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An Unusual Sequence of Events

Chapter 10

An ordinary sequence of events

Back to brown, tan and red, back to dusty sand, back to the arid sparseness of the desert; no profligate green growth here. From the air, the land appeared to be painted as a palette of uninhabited, barren wasteland, yet it was far from that. The city of Las Vegas had always had an artificial image, had always managed to outlast the droughts, but the last few years had caused massive changes. The ground, lawns, gardens, and surviving overgrowth were shades of brown, the mountains showed their range of colors as a backdrop, and the sky remained an intense blue but there wasn't much green.

Yet whenever she came back to Las Vegas, Sara experienced a feeling of coming home. No matter how long she had been absent, a few days or months on end, she returned with a sense of happiness, the knowledge of where she belonged. It was her home, the first real home she had ever had. She had loved and been loved here—not just her husband, but her friends, discovered what it meant to be a wife, a mother. She glanced at the two people beside her; two people she loved more than life itself.

Her baby Isabella was snug in her carrier, safely strapped in, and sleeping soundly. Their baby, Sara smiled, beautiful, perfect, growing into a delicate toddler. At nine months she was already taking her first steps, already talking, already speaking many understandable words as she chattered away, already questioning in her baby language. Her father was enchanted and she adored him, so obvious in the way she held out her arms to him, clutched him as soon as he picked her up. Her eyes were her most striking feature, widely set, widely opened, and the deep unusual turquoise blue of a tropical sea with tiny streaks of gold; they would fix on him intently and, her infant prettiness in full bloom, he showed her off as one would a trophy.

Sara's husband, Isabella's father, sat in the aisle seat; he had already checked the baby and put his book away in preparation for landing. Tanned, blue-eyed, full of good humor and laughter, she could barely remember not loving him. Gil Grissom, the one true love of her life, she thought, was as amazing as a father as he was a husband. She loved Isabella with all her heart, but for her husband, she loved him with every fiber in her body now and yet to come and had from almost the first day they met. Years later, he told her he had fallen in love with her that day—struck by lightning, he said. It had taken a long time before feelings were disclosed and then passion, desire, and love overruled everything else, so crazily in love in their own little world nothing else seemed to matter.

Their eyes met across the seat holding their daughter and both smiled. He reached across and took her hand; she turned and looked out of the plane's window.

The first time she had set eyes on Las Vegas she had been awed by its imposing beauty—a glittering city in the sunlight, surrounded by miles and miles of open desert, the whole set in a natural basin created by rocky mountains that rose up to encircle the entire area. Much had changed in the years since, more glitter, taller buildings, miles and miles of urban sprawl, yet the desert was still there. The mountains stood in majestic colors surrounding the city.

The scene quickly changed as the jet descended and the city, the runway, the terminal came into view. She looked at her husband, squeezing his hand, as the wheels touched down.

"I'm happy to be home," she said.

"So am I."

Three weeks ago, they had flown east, across the country, for a federal law enforcement training program where Grissom would serve as a teaching fellow to a different group each week. Their friend, Catherine Willows, had been instrumental in making the arrangements and she had arranged to share a rental house with the small family. And they had shared their news—a second baby, a boy, expected after New Years Day.

Catherine had practically screamed with delight before turning on Grissom. "Thirteen months apart! Are you crazy? Sara hasn't had time to recover! What were you thinking?" Catherine quickly worked out the math. "Isabella was only four months old!"

Sara and Grissom had laughed knowing Catherine's accusations were a typical response from their friend. Grissom pointed his thumb at Sara. He said, "It was all Sara! She came at me!"

Sara had taken blame—or credit—for this second pregnancy just as she had decided on the first. As the two women settled Isabella into a portable crib, Sara brought Catherine up to date—morning sickness had persisted for weeks, almost from the first positive test and just as suddenly had disappeared. Using the newest fetal testing, the baby boy was healthy, growing as he should.

"It had taken so long for me to get pregnant with Isabella—I thought—well, I wanted a second one," Sara explained with a laugh. "And we're having a boy!"

For three weeks, Grissom and Catherine left every morning, spending most of the day inside the small convention center, and Sara took little Isabella for long stroller walks in lush gardens of the resort community and played in the white sand and warm water of a calm, crescent shaped lagoon protected by a reef. Grissom was leading a couple of seminars each day; Catherine was supervising a major portion of the training, and Sara and Isabella enjoyed sunny cloudless days.

Isabella quickly learned new words: shell, coral, crab, fish, bucket and shovel as she held those things in her hands, and she amazed her father with her pronouncement of "anemone". After several days, the toddling baby went from playing in the sand to padding in the warm salty water and seemed to remember the gentle, fluid world of her beginning.

For all of them it had been halcyon days.

They were the last to leave the aircraft, managing to carry the sleeping baby to the curbside where Greg Sanders waited. Sara loved Greg—much as one loves a brother and he had proven to be a wonderful uncle to little Isabella—and he greeted them today as would a favorite relative.

"Look at you!" Greg said with a laugh. "Gone three weeks and you've popped out with a watermelon!"

Grissom wasn't about to laugh, but he knew it was true, amazed at the difference in the two pregnancies. Sara had carried Isabella for almost six months before she appeared pregnant. Now, she looked as if she had swallowed a basketball. With Isabella, Sara had vomited a few times; with this one, she had experienced morning sickness for weeks—at times so sick she had taken to bed. Yet she continued to have an amazing level of energy, never hesitating when the request had come for him to teach and accepted Catherine's invitation to travel without pause.

It took some time for the family to get home, unpack the car, greet Hank, thank Greg, and settle Isabella into her bed. And there was still luggage to unpack.

"Take a shower, honey," Grissom said. "I'll get the rest of this put away."

Sara needed no prolong prodding and headed to the shower where she was joined several minutes later. She kissed the dry cheek of her husband as he stepped in to join her.

Laughing, she said, "I guess all the clothes are in the laundry, Hank got walked, and Isabella has a bottle for early in the morning in the refrigerator." A low, deep chuckle came from her husband.

As he reached for her, turning her around against him, only needing her touch to trigger passion, her arms slid around his neck, his across her back; he bent his head and found her mouth. Water washed over them, flowing over shoulders, along backs and arms until they felt not as two but as an entity. He felt the up-thrusts of breasts, the curve of her butt, and the roundness of her belly; the folds and crevices in between. For years, he had known she was made for him.

Somehow, they got to the bed—half carried, half walking, laughter as soft as her skin under his hands.

Her arms and legs wrapped around him, bounding him to her; he put his cheek against hers. Without releasing her, he kissed her—her eyes, the curving bones along the arch of her eyebrows, and returned to her mouth. The tips of his fingers passed along her bare back, feeling the start of little shivers. His mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, along her shoulder, pressing lips on her damp skin; he nipped, kissed, sucked the delicate blush of her flesh.

"You are so soft, Sara."

Wrapping arms around her, Grissom's mind reeled, slipped, and for long moments they became a body poem of utter pleasure. And afterward, when the tide of Sara's body had given him all she could, he drifted on wings of an intimate kind of freedom. Sleep—a respite from everything bright in consciousness.

Several weeks later, Sara and little Isa planned to spend the day with Betty—a doting grandmother—pleased to have one grandchild and beyond delight at the prospect of a second, and thrilled beyond words to know the second grandchild would carry her beloved husband's name. Isabella, at a very young age, seemed to recognize simple sign language and would often place her hands on Betty's face, intently gazing into the older woman's eyes. The child spent hours with her grandmother and was already using certain gestures in a baby sign language which both understood.

His research work continued so Grissom rode out to the canyon, knowing a couple of students would be there and Sara would be busy with his mother all day. As he drove the all-terrain vehicle along the dusty trail, he saw the damage of drought—bleached skeletons of small trees, the misty brown veil of dust whipped by dry wind. Even the low growing desert grass was patchy now. But the water still sprang from its hidden spring making a pool of water that served as a fountain for every form of life in the area.

The dragon fly research continued, but now there was funding for more—insects, birds, sheep, turtles—how these animals survived and adapted when their natural habitat cracked under a relentless sun. Grissom noticed the trails and prints of animals when he slowed and turned into the canyon—the researchers had managed to keep the area free of hikers and curious tourists—a little oasis of research for them just as the water was an oasis for the wildlife.

A spasm of coughing broke his silence—the dust, he thought, finally catching up with him. He had spit brown sputum for days after he had been caught in a dust storm a few months ago. He reached for a bottle of water. The cough made his chest ache; it was the dryness, the lack of humidity; he swallowed more water.

For two hours, he and the graduate assistants monitored several pieces of equipment, reset two hidden cameras, took dozens of photographs, and took samples of the water in the pool. New tracks—small prints indicated the arrival of a new animal to the pool. The three men worked almost in silence until one mentioned taking a break in their man-made shade and the two others followed him.

Grissom, more grateful for the break than he would admit, swallowed a full bottle of water before sitting down. The water seemed to cause another coughing paroxysm, sudden and more intense than the previous one.

One of the young men said: "What's wrong with you? We heard you coughing before you got here."

Grissom shook his head, "Dust, heat, I think. It's so dry everywhere." He coughed again; his hand splayed across his chest. "Pass me another bottle." He drank more water but instead of quieting his cough, it seemed to seize his chest in a vice grip.

"You don't look so good," the second graduate assistant, a young boy named Cameron, said. "I don't think you need to be out here." The two students glanced at each other. Both thinking that Grissom was the one researcher who had more energy, more stamina, than anyone else; both recognizing an unusual incident—and it wasn't going away.

Grissom tried to stand but slipped back to the ground. "Can't get a breath," he muttered, his lips tingled as he said the words. Suddenly, the air seemed to be filled with far away voices, rustles, whispers; he could feel the ticking of his pulse. Yet he was out of step with it. The two faces swimming before his were not who he wanted to see, drifting, frightened faces in a watery mist, saying things he could not hear.

He was hardly conscious of pain or the water poured over his face and certainly unaware of the terrified phone call being made for emergency help as he fought to get air into his lungs. His skin felt as if it were vibrating from the heat of the sun. He must have passed out because when he opened his eyes, air was in his lungs; he was breathing even though the tightness around his chest was still there but not as tight as it had been. His clothes were drenched and one of the boys was bathing his face in water.

"He's awake!"

Grissom remembered the boy's name. "Cameron," he managed to utter.

"Don't get up. We've got help coming. You passed out. Drink if you can." The young man lifted Grissom's head and brought a water bottle to his mouth.

Grissom swallowed the water. "My chest hurts. Am I having a heart attack?" It was the only thing he could think of that would cause the tightness around his chest.

"Help is coming—just hang on. We used an epi-pen from the first aid box. Afraid you were going to stop breathing!"

When he closed his eyes, Cameron said, "Don't go to sleep! Keep your eyes open—keep talking! Hell, I don't know what else to do!"

Surprising himself, Grissom managed to chuckle. "I can't die. And I don't think it's a heart attack. My lungs just can't get enough air." He went into another spasm of coughing, but the epinephrine was working; he could breath.

He must have been unconscious longer than he thought because within minutes he heard the familiar drone of a helicopter coming in fast and low.

"You called for a helicopter?" Grissom could not believe he had been ill enough to warrant such a rescue.

Cameron nodded. "Steven did. Or when he called 9-1-1 the dispatcher sent it." He was watching the helicopter circle overhead. The concussion of the engine echoed in the box canyon, growing louder by the second, kicking up its own dust storm as it landed.

Grissom struggled to sit up then realizing he ached all over, slumped against the rock at his back. Whatever this was had taken all his strength, he thought, especially worrying after the injection. For the first time, he was thankful the young men had given it to him and he stayed where he was until two more arrived with a stretcher.

A dozen questions were asked as the four men got him strapped to an orange board; one placed a mask over his face, which made it difficult for him to talk, and then started an IV in his arm. As cool air flooded his lungs, he heard one say "It doesn't seem to be his heart" but as Grissom attempted to talk the four lifted him from the ground and with unusual speed hurried across the desert to the waiting helicopter.

As men and machine lifted into the sky, Grissom wished he had told the guys not to call Sara. He needed to be the one to tell her he was okay even if he was flying into Desert Palm Hospital on an emergency flight. But then he started coughing again, even with the mask, and the two men beside him were relaying information and checking blood pressure and pulse and respiratory rate in medical jargon he did not try to understand.

After that, his life became a blur of rapid movement, white lights, a bright ceiling, and numerous voices asking questions, giving orders, vague impressions of dozens of people around him until there was nothing. He did not know if it had been minutes, hours, or days when he heard her voice.

"Gil, Gil, you want to wake up?"

And the smooth, soft palm on his cheek he recognized. He wanted to wake up so he opened his eyes. Sara's fingers were threading through his hair; her face only inches from his. She wore the same bright pink shirt she had on when he left her. She smiled.

"Hey," he whispered; his mouth felt like cotton.

"Hey, yourself." She pressed her lips against his forehead. He felt her belly against his arm.

"I don't know what happened," he whispered.

When she raised her face, she continued to smile which made him feel much better; if she smiled he wasn't near death.

"You had an allergic reaction to something—maybe something in the dust—that affected your breathing—your lungs. The guys used the epinephrine pen in the first aid kit—a good thing because I'm not sure you would have made it otherwise."

"I'm sorry."

Her cool soft hands were back on his face. "Steven called before the helicopter arrived to pick you up so I was in the ER before you arrived. I wouldn't leave—and most men are a bit scared of a pregnant woman," she laughed softly. "Do you feel all right? I'm to call a doctor if there is any sign of relapse, a rash." With one finger she pulled the neck of the hospital gown away from his body and checked his chest by placing the top of his head against his mouth and looking under the gown. Lifting her head, she whispered, "No rash."

Sara looked down into his eyes and saw the same love in their blueness which had warmed her, given her purpose and energy, and, most of all, life. She had managed to hide her panic as her husband had been wheeled through the emergency doors; she pushed her terror out of sight as physicians, nurses, technicians flooded around the narrow stretcher. And she did not back away when the first person suggested she wait outside the treatment area. Her voice had been strong and steady when she said "I'll stay." And no one else had suggested it again.

She had kept her hand wrapped around his ankle even as his pants and socks were cut away in an attempt to find an insect bite or anything else that might have caused the severe anaphylaxis. There was no doubt he would have died in the desert if the graduate assistants had not used the epi-pen.

With deliberate sensuousness, she placed hands on both sides of his head and placed her lips against his; he found her mouth and hungrily kissed her, wanting more of her, not able to hold her close enough to assuage the feeling growing in him. He was safe; they were safe and for her calmness, he loved her even more.

About three hours later, as the sun was sliding low in the western sky, the physicians decided Grissom was well enough for discharge, no longer in danger from an unknown allergen, stressing caution and prescribing the same epi-pen that had saved his life earlier.

The fright, the panic, the terror experienced when Sara had gotten the phone call moved to the back of her thoughts as they left the hospital and picked up Isabella. Obvious relief showed on Betty Grissom's face as her son walked in, yet his eyes were on his daughter as she squealed with glee, always happy to see him.

On the same day Sara's second baby decided to arrive so did the rain, putting an end to the longest drought in recent history for Las Vegas. That day the clouds filled the sky thousands of feet deep, cracked open and poured nearly twelve inches of rain on the thirsty desert over the next three days. And with the rain came life.

It was the first day of the new year, exactly thirteen months after Isabella was born, that Gil Grissom's son was born. Named Samuel Gilbert after a grandfather he would never know, the baby arrived within a few days of his due date; Sara had three or four sharp contractions, her water broke, and the baby was delivered with minimal pain. By his second day, his mother's breasts were full to overflowing and he was hungry.

And he was beautiful—a chubby, eight pound birth weight, with a cap of flaxen curly hair atop his perfect round skull, and vivid blue eyes which would not change because they were the color of his father's. Gil's eyes, Gil's hands and nose, chin and mouth—even Gil's feet—everyone who looked at the baby glanced at his mother and then turned to his father who seemed oblivious to all of their chatter.

From the moment Isabella set eyes on him, she adored her baby brother. Before they left the hospital, Sara took her daughter onto her lap while holding the baby in the crook of her arm and said: "He's your brother, Isa. You will always love him and he'll love you and you will watch out for each other, make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

The gold-flecked, azure blue eyes, with an intelligence far beyond her age, looked at her mother and then at the sucking baby. Barely more than a baby herself, Isabella nodded confidently, as if she understood what it meant to have a baby brother.

The perfume of rain on parched soil continued to fall as the family left the hospital; true to her agreement, Isabella stretched her arm so she could pat her new brother's tiny waving hand. The rain had washed the dust away, whitened everything, washed the dust off benches and streets, filled drainage ditches and long-dry creeks. In just a few hours a pale-green fuzz had appeared as blades of dormant grass reached for water.

Within a week, the grime of dust washed away, the trees, scrubs, and flowers kept alive by sparsely sprinkled water were budding and turning lime green, flowers were forming, and the trees were growing lush.

How beautiful everything was, Sara thought, as she carried her infant son to the park. How alive, to see all things grow, change, and start all over in the same unceasing cycle. Her husband and daughter walked ahead of her; the little girl growing steadier in her steps each day while her father provided a finger of guidance. Sara heard the high-pitched giggle, unaware it was the same laugh of her childhood, of her daughter. The father and daughter had stopped to watch a column of ants cross the sidewalk. It was such a commonplace occurrence, nothing unusual at all in the life they had.

And the end of this little story!

A/N: We think its time to get Grissom back to Vegas! Not Petersen because he isn't coming, but Grissom needs to be living with his wife! (Write letters to Carol Mendelsohn!)

Real life needs our time, not sure when we will write another story. Number of reviews will influence our decision...there is always one more story for us to tell...not sure when it will be. Or if there is enough interest-so let us know.

Again, thank you for reading, taking time out of your life to read our little bits of fanfiction for Sara and Grissom! It's been a great ride and you can only imagine the fun we've had doing this, hearing from readers! Thank you!

Sarapals, aka Amelia, Mimi, and Yvette (May, 2012)