Catherine and Grissom drove in silence to Las Vegas Medical, again without the radio, which irritated Catherine. Though she of course loved Lindsey, having an eleven year old daughter around was stressful and she enjoyed solace as much as Grissom did, but even she once and awhile longed for music in the car. Catherine kept her eyes on the road, trying to stay focused and Grissom lazily stared at the window, watching the world roll by.
Once they got to the hospital and parked, Catherine tried to square with him. She leaned her elbows on the steering wheel.
"Look, Gil. You could cut the fog of depression around you with a knife and it's really starting to irk me," she began. He stared at her with a look that told a story of shock, surprise and confusion. "You gotta tell me what's wrong. We're friends, or I like to think we are. If you don't start talking, whatever's bothering you is going to eat you up from the inside out."
Grissom just sighed and put his glasses on. "We are friends, Catherine. Unfortunately, friend is not a synonym for psychiatrist."
He left the car and Catherine was pissed. Again.
They entered Las Vegas Medical and were greeted by a clean-cut doctor with glasses to bog for his face and a broad smile. Catherine seemed to know him and vice-versa.
"Welcome back," he said.
"Hello, Dr. Gold," Catherine smiled.
"Hello, Ms. Willows," the doctor greeted. He took off his glasses as if he just realized he was wearing them. "Is this a colleague of yours?"
"My boss, actually. Gil Grissom, this is Dr. Eli Gold," Catherine said. "He's Marquita Dali's doctor."
"Hello," Grissom said.
"You're here for Adrian Lowe, correct?" Dr. Gold asked him.
"I suppose so. Are we splitting up, Cath?"
"Sure. We'll get done faster," Catherine said. "I've had a long day. I want to go home."
"That makes two of us," Dr. Gold smiled smoothly. "Marquita's been wanting to see you, Ms. Willows. She seems greatly appreciative of you. And Mr. Grissom, I'll take you to Adrian Lowe's room. He's been informed of his disability as of late last night. We can't say he's come to terms—that will take weeks, months, maybe years. However, during his stay at this hospital, he'll be seeing a psychiatrist."
Grissom shot Catherine a Look. She just rolled her eyes at him.
"So. Shall we?" Dr. Gold glanced at the two CSI's. "Marquita and Adrian are on the recovery floor, only six rooms away from each other."
"Are they aware of each other yet?" Catherine asked.
"Not yet. Should they be?"
"No," Grissom said quickly. "It's better they be kept separate until after we've taken their statements."
"Okay," Dr. Gold said, uncertain. "I'll make sure that the nurses know that."
Dr. Gold chatted up Catherine as he led her and Grissom up to the fifth floor of the recovery ward. Grissom didn't try to tune them out—it happened voluntarily.
All Grissom was really thinking about was Adrian. Adrian and Nicolette and what was said or done, what wasn't said or done and what should have been said or done. It killed him. He was positive that Adrian was his son. Nicolette had practically admitted that. And he was about to see his son for the first time, ever.
Adrian was in room twenty-seven. Six doors down, in room thirty-three, was Marquita Dali. Dr. Gold and Catherine paused beside Adrian's door, speaking sotto voce,
"Here you go," Dr. Gold said. "Just remember one thing, Mr. Grissom? Be gentle with Adrian. His adjustment period has been and will be difficult."
"I understand," Grissom said.
"You know where to find me," Catherine said.
Grissom merely nodded and waited until Dr. Gold and Catherine had entered Marquita Dali's room. He then knocked softly on the door of Adrian's private hospital room, which was closed.
"Come in," came a suspiciously optimistic voice.
Grissom entered and saw Adrian in his bed, with a book with a faded cover in front of his face. He could clearly see the title: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson. "Adrian de L'eau?" he inquired.
Adrian looked up from his book and grimaced at the sound of the French surname. "Yeah, sure. Come on in. What can I do for you?"
"Yes, you can. My name is Gil Grissom, I'm a forensic scientist with the Las Vegas Police Department?"
"That's cool. You lost, man?"
Grissom gave a small chuckle. "Hardly. I actually need to ask you some questions about the night you were shot."
Adrian's eyes widened. "Oh. Yeah. Sure, come on in, guy. Entre, s'il vous plaît." He dog-eared his book and placed on his bedside table.
Grissom entered the room and pulled up a chair. When he was close, he saw that Adrian looked a lot like him: same eyes, nose and mouth. His hair was either blond or brown, depending on the light, with hints of red here and there. "Your accent is not as heavy as your mother's, I've noticed."
"You met my mom?" he cocked his head to the side and Grissom's heart jumped—that was his look.
"Briefly," Grissom lied. "But your accent—"
"My accent?" Adrian asked. "That's a new one. Most people can't tell. Well, I was born in France; I live in a dominantly French household and have all my life. Even when we moved to Palo Alto, we spoke French at home, so I guess it rubbed off on me." He pressed a button on his bedside bumper to make the head of his bed rise so he was in somewhat of a sitting position. "Sorry, I'm going off on a tangent. What is it you wanted to ask me, Mister…?"
"Grissom. Well, as you know, there was a robbery at the Stop-n-Go. Tell me everything you can about that night."
"Not much, Mr. Grissom, not much. It's all kind of in a daze."
"Do your best, if you could, please."
"I couldn't sleep," Adrian began slowly. "And I was thirsty. I know I could have called room service, but I was restless, you know? Had to get out. So I went to the first place I came across—the Stop-n-Go. After wandering around the store like a homeless person for about twenty minutes, I picked up some milk and some Advil and went to the checkout counter.
"Well, the space cadet behind the counter gave me the wrong change and I tried to argue with him about it but he insisted that I gave him ten and not twenty. In the midst of this argument, a guy dressed all in black like he was some guy from The Matrix stormed in. This guy took the cake—I swear he must have thought he was Neo. I would have laughed if he wasn't so serious about it. Black slacks, turtleneck, sneakers, a long black trench coat, black reflective sunglasses and a black gun pointed right at the cashier. I was scared shitless, lemme tell ya. Pardon my language."
"Pardoned."
"Well, he pushed in front of me to aim at the cashier so I backed away slowly. Neo and the space cadet began to argue about something."
"What were they arguing about?"
"I don't remember. Anyway, I was getting fed up waiting for Neo to finish up so I turned to leave. I grabbed my bag off the counter, told the space cadet where to stick it and wham, first shot grazed me on the hip. Left a nasty cut, it had to be stitched up. Wanna see?"
"Maybe later. What else do you remember?"
Adrian paused. "I remember screaming like a little girl, that's for damn sure. I don't know if you've ever been shot, Mr. Grissom, but it hurts like a…well, I'm not gonna say because I kiss my mother with this mouth."
Grissom chortled.
"I dropped my bag, fell to my knees, grabbing my side. I heard another shot go off, and I figured the space cadet just got blown back into the cosmos. Then just as I decided, 'hey, this isn't so bad', the second and third bullets go into my back…and that's when I blacked out."
"You don't remember hearing anything while you were blacked out?"
"Nope. I was dead to the world as far as I was concerned. I did see some pretty interesting colors when I came to."
Grissom was quiet for a very long time. He crossed his legs and pursed his lips, wondering what he could say next. He had to restrain himself from thinking that this was his son.
"Mr. Grissom?" Adrian said. "Have you ever known what it's like to have something all your life, something you took for granted and then suddenly loose it in one instant?"
Startled but unflustered by the question, Grissom nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact I do."
"Were you devastated?"
"Very much so."
"Did you learn to adapt?"
Grissom sighed. "I can't tell you that."
"Why?"
"Because what I lost…I had restored. Not very long ago I was faced with the demise of my hearing and over the past summer I had an operation to retard the process."
"But…you will, eventually, completely loose your hearing?"
"In time, yes. Not tomorrow."
"Frightening, isn't it?" Adrian said stiffly.
"Very. When I discovered I was loosing my hearing, the only thing I could think of was, 'how am I going to do my job?'. I didn't think of anything else. I didn't even consider that I'd never hear the voices of people I love, that I'd never be able to hear music I enjoy."
"You know, when they told me I would never be able to walk again, all I could think was, 'God…I love soccer'. I had just realized how much I love it. At the same time, I realized that I'd never be able to play again. I won't be able to kick a ball. I won't be able to run a goal. I didn't think about not dancing or not taking pleasure in walking along the beach, holding hands with my girlfriend or wife. I thought about soccer." Adrian lifted his arm and placed it over his eyes. Grissom noticed some writing on the outside of his forearm. It was a tattoo.
"Interesting tattoo you have there," Grissom said.
Adrian lifted his arm off his face and held both of them out, looking down. Moriri est Vivere was written on the right; Vivere est Moriri was written on the left—both in an ornate script. "Yeah. An eighteenth birthday present I bought myself."
"'Dying to Live, Living to Die'?" Grissom cocked his head.
"Ah. A fellow Latin scholar," Adrian commented.
"Certe," Grissom replied, the Latin word for yes. "Latinam Honoris Societatem, tenth, eleventh and twelfth grade. Just one question: why would you write something like that on your body?"
"Don't like tattoos, Mr. Grissom?"
"It depends. Tattoos are very helpful when it comes to finding perps, but otherwise," Grissom shrugged. "I'm not one to judge on how someone treats their body."
"It's a common form of artistic expression," Adrian explained, but Grissom had heard it all before, one way or another.
"I could never fathom being stuck with needles for the sake of art."
"Beauty is pain, Mr. Grissom. A tattoo can tell you a lot about someone. A woman's name on a man's body can denote a long-lost love and vice-versa. A cross can show spirituality. A phrase such as mine can show state of mind or feeling. Tattoos tell the untold story."
"So does forensics."
"You say toe-may-toe, I say toe-mah-toe." Adrian lifted the sleeve of his hospital gown and revealed another tattoo just before his shoulder joint of a baroque sun with some French script bordering it. "This one is for my mother. It says, 'vous êtes mon soleil'."
"'You are my sunshine'?" Grissom asked, recognizing the phrase.
"It's her favorite lullaby," Adrian said. "She used to sing it to me and my sisters., whom I have on my other shoulder."
Grissom, out of curiosity, went around to the other side to view Adrian's tribute to his sisters. Red roses formed two interlocking hearts, the left one read Sylvie and the right one read Fleur.
"I have a tough time explaining that these are my sisters and not past girlfriends," Adrian joked lightly.
"You really love them, huh?"
"We've been through a lot together. Are you married, Mr. Grissom?"
"No. I've never been married."
"If you ever do? Just do me a favor. Don't hit her."
Before Grissom could question him on that, Nicolette entered the room, a smile on her face and a bouquet of perky red roses. The twins, Sylvie and Fleur, were standing on either side of her and wasted no time in rushing into the room and bombarding their brother with kisses and hugs. Grissom could no longer tell them apart—their shirts had changed.
"Ooooh, Adrian," said one twin, in a purple shirt. "We miss you! Our hotel room is just so dull."
"Fleur and I could not sleep, we were thinking about you so much!" said the other, in a gray shirt. This one had to be Sylvie.
"So we played gin rummy all night," Fleur added.
"Girls, girls," Nicolette said, stepping into the room. "Get off the bed. Let Adrian rest." Her broad smile then cracked and broke like Humpty-Dumpty when she spotted Grissom sitting beside Adrian. "Bonjour, stranger," she greeted him briskly. "Can I help you?"
"No," Grissom said matter-of-factly, "actually, you can't. I've come to speak to Adrian."
"Mom," Adrian said, "this is—"
"I know who this is, cher."
"Oh. You've met?"
"In a way…yes."
In this chilling instant, Grissom realized that she now knew who he was.