A/N: If you want to really set the mood for this chapter, you might want to get on youtube and pull up Maurice Ravel's 'Piano Concerto' (movement II), and/or Claude Debussy's 'Clair De Lune'. Especially for the bar scene. I listened to this repertoire while I was writing the chapter. What? You don't know these composers?...you don't know these PIECES? Then you MUST youtube them! C'mon, do it! Do it NOW! GET TO THE CHOPPAAAAA!
It's been five weeks. Five weeks of a person, as cold and lifeless as the corpses in my freezers, walking around in Jane's skin and wearing her face. It is not Jane; not the woman I have come to care for so deeply.
She only speaks when spoken to. I haven't seen her eat anything in eight days and I believe she's lost ten pounds. Her usually olive toned skin is pale and it looks like the very next step she takes will be her last; she seems that exhausted.
I try to gently communicate with her. When that goes nowhere, I cry, yell and plead at her, but her reaction is always the same disconnected and indifferent, "I'm fine, Maura.".
She doesn't come out to The Robber. She doesn't come over for movie night or Sunday dinner. I drive by her apartment at all hours of the night and into the morning, but she's hardly ever home. She is absent from every aspect of my life and her own.
I'm sitting in the parking garage right now. It's late and she'll be leaving the office soon...at least I think she will be. I'm not sure where she's going or what she's doing with her nights and evenings, but I plan on finding out.
I'm going to follow her tonight.
I have given her space and time then offer my home and support, but none of it is helping. She's caught in a rip tide that is mercilessly pulling her out to a sea of oblivion.
I refuse to let it happen.
There are several cars in between her's and mine, but I have managed to gain an unobstructed view.
I catch sight of her as she unlocks and climbs into her vehicle. I do my best to adhere to what I know of tailing procedure as I follow her out of the garage and through the city streets.
It takes nearly thirty minutes before she pulls over in a neighborhood that I don't recognize and that I'm not entirely comfortable with. I park about half a block away and watch her step out onto the road. She crosses quickly and slips into what looks to be a 'hole in the wall' bar.
It doesn't surprise me that Jane is treating her depression with alcohol. I'm actually relieved that it's something so predictable.
I wait a few minutes before I exit my car and make my way across the pavement. I stand in front of the door through which Jane entered, gathering my courage, before reaching out to open it.
Before my hand can make contact, the door swings open. I let out a startled yelp as a rather large, scruffy looking young man appears from the darkness of the establishment.
He jumps a little in response.
"Excuse me, Miss. Sorry to say we're closed for the night."
His Boston accent is quite thick and his stature is rather intimidating, but his demeanor and tone of voice are respectful.
"Oh, I'm sorry, but my friend went inside a few moments ago and I was hoping to catch her. I'm sure you saw her?"
He takes a second to look me over and I can tell he's debating whether or not to discuss Jane. I feel like he is trying to protect her.
"How do you know the lady that just came in here?"
I swallow hard against the sadness that tightens around my neck like a noose. I have to clear my throat before I am able to speak.
"We work together. She's...been having a difficult time lately and I'm actually very concerned about her."
I hear the anguish in my own voice and I'm sure he can too.
He lets out a puff of air and brings a hand up to adjust his Red Sox ball cap.
"Yea. She's been comin' here for a couple years now, but lately? Man, she's been real down. I didn't even recognize her when she came in a few weeks ago. Poor dame looks like hell."
My gut twists, but my interest peaks.
"She's been coming here for years? Are you a friend of hers?"
"We've gotten to know each other over time and I know she's good people. She likes to come in and watch the show; one of our regulars. She performs for us every once in a while, too. Ya know, she's pretty good."
I feel bile burn at the base of my throat.
"She performs? What kind of bar is this exactly, Mr...?"
He picks up on what I'm insinuating and smirks.
"Just call me Marco, Miss...?"
"Isles. Maura Isles."
"Well, Miss Isles, this is a jazz bar. The Boston Conservatory is just down this road and to the right a block or two. All the student performers and even some of the faculty come down here to throw back a few and play some great tunes. Jane'll tickle the ivory every now and then. I know she's a cop, so I let her stay and practice after hours when she wants to."
I feel my entire body relax as a large amount of weight is seemingly lifted from my shoulders. It must be pretty visible because Marco quietly laughs.
"Trust me, if my ma caught me anywhere near a strip bar she'd cook my balls for Sunday dinner and make me eat 'em."
I have to laugh at that. My amusement is partly due to that fact that I'm still giddy with relief, but I actually do enjoy and appreciate this man's presence.
"Well, then I would certainly advise you to stay away from prostitutes as well."
This time, his laugh is much heartier.
"Hey, I like you! You can go on in. I'm gonna lock the door behind ya though. Will you two just make sure it shuts all the way when ya leave?"
I smile appreciatively at him.
"Of course. Thank you so much Marco. Have a wonderful evening."
He tips his cap and nods his head slightly.
"Same to you Miss Isles. Have a good one."
He holds the door open for me and I walk through. I vaguely hear him lock up behind me, but my ears are immediately drawn to another sound; a much more appealing one.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The place is much bigger than I would have expected it to be, based on what I saw from the outside. It isn't very wide, but it goes back a ways. The bar is against one wall and a line of booths are against the other, with about an eight foot aisle in between.
I see a faint light coming from the very back of the room. I am enticed forward by the dulcet tones of a melody that I can almost recognize.
At one point, the bar comes to an end, as do the booths, and I am standing in a larger, more open space that is filled with chairs and small tables. There is a slightly elevated stage that houses a baby grand piano with plenty of room left to one side. I'm sure that the remaining space on the platform is utilized to accommodate a small ensemble.
However, what really has my attention is the woman currently playing. It is my Jane. She is slightly hunched over the keys with her face directed down like she's watching her hands, but her eyes are closed. The light over the piano's easel is on even though there is no music sitting on it. Aside from the faint glow of a few exit signs, it is the only illumination in the room. The only sounds in the hall are those of Jane's musical endeavor and the click of my heels on the weathered flooring as I walk.
For the first time in over a month, the detective looks like she is alive.
I can't help but continue my forward progression, like a sailor navigating heedlessly to the call of a siren. I eventually step onto the stage and come to stand right beside her. She continues to play, her eyes keep closed, and there is a peaceful look about her. Her body and face are more relaxed than they have been in much too long.
I'm so happy to witness some expression of life from her that I almost start crying, but I'm afraid to make any noise. I'm worried that I will break the spell that has somehow coaxed my friend back into her own body.
My gaze drops to her hands.
Those hands. They've been so damaged...she has been so damaged. Yet here she is. She's not drinking, or smoking, or doing drugs... or stripping. She's using those once broken appendages to conjure a melody that has me on the verge of tears.
Her hands are functional; they weren't at one time, but they are now. They are a reflection of her at this point in her life. She is damaged and barely functioning, but she will get better. She has to.
As far as her playing goes, she's good. Really good. Come to think of it, she is incredible. I wasn't even aware that Jane played piano, much less performed it with the ease and technique of a seasoned professional.
"Debussy?"
I cringe at the sound of my own voice. I truly had intended to remain silent.
The whisper of a smile lifts the corner of her mouth. Her eyes stay closed and she continues to play.
"Ravel."
With only one word, I can tell that her voice sounds a little better. Like she actually cares that she is speaking to someone.
I recognize the piece now. I'm used to hearing it with orchestral accompaniment, but the ensemble's absence does not detract from the beauty of the work.
"Oh...yes, of course. I should have known that."
She chuckles. She actually chuckles and it is not bitter or empty. She feels amusement and I am hopeful because it means that she feels something.
"Well, you know, dead French impressionist composers all sound the same."
Her tone is playfully sarcastic. She keeps playing, but opens her eyes. She lifts her head slightly and stares at something beyond the instrument in front of her.
I take the opportunity to sit down beside her on the bench and enjoy her hidden talent.
"You're horrible at secretly following people."
Her tone is 'matter of fact'.
I blush and look away even though her direct attention is not on me.
"Your playing is remarkable. How have I not known about this?"
I return my gaze to her as she answers. I can see a small dimple appear on her cheek as her smile becomes a little more pronounced.
"I took lessons from the time I was five till I got through middle school, but when high school started I was more focused on sports. I played every once in a while, but I really picked it back up when I became a street officer. It helped me decompress after a work day. I started taking lessons again and I still like it. This is one of the biggest things that got my hands working again after..."
Her head bows back down and her eyes slide shut. I hold my breath. She sighs and I know she is going to continue.
"This is therapy. Physical, mental, emotional; it's my way of coping."
"I'm very proud of you, Jane."
I'm not sure why I say it, but it is completely true. Her lids flutter open and she looks at me. This time, her smile is full and genuine and actually manages to reach her eyes.
The Ravel comes to an end and she stops playing. She keeps the tips of her fingers on the ivory and gently glides them over the keys without applying pressure. She's still looking at me.
"I've missed you so much. I've been so worried."
I know that I've just ruined our interaction because her smile falls completely. Then she bows her head and stares down at the keys again. I see a teardrop run from the inner corner of her eye to the tip of her nose and drip onto one of her hands.
"Jane. I'm so..."
Before I can finish my apology, she has begun to play a different melody; one that I recognize immediately.
"Debussy."
She looks at me again and her eyes are shining with the emotion she is trying to keep at bay. Her answer is strained and quiet, like she's on the verge of losing her voice.
"I thought maybe your earlier question was more of a request. 'Clair de Lune' was the piece that brought my hands back. I really wanted to play it in high school but just never took the time to learn it. When I started physical therapy I told myself that I would master it."
"You play it beautifully."
"Thank you."
Her eyes close once more, but her smile returns.
I stay beside her and continue to listen. We are both silent for several minutes.
Happy doesn't accurately describe how I feel right now. I am happy, but the emotion has been diluted in a cocktail of hurt, relief, exhaustion, admiration, and a sizable serving of fear. I want this Jane to stay with me and I am scared beyond reason that she will remain at this piano when we leave. I'm afraid that I will exit this building with the cold empty shell that has been breaking my heart since Lacy's death.
The music comes to a close and the final chords echo in the hall. She straightens up and her hands drop to her thighs. Her smile has disappeared and she stares contemplatively into the darkness beyond the stage.
"I need to get out of Boston for a while. I need some space. Everything here, everything that I see or hear or touch...it brings up a bad memory. I need to reset myself, Maur. I need to get away."
I didn't think I could possibly feel any worse than I have been, but the thought of her leaving...it causes a sensation like my heart is being carved out of my chest with a spoon. I honestly believe that she won't come back.
"Let me come with you."
She angles her body toward me and gives me a doubtful look.
"Please, Jane. Please let me come with you. I have a place we can go. Let me take you there...let me help."
Tears start to stream down my cheeks and there is nothing I can do to stop them. I bring my hands up to cover my face as I begin to cry. I just know she will deny me. She will leave, she won't come back, and then I'll really have lost her.
Instead of the resounding 'no' that I am expecting to hear, I feel a warm hand on my knee and the pressure of a gentle squeeze. I do my best to calm down.
"Hey. Look at me."
I take a deep breath and let my hands fall. I look into her eyes. They are warmer. The ice that froze her chocolate irises as hard as steel is starting to melt.
"Okay."
"...okay?"
Her response is laden with guilt, uncertainty, but most of all fatigue.
"Okay. I'll come with you...I want to. You mean so much to me and you deserve better than what I've been giving you these past weeks. I can't fix myself here, but I'm not sure I can do it on my own either. You're one of the only people I trust to help me through this and not think less of me by the end."
I can't keep from launching myself forward and wrapping my arms around her. I start to cry into her shoulder.
"Thank you. Thank you so much. I will help you; I'll do anything. We can get through this."
It takes a few seconds but she eventually reciprocates my embrace. She begins to rub my back soothingly and utter quiet reassurances that everything will be alright. I find comfort in this, even though I can tell she doesn't believe a word of what she is telling me. For now, the point is not that she believes what she says, it is that she cares enough to say it.
She pulls back and I reluctantly allow her to.
She lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair from my face and tuck it behind my ear. The tenderness of the gesture causes the ache in my sternum to lessen.
"So tell me doctor...where exactly are you planning on taking me?"
I feel my face light up because I know the perfect location to whisk her away to. She's going to love it. I will do everything in my power to make sure that she does.
"Well, I was thinking we could spend some time in..."
A/N: Oh no. My first attempt at a cliffhanger! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm very grateful for the feedback that I receive and appreciate the time that was taken to supply it! Seriously. THANK YOU! -SJR