Author's Notes: This one's for my chat gals;) Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing!
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The Last Embrace
by Kristen Elizabeth
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November 1984
"Tell me about that night, Laura."
"I thought you said we could talk about whatever I wanted."
The psychiatrist nodded slowly. "Yes. But you didn't start talking." There was a long pause. "Laura, I thought we'd moved past this. In the month you've been here, you've made some real progress in coming to terms with what happened. Let's not step backwards now."
Laura wrapped her arms around her chest. The cotton of the pants and top they'd provided for her was stiff and rough with too much starch. She wanted to rip them off and burn them. Anything but sit here and be forced to talk about her life. But that probably wouldn't go over too well. Or help her get out of here any faster. Not that jail was a better alternative than the wacky ward. But her lawyer said she was suffering from a syndrome, and that if she got any jail time, it wouldn't be much.
Maybe she just wasn't used to anyone giving a damn about what she had to say.
"I miss my kids," she said after a long moment.
The woman crossed her legs. "Adam and Sara. Tell me about them."
"Adam's almost grown; he's more like this stranger who stops by occasionally to eat. But Sara…" Laura looked out the barred window. "She's coming here, you know? For a visit."
"That's something to look forward to," the shrink said.
"I guess." The sky outside was cloudy, Laura noted. Rain was on its way. "I don't want her to see me here. She's seen enough."
Glancing down at her files, the psychiatrist nodded. "She was there that night. Wasn't she?"
"I'm not talking about that night," Laura snapped. "Got it?"
"Besides yourself, who are you protecting by not talking about it?" When Laura said nothing, the woman sighed. "What happens fifteen years from now when your daughter asks about that night?"
"With any luck, she won't."
"She's not a child, but she's still very young. If she doesn't hear it from you, all she'll have is her own undoubtedly spotty memories, colored by whatever she's heard from DCF workers and foster parents. Wouldn't you rather she know the whole truth?"
Laura rested her forehead on the cool glass pane. "Maybe I don't want her to ever understand where I was that night. My daughter shouldn't ever know how it feels to be so unwilling to take another beating…that you'd grab a knife and…" She bit her lip. "Fuck! How do you head-shrinkers always get your way?"
The psychiatrist waited patiently.
She let go of a breath she'd been holding for a long time. "That night…I burned dinner."
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On her first night back at work, Sara carried a box under her arm. Everyone she passed along the hallway knew what it was for; most of them ducked their heads and murmured quick apologies before hurrying off.
The locker room was empty, a blessing as far as she was concerned. She was even tempted to see if the door could be bolted shut, so she would be guaranteed absolute privacy as she cleared out Nick's locker.
She turned the combination by heart and paused a second, gathering her strength before continuing.
There were several pictures taped to the inside of the metal door. They were layered, their corners overlapping, so they formed a reverse time line. Sara pulled them down one by one, curling the excess tape into a neat little ball.
The most recent was Cassie taking her first steps. On the day she'd started to pull herself up onto her feet, Nick had started keeping a camera within arm's distance at all times, determined to capture the major milestone on film. And he had succeeded. He'd snapped the photo just as Cassie had broken away from Sara and started toddling towards him, beaming from ear to tiny ear.
She took down a few more in the same vein, including a picture of Nick holding Cassie just after her birth. He was wearing hospital scrubs; the baby was so small against his chest. And the way he looked down at her, the impossibly small human being who had come out of Sara's own body …it was nothing short of pure, miraculous wonderment.
A wallet-sized copy of their wedding portrait went into the box next. She hadn't wanted a professional photographer, but Nick's parents had insisted and paid, so she'd given in. Of course, the pictures were beautiful, but Sara secretly preferred the ones that their friends had taken with provided, disposable cameras.
The last picture she took down was, to her knowledge, the first that had been taken of them together. Not as friends, but as a couple. He had his arm around her shoulders, but not in a casual, meaningless way. There was fledgling attachment in the embrace that even now made her stomach churn with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort.
Once the photos had been removed, Sara started on the shelves. She took Nick's crime scene vest off its hanger and ran her thumb over his embroidered surname. She hadn't taken it, and he hadn't pressed the issue. Although part of her had wanted to shed her father's name and take on a new one, deep down she knew that changing your life wasn't as easy as that. So, she'd stayed Sara Sidle. But every now and then, usually when she was too tired or too sated to argue, he'd called her Mrs. Stokes. Sara folded the vest in half and laid it in the box.
Into the box went a bottle of shampoo, a razor, shaving cream, a bar of soap and a comb. He kept an extra set of clothes in his locker, and the shirt still smelled his aftershave. She lifted the collar up to her face and breathed in her last scent of him.
And then her chore was done. She sat down next to the half-filled box and took a breath. Nick would always be a part of this place. So why did she suddenly feel like she'd cleared him away?
Greg found her still sitting there twenty minutes later.
"Sara." He approached her cautiously. "Shift's about to start."
She looked up at him with wet eyes. "Thanks."
Without peeking inside of it, Greg sat down on the other side of the box. "I'm glad you're back."
"Catherine told me to take a few more days, but…" Sara lifted one shoulder. "It's not going to be any easier to be here in seventy-two hours."
"Maybe…you shouldn't go out in the field," Greg said, wisely hesitant about making the suggestion.
But Sara just shook her head. "I want to work. And then I want to go home and be with my daughter."
"And then come back and do it all over again?" He glanced at her. "How about if between the two, we catch some breakfast? Frank's has a new special. Southwest omlette. It's truly, wonderfully disgusting."
"Not yet, Greg. But thanks." She stood and picked up the box. "I can't make a habit out of seeking shelter every time I lose something." Sara started for the door with her surprisingly heavy burden. "It only ends up hurting everyone."
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To Be Continued