Chapter 8 of the Caine Mutiny. Here's a family scene of a different type. This is it until Friday at the earliest, as I'm tied up with musical activities for several days. Two concerts and a solo this week. On a broken foot. Sigh. Thanks for reading. Deb
(H/C)
"The difference between your family and your friends is that you get to choose your friends."
Anonymous
(H/C)
Calleigh fought to unlock the door, trying to hold onto her squirming daughter at the same time. Rosalind wanted down, somehow thinking she might get in faster under her own power. "I'd get it open faster if you'd hold still," Calleigh pointed out, trying to work the correct key into the lock.
Rosalind banged her hands against the closed door. "Dada!" she said, and Calleigh sighed.
"He's not here, Angel. He won't be home until later." Rosalind hadn't seen Horatio all day, and she was assuming that he would be inside. Usually, if he didn't pick her up himself or together with Calleigh, he would be waiting for them at home. Now, Rosalind reached for the knob herself and managed to knock the keys out of Calleigh's fumbling hand. Calleigh dropped the diaper bag trying to catch them, and it landed, of course, upside down, things spilling through the top, which hadn't quite been zipped. Calleigh knelt and started picking things up and stuffing them back in the bag at random, and Rosalind, temporarily freed, pulled herself up on the door and banged vigorously against it.
The door opened so quickly that Rosalind fell inside and landed on her nose. Calleigh looked up from her knees to see her mother standing in the doorway. "Calleigh, what on earth are you doing?"
"I'm picking things up," she replied, trying not to sound annoyed. What did it look like she was doing? Where had her mother been for the last two minutes while she was fighting the lock? Calleigh reached for Rosalind, who was whimpering slightly, not quite crying. "Are you okay, Angel?"
Jean plucked Rosalind out of her hands, picking her up quickly. "Poor little girl. Did Mama let you fall? It's okay, Memaw has you now."
Rosalind planted both hands on Jean's chest and pushed back, trying to escape the hug enough to look around. "Dada?"
Calleigh finished gathering the contents of the diaper bag and stood back up. "He's not here, Rosalind. I'm sorry. He's working."
A frown of worry suddenly creased Jean's forehead. "You said he was working this morning."
"He was working this morning. And tonight. This case we've got at the moment is a really tough one." Calleigh entered the house and slammed to a dead halt so quickly that Jean, who had closed the door and turned around, ran smack into her. "Mother, what happened here?" Rosalind, squashed between them, started whimpering again, and Calleigh firmly took her back from Jean and held her, unsure if she or her daughter needed comfort more at the moment.
The living room had been transformed since that morning. The couch had been pulled over at an angle, the other furniture was reshuffled as well, and the centerpiece of the room now was the coffee table with an 11 x 14 picture of Calleigh's father on it. A few photo albums were scattered here and there, and the shelves on one wall had other pictures wedged between their original contents. Calleigh's father with his children. Calleigh's father with Jean. Calleigh's father with a drunken smile on his face on her parents' anniversary.
"I did some redecorating," Jean said brightly, stepping around Calleigh to study the room with satisfaction. "All these pictures, and you didn't have one of him. You should have said something, dear, I could have sent you some. The couch really looks better slanted like that, too, don't you think?"
Calleigh closed her eyes and counted to 10, then 20, then 30. She had just reached 45 when Rosalind patted her face with concern, and she opened her eyes again, looking straight into Horatio's eyes in his daughter's face. Even the consideration for others was there.
Horatio. Calleigh glanced quickly at the clock. It was 5:45. If he saw this, it would be one of the few points of stability in his life at the moment ripped out from under him like a rug. Not only that, he would also try to conceal how upset he was behind his courteous front, adding even more stress that he didn't need. She gave her daughter a squeeze and set her down, then started for the nearest out-of-place chair, shoving it back to its former location.
Jean's tone was wounded and bleeding. "Don't you like it, Calleigh?"
"No, Mother. We liked it like it was. That's why it was that way in the first place. Would you please pick up those pictures?" She took out her frustration on the furniture, forcing herself not to yell at her mother. The most maddening thing among many about Jean was that getting annoyed with her was pointless. She would never change, would never understand, and nothing could be gained. Arguing with the furniture was more productive. It at least would move. Calleigh threw her irritation at the couch, and it moved a good six inches on the impact. She scooted it back into place, cringing as she imagined Horatio's reaction to that crazy slant, totally destroying the organization and flow of the room.
Jean slowly began to pick up the pictures of Calleigh's father. "I just thought it could be better. And really, Calleigh, I do get lonely all day sitting around here. I have to keep occupied with something. You two have hardly spent any time with me since I arrived."
Calleigh was carrying on a silent conversation with the furniture, saying what it would be pointless to say aloud. You weren't supposed to even be here for another week, you turn up in the middle of the night, and then YOU accuse US of inconsideration? Thank God Horatio hadn't been here. He would have tried to talk to her mother, not accepting the futility without the attempt, and he had enough else to worry about. She was actually glad he was working late. She finished her unplanned workout and stepped back to look at the room, searching for anything still out of place.
Her attention suddenly was caught by something not just misplaced but absent. The picture of Horatio's mother playing the piano, the picture that always lived on top of the piano that had been hers, had completely disappeared. "Mother, where is that picture that was on the piano?"
Jean instantly looked like a guilty puppy caught after a mess. "It's, um, . . ." The last few words died in an indistinct mumble.
"Where is it, Mother?"
"I. . . threw it away."
"WHAT?" Calleigh surged across the room with murder in her eyes, and Jean backed away.
"There's no need to raise your voice, Calleigh. It was ruined. You've got others, though. There's a picture of her in every room in this house. All those of her and not even one of your father."
Calleigh gripped her mother's arms painfully. Jean was backed to the wall and couldn't escape. "TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!" she demanded.
"I was. . . moving the chair, and I lost my grip on the chair suddenly and fell back . . . into the edge of the piano . . . and it fell and smashed. I'm sure I've got a bruise on my back, too. It was hurting me the whole rest of the afternoon." Calleigh dropped her mother's arms and spun, making a beeline for the kitchen, and Jean rubbed her back for a minute before tentatively following. "There are plenty more, though. All over this house. It's just one picture."
Calleigh had dumped the trash can out in the middle of the kitchen floor, frantically sifting through the contents until she found the photo. The glass was shattered, and two sides of the wooden frame dangled brokenly. Jean must have fallen on top of the picture after it fell from the piano; she had the build of a hippopotamus. The photo itself, though, was unmarked. Calleigh gave a sigh of relief and looked up to see Rosalind crawling into the kitchen. "No, Rosalind! Mother, grab her. I've got to get this glass cleaned up." Jean captured Rosalind, making probably her first useful contribution to the day, and tightly held her captive while Calleigh put the trash back in the can and carefully swept the floor. Finally convinced that the last shard of glass was cleaned up, she went into the living room to inspect the floor next to the piano. Jean had at least cleaned that up well, or probably had tried to hide the evidence. As if they wouldn't notice.
Calleigh took a quick mental inventory, then went into the guest room, removing the picture of Horatio's mother that hung there, noting with relief that Jean had apparently confined her redecorating to the living room. The frame on that picture was at least the same size and color as the broken one. She carefully exchanged the photos and propped the piano picture back on the piano, studying the result. Horatio would notice the difference, but hopefully he wouldn't notice it tonight. She tucked the other picture in a drawer, added a new frame to her shopping list, and finally started cooking almost an hour later than intended.
Jean followed her back into the kitchen, still holding Rosalind tightly, despite Rosalind's best efforts to wiggle out of her arms. "I don't know what you're getting so worked up about. It's just one picture, Calleigh. There are a dozen more here."
Calleigh spun around. "Mother, those pictures are all Horatio has left of her. His mother was murdered when he was 17."
Jean frowned as that soaked through. "Did they catch who did it?"
"Yes, they caught who did it."
"Good. That's over, then." That bit of compassion satisfied, Jean returned to her original thought. "Does he really need at least one picture in every room, though?"
Not anymore, but once, yes, he desperately needed it because he couldn't remember what she looked like. Calleigh didn't bother explaining; Jean would never hold onto any thought that didn't involve her anyway. Calleigh and Horatio had discussed the pictures, and he offered to take some of them down, but Calleigh had decided by then that she liked them. His mother seemed like the guardian angel of the house and their relationship, always smiling down on them from somewhere nearby. He had likewise offered to let her put more of hers on display, but with his unfailing sensitivity, he hadn't pursued the subject when she refused. Calleigh realized that Jean was droning on in the background and interrupted her. "Mother, this is our house, and we have it arranged exactly like we want it. Please don't move anything. And if you break something, just say so. Don't throw it away."
"It's not like I meant to break it," Jean protested. "I did hurt my back, too. Do we have any aspirin? Aren't we ready to eat yet?"
Calleigh took five mental shots and then replied, "Almost. You could set the table if you like." Jean started opening cabinets at random, looking in all the wrong places for the dishes and making suggestions for reorganizing them, and Calleigh wound up setting the table herself.
Just when Calleigh was thinking the evening couldn't get worse, the meal led to two more confrontations, the first merely annoying, the second enraging. To begin with, Jean wanted to feed Rosalind, but Calleigh, deciding that Rosalind had had enough by being held for so long, fed her herself. After being given a flat refusal for the fifth time, Jean sat on the other side of the table and sulked, and Calleigh and Rosalind eyed each other with almost identical expressions as they ate. Calleigh usually thought her daughter looked like Horatio, but just now, she saw herself in every line, and she sympathized.
"Where is Horatio?" Jean suddenly looked around the room as if he might be hiding in a corner.
"I told you, Mother, he had to work late."
Jean studied her silverware. "He works late quite a bit, doesn't he?"
"Lately, yes. It's this case . . ."
"Calleigh, he doesn't look well. He's seemed stressed out about something ever since I got here, and I think maybe it's time you started looking for the reason. An outsider can see these things so much more clearly sometimes."
Calleigh put down her fork. "Mother, what are you talking about? I agree, Horatio is pushed to the limit right now, but it's just the case."
"No, it isn't." Jean assumed an expression of motherly wisdom. "Don't you see, Calleigh, work is just an excuse to avoid having to come home."
Calleigh's jaw dropped, almost joining her fork on the table. "You think we're having problems? Is that it?"
"To a mother's eyes, it's obvious, Calleigh. He's staying away from home, fretting himself sick, and it must be you. Rosalind couldn't be the cause. You've got to start showing him some affection, Calleigh. Give him time, pay attention to him. He's slipping away from you, and you haven't even noticed. And you know why? It's because you're really in love with this house. You're too busy worrying about the pictures and the furniture to remember the people. Believe me, the tension around here is so thick I could cut it with a knife. I wouldn't be surprised if he just didn't come home one of these nights, and the next thing you hear from him will be the divorce lawyer."
Calleigh slowly reassembled her face. "Mother, trust me, Horatio and I are doing fine."
"All you have to do is really look at him, Calleigh. He's either going to leave or ruin his health by staying. I'm telling you, you're killing him, and you won't even admit that there's a problem. Don't you want your daughter to grow up knowing her father? You've got to stop taking people for granted, Calleigh. You always did that, even as a girl, but when you take things for granted, you look up one day, and they're gone. Open your eyes for once. You've got such a wonderful man there. I don't know how you ever managed to get him to marry you, but you did. Now, though, the honeymoon is over. You're losing him."
For one of the few times in her life, Calleigh was speechless. Rosalind squirmed in her high chair, having finished eating, and Calleigh released her, putting her on the floor. Fussing over her daughter for a minute helped her avoid killing her mother, which had been her first impulse. Her gun was just in the next room, carefully locked in a drawer. She could have it in under a minute, and the ocean with its convenient tide was just a few hundred feet away. Finally, she spoke, her southern drawl completely absent. "Mother, there is nothing wrong in our marriage. Do you hear me? NOTHING! Horatio is upset over this case, which he has every reason to be, and that's why he's working late and why he looks so stressed out at the moment. Now, I'm going to do the dishes, and you either talk about something else or try just shutting up for a change. This subject is officially closed."
She took out her frustration on the dishes, ignoring the dishwasher, washing each dish by hand at least three times, and it still didn't take long enough to suit her. Jean sat there sniffling at the table for a while, making more noise than Rosalind had earlier after falling. Finally, she got up from the table and went to the piano, stumbling over various ditties. Calleigh said nothing. As bad as the music was, the conversation so far tonight had been worse. At least the piano had resisted being moved earlier today.
It was about half an hour later, with the kitchen scrupulously clean, that Calleigh had no choice left but to go into the living room. "Where's Rosalind?" she asked abruptly.
Jean stopped playing and turned around, looking in the middle of the floor in case Calleigh had just overlooked her daughter. "I thought she was in the kitchen with you."
Calleigh looked in all the corners and under the furniture with growing urgency. When had she last seen her? Half an hour ago? God, what kind of a mother was she, anyway? Jean got up from the piano and joined the search, bellowing like a cow. "Rosalind! Come to Memaw!" They looked into all the rooms. Nothing. Calleigh carefully checked the front door, which was locked. There was no sign of her daughter anywhere.
Think. Calleigh forced her mind to stop spinning in circles of fault and worst-case scenarios and suddenly realized the truth. Jean's voice was still echoing off the walls as she came back from another fruitless search of the back rooms. "Mother, why don't you look out back? I don't think she could get through the back doors, and the pool is fenced, but there is the beach. Look around just in case, okay? I'll keep looking in here." Jean turned white, picturing Rosalind floating out with the tide. She bolted for the sliding glass doors, fumbling with the catch without noticing that it, too, had been locked, then raced outside. For the first time that evening, a tentative silence descended on the house.
Calleigh went back down the hall. It would be either the nursery or their bedroom, the farthest points from Jean. She tried the bedroom first, this time not just looking for a baby who had idly crawled off but for one who was hiding with no intention of being found. Not under the bed. The closet door stood open a few inches, and Calleigh swung it wide and separated the clothes in the deep closet, getting to the very back. Rosalind was tucked into the back corner of the closet, perfectly still and silent. Her eyes met Calleigh's with an expression of stubborn refusal that took Calleigh straight back to her own childhood, her face in the mirror when she had taken refuge in the bathroom, the one haven in the house where she would not be followed. She reached down for her daughter, and Rosalind let herself be scooped up and held. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry," Calleigh said. "She's only here for a little bit. It won't always be like this, Rosalind."
"No!" Rosalind said emphatically, and Calleigh gave a bittersweet laugh.
"Believe me, I know exactly how you feel. It's okay. We'll make it through somehow, and she will leave. You'll only have to see her at visits sometimes. She is family; we've got to give her that much."
"Dada!"
Calleigh hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry, Angel. He'll be home later. If I could trade Mother for him, I would have done it hours ago." She sighed. "Come on, we'd better go get Mother off the beach. I'll make you a deal, though. I'll hold you the rest of the evening. I think we've all had about enough of her tonight."
Together, they went down the hall and out the sliding glass doors, and Calleigh just stood there briefly looking up at the sky. It was hard to see much in the electric glow of Miami, but a few of the bolder stars were visible. It always amazed her somehow what the stars kept shining through. Steve was dead, Bill was missing, her mother was not missing, and Horatio was driving himself into collapse, but the stars were still there, as if everything were all right. They gave her hope that somehow, things would improve once again.
Jean's voice echoed up from the beach. "Rosalind!" Taking pity on her, Calleigh started down toward the restless ocean.
"It's okay, Mother. I found her." Jean came panting up to them in relief, trying to seize Rosalind, and Calleigh refused to let go. "It's her bedtime, Mother. Let's go back to the house, and I'll rock her to sleep."
Once back inside, Calleigh settled Jean on the couch with a photo album of pictures of Rosalind to look through, and she and her daughter escaped to the nursery. Rosalind didn't want to let go of her, not even to have her diaper changed and her sleeper put on, and Calleigh held her as much as she could, talking to her the whole time, reassuring her that Jean's presence was temporary and that she had a happy, stable family. Once they were in the rocking chair together, she sang to her softly, privately, not wanting her mother to hear and come to interrupt them. Rosalind held her eyes open as long as she could, watching her mother, and she finally relaxed enough to fall asleep. She never stirred when Calleigh tucked her into the crib a few minutes later.
Calleigh was just coming down the hall when she heard the door open, and her reluctant walk back to the living room became a half run. Horatio shut the door, and she seized him in a hug, a much-too-short hug because her mother was there almost instantly.
"Horatio! I'm so glad you decided to come back." Jean clutched at him, dragging him farther into the room, away from the door.
Horatio looked at Calleigh, puzzled. She lost track of her mother's ramblings as she took a good look at his face. Exhaustion, responsibility, disappointment, and pain all fought for possession of his eyes. Calleigh glanced at her watch. It was 8:30 on the nose. "Horatio, I'm going to heat up some soup for you, okay?" He nodded, lacking the energy to protest, and she managed to pry her mother loose from his arm. Jean had latched onto Horatio like she thought he would disappear. "Why don't you sit down, Mother? Let him breathe; he's had a long day. Come on, Horatio." They went into the kitchen together, and Horatio dropped into one of the chairs at the table. Calleigh kissed the top of his head. "Sorry," she said, sotto voce.
"Not your fault," he replied, his voice as silky as ever.
Calleigh crossed to the cabinet and took out a can of soup. As she dumped the soup in a boiler, her mother, having given them one minute of peace, came in and sat down at the table. "Horatio, I know it's been hard for you, but you've got to realize a few things."
Calleigh sat down next to Horatio, pulling her chair around the corner of the table to parallel his. "Mother, believe me, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, but I do. I've watched you all your life, you know. Stubborn as a mule. She always did have trouble being grateful for what she had, Horatio."
Horatio sat up straight and stared at her, stunned. "Calleigh isn't . . ." he started, automatically coming to her defense, and Jean cut him off.
"I know, she doesn't realize what she's doing. Still, give it another chance, Horatio. It's time somebody explained to both of you what marriage means."
Calleigh's jaw fell open as the memories of her childhood came crashing back. "Mother, believe me, I know what marriage means. It's the opposite of what you and Dad shared. We are NOT going to talk about this. There's nothing to talk about."
Tears welled up in Jean's eyes, and her lip started to tremble. "You never did appreciate us. Headstrong, independent. If your father were only here. . . " She sniffled a few times, then wiped her face on her sleeve and turned back to Horatio. "Let me explain everything to you, Horatio. It will help you know what to expect. Back when I was a girl, before I met Calleigh's father, I was looking for . . ."
Horatio opened his mouth, then snapped it shut suddenly. With a fierce grace, he pushed the chair back from the table, the legs squealing painfully in protest across the floor as he surged to his feet. He turned and walked out of the room in a tightly-controlled stride, and after a moment, the sharp thud of the bedroom door closing echoed through the house – not a slam but a solid, unmistakable barrier dropping into place.
Jean stared at the empty chair, confused. "What's with him?"
Calleigh stood up, crossing to the stove with a not-nearly-as-tightly-controlled stride, and slammed a bowl down on the counter to receive the soup. "Mother," she said through clenched teeth, "I'm going back to the bedroom, and you – stay – here." She fired the last three words like bullets. "Don't go back there, don't wake up Rosalind, don't move the furniture, and don't even think about continuing this conversation. For the rest of this night, LEAVE US ALONE." She pulled a tray out of the cabinet, putting the soup on it, then opened the refrigerator, carefully keeping her hands and eyes busy. She was afraid to look at her mother at the moment.
"That's a wonderful idea, Calleigh," Jean purred approvingly. "You can't keep taking him for granted. Go talk it out, just the two of you. He deserves more than he's been getting. You should go right in there and apologize to him for everything."
Calleigh finished gathering everything she needed. "Believe me, I intend to," she snarled. She stalked out of the kitchen, her angry steps both softening and quickening as she went down the hall. She tapped lightly on the closed bedroom door twice, then entered.
The room was dark, and she flipped on the light. Horatio was sitting on the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his face buried in his hands. Calleigh parked the tray on top of the chest, carefully closed the door again, then sat down next to him, running one hand gently up and down his back. He spoke while she was still trying to find adequate words. "I'm sorry, Cal. I just couldn't take it tonight." His face remained hidden in weary shame.
"You don't have to." Calleigh never stopped the soothing circuit across his back. "I'm the one who's sorry. When I was a kid, Horatio, and I totally hit the limit with them, I would go out in the woods alone with my gun. I'd practice target shooting for hours out there. I ran from them a lot of times. There's nothing wrong with hitting your limit, Horatio, especially with my mother. Everybody does."
He raised his head slightly. "I shouldn't have left you to deal with her alone, though."
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not in there dealing with her." He gave a tentative smile at that, and Calleigh stood up long enough to retrieve the tray. She offered him a glass and two pills, which he eyed suspiciously. "It's Tylenol," she promised. She could tell from his eyes that he had a headache. She would have liked to give him something stronger to knock him out for some extended rest, but the case was too critical at the moment. He gulped the pills down, and she slid the tray onto his lap. "Eat that, Horatio. You need to eat something." Past arguing, he picked up the spoon. "Do you know what Rosalind did tonight?"
He considered the diversion for a minute, recognizing it as one, but the bait was too tempting. Calleigh waited patiently. "What?" he asked finally.
Calleigh ran through Rosalind's actions of the evening while Horatio ate. He was fully smiling by the time she finished. "So you see, Horatio, you are officially the last member of the family to walk out on my mother. Or crawl out, as the case may be. Even your daughter beat you to it."
He chuckled slightly. "Wish I could have seen it. She gets more remarkable every day."
"I was proud of her. I wasn't nearly that quick on the uptake. It took me years to realize it's the only way you can handle Mother sometimes. I hope there's never a crime committed in the woods near Darnell. I'll bet 75 percent of the trees there already have bullets in them. The CSIs would be going crazy trying to sort it out." He grinned at the thought, but mentioning CSIs automatically knocked him back onto the day's treadmill.
"I'm not getting anywhere, Calleigh," he said, his tone totally flat with exhaustion. "I thought we had it, but it slipped away again."
Calleigh took the tray with the empty dishes from him and returned it to the top of the chest. She came back to kneel at his feet, untying his shoes and taking them off. "You've got to get a few hours of rest, Horatio. You owe it to Bill to be thinking straight. You'll find him faster that way." She set the shoes aside and looked up at his face. He knew she was right, but he still felt guilty about it. "There's nothing wrong with hitting your limit, Horatio. Everybody does."
"Yes, but not everybody has lives hanging in the balance."
She stood, picking up his feet and shifting them over onto the bed. "You'll find him, Horatio." She was sure of that; she only prayed that Bill would still be alive. If he died, a third officer would follow, then a fourth, for as long as the criminal was free, and this case would kill Horatio if it extended for many more rounds. She started unbuttoning Horatio's shirt. He tried to help, and she pushed his fingers away. "Just let me deal with everything tonight, including my mother and Rosalind. Don't worry about it. You've got to let it go for a little while." She planted her hand on his bare chest, gently pushing him down onto the bed. With a soft sigh, he surrendered, handing her the responsibility for a few hours, and she realized the enormity of the gift from him. There was no one else he would have trusted that much in the middle of this investigation.
As there was no one else she would have trusted that much, had their roles been reversed.
Calleigh finished undressing him, then pulled the sheet and blanket up. She went around to her side and climbed in next to him to hold him until he was asleep. "Is the Tylenol helping?" she asked.
"Some." His eyes were already half closed. His body absolutely craved sleep at this point, even though she knew his mind would limit him to the bare minimum required. She pulled his head over against her, wrapping her arms around it gently, trying to touch away the remnants of pain. "I'm so sorry, Cal," he said distantly.
She kissed him. "For what? If you're still worried about walking out tonight, don't be."
"No. For what you had to go through as a child. Wish I'd been there."
Calleigh stared at him, caught again in pure wonder at the man. "I wish you had, too, Handsome. We could have run away together." His answering chuckle faded halfway. He was too tired to lie awake tonight. She held him, loving him with her eyes but also measuring how tightly drawn the lines of his face were. He had lost weight the last few weeks, in spite of all of her efforts. She prayed that this case would be over soon. She had never known an investigation that stretched him so far and then sustained it for so long, and she knew he was dangerously close to the limit. Yet she also knew he would never back off until Bill was either rescued or avenged along with Steve. The most she could do was take the burden from him for the few hours that he would surrender it.
She lay there long after she was sure he was asleep, hating to open that door onto the world. She had to get up, though. She needed to check on Rosalind, and she also needed to check on her mother. Duty lost to preference for a long time, but she couldn't ignore it forever. Finally, she slipped carefully out of bed, moving the pillow over to take the place of her arm. Horatio never stirred. Calleigh picked up the tray, switched off the light, and opened the bedroom door.
The house was eerily silent. She tiptoed across the hall to the nursery first and watched Rosalind sleep for several minutes, postponing the inevitable. Finally, she went down the hall, bracing herself for the status report her mother would demand. The house was still silent, though, and looking around the living room, she quickly realized why.
Her purse lay on its side, unzipped, in its appointed place. Calleigh's keys hung from the open door of the liquor cabinet, the key that her mother had seen her use last night still in the lock. Her mother sprawled on the couch, snoring softly, her mouth dangling half open, her hands still clutching an empty champagne bottle. She had been privately celebrating Horatio and Calleigh's reconciliation.
Torn between relief, disgust, and pity, Calleigh fetched a blanket and draped it over her. She tried to remove the bottle, but her mother's hands were absolutely locked, refusing to surrender her prize. Calleigh gave up and went over to close and relock the liquor cabinet. As she turned away, her eye was caught by the picture of Rosalind, Horatio's mother, that stood once again in its place on the piano. The cosmic unfairness of it all hit her anew. "Why couldn't it be my parents who were killed and Horatio's who lived?" she demanded of the silent room.
A shudder suddenly ran through her as her mind followed that thought. She pictured her own father killed in a car accident when she was seven and her mother raising her alone for 10 years. She would have wound up insane herself. As disappointing as her father was, it was he in his sober moments, not her mother, who had taught Calleigh what few positive lessons she had learned from her childhood. He had been the better parent. Those years alone with her mother would have been a prison sentence. Then at the end, to find her own mother beaten beyond recognition, to be left as the oldest, not the youngest, with her brothers depending on her. Replace all of that with the same losses with loving parents. The reality of Horatio's childhood suddenly flooded over her again, and her wish now was the same but for his sake, not hers.
Wishes didn't change reality, though. Not for Calleigh, at least. This drunken, deluded wreck was still her mother, her family, and to the best of Jean's ability, she had loved her children. It wasn't her fault she was mentally ill. Calleigh pitied her, resented her, and ran from her, but she could not hate her. She leaned forward and tucked the blanket in around the edges in a pathetic reversal of the standard parent-child roles. "Good night, Mother," she sighed.
She looked in again on Rosalind, sleeping sweetly, then went back into their bedroom, undressing in the dark. She rolled in under the covers and snuggled down next to Horatio. He was still asleep, unable to resist rest for the moment. She kissed him and spoke very softly, a storm of tears suddenly threatening. "I'm so sorry, Horatio, for what you had to go through as a child. I wish I'd been there for you, too."
Sleep was creeping up around the edges of her consciousness when Horatio stirred uneasily. Calleigh pulled him a little more closely to her, wrapping him securely in her arms. She wondered what he was dreaming about this time. Bill or Steve, probably, maybe leading from there back to his many other losses. "Shhh," she whispered, trying to avoid waking him up. "I'm here, Horatio."
He twisted, his hands clenching. "Calleigh." Her name was ripped from the fabric of his dream, and she started to reply, then realized that he wasn't calling her, after all. "You aren't going to hurt her again. I won't let you hurt Calleigh anymore."
The tears broke through and slid in warm tracks down her face. As if his own weren't enough, he was having her nightmares. She pulled him closer still, drying her face on his hair. "Horatio, you already saved me. You don't have to do it again. I'm here with you, not with them." She squeezed him tightly, and the grip somehow squeezed the nightmare back into just a dream. He settled down. "Calleigh," he murmured, and that time, it was addressed to her. "I'm here, Horatio," she repeated with soft intensity. "I'm with you. You already saved me." His arms came around her, and he slipped back into deeper sleep for the moment. Calleigh lay there for a long time awake, and the slow, silent tears somehow wouldn't quite stop, but that was okay. They were no longer tears of regret.