Ok, me going out on a limb on this one. I could've sworn that Abby's mother's name was Grace. I heard her use it before. Thank you all so much for the reviews!
Saturday August 29th 2009, 1:23 am.
I sit alone working on my boat again. This time I'm expecting company. I always see her around 0130 in the morning. And soon enough I hear the thick boots clunk their way above me.
"Hey Abs" I don't even look up.
"Hi Gibbs. Brought ya something" Abby trots down the stairs and sets a brown bag with something heavy in it. I stop applying waterproofing and turn to her. I didn't expect her to bring a present.
"You didn't have to do that Abs," I say as I pull out the bottle of aged bourbon from the bag. She shrugs, not talking like normal. I open the bottle with a screwdriver and pour us both cups. As usual we sit on the floor, my back against my precious boat.
"4 years Gibbs" She says and gulps down the bourbon and immediately pouring herself another one. "4 years…" She repeats.
"I know" I respond. We do this every year, her and I. We've done it since that fateful day exactly four years ago today. When Hurricane Katrina hit, knocking out her childhood home.
"4 years and I've got nothing to show for it" Abby pours another drink after her second one vanished.
"That's not true and you know that" I respond, we have this conversation every year.
"I know you're going to say that "it's not my fault and that I can't stop Mother Nature" but Gibbs mah whole life was down there!" Abby defends. She pours herself another glass, quickly knocking back that one too. "And ya would know more than anyone what it's like to have your world turned upside-down." She looks at me with her bright green eyes, it was then I noticed her hair was down; it frames her pale face in an elegant manner. I've worked with Abby for years and she does subtle things that tell you exactly what's going on inside her head, and wearing her hair down was unusual. She gulps another drink down; the bottle is now half empty as I look at it.
"You're hiding something" I state, confident. She looks at me with fear.
"No Ah'm not!" She says, when Abby gets drunk her southern accent comes back, what she has worked so hard to keep hidden ever since she was made fun of in grade school. Like all of my agents, I know everything there is to know about them. Or so I'd like to think. But I find that not the case here. I can tell by the way she avoids eye contact that she's hiding something.
"What is it Abbs?" I ask, ebbing her on. She still avoids direct eye contact with me and fidgets under my stare.
"It's nothin' Gibbs," She slurs. I look at her as she stands up and makes her way to my now almost finished boat. She picks up the handsaw. I leap up and race over to take it from her before she hurts herself or the boat. I grab her arms and force her to look at me.
"Tell me Abby" I state, solid and firm. She breaks down into tears.
"My mom died in the hurricane Gibbs!" I was stunned and eased my grip a bit and she slid to the floor in a crying heap. I kneel on the floor to her and hold her. I didn't even have a clue that she died. Abby grabs my shirt and cries into it. I don't care if her makeup stains it. I just let her cry.
"I'm sorry Abby," I whisper as I hear her sobbing turn into sniffles.
"It's not your fault. She…she refused to leave, said that…that the hurricane was nothin' to worry 'bout and she was… safe." Abby looks at me willingly now, her eyes are red and puffy from crying but they still looked so innocent.
I met Grace once, years ago. When Abby was an intern. Her mother surprised her and visited her in DC for her 20th birthday. I can safely say their relationship was rocky since her father died a few years before when she was 16. Actually, this was the first time I have ever heard Abby refer to Grace as "Mother" it was never a term she used lightly. One had to earn the title, and in Abby's eyes, her mother couldn't live up to it.
I look down and find Abby asleep; she crashes pretty hard when she's drunk. I smile a bit, lifting her thin and fragile frame in my arms and carrying her upstairs. I'll just let her sleep for now. The couch is already made for her. I turn at the top of the stairs and look down at the basement; the scene of sorrow only moments ago was quiet. It has seen much in its time being here. If the basement could talk….well, let's hope it doesn't.