Roses in December
Chapter 4
When I open my eyes in the morning I see butterflies, hazy and indistinct as inkblots. Gil has put me in his spare bedroom, where I sleep under a blue cotton comforter, warmer than I ever thought I could be. I sit up in bed and look around at the framed butterflies on the walls. They're perfect specimens, or so I assume. I don't see any flaws.
Gil won't get back until nine or ten, and it's only seven. In bare feet, still wearing my pajamas, I walk into his kitchen and fix myself a bowl of Shredded Wheat. It's so quiet here. I glance at the clock and it's already ten after seven. I've got to hurry. Rinse the bowl, scrub the spoon, stack them in the dishwasher. I take comfort in the steps.
Finished in the kitchen, I pad back into the bedroom, jumping on the bed and rolling myself up tight in the comforter, like a cocoon. The butterflies think I'm regressing.
I reach under my pillow and pull out the thick red book. So far it's been pretty interesting. Sara's working in San Francisco as a CSI Level 3. She dates on and off, and every once in a while she mentions Grissom. I think she's got a little crush. They met at a seminar at Berkeley. She thought he was geeky and awkward and terribly dashing. I can see what she means.
The hall clock eventually chimes eight, and I stop reading, reluctantly. I've just gotten to the part where Grissom wants Sara to work a case for him in Vegas. She's all aflutter about seeing him again. My eyes narrow in envy, and I want to explain to her that he's not hers anymore. But, you know. She wouldn't hear me.
When Gil's not around, I spend almost all my time reading. Sara's diary till eight, then forensics journals until nine. Entomology books until Gil gets home. That's one of the nice things about having an empty head. Plenty of room in there.
I'm showered and dressed, learning about butterflies on the couch when Gil walks in. He's walking slowly, must have been on his knees a lot last night. "Good morning," he says pleasantly, falling into a chair near me. "So tell me, what have you learned today?"
"A ton." I don't bother disguising my enthusiasm. He'd see it anyway. "First I read about how to reconstruct smashed car windows. You'd think it'd be kind of arbitrary, like a puzzle, but there are actually patterns to look for. Then there was an article with tips about the best ways to lift fingerprints from different kinds of fabrics. Do you think you could bring me home some dusting powder and a brush so I can practice?"
Gil nods, indulging me. "And what can you tell me about." He checks the chapter I'm on. "Butterflies?"
"I've been trying to identify the ones on your wall," I reply. "This one over here is." I scan the page. "An Omithoptera Croesus Lydius Butterfly."
"How can you tell?"
I wonder if he used the Socratic method at Berkeley. "He has visible hairs on his hindwing."
"So does the male Prepona Praeneste Praenestina. How can you tell the difference?"
I roll my eyes. "Omithoptera Croesus Lydius is orange, black, and yellow. Prepona Praeneste Praenestina is black, blue, and purple."
"Very good." He points to a huge specimen on the far wall. "Did you find this one?"
"I think it's an Omithoptera Goliath Supremus, because of its size, but aren't those protected?"
"You need a permit to export it from the jungle," he replies. "This one is from Papua New Guinea." He stifles a yawn, and I notice the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping well.
"Do you want me to make you something for breakfast?" My voice is too eager in my quest for absolute domesticity, and I clench my teeth at the sound.
He's too nice to turn me down. I scramble up a pan of eggs, and he's practically asleep by the time he finishes.
"See you in a few hours," he mumbles, stumbling into his bedroom.
"At least eight," I call back, knowing it'll be more like four.
When the faint sound of snoring emerges from his room, I put away the entomology text and go back into my bedroom, eager to read more of Sara's diary.
I'm six months into her Vegas entries when it happens. She's so upset over this woman, a Jane Doe, who is in a vegetative state in the hospital. Sara can't figure out who the woman is, and she develops an obsession with the case. Then she finds the woman in a Missing Persons listing: Pamela Adler. The second I read the name, a picture flashes before my eyes, of a necklace. A sort of pendant, with a saint on it. As quickly as it comes, it's gone, but my heart surges.
Delving deeper into the diary, I'm startled at how much Sara thinks like me. One day she's angry at Catherine (who, by the way, seems nothing like the Catherine I know). Sara dives into her work, methodically processing a scene. I managed to take comfort in the steps, she writes, and I nod unconsciously.
So much is about Gil, and I'm realizing it's not a crush. Entry after entry of heartbreak and self-hatred. I want to reach into the pages and hug her, tell her to let it all out. If she keeps all this inside her, she's going to explode.
An explosion does come, but from not from Sara. She's thrown off her feet, and the spiky-haired guy is badly hurt. Another memory flash, this time of a bloodied Greg, passed out in a sea of broken glass.
I look up from the diary, trembling violently. For the first time, I'm realizing that I wrote this. It's not some random woman who shared my name and knew my friends. Her entries have prompted two definite memories, and as I read about the fresh gash in her palm I trace the scar with my fingers. She asks Grissom out to dinner (and it is Grissom, not Gil) and when he rejects her, my cheeks are wet with bitter tears, because he's rejected both of us.
The hall clock chimes one. I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve and tiptoe into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. The knife slips from my grip and clatters on the counter. I hold my breath, half-hoping Grissom will wake up and come out, so I can punch the bastard square in the heart. But he doesn't stir, so I slather bread with peanut butter and bring my book into the living room.
Peanut butter doesn't just stick to the roof of your mouth, it sticks to your tongue and your teeth. Pouring myself a glass of milk, I give myself a moment to absorb what I've read. Judging by my interactions with Grissom, I'd thought Catherine was right in thinking that he and Sara had just never made a move. Now I know better.
I'm glaring at the kitchen counter for a full five minutes before it occurs to me that I'm acting just like Sara used to. Miss Misery.
By the time Grissom wakes up, I'm almost to present day. I've forgiven him for rejecting me and Sara. He admitted his true feelings and Sara heard them from behind a glass wall. It wasn't enough for her, but somehow it's enough for me.
He comes out with wet hair, wearing jeans and an "Entomologists Bug Me" shirt.
"Seven hours," I say, checking the clock. "Not bad." I can tell he's in a better mood. The dark circles under his eyes have faded slightly.
Grissom grins broadly, grabbing a banana off the counter and peeling it. "What'd I miss?"
"I had two memories," I announce proudly, waiting for the inevitable excitement.
It doesn't come. He's just staring at me blankly, chewing on the banana. "How can you be sure they're memories?" he asks, and for a moment, I'm sure that he doesn't want me to remember. But that can't be right.
"I just know. I remembered Greg after the explosion, and I remembered Pamela Adler's necklace."
"Pamela Adler?" His lips purse in confusion.
"Yeah, she's that woman who was attacked in a parking garage by a gang member, and ended up brain-dead."
He stares at me for so long that I grow uncomfortable. "You remember all that?"
Nervousness starts to quiver in my lungs, spreading up my throat. I wasn't wrong. He doesn't want me to remember. "No, I read about it in my diary." I hold up the red book to show him.
His face pales. "Your. diary? Where did you get that from?"
"It was in my apartment," I say, my mouth somehow working smoothly as my brain rushes to process everything. "I got it off my dresser."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why do you have a problem with it?" I'm turning the Socratic method upside down, and his eyes are narrowing in response. "I thought it might jog my memory. And even if it didn't, I figured it'd be a good way to catch up on some of the stuff I missed."
"Like?" He raises his chin stiffly, and there's fear in his eyes, real fear.
"Well, it starts off with Sara in San Francisco. Then you say jump, she says how high." I grin. He doesn't. "And she comes out to Las Vegas. There's a lot about cases that bothered her, some stuff about the people at the lab. A little about that EMT who was two-timing her-"
"Wait, you mean Hank cheated on her - I mean, on you?" He looks sick at the prospect.
I nod. "Yeah. Turned out he already had a serious girlfriend when he asked her out. What a jerk, right?"
There's no response, so I go on.
"Then she worked up the nerve to ask you to dinner. The lab explosion happened, and then when she asked, you said no. Boy, that was a depressed entry." I try to laugh, but it sounds more like a sigh. "She was down for a long time. Then she heard you talking to that doctor who killed the nurse, about your reasons for saying no to her."
He looks stricken. "She - you heard that?"
"Oh yeah. It was such a good part, really unexpected. I couldn't put it down."
"This isn't some Harlequin romance novel, goddamn it!" His voice is livid, and I flinch in spite of myself. "This is my life we're talking about."
"No, Grissom," I say, very quietly. "This is my life." I wave the book. "My diary, remember?"
He swallows, closing his eyes. "How much have you read?"
"I have about a month more to go." My body is still tense, even as I try to reassure it that Grissom would never harm me.
"Do you trust me?"
The question comes as a surprise, but I don't hesitate in answering. "Yes."
"Do you really?" His sharp eyes study me closely.
"Yes, Griss, I trust you more than anyone." There's that Griss again. Just as before, his eyes soften when I say it.
"Then I need you to do something. I need you to stop reading that diary."
"But, why-"
"Please just trust me, Sara. Promise me."
I glance down, and his hands are shaking. Something isn't right. Nothing is making sense. I clasp the book tightly, my thumbs on top and my fingers underneath. "I promise, Griss," I say.
He sighs deeply with relief, unable to see my crossed fingers.