Title - Redress - Chapter 4

Author - Kourion

Summary: Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

A/N: Caring for someone who has been assaulted is no easy task. Next chapter should be lighter/ less intense.

On the plus side, now knowing the official canon names for Jane's wife and daughter...well. You'll notice the corrections, I'm sure. When I have more free time, I'll correct the previous chapters, and reissue altered versions.

She doesn't ask where we are going.

Not even once.

And I can't believe she'd be so calm if she thought for even a second that I'd be taking her back to her apartment.

Yet she just sits there...looking almost dazed, cloaked in an oversized hoody, and a turtleneck under that... undoubtedly to cover up the bruising around her throat.

I know she's feeling self-conscious, and don't comment on her heavily layered clothes.

"You don't even want to know where we're going?," I test, lightly - my tone not teasing, but easy.

Safe.

I don't want Lisbon clamming up on me now. Not when I had to push her to talk. Not when I had to push her to the point of tears, hating myself every second I kept nudging her. Understanding that it was essential. Knowing that the longer she went not talking at all, the harder it would be for her once she finally did.

I didn't want that for her. I didn't want her to run...away from me. Which is completely hypocritical of course, but there you have it.

"Of course, I personally wouldn't mind staying at a Holiday Inn," I try again a second later, when I get absolutely no response.

I'm hoping for a scowl or a mock-death-ray-glare-of-doom.

"I hear the one downtown has water-slides. Plus an ice cream machine! You like ice cream, don't you?"

'Please do something, Lisbon... Please say something.'

Something that lets me know that the feisty Lisbon I've come to know and love is... in there. Hibernating in that cold, pallid, shell-shocked frame.

"Lisbon?"

She suddenly looks and seems her size. Her petite, vulnerable size. A lack of snark will do that when you're only 5 ft 2, I guess.

'Please just talk to me, sweetheart'

Her quietude is unnerving me. It has from the beginning.

"Is there somewhere you'd like to go? Like to stop?"

We are heading into the third day now, and she's still so...limp...so numb-seeming. But in the first few hours, and then days...I expected as much. Could fathom that degree of shock. Our experiences may have been vastly different. I suspect the shock we felt...was and is very similar.

"It doesn't matter," she says finally - her voice still sounding scratchy; still laced with that awful, terrible wheeze. From stricture. From having someone - or someones, plural - hold their hands around her throat, and squeeze. I force the mental image out - out and away and I take a breath through my mouth, hold to the count of four, exhale to the count of four. It's that, or hit the dash - or the steering wheel. Hit my vehicle until my knuckles bleed. Because I feel totally...indundated by my emotions right now.

Enraged. Vengeful. Aggressive.

Possessive. Conflicted. Protective.

Wanting to hold her.

Wanting to give her space.

Wanting her to talk.

Knowing that she needs to talk.

Not wanting to hear what happened.

Not wanting her to relive what has happened.

A red-black-grey mess of emotions and pain. And I DO want to hit something. Or someone. Over and over. But I need to reign it in right now before I do more damage. Before I scare Lisbon.

'She's already scared - whether she'll admit to it or not...'

Right now...I need to be practical. And calm.

Focused.

"Do you want to stop by a pharmacy...maybe get something for your throat?"

She gives me a look - a brief, fleeting look - like I'm an idiot. I must be insane, because it makes me feel marginally better - that incredulous 'what a moron' roll of her eyes.

"I guess that's going to take some time healing...but still...we could get some anbesol or something? It might make it easier to swallow?"

I'm not going to start down the mutual...'let's not talk about it, let's deny this ever happened' path.

The guys at work - they'll do that.

Lisbon - she'll do that.

I won't indulge her.

Not on this. Not on something so serious.

Avoidance will be worse in the end. Much, much worse.

I know from experience.

'She doesn't even want to fill her script for sleeping medication. Or for something to help with pain, or with anxiety...'

I turn and study her briefly while I drive the Citroen a good deal slower than would be typical. I know she doesn't like it when I drive too quickly. She's still quiet - her eyes scanning the roads. I can tell she's counting the yellow lines on the highway. Counting them in her head.

'She's trying to focus on something else. Anything else. Something overall...meaningless, yet mathematically precise.'

I attempt to interrupt...softly. Nothing too...jolting.

"Your...place is fixed. Apparently. But Grace didn't think you'd want to head back there right away. She offered us her place until you feel a bit more like yourself."

"You didn't...?," and she's frowning now. Frowning at her lap.

Scared to ask, scared not to ask...

"No...I didn't...say anything. No details. I promise, Lisbon. That's not...," and I pause, unsure of what to say next.

I don't want to say the standard "that's not my secret to tell" bit. Because really...how cliche would that be? Never mind the fact that by calling it a secret...it leads to the natural thoughts that I must consider what happened to her to be shameful, or dirty. Something she should hide.

"I don't know what Grace knows - or possibly suspects - Lisbon. But I promise you...I didn't say anything to her. No...specifics. I would never betray your trust."

If I could take her hand, and squeeze - lightly - just to reassure her that I'm telling the truth, that everything is going to be alright...I would do that. I don't do that, though; my instincts are on high alert. I know that as much as I want to touch Lisbon...hold her, be with her...I better not attempt even the most chaste and platonic of gestures right now. It's not likely to be well received.

Instead I watch her. I watch her pull at the green hoody sleeves with raw, purple tinged fingertips as she tries to edge the hoody material down over her disturbingly bruised wrists.

'No...she won't deal very well with touches right now. Not now, and not likely for some time.'

We pass by a superstore, a Chapters booksellers, a large generic 24-hour pharmacy. Each place reminds me of something I should do, something I should get, something Lisbon may need. When my query fails to raise so much as a muttered sound - intelligible or not - I turn the car into the main lot of the Rite Aid and put it into park. Turning off the ignition suddenly, she turns to look at me.

"Can't we just go...?" and her voice holds something distant and scattered and not quite here. Not quite...present.

I rub my hands on my knees, suddenly wondering why they feel distinctly damp. I've been married. This shouldn't be so hard.

"Do you need something?," Lisbon tests, obviously questioning why we are here.

Her voice holds a note of being...on edge. Not...'do you need something, Jane?' No use of my name. Basics. Bare basics.

And she's still not meeting my eyes.

If I had actually been thinking at all today - I'd have encouraged her primary doctor at the clinic to give us what she might need. The pamphlet Lisbons' shrink had given me earlier explained more than I wanted or needed to know. That wretched brochure. Probably printed sometime in the mid 1980's - all teal lettering, with mustard yellow-orange clashing boxes marking off different sections of the literature. Subject headings as staggeringly real as Signs of Depression, and Flashbacks and National Resources. Curlicue text, as if by making the font appear just that little bit more feminine...the publishers could take away a bit of the inherent horror of the subject. Which of course...they can't.

"How to Offer Support When a Loved One is Raped" - that conflicting, pretty writing on the front of the literature. I just took the small cream colored brochure with the god-awful teal writing soundlessly from the doctor, read it cover to cover while Lisbon underwent the last of her physical exams.

"No...I don't need anything, really. But I'm thinking maybe...you do?"

Lisbon's arms cross at that. It's a protective gesture.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean,"she starts slowly, her tone incredulous. We both know... that she knows what I'm asking.

She's tugging on her seat belt now - neurotically fiddling with something so she has a paltry excuse not to look at me at all.

'This shouldn't be so hard.'

But it is.

"Your doctor told me it's...procedure to give any woman whose been -," I stop, seeing her flinch away from me, and I try to expel the pain in my chest, knowing that if this is hard for me, it's damn hellish for her.

Her cheeks are dusted with rose.

It's enough.

I close my eyes.

"You were given an emergency contraceptive at the clinic yesterday, I think. Right?"

'I think. I think. I think.'

Like that makes this easy and light. I read the brochure. It was peppered with words that snapped me back to reality faster than a nasty bout of whiplash. Words like abortifacients.

Ugly words.

Lisbon is slanted to the right in her car seat. Toward the window, the door. Away from me. She looks like she would rather be anywhere else in the world right now.

And it makes sense. She's intensely private, especially about subjects that she perceives as highlighting some sort of personal weakness.

I guess growing up without a mother, in an all-boy family didn't help, either...

'You should have asked for this stuff at the clinic.'

But I had been dazed too, not thinking. And then - later - I couldn't ask Grace, even if it would have been an obvious choice - a logical choice. Because that would have been as good as an admission as to what had truly happened. An emergency contraceptive wouldn't have been provided for a simple robbery. My white-lie would have unravelled immediately.

I just need to say it.

"I can...just run in, run out. Really fast. Get you whatever you need. If you need some sort of... product or...well, you know...?"

I try to meet her eyes. She's trying to avoid mine. And Lisbon doesn't avoid anything, usually. This is a woman who routinely carries two guns on her person, and a third in her car. A woman who can tackle 250 lb suspects with ease, and bring them down to the ground with her petite 105, or 110 lb frame. A woman who usually doesn't seem afraid of anything.

I clear my throat, and when I speak, it's a low thrumming sound.

"I don't know if you need something, Lisbon. But if you think...you might, we should probably get it right now..."

Damn it. I should be better at this sort of stuff. I had a wife. I had a daughter.

"I mean...we're here now..."

'But this is different...'

"Lisbon...," I stress, my voice dropping to one insistent appeal.

Irrefutably...this is not the same thing as any old awkward conversation with Angela. This is...trauma.

This reflects a horrific event.

"I don't need anything, Jane."

Ahh...there is it. My name. Obviously, she still recalls my name. Good to know.

"Your doctor said that it would start your period," I say quietly, suddenly aware of how highly personal this conversation has become. I try to think of some way to ask, to offer, to help - all without speaking.

"I'm fine."

Like hell she's fine. She looks...furious. Hurt.

Antsy.

And Lisbon's voice is crisp. Snappish.

I know better than to push right now.

I nod, just slightly, to let her know I hear her.

"Well, I'm just going to pick up your scripts then. I'll be...just a few minutes, alright?," and I play it cool, try to get her to relax.

Lisbon looks like she wants to say something... biting. Something along the lines of how she doesn't 'need any damn sleeping pills, either!'

I can sense her anger. Disproportionate and proportionate, all at once. Of course, by running the errands myself...this serves a double purpose. I can fill Lisbon's scripts, get what might be wise to get...leave everything in the bathroom for her.

'She'll find it if she needs it.'

We won't talk about it, to save face. Fine. OK. I can do that.

But by leaving her alone right now - just for a few minutes - it will also give her some time to be alone. To calm down. To deal with her emotions, alone. It's what I know she craves right now.

Maybe not later. Maybe not even later tonight. Who knows how she'll feel later?

But right now...I can sense she wants that privacy. Needs it.

I turn the ignition back on, but take my extra spare keys out of the glove compartment before fiddling around with the radio. I finally select a local University radio station, making the decision - knowing I'm most likely just going to get silence if I even try to talk to her right now.

"Good?," and - as expected - silence. From her.

The station, on the other hand, is playing some sort of ambient music. Something dreamy, but not overtly melancholic. Brian Eno, maybe. Something...she can get lost in, but not in a doleful way. Not in a way that will make her feel morose, or lost in thoughts that she might not want to face by herself, alone, right now.

Just calming music. Soothing.

Perfect.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

I don't know why my mouth wants to add sweetheart to that. It does, and I fight down this new - and forceful - need for connection.

It's because she's been hurt.

It's because she's hurting.

But that doesn't mean she'll appreciate treatment that differs from our established routine. More than ever - as hard as it's going to be for me to just pretend that everything is as it has always been - our routine is going to be vital. She wants what is predictable right now. What is established...and safe.

Known.

Lisbon nods dully then - nods, but doesn't speak - as her hands dart out, tug on the hoody.

She looks cold.

I mentally add hot water bottle to my list of things to purchase.

I go to the pharmacy first. I need to be quick. The longer I'm gone, the more anxious Lisbon is going to get. Thankfully, the line is short, and I give the pharmacist the two scripts. One for the anti-anxiety med, one for the sleeping med. I'm informed that I should come back in about 10 minutes, and I'm given a slip for the transaction.

I then go to a couple different aisles, adding random - possibly needed items - into the cart: extra strength acetominophin, with a special coating - so that it doesn't hurt her stomach. A bunch of semi-liquidy and easier to consume foodstuffs: cream and broth based soups, pudding cups, cappuccino mix. Stuff that won't hurt her throat. Of course, I don't know her preferences here, so I sort of take a little of everything.

Next - an electric blanket, and a hot water bottle.

I pause at aisle 15, reading the overhanging description of what I'll find - and debating what I'm about to do. Wondering if this is going to cause some sort of argument later. I don't think it should - but Lisbon's obviously not herself right now, and she has a hot temper at the best of time.

And yet, I can take the heat. I know that Lisbon won't likely be able to go out and get these items independently. Not with a broken arm, a swollen throat. Not when she's already doing her best to hide. To shrink. To be...unseen. Invisible.

Angela was always really good about not having me pick up this kind of stuff.

Probably because I was rather pathetic at the task; the one and only time I actually was given the chore...I just chucked whatever I first came across, and drove home quickly.

I recall that my wife bopped me on the head with the package not a minute after I handed her the Kroger's bag.

...laughing at my stupidity. Explaining to me that she didn't need Depends, "for god's sake, honey! And here I thought you were smart!"

Laughing her good-natured laugh while our daughter popped up in the kitchen out of nowhere, suddenly wanting a pony-ride, Daddy, before turning and just staring at the Depends that my wife was still holding.

Before asking, hopefully, "why does mommy have diapers?" as I bent down and she scrambled up on my back, letting myself become an imaginary pony-slave.

And her voice was small and delighted as it filtered down to my ears, her hands tugging at my dress shirt as if the flaps were horse reigns.

"No, pony - go LEFT! LEFT!," and she'd squeal in delight as I went right instead - squeal in delight as I purposefully did the very opposite of whatever she asked.

"Stupid pony! Go left!," and she'd dissolve into giggles. The type of squealing-giggling that adults can never do properly.

The electric stream of giggles that, I believe, only very little girls can do.

Especially whilst pretending their fathers are ponies.

After a few minutes, my head was hurting - a surge of dizziness reminding me that maybe my wife was right, and I shouldn't be so "stubborn" - so I turned left, and Charlotte started in on her next command for me to "giddy up! GIDDY UP PONY!," while I ran on all fours into the living room, finally out of breath, dragging myself to the couch.

Lifting her off my back, she complained, "awww, no! DADDY!"

Reprimanding me for getting tired, the little elf!

"PONY is TIRED, Charley-bean."

And a second later, cross-legged from the floor, the subject changed again.

"Daddy...when am I getting my baby brother?," to which Angela snorted, an undignified, "hey, that'll be the day... I need a mini-version of your father like I need a hole in the head!" under her breath.

And Charlotte - always listening, ALWAYS figuring stuff out, even at five years old...scolding me now.

"Daddy! You said you'd ask Mommy about my baby."

Always "her baby."

"Naaaaay," I belted out, "whhhhoooose DAAADeeee?," not really wanting to answer her question, and much more willing to remain a pony since my wife was doing absolutely nothing to help me out.

And Charley laughed then, kicked at me with her tricky little feet while I gasped, hollering out, "PONY ABUSE! Stop!"

"Gently, monkey!," my wife scolded from the kitchen, though not unkindly, "we don't want to break Daddy's ribs, do we?"

"Thanks for the concern," I muttered with a smile as she came into the family room then, carrying a blue pot of pasta, while I continued to rub at a sore patch near my ribs.

"I think we should sign you up for soccer, Charlotte. Then you can kick soccer balls, and not defenseless ponies!," and I made a pass for the TV guide, quickly thinking of putting on some sort of cartoon. Something to get me out of pony-duty for a little while. Or something to stop my daughters incessant inquiries as to when "her baby" would be coming.

But I should have known better...

"So daddy...is he coming?," and those hazel eyes had studied me with great seriousness, mouth gently holding onto the prospect of success, a smile almost in place - just in case she liked my response.

Those...dimples cutting into soft, rounded baby fat.

Apparently I was a father again, and not a pony.

"Is who coming? You really need to be specific when you ask questions, young lady. Remember when we talked about the importance of specificity in effective oral communication?"

Oh, truly - this game was old.

Our daughter would ask me when her little brother would be coming, and I would pretend I had no idea what she was talking about, while talking over her head.

"Daddy!," she laughed, smacking me on the hand, the smack holding just enough power to string. "Stop being so ...an..an-annoying! Is that...sec...sepicific enough for you?"

I tried not to laugh at the bastardized way my little girl pronounced the new word.

"Sepicific? What's that?," and this time I did laugh, so my wife finally put down her fork, a warning in her tone as she told me to "stop being such a pest, Patrick."

"Dearest! Do you call me "annoying" when I'm not around?," I quipped back to her suddenly, while Charlotte nodded her head frantically, biting her lip as I faked outrage at this "travesty of a marriage!"

I picked Charley up then, settling in on the couch besides Angela - who tried to grab for the remote, while I fake-scowled back at my wife.

I finally handed the remote over to our daughter instead.

"Oh, if you think I'm giving YOU the remote, woman - the nerve! After you call me annoying behind my back!" but my grin is still in place when I leaned into Angela, getting comfortable.

"You're my nice and squishy wife-water bottle!" I muttered, loving the feeling as my wife's hands came up to my head, stroked my hair. I smiled in the darkened room.

"Nice and squishy and warm," I muttered again to my wife, although that time it was stupidly loud enough for Charlotte to hear.

Two seconds later the little imp stood up, a glint in her eyes suddenly making me nervous. With due cause.

Because in the next moment she laughed and jumped down forcefully on my stomach, effectively knocking the wind out of me.

It's a good thing I hadn't already started eating dinner.

"You are nice and squishy too, Daddy!", she squealed, before she rose back up - ready to jump back down on me again.

I remember that I kicked myself for giving her the idea, and gently reached for her wrists, finally pulling her down where she sat cross-legged between my lap. And Angela weaseled her way out from behind me - just enough to fix a plate of pasta and salad for Charlotte in her little Bunnkins bowl.

"Here sweets. Dinner," and my daughter took the bowl, stared at it with disinterest.

And outted-me.

The little traitor.

"But Daddy and me had chocolate and strawberry ice-creams already, Mommy!"

"Oh really?," and the voice was amused, though the hands stopped stroking my hair. Fingers lightly tapped against my skull. Tap, tap, tap.

"Yes, with chocolate sauce and sprinkles and whipped cream and-"

I made a slicing motion with my hand over my throat - our mutual "shut up, shut up!" gesture.

My wife - always pretty easy going though - simply sighed, put the bowl of (actual nutritious) food back down.

"No more ice-cream before dinner, you goof."

I nodded against her, silent, then flipped through the tv channels.

"So my, pretties...can we all agree on a movie tonight? Oh look, Angie," I paused, catching the entry in TV guide, "do you want to watch Toy Story? "The claaaaaw. The clawww is our masssster! The claw decides who will go and who will staaaaaay!""

When the movie ends, Charlotte gets back to task.

And for all her patience she's now starting to scowl. It doesn't suit her.

"Keep that up...and your face will freeze all gruesome-like, Charley-bean! You'll look like one of those little green aliens! "The CLLLLLAW""

"STUPID PONY," Charlotte laughs, not able to keep the scowl in place, and I feel her tiny hands come to grip my hair, pulling on one curl. "Answer me pony! I beg of you!"

"Apparently, she's inherited my flair for the dramatic, Angela. I'm so proud!"

My wife mutters something then about "this" being why we don't "give little girls neopolitans for dinner."

But - a gracious woman, my wife - she decides to take pity on the pony-kicker, despite my protests to "not give in! do not give in!" as our little girl continues to pull on my hair.

"There's no baby coming right now, Charlotte. And quick hitting Daddy, young lady. We don't smack in this house, do we?," though my wife bites back a grin as she whispers in my ear, "not even when the stupid pony deserves it!"

"Oh. Nice. Real nice, woman," I whisper back, while our over-sugared rugrat finally sits up, looking terribly dissapointed.

I almost felt badly.

"So really? No baby?"

Man - this kid's stubborn!

"Nope. Not yet," and I wink at my wife exaggeratedly while she smacks me with a sofa cushion.

"Well, DADDY," and the small voice is now sceptical - logical, "if I'm not getting my baby...why did you get Mommy diapers?"

Me - about to respond. My wife - cutting me off, sly smile on her face.

"Daddy just can't read very well yet, sweetie," Angela had said at last - triumphant smile in place.

Our daughter - taking the words to heart - suddenly looked saddened.

Saddened and supportive - and she promptly shepherded me over to the coffee table, and scouraged around for her Sesame Street DVD's. I can still recall her pudgy little hand coming to rest overtop my own. Giving that light, gentle squeeze. So very...mature, in some ways. When trying to console someone who she thought was upset. Those big hazel eyes, bouncing ringlets, and severe expression.

"It's okay, Daddy. I will help. I can read well. I can help you."

Innocence and enthusiasm and a look that made me bite my lip so I didn't actually laugh out loud and offend her. And then Charley scattered her letter blocks and asked me questions. About everything. Including when she'd have her baby brother.

"You're sure stubborn, kiddo. You get that from your mother, don't you?"

And Angela, from the couch, snorting. "Yeah right, Pat. She gets that from *me*. I'm sure."

Charlotte - pleading her case now.

"But I will help you take care of him! I promise! And I will share my strawberry shampoo, too."

Strawberry shampoo - the only type she'd ever use. The bottle painted in red and yellow and pink balloons. Monkeys swinging from the balloon strings. Shampoo from the salon, for what my wife called "ridiculously spoiled children."

[And when I said that "it was good stuff", the strawberry scent like strawberry shortcake, and how I'd use it myself if Charlotte would ever let me, Angela had turned and smirked, with an "I rest my case" spilling from her lips, while I stuck out my tongue at her. Probably not doing much to redeem myself, truthfully. But how could we spoil Charlotte? Truly? With that little voice, high pitched and spite-like and always, always loving?]

"We can feed him peaches like Tiko, right Daddy?"

Tiko - her playmate's box tortoise, who ate peaches with the same fervor that my daughter ate fruit loops. Especially the pink and purple ones.

"Oh sure, we can feed him peaches, Charley-bean! Peaches, apple pie, co-co crisps! Whatever he wants!" and Charlotte laughed, clapped her hands together excitedly, while my wife groaned from her position on the couch in feigned-horror, saying something loud - in warning. Something like, "don't you give her any more ideas, you monster!"

So this time... I mimicked my daughters pout, and started in with the insistent questions of when we'd finally have our little boy.

Whispers then. Conspiratorial.

A small tug on my pant leg.

"Maybe you can just bring me home my baby, Daddy? Bring him home and tell Mommy, later?"

Always "her baby." Always.

Another snort from the couch.

Obviously I needed to train this kid to be...stealth.

"Uhh, Charley-bean...remember how we talked about this the other day? How the baby has to grow inside Mommy?"

She nodded her head, her features scrunching up, still confused about the process - which was understandable, since I totally glossed over that issue last time.

"For my birthday, then? PLEASE?"

Her birthday was three months away, so I shared a look with my wife, who held up her hands in a 'don't put this on me!' gesture.

"Pumpkin...a baby will take awhile to grow in Mommy, and won't be ready by your birthday...He'll only be," and I did some quick mental math, "one third ready by then, sweetie."

"Aren't you the eternal optimist, Pat," and my wife was grinning at me again, not unlike the cat who ate the canary. And our daughter, indignant. A huff.

Followed by...bartering. Actual bartering.

"Well...can't he just come a little sooner? I don't care if he's small! You can make him small if you want!"

I remember trying not to laugh - Angela too, I take it - the look on her face priceless, her eyes twinkling merrily.

"Oh sweetheart, you know how bad Daddy is at making things. I don't think he'll get too far by your birthday, sweets."

An indignant pout again - from me this time.

"Why are you so mean to me, woman? Do I not buy your beloved mushroom Ragu? Do I not make an exceptionally good pony for our daughter?"

My smile turned wicked.

"Or is this just because I didn't get you your fancy woman products?"

"Aren't you a laugh riot. The fancy ones? You didn't even get the right ones!," Angela crowed.

Because seriously - nothing phased the woman by that point.

More pant tugging.

"Can you just... start on him by my birthday, Daddy?"

As if a baby brother was a sculpture. Something I'd be hand-fashioning.

I ignored Angela as she ate the last of her linguine [the world's slowest eater, I always called her] and then loudly spoke to our daughter with an innocent: "I'll try, Charley. I'll try really hard to make you a brother for your birthday."

"Good luck with that, Patrick," Angela muttered then, her mouth quirking into an amused smile as she eyed the scattered alphabet blocks, the words I had oh-so-randomly spelled out on the carpeting.

Words like "Baby" and "Brother".

Words like "Names?" and "Jacob?"

So she rised from the couch, reached into the brown bag of plastic linking-letters.

Upside down, I tried to read her message as I stole a couple strands of linguine from her bowl, slurping messily to make Charley laugh while my wife half-heartedly warned me not to get tomato sauce on the rug.

When she was finished, she removed her hands, let me read the words aloud, which I did.

"'Keep dreaming goofball'...? Oh that's not very nice, my dear! Is it so wrong that I want to balance out our little family with a boy?"

And Angela shrugged her shoulders, then gave me a more serious look, eyeing Charlotte.

"Well, what if we have another girl?," and suddenly thoughtful, she nudged Charley with her leg, "hey Charley-bean, does it have to be a brother? Would a baby sister be okay?"

Charlotte's lips pursed then, her eyes staring off as if she was contemplating advanced calculus.

"No," she announced regally a few moments later, "no, I really just want a baby brother."

A big grin then, my face feeling swollen with it - enjoying having my own mini-imp to bug Angela with...

And perfectly enough...I had just enough vowels left to write my witty comeback: 'If at first you don't succeed. Try, try again.'

Angela smacked me upside the head for real then, while I let out a strangled yelp-laugh, surprised.

A young woman in her early twenties or so comes by, reaches for something hastily, stares at me a little oddly...probably wondering what I'm doing just hovering in the middle of the aisle, frozen and out of place.

"Do you mind?," she asks, an aggravated little frown on her face. And it's then that I realize I've been actually staring at her...trying to see what she selects.

"What sound does this letter make, Daddy? S...ssssss."

"It's an...A?," and I would play the fool, just to see that firm expression, gently reprimanding me to, "pay attention, daddy! Listen...SSSssss!"

Cheering when I got her questions right.

Charlotte would be 13 now.

13...

I realize that I'm still frozen in line. That the woman is still staring at me, indignant.

"Sorry," I mutter. Thinking quickly. "Ummm, I didn't mean to stare," I recover quickly, "Uhh...my daughter...she's 13...," and I trail off, a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I should be alarmed with how quickly I'm able to just...lie. Lie about her.

The young woman navigates her cart around mine, and gives me a look of profound sympathy and renewed understanding while I stand there, probably looking every bit the out-of-place dad.

The quintessential unsure father dealing with a pubescent daughter.

"You probably should just stick to...," her hand roughly glosses over a bottom row, where I see an army of blue plastic coated parcels. Little pillow parcels, white lettering, birds on front, and something about wings that I don't fully understand. "that row then. I'd skip everything else as she's still so young..."

I mutter a thank you, chuck in several quantities of the recommended products, then depart hastily before finally heading to a small grocery lane and adding some boxes of tea, some bags of Melita coffee. I then head back to pick up the scripts - knowing that I'm stalling. Trying to think of a way to take the discomfort out of everything for Lisbon.

When I get back to the car, I find Lisbon cat-napping, her head jerking up in alarm as she wakes from the groggiest of mini-sleeps when I open my door, and get in.

"Shssh...it's alright. You're okay. It's just me," I mutter, watching her for a moment before tying the pharmacy bag at the top and putting it in the backseat. I then root around in the second bag of foods and condiments, and pull out a Rockstar Coffee drink - Light Mocca, it reads.

I've seen Lisbon drink them. A lot.

And the way she was blinking against the light earlier as we drove, never mind the slight tremor of her hands... I wouldn't be surprised if she has a mammoth caffeine withdrawal headache.

Especially given the amount of coffee I know she drinks every day having been interrupted, that is.

And though I don't want to enable her coffee habit, I also know my protests and suggestions that she cut back will fall on deaf ears.

"Thirsty?," and I proffer the beverage in a way - a manner - that I hope comes across as relaxed. Casual.

Something that belies the terrible anxiety I am feeling for her right now.

I see one eye open slowly at my question, slowing exposing the intense emerald green within.

Lisbon catches sight of the beverage within nanoseconds, and then suddenly she's sitting up a little straighter in her chair.

I do my best not to smile at her undying eagerness to consume coffee drinks.

"Thanks," she says briefly, as I hand off the drink, and she pops the tab. "I have a bad headache. Stupid nurses and stupid rules," I hear her rant under her breath.

I nod, false sympathy as I speak next, "Oh, don't I know it. Those aggravating nurses and their ridiculous ideas about healing patients not having access to liters and liters of coffee. Really, I mean - what coffee nazis!"

And there we have it: the reduction of anxiety.

Just slightly.

Just enough to allow a small smile to touch the corners of her mouth, Lisbon's slurpy sipping only briefly paused before she nods, then takes a larger gulp.

She swallows the coffee, then turns the radio station to something a little more intense, raucous.

And that's how we drive to Grace's - Lisbon, counting yellow road dashes, huddled in excessive layers, taking steady sips of coffee, and me...driving as tidily as possible, my thoughts caught up in reminiscing about the people I care about...

...past and present.