The weather was mild, but nearly anything was mild compared to the subzero temperatures in Boston. It was a sunny morning; I took a cab to the cemetery. A priest was awaiting my arrival; I had asked for a short memorial for the tiny infant that I had accompanied to California. The memorial was more for me than Gabriel, but I needed something to help me cope.

I wore a black suit. It was one of the fanciest items in my closet. I wore my hair straight. I would remember these little details for years to come.

Last night, I had dreams about my baby last night. I relived every agonizing moment of my miscarriage. I remember the way the cramps spread throughout my abdomen; they were so intense that I doubled over in pain. I drove home before I noticed that I was bleeding. Then, I drove frantically to the emergency room. I thought that after the first trimester most babies lived; I had just entered my second trimester. I guess I forgot everything that I had learned during medical school. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

I stood at the graveside. There was a light breeze that caused my hair to flutter as the breeze changed directions. I listened to the prayers the priest said; the priest chatted with me as we watched the cemetery workers bury the baby. The priest asked me to work to find Gabriel Patrick's mother; he asked me to work toward mending myself. He said that there was a distinct sadness in my eyes; there was something that was burdening my soul. I told him that I had lost a child years ago, but the sadness has never left me. The priest told me that I may have lost a child, but I gained an angel. That didn't make me feel any better, but it put everything in perspective . . . that was years ago and today was today.

I took a cab back to my hotel. I took off my suit and put on a bathing suit. It was actually a few small triangles of fabric sewn together. I walked out on to the isolated beach and laid in the sun with so many things on my mind.

"His mother was a teenage prostitute . . . her pimp took her to the hospital when he found her barely breathing. She was supposed to meet a john, but her fever was so high that she was barely conscious. She died yesterday not too long after being admitted to the hospital. We are running a DNA sampled, but her pimp said that she was pregnant a few days ago. He wasn't sure what happened to the baby," Woody said as he sat in a chair next to me. He was in a suit; it looked like he came here straight from work.

"You could have called instead of flying across the country," I replied. I wished that I hadn't heard Gabriel Patrick's story. It just compounded that he wasn't wanted; he was thrown away by a child that didn't recognize the miracle that had grown inside of her. The answers weren't comforting. That was probably because I would have done anything to change the outcome of my pregnancy. I guess it boiled down to two different women in two different worlds.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," Woody replied, "For as much as you want to be alone, you weren't ever really alone."

"I just needed sometime to begin to put my life back together," I replied. It was the truth; it was hard to begin to deal with all my issue when someone was constantly looking over my shoulder and telling me what lines to stay within. Garrett meant well, but his concern bordered on oppression. Lily wanted to give me all the advice in the world, but there were some things that I needed to figure out for myself. The others avoided me; I guess they were probably afraid of getting trapped in my downward spiral.

"You've been like this for months. It's a little scary watching you stop eating, stop sleeping, and work 24/7. Somewhere along the line you stopped caring about your victims . . . until Baby Doe. Jordan, I want you back . . . I'm sick of this . . . I'm sick of pretending not to care because you are so emotionally stunted," Woody said. He tied my bikini straps so I could turn over on my back. Every time he touched me . . . I still felt something even if I willed myself not to.

"It's hard to care about each of them. That's how I lost myself the first time . . . I lived for the victims. When I finished helping them, I didn't know how to help myself. I needed to find myself. No one seems to like what I found," I replied sharply. I found a quiet, scared woman that wanted nothing more than to know that someone loved her. I spent most of my life feeling abandoned; everyone I loved, I lost. Every time I let someone in, they hurt me beyond repair. I found a woman that liked solitude to some degree; I found a woman that could be deeply meditative. I was a mother without a child; I did everything possible to hide that even if it meant not being true to myself. No one would ever guess that I could have been a mother; no one would have guessed that I longed for a baby. I guess everyone wanted me to be the uncontrollable spitfire that I used to hide who I really was. I used to live through the victims; now, I lived for myself.

"I know, but you've shut yourself away. I don't understand . . . I don't understand the 'new' Jordan," Woody replied as he wiped some sand off my arm. His sunglasses hid his eyes; I wanted to pull them off and watch his eyes search my body trying to find something familiar . . . a remnant of what I used to be.

"I'm sick of being hurt, Woody. I'm sick of living in the past. My only goal is just to make it through today," I replied.

"That's a really shitty goal . . . there must be something that you look forward to," he replied.

"I look forward to yoga class on Wednesdays and Sex and the City on Tuesday," I replied. It did sound lame.

"Yoga and horny middle age woman . . . geez, Jordan. Let's work on that," Woody replied with a smile. I didn't know if that meant he wanted to try to rebuild what I had watched crumbled the second Devan came on to scene. I didn't know if I could let him in the way I had before.

"I'm hungry," Woody complained, "Let's go get something to eat."

"When does your plane leave?" I asked as I sat up.

"I was meaning to talk to you about that . . . there's really no plane that goes back to Boston tonight without connecting in fifteen airports on the way. I was hoping . . ."

"You sleep on the couch . . . don't you dare wake me up before seven," I replied. I guess some things never change no matter how hard I fought it.

"Is it a full size couch?"

"We'll negotiate later. What do you want for supper?" I asked as we gathered my things and walked back to the hotel. He was carrying a small suitcase . . . over night, my butt.

"Hamburgers or something."

Some things never change but hopefully they evolve with time.