Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them. - Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1900 - 1944), "The Little Prince", 1943
Maura's Point Of View
Three months earlier.
She shot him. She shot my biological father and I can't even bring myself to hate her. I want to. I want to pull together all of the pain, the hatred, and the disgust I truly feel for humanity at times and I want to axis it all to Jane Rizzoli. She shot my biological father. For what? Protection? I know I gave off the impression that I wanted the worst for him because of his job. Because of what he did to my mother and I. Truth is, and even Jane should have known this, I can't truly hate Patrick. As a man, he has done evil things. He has taken lives – even if the men were well deserving – and he has caused many of people pain. But, if it hadn't been for him I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be standing in the cold with rain cascading and wind tumbling me over. I have to keep my ground and I do my best. Somehow it got darker a lot sooner than I was ready for. I can see Jane. She's worried. About me. About Doyle. About my mother. She's watching me, waiting for the moment that I show her that I need her. I can't give off the impression. Not now. I can't let her know just how much I need her to hold me right now to tell me all is going to be okay.
"Doc," The paramedic looked at me, with scared eyes. He was delivering bad news and I knew it. "Doc, he's gone."
I nodded. I already knew this. I knew that he would die the moment Jane shot him. The thing about Jane is that she doesn't shoot to injure. She shoots to kill. It's not something she can control, and I'm almost glad it isn't. But, when the gun is pointed at someone I love, how could I not hate her? How could I not hate her and her damn good aim?
"Thank you." I said to him before I turn to walk away. My arms are wrapped so tightly around my body. There are multiple reasons for it. I'm cold and I'm trying to keep myself as warm as possible. I want to keep my emotions under wrap but that's hard to do. It's easier to cry in the rain, I've noticed that. They all assume my face is wet and my mascara is smeered because of the rain drops. I let them assume away because I don't want them to think I'm weak. I don't want Jane to know that I need her.
"Do you want a ride home?" Frankie asked me. I could feel his hand on the small of my back. Jane sent him over. He knew just how to treat me when Jane told him to do it. He knew just how to hold me when Jane told him to do. He mimicked all of her actions. He became protective just like her.
"Can you just take me to my mother?" I looked up at him. It was so hard to look at him and not be angry with him too. It was hard to look at anyone and not be angry. I was angry with humanity. Myself. Patrick. Mostly Jane. God, if he exists.
"Sure." Frankie guides me to his new car. I can tell it's new because of the smell. I'm so used to the smell of new. New car. New clothes. New furniture. The car ride was slow but for the life of me I can't remember anything that happened throughout. Frankie and I could have held an entire conversation – although I seriously doubt it – or he could have drove in silence. To this day, I'm still not sure what happened in the car between us. My mother is awake. Breathing. Listening to her doctor fill her in on the accident. When she noticed me, something in her mind clicked. I could tell by her facial expression. She remembered why she'd been hit by the car. Why her doctor hadn't been mentioning me. She was protecting me.
"Maura." She smiled, taking my hand. "Honey, what's wrong?" I could have lied and told her that it was her I was crying for. I wasn't sure how successful that lie would have been but I could have tried. It was an easy excuse. My mother was in the hospital. I almost lost her.
"Patrick Doyle is dead." Is all I say. Her doctor knew of him because I heard her sigh.
"Well thank God." She smiled, patting my shoulder. "Boston's most notorious boss. Thank heavens someone finally stopped him." I, and my mother, wanted to tell her that Patrick's wrong doings didn't define him as a man to us. To us, it was another difference between us. What the true tragedy to us were that we lost him. I lost any chance of ever meeting my birth mother.
"Will you give us a minute?" I asked her, ignoring her previous words. I didn't want to make a big deal of it because whatever business I had with Patrick Doyle was just that. My business. The doctor gave me a smile before leaving.
"How?" Is all my mother could muster up. I took the seat next to her, still holding her hand. I want to explain to her that Jane isn't as violent as her job makes her look. I want to defend her to my mother. I want to do whatever it takes to make sure that whatever opinion my mother has on Jane is that she did it to protect me. But that would be a lie. That would be a lie because I don't believe it myself.
"I was bate," I swallowed hard, unsure of how to tell this to my mother without worrying her. I could tell I've already done a terrible job of that because her face changes from sadness to worry. "The case we were working on before...all of this happened. I was bate to track the murderer. Patrick was there. He had a gun and pointed it. I can't remember where he pointed it to, but Jane shot him." I wanted to believe that he pointed it to her. That maybe that was the reason she fired. But, my memory serves me wrong. It betrays me. It tells me that he pointed the gun to the fireman and Jane misinterpreted.
"I'm sorry, dear." My mother squeezed my hand for good measure, because it was the only comfort I could get from her without harming her. I nodded, but I didn't know where to go from there. I didn't know what to do with my body. I just knew I had the same question rephrased running through my mind over and over again. The source of it was simple: why?
A/N: Like I stated before. Let me know if you're interested in this story with reviews on your honest but appropriate opinion.
