The CSI:NY characters don't belong to me. This one takes us way back ... Episode 1.
Mantra
Mac paid the taxi driver and with a weary step, entered his apartment building. The dim lobby was empty and his footsteps were noisy against the tiled floor. He unlocked his mailbox and pulled out three envelopes and two catalogs. The electricity bill, still addressed to Claire Conrad, was on the top. As he waited for the elevator, he glanced at the rest of the mail – a credit card solicitation and a letter from his alma mater. The catalogs were immaterial him. Frowning at the delay, he punched the elevator button a second time and then looked up at the young woman who entered the lobby.
"I think it's out of order," the blonde commented. She wore running shorts and sneakers, sweat collecting in beads on her forehead. "It's been out all day."
"I haven't been home in two," Mac said, walking through the lobby towards the staircase in the back.
She didn't respond but collected her own mail. "Have you noticed the mail is coming later and later?" she called.
Mac shook his head and reached for the door labeled STAIRS. "I haven't. I usually get home late." He ignored the woman, having shut down the conversation. Instead, he opened the door and began the four story ascent to his apartment. Having missed a few workouts, he took the stairs two at a time for the first two stories, then he jogged up the remaining two.
His apartment was at the end of the hallway; a light was burned out near the elevator, only serving to make the green walls look gray and antiseptic. The carpet was dingy, Mac noted, and well-worn. The hallway wasn't much better than his memories of the cheap hotels he and Claire used to frequent on their vacations. He guessed the hotels were cleaner. He stood at his door and first turned the deadbolt and then he unlocked the bottom lock before turning the handle. He stepped onto the worn, hardwood floors and immediately kicked off his shoes.
The apartment was now, officially, well beneath his pay grade. It was a fitting place for an NYPD beat cop married to an MBA student who funded her tuition through student loans. It was not so fitting for the Chief Investigator of the New York Crime Lab who was swimming in life insurance proceeds from the untimely death of his wife. The student loans had died with her, the credit cards had been paid off, rent was no longer a challenge.
He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out two eggs and balanced them precariously on the counter. He reached down for a frying pan and re-opened the refrigerator for the milk and butter. His elbow hit the egg and one fell to the floor. "Damn," he muttered. He squatted down with the paper towels and then exhaled when he reached the floor. He was exhausted, and he seriously wondered if he could manage to clean up one broken egg.
"This has to stop," he said out loud, turning to sit on the floor. He propped himself against the lower cabinets, the cracked egg beside him, and he spoke softly to himself, "Get your shit together, Mac. You gotta get it together." He sat for a few moments, allowing himself the sting of tears behind his eyes, the memory of metal beneath his fingers as he grasped at the Ground Zero fence, the unrelenting pain of missing his wife. When would that leave him? It had been three long years … more than a thousand days … and it still felt like yesterday.
He looked at the egg white and yolk dripping into each other beside him. He took a deep breath and nodded. He turned to his knees, scooped up the egg with a single paper towel, and stood up before dropping it in the garbage. He looked around his apartment. Every corner held a memory. She used to cozy up in the corner of that sofa, pull her knees to her chin, and contort her body in a way that allowed her to still read a textbook. She cleared that furniture out of that living room so she could follow Tae-Bo videos on that outdated VCR for exercise. She stacked the mail eighteen inches high on this exact counter before sorting it one Saturday a month. She stood in this kitchen, cooking with this pan, drinking beer out of those glasses. The tears prickled behind his eyes and he shook his head. Jesus Christ, he thought. When would this end? And the scarier thought: What if it didn't end?
Last week had been better, he thought as he turned the bed covers down. It was this creepy case, with the husband losing his wife, that had gotten to him. He wondered what that guy was doing tonight. If he was done burying his wife, if he was reading a sympathy card that began, 'There are no words', if he was alone at his kitchen table stabbing his fork into a plate of soggy pasta, one of a dozen meals that had been dropped off by well-meaning women whose names he couldn't remember. Mac felt a perverse sense of accomplishment at having already been through that.
Now that he had a real meal in him – a fried egg sandwich – he could think more logically and linger on details that might remind him of Claire, and he could do it without feeling that he was fourteen seconds away from really losing his fucking mind. He didn't know why this case had gotten to him; every day his cases involved husbands losing wives or wives losing husbands or boyfriends killing girlfriends or … it went on and one. His job dealt in death, loss and pain, and most of the time, he detached himself from it. Use your head, he told his subordinates. Not your heart. It was advice he always followed.
Maybe it was the description of "locked-in syndrome" that had reached him. Maybe it was the age of the girls, or the twisted reasoning behind their perp, or the false leads and brick walls. Or maybe it was the horror show of the basement. He had expected spider webs and rats and moldy corners, not a Mary Shelley version of a science lab. Or perhaps, it was the disturbing realization that he could deceive himself so easily. She was communicating, wasn't she? Her brain still worked, didn't it? Death isn't always permanent, is it?
Whatever it was, this case sidestepped past his brain, took residence in his heart and put Claire front and center in his memory. Questions he tried not to think about would not leave him. Did she suffer? Did she know she was about to die? Was she in pain? What did she think about? Did she think he was coming for her? Did she have time to think anything? Or was she snuffed away in a moment, an instant that turned a beautiful life into a wisp of ashes and dust?
He stared at the ceiling and thought about God. He didn't pray anymore; he didn't even know if he believed anymore. He used to. He used to go to Mass every week too even though Claire would turn over in bed and tell him to "have fun with your Catholic guilt." He used to do a lot of things. He used to smile, exercise, sleep, talk, laugh. He had become a shell of the person he used to be.
He hadn't given up though. Without thinking, he had wandered into a pew of an unfamiliar church and thought about his faith. And for the briefest of moments, he had felt at peace. He might have even been motivated to step into the confessional box if time had allowed. He should go to Mass. It would make him feel better.
He thought about his mother and how she never stopped calling him. He thought about Stella and how she never stopped fussing over him. His sister emailed regularly. Claire's brother asked him for drinks. His team included him at Happy Hour. He declined too many social invitations. He should accept. It would be good to get out more.
He used to be a regular at the gym. But last time he went, he didn't recognize the staff anymore, the machines had been rearranged, the pool hours had changed. He felt out of place and uncomfortable – just like how he felt in life. He should go more. Exercise would help too.
Lots of things would help. Therapy would help. So would sleep. So would eating three squares a day. So would meditation and yoga, he snorted. He didn't have time for that. Time. Time would help too. These things just take time.
He opened both eyes at once. What had he forgotten? What had woken him? His heart beat fast and he looked around for the source. Nothing. Nothing out of place. Nothing was different. His hand still felt nothing when it reached out for something. It was the September sunlight coming through the open blinds that woke him. He could feel the heat even though it was fall now. He looked at his watch. It was morning, and Mac was still in his clothes.
It was another day and Mac swung his legs over his bed. Another day. He almost sighed in exhaustion, at the effort of just one more day. Then he remembered his quasi-breakdown in the kitchen. This had to stop. It really had to stop. He had work to do and years to live. Years. Thousands of days. The thought scared him. What if this didn't end? He remembered a mantra he used to repeat when he was in the Marines, more specifically when he was doing physical fitness training in pre-dawn hours and testing his body further than he thought possible. Don't think. Just breathe. He used to time it to his steps as he ran.
Don't think. Just breathe. For fun (oh what fun!) he varied the mantra: Just do it! No, Nike can keep it. He ran in duplet rhythm, not triplet. He was pleased by his fleeting sardonic humor. He used to be funny, or so he had been told. He changed into workout clothes. Don't think. He put on his running shoes. Just breathe. He couldn't find his headphones and considered using that as an excuse. Don't think. Just – Yeah, yeah, yeah. Time to go.
What if this didn't end? he thought again to himself as his hand rest on the doorknob. He needed to stop, he told himself. He couldn't keep thinking like that.
Two steps. Don't think. Two steps. Just breathe.