Rita entered her apartment feeling more lost and defeated than ever. She was no closer now to solving her dilemma than she had been when she left, and she couldn't remember a time when the beach had provided her no comfort. She absentmindedly tossed her keys onto the counter, but glanced back over at them as the metal skidded across the lime Formica surface and bounced off glass.
"Sorry 'bout that, guys," Rita murmured to her beloved Alfred and his gold- and angelfish posse, trailing a hand down the side of the fish tank. "I bet you'd like some breakfast, huh?"
As she set down the yellow and red canister of fish flakes, Rita braced herself against the counter and hung her head. "This has to stop!" she whispered fiercely, reinforcing the severity and necessity of the words by speaking them aloud.
A flicker of Rita's rational side, the sense of logic and collectedness she always considered so valuable, sparked for the first time all morning. She brought her head up with conviction, and her determined gaze came to rest on the clock across the room. She gasped.
10:44
Rita had been gone for over four and a half hours.
"What the hell am I doing?!" This time it was a tone rarely used outside an interrogation room. She cursed at allowing herself to wallow in self pity for as long as she had, and the mere glimmer of her familiar self suddenly ignited into a blazing, reckoning force that informed her it was high time to act human again and quit sulking.
Rita moved into the living room and flopped down on the couch, more anxious than ever to complete her recomposure. It proved to be a short-lived process though, as it wasn't long before a persistent knocking at the door broke her concentration. Not fully convinced she was ready to deal with company yet, Rita made no effort to move from her place on the couch, and curbed the temptation to just yell "go away!".
The knocking stopped and a muffled question came from the hallway. "Rita, honey, are you home?"
It was Frannie, the Captain's wife. Rita knew she couldn't send her dear friend away, and she suddenly realized that Fran's motherly ways were exactly what she needed right then. For the first time in a long time, Rita smiled.
"Hi'ya, Fran, come –"
"Rita, doll! I just had to come over and see how you were doing! I brought you some leftover soup I made for Christopher, and I have to tell you all about the palm reading class I'm taking!"
Rita burst into laughter and allowed Fran to drag her into the kitchen, welcoming the mile-a-minute conversation on palms that was already in full motion. Just the sound of Frannie's voice had her feeling better.
Maybe it was Rita's weakened condition, or maybe it was just that Frannie made Rita feel like somebody's daughter again, but soon the entire story came spilling out. Fran shrieked with delight as she and Rita went to sit in the living room.
"Honey, I can't tell you what to do here. All I can tell you is what I see – what everyone sees. Have you ever noticed the way Christopher looks at you, Rita? Do you honestly think he doesn't feel the same way as you?"
"Yes. No… I don't know," Rita stammered, squirming as she was greeted with the long-since buried memories of the Soul Search, the Soul Kiss, and the night spent as Mrs. Jack Wellman.
Fran gently laid her hand on Rita's arm, waiting for the young detective to make eye contact with her. "As far as Chris is concerned, Rita, you hung the moon and the stars."
Fran's sincere opinion offered hope and promised happiness, but Rita's instinct of self-preservation fought desperately to guard her against the inherent danger of putting faith in her friend's logic.
Frannie easily sensed Rita's conflicting emotions. If only she could make her understand… Ever so gently she inquired, "Rita, honey, this may have been the first time you actually told Christopher how you felt…but when have you not loved him?"
He had me from hello…
Rita pushed the lyric back and dropped her gaze to stare at her hands in her lap. It was a question she did not want to be asked. In all the countless times she had asked it of herself, she had never liked her answer.
Minutes passed, yet Fran patiently awaited the response, fully confident in Rita's ability to finally admit to herself the truth.
Rita's eyes took on a far-away expression as she lost herself to innumerable, treasured memories, which stretched years into the past. "There never has been a time, Fran," she finally conceded. "I mean…eight years… There has never been a single time."
"In all the years I've known you, you have never backed away from a challenge, Rita. You of all people, doll, should know that everything we take on in life involves risk. Look at the career you and Chris and my Heschy have chosen. It revolves around risk."
Fran hesitated. Should she continue? Rita was like a daughter to her, and she knew how deeply she was hurting. But she also discerned that Rita was beating herself up over predicaments in which she had no control. The sooner Rita came to terms with the circumstances surrounding her profession of love, the sooner she would come to welcome her destiny with Christopher. Choosing her words very carefully, Fran took a deep breath and delicately prodded, "and you know the real reason why you told Chris that you love him."
Again, Rita focused on her hands. This was Fran's subtle way of letting her know it was imperative for her to face her fears. Rita's face contorted with pain. But these fears had rocked her entire existence like nothing she had ever experienced – which was saying a lot – threatening to consume her and send all remnants of her sense of control careening irretrievably into a hopeless abyss. No, Rita decided with a fervor born from a lifetime of surviving, she would not permit herself to be lost to any fear, no matter how overwhelming it may seem. She drew strength from this vow and from the motherly figure seated beside her, and slowly began the journey to healing and acceptance.
"I really thought he was going to die, Frannie," she whispered. Rita drew in a ragged breath and slowly let it out. A little louder, she explained, "we both have been wounded before…but this time…God, I have never been that scared in my entire life!"
"Oh, Rita…" Fran fought back her tears as she was overcome by the sheer veracity in Rita's voice. There was no mistaking the painful truth behind the young woman's words. Frannie was aware of just how much Rita had been through in her short life, so she couldn't even begin to fathom the devastation that would cause her to rank Chris' injury as the foremost. Moreover, it was a very grave and solemn reminder to Fran that she had just been added to the elite few who had actually witnessed Rita Lee Lance admit she was afraid.
Rita's tears were now flowing hard, one more rare occurrence in the presence of another human being. "When Derek and I found Chris, he wasn't breathing. I didn't know how long he had been down, I didn't know how badly he was hurt, all I knew…was that I couldn't let him die. Derek called for an ambulance and I did CPR until the paramedics arrived. The ride to the hospital…. God, it took forever! I was telling Chris over and over again that he was going to make it. That he was a fighter. And I ordered him – I begged him not to leave me. Not when there was so much left unsaid between us. Then he was in surgery for so long… I don't know which hurt me more: the waiting, the doctor's diagnosis when she finally came out of the OR, or the fact that she asked me if I was Chris' wife."
At her final remark, Rita turned her head so she could catch Frannie's reaction, unconsciously nodding as the powerful memory replayed itself inside her. "His wife, Fran! Do you have any idea what I would have given for the chance to have screamed 'yes'?! I mean, there I was, on the verge of losing my best friend – wishing I had told him how I really felt – and the doctor asks me if I'm his wife. It took every ounce of strength I had to correct her and tell her I was just his partner."
Fran vigorously shook her head in opposition. "No, you see, that's where you're wrong, Rita. You have never been 'just his partner,' and you know that. You mean everything to him – and don't think for a minute that he wouldn't have felt the same agony if he had been in your position and the doctor had asked him if the two of you were married.
"Do you remember when you went to Sanibel and that woman was murdered in your apartment? We all assumed it was you… With Chris' shooting, you could cling to the hope that he would live, but he didn't have that luxury, Rita. For nearly twenty-four hours he thought you were already dead. It destroyed him. It absolutely destroyed him. Don't you ever doubt how much you mean to him."
"I know, I know," Rita quietly consented with a sniffle, recognizing the similar yet compounded torment her dear Sam had endured, though offering a weak smile at the memory of the moment he realized she was alive.
"I knew you'd encourage me," Rita softly accused.
"Of course, I would! I'm telling you, Rita, this is fate!" Fran beamed.
Rita leaned her head against the back of the couch, and fixated her attention on the ceiling. Quoting Rachel Billington, a favorite author, she sighed, "'my heart does not wish to be in a mending situation. Love is heart-breaking and I am in love!'" With a rueful laugh she rolled her head back toward Fran's direction, though her misting green eyes twinkled now.
Frannie stood up to leave, but offered an elated cry and exclaimed, "my work here is done! Oh, Rita, I'm so happy for you, hon!"
Rising up herself, Rita couldn't help but laugh at Fran's enthusiasm and certainty. At least somebody was confident of how things would turn out. She found herself drawing not only amusement in knowing that she and Chris were the subjects of Frannie's latest crusade, but comfort as well. And, this peace of mind was most welcomed.
Rita stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, hoping the elevation of her shoulders would alleviate some of the tension across her back, and walked Fran to the door. She was dumbfounded in realizing just how much of her soul she had bared throughout the course of the visit.
Rita offered Fran a tight, grateful embrace, silently communicating her heartfelt appreciation to her cherished friend. She had a lot to think about now…
"Do you believe in destiny, Rita?"
There was a slight pause. "Yeah," Rita breathed dreamily and almost reverently.
As Fran stepped out of the warm embrace, she took Rita's right hand and turned it, tracing a line on the palm and grinning mischievously at her young friend who had burst into laughter.
"Frannie…" Rita began in response to the gesture, cocking her head and smirking in her inimitable, trademark fashion.
Fran smiled innocently yet seriously as she clasped Rita's hand with both of hers, and gazed directly into impish, defiant green eyes. "I see an incredible woman with a beautiful heart…who only needs to open her mind to realize that everything she has ever wanted…has been by her side all along. Remember, Rita, you were blessed with a second chance to tell Chris that you love him, and you made the most of it – even though you hadn't planned to. There's no tragedy there. The only tragedy would have come if Chris had not lived long enough to hear you speak the words. Take care, doll."
"Bye, Fran."
Oh yes, she had a lot to think about.
Frannie's arguments echoed through Rita's mind as she closed the front door and trudged back to the couch. She stretched out across the brightly colored cushions, lacking the strength to sit upright. The day was leaving her emotionally and overall mentally spent, and with an elbow braced against the back of the couch, Rita massaged her forehead. Her thoughts raced with hopeful possibilities for the future, but alas, they still mingled with lingering fears of the recent past. Gradually, though, her conscious mind began to finally vanquish the tight control it had held over her for weeks. Rita slowly succumbed to the power of her exhaustion, entering the infinite realms of sleep, unfamiliar as of late, which had eluded her since she'd awakened in Chris' hospital room. Realms which could prove as unsafe as they were uncertain…
Unbeknownst to Rita and Fran as they ate lunch and explored Rita's heart, across town Chris was in his hospital bed, slowly going out of his mind.
Man, he needed to get out of this place. Forget the physical injuries that could have killed him, they were well on their way to healing. No, Chris was certain it was the cabin fever that would eventually sink him. A distraction – anything but yet another connect-the-dots game with the speckled ceiling tiles – that's what he needed. So, as he had done so many times over the past few weeks, he turned his thoughts to the woman who represented the most treasured part of his soul.
Rita.
A whirlwind of hidden strength, unfaltering wit, irrefutable intelligence, and regal beauty. Like the blood to his heart, and the air to his lungs, Rita was Chris' life. His best friend in the truest sense of the words. She backed him up and humbled him down. She could read his mind, his silences, his heart. With her by his side, Chris felt complete. He would die for her without hesitation, just as she would do the same for him. He loved her…and she loved him…
Rita had told him that she loved him.
He had waited eight years, possibly even his whole life, to hear those words – and to tell her. But she never gave him the chance to say them back. Was that because she didn't mean them? On second thought, Chris knew Rita would never use those words if she didn't believe in them. Maybe he had just misinterpreted what she meant, but no, that didn't seem right either. No, this was his Rita, his Sam…he never misread her feelings, spoken or unspoken, and between the look on her face and the thrill that had raced through his heart at her words, Chris had proof of the truth.
******FLASH******
Chris blinked as the sleep-induced haze lifted, trying to get his bearings. It didn't take too long. Hospital ceilings all looked alike. Turning his head, his gaze came to rest on the slumbering form of his best friend, curled up in a chair. A warmth settled over him, and he quietly called out to her, "Rita?"
Rita shifted positions and opened her eyes.
Chris watched her freeze as she realized he was awake, and flashed a patented grin at her. "Good morning, Sunshine." He could tell the exact moment it sank in. As Rita stood up, he held out his hand to her.
"Hi."
"Hey."
"Hi," Rita said again, giving him a radiant smile as she raked her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead.
"Hey." Nothing in this world was as soothing to Chris as Rita's gentle touch. He closed his eyes and basked in the feeling of her tiny frame barely touching his chest as she leaned over him, caressing his face with her own.
"I love you."
What?
Amazing how many thoughts could dash across his mind in a mere second, and Chris' first one went along the lines of rationalization. "Okay, I was shot. That means I'm on drugs. I probably just heard what I wanted to hear."
Was it his heart or Rita's that seemed to be racing? "God, Rita, I love you, too. Wait – what do you mean you're gonna kill me? I haven't had the chance to say 'I love you' back!"
Chris could read Rita like a book, and her look screamed, "please don't discuss what just happened." As much as he wanted to talk about it, he could never be insensitive to her needs.
"You look like hell," he playfully countered to the mock threat against his life.
Her reply came with the ease and grace that made her Rita, not missing a beat. Chris was enthralled by her skill, as frustrating as it was at this particular time.
They were interrupted as the door to his room opened. "I really hope you're not in the wrong room," Chris told the woman who walked in.
"She's your doctor," Rita supplied.
"It's true, I was on ER duty the night you were brought in. I did your surgery."
"I hear 'doctor' I think Marcus Welby, but he'd look horrible in that dress." Chris knew it would seem suspicious if he didn't turn on the charm. Out of respect for his best friend he was willing to play things like he hadn't heard her, and flirting with his doctor provided the perfect ploy, not to mention the perfect defense mechanism. Funny, though, how his perception of beauty was now altered for life… Up until fifty seconds ago, he would have considered the shapely physician to be beautiful. But with three special words from Rita Lee Lance, he realized what his heart had secretly known all along: no one would ever compare to his Sam. "So, how bad am I, Doc?"
"Very bad. You said some very suggestive things to me while you were under Pentothal."
Rita jumped in, "the nurses called you The Dirty Mouthed Kid. You asked most of them out."
Chris' caught-in-the-act grimace brightened. "Any of them say yes? Did you say yes?" he asked Jillian in jest, having already noticed the diamond and gold bands displayed on her left hand.
Jillian laughed good-naturedly before slipping into doctor mode. "You were hit with a .25 caliber slug that bounced around the inside of your chest like a ping pong ball. It nicked your liver and did some damage to your pectorals."
"I can't lift my right arm."
"That side was the most damaged. You had some deltoid involvement there. With physical therapy you should recover full movement."
Chris looked to Rita, fear and uncertainty etching his features as he instinctively tightened his grip on her hand. "Should?" he croaked. "That's not good enough – I need it definitely. I'm a cop. I shoot right-handed."
"You're out of action for awhile, Sergeant Lorenzo."
"How long?"
"For as long as it takes. Your recovery will depend on how committed you are."
Chris' anxiety continued to rise, and he couldn't mask his agitation. "Give me a ballpark, here. Are we talking weeks or are we talking months?"
"You should be home in a couple of weeks, back to work in four. But you won't be a 100% for another month or two beyond that."
Being a cop wasn't simply what Chris did for a living, it was who he was, and this debilitating blow to his existence had him seeing red. "Great," he hissed. "Just frickin' terrific."
This time, Chris felt Rita initiate the clenching of their intertwined grasp.
"We're not talking some flesh wound here, Christopher, you almost died."
******FLASH******
He had almost died.
Yet, somehow, the gravity and shock of that realization failed to affect him as profoundly as the incredible pain he knew it had caused Rita. The expression on her face as the reality of her own statement had struck her…it brought tears to Chris' eyes.
Of course, Rita had confessed that she loved him. With every near-death experience either of them faced, the key that unlocked their hearts was turned farther and farther, placing them in direct jeopardy of expressing their safely hidden, well-guarded emotions. Rita's limit had been reached.
Chris sighed heavily, certain only of the fact that he himself had almost slipped so many times in the past.
Life is a gamble where it's pay to play. Life as a police officer meant raising the stakes, with the prospects of death often outweighing the prospects of life, and the odds of him and Rita denying their feelings forever were hardly in their favor. The game was becoming more and more dangerous all the time, and on numerous occasions in the last few weeks, the bets placed on their lives had almost been collected, starting with the shooting in the garage.
Chris couldn't even remember the drive to the hospital. His first memory after the Cap's heart-stopping phone call was setting his sights on Derek, lunging full force at him to pick him up off his chair and throw him against the wall. All rational thought had left him, leaving only the mindset that his friend should have been watching his partner's back, and that he himself should have been there for her. It was the Captain who had sternly calmed him down, using the words that Rita hadn't been hit, but Chris didn't truly believe his commanding officer until he watched his reason for living walk out of the examining room on her own accord and deposit herself in his arms.
The moment their eyes locked, a pull greater than that of the strongest magnet had drawn them together. Cap, Derek, the hospital, they all ceased to exist, leaving only the Sams and the mingling resonance of their heartbeats. Chris had been amazed at the relief that flooded through him as he held his Rita, never wanting to let her go.
When the rest of the world had resurfaced into their consciousness, they finally separated from each other. Chris was left deeply moved as always at Rita's never-ending sense of honor and loyalty to her friends, as the first words she spoke dealt with George's condition. She had been so upset with herself for getting knocked out.
The Captain had once again showed his authority, this time with no objection from Chris, as he had gently informed Rita that she was to go home and rest. Chris smirked proudly at the remembrance of Rita's initial refusal, and wondered if the Cap had really expected his Sam to comply without a fight. His grin turned into a laugh as he realized that his partner's Rita-defining, teasing tone had resurfaced for the first time since the shooting when she made a crack about his car. It had made her smile, Chris recalled, and the memory of that simple expression made his heart swell, just as it had that night.
And thankfully, Rita had gone on smiling – especially when she found out that he had pilfered the videotape from the security camera in the garage. Chris closed his eyes and remembered the feeling of holding her as they sat on her couch, his arm draped protectively around her, thanking their Creator that she was okay. Oh, it had felt good to hold her… Their bodies fit so perfectly alongside each other, and when he told her that he was going to stay, she had kissed him on the cheek. Chris could still feel the electricity on his skin, and just as he had on that night…he wished that she had kissed him on the lips instead. He had almost told her that he loved her. But at the time, he had cleared the thought from his mind by teasing her to take care of her "big head."
In the playful times and quiet moments of their friendship, it was always so difficult not to slip and express how he felt. The memories of similar occasions were countless, bringing a smile to Chris' face and a warmth to his heart, serving so much more than simply passing his time.
But while hiding or denying his feelings in times of laughter was one thing, hiding or denying them in times of near-death was something completely different. He and Rita had acquired the addition of more tender memories, but Chris knew that if the preceding events of that night had varied only a fraction, those new memories would never have occurred – never to occur again. His thoughts came full circle, ending back where they had originally begun: Rita had told him that she loved him because she had almost lost him…and Chris knew with the utmost certainty that if the bullet ordered by Debra Bouchard had actually hit its target in Rita, he wouldn't have been able to hide his feelings either.
Chris moved his right arm, and winced at the stiffness he encountered. His mood instantly darkened as his mind shifted its focus to the person responsible for his pain and Rita's, not to mention their brushes with death. In time, he might come to terms with what Debra had done to him, but for now he was simply numb. He had lived. His emotion was now centered on what she had done to Rita, and anger greater than any he had ever experienced consumed him. What was it they said about hindsight? Oh yes, that it was 20/20 vision. Chris was convinced he would never forget the moment where Debra's sick game had become clear to him…
******FLASH******
Finished up with a trial preparation, Chris was standing in Debra Bouchard's apartment, waiting for her to prepare a "surprise."
"Okay, Chris. Your surprise is ready."
As Chris entered the bedroom he inherently knew he should keep up his guard. He was pretty positive that he had never set in foot in a more bizarre room. From the candelabras to the wispy curtains, it all seemed very weird. In the midst of it all stood Debra, dressed in a red teddy with matching lipstick that Chris could only describe as being psychotically applied.
"You are surprised, aren't you, darling? I wanted it to be perfect for us. And it is…it is perfect. Just as I always imagined, just as I always dreamed."
Feeling definitely out of the realm of sane reality, Chris figured this was the perfect time to bow out, before things got any stranger. "Debra, I gotta – I gotta go." He turned around, only to stop dead in his tracks as his gaze fell upon a candlelit shrine adorned with pictures.
Pictures of him.
Chris could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, echoing a dormant, primal instinct of feeling hunted. It would seem he had found the lair of his secret admirer. With an eerie, sickened feeling flooding his senses, he scanned through the photographs.
Debra had been following him for months.
And he hadn't even realized it.
His attention focused in on one picture in particular, providing another grisly shock.
Half of it had been burned away, so that only his image remained, save a few brunette locks that could only belong to one person.
Chris' eyes widened.
In a flash that stopped his heart, it came to him: Debra's pretending not to recognize him in the bar…"when you stopped talking to me, you went back to her – you were in love with someone"…she had asked him if he had ever slept with Rita…she refused to shake Rita's hand when they met, refused to acknowledge her existence… … …
Rita had been the target.
The shooting in the garage… Debra had ordered – Rita had been the target!
Chris' instincts screamed of impending danger, and he whipped back around to face Debra. Sure enough, she was holding a gun on him.
"Don't, don't."
Chris kept his hands up, knowing it was imperative for Debra to remain calm. "Let's talk about this."
"Just tell me you love me, alright? Tell me that you've always loved me. Look at me, dressed up in my little whore suit and you don't even want me!" Despite Chris' best efforts, Debra was becoming more and more disturbed. "It's her, isn't it? It's Rita!"
Not wanting to provoke her further, Chris sternly ventured, "Debra, you need help."
"No, I need you. I need…and you need me, too. I know you do. You always loved me. We're together now. There's no one who's going to come between us." Her tone was shrill, psychotic, and frantic.
"Give me the gun, Debra."
"Make love to me, Chris. Make love to me, Chris."
"Give me the gun," Chris ordered again, more forcefully this time.
"I need you to love me!"
Debra pulled the trigger, and the split-second flare of the gunshot illuminated the room.
Excruciating pain wrenched through Chris' chest, instantly knocking him to the ground. His last conscious thought before the black void completely engulfed him, was of Rita. He would never get to tell her how he felt, how much she meant to him. How much he loved her…
******FLASH******
Chris realized he had been given a precious second chance, one that he wasn't about to take for granted. He loved Rita, she loved him…life was too fragile to waste on fighting their feelings. They had no reason to fight. Nothing could ever turn them away from one another. The answer had been there all along, hidden in the undertone of a decorated partnership and a flawless friendship: destiny.
Now, if only he could get out of this bloody hospital and talk with Rita.
Chris looked to the clock on the opposite wall and groaned. One o'clock and all was not well. Sheer boredom was placing him on the brink of a temper tantrum, and if he didn't find something to do soon, he would be committed to a different ward.
Two hours until his afternoon session of rehabilitation.
Ah, blessed relief. Twice a day, Chris was allowed to go play with Bayside's finest physical and occupational therapists. Granted, that usually meant pain, but it also meant being wheeled away from his god-forsaken room, going down a hall, riding an elevator, going down another hall, and ending up in a huge therapy room. Simple amusements, yet
sheer merriment for the hospital-restricted.
Chris laughed at the thought of his two therapist friends. They were quite the trip. Their personalities kept him sane, their professional skill had him well on the road to complete recovery. He owed them a lot…
******FLASH******
"Mr. Lorenzo, my name is Amy. Welcome to the Physical and Occupational Therapy Department. I can't guarantee you'll enjoy your time here, but I'll bet you're loving the change of scenery."
"Hah!" Chris' spirits were instantly lifted by Amy's double dose of empathy: not only had she picked up on his sheer jubilation in having four new walls to look at, but she had also extended her left hand to greet him – a respectful gesture that he did not take lightly. "It's Chris, and it's…Queens?" he inquired, referring to her accent.
This earned him a radiant smile from the stunning therapist. "Queens, born and raised. I'm impressed!"
"My dad lives in Brooklyn," Chris explained with a shrug and a grin.
Amy was still laughing as she reached over the service counter for her clipboard and a new evaluation sheet. "Okay, Chris, let me give you the rundown. Today, I'll just be taking an initial assessment. I'll be asking a lot of questions, and recording various measurements like the range of motion you have in your shoulder. Together, you and I will come up with a therapy plan and a reasonable set of goals. When we finish up, I'll trade off with Val, our occupational therapist, and she'll take you through her evaluation. Starting tomorrow, you'll have a morning and afternoon session with us, which will consist of roughly fifteen minutes of PT and fifteen minutes of OT each time. We'll do our best to help you get outta this place as quickly as possible. So, come on, Brooklyn, let's get this eval done."
The evaluation began with Amy listening intently as Chris half-whined, half-pouted the recitation of his prognosis. She was careful not to patronize him on the therapy and hard work that lay ahead of him, and was instantly impressed at Chris' attitude and willingness to do whatever it would take to get him back to work and back to his partner. Chris in turn, was equally impressed with Amy's thoroughness and skill, and already trusted her ability. He would achieve the definite improvement the doctors doubted, of that he was certain.
They had completed the criteria for the evaluation and Chris was giving Amy further background information on being a cop, when the door to the department opened.
"Hey, Val," Amy called to her friend who strode cheerfully past them, nodding her greeting as she went to deposit her armful of files in her office.
"Hel-lo!" Tossing her small backpack-purse onto her chair, Val downed the last sip of her frappucino and in one fluid motion, tossed the cup into a far-away wastebasket and grabbed her clipboard. She was jogging back into the main therapy room when she realized that her scrubs and lab coat were still topped off with the 'U of M' cap that she wore backwards. No matter, she simply pivoted, jogged in reverse, and frisbeed the hat toward her office. It ricocheted off the doorjamb and landed dead set in the middle of her desk. The petite therapist turned back to her audience and gave a dramatic bow, her deep mahogany, shoulder-length hair cascading in waves around her face.
Amy just shook her head. "This is Val…this is Val on caffeine."
"That was quite a show," Chris complimented, shaking hands with the beautiful occupational therapist who, like her colleague, had also offered her left hand.
"She nevah misses!" Amy announced, giving Val a high-five and the stool in front of Chris.
"It's all those shoe-throwing contests, Ame," Val called as Amy headed off for the front office.
"So, you like 'U of M,' huh?" Chris asked.
"Well, since I got my B.S and Master's from there, I should think so. Rosebowls are great and all, but the Frozen Four and the Final Four are more my style. For any sport though, ugh, do you have any idea how annoying it is trying to get around Ann Arbor on a game day?"
Chris was in shock. "Yeah! It takes ten years to turn onto Main Street, and people keep taking your assigned parking place, and you have to park blocks away from your apartment – it's maddening, ain't it? I can't believe you went there, too!"
The questions and procedures for the OT evaluation were separated by reliving college days, trading Michigan-winter horror stories, and talking basketball. Chris suddenly found himself at the end of his first session of therapy, more than a little surprised at the pleasant outcome, and certainly fascinated by the two characters who had treated him.
"Did you call for transport, Val?" Amy asked, reemerging into the main room.
"Yeah, they're on their way – despite Chris' whining."
"Well there's nothing wrong with my legs!" Chris pointed out, mockingly insulted.
"Sorry, Brooklyn, hospital policy," Amy soothed, just as Transport arrived to escort Chris back to his overly familiar, small room. "Rest up now, and stay out of trouble. I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – or in my case, bleary-eyed and draggin'-tail. Just be ready to work!"
"Same time, same place. See ya' Val, see ya'…Queens!"
Chris became fast friends with Amy and Val, hounding them each morning on the effects that hot pink (supposedly "strawberry-colored") scrubs, white hospital lab coats, and fluorescent lighting had on patients at eight in the morning.
During one particular afternoon session, Amy had already giving him his daily dose of torture and Val had taken her turn, but it wasn't until his massage that Chris' joking demeanor took a temporary retirement.
"Amy, I need to make a change in my therapy goals," he suddenly interjected with a somber tone, interrupting a rare silence between them.
"Okay, call it."
Chris hesitated, but remained serious. "Forget about all the strengthening and everything I need to raise and fire a gun. My partner stands anywhere from 5 foot 3 to 5 foot 5 depending on her shoes. You get me so I can walk out of here and hug her with both arms and I'll call it good."
Amy just shook her in head in fascination and smiled. Chris never ceased to amaze her. She had only known him for a brief time, yet the sense of devotion and dedication he showed toward his best friend was truly awe-inspiring. "You really love Rita, don't you?" she asked rhetorically, simply matter-of-factly voicing her observation. She laughed as Chris threw a stunned look over his shoulder at her, seemingly surprised that she could have realized that. "Oh, come on, Chris! Here you are hawking me day in and day out about my scrubs and this lighting, but it's never occurred to you that I might need sunglasses to shield me from the glint in your eye and the smile on your face every time you even mention Rita's name?! Val and I haven't had the privilege of meeting your best friend, Chris, but we sure feel like we know her. News flash, bud, she's all you talk about." Patting Chris lightly on the shoulder, Amy softly added, "sorry, Brooklyn, if you're foolin' anybody, it's only yourself."
******FLASH******
Amy was right. Much as Chris hated to admit it, she was right. For eight years he and Rita hadn't convinced a single soul – except their own. He let his mind wander back to every instance of denial he could remember, but soon…soon the memories failed to resurface, his thoughts interrupted by a nagging uneasiness that slowly settled upon him and gained in intensity.
Something wasn't right.
Rita.
She needed him.
A sixth sense beacon in the form of an adrenaline rush made his heart skip a beat; God help him, Chris knew he had to get to her.
A plan was quickly forming in his mind. He knew what he needed to do, and he knew who could help. Chris grabbed for the phone on the rail guard of his bed and frantically dialed.
"Physical Therapy, this is Amy."
"Queens, I need your help. You gotta get me outta here."
"Woah, slow down, Chris. You are getting out of here – 10am tomorrow morning, not a second later, remember?"
"Listen, Amy, I can't explain it…but I've got to get to Rita. I don't know why. But please, you have to help me."
Amy called out to her accomplice, "hey Val, Chris wants an early d/c so he can go play with Rita, what'cha think?" Addressing Chris again, "Val's thinking, Brooklyn. No, I'm just messing with you. You're serious, aren't you? Okay, no promises here, but I'll see what I can do. Who's your doctor again?"
"Dr. Dupree."
"Jillian or Jay?"
"Jillian."
"Great, I've got rounds with her in…ten minutes. Give me a half an hour's time beyond that, and I'll get back with you. Can you promise me you'll sit tight till then? Don't be skipping out on me, Sergeant, you copy that?"
"You're a lifesaver, Amy, thank you. I promise I won't bail until I hear back from you. One more thing…can I borrow the CD that Cardiac Rehab always has playing?"
Exactly forty minutes later, Chris was standing in the Physical Therapy Department, finally dressed in his own clothes again, with a taxi on the way, and a carryout order called in to Wan Loo's.
"Ladies, it's been real, but see ya', got-ta go!" He embraced his two favorite hospital personnel, winking at Val as he tried to knock off her famous 'U of M' cap.
"You take care, Brooklyn," Amy exclaimed, already missing her favorite client – and all the harassment that would go with him. "Stop by sometime and let us know how you're doing. Bring Rita so we can finally meet her."
"I will, I will. Thank you both…for everything. Now, give me twenty-two minutes exactly, then call this number. If all goes right, I can keep Rita from picking up the phone – though it usually doesn't work, so wish me luck. Then, play that song into her answering machine."
The therapists threw a sideways smirk at each other and broke into mock salutes. "10-4,"
they responded in unison. Amy continued, "good luck, Chris. Now, you sir, are discharged…get out of our department!"
Rita's heart was pounding. She struggled to breathe, feeling as if she were trapped underwater. The nightmare consumed her in a raging sea of swirling images and echoing voices – some the product of her memory, some simply the product of her fears.
Rita…He's not breathing!…Christopher, don't you leave me!…Are you his wife?…I thought I lost him…Rita…I'm sorry, we couldn't save him…I love you…Oh, God!…Are you his wife?…Mrs. Lorenzo, I'm sorry, we did everything we could…Christopher, don't you leave me!…I love you…I thought I lost him…I love you…I love you…I love you…
The voices suddenly faded and the images metamorphosed into a more familiar yet equally haunting picture.
A little girl, her head bent low, standing with a policewoman in front of a white casket.
The loss of her father always factored into Rita's nightmares in some form or fashion, but this time, not even those memories remained for very long.
The casket changed, the little girl changed. What was previously a gleaming white casket, was now polished black and draped with the American flag. A grown-up version of the little girl stood beside it, hanging her head, alone this time. She herself was now the policewoman.
With a flash, Rita's surroundings transformed yet again. Now she was in her bedroom, taking in the scene through the eyes of an observer. She watched a robot-like shell of herself go through the motions of opening the closet and pulling out the dress uniform that hung in the back. In the blink of an eye, this stoic other-self was dressed and standing in front of the mirror, her emotionless gaze captured in the reflection. Rita gasped in horror as she watched herself look to the small object cupped in her hands and run a shaky thumb over the black band that stretched across the gold shield.
Still the onlooker, Rita's illusionary world began changing wildly, as if set on fast forward.
The cemetery.
The stream of Palm Beach Police squad cars and motorcycles. The Missing Man Formation, symbolized by one lone cruiser continuing on as the others halted.
The flag-draped casket.
The officers standing at attention as it passed.
The unseen bagpiper. The seven-member honor guard releasing three volleys from their rifles.
The white-gloved Captain Lipschitz moving down the front row of officers, presenting the triangular flag to his spirit-broken Sergeant Lance and saluting her.
This final series of scenes was simply too much for Rita to bear, and she let out a heart-wrenching scream, fighting with all her might to break the nightmare's hold on her.
Chris came bounding through the front door of the apartment just as Rita's cry jolted her body into a conscious, upright position. With a speed rivaling that of light, he dropped the Chinese food he was carrying and slipped in behind his precious friend, holding her tight as she twisted around, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed uncontrollably.
"You're alive…" Rita chanted over and over again, affirming the nightmare as just that. The terror that wracked her petite body with violent tremors caused her breath to catch in small gasps, making speech erratic and nearly impossible. Still, she managed to share an accelerated version of her horrific ordeal, not once lifting her tear-stained face from its position above Chris' pounding heart, or loosening her grasp on him as she kept one hand fisted into a death grip on his black T-shirt, and the other wrapped securely around the back of his muscular neck.
Chris in turn, splayed a strong hand across the middle of Rita's back, holding her tightly to him, and gently stroked her silky hair with his other – silently thanking Amy and Val for the ease in the action.
And, it was in this tangled display of consolation that they remained, even after Rita's sobs had subsided and her body relaxed. The Sams were oblivious to the distant ringing of a telephone, with Chris murmuring his encouragement and comfort in hushed tones, and Rita hanging on every word as she struggled to calm down and believe them. Only the louder beep of the answering machine was able to finally penetrate through their private world. Chris smiled in foreknowledge, and Rita prayed in hopes that it wasn't the Captain.
Music.
"What…"
"Just listen, Sam." Chris succeeded in stopping Rita before she fully stood up, and he pulled her into their long-since-familiar position where he wrapped his arms around her from behind and she leaned back against his chest.
With the music came words.
The healing rhythm faded just as the answering machine reached the end of its tape, and beeped again before rewinding. The song was mesmerizing, and Rita was completely caught up in its power.
For a moment, no words were necessary. The enchanting, silent spell which enraptured the Sams spoke volumes, much more than mere words could ever hope to accomplish.
It was Chris who first decided to add volume and English to their magic. "You gotta hear this, Sam. There's something I need you to understand."
Rita's heart skipped a beat.
In all the years she had known him, in all the years she had stood by his side as his best friend, Rita had never heard Chris' voice hold such an enduring and dreamy quality. She reveled in the realization that she was the recipient, and gazed up with wonder into his stunning blue eyes, which were dancing with a nostalgia that obviously pleased him.
"Rita, I need you to know just how many times I could have told you that I love
you – that I'm in love with you."
"Chris…"
"No, no, Sam. Just listen. You need to hear this." With the added emphasis of a poke to her side, Chris made sure he had Rita's full attention. The desired effect of courage to continue his confession came in the form of listening to Rita's whimsical giggle and feeling her tiny frame snuggle closer to his chest.
"I could have slipped every time I knew you had a headache, Sam. Every time I watched you go to bat for some kid with a hard luck story, or every time the Department had it in for you and you wanted to quit the force. I could have told you every time we hung out and watched old movies together or just walked along the beach – or every time you'd give me 'the look' for being jealous when you went out on all your dates. Honestly, Rita? I could have told you how much I love you…every time I saw you."
He held her closer, and rested his head on her shoulder to aid in organizing his thoughts. "If you need specifics, Sam, I can give you specifics," he stated anxiously, his innate humor mixing with notable vulnerability. "The first time I almost said that I loved you, was the second I laid eyes on you. But how cool would that have been, huh? When you told me about the aneurysm…it was all I could do not to slip and say it. When I found out about your dad, and watched you deal with Harlan Cameron again, all I wanted to do was keep you in my arms, tell you how much I love you, and protect you from the memories. And do you remember our very first kiss?"
"Of course, I do," Rita murmured softly, closing her eyes and leaning her head back into him.
"And what about when Captain Bob wanted to haul you off to San Diego? I gotta tell ya', Sam, I never liked that guy."
His last comment was whispered secretly into her ear, making her giggle not just from the sensation, but from the words as well. "I remember," she assured him.
"If you had decided to go with him, Rita, I know I wouldn't have been able to let you leave without telling you how I feel.
"And Brent… Brent took advantage of your love and he tried to kill you, Sam…well, don't even get me started on Brent. Just know that I was dying to tell you that I could treat you the way you deserve to be treated."
Chris paused for a moment, remembering the heartbreaking investigation of Rita's "murder." "When Trisha Veil was killed in your apartment, and we all thought it was you, I felt like I was gonna die. Then you walked in the door… I realized you were alive, and – man, Rita, you will never know how incredible I felt."
"Yes, I do…"
The whisper was so faint that Chris heard it more with his soul than he did with his ears, and he responded with his characteristic, cocked-head nod.
"Rita, it took every ounce of strength I had not to say 'I love you' over and over and over again. I had to settle for just spinning you around and around and around, instead."
Chris hesitated once again. "And if you remember, Sam, there was one time when I didn't have the strength to hold back. Well, not until half of the words slipped out. You had been having another bout of insomnia, and you let me read your Suzy Pratt book to you. Then I was the one who couldn't sleep. You agreed to read to me…and before I knew what I was doing, I said 'Sammy, I –' and then I stopped. But you knew what I was going to say, didn't you, Sam? Do you remember what you said?"
"I told you to pipe down and close your eyes." The precious memory brought Rita even closer to tears than she already was, and she struggled to find her voice. "And I told you that I knew…"
"Yeah," Chris purred dreamily, he himself also lost in the recollection. But the scene inside his mind suddenly changed. "Aw, Rita… The night of the shooting in the garage… If you had been hit, you wouldn't have had to worry about being the one who slipped the 'I love you' out first. If you had been shot…I would have beaten you to it."
Chris turned Rita around in his arms and grasped both of her hands with his own, bringing them up to his lips. "Can you believe me, Rita? I love you, Sam. Heart and soul I love you. I always have, and I always will."
Rita answered with the sob that had been building within her since Chris had begun to speak. Only this time, the tears that were released from the depths of her soul were filled with wonder and love, instead of pain and fear. She slowly released a hand from his loving grip, and let it rest on his cheek, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against his as she committed to memory every last detail of what had just transpired between them. Finally, she pulled back, allowing her glistening, emerald green gaze to penetrate through the crystal blue windows of Chris' soul.
"I love you so much, Chris."
And this time, her affirmation held no more fear.
Their moment had come. No more denying, no more running, no more hiding. They allowed themselves to finally push into the link that bound their souls together, accepting the truth that had been present all along. A truth of their love, a truth of their foolishness in doubting the survival of their friendship. Theirs was a rock-solid companionship, an intense connection so completely indefinable in spoken or written word. Yearned for by the greatest of poets, hunted for by the greatest of scholars, it was a bond revealed only to the greatest of soul mates, who had deemed its essence as Sam. It was indestructible.
Every fit of hysterical laughter, every quiet time spent basking in the balm of each other's company, converged at this moment with a look, a touch. Unspoken desire and devotion, awe and adoration. Heartbeats quickened, hinting at a passion too long ignored and a love too long denied. Eight years of suppressed emotion unleashed and burning brightly. A rhapsody of urgency stoked their fire with every kiss and caress they exchanged, as they mirrored each other's actions in perfect give and take. They had always been united in mind, heart, and soul. This final union of body was inevitable. Love assumed its place, as Rita's special song had prophesied, healing her heart and completing her soul.
