Author's Note – I hate waiting to find out the endings of stories, so here you go – free of charge I give you one all-purpose ending. Enjoy!
I call Information the next day on my lunch break, looking for a listing for an Alexandra Eames in New York City. There isn't one. I bite one fingernail down to the quick and without even thinking ask for a James Deakins. Sure enough, he exists and I get a number for him but hesitate to call it at first. He's sure to be at work, plus there's an hour time difference between Chicago and New York, but I finally call anyway and end up leaving a message that sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Hi, um, this message is for Captain Deakins. My name is, uh, Leah Banks and I'm calling from Chicago in regards to a Bobby Goren. Um, I'm trying to find out some things about him so, um, if you can give me a call later tonight my, uh, number is…"
I'm trailing off badly as I leave my home number but I think he'll be able to decipher it – which he does because he calls me as soon as I walk through the door that night.
"Hi, is this Leah Banks?" the voice on the other end of the phone is recognizable from the answering machine – forceful but straining to be polite. A police officer's voice, I think.
"Yes – Captain Deakins?" I venture.
"Yes," he rushes the word out in haste to ask me, "Did I hear that you know where Bobby Goren is?"
"Yes sir," I respond. "He's at Hillside Mental Hospital – I work there and just met him this week. I was wondering…"
"Mental hospital?" he cuts me off, then I hear him say softly to himself, "Dammit, Bobby."
"Yes sir," I repeat myself.
His voice is strained with concern but still sounds professional and smooth when he asks, "He admitted himself, I assume?"
"Yes sir," I'm beginning to feel like a broken record.
"Dammit," he repeats, more forcefully this time and he doesn't try to hide it from me.
"Sir?" I ask hesitantly, seizing the opportunity offered by his silence. "Can I ask about Detective Eames?"
"Detective Eames?" he repeats my words. "You know about Detective Eames? Has he told you about her?"
"No sir," I reply. "Actually, I read about the shooting online – I was trying to do some research on Bobby and ran across an article. That's actually how I came to call you. I tried Detective Eames first but there was no listing for her."
"No, there wouldn't be," he tells me and I feel my heart shrivel as I wait for his next words. I anticipate them – and find myself trembling slightly when they finally come.
"She moved to Philadelphia," Deakins says. "She's a detective down there now."
"She didn't die?" The sentence comes out as a big puff of air. "She's okay?"
"It was a long road back," Deakins tells me gravely. "But she's recovered for the most part."
Recovered! I try not to scream the word – and it's easy when I remember that Bobby doesn't know and has spent the last year and a half of his life dwelling in a world where she doesn't exist anymore because he hasn't let her. A world where she lives on in a tiny picture on a dresser and he blames himself for her death, I think soberly.
"Bobby doesn't know, though," he jumps onto my train of thought. "He left when she was in a coma."
"He thinks she's dead," I say, ever so softly.
"Let me give you her number," his words pick up speed and he reads it off to me twice to make sure I've got it. "Call her tonight."
"I will," I say.
"And Leah?" he adds before hanging up. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I say to dead air.
What I'm going to say to Alex, I have no idea as I dial the phone. "Hey I found your crazy partner in the loony bin in Chicago and didn't want him to end up like my dead brother" seems a bit much and everything else seems just cheesy and lame. I suppose I'll find the words when she answers, then force myself to finish putting in the number before I chicken out.
"Is this Alex Eames?" I ask tentatively when a female voice comes on the line. It's the sort of voice I'm getting accustomed to very quickly, the voice of someone who doesn't trust easily – a cop. She's going to make me work hard to prove that I'm telling her the truth.
"Yes," she says curiously. "Who's this?"
"My name is Leah Banks," I tell her, "and I was given your number by Captain James Deakins from New York."
"What's this in regards to?" she wants to know. "A case?"
"Um," I falter, then take a deep breath, "I know where Bobby Goren is."
I hear a gasp, then silence.
"Detective Eames?" I venture.
"Wha-? Oh, I'm here," she is completely distracted and her voice is shaking. It sounds like she's groping around for a chair and takes a moment before she asks me cautiously, "How do you know about Bobby?"
"He lives at Hillside Mental Hospital," I reply. "I work there."
"Hillside?" she repeats the name. "Is that in New York?"
"No," I say. "Chicago."
"Chicago?" her voice raises a notch. "You expect me to believe that Bobby's in Chicago?"
"I met him yesterday," I tell her.
"And he says he's Bobby Goren?" she asks. Like I thought – she's making me prove it to her.
"He doesn't say that," I have to be honest. "But that's what his name is on our records."
A pause on the other end of the line, then: "Can you describe him to me?"
I nod, but why I'm not sure because she can't see me. "He's tall – about six four, I'd say – with dark hair and eyes."
It's a weak description and we both know it. "That could be half the country. Is there anything distinguishing about him that you can tell me?"
"When I met him, he was reading Smithsonian Magazine," I shrug, fearing that I'm failing.
"Does he trace the words with his left hand?" she asks quickly, sounding out of breath all of a sudden. "Specifically with the first and second fingers of his left hand?"
"Yeah," I respond, a bit perplexed by this sudden turnaround.
"Dear God," she says under her breath and I know right then that she believes me. "I need to come see him."
I give her the same information I gave Captain Deakins and it sounds like she's writing it all down. It also sounds like she's crying but she hides it pretty successfully when she comes back on the line.
"I'll, um, be there as soon as I can get a flight," she tells me just before she hangs up.
"Okay," I say weakly.
"Is he…okay?" she asks me. "I mean, are they treating him?"
I have to tell her the truth. "He won't let anyone help him."
"I should have known," she says softly. Then, stronger: "Can you tell him I'm coming?"
"Sure," I reply gently, not really looking forward to tangling with Bobby again, but vowing to take Carlos with me if I must. "I'll tell him."
"Thank you," she says, and then she's gone.
I stare at the phone in my hand for a long moment, second-guessing myself and wondering if I've done the right thing by getting involved. After all, this isn't Evan and me we're talking about, it's two perfect strangers who didn't ask for me to interfere in their lives. Bobby is hiding for a reason and just because I don't think it's a good one doesn't qualify me to go behind his back. But it's too late now – Alex is coming. Now I have to wait to see if my concerns are justified.
*
In the end, I can't tell Bobby that she's coming. He glares at me every chance he gets and I keep remembering what happened the last time I mentioned Alex to him. Besides, I don't know what I would say to him in the first place. Instead, I post myself at the admissions desk, answering the phone and keeping an eye on the door for any sign of her. It takes two days, but one afternoon I look up to watch her striding right towards me, her face creased with concern and her lips pinched tightly together with some other feeling – trepidation maybe?
"I'm here to see a patient," she says. "Bobby Goren."
"Hi Alex," I greet her. "I'm Leah, the one who called you."
"Leah," she smiles and I get a glimpse of the woman in Bobby's photo. Still, the comfortable smile I saw there doesn't quite match this one, which is more strained with politeness. "I can't thank you enough for what you did."
"Don't thank me yet," I stand up to take her to his room. "I can't promise you anything – and I couldn't get up the nerve to tell him you were coming."
"What's he like?" she puts a restraining hand on my arm and I stop walking, turning to face her. She doesn't seem upset by my not following through.
"He's hiding from the world," I shrug. "And himself, too, I guess."
She inhales slowly and I can see she's not as much surprised, but preparing herself for where we're going. I wonder if part of her didn't always expect to have to see him in a situation like this one day. She seems as though she has gone over this moment in her mind before.
"Is he medicated?" she wants to know.
"No," I shake my head. "He's just…quiet."
She isn't meeting my eyes, but rather is looking downward, her gaze focusing inside herself rather than on her surroundings.
"Are you ready?" I ask quietly.
She looks right at me and offers a small smile. "I honestly don't know."
"You two are close," I say it as an observation, not a question.
She nods. "Bobby was a brilliant detective – he made me look good." She pauses and gives another smile. "But outside of work, he was also my best friend. You know how sometimes people just click? That's us. Bobby's always been a little weird and he puts some people off when they first meet him, but not me. I trusted him right off the bat."
"Is it too personal if I ask you what happened?" I ask, sensing she may want to stall a bit anyway.
She doesn't speak right away, then answers me in a matter-of-fact tone. "We went to a factory to bring in a suspect and he opened fire on us. I took a round to the chest. That's really all I remember until I woke up in the hospital a month later. They tell me that Bobby beat the suspect until he was unconscious and that they had to pull him away or he probably would have killed him. They also said that Bobby paced the floor in the hospital all through my surgery – he wouldn't even accept a pair of scrubs to exchange for his bloody suit. Then when I got out of surgery, the doctors told him that I probably wouldn't make it through the night. Captain Deakins said Bobby walked out of the hospital after that and no one has seen him since."
"He walked out?" I breathe. "Just like that?"
She shrugs and says simply, "Bobby doesn't like to feel helpless."
I don't say anything else, just turn to lead her to Bobby's room. She stops me one more time to say, "I looked everywhere for him when I recovered, you know. I only stopped because I figured he didn't want to be found."
"I get that impression too," I say and we start down the hall. "But at the same time, I think he needs it."
We pass Carlos in the hall and he gives me a sideways look – he recognizes her from the picture and I can tell he thinks I'm on the fast track to being admitted as a patient here myself. In response, I avert my eyes and walk Alex right up to Bobby's door.
He's in his characteristic place by the window, magazine in hand, and doesn't notice us at first. Then Alex says, "Bobby?" softly – questioningly - and he turns.
His eyes take her in slowly and don't seem to focus at first. The laser beam glare wants to push the intruders away out of habit, but something holds it back. Beside me, Alex begins to visibly shake and I want to reach out to steady her but I don't because I get the feeling I have vanished. In this moment in this room, I don't exist, so I do the only thing that I can - I step back out of the way. My eyes, however, remain glued to the two people before me.
Recognition floods Bobby's slowly and his eyes grow wide like dinner plates. The magazine falls to the floor and his whole body seems to twist inward on itself, contorting until he's nearly in the fetal position. He slides from the chair as though his body has become liquid, meeting the floor as tears well in the corners of his eyes and begin to spill over. His arms come up to cover his head and I realize he's trying to hide one last time but failing miserably.
"Bobby," Alex's tone is gentle now and she advances slowly towards him, one hand outstretched.
She is still five feet away when he pushes a long-fingered hand out in front of himself, eyes downcast and not looking at her, and says, "No. Stay away."
She halts then crouches down. "Bobby, it's okay."
"No," he begins to shake his head rapidly from side to side, still refusing to see her before him. "No. You're not real. No."
"I am real," her voice is even despite the fact that her body is still trembling. "I am."
She inches forward awkwardly in her crouch and he continues to shake his head no and hold out his hand, but doesn't make a move to stop her or say anything else. Then she's upon him, one of her tiny hands wrapping itself inside his massive paw and her other reaching behind his head as she pulls him gently close. Instantly he's wrapping his own arms around her, burying his head in her shoulder and letting the sobs come free, his shoulders shaking with them as Alex rocks him gently back and forth, her chin resting atop his head.
It's a very intimate moment and I turn away, fighting back a few tears myself as I think of Evan. He couldn't scale the barrier that he put up to keep the world out – the very same barrier that Alex just took down in one fell swoop – but then I didn't know how to throw him a rope either. Alex makes it look easy, though. It was as though I could see the world stop spinning out of control around him the moment she stepped into the room. She's anchoring him in place right now and that realization validates me – I made the right decision.
I turn back and see that they've pulled far enough apart to talk, though they still haven't let go and probably won't for some time. She's sitting beside him now, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, her legs outstretched while she still supports his head with her hand. Neither has stopped shaking but their gaze is steady as they meet each other's eyes for the first time in a year and a half.
"Are you really here?" he asks softly, one hand coming up to her face, the long delicate fingers tracing her forehead, nose, cheeks, lips.
"I am," she replies, clasping the wandering hand in her own again. "And I'm better now that I know where you are." A pause and then furtively: "Bobby, why did you leave? I looked everywhere for you."
"They…they told me you would die," he tells her, sounding a bit like a petulant child. His tone breaks as he continues. "There was so much blood on you… on me… your blood…" He swallows. "I couldn't save you."
"Because you know everything about removing bullets?" Her tone is changing now into one that almost teases and belies a touch of exasperation, as though they've had similar conversations before. "Because you're a surgeon in addition to being Sherlock Holmes in Armani? Come on, Bobby – you're a brilliant detective but it was never your job to save me. I couldn't ask that of you."
"I couldn't save you," he repeats himself and shakes his head with frustration, gaze returning to the floor. "I should have been watching out for you – you're my partner, my responsibility. I should have protected you and instead there was blood and..."
She pulls him close once more. "If you'd protected me, he probably would have shot you and you could have died. I couldn't handle that, Bobby. I need you."
"You said something to me before they put you in the ambulance." It's amazing to watch lucidity overcome his features the more he speaks to her. It comes and goes like the tide but stays a little longer each time. "You said 'Be strong, Bobby – love you.' But I couldn't do it. The one thing you wanted me to do and I couldn't."
"So you ran away to Chicago?" she's ripping holes in his logic with practiced ease and he's letting her, almost as though this is a dance they do. Yin and yang. Give and take "You didn't feel strong enough for me so you left? You really don't get it, do you?"
"Alex, I couldn't do it," he repeats.
"We're not strong apart, Bobby," she tells him clearly, separately her words with the utmost care. "We're strong together – we're better together. I needed you with me."
He tells her. "I… I couldn't even say anything when you talked to me from the gurney."
"What were you going to say?" she raises an eyebrow. The dance gathers speed.
He thinks for a moment, then gives her the first semblance of a smile I've seen outside the photograph. "Be strong, Alex – love you."
She's crying now, but she pulls it together to tell him, "Better late than never, Bobby."
They embrace again and it's a long moment before he leans back and tells her, "I'm not okay, Alex. My head – it's not right. I've tried to get outside of my thoughts, but… I'm stuck."
He leans back and points a finger at his temple, eyes imploring her to help.
"You'll be okay," she soothes, resting her forehead on his. "We'll get through this together. We always do, right?"
"I'm scared," he says.
"Me too," she agrees.
But when I turn to leave them alone, their hands are firmly clasped together and there is no doubt in my mind that they'll find their way home. I walk down the hall and, as if on cue, a picture of Evan flits into my mind's eye again, only this time it's bursting with color and I see him smiling at me. And try as I might, I can't remember him any other way.
FIN