AN: Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I love you guys! This chapter is, as promised, higher in Goren/Eames content. Enjoy! Please review!
Spoilers: 'In the Wee Small Hours'
Warning: This chapter is high in semi-philosophical and/or religious content. If mentions of God/Catholicism will offend you…skip this chapter.
Major Case Squadroom (IPP)
Friday, July 14th, 11:43 AM
Alex Eames' POV
Sitting across from my partner, it's possible to feel a tidal wave of emotions. There is so much more to Robert Goren than what meets the eye. So much more. When I first met him, I saw what most people see: intimidation. A human being who can have a talent like no other for driving people up the wall.
And then…who can say what happened? I guess it would be fair to say I met my partner instead of a fellow detective. He went from Robert to Bobby…my partner…to a dear friend. A friend I would entrust my very life to at any given moment.
"What are you thinking about?" He asks me, and I smirk.
"You."
Bobby raises an eyebrow, his eyes meeting mine.
"Do tell."
I've never been big on voicing my emotion; on wasting breath and time on sappy, sentimental thoughts when there is work to be done. Cases with kids are all too often the only things that force emotion out of me at a rate that can petrify me.
"Cases like these always remind me how lucky I am…how glad I am that I withdrew that letter. Because…I know you, Bobby. Even though we haven't been able to locate Rebecca's mother yet…I know that you can nail this bitch."
"That I can nail this bitch?" Bobby says back to me, "Give yourself some credit, Alex. Yeah, I have a high conviction rate. It increased after I was partnered with you. You and I are going to nail this woman."
A moment of silence passes between my partner and I. Despite my gratitude for him, as I look at the case notes, the photographs spread out on the table between him and I, and I realize that uniforms are still out looking for Leona Andrews, my wrath finally breaks free as I jump up from the table, punching it.
"Damnit, Bobby, she was just a kid! Her mother's been gone for at least four days, and if Mike hadn't found Rebecca, she would have died! I don't just want to get Leona Andrews off the streets, I want her dead!" I say, my voice rising with every syllable until I'm just shy of screaming.
"Alex…" Bobby says, his voice as soft as mine was deafening.
He moves to me, reaches out to hold me, and that's when a part of me breaks.
"No," I whisper, "Bobby…don't."
If anyone should be receiving comfort right now, it isn't me. It's Rebecca.
He ignores my plea, pulling me into an embrace I've seen him hold his mother in- one meant to protect; to shield from pain; to reassure.
And for one brief, quick moment I let down my guard and cry in the arms of the man I trust more than anyone else on this earth, praying to a God whose existence I question that He'll give us a miracle.
Carmel Ridge CenterFriday, July 14th, 6:31 PM
Bobby Goren's POV
"Hi, mom." I whisper, stooping down to kiss my mother on the cheek, "How are you?"
"I'm doing good today, dear. But what about you, Bobby? You look tired."
"I'm fine," I respond, then quickly change the topic, "Alex says to say hello."
Mom beams, and I smile, not able to resist the joy of knowing that my mother, in the few times she's seen Alex, loves her like the daughter she never had.
"Tell our Ally hello back, and that I'd love to see her again whenever she can drop by."
I smile again. Mom is good today; the effects of the illness that slowly take her from me next to non-existent. On days like today, it's so much easier to remember her as my mother. On days like today, I can remember the good in my childhood, and that remembrance is a welcome relief from the things that went wrong; memories fueled by investigating the abuse Rebecca Andrews has been put through.
There was good in my childhood. For all the bad, for all the fear, there was good, and it's worth remembering the pain to remember the good. When my mother's mind wasn't ravaged with her illness, she was an ideal mother. And even the illness cannot take that away from me…her love, the smile; the beam of pride on her face when I served at mass for the first time.
I hung up the server robe for the last time when she got so unwell she could no longer go to mass on a weekly basis. She had loved mass, and all I could think in my youth was that if there was a God, a supreme being of love, He'd forgotten of my mother's existence- and mine.
And despite my lack of belief in His existence, I couldn't stop myself from praying to Him when mom would lock me in her prayer closet, insisting that the devil was trying to conquer me and that it would take all the prayers I could send up to the Lord to drive the devil away from me.
I would pray in my mother's prayer closet, pray that God would cure her, that God would remove evil from me.
And even though God never cured her…once her episode would cease- sometimes minutes, sometimes hours; on occasion days later- she would run to the closet and hold me; thank God that she had me; whisper she was sorry; whisper that she loved me.
Maybe it's thanks to those moments that I never lost my faith.
"Your thoughts are racing, my boy. I can see it. What are you thinking about?"
"Mom," I say softly; inquiring, "Do you still pray?"
"Every day, my dear. I pray for you. I pray for Alex. I pray for your father, may God bless his soul. I pray for your brother."
"Pray with me, then?" I ask, my voice taking on an almost childish tone of questioning; a timid inflection.
I can't do it on my own. I haven't prayed in years. But right now, I need to. The faith of my childhood…the prayers of my childhood…at times I yearn for that child-like sense of faith. That, despite the conditions I was praying under, I was able to have those moments of comfort and security in prayer. I was scared, yes, and indeed, I cried on occasion when I'd hear mom screaming from outside the closet.
And then I would clutch mom's rosary tighter, pray with more urgency to Mother Mary and Father God. And in those moments, through the fear would come the sense that I would be okay.
My mother takes my hand, and together we softly chant the prayer she taught me from earliest childhood. Our Father, which art in heaven…I need that sense of security, of comfort; need it so I can pass it on to Rebecca.
My voice cracks, and my mother finishes the prayer alone, crossing herself upon its completion.
For all I've been through…Rebecca's been through worse, and…that realization cuts deeper than any of my memories of pain; of fear.
"I love you, mom." I whisper, "I love you."
Saint Mark's Catholic Church
Friday, July 14th, 8:57 PM
Carolyn Barek's POV
The sanctuary of Saint Mark's Catholic Church has been a constant realm of light in my life. My hope in despair. My refuge when things outside of these four walls are too crazy.
When I was a child, my mother taught me that the very walls of the Catholic Church, regardless of the building, were love. The structure behind the very religion was love, and peace, and serenity.
That lesson, I have taken with me for all of my life. It's the one thing that keeps me strong in times of weakness. Having this love to turn to; having a supreme God to whom I can tell anything.
I have no idea how people can live without faith. In the times when I have lost mine…well, those times have been the darkest of my life. Not because of events, but because I had nothing to turn to; no one to ask for guidance; no Supreme God who was good and holy and loving. The times when I couldn't find it within myself to pray were the loneliest of my life.
I've prayed a lot over the last few days. I've never been able to understand…how any human being can cause such suffering to another. I mean, indeed, yes; I understand the psychology of it. I know how it occurs. But why is another question- one that is too big for me, one that I often ask God.
I've come to God over the years in a million different states of mind- full of hope, sorrow, joy, pain, compassion, apathy. Tonight, I come to Him in a whole new frame of mind- anger. Tonight, not even the love and serenity that surround me in this building can curb the anger. I stare at the crucifix, my hatred scaring me.
"How?" I yell, my voice taking on an almost mocking state "With all the power You have, couldn't You have done something just a little sooner? Did she really have to suffer for that long? How could you? How could you? She was just a child! She's just a child!"
And after I scream that last thought to the God I thought I'd always love, I wonder if this is how Christ felt when he said "Father, why hast thou forsaken me?"
I mean…I am not the one who's been forsaken. My parents prayed for children; they loved me; they taught me to believe that God would love me.
How did Rebecca hold onto her faith? I never would have.
"You abandoned her," I hiss, on my knees in the middle of the aisle, "You left her there just as much as her mother did. You abandoned her."
"I hate you." I whisper to Him, "I hate you."
Residence of Mike LoganFriday, July 14th, 11:59 PM
Mike Logan's POV
"I love you, Rebecca." I whisper, pulling the covers up to her chin, silently thanking Elizabeth for the sleeping pills she'd given Becky; pills finally taking effect.
Now I can only hope that her sleep will be peaceful.
Walking to my room, I find myself doing something I haven't done in years.
I kneel at my bedside and close my eyes, my voice low.
"I don't know if You're there," I say, "Hell, I don't even know if I believe in You. But right now, I don't care either way. Help her. Help me. Help me to do this, because I can't do it on my own. After all the shit in my life that's gone down that You seem to have not noticed, You can at least give me this: help me to love her enough."
In this moment, I realize one thing. I'm lying when I say I'm an agnostic.
I'm not an agnostic.
I just hate God.
AN: In hopes of relieving my catholic guilt…I don't hate God. But I think Mike does. So I wrote it. And Caro angst is good times, so...
