Somehow, I convince her to stay put. Stay in the hospital until the doctor makes his decision to send her home.
Almost a week goes by before they tell her they're ready to release her. But she's being sent home to rest. Not to work. I'm going to have a fight on my hands, because she'll have a hard time sitting still.
She knows that she won't be allowed to go back into the field until one of the Department doctors clears her. And they can be pretty tough.
Olivia emerges from the room, dressed in clothes that I got for her. I just grabbed whatever I could find, when I stopped by the apartment this morning. And that ended up being a pair of sweats, a sweatshirt and sneakers.
She's got a little more color in her face, now. She looks better than she did. I see she's still carrying her sneakers and socks in her hands and raise an eyebrow.
"Well, I can't exactly bend over, can I?" She questions.
I see her point. Moving the wrong way causes her a hell of a lot of pain. Bending down to put on footwear is probably impossible.
"You can't go out there barefoot," I tell her. I'll have to help her. But I don't want to make her feel helpless. Weak. Like she's dependent on me. She won't want to freeze, though.
She slowly eases herself down into one of the chairs in the hallway, handing socks and shoes to me. Kneeling, I pull the simple white socks onto her feet and slide the running shoes on over them. I prop both of her feet on my knees and tie the sneakers for her, the same way I did when my kids were small.
Olivia sighs, softly. She's embarrassed that I had to do something that small for her. That something so simple and everyday as tying her shoes is beyond her.
I watch, as she slowly levers herself up from the chair. Helping her up and down is something that will humiliate her even more.
"You're gonna be back on your feet in no time," I reassure her, softly. "Trust me."
She reaches for my hand, as we make our way down the hall. When we get out to the car, I open the door for her and watch as she eases down into the passenger seat.
When we get inside the apartment, I settle her on the couch, making sure she's comfortable. I head into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. "Liv, you want anything?" I call. But she doesn't answer me. I look out and see that she's abandoned the couch.
I step down the hall. The bathroom door's wide open, so I know she's not there. But I can see the light on in our bedroom. I lean in to find her looking in one of the dresser drawers that we designated as hers. "What are you looking for, huh?" I ask, stepping over and kissing the top of her head.
She produces a simple blue box and pushes the drawer closed. She sits at the edge of the bed and beckons me to join her. She opens the box, revealing a simple gold ring, set with a single, plain diamond. She picks it up and shows it to me, letting it rest in her palm.
Not that I know anything about fashion, but the ring seems to be an older style. Something that wouldn't be so common, now. It must be the ring she mentioned.
"Your grandmother's?" I question.
"Yeah," Olivia looks at it. "I didn't meet her and my grandfather until I was fourteen or so. It was a change for me."
I glance at her, confused.
"Here were two adults who wanted to hug me. Talk to me. Take me places - shopping, baseball games, the museums. They were interested in me. I didn't understand it. Why were they doing this? No one else had."
I see where's she going. Her mother left her with scars that run deep. Not physical, but emotional. She'd grown up, being resented, ignored, and even hated, at times. It was all she knew. There was no other adult in her life to show her something different. To show her that not all adults treated a child that way.
I've always gotten the impression that her mother's abuse was mostly verbal. Emotional. Words can do as much damage to a child as a blow. Being ignored and denied any kind of attention hurts just as much as a slap across the face. I've seen it before.
To have an adult take an interest in her must have been a shock. To have someone pay attention to her. Offer her something as simple as a hug. The way her grandparents treated her was completely opposite from how she'd been treated for the first fourteen years of her life.
Olivia sighs, softly. "They took me out for dinner and threw me a party for my fifteenth birthday. You know, I'd never had a birthday party until that year?"
I blink. I know her childhood was painful, but to have never celebrated her birthday until she was a teenager? When someone else stepped into her life. It surprises me that her mother's parents hadn't stepped in, earlier. I wonder why they didn't. If she didn't meet them until she was a teenager, there had to be some kind of problem.
"Liv?"
"Hm?" She leans her head on my shoulder and puts the ring back in the box. "What?"
"Your mother didn't get along her with her parents?"
"No. I don't really know why, either. They tried to help. They offered to take me and raise me, so she wouldn't have to. They offered to give me a home, because she was just a kid."
"She made her decision, Liv," I answer, softly. Growing up as she did, it doesn't surprise me that she feels like her mother only kept her and took care of her, in a way, out of obligation. Not love.
"I know," Olivia sighs. "I don't know what was between Mom and my grandparents, but I did kind of listen in on a fight, once"-
"Little eavesdropper, weren't you?" I question. I can imagine her spending her time with her ear pressed to a door, listening in on conversations that weren't meant for her ears. It just seems like something she'd do.
She shrugs. "It was the only way I ever heard anything, because no one wanted to tell me. Mom didn't want to look at me, never mind actually talk to me, and my grandmother was one of those people who liked to shelter kids. I mean, beyond the point of what a normal parent would do."
She regards her plain, short nails and continues. "One weekend when I was sixteen - I think it was July - I was staying with my grandparents, when Mom showed up at the house. They sent me into the kitchen, and I heard them start to argue. From what I heard, all the crap that happened between them started because she didn't tell them what happened to her."
I raise an eyebrow. Most victims are embarrassed. Ashamed. But they do eventually tell the people around them. Their parents, a boyfriend or a close friend. Someone. "She didn't?"
"No. Not until it was obvious that she was pregnant. She went home, after it happened and her roommate convinced her to go to the police. But she was living on her own and she wasn't a minor. It was her choice to tell her parents. She was eight months pregnant, when they finally found out. They tried to help, but after I was born, she started drowning herself. And it was too late."
As a parent, I can imagine what it would feel like to know that one of my kids had been through hell and hadn't told me. Hadn't felt like they could tell me. And to watch one of them slip away from me. Watching one of them fall and not being able to do a thing about it. It would kill me.
Olivia shakes her head and tries to wiggle the silver band off her finger. She was right. It is stuck there. "Soap and water should get it off," I suggest, helpfully.
She gets up and makes her way across the hall and into the bathroom. I hear her running water, for a minute or two, and she reappears, the gleaming, wet ring held between her fingers. "I don't think I'll ever look at that the same way again," she murmurs, placing it on her dresser.
I smile, slightly. She holds out her left hand, and I find the ring she inherited. "Is it going to fit?" I question.
"Yeah. I had it sized for me, after Mom died. She and my grandmother had small hands. I thought that if I ever got married, I'd use it as my engagement ring," Olivia replies, as I slide it on. It's a perfect fit on her ring finger.
She presses her fingers under her eyes and I realize why. She's almost crying - again. "Liv?"
"Hm?" Her voice is thick.
"Is all the crying a good thing? Or should I be worried?"
She gives me a look of pure annoyance. "I'm allowed to cry."
"I didn't say you weren't. But crying usually means you're upset. Really upset, if it's you."
"I'm happy."
"You're crying because you're happy" I ask her, startled. Women. They cry during sad movies and they cry on their wedding days. What the hell is that about? To hear her say that she's happy, with tears in her eyes, is just like hearing her say that the sun rose in the west this morning. It takes a lot to make her cry. And even then, she doesn't really cry. Her eyes just get this wet, sad look.
She looks at me, like that should have been completely obvious. "Yes."
I don't think I'm ever going to understand her. But I don't care. "Did you call everyone that needed to be called?" I ask. I called my family and a few friends from a payphone in the hospital, the same night I asked her to marry me. She wasn't able to, until we asked for a phone to be set up in her room the next day.
"Yeah. I think there's some secret plan for a wedding shower in the works, already."
Crap. "Remind me to disappear that day, will you?" I question, as she sits beside me. Baby showers, wedding showers - I can't stand any of it. I feel like I don't belong.
"Do you have to be such a guy?" Olivia questions, giving me another look of mock-disgust. "It's just a party."
"A party where I definitely don't belong," I comment, earning myself a light punch in the shoulder.
"Fine," she replies, shaking her head. I can see the hint of amusement in her eyes. She doesn't know how much she gives away, in her face. In her eyes. If you look her in the eye, most of the time, you can tell what she's thinking.
"Where'd you put those pills?" I ask, checking my watch. The doctor prescribed her some painkillers.
"They're on the table," she replies.
I get her two of the pills and a glass of water, bringing it back to her. She swallows the medication and sets the glass of water on the bedside table. She seems to be most comfortable lying down. And the doctor told her to rest. So she's listening to him, at least.
I turn down the bed for her and let her crawl in.
"Comfortable?" I ask her, as she shifts ever so slightly, lying on her back. "You want another pillow or anything?"
"This is fine," she murmurs, as I push back her hair and kiss her on the forehead.
"You get some rest, huh?" I lightly stroke her cheek. "I'm still on rotation, though - I could get called in. You think you'll be okay, alone? Because if you're not, I can call Cragen, ask him for a day or two. He'll let it slide, because it's you."
"I'll be fine. And Kirsten, across the hall, is home. She works nights, so she's home during the day."
I blink. We've lived on this floor all of two months and she knows the neighbors? In most places, that would be considered normal. But this is New York. People don't bother to talk to each other on the street. Or get to know their neighbors. They mind their own business here. They seem to think it's safer. "You've gotten to know the neighbors, huh?"
"Yeah. They're good people. There's the couple next door - the Lindseys. Newlyweds. I can get them at night."
"They're not gonna be the only newlyweds here," I joke, earning a small smile.
It doesn't take her long to drift off. When she does, I tuck the covers around her and leave the room. Normally, I'd sit and watch her sleep, but she needs the rest. I don't want to disturb her.
I do get a phone call, about an hour after that. I peek in on her, seeing that she's sound asleep and peaceful. I don't want to wake her up. So instead, I pull a pen from my pocket and a sheet of paper from the notebook I carry and leave a note for her, on the table. I pull the covers a little higher around her and kiss her on the tip of her nose. She murmurs and turns her head.
The bottle of prescribed painkillers I leave close by, so she'll know where it is. I check the locks on the windows and step out the door. I hate to leave her. I've always hated leaving the woman I love at home, to go to work. It's always felt like I didn't have my priorities straight. My ex-wife's mother once told me that I needed to put my family first, not my job.
Maybe I did. I don't know. But I do know that I'm happy now. Usually, when a call comes in, it's for both of us. So I normally don't have to leave her. But when I have to, I hate it.
I shut the apartment door behind me, as quietly as I can. It's late. I could have been working all night, but the boss was willing to cut me some slack and let me go home to take care of her. She really does need someone here, even though she's too damned stubborn to admit it.
She's sound asleep. She doesn't wait up for me. She knows better. And if I do have to leave her at home, and I call her, she usually doesn't ask me when I'm coming home. She knows that I don't know.
I shed my shoes and my coat, and then my jacket and tie, moving as quietly as I can. She's a deep sleeper, but I don't see why I should make any more noise than I have to. Why disturb her?
I step into the bedroom, shedding my shirt. The small TV that's in the corner of the room is on, showing some infomercial. In the flickering light, I see her. She's lying in bed, on her back - the only position she can sleep in, right now - with the covers kicked off her.
I see that she's gone back to sleeping in an old t-shirt of mine, again. I've never understood why she does that or why she'd want to, but she does.
I shake my head, slightly. I don't know how I wound up with her. How could someone just walk away from her? Hurt her. During all the years we worked together, before this all happened, she didn't complain to me about her love life - she never thought I'd be interested - but somehow, I always was able to tell when a date went bad or when she'd been given the 'it's not you, it's me' speech.
I think she was about to give up on dating around the time when I started to notice her. I wasn't blind or stupid enough not to see the looks they gave her, when she walked into a room. But I'd never really thought about her like that, myself - keeping things professional was the smart thing to do.
It wasn't that I hadn't noticed her before. She was a friend. My partner. The woman I trusted to watch my back. But I'd never noticed her the way I was then. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, at first. I thought she'd kick my ass, if she knew what I was thinking.
I knew she was a beautiful woman. I'd have to be stupid not to notice that. But I never thought about her. Never thought about starting something with her. Until then.
I didn't understand why she was still single. If the looks they gave her were any indication, most of the men in this city would like to be with her. Surely she could have found someone who'd be right for her. She blamed it on the job, but that couldn't be all of it. Someone would have been able to live with that. She was beautiful, intelligent, sexy - I didn't see what the problem was.
Maybe it was just me, but I didn't understand how someone could hurt her. How someone could deliberately cause her pain was beyond me. She didn't deserve it. What she deserved was someone who'd stand by her. Be there for her. Love her. Give her back what she gives to people.
She's not perfect. I find the remote and turn the TV off, looking at her sleeping face, in the dark. She's not. I never expected her to be. There's not a perfect person in the world. If she was perfect, I know she wouldn't be with me.
She's made her mistakes. Like everyone else has. And she tries to make up for them. We have our fights. Even though I usually get most of the blame for being an asshole to her, from other people, she'll seek me out and apologize. She doesn't let me take all the blame.
When we fight, we both have a part in it. She's said as many things to me that weren't exactly friendly, as I have to her. She doesn't let me cut her down and treat her like crap. She gives me back what she gets.
So she's not perfect. I knew that. And I don't care. She has her flaws, but which one of us doesn't? Neither one of us is perfect. But I love her.
I lean down and kiss her smooth cheek, softly. She mumbles and stirs, in a rustle of sheets. "El?" She blinks at me, sleepily, reaching for the lamp.
"Hey." I kneel down and look into her eyes. They're still fogged by sleep.
Olivia yawns and pulls the covers around her. "C'mere," she murmurs, nodding to the empty side of the bed. She can't stand an empty bed any more. She's gotten too used to lying beside me.
"Gimme a sec," I tell her, nodding. "I just got home."
She blinks again. "Cragen turn into a slavedriver?"
I laugh. "I know you wouldn't dare say that to his face. And, no, he didn't. He let me off to take care of you."
Olivia makes a face. "I"-
"Don't need to be taken care of." I can finish her sentences, easily. "I know. Don't start that again."
I clean up a little and brush my teeth - she won't let me near her until I do - and join her in bed. I can't hold her, because she can only lay flat on her back. But she seems intent on getting as close to me as she can.
"You weren't waiting up for me, were you?" I ask her, quietly.
"Nah. Late-night TV can put anyone to sleep," she answers. "Watching it for a while will put me out like a light. And nothing else was working."
She has her restless nights. Nights when she tosses and turns beside me or sits up all night, because she just can't sleep. I'm not really sure what it it - if it's the job or something else. There have been mornings when I've found her curled up on the couch, the TV still on. She won't tell me what keeps her up and I don't ask. Pushing her to tell me things that she doesn't want to tell me will only result in a fight.
She'll tell me when she's ready to. When she wants to. That's the way it's always been, between us. Just when I think I know her, she tells me something new. She doesn't keep secrets from me - there are just some things she'd rather keep to herself.
She doesn't like to leave herself open to a person. Spilling everything would leave her vulnerable. And she doesn't want to be seen like that. What she doesn't understand is that a lot of people who know her and know about her past are surprised that she's the way she is. That she hasn't let it all bring her down.
I'm one of them. She told me that when she was a teenager, her mother once looked her in the eye and told her she hated her. Drunk, of course, but it doesn't matter. To be a kid, hearing your own mother tell you she hates you - you'd never expect the kind of woman who's lying beside me to come from that.
She was strong enough to put it behind her. It still hurts her, no doubt, but she doesn't let it get to her. For her to become the strong, confident woman I know took a hell of a lot of work. And she did it. I don't know when she'll realize that no one's going to think of her as weak, for showing a little bit of emotion, considering what she's been through.
Olivia mumbles and drapes her right arm across me, determined to keep us connected, somehow. She's asleep, now. I smile, slightly, seeing the ring on her left hand, as she drapes her arm across her stomach. She's mine, now. And soon, it's going to be official. She'll make a beautiful bride.