A Few Days of Change Chapter 10

Grissom's arm circled Sara and he drew her to him. He wiped tears as more followed. There were no sobs or hiccups or any sounds, just sheets of tears, filling her eyes and raining down her face. Her mother sat less than a foot away, overwhelmed by her own statements, beaten, psychologically as she had once been physically abused, yet stoic. Her hands rested in her lap; her tears had dried long ago in some forgotten room.

"I only wanted to protect you, Sara. Every day I've wanted your forgiveness." She turned to look at her daughter. "Don't cry. It's done. There is nothing I can do to make this go away."

The two women looked at each other; Grissom was never certain who reached out, but their hands met and one clasped the other. Their hands stayed together in a small, anguished, yet poignant grasp; not for the first time, he noticed how similar their hands appeared—delicate with long fingers.

Sara said, "I remember the rain."

Laura's mouth almost smiled. "That was your brother's service. You wore white socks—I soaked them for days to get the mud out."

"I had it mixed up—I thought the rain was…"

The older woman moved to face Sara, keeping hands together, touching Grissom with her free hand, and she began a heartbreaking narrative of a dead son and brother. A simple neighborhood ballgame, like boys play everywhere, sent a ball into the street. Sara's brother ran after it—old enough to know to look for traffic—a young teenager—hit by a truck, thrown into a crumpled heap, instantly dead. The funeral service was filled with young men and women, teenagers, who could not believe a friend was gone. A family struggled to go on with living, but the sad, depressing household closed and shut out neighbors and friends who came. There were secrets to hide. Laura said, "There were no shelters for women and children, no one talked about abuse or depression or nightmares."

She passed a shaking hand across her face. "I've found a peaceful life with the sisters. I don't think much; I work and at night I'm exhausted enough to sleep." Both hands covered Sara's. "I don't want you to have this kind of life. You are smart; you are good. You deserve happiness, to have someone love you."

In all the confessions, the crime scenes, the dreadful and horrid deaths Grissom had seen, the interaction between mother and daughter, the sorrowful telling of events that had shaped their lives, was one of his most heartbreaking encounters. That it involved the woman he loved, seeing her and her mother peeling away years of hidden fears, shook his own psyche. He also realized recovery, an attempt to retrieve what had been taken away, destroyed in a child and her mother, would require professional treatment—not a few weeks of rest and sleep. Grissom said nothing as Sara wept against his shirt. He kept his arms gently around her. He knew her deeply private need to be acknowledged—loved by her mother. She never voice this desire, but he knew it

Minutes passed and the afternoon shadows grew longer before someone stood—Sara helped her mother and, finally, the two women shared an embrace, one of support and hesitant acceptance. Sara whispered, "There is nothing to forgive, Mom." Walking to the car, the two women's arms encircled the other; Grissom kept his hand on Sara's back. Taking longer than needed, he walked around the car, pretended to check his shoes for dirt, touched his cell phone in an unexpected reaction to getting both women back to the car; he did not know what to do next.

Somehow, Grissom got back to the highway and managed to elicit a subdued response from Sara and Laura when he asked about eating. He chose a chain restaurant, ended up ordering food and drinks for everyone, and watched as they pushed food around the plate. The women were simply drained of energy. When he placed bread in Sara's hand, she finally spoke, and almost smiled.

"I can eat, Gil."

He passed another slice of bread to her mother. She also gave him a slight smile. "I'm fine," said Laura. Grissom looked at Sara when he heard her mother.

Sara's tentative smile changed into a lopsided grin. Those were her words spoken by her mother. "I need to get to know my mother a little better. Will you be okay with that?"

He nodded. "I want you happy, Sara."

…Sara wore nothing but a towel as she stepped out of the shower. They—no she—had been so exhausted after the cemetery trip that she and her mother had slept while Grissom drove back to the farm. Sara's mother left them, insisting she was "fine" even though fatigue showed in her face. She was home, she said, and she could rest. Plans were made for Sara to return to the farm and Grissom would fly back to Vegas the next day.

Grissom sat propped on the bed, a stack of papers in his hands, when she entered the bedroom. He dropped the papers. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine—really." She slipped into the bed with him.

"It's been a rough day, honey."

She lay beside him with wet hair and damp legs, and said, "I love you."

He grinned. "I like to hear that—we'll be fine. You and your mother have a lot of catching up to do. Get to know her." He crooked an arm behind his head. "Seriously, you two should find a—a good professional—a counselor." He did not say psychiatrist, but she knew what he meant. Sister Deborah had already made the same suggestion.

Sara pulled him down beside her and they lay quietly, listening to the other's breathing and the steady beat of hearts. Grissom's hand drew her against him, his fingers pressing against her damp hair.

She closed her eyes and placed her mouth against the hollow of his throat, tasting the warmth and sweetness of his skin against her tongue. She unfastened each button and kissed the skin beneath it. She touched his belly just above his belt with her tongue and smiled when he shivered.

"Wait," he said as he removed his shirt and pushed his pants off. He found the edge of the towel and removed it from her body. His hands found the indentation of Sara's waist then let his eyes move to her breasts, her thighs, and back to her face.

"You are beautiful, Sara. I don't tell you enough."

Sara responded by kissing his shoulder, his neck, touching his ear with her fingertip. They made love as a full moon traveled across the night sky pulling them together as it does the tide sweeping gently onto the seashore. He would smile, touch her face, kiss her lips and nose, placing in deep memory the moments that passed to quickly.

Later, Sara would remember this night as a conversation, not of words, but of an eloquent ending to a dream. She felt very protective of this man and when he began to breathe in the way of sleep, she listened, feeling content, alive, for the first time in months.