There and Back Again
"Gilbert, are you under the impression that rules do not apply to you?"
Father Jim was annoyed, and his question was clearly meant to be rhetorical, but you found yourself pondering it anyway.
A week earlier, your father had told you about photosynthesis, and the rules that governed life. Energy in, energy out. Certainly those rules applied to you. Rules about making the bed and putting dishes in the sink applied, too. The rule of England's King George didn't apply. unless all history applied to you. Did it? You squinted your eyes at the cross hanging on the wall behind Father Jim. If the history of Christ applied to all Catholics, then maybe all history applied to everyone and everything. So the rule of kings did apply. Even ruled paper applied, really, since your mind worked a whole lot more neatly than your penmanship did.
"No," you said, startling Father Jim. "I don't think rules don't apply to me. I think they do."
"So you'll read along with the other first graders when Sister Margaret says so?"
That rule shouldn't have applied, though. It was a stupid rule. You read faster than your peers, so you should have been allowed to skip ahead.
When you didn't respond, Father Jim sighed. "Sometimes you remind me a little too much of your father, Gilbert."
It was meant to be an insult, but at the time it was the greatest compliment you'd ever received. Even after he smacked your knuckles with the ruler, you were still beaming.
When you were nine, your mother decided you needed a dog. She told you he'd be your new best friend, your dearest companion. She kept talking, but you looked away so you didn't have to see her words.
He was a skinny mutt, with floppy ears and a large scar on his back. He sat in the corner of his cage at the animal shelter, staring at the floor while the other dogs scampered at your feet. You sensed a soul mate.
The shelter volunteers put him in the back seat of your car, where he rested his chin on his paws. You hadn't cried when your father didn't wake up, nor when he was lowered into the earth. But you watched the mutt's slumping shoulders, and the tears came all too easily.
You threw yourself into the task of bringing this dog back to life. Arranged some soft towels and blankets in the corner of your room to make a bed. Mixed leftover meatloaf in with his dry food. He slept on the kitchen floor, and ate around the bits of meatloaf. Flinched when you moved to pet him.
You started sleeping next to him on the kitchen floor, and named him Calvin. Privately, you decided you'd never love anyone as much as you loved this dog.
For forty years, you were right.
Your mother hadn't dated since your father's passing, or so you'd thought. Then, while searching for a cotton swab one night, you found a box of condoms under the bathroom sink.
Truth be told, the thought of your mother having sex wasn't the repulsive part. Despite admittedly raging hormones, your fifteen-year-old self still saw sex as a biological act. All animals are engineered to mate. It's science. What upset you was that these condoms were in the house, in the master bathroom. She wasn't planning to meet a man at a hotel, or at his bachelor pad. She was going to bring him into your father's bed.
You didn't make eye contact with her for two weeks. Claims of physics homework allowed you to hide out in your bedroom, where you tried to piece together where exactly she'd met somebody. She was always either at work or at home, so it must have been a coworker. You privately found that rather unethical.
Then one Saturday, she came into your bedroom timidly, holding the box of condoms and a large banana.
You tried valiantly not to look horrified as she clumsily tried to demonstrate for you how teenagers should practice safe sex. It took her four false attempts to properly sheathe the banana, and you knew then that your father's bed wasn't going to be dishonored anytime soon.
"I've never been big on ceremonies."
"But still," Max said, letting out a thick puff of cigar smoke, "I know I wouldn't miss it, if I were you."
"You're not me," you replied smoothly, as Gunderson dealt another round. A quick glance at your cards revealed two queens, but you checked. Better to slow-play a good hand with this crowd.
"Don't you want to say goodbye to your professors?" Stuart asked. "All your bug-loving buddies? Didn't your family want to go?"
You said nothing, just called Max's pre-flop bet of three hundred bucks.
"Gil has a hand," Max said, squinting at you. "Gil definitely has a hand."
"I've got two of 'em," you grinned, showing your palms. They couldn't read you, even after all those months of playing, and Max was fishing.
The flop showed two fours and a three. The way his eyebrows twitched, you knew Max had a three. He was trying to figure out a third of the pot. You could have told him a third of the square root of pi, up to twelve decimal places.
Stuart popped open another beer and took a swig. "So do we have to call you Dr. Grissom now?"
"What's up, Doc?" Gunderson snickered, flipping the turn card to show a four. Max's eyes gleamed, and he bet a grand. You called, and sipped your glass of scotch.
"It's just a piece of paper," you told them. "I'll pick it up on Monday."
The river showed a queen of hearts. Max went all in, and you bought yourself a used 1980 Buick the next day, as a graduation present to yourself.
"It's okay," she tells you, leaning over the corpse to hold out a specimen jar.
You're still fuming as you place the maggot inside. "It's a crock, Sara."
"I'm not disagreeing. Ecklie's a whole new breed of bastard for doing it. But I'm just saying, it's okay."
The body was found this evening in the garage of Mayor Dick Burroughs, a man whose name still makes Greg snicker. The corpse is at least a week old, by David's estimate, which raises obvious questions about how it could have been there so long without someone noticing the odor. Ecklie's been flitting around the scene nervously, reminding everyone to stay unbiased while brown-nosing the annoyed mayor.
"Jesus H. Christ," Catherine bellows, announcing her arrival. "Don't tell me he called you in."
"That he did," you say, through gritted teeth.
She marches over, angrily snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "I was furious enough that he called me and the guys in. But you two? That's beyond despicable."
She rants for a while, and you join in every once in a while to fuel the fire. Sara just helps you catalogue the insects.
Your knees are aching by the time you get everything packed up in the Denali. Catherine drives ahead, still seething, while Nick, Warrick, and Greg stay behind to sweep the house and grounds.
"I'm sorry," you tell Sara again, as you buckle up.
"It's fine," she smiles, leaning over to kiss your shoulder.
"How is it fine? We had to book that place a year ago. Where are we going to go now?"
She shrugs. "Justice of the Peace?"
"What?"
"I just want to be married to you," she says, leaning back against the headrest and sighing contentedly. "What can I say? I've never been big on ceremonies."
Each of you has a separate cabinet in which you store food that is just yours. It was Sara's idea, when she moved with you four months ago. Something about not wanting your meats' scents wafting into her dried mango. You think it's sweet, really. Until one day, while you're putting away the groceries, you glimpse a disturbing sight in the back of the Sara cabinet. Partially hidden behind a package of flax meal is a box of Ensure.
There's a tightening in your gut as you stare at the box. She's bought Old Man Juice for her oh-so-elderly boyfriend, and must be hiding it until she can spring it on you gently. What's next? Maybe she has a stash of Depends and Fixodent in the garage. Well, you're perfectly continent, thank you very much, and your dentist says your teeth are in great shape. You floss every day, for god's sake. You're still staring at the Ensure when she breezes in.
"What's wrong?" she asks, setting the rest of the grocery bags on the counter.
"I floss," you reply darkly, and she blinks in surprise.
"We bought floss, hon."
You point into her cabinet. "Something you want to tell me?"
Craning her head to see inside, she furrows her brow. "The flax meal?"
"No."
"The Ensure?"
You cock an eyebrow, waiting.
Her cheeks flush a little. "Don't get mad."
"Don't give me a reason to get mad."
"It's my doctor," she says finally. "She took a look at my bloodwork and said I'm still anemic."
That wasn't what you expected, and a twinge of concern threatens to overtake your indignity. "But you eat a ton of spinach."
"And take a multivitamin. It's not enough."
You scratch your chin in thought. "Can you take two of the multivitamins?"
"They're called One-a-Day for a reason. Besides, as long as I drink the Ensure, it shouldn't be a problem."
There's a new wrinkle forming on her forehead. You find yourself growing rather attached to it.
It's a hot night in August when Sara works the Pollard case. Stirs up old memories, and she doesn't have to tell you. You catch sight of the downcast eyes and the slumping shoulders, and there's a rush of excitement when you realize you can help.
Five weeks; you've been dating for five weeks, and surely that gives you the right.
Your mother would be pleased to see you using the silver candlesticks she gave you back in the late 80's. The arrangement of yellow tulips goes nicely with the navy blue tablecloth, and you're setting out the china before you realize you haven't yet invited Sara over. She doesn't want to come, but she does, because you ask her to.
She walks in the door and accepts your soft kiss to her cheek. There's a frown on her lips as she surveys the dining room table. Warily, she walks over to the kitchen and sits on one of your bar stools.
The surprise tickets to Aspen are concealed in the pocket of your blazer. Three glorious days away together, thanks to some flexibility with Nick and Greg's schedules.
"Hey," you say, motioning to the table. "Let's eat, and then I have something I'd like to talk to you about."
Her back is stiff and straight, poised as if anticipating a great blow, and yet there's a practiced indifference in her expression. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"What?"
"Just tell me. It's okay. I didn't... just tell me, Grissom."
She stares at the floor, and flinches almost imperceptibly when you put a hand on her shoulder. Quietly, you transfer the plates to the bar, and the two of you eat off the countertop. You tear off a paper towel for her to use as a napkin, and her shoulders relax a little.
Eventually you show her the tickets. She stares at them with wide eyes, and your throat grows tight.
You never knew love would feel like this.
Normally, you find it sad when people sit in a hospital room and stare fixedly at the monitors. You've seen it a hundred times - spouses, kids, mothers, all of them unable to tear their eyes away. As if somehow, through sheer will, they could bring the heartbeat back.
"Sir, visiting hours are over."
You don't look at the nurse when she speaks, because the monitor deserves your full attention.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but those are the rules."
Rules don't apply to you.
There's a quiet murmuring of voices at the doorway, and with a sigh, the nurse disappears. Catherine comes in to stand by your shoulder. "You need a shower," she says softly. When you don't respond, she huffs out a breath of disapproval. "It's been three days, Gil. Have you even slept?"
If you sleep, who will watch the monitor?
"You're not helping her like this. Go home, get some rest. A change of clothes. I'll call you if she wakes up."
When she wakes up. Her heartbeat is pulsing out a strong rhythm, and her doctor says the post-op sedative will wear off soon. Any second, she'll open those eyes, and when she sees your expression she'll know your secret. She'll know exactly how you feel about her, when she opens her eyes. Any second now.
"We still need to process the evidence, Gil."
"Then what are you still doing here?" You don't want to think about Sara's blood spatter on the floor of the crime scene, or bullet casings, or prints, or fibers. You want to think about the first thing you'll say to her when she wakes up. Wake up, Sara.
"Honestly," Catherine mutters, shaking her head. "You're just like her sometimes."
Your sudden grin startles her, and she leaves after squeezing your shoulder. And it's back to the monitor, and counting Sara's breaths, and waiting.
FIN
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