Disclaimers, acknowledgements, and notes: see Chapter 1
Cellphone use was prohibited in the hospital, but the lounge outside the ICU had a bank of payphones, and Sara reported in to the lab, dialing Catherine's number from memory. The older woman would let the others know what they needed to know, and hold any other information until it was time to speak it. Sara promised to keep an eye on Grissom, hung up, and chose a chair that would allow her to watch the ICU doors.
After ten minutes, she got up again, and returned to the nurses' station. She had to know. "Can you tell me when Mrs. Grissom died?"
The nurse flipped open a chart. "About three hours ago."
Sara's shoulders sagged in an uneasy mix of relief and sorrow. "Thanks." She went back to her spot. It's not my fault, she thought, feeling guilty just for thinking it. There's no way we could have got here in time. She wondered if anyone else had come to sit by the old woman's side, or if she had died alone.
It was almost an hour before Grissom emerged from the ICU. Exhaustion and grief added ten years to his age, and Sara rose and followed him without a word as he went to the morgue to make arrangements to deal with his mother's body. She didn't know if she was a comfort or an annoyance, or if he even really realized she was there, but she wasn't letting him out of her sight.
Grissom knew she was there. On some inner level, he was grateful for her silent presence, implying a loyalty that might or might not actually exist but that was nonetheless reassuring. Numbness was beginning to set in, and he was grateful for that too.
It wasn't a long drive to his mother's house. He'd briefly considered finding a hotel, but the shadows under Sara's eyes made him reluctant to put that task on her, and something in him wanted to feel his mother's presence before it vanished entirely. He fumbled with his keys, finding the right one, and pushed open the door to let Sara precede him.
The small house was tidy and filled with sunshine. Sara dumped their bags by the door. "I'm going to get some food," she said in a tone that brooked no opposition. "I saw a Chinese place just down the road."
Grissom nodded. He wasn't hungry, but Sara needed to eat. "I need to make some phone calls, starting with Catherine. I'll leave the door unlocked."
She disappeared, but Grissom didn't open his cellphone just yet. Instead, he wandered slowly through the silent rooms, breathing deeply of the warm air, wrapping himself desperately in the phantom feeling that his mother was just gone out for the afternoon and would soon be back to hug him fiercely and tease him with graceful gestures.
They'd told him that she had never regained consciousness, and he was relieved. She had not known that he was not there. He went into her bedroom, finding it as neatly kept as ever, the covers on the bed tucked in; he reached beneath one pillow to pull out the nightgown he knew was there. Pressing it to his face, he inhaled, smelling her scent, his oldest and most comforting memory.
A hot pressure rose in his throat, and he pushed it down.
When Sara opened the front door, her stomach was growling at the steam rising from the bag she carried. She found Grissom seated at the kitchen table, speaking into his cellphone, and he waved his left hand at her, a brief wiggle of the fingers poking out of the sling. She was surprised to see that the table was set. A pot of tea sat in the middle. Sara unloaded the food as he finished his call. "How's your arm?" she asked, washing her hands and taking the seat opposite him.
Grissom shrugged, bracing a carton against his sling and opening it. "I took a couple of ibuprofen. I'll be fine."
She nodded, pouring them both tea, since it required two hands to keep the lid on the pot.
They ate; or rather, Sara ate, and Grissom swallowed a few mouthfuls and pushed the rest around his plate. Sara didn't press; tomorrow would be soon enough to make him eat. "So, what's the plan?" she asked finally, when he didn't break the silence.
Grissom set down his chopsticks. "Sleep," he said. "You can head back in the morning, once you're rested. I can catch a flight home in a few days."
Sara sat back and raised a brow at him. "You know, Grissom, I have a lot of vacation time built up." Nothing about this situation was comfortable, but the strain between them seemed unimportant right now.
"Sara..." Exhaustion seemed to rob him of words to argue with her, and she shook her head.
"We can discuss it tomorrow," she said, rising and gathering their plates.
Grissom pushed back from the table. "The guest room is the first room on the right," he said. "I couldn't make the bed, but I put out some sheets and towels for you. The bathroom's at the end of the hall." He opened the refrigerator and started transferring cartons. "I'm sleeping on the couch, it folds out into a bed. Can you make it up for me?" The question was matter-of-fact, and Sara wondered if grief had swallowed up his pride.
"Sure," she said casually, opening the dishwasher and peering inside. It was empty, so she loaded it with their dinner dishes.
Grissom helped her unfold the elderly couch, since the heavy frame really required two people, and she made it up with brisk efficiency as he made another phone call. Stepping into the guest room, she found a neat pile of sheets, blankets, and towels on the bed, along with two caseless pillows, and her bag resting at the foot. Two of the walls were hung with abstract paintings, and while they were not unharmonious with the room, Sara wondered at them; they were not the sort of thing usually found in the small home of an elderly woman.
Pulling out her cellphone, she punched the speed dial. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered. "H'lo?"
Sara grinned at the far wall. "Oh, sorry, Nick! I thought you'd be up by now."
She heard the rush of air as Nick yawned. "No problem. My alarm'll go off in a few minutes anyway." He groaned faintly. "You got there, huh?"
"Yep." Sara sat down on the bed. "Don't ask me about Grissom's mother, though, that's not my story to tell."
"Gotcha." Fabric rustled, and Sara figured Nick was getting out of bed. "So you coming back tomorrow?"
Sara bit her lip. "I...don't think so." She hesitated, then went on. "Grissom wants to send me back, but I really think he needs some help." She grimaced; it was hard to articulate what she felt. "I don't even know if he has any other family out here, I can't just leave him on his own."
Nick made an agreeing noise. "Sorry it had to be you, Sar. I know you've been pissed at him for a while."
Sara blew out her breath. "Yeah, well...gotta take it as it comes, I guess."
They chatted for a couple of minutes about the case Nick was working on, and then she hung up, wanting to get to the shower so Grissom could follow her.
The bathroom, like the kitchen, had obviously been remodeled since the house had been built. The only indication of the age of its former occupant was a grab bar on the bath's inner wall. Sara washed off the long day in a stream of hot water, appreciating the water pressure, and pulled on the sweatpants and oversized t-shirt she'd snagged from her locker. She padded out into the living room; Grissom looked up from his phone, and she jerked a thumb at the bathroom to indicate that she was through. He nodded, and waved again, and she retreated to make up her own bed and fall into it.
When she woke, it was dark. Sara lay still, trying to figure out what had roused her. A glance at the red-numbered clock on the dresser told her it wasn't as late as she thought, only about eleven. A faint sound reached her ears, and she frowned. What is that, a cat? Grissom didn't mention any pets.
The sound came again, and her blood froze. Common sense told her to stay where she was, her torn sense of pride urged her to pull the pillow over her head and pretend she hadn't heard it, but her heart ignored them both and forced her to her feet. Sara opened her door slowly, hoping it wouldn't creak, and slipped out into the hall.
A nightlight in the hall outlet gave her enough light to see the vague shapes of the living room furniture beyond. The sound was clearer now. Sara stepped forward, half-unwilling, and moved silently into the living room.
He was just another shape in the dark, curled up on the wide sofa mattress. Another sob made her shiver in response; it was a choked sound of hopeless anguish, of a child lost and alone and without a hand to cling to. Sara knew she should go back to bed, that Grissom was never going to forgive her when he realized she was there, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't leave him to suffer alone.
She sat carefully down on the edge of the mattress. He was shaking with the force of his grief, and without thinking, Sara put her arms around him and half-lifted him into her lap, bending over him and trying to surround him so he would know he was not alone. "Gil," she whispered as he gasped for breath between sobs, the unused name rising to her lips in the close-wrapped dark. "Gil."
His injured arm was held against his body like a damaged wing, but his other arm went around her waist in a desperate, hard clutch, and he pressed his face to her belly, muffling his weeping in her shirt. She kept one arm around his shoulders and stroked his hair with her other hand, rocking a little; not trying to soothe what was beyond soothing, only keeping him company in desolation. For a little while they were neither ex-friends nor a man and a woman, but just two people alone in the darkness. Tears ran unnoticed down Sara's face as she mourned a woman she'd never met, a mother who had raised the man she loved more than anyone, whose death had shattered his soul.
Eventually his crying slowed and his knotted muscles began to relax. He let go his grip on the back of Sara's shirt, and she felt his weight shift as he slid from pain into the deep sleep that comes when the heart can bear no more. For a little while yet she held him, running her hand slowly over his soft hair, savoring the moment with a strong sense of irony; but when she caught her own eyelids sliding shut she eased him off her lap. It would not do to fall asleep and have him wake to find her there; bad enough that she had done what she already had.
She drew the covers up to his shoulders, and on impulse, bent and kissed his temple. He didn't move, and Sara sighed and went back to her room, feeling coolness on her stomach where her shirt was damp with his tears, and realizing with a pang that his scent was all over her. A chilly impulse suggested another shower, but she quashed it--partly afraid she would wake him, and partly guilty with pleasure at the lingering remnant. Instead, she burrowed into her blankets and wondered what the morning would bring.
See Chapter 3