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I do not own anything about The Mentalist, except for my apparent obsession with it. No copyright infringement is intended.
AN: Funny how one word can inspire a story. Hope this doesn't fall over into mawkish territory for you.
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I've been standing here for over an hour. Can't seem to leave. I'm staring through this enormous rectangular window. In a sea of babies, each contained in its own little plastic cradle, my eyes focus on only one.
The powder blue sign above him says "Baby Boy Jane - 7lb 3 oz." He's sleeping peacefully, with ample tufts of unruly brown hair framing his cherub face and his tiny perfect hands balled into fists.
A new life. Teresa and I have created a new life, and so here I stand, unable to take my eyes off of him. Maybe I'm afraid I'll wake up and he'll disappear – a vapor of some wonderful dream I'm having or the result of some wacky tea. But no. He's real. I know it. And I want nothing more than to look upon this newborn child, resting peacefully in his own little plastic box. I want to marvel at his tiny ears. His innocence. His boundless potential. His fat little feet.
The last time my child was in a box, I watched it lowered into a grave. I recall my blistering pain, and the sensation of dropping into a bottomless hole of grief. What if I could go back now, and tell that devastated Patrick Jane that someday he would smile again? Love again. Be a father again.
The ironies of life overwhelm. Had Angela and Charlotte never died, I would never have met Teresa. And this beautiful baby boy of ours would never have existed. Despite that cruel fact, I can feel nothing but joy when I look upon this new, perfect child.
Yes, life is strange indeed.
The door from the nursery opens, and a nurse, clad in cheerful printed scrubs, approaches me. "Are you okay?" She must wonder why I've been standing here for so long.
"Yes, I'm fine," I assure this kind person covered in tiny images of Bob Squarepants.
"It's pretty cool, isn't it?"
"Amazing," I admit.
"First time father?"
"No." I surprise myself with an honest answer.
"Oh?" she says, but she doesn't pry.
"Many years ago, I had a daughter. She was killed." I can't believe I just said that.
"I'm sorry," she says, but she doesn't look at me like I've over-shared.
"Thank you."
She tilts her head and the corner of her eyebrow rises. "Wait here just a minute."
Then she reaches for my arm and reads the hospital identification armband around my wrist. She turns and disappears through the door. I watch her walk to the bassinette that holds my son, and her practiced hands swaddle him in a blanket. She lifts his sleeping form and cradles him, looking back at me. I beam with pride.
Then she brings this tiny new human back through the door, and deposits him into my arms. Tears well in my eyes, and I can only nod my thanks.
She gets it. "I'll come back and get him in a few minutes."
There is no one else in the observation room to see me sob with joy as I hold this precious bundle close. I know his distinctive smell already, and I memorize his face. He stirs, yawning in the most adorable way possible. Like riding a bicycle, I know what to do. A few gentle rocks back and forth, and he's asleep in an instant.
If only I had known. I want to go back and talk to that shattered man in the graveyard. I want to show him the future. Tell him not to give up. Would he have listened? Probably not.
The Sponge Bob nurse reappears, and she senses my reluctance to part with my child. "Mr. Jane, it's almost time to take this little fellow into his mom for a feeding. You want to carry him for me? I'll bring his cart."
I nod like an eager schoolboy.
"I thought so," she smiles.
I enter Teresa's room carrying our son, flanked by the nurse and the rattle of the bassinette cart. When Teresa sees us, her face lights up, and I feel the love in her gaze. This is the remarkable woman who has given me a new life. I note her necklace, with its cross and gold band resting on her heart.
Our son (our son!) stirs. He opens his sleepy blue eyes and stares into mine. I absorb the moment, and then with delicate care, I transfer my bundle into his mother's arms and kiss her cheek. "I love you." I must have told her a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours, but she doesn't seem to mind. She lifts the baby to her breast, and puts a hand on my arm, giving it a little squeeze.
I wish you could feel this hand on your arm, sad Patrick Jane from the past, so that you could know that your empty despair won't last forever. I want to whisper in your ear, "There's hope. The path is long and dark, but there is hope."
I wish I could tell you that someday, when you are much older and wiser, your heart will again burst with joy.
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I can't believe I'm writing mawkish baby fics for The Mentalist. I blame it on Simon Baker and the last scene from White Orchids. Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope it made you smile.
enouement: The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.