An Evolving Resolution
In the early hours of a cloudless dawn, a quick vibration rippled under the floor tiles of the small sparsely furnished bedroom of the adobe brick structure.
Startled, Gil Grissom lifted his head from his rumpled bed and, in a just-wakened state, rubbed his eyes and swung his feet off the bed. When a few minutes passed quietly, he pushed off the bed and walked, with a somewhat wobbly gait, across the small room to the window.
The night before, in what was a somewhat cheerless celebration of Christmas day, the six men working on the project had drank too much of a local liquor and had eaten too little of the food they had prepared and Gil Grissom felt the after-effects in every joint in his body along with the pounding ache in his head.
He pushed aside the fabric covering the window and peered into the beginning of dawn at the place he had called "home" for nearly a year. Where he stood was at the end of a row of small rooms at a right angle to a larger, newer structure that had been built after their digging had found a mass grave over a year ago. A year ago…he stopped his thoughts—which came often when he had indulged in late night drinking—from remembering anything prior to what he was doing now.
Yet, his hand went to his chest—the soft new pajamas he wore had come in one of the two boxes he had gotten from Las Vegas. His mother had sent toothpaste, toiletries, and a water filter—things he had requested with a list. No list had been sent for the second box which contained the pajamas, several new shirts, two pairs of pants, a pair of sandals of a name brand he preferred, two books by a favorite author, a box of candy, and, in a smaller box, a thumb drive with a note. Photos, she had written in the short note. He had not looked at them.
He picked up the small flash drive and held it in the palm of his hand, almost smiling as he looked at it. Sara—the only woman he would ever love; she never forgot a special occasion—and try as he might, he could not forget her—her fragrance, her touch, her soft brown eyes…
Jerking his thoughts away from things he did not want to contemplate, he watched as two men walked across a well-worn path to the larger building—both appeared animated—or agitated. Grissom turned back, changed his pajamas for pants, pulled another shirt over the blue top and slipped his feet into the new sandals. He dropped the thumb drive into his pocket. A few minutes later, he caught up with the two men.
"Morning, Gil. Notice anything?" asked Ron Daniels. Ron, at six and a half feet with a wild head of red hair, had been living in this part of the world for nearly two decades; there was little he missed from a distant rain storm to subtle trouble among workers.
Grissom frowned. The second man, much younger, turned in a circle, a puzzled look on his face.
The sky was clear; a gentle breeze stirred the distant trees.
"No sound." This came from Grissom. "Where are the birds? Monkeys?"
"Did you feel the shake?" Ron asked. "The birds felt it too," he broke off and started walking. "Let's get coffee and hope that's all we feel today!"
A local woman usually cooked meals for the group, but the men had insisted she take several days to celebrate Christmas with her family. This would be the third day they had 'cooked' and all three laughed as they heated beans with a bit of pork and sat down with hot, bitter coffee for breakfast, promising tomorrow would be a feast when Issette returned to cook. Within minutes, the rest of the group showed up and scraped beans onto a plate, laughing amicability as they joined the others in complaining about the food—or lack of food.
As they all pitched in to wash plates, cups, and utensils, they talked of plans for the day; the early morning shake that had woken three of them seemed to be forgotten. With a flick of his wrist, Grissom tossed several forks into a metal cup.
As if his quick movement had set a giant machine in motion, the forks and spoons rattled an alarming tattoo inside the cup.
In the next second, a ferocious tremor rolled beneath their feet. Three of the men grabbed the edge of the sturdy table as everything in the kitchen swayed in a wide arch. Seconds later another vicious jolt shot through the building and everyone was moving. The walls seemed to dance and in the distance, a deep rumble sounded. Pots fell from the rack, chairs slid across the floor, small utensils scattered, cans of food flew off shelves; a cabinet crashed onto the floor.
"Earthquake!" One of the men shouted, "and a big one!"
The floor pitched and the six men scrambled for the exit as water sprayed from the sink.
Outside, they could hear a roar as the earth split open. In seconds the rooms where the men slept were collapsing in piles of debris. With mouths open, they seemed to turn in a slow moving arc as trees fell, glass in windows exploded, and the building where they had eaten breakfast just minutes before heaved and pitched before the roof cracked and plunged to the ground.
The men ran, scrambling backwards, moving away from the building, the dust and wreckage.
Just as suddenly as the tremors had started, they stopped.
Grissom had no idea how long the men remained in the clearing; all were covered with dust, trembling from what they had experienced. All made a nervous jerk as a tree broke in the distance.
The unnatural quiet around them made one believe they were the last living beings in this part of the world. The men looked at each other, at the destruction around them, the enormity of the devastating damage, and remained standing in the only area free of rubble and fallen trees.
Finally, one of the young men, Adam, made a sound causing everyone to look at him.
"I don't have my shoes," he said.
Grissom asked, "Where're your shoes?"
Adam shook his head, saying "I don't know—in the kitchen—I think I ran out of them."
His words put movement in every man's legs as several headed to the destroyed building. Grissom pointed to the broken pile of what had been the brick walls of the individual rooms.
"I left my old shoes by the door last night—we might be able to find them in the dust."
There were few bricks left—most crumbling as the three men used their hands to shovel aside the debris. Grissom tunneled a hand under a piece of wood he thought had held the door in place and brought out one shoe. He grinned. It took several more attempts before he located its mate and by the time Adam had the shoes on his feet, the other three men had returned from the newer building.
By the looks on their faces, it was apparent to the others that destruction of that building had been as absolute and complete as the older adobe structure. The new building had been built of concrete blocks and aluminum panels with a tile roof and big windows making its destruction a maze of sharp metal, broken chunks and splintered glass. All of it flattened to a precarious mass.
The six men stood quietly for a long time.
Finally, Ron spoke. "As bad as it is here, it's probably worse there." The "there" of his sentence was the small village located half a mile from their project. He turned in a slow circle, shaking his head. "Let's see if we can dig out a few things—any—any suggestions?"
Grissom realized they were in a state of shock—still stunned by the sudden obliteration of their surroundings. He raked a hand through his hair and stirred up a cloud of dust; several laughed as they did the same.
One said, "All of you look like zombies!"
Their laughter seemed to spur action and a few minutes later, they were digging into the debris that had been their bedrooms.
In the dust, they recovered grimy clothes, a few personal items, several backpacks, and bedding; except for one, laptops and tablets were cracked or crushed. Several cell phones were found, dusted off, and powered up only to get a network congestion beeping signal. Another hour passed as they searched for tools they used and tried to find keys to the truck before two of the men decided they could 'hot-wire' the ignition and get the vehicle started so they could make their way to the local village.
A fifty pound bag of beans had miraculously survived intact; they loaded it into the truck and started to the village. In route, one of the young men managed to send a text message and passed the phone to the next man. By the time the truck stopped in the village, every man except Grissom and Ron Daniels had sent an "I'm okay" message to family members. When Grissom had been handed the phone, he had passed it on to the young man beside him without attempting to send a message.
The sun was barely above the horizon but the village—or what was left of it—was filled with people in the streets. Their houses were no longer safe even if walls were standing; none were undamaged. Small children ran to the truck, smiling and laughing as they greeted men they knew were friends. A few wore bandages over recent cuts but seemed otherwise unaffected.
Everyone else, women, men, teenagers, were working to retrieve any household items they could reach in the rubble of what had once been homes. The six men jumped from the truck and started working. Quickly, they learned of a man with a broken leg. He was sitting in the back of a truck, patiently waiting. Another man, unable to find his wife, cried as a line of men scraped away debris from the ruins of his home.
"We heard her," one of the men said, "right after we started digging!"
Ron, Grissom, and Adam joined this group. A few minutes later, Grissom thought he heard the rhythmic words of a prayer. Others had heard it too and hands moved faster. A few minutes later, the woman was found, battered, bleeding, but alive; most of her body was underneath a table but one foot appeared to be crushed.
Gently, with two dozen people assisting, she was lifted and moved to the truck. Women wrapped her in blankets but she refused to let go of her husband's hand. Two small children climbed into the truck to be with her.
A quick appraisal of the village population determined the woman and the man with the broken leg were the only ones who needed to be taken to the area hospital. On a good day, the drive was two hours. Food and water was packed into the truck which sputtered several times before the engine fired and started.
Soon after the truck left, the group turned back to the second task—finding food in the ruins of what had been their homes. Someone had set up a wood fire and Grissom chuckled as he noticed the chicken pieces being placed on the grill; those chickens had been alive at sunrise, he thought. Another fire heated a pot of water.
Ron added the sack of beans to the growing pile of food; women had already begun the work of kneading and patting out tortillas.
Over several hours, there had been several aftershocks when everyone stopped working and then resumed their search for anything useful or salvageable. Grissom was surprised at how many items became shared property—someone had a blanket and gave the next one to another family, cooking pots, buckets, clothing, and a table were all deemed useful for everyone rather than one.
Hours later, with a message passed from one to another, everyone took a break and ate. Grissom leaned against the truck and rolled a tortilla filled with beans. He watched as kids found parents, husbands found wives, grandmothers were provided plates of food. Dogs touched familiar knees and were rewarded with a scrap of food.
It was miraculous that no one died, only two people were seriously hurt, he thought; surprising that property became unimportant in this situation, and simply amazing how people depended on each other.
He took a long swallow from the bottle of warm beer someone had handed him. Several yards away from him, a young couple with three small children, an older woman, and an older man shared the simple meal. They were laughing, cuddling the kids, quietly talking in such a warm and comfortable fashion that Grissom looked away, feeling he was an intruder in a private moment.
As he looked around, Grissom marveled at the extent progress had been made in clearing rubble and finding items needed for surviving what was likely to be weeks without proper shelter—or what counted as a house in this part of the world. Some of the women had already created tents using a clothesline and splintered pieces of furniture.
His eyes returned to the family and he wondered about their future. At that moment, the small girl laughed, a delighted sound of happiness. The young mother's eyes met Grissom's and for a few seconds, he held her gaze.
Soft brown eyes, smiling at him…
Grissom had managed to return a smile. Over several days, he managed to sleep a few hours. He searched through rubble, stacked bricks, and ate when food was provided. He found one of the boxes sent to him for Christmas and, as he twisted the little flash drive between his fingers, he made a decision. He had not talked much to anyone until he told Ron Daniels he was returning to Vegas. He did not explain why, except to say it "was time".
Three days later, Grissom walked through McCarran Airport and reached the arrivals exit before he had given a thought to his next decision. It was easy—he hailed a cab and gave an address.
When he stepped out of the cab, he realized how beautiful the house was. Sara had chosen well—a home that matched her uniqueness. Then realized he had not seen it, not as Sara's home—had not been inside—for over a year. He had left her the minute he'd gotten the call from Ron Daniels, left her to deal with unpacking, to handle his own mother's disappointment; months later, he had not returned as she had to cope with Hank's illness and death. And he had stayed away when Brass had called him about a man named Basderic.
He sighed heavily and hefted the strap of his bag to his shoulder. It had crossed his mind he might not be welcomed at this address, but he had not traveled this far to tiptoe away. Nervously, his hand rested on his chest for several seconds before he rang the doorbell.
Sara hesitated with her eye on the solid door's peephole, her eyes riveted on Gil Grissom. He wore one of the shirts she had sent for Christmas. From her angle, a pained expression played across his features as he shifted his bag, hunched his shoulders, and looked around at every place but the door.
Intently, she watched her erstwhile lover for a long moment. His face was tanned, but around his eyes were shadows, perhaps apprehension. She swallowed and took a deep breath, making an effort to hide her own emotions about his sudden appearance.
Quickly, she opened the door and managed to catch his startled expression; she hoped hers was expressionless. She stepped back at the moment he stepped forward.
"You returned," she murmured. His gaze never left her face.
"I'd like to talk, Sara."
Sara waved her hand toward the living room and followed him. Her mind raced as she prepared to deliver a speech that had been taking shape in her mind for months.
"I'll get something to drink," Sara said and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. She had not waited to ask what he wanted to drink so she took two bottles of water from the refrigerator and returned to find Grissom looking at framed photographs she had on shelves.
Grissom turned and took the bottle she held. "You've—you have made the place beautiful." He glanced at the bottle and quickly removed the top before returning his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry, Sara—very sorry. I—I want to fix us." His eyes dropped again as his hand caught hers. "I only hope I'm not too late."
Sara's fingers clinched into a fist around his fingers; she said nothing.
"I am an imperfect man, Sara, as well as one who loves you very much." He paused and took a long breath. "For months, I've been the fool, investing every minute in a project that—that really doesn't mean much in the way we should live our lives." He placed the bottle of water on a table and moved both hands to her shoulders.
Sara saw tears welling in his eyes.
"A few days ago—the day after Christmas—an earthquake destroyed everything around us. Total destruction," softly, he chuckled. "And what every person wanted was who they loved—not one person cared about possessions. Not one person mentioned the project that had consumed us for months. Not one person." His hands curled around her neck.
Sara said nothing as she leaned her forehead to his, moving easily together.
Grissom's lips grazed her cheek as he pulled her close, saying, "I do love you, Sara. I promise I'll change." Softly, he chuckled, "I'll make it my new year's resolution, you'll see."
Hearing his words caused Sara to laugh and find her voice. She said, "Don't change too much, Gil."
And then she kissed him. Or he kissed her.