A/N: This is the last chapter of our short story! Enjoy—we have one more story in this series; Sara moves to Las Vegas. We will post it after December 1.
A Few Days with Two Mothers Chapter 8
Time seemed to stop. Her arms and legs were round him as sleek silky ropes tying them together. He could not let her go; certain she had been made for him. In a world filled with lovers, Grissom had never taken much interest in women who sought him. A dinner or a movie or a concert ended most of his attempts at dating. He had shelved the idea of sex just for the act or a moment of passion—until this woman had pulled him into the room at a beachside motel. Even as he kissed her, he smiled at the memory. Maybe she had not pulled him because he had gone quite willingly.
It had been years since he had even thought he might love a woman. Yet, he had known that first afternoon, in a white rented room when they had purchased what they needed in a convenience store, Sara was different. Without her, he simply ached. He wanted to spend time with her, talk to her, to watch her. He wanted to feel her hand on his face, to see her tuck her hair behind her ear, and listen as she talked with her lifting questioning tone. He wanted to talk about her dreams and hopes, to know her secrets.
Whispered words brought him to the final moment, and, he again thought of rising tides and the sea as he felt the warm movements around him. It was easy to love her.
In the middle of the night, he woke to find her dark eyes watching him. "You don't sleep much, do you?"
"Sometimes I do—I will sleep ten or twelve hours without waking. But with you, I like to watch you sleep, to know you are here."
He wrapped arms around her. "Sleep, honey. I'll be here when you wake up—I won't leave you." He spoke of a silent concern, his as well as hers. He laced his fingers with hers as they slept.
Grissom left the next morning, leaving Sara sitting on the steps of her apartment, just as she had found him. He was not returning to Vegas until later, flying south to Los Angeles. He needed to visit his own mother who lived in her own special world of silence.
When his mother opened her door, the rapid movement of her hands, the smile on her face was enough to let him know she was happy, she was telling him he should visit more often, she had lunch waiting. Her words were secondary to her hands. Of course, he was slow—speaking first, taking a few minutes to remember he must face her so she could read his lips, gradually remembering signs and the shortcuts of life with a deaf person.
His routine had always been to visit his mother every eight weeks. Since meeting Sara, he had stretched his visits to three months. She never asked and he let her believe it was work that kept him away. Today, he made the decision to tell her about Sara.
His mother knew him. The two of them had been, still were, a close family, mother and son, since his father had died decades ago. Her hearing loss occurred when he was barely a teenager giving him responsibilities of the hearing world. She depended on him even as she was furiously independent and it had been his mother who literally shoved him out her door to find his own life. And she was a woman who used common sense instead of science for much of her decisions—and she was usually completely accurate in her assessment of any situation.
She had worried when her only child showed little interest in childhood games or playing with other children. He invented his own kind of play spending hours in the grass, crawling around on his belly plucking beetles and bugs from the ground. One day, his father brought home a set of encyclopedias—not the children's version—and their son found an academic obsession that developed into his lifelong passion Now she worried that his solitary pursuit would work to keep him alone for his entire life.
Mother and son ate lunch, talking with voices and hands. With a mother's intuition, she knew he had not come from work; he was rested and excited at the same time. When she asked where he had been, his startled expression caused her to laugh. He laughed with her; he had never kept many secrets from her. He described the woman he had left in San Francisco, how much he enjoyed talking with her, their common interests, her willingness to take him as he was. His mother asked if he loved Sara.
Before he could answer, she said, "Love doesn't happen in a few days, Gil. True love needs time to grow into something strong, its commitment and dedication and a belief in each other."
He expected nothing else from his mother who still loved his father, probably more today than when he died. She had wrapped presents for him every Christmas for years after he died. She still had his personal things in her bedroom, and if she had ever looked at another man as a potential companion, he was unaware of it.
Grissom smiled for a moment before he gave the only answer his mother would understand. His mother smiled. She had wanted him to find someone for years and at her age had almost given up hope that her son, a gentle intelligent man, would find that person. She asked more questions, frowning when he told her that Sara lived in San Francisco and leading to other questions about her work, about his work. She would never tell him, but she did not like Las Vegas, too much visual stimulation for her eyes. The city had captivated her son and that was the only positive thing she could say about Vegas.
They spent a long afternoon together. She found it easy to be with her son; he knew he could do nothing wrong in her eyes. He told her Sara's story about the doll. She frowned as he finished.
"Be cautious, Gil." His mother signed. He thought her word was cautious, but she could have meant careful. He signed that he would be careful.
He would return to work tonight even though she kept a room ready for him—actually the same room he had as a kid had been left almost unchanged since his childhood.
"Bring your Sara to visit." His mother signed as he got into the rental car. "I want to meet her." He did not answer; he knew it had been difficult for Sara to take him to the religious community to meet her mother. She had no idea of the conflict he had in introducing his mother to her. Where Sara's mother was quiet and unquestioning, his mother would assault Sara with a thousand questions. He could imagine the visit and it caused an instant headache behind his eyes. He knew the secret history Sara hid about her mother; he had his own—a father dead of heart disease at forty-five, a mother with a congenital hearing loss. It scared him to think about his own future and that of a woman fifteen years younger.
Not for the first time, these thoughts stayed with him as he boarded his flight to Las Vegas.
His townhouse was as he left it; bare, unadorned except for the framed butterflies and insects, totally unwelcoming compared to the small apartment he had left in San Francisco. He wanted Sara here so she could put her touch on this place. They could live together. They could work together. He stretched out on his couch to sleep for a few hours. He would work it out, present her with an offer she couldn't refuse. He chuckled with that thought and closed his eyes.
As he walked into work, early as usual, his friend and supervisor met him in the hall.
"Hey, Gil." Brass called. "We got one in the suburbs tonight—early start—suicide in the bathtub."
A/N: You know where we are going with the next one! Keep reading!! It has some fluff and some angst as we fill in the gaps!