To my mom and brother, because we're all going through some shit right now and I know, deep in my heart, that everything will be all right if we're together. Even if we don't have a happy ending.
To my Uncle...our talk really helped me to focus and realize that I have support through this ordeal. I can't wait to see you in Disney soon. Thanks for helping me also to realize that I have the most important things in life: good family, good friends, and Bruce Springsteen!
To Sylvie, Summer, and Karen because our huge "family" get-together tonight was just what we all needed.
And to my dad...I'm praying for you. I miss you. Whatever happens between you and mom...I'll always love you.
*
He remembers his father first, because scars seem to always begin and stem from childhood. Most of the time, a void existed where a man should've been. A man to teach him the essential things: riding a bike, how to swim, how to shave, how to flirt and kiss and be a man. But he wasn't there. Not enough. Not ever. His presence, when there, was largely felt as an intrusion upon a perfectly normal household and his stays were never short enough as the years went by.
And so Jack Malone, like all those before him, grew up and moved on and left that little house with barely a regret, save for the one where he still wished for a father.
Marie came next. They were so young, he remembers. Young and naive, and perhaps a little idealistic with big dreams and big hopes for that quintessential little family life in a safe little city where everyone was happy and nothing went wrong and they could grow old together, watching their children play in the front yard.
He doesn't remember when it happened, but Marie suddenly stopped being everything. He remembers once, in a period of his life, being excited about the prospect of seeing her. It stopped quite suddenly and soon a new face filled his perception, a new want and need: Samantha Spade.
He suddenly found himself excited about seeing her, being near her, watching her mind work through their cases day by day and week by week and soon, work became home.
So he starts to forgets the little things first.
The scent of her hair, various intonations of her voice as myriads of emotions flood her mind; the way her eyes sparkle, for a brief second, when the light catches her irises in just the right spot at just the right moment; the way her breath comes in erratic, short gasps as he spreads kisses upon her soft skin.
Then he starts to forget the broader things, the more important details. Her favorite song, her favorite color; all the necessary and vital little statistics that, when combined, simply make up everything he knows to be her.
So he forgets the little things and like a chain reaction, the rest of the pieces just fall into oblivion until he starts to forget she was ever there to begin with.
He's fought against memories his entire adult life, straining to give the fractured components of his existence a tiny semblance of normalcy.
Marriage, he reflects, is more than just spoken vows and a written contract on a fallible piece of paper. It's more than just duty, more than he can give.
Marriage is, at its core, love. A simple phrase, yet the most complex of human emotions.
And sometimes, when you need it, when you cling and grasp and want it more than anything, sometimes, those are the moments when love just isn't enough.
*
The cold steel clashed with the rising heat of his skin, a reminder of the thick, sultry hair hanging in the room. For a split second, his mortality flashed before him, flickering images of his life in his head; a myriad of memories and moments all merged together in a spectrum of colors like a kaleidoscope.
Her face was there, her presence still in the room. She had nearly died tonight and the prospect of that outcome haunted him, he suddenly realized, more perhaps than the idea of his marriage ending. Because Barry spoke of a wife he'd immortalized in memories and moments; she was perfect and real and alive to him even when she was gone.
She was something Marie had once been; once many years ago. She was something Marie suddenly wasn't anymore. Because in that split second when his life flashed before him, he wasn't thinking of the woman who was still tied to him by the band on his finger; in that moment, that brief moment, he thought of Samantha.
He watches Barry now; watches a man let go of his other half, his reason for living. He watches Barry let go of Nicole and the pieces start to crumble. The reality slams into him, his walls tumble and his chest heaves in and out, struggling through the pain, the knowledge that Nicole really won't be coming home tonight.
He watches Barry let go, watches the police escort him away, and walks away from that tiny little bookstore where a piece of him was almost lost forever.
He thinks of Marie.
He thinks of Samantha.
He can't let go.
*
"How's she doing?"
Danny's head shoots up from the kneeling position he's taken in the perfunctory hospital chair.
"She's in recovery now. She's uh -- she lost a lot of blood, she's really pale, but...she's alive."
It's a fact he dwells on not for the first time, certainly not the last. Perhaps this will be his life around her now; each moment measured by the sheer miracle of her existence.
Each moment spent wondering if the next will bring death.
Each moment he wonders if she'll still be there.
If she'll still be his.
*
The blood doesn't wash out.
Not from his clothes, his memories, his heart. It's nestled into the fabric of his being, its crimson stain blemishing his thoughts and making each moment with his wife so much harder than it should be. Her hand stirs the coffee, drawing idle circles in the hot liquid as she stares at the front page of the newspaper, pretending to read the headlines, avoiding his gaze as he watches her.
His daughters play in the living room, their laughter filters through the walls as they pay half attention to an old cartoon.
This is a familiar scene to him. Not comforting, though. The air feels tense, the emotions forced. Conversation is curt and cold and little feeling comes through the words. It's false. It's easy.
Easier to run.
Easier to leave behind this cold room.
Easier to love Samantha.
And this, he knows, is why he can't.
*
"Have you seen her yet?"
Vivian's voice sidles up beside him as his hand spreads various papers across the conference table. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, turning to face his friend.
"No, I'm going there tonight."
His hand unconsciously travels to his ring, twisting it left and right as he sits there at the conference table, thinking about this case, thinking about Samantha.
"She's different, Jack."
He stops his fidgeting, looking away from Vivian's all too-knowing gaze.
"She almost died, Viv, of course she's different."
"No, Jack. This wasn't just some ordinary robbery or car accident, or other near-death experience. She was in a hostage situation and I think something happened in there that she's holding inside."
He thinks of Barry. He thinks of the confusion in his eyes, the way his finger shook against the trigger, the way his voice broke in fear at the realization of the enormity of the situation he'd brought upon himself. He thinks of the emotions Barry evoked in his rants, thinks of the emotions Samantha must've felt.
She was alone.
Jack still had Marie. Whether he always would was still up for question, but the fact was that when all was said and done, he had gone to Marie; he had someone to go home to. She didn't.
"I'm going to see her tonight, Viv."
He moves away, away from the pointed stare of his friend.
Samantha -- in those hours she'd endured, in that moment she'd been shot -- had been wholly alone.
Something happened in there, all right.
Nothing would be the same.
*
It's quiet in the room, save for the beeps and hisses of the various monitors she's hooked up to. He hesitates on the threshold, unsure of his presence, not wanting to disturb her slumber. He can't turn away, however, and his feet shuffle his weary body towards the vacant chair next to her bed, sliding in gently.
He's wearing simple clothes, bearing his soul before her.
"You should be asleep."
She whispers. He leans forward to see her, a smile forming at the corner of his lips.
"So should you."
Her eyes flutter for a moment.
"You should be at home, Jack."
It stings him. He knows it's true and that's why it hurts.
"So should you, Sam." He whispers in a voice that conveys all of the guilt he's been carrying around since that day when a simple drop should've been just that: simple.
"Let's not do this, Jack. It wasn't your fault."
He doesn't speak for a moment, his eyes travel up and down her body, painfully stopping on her leg.
"I heard you were in surgery for two hours."
She nods, rolling onto her back so she can see him better in the darkness.
"It nicked the artery, so I was lucky, but there was a lot of tissue damage and it fractured my femur. So I'll be Samantha 'hop-a-long' Spade for a while."
"Does it hurt?"
The truth.
"Yeah."
He leans closer now, his weathered hand running through her silky hair in graceful strokes, willing a fog to take her away briefly, away from him, from this pain.
"Barry told us where Sydney was. I think he's going to be okay."
Her eyes flutter again, his caresses easing her into a misty semi-consciousness she's trying to fight away.
"And what about us, Jack?"
Her voice is soft now, faint and fading with each stroke. He waits a minute to answer, her eyelids slowly drifting shut.
"I don't know, Sam."
He wishes he did.
*
He doesn't know what he expects. Maybe that familiar yellow tape to still be strung across the entrance; maybe the blinds to be closed again, walling off any attempts to see inside; maybe a heat so strong you can feel it emanating from the streets.
Maybe he expects her to still be in there; half-alive, half-dead, half gone on a path in her life forged with lies and deceit and betrayal and doubts of love. Maybe he expects her to still need him. Maybe he expects her to never have gone there in the first place.
It would've been much simpler, he reflects, if he'd gone in there; if he'd done the drop. His own mortality, though starkly frightening, was something he found he could handle on a level much better than he ever could handle hers.
It would've been much simpler to never have lied to her on that bench because his heart beat heavier as he thought of it; the moment he lied, the moment he pushed her away. The moment she would die believing his falsehood; believing he had forgotten her, had shoved her aside, had fallen back in love with Marie.
Loving Samantha was never the problem.
Having to stop loving her was.
So he doesn't know what he expects, but he goes inside anyway. A woman, young and shy, stands behind the register. Her head comes up from the magazine she's reading, her eyes darting nervously around the room as though she's expecting it to happen all over again.
Only two other people muddle around the shelves, picking up and putting down various books, scanning over the aisles, looking at Jack as though he's some foreign entity.
His eyes immediately travel to that spot where he saw her. A table is there now, covered in new releases. He stands over it, picturing the puddle of blood, her prone form. The images come of their own volition, snapping him like a whip. It's the scene that's haunted his dreams, the scene he can never escape.
He can never escape her.
In the moment he entered, his mind was sure of one thing: he loved her. In that moment, he always would.
He can never leave this little bookstore.
*
His steps are solemn and empty, his gaze falls on her apartment door as he walks away from her. He doesn't want to say goodbye, he meant what he said. His love for her was meant to be. It just happened at the wrong time, the wrong place. He goes back to Marie, unsure of his place there, unsure of his future.
He doesn't know what she wants anymore; what kind of change she expects, what kind of demands she asks that he can't meet. He closes the door; the kids are asleep and she's nestled in the chair, half her attention devoted to the TV, the other half devoted to her life, thinking about it, wondering what to do.
He sits near her, waiting for acknowledgement.
They do this dance around each other; one gives, the other takes, back and forth and back and forth and it's this same bullshit routine day in and day out until his life is nothing more than a play.
He still loves her.
But love, with its complexity, brings nothing less than confusion in its wake. Love, he realizes, is more than just rings and and vows; more than petty words; more than being who you should be instead of who you want to be.
There's an inherent difference, he realizes, between loving someone and being in love. His crossroads have brought him here, to this cold, empty room, and his mind works through its functions, toiling over Marie and Samantha and which one he can keep and which one he can't; which one he can't say goodbye to.
"What are we doing here, Jack?"
He sighs and rubs his eyes. "God, Marie, I don't know."
She leans forward, staring him down.
"Jack...have you missed me, have you missed us?"
He can't answer. He doesn't know what to do, what to say anymore.
Her eyes flicker in the dark, a sad smile crosses her features.
"I'm going to bed."
She stands up and pauses for a moment, a faint memory of their past flickering before her, and then moves away from him.
He doesn't follow.
*
The rain pounds against the glass of the telephone booth. He needs to see her now.
He's alone.
She's alone.
They're both drifting and wandering and inevitably, they find each other. He's concerned that she doesn't answer, worried that it's finally happened...she's left him. He steps out from the booth, calls a cab and goes to her. A thousand thoughts run through his brain but he focuses on his one intent: to get to her.
*
His back rests against her door, waiting for her. She exits a cab and hobbles clumsily on her crutches. Her eyes squint against the rain as she sees him there before her. His arms wrap around her and their bodies fall against each other, all the longing and need released from their bodies.
His strong arm wraps around her chilled body as he leads her inside.
He reaches for some towels, pulling them out of her hallway closet, and wraps them around her, leading her onto her couch.
They're both silent for a moment until she speaks.
"I went down there, Jack."
This is familiar to him; their conversation from earlier plays across his mind.
"The bookstore?"
She shakes her head in denial and suddenly it registers with him. The haunted, hollow look in her eyes speaks volumes. She went there and she was never the same.
"Why did you come back?"
He sits next to her now, drawing her shivering body to his.
"Because I still believe in love."
He doesn't know if that's enough, but for now, it's all he can think to say. A few broken sobs escape from her lips and her body begins to shake even more.
His lips brush against hers as he runs a hand through her hair.
"I waited for you."
It's a whisper, a vow.
It's enough.
Enough to simply exist.
*
FIN
