CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.
A/N OK, I know author's notes can be tedious but PLEASE READ this before continuing and I promise I'll try only to put in a couple more for the whole of the rest of the story.
When I took part in a Geekfiction Ficathon and wrote Cottonwood House it was the first time I'd written a story that didn't have the framework of a case file to support it, the first time I'd tried to write from Sara's point of view, and the first time I'd written anything vaguely approaching GSR, although it wasn't in the least bit fluffy. I thought people would hate it!
Instead the response amazed me and I was surprised at the number of reviews I got for a relatively short piece. Many readers admitted to finding the subject matter difficult (and it still is in this sequel), but most had persevered and many demanded that I write more.
At first I resisted, the story wasn't in my usual style (other than being angsty) and was only ever intended to be a one off, but in the end I started to come around to the idea. It's taken me over a year, mainly because I finished my novel length Prisoner 4929 in the meantime, but also because I didn't quite know how to continue. It's been a struggle, but it's finished at last. I've tried to make it work as a standalone piece but, like all sequels, it inevitably contains spoilers for the original story, so if you want to avoid being spoiled, like to read stories in chronological order or just want to remind yourself of the story if you read it before you can find Cottonwood House by going to my profile page and selecting it from the list of stories at the bottom or entering "Cottonwood" in the story search box. (I was going to put a link here, but guess what FFnet won't allow?) Finally, I'd like to thank all those who encouraged me to continue the story (don't you think I deserve a review or two for actually doing it?) and SylvieT in particular for actually answering when I asked "If there's going to be a sequel, what should I actually put in it?", if I missed owt out, lass, please forgive me. :)
Thanks also to my Beta, Auntie J and finally to ELM22 for agreeing to do the final read through.
OK, I'll shut up. Now it's time for Grissom to have his 'say'...
Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words
"The more things change, the more they stay the same."
- Alphonse Karr
Chapter 1
The romantic thing to say would be that my life changed completely the day Sara Sidle agreed to marry me. The melodramatic thing would be to say that it crashed down around me the day she walked away. The honest thing to say would be that neither of those events had quite such a drastic impact as what happened four months later, when, after years of incoherent threats made against me that were never followed through, the family of one man whose conviction I was in part responsible for finally took their revenge. What happened that day I know only from what other people have told me, but the effects on my movement, hearing and, most devastatingly, my speech, are with me and will continue to be so for the rest of my life.
When the attack happened no-one was able to reach Sara, she was still moving around a lot and, between her absence and trying to deal with the effects of my injuries, the hurt from her sudden departure became less prominent, not because I didn't care anymore, but because I could only deal with so much at once.
By the time I had recovered enough to think about my relationship with Sara again she had been gone for over a year and I doubted that I would ever hear from her again, so I shut away those thoughts and feelings and got on with learning to live with my disabilities.
Then, three weeks ago, Sara came back into my life. Suddenly I found myself dealing with those feelings as if they were fresh and raw all over again.
What really confuses me is why she has come back now. Did Sara believe that we could just pick up again where we left off? Surely that wouldn't have been sensible even if it were possible. Maybe she thought we'd both have changed enough for it to work better this time. Maybe she thinks she has changed enough for both of us, but if she has changed that much, how could she be sure that she'd still want to be with me? Is she just being a hopeless optimist or even a hopeless romantic? Whichever it is, it seems to have been enough to prevent her just turning around and leaving again, now that she knows what has happened to me, but how long will she stay?
"Concentrate, Grissom!" The voice of my physical therapist, Daniel, breaks into my reverie. One thing at a time has become my mantra over the last few months and it has worked well as I learn to cope with my new life. At least it did until my equilibrium was disturbed by Sara's return to Nevada. Now I can't seem to drag my thoughts away from her and today it's even worse than usual.
"You can do better than that."
Checking the line marked by the tiles at the bottom of the therapy pool I realise that I've veered far to my right. As the aim of the exercise I'm doing is not so much to make it quickly to the other end of the pool as to do it in a straight line, I'm failing miserably but, even with the webbed neoprene glove I'm wearing on my right hand, it takes concentration to make the effort needed to compensate for the weakness that still affects the right side of my body. Although my left side came back to life relatively quickly after the horrendous couple of weeks when I woke from a coma to find myself completely paralysed, the right side lagged behind and I'm still working on regaining the muscle strength I lost.
A moment's struggle gets me back on line and this time I control my wandering thoughts enough to make it to the end without swerving too much.
"All right, let's see you get out of there on your own and then we'll call it a day."
So, that's my punishment for not concentrating on my therapy. I cast a longing look at the sling hoist that is my normal way of getting in and out of the pool, but Daniel is adamant.
It takes time and, as I finally emerge from the water, the sudden return of the pull of gravity on my body makes me stumble. Daniel is ready for that and he expertly keeps me moving up out of the water and the few steps over to one of the waterproof, light weight, wheeled chairs that are used in the pool area.
A large towel is draped around me before the chill of the water evaporating from my skin begins to hit and then Dan propels me to one of the changing areas where my own more durable motorized chariot awaits me. As we travel I unfasten the Velcro which keeps my swimming glove in place and then reach to remove the fluorescent orange plug that protects my left ear by preventing water from entering it. It doesn't make any difference to my hearing, my inner ear on that side is beyond repair, meaning I can hear nothing with that ear and causing the balance problems that mean that however strong my legs become it will never be safe for me to walk far unaided.
Once he has me safely parked in the shower area Daniel leaves me to it. With shower gel, shampoo and conditioner decanted into wall mounted press button dispensers and a long handled sponge for the more awkward places I can wash myself pretty well now.
When he hears the water cut off Dan returns and helps me to where I can start to dry off. After quickly towelling off the areas that are hard for me to reach unaided he sits me on a towel covered bench and hands me a fresh, smaller cloth so I can continue getting myself dry. As I do so he sits beside me and takes my right hand in his. Other than the fact that my right arm is extended I barely notice as he carefully checks my hand for injuries that might have been missed because I cannot feel pain in that area and then begins to massage it, a process intended to prevent the tendons contracting from lack of use. I perform a similar routine myself before going to sleep at night but it's important that Daniel does this too, not only can he do a better job by using both his hands at once but his general experience and his familiarity with my hand in particular mean that he should notice any changes that might occur early on while there is still time to do something about them.
Now that I've finished the slow process of drying my body and reached the point where my hair is merely damp I have to wait while Daniel retrieves the clothes I've put into the bag which is currently slung over the handles on the back of my wheelchair.
As I wait I turn and stare at the mirror hanging on the wall beside me. Bringing up my right arm I use the back of my numbed hand to support my chin and stop the gentle wobbling motion that has plagued me since I first regained enough strength to hold my head up unsupported.
Well, perhaps plagued is too strong a word. People assume that I must find the movement irritating but mostly I hardly notice. Unless I'm actively thinking about it my brain has learned to automatically edit the motion out of my visual image of the world, just as most people edit out the slight up and down movement of their heads caused by the action of walking or running. It's only at times like this that I notice it at all now.
Looking at my image in the mirror I see a face starting to crumple with age and, in more recent times, pain. Even when youth was on my side my mismatched cheekbones and jaw line prevented me from ever considering myself conventionally handsome and time has compounded that asymmetry, as the skin around my eyes has become more and more creased one of my eyelids has started to droop more than the other. What could Sara ever see in me?
Still, I halt myself in this barrage of self criticism; all these irregularities are at least ones that I have had since childhood, not the results of my brush with hemiplegia. In fact the assault itself has only had a minimal effect on my appearance, just some minor scarring and cartilage damage to my left ear that is barely visible from the front. The worst scars, the ones from the various surgeries, are well hidden by a combination of my beard and my thankfully still thick and curly hair.
"What have we here?"
Daniel's voice brings me back to the present. He has some of my clothes in his hand.
"Now I'm beginning to guess what made you lose concentration earlier." He reaches into my bag again, producing a deep blue item, something that Catherine insisted I keep when I cleared out my wardrobe in favour of clothes more practical for my new life.
"A silk dress shirt? You're going on a date, aren't you?"
I try to look enigmatic, there are some advantages to not being able to speak coherently, but my brain injury affected my emotional control too and, without my old mask to defend me, my embarrassment shows through. Daniel knows he's caught me.
Usually I am glad that my schedule means that my day begins in the swimming pool. It means that when I first wake up I only need to clean my teeth and get into my swimming shorts and some sweats on top and then Daniel will help me with showering and getting into any more complex clothes after the exercise session is over.
Lucy, my primary carer is willing to do all this, of course, but I prefer to avoid having her do too much of the physical stuff. Lucy, who specializes in helping those with aphasia, is often the only person who understands me with any certainty, she is my emotional support and my best link to the rest of the world and, being the person I am, I find it easiest to work with her when she doesn't know what underwear I picked out that morning.
As I said, usually, having Dan help me is a good thing but, on days like today, it isn't always so great.
"Yes, you're definitely going out somewhere." By now he has also extracted my underwear and a pair of navy blue cargo pants, which are, admittedly, my usual choice, with an elastic waist which is more comfortable for a man who spends most of his time sitting down, and pockets which are accessible without needing to stand up, but these are one of my newest pairs and freshly laundered. The real clincher for Daniel, however, is my choice of shoes. Instead of slip on loafers or a pair of running shoes with Velcro flaps to fasten them I have gone for a smart casual look with lace up deck shoes.
Daniel looks like he thinks he's got me over a barrel and, if I want to wear this particular outfit, he has. Getting in and out of sweats is one thing but I need someone to get me started on fastening the button through shirt and I defy anyone to tie their shoes single handed, left or right.
"OK, I'll do you a deal. You tell me the lucky lady's name and I'll help you dress to impress. Otherwise you're on your own."
We both know Dan's only teasing. Cottonwood House is a tight ship and proud of its reputation for both rehabilitation and long term care. If Daniel were really the type to bully or blackmail his clients he would have been found out and fired long ago. I quickly discovered that he uses these tactics as part of his toolbox of ways to get me to make an extra effort to move or speak. He'd stop if he thought I was becoming genuinely distressed but otherwise he can be pretty stubborn so, grudgingly, I give him his answer.
"'Ara."
"Sara?"
I nod in confirmation and Daniel grins, smug at being right.
"OK then, let's get you get you into your pants first and then I'll get you started on your shirt buttons. Then I'll deal with your shoes. I'll make sure the laces are very secure – you'll probably need Lucy to unfasten them for you tonight, but at least you won't have to worry about them coming undone while you're out."
I smile my approval of his plan and we get started.