CHAPTER NINE: My Soul, My Love.
May 18, 2005
"Come, fill the Cup and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly – and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing."
- Omar Khayyam (seventh quatrain of the Rubaiyat).
The stairs were steep and uneven, and when she climbed them, she did so with fright as to own her balance. Outside, she could hear the silent dread of the world as it slept in the stealth, as it bathed in the stealth. But inside her heart, she could hear and feel the panging pain of being too old to still be climbing those uneven steps - to still be wondering what would become of her tomorrow when the sun rises- , yet too young and immature to feel the tiny gurgle of life in her arms.
As she reached the final step of the rickety foundation, the baby against her bosom yawned and snuggled into her warmth.
Stella ascended up the glorious stairs of the Crime Lab, her heels clicking against the seemingly newly- constructed marble steps. She whipped her curly hair to one side with a determined steel to her actions, brushed the remaining strands from her face, then clutched tightly against her side a thickened manila envelope.
Upon finding herself in front of the custodian's 'checkpoint' (where every CSI has to sign in and out before entering or leaving the lab), her shoulders tensed. She craned her neck to see who was minding the station for the morning shift, and then sighed happily when she realized that it was one of the old timers --- Mr. Craig, someone she was familiar with and had even joked with more than a handful of times before. The kindly old man was busy with another senior CSI, talking in hushed tones and they (just as she wanted) had their backs to her.
Feigning ignorance, as if it was just a normal working day, she unclipped her ID from her jacket's lapel and swiped it on the scanner. A resounding 'ping' came from the computer, signaling her entrance to the lab and also her presence.
In surprise, Mr. Craig looked over his shoulder and checked out who it was.
Stella continued to walk towards the entrance, not daring to bat an eyelash.
Mr. Craig cut his conversation short, sprung out of his chair, took her by her forearm gently, and pulled her aside. Stella rolled her eyes at the intervention, but wasn't completely surprised by it. She was just hoping to be able to sneak in. Somehow.
The elder CSI, Jan Patricks, met her eyes and gave her a weak, guilty smile. With just that, Stella already knew who they were talking about a while ago.
"I need to see Mac Taylor," she said at once in her defying tone, making sure to skip the apologies and explanations. They all knew what was going on and what scandale she had brought upon the whole crime lab. They all knew the basics probably better than she did.
The last thing she needed to do was to sulk in a corner and wait for the world to come back to normal. No; she was going to deal with this before it all blew up in her face.
"Ms. Bonasera," Craig whispered, his brows coming to meet at the middle. "Please, you're on a leave. You're not supposed to be here right now … you need to rest for a few days. Orders are that you're not supposed to enter the lab –"
"Well then, if that's the case …" Stella took off her ID and handed it to the guard. "Here. Take the damn thing and give me a visitor's pass."
Seeing the situation flourish beyond their expectations, Patricks already vacated the site and began to innocently wander off to other CSIs. By the time she was waving the ID in front of Craig's face, a small crowd began to gather at the other side of the glass windows.
The elderly guard's deep amethyst eyes followed the movement of her card in front of his nose, then sighed and raised his hand to take it from her. But before he could, she suddenly heard a booming voice from the voluminous pack of idle investigators:
"It's okay. I need to see her," the unmistakable baritone of Mac Taylor crashed in, and she heard saw the mob beginning to dissemble with a tinge of disappointment.
Stella tightened her grip on the manila envelope. No, she wasn't going to look at him. No, she wasn't going to act as if this is his final rectitude: his lasting need to save her from whatever pit she had landed on this time around. No, she was capable of saving herself now.
She clipped on her ID, thanked Craig coolly, and turned around to head towards the entrance of the lab. Mac waited for her to reach his side before walking after her, allowing her to take the lead and silently admonishing critical stares from fellow colleagues as they passed by.
She held her head high despite of the unheard, discriminating words that were there. In this moment of weakness, she knew that she had no choice but to fight – if not for her daughter, but for herself. So that she could prove that she had been living her own life to the best of her abilities. So that she could prove to him that she had actually been doing this all along: living without him.
They climbed up Mac's office, the glare of the early New York sun striking her face as she entered his space. She shielded her eyes from the prying rays, standing still in the middle of his office for a minute. She was acting as if she really was a visitor; as if she hadn't been working by his side for the past eight years.
Behind her, she heard him close the door, then drew down the blinds to keep the gossiping contemporaries below from channeling more rumors about their untimely meeting. Mac moved past her and onto his desk, curiously eyed her as he sat down on his throne, and then motioned to one of the vacant seats before him.
"Stell, please take a seat."
She snapped out of her reverie, shrank away from the morning UV rays, and then took her place in front of him. She crossed her legs with her classic determination, placed the manila envelope on his desk, and shoved it in his direction.
She wasn't running away.
Those were the words that were fervent whispers in her mind as the apartment door opened with a slight creak to its hinges.
She never wanted the pity, but it must've been a pitiful sight in itself: her hair was oily and disastrous, having forgone shower for days (she eventually stopped counting by the third day). She was still wearing one of those baggy I LOVE NY t- shirts that she used as her maternity clothes for the remaining months of her second trimester, including an even baggier denim jeans that she practically swam in. She lost a lot of weight over the past week after giving birth, because she couldn't eat or sleep. She wasn't back in her old size, but she was despicably too thin for someone who just had given birth.
And it showed on her face. She knew that she looked like she aged ten years --- and the mirrored flood of concern in her friend's eyes confirmed that.
"Oh God Stella," her blonde, blue- eyed, and fastidiously clean friend gasped. She opened her arms for her, offering to lend her a hand with the baby, but Stella refused with a weak nod and a plastic smile.
"Do come in, please." The acquaintance led the way into her apartment, brushing through the beautiful pieces of adornments that were scattered across her living room. Stella stood dumbfounded by the door for a second, keeping her head down to avoid more of the pitiful stares that her friend was throwing at her.
"Stella?" her friend called out, unsure of what to expect.
"Stella?"
She blinked hard and then gazed up - only to unexpectedly meet Mac's unnerving eyes. "Umm," she started, blinked again, then made sure that she was staring at something else when she reopened her eyes. "Having been given a three- day leave by your office, I've pulled every string I could in the NYPD task force yesterday. And in other different bureaus that I could reach."
"So I heard from Flack," he said, taking the envelope and opening it. He waited for her to start talking again before pulling out the first file inside.
"That first file is a copy of the last will and testament of Mrs. Seferhs. If you turn to page three," she gestured for him to do so and he did, following her trail of thought. "On the seventh paragraph, that is where the Pink Spanish Heart discussion starts. She strictly states that –"
"- '… my precious diamond, The Pink Spanish Heart, be handed down personally to my daughter, Little … Estella …'" Mac trailed off, shook his head, and opened his mouth to read again. No words came out.
"Mac?" Stella pushed, wanting to just hear his voice. She still refused to look at his face.
He settled the papers down, then clasped his fingers together, over the documents. It was where Stella decided to settle her stare, but when she did, she was struck to find his intertwining fingers clasped together tightly, his knuckles turning white, and that his arms were trembling.
One thought escaped her head, and she wished it didn't, because the moment it came into her consciousness, she had no other choice but to actually LOOK at him.
Oh no.
This was it. It was happening; right now, in front of her.
Just by seeing the tensing - almost erupting line - of his jaw, the shorter breathes that he was taking, the defeated stalk of his shoulders, his face marred with too much emotions that she was afraid he was about to break, and his eyes … they held the soul of the man she met after that desperate day three years ago. It held the man who loved too much and then, lost too much. Those eyes, those eyes that she was seeing that moment, they were the eyes that told her that whatever may happen --- SHE would forever own his heart.
She. Claire.
Stella's mouth dropped open. Her hand flew up reflexively to cover her anguish.
Her name was Christina, an old high school classmate in fourth period, Algebra – one of her favorite subjects. She forgot what her last name was, but it didn't matter. She was too embarrassed to ask and at the same time, too pained to even think about it. She just forced herself to remember that damn name, to tuck it in the deepest drawers of her cerebellum, and make sure that it stayed there until the end of her silver lining.
Christina reached over gingerly, gauging the gravity of Stella's degraded tower of strength, then pulled her hand away from her mouth. She tightly held her hand against her bosom, squeezed it hard, then motioned to the sleeping infant that was laid on the opposite couch.
"Stella, are you REALLY sure that you want to let her go?"
She was stoic. How could anyone have a ready answer for a question like that?
Her friend sighed. "Do you think it … is really best to give her away without even … telling the father?" Stella drew her hand back, but Christina firmly held it in place. "I know what kind of life this little girl will be living … she'll live a great, luxurious life. Probably better than what you could give her, but honey," she tilted Stella's chin to force her to understand – if not, listen, "there's nothing BETTER than your love for her."
Stella shook her head stubbornly. "There's nothing I can give her. There's nothing left in me to give."
Then she remembered. That necklace … that piece of shit she kept on wearing around her neck as if it was a badge of his love, as if it could prove what she could NEVER prove to him. Or now, to her baby.
She broke her contact with Christina and reached behind her to unclasp the necklace. Then, she held it before her eyes to study the intricate patterns on the golden plate, to read what it had said all along:
Η ψυχή μου, η αγάπη μου.
He once told her that someday, she would learn to read Greek.
Stella's lower lip trembled, but she refused to let the tears fall. They've been falling for quite sometime now.
My soul, my love.
"This is all I can give her." Stella handed the jewelry to her friend. She made sure that her eyes were diverted towards her peripheral when she let it go. Just as she didn't want to see how she left him, she also didn't want to see how it was to REALLY stop loving him.
"Is this all you … can give me?" he asked, voice breaking into almost inaudible syllables.
Stella wanted to grab his hand, sink him into her embrace, and make sure that he was there and that he was feeling her. Years ago, that was all it took to calm him, to give him a semblance of peace within his usually troubled heart … but now, it was different. Just as time eventually revealed the good in her life, time also revealed the past. The past that they could never, ever run away from.
And this past would always hang over their heads like decapitated warriors of their memories. It was not for ignorance; nor was it for remembrance. It was there to deal with. And SHE had to deal with it.
"What do you want to know, Mac?" she whispered, as if frightened that saying the past out loud would anger the world. "I think Danny already told you a lot of what I know, too."
He swallowed, hard, then his grip around his fingers was suddenly even more unyielding. This made a nervous shudder run through Stella's spine.
"Why didn't YOU tell me?" he demanded, strong and livid, as if he was about to snap at any second and start becoming violent.
Stella calmed herself. She knew this side of his and she knew what Mac was capable of, just as she knew what he wasn't capable of. This hidden, darker Id of his would startle her every now and then, but she also knew of her capabilities. And if there's one thing she could do to this man … it was that she could always put him back to serenity, whatever the situation.
"I never told you because … she was never meant to be," she answered simply, trying to keep the hitch out of her voice.
Mac shook his head in natural defiance. "Telling me wouldn't have made a difference, Stella."
"Telling you would. Because you know just as much as I do now that she IS yours. And nothing could change the fact that she's a … love child." She breathed in slowly, hating the way the words were rolling off of her mouth after all these years of avoiding them. "I couldn't let her live with that knowledge. Could you, Mac? WOULD you?"
"No," he agreed. But before she could settle in relief, he raised his head to capture her eyes and suddenly, they were twelve years younger. Back to that fateful last night, when she held him in her arms for the last time. That last night when he gazed into her eyes so brutally she felt that she was being stripped naked of her body and all that was left of her was her soul. She broke their trance because she knew that if she allowed him to, she never would have the strength to leave him.
Now, she was naked before him and dear Jesus, she had no other choice but to let him stare her down until she felt that she was only a soul grinding against the raw earth.
Mac made a flinching move to catch her hand and burn his imprint on it, but he stopped midway, as if suddenly remembering the repercussions this action could cause their already shaky foundation. He instead chose to add something else to that one-phrase agreement of his.
"Tell me now that she's mine, Stella."
"You already have the proof, right?" she tilted her head towards the gamut of papers on his desk, assuming that one of them there was the paternity test for her AND him. It was no debate for her intuition – that the moment Mac learned about the necklace and her paternity test, that he would be asking for his own.
In answer to this, Mac only raised his eyebrows. He didn't give her much – and even if it was rude, she felt that she deserved every inch of it.
Stella raised her palms towards him, as if wanting to initiate the end of their discussion. "Then what more do you need from me? You have everything you need to know right at your fingertips. I AM the one on leave, remember?"
"What I want from you," he voiced, barely above a murmur. "Is the truth. The one you ran away from twelve years ago."
"I didn't run away from anything, Mac –"
"You ran away from ME."
"That was … reflexive. I left because I was destroying our lives."
"You didn't go because of the baby?"
"That was already part of it …"
"When did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That you were pregnant?"
Stella stopped dead in her tracks, as if she came face-to-face with a roaring container truck.
Mac prodded further, his eyes digging into her like two iris-shattering headlights. "WHEN?" he insisted shrilly.
"I knew … three days before I left. I – I took a pregnancy test beforehand and … had, uhh, had a doctor check me in the University."
"That doesn't seem so reflexive now, does it?"
"Don't ask me to justify this, Mac, because you know I won't." Because she knew that she couldn't. There were not enough words in someone's lexicon to justify the fact that she had kept his own child from his knowledge all these years --- all these years that they had been working together. And she didn't just keep it from him, she also had to break their hearts long ago. For running away, every fucking time.
God, she wanted to cry. Stella thought about the pleasure of squeezing a few droplets out of her heavy eyelids, the superficial reprieve it would give her even heavier heart, and the sympathy it would illicit out of this person in front of her.
However, she had cried about this a million times last night. And she was at the point of honestly thinking that yes, she had cried herself out. There was nothing left to give.
And because she had nothing else to give, even breathing hurt. Every breath that she took were pinpricks of cactus leaves somewhere deep in her lungs, that sometimes with just the slightest inhalation of air, she recoiled.
"I won't ask you to justify, Stella," Mac said, his voice dropping down a notch. "But I will tell you that you NEVER destroyed our lives. Our lives were never destroyed; in all actuality, you made mine." He licked his lips unsteadily, "What did you name her?"
"Estella. So that she would always live within her Mother's name."
"Oh, so Mrs. Seferhs kept her name. You gave her the necklace?"
"Yes. I did … to have a piece of us always with her –"
"Will you be willing to be in an interview with Flack this afternoon? For official records in this matter?" he spitted out with such a casual tremor that she inexplicably wanted to strangle him right then and there. "We believe that you could offer us some clues in this investigation …"
"This is MY investigation, Mac! You can't keep me out of my daughter's case!"
"She is also my daughter, so this is technically OUR case. I have jurisdiction."
"Jurisdiction my ass! This is the reason why you had to give me a leave, right? So that you can proclaim your own jurisdiction?" Stella stood up from the chair and crossed her arms firmly before her. "You don't own me anymore, Mac. I think you keep failing to notice that I'm different now, and that I'm not your patsy anymore!"
"Really?" he countered, with a voice that was intertwined with cool steel. "Then how come you've been running away from this fact for the past eleven – twelve - years? God dammitt, Stella! That wasn't fair!"
"You should know a lot about being fair!" she shot back, not removing her eyes off of his aggravated expression. "Was it fair that you had to love me despite being committed to someone else? Was it fair that you asked me to come back to New York even if - even if I've shitted on everything that we've had before? Was it fair that you had to find out about this now when I've done my best to hide it from the fucking world? Was it fair that she had to die and leave us -"
Stella felt her tongue roll back in her mouth, then helplessly watched as Mac's face paled.
Whatever fury that was present in his system drained from his blood, as if he was shot point blank in his artery, as if SHE shot him point blank without even thinking twice.
"Mac, I didn't mean to bring her up ---"
"No, Stella, you're right," he said with a small voice, waving a weak hand in front of their faces. "You're right --- nothing IS fair between us. I loved you so damn much it – so blindly, so stupidly – that it almost killed my marriage, a marriage to the woman that I truly love. I should've been with her back then – but no, I was with you. And then you left me. That wasn't so fair, was it?" He sighed, looking down on his polished shoes. "I asked you to come back, even if Claire didn't want to, and that wasn't fair to both of us, was it? I was so overwhelmed by your presence – by seeing you again – that I was willing to compromise whatever shit you did just to have you near me again. That wasn't fair to Claire, was it? Or EVEN to me.
"And now, you tell me that we have a daughter. A daughter, Stella. You know … how much it means to me, how much I WANTED a child of my own …" he choked, and pushed his arms underneath his chest to suppress the tension. Stella lost all of her self- control, and stinging tears began to prick her reddened cheeks.
"… I would've accepted her, Stella. Claire would've accepted her – she would've, especially after you left. It would've been different, it wouldn't have been this way. Maybe … she wouldn't have died, too."
"Mac, please …"
"That isn't so fair, is it? I'm not blaming you for anything, and believe me when I tell you that I still don't, because that's the truth. How could I blame you, Stella, when I've loved you too much before that until now, I still feel a drop of that fucked up love? I feel because of you, Stella. When you left, I felt so many things I stopped getting good sleep. When you came back, I felt so much for Claire that our marriage changed for the better. When she died, you were there, and I felt safe. And now, look --- I don't know what I'm feeling again."
She shook her head, wiping the wetness off of her face with the back of her hand. "Don't try to define what you're feeling, Mac. I defined what I felt for you and look at me --- I'm still here. I'm still feeling."
"I know that." He stared up and met her eyes.
It was then that they were twelve years older again. Twelve years and so much more, for the past finally caught up with them.
She smiled feebly and walked towards him. Pressing her front against his carefully, she placed a hand on his cheek and then kissed him lightly on the lips. As their lips touched, tears rolled down her cheek and onto his mouth.
Her eyes were his – dark green that turned gray in darkened rooms. Her fingers were his – strong but needy at the same time, clasping her thumb in what seemed like a desperate attempt to make her stay. And those lips, those were his lips. The lips of the man she would never escape.
"Say your goodbye, Stella," Cristina urged, standing before her at the kitchen door, blocking the only light that was present in the whole apartment. This caused a long shadow in her direction, causing more grayness to play in her daughter's eyes.
She leaned in, taking the baby's hands in her own and kissing them fervently. She let them go, as the baby cooed happily, and then fixed the necklace around her daughter's neck. She looked at the inscribed message on the pendant and felt a tear slide down her chin. She watched as it fell on her baby's T- shirt, watched as it stained the whiteness of the fabric.
"Don't forget that I will always love you no matter what, Estella," she whispered tenderly. She closed her eyes and kissed her smooth cheeks, hating the way her daughter's face lit up at the feel of her warmth and at the sound of her hushed voice.
Then, before she started to completely sob, she stood up and turned her back to the baby.
Stella turned around and was almost out of Mac's office when she heard him whisper her name. She froze in her steps.
"Report back tomorrow. We're going to review what evidences we have with the team."
She didn't turn around, knowing that it would be best that she didn't, but she nodded her head in compliance.
END of CHAPTER NINE
C/N: I think I'm misinterpreted when it comes to some aspects of this story. To make things clear, I'm not dictating on the history of CSI: NY when I wrote that Mac and Stella had an affair, or that Mac was almost on the brink of a divorce with Claire, or that Claire had these kinds of attitude. These things maybe hard pills to swallow, but I did indicate in the first chapter that this is leaning towards A/U – or alternate universe. Meaning that this is purely fiction. Whatever I write here are for the story's betterment, for the artistic license that comes when you're an author with a story in your palms.
Within myself, all I've asked when I started this story was for open minds. I got a lot of open minds and I'm very thankful for them, but I also got some close ones. I can't please everyone (and I won't even try to), but I make sure that I explain my side and that I defend my story. As a writer, that's part of my job description.
I don't need everyone to "buy" my story. But I think every story out there deserves some amount of respect.
(If you don't get what I'm talking about – ignore me. Heh.)
Oh, and as usual, thanks to everyone who continue to read my story (for being open- minded) and who continue to R&R, despite the late updates and the bashings. I truly, truly appreciate every single bit of your attention.