Time, once so fleeting, seemed to drag as if mired in maple syrup for Grissom. He endured the next day, entirely by himself. Although he was apprehensive about being alone, he managed to eat properly and take his medication. Sara's brief phone call from work had been his only human contact that day.
While he spent a great deal of time resting, he wasn't sure what to do with himself when he was awake. His books and journals were enticing; they silently beckoned to him, yet he was fully aware that he couldn't focus on anything remotely complicated. His brain was still encompassed by the hazy cloud. Instead he tried reading the newspaper, with some success, while purposely avoiding the crossword puzzle.
The Discovery Channel aired some shows he could follow, though programs involving history lost him in the details. The number of viewing options that were available pleasantly surprised him; yet he could only tolerate so much television.
His anger about his condition was giving way to uneasy resignation. Hadn't he read about a doctor who wrote about death and how the stages of grieving could be applied to other life situations as well? The premise was that individuals went through various stages in the grieving process, such as anger, denial, or bargaining. Some people worked through all of them, others only a few. But it was considered part of the normal healing process. What was her name? Kubler-something. Damn. The rest of the name, as well as the significance behind her work, eluded him.
He was rapidly losing his sense of purpose. How was he going to maintain his sanity at this rate? He'd only been alone for a day and he was bored. He reminded himself to take one day at a time. Maybe this time next week, his mind would be clearer or he'd feel less tired. It was all very frustrating.
And was he ever going to get better? Eventually his ankle would heal and the ribs would mend. He'd require physical therapy but he'd be able to walk and outwardly appear to function normally in the world. Yet had his ability to think been permanently compromised by his accident? Had his head injury or advanced dehydration caused him irreparable damage? Hopefully the information provided by the CAT scan at his next appointment would answer some of these questions.
He immediately shut down those thoughts, for it was pointless to waste his energy on something he couldn't influence. Instead he turned back to the question that arose the night before, that of regrets. However, as much as he tried, nothing came to mind, only…pictures? And they were of people he didn't recognize. What was the significance behind that?
"Close your eyes. No peeking," Sara warned with mock sternness. She'd just dropped by after completing an extended shift.
Grissom dutifully complied, wondering what she was plotting. He heard the front door open and close as she dashed to her Denali to retrieve something. Her footsteps echoed slightly as she approached him, then he heard a dull thud.
"Okay. You can open them." Excitement filled her voice.
Sara's infectious grin and sparkling brown eyes were the first sights he beheld. Even though her hair needed combing, her clothing was rumpled, and dark circles rimmed her eyes, that smile transformed her into a stunning woman. His breath caught in his throat as he found himself staring at her, captivated by her beauty. It'd been a long time since he'd allowed himself to admire her. The passage of time had only enhanced her natural attractiveness.
Her face became flushed under his scrutiny. "Well," she asked expectantly.
Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze. When his eyes made contact with the object, he genuinely smiled for the first time since his accident. He was at a loss for words as he rolled closer to the dining table, where Sara had placed the glass tank that held his tarantula.
"I think he missed you."
Grissom merely examined his pet, his grin never leaving his face. He was touched by her gesture. He almost felt like a child of five, who fervently believed in Santa Claus, and had just received a prized toy.
"Thanks Sara. That was a great idea." He'd always enjoyed watching his tarantula. Now he had plenty of time to indulge in this.
"Care to humor me in another potentially good idea?" she grinned.
Unexpectedly a wave of desire flooded his body; apparently the medication hadn't affected his libido. While he was relieved about that, he also chastised himself, that wasn't what she meant. Besides, he couldn't allow himself to go down that path; it would violate the truce agreement between the warring factions within him. He hoped he wasn't playing with fire, but he was intrigued.
"Maybe. You get any breakfast?"
"No, I'm eating with you. Wanna know my idea or shall I surprise you?"
Her eager smile had him captivated. Was she flirting with him? He was curious, no doubt about that, his imagination was starting to go haywire. Yet he was also concerned. Sara didn't seem well to him, she was a little too thin; her face was pale.
"Don't you need to rest honey? Have you even been home since I last saw you? And you're on again tonight? I know you don't sleep much, but you have to take care of yourself too."
She was touched by his concern. "I'm off tonight. And we can rest while we watch these." She removed some rental movies from a plastic bag that she'd placed on the table earlier. "I remembered that you and Catherine had that case like Strangers on a Train a while back, so I picked up some Hitchcock movies." Then she hastily added, "That is if you think you'd like that, or want company to watch them."
He was pleased. "Of course, that's a great idea. I've seen most of them, but it's been a while and it'll be fun to watch them again. They're excellent films. I love looking for Hitchcock's cameo within the movies."
"What do you mean?"
He explained, "He's always somewhere in the film, usually in the beginning. Typically he's one of the extras walking in a street scene or sitting in a café, but sometimes he gets more creative. In one of them, his picture was in a newspaper ad. Sometimes he has odd props, in one movie he appeared with his own dogs, and I thought he did something unusual in Psycho too." More seriously, he added, "You didn't get Psycho, did you?"
She understood his reservations. In fact, when she skimmed the jacket of the movie and it touted the infamous shower murder scene, she deliberated avoided it. She shook her head.
She was half-afraid to say it. "Hey, you just remembered a lot of details, do you think that--"
He quickly interrupted, "No, it doesn't work that way. Sometimes I can remember things, and then later that day, they slip away. It's not a consistent pattern. Most times I can recall some details but I can't put the pieces all together. It's like doing a word search. Before the accident, I could just look at one and the hidden words would automatically pop out. Now, I just see the letters. It's annoying." Maddeningly infuriating and horribly frustrating were closer to the truth, but he was enjoying their banter. He didn't want to spoil the mood.
He rapidly shifted back to the previous topic. "Which movies did you get? There are so many to choose from."
Sara read the titles. "Vertigo, Rear Window, and North by Northwest."
He recognized them, in fact, Rear Window was sending up a red flag but he had no idea why. He couldn't remember much of the plots. How ironic that he could recall Hitchcock's cameo appearances and not the actual movies. His mind felt like Swiss cheese, with lots of holes in it.
"Sounds good. Who are the stars?"
"Jimmy Stewart's in two of them, and Cary Grant. I like them so that's partly why I picked these. I've only seen a few Hitchcock movies and it's been a while for me too." She stepped closer to Grissom to tease him, "Aren't you going to answer my question, do you want to know my idea or be surprised?"
He was confused, "Weren't the movies the surprise?"
"No."
Considering how dull yesterday had been and how much he was enjoying himself so far, Grissom decided to be daring. He met her eyes.
"Okay, surprise me."
Grissom woke up as the Denali came to a halt. It was impossible for him to stay awake in a moving vehicle these days. They were in a desolate wooded area, which was surrounded only by mountains dotted with towering trees. Perhaps this was a park or wildlife preserve. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but this certainly wasn't it.
They'd eaten breakfast together at his townhouse. At first, Sara tried to convince him to go out to a restaurant, just to get out of the house. Although it was tempting to leave the oppressive confines of his townhouse, he was apprehensive. Moving around was still difficult and painful; he was concerned that he wouldn't have the energy to manage all that. He was also terribly self-conscious about his condition. He dreaded running into casual acquaintances or business associates while he was in such lousy shape.
Yet when Sara insisted upon cooking pancakes at his place, Grissom had reservations. While Sara was a wonderful woman with many talents, he didn't recall cooking as one of them. In fact, on one case several years ago, she'd insisted that her refrigerator resembled that of the victim's, holding only bottled water and leftover take-out containers. However, as with many things that day, he was pleasantly surprised.
As they ate, Sara tried to up date him on the lab, giving him sketchy outlines of the cases. Apparently, they'd brought in a temporary investigator to lessen the workload for the rest of the team. Catherine was still filling in for him, which would be good experience for her resume. For now, the lab was holding his position for him, but they didn't expect him back anytime in the near future. Sara avoided going into detail, most likely because she didn't want to upset him by reminding him that he couldn't follow what was going on. She didn't want to emphasize that he wasn't himself these days.
When he discovered Sara's idea involved leaving his home, he had serious reservations, which he discussed with her. Yet she continued to insist that it would be good for him to get some fresh air, and that she'd look out for him. Eventually she came out and asked him if he trusted her. Realizing that he did, he agreed.
He examined his watch; they'd been traveling for over an hour. They were outside the city limits and in the country. Somehow the quiet of the outdoors was more comforting than the stillness of his townhouse. The scenery was better too.
Sara brought the wheel chair around and helped him into it. The process went smoothly, for they anticipated each other's moves.
"This place was hard to find, I hope you're gonna like this." She seemed a little nervous. She began to push his wheelchair along an asphalt path. "Most preserves don't have wheelchair friendly access."
She continued to push him along the path for several minutes, as they enjoyed the view. The towering peaks of several mountains greeted them from a distance. The path inclined slightly, but Sara was confident they could tackle it. Once they reached a level open clearing rimmed with trees, she put on the brakes of Grissom's chair and then assembled a folding chair of her own which she retrieved from her backpack. Grissom examined her quizzically. She merely handed him some binoculars.
"New habits, right?"
Then she passed over a bird watcher's field guide as she sat down in her chair, beside him.
"My Grandfather thought the outdoors had inherent healing properties. He was always rambling about the restorative powers of fresh air and sunshine. He'd spend hours sitting on the beach, watching the wildlife. I used to love to keep him company. Let's see what we can find."
At first Grissom was a little stir crazy. What was the difference between sitting around at home versus sitting around outside? He was also becoming grouchy; all that movement jostled his ribs. He was tired and uncomfortable. He'd never been much of an outdoors person; his books had always been more fascinating. Sara's reference to her grandfather, though well intentioned, only served to call attention to his limitations and wound his pride.
He scanned the horizon, but he had difficulty focusing. What was the point behind this exercise?
Sara sensed his impatience. "C'mon, you're a scientist. Relax, observe."
A scientist? Ha, he couldn't even concentrate well enough these days to follow poker games on television, something he used to love to do. Poker appealed to him on many levels. He was entranced by the math, the constant minor calculations of the odds of obtaining a winning hand. He also enjoyed discerning peoples' subtle nuances and unique body languages as they attempted to bluff or conceal a good hand. He was fascinated with that which would bore an ordinary person. Now, he was even less than an ordinary person.
"Hey Sara, was it Emerson or Thoreau who said something to the effect of "the thing is not boring, it is you who are boring," he muttered.
She made a face. "Give it a chance. Grissom, you could never be boring. You got the interpretation right but the actual quote is "Tis a good reader that makes a good book". And it was Emerson."
Although his ankle was now starting to throb, the scientist within him rose to the challenge and he began to observe his surroundings. He casually examined the field guide, and then focused his binoculars towards the trees. Their magnification was helpful. He wasn't captivated by the activity but the warmth of the sun's rays felt good on his face.
After a while, he lowered his binoculars. He'd observed several different species of birds and dutifully mentioned them out to Sara, but she hadn't responded. When he looked over, he discovered that she'd fallen asleep in her chair. He wasn't disappointed; he was relieved that she was finally getting some rest. He scanned the horizon a little longer then dozed off himself.
Sara's voice woke him.
"Are you okay?" She was scared. She was leaning over him, and trying to grab one of his hands to comfort him.
His eyes flew open. Without thinking, he automatically replied, "Yeah, I'm alright." Yet, his heart was beating a mile a minute and he was breathing heavily.
"Bad dream?" she asked tentatively, fully aware that he might not answer her. "You were screaming 'No' pretty loudly." She squeezed his hand as she entwined her fingers with his, and then she tenderly caressed his cheek with the fingers of her other hand.
He was panting, trying to catch his breath, while avoiding her worried glance. He had no desire to explain to Sara that nightmares weren't a product of his near-death experience. In his line of work, it was part of the job. It was a healthy way for his subconscious to deal with the horrors he encountered in the line of duty.
So he hadn't been surprised when the four month old infant, Zack Anderson, who'd been accidentally killed by his young brother, appeared in his dreams. Grissom tried and tried but no matter what he attempted, the infant always elusively slipped out of his grasp. Nor was Grissom shocked by the guest star appearance of that poor boy Bobby Taylor, who, while under the influence of Jimson tea, mistakenly killed his friend, Eric. Usually Grissom was watching that heinous act, yelling and screaming as Bobby smothered Eric, yet he was helpless to prevent the tragedy.
Most disturbing of all had been Debbie Marlin, the girl who resembled Sara so eerily. Rather than one version, his subconscious tortured him with several variations of that theme. Sometimes he dashed out of Debbie Marlin's house, only to discover that Sara wasn't outside, waiting in safety. Other times it was his Sara whose throat was being slit, as he stood by witnessing the crime, utterly powerless to defend her. Those nightmares still haunted him.
Sara continued to tightly grip his hand, her eyes filled with concern. Unfortunately, he couldn't recall any details of his current dream, so even if he wanted to tell her about it, he couldn't.
Grissom transferred the dishes into the dishwasher as Sara placed the containers of leftovers into the refrigerator. They'd picked up some vegetable lo mein and Kung Pao chicken on the way back to his townhouse, sort of an early dinner/late lunch. Once they'd finished tidying up the kitchen and dining table, there was an awkward gap for the first time that day.
Sara paused by the dining table as Grissom wheeled into his living room.
Tentatively, she asked, "Um…do you still want company or are you tired? Would you rather be alone?"
Without hesitation, Grissom answered, "I'd love for you to stay, but I don't want to keep you from anything. It is your night off."
She smiled, "I didn't have any other plans." She paused a moment then more bravely added, "I want to be with you." Then she quickly changed the subject, "Do you want to watch one of those movies?"
"That would be great. Which shall we start with? I don't remember the plots of any of them."
Sara picked up one of the cases from the table and scanned it. Her expression became thoughtful. "Oh."
"What is it?"
"I was so concerned about not getting Psycho, I didn't realize that this one might not be…appropriate." She seemed embarrassed.
"Which one?" He was curious.
She handed him the case. "Rear Window. Jimmy Stewart plays a guy recovering from an accident. He's stuck in a wheelchair in his apartment."
"Déjà vu," Grissom mumbled.
"He's bored so he peeks into his neighbor's windows and he thinks he witnesses a murder. The rest is about him trying to prove it."
"Let's go for it. Maybe I can pick up some pointers." He joked to try to put her at ease.
Sara attempted to make herself as comfortable as she could; she'd taken off her shoes and she was fidgeting on the couch. Grissom positioned his chair so he could see the TV screen yet keep his ankle elevated and not block Sara's view.
Finally Sara surrendered and rose to grab a pillow from his bedroom. "You need a new couch," she complained as she returned. She promptly stuffed the pillow under her head, as she stretched out on the sofa.
"So I hear."
As the movie started, they both paid close attention to try to find Hitchcock's cameo.
"What does this guy look like, anyway?" Sara wondered.
"Old, fat, balding. Pretty distinctive. Hey – that's it." He grabbed the remote to freeze the frame.
"Where?"
He rewound to the proper spot. "There, you see, he's winding the clock."
"Not bad, Sherlock."
Midway through the movie, Sara insisted upon a popcorn break. Since she'd volunteered to assist Grissom with his groceries, she knew his kitchen was well stocked.
The room was becoming darker as the sun sank in the distant horizon. Grissom swiftly turned on some lights as Sara prepared the popcorn. After the accident, he dreaded being in the dark, especially when he was alone in his townhouse. In fact, he was embarrassed to admit that he usually left some lights on while he slept these days. Presumably that was a result of the interminable hours he'd spent lying in the dark on the bathroom floor. He hoped it would go away soon. Perhaps he'd ask his doctor about it.
Even with the lights on and the company of another person, his body became tenser at night, most likely because he was tired. Even minor activities took major effort. Despite his medication, his ankle and ribs were throbbing by evening. While today's outing had been enjoyable, it had taken its toll on his body.
He thanked Sara as she handed him a bowl of popcorn, then he restarted the movie. He was remarkably comfortable with Sara, he was getting used to having her around. The opposing faction within him pointed out that she was becoming bolder with her actions and emotions. She'd held his hand and caressed his face. Earlier that evening, she'd told him that she wanted to be with him. What was he doing here? It also reminded him that he was slipping; he'd inadvertently used an endearment with her.
Yet he was powerless to turn her away. Being with Sara made him feel alive. For once he was thankful for the drugs that allowed him to purposely ignore that voice within which screamed, "Be careful. You have nothing to offer her." He refused to listen to it.
TBC