The Las Vegas Police Department had recently started a campaign against texting and driving and for at least the last week, everyone who wore a badge or carried an official ID had been reminded that they were not exempt from the "No Phone Zone" rules.

Nick Stokes was amused by the fact that Conrad Ecklie, probably the department's biggest offender, was required to deliver the message. His speech was energetic and dramatic and most of the CSIs were entertained. Nick even thought with a smile that at one time, Warrick might have laid odds against Ecklie being the first officer cited under the new law.

But it was for this reason that Nick, assigned a crime scene in the desert, had not put his phone to his ear for roughly seven hours. Even if he had wanted to, reception was terrible away from the lights and noise of Las Vegas. He knew he'd have voice mail after voice mail waiting for him when he returned and ordinarily, Nick would have listened to the voice mail on his way back to the lab. But he believed in his position as a role model, so he kept his phone secured to his belt as he drove.

He was carrying the box of evidence from his Tahoe into the lab when a very concerned looking Catherine greeted him.

"Didn't you get my message?" she asked.

Nick shook his head as she joined him, and they walked swiftly side by side. "No Phone Zone," he replied. "What's up?"

Catherine put her hand on the box, stopping him. "Nick, you have to go."

He watched as she removed the evidence from his hands. "Whatever the next crime scene is, I'm sure it can wait until I get this checked in."

She thwarted his attempt to reclaim the box. "It's not a crime scene, Nick. It's your mom."

The color drained from his face. "What?"

"Your sister called me when she couldn't get a hold of you. Your mom's in the hospital – you have to go to Dallas."

Stunned, Nick floundered for a response. "But… My mom's not sick… Was there an accident?"

"There wasn't an accident," replied Catherine, her look softening. She had the details from Nick's sister, but not the heart to relay them to Nick. "She isn't well; you have to go. I arranged a flight for you – there's a boarding pass on your desk."

Nick's ears were starting to buzz and he knew he looked lost. His mom didn't get sick… Even if she did, it never slowed her down. Jillian Stokes was a beautiful, strong woman – a true Texan.

"Nick!"

His head snapped up at Catherine's fuzzy voice. "Do you want me to drive you to the airport?"

"What?" He shook his head to clear it, and then looked at her, standing in the hallway of the lab carrying his evidence. "Oh, God – Catherine, is she gonna be all right?"

It broke her heart, but Catherine had to lie. "I don't know, Nick. Do you want me to drive you to the airport?"

He was already running for the exit when he replied. "No – no, I'll be fine. Thanks, Cath – I'll call you as soon as I know something!"

It was early morning when he arrived at the hospital. Even though visiting hours hadn't yet begun, Jillian's nurse was kind enough to overlook the time. She led Nick to Jillian's door and patted his arm. "Let me know if you need anything," she whispered. "Your family will probably be here in about an hour or so."

Nick nodded, and then stepped into his mother's room. Instantly aghast at what he saw, he simply stood frozen for several long moments. It was too much to absorb – the woman laying in this bed was not his mother.

She wore no makeup and her hair was in disarray around her head. A tube that provided oxygen to her rested under her nose, and her skin was pale – too pale. She shuffled in her bed a bit. Behind Nick, the nurse entered again to check her vitals.

"Are you her son?" she asked solicitously as she made her notes.

Nick nodded. "Yes," he replied weakly. "Her youngest."

"Nick?" guessed the nurse. When he nodded, she explained, "She asked for you last night."

"How's she been doing?" he asked. He hadn't been able to look up at the nurse; his eyes were glued on his mother.

"As well as can be expected," replied the nurse. "She's been pretty restless and sometimes she doesn't make sense. She's been refusing pain medication but her doctor ordered it last night and she was finally able to rest."

"Rest is good," replied Nick.

"She'll have a few more tests today and hopefully that'll tell us what we need to know. Her neurologist will be around soon."

"Thanks," said Nick, and the nurse, patting his arm again, left him with Jillian.

He pulled a chair up to her bedside and sat in it. Cautiously, he lifted her hand in his and kissed it.

"Nicky," she whispered hoarsely.

"You're awake," he noted with a smile. "How you feelin', Momma?"

"Bit foggy," she replied. "I'm so glad you're here, Nicky. I have all my babies."

"What happened?" he asked gently.

"A sudden headache," she whispered. "And all of a sudden I'm here." She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh, rolling her head to one side. "Audra, get me a tissue, would you?"

Confused, Nick turned around. His sister, Audra, was nowhere to be seen. He squeezed his mother's hand tighter and turned back to her, saying, "Momma, Audra's not here yet. Do you need a tissue?"

"Don't be silly, Nicky," she replied, smiling and opening her eyes. "I always have a tissue, right here." She lifted her left arm and presented her wrist for his inspection. "Tucked into the sleeve of my sweater." She pulled her other hand away from Nick's and then seemed to pull aside the wrist of an imaginary sweater to show him an imaginary tissue.

This small motion hit Nick like a Mack truck. Audra's frantic voice mails, which he'd finally listened to on the plane, had explained more than Jillian apparently could – that Jillian had had a sudden and severe headache and was taken to the emergency room. A stroke was ruled out and many more tests were ordered and performed. So far, they knew that there was a growth in her brain. Nick assumed that they would know more after the tests the nurse spoke of were performed.

But medical jargon and high-tech tests were all surreal enough to make Nick believe that there was nothing too serious going on, that in the end it would prove to be just a scare, and his mother would be able to tidy herself up, polish her nails and lips again, and go home with her seven children at her side.

Her pretend tissue proved that this wasn't a scare. Nick knew, at that moment, that his mother was seriously ill.

"You know what, baby?" she whispered from the bed.

"What, Momma?" he whispered back, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

"I think I'm gonna take a little siesta. Would that be all right?"

Nick reclaimed her hand and kissed it. "Sure, Momma," he replied. "You get some rest."

Jillian smiled and closed her eyes. Nick squeezed her hand and waited until he knew that she was sleeping before he bent over her hand and sobbed.

Audra, eldest and most like her mother in looks and disposition, entered the room about an hour later. "Nicky," she breathed, relieved that he was there.

Brother and sister held each other tight. When Nick pulled away, his cheeks were wet. "Is there anything I don't know?" he asked.

She looked guilty for a moment, and then spoke. "She's been complaining of headaches off and on for a week or so. Dad finally made her come to the hospital two nights ago when it was so bad she couldn't stand to have a light on." She paused to swallow and gather her courage before she said, "She's had two mini-strokes since she came in. Her neurologist said that it's likely she'll have more – likely that she'll have a full-blown stroke."

Grief began to manifest itself in Nick as anger, and he asked sharply, "So why hasn't he done something? Why can't they take the damn thing out?"

"It's inoperable, Nicky," replied Audra.

"But there has to be something they can do," he insisted.

"They're doing all they can," she assured her little brother. He shook his head and looked back at their mother. "Listen, I'll go get you some coffee. Her neurologist will be around soon. . . . Billy and Kathleen are comin' over in about an hour, OK?"

"Yeah, okay." He squeezed her hands. "Thanks, Audra." She smiled a little at him as she left the room.

Nick resumed his seat by his mother's side. She stirred when he took up her hand again.

"Nicky?"

"Yeah, Momma. I'm here."

"Nicky, there's a light outside. Can you see it?"

He craned his neck, but saw nothing and wondered how she knew there was a light. Her bed wasn't facing the window. "No, I don't see a light out there."

She opened her eyes wide. "You have to take a dollar outside."

Nick was confused, but asked, "How come?"

"Because of the light. Can you see the light?"

Tears gathered in his eyes. "There's no light, Momma," he said gently.

She leaned in closer. "Yes, Nicky. Take a dollar. Wrap it around a candle. Then go outside and light it."

"Okay," he nodded.

Jillian met his eyes. "If you take the dollar away . . . can you still see the light?"

Like a flash Nick remembered the banks of candles in church that he'd always admired as a child. "You want me to light a candle for you, Momma?"

"Yes, Nicky," she said, and she sounded anxious.

He was loathe to leave her, but reasoned that Audra would be back soon with coffee. "All right . . . I'll light a candle for you." He kissed her hand and squeezed it, and then left the room.

The chapel was a dimly-lit, standard-issue arrangement, with three sets of wooden pews facing the altar. A small electric organ was in one corner, and the bank of candles was in the other. Nick marched over to the candles, fished a few dollars from his wallet, and dutifully lit a candle. He watched it burn for a moment, and then turned to look at the chapel.

It surprised him that it was completely empty, but he supposed that it was still relatively early. More out of obligation than anything, he sat himself in the first pew. A large cross, perhaps ten feet in height, was backlit on the wall behind the altar. Nick hadn't been to a religious service in more years than he cared to count. He saw too much in his work . . . he knew his parents believed, but it was something he had a hard time with.

Nick stood, tucking his hands in his pockets, and regarded the cross with a shrewd eye. The anger from before, talking to Audra, resurfaced.

"You got some kinda nerve," he told the cross. "This is bullshit. You got an extra tumor to give out, I know about fifteen convicted murderers you coulda given it to, you fuckin' bastard." Then, with disgust written all over his face, he turned to leave the chapel.

He stopped at the door. He could hear his mother's reprimand in his ears. Blasphemous! Rude! We don't talk like that in church!

"I'm sorry, Momma," he whispered, without knowing why. Swallowing and closing his eyes, he put his hand on the door, ready to push it open. Instead, he turned back to the cross.

He looked up at it, unimpressed, with a raised eyebrow. He shook his finger at it. "Don't you dare make her suffer," he spat, his voice cracking with emotion. "She loves you. Fuck if I know why, but she does. She's been good to you . . . return the favor. Don't make her suffer." He left the chapel angrily, tears staining his cheeks.

Later that night, in the presence of her husband and seven children, Jillian suffered a massive stroke and passed away. Nick held hands with his brothers and sisters as they formed a circle around her bed to pray. Nick's eyes, however, remained open. Through his own tears and his mother's sickly outward appearance, as he gazed upon her face, he thought he'd never seen her look more beautiful or peaceful, and was comforted that though he would miss her sorely, this was the natural order of things.

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson