JULY AND DECEMBER
JULY 2010, JULY 2008:
A sad ending
This chapter is told from Grissom's POV
Spoilers: Lies, larvae and videotape, and the Anthony Hopkins/Emma Thompson movie "The Remains of the Day" (I really think that if Grissom watched this movie, he'd also identify with Hopkins' character.)
Warning: Character death, drama, tragedy… in short, read this only if you want to cry. (But you can read it and assume that it was just a dream…)
JULY 2010
Someone's knocking on my door. I barely stir. I don't want to move and I won't. Let them bang all they want. It'll be ok. Whoever it is, he'll leave and I'll go back to sleep-
"Gil!" a female voice calls, "Grissom, open up!"
Oh, crap. It's Catherine.
I don't want to see her but if I don't open the door soon, she'll make such a racket that my neighbors will remind me –again- that they tolerate my presence just because I've kept things quiet until now.
I leave the dubious comfort of my couch and walk to the door.
I open it, glare at her and then I go back to the living room; but before I turn I catch a glimpse of her face. She's opened her mouth to say something but one look at me makes her shut up. I know what I look like. Sometimes a get a glimpse of my face in the mirror and I barely recognize the man looking back. My hair is long and wild, my beard looks like a rat's nest, and my eyes are empty- like a murderer's. If I didn't shower and if I didn't wear clean clothes, anybody would think I'm homeless.
I like it; I like to look like this. It keeps the do-gooders away.
"Oh, Gil." She sighs. This is what she does when she comes to my place: She sighs, she says something –hoping to make me react- and then she quietly starts to pick up the mess I've created. I mean, I try to keep my place clean, but I tend to accumulate books, newspapers, and bug specimens, and I keep the windows locked. That's the first thing she does today: Open the windows.
I let her work until I notice that she's afraid of lifting a box. She thinks there's a spider under it, like the last time.
"Don't worry. I haven't collected anything lately."
"Gil, I know you never listen to what I say, but I'll say it anyway: you can't go on like this."
I look at her for a moment. I usually don't say anything, but she's worried.
"Please, don't worry about me." I say, but it's not enough to placate, so I add, "I know you mean well, Catherine, but… I like my life." I say, "I study, I read, and I don't have to deal with crime anymore."
She's not convinced; she shakes her head and turns away.
She quietly sorts the mail I've let accumulate on my coffee table. I take care of my bills, but the rest of my mail remains untouched. I pretty much know what's inside some of those envelopes, anyway. There are cards from Warrick and Nick; cards from Brass, who retired early this year and moved away; and big envelopes from Greg. He's a father now, and for some reason he considers me his baby's godfather; I've never acknowledged the honor but he keeps sending me pictures of his son anyway.
I rarely read their messages or write back, but I appreciate their efforts. They're trying to keep me connected to the world. They keep tabs on me too; now and then they make phone calls just to make sure that I'm ok. They don't talk or ask anything; and as soon as I speak and ask them to stop worrying, they hung up.
"A bullet would me more merciful, Gil."
I turn. Catherine's looking at me from the other side of the room.
"I don't want mercy." I say, and suddenly I'm reminded of a song in Spanish I learned in the seventies,
"Hoy quiero saborear mi dolor… no pido compasión ni piedad…"
(Now I want to savor my grief; no, I don't want compassion nor pity…"
"But you look…" she protests weakly, "You're so…"
"I'm ok." I say, and it's true. I'm healthy, despite my appearance. We Grissoms are a resilient bunch. My mother is still alive, for God's sake. My father's dead (but then he was not a Grissom, the bastard. Oh, wait. I'm the bastard).
Catherine sighs again, and goes to the kitchen. She opens a drawer and rummages 'til she finds a pair of scissors.
"Come sit down," she says, patting a chair. I sit and she skillfully starts cutting my hair. She tells me about the lab, and the cases. She starts trimming my beard, and that's when she tells me that Lindsay's pregnant. Her voice falters a little. I don't know what to say and eventually she just keeps talking. She's determined to help her daughter, she says. She'll probably have to quit CSI, and do something else. Open a boutique, perhaps.
"How's Lindsay doing?"
"She's scared."
"You'll be ok." I said, awkwardly, "Grandma." I add.
"Oh, that's a low blow." She says, pretending to be indignant. Then she sighs, "I'm scared too. My baby's having a baby." She's going to say something when her attention wanders. "What's that?" she asks.
I look at the kitchen counter. There's something flat and shiny on it.
It's something I was cleaning up early today- silver tarnishes if you're not careful – and suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by the need to tell my story. Nobody knows it; not even Sara had the whole picture… and by the time I had it, it was too late.
"Do you want to hear a story, Catherine?" I ask. I don't wait for her answer. I have to tell someone… and I'm glad it's her. She's not bound to get over sentimental about it, but she'll understand. "It started one July," I explain, "a long time ago…"
And I tell her the story of our lives –Sara's and mine –the little I can tell her of the events that occurred a long time ago; events that shaped the rest of our lives, starting on 1998 and ending on 2004.
After I tell her about it, I look for my diary, the one I stopped writing a long time ago –(there was no point in going on, right? I only started it as a sort of therapy in order to deal with a pain that I was sure would only be temporary).
I open my book and search for a date, two years ago, so she understands what those shiny objects mean. And then I read…
(Excerpts from Grissom's diary)
July 6 2008:
She left four years ago.
I think it's fitting that today I finally came to terms with the fact that she's an FBI agent, and a successful one.
Her first job at the Bureau was as an assistant instructor, teaching forensics to FBI recruits. I kept hoping she'd despise her job –and come back to CSI- but she didn't. She held it for two whole years before being rewarded with a position at the Profilers' Unit. It was the kind of job she would excel at, but I wondered if she'd tolerate the 'Boys' Club' attitude of her male colleagues, and the condescending way they treated female agents. Part of me wanted her to succeed, but part of me hoped she would hate it.
She didn't hate it. She did great, actually.
In fact, Sara has done so well at the FBI that it seems that the years she spent with us were merely a stepping stone in her career. She took the knowledge she acquired at the lab and used it for the benefit of the Bureau.
Not that I really know what it's going on in her life. The little I get to hear about her comes courtesy of the FBI bulletins we get now and then, and thanks to Catherine and Greg, who chat with her every month and then casually tell me about it. I pretend I don't care much, and they pretend they believe me.
Sara and I haven't talked in four years. After she left, I tried to establish some sort of relationship with her - a long distance friendship like the one we had when she lived in San Francisco… But she never answered my phone calls and she never even read my e-mails. By August, I had finally gotten the message behind her silence: Let me move on.
I did.
Everybody has moved on, actually. A year ago, Warrick and Nick requested a transfer and got it - Nick returned to Texas and Warrick moved to New Orleans. A little after that, Catherine was promoted to Day Shift Supervisor and she left me too. Only Greg has remained behind, and he's my right hand now… But he won't be here much longer. Last year he married his long-time girlfriend and he's been talking of moving to Oregon, where most of her family lives. He's going to become a father in a couple of months.
Time's passing by so fast…
I didn't move on. I still do my job and spend most of the hours of the day at the lab. The cases are still gruesome and complicated and they keep me busy enough not to dwell on personal losses.
But when I have too much free time in my hands, I pick up a pen and I write this.
I also think… and remember.
I came to terms with her absence a long time ago. It was hard, but I eventually accepted the fact that she wouldn't be back. I've missed her, sure; but I've taken comfort in my picture-perfect memories of her: Sara, helping me to solve a case… Sara, brushing chalk off my cheek… Sara, solving a case all by herself… Sara, telling me to think outside the box…
And mostly, Sara, bringing me a thermos of coffee and a blanket while I studied a rotting pig. Not a very romantic image, some would say… but it's just perfect. I think that's my favorite memory of her. If I died and had to relive a single moment of my life for eternity, that's the one I'd choose: Both of us sharing a cup of coffee and taking notes… Her smile… and her eyes full of devotion and gratitude as she uttered a single word: 'thanks'.
July 11
At first, I thought –I hoped- that Sara would come back, if only for a visit. By the second year, I was still hoping she'd visit, but I also started dreading the idea. I was sure she'd bring a boyfriend or a husband and maybe even a baby; I was afraid that she'd look at me in the eye… and she would tell me without words that all that could have been mine, if I-
If.
It was a relief when she didn't come with a husband and a baby, but… Now I wish she had. I wish she'd visit -with a husband and a kid or two –or a dozen; it doesn't matter. I just need to see her... Because I've started to forget what she looks like.
Those images of hers I mentioned a few days ago –the smile, the eyes, and her voice- have started to blur. I can't seem to capture her smile - her smiles, I mean: the I-don't-want-to-show-my-gap one; the small, flirty one she gave me when I told her I needed her to work with me; and her happy I-don't-mind-if-you-look-at-my-gap smile. Sometimes I can't recall her voice, and have to go to the evidence room to listen to old interviews on tape, in order to remember.
And sometimes I do remember her voice and her smile, and it's the eyes I can't see clearly.
I'm afraid that one of these days I won't be able to conjure her image at all…
And then I'll be left with nothing.
Brass came to my office today. I was reading a report, and he let me finish before he said anything. But by the look in his face, I had a good idea of what he was going to say.
"How are you doing, Gil?"
I had my answer ready:
"I'm fine." That's what I always say.
His next question was predictable too.
"Are you?"
I opened my mouth to continue this dialogue we've repeated a hundred of times in the last four years:
He: "Are you?"
Me: "Yes, I am,"
He: "Oh, well. (sarcastically) As long as you think you're ok."
Me (glaring): "I am, Jim."
He (backing off): "Ok, I heard you"
So, instead of repeating that conversation, I answered truthfully.
"I can't remember her face anymore." He didn't ask whom I was talking about; he waited for me to continue, and I did, "Yesterday I was watching an old movie called 'The Remains of the Day'" I said, and he frowned because he didn't see what that had to do with Sara. But he didn't say anything. He merely looked at me in silence. It's an effective technique that forces witnesses to babble, and it worked on me too. After a pause, I explained, "It's a movie about a butler and a housekeeper and World War II-"
"I saw it." Brass said slowly, "It's an English movie, right?" When I nodded, he mused aloud, "I think I remember. The housekeeper falls in love with the butler, but he's a repressed SOB-" he looked at me in the eye, "He lets her go and when he tries to get her back, it's just too late."
I nodded.
"That's the one." I said, "I saw it and didn't think anything of it. But when I woke up today and thought of Sara-" I looked up, "I always think of her when I wake up," I explained, "it's like waking up from a nightmare, only to discover that it wasn't a nightmare-" I paused and returned to my original subject, "So, I woke up today and when I thought of Sara, it wasn't her face I saw in my mind, but Emma Thompson's. No matter how I tried to picture Sara, it was Emma Thompson that I saw… in a white lab coat and in coveralls-" I tried to smile but there was nothing funny about it. "I know what Sara looked like and I could describe her to you-" I paused, "But I just can't picture her."
"For God's sake, Gil." He sighed, "Just call her, why don't you?"
"What for?" I frowned, "To ask her for a picture?"
"If that's all you need from her." he said calmly (although I could see he was making a big effort not to yell at me).
"She has her own life now." I said.
"Yeah, but she always had a soft spot for you. Who knows what she'll do if you grovel?" He tried to smile, "Maybe she'll be your friend again. Wouldn't that be something?"
He quietly left my office.
I hesitated for a couple of minutes, but finally I dialed an FBI number I'd memorized a long time ago.
A secretary told me that Sara was on an assignment, but that she'd get my message as soon as she returned.
July 12:
Sara never got my message.
Yesterday, Sara Sidle died in the line of duty, while rescuing a kidnapped child. According to a source that asked to remain anonymous (actually, a friend of Greg's at the Bureau), Sara acted on her own when the man in charge botched the rescue operation. Disobeying her supervisor's orders to stay put, she entered the building the kidnappers were huddled in, and rescued the boy. She got the little kid to safety, but not before getting shot in the back. Her colleagues took her to safety but medical assistance was slow to arrive and Sara didn't even make it to the hospital.
She died a hero.
July 16:
Catherine, Greg, and I flew to Washington for her memorial service.
Sara's family won't be there. They don't want anything to do with the FBI; they simply took her ashes and left. We don't want to deal with FBI agents either, but we need to be there. It's our last chance to be close to her.
The Bureau hasn't publicly admitted any wrongdoing in Sara's death; they simply sanitized the truth, obliterating all evidence of their incompetence and using Sara's part in the rescue to make everybody look good. But according to Greg's friend, heads have started to roll: Sara's supervisor, Culpepper, and others had been fired…
Sara was right; she made a difference.
But it's a hollow victory.
Nick and Warrick were already there. They were especially kind to me, treating me as if I were Sara's widower. I didn't want their pity. I don't know what I wanted, but it certainly wasn't that. Besides, there had to be someone else who deserved it more. I looked around, wondering if there was a boyfriend out there, a legitimate widower… someone who grieved for her like I did.
Sara's profiler colleagues were kind to us. When we entered the auditorium, they immediately offered us the seats up front. They treated us as if we were Sara's family, and due to the Sidles' absence, that's what we were. We were certainly mourning her as if she had never left CSI.
There was a blown up picture of Sara in the middle of the stage, and I was immediately drawn up to it.
Sara was looking determinedly at the camera with her I-am-going-to-send-you-to-jail expression. She wasn't smiling and her eyes were devoid of warmth. The lines around her eyes had deepened a little. The corners of her mouth were turned downwards. And all I could think of was 'where's her smile?'.
"It's not her," I whispered, "It can't be her. She can't be a handful of ashes in a box-"
"That's a recent picture," Catherine said, suddenly appearing at my side. "No fresh flowers." Catherine added. She fingered the paper-flower wreath that decorated Sara's picture, "They got one thing right at least"
I felt a stab of pain when I recalled that Sara hated it when people cut fresh flowers for ephemeral decoration.
"Aw, Sara." Catherine said aloud, "You forgot all I taught you."
"What?" I frowned.
"Look at the gray in her hair." She said, trying to hold back the tears, "She wasn't coloring it anymore." She shrugged, knowing it was silly to be talking about hair, but I understood. We all grieve differently.
Her FBI colleagues said great things about Sara- about how professional and caring she was, and how her death would leave a void at the Bureau. No one spoke of her as a friend, but as a colleague they respected and admired. I kept waiting for some guy to walk up there and say 'I loved Sara and she loved me;' I didn't want to hear what a great FBI agent she had become… I wanted to know if she had been happy.
It wasn't until Greg spoke, that we heard something about the Sara I knew. The one who loved flowers and vegetation; the one who was warm and loyal.
"She was my friend." Greg said towards the end. "She would probably be pissed at me for saying this, but… she was a sweet woman. She saw herself as thorny… but to me she was a beautiful rose. We loved her." He said, looking at us in the front seats, "We'll miss her." He added, faltering a little. "We'll never forget her."
Oh, God.
Suddenly I was reminded of all the times that Greg tried to make do something about Sara. He used to come up with some truly hare-brained ideas designed to trick her into coming back. He kept asking me to at least make sure that she was happy… and I never did. I never asked her if she was.
And then Sandy Thompson, Sara's old friend, came up. She had been crying, but she held back her grief long enough to talk about her friend.
"She was very forgiving." She said at one point, "And she had a great capacity for love. I admired that. Her life was never easy, but she always held on to the idea that she could make a difference. She believed that she could change someone's life."
When Thompson stepped down, she studiously avoided looking at me. I left my seat and followed her to the back of the auditorium.
"Thompson, wait."
"I don't want to talk to you." She muttered, walking faster, "You're as bad as those FBI bastards-"
"Please, Thompson." I insisted, "You were Sara's friend. I need to know what her life was like these past years."
She hesitated. She wanted to leave, but she also wanted to tell me something. She turned. She crossed her arms and hugged herself as if she were cold.
"She liked her job." She explained, "But her bosses didn't appreciate her enough." She shrugged, "She didn't mind that. She knew that her work spoke for itself. She was proud of it." She took a deep breath, "A couple of years ago, during a stakeout, one of the guys in her unit tried to…" she gulped, "You know."
Oh, God. Oh, God.
"She never mentioned that." I said lamely.
"Why would she?" she challenged, "She always dealt with her troubles on her own. She smashed his face against the steering wheel and got a two-month suspension over that. She was ok eventually; she had a couple of friends in high places, but it taught her not to trust anybody." Sandy looked closely at me, "I never heard her talk about you," she said slowly, "except at the very beginning, when she had just moved here. She said she understood your reasons. To me, you were just an emotionally dead SOB, but she defended you."
I didn't say anything.
"She was glad she came to Washington, Dr. Grissom." She said. "But I'd rather she'd be alive."
I didn't say anything. I was thinking of Sara, having to watch out because even colleagues within the FBI couldn't be trusted. She had left her friends in Las Vegas in order to work for people who didn't appreciate her enough.
"It's my fault too." she said suddenly, "Isn't it? That day at the airport- It was clear that there was something between you two, but I didn't like it. You were older, and I thought you just wanted to take advantage of her. I thought she should be with Steve," she closed her eyes, "But she loved you. After she saw you in Las Vegas for a couple of hours, she couldn't imagine being with anybody else. I should have let her. I should have let you two-"
"Thompson." I said sternly, "Don't do this. It's not your fault. I didn't fight for her. I could have said something, not just once but a dozen times-"
"Why didn't you." She asked.
I didn't answer. I could have explained to her that I couldn't remember a time when loving someone didn't end with that person walking away from me. Or that even touching was an ordeal for me because my parents had never-
Oh, God, my reasons were too pathetic to be put into words.
"I'm sorry." I said and left her standing there while I returned to my seat.
They were playing a slow version of one of the songs she had always liked, and it was then that Warrick leant over and hissed
"You shouldn't have let her go. Sara was a workaholic. She didn't stop until-" he angrily let his words trail off.
"I didn't want this." I argued, "I wanted her to find someone… I thought she'd get married and have a kid."
"Griss, you never understood Sara. You were the only man she would have slowed down for."
Oh, God-
I remember little after that. I sort of… crumbled. When the service ended, Nick and Warrick had to help me up as if I had aged thirty years in just a few minutes. They were afraid I might be having a heart attack… and I almost laughed. What heart?
July 23
Life would never be the same, but I resumed my duties at the lab. I was sure that the routine would dull my grief. My work… that was all that mattered. I knew that things would be more difficult at home, but I thought I'd manage.
But something happened.
Yesterday I came home early in the afternoon; I was planning to nap for a few hours before going back to the lab. But first, I needed to look at my mail. I was sorting it out, when Sandy Thompson's handwriting caught my attention. A package from her could only mean something related to' Sara, so I immediately opened it. There was a card with the words, "Sara's family let me go through her things in case I wished to keep something, and I found this. I thought you should have it."
It was a flat package that looked vaguely familiar. It wasn't until I saw the sticker in a corner that I recognized the flowered wrapping paper. San Francisco Antiques. I touched it, just to make sure that it was real. Sara's handwriting was evident all over the package. She had written 'Dr. Grissom' in a corner, followed by several dates that she had crossed out: July 1998; December 1999…
She had tried to give this to me but for some reason she had decided not to.
My heart started beating faster and my hands trembled as I unwrapped the gift. I didn't know what to expect, and yet…how could I not know? After all, this little package was a replica of the one I'd kept hidden in my desk all these years. But when I finally saw what it was, I gasped in surprise. Lying on a square of blue velvet, there was –not the paper bookmark I had expected, but a silver one that I immediately recognized. She had pointed it out to me that night.
'Look' she had said, enjoying my surprise at seeing so much art dedicated to insects. "Look," she had said, "look at the spider and the web…"
It was beautiful; the spider was delicately etched in a corner, and the web was the bookmark itself.
I stared at it for a long time, asking questions that would never have an answer– why, how, when? I looked at the first date she had written, and I realized that she had bought it the day after she showed it to me. But why? We had just met a few days before, for God's sake… But the answer was simple; she loved me. I remembered then the regret in her voice when I told her that I was leaving immediately. She wanted to say goodbye in person, she said; she wanted to give me this and I never gave her a chance.
That silly girl, who had so little money, had gone and bought this for me just because I listened to her; just because I made her feel pretty… Silly girl, why did you do this? Did you borrow money or did you use all your savings? Sweet, wonderful girl… nobody ever loved me like this. Nobody.
And it was this sacrifice of hers that finally broke something in me. Blinded by my tears, I managed to feel my way to my desk and I opened a drawer I hadn't touched in a long time. I searched for the butterfly and when I found it I shredded the wrapping paper and threw the square of burgundy velvet that had shrouded it all this time. I held the bookmark against my chest and I went back to the kitchen.
I put the bookmarks side by side. They fit. The web seemed to become part of the butterfly. The web had trapped the butterfly… or the butterfly had tried to free the spider from its prison, I wasn't sure. All I knew was that they fit together. They belonged together.
And I cried like a baby –the baby we never had- for my Sara, while I held those bookmarks against my chest, vowing to keep them together, as if in a marriage-
The marriage I was too cowardly to get.
August 1
I've quit my job. True to something I'd once told Warrick, there was no cake in the break room. I simply emptied my office and took everything with me.
Life stops here.
JULY 2010
"Life stops here," I read, and I wait for Catherine's reaction.
She looks at the bookmarks on the kitchen counter, and then at me. She takes a deep breath.
"You can't feel guilty forever, Gil." She says slowly, "This is not what she would have wanted. You've buried yourself here-"
I smile, because that's exactly what Thompson said, when she called me a few days after I quit.
"I had no option, Catherine," I explain, "In the end, I did what was best for the lab. I wouldn't have done my job well. I would have been distracted… You see, I keep thinking of her. I want to think of her. And my memories of her are crystal clear, so-" I try to smile, but I haven't done it in a long time and I'm afraid I look more sick than reassuring. "My life is full. I keep busy. I study insects-"
She looks like she wants to argue, but in the end she only shakes her head.
"I'm so sorry, Gil. About Sara, I mean."
"Yeah." I nod. "Me, too."
She picks up her purse.
I accompany her to the door but before she opens it she pats my head, making me feel like a little kid.
"Promise you'll open the door whenever I come." She says.
"Promise me to stop worrying about me." I reply. And I watch her walk down the driveway and I silently ask, Turn to the living, Catherine. Let me be.
Then I close the door and go back to sleep.
THE END
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