Disclaimer: All recognizable people, places, and events in the CSI:NYverse are property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and Alliance-Atlantis. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
A/N: Crack AU. This chapter references "Going Under" and "Field of Dreams", which are also archived on this site.
The resurrection of the dead was impossible according to practical people, the hopeless belief of the desperate who refused to believe that death was The End. Don Flack, Sr. had been one of those grimly practical souls for almost sixty years and had abided by the sad faith in that belief even through the death of his daughter. But sitting bolt-upright in bed with the phone clapped to one ear and listening to his son's slurred, heartbroken voice on the other end of the line, he understood that the dead could walk again.
(oh god pop I'm so sorry I didn't mean'ta I thought she was behind me and then I realized she wasn' and I went right back in after her but it was too late she was already already 'm so sorry pop 'm sorry.)
You didn't realize it was your own little girl's death you were respondin' to that night. '93 was the twilight of your career; you were out by '95, and Donnie was in by '97. You'd known for almost a year by then that you were runnin' outta time beneath the blue. You tried to tell everybody, including your wife, that you were all good, that you could go another ten years if you wanted, but it was fuckin' bullshit. Your knees had been bad for years, and your back was followin' suit, and it was getting harder and harder to chase perps down rickety fire escapes and through dirty alleys. Sooner or later, you were gonna go down like a linebacker with a blown Achilles, 'cept it'd be your heart that popped like a goddanmed balloon.
You knew that time was slippin' away from you, but you weren't ready to give it up just yet because your pussy body was throwin' in the towel. Maybe you couldn't run like you could in your rookie days, when your equipment belt jangled to the beat of your footfalls, but you could still drive, so you cruised the streets in a requisitioned squad car, smokin' Marlboros and listenin' to the crackle of the scanner. You felt a little guilty leavin' Ana and the kids home alone so much, but goin' home meant you had one less day to clip on the badge and be a hero, so you stayed out as long as you could.
Most'a the time, there wasn't much goin' on. Nothin' that you could justify hornin' in on anyway. Aggravated assaults and B and Es didn't call for a homicide dick unless they left stiffs behind. Halloween was usually busier, and you could count on there bein' a body or two in the ME's trick-or-treat bag by mornin', but that Halloween was slow, and you were just about to call it a night when dispatch came through with a reported possible death at the Whisper House.
It didn't pop your nuts, to tell the truth. You were convinced it'd turn out to be some poor homeless bastard who'd frozen to death tryin' to find shelter in that dilapidated shitbox. Or maybe the whiskey he drank to keep the cold outta his bones had finally bitten him back. At worst, it was some dumbfuck college kids celebrating Halloween with a little Satanic ritual and mindless fuckin. It was boredom that caused you to radio dispatch and tell 'em you'd take a look.
The boredom left in a hurry when your headlights swept the street and driveway that led up to Whisper House and showed Donnie doubled over on the lawn with his hands on his knees and breath plumin' from his mouth like the Ghosts of Puke to Come. There were other boys with him, but they were only hulking shapes flittin' and murmurin' beyond the halo of light from your headlights.
Adrenaline flooded your mouth, and your legs were tryin' to get outta the car before your hands'd finished with the seatbelt. Your first thought was that he and his buddies had come out here to screw around and fantasize about tits and pussy and all the other wonderful delights of the fairer sex, only to have their hard-ons snuffed out by the discovery of a weeks-old body buried beneath one of the rottin' couches. Sure, you'd told him before you left that night not to go anywhere near this dump, but he was a kid-not a punk kid, thank God, but still a kid, and he'd been testin' your limits for a while. You'd figure out exactly what had got him so shook up, and then you'd herd his ass into the car and tear him a new one for disobeyin'.
Donnie! you barked. What the hell did I tell-, And the rest of your hardass routine melted in your mouth like a sour M&M.
He looked up at the sound of your voice, and the eyes that met yours weren't the bright, inquisitive eyes of your son. They were stunned and blank, a junkie comin' off a cheap street high or a loved one processing the brutal shock of no more and never again. You were so surprised and uneasy about his dazed expression that you stopped in your tracks and blinked stupidly in the glow of the headlights.
Donnie? you said again. Uncertain now, as though you couldn't remember what you were doing there in the front yard of the Whisper House. His reply erased all hope of the call being a simple matter of a dead body underneath a molderin' couch.
Daddy?
Not Pop or Dad. Daddy. Your son was a man in all but name, mostly grown into the body you, his mother, and God had given him, and he hadn't called you Daddy since he was eight years old and snaggle-toothed as Alfred E. Newman. He'd called you Pops and Sir and Dad, and once, when he was fifteen and brave, he'd called you a miserable son of a bitch, but Daddy had been left behind in childhood, just like the toys that had gathered dust in his room until you'd donated 'em to a children's shelter.
Yet there he stood, your man-child, stripped of all his adult plumage and reduced to the little boy who used to believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and think you wore Superman's cape underneath your blues. He was so lost and vulnerable, and you started toward him on legs gone to wooden stilts.
Daddy. He never called you that again. Not that night, not ever. The next time he spoke to you, he called you Pops, and for the rest of that night it was Sir. Yes, sir and No, sir and I don't know, sir. Daddy was the last glimpse you ever had of your little boy, and if you had known that, maybe you wouldn'ta let go so easily.
Donnie? Fear had made you rough, and you seized his arms and jerked him upright. Donnie, what's wrong? What's the matter? Fuckin' talk to me right now.
His mouth worked and tears streamed down his face. Snot glistened on his upper lip. Then he began to sob, a hard, ugly wracking that doubled him over and left him clutching blindly at your clothes. He was heavy and clumsy, and you staggered beneath his sudden weight. He was trembling, and as you drew him closer to steady him, you detected the faint odors of beer and piss.
Oh, my boy, you thought, but you just gathered his face in your hands and said, Donnie, look at me. Look. I don't know what's happened, but I'm gonna make it right, okay? You just gotta tell me what's wrong, and we'll fix it. Low and soothing. Cop talk, the tone reserved for a nutjob or a child who has just awakened from a deep and terrible nightmare.
He gulped, and his chest hitched. P-pop, it's Diana. His breath was warm and wet against your cheek.
The floodgates opened then, and he started to babble, clinging to your shoulders to maintain his balance. But you heard nothing after your daughter's name, not even the insectile buzz of a muted television. The hand of God had reached in and punctured your eardrums with one jab of His finger.
You disentangled yourself from him and left him sprawling on the lawn like a linebacker in a three-point stance, and legs that had previously claimed kinship with stilts suddenly recalled the secret of flight. You flew across the piebald lawn and up the steps that led into the house, never mind that your knees crackled and popped like the bubble cushion in first-class mail. Panic had transformed a broken-down NYPD warhorse into Carl fuckin' Lewis.
You skidded to a halt just inside the front door and called for your little girl, an unrecognizable, strangled bleat. Diana! Diana, it's Daddy.
You waited, sure that as soon as your eyes adjusted to the pitch darkness, you'd see her creeping out of the shadows with a shamefaced smile and a shy waggle of her fingers. Diana was a good girl. She still knew how to mind you, and you never had to tell her twice. She always came when you called. But she didn't come that time, and your chest tightened.
Diana Elizabeth Flack, you called again, this is your father. You mind me, now, and get your ass here. Another long minute passed, and there was no Diana and no furtive shuffle of feet to betray her hidin' place. Just dusty silence and the sour air of the house that left grit on your tongue. You grimaced and spat blindly. Baby girl. It was almost a wail.
And then your eyes finally adjusted, and you saw her lyin' at the foot of the stairs, one skinny leg tangled in the other. She was on her back, and you rushed forward to scoop her up. You wondered why Donnie would leave her behind. She was his shadow, and even though he pissed and moaned about it, you knew he secretly reveled in bein' an older brother, in lookin' out for her like you'd taught him. So why-
And then you knew. You swayed on the spot as a wave of disbelieving nausea swept over you. You wanted to pick her up, carry her out of the house and away from that bad, dirty place, but once you realized what you were seein', instinct took over, and you backed out of the house and staggered to your patrol car to call it in. You've hated yourself for that ever since. That was when you knew every cruel accusation Donnie had ever hurled at you about bein' more cop than father was true. Any normal father woulda rushed to his child, but you were already beginnin' to process "the scene" with your eyes. Later, Donnie'd admit that he had picked her up, had cradled her against his chest, and the lab boys would confirm that were traces of his DNA on her hair and face. The science wasn't as sophisticated then as it is now, and there was no way to tell how it got there, but you've thought about it a lot over the years, and you suspect it came from his tears.
You never told him-you and Donnie never discussed Diana after that night-but you envied him for that. Yeah, the lab boys could bitch about him contaminatin' and compromisin' the scene, but at least Donnie never lost sight'a what mattered just then. She wasn't just a body, an amalgam of limbs to be documented and examined. She was his baby sister, and she loved him, and she deserved to be fuckin' mourned, and whatever else he'd done wrong in his life, he'd gotten that right.
You don't remember how you got back to your patrol car. Maybe you dream-walked. The next thing you do remember is six units squealin' to a halt in front of that damned house, and their flashers made it look like it was bleedin' where the paint had peeled away. Then the world was awash in shouted orders and muffled feet, and you watched in light-headed detachment as some wet-behind-the-ears uniform wandered to the edge of the lawn with a roll of caution tape tucked beneath one arm. He nodded at you as he unfurled it, and the routine was so deeply-ingrained that you nodded back. Then you realized you were exchanging professional pleasantries while your little girl was coolin' her heels forever at the foot of those stairs, and you had to cram your knuckle into your mouth to keep from cryin' or pukin' or both.
It was Feldman who came to take your statement. He'd been in the department since Job, and when Donnie and Diana were small, he'd slipped them butterscotch discs from the bowl he kept on his desk. Ana railed against it, but you turned a blind eye because every kid needed an Officer Friendly, and besides, someone had done the same for you when you were in short pants. The only difference was the candy. Your favorite had been chewy caramels.
Heya, Don, he said diffidently, and in the fleeting strobe of a flasher, you saw that his haggard, hangdog face was streaked with tears. I'm so sorry. She was-was such a pretty girl.
The well-intended condolences were hot tar against your skin, and you grunted like somebody had kicked you in the balls.
He took a breath to gather himself and said, Aw, God. I, uh, I know there's no right time to do a thing like this, but I, uh, I gotta get your statement.
I was responding to a call from dispatch about a possible body, you told him dully. I figured it would turn out to be nothin', or maybe the usual Halloween fuckery by a bunch'a teenagers, you know. Feldman nodded. Of course he did. You all knew the joys the holiday brought. When I got here, I saw my boy and three others in the yard. Donnie's hysterical, but he finally manages to tell me it's about his sister. So I go in there, and that's when I find m-the vic.
Aw, God, Don, Feldman muttered thickly. D'you mind if I talk to the kid? He jerked his head in the direction of Donnie, who was sittin' on his ass in the frozen grass. He'd stopped bawlin', but his chest was still hitchin', and he was rockin' back and forth with his arms folded across his knees.
You shook your head. Naw, g'head.
Feldman clapped you on the shoulder and trudged over to Donnie, and you watched as he hunkered awkwardly on the lawn so he could make eye contact. I'm so sorry, son, were the first words outta his mouth, and when Donnie started to cry again, the grizzled old bastard didn't hesitate to pull him into a clumsy, one-armed hug. 'S okay, boy, he murmured. 'S okay to hurt now.
Feldman did and said everything you shoulda as his father. It shoulda been you down there on the grass with your arm around his neck and his blotchy face pressed into the fabric of your coat, but you were paralyzed with confusion and anger. Anger most of all, phosphorous and lye in the pit of your stomach. After twenty-two years of protectin' the city, this was how God repaid you for a job well done, by stealin' one of your children? It wasn't fuckin' fair. That wasn't the way it was supposed to work. Those who protected were protected in turn. So why was your daughter being photographed by the CSU and the goddamned coroner?
Anger. And the greatest of these was anger. It drove you to backhand your broken-hearted son while he watched the paramedics load his sister into the belly of Charon's modern ferry, and later the following afternoon, it led you to beat him in the passenger seat of your car because he had the stones to mourn for a sister his carelessness had gotten killed. You shoulda consoled him, shoulda told him how proud you were of him for not fallin' apart while he stood, naked, in front of a lab boy with his balls in his hand.
Instead, you slapped him in the face over and over again until your hand went numb. The sound of flesh on flesh was punctuated only by the sound of Donnie gaspin' for breath. It was the sound that prompted the first slap, the low, mournful, keenin' from your son's throat, and suddenly the rage was blindin'. You jammed on the brakes hard enough to make your teeth click and your seatbelt lock, and then you stared at him, the little pussy bastard who'd killed his sister.
Your hand left the steering wheel and connected with the side of his face before your brain registered the movement, and the slap bounced his head off the passenger window. The sound stopped immediately, but you hit him again anyway, and a third time. The prickling heat felt good on your palm, and each blow bled a little of the anger. Part of you was appalled by what you were doing, but that part was small and far away, cowed by the leviathan fury that coiled in your stomach and heart like disease, so you hit him a fourth time. Every time you counted the anger as spent, it flared again, fueled by the knowledge that when you got home, you were gonna have to tell your Ana that one of her angels had flown from this earth before her.
You. Don't. Ever. Talk. About. Her. Again, you snarled, each word accompanied by a slap. Never again. You don't got no right.
You finally split his lip on an errant slap, and the blood stopped you cold. It was bright in the black and white your world had become since you saw your daughter lyin' at the foot of the stairs. You blinked as you watched it trickle down his chin, and you absently wiped it away with the ball of your thumb. You were too stunned to apologize, and really, you didn't know how to say you were sorry for somethin' like that, so you just returned your hand to the steerin' wheel and started drivin' again. For his part, Donnie just stared straight ahead and never said a word.
Tellin' Ana was ten times harder than your worst imaginin's, and for a brief moment when her shrill, disbelievin' sobs pierced the air, the rage returned, virulent as ever, but mostly there was sharp guilt and dull shame, and the two conspired to make your stomach cramp. You didn't sleep that night 'cause all you could think about was Donnie's eyes, dead as his sister's, and the way his head thumped against the window with every hit. You worried you mighta damaged him, concussed him, so you sneaked into his room every couple'a hours to be sure that he hadn't followed his sister in his sleep.
Maybe if you coulda apologized the next mornin', you coulda salvaged your relationship with your boy, but the sight of those bruises on his face when he came down the stairs the next mornin' paralyzed your tongue, and anyway, you had your hands full with Ana, who was so grief-stricken that you had to half-carry her to the toilet. So you told yourself you'd deal with it later and left your son alone with his grief.
But later never came. The funeral came and went, and you ate the ashes that people brought in covered dishes. The only way to mark the passage of time was by the echoin' retches of your son as he heaved his guts in the bathroom with the risin' and settin' of the sun. You thought it would stop after a week or so, but one month after his sister was in the ground, he was still pukin' up his sorrow.
You listened to the wet gargles of his mournin', and on Christmas Day, you watched him build a snowman in the front yard. He and Diana built one every year from the time they could walk, and it was the one activity of the day they never fought over. They just put on their boots and mittens and stumped outside. You used to watch 'em from the front window, and it was the same every year. They worked together to roll the base, and then Donnie rolled the torso. The head was Diana's, and so was the face. When she was little, he'd hoist her up so she could reach. She'd put your dress cap on its head and push the coal and carrot into his face. Then Donnie'd set her down and push the toy badge into Frosty's chest, and they'd stand back to admire their handiwork. The end was always marked by a snowball fight, and they'd stamp into the house, wet and red-cheeked and happy.
That year, he built a snowman by himself. He trudged outside with your hat, the fake badge, and an old scarf, and you watched him go through the motions of the familiar ritual. It was slow without Diana, but he doggedly kept at it, and Frosty rose from the earth once more. Base, torso, and head. He plopped your hat atop Frosty's dome, pinned the badge to his chest, and draped the scarf around his neck. Then he stood back, hands fisted at his side, and surveyed the serenely smiling face.
He bent and packed the snow at his feet into a tight ball, and then he turned at threw it. It landed a few yards away with a sad whump that made your heart drop into your shoes because it was so final, and so unfair.
Donnie stared at the spot where the snowball had landed for a long moment, and then he rounded on Frosty. He punched the beatifically smiling face and kicked blindly at the fat, jolly bottom. He tore the badge from Frosty's chest and stomped it into the snow, and he smashed the base and torso with a flurry of kicks and clubbin' blows. He didn't stop until there was nothin' left but your dress cap sittin' on top of a small hump of snow. Then he bent and picked up your cap from the ground. He shook the dust from the brim, and then he just…looked at the spot where Frosty had been.
You didn't like your snowman? you asked mildly when he returned to the house, and turned your head so he wouldn't see the tears.
He was stupid, Donnie muttered. He shuffled upstairs with your dress cap still in his hand and slammed his bedroom door hard enough to make it rattle in the frame. That was the last snowman he ever built.
That was the day you decided to get rid of Diana's things. Maybe then it wouldn't be like rubbin' salt into an open wound every time he opened his eyes. You couldn't actually bring yourself to do it until January. It seemed appropriate to do it then, to give the new year a fresh start. You took down her pictures and removed her chair from the table, and Ana cleaned her room and stripped her bed. When it was down, you cradled the remnants of your daughter's life in your arms and took your little girl for one last ride in the patrol car. You talked to her all the way to the Goodwill, told her you loved her and missed her, and that this didn't mean you were gonna forget her. Passin' those boxes over to the smilin', unsuspectin' lady behind the counter of Goodwill was like watchin' the paramedics take her all over again. You went back to the car, pulled it into the nearest alley, and cried until you threw up. She was your little girl, and now she was nobody's little girl, and now she was gone. You smoked a cigarette or half a dozen to calm your nerves, and then you sought the sanctuary of the stationhouse and tried to pretend that nothin' was missin' from your heart.
If you thought it would make things easier on Donnie, it backfired. The mornin' salaams to the great god Bog stopped, but he just got more aloof than ever, and when he looked at you, the blankness that had replaced his adoration had in turn been supplanted by deep, sullen resentment. He was mad at you for takin' his sister, and you were too ashamed of not bein' there for him after she died to explain that you'd done it for him. So the gap between you got wider and wider, and then one day, he disappeared into it altogether.
Now here he was, calling him in the middle of the night and bringing back the voices of the dead. Pop, I gotta talk to you. I need your help.
He glanced at the oversized numbers on the alarm clock beside the bed. Two A.M. "Don, what's goin' on? It's ass o'clock over here."
"I know, Pop, I know." Agitated and slurred, as if he were on the bare edge of a drunk. "Look, I'm sorry, but I didn't know who else to call."
He threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. "You all right? Somethin' happen on the job?" He was wide awake, and his mind was racing with unpleasant possibilities. Behind him, Ana stirred on her side of the bed, and the room was dimly illuminated by the bedside lamp.
"Don? Who is it? Is everything all right? Is it Donnie?" Waspish, and filled with worry for the child over whom she had so recently held vigil.
He flapped a silencing hand at her and shuffled into the bathroom, where he closed the door and locked it behind him. He sat on the toilet.
"No. I mean, yeah, but not like you're thinkin'. Aw, fuck."
"Don, slow down and talk to me. You're not makin' any fuckin' sense."
"I can't talk here, Pop. I'm outside the green lanterns."
Ah. "Outside the green lanterns" meant his boy was undercover. He shifted on the toilet. "Then why you even-?"
"It's about my girl. Pop, please."
"Listen to me now, and listen good. I want you to go to the drugstore and buy one'a them cheap, disposable cellphones. As soon as you get someplace safe, you call me. You lock yourself in the crapper somewhere and tell anybody with you you gotta take a really big shit. I'll be waitin'."
He hung up without waiting for an answer and left the bathroom. Ana was waiting for him, clutching impulsively at the neck of her nightgown. "What is it?" she demanded. "Is Donnie hurt?"
"Naw, he ain't hurt. He's fine. He just needs a little advice, that's all." He scratched at the baggy seat of his boxers.
"At two in the morning?"
"'S about the job," he muttered vaguely. "Now go back to bed and turn out the light before you wake up Junior. Was hard enough getting him to sleep the first time."
He shambled past her through the living room and into the kitchen. He turned on the light without even thinking and went to the cabinet above the stove. He kept his booze and his cigarettes in it, and he suspected that he would need them both before he saw his bed again. Ana and his doctor were after him to give up both, but they could go hang. They didn't live inside his head, and in thirty years on the job, a drink and a good smoke had been the only things able to steady his nerves after a rough shift. Well, that and a good screw, but at his age, that was no longer a nightly engagement.
It was two hours before his son called again, and he had nearly nodded off into his ashtray when the phone rang.
"'Lo?" he grunted.
"It's me, Pop."
He rubbed his face with his hand. "'Course it's you. You gonna tell me the trouble you're in?"
"I'm not in trouble. Well-,"
"Don, goddammit, I'm not in the mood for fuckin' ring-around-the-goddamned-rosie," he barked.
"Couple' a weeks ago, the DA approaches me 'bout goin' undercover to bust a child pornography and sex-trade ring. Told me it was a two-day job, max, that I'd be home with Rebecca and my boy before I knew it. That was almost seven days ago, and then tonight, Rebecca sees me in the window of the restaurant with my partner."
"So?"
"We were playin' husband and wife."
"Ah." He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Listen, Don, I know it's rough, but if she's gonna be a cop's wife, she's gonna have to accept that you gotta do things like that now and again."
"I didn't tell her."
"Tell her what?' he asked, but comprehension dawned before Don could answer. "Ah. Shit."
"I know it was stupid, but I thought she had enough to worry about takin' care'a Junior, and 'sides, I figured I'd be home before it mattered."
"Your first mistake was believin' a single word that came outta that DA asshole's mouth," he grunted prosaically. He was about to tell him how heroically stupid it had been not to tell her about the assignment in the first place, but then a slap echoed in his ears, and he saw his son's head bounce off the passenger window with a dull thud. He closed his mouth. Finally, he said, "What d'you want me to do?"
"Talk to her, Pop, explain to her what's goin' on. Convince her to talk to my captain."
"What makes you think she's not just gonna slam the door in my face? Things between her an' me aren't as bad as between her and your ma, but somehow I doubt she'd be the first in line to nominate me for The Grand High Poobah of Upper Buttcrack."
"You got no reason to lie."
"'Cept for the fact that I'm your father."
Don's sardonic snort cut him to the quick, and he resisted the urge to break the connection and drink until the world blurred to nothingness and his mouth tasted of turpentine and sawdust.
What'd you expect him to say? Did you think he'd fall all over himself with gratitude just because you acknowledged paternity? Truth is, you haven't been a real father to him since Diana died, and the last good time you ever had with him was when you took him to a Yankees game after school when he was ten. Even that wasn't perfect 'cause you left Diana behind, and Ana told you while you were getting ready for bed that night that she'd been crushed by the exclusion. No Father of the Year there. Your son hates your guts, so don't expect him to get all dewy-eyed at one clumsy gesture in fifteen years.
"Pop, I'm askin' you to try. I can only imagine what's goin' through her head, but I can't lose her or Junior. I can't. Not to this job. If you won't tell her, I'll walk on the assignment and tell her myself."
"You can't. You walk, and you'll get you and your partner killed."
"Fuck Delgado, and without Rebecca and Junior, I don't have anything to live for anyway."
You wouldn't," his mouth said, but his heart knew he would.
He adored Rebecca. You saw that the minute he brought her home. He carried her up the steps and over the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world, and then he went back for her chair as if it was nothin' more important than a handbag. He was smilin' and laughin' the whole time he settled her into it, and you could see that it was old hat to both of them, simply a part of their routine.
You were surprised at the girl who had captured his heart. You expected that the woman who would eventually take his name would be feisty and no-nonsense, not meek and quiet and delicate. The chair shocked you; of course it did. Don had talked his girl to the moon in the week before the visit, but in all the details he'd provided about the future Mrs. Flack, he'd never mentioned her handicap. Just how smart and determined and sweet she was, and all her degrees and accomplishments. He'd made her out to be a goddess, and you were startled to see the diminutive waif she'd turned out to be. Still, you knew your boy was a good judge of character for the most part, so you were willin' to reserve judgment.
Ana, on the other hand, was devastated. Oh, she tried to hide her disappointment behind polite, strained smiles and stilted conversation, but she wasn't foolin' anyone, least of all Rebecca, who bore the scathing tines of maternal disappointment with stoic dignity. From the moment Don had called to say he was bringin' someone special home, she had been in an ecstasy of anticipation, and she'd fluttered around the house, talkin' about weddin' plans and grandbabies. She'd been after Don to settle down since the day he graduated the academy, and now five years behind schedule, he was finally lookin' to start a family. And then she'd taken one dismayed look at Rebecca, and all her dreams had died. Surely nothing that fragile could create and sustain life.
You knew Rebecca registered the subconscious insults and questioning of her worth because you saw her knuckles tighten, but she never lost her head, never gave in to the childish, petty insults that surely tickled the backs of her teeth. She just kept her head up and answered the questions as best she could and evaded the rudest queries with a timely sip of coffee.
Regardless of what you or Ana thought, he married his girl at St. Patrick's, young and handsome in his blues. He was as proud of her as any groom on his weddin' day, and he treated her like Cinderella while he spun her around the dance floor at the reception. It shoulda been clumsy, their dancin', but it was smooth and fluid in spite of her feet bein' Velcroed to his, and you thought that it was just another proof of the secret lovers' world they shared.
You finally realized what he saw in her after that bastard psycho had laid his guts open and landed him in the ICU. She was obviously stunned and wracked with grief, but she was also ready to tangle with pushy doctors and insensitive nurses. There was deceptive strength beneath the weakness of her body, and she was his fiercest advocate when he couldn't speak for himself.
You still remember the precise moment when you knew your son had made the right choice in a wife. Some eager-beaver young administrator was askin' her if she wanted to donate Don's organs in the event that he never made it off the table. She looked at his earnest face and then at the sheaf of tidy, white papers on his clipboard.
May I see those? she asked, and you thought she was actually considerin' givin' your boy over to the body snatchers. She paged through the forms, lips pursed in concentration. When she looked up, her smile was feral. My husband has been on the table for an hour, and you're coming to me, asking permission to pick his bones while he's still alive?
The compassionate smile on the face of the administrator faltered. Ma'am, I can assure you that the outstanding surgeons here at Trinity are doing everything in their power to ensure that your husband makes a full recovery. These papers are simply a way of ensuring that if the unthinkable should happen, he'll leave a legacy of honor. As a police officer, your husband devotes his life to saving others. Wouldn't it be fitting if-?
Shut up, you supercilious toerag, she snapped. Don't you dare give me that tired spiel about doing my final duty by my husband. Don't trot out hollow-eyed waifs whose lives could be saved if only I would set aside my grief and sell his kidneys and his eyes and his lungs like they were fucking giblets. My husband has paid his debt to New York over and over and over again in ways you cannot possibly imagine, and when he gets up out of that hospital bed, he will do it again. That's the kind of man he is, and I love him for it, but that doesn't mean I like it. The administrator was staring at her in rapidly deepening alarm.
Her voice was soft as she continued. It was mournful, but there was also a bitter satisfaction in it that raised the hackles on your arms. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I am not a good woman. Not by any stretch of your fervid imagination. I don't care about the hollow-eyed children with kidneys gone septic inside their bodies or fathers who could study the faces of their children if they only had new corneas. The only life I care about is the one in OR 6, and if that one is snuffed out, I won't use its embers to rekindle flagging souls. That life is mine. He entrusted it to me, and I'll be damned if I'll dole it out like candy to ignorant bastards who won't give a flying fuck about the man who gave it to them.
So, you take these forms and get out of here, and if you even think about coming in here with a DNR or any other bits of backdoor paperwork, you'll be picking this clipboard out of your teeth. She tossed the clipboard at him and sat back in her chair, face inscrutable as fog. The administrator left and did not return, and you put paid to any questions of what Don saw in her.
You saw other glimpses of what had drawn him to her in the days after his surgery. You only visited twice after he came out of his coma-it broke your heart to see him in so much pain, and you got the distinct impression that he didn't want you there-but you saw enough. The same hands that were so stiff and clumsy as they'd struggled to hold forks and champagne flutes at the weddin' reception were gentle and soft with him. They caressed his bloodless face and rubbed his hands, and when the pain gripped him, they hovered over his wounds and murmured words of comfort. You never understood what she whispered into his ear-it sounded like gibberish-but his face would relax, and his breath would come a little easier, and he could sleep. After seein' her with him in the hospital, you had no doubt that she was in it for the long haul.
It took Ana a little longer to come around, but she finally did when Junior was born. When Don called from St. Vincent's Maternity Pavilion in late July and told you to bring his mother and come right away, you had no idea what the fuck was goin' on, but then you walked into the room, and there was Rebecca, propped in a bed, and Don, holdin' a squirmin' blue bundle.
Ain't he beautiful, Ma? he said, and pulled back the blanket to expose that solemn, wrinkled face. He's perfect, Ma. My boy.
He coulda knocked you both over with a feather. You never even knew she was pregnant, and you thought he might be jokin', but then you got closer and saw the tiny anklet that said, Flack, Don III, and the blue eyes that have been passed to every Flack child in memory. And the way he was holdin' him, like he was more precious than air. You'd held him and his sister that way a lifetime ago. That was his son, and your boy was a proud papa.
Ana forgave Rebecca everything the instant Don placed Junior in her arms. She finally got it through her head that Rebecca was just tryin' to be good for her son, just like any other girl he mighta married. Her handicap didn't make her any less capable of lovin' Don for who he was, and she was just like any other new mama when the baby started fussin'. She reached for him and inspected him, and when she figured out he was hungry, she popped him onto the breast just as neat as you please. And Don just beamed about it all, one hand supporting his son's rump.
He got it right. He learned to put his family before the badge, and he's happier in his marriage than you ever were in yours. So you're damn right he'll walk if it's a choice between his family and his badge.
"Listen, I'm gonna go talk to her, all right? I'll tell her what you told me and see if I can't convince her to at least talk to your captain or the DA to confirm your story. Then I'm gonna give her the number to your disposable cell. That's all I can do. I can't make her talk if she don't wanna, and I'm too damn old to go strongarmin'."
"All right, Pop." He sighed. "Thanks."
"I-," It's gonna be all right, son. That's what he wanted to say to the son he had failed so many times, but thirteen years out of the uniform, and the cop was still too strong. "I'm leavin' right now," he finished instead, and hung up.
He snubbed out his cigarette, took one last swig of bourbon, and stood. If he was going to be thrust into the role of white knight, he'd better look the part. He shuffled out of the kitchen and went in search of his razor, some mouthwash, and his dress blues.