Third Watch Fic: The Motions of Falling (1-4/?)
Author: X_tremeroswellian
Email: faithboscorelli1@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: They are -still- not mine. Damn.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Do you ever feel like you're falling? Just dropping out of the sky so fast and so hard with no net below to catch you? Falling has become a way of life. Occasionally I can grab onto a ledge and hold on for awhile, but then the rock crumbles beneath my hands and I tumble toward the earth again. Toward the black hole of nothingness that has become my life.
Category: Story
Subcategories: Angst, mostly. No deaths involved.
Spoilers: Up through and including "In Confidence."
Author's Note: The entire first part of this fic is based off a dream I had, and when I woke up my muse informed me it would make a good story...so where Holly goes, I must follow. Hope you like it. It's a little different than other stuff I've written.
The Motions of Falling (Part One)
It's a seven hour drive from Manhattan to Buffalo, New York. Not really all that long in the grand scheme of things. But this feels like the longest car ride of my life. The kids are in the back of the SUV we rented for the trip and for the first couple of hours, they were both completely silent. Of course, so were Fred and I.
Now the three of them are talking, but I can't get my mind to concentrate long enough to determine what's being said. I sit silently, staring out the passenger window. No one questions my quietness. They probably figure it's better that way. Because if they question it, they might have to hear the answer. I might have to say the words. And I'm not sure that any of us--myself included--are ready for that yet.
This little trip--vacation, some might call it--was Fred's idea. I think he thought that if he trapped the four of us together for a whole week we would somehow magically transform into one of those perfect T.V. families like the Cleavers.
He should know by now that I am no June Cleaver.
Maybe he was just hoping that if we got away from the city for awhile, Emily and I would relax and work through some of the tangled problems we've been having for the last year. I don't think he realizes just how badly tangled those problems are. And I'm afraid that trying to untangle the delicate threads will only succeed in tearing them apart completely.
Maybe it's just better to leave well enough alone. She blames me for everything. I haven't been there for her, for Charlie, for Fred. I've been a bad mother, a lousy wife, a sorry excuse for a human being. She wishes it had been me and not her dad who'd had the heart attack a few months ago. She's never actually come right out and spoke those words, but she's said it in oh-so-many ways through her actions and in the way she looks at me.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that she hates me.
I realize that Fred is talking to me and I turn my head to look at him. When I don't respond, he repeats the question. "Charlie wants to stop at this amusement park. That okay?"
I blink, wondering why he's asking me. He's the one driving. I look out the windshield and can see the top of a ferris wheel just above the tree line. "Sure," I answer mechanically.
He pulls our rental into the parking lot and stops the car. I don't know where we are. Then again, I never do, so I guess it doesn't really matter.
Charlie and Emily scramble out of the backseat and it occurs to me that they are both looking rather excited about going to the park. I am the last one out of the SUV, and a feeling of pure dread grips me and doesn't let go as we make the short trek from the parking lot to the park. When we arrive at the ticket booth, all three of them turn to look at me expectantly.
I dig my wallet out of my small purse and dutifully hand over some money to the man in the booth. They all turn away once my job has been completed. I follow them silently into the park, tuning out their excited debate over what ride to go on first.
The decision was apparently made as they head for a large rollercoaster. Wordlessly, Charlie shrugs out of his jacket and hands it back to me, and after a moment, Emily reluctantly does the same. She's probably afraid I'll search her pockets in an attempt to find drugs or letters from Eric Beckman.
A sheepish grin on his face, Fred, too, turns and hands me his coat. "I know you don't like rollercoasters," he says with a shrug before turning and walking over to stand in line with our kids. None of them give me a second glance.
I can't help but wonder -how- he knows that since we've never been together to an amusement park that -had- rollercoasters before. As a matter of fact, I -do- like them. I remain silent because I know that if I speak up, I'll get this blank stare from him like he can't quite comprehend my words.
I feel nothing as I walk over and sit down on the nearest bench, the coat-holder for my family. If you can call us a family. More like three family members and one inanimate shell of a person who pays for everything, holds the coats and waits for the other three to return and move on while she follows behind wordlessly, too weary to argue or protest or participate. And it's not like they care. It's easier for them this way.
A few feet away there is a child strapped in a stroller crying while her mother chats on a cellular phone. The little girl is screaming at the top of her lungs but no one is paying attention but me.
Yeah. I'm right there with ya, kid.
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Niagra Falls is beautiful.
Millions of gallons of rushing water flows freely over the edge of the cliff and into the deep lake down below. The sun is shining and a small rainbow shimmers in the air halfway down the falls. I can feel the cool mist when the breeze blows gently, tousling my hair as I lean against the rail.
I contemplate buying a barrel and throwing myself over the falls.
A lot of people have done it. Few have survived. I wonder if those who did wanted to, or if the act had been one of desperation, an attempt to end the sorrow and heartbreak and loneliness. I wonder if those who didn't survive realized before they met their end, in the motions of falling, that death wasn't what they wanted but now had no choice about.
I wonder if anyone would miss me.
I have serious doubts.
Fred's voice startles me out of my dark thoughts. "We're gonna get something to eat at the food court." He points in illustration to a building which the kids are standing in front of, waiting impatiently.
I nod slightly and let go of the railing. My wallet and I follow them inside. We stand in line, the kids chattering lightly about wanting to see the fireworks that night, Fred smiling and nodding at them. The good parent. I pay for their trays of food and we sit at a table, me beside Fred, Emily across from me, Charlie across from him.
I stare down at my bowl of broccoli and cheese soup. I find it completely unappetizing. It was the cheapest thing on the menu.
After several long moments, I rise from my seat, not bothering to excuse myself to go find the restroom because no one questions my movement. I leave the table and locate the women's bathroom across the hall from the food court.
I go inside and set my purse on the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. I don't recognize my own reflection. I don't know who I've become. I'm not even sure who I was before I became this unrecognizable, inanimate shell. I stand motionless for a long time.
I return to the food court, but not the table. I stand by the line of people waiting to get their food and I stare at my husband. My children.
They don't even notice my absence.
I'm not surprised by their lack of awareness. I am surprised, however, by the sudden, very intense ache I feel in my heart. The sharpness of it takes my breath away and tears sting my eyes.
I don't belong here.
I'm not wanted, nor am I needed. I'm just along for the ride. It was an obligation for them to invite me along. That's the way it's always been.
The three of them. And me. The outsider.
I stare at them as they talk and laugh together. That's what families do.
I press a hand against my stomach, feeling the realization like a knife tearing through me.
Fred looks up and sees me, a questioning look on his face.
I meet his eyes for a second.
Then I turn and flee.
Past the crowds of people, stumbling but moving quickly toward the exit, my heart pounding hard against my chest. The pain threatens to overwhelm me before I manage to make it to the door.
I press my hands against the door handle and push, nearly falling as someone on the outside yanks the door open.
I gasp and ignore the mumbled apology from the man and I keep going. The only thing I know is that I have to keep moving. Don't stop, don't look back, just keep moving.
My new mantra.
I hear footsteps behind me and I know without looking that Fred has followed me. I don't know why. I don't -want- to know why. He doesn't call out to me. It's too late.
It hurts too much.
I don't look behind me when I hear the footsteps stop. I know he is staring after me.
I don't stop running until I make it to the main road. I flag down a taxi and manage to crawl into the backseat before I begin to cry. I bury my face in my hands and sob, my whole body shaking with the tears, with pain. The driver asks me if I'm okay and I simply nod and wave my hand, indicating him to just begin driving.
An hour later, he drops me off at the nearest bus station and I buy myself a ticket back to Manhattan. Back to my non-life.
I'll be long gone before Fred and the kids ever make it back to the apartment.
* * *
Part Two
The scenery on the way back to Manhattan is as much of a blur as when we were leaving. The only difference now is that instead of the excited coversations between my husband and children, there are hushed conversations between the people behind me and the large man sitting beside me.
I wonder if they all know each other or if they are just engaging in friendly 'we're-trapped-on-this bus-for-nine-hours-together-so-let's-make-the-best-of-it' conversation. Then I realize that I don't really care.
I block all of them out and try to do the same with the tidal wave of thoughts flooding my very exhausted brain.
The man elbows me in the ribs and I wince, then turn to glare at him. "Is that you?" he asks, not noticing the look on my face.
I blink, not comprehending his words. "What?"
"Do you have a phone?"
I wonder why he's asking me this until I realize that the phone in my purse is ringing. I unzip the zipper and dig out the small cellular phone. According to the caller I.D. it is Emily Yokas--555-7668. I, however, know better than to believe my daughter is calling me.
I rise to my feet and chuck the still ringing device out the open window. "Not anymore," I tell the now open-mouthed man beside me as I sit back down.
I can feel him staring at me, probably wondering what kind of a psycho he's sitting next to. A wry smile forms on my lips, but it is fleeting.
I lean my head against the glass and stare blankly outside, watching the scenery fly by. The people around me have stopped talking.
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By the time the bus arrives in the city, it's after dark. I don't have enough cash left to pay for a taxi and I briefly consider a Bosco-esque act, flashing my shield and gun at some poor driver and earning myself a free ride. I dismiss the thought, settling myself to the long walk. It's not like I have a lot to carry--I didn't stop by the hotel in Buffalo and grab my suitcases.
I think that I should have bought the bus ticket with one of my credit cards and then spent the cash on a hotel room so no one could track me down.
Not much point in running away if you're going to be stupid enough to leave a trail for anyone to find you. Oh, well. Hindsight is 100%, I guess.
And it's not like anyone will actually bother, anyway.
I doubt the thought will even occur to Fred to try something like that.
And if it occurs to Emily, she'll keep her mouth shut. Why would she end a wish that she was finally granted? My complete and utter absence from their lives is her dream come true. With any luck, she'll never have to wake up from that dream.
Good for her. Dreams are good things to have. I can't remember when mine died. I think and try to pinpoint the exact moment but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it was a gradual death that just chipped away at my hope until it was so completely diminished that I didn't even realize it.
Guess it doesn't really matter. I can't even remember what my dreams were. They must have been dead for awhile now.
A man steps out from the entrance of an alley way as I walk by. He flashes a knife at me. I stop walking, and my eyes focus on the way the light from the street lamp above dances off the steel blade.
A thought arises, warns me that I should feel some small amount of fear--or at the very least adrenaline pumping through my veins. But there is nothing. Not even when he moves toward me and grabs me by the arm. There's a moment where I feel a small amount of pain from the tight grip he has on my wrist, but it is distant and fleeting.
"Give me your money, bitch," he whispers harshly. His breath stinks of alcohol, his eyes wild and unfocused. Drunk, high and wielding a deadly weapon. Always a lovely combination.
I reach into my purse and instead of grabbing my wallet, my hand grips the handle of my gun. His eyes widen as I pull it out and hold it two inches from his head. "Give me the knife, asshole." My voice is flat, bored.
He drops the knife to the pavement with a clatter and puts his hands in the air. He knows he's fucked up. I hold the gun on him and reach into my purse to get my phone to call it in--an automatic reflex.
My phone, of course, is not in my purse, but scattered into little pieces somewhere along the roadside of 1-81 South between Syracuse and Binghamton.
Yet another case of damned if I do, damned if I don't. It doesn't matter what choice I make; it's always the wrong one. My whole life's been that way. I don't even know why I bother anymore. Nothing I do makes any difference.
I just can't win.
My resolve fades, then disintegrates completely. "Get out of here before I call the police."
The man doesn't hesistate before taking off in the opposite direction. A bat out of hell going back.
I put my gun back in my purse, then lean over to pick up the knife off the ground. I toss it into the nearest trash bin and begin my journey to the apartment once more.
This time my pace is slow. It doesn't matter how quickly I get there. The only ones waiting to greet me are the ghosts of sadness and regret.
And they're not going anywhere.
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The sound of my key turning in the lock is hollow. I opened the door and step inside, but I don't turn on the light right away. I just stand in the doorway motionless.
The apartment is equally silent and still. There's a slight chill to the air and it causes goosebumps to rise up on my bare arms.
Everything and nothing is as it should be.
I force myself to close the door, then jump as the sound reverberates through the room. I imagine the sound to be words: "intruder, intruder, get out, get out."
Unwelcome, uneeded, unwanted.
I close my eyes briefly, setting my purse on the floor before I walk back toward the master bedroom. I don't bother turning on the light. I don't want to see myself in the mirror beside the bed.
I move to the closet, open the doors and search the floor for a bag. Ironically I now recall that all of our bags are a few hundred miles away in Buffalo.
That's okay.
Plastic bags work fine.
I move to the kitchen and pull a drawer open, grabbing two small bags from inside. I walk back to the bedroom and pull a few shirts off hangers. I grab some underwear, socks, shoes and jeans from the dresser. The closet and dresser drawers are still full of my clothes.
Correction. Full of what used to be my clothes.
I wonder briefly what Fred will do with them. Sell them? Maybe he'll give them away to a nice charity. I guess it's not really any of my concern.
My eyes linger on the three cleaned and pressed navy blue uniforms hanging up. A hint of nostalgia tugs at me, bids me forward and I run my fingers over the material. I jerk away suddenly, yanking myself out of the memories that I don't want to remember at this point in time.
I grab the two plastic bags off the bed and start to leave the room. Then I pause, my gaze dropping to my hands.
Without any feeling at all, I twist off the gold band that adorns my finger and leave it lying on the pillow.
I leave the room without looking back. I briefly consider writing them a note, but can't imagine what I'd say. Congratulations, you're free? Happy Abandonment, best wishes? See, dreams do come true? Ding-dong the bitch is gone?
A flash of pain hits me with the last bitter thought and I recall watching The Wizard of Oz with Emily when she was six. She was terrified of the Wicked Witch and had flung herself into my arms and buried her face in my neck. The knowledge that at one point she actually did love me, that she looked up to me as a protector--as a safe, trustworthy person--tears at me. I suppose the thought should be comforting or soothing.
It is neither.
I bite down hard on my tongue and the memory dissipates with the sudden physical pain. I can taste the coppery tinge of blood in my mouth as I walk to the door.
I can see that the answering machine is flashing and out of pure curiosity, I walk to it and see that there are fifteen messages.
I don't hit play. It's undoubtedly Fred making some attempt to 'bring me to my senses.' The sad part is, the whole reason I'm leaving is because I finally came to my senses.
You see, a person doesn't have to actually say the words that they don't want or need you around. Unless the person happens to be very direct. Like Bosco. No, most people aren't quite that verbal about it. But there are oh-so-many ways to say it without ever actually speaking.
And I've been getting the messages loud and clear from everywhere I look.
I leave the apartment, lock the door behind me, then slide the key underneath underneath the threshold. I won't be needing it anymore.
Bags and purse in hand, I walk out of the apartment building where I grew up and lived my entire life but that was never really my hom4e.
I have no home.
I don't belong anywhere.
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The motel is cheap and not very clean. I watch with disinterest as a cockroach crawls across the floor of the semi-dark room. It's not the first roach infested motel I've stayed at and it definitely won't be my last.
I'm sure I'll be living in one of these crapholes until I can get a job and get an equally crappy apartment. Doesn't matter. All I need is a place to sleep.
I flip through all five channels on the small black and white television. Not surprisingly, there's nothing on. God forbid there be something, -anything- to distract me from my thoughts.
I give up and shut off the t.v. I lay back in bed and stare up at the ceiling. I can hear little feet running around in the room above me.
For an instant, I doubt myself. My decision. Am I doing the right thing? Am I making a mistake?
I try to recall the last time anyone in my life actually needed me for something besides money, or to take care of them when they were sick. I honestly can't remember. Emily and Charlie don't talk to me. There are never any mother-child heart-to-hearts in the Yokas household.
No. The mother is the breadwinner, the absent one, the bitch when she is there. The one who ruins everyone's good time.
Then there's Fred. The Christian, the smart one, the good parent. The one who's always there.
Can't compete with that.
I remember my father telling me in a drunk rage one night that I was worthless, that I'd never amount to anything. That I would end up alone and unloved.
Father knows best, right?
Tears stung my eyes but I fight them. "No, I couldn't be one of your kids because I actually see you. Your kids don't have a mother. Maybe rollin' up on your daughter in a squad car counts as quality time...you've got a great set up. Things go wrong with the kids, you weren't even there. You've got Fred to blame at home, you got me to blame at work. Then there's St. Faith, the martyr. You really think that you been carryin' me around?"
I curl up on my side on the bed, my arms wrapped around my stomach as I cry.
The numbness was much more tolerable than this pain. Better than this empty, hollow feeling inside my heart.
I don't think it will ever be filled.
I cry myself into a dreamless, restless sleep, hoping that I don't wake up in the morning.
* * *
Part Three
There were four notebooks.
I -know- there were.
But why would she lie to me? Doesn't she know by now that I'm trustworthy?
Doesn't she realize how I feel about her?
A nagging little voice that sounds suspiciously like Faith whispers in my ear. "She's no good."
Shut up, I command the voice. You don't know her.
Do you? the voice responds, then goes silent.
Do I? I wonder, a heavy feeling settling in my chest as I unlock my locker. I mean sure, I like bein' with Cruz and she's one hell of a cop. But she doesn't exactly play by the rules.
Which is fine. Sometimes you can't play by the rules if you wanna win the game. You gotta make sacrifices to come out on top. I get that.
But she doesn't just -break- the rules. She obliterates them.
And to be honest, I'm beginning to wonder if she'd do the same to me if I got in her way.
Before I can follow that line of thinking much, the locker room door opens and Cruz breezes in, a totally calm and focused look on her face.
Unbothered, unburdened by anything. At least in appearance.
Untouchable.
She notices my stare and turns to face me. There is no warmth in her eyes. "You ready for the day?" She's all business, as usual.
"Yep," I answer nonchalantly.
"Good. I thought of a way to get to Noble."
"Yeah, and how's--" Before I can finish, I'm interupted by the ringing of my cell phone. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the caller ID. My eyebrows focus. Emily Yokas, 555-7668.
"Who is it?" Cruz wants to know, moving to my side.
"Emily Yokas," I murmur, wondering why the hell Faith's daughter would be calling me.
"Don't answer it," Cruz commands, snatching the phone out of my hands.
"It might be important."
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. "You said yourself that you didn't want any part of Yokas or her life, so forget about it. They don't need you."
I stare at her wordlessly. That of course is not -exactly- what I said, but I'm not really surprised by her interpretation.
Everything's black and white with Cruz. There are no gray areas. You're either right or wrong. Good or bad. On her side or against her. And if I answer that phone, I'm against her. And I don't know if I -want- to be against her.
I don't really know what I want anymore.
The phone stops ringing. I hope that everything's okay.
"Let's get to work," Cruz says, a slight satisfied smirk on her face.
I ignore the bad feeling I have in my gut and I follow her to the door.
* * *
The locker room falls silent as I walk in after the shift. I feel a little awkward and paranoid as I walk over to my locker. Had they all been talking about me?
I look around. "Take a picture. It'll last longer."
Davis looks back at me. "You haven't heard?"
That uh-oh, bad gut feeling from earlier returns with a vengeance. "Heard what?" I ask cooly as I unlock my locker.
Sully sounds shocked when he speaks. "He really doesn't know?"
I'm tired of the games already. I turn to face them. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Faith resigned yesterday," Sully tells me.
I don't move. I don't even blink. "Run that by me again."
"She quit, Bosco." Davis's eyes are full of worry. "Came in late last night, turned in her badge and gun, and left."
I look from Davis to Sully, wondering if they'd found out about what happened with me and Faith and are setting me up, seeing how I react. "Is this some kind of joke?"
The complete silence that meets my ears is my answer. "Son of a bitch," I mumble. I head for the door, yanking my cell phone out of my pocket and dialing the Yokas's home phone number.
* * *
"Have you seen Faith?" is Fred's greeting when he answers Emily's cell phone.
I stop dead in my tracks outside the precinct. "Are you sayin' she's -missing-, too?" I ask in disbelief.
"Too?"
Oh, fuck. This is -not- good.
"She quit yesterday."
"She what?" Fred sounds as baffled as I feel.
"She handed in her gun and badge."
"You let her quit?"
"Let her? I wasn't even here!"
"No, you never even are when -she- needs -you-, are you?"
"Oh, this is rich," I reply sarcastically. "When the hell are -you- there for her, Fred?"
"Have you seen her?" is his response.
"No, I haven't. Where are you? Are the kids with Faith?"
"No, they're with me. We're in Buffalo."
"Buffalo?"
"Yeah, at Niagra Falls."
"Wait. Why are you at Niagra Falls? Why isn't Faith -with- you?"
"She was with us!" He sounds pissed. "She took off during lunch yesterday!"
"So why didn't you follow her?" I demand.
There is a moment of silence. "Look, if you talk to her, or find her, call me." The line goes dead.
I lower the phone from my ear.
Where the hell are you, Faith?
* * *
When I get to the motel that Faith apparently checked into, I'm so angry I could hit something.
I went to their apartment first and immediately found her key under the door. When I spotted her wedding ring on the pillow in their bedroom, it became pretty damn clear exactly what had happened.
Faith Yokas had abandoned her family.
I don't understand her. What the -fuck- is she thinking? How can she do that? How can she just leave her husband and kids?
Just when I think I've heard the most horrible, selfish acts that a person can commit, I hear about something worse.
I just never thought she would be the person who committed that act.
I'm disgusted with her, and I fully intend to tell her that. I raise my hand and knock hard on the door. I wait, tension gripping every muscle in my body.
The door opens a few moments later and I'm stunned into silence by what I see. Faith's face is completely pale, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She's wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of gray jogging pants.
It's her eyes that bother me most. Her eyes that I've looked into for the past ten years and been able to communicate with her without words. Her eyes that have always held an intense sparkle. That sparkle is gone, not a hint of it left. Her eyes are now completely lifeless.
All the anger that I was feeling only moments ago disappears completely and the rage is replaced with fear. Something is very, very wrong. I swallow hard and stare at her. "I've been looking for you."
"Guess you found me," she answers dully.
* * *
Part Four
Do you ever wonder what the point is? The purpose of life?
Back when I was attending NYU--my one whole year of college--it used to be a big joke between my friend Claire and me. We'd sit around in our dorm room and pretend like we had all the answers.
"Hey, Faith? You know what the purpose of life is?" she would ask with a grin.
I would grin back and tell her 'no.'
Then she'd dive into some long existential tangent about how the purpose of life was to do one truly great thing in life and then die. Her examples were always art-based. Every famous artist has one truly great piece that everyone knows about, she'd say. Da Vinci painted 'The Mona Lisa', Van Gogh 'The Starry Night,' and Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel.
I'd ask her what her great piece was and she'd say she wasn't going to create it for a long, long time. She'd grin at me cheekily and say that she was perfectly happy making small, non-famous pieces because she was in no big hurry to finish her life's work and die.
I wonder if she still feels the same way, or if the years and an abusive girlfriend have worn her down and made her start working on that one great piece.
I hope not.
I looked up to Claire. She was always so full of energy, so full of life. I admired her for that.
But Claire and I aren't alike.
Back when she was wishing on shooting stars and holding out for her dreams, all I was wishing for was a secure, quiet life.
When I got pregnant with Emily and married Fred, that's what I thought I'd found. Stability. Calm, quiet security.
How very wrong I was.
They say that little girls grow up to marry men that remind them of their fathers. I didn't realize until the vows had been made just how true that was in my case.
Fred was always drunk. I think for the first seven years or so of our marriage he spent more time out drinking with his buddies at the bar than he did in the combined time it took him to work, and spend time with me and the kids.
And when he was drunk, much like my father, he tended to get hateful. Angry.
Oh, he never laid a hand on me out of anger. I definitely would have left him years ago if he had. But no one told me growing up that men should be nice to their girlfriends and wives. All I ever had for an example was Dad yelling at Mom, calling her names, telling her she was worthless. Telling me -I- was worthless. So how was I supposed to know that it wasn't--didn't have to be that way?
And it wasn't like it was a constant thing with Fred. No, he was sober for at least two hours out of every day.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
Do you ever feel like you're falling? Just dropping out of the sky so fast and so hard with no net below to catch you? Falling has become a way of life. Occasionally I can grab onto a ledge and hold on for awhile, but then the rock crumbles beneath my hands and I tumble toward the earth again.
Toward the black hole of nothingness that has become my life.
I am lucky in one aspect. Claire said each person has one great accomplishment in life. I have two. Emily and Charlie. My life's work is done.
And I'm tired of falling.
I'm ready to hit the ground now.
* * *
When I wake up this time, it is because of a loud knocking on the door. Squinting at the old digital clock beside the bed, I see that it is 3:26 a.m. Always a lovely hour of the morning for visitors.
I don't bother to get dressed or even to turn on a light. I already know who it is. I feel no need to try to disguise my feelings or explain why I'm there instead of at my--Fred's apartment or with Fred and the kids at Niagra Falls.
If Bosco's here it's because he already knows. Well, more likely he -thinks- he knows. Even when he has no clue what's going on, he acts like he does. I used to find it annoying some days and amusing others.
Now? I just don't care.
I just want to go back to bed.
I think about not answering the door at all, but knowing Bosco the way I do--did--he'd just kick it in anyway.
I open the door before he has a chance to knock again. He's always been pretty impatient and God forbid someone make him wait more than thirty seconds when he's standin' on their doorstoop at the asscrack of dawn.
As soon as I look at him, I see the fury, the disgust in his eyes and I simply look back at him blankly. I'm a little surprised to see the anger disappear from his eyes. Even more suprised to see worry replace it.
"I've been lookin' for you," he says. He almost sounds nervous.
"Guess you found me," I reply dully.
There is a moment of silence.
Bosco steps forward. "Can I come in?"
Like it would do any good to tell him no? I'm too tired to try and argue with him. Maybe if I just let him say whatever it is he feels he has to say, he'll leave. I stand aside to let him in.
I don't bother to close the door behind him, hoping he'll take that as a hint to not stay long. I walk over to sit down on the bed, too tired to stand up any longer.
"Can I turn on a light?" he asks, glancing around the tiny hotel room.
I shrug in the darkness, wondering how long this little speech of his will last once it begins.
I squint against the light that floods the room once he flicks the lamp on. He does the same.
Bosco opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Now -there's- a first.
I watch him as he struggles to figure out what to say. It's weird. He -always- has something to say, whether it's the right thing to say or not. And it's rarely ever the right thing.
I realize that now instead of trying to speak, he's staring at me. Normally if someone stares at me, it makes me self-conscious and uncomfortable. Right now, it doesn't matter. It's not like he's seeing me anyway. Not really.
"You look awful."
His words are blunt, but not harsh. Just honest. Bosco's nothing if not honest. I almost smile. Almost. I simply look back at him, expressionless.
He shifts uncomfortably. "I talked to Fred."
Figures. The thing about Fred is, he hates Bosco, but he's not above using him to get information or whatever he needs when he wants it. Especially if it has to do with me.
"He said you just took off in the middle of lunch yesterday. Sully told me you quit the department. I went by your place, I've been callin' your cell for hours. Why didn't you answer?"
I shrug. "Threw it out a bus window."
He gapes at me in disbelief, and I know why.
For the past ten years, I've been the dependable one. The stable one. The one who holds everyone and everything around me together without wavering. No faltering, no quitting. No spontaneous anything, ever.
To hell with that.
I'm through.
"You threw it out a bus window?" he repeats.
Yep, that's what I said. But thanks for the parrot imitation.
"Faith, what the hell is going on? You and Fred have a fight?"
I shake my head.
"You and Emily?"
I shake my head again.
He pauses. "Is this because of me?"
This time I roll my eyes. Yes, Bosco, this is all about you. You're the reason I left my husband of fifteen years, abandoned my children and quit my job. It's completely about you.
Not. I -wish- it was that simple.
"Is it?" he presses, guilt clouding his eyes.
"No. It's not about you," I say flatly.
"Then what is it about?"
I simply shrug. I can't even fully explain it to myself, let alone someone else. Besides, what does it matter? After tonight--this morning--we're never gonna see each other again.
He sucks in a breath. I notice his gaze has dropped. I look down instinctively and see that he is staring at my wrist. It is swollen and bruised. So that's what the dull ache is from.
"Fred do that to you?" His voice is tense and I feel a brief flash of sympathy for him. He didn't exactly have an ideal, peachy-keen childhood, either. It's one of the many reasons we were always drawn to each other. Why we used to understand each other so well.
"No."
"Are you sure? He didn't hurt you?"
Not physically.
I can see it in his eyes--if I even hesitate before I respond, he'll go and kill Fred. And he won't regret it.
I shake my head and he looks at me intently. Apparently deciding I'm telling the truth, he continues his questioning.
"Did someone else hurt you?"
This time, I nod slowly and the anger sparks in his eyes.
"Who, Faith?" His mind is already turning, coming up with the quickest ways to find the bastard responsible and making him pay dearly.
I just shrug.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" There's worry in his voice.
Yes. My heart, I think, but I don't voice the thought. He wouldn't understand. -Couldn't- understand. So I shake my head once more, wondering how much longer he'll be able to deal with my silence.
He closes his eyes for a moment. "Were you assaulted?" he whispers.
I'm more than a little startled at the conclusion he's drawn, but I can't let him think he's right. "No," I answer, my voice a little raspy from crying earlier.
He opens his eyes again, relief evident on his face. "So what happened to your wrist?"
"Got mugged."
I watch his eyebrows furrow, watch disbelief register once more. "You got mugged?"
I nod and fall silent again.
"Are you all right?" Bosco asks.
"No," I say before I can stop myself. Damn my mouth for not consulting my brain first.
"No?" His eyes widen a little. "Should I call a bus?"
I let out a short laugh that's completely devoid of humor. "I don't think I can be fixed."
He stares at me, trying to make sense of my words. "I don't understand, Faith."
Join the club. I shrug. "I'm tired." Maybe if I can make him think I'm just exhausted and don't know what I'm saying or doing, he'll leave.
"I'm not leaving," he informs me.
So much for that plan.
"Suit yourself. I'm going to bed," I reply casually, crawling under the covers as he watches. I turn away from him, pulling the blankets up to my neck.
I stare at the wall for a long time, listening to the silence of the room. Then I finally fall asleep.
* * *
I watch silently as she climbs into bed and turns her back to me. Well, if she thinks that's going to detour me, she's got another thing comin'. This conversation is not over.
I'm not that easy to get rid of and she oughta know that by now. I briefly consider leaving her and coming back in a few hours. My instincts persuade me not to. If I leave, there's no telling what could happen. She might not still be here when I come back and next time she'll be more careful to cover her tracks. I might not ever find her again if I go now.
Not to mention the fact that I'm a little worried she might hurt herself.
I shudder at my last thought. I never, ever thought I'd have to worry about that possibility with Faith Yokas.
But this woman is not Faith Yokas. The woman lying in this bed is a complete stranger to me. I don't know what she's capable of, or what's going on in her head.
And that frightens me.
I used to be able to look into her eyes and know exactly what she was thinkin'. But now lookin' into her eyes is like looking into an abyss.
I settle myself into the chair beside her bed and resign myself to the fact that I won't be getting any sleep in the near future. I won't take any chances.
My gaze locks on her figure and I watch as she sleeps. I hope she's havin' good dreams.
Email: faithboscorelli1@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: They are -still- not mine. Damn.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Do you ever feel like you're falling? Just dropping out of the sky so fast and so hard with no net below to catch you? Falling has become a way of life. Occasionally I can grab onto a ledge and hold on for awhile, but then the rock crumbles beneath my hands and I tumble toward the earth again. Toward the black hole of nothingness that has become my life.
Category: Story
Subcategories: Angst, mostly. No deaths involved.
Spoilers: Up through and including "In Confidence."
Author's Note: The entire first part of this fic is based off a dream I had, and when I woke up my muse informed me it would make a good story...so where Holly goes, I must follow. Hope you like it. It's a little different than other stuff I've written.
The Motions of Falling (Part One)
It's a seven hour drive from Manhattan to Buffalo, New York. Not really all that long in the grand scheme of things. But this feels like the longest car ride of my life. The kids are in the back of the SUV we rented for the trip and for the first couple of hours, they were both completely silent. Of course, so were Fred and I.
Now the three of them are talking, but I can't get my mind to concentrate long enough to determine what's being said. I sit silently, staring out the passenger window. No one questions my quietness. They probably figure it's better that way. Because if they question it, they might have to hear the answer. I might have to say the words. And I'm not sure that any of us--myself included--are ready for that yet.
This little trip--vacation, some might call it--was Fred's idea. I think he thought that if he trapped the four of us together for a whole week we would somehow magically transform into one of those perfect T.V. families like the Cleavers.
He should know by now that I am no June Cleaver.
Maybe he was just hoping that if we got away from the city for awhile, Emily and I would relax and work through some of the tangled problems we've been having for the last year. I don't think he realizes just how badly tangled those problems are. And I'm afraid that trying to untangle the delicate threads will only succeed in tearing them apart completely.
Maybe it's just better to leave well enough alone. She blames me for everything. I haven't been there for her, for Charlie, for Fred. I've been a bad mother, a lousy wife, a sorry excuse for a human being. She wishes it had been me and not her dad who'd had the heart attack a few months ago. She's never actually come right out and spoke those words, but she's said it in oh-so-many ways through her actions and in the way she looks at me.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that she hates me.
I realize that Fred is talking to me and I turn my head to look at him. When I don't respond, he repeats the question. "Charlie wants to stop at this amusement park. That okay?"
I blink, wondering why he's asking me. He's the one driving. I look out the windshield and can see the top of a ferris wheel just above the tree line. "Sure," I answer mechanically.
He pulls our rental into the parking lot and stops the car. I don't know where we are. Then again, I never do, so I guess it doesn't really matter.
Charlie and Emily scramble out of the backseat and it occurs to me that they are both looking rather excited about going to the park. I am the last one out of the SUV, and a feeling of pure dread grips me and doesn't let go as we make the short trek from the parking lot to the park. When we arrive at the ticket booth, all three of them turn to look at me expectantly.
I dig my wallet out of my small purse and dutifully hand over some money to the man in the booth. They all turn away once my job has been completed. I follow them silently into the park, tuning out their excited debate over what ride to go on first.
The decision was apparently made as they head for a large rollercoaster. Wordlessly, Charlie shrugs out of his jacket and hands it back to me, and after a moment, Emily reluctantly does the same. She's probably afraid I'll search her pockets in an attempt to find drugs or letters from Eric Beckman.
A sheepish grin on his face, Fred, too, turns and hands me his coat. "I know you don't like rollercoasters," he says with a shrug before turning and walking over to stand in line with our kids. None of them give me a second glance.
I can't help but wonder -how- he knows that since we've never been together to an amusement park that -had- rollercoasters before. As a matter of fact, I -do- like them. I remain silent because I know that if I speak up, I'll get this blank stare from him like he can't quite comprehend my words.
I feel nothing as I walk over and sit down on the nearest bench, the coat-holder for my family. If you can call us a family. More like three family members and one inanimate shell of a person who pays for everything, holds the coats and waits for the other three to return and move on while she follows behind wordlessly, too weary to argue or protest or participate. And it's not like they care. It's easier for them this way.
A few feet away there is a child strapped in a stroller crying while her mother chats on a cellular phone. The little girl is screaming at the top of her lungs but no one is paying attention but me.
Yeah. I'm right there with ya, kid.
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Niagra Falls is beautiful.
Millions of gallons of rushing water flows freely over the edge of the cliff and into the deep lake down below. The sun is shining and a small rainbow shimmers in the air halfway down the falls. I can feel the cool mist when the breeze blows gently, tousling my hair as I lean against the rail.
I contemplate buying a barrel and throwing myself over the falls.
A lot of people have done it. Few have survived. I wonder if those who did wanted to, or if the act had been one of desperation, an attempt to end the sorrow and heartbreak and loneliness. I wonder if those who didn't survive realized before they met their end, in the motions of falling, that death wasn't what they wanted but now had no choice about.
I wonder if anyone would miss me.
I have serious doubts.
Fred's voice startles me out of my dark thoughts. "We're gonna get something to eat at the food court." He points in illustration to a building which the kids are standing in front of, waiting impatiently.
I nod slightly and let go of the railing. My wallet and I follow them inside. We stand in line, the kids chattering lightly about wanting to see the fireworks that night, Fred smiling and nodding at them. The good parent. I pay for their trays of food and we sit at a table, me beside Fred, Emily across from me, Charlie across from him.
I stare down at my bowl of broccoli and cheese soup. I find it completely unappetizing. It was the cheapest thing on the menu.
After several long moments, I rise from my seat, not bothering to excuse myself to go find the restroom because no one questions my movement. I leave the table and locate the women's bathroom across the hall from the food court.
I go inside and set my purse on the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. I don't recognize my own reflection. I don't know who I've become. I'm not even sure who I was before I became this unrecognizable, inanimate shell. I stand motionless for a long time.
I return to the food court, but not the table. I stand by the line of people waiting to get their food and I stare at my husband. My children.
They don't even notice my absence.
I'm not surprised by their lack of awareness. I am surprised, however, by the sudden, very intense ache I feel in my heart. The sharpness of it takes my breath away and tears sting my eyes.
I don't belong here.
I'm not wanted, nor am I needed. I'm just along for the ride. It was an obligation for them to invite me along. That's the way it's always been.
The three of them. And me. The outsider.
I stare at them as they talk and laugh together. That's what families do.
I press a hand against my stomach, feeling the realization like a knife tearing through me.
Fred looks up and sees me, a questioning look on his face.
I meet his eyes for a second.
Then I turn and flee.
Past the crowds of people, stumbling but moving quickly toward the exit, my heart pounding hard against my chest. The pain threatens to overwhelm me before I manage to make it to the door.
I press my hands against the door handle and push, nearly falling as someone on the outside yanks the door open.
I gasp and ignore the mumbled apology from the man and I keep going. The only thing I know is that I have to keep moving. Don't stop, don't look back, just keep moving.
My new mantra.
I hear footsteps behind me and I know without looking that Fred has followed me. I don't know why. I don't -want- to know why. He doesn't call out to me. It's too late.
It hurts too much.
I don't look behind me when I hear the footsteps stop. I know he is staring after me.
I don't stop running until I make it to the main road. I flag down a taxi and manage to crawl into the backseat before I begin to cry. I bury my face in my hands and sob, my whole body shaking with the tears, with pain. The driver asks me if I'm okay and I simply nod and wave my hand, indicating him to just begin driving.
An hour later, he drops me off at the nearest bus station and I buy myself a ticket back to Manhattan. Back to my non-life.
I'll be long gone before Fred and the kids ever make it back to the apartment.
* * *
Part Two
The scenery on the way back to Manhattan is as much of a blur as when we were leaving. The only difference now is that instead of the excited coversations between my husband and children, there are hushed conversations between the people behind me and the large man sitting beside me.
I wonder if they all know each other or if they are just engaging in friendly 'we're-trapped-on-this bus-for-nine-hours-together-so-let's-make-the-best-of-it' conversation. Then I realize that I don't really care.
I block all of them out and try to do the same with the tidal wave of thoughts flooding my very exhausted brain.
The man elbows me in the ribs and I wince, then turn to glare at him. "Is that you?" he asks, not noticing the look on my face.
I blink, not comprehending his words. "What?"
"Do you have a phone?"
I wonder why he's asking me this until I realize that the phone in my purse is ringing. I unzip the zipper and dig out the small cellular phone. According to the caller I.D. it is Emily Yokas--555-7668. I, however, know better than to believe my daughter is calling me.
I rise to my feet and chuck the still ringing device out the open window. "Not anymore," I tell the now open-mouthed man beside me as I sit back down.
I can feel him staring at me, probably wondering what kind of a psycho he's sitting next to. A wry smile forms on my lips, but it is fleeting.
I lean my head against the glass and stare blankly outside, watching the scenery fly by. The people around me have stopped talking.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time the bus arrives in the city, it's after dark. I don't have enough cash left to pay for a taxi and I briefly consider a Bosco-esque act, flashing my shield and gun at some poor driver and earning myself a free ride. I dismiss the thought, settling myself to the long walk. It's not like I have a lot to carry--I didn't stop by the hotel in Buffalo and grab my suitcases.
I think that I should have bought the bus ticket with one of my credit cards and then spent the cash on a hotel room so no one could track me down.
Not much point in running away if you're going to be stupid enough to leave a trail for anyone to find you. Oh, well. Hindsight is 100%, I guess.
And it's not like anyone will actually bother, anyway.
I doubt the thought will even occur to Fred to try something like that.
And if it occurs to Emily, she'll keep her mouth shut. Why would she end a wish that she was finally granted? My complete and utter absence from their lives is her dream come true. With any luck, she'll never have to wake up from that dream.
Good for her. Dreams are good things to have. I can't remember when mine died. I think and try to pinpoint the exact moment but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it was a gradual death that just chipped away at my hope until it was so completely diminished that I didn't even realize it.
Guess it doesn't really matter. I can't even remember what my dreams were. They must have been dead for awhile now.
A man steps out from the entrance of an alley way as I walk by. He flashes a knife at me. I stop walking, and my eyes focus on the way the light from the street lamp above dances off the steel blade.
A thought arises, warns me that I should feel some small amount of fear--or at the very least adrenaline pumping through my veins. But there is nothing. Not even when he moves toward me and grabs me by the arm. There's a moment where I feel a small amount of pain from the tight grip he has on my wrist, but it is distant and fleeting.
"Give me your money, bitch," he whispers harshly. His breath stinks of alcohol, his eyes wild and unfocused. Drunk, high and wielding a deadly weapon. Always a lovely combination.
I reach into my purse and instead of grabbing my wallet, my hand grips the handle of my gun. His eyes widen as I pull it out and hold it two inches from his head. "Give me the knife, asshole." My voice is flat, bored.
He drops the knife to the pavement with a clatter and puts his hands in the air. He knows he's fucked up. I hold the gun on him and reach into my purse to get my phone to call it in--an automatic reflex.
My phone, of course, is not in my purse, but scattered into little pieces somewhere along the roadside of 1-81 South between Syracuse and Binghamton.
Yet another case of damned if I do, damned if I don't. It doesn't matter what choice I make; it's always the wrong one. My whole life's been that way. I don't even know why I bother anymore. Nothing I do makes any difference.
I just can't win.
My resolve fades, then disintegrates completely. "Get out of here before I call the police."
The man doesn't hesistate before taking off in the opposite direction. A bat out of hell going back.
I put my gun back in my purse, then lean over to pick up the knife off the ground. I toss it into the nearest trash bin and begin my journey to the apartment once more.
This time my pace is slow. It doesn't matter how quickly I get there. The only ones waiting to greet me are the ghosts of sadness and regret.
And they're not going anywhere.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sound of my key turning in the lock is hollow. I opened the door and step inside, but I don't turn on the light right away. I just stand in the doorway motionless.
The apartment is equally silent and still. There's a slight chill to the air and it causes goosebumps to rise up on my bare arms.
Everything and nothing is as it should be.
I force myself to close the door, then jump as the sound reverberates through the room. I imagine the sound to be words: "intruder, intruder, get out, get out."
Unwelcome, uneeded, unwanted.
I close my eyes briefly, setting my purse on the floor before I walk back toward the master bedroom. I don't bother turning on the light. I don't want to see myself in the mirror beside the bed.
I move to the closet, open the doors and search the floor for a bag. Ironically I now recall that all of our bags are a few hundred miles away in Buffalo.
That's okay.
Plastic bags work fine.
I move to the kitchen and pull a drawer open, grabbing two small bags from inside. I walk back to the bedroom and pull a few shirts off hangers. I grab some underwear, socks, shoes and jeans from the dresser. The closet and dresser drawers are still full of my clothes.
Correction. Full of what used to be my clothes.
I wonder briefly what Fred will do with them. Sell them? Maybe he'll give them away to a nice charity. I guess it's not really any of my concern.
My eyes linger on the three cleaned and pressed navy blue uniforms hanging up. A hint of nostalgia tugs at me, bids me forward and I run my fingers over the material. I jerk away suddenly, yanking myself out of the memories that I don't want to remember at this point in time.
I grab the two plastic bags off the bed and start to leave the room. Then I pause, my gaze dropping to my hands.
Without any feeling at all, I twist off the gold band that adorns my finger and leave it lying on the pillow.
I leave the room without looking back. I briefly consider writing them a note, but can't imagine what I'd say. Congratulations, you're free? Happy Abandonment, best wishes? See, dreams do come true? Ding-dong the bitch is gone?
A flash of pain hits me with the last bitter thought and I recall watching The Wizard of Oz with Emily when she was six. She was terrified of the Wicked Witch and had flung herself into my arms and buried her face in my neck. The knowledge that at one point she actually did love me, that she looked up to me as a protector--as a safe, trustworthy person--tears at me. I suppose the thought should be comforting or soothing.
It is neither.
I bite down hard on my tongue and the memory dissipates with the sudden physical pain. I can taste the coppery tinge of blood in my mouth as I walk to the door.
I can see that the answering machine is flashing and out of pure curiosity, I walk to it and see that there are fifteen messages.
I don't hit play. It's undoubtedly Fred making some attempt to 'bring me to my senses.' The sad part is, the whole reason I'm leaving is because I finally came to my senses.
You see, a person doesn't have to actually say the words that they don't want or need you around. Unless the person happens to be very direct. Like Bosco. No, most people aren't quite that verbal about it. But there are oh-so-many ways to say it without ever actually speaking.
And I've been getting the messages loud and clear from everywhere I look.
I leave the apartment, lock the door behind me, then slide the key underneath underneath the threshold. I won't be needing it anymore.
Bags and purse in hand, I walk out of the apartment building where I grew up and lived my entire life but that was never really my hom4e.
I have no home.
I don't belong anywhere.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The motel is cheap and not very clean. I watch with disinterest as a cockroach crawls across the floor of the semi-dark room. It's not the first roach infested motel I've stayed at and it definitely won't be my last.
I'm sure I'll be living in one of these crapholes until I can get a job and get an equally crappy apartment. Doesn't matter. All I need is a place to sleep.
I flip through all five channels on the small black and white television. Not surprisingly, there's nothing on. God forbid there be something, -anything- to distract me from my thoughts.
I give up and shut off the t.v. I lay back in bed and stare up at the ceiling. I can hear little feet running around in the room above me.
For an instant, I doubt myself. My decision. Am I doing the right thing? Am I making a mistake?
I try to recall the last time anyone in my life actually needed me for something besides money, or to take care of them when they were sick. I honestly can't remember. Emily and Charlie don't talk to me. There are never any mother-child heart-to-hearts in the Yokas household.
No. The mother is the breadwinner, the absent one, the bitch when she is there. The one who ruins everyone's good time.
Then there's Fred. The Christian, the smart one, the good parent. The one who's always there.
Can't compete with that.
I remember my father telling me in a drunk rage one night that I was worthless, that I'd never amount to anything. That I would end up alone and unloved.
Father knows best, right?
Tears stung my eyes but I fight them. "No, I couldn't be one of your kids because I actually see you. Your kids don't have a mother. Maybe rollin' up on your daughter in a squad car counts as quality time...you've got a great set up. Things go wrong with the kids, you weren't even there. You've got Fred to blame at home, you got me to blame at work. Then there's St. Faith, the martyr. You really think that you been carryin' me around?"
I curl up on my side on the bed, my arms wrapped around my stomach as I cry.
The numbness was much more tolerable than this pain. Better than this empty, hollow feeling inside my heart.
I don't think it will ever be filled.
I cry myself into a dreamless, restless sleep, hoping that I don't wake up in the morning.
* * *
Part Three
There were four notebooks.
I -know- there were.
But why would she lie to me? Doesn't she know by now that I'm trustworthy?
Doesn't she realize how I feel about her?
A nagging little voice that sounds suspiciously like Faith whispers in my ear. "She's no good."
Shut up, I command the voice. You don't know her.
Do you? the voice responds, then goes silent.
Do I? I wonder, a heavy feeling settling in my chest as I unlock my locker. I mean sure, I like bein' with Cruz and she's one hell of a cop. But she doesn't exactly play by the rules.
Which is fine. Sometimes you can't play by the rules if you wanna win the game. You gotta make sacrifices to come out on top. I get that.
But she doesn't just -break- the rules. She obliterates them.
And to be honest, I'm beginning to wonder if she'd do the same to me if I got in her way.
Before I can follow that line of thinking much, the locker room door opens and Cruz breezes in, a totally calm and focused look on her face.
Unbothered, unburdened by anything. At least in appearance.
Untouchable.
She notices my stare and turns to face me. There is no warmth in her eyes. "You ready for the day?" She's all business, as usual.
"Yep," I answer nonchalantly.
"Good. I thought of a way to get to Noble."
"Yeah, and how's--" Before I can finish, I'm interupted by the ringing of my cell phone. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the caller ID. My eyebrows focus. Emily Yokas, 555-7668.
"Who is it?" Cruz wants to know, moving to my side.
"Emily Yokas," I murmur, wondering why the hell Faith's daughter would be calling me.
"Don't answer it," Cruz commands, snatching the phone out of my hands.
"It might be important."
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. "You said yourself that you didn't want any part of Yokas or her life, so forget about it. They don't need you."
I stare at her wordlessly. That of course is not -exactly- what I said, but I'm not really surprised by her interpretation.
Everything's black and white with Cruz. There are no gray areas. You're either right or wrong. Good or bad. On her side or against her. And if I answer that phone, I'm against her. And I don't know if I -want- to be against her.
I don't really know what I want anymore.
The phone stops ringing. I hope that everything's okay.
"Let's get to work," Cruz says, a slight satisfied smirk on her face.
I ignore the bad feeling I have in my gut and I follow her to the door.
* * *
The locker room falls silent as I walk in after the shift. I feel a little awkward and paranoid as I walk over to my locker. Had they all been talking about me?
I look around. "Take a picture. It'll last longer."
Davis looks back at me. "You haven't heard?"
That uh-oh, bad gut feeling from earlier returns with a vengeance. "Heard what?" I ask cooly as I unlock my locker.
Sully sounds shocked when he speaks. "He really doesn't know?"
I'm tired of the games already. I turn to face them. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Faith resigned yesterday," Sully tells me.
I don't move. I don't even blink. "Run that by me again."
"She quit, Bosco." Davis's eyes are full of worry. "Came in late last night, turned in her badge and gun, and left."
I look from Davis to Sully, wondering if they'd found out about what happened with me and Faith and are setting me up, seeing how I react. "Is this some kind of joke?"
The complete silence that meets my ears is my answer. "Son of a bitch," I mumble. I head for the door, yanking my cell phone out of my pocket and dialing the Yokas's home phone number.
* * *
"Have you seen Faith?" is Fred's greeting when he answers Emily's cell phone.
I stop dead in my tracks outside the precinct. "Are you sayin' she's -missing-, too?" I ask in disbelief.
"Too?"
Oh, fuck. This is -not- good.
"She quit yesterday."
"She what?" Fred sounds as baffled as I feel.
"She handed in her gun and badge."
"You let her quit?"
"Let her? I wasn't even here!"
"No, you never even are when -she- needs -you-, are you?"
"Oh, this is rich," I reply sarcastically. "When the hell are -you- there for her, Fred?"
"Have you seen her?" is his response.
"No, I haven't. Where are you? Are the kids with Faith?"
"No, they're with me. We're in Buffalo."
"Buffalo?"
"Yeah, at Niagra Falls."
"Wait. Why are you at Niagra Falls? Why isn't Faith -with- you?"
"She was with us!" He sounds pissed. "She took off during lunch yesterday!"
"So why didn't you follow her?" I demand.
There is a moment of silence. "Look, if you talk to her, or find her, call me." The line goes dead.
I lower the phone from my ear.
Where the hell are you, Faith?
* * *
When I get to the motel that Faith apparently checked into, I'm so angry I could hit something.
I went to their apartment first and immediately found her key under the door. When I spotted her wedding ring on the pillow in their bedroom, it became pretty damn clear exactly what had happened.
Faith Yokas had abandoned her family.
I don't understand her. What the -fuck- is she thinking? How can she do that? How can she just leave her husband and kids?
Just when I think I've heard the most horrible, selfish acts that a person can commit, I hear about something worse.
I just never thought she would be the person who committed that act.
I'm disgusted with her, and I fully intend to tell her that. I raise my hand and knock hard on the door. I wait, tension gripping every muscle in my body.
The door opens a few moments later and I'm stunned into silence by what I see. Faith's face is completely pale, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She's wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of gray jogging pants.
It's her eyes that bother me most. Her eyes that I've looked into for the past ten years and been able to communicate with her without words. Her eyes that have always held an intense sparkle. That sparkle is gone, not a hint of it left. Her eyes are now completely lifeless.
All the anger that I was feeling only moments ago disappears completely and the rage is replaced with fear. Something is very, very wrong. I swallow hard and stare at her. "I've been looking for you."
"Guess you found me," she answers dully.
* * *
Part Four
Do you ever wonder what the point is? The purpose of life?
Back when I was attending NYU--my one whole year of college--it used to be a big joke between my friend Claire and me. We'd sit around in our dorm room and pretend like we had all the answers.
"Hey, Faith? You know what the purpose of life is?" she would ask with a grin.
I would grin back and tell her 'no.'
Then she'd dive into some long existential tangent about how the purpose of life was to do one truly great thing in life and then die. Her examples were always art-based. Every famous artist has one truly great piece that everyone knows about, she'd say. Da Vinci painted 'The Mona Lisa', Van Gogh 'The Starry Night,' and Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel.
I'd ask her what her great piece was and she'd say she wasn't going to create it for a long, long time. She'd grin at me cheekily and say that she was perfectly happy making small, non-famous pieces because she was in no big hurry to finish her life's work and die.
I wonder if she still feels the same way, or if the years and an abusive girlfriend have worn her down and made her start working on that one great piece.
I hope not.
I looked up to Claire. She was always so full of energy, so full of life. I admired her for that.
But Claire and I aren't alike.
Back when she was wishing on shooting stars and holding out for her dreams, all I was wishing for was a secure, quiet life.
When I got pregnant with Emily and married Fred, that's what I thought I'd found. Stability. Calm, quiet security.
How very wrong I was.
They say that little girls grow up to marry men that remind them of their fathers. I didn't realize until the vows had been made just how true that was in my case.
Fred was always drunk. I think for the first seven years or so of our marriage he spent more time out drinking with his buddies at the bar than he did in the combined time it took him to work, and spend time with me and the kids.
And when he was drunk, much like my father, he tended to get hateful. Angry.
Oh, he never laid a hand on me out of anger. I definitely would have left him years ago if he had. But no one told me growing up that men should be nice to their girlfriends and wives. All I ever had for an example was Dad yelling at Mom, calling her names, telling her she was worthless. Telling me -I- was worthless. So how was I supposed to know that it wasn't--didn't have to be that way?
And it wasn't like it was a constant thing with Fred. No, he was sober for at least two hours out of every day.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
Do you ever feel like you're falling? Just dropping out of the sky so fast and so hard with no net below to catch you? Falling has become a way of life. Occasionally I can grab onto a ledge and hold on for awhile, but then the rock crumbles beneath my hands and I tumble toward the earth again.
Toward the black hole of nothingness that has become my life.
I am lucky in one aspect. Claire said each person has one great accomplishment in life. I have two. Emily and Charlie. My life's work is done.
And I'm tired of falling.
I'm ready to hit the ground now.
* * *
When I wake up this time, it is because of a loud knocking on the door. Squinting at the old digital clock beside the bed, I see that it is 3:26 a.m. Always a lovely hour of the morning for visitors.
I don't bother to get dressed or even to turn on a light. I already know who it is. I feel no need to try to disguise my feelings or explain why I'm there instead of at my--Fred's apartment or with Fred and the kids at Niagra Falls.
If Bosco's here it's because he already knows. Well, more likely he -thinks- he knows. Even when he has no clue what's going on, he acts like he does. I used to find it annoying some days and amusing others.
Now? I just don't care.
I just want to go back to bed.
I think about not answering the door at all, but knowing Bosco the way I do--did--he'd just kick it in anyway.
I open the door before he has a chance to knock again. He's always been pretty impatient and God forbid someone make him wait more than thirty seconds when he's standin' on their doorstoop at the asscrack of dawn.
As soon as I look at him, I see the fury, the disgust in his eyes and I simply look back at him blankly. I'm a little surprised to see the anger disappear from his eyes. Even more suprised to see worry replace it.
"I've been lookin' for you," he says. He almost sounds nervous.
"Guess you found me," I reply dully.
There is a moment of silence.
Bosco steps forward. "Can I come in?"
Like it would do any good to tell him no? I'm too tired to try and argue with him. Maybe if I just let him say whatever it is he feels he has to say, he'll leave. I stand aside to let him in.
I don't bother to close the door behind him, hoping he'll take that as a hint to not stay long. I walk over to sit down on the bed, too tired to stand up any longer.
"Can I turn on a light?" he asks, glancing around the tiny hotel room.
I shrug in the darkness, wondering how long this little speech of his will last once it begins.
I squint against the light that floods the room once he flicks the lamp on. He does the same.
Bosco opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Now -there's- a first.
I watch him as he struggles to figure out what to say. It's weird. He -always- has something to say, whether it's the right thing to say or not. And it's rarely ever the right thing.
I realize that now instead of trying to speak, he's staring at me. Normally if someone stares at me, it makes me self-conscious and uncomfortable. Right now, it doesn't matter. It's not like he's seeing me anyway. Not really.
"You look awful."
His words are blunt, but not harsh. Just honest. Bosco's nothing if not honest. I almost smile. Almost. I simply look back at him, expressionless.
He shifts uncomfortably. "I talked to Fred."
Figures. The thing about Fred is, he hates Bosco, but he's not above using him to get information or whatever he needs when he wants it. Especially if it has to do with me.
"He said you just took off in the middle of lunch yesterday. Sully told me you quit the department. I went by your place, I've been callin' your cell for hours. Why didn't you answer?"
I shrug. "Threw it out a bus window."
He gapes at me in disbelief, and I know why.
For the past ten years, I've been the dependable one. The stable one. The one who holds everyone and everything around me together without wavering. No faltering, no quitting. No spontaneous anything, ever.
To hell with that.
I'm through.
"You threw it out a bus window?" he repeats.
Yep, that's what I said. But thanks for the parrot imitation.
"Faith, what the hell is going on? You and Fred have a fight?"
I shake my head.
"You and Emily?"
I shake my head again.
He pauses. "Is this because of me?"
This time I roll my eyes. Yes, Bosco, this is all about you. You're the reason I left my husband of fifteen years, abandoned my children and quit my job. It's completely about you.
Not. I -wish- it was that simple.
"Is it?" he presses, guilt clouding his eyes.
"No. It's not about you," I say flatly.
"Then what is it about?"
I simply shrug. I can't even fully explain it to myself, let alone someone else. Besides, what does it matter? After tonight--this morning--we're never gonna see each other again.
He sucks in a breath. I notice his gaze has dropped. I look down instinctively and see that he is staring at my wrist. It is swollen and bruised. So that's what the dull ache is from.
"Fred do that to you?" His voice is tense and I feel a brief flash of sympathy for him. He didn't exactly have an ideal, peachy-keen childhood, either. It's one of the many reasons we were always drawn to each other. Why we used to understand each other so well.
"No."
"Are you sure? He didn't hurt you?"
Not physically.
I can see it in his eyes--if I even hesitate before I respond, he'll go and kill Fred. And he won't regret it.
I shake my head and he looks at me intently. Apparently deciding I'm telling the truth, he continues his questioning.
"Did someone else hurt you?"
This time, I nod slowly and the anger sparks in his eyes.
"Who, Faith?" His mind is already turning, coming up with the quickest ways to find the bastard responsible and making him pay dearly.
I just shrug.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" There's worry in his voice.
Yes. My heart, I think, but I don't voice the thought. He wouldn't understand. -Couldn't- understand. So I shake my head once more, wondering how much longer he'll be able to deal with my silence.
He closes his eyes for a moment. "Were you assaulted?" he whispers.
I'm more than a little startled at the conclusion he's drawn, but I can't let him think he's right. "No," I answer, my voice a little raspy from crying earlier.
He opens his eyes again, relief evident on his face. "So what happened to your wrist?"
"Got mugged."
I watch his eyebrows furrow, watch disbelief register once more. "You got mugged?"
I nod and fall silent again.
"Are you all right?" Bosco asks.
"No," I say before I can stop myself. Damn my mouth for not consulting my brain first.
"No?" His eyes widen a little. "Should I call a bus?"
I let out a short laugh that's completely devoid of humor. "I don't think I can be fixed."
He stares at me, trying to make sense of my words. "I don't understand, Faith."
Join the club. I shrug. "I'm tired." Maybe if I can make him think I'm just exhausted and don't know what I'm saying or doing, he'll leave.
"I'm not leaving," he informs me.
So much for that plan.
"Suit yourself. I'm going to bed," I reply casually, crawling under the covers as he watches. I turn away from him, pulling the blankets up to my neck.
I stare at the wall for a long time, listening to the silence of the room. Then I finally fall asleep.
* * *
I watch silently as she climbs into bed and turns her back to me. Well, if she thinks that's going to detour me, she's got another thing comin'. This conversation is not over.
I'm not that easy to get rid of and she oughta know that by now. I briefly consider leaving her and coming back in a few hours. My instincts persuade me not to. If I leave, there's no telling what could happen. She might not still be here when I come back and next time she'll be more careful to cover her tracks. I might not ever find her again if I go now.
Not to mention the fact that I'm a little worried she might hurt herself.
I shudder at my last thought. I never, ever thought I'd have to worry about that possibility with Faith Yokas.
But this woman is not Faith Yokas. The woman lying in this bed is a complete stranger to me. I don't know what she's capable of, or what's going on in her head.
And that frightens me.
I used to be able to look into her eyes and know exactly what she was thinkin'. But now lookin' into her eyes is like looking into an abyss.
I settle myself into the chair beside her bed and resign myself to the fact that I won't be getting any sleep in the near future. I won't take any chances.
My gaze locks on her figure and I watch as she sleeps. I hope she's havin' good dreams.