Chapter Seven: Adagio

Adagio: A tempo having
slow movement;
restful, at ease.


September 12, 2009

"She's fine. The surgery went very well. She's in recovery at the moment." Looking up at Dr. Theodore Ackerman was necessary, but no easy feat. He bore a strong resemblance to Ichabod Crane: as skinny as a flagpole and just as tall, but with a genial smile that immediately put his patients at ease. Ducky wasn't sure if it was his nerves, Ted's post-surgery exhaustion or just his imagination, but the smile seemed a shade forced today.

"May I see her?" Tori's lines of worry aged her somewhat; as the time had dragged by, it had been harder and harder to fill the silence with amiable chatter.

"Of course, Mrs. Cameron. Mrs. Cameron?" She looked up from gathering her things. "Mrs. Hamilton designated you as her proxy—"

She nodded. "Yes—I'm hers, she's mine." Her relief at Dr. Ackerman's assurances of five seconds ago disappeared. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He looked from her to Ducky and back. "It's my understanding that Dr. Mallard is a friend of the family?"

In Ducky's opinion, that was stretching a description to the point of losing its elasticity, but Tori quickly nodded. "Yes—he's known my aunt for longer than I've been alive." Well, if you ignored a four-decade gap it was true.

"Would you feel comfortable if I were to discuss the case more in depth with Dr. Mallard? I have to ask only because he isn't associated with the hospital, doesn't have privileges here—"

"Oh, no, no, I'm fine with that. That's perfect, actually—I'm so scrambled right now, I don't know that I'll understand anything beyond 'Aunt Lizzie is fine.' And Dr. Mallard would know far better than I what questions to ask. So, please—yes," she finished intensely.

Ducky kept a practiced smile on his face, ignoring the tiny current of unease that had pricked the back of his neck. Of course he had no hospital privileges—he was a medical examiner, not a surgeon. What the hell was Ted doing, pulling him in on her case?

"Would you like to see her first?"

He smiled and patted her shoulder. "No, no my dear. You go in. I'll be there directly."

She hugged him briefly. "Thank you for staying. I think I would have lost my mind."

'My pleasure' certainly didn't fit. "You're very welcome." That was neutral enough.

Dr. Ackerman made a motion. "Nurse Dawes will take you to see your aunt. When she's awake, we'll move her back to her room, but you can sit with her in the meantime."

"Thank you." Tori gratefully followed the nurse who had checked on them several times during the past hours.

Ducky's smile lasted until Tori was out of sight, then dropped like a rock. "Why the subterfuge, Ted?"

He jerked his head in a 'come with me' wave. As they walked down the hall he casually asked, "Just how well do you know the family?"

"Not very. Elizabeth and I were—friends—many years ago. But I hadn't seen her for almost forty years until today."

"Damn."

He looked up sharply. "What's wrong?"

"You tell me." He said nothing more until they were in the x-ray viewing room outside the surgical suite. "She says she broke her arm falling off a stepstool?"

"Yes."

"You sure about that?"

Ducky gave him a steady look. "I was there."

Ackerman's face cleared somewhat. "Oh. Good." He ran his fingers across the switches, turning on the bank of viewers. "Your opinion, please."

Ducky stepped forward and peered at the first screen. "My opinion… you had your work cut out for you." He pointed. "Bone fragments… shards… must have been quite the jigsaw puzzle."

"It was."

"Prior fracture lines…" Even though the current breaks had occurred along the lines of the prior damage, there were still traces of the faint marks on the x-ray. "Bastard," he muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, no, not you, Ted." He managed a laugh, then sobered. "Elizabeth's ex-husband caused the original break."

"Mmmh. Yes. She said it happened about thirty, thirty-five years ago."

That sounded about right. "Yes. Apparently he was quite abusive."

Ted made a small 'huh' noise. "Oh, yeah." He pointed to the other views. "When I saw how badly her arm had fractured, I had them take other films in case there were other breaks we didn't know about. She wasn't medicated yet, but she was pretty fuzzy about what hurt and where."

"Any other damage?"

"No. But—" He tapped the next x-ray, twice, hard. "Broken clavicle here. And here. Two different occurrences, she said." Another hit on another x-ray. "Fractured right wrist." Another film. "Fractured jaw. Same time as one of the collarbone breaks, she said." Two more identifying hits. "Left; right. From the metacarpals to distal phalanges, just about every finger on each hand."

Ducky tried to divorce himself from what he was seeing. This wasn't Elizabeth. It was some unknown, anonymous patient.

"Multiple rib fractures. I stopped counting at a dozen. Not to mention external scar tissue—you okay?"

"No," he said shortly. "I am fighting a tremendous urge to be violently ill," he almost snapped. "If that bastard weren't dead, I'd want to kill him myself."

"You sure he's dead?"

"I didn't autopsy the body, if that's what you mean."

"No—where did you hear that he had died?"

"From Elizabeth's niece. From Tori. She said he died in prison. His name was Walter—Hamilton, I assume."

"Did she tell you when?"

He thought back to their conversation. "I didn't write down any dates," he said almost ruefully. "But I believe he died twenty years ago, maybe more? They were married ten years before that? Fifteen?"

Ted nodded. "That pretty much tallies with what Mrs. Hamilton said, and with the age of these fractures."

"Then why—"

He pointed to a last x-ray. "Spiral fracture of the right radius and ulna. Very much like the original fracture on her left arm. But this one?" He stared at Ducky solemnly. "Within the last three years. Four at the most." He folded his arms. "Any idea who is beating this woman now Dr. Mallard?"

Listening to the catalogue of damage done, he thought he was beyond shock. He was wrong. He stared at the x-ray; the age of the damage was undeniable. "I. Have. No. Idea." It took effort to get the words out. "Did she say anything? Anything?"

Dr. Ackerman let out a deep breath. "Yes. When I asked her about the prior injury on her left arm, she was quite forthcoming. Told me all about her ex. The usual screaming match. The usual beating." He almost spat out the word 'usual.' "That particular time, she tried to escape. He grabbed her arm, twisted, threw her—floor or wall, I don't know—" He shrugged. "You worked the ER before. You know the drill."

"Unfortunately… yes." Oh, Bobby fell out of the treehouseoh, Suzy fell while skating. Spiral fractures were invariably caused by grabbing and twisting, causing a break that resembled the swirl of a barbershop pole. Or, in this case, breaks.

"That tallied with what I saw—the type of break, the time frame. So I asked, 'What about your right arm, Mrs. Hamilton?' 'Oh, Walter broke that, too.' I pointed out that she had said he died many years ago. Again she said he was the cause. 'No; this one was much more current. Perhaps three years ago?' And she works it through for a few minutes, then—bingo. 'Oh, my. I had forgotten. It was so awful, I tried to block it, I guess. Oh… it was a mugging. I stayed late one night, this young man—it was so sudden, he was grabbing my purse, it pulled my arm—'" Ted's tone was sardonic.

"A traumatic event could be repressed—"

Ted threw his hands up in the air. "Yeah, Ducky, it could. But I've got to tell you, after all these years I'm pretty good at sifting out the bullshit. And that was prime manure. Right off the farm. There is no way grabbing a pocketbook caused that kind of fracture." He smacked the x-ray again. "She's hiding something, covering up for someone. I don't know if she's got another abusive man in her life or what, but I don't like the idea of sending her home where it might happen again."

"Dealing with a domestic abuse situation is more difficult than child abuse," Ducky said slowly. Yes; focus on the problem, not the woman. Work the case. "With a child, hospital personnel can keep the child away from the parent or the abuser until police arrive. But if the victim is over 18, if she refuses help—?"

"That is why I called you in for a consult, Dr. Mallard," Ted said with a slightly ironic smile. "You're a friend of the family—well, the closest thing I've got," he amended when Ducky started to protest. "And you're as good a listener as you are a talker."

"Thank you, I guess."

"It was a compliment. Honest. Do want you do best. Listen. See if you can find out the truth. She was already shutting down on me, putting up defenses—if I can't get the truth from her, or you can't get at it, and I have no medical reason to keep her here… I'll have to release her. With her age and the complexity of the break, I can probably push it to Wednesday. I'm just worried that if something happens again, it'll be more permanent damage the next time. Like death."

Ducky grasped the edge of the table. This can't be happening. It just can't be. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall. "If I'm going to be your spy," he said dully, "you'd best fill me in on what you were supposedly bringing me in here to discuss." He took a deep breath and stood up. "I am not gifted at deception."

/ / /

So pale. So very, very pale.

He forced himself into clinical mode. Until she came out of the anesthesia, they had her on full monitors. Heart: fine. Good, strong sinus rhythm. Pulse rate, respiration… good. Pulse ox—98%, excellent sat rate. Ignoring the fact that she'd just come through over four hours of surgery, she was doing great.

Tori sat at her side, speaking softly. Like coma patients, those coming out of anesthesia had a gradual return of senses—hearing being first. So Tori was filling her in on pleasantries from the business: customer compliments, an idea for a cake competition, anything non-threatening to fill the void. He fingered the ID charm in his pocket, remembering when he'd first given it to her so many years ago. It should have been a wedding ring; it was supposed to be a wedding ring. He sighed. He wanted to hate Julia Stewart for what she had done… but he was too damn tired.

He jerked his head toward the monitor. What the hell…? Heart rate 78… now 95. Was she struggling against the aftereffects of the anesthesia? He stepped closer.

"—been here the whole time, Aunt Lizzie. He's so sweet. He's here, now, waiting with me—"

Great. Tori was talking about him, and at this rate she'd send her aunt back into surgery with a heart attack. He lightly grasped her shoulder; when she looked up, he shook his head. "I don't think she wants to hear that," he barely whispered.

She bit her lip and looked from him to her aunt and back, her face stricken. "I'm—"

He patted her shoulder again. Elizabeth was making soft noises of distress, coming out of her fog. In for a penny, in for a pound… "Elizabeth? Elizabeth, it's Donald. Can you hear me, dear?"

"Donald…"

He flicked a glance at the monitor; so far, so good. "Yes, dear. You need to wake up. You're in the hospital, you had a fall. The doctors took good care of you—"

"Where is she?"

He exchanged glances with Tori. "Your niece is right here—"

"Tish… Tish, where is she?"

Tori gave a small gasp.

"Tish… will be here later," he said soothingly, hating himself for the lie.

"Where is she?" She was fighting the drugs, blinking to clear her vision. "Tish, where is she, I want to see her…"

"She'll be here later," he repeated.

She stared at him, confused. "Donald…?"

He reached down to brush a damp lock of hair from her face. "Yes, dear."

She squeezed her eyes shut, then blinked several times. "Donald…? It's you?" When he nodded, she closed her eyes and settled back heavily into the pillow. "She said you'd come back," she murmured.

The recovery room nurse came over from the only other occupied bed. "Conscious?" she asked Ducky, having been introduced earlier and realizing she had an extra set of trained hands at the ready.

"Getting there."

"Mrs. Hamilton? Mrs. Hamilton?" She used the almost too cheerful tone one always associated with hospital nurses. "My name is Monica Crowley, Mrs. Hamilton. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Probably to shut her up, Elizabeth's eyes cracked open.

"There we go. Now, can you tell me what today's date is? Hmm?"

Not unless she had really changed over the years.

"Maybe the month," Tori muttered. Nope; apparently she hadn't changed that much.

"September," Elizabeth managed. After a moment: "Saturday."

"Very good!" She went through a number of questions: Who is the President? What city and state are you in? Where were you born? Close to a dozen questions and Elizabeth managed to answer all of them correctly. "What is the license plate on your car?"

Elizabeth was far more coherent, now, and stared at her for a long moment, mouth open. "You have got to be kidding," she finally said.

Nurse Crowley laughed. "That's the last question. I either get people who rattle it off faster than their home phone number or reactions like yours. Either way, it's my final test. You're ready to go back to your room, my dear, and at ten o'clock we have orders for chicken broth and apple juice."

"Yum." Elizabeth almost winced.

"Keep them where we put them, and you can look at real food in the morning. Well—close enough, anyway. And you can probably get rid of your hitchhiker, then, too." She tapped the IV rig.

"In that case—bring it on." Elizabeth sighed tiredly. "God, I'm so tired," she murmured.

"Mmh. Amazing how exhausting it is being asleep on an operating table." The nurse finished her notations and closed the chart. "Okay, we'll have her out of here in about ten minutes if you'd like to meet up in her room. Just need a couple of orderlies for transport."

"May I stay—"

Nurse Crowley shook her head. "Sorry, dear. Patient safety. Five East, room 510."

Tori leaned over and gave her aunt a quick kiss. "We'll meet you there. Don't dawdle," she teased.

Ducky reached over and brushed the back of his finger over her cheek. She had a bit more color; but while she didn't pull away from his touch, neither was she welcoming it. Another place, another time, he would have scooped her up, kissed her, begged her forgiveness, and held on for dear life. But this was here; this was now. He forced himself to be content with a small smile, and was grateful to see the faintest flicker at the corner of her lips.

He waited until he and Tori were in Elizabeth's room before handing over her wallet and envelope of jewelry; she already had enough to carry, but had politely brushed away his assistance. "They won't allow patients to wear any jewelry—it's for their own security." He pulled the bracelet from his pocket and set it on top of the wallet.

She nodded. "Yeah, I remember when I delivered Drew—I threw a royal fit when they took my wedding ring and put it in the safe. Afterward it made sense, but at the time—whoa, I was in full labor and I was not the most perceptive person on the floor."

He smiled. "I can understand. Not from personal experience, but the very occasional professional one."

"Why didn't you ever get married? Have children?" When he didn't answer, she dropped her gaze. "Ooh. Sorry. Didn't mean to be too personal."

"No, I… I hadn't really thought about it until now. It is… what it is, as Ziva so often says. But now… I suppose I was comparing the women who came later to your aunt, remembering those months we had together before her mother interfered… and found them wanting in comparison."

"Maybe… you can work back together again?" She laughed and shook her head. "Listen to me. I sound like my kids did after the divorce." Grateful for the change of topic, he was tempted to ask what had happened, but too polite to do so. Fortunately she had seen the question in his eyes and had no problem sharing. "We married way too young. I was a sophomore; he had just graduated and was working as a bank examiner. Long hours, lots of travel. So we weren't together enough to squabble—but enough to make three babies. After six, seven years he had enough seniority that he wasn't being shuttled off to Podunk, Idaho every other weekend, but I was putting in what felt like thousand hour weeks at Baxxter's, using my advertising degree… so we still weren't together much, but when we were all we seemed to do was find fault with one another. Between the three of us, someone was always with the kids—but it was rarely two of us at any time. And I think if we added up the hours, Lizzie would have had the highest number."

"I doubt she complained," he said with a smile.

"Far from it. She loved having them around, not just the b.s. 'oh, honey, I love watching the kids' but really loved it. And I'm still grateful for it. But then Baxxter's got tired of hemorrhaging red ink—or, should I say, their creditors did—and they shut down almost overnight. It was… traumatic. I'd started working there in college. I was there as long as I'd been married. Longer. Lizzie offered me a spot at the store, she said it would help her out—I think it was as a salve to my wounded pride, nobody was hiring it seemed like. But now Sam and I were spending more hours together and all we did was fight. It never got physical," she said quickly. "But—it didn't have to." She shrugged. "But I guess kids always want to see their parents together, until they're old enough to see that it wouldn't be for the best. Hopefully they haven't made their own mistakes by that time."

"Hopefully."

"Annnnnd, here we are, Mrs. Hamilton, home safe and sound!" The orderly swung the bed through the doorway, its occupant gripping the side rail, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The charge nurse followed shortly, making sure nothing had become tangled or disengaged during transport. She patted Elizabeth's hand. "You're set for now, if you need anything—" She handed her a buzzer. "This is the most important cord: it's a buzzer to summon li'l ole me. Next most important: the TV remote. That's on your left." Elizabeth crossed her right hand over, fumbled around and picked up the corded box. "That's the one. Couple of cable channels, PBS and some broadcast. Don't hesitate to call for me. If I don't hear a peep out of you, we have clear liquid orders for ten o'clock."

"So I hear," Elizabeth murmured.

"Beats the chicken a la king—but don't tell the dietician I said that." She smiled at Tori and Ducky. "Visiting hours are over at nine, but if you're quiet, I'll stretch it until her food arrives."

"Thank you," Tori said gratefully. "Dr. Mallard, would you mind staying here just a bit? I want to check in with all the kids."

"My pleasure."

Tori leaned over and gave her aunt a kiss. "Be right back, I promise."

As soon as Tori left, Elizabeth struggled to a sitting position. "Here." Ducky quickly pushed the button on the frame, raising the top half of the bed.

"Where're my clothes?" she mumbled.

Clothes? "Your wallet is right here, and the envelope with your jewelry." He carefully didn't mention her bracelet. "Tori will take them home."

"Not my wallet." She sounded tired and irritated. "My clothes."

He peered in the closet and saw a large plastic bag with her name and room number written in marker. "Here."

"Good. Give 'em to me, I'm getting out of here."

He couldn't keep from laughing. "Elizabeth, you're barely half an hour out of surgery, you are not going home."

"Oh, yeah?" She started to throw off the blanket, then almost fell back against the pillows. "Oh… yeah." Her eyes shut and she swallowed hard.

"Are you all right?"

"Once the room stops playing tilt-a-whirl."

"Uh-huh." He tried to fight back his amusement. "I think you should stay here a while."

"So do I."

He leaned on the bed rail, watching her. "Still get motion sick?"

"Sometimes." Her eyes were still closed.

He reached out and brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. "No more strawberries."

She furrowed her brow. "Those must have been good drugs 'cause I don't know what the heck you're talking about. Strawberries?"

"You used to use strawberry shampoo."

"And I thought I remembered trivia," she said in mild confusion.

Smelled of strawberries, felt like threads of silk… softest skin, a scar on her back from a bad burn… a tendency to walk just a bit duck-toed (which he found ironic) when she was extremely tired… trivia to her; not to him. He drew the back of his finger down her cheek. "I'm sorry to hear about Tish."

She looked at him guardedly. "Thank you."

Her wariness threw him for a loop. "Tori told me her mother died quite some time ago, when she was just a child."

Same caution. "Yes."

"And she came to live with you and Walter?"

She seemed to draw into herself. "Yes."

He kept his tone gentle, non-confrontational. "I gather you weren't together very long."

"Long enough." She locked eyes with him.

He nodded. "Too long." He stroked her cheek again and lightly took her hand in his free one. "Tori told me what happened and—I saw your x-rays. Oh, Elizabeth, I am so sorry."

She lifted a corner of her mouth in an imitation of a smile. "Not a mistake I plan on repeating."

Oh, really? Then explain your broken arm from three years ago. "Good." He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand and her faint smile looked a little more genuine. "I know it's been a long time, Elizabeth," he said awkwardly. "But… there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"Tori… Tori said you stayed with her. The whole time." He nodded. "Thank you."

"I was glad to be here." He continued to rhythmically stroke his thumb over her skin. She was actually starting to relax under his touch a little bit; good. "Tori told me what your mother did," he said gently. Her hand withdrew from his. Damn. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry."

She stared up at him. "So am I."

She didn't pull away from his touch to her cheek. "If there is anything I can do for you… I'm here. Please—let me help." At least until you run away to California

She managed a smile. "I'm sure Tori will need help with the dishes at the shop." My God, she was actually joking with him.

"I'd be delighted." Emboldened by her attitude, he lightly stroked her uninjured arm. She allowed the caress without objection. "She's a charming young woman. And she obviously loves you." But did she break these bones under my hand?

"She's my baby," she said sleepily. "Tish… gave her to me… But she's all grown up… it feels like yesterday I was driving her to Brownie meetings."

"Tish would be proud," he said almost automatically.

"Mmmh… Maybe it was Ro I was driving to Brownies." She frowned. "No, I drove Ro to skating."

"I've met your granddaughter, too." She looked at him sharply. "Rowena? She works here at the hospital."

She shook her head. "That's right. I forgot." She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "I'm so confused…"

"It's the anesthesia."

"What's my excuse the rest of the time?"

"Same one I have," he teased back. "Old age."

"Not so old…" she sighed and closed her eyes.

"Elizabeth?" he asked softly.

"Mmh?"

"How did you get hurt?"

She gave a slight laugh, eyes still closed. "You were there."

"No, not today…" He gently stroked her arm. "About three years ago, how did you hurt your arm? This arm?"

She quivered faintly under his hand. "I was mugged," she said flatly.

Damn. She was pulling away from him, literally and figuratively. "I'm so sorry." He was saying that a lot today. "Elizabeth… if you ever need any help, any… I won't let anyone hurt you."

She didn't say anything. Marvelous. Now you've pushed her father away. He sat in silence for a long time, wishing he could think of something to say.

"Where is my bracelet?" Her voice was the barest whisper.

"Right here." He reached over and picked it up from the table and slipped it into her hand. "They don't let patients wear jewelry." He gently closed her fingers over the bit of silver. "Otherwise… I'd put it back on your wrist where it belongs."

She caught her breath slightly; he thought he heard her say 'thank you' but he wasn't sure.

There was a quiet knock at the door and Tori stuck her head in. He nodded a 'come on in' movement toward the bed.

"I left a message for Den and Mad and Bronwyn, I guess they're out all day, all I've done is talk to the machine. Ro said she'd sneak in before she leaves at the end of her shift. And Drew said to knock off the break dancing."

"Scapegrace," Elizabeth muttered tiredly. "Tell him break dancing is completely out of fashion."

"You tell him. He's expecting a call in the morning."

"Well… I shall leave you two ladies for now. I shudder to think what the dogs have done in my absence."

"Dogs?" Elizabeth barely opened her eyes.

"Welsh Corgis. My mother's dogs, actually. I should probably find better homes for them; I'm not home nearly enough to be fair to them."

Tori held up a hand. "We have a cat. Sorry."

"I wouldn't do that to you. They're a bit temperamental."

"So's the cat," Elizabeth mumbled.

"Don't forget to give Tori your bracelet." He felt a wrench at his heart. "I'd hate for you to lose it."

"Never." She held up her hand and Tori gently took the bracelet from her grasp.

"Well, then—goodnight." After a moment's hesitation he gave Elizabeth a brief kiss to the back of her hand.

"Always so courtly." She was well on her way to sleep.

Tori handed him his tea mug from earlier. "For the drive home."

"Thank you."

She slipped a business card into his hand. It was from the store; on the back side were written her home and cell numbers. "I'll call tomorrow," he whispered.

"Thank you." She gave him a long hug. "Thank you so much."

Feeling as though he had adopted another surrogate granddaughter he gave her a kiss to the forehead and slipped from the door.

And what did that net? Nothing. He punched the down arrow button and stared at it. You weren't precisely a spy in Paris, you certainly aren't one now.

He pored over the short visit as he walked to the car, stopping while unlocking the door. NoI did learn something. Even while coming out of anesthesia, Elizabeth was able to keep up the façade that she had been injured in a mugging, something any halfway competent second year med student could refute with one glance at her x-ray. The desire to protect whoever had hurt her was buried very deeply. It's close to home. It's family. The very thought made him weak. He sat in the car for quite some time before turning over the engine.

/ / /

The house was eerily silent. He'd become accustomed to not calling out, 'Mother! I'm home!' to not hearing her querulous comments and to not listening to the trials and tribulations of her string of caregivers. But usually there was a swirl of gold and white fur yipping and yapping from behind the door as he came up the walk.

As he pushed open the door, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

Ducky: I didn't know how long you'd be at the hospital but it was already close to dinner and I figured you wouldn't be home for a while and since you gave me a key for emergencies I figured this was close enough and I knew the dogs were alone so I came over to keep them company for a little while I gave them all a nice long walk and they each had puppy treats and got fresh water and canned food you still give them each half a can at night and fill up the kibble bowl right? Hope so. Hugs, Abby

She wrote just as she spoke: breathlessly.

He peered into the sitting room as he passed; all four dogs were asleep on various pieces of furniture, well fed and sleeping off what had probably been overindulgence on Abby's part. She had a soft spot for the dogs and they were pros at giving her the he-doesn't-love-us-he-never-feeds-us poor, pathetic puppy eyes. She fell for it every time.

Tyson broke off in mid-snore and raised his head, looking at Ducky as if to say, 'Where the hell have you been?' He flopped his head back to the chair and went back to sleep.

Ducky laughed softly and shook his head. Mighty protector of hearth and homeright. He hung up his coat and hat, stopped by the kitchen to rinse out the mug Tori had given him (noting by the contents of the bowls that yes, the dogs had definitely played Abby for a sucker once again) and went into the library to relax a bit before going to bed.

Instead of his usual Scotch and a mystery, he poured a drink and then pulled an old photo album from the bookshelf. The first page was one of his favorite photos: he was no more than four, standing on a stepstool next to Grandmother Kittridge. Glasses perched on the end of her hawk-like nose, she was patiently explaining the intricacies of making scones. She wore a pretty flowered shirtwaist dress and low-heeled pumps and looked as calm and cool as an autumn afternoon. Her grandson, on the other hand, was covered in flour and lumps of dough and resembled a misshapen snowman. He rolled his eyes; why she didn't skin me alive

He knew perfectly well why she hadn't. He was the only grandchild on both sides of the family; if he hadn't been spoiled rotten, it was only because of his mother's intervention. But he had been a bit indulged and loved beyond measure. It had been almost a quarter of a century since she had passed on but he still missed her dreadfully.

He carefully turned the pages to the back of the book. A manila envelope was taped to the back cover, both the envelope and the tape brittle with age. After talking to Elizabeth's mother, hurt and rage had overcome him; he had thrown every photo, every memento into the bin and walked away from them. When he had returned from Viet Nam three years later, Grandmother Kittridge had handed him the envelope with a sad, wise smile. "Trust an old woman, Donnie. Some day these will mean something to you. Someday you will be glad to have them." She had seen him throw away things he had pored over and shared with her every night for months and had gone behind his back to rescue them. He trusted her judgment; it took until her death for him to open the envelope and peek at the photographs… then quickly shut it and hide it away for another decade. The next time the pain was more melancholia than hurt; should I try to find her?Where would I look? And she had been in the same damn town…

He effortlessly pulled the envelope from the cover, tatters of tape falling away. He let the squares and rectangles of two months fall onto the coffee table as he sipped his drink. San FranciscoHollywood Boulevard He smiled. A picture of Elizabeth, her face being painted with a flower (an already completed dove on her other cheek). She had insisted that turnabout was fair play; the next photo showed him with a peace symbol being applied to his right cheek. A ticket stub—The Moody Blues at The Hollywood Bowl. God, what a magical night that had been. The late spring night, the lights of the stage… But in the gray of the morning, My mind becomes confused, Between the dead and the sleeping, And the road that I must choose.

"I'm looking for someone to change my life… I'm looking for a miracle in my life..." he half-sang softly. He set aside the ticket, resisting the temptation to pull out an album and put it on the turntable. A long thin photo fell to the floor and he picked it up, turning it over as he did. A strip of pictures from the photo booth at Santa Monica Pier—making faces, goofing around, a kiss for the last frame—

Oh, God. If he closed his eyes he could still taste the sweetness of her lips after all this time. He knew just how it felt to hold her, feel her heart beating against his chest…

Any idea who is beating this woman now Dr. Mallard?

Alone in the dark, he quietly wept.


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