Title:  Circling the Bases

Description:  Post-ep for "Finders Keepers."  Eleventh chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV.

Author:  KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer:  Carter and Abby do not belong to me, they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers:  Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Finders Keepers.

Summary:  Carter and Abby spend a chilly evening at Wrigley Field but more than make up for it afterwards.

Warning:  Contains sexual innuendo not for the faint of heart.  Especially if you're not a carby.

Notes:  This is the latest in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed, which will continue through the remaining four episodes of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Stealing Home," her current post-ep (Chapter 16) to "Finders Keepers."  As mentioned in prior chapters, while the two post-eps are meant to be read in tandem and share a common thread, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) POVs. Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.

Sorry to disappoint the music aficionados, but no "song of the post ep" this time around.  Instead, for a change of pace, I opted to split Carter's journal entry up between the two scenes. 

The excerpt from Carter's journal entry is from Gift From the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.  Every once in a while, a book comes along that changes our lives forever.  In my case, this is one of those stories.  Since as far back as I can remember (Nixon may have been president), it has sustained me through love, loss and all the meridian moments in between.

In the interest of brevity, I'll dispense with the shout-outs and flowery gratitude.  Suffice it to say that I remain deeply indebted to all those I've named in previous chapters.  By now, you know who you are…and how grateful I am.

As always, reviews (even of the monosyllabic variety) are welcomed and appreciated.

* * * * *

Pivotal Moment #4:  Our Road Trip to Oklahoma Abby –

Whoever said that life is all about the journey, not the destination, must have been a stowaway in the trunk of our blue-green Chrysler Sebring as we traveled the back roads of Oklahoma.

I mean it seemed like in the space of a few hours I went from a leisurely afternoon run with Rena and Norman on my day off, to tooling the lonesome highways of America's heartland with you in a rented convertible.

I can still remember the disappointment in your voice as you recounted Luka's attempt to deal with Maggie's latest bender, which you dismissed as nothing more than a misguided offer to "decide for you."

I've always wondered how you initially felt about my own unsolicited proposition since I pretty much "decided for you" too.

Unlike Luka, though, I knew exactly what you wanted.

If not my company, per se, then someone to lighten your load as you retraced your steps on what had become a heartbreakingly familiar pilgrimage.

Someone who didn't judge you or try to talk you out of what you thought was the right thing to do.

Staring down into your frightened, lonely eyes while I waited on hold with my erstwhile travel agent, even then, I knew you went as much for yourself as you did for Maggie.

Part of me is still haunted by the images of the mother-daughter role reversal I watched unfold as unobtrusively as I could, trying my best to find the elusive balance between being solicitous and overbearing.

Another part of me felt privileged that you were secure enough in our friendship to let me share the experience with you. 

As though somehow my being there did matter after all.

Despite the serious undertones of our journey, the trip was not without its lighthearted moments.

There we were, sailing along the open highway, the radio blaring, hair blowing in the wind; both stealing glances when we thought the other wasn't looking.

After all it was springtime, the stuff every cliché is made of. 

When hope springs eternal

And a young man's fancy turns to…

Love.

* * * * *

I push open the door to the lounge, scrunching my shoulders against my stethoscope, struggling unsuccessfully to work the kinks out of my back.

She's seated at the table with her back toward me, shoulders slumped, soft tendrils of hair spilling out of her braid, thumbing through the yellow pages.

I clear my throat announcing my arrival.  "Letting our fingers do the walking, huh?"

She shifts her chair and turns around, momentarily startled, losing her place as she shoves the phone book aside, a furrowed crease penciled across her forehead.

"Hey."  Her voice is subdued.

"Your shift over?"  I attempt to override the flatness in her tone with forced cheerfulness, trying to make up for the indifference I had shown her the few times she had attempted to engage me in polite conversation earlier in the day.

"Yeah."  She begins to leaf through the yellow pages once again.  "I was just going to pick up some take-out sushi on my way home, but I can't seem to remember the name of that little place in my neighborhood…"

She looks up through tired eyes attempting to gauge my reaction.

"Sushi?"  My mind wanders back to the longest elevator ride in recent memory.  Abby, Luka and I standing choreographed in triangular formation like unwitting participants in some madcap French farce.  Luka had inquired whether we had been to the new sushi place that had just opened on Navy Pier.

"You know, raw fish rolled into a pricey Asian delicacy?"

"Abby." 

She reaches for the phone.  "Should I be ordering for one or two?  Will you be gracing me with your presence this evening?"  Her voice is laced with sarcasm.

I inch closer to where she's sitting, kicking a chair out next to her before plunking my weary body into it.

"I'm afraid I have other plans." I gaze down at my sneakers.

Despite her best attempts to conceal her disappointment through a tight-lipped smile, her face muscles form a look of tired resignation when she thinks I'm not looking. 

"OK."  She lifts the receiver from the phone with one hand while the other holds her finger in place next to a number in the middle of the page.

I reach across and cover her hand with mine just as she's about to punch the first digit.

"Hey, hey.  With you."  I whisper contritely, punctuating the invitation by running a finger across her jaw line, something I haven't done in ages.  "If you'll have me."

A slight smile crinkles the corners of her mouth.  "Depends what you have in mind."

I open my lab coat, withdrawing two colorful rectangular tickets and brandish them in front of her.

"Cubs vs. Mets.  Field level seats.  Section 120, Row D, Seats 1 and 2.  Right behind home plate.

She shakes her head, mouthing small no's, rolling her eyes in mock indignation and thumbing toward the open window.  "Carter, have you been outside lately?  It's like 30 degrees out there."

I counter her resistance with boyish enthusiasm, something that has been in short supply of late.

"Might be a chance to see Sammy Sosa hit his 500th homerun," I say in the most charming singsong voice I can muster.

"You're crazy."

"I know.  You keep telling me that."  I shoot her a look of mild bemusement.

"It's just…this day…it kind of took the wind out of my sails.  And I'm exhausted…" her voice begs off, though I sense there's still some wiggle room left to sway her.

"Peanuts, pop corn, cracker jacks on me."

She stares at me mutely before taking a half-hearted stab at a more credible excuse.

"I don't have anything warm to wear…"

"Ah, but there's where you're wrong."  I quickly saunter over to my locker, twirling the combination before opening the door with an exaggerated flourish.  I pull out a weathered canvas valise and begin an animated inventory, tossing an array of mismatched sweatshirts, windbreakers, fleeces, hats, socks and gloves onto the couch.

She seems momentarily touched by my Boy Scout-like advance work.

"So how long have you been planning this date?"  She cocks her eyebrows, taking several steps toward me.

"I don't know, the idea kind of popped into my head when I was sorting through my old baseball card collection at Gamma's."

"So that's where you've been hiding out on me."

"Yeah, she hasn't felt much like meeting me out lately…and I like to check up on her every few days…"

She stares up at me, seemingly lost in thought, as though she's trying hard to conjure up some elusive moment from our shared past.  Reaching up, she runs her fingers across my hairline, sending a jarring shiver down my spine.  "Nice haircut."

"Yeah, Alger's a man of many talents."

"You let Gamma's butler cut your hair?"

"I think he prefers the term domestic attaché.  Listen, if we're going to get there in time to see Sammy come up in the bottom of the first inning, we better get a move on…"

"I still haven't said I'd go with you."  Her lips curve slightly, teasing the corners of her mouth.

"Fine, I'll see if I can find any other takers," I hastily begin to throw the contents back into the bag. 

"Hey, I was only kidding.  It'll be fun."  She paws through the collection of items, haphazardly selecting a red hooded DePaul sweatshirt, wool socks, a white cable knit sweater and a Cubs baseball cap.  "Meet you in the ambulance bay in five?" 

I catch her arm, twirling her around as she turns to leave.

"Uh…there's one ground rule."  I rub my hand across my jaw line and look at her pointedly.  "No shoptalk tonight, OK?"  I wave my outstretched hand.  "Today…Romano…Susan's news…this place…all the stuff that's been going on the past few weeks…let's just stuff it in the bottom drawer tonight.  Along with all the other unmentionables."

Eyes bright as she returns my steady gaze, it's obvious she's caught my drift.

"Sure thing, slugger."  There's something achingly familiar about the lightness in her voice that makes me want to take her in my arms and head for home.  Before I could let go of that thought, she punches my arm and strides for the door.

I shake my head as she exits the lounge, wondering what the evening holds in store.

We take the red line to the Addison Street stop, heads down, hands thrust deep into our pockets as we walk the block to Wrigley Field in the raw night air.

We arrive in the bottom of the third inning, just as the Cubs are getting ready to take their turn at bat.  A gentlemanly usher escorts us to our seats and wipes them off with a crisp white towel, a throwback to a bygone era when boys of summer named Banks and Williams and Santo had owned the joint. 

Although the aged ballpark can hold nearly 40,000 fans when filled to capacity, it's painfully obvious that the chilly April weather had deterred all but a handful of Cubs diehards, colorfully attired to brave the elements.  Gazing at the tiers of empty seats, I estimate that there can't be more than 5,000 people in the stadium.

Thanks to the unsolicited, but friendly, recap from Nick, the burly seatmate to my right, we learn that the Cubs are ahead 1-0, courtesy of a stand-up double in the bottom of the second by Moises Alou, a fielder's choice on Hee Seop Choi's grounder to first and an RBI sacrifice fly deep to center field by Corey Patterson.  Kerry Wood, the Cub's best pitcher, has been masterful on the mound, having retired nine in a row after giving up an infield hit to the Mets' leadoff hitter, Roger Cedeno, to start the game.  Nick also volunteers that Sammy Sosa looked at a called strike three to end the first inning so he's still chasing the elusive number 500.   

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she extracts a wad of bubble gum from the pocket of her jeans and pops it into her mouth.  The blond streaks of her ponytail tucked neatly through her baseball cap, she smiles at me tightly through clenched teeth.

"Here we are."  There's no mistaking the sarcasm in her tone as she rounds her shoulders up through her neck in a desperate attempt to keep them warm.

I reach over and pull her close, laying her head on my shoulder, inhaling a delicious waft of Bazooka.  "You're a good sport, you know that?"

The Cubs half of the third proceeds uneventfully as Al Leiter, the Mets' ace, retires the side in order.

I stand up and stretch my back.  "Think I'll head over to the snack bar – looks like management took pity on the roving vendors tonight and let us fans fend for ourselves.  What can I get you?"

"Uh…maybe just some coffee."

"That's it?"

"I'm not very hungry."

"C'mon, Abby, you gave up smoking less than two weeks ago.  You must be starving all the time.  I'd think you'd be dying to try new things now that everything you eat doesn't taste like nicotine."

"What, and give up this girlish figure?"  She gestures self-deprecatingly at her bulky attire.

"I can think of a few places you can stand to pack on a few pounds."  I hope she'll embrace the comment in the magnanimous spirit in which it's intended.

She lifts an eyebrow and cocks her head at me.  "Surely you jest."

I flash her a mischievous grin.  She cranes her neck to see what others in our section are noshing.  "OK, I'll have a hot dog, mustard and relish, some nachos with cheese.  And hot chocolate." 

By the time I return with our refreshments, the Cubs are batting in the bottom of the fourth, still leading 1-0.  I settle for a plain hot dog and an order of "freedom fries."  And a giant cup of java.  Considering the day I'd had, I fear anything more substantial would only have wreaked its own brand of gastric discourse.

We munch on our snacks silently as Leiter catches both Mark Grudzielanek and Alex Gonzalez swinging.  Suddenly, the crowd, singular dots scattered throughout the frosty stadium, rises to its feet as Sammy Sosa steps to the plate.

"C'mon Sammy, let one rip," she claps.  She removes her gloves, brings her fingers to her mouth and lets out a melodious whistle.  I stare at her in amused disbelief.  I never would have had her pegged as a baseball Annie.  Sensing my reaction, she rolls her eyes at me.  "At this point, I'll do anything to get warm."

Much to the crowd's chagrin, Sosa taps the ball weakly to first, ending the inning. 

We lower ourselves back into our seats.  "I didn't know you were such a baseball fan."

"I was the star shortstop of my Little League team in Minnesota, remember?"  I vaguely recall Maggie mentioning something to this effect when we had played in that charity baseball game a couple years ago.

"Right.  I forgot."

"When I was a little girl, it was an escape from reality.  My reality with Maggie after my father left.  It was something I could do to be just like all the other kids…well, boys mostly since not many girls played baseball back then."  There was a wistful glint in her eye.  "Some nights, before falling asleep, I'd listen to the Twins on the radio, and imagine myself escaping to far flung places.  Maybe as the Major League baseball's first female umpire or some network's first play-by-play announcer.  Or maybe just a baseball wife.  You know how little girls grow up idolizing pop icons?  Not me.  Instead of being married to John Travolta or Shaun Cassidy, my Barbie dolls were always married to baseball players.  Ken was usually Steve Garvey or Bucky Dent."        

I let out a low chuckle.  So the wheels were turning even back then.  "What, none of the Twins' hometown heroes catch your eye?"

"Did you ever get a good look at Harmon Kilebrew?"  She flashes me a wicked grin.

Sipping my coffee, I scan the field in search of a group of seats in back of the Cubs' dugout.  I turn her head in that direction.  "See those seats down over there.  That's the owners' box.  When Mr. Wrigley owned the Cubs, he'd always invite my grandfather – they were old tennis doubles partners – to join him on Opening Day.  And he'd always bring Bobby and I along…" My voice trailed off as my mind reached back for the memory of my brother and I squirming around in our seats on bright April afternoons, glove in hand, hoping to catch a foul ball.

She eyes me sympathetically and curls a gloved hand around mine.

"This is such a great old place." I squeeze her hand in silent gratitude.  "Only Fenway Park is older.  I remember coming with my grandfather to see the first game played under the lights in the pouring rain – 8/8/88 in case you're superstitious – and just feeling kind of sad.  Kind of like the end of an era."

"So did you ever get to meet the Double Mint twins?"  It had turned cold enough now for large puffs of smoke to billow out of our mouths when we spoke.

I laugh.  "No, but I played spin the bottle with one of Mr. Wrigley's granddaughters in prep school."

In the bottom of the sixth inning, with two outs and a runner on first, Alex Gonzalez, the Cubs power-hitting shortstop, cracks a split-fingered fastball over the right field fence for a two-run homer, stretching the Cubs lead to 3-0.  Once he had taken his customary curtain call, the remaining crowd once again rises to its feet as Sammy Sosa enters the batter's box. 

"Think third time's the charm?" She removes her gloves and brings her hands to her mouth and lets another one rip into the biting wind.

Sosa lines the first pitch into centerfield for a stand-up double as the crowd unleashes a collective groan before providing perfunctory applause.  Looks like tonight might not be the night after all.  After Leiter strikes out Moises Alou to end the inning, even more fans head for the exits.

"If two batters reach base safely before the eighth inning ends, he might get another shot," she opines with calculated authority. 

Suddenly, a group of middle-aged men, beers in hand, stagger into the row in front of us whose original ticket holders had packed up and left the previous inning.  It's obvious that none of them are feeling any pain.  The worst offender deposits himself directly in front of Abby, but not before his red-rimmed eyes offer her a creepy once-over and a lusty wink.

I open my mouth to say something, but she leans over and grabs my arm, whispering into my shoulder with a conspiratorial smile, "Don't.  They're harmless."

I cast her a bewildered look, wondering if she doesn't secretly wish she could knock back a few rounds with them.

The guy in front of me, a strapping red head in a big blue parka and Black Hawks cap, undoubtedly a concession to weather more fitting for hockey than baseball, pulls a silver flask from his jacket and takes a long, slow swig before passing it to Abby's admirer.  Though he probably has at least fifteen years on him, he's a dead ringer for Susan's shotgun husband.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her drink in the ritual.

"So what did you think of Chuck?"  We're both thinking the same thing.  "Or is that topic still off limits?"

I rub my gloved hands together for added warmth.  At least I could still feel my fingers.  "He seemed nice enough…not exactly Susan's type…"

"And that would be…" I sense that she's been lying in wait for our conversation to turn to this topic, having already scripted her end of the dialogue.

"I don't know, certainly not your average lug."

She shoots me a nasty look.

"What?  You're telling me it's fine for a doctor to be married to a lowly nurse as long as he's the one wearing the pants in the family…but as soon as the roles are reversed…"

"Abby, get off your soapbox…"  My patience for the conversation, not to mention our new neighbors, is wearing thin.

"No, it irritates me the hell out of me that you would…"

I cut her off before she can finish.  "It's not him that's the problem.  Mostly, I'm just worried about Susan.  And the idea that she'd just go traipsing off to Las Vegas with Chen and get married instead of getting takeout with the first guy who gave her the once over on the plane…even if it was a meaningless spur of the moment thing…"

"Carter, where's your sense of romance?"

"Sorry.  I must have left it up on the roof at County."  I spit the words out as soon as they pop into my mind, surprising myself with the tinge of bitterness that creeps into my voice.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Suddenly, the crowd stands up as the Cubs take the field for the start of the eighth inning.  An unfamiliar number is trotting out to right field.  Before the public address announcer can intone, "Now playing right field, replacing Sammy Sosa…" a chorus of boos fills the frosty night sky.  The guys in front of us, in addition to hurling obscenities, toss their not-quite-empty paper beer cups into the section below us.

"Guess number 500 deserves a moment in the sun."  I begin to gather up our belongings.

"Win some, lose some."  Her double entendre isn't lost on me.

"Ready?"  I hand her the duffel bag.

"Yeah."

Our feet numb against the pavement, we stumble down the ramp and toward the exit, descending into the dark canyons of the old fabled stadium, still mired in the last gasps of winter.

* * * * *

Something inside of me changed forever during the hours we spent bringing Maggie back to Chicago.

And I knew once we returned, there would never be any going back.

It's hard to put a finger precisely on when it happened.

Maybe when it was when I heard the sad recounting of your ill-fated trip to Disneyland.

Or when we awkwardly batted around the details of my final phone conversation with Rena, wondering if you knew just how closely her words had struck to home.

Or as we casually sipped our Slurpies outside the gas station restroom, feeling the first faint tugs of something bigger than both of us, suspended somewhere between the bonds of friendship and whatever comes next.

Or maybe it was when we pulled up in front of your apartment building, giddy from talk of hairstyle choices gone bad and you thanked me with a glimmer in your eye, one that gave me reason to hope.

That someday you could feel the same way about me.

Never in my wildest imagination did I dare dream that I could ever turn your head around.

Like you'd turned mine.

But I did.

And I have.

As they say, the rest is history.

Now the question is, are we?

Abby, what's happened to us lately?

When did we fall back into this push me-pull me two-step shuffle?

What happened to stolen moments lingering over coffee at Doc Maggo's, knowing looks across a crowded room, walks by the river and all-nighters filled with scintillating conversation and gentle lovemaking?

When every single day was ripe with possibilities?

I feel our connection slowly slipping away, straining under the weight of our ever-present insecurities and enduring uncertainties.

And it scares the hell out of me.

* * * * *

She unlocks the door to her apartment, turning the knob and shifting her weight against it slightly as it opens with a long, languid creak.  She immediately bolts for the bedroom.  I pause for a moment to remove my jacket and sweatshirt before trailing after her.  Christ, if this was her tired way of setting up another round of "slam, bam, thank you ma'am," I wondered why she had used all her feminine wiles to convince me to stay. 

By the time I reach the doorframe, she's already stripped herself of the first couple of layers that had protected her from the frigid night air, discarding them, as is her custom, in a careless heap on the floor.

Barefoot, jeans unzipped, her upper body clad in a sleeveless white t-shirt, she stands before me, then backs up and points her thumb toward the bathroom.

"I'm going to jump in the shower.  Do you want anything?"

I want…

No, I need…

Too much.

More of her than she'll ever let me have.

For the first time, I don't know what to do with the layers of overwhelming fear and despair that engulf me, suspended between us like scaffolding.  All I can think of is that in one night I could lose everything I've tried so hard to hold onto for the past three years.

As she inches toward the bathroom, I move toward her in one fell swoop, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around, pinning her against the wall and burying my face in the curve of her neck.  I run my tongue along her collarbone, lips ambling across her cheek, teeth scraping against her jaw line before my mouth finds hers, hot and hard, in a torrid kiss that arouses and appeases me at the same time.

She places her hands on my biceps and pushes me away, gazing up at me through wide, stunned eyes.

"Jesus, Carter, I know it's been awhile…"

I look down at her, eyes on fire, my heart pounding as much from panic as desire, knowing full well that my opening salvo was something not yet embedded in our standard lexicon of lovemaking rituals.

Maybe that's why I did it.

To shake us out of the doldrums we had unwittingly fallen into.

"Tell me to stop…and I will."

She pauses for a moment, then shoots me a look of coy uncertainty, squinting in the twinkling darkness, illuminated only by the soft bedside lamp and the incandescent look in her eyes, sparkling brown puddles that could melt butter.

"I was just surprised, that's all.  Usually you're a little more gentle…"

Words I once would have thought alien, juxtaposed together in the pall that hangs between us, spring from my lips, seemingly out of nowhere. 

"Maybe I don't want to be gentle tonight."

She licks her lips, and opens her mouth, forming a small 'o,' before thinking better of it and pressing them together again.  Instead, she nods her head in a move that conveys absolute certainty.  I had seen that look only once before, the night she had stood above me on the steps after I had left her on the el platform and promised not to hide anymore.   

"Maybe I don't want you to."

We make our way toward the unmade bed, bodies twisting before moving together with pulsating alacrity, pubic bones fused in tantalizing symmetry, roiling waves of thunder that can no longer be contained. 

I reach down into the open fly of her jeans, tucking my fingers just under the spot where the elastic of her panties surrounds her inner thigh.  As I spread my hands and probe some more, I notice this pair feels differently somehow, a skimpy combination of satin and see-through lace, fancier than her standard fare.  Slowly, I move toward my intended destination, where lace met the soft v of cotton, and go inside, my index finger voraciously announcing my arrival.

"Are these new?"

She cocks her head to one side and shoots me a come hither look.

"Part of my 'shock and awe' campaign."  She nuzzles her lips into the hollow of my throat, covering it with fiery kisses.

Slowly I slide her jeans down and let them drift toward the edge of the bed.

It's my turn to let the fingers do the walking.  A throbbing ache bubbles up inside of me as they explore her bristling cavern, spreading bursts of intermittent pleasure conveyed in small wondrous moans punctured by sharp intakes of breath.

Her scent is everywhere.  I want to drown in its moon-kissed sweetness.

"Now…" Her plea at once beseeches and implores, piercing the black magic night with jagged desperation.

"Not yet." I slide myself down on the mattress as she reaches her arms over her head, her fingers tightly coiled around the wrought iron slats of the bedpost.

With eyes wide open, supple hands and probing lips, I explore every inch of her in a way that's light years beyond the laconic telepathy of our previous sexual encounters.  The soft, silky contours of her torso, the bridge between her breasts, the curving slope of her shoulder all become part of the sumptuous landscape as I launch my multi-faceted offensive. 

Choking back ravaged moans, she seethes with suppressed passion.

"Please, John…now."

"Soon.  Very soon."  My voice is barely above a whisper.

I'm left with little choice but to leave her dangling precariously on the precipice of pent up desire so I can attend to my own agenda in a desperate game of catch-up.

I join the party with a well-placed plunge.  Seeing her lost in her yearning, hearing her call my name with incredulity, it's easy to fall into a riveting lock step with her writhing motion.

This, I knew, is everything.

More than everything, even.

It's all that we have left.

We cling to each other, locked in a wondrous, captivating dance of endless seesaw thrusts, building to a wild crescendo.

Until the floodgates open.

Until the earth stands still and everything inside us shatters.

Until all that's left between us is a thousand pounds of shrapnel, imploding into the darkness, raining down ominously into that good, but not so gentle, night.

* * * * *

The doctor in me has spent most of his time lately wanting to fix this.

Not you, not me.

Us.

To put us back together again.

Stronger than ever to weather the uncharted waters of whatever comes our way.

So that I know where the chaos is taking me.

Taking us.

I've been spending some sleepless nights in Gamma's library lately, pouring through her eclectic mixture of classics, poetry and great American novels.

The other night I stumbled across a dog-eared copy of a book that I remember her toting around a lot when I was younger, especially up at the lake in the summers after Bobby died.

It's called "Gift From the Sea."  It was written by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, wife of Charles and mother of another little boy who died much too young.

Just by thumbing through it, I finally understood why Gamma had found so much solace in it.

Not only did she find a kindred spirit in someone who knew what it was like to lose a child, but someone who also restored her faith in the healing power of the sea as a magical elixir for troubled souls.

One passage spoke volumes to me:

The veritable life of our emotions and our relationships is intermittent.  When you love someone you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment.  It is an impossibility.  It is even a lie to pretend to.  And yet this is exactly what most of us demand.  We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships.  We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb.  We are afraid it will never return.  We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

Maybe "growing" and "changing" aren't the right words.

Maybe it's more like "coming into our own.

Becoming.

As individuals.

And as partners.

Wherever the ebb and flow shall lead us.

Yours,

John

* * * * *