Grissom was in ballistics. He listened to Archie's description of the type of gun used in the drive-by, and was surprised at how well he could focus on the case.
He would have thought he would be more distracted, that he would be reviewing his meal with Sara in his head, visualizing her smile as he told her entomological anecdotes. Yes, that went really well. She likes my bug stories! And it hasn't distracted me at all.
Okay, so I'm distracted. But it was odd: the more Grissom allowed his mind to relax and wander back to Sara, the easier it was to pick up on the nuances of Archie's report.
Maybe the energy spent resisting a thought is greater than the energy required to think it? There should be a way to test that. Maybe if I could get hold of an MRI…
"Grissom?"
Sara's voice cut through his reverie. She was leaning in the entryway of Ballistics, looking tense. Why does she like doorways so much? I'll have to ask her, he mused.
"I need you." She needs me!
Grissom looked at Sara more closely, and his good mood evaporated.
Her posture was tense, her face pale and drawn, and her eyes- he'd never seen so much white around the iris. It took him a moment to interpret this evidence: Sara was terrified.
"Archie, I'll talk to you later." Grissom left the ballistics lab and followed Sara into the hallway.
"What happened? What's the matter?"
"I need to go to the hospital. Now. Can you take me? Please?"
Hospital? Is someone hur-
Oh. Oh.
"The baby?"
"Please, Grissom?" He nodded and they walked briskly to the parking lot. Sara kept her hands folded protectively over her still-flat stomach.
Grissom pulled out of the lot too fast, inciting honks from angry drivers. Sara didn't seem to notice. She was sitting stiffly, staring at her stomach. Her lips moved a little silently, but he couldn't read them with his eyes on the road. He wondered if she was praying.
His hands were clammy on the steering wheel, and his heart was racing
"Sara? Should we call ahead?"
"I already talked to my doctor, she's letting them know." Sara's voice was soft and distracted. She didn't look up.
Grissom's mind was buzzing. He wanted to say something, anything, to comfort her- but what was there to say? The only practical help he could provide, he was providing. He tried to remember what he knew about pregnancy and its complications, but his panic made it hard to think. Was Sara in danger?
He took one hand off the wheel and gently touched her leg. She moved it away, and he returned his hand to the wheel, trying not to be hurt.
Grissom wondered when Desert Palm had moved so far from the lab. This drive was endless.
Sara shifted in her seat. She inhaled slowly, held it, and exhaled. She's in pain. Grissom drove a little faster.
"Can I do anything to help?"
"You are."
"Anything else? Can I call someone for you?"
"No." She didn't seem to want to talk, so he lapsed back into silence. He tried to evaluate her as he drove. She didn't seem to be going into shock. His mouth was dry.
They were pulling up to the hospital now. Grissom drove to the emergency room entrance. He got out of the car and went around it to help Sara, but she was already letting herself out.
"Thanks for the ride." It was a dismissal.
"I'm not leaving," he said.
"This is a tow zone." She walked away from him into the emergency room.
Grissom sighed. Sara was right: he'd have to re-park. He did so as fast as he could, and hurried into the E.R., but Sara was nowhere in sight. He approached nursing station anxiously.
"I'm here with Sara Sidle. Where is she?"
"Are you a relation?" The woman looked efficiently sympathetic, her manicured hands poised on her keyboard. Grissom was sure that wasn't necessary. He had only taken a few minutes to park; this woman could surely remember Sara for that long. And if she couldn't, should she really be in a position of responsibility like this? Calm down, he told himself.
"A friend. Please?" Hospitals were strict about giving health information to non-relatives, Grissom knew, but emergency rooms were less so. And if this woman denied him access to Sara, he would use his LVPD identification.
It wasn't necessary. The woman tapped some buttons on her computer, frowned, nodded, and finally looked back up at Grissom.
"Follow me, she's back this way."
She led him down the hall. Grissom wanted to be comforted by the too-familiar chaos of the E.R., but it was apparently a quiet night in Vegas. Grissom felt his heart hammering against his ribs. At least if he had a heart attack he was already at the hospital.
The woman stopped at a curtained area, peeked in, and then pulled it back to allow him access.
Sara was sitting up against the raised back of the bed. There were a few small beads of sweat at her hairline, and her eyes were still wide and afraid. Her jaw was tight: not stubborn or angry but stoically clenched. Grissom marveled, not for the first time, at Sara's ability to reveal emotion with her jaw. I wonder if she can control it. Probably not. She wouldn't be a good poker player.
A nurse was taking blood from Sara's arm. Grissom wondered what they were testing for, but he didn't ask: Sara might think he was viewing this as a science experiment. The nurse finished and straightened, and Sara looked up and saw Grissom.
Her eyes changed, somehow. They flashed with gratitude, and then resentment, and gratitude again. For the first time Grissom began to have doubts about his welcome here. He wasn't the father of this baby. He had nothing to do with this. He should leave.
But Sara was in pain, she was afraid, and he couldn't walk away, whether she wanted him there or not.
He took her hand, and squeezed it. After a moment she returned the pressure. He would take that as permission to stay.
The nurse spoke, "The doctor will be with you in just a minute, honey, and I'll be back to start an IV and get you something for the cramps. My name is Barbara, if you need anything else." She gave Grissom a reassuring smile. Her nurse's uniform was adorned with teddy bears and balloons, and not for the first time Grissom made a mental note to find some sociological studies of uniforms.
Why is she calling Sara "honey?" She doesn't even know her. And why is she smiling at me? I'm not the one who needs it.
Sara thanked the nurse quietly, and the woman left.
There was a hard plastic chair in the corner. Grissom released Sara's hand and retrieved it, placing it beside the bed. Sara had returned her hand to her abdomen. A tear rolled down her cheek, and Grissom felt his heart stop pounding. In fact, he felt it stop beating.
The tear was still glistening on her cheek, she hadn't yet moved to wipe it away, and Grissom reached out a hand to do so. As his finger stroked her cheek, his heart began to beat again, too fast. Sara pulled her head away. Okay, no touching.
Grissom didn't know what to do. Sara hadn't said anything, and he didn't know what to say to her. She didn't want him to touch her. He sat in the chair, tension making his back muscles harder than the plastic.
The curtain swung open again, and a young woman entered in a lab coat.
"Ms. Sidle? I'm Dr. Garettson. I'm going to need to examine you now." She paused, and sent a quick, questioning glance in Grissom's direction. Grissom waited.
Sara looked at him, "Grissom, could you step outside?"
He got up and left the room, drawing the curtain closed behind him. He had half-expected to feel relieved, now that he wasn't forced to find some way to comfort Sara, and he did feel relieved, a little. Mostly, though, he had to control the urge to burst back through the curtain to Sara's side. Where he had no right. Where he belonged.
What's happening in there? Will she lose the baby? Will she be okay, physically? Mentally? Can Sara handle a loss like that? Why are they so calm about all this? She's obviously bleeding, or she wouldn't have known anything was wrong. She could be losing too much blood. She could go into shock. She could die. That doctor didn't seem hurried at all. Shouldn't they be doing something to save the baby? It could be an ectopic pregnancy, couldn't it? She could die.
The wait was endless. Grissom strolled up and down the little hallway, trying to look confident, as though his heart had not sunk to the bottom of his stomach the moment Sara was out of sight.
That nurse, Barbara, returned and entered Sara's "room."
Something was beeping. Was it coming from Sara's room? Was something going wrong? Wait. No. My cell phone.
He answered the phone.
"Grissom."
"Grissom? It's Greg. I was just wondering where you were. Hodges IDed that paint, the car was a Toyota, '95 to '98-"
"Greg, I'm out of the lab tonight. Sophia's in charge, take your findings to her."
"I just talked to Sophia. I don't think she knows she's in charge."
"Well, tell her."
"Where are you? And where is Sara?"
"Out of the lab. Get back to work." Grissom hung up the phone. Curiosity was a quality to be encouraged in an investigator, but he didn't have to explain himself to Greg. He had no idea what to say, anyway. He couldn't bring himself to explain where he was and why.
Sara probably wouldn't want him to, either. Wasn't this the real reason women didn't announce their pregnancies in the early months? Sara wasn't superstitious.
The doctor was leaving now, writing something on her clipboard. Grissom moved closer, ready to intercept her for information.
As he prepared to speak, though, the curtain opened again and the nurse emerged. Grissom could see Sara. She now had a large pitcher of water and an IV in her arm, and she was crying quietly.
He went to her.
She looked at him, and he wished he'd never learned to read Sara's eyes. They were full of anguish.
"What did they say?"
"They, uh, have to do an ultrasound. To see."
See what?
For the thousandth time since he'd met her, Sara Sidle answered his question unasked.
"If there's a heartbeat." There was something else in her eyes now. Just a hint, but Grissom found himself sinking into the chair, unable to stand the weight of Sara's hope.
Grissom waited.
Again.
Still.
Sara had polished off the pitcher of water, and when he had been confused by her thirst she had explained that she needed a full bladder for a clear ultrasound. An orderly had come and taken her away. How long did an ultrasound take? He had never seen one done, not on a living person.
He counted the tiles in the ceiling.
He wanted a drink. He wanted a cigarette, but he didn't smoke, hadn't for years, and anyway he couldn't move. He couldn't miss Sara when she came back.
He waited.
When Sara came back she wasn't crying.
She didn't say anything.
She looked like the mothers of victims, coming out of the morgue.
She looked bereft.
Bereft, thought Grissom, Bereave: To leave desolate or alone; To take (something necessary or valuable), typically by force.
The nurse was back, asking if she was in pain. Sara said she was fine.Barbara gave her a shot anyway. Grissom wasn't sure what it was. She patted Sara's shoulder before turning to Grissom.
"We're going to keep her here for a while, just for observation. We'll let nature take its course." Sara winced. The woman continued, "We'll probably let her go in a few hours, and she should make an appointment for a follow-up with her own doctor, to make sure there are no complications. You can help us monitor her here, if you're up to it."
Grissom nodded.
"If the pain gets worse, or there's any significant change, get a nurse." That's it? You're not going to do anything for her? What kind of hospital is this? Fix this!
Barbara ignored his glare and turned back to Sara. "I'll be right here if you need anything, honey." And then she was gone, and they were alone again.
Sara stared at the sheet on the bed. Her face twisted, and Grissom thought she would cry, but she only shut her eyes and leaned back. When she opened them again, her face was a mask.
"It's dead," she said simply. Her voice was overflowing with pain yet somehow utterly devoid of expression.
Grissom blinked. He swallowed. He didn't hold her. He knew she wouldn't allow it.
He felt utterly powerless. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't take her pain. He wanted to.
"I'm sorry, Sara." There was nothing else to say.
"It's not your fault." For a moment Grissom nodded, accepting this as the standard remark it sounded like, and then an oddity in her inflection struck him. He looked at her and froze. Oh God. She thinks this is her fault. She's blaming herself.
"Sara, this is not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."
She didn't answer.
"Sometimes this just happens. You're a scientist, you know that."
Still no reply. Is she even hearing me?
"How far along are…How many weeks?" I won't use the past tense. Not yet.
"Almost twelve." Almost out of the dangerous period. But she knows how common miscarriage is in the first trimester. She knows it isn't her fault.
"You didn't do anything wrong, Sara. Sometimes…" But there was nothing left to say.