That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 28
Simon Rose had been trying to kill his wife for a decade and when he succeeded, swing shift got the assignment. Sara had seen this death in her dreams for years—sometimes the dream was her mother's blood, sometimes it was her father's blood, and recently the dream had been played out in a blistering desert or in a pouring rain. Doc Robbins' autopsy was one for the battered and abused wife textbooks and when Sara traced hospital records, the hole she thought was closing ripped open with such force she almost toppled in head first. But she backed away just in time.
She was tired of death being shoved into her face every day.
Sara was available when Grissom needed help with a murder scene; she wanted to be with him, the familiarity of working as his second set of eyes and hands was something she missed more than she would ever admit. It seemed a life line had been thrown to her.
The deaths of the couple—watching a movie together—one alive while the other was killed—hit like a gunshot blast to Sara's chest. She tried to close her eyes and erase the image of the dead woman lying by the sofa. A low hum vibrated in her ears.
Grissom was talking, explaining how victims were selected. She choked, tears sprang to her eyes. She had to leave. The sound of a hurricane wind howled deep inside her. She heard a sickening sound of a dull thud—a brutal twist of limbs, blood-spattered in a wide arc, eyes open, lips parted. Fingers twitched in a final goodbye. It was as real as if she had been standing in the house, witnessing the entire event.
Over and over, Sara heard her mother's voice echoing around her, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…" The black hole in her center whirled and twisted and sucked her inward.
A voice floated over her head. The images floated away. "You okay, Sara?" One of the patrolmen stood at the door of her vehicle.
She lifted her head from its position on the steering wheel, sweat was pouring over her face. "I'm fine—thanks—just hot, stuffy—in the house." She cranked the engine and turned the air conditioner to high. In the rearview mirror, she watched as Grissom headed across the street and disappeared between two houses…
The old movie played silently as Sara sat on the sofa, Hank at her side. She wasn't sure how she had managed the drive back to the lab—couldn't remember leaving the evidence she had collected—Greg had been there and sort of took over if she remembered correctly. He had given her a cup of coffee and talked about the FBI. The coffee had helped; listening to Greg had helped.
The deaths of the two women—one killed by her husband and a second killed by a stranger—felt like black shadows drifting between her eyes and the light, swimming past the corners of her eyes, out of sight. Sara knew ghosts were not the spirits of the dead, or undead, but her own projections of the living, of guilt, fear, failure, and mortality too great to be contained in the mind. She had hidden her ghosts for too long; they had followed her into the desert that night, followed her home, and, today, slammed against her as she tried to hide her fear—her terror—of events that played in her nightmares.
Sara had gotten home with Hank, put in the movie and let it play. There were too many thoughts crowding her brain—and then the tears came. Hot and stinging, not tears for herself, but tears for her mother, the haunting sadness of her mother's life, the years that had been slashed out of her life. She closed her eyes as her chest heaved. Sara had been ashamed of her mother—her parents—for so long that any good memories had been distorted and smudged by events of one night and for so long afterwards that she had forgotten bedtime stories, beach trips, coloring books.
Sara wasn't sure how long she sat on the couch; the movie had ended and Hank had moved to the floor. She undressed and got in the shower, telling herself hot water would melt away every ache. She would prepare food and have it ready for Grissom—he would have to come home at some point—even the FBI had to sleep, she thought. Seeing him, eating with him, just being with him made her mind change in a way that was always comforting.
She was toweling her hair when Hank barked softly and she heard the door open. Within minutes, he was standing in the bathroom, sweaty, peeling off his clothes. "You are so beautiful—naked and lovely! What a sight!" He kissed her lightly, leaning to her face. "Let me wash off the dirt and get in with me."
Because he was so sincere, and because the time in the shower was so intimate, she nodded, dropped the towel and stepped into the shower behind him. Soap already in his hand, Grissom was under the shower, excited about the case of the missing child. Lost in her thoughts, Sara had not been listening to his words and the sudden silence brought her back to reality.
"Sorry," she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Sorry. Tired, I guess."
"You've pulled a double," he said, providing an answer for her.
Sara smiled. "Yeah."
He changed the shower spray to one of gentle rain and pulled her into his arms, his hands massaging her back. "Let's go to bed, get some sleep. You'll feel better."
Standing skin to skin, chest to chest, she should have felt something other than the hollowness inside her belly. Turning off the water, reaching for a towel, he wrapped her into a cocoon of white with only her head, shoulders, and arms showing. He disappeared and returned with a glass of juice and a handful of cookies.
"Eat this—have you eaten all day?" He settled beside her.
Somehow she had pulled on her pajamas; Hank had gotten on the bed, looking expectantly at Grissom who chuckled.
"I didn't forget you," he said as he fed the dog a treat.
Sara ate the cookies, thankful she did not have to talk with her mouth full. Grissom picked up a book and opened it to a marked page. It was his thick Shakespeare book and he began to read one of her favorite stories—one of confused love, about Hero and Beatrice, Claudio and Benedick. His voice was sincere, smooth, reading the words from the page as easily as soft butter melted on toast.
Gil Grissom, her fiancé of—had it been a week, she thought. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen; his hair combed back in thick waves, more gray at his temple now than a few years ago. She frowned; perhaps being around her aged him quickly. He was older than she was—more than fifteen years her senior—but she never thought about his age in relation to her own. Her feet touched his underneath the covers. He wasn't much taller, five-feet-ten in his socks, precisely the right height to hold, to kiss, and be kissed.
"Are you listening to this?" He asked softly.
"Yes."
Grissom kissed her gently. Sara smiled; he was the best kisser of any man she had ever kissed. He closed the book, keeping one finger on the page he was reading.
"Have you thought about—you know—getting married—when—where?" He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "We could get married at the courthouse," he chuckled, "or at that place where…"
It made her laugh. "Don't even go there—fake flowers and bridesmaids protecting the bride—we'll go to the courthouse."
"You know, we could take a trip and come back married—see Italy or the pyramids or the rainforest. Spend a week in some fancy spa soaking in mud."
She laughed again trying to believe his words would make the dark pit in her stomach close.
He tucked covers around them, letting the book slide to the floor. He snuggled, tucking his head in the curve of her neck and shoulder. "You know, we've never talked about this—but I wouldn't be opposed to starting a family—we're not—I'm not too old—what do you think?"
His words were no more than a whisper but slammed into Sara with the force of a punch thrown in anger, and the ghosts of her past hurled into her vision, the hurt, the lost childhood, the body lying on the floor, flapped and screamed inside her skull, chasing her back to the yawning pit.
She must have made some response, an agreeable one or perhaps it was ambiguous, because Grissom grunted a satisfying sound and pulled her closer. Within minutes his breathing indicated he was asleep. Sara couldn't sleep—had not slept for more than a few hours at a time for weeks. She blamed it on her broken bones, on the change in shift, and missing Grissom.
Reality was the hollowness she felt in her gut. It kept her from sleeping, kept her confused about everything in her life. No, she thought, she wasn't confused about loving Gil Grissom—she knew that was true and safe. But everything else—which meant her work, her life of the past decade, her mother, what she knew about her father—was boiling in a confused caldron of unrest and stress waiting to flood into her life.
Tears welled into her eyes. Grissom thought the world was perfect; not the world, but their lives. Marriage, starting a family—tears ran from her eyes to touch her ears—she was all but certain that would not happen. Her mother's health history was unknown but when Sara learned of the four miscarriages, she was convinced her mother had used the drug, diethylstilbestrol. She would have no babies.
Sara closed her eyes and willed her mind to think of something else. For a while she had not felt like herself, or the self she remembered. The pit had always been with her—as long as she could remember, the fear of spiraling down until she was nobody, a forgotten stick on the side of life's highway. But the pit opened and closed; it wasn't the whole of what was happening to her. In her mind there was fog. She had always been good at multitasking and for weeks she had found it difficult to perform one thing without effort. If she could sit in the sun, smell flowers, watch the ocean, get away from death and dying, crime and evil, she thought she might be able to close the pit, clear the fog, and resume her life.
In time, sleep came. For a few hours. Restless, confused, disturbed. Dark and frightening dreams.
A/N: Depressing, I know, but this is the story of why Sara left so suddenly. Thanks for reading.
