There was a time when he would clamber onto your lap and sit there. He wouldn't say much at all, he was seemingly content to perch delicately on your knocking knees as you fretted about him losing balance and falling and hitting his head on the coffee table on the way down. Sometimes, when there was something particularly vivid or exciting playing on the television screen, he would turn to you, his eyes wide and bright and full of a thousand and one questions and you would cringe inwardly, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of things you wouldn't be able to accurately explain. But then, often, he knew not to ask, somehow he knew, and he didn't care. He wanted simply to share the experience with you. He wanted to look into your face and ensure that you were seeing what he saw, that you were as enthralled with it as he happened to be, that you understood.
You can recall, even now that so much time has passed and most of the good has been swallowed up by the bad, the way he would kindly and patiently lead his younger siblings through daily tasks. How he would carefully instruct his brother on the proper manner in which to play all those games that appear so challenging to small children. How gently and patiently he would sit with his sister and color page after page, teaching her how to hold the pen just right, showing her all those tiny intricacies that children must only learn from one another.
Those times when he would offer up the last piece of candy and think nothing of it, like it was his responsibility but not a duty, because you could see, you could both assuredly, definitely see, that he truly didn't mind going without. And when one of them would cry he would be there, ready to comfort in his own strange way, with a pat on the head and a half a square of a peanut butter and fluff sandwich that he might or might not have dropped along the journey, but was willing to part with in the interest of helping quiet the terrible sobs of a baby who cannot communicate why it is so dreadfully upset.
And there were so many days when you got it wrong, when one of you said something that wasn't quite right, when you made mistakes, when decisions were woefully incorrect and he would forgive you both, time and time again, without even a second thought. When Maura would have to stay late at work and then arrive home with the stench of the morgue clinging to her every surface and even you would, as much as you are loathe to admit it, recoil a little from the blankness in her expression. He would not. He would run to her and greet her like it was Christmas morning and he had all the gifts he could possibly ever desire. The blankness would dissipate almost instantly and you could both breathe again, with him to thank for it.
The forgiveness he presented to each of you day after day was something you reflect upon today with greater frequency than you would ever dare to admit to anyone aside from your wife, because who else could understand your need to at least attempt to understand, to accept blame so that he might be free? The forgiveness that poured with such plenty from him in youth is now scant in the hollowed eyes you stare into on the days you force yourself to confront him.
Maura blames herself, of course she does. She doesn't blame you just like you don't blame her. It is far easier to inflict suffering upon oneself in a situation such as this one than the person you love. 'It's in my genes,' she cried out to you in agony that day, when you returned from the station, numb with it all, 'This is my fault, it's wired into my DNA,' and despite your best, hardened attempts at reassurances, you are certain that even now, she still firmly believes that to be the truth, and nothing but the truth. Maura blames the Doyle in her, the devil inside that wields the power to skip generations.
You are fully aware of the knowledge that your memories of the day you arrested your own son will be forever imprinted on your mind, scalded there, a vision branded with the intensity of the emotions and the horror of his fate. Your face, now older, now narrow after years of pointless waiting for the prodigal son to return from his chosen path, was splashed across every newspaper for weeks after that day. 'Lieutenant Jane Rizzoli was forced to arrest her eldest son, Mathew Edward Rizzoli-Isles, following an ill fated attempted robbery during which seven hostages were rescued thanks to her heroic efforts.'
That was one particular line that rolls over and over in your mind. You didn't feel like a hero when you snapped the cool metal cuffs around his wrists.
And you didn't feel like a hero as you pointed your gun at your son, once a child with thick, messy red-blonde hair that you loved to run your fingers through because it was so soft and full of life, now a man with the butt of another gun pressed against the back of a bank manager.
You certainly did not feel like a hero as you stared him down, ignoring the tremors in your hands that silently told you that you wouldn't be able to shoot straight for shit, that your feelings and emotions were so far gone that the bullet would be more likely to hit the ceiling than anything alive and breathing.
The Feds thought your presence would be enough to diffuse the hostage situation. They knew that Mathew was only interested in the money, just like always, that his partner had double crossed him and left two options; make a quick exited and be arrested immediately, or react rashly, take hostages, and hope to buy some time.
The FBI had always been so full of bright ideas. You insisted on bringing your gun. You insisted on going in alone.
The sight of him standing there, looking so much younger than you had expected from a seasoned criminal who made more in one heist than you did in a year, well, the sight almost destroyed you right then. That was your boy. The child you used to sing to sleep, the little boy who would beg you to let him come to work with you so he could help catch the bad guys. How could he possibly be responsible for this?
You barely remember the exchange, but you do remember saying, 'I'm one of the people who helped bring you into this world and I can take you out if it if I have to, don't make me do this,' and you sounded just as desperate and broken as you felt.
The fact he chose to surrender rather than force your hand should bring you some amount of tenuous comfort, and his calm explanation on that first visit in prison, separated by a table that represented time and decisions and love itself, it should at least let you rest easy at night knowing that he never meant to go that far, that he has some regrets, that he wishes he could have done more, been a better son.
You're just not sure whether you believe it or not. He became a career criminal because he wanted the easy way to fortune. Efficient and charming, intelligent and cocky, a good knowledge of the law and of how to forensically cover his footprints, he shared qualities you and Maura provided him with, so in some way, you armed him to the teeth with the knowledge of how to commit crime.
You waited for him to return. Sat by a silent phone, watched by the window, stood at the door, hoping. The candle you and your wife kept burning from him has melted down to the wick, and yet the tiny flame remains.
Now, as you sit across from your son, stripped of everything but Maura's hand locked tightly inside your own, you blink furiously against the harsh lighting and pretend it's affecting your vision so you don't have to look directly at him.
The reason being, it is his eyes that you dread seeing the most. Eyes that are so familiar to you for you fell in love with an almost identical pair, a pair which are now lined and wizened by sorrow and experience. Where there used to be such curiosity and interest, where there was endless amounts of enthusiasm and kindness, you can see only darkness, and you wonder what happened to the little boy who used to climb into your lap and point at the stars through the window as if he thought he just might be able to reach out and touch them one day.
It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.
Eleanor Roosevelt