Christmas Eve slipped into Christmas Day. I was still at the bar; at six in the morning, my tired body fought to overcome the insomnia that had plagued the majority of the last three months. I poured over the accounting books; I check and rechecked my math to make sure that this unexpected surplus was indeed real. At eight in the morning I was satisfied with my ability to correctly work a calculator.

A deliveryman pounded on the door. He handed me a box and wished me a happy holiday season. The box was heavy; I set it on the nearest table. It was postmarked from Ireland. I ran my fingers over the labeling before I tore into the box. It was a nativity set; it was a beautiful nativity set. Hand carved from pine; I touched each of the little pieces before setting them back in the box in favor of the note inside the box.

Jordan,

Merry Christmas. I knew that you would spend your day in the bar; I don't understand why you do that to yourself. You should really be spending more time with your friends and less time worrying about the bar. You should really consider listening to me one of these times . . . not because I'm your father, because I love you. I might be angry with you, but I still love you.

Have a merry Christmas, Jordan. If you go to visit Mom, tell her that I love her. Take care of yourself. I'll try to come home soon.

I love you,

Dad

PS Take care of my bar.

My first reaction was to cry. I didn't have anyone to spend the holidays with; my relationships were far too strained. I truly believed I had gotten what I deserved; I found out what happens when you constantly trample on the feelings of others. I missed my father so much; right now, I needed my father so much.

My second reaction was to laugh at his insistence that I don't spend so much time at the Pogue. He told me all that only to tell me that I needed to take care of his bar. It made me smile; this bar had become more than just a bar in Boston . . . it had become something of a home. It was the only place that afforded me the comfort that I was searching for. I felt a little closer to Dad every time I walked through the door.

I gave in to my first reaction. I cried as I looked at the exquisite nativity set; it was an odd gift to give someone that had so little faith. Faith was hard to come by; every time I thought my world was on track, something happened to knock me off balance. I wasn't even sure where to begin looking for that faith. Life seemed like it was nothing short than a cruel joke that I was destined to endure alone.

I gathered the nativity set and drove back to the morgue. I arranged the intricate little pieces on a shelf in my office. I held Gabriel, the angel, in my hand. I walked into the crypt and opened the drawer housing Baby Doe.

"I think you could use this a little more than I could," I whispered as I placed the wooden angel next to the tiny body wrapped in a sheet. The tears fell down my face; I didn't feel the need to stop them. There would be no one around to see them; it was safe to cry here.

"It's Christmas today. You should have been celebrating today; your family should have been holding you near. I'm really sorry about that. I'm really sorry that I can't do anything for you until someone in Trace decides to start working on your evidence," I said. I quietly talked to the tiny body. I couldn't bring myself to lower the sheet; I wasn't sure if I could bear to see all the wounds that I had inflicted on his body, let alone the wounds that someone else had inflicted on his body.

"I'm not going to let this case grow cold. I'm going to make sure that you get justice. I'm going to make sure you get the funeral you deserve. There's this cemetery in California. It's owned by a lady that had devoted her life to giving 'Baby Doe's a place to rest. I'm going to call her tomorrow. I want you to be somewhere that peaceful," I said as I stood next to the drawer.

"I'm sure he'd like that." I jumped when I heard Woody's voice.

"I didn't realize that you were there," I replied as I tried to hide my tears. I wondered exactly how long he had been watching.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Detective?" I asked. I could see him cringe when I addressed him so formally.

"I saw you at St. Ines yesterday . . . I just wondered if you were okay. You didn't really look okay last night," Woody replied.

"The saint of bodily purity. I think that might be the only saint I ever knew . . . except for St. Katherine . . . the great martyr. I only know that because I went to St. Katherine Elementary School. Someone heard this baby cry," I replied. It was a confused rambling. I wasn't even sure what I was trying to say; maybe that's why my plant died.

"Why don't you call it a day and go home?" Woody asked. The inflection in his voice told me that it wasn't a suggestion; it was more of a question. He should have known the answer.

"I was going to go around to the hospitals . . . see if anyone came in with obvious signs of labor without a baby or placenta," I replied as I dried my eyes on my sleeve.

"You look tired," Woody commented. He stood in the doorway. It was as close as he could bring himself to me; I understood.

"It's not tired . . . it's insomnia. I should really get going . . . I need to open the bar this evening," I quickly explained as I ran my fingers across Gabriel once more before I closed the drawer.

"You want some company?" Woody offered. It sounded forced.

"No, my badge is working fine, Detective," I replied as I quickly brushed past him. I told myself that Baby Doe came before my messed up relationship with Woody. I didn't mean to be callous, but I felt obligated to give the baby a little bit of closure. I probably was also working towards giving myself a little bit of closure.

"Jordan, I'm still Woody," he replied as he followed me down the hallway, "Why is this case getting you so worked up? I thought you didn't like children."

There's a dead baby in that drawer; that in itself is something to get worked up about. I love children. I wanted to be a heart surgeon so I could help children. I could have had my own child; part of me has always wanted a child. I probably would have even taken Baby Doe in as my own if his parent or parents had placed him on my doorstep. Did you ever imagine that, Woody? My thoughts screamed at me, but I didn't dare say a word.

His words stung me; I was blinded by the tears falling down my face as I quickly got my things together and put on my coat. He stood in the doorway of my office; normally, by now he would have gotten frustrated with me and left. I don't know what possessed him to stay while I was on the verge of melting down in front of him.

"I'm sorry . . . I must have said something wrong," Woody said. He stayed glued to the door frame.

"It's not that . . . it's that you don't know me at all," I said as I brushed past him again. I could hear him rush to catch up with me.

"Jordan, why do you do this?" I could hear him say breathlessly as the elevator doors closed before he could reach me. I thought he slowed down; if he wanted to catch me, he would have easily been able to. My stride was much smaller than his.

I spent the next four hours driving from hospital to hospital. I even went to all the free clinics that I knew of. I spoke Spanish and a choppy version of Hmong to communicate the urgency of letting me know if Baby Doe's mother had been there. At three in the afternoon on Christmas Day, I drove back to the Pogue empty handed. Well, I wasn't empty handed . . . every hospital and clinic promised to call if a woman came in with septicemia came into their care.

I opened the door and went on with my business. I began to go through the inventory. I had already done that two days ago, but I needed something to fill my time. I knew the bar would be empty tonight; normal people had families to be with or friends to celebrate with.

I began to daydream about tiny feet and tiny toenails. I wondered what my child would have looked like; I would have wanted him or her to have Tom's smile. Tom had the most beautiful smile; it lit up his face. I would have wanted him or her to be carefree like I was so many years ago when I didn't obsess over my mother. I told myself that that was a different person in a different lifetime. I wasn't a reflection of that Jordan Cavanaugh anymore. I wasn't sure exactly what I had become; home-wrecker . . . I did break Garrett and Renee up . . . tease . . . I teased Nigel and Woody with things that I would not give . . . liar . . . I lied to Lily, Garrett, and Bug. I couldn't think of a positive thing about myself. I wondered when I stopped loving myself.

I remembered being terrified to tell Tom; I never told Tom. I didn't want to hurt him anymore. All I remember is being obsessed with baby names, I spent the greater part of my time trying to figure out what would be the perfect name for my child. I loved the name Mia for a little girl; it was Italian for mine. That baby was the only thing that would have really been mine. I had a hard time coming up with names for a boy . . . Ryan . . . Carter . . . Isaac. I would never have a child of my own to name. I resigned myself to that even though the emergency room doctor said that it was common for woman to lose their first pregnancy. Common didn't make it hurt any less.

I sat alone in my bar sipping ginger ale while a baby lay dead in the morgue and the rest of the world was too caught up in celebration to care.