur-mer – just plain, unpressured fun.
Not long after moving here, Mama and Mother purchased a membership in a club de villégiature, a resort club, a comfortable, but small, hotel and beach area that caters to clients with a penchant for privacy and modest accommodations, out of sight of the glitzy gold coast of the Riviera. They rarely spent more than a day here, lounging on the beach, walking in the surf, cuddling in the wide chaise lounge chairs arranged along the boardwalk that parallels the surf line. It was one of the best parts of their retirement, a place where they could enjoy the sun, the water, and each other. There are nice restaurants on the grounds, and bungalows if one wishes to pass the night; tennis courts and bridle paths for the more active guests.
We pass through the gate, drive down toward the beach area, and disembark onto a low boardwalk that stretches along the beach and down to the edge of the surf. Along the sand are lounge chairs and umbrellas with small tables, and a few picnic tables further up the beach. Off to one side is a small, clean cabana-changing room. As Mark pushes Mother's chair along the smooth, weathered boards, Mama, walking arm-in-arm with David and I, explains that of all the places at which they've spent time, this, aside from home, was Mother's favorite. "Jane never stopped smiling and laughing from the time we'd arrive in the morning until we went home in the evening," she says, and I understand that she has brought us here to be able to see Mother smile and laugh like that again. It was the one place she never needed sarcasm; there was nothing to be sarcastic about.
"That must have been a strain on her," David signs, and Mama signs back, "True, but an hour with her and me in one of these chairs relieved that." David makes a mock-scandalous face, and Mama hastens to add, "Nothing untoward. Just being together." They both laugh and I laugh with them. It is so good to see Mama laugh; her laugh was, according to Mother, one of the qualities that made her fall in love with Mama. And I can see why.
There are some wider lounges, meant for two, and it is into one of these that David and Mark and I guide Mother, carrying her from her chair – she is almost incapable of walking on her own at this point. Mama settles down next to her, and they immediately fit together as if their bodies were made that way. Mother kisses Mama on the forehead, smiles brightly, and says something I fail to understand; I think she is speaking Italian. Mama nods, hugs Mother and the two of them stare out at the sea; for the moment they are the only two people on the planet.
(Italian was a language that they didn't encourage us to learn as kids, and they used it between them as a secret language while we were growing up. I almost took it in college just to spite them, but as a pre-med I had a lot on my plate, and just never had time for it. I do not have Mama's talent for languages; I'm genetically unrelated to her.)
I and Mark take the kids to change into their suits, and we let them loose on the beach. Jack immediately heads for the water, and I follow after, keeping him close to the beach; he's not a strong swimmer yet. Mark and Maura are happily building something vaguely resembling a castle in the sand, although she keeps bulldozing Mark's more intricate structures in hopes of "improving" them. The engineering mentality, father and daughter.
TJ, Frankie, and Gloria have pulled some loose chairs around Mama and Mother, and they're chatting away, probably telling family stories so that TJ has a better idea just how ridiculous this family of his is. TJ is laughing, something I haven't seen him do yet, and I find once again that despite Mama's reputation for social ineptness (which I've heard about from Mother and Lt. Korsak, when he used to come to the house for Sunday dinners), she hit the nail on the head with this excursion. The grim shadows have been chased away, and everyone is having a good time, as if it would never end.
David is sitting on the sand next to Mama's side of the lounge, and as I look up the beach he walks toward me into the surf. I shoo Jack up to play with his dad and sister, as David steps up to his waist into the water. Despite his small, compact build (he is genetically related to Mama), he is soundly muscular, well-sculpted and vigorous; he clearly works out regularly. He gives the wolfish grin he has always displayed when contemplating mischief, and signs to me, "Wanna race?" He points to the buoys, twenty-five yards out, that mark the limits of the swimming area. I sign "Out and back? First one to touch dry land?" He nods. "What's the bet?" He signs, "Bragging rights." I sign a curt "You're on."
I call to Mark. "Start us, please?" He's used to this with my friends; none of the swimmers among them can resist a chance to take down the champ. He steps into the water, holds his arm up, drops it one, two, three times, and waves us off.
I started swimming competitively in high school, mostly, at first, because I needed a "sport" on my transcripts to rate better in the college admission game. I found I was good at it, and kept it up even in the off season; and I still do, 100 laps a week at least. But David couldn't let me excel at something without chasing me at it. He began training too, and got steadily better, until he could almost beat my times. Not quite; at that time he just didn't have the physical strength to keep up, and it was that that kept him off the men's team. But he kept at it, as I have, and he's said, in his emails, that if we ever got the chance he was going to swim my ass off.
I'm a little out of training, and by the time I touch the buoy my arms are burning. I ramp it up, and do the last twenty in a haze of pain, and I feel the sand under my palms. I look up. Mark has both arms up; it's a tie. David has every right to brag; this is the first time I've not beaten him outright.
I'll never tell him that, of course. In fact, he rags on me as soon as we're on the beach. "you know I won. The only reason he called a tie is because he sleeps with you!"
I laugh, and sign to him, "He knows that the only way that would matter is if he didn't give me an honest call. And then he wouldn't be sleeping with me." Then I add a sign not in the school dictionaries. Mark, who doesn't sign, doesn't get why David doubles over laughing.
Mama is waving at us, beckoning us in. We walk up, and she says, "Jane wants to walk in the surf a little. Will you guys help her?" She points to Mark and David. They help Mother up, and, supporting her between them, help her across the ten or twelve yards of sand to the water. The white cotton dress she's wearing billows in the breeze, revealing her thinness, but her bare feet touch the sand, something she hasn't experienced in years. Even from behind, I can feel the pleasure as she dips her feet in the Mediterranean.
Thank you, Mama.
I sit where Mother was, and take Mama's hand. "Have you thought more about it?"
"Some. I don't want to be that far from her."
We're talking about her moving to Seattle, and living with us, when the time comes. She doesn't want to stay in Europe; with Mother gone, all her family is in the States, and she doesn't want an ocean between us at her age. But Mother will be buried in the Rizzoli family plot in Boston Cemetery; and there is an extra space there for Mama, too. I hate talking about this, but it has to be done. I assure her that when it's her time we will see that she and Jane are together no matter where she is living. Her grandchildren adore her; she does need someone to look after her; it's no burden on anyone. We want her with us. We've even, Mark and I, discussed adding a wing onto the house, just a small apartment, and enclosing the pool so that it can be used year-round. Mark's business is doing well, I'm at Grace for the long haul, and we can afford it; Mama dismisses that with a wave of her hand, as if to say she could build ten houses. As she gets older, I've noticed Mama is more liberal with her own money. She assures me the grandchildren will be taken care of on the same terms David and I were: any educational expense will be covered, but if they want spending money, or clothes money, or fun money, they'll have to earn it themselves. The Foundation's money, of course is another matter, and she and Mother have taken steps to assure that the Foundation's work will continue after they are both gone.
"Please, Mama. Please come live with us. It's a nice climate, winters are mild..."
"It rains too much."
"A little each day. No big downpours like Boston. There's Puget sound, Mark wants to get a boat. Best seafood in North America."
"Remember, I was raised on New England lobsters."
"So. Where can you go where you have a private physician on call twenty-four hours a day?"
"I'm not one, I'm eighty-one. I need a gerontologist, not a pediatric surgeon."
"I'm still a doctor."
"Hmm. I don't know."
"Mama, you're just being selfish. What does Boston have for you?"
"Jane."
"Mama. You stopped being a pathologist long ago. The best thing you can do for Mother after...after she passes, is to see that her grandchildren have what you gave David and I."
"Angela. Don't you understand? Boston is where we found each other. All the love we had, began there. I don't want to abandon that."
"Mama, Boston is just a city. It's a place, not a person. If you want to remember Mother...Jane, isn't she in every cell in your body? Every memory you have has her stamp on it. It doesn't matter where you are. She's a part of you, In Massachusetts or Washington."
"You're persuasive. You learned that from her."
"Some."
"Hmmm. All right. We'll try. But no meddling, daughter. It's my life until it's over."
"No meddling. Promise."
"I love you."
"I love you more."
Mother comes back, powered by her son and son-in-law. I move to make room for her, and she eases back onto the lounge. She's pale from the exertion, and she's breathing harder, but as she rests her color comes back and her respiration evens out. She kisses Mama on the mouth. "Go play with the grandkids. Wanna gossip about you with Angie."
"They'll break me in half. And you must be quite creative if you can get any gossip out of my life." She rises, slowly, and walks down the beach with David, where Mark gets a chair for her and my kids play at her feet.
Mother takes my hand the same way I held Mama's. "Did you sell it?"
"I think so. She's reluctant to be far away from where you...will be."
"I'll be dead. I won't be going anywhere. You won't even have to see to flowers. I'm willing to bet she's set up a maintenance fund that'll make that grave look like Versailles."
"Probably."
"So she'll go."
"Yes, Mother. We'll build that wing onto the house and she'll have all the privacy she cares to have. We'll take care of her."
"Good. I couldn't stand the thought of her being alone, or in some home...yuch. You're a good kid. Mark's okay with this?"
"Yes. The new wing was his idea. Don't get worked up, Mother. It's all going to be taken care of."
David comes and sits on the lounge by me. Signs. "What's taken care of?" Of course he read my lips.
I explain how Mama's agreed to come to Seattle. David's a little sad that she'll be so far from DC, but he travels so much that it's probably not that important where she is. Mother gathers her breath again. She speaks and signs. "Did she explain to you? About the kids?"
"Same deal as you gave us? Yes, she did."
Mother looks at David, signs. "And that goes for you, too, if and when you decide to pop out a few. Marry that girl, David. Don't waste your life alone."
"I'm not wasting it, Mother. I just want to be sure."
"Boy, I spent thirty-seven years trying to be sure and when I finally figured it out I was sorry I didn't propose the day I met her. I've been single and I've been married and believe me, married is better."
"We'll see what happens."
"Angie..." She wheezes again. "Go get Maura. I want to be with her. And let me chat with David for a minute."
I put my hand on Mama's shoulder as she is nodding sagely to some unintelligible gibberish pouring from her namesake. She turns to see me looking sad. "Mama, is she afraid?"
"I think she is. You know her. She might be scared down to her toes but you'd never know it." She pauses. "There is one thing."
"What?"
"I found a rosary in her night table."
"I didn't know she had one."
"I didn't either. Maybe she's hedging her bets. She was raised Catholic. The beliefs of your childhood do tend to stick with you."
"Are you scared, Mama?"
"Terrified. Absolutely, utterly terrified. I have no idea what life will be like when she's..."
She stops. She doesn't cry. But she just...stops. Her mind freezes. I stroke her hair.
"I know, Mama. None of us do."
######
The picnic lunch having been eaten, we while away the afternoon in idle chat, more swimming, a ferocious game of frisbee on the sand (Mark had to bring one, convinced that the French had never seen one), and another round of songs for the kids. Mother holds my children next to her, and little Maura and Jack both fall asleep in the crook of her arm. We wait until sunset, watching it over the blue water, with the sky a riot of color. Mother's eyes are full of tears. Mama's, too. And mine. My parents are clinging to each other, eking out every precious second, breathing each other's scent, passing warmth from one to the other. We pack up the van and the driver begins our trip home as dusk is turning to dark.
######
At the house we all hurriedly rinse off the sand (Jack alone brings back enough to make a whole other beach) and change into clean clothes. We do not want to be late for our dinner reservation.
La Rose de Montagne (or La Rose as it's known to locals), has been a fixture in this village for more than a hundred years. The current proprietor, Antoine Nolet, has run the restaurant for thirty years, maintaining the quality and intimacy first infused by his grandfather shortly after the Second World War. The grandfather, a renowned classically trained chef, Became wealthy in prewar Paris as the owner of a five-star establishment, fled to England ahead of the Germans, cooked in London until the end of the war, and returned to southern France, his wife's birthplace, to start again in hope of a new era for his beleaguered country. The fruit of his dedication, La Rose, became my parent's favorite place to share a meal away from home, entertain friends, and mingle with the other residents.
Mama and Mother count Antoine among their closest friends, and he, them; his friendship is shown by the dinner party he has planned at Mama's request. He has turned over his small banquet room to us, where we can all sit around one long oval table, for as long as we wish.
The food is sumptuous, and, though ill, Mother indulges in at least a taste of everything, even the wine; "it can't hurt me much, now, and I won't be around long enough to bother if it did", she grates to me as we sit down. I don't remember the names of the dishes, or can even identify all of them; there is goat cheese and bread to start, followed by a kind of fish stew (cod, I am told), a tuna cutlet with a sweet mustard sauce, and a spicy stew of lamb and artichokes; there is also something I'd heard of but never tried, a bagna cauda, raw vegetables dipped into a hot, fishy anchovy-based sauce. Endless bread and wine. Delicious, all of it, and Mother savors every bite, smiling and laughing at the memories each dish calls up. Cheese, fresh summer fruit, and a tangy goat's milk yogurt, along with cognac and powerfully strong coffee complete the meal.
During this feasting there is noise and bustle, as the family retells stories and the daughters and granddaughters, sons and grandsons of Antoine provide genial table service. Antoine himself hovers about, to see that everything is perfect, and at Mama's invitation, joins us for a cognac during dessert. He, too, is full of stories about my parents,such as the time Mother found a goat loose in their garden, and made to chase him away with a broom, and how Mama made Mother "take pity on the poor creature" and fed him carrots until the owner came looking for him.
The conversation that evening is like that; reminiscences, reacquaintance with people gone by, stories about sweet things, foolish things. I know that Mother and Mama, throughout their careers, lived dangerous lives, but little was said of the dangers and the fearsome events that their work brought them. Instead gentle moments were remembered; the first night Mama, Mother, and Uncle Tommy cared for TJ in what Mama dubbed "tag-team elephant(?) child care"; Mother leading her colleagues in exercises during some sort of fitness craze at the BPD (and to this day, Mother bemoans the dearth of coffee). Mother and Mama turning a clinical tent into a forensic morgue during a marathon; and Uncle Frankie telling the story, second-hand, of how Mother and Mama staked out a gay bar by masquerading as lesbians. Before they came out as lesbians.
I 'm not sure what's funny about that one, but it gets a laugh from Mother. He also had a story about how, when their hormones had gotten the better of them one lunch hour, Susie Chang had walked in on Mother and Mama in a full-bore embrace. Mama said that she thought she'd sworn Susie to secrecy, but Frankie said she'd told him so he wouldn't be surprised if he heard it from someone else. Sunday dinners at Mama's house, before they were married, Christmases at Grandma Angela's after she remarried. Their wedding. I've seen pictures and videos of their wedding – a beautiful spot on the beach on Cape Cod on a bright summer day; Mama in the most gorgeous dress (I know, I got married in it, too!) and Mother in a sharp, elegant black suit; the sun and the ocean. Uncle Frankie said it was the second-most beautiful wedding ever; Gloria swatted him on the shoulder and said "Oh, Frank, our wedding was nice, but theirs was better." Uncle Frankie smiled and whispered in her ear, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. My birthday. The actual day, when I came into the world. It seems Mama wanted to work until a week before her due date, but I was a week early. Her water broke while she was completing an autopsy. Suffering from Pregnancy Brain, she thought the corpse had sprung some sort of infectious leak, and she pushed the code Red alarm, shutting down the entire building. Recovering her composure, she called Mother, and it took twenty minutes to unlock the morgue and assure the fire and rescue people that it was a false alarm. Fortunately, Mass General was eight minutes away by screaming, flashing police cruiser, and I was safely delivered seven hours (and with minimal maternal cursing) later.
What I feel most this evening is how much love there was in our family growing up. Mama and Mother had hard times, difficult times; they were both strong, independent women who had to make a way of their own in the world, and surrendering part of that independence must have been hard. But they never, never stopped loving each other, and that love always gave them the power to overcome all obstacles. David and I were nurtured on that love.
######
When we get home it is late, the mountain air had cooled, and Mother and Mama are cold. We gather in the living room, as Mama snuggles into the corner of the couch and we help mother stretch out, her head in Mama's lap. We cover her with a blanket as Mark builds a fire in the fireplace. Mother turns on her side, and cuddles closely to Mama, with effort but with an almost desperate urgency. Mama strokes her hair; Mother turns her face up to Mama, and Mama bends down for a kiss. Mother whispers "thank you". David and I sit on the floor in front of the sofa, and Uncle Frankie and Gloria, and TJ, sit in the chairs around the room. Mark has gone to put the children to bed.
After a while, my aunt and uncle kiss Mama goodnight, and gently kiss Mother, who has fallen asleep for a moment but wakes when Frankie calls her name. TJ, Gloria, and Mark all bid them goodnight as well, and soon the room contains only Mama and Mother, David and I, huddled together on the couch and the floor.
Mother reaches out to David, fingers his hair. Her movements are weak, but purposeful. She smiles a little, and I can barely hear her whisper "you're a good son." She smiles at me and I move closer. "And you. What a daughter we had." She says it with so much love I want to cry. Her hand is cold. I ask, "are you warmer?" and she nods. I look at Mama. "She's done so much today. She's worn out. Maybe we'll both just sleep here."
"Do you want us to stay?", I ask.
"No", Mama says. "Go to your husband. Go to bed. I need some time alone with Jane."
I get a blanket for Mama, drape it around her, kiss her goodnight, kiss Mother and put an arm around her. "Did you have a good day?" She replies in her hoarse whisper, "one of the best." David joins me and he, too, shelters Mother with an arm, kisses her, puts his head against her chest. She tries to sign to him, but her muscles are tired and he doesn't understand. "Tell him...tell him I'm proud of him. I'm proud of you, too. Tell him." I sign the phrases to David, who smiles at her. No tears. He will not show Mother tears for anything. He never did.
We leave them there, the fire burning low, together on the couch. I hug and kiss David at the top of the stairs and he makes his way to his room. I wish he didn't have to sleep alone tonight. I hope for his future with his lady friend.
Mark is in bed. I get ready for bed, cuddle close to Mark, ask him to hold me. Which he does. All night long.
######
Sunlight pries my eyes open. Mark and I are all a tangle, he around me around him. I lift his arm off of me, trying not to wake him, but he does anyway.
"Are you getting up?" he asks.
"Yes. I should look in on Mama and Mother. Start breakfast."
"I'll help." He hops out of bed, pulls on jeans and a t-shirt.
When we get downstairs, Mark busies himself making coffee. I go into the living room to find Mama still sitting up against the couch, eyes closed, arms around Mother, still under the blankets as we left them last night.
I watch them sleep, for a moment, and then am conscious of something wrong. Mother's body is...
I come closer. It's true. I shake Mama. Dear lord, please let her wake up.
She wakes, smiles at me. "Good morning."
"Mama...Mama, she's not breathing." Panic tinges my voice, I think about CPR, emergency resuscitation...
"I know." Mama takes a lock of Mother's hair, curls it around her finger. "I know."
"You know?" I look at Mother, her body stiffening, but not yet rigid. "When?"
"Sometime in the night. I don't really know the time. She just...shook, and stiffened, and gasped once, and...she was gone. It was massive and fast."
"Oh, Mama..." I hold her and rock her gently, and she moves away, also gently. "It's aright, Angela. It's over. We had a good, long last talk. I made her laugh. It's alright."
"What can I do?"
"You know. Call Dr. Faure'. He'll call the coroner. Then call the funeral home."
I do as she asks. Then I sit on the arm of the sofa, holding her; she leans back into me.
I love you, Mama. I'll miss her."
"And so will I. And I love you more."
######
Somewhere out in the universe there are double stars, two bright suns different in their size and color but inextricably linked throughout their lifetimes by the irresistible attraction of gravity. They orbit around each other, sometimes passing so close that they exchange white-hot matter, the cosmic equivalent of a kiss, of lovemaking.
Modern science has shown us that around these double stars are planets, orbiting in sometimes erratic paths, some closer, some farther away, but all influenced by the attraction of the bright central suns.
Over many eons, the suns burn, glow, sending warmth and light to their planetary children and more distant relations. But finally a star reaches the end of its life; it exhausts the fuel that fed its glow. It goes dark; but its mass still attracts the other objects , planets and its partner star, sometimes forever.
My mother, Jane Rizzoli-Isles, is now a dark star, light extinguished, but her influence pulls us all together still, the things she taught us, the strength she shared with us, the seemingly infinite capacity for love for Maura – my Mama – and for all of us. Her love for Mama was, to me, one of the great love stories, and it has been my privilege to document a small portion of the lives that she and Mama shared.
We will miss her, but she'll always be with us.
A NOTE ADDED LATER:
Maura Rizzoli-Isles lived another fourteen years. She resided with us, involving herself in several charity organizations, as well as administration of the Isles Foundation begun by her grandparents. Of course, much of her time was spent with her family, Mark and I and our children, as well as David and his family. David married Alicia, and, due to FBI policy, one of them had to leave the agency. David won the toss, and elected to transfer to the Seattle Field Office, where he now commands a unit involved in what he calls "traffic analysis". He and Alicia have three children and live about half an hour away, and while Mama still lived we had regular Sunday dinners, with her at the head of the table. We still do, and Mama's and Mother's memories, Maura and Jane, still hover around us.
Mama passed away quietly, in her sleep; she was ninety-five. She was lucid, and mobile, until her very last day, only conceding to use a cane for the last couple of years. She still swam every day, with me, when I came home from work, she still played games with the children when they were little, read to them, and, as they grew, helped them in their studies. She retained that blinding intelligence, that probing curiosity, without a hint of dementia or memory impairment, until the day she died. And her sweet, sometimes even naïve, innocence.
Her generosity was boundless. In addition to the provisions she made for her family, her money went to the Isles Foundation, of course, which has numerous charitable works underway around the globe. But she also endowed funds for the Boston Police Benevolent Association, which cares for injured officers and families who've lost loved ones in the line of duty; and at Boston-Cambridge University, her alma mater, she was responsible for the Jane Rizzoli Institute of Criminology; the Rizzoli-Isles Chair of forensic pathology; And the Constance Isles Institute of Art. She also made a sizeable donation to the Boston Police Academy, as well as, in the name of Angela Rizzoli (my grandmother), to Boston General Hospital, where she did her residency and which treated Mother after her first gunshot wound. At her bequest, her mortal remains were donated for educational purposes to the Medical School, University of Washington, Seattle; but she asked that her heart, removed at autopsy, be returned to Boston to be interred beside her wife. And there it lies, next to the only one she ever truly loved.