Dedication: To CSINut214, whose story Sources knocks my socks off. Go now!
A/N: I'm sorry this has taken so long, guys. I hope y'all are still out there reading. All I can say is that the past few days have been one big nasty blur! I had in-service all day Monday, after which I got thoroughly trashed and ended up calling Leslie (aka Scullyastrinity) and going on a drunken rant about soft pore corn (or was that a previous night? Oh dear, I can't even keep my drunken rants straight now…). Then I had my schedule messed with all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but now I'm finally settling in. I'm going to be spending hours every day working on lesson plans, though, so I may have to resort to only updating on the weekends. I'm sorry—please forgive, but my students are going to have to come first. It's unfortunate, I know, but hey…
Also, I think this chapter blows goats, so I hope you're not mad at me. :( So sad.
Sara guided Grissom to the couch, where they both sank down into the soft cushions. He reached over and clasped his hands over hers in a show of support, and was surprised to find that they were shaking.
"Sar?" he said gently. "You don't have to do this, Honey."
"I know," she breathed shakily. "But I need to." Before he could say anything else, she plunged ahead. "My parents were hippies. But when my brother was born in 1969, they straightened up—for the most part—and that's when they bought the bed and breakfast. Dad never quite got over his hippie ways, and he was always on the bottle pretty heavily, not to mention the weed, but he gave up the harder stuff." She paused, unsure of how to continue.
"He was never very affectionate with me. He adored Michael, his precious first-born son," she said bitterly, "but he just never seemed to notice me. My mom was always great, though. She was so loving. She thought I could do anything—even dance. I wasn't a very coordinated child, so Mom got me into ballet, and she was so proud when I turned out to be good at it. Then, when I was 12, everything changed." Her voice became low.
"Identical twins run in my family. My great-grandmother was a twin, and my mom was a twin. She was so close to her sister—I really think they had some sort of telepathy. They would suddenly look at each other and just burst out laughing, as if they'd shared some sort of joke without saying a word."
Grissom waited patiently, wondering what on earth her mother's twin sister had to do with anything.
"Aunt Janet was killed when I was twelve. She was divorced and lived alone…and one night she came home to an intruder, who stabbed her and left her to bleed out on the floor." Sara's eyes were hollow, and she was rocking back and forth. Grissom drew in a silent breath.
"My mother was…inconsolable. I really, truly think she lost her mind after Aunt Janet died. She began…drinking. Incessantly. And it didn't take long until she progressed to emotionally abusing me. When that got old, she started using her fists to take her anger out on me. Then she moved on to belts and sticks."
Grissom felt sick.
"You know," Sara said with a faraway look in her eyes, "I think if she had just been beating me in a blind rage, it would be easier to take. You know, crime of passion, no thought involved. But I realized at one point that she was using her head when she would beat me. She was incredibly careful to strike me where the marks wouldn't be seen—always on my back or my stomach or my rear end, or high up on my legs. Never my face or arms or lower legs. It was all so well-thought-out. And that made it hurt even worse. In every way."
She stopped rocking for a moment, remembering. Grissom almost retched at the anguish and fear in her eyes.
Slowly resuming her rocking motion, she continued. "Then just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did."
She stopped suddenly and looked at Grissom with crystal clear brown eyes.
"She started starving me."
A sob escaped Grissom's throat.
"There was a small utility closet in the basement of the house. It was about four feet by four feet in area. She used to drag me down the stairs by my hair and toss me in the closet. She'd leave me in there for hours at a time."
Sara's crippling claustrophobia. Her anxiety attacks when working in confined spaces. It all fell into place.
Grissom's voice was a mere whisper as he croaked a question. "Your father? Your brother? Where were they?"
A bitter snort. "Dad was usually passed out drunk somewhere, and Michael was always high. He was his parents' son, all right."
She breathed out and continued. "This went on for a total of six months, until just after I turned thirteen. The only time I got to eat was at school, and I resorted to stealing from other people's lunches in order to stockpile food for later. One day I got caught," she said simply.
"I was a straight A student, so it didn't sit right with the teachers and principal that I would be stealing, and truth be told, they had noticed…things. So they confronted me and I broke down and told them everything. All I had to do was pull up my shirt and show them a few bruises, along with the ribs sticking out, and the next thing I knew, my mom was being charged with everything in the book—assault, child endangerment, child neglect—the DA even tried to throw in an attempted murder charge, but of course it wouldn't stick."
Sara picked at her cuticles as two tears ran down her face.
"Dad went away for neglect, but it didn't matter. He died of cirrhosis of the liver within two months. Michael and I went into foster care. Michael ran away and took to the streets of San Francisco. I haven't seen him since, and I doubt if he's even alive. After a two-month stint with some really horrible foster parents, I ended up with a wonderful family and stayed there until I left to go to Harvard. They got me back into ballet—Mom had pulled me out after Aunt Janet died, and they encouraged me to be active in everything at my high school. The Watsons—my foster parents—were an elderly couple who never had any children of their own, and they spent their lifetime caring for foster kids. It was at their house that I met Elizabeth, the sister I never had."
Grissom's mouth formed a small "o" at the mention of the name Elizabeth—the friend that Sara wanted to have as a bridesmaid.
"Elizabeth and I were the same age, and we became instant friends. We had so much in common. We ran track together, and we were constantly pushing each other to run faster and harder. We studied together, and when it came time for college, it tore us apart to separate, but I couldn't turn the offer from Harvard down, and it had always been her dream to go to UCLA."
Grissom smiled at the mention of his alma mater.
"So we went our separate ways, but always kept in touch." Sara's voice grew sad. "The Watsons died during our third year of college, within four months of each other. Mrs. Watson died first, of a heart attack, and Mr. Watson followed her—everyone said he died of a broken heart." She smiled wistfully. "True love, I guess.
"I haven't seen Elizabeth in several years, but we talk at least once a month." She shrugged.
Grissom had tears streaming down his face. "You were right," he whispered, pulling her close. "That was an ugly story. I don't know what to say," he murmured helplessly into her hair.
"You don't need to say anything, Gil," she said softly. "I just want you to know where I'm coming from. Essentially, my father's dead, my mother's rotting in jail—at least, I think she is. She may be out by now…I don't exactly keep tabs on her," Sara shrugged. "And my brother…I don't know…" She looked up at him with a humorless smile. "Great family, huh?"
"I can't believe she starved you," Grissom said, trembling slightly. "How could she do that to such a beautiful creature—her own daughter?"
Sara shook her head quickly, as if to send the memories flying away. "I don't know, but it's in the past now." She set her jaw. "And if we ever have a daughter, I'll be damned if she isn't the most loved child this world has ever seen."
This elicited a small smile from Grissom. "I second that."