DISCLAIMER: I do not own this show, the books, or these characters. I only borrow them.

Chapter 18

For the last week, Jane didn't do much. She didn't really want to face the day and the harsh truths that the bright light brought with it. She only got up and moved when her bladder would complain, or when her conscious, which currently sound like Dr. Isles on a mission, reminded her that she needed to walk enough to keep her circulation working correctly and to keep from losing any more muscle mass. Even that little amount of walking hurt her physically, and with the addition of the emotional pain that came with wakefulness, getting the bare minimum of steps that she did take seemed to take so much effort. She preferred the blissful fog of sleep for both pains when she would finally lay back down in Frankie's bed, taking pain medication only when it was so bad that it kept her from reaching the comfort of sleep.

For the last week, Angela played too many roles and was getting tired of everything. She was wife, mother, nurse, cook, and she was thinking that, to get Jane moving, she might have to become Drill Sargent too. For the last week she brought up light meals as the surgeon told Jane she would have to slowly work her way back to her normal on-the-run, heavy diet as she was still recovering from abdominal surgery. Angela didn't mind bringing the meals up for awhile as she saw from the few times her daughter would emerge to go the the restroom or shuffle around Frankie's room that she was still in a lot of pain, and she didn't know how the stairs would be. But it had been a week now, and enough was enough. She could not continue to watch as her daughter's spirit died in front of her; there was already too much grief

Angela thought for a second about just poking her head into the room to see how her daughter was faring, but she knew she needed to pull out the bigger guns to get her daughter to move. She would have gone with the tried and true of dousing her child in cold water, but she knew that Jane's surgeon still warned about getting the healing wounds too wet until he had a chance to see her at their follow-up appointment the next day. She opened the door wide and walked to the foot of the bed, and the mound of pillows and daughter that were buried somewhere under the navy blue comforter. She started pulling the covers away from Jane feet, at least she hoped so. She knew better by now not to shake either of her cop kids awake or be within arm range, well, now just Jane, as more often than not in their sleep addled brain they assumed some threat...thereby they became the threat; Jane seemed even more on alert lately as Frank learned two nights ago as he tried to comfort his daughter and got an elbow to the ribs before the pain from the quick movement forced Jane out of her nightmare.

Jane heard the slight squeak of the door as it was pushed open. She didn't hear footsteps coming closer on the carpeted floor, but she did feel the movement of the blankets before her face was unburied and she had to close her eyes against the bright sunlight in the room. She cracked one eye open and tried to glare as well as she could with one squinting eye. "Don't you knock, let along wait for a 'come in'?" Jane propped herself up on her right elbow.

"Why? You'd just ignore me." She did have a point there. "Time to get up, walk around, wash up..."

"I'm still not supposed to get my wounds wet, remember," Jane sneered sarcastically.

And with that Jane was reminded where she got her scowl from. "You can at least wash up a bit, brush you teeth. Hell, I will even go downstairs and get the plastic wrap if you want to take a quick bath which you were told you could do as long as you didn't sit too long." She sat down on the edge of the bed so that she could look at Jane's face better. "At least come downstairs and get something to eat." That got a little bit of response as Jane couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at her lips. That was always the way to fix everything in Italian families ...with food. "But you need to get up and do something, anything."

Jane kept the smile as she sarcastically shot back, " I'm surprised you aren't happy that I'm not pushing to go back to work yet so no chance of getting shot." She saw the pained look that replaced the worried look on her Ma's face, and Jane ran her last statement through her mind and her eyes went wide as she realized what she had just said. The stabbing pain in her chest now had nothing to do with her wounds from two weeks ago, but from hurting her mother, "Sorry, Ma."

She leaned back and stared up at the ceiling as she heard her mom leaving the room as the door again squeaked as her mother partially closed it behind her while letting Jane know that lunch would be on the table soon if she was hungry. She stared up at the ceiling and was glad to not see the pink canopy that draped over her childhood bed, but instead the glow-in-the-dark stars that Frankie had stuck on his ceiling once when he was going through his 'I want to be an astronaut' stage. She hated her girly bed, but she would gladly deal with her own bed if it meant that he was here to need his. Finally the thin walls between their rooms would have been worthwhile as the warring siblings could have yelled back and forth as they both healed. They could do what they always did by driving their Ma nuts; now it was just her driving her Ma nuts by fluctuating between doing nothing or lashing out. Anger seemed to come naturally, and, when she didn't hold on to that emotion, she felt deflated, like everything else took too much effort...and not just the physical effort she was already dealing with as she slowly recovered.

Finally the smells of food cooking drifted up and tickled at her nose. Her stomach growled loudly, and she knew that her Ma was fed up enough to withhold food unless Jane would get her ass downstairs and to the table. Jane threw the comforter and sky blue sheet back and was tempted to burrow back under them as the cool air-conditioned air hit her bare feet. She took a deep breath to help motivate her into moving and realized that her mother was right about at least one thing...she was ripe.

She wandered throughout the various rooms upstairs: her parent's bedroom to get one of her father's few button up shirts as she remembered how difficult it was to put on the Red Sox t-shirt of Frankie's that she had commandeered a couple days earlier; her room to grab underwear and another pair of sweatpants as they seemed to be the only thing that was semi comfortable near the surgical incision that almost reached her waistline; grabbed a couple large comfortable towels and a soft washcloth from the linen closet before she finally headed into the bathroom. While she used the toilet, washed her hands, and then brushed her teeth, she wondered how she was going to do as her mother wished...and she wished too now as it was pointed out just how much she needed to wash up. She pondered the bathtub as she awkwardly removed her dirty clothes. She didn't want to try a shower as just the thought of the harsh, hot water beating down on her abused skin sounded painful, and she didn't think she would be able to get back up if she sat down in the tub. Finally she turned the shower on lukewarm and poked her head through the shower curtain to lean over and get it wet, then moved out of stream to lather lots of shampoo through her tangled, sweaty mess of dark brown hair. She was glad that her parents used shampoo and conditioner in one as there was less work involved now, and she MIGHT be able to get a brush through it later. She almost gave herself a concussion when she leaned forward again to rinse out her hair as her balance was still off. She wasn't sure if she got all the soap out, but that would be preferable than the blood that might get stuck in it if she would fall head first into the sage green tile wall. She wrapped the wet hair in one of the towels she brought in. She didn't think she would be able to raise her shaking arms up enough again to do more, so she would have to ask for her mom's help with drying and brushing it later.

Just washing her hair had used up most of the energy Jane had currently. She had planned to stand in front of the sink as she washed up, but she knew that was out as she didn't think her legs were going to follow commands now that she was sitting on the closed toilet. She was grateful for the carpet-like dark green cover on the lid when she had all but fallen on her ass a few moments ago; it was a good thing that the slightly cushioned seat was there to catch her on the way down. She slowly leaned over the sink sideways and reached for the knobs in order to fill the sink with clean water. Lathering up an old soft washcloth she washed and rinsed as well as she could. She at least smelled like some flowery concoction rather than like caked on sweat and wound 'gunk'. She dried off with another large towel and then draped it on the floor as she noticed a very large puddle on the floor, the lid cover was soaked, and the sink from the basin to herself wasn't immune to the destruction she caused. She thought it was funny how the effort of getting clean made her almost need it again as she was sweating from the workout and didn't know if she could move much more. She briefly thought of calling for help, but it was too embarrassing to think that she needed help moving and getting dressed, she didn't want to find out how much yelling would hurt her chest, plus she would still have to somehow get over and unlock the door at least if she didn't need Ma to get the nearest metal coat hanger to pop the lock. Somehow she managed to get dressed in the gray sweatpants and blue button up work shirt of her father's. Now she just hoped she could stand up without slipping on the floor and injuring herself even more.

She wasn't sure how long she sat in the destroyed bathroom, slowly breathing and trying to talk herself into moving. Finally she forced herself to her feet and shuffled toward the mouth watering smell that got her moving in the first place. All too soon she reached the top of the staircase and wondered how in the hell she was supposed to get down them. "Ma," she knew her mother would be nearby and so she didn't raise her voice too much above normal. When she saw the person of interest poke her head out of the kitchen door, Jane asked, "You sure I can't sled down the stairs? Just this once." She could hear the hint of a whine in her voice, but she was too tired, too hungry, and in too much in pain to care.

"The last time you and your brothers tried that there was bloodshed. I think it was Tommy who broke his nose, and you ended up with a nasty scrape on your elbows."

Okay, so the rug burn really smarted, but she'd take that over trying to use the stairs correctly, and the railing wasn't slide-able as it was part of the living room wall, or she might have tried that. She finally made it down the stairs, even though it took over five minutes as she had to sit down at the half-way mark. This lack of strength and stamina was really getting to her, so as she walked into the kitchen she ask, "Ma, can you call about physical therapy?" She wanted to get back in shape so she could get back to work and nail assholes like Marino again.

"So you're finally going to get up for more then just walking across the hall to the bathroom. Good." Angela leaned over to kiss her daughter on the cheek as she set down a steaming bowl of real minestrone in front of her daughter. Much better then the crap in a can.

"Sorry, Ma," Jane said as the food was put in front of her. Then she pulled away a bit and wiped off her cheek. Had to keep up appearances, even if she was grateful for her Ma's fussing...some of the time. She wondered why the wonderful smell of the simmering soup didn't pull her downstairs sooner. Ma must have opened the lid to try and flush her out of the room. Sneaky, but so like her.

"Don't apologize, we all grieve differently."

"So how full is the freezer with precooked meals," Jane couldn't help chuckling before taking a bite and quickly going for the water as the soup was still hot enough to burn. She really wished she was allowed something stronger to drink.

"It's not. There are none." At Jane's speculative glare Angela went on, "I kept giving them away. Mr. Scarlotti from across the street brought up the fact that it usually works in reverse when families suffer a loss. Told him I hope to never have to do this again to learn it correctly." She couldn't help but gazing at Jane with worry in her eyes.

"Sorry about my comment earlier...I didn't think." Jane was surprised to hear her mom laugh at that comment.

"You always have been good at rushing in feet first without any thought of hesitation or doubt. It's what makes you a good cop, but I still worry. I can't lose you, too." She pulled her daughter over sideways for a quick, light hug. "Plus, I think you get that from me. Your father has had to deal with lots this last week as I keep speaking without thinking first." She didn't comment more.

Jane saw the worried frown on her Ma's face, but knew her mother didn't want to talk about it as she went back to cleaning up the already spotless counter tops. At least Jane could give her something productive to do. "Could you help me with my hair and new bandages." She knew it was a good thing to ask as her mother just smiled at her before leaving the room to get the supplies.

She grabbed up the now half empty bowl of soup and wandered out in the living room to get more comfortable. Sitting upright for so long on the hard chair was really hurting.

Fifteen minutes later the bowl sat empty on the table, all the bandages on Jane's chest, stomach, and back had been replaced, and Angela was lightly brushing out the still damp locks on her daughter's head. "I miss brushing your hair. You wanted to be independent and do it yourself too soon," she mused thinking about the times she helped Jane get ready for school when she was much younger.

"Yea, you liked pigtails WAY too much." The rhythmic brushing, along with the pain pill she took after her soup was finished, were pulling her toward the comfort of sleep again. She thought briefly about pulling herself up the stairs and into Frankie's bed, but she was so tired, and she didn't want the added pain of traversing the stairs, especially knowing that her Ma would now probably want her downstairs for dinner too. Her debate about where to sleep was solved for her as her eyes finally closed as she was pulled under.

The light was dimmer and Jane was covered in a light-weight blanket when she woke up. She wondered what woke her: her pain wasn't great but it was manageable; the dimmer light told her that night was settling in, and so it was time to normally sleep; she was comfortably toasty. She finally heard the quiet yet heated voices. She glanced at the dark television screen to rule out the sound coming from some pathetic reality show. Listening intently, she realized two things: the sound was coming through the closed kitchen door, and her parents sounded angry.

She heard bits from her Ma's shrill voice she used when she was angry or upset. Something about home for dinner especially on Sunday like usual. Jane didn't even realize it was Sunday again as the days got mixed up with all the sleep and not needing to keep track of the days of the week to count when she got her little bit of time off. She closed her eyes briefly and silently cried out for her baby brother as she was reminded that just one week ago he was laid to rest. She heard bits from her dad's clipped words that he used when he was angry too. Something about needing the extra work because of additional bills and didn't know Jane could get downstairs yet to even have a 'family' dinner. Jane realized that they were all falling apart at the seams. Was Frankie really the glue that kept dinner and game night fun and light? His playful banter always did help ease tensions rather then riling up everyone as Jane was so good at. She wondered if she could try to be that glue for the family, but she knew she was too abrasive to try and fill that role, and she wasn't the dutiful child like Frankie was as he called and visited more. Damn it, Frankie, more is dying and being buried here than just you. She didn't even try to stop the lone tear that was able to escape down her cheek.

She wanted to get up and go listen at the door like she often did growing up, but she wasn't as fit currently as she was as a child. The pain-filled, "Shit," did bring her parents argument to a close much quicker than Frankie's calm words ever did. For once she was sad she knew she would heal, as she wouldn't be able to help out in arguments down the road...unless someone needed her to come in the fray and use her fists. Both of her parents came out of the kitchen: her Ma with a glass of water so she could take one of the pain pills from the bottle on the coffee table; her father with a forced smile as he said hello before kissing Jane on the forehead.

"Why don't I bring dinner out here?" Angela remembered Jane mentioning earlier how the chairs hurt. Before anyone could say anything for or against the idea, she was in the kitchen preparing three plates.

Jane wasn't really sure what they ate for dinner that night. She hated the feeling of tension in the air. She couldn't get her muscles to relax as she was used to her work, where the current feel in the room usually lead to violence that she would have to jump in to try and quell. She didn't think her parents were going to get into fisticuffs, but she did know she wouldn't be able to help out if they did come to blows. The stilted silence and the burning of straining tense muscles she hadn't used in awhile had her quickly finishing off her plate, taking a pain pill, and explaining that she was tired and was going to bed. As she passed both of her parents, she said, "good night," and gave them a brief shoulder squeeze as she knew she wouldn't be able to lean over to give them hugs.

She made it up the stairs in less time than it took to descend them; granted, she had a feeling much of that was as she was able to at least do the flight part of the fight-or-flight response that had her so on edge. She was thrilled to enter the safety of Frankie's room after a quick pit-stop. She noticed that her mom had been up here sometime earlier as the bed was made. She pulled back the navy comforter with the happy thought of burrowing in the soft mattress under the mounds of sheets and covers that still slightly smelled like her brother. He couldn't give her a hug anymore, even though she would swear to anyone who asked that she couldn't stand her brother or his hugs, but she could feel safe in the embrace of the bedding. She was brought to a halt when she realized the sheets were beige.

Jane all but collapsed as she sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled over the closest pillow to her chest and took a deep breath, only smelling the clean scent of the detergent her mom used. She couldn't even hope that the sheets were just in the hamper as she had heard the dryer running during the silence of dinner. She wanted those sheets as they still smelled like Frankie. Okay, they were also starting to pick up the smell of her sweat, and the odd smell that always seems to linger around the ill: not quiet, the hospital smell as no overwhelming sense of cleaners or the smell of death and disease, but sweat and discharge from weeping wounds...at least they could weep as they healed. She was too numb to weep and knew she wasn't healing at all emotionally. She closed out the world as she curled up on her side and hid under the clean smelling sheets.

AN: Okay, if any other nutters in the US out there who like autographed stuff...Tess Gerritsen's blog on her website has an address to send a SASE if you want a signed bookmark while she still has em...did as of last week. Drools. I was impressed...real scribbles not just printed :) Yes, I'm odd! (She needs to tour closer to my house lol)