Disclaimer: I don't own them, Pet Fly does, I'm just having a bit of fun with them while no one's looking. Shhhh…don't tell!

Notes, Timeline, Warnings: Probably the first or second season. I can't recall Brown's marital status being mentioned, so if I'm going counter canon it's unintentional. This story does deal with death, though none of 'our' characters die.

Garden of Memories

By Mele

"You sure you don't want to come along, Jim?" Blair asked again as he picked up the flat of young plants and headed toward the door of the loft.

"Quite sure, Chief. Simon will be by in an hour, then it's off to the racetrack. I haven't been to a stockcar race in years, but as a kid my secret desire was to be Cal Shields," Jim confessed, referring to Cascade's most celebrated race driver.

"Gee, never would have guessed from the way you drive," the younger man muttered, eliciting a glare from his large friend.

"Watch it, Junior. Those kinds of comments will get you in trouble, and I know where you live."

"Oooh, I tremble in terror," Blair's voice mock quavered as Jim held open the door for him.

"As well you should." Jim couldn't suppress his grin, he was in too good a mood to even pretend to be irritated with his irrepressible roommate. "Look, if you finish in time, why don't you come on down to the track and meet up with Simon and me? We'll probably pick up some dinner afterwards."

"I'll do that. Thanks," Blair smiled back, shifting his grip on his burden. The loft door softly shut behind him, leaving him to manipulate his awkward load into the elevator and out to his car. Finally settling it in the trunk he coaxed his car into starting and headed toward the eastern outskirts of Cascade.

He had expected the place to be busy, but even so he was surprised with how far away from the gates he ended up parking. Suppressing a sigh, he retrieved the plants and trudged almost a half mile back to the entrance, his eyes drawn to the arched sign above. "Garden of Memories" was spelled out in wrought iron splendor, the protective coat of sealer renewed annually so it didn't show the effects of Cascade's moisture laden weather.

People of every conceivable walk of life could be found inside, and most, like Blair, were carrying young plants, gardening tools, or other assorted supplies. Moving along the well-maintained paths between randomly shaped plots, Blair contemplated his surroundings with a solemn expression.

'Garden of Memories' was conceived of by one of Cascade's most successful businessmen, Samuel Pearce, after the death of his six-year-old son. The youngster had died following a two-year battle with cancer, and the grieving parents had haunted the cemetery, spending hours just staring at their son's marker. The cemetery was certainly well maintained; the extensive lawns a sea of green broken only by the occasional tree, and, of course, the headstones. But no matter how lush the grass, or how graceful and full the trees, it was still a place of death, and there was nothing that could mask that pall.

They longed for a place of 'life' to remember their child, so they set aside a corner of their home garden as a memorial to him, but still something was missing. It was some time before they realized that they longed for the companionship of others who understood their grief, with whom they could share their pain and their healing. Samuel owned a large, undeveloped lot near one of the more affluent neighborhoods in Cascade-a lot he could have sold for over a million dollars at that point. Instead he hired a landscaper to develop the lot into a number of small, individual gardens, which he 'sold' to other grieving parents for a token yearly fee.

That first year only a dozen plots were planted, but in the following sixteen years that number had grown to over seven hundred, with some families coming from as far away as Texas. Each year on the first Sunday in April the gardens officially 'opened' for the summer, and if the owners couldn't make any other visits, they tried to at least make it that weekend.

The rules were elegant in their simplicity-the owners could plant anything they wanted, but they had to maintain the plot. In the case of the owners passing away or moving, the orphaned plot could be adopted by a friend, family member, or compassionate stranger. A small, discreet plaque was provided for each plot, listing at a minimum the name of the honoree. Some plaques listed dates of birth and death, quotes, devotions, or even artwork or pictures, again all at the desire of the survivors.

The Pearces' wistful dream had been realized; while each plot was dedicated to a loved one who had died, the Garden of Memories was a place filled with life and beauty, a spot to celebrate memories, not brood over them.

Blair contemplated this history as he sought out his student, a twenty-year-old named Tiffani Carlson, one of his brightest pupils. She had hesitantly come to Blair three weeks before, asking if he knew of any place where she could store a few dozen seedlings until this weekend. She tearfully explained how her younger sister had died in a car accident late the previous year, and that they would be planting her memorial plot for the first time. She wanted to do something extra special, so she had special ordered the flowers her sister had loved the most, but she hadn't considered the need to store them until it was too late. Ever the kind hearted one, Blair had volunteered the balcony at the loft, and had conscientiously cared for them ever since. Now his self-imposed duty was nearly done as he spotted the young woman in a solemn family group up ahead.

"Mr. Sandburg, thank you," she said, reaching out to take the plants. "Daddy, this is Blair Sandburg, he teaches the Anthropology class I'm taking."

Blair quietly shook hands with the sad eyed older man, as Tiffani introduced the rest of the family. A few minutes of awkward conversation later and Blair excused himself, citing a prior commitment after sensing the family's need for privacy.

The anthropologist was walking briskly back toward the entrance, feeling oddly like an intruder, when a glimpse of a familiar figure stopped him in his tracks. He paused, uncertain, until a pair of dark eyes met his and a large hand beckoned him forward.

"Hey, Hairboy, what brings you out here?" Henri's greeting was unusually subdued.

"I was…uh…delivering some plants to a student," he explained, gesturing vaguely back the way he'd come.

"Ah, I thought maybe you…"

"No, man…was just doing a favor for a student." Blair glanced around uncomfortably, and his gaze fell on the small plaque emblazoned with the name 'Rosalie Louise Brown'. "Your sister?" the young man wondered.

"My daughter."

"I'm sorry. I…I didn't know you and Connie…"

"It wasn't with Connie, it was long before I even met her," Henri said quietly, laying a calming hand on the smaller man's shoulder.

"Oh." Curiosity, always a driving force in his life, warred with his innate compassion and tact, leaving the police observer speechless for a moment.

The young detective watched the play of emotions across the expressive face of the anthropologist and understood his friend's dilemma. Taking pity on the discomforted grad student, Brown spoke with a tinge of humor. "It's okay to ask about it, Blair."

"Well, okay. I admit, I'm curious. If you don't mind talking about it, I'd like to hear about Rosalie."

Henri Brown turned his attention back toward the clump of vibrant pansies he had been planting, kneeling down and carefully removing new plants from their containers before plopping them in the prepared soil. Blair knelt beside him, his attention on the detective's softly spoken words as in this fashion Brown started his story.

"I was the youngest of seven kids, only twelve when my daddy died of a heart attack. Mama was left with me and Justin still to finish raising on the meager income from her job as a medical transcriber. She started doing that in the evenings and took on a job as a maid during the days to make ends meet. Sounds like a cliché, doesn't it? But that was our life. She kept a roof over our heads and food on the table, all our basic needs were met with even a few extras here and there. But I was a kid…an idiot…I didn't understand what an extraordinary job my mama was doing. I wanted more. More of her time, more of her attention, more of everything. I started acting up, hanging out with some wilder kids. Thank God I was too intimidated to get into too much trouble, but I sure got into enough. I put my mama through several years of hell, and came close to destroying any future I might have had. Somehow, I managed to avoid that and even stayed in school until my senior year, though my grades sucked. Then I met Rebekka, Her brother was one of my buds, probably the wildest one in our group. Their parents were usually too drunk or stoned to give a shit what their kids were doing, their oldest brother was already in prison serving a sentence for assault with a deadly weapon. Bekka was wild, carefree, spirited, beautiful, and I thought I was in love with her. When she caught pregnant, I quit school and started working full time at the Sporting Spirits shop downtown. I'd been working there part-time, or they would never have hired me, though I didn't appreciate that fact at the time." Henri glanced up at his audience of one, seeing a sympathetic light in the dark blue eyes that met his.

"Anyway, at first it seemed we were doing okay, you know? We found a total dump of an apartment, but we thought we were kings in a castle, decorating it with hand me downs and stuff bought from the thrift shop or yard sales. Bekka stayed in school, graduated hiding a four-months pregnant belly under the gown. He folks didn't care that she was pregnant, didn't care that she was graduating, didn't care that she'd moved out. My mama, however, was absolutely furious with me. She called me things that I didn't even know she knew the words for. I swore I'd prove her wrong, we'd make a good life for our child, be a model for success others could look at with awe and respect," Brown's voice trailed off as a sad, rueful smile crossed his face. "God, I really was an idiot."

"You were young, man. We all thought we had the answers at seventeen," Blair reassured him with a slight smile of his own. "What happened?"

"Reality happened. Bekka was young and strong, but she didn't take care of herself, and worse yet, she didn't stop using. She went into labor a month premature, and Rosie was born with several strikes against her. She was tiny, even for a preemie, her little lungs just weren't developed enough. But she had a perfect little body, the tiniest feet and hands, all her fingers and toes, and it just didn't make sense to me that she could be so perfect and not survive," Henri's voice had become so soft his listener was straining to hear him. He wiped away the tears absently, sighing as he gazed over his small garden plot.

"She was a scrappy little girl for all her small size. She lived for a week, which was at least six days longer than the doctors expected. I was there at the hospital every day; I even got to hold her a few times. Those were the best moments, holding that precious life I'd helped to create, and those were the worst moments, fearing I would never hold her again. I convinced myself she was going to make it; she would prove them all wrong. Miracles happen every day, why not for Rosie? I'd sit there holding her, dreaming of her first words, seeing her take her first steps, pushing her on a swing, teaching her how to throw a ball and ride a bike and all the things she would never really ever get to do. In my dreams she lived a dozen lifetimes, each one better than the last, until the day I came to the hospital for my visit and found my Rosie had died between the time I left work and arrived there. God, I still remember how much it hurt, literally took my breath away." The big detective took a deep breath, as if to reassure himself that he could still do so.

"I'm so sorry," Blair whispered, his own eyes bright with tears at his friend's pain. "I can't even imagine how much that hurt."

"Bekka was already there, sitting and staring at nothing. She'd been released two days after giving birth, and had been kind of in and out of it ever since, using more than she ever had before. I guess I can't blame her too much for not being able to deal with it, though I hated her for the fact she'd used while pregnant. She left with her brother and his friends, and I saw her at the funeral for the last time. I drifted for a while, working because I had nothing better to do with my days, sitting at home at night because I didn't want to go out. My mama gave it a few months, then came to see me one Sunday afternoon with an article about this place in her hand. She said she'd pay for the plot, but that I'd have to do the planting and taking care of it. She insisted that I do this, claimed she wanted it for her granddaughter, and I didn't have it in me to deny her this. So come April I planted this little garden for the first time. Didn't have much money, so it was pretty sparse, but I got a little creative with rocks and stuff and while I worked at it, I thought about things. For the first time since Rosie died I started really thinking about the future…MY future…and I didn't like what I saw. I was a dropout in a dead-end job, living in a dump and eating macaroni and cheese five nights a week. What kind of father would I have been?"

"So while I planted flowers to honor my baby's memory, I plotted my own life, starting with getting my GED. Then some classes at the community college, an aptitude test which led me to police work. And the rest, as they say, is history." Brown's restless hands were busily gathering up the now empty plastic packs the new flowers had come in, putting them neatly into a small garbage bag.

"So out of the sorrow of losing Rosie you were able to build something good; a happy, productive, meaningful life. There's your miracle, man," Blair declared solemnly.

"I suppose. I just wish Rosie was here to enjoy it. She'd be ten now, and sometimes I look at little girls about her age and imagine things were different. Stupid of me, I know, but I can't help it. She didn't deserve to only live a week."

"No, she didn't. But in that week she changed your life, for the better. And because of that you have Connie now, and the boys, and you help make the world a better place, and that's a lot for her to have accomplished in just a week, you know? Some people live decades and don't accomplish that much."

The big detective seemed to consider Blair's words as he surveyed the small plot he'd been working on. A profusion of bright pansies and violets were woven between thriving rose bushes; the effect both artistic and oddly chaotic - wildly beautiful.

"Thanks, man," he said at last, turning to look at Sandburg with an atypically serious expression.

"No, thank you. For sharing that with me. You've done a great job getting your life together, Rosie would be proud. And Connie is a lucky lady."

"No, I'm the lucky one. I got a second chance at having a family, and I don't want to blow this one. Speaking of which, I need to be heading home. Connie understands and accepts my need to do this, but afterwards we take the boys out for an afternoon of fun. Kind of a way to integrate my memories of my first child with my sons and wife, I guess. That may not make any sense, but it feels right to do that."

"It makes sense, H. Definitely makes sense," the two young men began walking back toward the entrance. "Guess I'll go ahead and join Jim and Simon at the race track."

"Jim's at the stock car races? Oh, man, so that's where he learned to drive like that!" Henri joked, eliciting an answering smile from his companion as they walked under the arched sign of the Garden of Memories, and out into the spring bright street.

The end.

Author's note:When I posted this to the SA list several folks asked if the "Garden of Memories" is a real place. Sadly, no, it isn't. At least I don't know of a place like that. KT 4/2001