Living Forward – Chapter 7/7

By Midnight Caller

Rated: PG-13

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and summary...

*****

"Somebody got shot." 

"Who?"

"Samantha."

Somehow, I had expected someone to get hurt; years in the FBI had taught me to anticipate the worst-case scenario before it happened, so it might be prevented.  And yet, I had imagined anything but 'Samantha' to be the name that emerged from Barry's mouth.  I felt horrible wishing an injury on someone else, but of all the names on that whiteboard, why did the bullet had to find hers? 

I had just said goodbye not one week before, I had finally said the words to let her go, and she was suddenly being thrown back into my heart under the worst of circumstances. 

Her voice on the phone had been like a tiny breath of air in the room where I stood chocking on anxiety and endless levels of guilt, trying to swallow past the fear that I would never see her alive again. 

Van Doran was right; I couldn't keep my objectivity.  I knew that from the moment Samantha walked away from me into that bookstore, but I had to be the one on that phone.  I had to hear her, had to keep that tiny connection, even if it was just over a thin, frail telephone line.  But after hearing those dreaded words from Barry, I was so enraged and so frightened, I could barely think straight.  I knew I had to get her out of there, and it didn't matter to me how.  I couldn't lose her twice in one week.

Oh, how pale she had looked on the floor; I shuddered at the thought of how much longer she would have stayed alive in there.  Her skin was so cold, her eyes so afraid, it ripped at my heart to have to leave her alone on that bench and walk away from her again. 

Taking Samantha out of that bookstore was merely a physical relocation, however; she left something deep inside of me when I walked back in there without her, and I felt it stabbing at me, a silent but agonizing pain that wouldn't let me forget the feel of her hand on my cheek and the look in her eyes when I had promised I would return. 

Barry talked about his wife.  How much he loved her.  Could I doubt his words after what had happened today?  What would I have done if Maria had died that day?  I wonder what figure they would have come up with for me... would I have taken my own advice and been able to move on?  What about Samantha?  What would she be worth?  I imagined having to be the one to tell her family how she had died. 

Mrs. Spade, I'm very sorry for your loss.  I know it's my fault, but if it's any consolation, I loved her, too. 

Barry talked about the last time he saw his wife.  I had to think so hard to remember the last time I saw Maria.  It's not that it was so long ago I couldn't remember, it's that seeing her was no longer something I remembered automatically, or wanted to remember.  How could I have let it get that far, especially when men like Barry were willing to take hostages in order to prove their love?

"You were willing to trade your life for her life?" 

"In that moment, yes I was."

I would die for Maria.  I would die for my kids in a heartbeat.  And in any moment, I would give my life up for Samantha's.  It's what you do; it's instinctual.  In any given moment, I know I would die for any of the women in my life; the ones I love, have loved, and am in love with. 

But that's petty.  It's petty and selfish to be in love with someone other than the mother of my children, even though I'm not even sure she's still in love with me.   

Maybe that's the second chance Barry gave me when he decided not to pull that trigger. 

It's a remarkable experience, believing you're about to die.  There's the surge of adrenaline, of course, but also a strange calming sensation, a moment of clarity, I suppose, as if suddenly, the answers to all of life's mysteries are abundantly clear, and there is nothing to fear about where you're going or what will happen to you. 

There's also a strange occurrence in your brain as it tries to sort out the sudden flood of impulses carried there by the rapid pumping of your heart.  Like a desperate machine attempting a last-minute backup, the brain rapidly scans through its vast libraries of memory, and in doing so, passes over some things you haven't thought about since they happened.  It's like living your life all over again at lightning speed. 

A fight at school.

My father's 1967 Thunderbird.

A moving truck in our driveway.

My broken, camouflaged leg, bent awkwardly beneath my body.

Maria and Kate at the swimming pool.

Hanna on Christmas. 

Samantha's blood.   

The memories started to come so fast I could barely make them out.  Just flashes here and there of people, places.  A tree.  A dog.  Quantico.  Maria.  My mother.  The Twin Towers.  A subway car. 

And then, the cold steel was gone.  Barry took the barrel from my skin and walked away, and I struggled to somehow compose myself, my brain still inundated with the chaos of sorting out old memories.

As the liquid coursing through my body slowed to a relative crawl, so did the images. 

I saw my wedding. 

I saw my daughters being born. 

I saw the face of the first person I'd ever found on a case. 

And I saw Samantha.

Not dead.  Not shot or bleeding.  I saw her waiting outside my office; I saw her walk over to me.  I saw her hand extend out to mine. 

"Samantha Spade."

Her hand was warm.

"Jack Malone.  Have a seat." 

"Well, that's a first." 

"What's that?" 

"You didn't make fun of my name." 

"It's a great name." 

I saw the smile that spread across her mouth... and then I saw her lying there on the floor, her leg drenched in blood, her eyes full of terror. 

I opened my eyes, and the memories finally stopped.

I inhaled through my nose and then let it out, gasping quietly for my next breath.     

"So, Jack what do you think?  Do you get a second chance?"

"You gonna give me one?"

Hanna's hair was soft against my skin as I leaned in for a kiss.  It'd been so long since I'd seen them sleep, and for a brief moment, the last twelve hours ceased to exist; it was just me and my two beautiful daughters in a safe, perfect bubble. 

The floor creaked slightly as I made my way to the other bedroom.  She still slept with the door shut.  Old habits die hard. 

Part of me wanted to lie down next to her, to stroke her hair and wish for someone to take away all the pain I had ever caused her.  Instead, I sat in the chair we'd found at an antique store in White Plains years ago.  It was the kind of chair you sat in and it felt like it had been made just for you.  That's how I used to feel about Maria. 

All the fights, all the words, all the balled fists and empty stares, all the times I hadn't been there for her, all the ways I couldn't love Maria as much as Barry had loved Nicole, and then that big, gaping hole in the skyline where something so grand had once stood – it all came rushing over me, swirling violently around in my head until it overwhelmed me and I had to close my eyes to keep from passing out.  

Barry was right; I couldn't figure out how to love my wife.  And when I couldn't sit in that chair and not think about Samantha, I knew that I would have to live with what that meant. 

I watched Samantha sleep from a less-than-comfortable chair next to her bed.  The color had returned to her lips and cheeks, fatigue only slightly latent beneath her otherwise peaceful features.  In my haze of exhaustion, I couldn't bring myself to do much of anything but stare at her eyelids, begging them to open. 

I was so absorbed by my wish that I didn't even notice that she had woken up until she spoke.  But it was so faint, I had to shift forward, leaning onto the bed.  Along the way, she found my hand, and I reciprocated the light squeeze she gave me.  I shouldn't have touched her.  I shouldn't have watched her sleep.  I shouldn't have loved her, either.   

I found her eyes again and whispered that I couldn't hear her.  She swallowed and licked her lips, gathering her strength.  I leaned in closer to hear.

"You're late..."

My tears had started long before she'd said it, even though she was alive, even though she had woken up, even though she had ended her quiet declaration with a signature smirk.  Her eyes began to spill over as well, and I gripped her hand between both of mine and brought it to my lips. 

Still holding her hand, I leaned forward again to rest my head on the bed next to hers, and then slowly began to release everything that had happened that day through the water flowing from my eyes.   

*****

I fell in love with Sam.  I still love her now.

I'm supposed to love Maria, but I love Samantha.  Who will be a part of my second chance?

Maybe I am just treading water, but I don't know what to do. 

A sound from behind suddenly startles me, and for the first time since I sat down, I shift on the cooling grass, only to see a squirrel scurry by, a large acorn shoved into its mouth. 

I glance to the sky and note how it seems to be growing darker with each passing second.  It's only fitting that it rain now; it seems appropriately symbolic.  But perhaps it's also my cue that I should be going.  I've bothered you long enough, I suppose. 

Rising to one knee, I lean over and press my hand to the cool stone, my fingers trailing over the familiar name.  I suppose it's at least one thing that you and I had in common.

Anyway, thanks for listening.  I'll tell mom that I stopped by to see you.

I allow my fingers to linger on the rough granite for one last moment, and then I walk away. 

(fin.)