Tom Ryan watched as his partner, Cassandra St. John rang the doorbell to the large, Spanish style mansion and waited for a Cassy-like amount of time--about two seconds--before she pounced on the bell again.  On the fifteenth ring, Tom interceded.

"Give it a rest, Cass, there's no one home," Tom said as he leaned against a massive carved timber.  "I thought you called and Jericho said he'd be expecting us."

"I did, and he did.  He's got to be here somewhere...let's go around back."  Cassy bounded off the porch.  Tom raced after her and caught her arm.

"Didn't you see the sign?"

"What sign?" Cassy asked, annoyed.  She was sure that Evan Jericho had lied to them regarding his whereabouts on the night of the Clayton murder, and she wanted to question him again.  He wasn't a suspect, but Cassy felt he was hiding something, or protecting someone.  She'd dragged a reluctant Tom along to find out what, or who.

"This Property Protected by Guard Dogs," Tom recited stiffly.  "And I'll bet you they aren't chihuahuas." He gestured to the backyard.  "And... I'll also bet you they're out there somewhere. Let's come back when someone's home."  He turned to leave.

"Tom!  You're not afraid of a little old dog, are you?"  Cassy demanded.  "Besides, that sign's a fake.  Every mansion on Cordero has one of those in front...they sell them at Sharper Image--$29.95.  My neighbor has one and he has a Pomeranian."

"Pomeranians have really sharp teeth.  They're nasty little dogs, like furry weasels with expensive haircuts. I hate Pomeranians.  I'm not going."  Tom crossed his arms and stared.

"What do Pomeranians have to do with anything?" Cassy caught the stubborn look on Tom's face.  "Oh, all right.  Go sit in the car, I'll be right back," she snapped and stalked off.

For once, Tom obeyed her.  He went back to the car, opened the driver's side and plopped down inside.  Cassy was probably right about the sign, she usually was, but that wasn't what was bothering him.  The problem was he resented being here. Evan Jericho, alibi or no, seemed like a waste of time to him, and Tom had said so.  Jericho had no motive, he had no connection to the victim, and he just didn't seem the type to be involved in a robbery/murder, despite the fact that he'd found the body and then lied about his whereabouts beforehand.  Tom eyed the expansive and expensive mansion, decided it was worth at least four million, and doubted seriously that Evan Jericho murdered a thirty-six thousand dollar a year junior level ad executive for his wallet.  Cassy, as usual, was insane, and she wouldn't listen to him.  She'd taken an instant dislike to Jericho, who had directed his answers to Tom instead of Cassy--to Tom's amusement and she had apparently decided to make Jericho's life as miserable as she often made Tom's. 

Tom sighed and looked at his watch.  She was also going to make him late for his date with Grace if she didn't hurry.  That was another reason for his burgeoning dark mood.  They'd had a fight.  A small thing, he thought, but Grace thought otherwise.  He'd helped her when she didn't want his help.  Pity, she called it.  Caring and concern, he'd called it. Her impending blindness hadn't thrown any obstacles in the way of their budding romance until the fight. They'd parted with bruised feelings between them.  The date tonight was sure to be uncomfortable.  Grace had said that he didn't understand how it felt to be pitied.  But he knew...he knew better than most what that was like.  Tonight, he was going to have to share that episode in his life with her and that wasn't a pleasant prospect.  Thinking of that time always caused him pain...pain that he never ever wanted to forget, because that would mean forgetting Teddy.   And he would never wish for that, no matter how much the memories hurt.

Tom checked his watch once more, irritated.  He figured Cassy must have found Jericho by now and was all over him, like cat hair on the couch at Aunt Martha's.  He decided to rescue the unfortunate Mr. Jericho from the pit bull he called his partner.  He climbed out of the car, ready to grab her leash and make her heel, when he heard a scream. Ryan raced around the west side of the mansion, hurdling the well-manicured shrubbery, and came face to face with Cassy, white-faced and holding her right hand against her chest.  His eyes were open wide with fright and he took her by the shoulders.  Her hand was bleeding profusely, dripping blood down the front of her pink and white striped top.

"Cass!  What?..."was all he got out before he heard the growling behind her.  He started for his gun, but Cassy whispered sharply for him to freeze.

"He didn't attack until he saw my gun," she hissed through clenched teeth.  "Try not to move...it only provokes him."

"Him?"  Tom whispered back and Cassy nodded.  

"A dog...a Rottweiler," Cassy said fearfully.  "You were right."

"I'll gloat over that later, when we're safe.  How bad is it?"  Tom murmured, nodding at her hand.

"I'll live.  I think."  At the moment she wasn't exactly sure. 

 Tom looked over Cassy's shoulder and spotted two ugly brutes, twenty feet away.  Black and tan, like dobermans, but more muscular with huge muzzles and lots and lots of sharp, shiny teeth which, at the moment, were exposed and ready to sink into a nice juicy bit of cop. "I see two.  How many are there?"

"Two?  Oh, God, I don't know, that's at least one too many.  The one who came after me fell into the pool when he attacked me, or I wouldn't have gotten away," Cassy said hoarsely.  "We have to get out of here."

"Any suggestions?  Besides, don't pull your gun or look like a pork chop?"

"Run really fast and hope they don't catch us?"

"Uhhh...last resort, okay?  I don't think we could outrun them in the Mustang, let alone on foot. Do you have your keys?”

"No, they're in my purse.  It went into the pool with that dog and my gun.  I don't need keys, unless you locked the door."  She winced and held her hand closer, as the blood dripped down the front of her shirt.

"The windows are down," Tom said quietly.  "You need the keys, in case they follow you.  Take mine,"  Tom said and reached ever so slowly into his jacket pocket.  He slowly pressed the keys into Cassy's uninjured hand as the dogs growled and advanced menacingly.  "I'm going to pull my gun...they won't see me do it...you're in their line of sight.  You run for the car and I'll shoot, with any luck, I'll hit them, or at the very least scare them off."

Cassy nodded, the pain in her hand was terrible and she didn't know how long she could bear to stand there, waiting to be mauled.  "Be careful...and don't miss."

"Miss? Me?" Tom asked as he eased his hand towards the gun he carried at his waist. "Who got the better score on the target range?" 

"I did."  Cassy murmured.

"Oh, yeah, well--you got lucky.  Rematch when your hand is better," Tom said softly.  His hand found his gun and pulled it with glacier-like slowness from the holster.  He pointed the weapon at the ground and settled into a firing stance, never taking his eyes from the two canines.  "Break right on three."

"My right or your right?"

"Yours. Ready?"

Cassy nodded.

"One...two..."  Tom whispered, as the dogs continued to advance, growling fiercely.  "Three!"  Cassy sprinted to the right and the dogs sprang into action.  Tom fired and hit the one on the left, who fell in mid-stride.  The other dog stopped at the sound of the shot, giving Tom the briefest of seconds to aim and pull the trigger four times, dropping the dog in his tracks.  Tom barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before he was hit from behind by a snarling, fur-covered battering ram.  He hit the ground hard and rolled onto his back, the air rushing from his lungs as the dog returned to attack--lunging straight for his throat.  

Tom reflexively threw his arms up to protect himself and the gun flew from his hand.  The dog grabbed his right arm, sinking its teeth into his forearm and gave a brutal shake of its massive head, trying to separate man from limb.  Tom struck with his left fist, trying to get the dog to release the crushing pressure on his arm.  The blows had no effect, and Tom was sure that his arm was being severed.  With no breath with which to cry out and no time to do so, he desperately drew up his legs and kicked at the dog, hitting it squarely in the soft underbelly.  

The big Rottweiler yelped and released Tom's arm.  Tom rolled away onto his stomach as the dog pounced again, his teeth  sinking into the fabric of his jacket.  Tom shrugged the coat off his shoulders and rolled away.  The dog dropped the coat and went for the moving target, raking Tom's side, slashing through his shirt, skin and muscle, scraping painfully across his ribs as the cop cried out. 

The added pain sent an overload of adrenaline coursing through his body, the "fight or flight" response that terrible danger invokes in the body, and Tom's body chose to flee.   With the dog still snapping at his back, Tom tried to get to his feet, knowing his only chance was escape.  He had taken only two steps before the dog was upon him, tearing through the back of his right thigh.  

"Christ!" he gasped as the pain buckled his leg under him, throwing him to the ground again. The dog resumed his attack, once more going for Tom's throat. Tom rolled and dodged, but the dog caught his upper right arm, adding insult to the previous injury, ripping through the muscle and grinding into the bone. The pain was breathtaking...meteors streaked across his grayed vision and his own warm blood sprayed across his face in a fine mist.

The attack had been going on for only a few seconds, but seemed like an eternity. The dog's hot breath was suffocating, as was the fear which choked Tom's throat.  It was like being attacked by a buzz-saw--a snarling, foul, bad tempered, unrelenting buzz-saw that could run you down and rip you to shreds without regrets.  He punched at the dog again, catching it on the nose and the Rottweiler let go of his arm.  

Ryan felt what little strength he had left draining away onto the ground as the dog snapped at his legs.  He kicked weakly. He couldn't raise his arm to protect his face--couldn't even feel it.  One more savage charge would finish him--the razor sharp teeth would do their work.  He prayed that he would lose consciousness before that happened, before the dog ripped into him one last time.  Tom cried out as the dog clamped its teeth down on his calf.

"No!"  It was Cassy' voice, shrieking in horrified protest from across the yard.  The animal heard her cries, and still holding onto Tom's leg, stared at her.

Another voice came from above.  "Down, Gabriel!  Release! Stay!"

'Gabriel? An angel?' Tom wondered, hearing the voice. 'Am I already dead?'

As rapidly as it had started, the attack ended.  With Cassy's screams still ringing through the air, the dog released Tom's leg and backed off, shaking his head, rubbing at his ears with his massive paws and whining like a small puppy.  Tom was numb with relief.  He felt like he'd been through a blender--his clothes were shredded, and so too, he felt reasonably sure, was a good bit of his flesh.  He was grateful, in a way that he couldn't feel much more than that.  He tried to get up, but couldn't remember how. He knew it was shock setting in, but he almost welcomed its cold embrace.  It kept him separated from the pain. Then a man's voice called out from above him...

"I've called the police...don't move.  Stay away from the dog or I'll order him to attack," the voice shouted.

"I'm a police officer...that's my partner.  Keep your damn dog off him or I'll shoot it and then you," Cassy shouted angrily at the "angel". 

"Oh my god...Sgt. St. John?" Evan Jericho recognized the blonde who had given him so much trouble the previous day.  "Sgt. St. John, please, stay where you are, I'll come and put the dog away.  Please, don't move, you'll just provoke him.  And for God's sake, don't shoot...I'm coming."

"You have one minute...if that," Cassy said as she eyed Tom's motionless form from across the yard.  "Thomas?" she called softly, but there was no response, except from the dog, who raised its head, as if noticing the new intruder for the first time.  She'd retrieved her spare gun from the car and returned to help Tom, only to find him being mauled viciously. She couldn't shoot then, for fear of hitting Tom, especially with her injured right hand, but now, with the dog lying innocuously on the ground...simple enough to render him permanently harmless.

Her dilemma was solved by the arrival of Evan Jericho, towel wrapped around his waist and whistle clenched in his teeth.  He ran to the dog and grabbed its collar.  As soon as Jericho had the dog under control, Cassy ran to Tom's side.  Blood was still spurting from the artery in his arm which the dog had severed.  Tom's eyes were open, and he was gasping, breathing too fast, and his face was horribly pale under all the blood splattered on it.

"Oh shit...you missed," she said and placed her left palm over the wound in his arm, applying pressure.  The blood still flowed freely. 

"I... did not.  Got two."  Tom grimaced, the effort to speak was too much.  'Better not to talk...better just to quietly bleed to death,' he thought.

Cassy looked up at the white-faced Jericho.  "Give me that towel.  I need to stop the bleeding."   

Jericho hesitated for a moment too long.  Cassy reached up, yanked the man's towel from his waist and pressed it to Tom's arm. "Don't just stand there, put the damn dog away and call an ambulance...now!"

Jericho stumbled away, with the dog in tow, pausing briefly to stare at one of the dead dogs.  "Hurry up!"  Cassy called and Jericho and the dog disappeared from sight.

"Damned dogs.  I hate dogs," Cassy said, watching Tom's blood seep through the thick white towel.

"I knew it...you killed Jake...on purpose," Tom said.  It was hard to concentrate.  He was lightheaded.  It felt like someone had taken all of the oxygen out of the air and replaced it with ether. 

"Jake?"  She realized he was talking about his own dog, the one who'd died in her care.  "I did not kill Jake on purpose, it was an accident."  The bleeding wasn't slowing down at all. He was losing too much blood, too fast.  She knew she needed to find the pressure point, or apply a tourniquet. Cassy held pressure on the towel covered wound with her left hand and clumsily slid her injured fingers to the inside of his arm, as the towel became saturated with red. She searched desperately just above the armpit and pressed, trying to find the spot on his inner arm that would slow or stop the profuse bleeding. 

"Tickles," Tom gasped, his face a ghastly shade of gray.  He was lying in a large pool of his own blood, and the pool was growing larger by the second.  

"Shush...I've got to find...there...there it is."  The fountain of blood stopped spraying and was reduced to a trickle. "Don't move now," Cassy said, concentrating on holding her aching fingers on the elusive artery. "You'll be okay.   Just lie still."

"Okay.  Don't really feel...like doing anything else," Tom smiled weakly at Cassy and let himself be drawn into her cool blue eyes...blue like the ocean.  In a lightheaded haze, he remembered swimming in those beautiful, treacherous waters.  Floating now, he let the waves wash over him and carry him out to sea, the salt spray stinging his eyes.

"Thomas?"  Cassy said as her partner's eyes fluttered and then closed.  "Tom?"  she begged, but there was no response.  As the sirens wailed in the distance, Cassy's tears fell, washing the blood from Tom's face.

*****

Watching Tom being loaded into the ambulance and not being allowed to go with him was bad.  Waiting for hours while he was in surgery was nerve-wracking.  And standing here outside the glass-enclosed ICU cubicle, unable to be with him, to hold his hand or stroke his brow was maddening.  But making the phone call to his parents was the very worst.

Liam had answered.  One small favor.  She'd been praying it wouldn't be Maeve.  She knew she wouldn't be able to tell Maeve.  But it was Liam.  

Liam took it well.  As well as you can take the news that your son had been mauled by a dog, lost one half of his blood volume, and faced the possibility of having his arm amputated, if he survived.  She felt Maeve's stony silence as Liam told her the news, and then Liam was on the line again, telling her that they would be on the next flight out, and asking which hospital to go to.  And Liam, bless him, asking if she was all right.

No, she wasn't.  And she wouldn't be until Tom was out of danger, and whole.  God, let him be whole.

Cassy checked her watch. It had been six hours since she'd called the Ryans.  They should be here any minute now.  She almost welcomed the company. Her support systems were gone. Harry was in Israel with Frannie, and the hospital hadn't allowed the other cops who were standing vigil in the waiting room after donating blood, to come into the ICU.  She felt completely alone. Her bandaged hand throbbed.  She'd reluctantly allowed the ER doctor to care for it while Tom was in surgery.  They'd put in a few stitches, told her she was lucky and gave her a bag full of sample sized antibiotics and a prescription for painkillers, which she had no intention of getting filled.  The pain connected her to Tom.  She stared through the sterile glass at the robed figures standing around Tom's still body.   One of the nurses moved and Cassy caught a glimpse of deep tears in his side along his ribs, where the flesh was swollen and raw and lined with blue stitches.  Her hand ached in sympathy. If her hand hurt this badly, how must Tom feel?  She hugged her bandaged hand to her chest and let the tears fall.

The doctor had warned her that he would look bad.  Many of Tom's injuries hadn't even been stitched up--the bite wounds on his legs and the wounds to his right arm were open still.  The doctor had said it was to prevent infection.  Animal bites were very dirty wounds, and it was considered better to leave very deep wounds open to allow them to heal, rather than to stitch them shut.  Stitching trapped the debris.  Plastic surgery would reduce the scars after the wounds healed, the doctor had guaranteed her.  But that didn't take away the shock of seeing the bruised and torn flesh weeping blood and serum onto the white sheets.

The worst damage had been done to his right arm.  The dog had snapped the radius in his forearm and done appalling damage to his upper arm.  It was touch and go for a while.  The doctors hadn't been sure they could save his arm.  But, hours of surgery later, they had reconnected enough blood vessels to make it viable.  Despite how awful it looked, the medical staff had seemed pleased.  Tom could move his hand, and that was good news.  Now if only he didn't get too severe an infection, they thought his chances were good for recovery.

But no one would say how complete that recovery would be.  

Cassy stood staring at Tom as the flock of nurses hovered about, connecting tubes, setting monitors, hanging bag after bag of clear fluid and dark crimson blood.  She was hoping for some movement, some sign, and didn't notice the two people who walked up silently and stood behind her.

"Cassy?"  Liam Ryan said gently so as not to startle her.  

Cassy stepped aside and turned to find Liam and Maeve Ryan standing in shock as they realized that the poor unfortunate in the room was their own son.

"Tommy..." Liam whispered and pulled Maeve close to him.  

Tom's mother didn't say a word, just stared through the glass...and Cassy knew she was seeing more than Tom lying there.

******

 

"Mom, no more, please?  I can't...I can't eat right now," Tom complained as Maeve Ryan shoved a spoonful of hospital "food" at him.  

"Thomas Patrick Ryan, you need to eat, " Maeve said firmly.  

"I'm not hungry," he snapped and then softened his tone when he saw that he'd hurt his mother's already fragile feelings. "I'm sorry.  I'm tired, Mom.  I just want to get some sleep.  Why don't you do the same.  Let Cass take you and Dad home."

Liam looked at his son closely.  Tom was slightly gray and sweating, and that was a definite improvement over how he looked three days ago.  That sight was not something Liam wanted to recall, but the memory already had invaded his dreams. He'd seen his son through many injuries, especially when Tommy played football, but nothing had ever scared him as badly as seeing Tom lying on the bed, tubes running in and out, unconscious and bleeding from his numerous wounds.  It was too much like Teddy, with the tubes and the IV's and the nurses running about.  Too much like Teddy.

Tom did look tired. He had dark mauve circles resting under his glistening hazel eyes and his face was still deathly pale.  They'd come in this morning to find him ill with a fever.  The doctor had told them it was completely normal with the type of injuries Tom had received.  They were expecting it to happen, and were treating him with antibiotics. Liam knew he should trust the doctors but he couldn't help but worry about his son. "Are you sure?  I could stay, and we could watch the game.  Notre Dame and MSU," he grinned.

"Dad, I really am tired, I wouldn't be good company...just snoring away while you sit and twiddle your thumbs.  Besides, Notre Dame stinks this year, it'll be no contest."  Tom gave his father a wan smile.  Forced himself to be all right, for them.  If they saw the depth of his pain or the cause of his torment, they'd never leave, and he needed for them to go. He didn't have the strength to keep up his brave front for too much longer. He wanted to be alone with his pain and his fear.

"You'll eat later?" his mother asked, worried by his gaunt, pale face.

"I will.  I promise."  Much later...like the day after tomorrow.  The thought of food nauseated him.  The antibiotics coursing through his system didn't get along with his stomach lining at all and added a new level of discomfort to the equation.

'Smile just a little longer...'  he thought, when all he wanted to do was scream. "Cassy, please, take them home.  Mom, I have nurses here to torture me.  Your work is done."

"You are a smart mouth, young man," Maeve scolded, secretly pleased that her son felt well enough to tease her.  She leaned over and kissed Tom on the cheek, felt the excessive warmth of the pale skin and hesitated.  Something in his eyes held her there.  His face changed expression for just a second, and his eyes held a trace of fear, deep pain and regret. She'd seen that look before, and it caused her to search out her husband, to see if he had seen what she had.  Liam's face registered only good-natured concern.  When she glanced back at her son, Tom's eyes were fatigued--not filled with fear for what might come.  She smiled, sighed with audible relief and smoothed her son's hair, letting her hand linger on his cheek. "We'll go then, and come back tomorrow.  Sleep well, dear."  Maeve didn't hesitate for a moment, simply got up and walked out the door.

Liam clasped his son's left shoulder and ruffled the hair that his wife had just smoothed.  He could feel Tom's uneasiness, and knew something was wrong, something beyond the pain and fever, but he refused to open up--he hadn't said but a word or two all day.  That was not like Tom at all, he thought, but there was nothing he could do about it. Tom would talk when he was ready. "Goodnight, son.  I love you." 

"Love you, too.  Thank you, for coming.  I know...I know it's hard for her.  I'm sorry."

Liam saw the understanding in his son's eyes.  He knew that Tom knew, and that was enough.  "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Tommy.  You rest now, and we'll see you tomorrow."

Tom gave one more forced smile as his father walked out the door.  Cass lingered for a moment after they'd gone.

"Are you all right?"  

"I'm just tired, Cass.  Take them home, okay?  This is hard on both of them, even if Dad won't admit it.  Hospitals, you know."

"I know," Cassy nodded.  "You rest, okay?  You look terrible.  The fever is worse, isn't it?"

Tom ignored her comment. "Go on.  I'm all right.  I just need to sleep."

 It was all he could do hold off on the PCA pump until she was out of the room. If she'd heard the clicking, he never would have gotten her to leave. She seemed obsessed with his pain, as if it were her own, and she wanted an explanation of every click and every wince. It was guilt, he knew, but he didn't have the resources to comfort her and ease her pain, because he was drowning in his own.  It overwhelmed him and was pulling him under.  He pressed the button on the PCA pump, again and again until the machine rejected his request for more morphine.  

Tom sighed, waiting for the drug to soothe his shrieking nerve endings and send him off to oblivion, but knew from experience that that would not happen. The pain was constant...even with the medication that took the edge off, he still felt every spot on his body that the canine had punctured, slashed, crushed, ripped or mangled--save one.  The doctors had told him how lucky he was not to have lost a finger or ear or even had his face ripped off.  All those injuries were par for the course for an attack by such a large, powerful and determined dog.  Amputations notwithstanding, the damage sustained had been extensive.  His right arm, which was now black and swollen and wrapped loosely in a heavy bandage with tubes running in and out was devoid of feeling--muscles, veins and arteries torn, nerves severed and bruised, he couldn't feel, could barely move the arm or his right hand.  

Barely move was good, they said.  It meant that movement was possible.  Maybe when the swelling went down, maybe with a few more surgeries, maybe...maybe...maybe he'd still need two sleeves, two gloves.  Maybe he'd be able to drive a stick shift again, maybe he'd be able to take a woman into his arms...touch her with his hands.  Arms and hands.  Went together in pairs.  Not as good alone.  Not at all. 

Tom cursed himself for his lack of faith in his body. But, dammit, if he hadn't gotten the infection, he'd be watching the game and joking with his dad.  Not lying here feverish, with a dull ache that ran through his body, resonated with each breath.  The infection had crept up on him yesterday, sapping what was left of his strength as his family, oblivious, tried to make nervous small talk and fluffed his pillows.  Last night, after they'd gone, it had been worse, he had thought that he might actually die. Now, he only wished that he had. He'd never felt so bad in his life. The doctor had said if the infection didn't clear soon, they might have to take another look at his arm.  Doctors didn't just look--they opened, they poked, they removed.  That had been the implied meaning of "take another look".  

He'd sworn the doctor to secrecy because he couldn't deal with his family and their haunted eyes right now.  He couldn't deal with Cassy's guilt.  He needed to concentrate on his arm, on getting well.  He tried to think good thoughts, tried to visualize himself whole and well, but he kept seeing an empty sleeve, folded up and held in place by an orderly safety pin.  He gave up on visualization and thought about his future, and his past.

Thought about what it would be like to have one arm.  What he could still do and what he couldn't ever do again.

He could still write music.

He couldn't be a cop.

Tried not to think about it, and failed.  It kept coming back to him. 

Tom thought he could almost take the loss of his arm if it weren't for the pity involved.  He hated that more than anything.  When Teddy had gotten sick, the pity in people's eyes had been the worst.  They stared at her, with her hair coming out in patches, her painfully thin, wasted frame, her wheelchair, and the comments started. "What a shame.  How sad.  She was such a beautiful girl, before..."  As if she weren't beautiful now, as if she weren't even there and couldn't hear their insensitive comments. Then the look of pity would cross each face, pity for his mother, who would outlive her child, for his father, who was helpless to save her, and pity for him, the forgotten and ignored soon to be oldest child.  But the pity for Teddy herself was the worst.  He wanted to scream at them, make them understand.  She wasn't dead! She was alive and breathing and living each day to the fullest.

She never let the cancer stop her.  She kept going to school, until she couldn't leave her bed, and even then, she finished her high school degree a full year early with tutors and had begun to take correspondence courses at the local university.  She drew beautiful pictures and played the guitar and read books.  When she was feeling well enough, she went out with her friends.  She even had a boyfriend.  The Ryan family had devoted itself to making Teddy's life as full and as normal as possible.

How dare they pity her?  He pitied them for their ignorance.

He'd grown to hate pity...despise it. He thought of Grace, and the argument they had had.  They still had to talk--he'd obviously missed their date and Grace had gone out of town before he could have Cassy call and explain.  He needed to apologize for being insensitive to her feelings.  He'd thought he was just being helpful, but she thought it was pity, and he didn't ever want her to think he pitied her.  He'd rather die than let her think that.  He felt the weakness and pain flow through his body and thought that maybe he shouldn't be so quick to welcome death.

The door to his room swung open and in his fevered state, Tom half expected to see the Reaper standing there, ready to remove his poisonous arm with one quick swing with his scythe.  Instead, the nurse came in to do her vitals check, and clucked unhappily as she took his temperature.  "How are you feeling?  Not so good, I imagine."

"Ahh, Nurse Obvious," Tom grimaced as he shivered.  "But, if you're here to refill the magic pump again...I'll forgive you.  Everything hurts today...right down to my toenails. And the bank keeps rejecting my credit card."

The nurse smiled and checked the pump.  "Let me call Dr. Harrison and see if we can't get your pain meds upped, again.  He needs to know about your fever, anyway.  Make him work for the outrageous fee he's charging your insurance company."

"Four hours of stitching me back together for $200,000.00.  That's fair."

"Nothing's fair. If it was, cops, firemen and nurses would be paid more than CEO’s.  Haven't you figured that out yet? Nothing's fair."  The nurse shook her head and left to call his very expensive doctor.

'Nothing's fair.'

That's what his mother had told him when Teddy first got sick and he'd complained that it wasn't fair that he'd had to miss his Pee Wee football practice because there was no one to take him.  They'd all been at the hospital with her.  Again.  He didn't understand at the time, and resented the upheaval in his routine, comfortable life.  So, he'd cried "no fair", and his mother had turned on him fiercely, screamed "Nothing's fair!" and slapped his face so hard he fell against the kitchen counter.  Then she had broken down and sobbed and begged his forgiveness. She cried for an hour, sitting on the kitchen floor, holding him, rocking him.  He never said it again, and he never saw his mother cry like that again. That was the beginning of his understanding.  His sister was thirteen years old...and dying of leukemia.  No, there was nothing fair about it for any of them, least of all, Teddy.  He'd learned that lesson early.  

He was eight when she got sick and eleven when she died. When the doctors said there was no more to be done for her, that it would just be prolonging her misery, they had decided to let her come home and die in peace. The utter acceptance by Teddy of her fate had confused him, at first.  He thought she had given up, but he was wrong.  She lived for three long months after coming home to die, and taught Tom every valuable lesson he had learned in this life.  Lessons about fairness, and accepting the hand life deals you with grace, and about dignity and bravery and the true meaning of beauty. 

Thin, wasted, bald, her shoulder-length golden hair gone from the unrelenting chemotherapy, her eyes sunken in her head, and her skin pasty white and peeling, in his memory, she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He loved her fiercely, and missed her tremendously when she finally slipped away, lying in his mother's arms with his father at her side, while Tom plucked at the guitar she had taught him to play.  He still felt a twang of guilt that he hadn't gone into music like he'd dreamed and they had planned.  It could be too late now...not many one armed-guitar players out there.  Novel, but difficult to pull off.

The nurse returned and woke him from his reveries.  She had a small plastic bag--antibiotics, he guessed. 

"New stuff, ordered by the great Doctor himself.  Very expensive, very new.  It will probably make you very nauseated."

"Oh, good.  I wasn't feeling bad enough," Tom sighed.  "Any word on the drugs?"

The nurse hung the small bag piggyback onto the IV pole and adjusted the drip.  "I got you another dose per hour.  It won't be enough, but it's as far as we can go without sending you into a coma."

"Coma sounds pretty good right now," Tom winced.  

The nurse smiled apologetically and placed an emesis basin next to his head.  "Here, just in case.  And ring for me...don't try to macho through this like you do with your family."

"You noticed."

"I'm surprised they haven't."

"I think they have, but they just don't know what to do about it.  My mom hates hospitals.  I'm surprised she came at all.   And neither of them can stand being helpless."

"Well, no one likes it, but it is especially hard on parents, no matter how old the 'child' is," the nurse said, tucking the covers up around Tom's chest and then turned to go.  "I'll check back in on you soon. Try to rest...and call if you don't get any relief or if you feel worse.  Don't be a hero...again." 

Tom nodded almost imperceptibly as she walked from the room.  Queasiness joined pain and fever. He tried to ignore it, tried to think good thoughts, happy thoughts, but his stomach rebelled and the few bites of food his mother had forced on him felt like jagged pieces of glass in his stomach.  He took the basin in hand, and tried to roll over, but the injured right arm didn't want to go.  He sighed, and gripped the basin. 

'It's not fair,' the child in him cried.

"Nothing's fair," he said out loud, then leaned his face into the golden brown plastic basin and retched.

*****

Cassy pulled the Mustang into her garage after dropping Liam and Maeve at Tom's house and sat in the cool darkness, thinking about the unfairness of life, and its current hold on her ex, specifically.  

Through no fault of his own, Tom was lying in the hospital, horribly injured, in pain, and for what?  Her own foolish pride.  Evan Jericho wasn't a murderer.  Deep down, she'd known that, but the man's insistence on ignoring her and speaking to Tom, as if she wasn't there had made her question him.  The questioning had found the lie concerning his whereabouts before the murder, which had led her back to his house and had led her to his backyard, and to his monstrous dogs, which had led Tom into the hospital.  

It had been her fault, and all she'd received had been a few stitches in her hand.  Ten, to be exact.  She thought she deserved more.  She thought she deserved what Tom had gotten.  It should be her lying there.  Every click of the PCA pump was like a nail in her heart.  The pain should be hers, not his. He didn't deserve it. Unfair...life was unfair.  

She'd always railed against the unfairness that seemed to follow her in her life.  Thought it unfair that her father had died, thought it unfair that she'd been sent off to her grandparents when her sisters had gotten to stay at home, thought it unfair that women were treated as sex objects and not taken seriously.  And against each injustice, she fought...hard, loud and insistently.  With her insatiable thirst for fairness, it wasn't surprising that she'd chosen to become a cop.  Where better to exact justice?

It was Tom's sense of fairness, (and his great butt) that had attracted her to him in the first place.  But she soon found that Tom's idea of what was fair, and what wasn't--and mainly what one could do about the latter, was radically different from hers.  She focused on the unfair and he thought that there was no such thing. "Shit happens" was his motto.  

"Yes, but why did it have to happen to me?"  she asked him.

"Why not?"  he'd answer.  

It made her furious.

"Look, Cass.  Things happen.  People get dumped on, they get mugged, their houses burn, their parents get divorced.  Or, maybe they win the lottery, or they write a song or book and they get famous.  Sometimes they get sick, and sometimes they die. Some too soon, some not soon enough. Very few people get what they deserve. Look at Hootie and the Blowfish, for god's sake...it certainly isn't talent that's gotten them to where they are.  Nothing fair about those guys being famous.  It's a struggle.  All of life is.  It's how you deal with the crap that happens that's important.  Not the crap itself."

"You really believe that," she'd said.

"I do."

"You're nuts.  Unfair is unfair.  Why are you a cop?  To make things right.  To make people accountable for their crimes...to seek justice for people whose lives have been snuffed out by some low-life jerk. If you didn't care about fairness and justice, you wouldn't be in this line of work."

"What's fair and what's just are two different things.  You can see that justice is done.  Fairness is up to fate."

"No difference between the two."

"There's an old Chinese tale about a man who found a horse. No one claimed it and so by law, it became his.  "Good luck," the villagers said.  His son got on to ride the horse, and it threw him.  He broke his leg.  "Bad luck" the villagers said.  The next day, the local militia swept through the village and took all the able-bodied young men off to war.  Because his leg was broken, the man's son was spared.  None of the others ever returned.  So, the broken leg was "Good luck".

"So?"

"So, depending on your point of view, an accident-- unfair, unlucky, was actually a blessing.  It's what you do with what you're given that counts.  I can bring a murderer to justice, but it won't bring the victim back to life.  Justice is done, but the death is still unfair.  I can't change that.  No one can."

"You're such an optimist...always looking for the silver lining.  Sometimes there isn't one.  Sometimes things are just awful, horrible, unfair and unjust, and no amount of Pollyanna thinking makes them any better."

"There's always a silver lining, Cass.  I learned that a long time ago. But if you don't look, if you let yourself be overcome by the bad things that happen to you, you'll never find it."

Cass sighed.  Thought of Tom lying there, chewed to bits, his career hanging in the balance, his life changed by her petulance.  Unfair was the only word for it.  "I'm trying to find the silver lining in this one, Ryan, and I can't."

*****

Maeve sat on the sofa and pretended to watch the football game, oblivious to her husband's chatter as he cooked.  Her mind was back at the hospital with her son.

And her daughter.

She hadn't set foot in a hospital for nearly 20 years. Not to visit a friend who had surgery, not to see the newborns of her numerous nieces and nephews. She'd even insisted on having minor surgery done in her doctor's office. Not even to see Tom when he'd injured his shoulder playing football.  She'd left his recovery up to Liam, and felt horribly guilty, but Tommy seemed to understand.  Just like Tom to put his needs last.  He'd been that way as a child, thank god.  If he'd been the least demanding, she wouldn't have been able to bear it.  But he was always sensitive to the feelings of others.  Especially to Theodora. 

Almost 20 years.  It would be 20 years this October, that Theodora died. The years hadn't lessened her aversion. It was just that hospitals and her daughter's long, painful illness and eventual death were irrevocably and irrationally linked in her mind. Three long years of being in hospitals with her doomed child had been enough to last a lifetime, she had thought.  But now, merciful God, now Tom was in a hospital.

When Cassy had called, they weren't sure if he would survive, and she had to go. Had to. Walking into that hospital was the hardest thing she had done since burying her daughter.  She'd dug her nails into her own palm hard enough to draw blood, because if she didn't have something to focus on, to distract her, she knew she'd go mad.  She had to walk through those doors for Tom as she had for Teddy, knowing that this might be the last time she would see her child. 

Seeing Tom in the ICU, hooked up to all that machinery brought it all back to her.  Smelling the familiar sickly smells of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables and blood and despair turned her stomach.  She could feel the pain in the air, felt it like a slap in the face.  And underneath it all, she sensed death, waiting. Waiting for Tom like it had been waiting for her daughter.

And, dear God, he even looked like Teddy.  That was what she had seen in his eyes today, she realized.  She'd seen Teddy. Pale and afraid and in pain, but putting up a brave front for her and Liam.  Not wanting to cause anyone else pain.  Bearing what a child should never have to bear, knowing what a child should never have to know--that her time on this earth was limited, finite, and that her parents were completely unable to help her. They'd tried to make it easier for her at the end, had been at her side, but that final walk was Teddy's alone.

Tom was in pain, she knew that, even though he never complained. Tom was afraid that he was going to lose his arm, she knew that too.  She didn't want to think about such a horrible possibility, but Tom was facing it, and she would too. And oh, dear Lord, she knew that her son was afraid that he was going to die.  And to spare them, he was dealing with his fears alone.  Following his sister's example.

Maeve stood up and turned off the television. 

"What're you doing?  The game's not over yet," her husband complained.

 "Liam.  We have to go back to the hospital."

"Now?  Visiting hours are over," he said as he untied the apron from around his waist.

"Now.  Tommy needs us." 

"I'll call Cassy," Liam said and reached for the phone.

"No.  Call a cab."  Liam looked puzzled.  "He won't be able to talk with Cassy there," Maeve answered as she put on her sweater.  "He's afraid, Li. Didn't you see it?"

Liam nodded and took Maeve into his arms. "I did.  But I didn't know what to do.  I never did know what to do.  Not then and not now."

"We were there for her, Li.  We have to be there for Tom, no matter how much it hurts.  Just walking through the hospital door isn't enough.  We have to go the whole distance."

"I keep seeing her lying there..."

"I do too.  And he knows that.  That's why he's putting up this brave front.  You know how he is. But we can't abandon Thomas because of Teddy.  She'd never forgive us."

Liam nodded and kissed his wife's forehead.  "Let me call that cab."

*****

It was so hot.  The air in the room was warm and heavy.  It was hard to breathe, but he could breathe, it just felt as though someone was sitting on his chest. He shivered, even though he was hot.  It hurt again.  His throat burned; his stomach hurt. Everything hurt.  He just wanted it to stop hurting.  He didn't care how it stopped. He was just so tired.

He heard the sound of voices in the hall.  "Mom?" he whispered through his chattering teeth.  But she wasn't there.  No one was there.  No one to take him to practice.  

He was alone.  And dying.

It was just like she'd said it would be.

"How does it feel?" He'd asked one day about a month before Teddy had come home from the hospital for the last time.  They'd been sitting on the bed in her hospital room, practicing chords on the guitar. Teddy had pulled through another "crisis", but it had been close.  His parents had been scared.  Really, really scared.  Dying had become an abstract kind of thing, she'd been sick for so long.  He knew what it was, but he couldn't really apply it to his sister, until he saw the depth of his parent's fear. And he wondered, suddenly, how Teddy felt about the whole thing.  And even though he was afraid of the answer, something told him that Teddy wanted him to ask.

"How does what feel?" she asked, taking a sip from the protein drink that was her main source of nutrition.  She couldn't keep anything else down.  

"Dying.  I heard Mom and Dad talking, and they said they thought you were going to die.  But you didn't."

Teddy smiled sadly.  "No, I didn't.  But I thought I was gonna die too."

"So how did it feel?  Were you scared?"

"Kinda, at first.  When I can't breathe, it scares me.  The doctor told me that it's a chemical thing.  Lack of oxygen causes panic first, then you sorta relax, and it feels kind of dreamy and heavy and warm."  

"That sounds kind of nice.  In a weird sort of way," he said and tried the A chord again.  It still sounded like a D.

"You've got your finger on the wrong fret.  Here."  She adjusted his fingers and he strummed again.  "That's better."

He strummed a few more times.  A.  Sounded good.  He put the guitar aside. "Teddy?"

"Huh?"

"Are you going to die?"

"Yeah, Tommy.  I think so."

"But you always get better," he objected.

Teddy shrugged.  "One day, I won't.  I won't start breathing again. I'll just get all warm and heavy and dreamy, and then I'll die."

"I don't want you to die, Teddy.  I won't let you."

"I don't want to die, Tommy. But if it's time for me to go, then I'll have to go.  I won't stop fighting, but I'm getting so tired.  Besides, every time it's a little less scary."

"What do you mean?" he asked and sat up next to her on the narrow hospital bed.  Her thin frame took up little space.

"I've stopped breathing three times now, Tommy."

"You have?"  His eyes were wide.  How could they have kept this from him?

"Uh-huh," Teddy said, matter of factly.  "The first time, I was really scared. There was a long, dark hallway and at the other end was someplace I wanted to go.  I could hear voices, and music--the sweetest music--but I couldn't hear it clearly.   I had to go there alone and I was afraid to. I called out for Mom and Dad and suddenly I could hear everyone around me again, the nurses and the doctors.  And I could hear Mom calling me, and the hallway disappeared."

"Wow."

"Yeah," Teddy smiled at her brother's reaction, then rested her head on his shoulder and whispered her words to him, a secret between the two of them that no one else could share.  "Each time it happens, the hallway is less and less dark and scary.  And I know that soon, I won't be afraid, and I'll go down that hallway and I'll hear that music."

"Is that heaven?  Where the music is?" Tom whispered back.

"I think so."

"Heaven isn't scary."

"No, Heaven isn't scary.  But the hallway is."

"I'd go with you if I could, Teddy.  So you wouldn't be scared," Tom said and put his arm around Teddy's thin shoulders.  

"Oh, Tommy, I wish we could go together.  That's what I hate the most, you know?  Leaving you and Mom and Dad.  I'm not really scared anymore, but I'm going to miss you all so much.  I keep hoping that I'll be able to see you all from heaven and then it won't be so lonely.  I don't want you to forget me."

"I won't ever forget you, Teddy.  You're...you're my sister, but you're my best friend too.  I don't want you to be alone when you die."

"Everyone has to die alone.  I've seen other kids die, like Nicole, and Patty.  And it doesn't matter how many people are in the room, you die alone."

"That's sad."

"No, it's the truth.  What's sad is when you're alive and alone.  Some of the kids I've seen in the hospital, they don't have anyone who comes to see them.  But I have Mom and Dad, and all my friends and teachers from school.   And I have you, Tommy.  You help me so much."

"How?  I don't do anything.  I just sit and bug you and you just give me guitar lessons and stuff."

"You ask me questions.  You listen to me.  I can tell you anything.  I can't tell Mom and Dad.  It makes them too sad.  I can't talk to them about dying. But you let me talk.  You understand, Tommy. You help me more than you know. " 

"I'm glad.  I'll be here anytime you want me to be."

"I know.  And if I can be there for you, I will be."

"I know."  Tom picked up the guitar again and strummed an off-key chord. Teddy winced and Tom shrugged.  "But you better not die until you teach me how to play this thing."

Teddy laughed.  "I could be old and gray at the rate you're going."

"I hope so."

He felt a hand on his forehead and a soft voice whispering, "Tom?"

"Teddy?" he whispered back.

"Mr. Ryan?  Tom?  Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes and saw Teddy sitting at the end of his bed, smiling at him.

"Did you come to help me, Teddy?"

"Yes.  You called me."

"Damn, Carol, get Harrison down here.  Temp's 105.2.  He's burning up."

"I'm scared, Teddy.  I don't want to die."

"You aren't going to die, Tom.  Just take it easy."  

Someone else's voice, but Tom didn't believe her words.  Teddy just smiled kindly at him from her perch at the end of the bed.  This wasn't new to her, she'd been through it all before.

"Why didn't you call me before?  Start another liter of saline." A man's voice, gruff and concerned, barked out orders. "Get him under the cooling blanket.  We have to get this fever down. I don't want him convulsing. And get me those lab results stat. They've had all day.  I need to know what's causing this fever."

"It hurts, Teddy.  I just want it to stop hurting."

"I know.  I'm sorry."

"I never forgot you, Teddy."

"I know.  And you learned to play the guitar.  You play so well, I'm so proud of you."

The man was talking again. He knew that there were people all around him, but he didn't care.  Teddy was there and he was safe.

"What's his temp now?"

"104.8.  Going down slowly."

"Too slow.  Where are those labs?"

"Coming."

"Get the next of kin on the phone.  I need to get him into surgery.  Take a look at that arm."

Tom frowned.  "They wanna take off my arm, Teddy.  I won't be able to play guitar anymore."

"I know."

"Labs are back.  It's gram negative Klebsiella"

"We gotta open him up. He's got an abcess somewhere. Prep him."

"It's not fair.  I'm a good musician and a good cop."

"Yes, you are."

"I don't want to lose my arm, Teddy, but I don't want to die either.  I'm scared."

"Tell Mom and Dad, Tommy.  They're here.  Let them help you."

"Tom?  Tom?  Son, can you hear me?"  

His father's voice echoed in his head, drew his attention away from Teddy.  Tom opened his eyes and saw his mother and father standing on either side of him.  Instinctively, he put on his mask to keep them from seeing just how frightened he was. But he couldn't stop the tears leaking from his eyes.  He looked up at his sister.

"I can't do it. It'll make them too sad.  You know how it was when you were sick." 

"Tommy, please.  Don't be afraid to talk to them like I was.  I was wrong.  You don't have to be the strong one, you need them now and they need to help you.  Mom feels so guilty, so does Daddy because they think they let me down.  They need this as much as you do, Tommy.  Let them help you like you helped me."

"Tommy, they're going to take you to surgery soon.  The infection isn't getting better," Liam said gently, and laid a hand on his son's moist cheek.

"Go ahead, Tommy.  Tell them."

"No.  No, don't let them. Don't let them take my arm," Tom rasped and clutched fearfully at his father's jacket. "Don't let them.  Please, Dad.  Mom, please?  Don't let them."

Liam looked at Maeve, and saw his wife's heart break as she once again had to comfort a dying child.

"You won't lose your arm, Tommy. I promise you.  Everything will be all right.  The doctor just wants to take a look at it.  You'll be fine," Maeve whispered as she stepped in and stroked Tom's cheek with the back of her hand, concerned by the shocking heat of his pale skin.

"Am I going to die, Mom?" Tom whispered.

Maeve winced and drew back her hand as if she'd been scalded.  She bit her finger to keep from screaming and tasted the salt of her son's tears on her tongue.  How could this happen again? Why should she have to face this question from both of her children?  It wasn't fair.  It wasn't goddamned fair at all.

"You aren't going to die, Tommy."  His mother choked out the words, praying they weren't another lie.

"I...I think I am, Mom.  That's why Teddy's here."  Tom's eyes glittered hot with fever.  "Don't you see her?"

Maeve went pale and swayed. Liam raced around the bed and grasped his wife's shoulders from behind, to hold her steady. 

"You see Teddy, son?" Liam asked, tightening his grip on Maeve, feeling her tremble in his arms.

"She's there..."  Tom lifted a weak finger and pointed towards the end of the bed.

Both parents turned to look.  For a moment, Liam thought he saw a shimmer of light where Tom had pointed, but in the blink of an eye it was gone. 

Maeve stared, and then held out her hand as if offering it for Teddy to take.

Tom smiled.  "She's holding your hand, Mom."

"Theodora?"  Maeve whispered, staring at her hand and then into space.  "Oh, my sweet girl, I've missed you so much."

"Mom..." 

 Tom thought Teddy looked as though she might cry.

"I'm so sorry, baby.  I'm so sorry that you had to go through that.  I'm sorry we couldn't...couldn't...be stronger, for you.  I tried.  Your father tried.  But it was such a shock.  Forgive us, my girl."

"It's okay, mom...she knows, " Tom whispered.  Teddy reached out and touched her mother's cheek.  

Maeve put her hand to her face and wiped away a tear.  "Teddy, please--help your little brother.  I can't bear to lose you both...I can't bear it.  Don't let him die, please God, don't take my son, too."  Maeve begged, collapsing into Liam's arms.

Tom watched as Teddy rose from the bed and embraced her parents, kissing them both as they comforted each other, oblivious to her presence.  In the blink of an eye, she stood at his side.  "Teddy?  What happens now?"

"We have to take him--now."  

Teddy took his hand and squeezed.  "I'll be here, Tommy, when it's your time.  I'll always be here for you.  I'll walk with you and help you down the hallway, so you aren't scared, like I was," Teddy whispered in his ear, then she kissed him, her lips cool and light like a butterfly on his hot cheek, and faded away.

"Teddy!  Don't go!  Teddy!" Tom cried, rising up from the bed. Strong hands pushed him down and something slipped over his nose and mouth.  The air smelled strange, the light dissolved molecule by molecule, and he was plunged into darkness.  Far away, he saw a light and a long dark hallway, and his sister, waiting patiently for him.

*****

"How long has it been?"  Cassy asked Liam in a hushed whisper.  Maeve was curled up asleep under her husband's protective embrace, and Cassy didn't want to wake her.

"Three--no four hours.  Maybe more, " Liam whispered and Maeve stirred.

"Li?" she mumbled.

"It's all right, Maeve.  Go back to sleep."

She raised her head and looked sleepily at her husband. "Is Thomas dead, Li?  I dreamed he was dead."

"No.  No, he's still with the doctor.  We should have word soon."

Maeve sat up and smoothed her hair, patting the loose strands back into place. "I'm sorry, I know he's not dead, I'm just...Cassy, dear?  Would you mind getting me a cup of coffee?  I'm so tired and I don't really want to sleep anymore."

"Of course, Maeve.  Liam?"

"Please--and thank you, honey."

Cassy left the room, relieved to have something to do besides wait.

Maeve waited until Cassy was gone and took her husband's hand. "Liam, I'm sorry about falling apart before, in Tom's room.  I want you to know it won't happen again. I won't leave you to pick up the pieces alone this time.  We're in this together, the three of us."

Liam nodded.  "We're much stronger together than apart. Teddy taught us that.  Let's lean on each other, instead of trying to stand on our own this time." He kissed her on the cheek and stroked her auburn hair. "You're tired.  You haven't slept since Cassy called.  I've heard you up every night, wandering Tom's apartment till dawn.  Why don't you rest now?  There's nothing to do but wait."

"All right, Li," Maeve said and leaned into her husband's warmth.  She felt his strong arms shelter her, slipped into the rhythm of his breathing and was lulled back to sleep within minutes by the steady beat of his heart.

Cassy came back with two cups of coffee and handed one to Liam, keeping the other for herself.  "Everything okay?  You get everything settled?"

"It's fine--and how did you know?" he whispered.

"Maeve drinks tea--not coffee.  She just wanted some time alone and didn't want to be rude."

"She's never gotten over losing Teddy--no matter what she says.  But then, neither have I."

"Tom told me about her, Liam.  It must have been heartbreaking."

"It still is, Cassy.  It still is."  Liam smoothed his wife's hair and smiled sadly at his former daughter-in-law.  "Tonight was pretty rough on her.  When we went in to see him, Tom was so sick, and in so much pain-- the fever had him hallucinating. He said he saw Teddy--told us that she'd come to take him.  It upset Maeve--sent her right back twenty years.  It scared me because, for a moment, I thought I saw her too.  I'm afraid of what that means."

"He'll be all right, Liam.  He has to be."  Cassy caught sight of a woman in dark glasses paused in the doorway outside the waiting room.   She recognized her immediately and stood to greet her.  "Grace," Cassy called.

The woman hesitated for just a moment, glancing around at the sound of her name, trying to locate the source. "Cassy?  Is that you?"

"We're in here, Grace, to your right and then straight ahead."  

The woman followed Cassy's instructions, tapped her cane against the open doorway and found her way into the room.  When Cassy took her arm, she flicked the cane shut unobtrusively and slipped it into her purse.

"I just got your message about Tom and I came as quickly as I could.  The nurses said he was in surgery--why?  What happened?"

"Cassy?  Is something wrong?  Who is that?"  Liam asked, interrupting Cassy's explanation and waking Maeve.

Cassy led Grace over to the Ryans.  "Liam, Maeve, this is Tom's friend, Grace Sharpe.  Grace, these are Tom's parents, Liam and Maeve Ryan."

Grace held out her hand and Liam stood up.  He had seen the cane, and noted the dark glasses as he gathered her hand in his and held on.

"Ah, Grace. I'm pleased to finally meet you.  Tommy's told us all about you."  He gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek in greeting.

"He's told me about you, too. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Mr. Ryan.  Tom is...he's very special to me.   I've been frantic since I got Cassy's message.  I'm so sorry.  I was out of town and I didn't know he'd been hurt," Grace replied as Liam placed her hand in Maeve's.

"This is my wife, Maeve."

"Grace, " Maeve said gently as she shook the woman's hand. "Won't you sit with us?"

"Thank you.  Please, someone--tell me.  What happened to Tom?  Was he shot?"

"Shot?"  Cassy asked, surprised, then realized that naturally Grace would assume that.  It was a common fear for everyone involved with a cop. Cassy took a deep breath.  "No, he wasn't shot.  It was a stupid, stupid...accident. Tom was attacked by a vicious dog three days ago when we went to question a subject.  He was bitten pretty badly, lost a lot of blood and his right arm was severely injured.  They've already operated once, to try to fix some of the damage, but now, he's very sick, and the doctor thinks that he has an abscess somewhere in his arm that's causing an infection and a high fever.  They took him into surgery again to try to fix it, so he'll get better."  Cassy sank down into her chair, amazed that she'd been able to get through the explanation of Tom's injuries without breaking down in tears.

Grace's voice trembled slightly as she asked the question no one could answer, "Will he be all right?"

"We hope so, Grace," Liam replied.  "Like Cassandra said, he was pretty sick when they took him in, but Tommy's a fighter.  He'll pull through."

"What if--what if they can't fix it?"  Grace asked.

"They'll fix it," Maeve said assuredly as she stood.  "Excuse me, I'm going to the chapel to say the rosary.  Will someone come and get me when Tommy comes out of surgery?"

"I will, Maeve," Cassy said.

"If you don't mind, could I come with you?"  Grace asked.

"Of course, child.  I'd welcome the company," Maeve replied and took Grace's arm. "Are you Catholic, Grace?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"None of that.  Call me Maeve."

"Yes, Maeve," Grace smiled.

Cassy and Liam watched as the pair walked down the hallway to the chapel.

"That's a pretty girl," Liam remarked, settling back onto the couch.  The tall, willowy woman had made an impression on him.  "Tom said she was beautiful, and that they were getting pretty serious, but he didn't mention that she was blind."

Cassy nodded. "She's not completely blind yet.  In fact, I think she was at the Mayo Clinic this week having some sort of treatment done to slow the process.  She must have just gotten home."

"Still, it's strange he didn't mention it."  

"Not really.  I don't think Tom notices half the time, Liam.  He treats her no differently than his other girlfriends--which is a shame, because she's much nicer than the bimbos he usually dates."  Cassy placed a hand over her mouth.  "Oh, I shouldn't have said that."

Liam smiled.  "His taste in women has been somewhat...out of whack since you two broke up, I've noticed that myself."

"Well, it threw me for a loop, too.  I was dating a volleyball player."

Liam raised an eyebrow and grinned at Cassy. "You two ever think about getting back together?"

Cassy shook her head. "We're the best of friends, Liam, and we both understand that's how it's got to be.  Tom needs things from me that I can't give him--or anyone for that matter," she sniffed, choking on the words.  "I'd rather not talk about that right now."

"I'm sorry, honey, for prying into things that aren't any of my business," Liam pulled Cassy close.  "Forgive me, Cassandra," he said and kissed the top of her head.  

Cassy accepted the warmth of his embrace and closed her eyes. 'Just like Tom,' she thought, and held onto Liam tightly, not saying a word.  'Just like Tom."  She missed Tom already and that thought scared the hell out of her.

*****

Tom stood in the dark, staring at the welcoming light, unsure what to do.  Teddy walked out of the light and came to stand in front of him.

"Tommy?"  Teddy said softly.  "Don't you want to come in?"

"I...I don't know."

She smiled. "You don't have to.  Not yet."

"I don't?"

"No, you can still choose like I did," Teddy said, laying a hand on his arm and looking into his eyes.

Tom suddenly realized that Teddy looked different to him than she had in the hospital room.  Her skin glowed, her face was full and her eyes sparkled.  Her golden hair was thick and glistening, reflecting the celestial light that shone brightly from behind her.  "Teddy?  You were sick before...but... you aren't sick here, are you?"

"No, I'm not.  No one is sick here, or sad, or hurting or lonely.  This is Heaven, and it's all you would hope it could be and more.  It's different back there, Tommy.  Very different.  If you come with me, you'll see."  She saw the hesitation written on his face.  "Can I ask--what's holding you back?"

"It's Mom and Dad. I want to come with you, I really do, but I don't think...I don't think Mom will be okay with this.  She'll be like she was when you died.  That was bad, Teddy.  That was really bad. She was so miserable--we all were.  I don't want to put her or Dad through that again if I can help it."

"I thought so.  That's one of the reasons I didn't come in the first time--because I didn't want to hurt them."

"And Cassy's already blaming herself.  If I die--what would happen to her?  And then, there's Grace...I haven't apologized for hurting her, the last time I saw her, we had a fight.  Our last words to each other were angry.  That's not how it should be...."

Teddy sighed and patted Tom's arm.  "I know.  But sometimes that's just how it is.  I understand what you're going through.  I don't know how to explain it, but you just know when it's right.  I stood where you are four times before I stepped inside.  Once I did, I never looked back.  I know that sounds harsh, but...once you cross over, you'll understand."

Tom took his sister's hand.  "It doesn't feel right, Teddy.  I don't know why, but it just doesn't feel right."

"It may not be your time, Tommy."

"How will I know?"

"You'll know."  She kissed him on the cheek. "Remember what I said--I'll be here, waiting, when it's your time.  You won't be alone."

"Teddy--what if--what if I just stay here, in the hallway?"

"It's better than the pain, isn't it?  Better than hurting.  I got to like the hallway--but it's not a solution.  I can't stay with you, but you can rest here, as long as you want.  Some people stay here for a long time until they decide.  But eventually, you have to choose."

Tom nodded.  "I understand. Goodbye, Teddy."

"Good-bye, Tommy.  Tell Mom and Dad that I love them--forever.  When you decide to come back, I'll be here." She turned and started to walk back towards the light.

"Thank you.  I love you, too, Teddy.  Forever."  He watched as she walked away and fought back the urge to run after her.  Teddy faded into the light, the light faded into nothingness, and he was in the dark again.

****

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death..."  The two women knelt together, shoulders almost touching and recited the rosary, taking turns saying the mysteries, ignoring the people who drifted in and out of the small, depressingly cheerful modern chapel.  When they had finished reciting the last decade, they settled back onto a brightly upholstered pew and sat quietly for a long time, lost in shared thoughts of Tom.

Grace slipped off her dark glasses and put them away. "I feel so terrible.  I should have been here," she whispered, finally breaking the silence.  She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes.

"You didn't know, Grace.  You came as soon as you could."  

"The worst part is that I've spent the last few days angry with him.  We had a fight over something stupid and then when he stood me up the night before I went to Minnesota...I thought--I thought he was going to...to tell me it was all over between us.  And I had decided that I might as well beat him to the punch."  She glanced at Maeve, hoping that she could understand. "Then I got Cassy's message that he'd been hurt, and to come to the hospital," Grace started to cry.  "I feel so guilty.  Tom was fighting for his life, and I was mad at him for missing a date...."

"Grace, you've nothing to feel guilty about.  You didn't know."  Maeve took the younger woman's hand in her own.  "Tommy was unconscious for the first day, and terribly groggy the next.  He called your name, more than once, and he kept saying that he was sorry, that he didn't mean it and wouldn't do it again. I thought he was talking about Mrs. Keaseby's dining room window.  He said the same thing when he broke it with his football, but now I think he was talking about you, and your spat."

"Oh, god..." Grace whimpered.

Maeve put her arm around the woman's shoulders. "I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad, Grace, I'm telling you so that you know Tom was thinking of you, and that he was sorry he hurt your feelings.  I think you should know, just in case...well.  Just in case."  Maeve turned away and studied one of the abstract stained glass windows that surrounded the blond oak chapel.  "Awful stuff, isn't it?  I don't like these new-style churches with their stainless steel holy water fonts and guitar masses."

Grace smiled.  "Tom said that too, except he liked the guitar mass.  Hated the stained glass...he said Jesus and the apostles looked like something Picasso dreamt up after eating bad swordfish."

"Tommy's been going to Mass?"  Maeve looked shocked.  "He hasn't gone to Mass that I know of since he stopped playing football.  And then he only went if they won--paying off his debt.  It was a standing deal between the Almighty and Thomas--each win was worth an appearance at Mass.  Not a very religious boy, my Tommy, except in the fall.  How did you manage to get him into church, if you don't mind my asking?"

Grace smiled. "I just asked him to come with me one Sunday.   I like to go to Mass on Sunday evening so I don't miss the college games on Saturday."

Maeve smiled.  "You like football?  No wonder Tommy's so fond of you.  I think that's one of his lifelong fantasies--meeting a woman who loves football as much as he does."

"And I wanted a man who loved football as much as I do.  We do have that common interest, among others."

"Like being Catholic.  The Ryans are cradle Catholics from day one--even if it doesn't stick, like with Tom."

"I'm actually a convert.  My ex-husband was Catholic."  Grace explained.  "He was murdered.  Tom was investigating.  That's how we met.  I'd been divorced from Joel for a year before he was killed.  He couldn't deal with my...condition."  

Maeve frowned.  "Condition?"

"I'm going blind.  I have a disease called macular degeneration.  Probably within the next year, I'll lose my sight completely."

"I'm sorry, Grace."

"Thank you, Maeve.  But, I'm okay.  Worse things happen, every day."  They shared a knowing look.

"So, you were divorced...before your husband died?"

"Our divorce was a tough thing to go through, but it was the best thing, for both of us. He was good to me--up to the very end. He left me a house and a tidy sum in his will, and he left me a Catholic. Between the divorce, his death and losing my sight, I've found that my religion is a comfort--one of the few constants in my life."

"Most people would be angry at God, after going through all that, feel as though He let them down."  Maeve said thoughtfully, remembering her own dark anger when Teddy died.

Grace smiled ruefully. "Oh, I was mad, for a long time. I ranted and raved and I screamed and I drank and well--just about anything you could do to protest being shut alone in a dark room forever.  But then one day I realized that it wasn't going to change, and that I was ruining the time and vision I had left with bitterness."

"Lord, grant me the serenity to accept those things which I cannot change, the courage to change those that I can and the wisdom to know the difference," Maeve said.

"I say that one every morning and every evening."  Grace took Maeve's hand. 

Maeve hesitated, "Did Tom tell you he had a sister?"

"No, he didn't.  Should he have?"

"He would have, eventually.  He's very private about her, we all are.  Her name was Teddy, and she died of cancer, twenty years ago--October 29, 1978.  Worst day of my life--I hope. She was only sixteen, and such a special child.  Brave, bright, talented, loving--there wasn't a selfish bone in her body.  Tom worshipped her--she taught him to play the guitar. And I loved her so. Up until the moment she took her last breath, I believed, I hoped, I prayed that God would somehow spare her.  But, He didn't. I felt so...betrayed.  I hated God.  Shut Him out, stopped going to church, stopped praying.  I just shut myself off from everything--my husband, my family--I just wanted to die. I think you understand."  

Grace nodded.  "Yes, I do."

"But that was a lonely existence. I realized that as much as I wished for things to be different--they weren't, and being miserable wouldn't help me or Teddy or my family.  Teddy fought so hard and believed so deeply that for me to give up on life and faith was an insult to her memory. It took some time but I pulled myself together.  I apologized to Liam and Thomas--and I apologized to God for my behavior.  We've been on fairly good terms until now."  Maeve smiled.  "But, no matter what happens, I'll get through this--one day at a time, accepting what comes.  We all will."

"Your husband is right; Tom is a fighter. And I can see, meeting you, where he got it from." 

"Thank you, dear.  I'm pleased to say the same about you."

Grace smiled broadly "Tom will be all right.  He knows I won't let him off the hook until he's apologized properly."

"That's my girl.  Never let the man have the upper hand--makes them think they're in charge.  And we know they never are."

"My sentiments exactly, Maeve," Grace said.  

"Let's get back, shall we?  See if Tommy's up to apologizing yet?"  Maeve stood and straightened her dress.  She offered her arm to Grace.

"Lead on, Maeve."

*****

After a quick detour to the cafeteria for fresh coffee for Liam and Cassy, Maeve and Grace returned to the waiting room, to find Cassy and Liam sitting silently on the couch.

"Nothing yet?"  Maeve asked, handing Liam a cup of hot coffee.

"Nada," he said and patted the seat next to him.  

Grace offered Cassy a cup of coffee, but Cassy declined.

"How long has Tom been in surgery?" Grace asked.  

Liam checked his watch and stood.  "Coming up on five hours.  I'm going to go see what's happening.

A young nurse, a student by the look of her uniform, popped her head into the doorway at that moment, as if she'd been summoned.  "Someone will be in soon to talk to you," she blurted and hurried on down the hallway.  Liam shrugged and sat back down.

"Ask and ye shall receive," he grinned.

 Another flustered student came into the room--a medical student this time, an earnest looking youngster who looked barely old enough to shave.  "Dr. Harrison sent me to get Mr. Ryan's parents--that's you, right?" he asked, pointing at the elder Ryans.

Liam and Maeve stood.  "That's us," Liam said, taking Maeve's hand.  "Is our son all right?"

"Dr. Harrison wants to talk to you, that's all I know," he said apologetically.  "Would you come with me?"  He held the door open.

We'll wait here for you," Cassy said, wishing that she could come along, but that right had been forfeited when she'd surrendered her wedding ring.

Maeve paused as she reached the door and turned back. "Grace?  Would you say some prayers while you wait?  For Tom?  And for us?" 

"I will.  Will you tell him I'm here and that...I love him," Grace asked. Cassy shot her a curious look.

"I will.  Thank you."  Maeve squeezed Liam's hand.  "Come on, Li. Let's go see what the doctor has to say."

*****

It was dark everywhere.  Tom didn't know how long he had been here alone.  He couldn't see Teddy anymore, all he could see was the dark.  He stumbled along blindly, feeling his way down the narrow passage until he reached a doorway.  When he opened it, blinding light flooded the hallway--light so bright it hurt.  He shut his eyes tightly against it and gasped.  He couldn't feel anything but excruciating pain.  He stood it as long as he could, then stepped back and slammed the door shut, leaning against it and breathing heavily.  He considered his options for a moment.  Pain didn't lurk in the darkness.  Pain was from the outside.  He could stay where he was, and he wouldn't hurt anymore, ever.

But his mother was outside, he'd seen her for a brief moment before he slammed the door and so too, was his father, along with everyone and everything he valued in his life.  Teddy had said the darkness wasn't a solution.  The darkness was only an escape.  He had to either cross over into Heaven, or go back. He knew that the darkness was painless--but it was empty and cold and lonely.  The pain was life--and worth enduring.   He finally decided that the Pain could be overcome...and Heaven could wait.

He gripped the door tightly, flung it open and stepped into the incandescent agony.  It grabbed him and spun him around until he was dizzy and nauseated.  He started to retch, tried to sit up, but found he had no strength.

Gentle hands supported him, held his head as he vomited, and eased him back onto his pillow.  Tom opened his eyes and saw his father's face, smiling down at him.

"You always did know how to make an entrance, son," his father said, wiping Tom's face with a cool, wet cloth.

"Sorry," Tom whispered, and closed his eyes again.  Voices echoed in his head, and he tried to open his eyes, but even that seemed too much.  So, he just listened.

"I told you he'd throw up, Maeve.  He always does when he comes out from under."

"I'm just glad you took the side he chose to grace with that gift." 

His mother's voice roused him.  He hadn't realized she was there.  Tom turned his face towards her and opened his eyes. 

"Mom?"

"I'm here, Tommy," his mother said and kissed his forehead.  "You're going to be all right.  Everything will be fine now."

"Thirsty," he managed to croak out.

"Here, the nurse said you could have a few ice chips.  Easier on your stomach," Maeve said and held a plastic spoon to his lips.

Tom took the ice chips and savored the cool, sweet taste on his tongue.  "More...please."

"Once more, then wait a bit.  You need to take it slow," she said as she put the spoon to his lips again.

"How do you feel, son?" his father asked.

"Hurts.  Head's full...of cotton."

"Where do you hurt, Tommy?" his mother asked gently.

He shut his eyes and thought for a moment, trying to make some sense of the jumbled sensations of pain that were flitting around his body.  "Arm.  My arm hurts.  Feels weird...like...like it's twisted wrong."

"Tommy, look at me, can you?" his mother asked.  

He opened his eyes and tried to focus.  Lead weights pulled his eyelids down.  "Tired," he whispered.  He listened to the murmured voices.

"Have to...tell..."

"Let...sleep, Maeve."

"...time...later..."

He felt his mother's small, cool hand on his forehead, soothing him.  It made him forget the pain and he felt himself getting drowsy and warm and comfortable.  The sound of their voices reminded him of going to bed in the old house on Warner Avenue when he was very small.  He remembered listening through the floor vents to the sound of adult voices in the kitchen downstairs, the indistinct words, a comforting hum in his ears, a tuneless lullaby, growing fainter and fainter until he fell asleep. 

When Tom woke again, the pain woke too--sharper and more insistent.  Another voice had joined in with his parents and they were talking about things that made no sense to him, so he tuned out. He opened his eyes and watched his parents and doctor move their mouths, like a television with the sound turned low.  It made him smile.

His mother noticed he was awake and he saw her mouth his name.  He thought he answered, but he wasn't sure the words in his head had made it past his parched lips.  He turned up the volume....

"Thomas, can you hear me?"

"Mmmhmm.  I hear you."

"Are you awake?"

"I...I think so."  He focused on his mother, and she smiled a strange, sad smile at him.

"Good boy, we need to talk to you.  It's important, so I want you to be awake.  Do you need some more ice chips?"

"Mmmhmmm.  Please." 

Maeve raised the head of the bed slightly until Tom was at a more advantageous angle.  Once more, the spoonful of ice soothed his dry mouth, melting cool and wet on his parched tongue.

"Tommy, do you remember why you went to surgery?" his mother asked.

Tom frowned. "I had...surgery?  Is...is that why I...I hurt?"  Something in his memory clicked.  A wave of fear rushed over him. "Dog...bit me."

"Yes, son."

The doctor stepped up to his bed, standing next to his mother.

"Tom, I'm Dr. Harrison, do you remember me?"

"Mmmhmmm.  You're my expensive doctor."

Harrison smiled.  "Yes, I suppose I am.  Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?  About your arm being infected and having to do surgery to clean it out?"

"Yes.  I..I remember.  I think."  He tried to move his arm but it wouldn't move--he could only wiggle his fingers. "It still hurts."

"It will hurt for a while, Tom.  Your arm was badly infected, you weren't responding to the antibiotics.  We had to go back in.  Your forearm was badly damaged in the attack--it was much worse than we had originally thought. There was extensive necrosis evident in the hand and forearm. I'm not sure it would have been viable, even if the infection could have been controlled."

Tom's mouth went dry with fear. "What...what are you saying?"

The words came from nowhere and hit him like a hammer blow.  "I'm afraid that in order to save your life, we had to amputate your right forearm.  I'm sorry."

He couldn't talk, because he wasn't awake.  This was a dream.  It had to be. "What?  Mom?  What is he saying?"  A joke.  A sick joke.  This wasn't happening.

"You were so sick, Tommy...it was the only way."  His mother looked so sad.

"No.  No...that...that's not supposed to happen.  No...no... no...."  He wanted to look, to prove them wrong, but he couldn't.  Besides, he knew it couldn't be true, because he could feel his arm, his hand. His arm was still there because it hurt.  It ached and it burned.  He could flex his fingers--he could feel his fingers move.  "No.  You're lying...you didn't..."

Dr. Harrison pulled back the sheet that covered Tom's chest and gently lifted the swollen bandaged arm so that Tom could see.  The flesh-toned elastic bandage went from armpit to elbow and just below the elbow, it ended abruptly, horribly, permanently.

"Oh my God," he whispered and closed his eyes tightly.  But he could still see it--his arm, simply stopping a few inches below his elbow, as if it had been a pencil drawing erased from a pad.  There was no mark, no trace of fingers or hand or wrist. It was as if they had never been there.  He closed his eyes tighter, trying to block out the horrible sight, but it didn't work.  He looked again at his ravaged arm, and still couldn't believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be true. His mind rejected the reality that his eyes presented.  He turned his head away and stared at nothing, sinking into a bewildered haze.  The room blurred and he heard them talking to him, the words spinning around and not really sinking in.

"Tommy?  I know it's a shock, son, but--you're alive.  That's all that matters.  You're alive."

"Your father is right, Tom.  You have a chance now--one you didn't have before.  We almost lost you in surgery.  You're still very sick, but now you have a chance."

"We'll get through this, son.  I promise you, please, don't shut us out.  We want to help you."

Tom turned back to his parents, and saw the fear and the grief in their faces that he hadn't noticed in his groggy state, and couldn't bear to add to their already crushing burden. He just lay there, empty and lost and incomplete, unable to reconcile the painful sensations in his arm with the vacant space on the bed. 

"Tom?  Do you have any questions?" Dr. Harrison asked.  "Anything you want to know?

Tom looked up at the doctor. "I don't understand why...I can feel it.  Why...why does it still hurt?"

"It's a phenomenon called phantom limb pain.  It's very common and it will most likely fade with time.  Your brain can't make sense of the information the nerve endings are sending it.  It doesn't recognize that your forearm is gone.  I'll give you something to help with the pain.  We can keep you fairly well medicated until you're stronger and able to deal with it better.  Your system has been through a terrible shock and you need to conserve your strength in order to heal."

Tom didn't think he would ever be strong enough to deal with this.  His arm was gone--and it still hurt.  His life was over--and he was still alive.  He'd chosen to live-- and now all he wanted to do was die.  Everything was wrong--upside down, inside out, or simply gone gone gone.

"I... I'm tired.  I need some time...alone."

"Are you sure?" his father asked.

"I... don't know.  I can't think.  I don't know what to say.  I don't know what you want me to say."  He tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway.  "I don't...I don't know what to do.  Dad?  What do I do now?"

Liam shook his head.  "You live, son.  You live."  He carefully gathered Tom into his arms, mindful of the tubes and wires tethering his son to the machines and medicines.  

Tom surrendered haltingly to his father's embrace, curled up against the older man's chest, buried his face against the broad shoulder.  His shoulders heaved convulsively as Liam rubbed his back and petted his head, whispering words of comfort that only Tom could hear.

He cried for nearly an hour, sometimes not moving, sometimes near frantic with grief and pain and loss.  Liam did not cry.  He held his son, and told Tom, over and over that everything would be all right, until he almost believed it himself.

Through it all, Maeve sat, hands clasped in her lap, and tears running unchecked down her face.  She watched as the doctor finally stepped in and injected something into her son's IV.  Ten minutes later, Tom's shoulders stopped shaking, and he was fast asleep in his father's arms.

"Mr. Ryan?"  A nurse tapped Liam on the shoulder and he looked up from his son's sleeping form.  "We're ready to move him to the ortho floor."

Liam nodded and reluctantly eased his son back onto the bed and pulled the sheet up over his chest, tucking him in.   He stood and wiped his eyes, and stepped back as the nurse and an orderly transferred Tom to a gurney, and his machinery to a cart, and wheeled him out of the room.  Liam stood there, unable to move until Maeve held out her arms to him and he surrendered, just as his son had, to the strong embrace of a loved one.  Together they cried the first of many tears they would share only with each other, and never show their son.

*****

Liam went with Tom to the orthopedics floor, so he wouldn't be alone if he woke.  Maeve went back to the waiting room to tell Cassy and Grace the news.  She found Cassy curled up in a chair, sobbing quietly, while Grace slept on the couch.

"Cassy?"  Maeve whispered.

"Maeve!  How is he?  They wouldn't tell us anything..." Cassy said, wiping the tears from her face.

"Come over here, let's wake Grace, and we'll talk."

"I'm awake," Grace announced, sitting up suddenly.  "I was just resting.  Is Tom all right?"

Maeve sat next to Grace on the couch and Cassy sat across from the pair in a well- worn arm chair.

"Tom survived the surgery, " Maeve began, and heard the two women sigh with relief.  

"Then he's all right?"  Cassy asked, leaning forward in the chair, anxiously. 

"No.  He's...he's...not."  Maeve's voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands, overcome with grief.

"Maeve, what happened?  Tell me!"  Cassy said fiercely, bolting up from her seat.  "You said he survived the surgery. Where is Tom?"

"He's being settled right now in a room on the orthopedic floor, Cassy. His father is with him.  The surgery was very...difficult, and he was in a lot of pain when he woke. The doctor gave him a sedative, and said he's likely to sleep the rest of the night.  You can see him tomorrow, if he's up to it."

"What aren't you telling us, Maeve?"  Grace asked, gripping Maeve's hand.  

Maeve closed her eyes and whispered. "They took his arm, Grace.  They had to cut off Tommy's arm."

"Oh my Lord,...no."  Cassy's  knees went weak and she fumbled behind her before dropping heavily back into her chair.  "Oh, Maeve, no...oh, God, no...," she whimpered and began to cry.

"The surgeon couldn't find the abscess," Maeve explained shakily. "He said the whole lower part of his arm was involved, and that Tom's fever spiked again during the surgery.  He went into convulsions."  She couldn't bear the stark horror on Cassy's face and had to turn away to finish the tale.  "They had no choice--the antibiotics weren't working and the infection would have killed him.  They had to do it...it was the only way to save his life."

Cassy's guilt-ridden sobs stopped and she rose from her seat.  "I'm so sorry...I have to go.  I'll be back, as soon as...I'll be back," she whispered to no one in particular, gathered her purse and suitcoat, and left the waiting room. 

Grace said nothing for a moment, then gripped Maeve's hand tightly, bowed her head and began to whisper, ""Lord, grant me the serenity...."

*****

The Ryans were sent home for what remained of the night, and told to come back around noon the next day.  "He's going to sleep that long, I guarantee it.  Go home and rest, so you'll be able to help him later," the nurse who was caring for Tom said.

At eleven the next morning, Grace's driver picked up Maeve and Liam at Tom's house and together they rode to the hospital.  Cassy wasn't answering her phone, and wasn't there when they arrived on the orthopedic floor.  While that was somewhat worrisome to Liam, the Ryans had more immediate matters on their minds.  They ran into Dr. Harrison outside the nurse's station, and after introducing Grace, together they entered Tom's room.  The bed nearest the door was empty and the privacy curtain was drawn around the other bed.  As they approached, a nurse came out from behind it, pulling the curtain closed and nearly bumping into the doctor.

"Deb?  How is Mr. Ryan?"

"Still out, but somewhat restless.  He should be awake within the next half hour or so.  I was just doing a bandage change and I thought you'd want to see how it looks," the pretty blonde nurse answered. "He has some swelling in the upper arm that I was unsure about. I also wanted to see what kind of sedation you wanted to use for his next dose, you didn't specify." 

"I'm sorry, would you mind waiting out here while I examine him?"  Harrison asked and started to part the curtain that surrounded Tom's bed.

Maeve took his arm.  "Dr. Harrison, I think my husband and I would like to see what...we want to see our son's arm.  We need to know what he sees, if we're to help him accept it.  I think it might be easier if he isn't awake when we see it for the first time, please."  Harrison hesitated.  "We'll be his caregivers, Doctor.  You aren't invading his privacy.  I know it sounds ghoulish, but I don't want to hurt him any further, not even with an unintended look of shock or pity.  If I know what it looks like, then I'll be able to concentrate on Thomas, and not what's under his bandage.  Do you understand what I'm saying?" 

"I do, but is Ms. Sharpe a family member?  Perhaps she should wait out here."

Grace smiled. "I have a seventy-five percent vision loss in my right eye, and the left is near ninety percent.  Right now, I'm essentially blind.  You appear to me as a lighter shade of gray than your surroundings.  I can make out light and shadow, and that's about all.  What I see is of very little consequence. I can wait out here if you like, but it really won't matter."

"All right, then.  I'll show you." Harrison nodded to the nurse.

She pulled the curtain back to reveal Tom, lying in the bed, covers pulled up to his chest.  All eyes were drawn to his right side.  His grossly swollen and mutilated arm was unbandaged, lying on a sterile blue drape.  The stump looked raw and red, the stitches an unnatural blue circling around and drawing the skin over the slightly tapered end.  His arm was elevated and cushioned on a pillow.  There were the requisite tubes and drains in place, as well as several monitors, beeping out his condition every second as the distraught parents stared at their son's forever-altered form.  Tom moaned and shifted, prompting the eyes of the onlookers to change their focus from the empty spot on the pillow to his pale face.

"You said something about sedation?"  Grace asked and stepped up closer to the bed.  "He's just waking up, why?"

"Sometimes, new amputees are...rather emotional.   Don't misunderstand--I don't want to deny him his grief--he needs to grieve in order to get past this, but Tom is still very weak.  I don't want him getting as worked up as he did last night--not until he's further along in his recovery. That's not a good use of his resources right now."  Harrison stepped to Tom's right side and examined what was left of his arm. 

"It's so...swollen," Liam said hoarsely.  "Is it supposed to be like that?"

"This amount of swelling is normal.  It will take several weeks for it to return to its previous size.  The injuries to the upper arm seem to be a bit more swollen today, but that's within our expectations, too. You'll see we were able to salvage the elbow and about a third of his forearm.  If we can keep the infection from taking that, it will make fitting him with a prosthesis much easier, and will give him a better range of motion, " Harrison said and looked up from his patient.  Anguished faces stared back at him in horror. 

"Are you saying you may have to take more?" Liam choked out.  "Why the hell would you put him through this twice?"

"Actually, Mr. Ryan, it's not uncommon for amputees to have several revisions to their residual limbs.  I work with amputations and with prosthetics a great deal, and I know what I'm doing.  If he can keep his elbow, the effect on his quality of life will be minimized significantly.  He can be fitted with a myoelectic arm that looks remarkably real and will give him almost normal range of motion. I thought it worth the risk of another surgery to give him that advantage.  There was no infection in what was left, but it could happen.  I'm not going to sugar coat this. Your son isn't out of the woods yet, by any means."

"He could still die."  Maeve didn't even look at the doctor as she spoke.  She was standing at her son's side, stroking his face.

"Yes ma'am.  There is that possibility.  As you see, his upper arm was also badly damaged, but it seems to be healing--for now.  Dog bites are horrible wounds to treat--and infection is one of the major side effects.  We'll have to wait and see for a while longer.  Right now, he's stable, his temp is near normal, and he doesn't seem to have suffered any ill effects from the fever or convulsions."

"Ill effects?"  Liam asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down on Tom's left side.

"A fever as high as the one he was exhibiting can cause brain damage.  There really was no other choice--if we had waited to find the right antibiotic and allowed the infection to go unchecked, he may well have ended up with permanent brain damage in addition to the loss of his arm," Harrison said, picking up Tom's chart and making a few notes.

"Can I touch it?" Maeve asked.

"Yes, but try not to touch the incision itself, or any of the bite wounds."

Maeve nodded and gingerly stroked the swollen, hot skin.  She stared intently, wanting to memorize each stitch and each scar.  As she stared, she couldn't help remembering touching her son as a baby, marveling at ten fingers on his tiny hands. She choked back a sob, took a deep breath and stepped back from the bed. "Thank you, Dr. Harrison."

"Deb, will you finish up here?  Clean and wrap, and make sure the drains are secure.  The upper one seemed compromised.  Let's keep him on valium and maybe up the morphine to twenty-five milligrams per hour if he seems uncomfortable, and I want hourly assessments to continue for the next twenty-four and draw labs every four."

Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied and set to work with antiseptic and gauze. 

"What happens now, Doctor?"  Grace asked.

"Once we're sure that infection is no longer a concern, we'll start physical therapy.  He'll stay in the hospital for about ten days, if all goes well.  Within a week or so, we'll fit him with a temporary prothesis, and he can start occupational therapy to learn how to use it.  He'll go through several different prosthetic models until the swelling is gone, and we find the right one for his line of work."

"Tom's a police officer, Dr. Harrison."  Liam stated flatly.

Harrison frowned. " I'm sorry, I forgot about that.  Well, that's a problem.  And not because I don't think he could still perform his duties but, there are certain requirements that he wouldn't be able to meet. The new prosthetics are extremely durable and amazingly lifelike.  For gross motor skills, they're often as good or better than our original hands.  It's just for fine motor work that the difference becomes obvious."

"What can we do to help him?"  Maeve asked.

"Do what you're doing now--ask questions, educate yourselves on his condition.  Be here, be supportive, be his advocate.  Losing a limb is a terrible trauma--very much like experiencing a death.  The amputee has forever lost a piece of himself--and that takes time to get over.  Give him the room and time to grieve--grieve with him.  You've lost something too. You don't have to be falsely positive, but don't coddle him either.  He may need a push to get himself out of bed some mornings...just like all of us, but don't let his lack of a limb make him a cripple in your eyes.  He's still your son--he is still the man he was--just slightly altered in form and function.

"Always remember--Tom's alive now, only because of the amputation.  I assure you; it was the only option available. There was no other choice.  He's alive and that's cause for rejoicing, even though it may not seem like it right now.  This is not the end of his life, it's a new beginning.  He has another chance now, it's up to him to decide how he'll use it.  Concentrate on what he can do, and let go of what he can't do.  It's a part of the past now, and we can't change that."

Maeve nodded.  "Can we stay with him?"

"I'm ordering unlimited visitation for you until Tom tells me otherwise.  You come anytime you like, but don't neglect yourselves.  Get some sleep and some decent food today if you can--your son needs you healthy and rested--not falling apart at the seams.  Believe me, he'll know.  For the next day or so mostly all he'll do is sleep--it's what he needs right now.  By tomorrow night, we'll have a better handle on his condition and I'll ease him off the valium.  That's when the real work will begin.  You call me if you have any questions, about anything, day or night, all right?"

"Thank you again, Doctor," Liam said as Harrison left the room.

"I like him, He's a good doctor," Grace remarked.  "And I should know--I've seen enough of them to last a lifetime.  There aren't too many who'll even spend time with the family, let alone explain anything to you."

The nurse finished wrapping Tom's arm and checked his temperature and pulse.  "I think he's waking up, folks."  She leaned over him. "Mr. Ryan?  Mr. Ryan?  Can you hear me?" she asked loudly.

Tom moaned and stirred.

"Tom?  You have visitors.  One of them is real pretty," she said, smiling at Grace

Tom opened his eyes, blinked and shivered.  "Hi," he whispered to the unfamiliar face.

"Hi, I'm Deb.  I'm going to be your nurse on days.  Your mom and dad are here to see you.  I wanted to see how you're doing before you start visiting."

"M' cold," he said sleepily.

"I'll get you another blanket, how would that be?"

"Good. Can I...have...some water?" 

"A little.  Take it slow, okay?"

"Okay."

"Tom, are you hurting anywhere?"

"No.  Jus' sleepy."

"That's good.  If you wake up at any time and you're hurting, you buzz for me, okay?  Here's the call button."  She put the button in his hand.  "I'll be back in a minute with a warm blanket and your meds.  Mom will give you something to drink, okay?"

"Okay."  Tom closed his eyes and seemed to drift off again.

"Pitcher's right there.  Since he's already cold, let's lay off the ice for now.  Just use tap water.  Any questions?"

Tom's visitors shook their heads. Liam took the pitcher into the bathroom and filled it.  Nurse Deb wrote on Tom's chart, then slipped it back into the rack at the end of his bed. "I'll be back in a few, but you just buzz if you need anything."

Maeve poured into a plastic glass from the pitcher Liam had filled.  She slipped a straw into the cup and held it to Tom's lips.  "Tommy?"

"Hmmm?"  Tom opened his eyes.  "Hi, Mom."

"Here's your water, son."

"Thanks, Mom," He sipped thirstily, draining half the cup and Maeve had to remind him to slow down.

Liam spoke up, "Tommy, did you see Grace was here?"

"She is?"

Grace went to the head of the bed and Maeve guided her hand to Tom’s. "I'm here, Tom.  How are you doing?"

"I'm sorry.  'Bout before..."

"Already forgotten, Tom.  I'm sorry I wasn't here for you when...when it happened...."

"S'okay.  You're here now.  I'm...I'm glad."  Suddenly Tom frowned and looked around the room.  "Where's Cassy?"

"She...got called into work last night.  Said to tell you she was thinking of you and she'd see you soon," Liam lied.

"Oh.  Okay."  Tom let his eyes drift shut for a minute until the door opened and the nurse came in with a blanket.  

"Guess what?" she said cheerfully.  "I managed to snag one of the blankets that they use in surgery.  It's nice and toasty, just out of the warmer."

She spread the heated blanket over Tom, covering him up to the neck.  "How's that?"

"Better, thanks."  Tom's eyes drifted closed again, and the nurse pushed a full syringe into a portal on his IV, and within a few minutes, he was sound asleep.

"He's going to be like this most of the day, folks.  He's on a pretty strong dose of morphine, and the valium very four hours just adds to the sleepiness.  You can stick around if you want, but, he's probably not going to notice."  With that, she took off again, to tend to other patients.

Grace sat down in the chair that Liam had vacated.  "I'm guessing you two didn't sleep much last night, am I right?"

"No, not much," Liam admitted.  Not at all was more like it.

"Let me have my driver take you home, and I'll stay with Tom.  I’ve got some notes to dictate and I can work on my laptop.  You go get some rest and come back this evening.  I promise I'll call if there's any change."

"Grace, we couldn't...." Maeve objected.

"You heard what the doctor said.  I can tell you're both exhausted.  Tom will just worry.  Please...I want to be here, to make up for missing those first three days.  I'm well rested compared to you two."

Liam nodded.  "She's right, Maeve.  Tommy's in good hands.  Let's get some sleep and come back tonight.  Maybe he'll be awake by then."

Maeve nodded.  "All right.  We'll go. Thank you, Grace.  For everything."

"You're welcome, I'm glad I could help.  I'll call Randy and have him pull the car up front.  He'll give you a card with his number so that you can call him when you're ready to come back tonight."  Grace pulled a cell phone out of her briefcase and dialed.

"We'll see you tonight, dear," Maeve said as she and Liam left Tom's room.

When they got to the lobby, Maeve stopped for a moment.  "Do you suppose we ought to make one stop on the way home?"

"Cassy?"  Liam asked.

"Cassy," Maeve replied stonily, and walked out the doors into the Florida sunshine.

*****

The door to Cassy's oceanside apartment was locked, and the curtains were drawn against the noonday sun.  Maeve and Liam pounded on the door, but there was no answer from inside, no sign of life.  Finally, they gave up and went back to the limo, which drove slowly away.

Cassy watched them go, crouched under an upstairs window.  The doorbell and the knocking had roused her from the drunken slumber she'd fallen into after downing a bottle and a half of Chardonnay last night.  She deeply regretted the lack of hard liquor in her pantry and made a solemn vow never to be without whiskey again. When the car was at last out of sight, she breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the wine bottle she'd left on the windowsill and took a long swallow, grateful that the Ryans gave up on her so quickly.  She couldn't blame them. And besides, she wasn't anxious to face Maeve's anger or Liam's forgiveness, because she couldn't forgive herself.  But most of all, she couldn't face Tom, and the horror that she'd inflicted on him with her stubbornness. With one thoughtless mistake, she'd cost Tom his career, his arm, and maybe even his life. The thought of what her pigheadedness had brought down on her best friend made her stomach clench. Cassy climbed shakily to her feet, padded into the bathroom and regarded her ragged reflection in the mirror.

"Shit, St.John.  You are one sorry piece of work."  She set down the near empty wine bottle and pushed her stringy hair out of her face.  Her bloodshot eyes fixed on her bandaged right hand and she stared, fascinated and repulsed at the same time.  Then she set to work, frantically unwrapping the gauze until the puncture wounds and the two-inch long, carefully stitched rip were revealed.  She stared at her injury, knowing how insignificant hers was in relation to Tom's.  It wasn't fair.  Her hand was healing nicely.  No infection, very little pain.  It looked good.  Too good.  She slammed her hand down on the vanity top, again and again until she could feel the pain through the alcohol haze. Her hand bled and she watched the blood stream in thin rivulets down her arm and drip off her elbow into the sink, staining the porcelain bowl with gore.  She ran the water and washed the scarlet away--but the guilt remained. Cassy staggered to the bedroom and fell onto her bed, sobbing with pain and guilt, bleeding and cursing herself for her cowardice, until she passed out again. 

*****

He was lost and it was all his fault.  He was supposed to wait for Mom and Dad to come home, but he couldn't wait--he knew they wouldn't come and he'd be late.  He jumped on his bike and rode towards the high school field, but he made a wrong turn somewhere and lost his way.  Now he didn't care about the PeeWee football game--now all he wanted was to go home. He just didn't know which way home was.

 Shadows lined the empty streets.  It was getting dark, and he was getting scared.  He rode and rode, pedaling his Stingray up and down the dusky avenues, looking for home, or friends or neighbors, but nothing was familiar. His heart was beating like a rabbit’s.  The sweat ran down his back, his breath came in shuddering gasps, but there was no one to help him.  No one at all.  The houses were empty and the people were gone.  He'd never been so scared or so lost in his life and he bit his lip to keep from crying.  Only babies cry when they're lost, but he felt like a baby. 

He rode past a big vacant house and a huge black dog came rushing out after him, barking and growling, chasing his bike, nipping at his heels.  He pumped the Stingray hard, heart pounding with fear, standing up on the pedals he raced away as fast as he could, but the dog stayed with him like a shadow from hell.  He ducked into an alley, and his wheels spun out from under him, sending the loose gravel flying and sending his bike into a skid.  He overcorrected and flew headlong over the handlebars into the cinders.  The fall knocked the wind out of him, and he lay in the sharp gravel, unable to breathe, unable to move.  The dog stood over him, snarling and slobbering, breathing hot and foul in his face.  'Don't move, don't move, don't move,' his mind screamed.  But he had to move--he had to run--he couldn't stay there.  He flung his arm up and over his face, and the dog attacked, biting him on his side, on his legs, and finally, on his arm. The dog wouldn't let go of his arm.  He flailed and hit, but the dog held him, snapped his arm in his powerful jaws.  With one last growl, the dog clamped down hard and ripped his arm off. "NO!!!"He screamed in horror as the dog ran away with his arm..."NO!!!"

He was still screaming when he woke.  He was crying and screaming, and someone was calling his name, grabbing his head between their hands, trying to hold him down. Buzzers and alarms and sirens were ringing in his ears and he couldn't get away.

"NO!!!" he screamed again and opened his eyes.  There was a face in front of him and for a moment, he knew it was the dog, there to finish him.  "NO!!" he screamed and turned away, but the hands pulled his face from the pillow, forced him to look into the human face that hovered over him and see the gray eyes full of tears and concern.

"Tom!!  Tom, it's all right.  You're having a nightmare.  It's just a nightmare...wake up!"  she tried to pin him down, to stop him from flailing about, but he was too strong.  "Tom!  Stop!  You're going to hurt yourself!"

"Grace!" Tom cried, finally recognizing the face in front of him.   He relaxed under her grip and sucked in a deep breath, trying get his bearings, trying to leave the dream and the fear behind. "Oh, god, oh god...Grace," he gasped, white faced with terror.  "I had...I had the worst dream...I tried to run, but--".  Tom suddenly noticed the white walls and the blue curtains, then the bank of screeching monitors and Grace's tear-stained face, and stopped breathing, stopped talking. 

The beeping alarms seemed to grow in intensity and speed--mimicking the beat of his racing heart.  He slowly turned his head and gingerly held up his right hand--and it wasn't there.  He stared for the longest time--stared at the emptiness, stared at the swollen, bandaged and bleeding stump, and finally lifted his eyes and looked up at Grace.

"I...I... thought I dreamed it.  But I didn't, did I?"

Grace shook her head sadly.

Tom turned away, and the tears and emptiness swept over him again.  He felt a hand on his shoulder and pulled away from the gentle touch--feeling unworthy and useless and maimed.  He couldn't face anyone like this, he couldn't even face himself. He managed to choke out, "I... I just want to be alone."

"All right.  I understand," he heard Grace reply, but she didn't leave right away.  Tom could hear her rummaging around his bedside, and then, after what seemed an eternity, he felt her skim her hand along the edge of the bed and heard her heels click on the hard floor as she walked away.  But suddenly, the sound of her footsteps stopped.  He turned his head to look, curious. 

Grace was standing with her back towards him, facing the drawn privacy curtain, seemingly frozen.  Then she hesitantly touched the curtain surrounding the bed, and drew her hand back as if she'd been burned.

Tom watched her, confused.  Minutes went by as he silently waited for her to move from her place at the end of the bed, but she didn't. Anger flooded over him, anger at his situation, at his loss, and anger at Grace for lingering unwanted and unneeded at the cripple's bedside.  "I asked you to leave me alone, Grace," he snapped, and wasn't prepared for her answer.

"I'm sorry. I can't, Tom," she sobbed and turned back to face him, her face wet with tears.  "I don't know where to go...I can't...can't see the door.  I don't remember the way out or in. I can't hear anything but the monitors and...and I can't find my damn briefcase with my damn cane!"

He was stunned for a moment, then he realized her predicament, and the self-pity he'd been bludgeoning himself with changed in an instant into concern for Grace.  He'd hurt her again, just like he had before. He held out his hand to her, but she couldn't see it, and he let his hand fall onto the bed and tried to reach her another way.  "Did you come here by yourself?" he asked gently.

Grace shook her head. "I...came with your parents, but I sent them home, to rest, hours ago.  If...if you call for..for a nurse...I..I can go."  The tears and shame over her predicament were on her face, as clearly as on his own.

"Grace, please, stay with me.  I don't really want to be alone.  I'm so lost and confused--I don't know how to deal with this. I was just scared and feeling sorry for myself.  I forgot who I was talking to--I forgot that you understand this mess, what this is like, better than anyone. I'm so sorry I snapped at you.  Please?  Stay?"

Grace sniffed and wiped her face, then felt her way back to her chair.  The sound of the monitors wailing was suddenly apparent to them both.

"Did you pull all your tubes out?" she asked loudly, trying to be heard over the buzzing and beeping.

"Yeah, looks like it," he said, surveying the damage as a nurse came barreling into the room and flung back the curtain.

"Oh Mr. Ryan!  What happened?" she asked, dismayed by the utter chaos in his bed.

"A dog bit me..." he answered and held up his bandaged arm.

*****

"But I have to replace the drains--please, Mr. Ryan, it's not a painless procedure. You need an anesthetic. Let me give you something," the nurse pleaded.

"I don't want any valium.  I don't want any morphine.  I don't want you to pump me full of drugs to keep me stoned out of my head. I'm tired of feeling nothing."

The nurse looked to Grace for help, but got an empty stare in return. 

"I'm going to call Dr. Harrison in to do this--I won't be responsible.  Sit tight, I'll be right back."

Grace smiled at Tom as the nurse beat a hasty retreat.  "Stubborn--I haven't seen this side of you before.  I think I like it."

"More like stupid--this is starting to hurt like hell."  Tom winced.  The nurse had re-established his IV and most of the monitors, but Tom had refused all his medications except antibiotics. "You understand don't you?" he asked Grace.  "I want to see my arm--I want to know what it looks like under all this, and I don't want to be one step removed by drugs when I do.  I can't run from this.  It's never going to go away. I need to start facing it."

"It's okay.  You don't have to explain anything to me, I do understand."

Tom smiled.  "I know you do.  That's why I'm so glad you stayed."  

Grace reached out and Tom took her hand.  "I'll stay as long as you need me."

Tom swallowed and looked away, "I think I may need you forever," he whispered softly.

"What?"  Grace asked.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought the conversation to a halt.  Dr. Harrison pulled back the privacy curtain and scowled.  "You giving the nurses a hard time, Mr. Ryan?"

"No, sir.  I just don't want any more drugs--"

"You need drugs."

"No, I don't."

"And you got your medical degree from--where?"  Harrison asked.  "Ms. Sharpe, would you mind stepping outside, I'd like to talk to Mr. Ryan."

"No," Tom said.  "She's staying."

Grace smiled and shrugged, but she squeezed Tom's hand.

"Mr. Ryan--"

"Sergeant Ryan, doctor.  Mr. Ryan is my dad.  But why don't you just call me Tom?  I think we're pretty much on a first name basis, don't you?  Besides, without my hand, I'm not going to be Sgt. Ryan for much longer."

Harrison sighed. "Tom, what do you want?"

"I want you to stop keeping me doped out of my head in la-la land because my emotions are inconvenient for the staff," Tom said bitterly.

"I'm keeping you in "la-la land", to keep you calm and to conserve your strength--basically to prevent you from doing what you just did to your arm." Harrison replied, stepping up to examine the bandaged limb and shaking his head.

"I had a bad dream.  I can't take valium--I don't react well to it.  It gives me nightmares."

"Okay, I didn't know that.  We can stop the valium--maybe use something else. Xanax, something like that."

"I don't need something else," Tom insisted stubbornly.  "And I won't take it."

Harrison scowled again. "Will you try to lie quietly for the next few days?  Keep very still and rest?  No outbursts?  No sudden moves? No ripping out drains and IV's?"

"Yes."

"All right, then I'll take you off the valium and put you back on morphine only,"  Harrison said, checking one of the leads on Tom's chest.

"No."

The doctor did a double take. "Tom--look, I can understand about the valium--but morphine is essential. I don't have to tell you that amputation hurts.  Pain is an incredible stressor on the body. You get stressed and you're more vulnerable to infection.  You have twenty puncture wounds just looking for an opportunity to go septic on you--and you have a fresh incision looking to do the same.  Don't stress your system any more than you have to.  That's not noble or brave, that's just stupid."

"All right," Tom conceded.  "But I want to control it, like I did before--no injections from the nurses in my IV that knock me on my ass.  I decide when and how much pain relief I need."

"That's fine.  If you're going to be alert, I can put you back on the PCA pump--and you'll be in charge.  Okay?"

Tom nodded.  "Okay."

"Let's get this bandage off and get those drains replaced.  I suppose you want to watch."

"Yep."

Harrison turned to the nurse.  "Get me a drain kit and ten cc.'s of lidocaine.  And get a PCA in here.  Morphine drip, twenty-five cc's an hour."  He turned back to Tom and started to unwrap his arm.  "I'm numbing your arm. No arguments. You aren't gutting this out."

"Okay.  Whatever, you're the doctor.  Just don't put me to sleep anymore," Tom said and looked up at Grace.  She was smiling and holding his hand.

"Way to score, Ryan," she whispered.

*****

"You sure this is a good idea?" Liam asked as the limo pulled up in front of Cassandra St. John's dark apartment eight hours later, for the second time that day.

"She's not at work, she isn't at the hospital.  She's in there, hiding from Tom, and I won't have it." The six hours of sleep Maeve had gotten had revived her, and Grace's call this evening about Tom's improved condition had heartened her, but for one thing--Grace reported that Tom was asking about Cassy, and wondering where she was. He was starting to pull himself together, but Maeve knew one wrong word from Cassy could send him into despair--she was the one uncertainty in the whole equation.  Maeve opened the car door.  "If she doesn't answer, I'm knocking in the window with a brick and crawling through."  Maeve said angrily.

"How is it I think I'll be the one doing the window knocking and crawling and not you?" he muttered to himself as Maeve stomped up to the door. "We'll be right out, Randy," he called to the limo driver, and followed his wife up onto the front stoop.

Maeve leaned heavily on the doorbell with her left hand and rapped the brass knocker with her right.  The pounding and ringing brought no answer.  "Get a brick, Liam," Maeve growled.

"She has a gun, you know, dear..."

A light went on upstairs, and Liam was grateful for the reprieve. Five minutes of Maeve foaming at the mouth later, the door opened to reveal a dazed, disheveled and blood-soaked Cassandra St. John, dressed in the same suit she'd been wearing the night before, mascara smeared on her face and booze on her breath. She swayed dangerously.

"Cassy!" Liam cried and rushed in to assist her.  He half-led, half-carried her to the living room and eased her down on the couch as Maeve trailed in behind him, shutting the door loudly.

"What happened?" he asked, but really didn't need to.  The alcohol on her breath was virtually intoxicating and her hand bore the evidence of her self-abuse.

"I'm sorry, Liam.  It was my fault, and I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen," Cassy whispered, dazed.

"Should we call an ambulance?" Liam asked.  Maeve shook her head.

"She's drunk.  She needs a shower and some hot coffee and a good kick in the pants--but she'll be all right.  You call the hospital and tell Grace we'll be a bit late.  Start the coffee.  I'll get her cleaned up."  Maeve assisted Cassy off the couch and up the stairs to the bathroom while Liam went to do what his wife had ordered, grateful that he wasn't in Cassy's high heels right about then.

*****

That Cassy and Maeve had never been fond of each other was never in question--it was evident from the first moment that Tom had brought Cassandra to meet his parents, a week after they'd gone off and gotten married.  Liam was so much like Tom that Cassy got along with him instantly--everyone always did, but Maeve was a different matter altogether.  Cassy and Maeve had tolerated each other at best, and avoided each other whenever possible.  And now they were forced together by this unfortunate set of circumstances.

Maeve ran the shower and matter of factly stripped Cassy out of her soiled and wrinkled clothes, leaving her shivering in her underwear, looking pale and miserable.  

"Maeve...I'm sorry," Cassy began but Maeve slapped her face hard, knocking her back against the shower.

"You don't understand, even now, do you?" Maeve hissed angrily.  "This isn't about you, or being sorry.  This is about Tom losing his arm.  You have nothing to do with it.  I don't know why, but my son loves you and values you--he always has. And now he's asking for you. You broke his heart with your selfishness once, and I won't have you hurt him again. Especially not now when he's so vulnerable."

"I already hurt him!!"  Cassy shouted. "I did this to him!"

"No, you did not. A dog and an infection did this--not you.  But you'll hurt him anyway, won't you?  By drinking yourself into a stupor, by hurting yourself for no reason, by staying away.  What is he to think if you keep avoiding him?  That his injury is too awful--that his appearance is too distressing for you--for anyone to bear--at least without getting drunk first?"

"Oh, no.  He can't think that..." Cassy moaned.

"Yes, he can, and he will. Stop thinking about yourself for once, Cassy.  Think about Tom.  If you make this about your guilty conscience, and about how losing his arm makes you feel--if you hurt yourself to make him comfort you--I swear to God I'll kill you myself.  If you ever loved him, you will not treat him as a cripple, and you will not be repulsed by his injury.  You will allow him his dignity and his pain, and you won't allow him to compromise either one to make you feel better about yourself.  Now go!"  

Maeve shoved Cassy into the shower before she could say another word. "Scrub up--wash your hair, fix your face. You're going to visit Tom and I won't have you looking a wreck."

Cassy did as she was told, letting the steaming water wash away the dirt and blood, but it did little to wash away her guilt, in fact, if anything, it intensified.

When she was done, Maeve was standing there with a robe.  She wrapped her up, sat her down, and gently bandaged Cassy's hand.  

"You'll go have your doctor look at that tomorrow.  I won't have you getting an infection too. Now dry your hair, get dressed, and come downstairs," she ordered and Cassy nodded, subdued.

Liam looked up as Maeve came down the stairs.  "Shall I start digging a hole in the yard for her body?" he asked.

"Stupid girl.  She doesn't realize even half of what she's done to Tom.  Self-centered little witch..." Maeve sputtered, and took the cup of coffee Liam offered.

"I don't suppose this is the time to say she always reminded me of you--and that's why you two never got along.  You're too much alike."

Maeve shot daggers at her husband over the cup of coffee.  "You can't be serious!  Say that again and they'll be digging a hole for you."

"Maeve, she's just like you.  Strong-willed, determined--but with a vulnerable side.  She loves deeply and fiercely, just like you.  And she did love Tom.  She just couldn't show it. Cassy's been crippled emotionally, by her witch of a mother.  She needed to know a mother's unconditional love badly, I always hoped she'd get it from you--that you could help each other.  That wasn't realistic, after what happened to Teddy, to expect you to love another daughter like that, and the marriage was over before we had much of a chance to try to help her heal."  

"Liam--I can't believe I'm hearing this."  Maeve set down her cup and fairly threw herself into the kitchen chair next to his.  "You're taking her side--over Tom!!"

"There aren't any sides, Maeve.  She's hurting too.  We all are.  Some of us are just better equipped to deal with it than others.  Cassy's been hurt so many times that self-protection is her first response when there's any blame to be had--for anything.  When things went sour in their marriage, she protected herself, and instead of staying and fighting, she ran.  And now, she blames herself for Tom's injury--and she's running and hiding. I didn't expect anything else of her--I hoped she'd be able to see what she was doing, but I think it's just too much for her.  It's damn near too much for me.  I want to run and hide and drink myself into a stupor, too."

Maeve took Liam's hand.  "I know.  I'd like to go in a corner and cry for a year or so, until this is over. But it won't ever be over for our son, so I can't."  Maeve's tone softened.  "Maybe you're right.  Sometimes I'm so busy being strong that I can't bear to see anyone else be weak.  I won't allow it in myself anymore, and I have damn little patience for it in others."

"D'ya think I'm weak, Maeve?"

Maeve stood and leaned over her husband, hugging him from behind and whispering into his ear.  "No, Liam, you're not weak.  You got us through Teddy's death and afterwards you held this family together, when I was a worthless, quivering puddle.  And you're strong now," she whispered, kissing his cheek.  "You held Tommy last night while he cried over his arm, and told him that everything would be all right.  I don't know that I could have done that.  And as I watched you two together, all I could think was how lucky I was to have you.  I think that every day, Liam.  You're the strongest, gentlest, most forgiving man I know, and I love you for it."

"I love you, too, sweetheart," he said and pulled Maeve onto his lap and kissed her.

Cassy peeked around the corner and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry to interrupt.  I'm ready to go now." Her face was scrubbed and she was dressed in sweater and slacks, looking tired, but far better than she did just twenty minutes before.

"Have some coffee and some aspirin, first, Cassy," Liam said.  "You look like you need it."  He got up to pour her a cup while Cassy retrieved some aspirin from the kitchen counter.  "Have you eaten?"

"I don't think I could," she replied, sinking down at the kitchen table and cradling the cup of hot coffee in both her hands.

"How about scrambled eggs and toast?" Liam suggested, and turned to Maeve.  "I checked the fridge and that's about all Cassandra has in her larder.  We didn't eat yet either, and I'm not fond of hospital cafeteria food."

"Good idea, Li.  Let me call Randy in from the car, see if he's hungry too."  Maeve got up and went out the front door.

"She hates me, and I don't blame her one bit," Cassy said sadly.  "You should hate me too, Liam."

"She doesn't hate you, Cassy, and she never has.  She just hates what's happened to Tom and she's taking it out on you because you've made yourself an easy target."

"It's my fault."

"No, it's not.  I don't believe that, neither does Maeve, and neither does Tommy. It was a horrible accident, and one of the risks of the job you both do. He was protecting you, and he'd give his life, let alone his arm, to keep you safe.  He loves you, Cassandra.  He needs you--he needs all of us--to be strong right now.  Can you do that for him? Can you forgive yourself?"

Cassy nodded and the tears rolled down her cheeks.  "I'll try, Liam."

"Good girl, now, let's break some eggs."

Maeve came back in the house without the chauffeur.  "I talked to Grace.  She called Randy, thinking we were on the way. Tom's had a rough day--and she thinks tomorrow may be a better time for us to visit.  He's been through the wringer today, and he's finally asleep. Dr. Harrison keeps stressing the need for sleep and rest and she doesn't think we should wake him.  She's going to stay tonight, and wants us to come in the morning, around ten or so, to relieve her."

"She's going to sleep there?" Liam asked.

"Randy's taking her a change of clothes.  She wants to do this, Liam.  Tom asked her to stay.  I think we should do what she asks."

Cassy heaved a sigh of relief, grateful that the ordeal of facing up to what she'd done was postponed for another day.  But somehow, even that small reprieve wasn't enough to help her gather her courage--and she was afraid that she would never be able to look at Tom in the same way, ever again.

*****

Tom awoke in the dark hospital room, aroused by a sharp pain in his arm.  He winced as it cramped, and then faded slowly away.  His sleep interrupted, he lay still and let his mind wander, taking in the silence, trying to think--or trying not to--he wasn't quite sure which.  It had been a hell of a day.  The drugs and pain had jumbled his thoughts, but now in the artificial quiet of the hospital room, some questions were occurring to him--some memories, some things he had said and done were coming back to him.  He knew he'd made a choice somewhere along the line--and that choice had put him here, in the dark, with an aching, absent arm and a broken heart.  There was so much he wanted to know--and more that he didn't.  

It was late evening, he guessed. The lights had been turned off for hours though, to accommodate Grace's sensitive eyes.  He didn't mind the dark, it kept him from seeing things he didn't want to see. He listened to the nurses walking the halls, the elevator bell ringing, the sounds of carts being pushed up and down the hallway outside his door.  Inside, it was fairly quiet, and relatively dark. The main illumination came from the window, the moon and the scattered parking lot lights cast a pale glow in the room. Off to his side, the monitors hummed and beeped and glowed. He stared at the numbers and luminous green and red displays. The lights blurred and fragmented in his vision, became dancing jewels that came and went with each blink of his tear-filled eyes.  The tears he shed were silent, he didn't want to wake the woman resting at his side. He glanced at Grace, sleeping with her head cradled in her arms on his bed, and he gently stroked her hair.  He stared for a moment at his left hand, resting on her head, and was overcome with doubt and filled with questions once again. He'd called her, hoping for some answers, but she hadn't come.  Not that he'd expected her to--he wasn't dying this time--at least he hoped not.

"I made the right choice, didn't I, Teddy?" he whispered in the dark.  "Because right now, I'm not sure.  This is so damn hard.  I'm trying to be glad that I'm alive, that I still have one good hand, that I have Grace and Mom and Dad--but I'm so scared.  What am I going to do now?  I know I can't be a cop anymore. So what's left?  Where's Cassy?  Am I so horrible to look at that she can't face me?  What about Grace?  I don't think I could have gotten through today without her, but what if she just feels sorry for me?  What if, when I leave this hospital, she doesn't want to see me anymore?  Most of all, what if--what if the person I am now is someone who can't be happy, ever again.  Because I can't really picture happiness right now, you know?  I just keep seeing this--this."  

He held his right arm up in the light and examined it.  It hurt to move it, and regardless of movement, it just plain hurt.  He'd been keeping the morphine at a low level to clear his head, and he was paying for it now with pain.  Phantom pain, Harrison had called it.  It didn't feel phantom, it felt real-- like electric shocks running from his elbow to his absent fingers.  It came and went without warning.  And it hurt in more than just his arm--because each twinge reminded him of what he'd lost and what he'd never have again.

The tears kicked in again, and he gave up his fight for clarity, reached for the PCA control, and clicked until the machine refused to respond.  He set down the button, let his hand wander to Grace's soft hair, and took comfort in the warmth of her presence, no matter the reason.

Tom closed his eyes and in between the sound of the machines humming, Grace's soft breathing and his own beating heart, he thought he heard a small voice coming from inside himself, answering his questions, offering him hope. 

"Teddy?" he whispered.

A feeling, an awareness of words spoken when none were heard filled him.  Words that reminded him of who he was before...when he was small, and the world had no boundaries, and he had a sister.

Softly, she spoke to him, through him and answered his questions.

[You can do whatever you put your mind to, Tommy.  You can write music, and last time I checked, your brain still worked.]

"Yes, I can still write music.  I can do that.  And my brain still works fine."  He had to smile at that--a man talking to himself in a dark room would have a hard time proving his brain worked fine in a court of law.

He closed his eyes, opened his heart and let the knowledge flow over him once again.

[Grace won't leave you. And she doesn't pity you.  You know how she feels about pity.]

"Yes, I know, I don't think Grace would do that to me, either--she understands this, she knows what it's like.  But what do I have to offer her?  What if all I do is remind her that she isn't whole either? What if she decides she has enough sorrow in her life, and doesn't want to waste time with a cripple?"

[TOMMY!!]

Tom winced.  "All right, all right.  I'm not a cripple.  Don't yell, Teddy."

He went calm and quiet again, and felt her golden presence soothing his jagged nerves. "I'll believe it, someday, I suppose--I'll say I'm not a cripple and mean it.  Give me some time, okay?"

[Okay, but not too long.]

The one-sided conversation continued.  Grace stirred momentarily, but went right back to sleep when Tom stroked her hair.

"I'm worried about Cassy.  She doesn't have anyone but me...what if she feels so guilty she can't face me?  What if she never comes back? "

[Cassy needs time. She feels responsible, and she's running.  You know how she is.  She'll come.  Maybe even with Mom and Dad, tomorrow.]

"Mom and Cassy?  In the same car?  Without killing each other? Okay, we'll see about that one--but I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating now."

He laid quietly, so still, so calm he could almost feel the earth revolving slowly beneath him.  He stretched out his consciousness, and could see what had happened, could see his past and his choices, and the only darkness, the only uncertainty lie in the future.

"But what about happiness, Teddy? What about that?"

[Can't you see it, Tommy?]

His eyes focused somewhere off in the not-too-distant future, and he smiled.

"You promise me, Teddy?"

[Don't you trust me, Tommy?]

"Yes, I trust you."

Grace raised her head.  "Tom?  Who are you talking to?"

"Just giving myself a pep talk.  Go back to sleep.  Everything's going to be all right."

She laid down her head.  Gently, Tom let his fingers brush through her hair, and together, they drifted off to sleep.

*****

It was nearly ten in the morning when Liam and Maeve made their way to Tom's room.  Visiting hours weren't in effect for another hour, but the nurses waved the pair on without hesitation.

The door was open, the room was bright, and the privacy curtain was pulled back.  Tom was working on a plate of scrambled eggs and Grace was wearing her dark glasses and nibbling a piece of his toast.

"Hey, you made it.  I was beginning to wonder what happened to you," Tom said, setting down his fork. "I thought you were coming last night."

Liam exchanged glances with Maeve. "Cassy invited us over for dinner.  Then Grace called, said you were sleeping and thought we should just go home and do the same," Liam replied.

"Cassy cooked dinner?  No way."  Tom shook his head.

"Eggs and toast--your father cooked," Maeve said.  "And we had a talk with her.  She'll be coming by soon to visit."  She hoped she wasn't lying to her son.  Cassy had promised last night to be in Tom's room at ten am.  And it was past that now.

"Is she okay?" Tom asked.

"She's fine.  Just busy at work.  She knows we're here to keep you out of trouble."

"Speaking of which, I really have to be going.  I'll come back tonight, all right?"  Grace said, rising to her feet.  She found Tom’s face and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead that made him frown slightly when it was over.

Liam picked up Grace's briefcase and took her arm.  "Let me walk you out, Grace."

Maeve kissed her cheek. "Thank you, sweetheart, for all your help, and thank Randy, too, for driving us all over creation and back."

Grace nodded.  "I'll see you all tonight.  All right, Tom?"

"Yeah.  Tonight.  Thanks, Grace." He went back to his eggs, scooting them across his plate with disdain.

Liam and Grace made their exit as Maeve settled into the bedside chair Grace had vacated.  "They're feeding you at last, I see."

"I guess you could call it food.  I had some "delicious" broth last night, and today, I've graduated to this."  He wrinkled up his nose at the gray-green scrambled eggs, weeping water all over the plate.  "I'm almost afraid to see what's for lunch. You don't have any food on you, do you, Mom?  Candy bar?  Bagel? Peanuts from your flight?"

"No, but we'll get something healthy for you if the doctor says it's okay."

"Soon?"

"Tommy, I just got here and you want me to leave already?"

"I'm hungry."

"Drink your juice.  Stop whining."

When Liam re-entered the room, he was bearing a greasy white sack.  "Grace said you were hungry.  I bought you some donuts. Only thing that looked edible in the cafeteria, and I won't vouch for them."

"Donuts?  Liam!"

"Cop vitamins- yes!" Tom said and pushed his tray away.  He held out his hand for the sack.  Liam outmaneuvered Maeve's grasping fingers and tossed the sack to Tom.  He was munching away on a donut before she could snatch the bag away.

Maeve cast a glance at Liam and smiled. This was the son she knew.  Something had happened while they were gone.  Something good.

*****

Cassy sat in the hospital parking lot, hands gripped on the steering wheel, her knuckles white.  Her bandaged hand throbbed, and Cassy suddenly took note and released the wheel, flexing her fingers.  She checked her watch.  Eleven o'clock.  She was an hour late, even though she'd been sitting in the car for over two hours, trying to gather the courage to go in and face Tom.

Despite Maeve's speech, despite Liam's forgiveness, despite Tom's need to see her, Cassy still couldn't make herself get out from behind the wheel of the car and walk into the hospital.  She couldn't exactly figure out why--she'd spent the last two hours sitting and thinking and picturing what she would say, and what Tom would say.  She decided that it was because she was afraid.  Afraid that Tom would hate her for what had happened, and blame her, and never want to see her again.  And denying him that, she knew, was selfishness on her part.  Maeve was right.  She was selfish, and Tom would be better off without her in his life.  She grasped the door handle still praying for another reprieve.

As if in answer to her prayers, her cell phone began to ring.  "St. John," she said cautiously, afraid that it might be Maeve or even Tom on the other end.  But it was Craig Alexander's secretary, reminding her that she needed to turn in paperwork on the O'Malley case by noon or the suspect would walk.

"Be right there," Cassy said, flipped the phone into her purse, started the car and drove away, feeling more like a coward than she ever had in her life.

*****

The day went on pretty much without incident.  Nurses came in and out constantly, poking and prodding and writing.  Tom napped. Flowers began to arrive.  The phone started to ring and Maeve was kept busy filling in Tom's fellow officers on his condition.  Tom napped. Lunch arrived and was surprisingly edible, except for the Jell-O, and Liam once again went to the cafeteria and returned with forbidden items--chocolate chip cookies and potato chips.  And Tom napped. The Ryans talked about nothing, joked about the past, and looked no further into the future than today.  Tomorrow and what it might bring could wait.

"Hmmph. It's after two," Maeve said, checking her watch and scowling at Liam, who thought perhaps he should warn Cassy to come wearing her bullet-proof vest.

"Maybe...maybe we should call Cassy?  I thought you said she was coming?" Tom asked.  The far-off sound of high heels approaching caused them all to look up in anticipation.

"Cassy?" Tom asked, but the blonde that walked briskly by the door on stiletto heels wasn't her.  So Tom napped again.

By five, it became apparent to all that Cassy wasn't going to show.

"She's probably just busy on a case, Tommy, " Liam offered, taking the last chocolate chip cookie while his wife scowled disapprovingly.  "I'm only thinking of Tom," he explained, popping the cookie in his mouth.  "He needs healthy foods, not this junk."

Tom smiled sadly at his father. "She's on medical leave, Dad, for her hand.  She isn't on a case.  You guys don't have to lie for her."  Tom settled back into his pillows. "I'm going to go to sleep for a while.  Why don't you two go off and get something decent to eat?  Try Tony's down on Carerra.  Good Italian--great cannoli.  I'll see you later tonight.  And don't come back without an order of veal piccata for me, okay?" he smiled.  "Oh, and breadsticks...the garlic and romano with anchovy paste are the best."

Maeve reluctantly rose and kissed his cheek.  "Veal piccata, breadsticks, cannoli..  You want some wine with that?"

"God, I wish.  But I don't think I could get that past Harrison.  Doesn't mix well with morphine."

"See you in a couple of hours, son.  Love you." Liam said, grabbing his jacket from his chair.

"Love you, too.  Pull the curtain, will you?" he asked as he lowered his bed and closed his eyes.

Maeve drew the privacy curtain around the bed, and walked with Liam into the hall.

"Where do you suppose Tommy keeps his gun, Liam?" she asked through clenched teeth.

"Under lock and key in a safebox, I hope, for Cassy's sake."  Liam replied.

"He looks so frail, Liam.  Still so pale, and so tired," Maeve said.  "How can she do this to him?  I don't understand her at all."

"I think he knows her better than we do.  He knows she's afraid, and that she'll come in on her own time."

"You know, you expect a lot out of him--considering all he's going through."

"He's a big boy, Maeve.  He's not a child, like Teddy was, who needs our protection.  He's a grown man.  And he's stronger than either of us ever imagined.  I'm proud of him.  And I'm going to go buy him some veal piccata to prove it.  Maybe even cannoli for dessert.  You coming, or are you going hunting?"

Maeve put her arm around Liam's waist and gave him a squeeze.  "Men, always thinking with their stomachs.... No cannoli for you though, Mr. High Cholesterol. Let's go eat. "

*****

The lights were on in Tom's room, but the curtain was still drawn when his parents returned from dinner, loaded with bags of delicious smelling food.

"You think he's still asleep?" Maeve asked, pausing outside the door.

"Could be.  He looked awfully tired."  Liam said.

"I smell food!" a voice came from behind the curtain.  "Piccata!  That better be for me."

Maeve and Liam entered to find Grace and Randy at Tom's bedside.  Randy was fiddling with the back of the television, hooking up a VCR.

"Hi, we were just settling in to watch some football. Wanna join us?" Grace asked.  She'd come prepared to spend some time, and had dressed in a comfortable pair of overalls.  Her long brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she was sitting cross-legged on the chair in her stocking feet.

"Grace brought the tape of the Alabama- FSU game from two weeks ago.  I missed it because I had to work," Tom explained.  

"Football.  Wonderful," Maeve muttered as she pulled up the tray table.  She started to unload the bounty from the restaurant, bringing out large, Styrofoam cartons full of hot, steaming food.

Tom sniffed and pretended to swoon. "Yes. There is a God. There was meatloaf on the menu for supper, Mom.  It wasn't pretty. I've seen crime scenes that looked better. Hope you have enough for two--or three.  Grace, you in?"

"I ate before I came.  But maybe later."

Randy, you want to stay?" Tom asked.

"No thanks, Sergeant Ryan.  Gotta get home to the wife and kids. You're all hooked up, Ms. Sharpe.  You need me, you call. I'll pick you up anytime you want."

"I appreciate your being on call, Randy, thank you."

"You get better soon, Sergeant Ryan."

"I'll do my best, Randy.  See you later."

Maeve set out a china plate, silverware, and even a wine bottle with a candle on the tray table and pulled it in front of Tom.

"Mom?  Did you steal this stuff?  Because I'll have to arrest you if you did."

Maeve smacked Tom's shoulder. "Mr. Angelini sent it along for you, smart aleck. He remembered your dad from his visit before, and asked about you.  He'd heard about...about your accident.  He sends his regards and said he'd come by later in the week with some Lasagna Florentine."  She started to dish out the food on his plate.

Liam looked up from the VCR.  "He said you solved his wife's murder, son.  You didn't tell me that before."

Tom nodded. "Couple of thugs robbed the place one night about three years ago.  Locked the Angelini's up in a storeroom and one of the robbers fired a shotgun through the door as a warning not to follow.  Hit Mrs. Angelini in the back and she bled to death in Tony's arms.  Yeah.  We got them.  Cassy and I did."  Tom sighed and rubbed his face.  One more thing he'd never do again.  He stared down at the veal on his plate, reached for the knife to cut it--and realized that he couldn't do that anymore either.  

He stared for a moment, unsure what to do--whether to laugh or cry or throw something, then he heard his mother whisper, "I'll cut it for you, Tommy."  

Tom shook his head. He set down his fork and pushed the tray away.  "I'm not as hungry as I thought, I guess.  Maybe I'll eat later.  Let's watch the game first."

"Okay, son.  I've got her ready to go," Liam said, a little too cheerfully.  Maeve started to put the food away, barely able to blink away the tears in her eyes.

"Tom?  I think I changed my mind.  It smells wonderful, " Grace said.  " Can I have yours if you aren't going to eat it?"

He hesitated for a moment, not sure if he was being patronized, and then realized that Grace was sincere.  She hadn't seen him try to pick up a knife with his missing hand. "Sure," Tom replied.  "Hop up here."

Grace climbed onto the bed with Tom, sitting snugly against his left side. "What do we have?" Grace asked.

"Veal Piccata at six, breadsticks at nine.  Linguine at twelve.  Fork's on the left, knife on the right."  Tom replied with a sad smile.  

Grace picked up the fork and knife and unerringly started to cut the veal.  She popped a piece of the piccata into her mouth and grinned happily.  "Mmmm. That's good.  Just a hint of lemon--and capers.  I love capers. Why didn't you ever take me to this place?  Can we go sometime?"  She cut another piece of veal and offered it to Tom.  "Here, you gotta have some.  It's incredible."

Tom hesitated, then took the bite she offered.  Then another, and another until they had worked their way through the food, sampling and sharing--though Grace refused to share the cannoli-- and laughing. Later, Tom and Liam sat mesmerized as the game played on the television.  Grace stayed perched on the bed, snuggling next to Tom as he described what was happening on the field, and they all cheered when FSU managed to pull ahead, and squeak out a win, even though they all knew what was going to happen.

Maeve watched the two together and admired how Grace, without even being aware of what she was doing, had managed to turn an uncomfortable situation for Tom into something as wonderful as this evening was turning out to be.  Two days ago, Maeve wondered if she'd ever see her son smile again, but he was smiling today, and cheering, and she marveled at his strength and optimism.  Now, if only the matter of Cassy could be resolved, then perhaps Tom could get on with his life.

"We'd best be going, young man.  Your doctor will be taking us off the visitation list if we keep up the noise and commotion," Maeve said, and got up from her chair.  "You're staying tonight, Grace?"

"If it's all right with Tom," Grace replied.

"You don't have to, Grace.  I'll be all right," Tom said.

"I know I don't have to, but I'd like to.  Besides, I brought the Ole Miss game from 1984--I caught it on Sports Classics the other night.  We haven't seen that one yet, and you know I love your play by play.  But if you're too tired--"

"Ole Miss?  The Cotton Bowl game?"  Tom's eyes lit up.

"1984?  That was a hell of a game, remember, Tommy?  You were in the hospital then, too."

"Oh, yeah, you're right, Dad.  That was right after I had the shoulder surgery.  So, you wanna stay and watch it?"

"Can we, Maeve?" Liam asked.

Maeve frowned.  "You aren't too tired?"

"I've been sleeping all day." Tom replied.

"All right, but first I'm going to go find some tea."

"I'll come with you, Maeve.  You boys start without us."  She slipped on her tennis shoes and took Maeve's hand.

"If you're going to the cafeteria, bring back some cookies," Liam called, putting in the new tape.

"And chips," Tom added.  "And donuts for breakfast!"

They went out the door, and were heading for the elevator when Grace felt Maeve give her hand a hard squeeze.

"What is it?" Grace whispered as Maeve stopped suddenly.

"Cassy, I'm glad to see you could fit Tom into your busy schedule," Maeve said coldly.  "I thought we had come to an understanding last night."

"Craig Alexander, the DA, needed some paperwork on a case I was working," Cassy said wearily.  "I've been tied up all day with that."

"And you were doing the work on a desert island with no phone, obviously."

Cassy ignored the jibe.  "Is Tom still awake?"

"He and Liam are getting ready to watch a ball game," Grace said. "You're welcome to join us."

"No thank you.  I don't care much for football. I won't keep him long.  Excuse me.  Nice to see you again, Grace," Cassy said coldly and Grace heard her walk away.

"Maeve--you're breaking my fingers," Grace whispered and Maeve let go.

*****

Cassy paused outside the door to Tom's room and took a deep breath.  For days she'd been dreading this moment.  All day, as her head pounded from the hangover and her hand throbbed from the abuse she's heaped on it, she'd tried to imagine what she could possibly say that would be of any consequence, tried to come up with the magic words that would make this horror go away--and there were none.  Nothing she could say would ever make this better.  It was forever.  Just like her Daddy.

Her parents had always fought--but near the end of their marriage, the fights seemed to be more and more frequent.  Daddy drank, Mother cried almost everyday.  Anything could set them off--a tennis shoe left on the floor, a less than perfect score on a math quiz, a pork roast that was a little too stringy--and the fighting and drinking and crying would begin again.  

As the oldest, Cassy tried hard to keep her sisters in line, to keep things from happening that would start a fight.  She studied--she did her homework and kept her room clean and did the dishes without being asked. If she could be a better student with better grades--A's and not B's, and put away her laundry and take out the trash when her father asked--then maybe they wouldn't fight all the time.  Maybe then, everything would be all right.  But it seemed no matter what she did, it was never enough. Finally, after a horrible day at school--where she'd failed a math quiz and spilled  chocolate milk all over her blouse and gotten into a fight with her best friend--she came home to find her parents fighting again.  Her mother was crying and her father was shouting.  And she couldn't take it anymore.  She threw her book bag and screamed "I hate you," at her daddy.  Then she told him she wished he'd just go away and never come back, and ran up to her room.  

The next day, her father was gone--forever.  He never came back, and he died a few short months later.  She never got to tell him she didn't mean what she said that horrible day.  As time passed, though Evelyn didn't come right out and blame her--Cassy could feel her mother withdraw, little by little, day by day, until at last she was sent off to live with her grandparents, making the separation complete.  Only Cassandra was sent away--not her sisters--so she knew it must have been her fault.  And she spent years of her life trying to make amends, trying to get over that guilt, being the best little girl she could be--but her father never came back and her mother never loved her again.

Cassie sighed.  She and guilt didn't get along well together after that. And now this fresh guilt, which had been hanging over her like a guillotine blade, was slipping--ready to fall.  It was a different story when it looked like Tom would be okay.  She could have dealt with a few weeks in the hospital--some pain, some scars.  Tom would get better, go back to work and forgive her.  But he couldn't forgive this.  Never this.  This was forever. And she knew, since the moment Maeve had told her about the amputation, that this was the end. She couldn't bear to have Tom drift away from her day by day like her mother had--all the while telling her that it wasn't her fault and shutting her out of his heart. 

In the deepest part of her soul, in the place where she stored those hurts from the past, a place so well hidden that even she couldn't find it most days, she hoped that Tom would hate her and cast her out of his life, so that what she had to do would be easier.  Because she knew that every time she saw him, saw the empty sleeve, she'd know that he hated her, didn't want her around, and that she was unforgiveable and unlovable and worthless--just like she had been been all her life.

She knocked cautiously on the open door, hoping for rejection.  She wished Maeve had stayed.  Maeve would have been happy to give it.

"Come in," Liam called, and she walked towards the glowing television light.

"Cassy, honey.  There you are, we've been worried about you," Liam said, jumping up from his chair.

"Hi, Liam, Hello, Tom."  Cassy's voice was subdued, and she kept her eyes averted, making only minimal eye contact with either man. "I'm sorry I'm so late, Tom.  Craig needed the notes on the O'Malley case, and my computer crashed and I spent all day trying to reconstruct them.  I forgot to make a back-up, and I couldn't find yours on your computer." The words tumbled out like a bubbling stream, and then dried up just as quickly.

Tom stared at her quizzically. "You should have called, Cass.  My notes were in my desk--in my notebook.  You know I don't get along with the computer."

"I'm sorry. I forgot," Cassy looked up at the game playing silently on the television, and watched it.

Tom and Liam exchanged looks.  Cassy never watched football unless at gunpoint.

"So, did you get the notes done?"  Tom prompted, hoping she'd come out of the zombie-like shell she was inhabiting.

"Yeah, I did."  Cassy glanced around the room, taking in the baskets and vases and cards.  "You got a lot of flowers.  I should have sent you some.  I don't know what I was thinking."

The room fell quiet again.  Cassy stared at the flowers, at the television, at Liam, but she couldn't look at Tom.

Liam finally broke the uneasy silence.  "I'll leave you two to talk.  I'm going to go get some coffee downstairs, see if I can't catch up with Maeve and Grace--make sure they get the cookies.  Can I bring you anything, Cass?"

Cassy shook her head, and went back to studying the flowers, pretending to read the notes enclosed.

"Tommy?"

"No thanks, Dad.   I'll see you in a few minutes, then we can watch the game." 

 Liam patted Tom on the shoulder, and made his way out of the room.

Tom watched as she roamed the room, examining the flowers, the cards, even the view from his window.  When she spotted the leftover food, he saw her smile knowingly at the name on the sack.  It had been one of their first cases together--after Harry teamed them up again, and they often found themselves at Tony's sharing a meal after a hard day.

She put the bag back and went back to the botanicals.  Finally Tom couldn't take it anymore.  "Cassy?"  

Cassy lowered her head and sniffed a large bouquet of flowers, surreptitiously wiping away the tears that kept leaking from her eyes.

"Cass, please, come over here.  Talk to me. I won't bite--I promise."

Cassy looked up at Tom's face for just an instant and nodded, then walked slowly to the chair next to his bed and sat down, eyes fixed on a spot of nothingness on the floor.

"Stop beating yourself up, Cassy.  This isn't your fault--you know that," Tom said, raising the head of his bed so he could see Cassy more clearly.

"No, I don't.  It is my fault, Tom," she sniffed.  "You didn't want to go to Jericho's, and I made you, you told me to stay out of the yard and I didn't, and when the dog attacked you--I ran.  I ran and I left you...and...and--" her eyes met his. She saw the dreaded forgiveness there and turned away.

"You ran because I told you to, Cassy.  You didn't have a gun--there was nothing you could do. You didn't know there was another dog, and I didn't see him coming," Tom said softly.

"I could have warned you.  I could have stayed and maybe I would have seen him coming at you," she said hollowly, repeating the sins she was convinced she had committed, sins that could never be erased.

"Cassy--would've and could've don't matter anymore.  It's over.  It's done.  We can't go back.  I can't go back.  I can only go forward from here.  Can you?"

Cassy bowed her head.  Forward?  There was no forward--not for her.  She knew that.  The past and its spiderweb guilt never let her get too far ahead before it reached out and pulled her back to where she belonged. The silence went on, building between them. A leaking dam ready to burst.

Tom finally spoke, softly, gently.  There was no anger in his voice, only sorrow. "I want to understand something, Cass.  You were there when this first happened.  You saved my life, you kept me from bleeding to death.  You stayed with me in the hospital for three days--until--until they amputated my arm, and then you pulled a vanishing act.  I've been worried about you--knowing you were feeling bad, hoping you weren't doing something stupid.  I couldn't understand what was keeping you away, until now."

"What are you talking about, Tom?"  Cassy asked, head still bowed.

"I've always been there when you needed me, Cassy.  Even when we didn't much like each other--during the divorce and right after--I was there for you. When we got divorced, I gave you my car, I gave you the house, I gave you damn near everything because I knew you needed those things. They were proof that I didn't hate you.  I thought I could count on you to be there for me--if I ever needed you.  But I needed you yesterday, and I needed you today, and you weren't here.  Even now, sitting there with your eyes on the floor--you aren't really here.  I couldn't understand why you'd abandon me. What I'd done wrong.  But I figured it out."

"What did you figure out?  That you finally hate me?  I know you must hate me for this..."

"No! You have to know that I don't blame you, Cassy.  Hell, I don't even blame the damn dog--he was just protecting his property." Tom couldn't bear to look at her, and stared instead at the empty spot on his right, where his hand should be--somehow, at this moment, that was the easier sight to take in.  Gazing into Cassy's hollow blue eyes hurt him more.  "I don't blame you for the divorce.  I don't blame you for taking advantage of me at every opportunity.  You did it only because I let you--I probably encouraged it--I know I did.  I like being needed.  Everyone does, it's one of the reasons I became a cop. And you've always obliged me.  You've always needed something from me--a husband when you were tired of being alone, a partner when no one else would have you, a strong back to help you with your chores, an easy target for your jokes, a buddy, a confidante, a friend.   I was all those things for you, because being that for you fulfilled my needs too.  We could help each other that way."

Cassy sat and stared at her feet, not looking up at Tom, closing herself off, drawing the protective blanket of guilt and shame around her.

"If this had been a car accident--or if I'd gone in alone and the dog attacked, things would be different.  You'd be right here, jumping in, taking charge.  But this is different because you feel guilty about my accident.  You think it's your fault.  I can forgive you, tell you it isn't your fault but that's not what you need. You don't want my forgiveness or my love.  You want something from me that I can't give.  You want me whole, so you can forget your guilt. Well, I can't be whole.  I can't have two arms, ever again.  And you can't forgive me for not being what you need. For failing you."

Cassy raised her head, an expression of shock on her face. "Tom...no, that's not fair.  Don't say that...." she buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

"You can't even look at me, Cass!" he shouted, then sighed sadly when he saw her cringe, and blunted his anger with his sorrow. "You can't even look at me.  I want you to see me as I am now, and still need me.  But you can't, can you?  No one needs me like this.  I can't be a cop, I can't be your husband, or your lover, or your partner or even your friend.  I can't play ball, or play my guitar, I can't even cut my own meat with a knife and fork.  I can see myself in your eyes, and in my heart, I know I'm worthless to you."

Cassy jumped to her feet, and faced Tom, tears streaming down her face.  "Tom, no... don't say that.  You're not worthless.  You're not.  I am... I am."

Tom smiled sadly.  "You said that when we got divorced too, remember?  But that didn't change anything.  You ran from me--and you only came back because you needed me again.  But you don't need me now.  I can see that you don't."

"Please, Tom, don't do this. Don't say this," Cassy cried.  "Be mad at me--hate me.  You should--please, please just say that you hate me." 

“Cassy, I've never hated you.  I've always forgiven you everything. You know that. You weren't afraid I'd hate you.  You want me to hate you, so you don't have to be around me, because it hurts you to look at me, and you don't need any more pain," he whispered, barely audible over Cassy's sobs.  "And I can forgive you everything else, but I don't know if I can forgive this.  I don't know if I can forgive you for not needing me anymore."

"You want me to go away, don't you?"

Tom shook his head.  "You'll have to decide that.  I won't send you away, or push you out of my life. But things will be different.  I can't take care of you anymore, Cassandra. I can't even take care of myself.  I need time and space, and I don't have the energy to spend worrying about how you're dealing with my pain.  It's taking everything I have just to want to keep breathing. I can't play this game anymore.  I gave you everything I had. You were my friend and my partner.  I trusted you with my life, and with my heart.  I thought you felt the same.  I don't doubt that you'd give your life to save me, but you won't risk your heart.  You've never been able to do that--not when we were married, and not now.  And that's what I need from you, and you can't give it."

Cassy nodded sadly, "If I was a better person, a stronger person, I'd be here for you.  But I'm not a strong person--deep down, I'm not.  I'm weak and I'm afraid.  That's a hell of a thing for me to be able to admit, but I think I owe you that. I knew you didn't hate me. I spent all day trying to convince myself that you did.  But I couldn't. You don't hate me--I hate me.  I hate myself because I know that I can't give you what you deserve--that I'm not the person you need to get you through this.  I would have to put your feelings first, put my own fears and guilt aside--and I don't know how to do that. I know you understand, Tom.  Somehow, you've always understood.  I hope you understand why I have to go."

"Good-bye, Cass." Tom turned his head away, ending the conversation.  He felt her lean over and kiss his cheek.

"You never, ever failed me--but I failed you, and I'm sorry," she whispered.  "I love you, but I can't change. Good-bye, Tom.

Tom heard her walk away. He'd lost so very much, and now there was one more empty space--this time in his heart.  He wasn't sure which loss would be easier to bear.

Cassy walked out of the room, past Liam, past Maeve, past Grace without saying a word until she got to the elevator, then she turned and walked back to Grace.  "Please take care of him.  He needs you, all of you. I can't help him now--I don't think I ever could."

"Cassy?" Liam asked gently.  "Are you going to be all right?"

"I am my mother's daughter, Liam.  I take care of myself--first and foremost.  I always have.  Good-bye."

She walked away from the hospital and never returned.

*****

Tom was in the hospital for three more weeks, and only once during that time did he mention Cassy.  The first week was spent simply recuperating.  Perhaps it was due to his unspoken grief over Cassy's departure, perhaps it was a simple case of doing too much, too soon, but Tom started to run a fever again.  This time the source of infection was traced to an abscess in his leg wound, and surgery was scheduled once more.  Dr. Harrison operated, but not before assuring Tom and his parents that it was a simple procedure, and that there was no chance it would turn out like his last surgery.  It was the longest forty-five minutes that the Ryans or Grace had ever spent, despite the surgeon's assurances.  But Harrison had been right, the abscess was treated and the infection cleared within a few days.  It was a setback, but a minor one, considering all that had gone before.

During these days in the hospital, Tom never questioned the "why" of what happened to him--not to his doctor, not to his parents, and not even to himself.  "Why not?"  Wasn't that what he'd always said?  " Why?" simply didn't occur to him--growing up with Teddy's example--the strength and grace with which she handled her illness and her pain made it easier for him to put away the rage and sorrow that he knew served no purpose.  Neither would turn back time or undo what had been done.  He remembered something his old high school English teacher used to say--"It doesn't matter why the buggy is in the ditch, what matters is how we get it out."

"Why?" wasn't what occupied his thoughts, but "How?"  How would he deal with this disability?  How was he going to earn a living?  How would he handle the stares and the rude comments?  How in heaven's name would he be able to deal with all of this?  The next few weeks answered those questions.

Physical therapy began two days after the surgery on his leg. The week of near immobility had been hard on Tom--it made him feel like a cripple to lie in bed and be pushed everywhere in a wheelchair.  Physical therapy was a relief and a release. Tom worked with Sue, a smiling, fluffy woman with a titanium core.  Soft on the outside, with a disarming smile and a gentle tone, she was a drill sergeant at heart.  With most patients, Sue had to be tough to make them work harder.  With Tom, she had to be tough to discourage her patient from overdoing--and while she admired that determination, it was almost as much a problem as lack of motivation.

When he started, he was weak and tired easily, and that fact only made him work harder. As the week progressed, he found he could move without too much pain.  He could do the exercises--and more. That he worked too hard, too long wasn't lost on those around him.  But dealing with the rage and fear by directing it into constructive action gave him purpose--something he'd been lacking while lying on his back in bed.

By the end of the second week, the stitches in his incision were removed and his arm had healed enough to allow him to be fitted with a temporary prosthesis. Again, the how surfaced...how would it look?  How would he ever learn to use it?

The prosthesis was simple--basic.  A claw like-device on the end of a flesh-toned plastic cuff. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't comfortable, but it was functional.  And after two weeks of living with a useless stump, a useful, but ugly hook was welcome. Tom began his occupational therapy and learned to manipulate the hook, learned to visualize and use the phantom sensations that still plagued him for a purpose--they gave him a sense of feeling in an otherwise insensate arm.  He found that for most tasks, using his left hand was sufficient. He was grateful every day that his dominant hand hadn't been injured.  Each day brought a new triumph.  Dressing himself, fastening a button, shaving, cutting food, carrying a tray--simple things that he had taken for granted before were lessons to be relearned.  Each challenge that his disability threw at him he met head on--unflinching, uncomplaining. Trying hard to live up to the example his sister had given him.  He hadn't realized at the time what an exceptional gift it was.

Harry's return also helped.  Captain Lipschitz returned from his month-long sabbatical in the Holy Land to find his department in shambles.  Tom Ryan was lying in a hospital bed, permanently disabled, and Cassandra St. John had turned in her resignation, emptied her desk, packed up her house and moved away without a word.  She left no forwarding address, and asked payroll to send her last check to her mother.

By the time Harry got to the hospital, Tom's room was empty, except for the presence of Liam Ryan, who was reading the paper and drinking a warm diet soda. Harry spent the next hour with Liam, who filled him in on Tom's condition, and Harry updated Liam on what he knew of Cassy.  He and Liam were still talking when Tom returned from physical therapy, pale, sweating and looking totally exhausted. Sue, the therapist, had wheeled him back upstairs herself, and was giving him the business as they rolled into the room.

"You're doing too much, Tom.  Only the prescribed number of reps--no more.  I gave you a light work-out today and you didn't follow it.  You must have done twice as much as I asked."

"No, I didn't," Tom objected.

"Hogwash. You shouldn't be this wiped out."  She put her hands on her ample hips and stomped her foot.  "You were exercising before I came for you again, weren't you?"

"He's not supposed to be doing those exercises?"  Liam asked.  "He was doing them all morning.  Tommy!  What are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to get the hell out of here, Dad.  I need to get stronger so I can go home."

Sue was in his face, her drill sergeant side coming to the fore. "Well, that's not what's happening.  You're going to buy yourself two more weeks if you don't cut it out and do what I say--and only what I say.  You'll make yourself ill, Tom.  Your body isn't strong enough yet and you're stressing yourself with this kind of abuse. Your upper arm was damaged too and it needs TLC, not boot camp. The point of physical therapy for you right now is to gently and consistently stretch your muscles and tendons to avoid contractures--not to be a participant in the Iron Man competition. We're going to skip tomorrow's exercise session and only do whirlpool and massage.  I want you to rest as much as possible, and then we'll start again with a limited number of exercises.  Is that clear?"

"Still not taking orders, Ryan?  Why am I not surprised?" Harry asked and stood up from his chair with a bemused smile on his face.

"Harry!  You're back!"  Tom nearly leapt from the wheelchair and went to greet his captain.

"Dammit, Tom, I wish you would have let me know--I'd have been on the first flight out.  You know that, don't you?" Harry said with mock annoyance as he walked around the bed.

Tom shrugged.  "Wasn't anything you could do, Harry.  I didn't want to ruin your second honeymoon with Frannie.  I had plenty of people here to hold my hand through this.  But I'm glad you're here now.  I missed you, Skipper."

Harry gave the younger Ryan a bear hug and hung on. "I'm so sorry, kiddo.  Damn, I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I know.  It's okay, Harry.  I'm okay," Tom replied and gave Harry an affectionate pat on the head.  He held up his artificial arm.  "I'm getting the hang of this thing, and it won't be long till I can come back to work.  I'm thinking of taking an administrative position in the department.  I'm not sure it's what I want to do, but it'll put food on the table till I do decide." 

"That's great, Tom.  Things would have been pretty lonely around the precinct with both of you gone."

"Both?"  Tom asked and Harry winced.  He shot a desperate look in Liam's direction, but Liam just shook his head.

"Harry.  Both?"  Tom repeated, and sank down onto his bed and sighed.  "She didn't quit, did she?"

"Yeah, she did."  Harry admitted reluctantly.

"Dammit.  Dammit!"  Tom flung his pillow across the room and looked as though he wanted to tear something else up, but fortunately, nothing else was within his reach.  "Did you go see her?"

"I tried.  She's gone, Tom.  She turned in her resignation nearly two weeks ago.  Her house is on the market.  I even called Evelyn, but she wouldn't tell me anything.  I don't think she knows where Cassy is--she wanted me to think she did, but she didn't."

"Count on Evelyn to play games."  Tom shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harry.  I should have known..."

"Tom, you've got enough on your plate.  She's a big girl, and she can take care of herself."

"She said that when she left, you know.  Said she was her mother's daughter, and she took care of herself, first and foremost," Liam remarked as he retrieved the tossed pillow. "I didn't believe a word of it."

Tom shook his head, "She's running scared, Dad.  I can't do anything about it this time.  She made her choice.  I can't do any more for her."

"You let me worry about Cassy, Tom.  I'll find her," Harry said firmly.  "You concentrate on getting better, and getting out of here."

"Where's Frannie?" Tom asked, suddenly noticing the absence of Harry's significant other.

"She's at home, chomping at the bit.  I made her wait until I was sure you were strong enough to take the pampering, Tom.  You think you're up for it?"

"This pampering--does it involve chocolate chip cookies?"  Tom asked seriously.

"Several batches, I'm sure. And chicken soup. Lots of chicken soup."

"Yeah.  I can take it.  Bring it on..."

Frannie, Maeve and Grace formed an effective pampering team.  Frannie was in charge of food, bringing in cookies and soups and casseroles until Tom was certain he'd gained ten pounds.   Maeve took charge of Tom's physical care, helping him wrap the ace bandage he wore almost constantly, and twice daily she massaged his arm to improve circulation and reduce the swelling.  She also helped him with his new prosthesis.  Grace, though, pampered his soul.  They went for walks together, talked long into the night, told awful jokes, watched old movies and generally just spent time together.  Those times were special, because, unlike everything else he did all day, the time spent with Grace felt familiar--a part of his past from before he'd had the accident.  When he was with Grace, he didn't feel like a lab rat, or Frankenstein, or a freak.  He felt normal.  And that was something to treasure.

****

Tom was sitting in the bedside chair, doing illegal passive resistance exercises, when he heard the tap-tap of Grace's cane on the linoleum in the hall.  "Hey," he called from behind the curtain, and swept it back out of her way.

"Hey, yourself," she said and walked into the room.  "I heard from the doctor at Mayo.  He wants me to come back for another treatment."

"When?"

"Day after tomorrow.  I wanted to make sure you were okay with that."

Tom frowned. "No.  I'm not.  I want to go with you."

"I wish you could, I could use some hand-holding.  But I'll be back by the weekend.  You won't miss me at all."

"Yes, I will, but you need to do this.  I want you to go.  Don't even think about me."

"Silly man. What else would I do all day?" she asked, kissing him on the cheek.  She drew back suspiciously when she felt the heat radiating from his face.  "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing," he replied innocently.

"Liar! I'm telling Sue. You've been exercising.  You're hot," she said and touched his face.

"Thank you.  It's been a while since anyone said that to me," he grinned.

Grace smirked. "I can hardly believe that.  I hear the nurses talking about you. I swear Nurse Deb was crying the day they took your catheter out.  And none of them have been the same since you started bathing yourself."

"You know, I miss those sponge baths too.  How come you never gave me one?"

"What?  And spoil your fun?"  Grace replied, then whispered, "How come you never asked me to give you one?"

"Because either one or both of my parents are always in the room with us."

She grabbed the privacy curtain and pulled it slowly around the bed. "They aren't here now..." Grace whispered and kissed him long, and deep. When she finally came up for air, Tom was stunned for a moment, and very, very pleased.

"Well?" Grace asked.  

"Lock the door and get the sponge...." Tom said and smiled.

Grace giggled and sat down in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

"I’ve been waiting forever for this," she sighed, then kissed him again, running her fingers through his slightly damp hair.  Tom reached up to take her in his arms, and suddenly tensed up.

"What?  Is someone coming?" Grace asked as Tom's ardor seemed to suddenly evaporate.

"No--I just--I just don't know what to do."  He sounded embarrassed and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why.

"You're kidding, right?  It hasn't been that long since you've kissed a woman, has it?"

"The last time was about three weeks ago," Tom admitted sadly.  "I knew what to do then.  Now, I'm not sure."

"Tom, lips are lips. Things haven't changed that much."

There was a long pause before he spoke again. "I have.  I've changed. Now I have a hook instead of an arm, Grace.  I'm half afraid I'm going to poke your eye out."

"So what?" Grace replied and Tom moaned at her bad joke.

"I'm serious, Grace. I don't want to lose you because of this." He stared at his wounded arm, too afraid to look at her.

"I don't understand, why would you lose me?"  Grace asked, climbing off Tom's lap and perching on the edge of the bed.

"I've been in public a lot, lately.  Going to PT, to OT, talking walks with you.  And I noticed, people look at me funny.  When people see that empty sleeve or that...that hook, they do a double take, and then, when they look back, suddenly, I become invisible. They don't see me anymore.  All they see is that I'm different.  They don't make eye contact, and it's like I'm no longer human--I'm some other species that's totally foreign to them."

Grace bit her lip--so it had begun for Tom already? "People usually talk loudly to me, as if I can't hear, instead of can't see.  Or they think because I can't see them, I don't know that they're staring. Unfortunately, it's human nature, Tom. People can be stupid and cruel--" Words failed her for a moment. She had wanted so much to protect him from this particular fact of differently abled life.  "Your friends don't do that, do they?  Harry or Frannie or any of the guys who've dropped by?"

"No.  Not really."

"That's because you're still the same person that you were before."

Tom sighed. "Inside, yes, but not outside. I'm different, Grace.  I feel different, and I do look different.  Sometimes I can't even look at it--I have to look away.  But you've never seen that part of me, so I don't know if you'll turn away, or not."

"I wouldn't turn away from you--you know me better than that, don't you?"  Grace shook her head sadly.  "I've always loved how handsome you are, but it's not what drew me to you--it's how beautiful you are inside.  Thomas, within the next year, I won't be able to see my hand in front of my face, let alone yours, or the lack thereof.  It doesn't matter to me what you look like.  I love you for what's inside the package, not how pretty the package is."

"But--" Tom began.

"But what?"  Grace asked.

"I still think you should know."

"I don't care what it looks like--that doesn't matter to me."

"I don't want you to be surprised or disgusted, Grace," he said softly, unable to look her in the face.  "I want you to know everything about me--up front.  No surprises--no secrets. I'm a little gun-shy here. If you abandoned me too, because of this...I don't think I could take it."

Grace sighed.  "All right. Let me see your arm."

"Okay."  Tom let out the breath he was holding and sat on the bed, Grace on his right side.  "Okay.  I have the temporary on now.  It's a hook, and not a lot else."

"You let me touch this the other day when you got it, remember?"

"I know, but, it's different when I'm wearing it, instead of touching it on a table.  It wasn't a part of me then."

Grace ran her fingers over the cool smooth plastic and the cold metal hook.  The ends came together to grip, like a thumb and forefinger.  

"Can you move it?"

Tom obliged, and the hook opened and closed. "I'd only use something like this for manual labor, or tasks that are more intricate or require some detail."

She ran her fingers up and down the prosthesis carefully, as if it were a piece of delicate crystal, then let go.

"So?" Tom asked nervously.

"What did you expect me to say? 'Well, that does it, I'm out of here?'" Grace asked sarcastically, then softened her tone.  "Tom--it doesn't matter to me.  If this is what you use to do work, to pick up things like you did before, why should it matter to me? Do you object to my glasses and cane?"

"No. I don't know why it matters to me--but this seems important, so bear with me, please?"

"All right.  Go on."

"In about another week or two, when more of the swelling is gone, I'll be fitted for a myoelectric arm.  Another temporary, but, still--it's a great improvement cosmetically over this.  I've seen the models, and you can't tell that it's not a real arm. They match skin tone, and it works without any kind of straps or pulleys.  My own muscles will control the movements. It's supposed to be very close to real, only not as precise as my hand was."

"Tom, I think that's amazing.  I don't understand what--" She stopped talking as Tom gently touched his finger to her lips to quiet her.

"Grace, listen.  At night, before bed, I'm supposed to take it off--I have to recharge the batteries, then I put it back on in the morning when I wake up.  At night, I don't have anything--I just have this..." he said and took her hand.  He held out his right arm, the temporary prosthesis now removed, and placed her hand on his right  shoulder. "This is what you need to see." The pain in his voice nearly froze her heart. 

Grace took a deep breath to quell her temporary panic.  She smiled as bravely as she could, then ran her fingers lightly down his arm, feeling each of the raised scars on his biceps, the skin thickened where the dog's  teeth had done so much damage.  In the future there would be plastic surgery to reduce some of the scarring, but for now, the arm felt like a topological map of his pain. She skimmed over the crook of his elbow, felt the smooth undamaged skin, and the rapidly beating pulse in the ropey veins.  Drawing her sensitive fingers down until she met scar tissue once more, she paused.  The stump was puckered and slightly tapered.  She could feel the slight protrusions of the radius and ulna bones and traced the raised flesh where the incision lay.  She heard Tom take in a quick breath as she touched an area on the end of the stump.  She could feel heat emanating from that spot.

"Does it still hurt?"  

"Yeah. A little," Tom said nervously. "It's kind of irritated because of the temporary.  The fit isn't as good as the permanent will be, and it rubs in some spots.  It's actually kind of numb, for the most part.  I can't feel fingers touching lightly, only strong pressure."

"Maeve massages your arm for you, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, it's supposed to help the swelling go down quicker. I'm learning how to do it myself, though."

"I know.  Your mom told me that."  Grace frowned as the truth finally dawned on her.  " Why haven't I ever been here when she does that?"

There was a long pause before he answered. "Because--I asked her not to do it while you were here." 

"Oh." Grace said quietly. "You were embarrassed?  Even though I can't see it?"

"Yes."

Grace realized for the first time that just because Tom didn't share all his fears and his pain--it didn't mean that the fear and pain weren't there.  And just because she couldn't see his missing limb, and didn't mention it--it didn't mean that Tom wasn't thinking about it and dealing with that loss every minute of every day. "This is really hard, isn't it?" she asked gently and touched his cheek.  Her fingers came away moist.

Tom didn't answer.

Grace considered a moment. "Can I massage your arm?"

"No."  The word slipped out before he could even contemplate her request.

"Why not?"

"It's so... It's ugly."

"Tom, it's not ugly to me.  I don't see ugly anymore.  That's a concept that I can't really deal with visually--only spiritually."  She began to stroke his arm gently, like she was stroking a cat, hand over hand, over and over, touching the scars, caressing the stump, accepting it fully.  "Life isn't about how you look.  It's about who you are."

"You can't see it--but you'll feel it, you'll know it's there.  I'll know it's there." His voice quavered slightly, "I keep thinking I'll wake up, and everything will be like it was. In my dreams--I always have two hands. And I begin to think that this life is the dream.  And then I wake up...I hate mornings."  He fell into uncomfortable silence again.

Grace nodded, but didn't stop the gentle, loving strokes she was bestowing.

Tom bowed his head, bit his lip.  He dragged the words out into the open, reluctantly, fearfully. "I don't want to force you to stay out of pity, Grace. I know that I won't have two hands again.  That I won't be able to do things like I did before, be what I was before...even...even making love will be different."

Grace smiled knowingly. "That doesn't mean that it won't be as good, or even better.  Life isn't about what you can't do--it's about what you can do."  She stopped stroking his arm for a moment and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder and putting her arm around his waist.

"What's important isn't a pretty face, or a beautiful body, or 20/20 vision.  What's important is love--giving and receiving...and you don't need eyes or hands or anything but a beautiful soul to do that.  You have that, Tom.  I saw it the first time we met--even though your face was in shadow--your soul shined with a light that I knew I'd always be able to see. It drew me to you, like a moth to a flame.  I can see it now, and I can't turn away.  I'll never turn away."

Relief flooded through him--she had seen him as he was, accepted him and he knew her heart. "You're okay with this?  You're sure?"

"I'm sure."  She kissed him again, and this time, he kissed her back, without fear or hesitation. And then he kissed her again, wrapping both of his arms around her and pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.

"Tom?"

"Hmm?" he asked as he nuzzled her neck.

"You have anything else you want to show me?"

Tom just grinned.

*****

"So, sweetie?  Isn't it good to be home?" Maeve asked as they pulled up in front of Tom's apartment in the Mustang.

Tom nodded and smiled.  "I can't even begin to tell you...God.  A month in the hospital--I didn't think I'd ever see home again."  His only regret was that Grace wasn't here.  He'd been released a day early for good behavior, and she wasn't due back from Mayo until tomorrow night.

"You mind you don't overdo and end up right back in the hospital, now," Maeve chided as Liam went for Tom's bag.  She led Tom to the door and handed him the keys.  "Here you, go, son.  You open it."

Tom fumbled a bit with his keyring, but finally found the key and slipped it into the lock.  The latch snicked open, and he turned the knob carefully with his left hand, and swung the door wide.  He stood for a moment and marveled at how different everything seemed.  The room looked small and strange after so long a time. It felt as if he were viewing it through the wrong end of the binoculars.  He walked inside, looking around, running his hand over the back of the sofa as if it were new to this place.  He felt new to this place.  He sniffed and the smell wasn't familiar as his current home, but as his boyhood home.  Mom's White Shoulders, Dad's Old Spice, the scent of the morning eggs and toast all mingled in the air and reminded him of days long gone.  He smiled to himself.  Home...he was finally home.

"Go sit down and I'll make you some iced tea," his mother said.

"Mom, I've only walked about 20 yards today.  I want to look around a little," he complained. Maeve frowned at him.  "But I'll take the iced tea, please."

Liam came in carrying a suitcase and a large plant under his arm.  "Where do you want this?"

"Put it out by the curb--I'll just kill it, and that will save me some steps," Tom said and reached for the suitcase his father was carrying.  "I'll take that."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Maeve's gaze as he slipped the suitcase handle over his claw, as he liked to call it, and carried it into the bedroom.

Tom sat the suitcase down on the bed, and sat down next to it.  He bounced on the mattress a time or two, and smiled happily.  God, it was going to be good to sleep in his own bed. Then he remembered that his parents would be sleeping in here, as they had been for the last three and a half weeks, and he sighed.  Some straight solitary time would be good--but he certainly couldn't ask his folks to go to a motel.

Liam brought another smaller case into the room and set it on the bed next to Tom.  "I gave the plants to your neighbor--she seemed grateful."

"Mrs. Horton?  Yeah--she's a plant freak.  I should have thought of her.  Thanks, Dad, for getting rid of them--they reminded me of funeral flowers."

"Tommy, if it's all right with you, your mother and I will be spending the night at Harry and Frannie's.  They offered their guest room since your place is so small."

"Really?  You don't want to stay here?"

"Only if you think you'll need us.  But we thought you might like to get reacclimated by yourself.  Besides, we couldn't be scooting you out of your own bed on your first night home."

"Thanks, Dad.  But I can't believe Mom is going along with this."

"Frannie snared her with the promise of shopping tomorrow, and Harry gave me some spare cuffs to use in case we need 'em to get her into the car," Liam grinned.  "I may need your gun though."

Tom smiled for a moment, then the smile left his face.  "I don't know where it is.  I lost it when the dog attacked me."

"Liam!" Maeve called from the kitchen.  "There's someone at the door!"

"Duty calls," Liam said, ambled out into the living room and opened the door.  A thin, well-dressed man with hawk-like features was squinting against the afternoon sun..  

"I'm looking for Sgt. Thomas Ryan," the man said, still squinting.

"Well, looks like you found him.  But I'm not sure he's up to receiving visitors--he just got home from the hospital."

The man smiled nervously. "I'm sorry to trouble you at home.  I'd hoped to catch Sgt. Ryan at the hospital, but they informed me he'd been released, and it's important I speak with him. I'm Greg White, attorney representing Mr. Evan Jericho.  May I come in?”

"I suppose so."  Liam stood out of the way and White entered as if he owned the place.  

Tom was standing in the kitchen, and Maeve handed him a glass of iced tea.

"Tommy, this is Mr. White.  He's an attorney," Liam said.  "For Mr. Jericho."

"Oh," Tom replied, thoroughly unimpressed as he made his way into the living room.  He still walked with a bit of a limp from his leg injuries, and he could see White staring at him out of the corner of his eye as he made his way around the couch and sat down. "Come on in."

White nodded to Liam and Maeve and went to sit on the couch next to Tom. He set his expensive-looking calfskin briefcase on the coffee table and adjusted his silk tie uncomfortably. "Sgt. Ryan, Mr. Jericho would once again like to express his deepest regrets for the injuries you suffered.  And he would like to thank you for not pressing charges, or insisting that the dog be put to sleep."

"Dog was just doing his job.  I can respect that," Tom said and took a sip from his glass of tea. He caught White inspecting his arm, and put it at his side, out of the man's sight and set his glass back on the coffee table.  "Is there something else?"

"He asked me to give you this..." White rummaged in his briefcase, came up with an envelope and handed it to Tom.

Tom took it hesitantly.  "What is it?" he asked.

"It's a check for two hundred fifty thousand dollars, Sgt. Ryan."

"Why?" Tom asked suspiciously.

"As I said, even though he must officially deny responsibility for your...accident, Mr. Jericho felt this was the decent thing to do.  He's also arranged to pay your hospital bill and therapy costs for the next year."

Tom handed the envelope back. "The FOP lawyer said not to accept anything from Mr. Jericho without consulting with them first.  They also said Mr. Jericho was considering filing suit against me for the loss of his dogs."

"I think you'll find that the case has been settled satisfactorily between all concerned parties.  You'll be receiving a call from your attorney soon, and another check for an additional two hundred fifty thousand from the insurance company."

"What about your suit against me?"  Tom asked sharply.  That bit of news from the lawyers had upset him deeply.

White sighed unhappily.  "That, I'm afraid, was simply a bit of posturing.  The insurance company insisted on playing hardball--I was against it, as was Mr. Jericho.  There will be no suit filed against you, Sgt. Ryan.  Your lawyers had negotiated a settlement of two hundred fifty thousand for your loss.  Mr. Jericho felt that wasn't enough, so he authorized me to arrange for this additional payment.  This comes from Mr. Jericho's own pocket."

"I don't need his charity," Tom insisted.

"It's not charity, Sgt. Ryan.  It's about fairness.  He knows that nothing can make up for your pain and suffering--"

"He's right about that," Tom interrupted.  "Money will never make this right."

"But that doesn't mean that you won't have financial losses due to this accident.  Mr. Jericho is an honorable man--and as I said, despite what his lawyers and insurance company say, he feels that he is responsible, and would like to try to make things easier for you."

Tom looked up at his parents.  Both of them looked a bit stunned--he hadn't even told them about the counter-suit, and the idea of half a million dollars had obviously shocked them into silence.  There were no answers to be found there.  "Tell Mr. Jericho that I'll discuss his offer with my lawyer, and he'll get back with you."

White gathered his briefcase, rose from the couch and held out his hand, but Tom ignored the gesture.  "Thank you for your time, Sgt. Ryan. Please keep in touch."  

Liam escorted White to the door.

"Mr. White?" Tom stood and faced the man.  "Tell Jericho I appreciate the gesture.  No hard feelings."

"He'll be very relieved, Sgt. Ryan," the lawyer said, nodded to Liam and Maeve and left.  Liam shut the door behind him.

"Half a million dollars?  Lord, who is this man?" Maeve asked as she sank onto the couch next to Tom.

"Some real estate tycoon.  He's loaded.  Half a million is a drop in the bucket to him."  Tom took a sip of his tea and held the envelope up to the light with his hook.  "You think that it's a fair price for a hand?  He's right about the lawyers trying for less--they told me that two hundred thousand was the going price for "traumatic amputation of a non-dominant hand"," he said the words in a stiff and mocking tone that swiftly turned bitter.  "Apparently there are insurance tables that put a price on this kind of thing.  Everything has a price nowadays."  He sat the check down and picked up his glass of tea, emptying it as Maeve eyed him worriedly.

"Seems he's being as fair as he can be, Tommy," Liam remarked, balancing on the edge of the sofa.  "That's something--and it would give you some breathing room financially until you get back in the swing of things again."

"Oh, hell, Dad, half a mill would take care of me for years.  I just don't want to take charity."

"Call your lawyer, Thomas.  See what he has to say about it."

Tom got up from the couch and set the check down on the coffee table.  "I'm kinda tired.  I'm going to go lie down for a while."

"Go ahead, dear.  We'll wake you for supper," Maeve said, and exchanged glances with her husband as Tom walked to the back of the small apartment and crawled wearily into bed, his back to them.

Maeve busied herself with the dishes, and Liam channel-surfed, looking for football games.  Tom slept.  

Once she'd finished doing the dishes and wiping the counters and cleaning the refrigerator and straightening the shelves, Maeve grew restless and checked her watch.  Tom had been asleep for almost two hours

"It's not fair, is it Li?"  Maeve said quietly, slipping up behind her husband as he sliced carrots and onions for the stew he was planning for supper.  "Half a million dollars would have made Thomas delirious with joy only six weeks ago.  He would have made plans, would have showed at least some...reaction.  It breaks my heart to see him suffer so.  I don't understand why this happened.  What good could come from this?"

"Looking for the "lining", Maeve?" he asked.  "You know sometimes you can't tell what it is until later.  Remember how long it took us to see it with Teddy? But it's always there.  He'll find it."

"I hope you're right," she said and hugged him from behind. "I'm just going to go in and check on him," she said and Liam scowled.  

"Don't go waking him up."

She batted at him as she walked by, slipping quietly to the rear of the apartment.

A knock at the door took Liam from his culinary duties back to being a doorman.  He opened the door and found Grace standing there.

"I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow, sweetie," Liam said, planting a kiss on her cheek. 

"I caught an early flight.  I finished earlier than expected."  Grace replied, returning his kiss.

"Tommy will be so pleased that you're here."  Liam led her to the kitchen counter and settled her on one of the stools, then he went back to his stew.

Maeve stepped out of the bedroom to greet Grace.  "How did it go, dear?" she asked.

"Not too well.  Not well at all, actually, but at least I tried.  I had to try," she replied, trying not to look as bothered as she felt.

"Of course you did, and I'm so sorry it didn't work out for you."  Maeve slipped her arm around Grace's thin shoulders and gave her a hug.  "Are you hungry, dear?  Liam has a lamb stew cooking that's nearly ready.  We'd love for you to join us."

"No, thanks, really," Grace smiled. It seemed Maeve was always trying to fatten her up.  "I just stopped in on my way home to say hello.  How's he doing?"

Maeve exchanged glances with Liam.  "Pretty well, considering.  He went to lie down before dinner, said he was tired.  He's still sound asleep.  I just checked on him.  Li and I are going over to Frannie and Harry's to stay, so that Tommy has some privacy.  He needs some time alone, I think, to get his bearings now that he's home."

Liam gave the simmering pot on the stove a quick stir.  "He doesn't need to be alone, he just needs some company that isn't hovering over him every second."

Maeve scowled.  "I don't hover!"

"No, you swoop in and pamper him.  I hover," he grinned.  "This stuff is ready.  But I just remembered--Frannie wanted us to come for supper.  She was going to make knishes."

"I don't remember that," Maeve said.

"Well, she called while you were out sweeping the sidewalks," Liam explained.  A horn honked outside.  "That's Harry now.  Maeve, gather the suitcases, we've got to go.  Grace, darling," he said, taking her arm and leading her past an incredulous Maeve, " Would you mind waking Tommy, and telling him it's time for supper?  I'll send your driver on home.  Tom can drive you home later if need be," he grinned.

Grace knew she was being set up, but she really didn't mind.  She'd come to see Tom and seeing him alone, in his own house was more than she could have hoped for.

Maeve appeared with the suitcases and shoved them at Liam.  "The stew should be ready soon.  I made a salad.  Tom likes the Italian dressing that I make, it's just--" 

The horn honked again, and Liam rushed Maeve out the door before she could give Grace any further instructions on Tom's care and feeding.

"Tell Tommy we'll see him tomorrow," Liam said, and with that was out the door.

Grace stood for a moment, getting her bearings.  She'd been in Tom's apartment before, and it only took a minute to decide which way the bedroom was.

She made her way to the rear of the small apartment and sat down on the bed at Tom's side, not saying anything for the longest time as she listened to him breathing softly, sleeping peacefully.  Finally, she reached out, felt for his hand and found his back.  He was lying on his left side, facing away from her.  She let her hand rest between his shoulder blades, felt his muscles expand with each breath, then felt them relax.  Through the thin tee shirt, his skin felt warm and soft beneath her fingers.  She let her hand melt into his flesh, until it felt as though she was a part of him. It felt good and right, somehow.  She'd missed him in the few days she'd been gone.  When he didn't respond to her touch, she began to stroke his shoulders, gently, as if her fingers were feathers kissing his skin.

"Grace?" Tom whispered tentatively.

"I thought you were asleep."

"No.  Just playing possum. I liked what you were doing--and I didn't want it to stop. But then I wasn't sure it was you. I thought it might be a serial fondler." He rolled over onto his back and turned to face her, a big smile on his face.  "Not that it would be a bad thing...How was the trip?"

"Fine."

"What does "fine" mean?"

"The trip was fine, but the treatment wasn't effective.  There isn't anything else they can do."

"I'm sorry, I was hoping it would be better news."

Grace shrugged. "It's okay.  This was a long shot, and I knew it."

"No, it's not okay," Tom said.  "It stinks." 

 Grace smiled at his words, but Tom noted the drawn look on her tired face.  "You look beat.  Lie down with me for a while and rest."  He scooted over to the far side of the bed and made room for Grace to lie down beside him.  She readily accepted the invitation, slipping off her shoes and settling next to him, his left arm wrapped around her as she rested her head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.

"So, did you miss me?" Tom asked.

"Horribly."

Tom grinned happily.  "I knew the answer but, I had to ask."

"Confirming the obvious, are you?" she asked, gazing up at him.

"Nothing's obvious.  At least not to me."  Tom kissed Grace deeply. "I don't know what I would do without you. I missed you so much these last few days. "

"I missed you too," she smiled.  "And I really missed being kissed like that."

"Let's make up for lost time, shall we?" he asked and without waiting for an answer, kissed her again.  "I really, really missed you."

"I figured that one out, Ryan." Grace smiled.  "Are you hungry?"

"Starved," he said pulling her closer.

Grace smiled and wiggled out of his arms.  "Good, because the lamb stew is ready.  Get washed up, I'll meet you in the kitchen."  She climbed out of the bed, leaving a slightly confused Tom behind.

He came out of the bathroom with a clean shirt and a freshly washed face to find her stirring a pot that smelled wonderful.  

"Do you have any wine?" she asked as he got bowls down from the cupboard.  He opened another cupboard and found a bottle of cabernet and then retrieved the wine glasses as Grace spooned stew into the bowls.  He gave her the wine to open, as the corkscrew proved too much to handle.  She gave the bottle back to him, and he poured the wine into the glasses, and they sat down at his kitchen counter to eat.

The stew was excellent, and the wine pushed the conversation along easily.  With Tom prodding her to talk, Grace told him about her experiences at Mayo, and he commiserated.

"I should have been there, Grace.  I will be there next time you need me--I'll be there anytime you need me, from now on." 

"I'll hold you to that, Ryan."  

Grace picked up the bottle of wine and gave it a shake, gauging how much was left.  "More for you?"

"If you're done eating, how 'bout we move this to the couch--this bar stool isn't that comfortable," he said and took her hand in his.

They settled onto the couch, and Tom poured more wine into their glasses.  

"Cassy and I used to do this after dinner--just sit and enjoy each other's company.  Of course, I could never get her to relax before she'd done all the dishes and wiped the counters..."  He took a drink of wine and sighed.

"I've been thinking a lot about when we were married.  Trying to figure out what went wrong.  I still don't understand it--just like I don't understand this latest stunt. I have to admit that it hurt when she walked out on me after all we went through together. I can't believe she left like that rather than work it out."

Grace frowned.  "Tom, don't let her leaving hurt you.  Some people--they can't face it--the uncertainty, the guilt, the responsibility.  Joel couldn't.  He left, too."

"He did, didn't he?  I almost forgot about that." He kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer.  They were silent for a few minutes, then Grace spoke.

"When Joel left, I thought it was about me--but it wasn't.  It was about Joel.  Cassy didn't leave because of anything you did--she left because it was all that she could do.  Just because you love someone, it doesn't mean that they'll never let you down.  People will do that--and for their own reasons--reasons that have very little to do with who'll get hurt. I think it's called self-preservation."

"You wouldn't," Tom stated assuredly.

That remark earned him a kiss on the nose, even though she’d been aiming for his lips. She smiled and settled against his chest. "Well, I hope not, but you never know. Part of the problem that I had with Joel was that he didn't think he could handle the responsibility of having a blind wife. The idea of my blindness terrified him.  He was afraid that he wouldn't be up to taking care of me. So, he left."

Tom nodded.  "I understand what you're saying, but I still don't see how, if he really loved you, he could have left.  I--I could never do something like that.  No matter what."

Grace hugged Tom tightly. "I know.  You're a braver man than Joel.  I see that every day."

"I'm not brave.  I'm terrified.  I'm so scared that some mornings I don't want to open my eyes."

"What scares you?"  Grace asked. 

"Mostly people, I guess.  I'm not really worried about this anymore," he said, holding up his hook.  "I know it's going to be an adjustment, and it's going to be tough, but I can handle it.  But I'm worried about other people.  I'm afraid that what happened with Cassy will keep happening. People will turn away, and I'll be alone. That all my friends will drop away, one by one, because they can't deal with this.  And I'll welcome it--because I don't want to see the pity in their eyes."

"That won't happen, Tom," she objected, then backtracked.  "No, it will happen. I'm not going to lie to you--you'll probably lose friends--if you can call people who abandon you because your appearance isn't within their comfort zone, friends.  But you won't have the pity thing too much.  Once people know that you don't pity yourself, they tend not to pity you either."

"You thought I pitied you, Grace. I kept getting on you about taking that first trip to Mayo alone because I was worried, not because I didn't think you were capable.  But that worry just spilled over into other things until you thought I was acting out of pity. I know you didn't want that, and I tried, I really did--but I couldn't keep the sorrow out of my feelings.  I'm sorry.  I think that going blind, that not being able to see is a tragedy.  And I don't want it to happen to you."

"I know. And that's not pity, Tom.  Sorrow and empathy aren't the same as pity."

"You're right.  It's not the same. But--and don't take this wrong--if anyone can handle it--you can.  You're always so positive, so upbeat.  I've never seen you upset about it--and until that day I woke up and you couldn't find your way out of my room--I'd never seen you cry because of it.  You're always so matter of fact--so accepting.  I don't know how you do it."

"It's been a long process, Tom.  I denied it was happening at first.  Then I got angry--I was angry for a long time.  I bargained with God, and yes, I cried--but it didn't change the facts.  I stopped all the self-destructive crap that was holding me back from living my life, and concentrated on the moment.  That made all the difference."

"I still think you're...well, you're amazing.  I don't pity you, Grace. I just hated what was happening, because I couldn't stop it for you, no matter what."

"I'm glad to hear that, Ryan."

So, you're here now, with me, because you want to be--and not because you're taking pity on me?" Tom asked softly.

"Oh Tom, I'm sorry that you were hurt, that your life's been turned upside down, that you're in pain.  I hate to see you in pain.  I wish that I could do something to help, and I wish that this never would have happened--but I don't pity you--I think, I think, Thomas Ryan, that I'm here because I love you."

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear that," he whispered and kissed her long and deep.  

When they finally came up for air, Grace sat up and with a peck on his cheek, snuggled once more against Tom, marveling at how good it felt to be close to him.  "So where do we go from here?" she asked.

"I don't know.  I know what my heart is saying, but my head is giving me fits."

"Tell me what your heart says--"

Tom shook his head. "My heart is a sap--ask anyone--I'm warning you."

"Go on, spill it."

He sighed.  "Okay. My heart says that I love you and you love me.  That I need you--more than anything in the world, and that, miracle of miracles, you need me too. It's saying that I don't want to live without you, that I want to marry you, have a dozen kids and live happily ever after."

Grace smiled. "These are good things--except maybe for the dozen kids part. Would you settle for six?

"That's negotiable."

"So, what's your head saying?"

"My head is saying that I'm a one-armed ex-cop with no job and no skills who can't even cut his own steak--and that I have no business making a marriage proposal to the most beautiful, sensitive, caring woman in the world. My head thinks that you'll laugh your ass off."

"Tom--listen to your heart.  Your head is nuts."

He kissed her on the forehead and pulled her close.

"So, was that a proposal?" she asked.

"Confirming the obvious?" he grinned.

"Nothing's obvious to me."

"Well, my heart is saying yes, it is a proposal, but my head says no...".

Grace grimaced.  "The head has got to go, Tom.  No doubt about it."

"Hear me out, okay?"

"Okay, but this better be good."

"First off, I love you. I'm crazy about you, I can't live without you."

"So far so good--But?"

"But I've spent the last month having my life ripped apart at the seams. I lost my arm, my job, my partner and I nearly lost my life.  Sometimes you can't make good decisions when you're in a battle zone like that. "

"And you're not sure that marrying me is a good idea?

"No!  No-I 'm sure--the fact that I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you is the one thing I am sure of. But I want to be in control of my life again before I ask you to share it with me.  I want to feel confident in my abilities, not defined by my disability. I want to know that I can be a productive human being like this.  And until I know that, I won't feel right about asking you to marry me.

Grace nodded and relaxed in his arms once again.  "I can understand that, Tom. I want you to be sure--I want to be sure, too.  We've both been burned before.  I want to know that we married each other out of love--not because of obligation, or protectiveness, or convenience or shared pain.  I want you to want me because your life isn't complete without me--and I want you to need me as much as I need you... I want it to be forever--like your folks.  Like mine were."

Tom kissed her head.  "We need to take the time to think, without any pressure, without any expectations.  I want us to take some time to really get to know each other without all the high drama.  You and I have both been through this marriage thing once.  It's not like we can't wait. And besides, I have an image as an incurable romantic to live up to, and that proposal was not up to my high romantic standards.  I can do a whole lot better than that."

"You'd better. I'll be waiting."

They lay silently in each other's arms for a long, long while, thinking of the future.

"This doesn't mean we can't have sex, does it?" Grace asked quietly with a wry grin.

"God, I hope not," Tom replied.  "You got my parents to leave the house without a court order. I'm taking advantage of this.  Wanna join me?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Grace whispered as Tom held out his arm and led her into the bedroom.

*****

Three weeks later, almost two months after his accident, Tom Ryan returned to the Palm Beach Police department.  His colleagues were happy to see him, and Harry personally escorted him up to the Chief's office to receive his new assignment.  They offered him a position in the Public Relations Department, but he declined, so they offered him something else.  And it wasn't working.

Everyone knew that being an administrative aide to the Deputy Chief in charge of Planning was bad.  Worse than bad--it was a nightmare.  Tom Ryan was a man of many talents, but pushing papers was not his strong suit.  He was miserable. He was locked away in an office, reviewing manpower distribution requests, preparing budgets, and swimming way over his head in the strong political currents that surrounded the administration of a big city police department.  They didn't know what to do with him--he couldn't be a cop, and he wasn't comfortable with being a public relations representative, which is where they had wanted to assign him. He still was uncomfortable around strangers with his prosthetic arm, and the idea of shaking hands with the public all day unnerved him. He had hoped he could work in one of the criminal investigation branches, but instead found himself shuttled off to the planning and research branch of the administration. 

The business management degree he'd earned from FSU was dusted off and put to work--and each day he was reminded of how much he had despised business management.  He ached to put his skills to work, but without two good hands in the police department, it was as if he was even more useless than he had imagined he could be.  Even though he could still do plenty of things--hell, most everything that he had done as a detective, it was the off chance that he might really, really need that missing hand that now chained him to a desk, out of sight and out of mind. Though the new myoelectric hand was cosmetically nearly indistinguishable from his living hand, it was as useless on this job as the hook, and in a way, made things worse.  With the hook, the reasons for his demotion were more obvious, but with the myoelectric hand, he felt so close to his old self that he resented his banishment even more.

A firm rap on the door of his tiny office tore him away from his daily bout with job dissatisfaction.  Craig Alexander stuck his head in the door.

"Harry told me I'd find you up here--you free for lunch?" he asked.

"Sure," Tom replied, and grabbed his jacket from his chair. "I think that the future staffing needs of the east district can wait for an hour or so.  How are things in the D.A.'s office?  Congratulations on winning another four-year term, by the way."

"It was a tough fight, but I'm glad it's over.  Now I can get down to business again.  That brings me to why I came to you. We can talk over crabs at Louie's."

The men walked to Louie's Oceanside Cafe, not far from headquarters, grabbed a table, placed their orders with a smiling, scantily clad waitress and sat back, as usual, to enjoy the view.

"How's it going in Planning?"  Craig asked.

"Swell.  If you like watching paint dry. I'm going to pack it in, Craig.  I decided I have to find something else--even if it means leaving the department."

"I was surprised that you ended up there--I heard they were grooming you for public relations."

"I turned that down. I'm not a very good liar, which is what a lot of P.R. comes down to.  I've got a business degree, so they stuck me in Planning--but I'm pretty sure I'd be happier as a short order cook in my dad's restaurant in Boston," Tom said and took a sip of his iced tea.  "Hell, I could just forget about working and take a trip around the world.  At least that's what everyone around here says they'd do."

"You're too young to retire.  You have years of suffering ahead of you."

Tom nodded.  "Yeah, besides, you start spending the nest egg and pretty soon, it's kaput.  That's my cushion in case I can't work--and I don't think I'm completely unemployable-- yet."  One of the barely-dressed waitresses stopped to refill their drinks, and both men paused to take in her charms.  Tom regained his senses first.  "So, Craig, what's up?"

"You know Charlie Connell, my chief investigator?" Alexander asked.

"Sure.  Charlie's a hell of a guy.  I worked with him when I first made detective.  He kept my nose clean that first year, pulled my ass out of the fire more than once."

"Charlie's retiring at the end of the month."

"I thought he was going to hang on for another two years."

"I don't think Charlie was planning to quit so soon either, but Sharon's health sort of pushed the date up. They've decided to move out to Arizona where the air is cleaner and drier."

"That's a shame.  I'll miss him, but what's it got to do with me?"

Craig Alexander rested his arms on the table and leaned forward, speaking so that no one else could hear.  "I asked Charlie to give me a short list of people he'd trust to replace him on the job--and I came up with a list of my own.  When we compared notes, the only name either of us had written down was yours."

Tom stared in amazement.  "Are you offering me Charlie's job--chief investigator?"

"I can't think of anyone I'd trust more, Tom.  I've worked with you, and we make a good team.  You've always been fair and honest--never working off an agenda.  I consider you one of the good guys.  You're a damn good detective and I think you'd make a hell of an investigator for the District Attorney's office. You would have been my choice regardless. I wouldn't have had a chance of drawing you away from Homicide before--" Alexander stumbled over the words, and Tom gave him an understanding nod, "--before your accident, but now, if you're as miserable as you say you are in Planning, maybe we can do each other some good.  I need your skills--badly.  You know how backed up the DA’s office is--and with Charlie leaving, we'll really be shorthanded--" Alexander's jaw dropped for a moment when he realized what he's said.  He searched Ryan's face to see if he'd insulted him but was surprised to find him grinning broadly.

"I know the feeling," Tom said and held up his arm, the prosthetic removed, then broke out laughing.

Alexander chuckled.  "You've been waiting a long time to use that gag, haven't you?"

"Damn straight."  Tom smiled, then his face grew serious as he slipped the hand back in place.  "You're sure about this?  You don't have any doubts I can do the job?"

"They didn't remove your brain, Tom.  I need a good investigator--and you're one of the best.  Experienced men like you don't grow on trees. I know you're the man for this job. One of the perks of the office is that I can hire whoever I want to work as my investigator.  You won't be a police department employee, but you'll have arrest powers, and you can carry a gun if you like.  Charlie did, but not once in four years did he have to use it.  This is about using your head, not your hands."

Tom nodded in agreement.  "Sometimes I think people forget that I still have a brain."

Alexander grew serious. "I didn't. My son's accident and all we went through taught me to look deeper before judging a person.  I want to warn you, though.  We'll be doing some stings in City Hall, and probably doing some investigating in the Police Department itself.  It could get ugly--for both of us.  I need someone who can act as an impartial party--who can represent me and my office for the next four years--or more, if we win another election."

The food arrived and interrupted the conversation for a moment as the waitress placed plates in front of each man.  Tom had forgotten how hungry he was, and the aroma of grilled mahi-mahi and his new job prospect brought back his appetite.  He and the district attorney discussed old cases and new ones, and by the time lunch was through, Tom felt better than he had in a long while.  Life had a purpose again, and he knew his place once more.

After walking back to headquarters and bidding Alexander good-bye, he went straight to his cubicle and wrote out a letter of resignation, then delivered it to the Chief personally.  He left work early, and stopped by the jewelers on the way home.  He had a proposal to plan.

*****

Two months after accepting the job of Chief Investigator for the DA’s office, Tom Ryan was busier, as he liked to say... “than a one-armed paper hanger.”  Work was a dream.  Challenging, fulfilling and rewarding.  His parents had gone home to Boston, leaving their son in the care of the woman he loved, the woman who he intended to propose to this very night.  His last proposal had been a bust, the ring lost on the beach.  This time, he was leaving nothing to chance.  Governments had been overthrown with less secrecy and planning.  This would be his masterwork...the piece de resistance of love and romance.  

The venue was Angelini’s Italian Restaurant.  He’d rented out the outdoor patio that overlooked the ocean and arranged to have it lit so that Grace would be able to make out some shapes and maybe a few details.  An incredible menu had been planned by Tony, who seemed as excited about the proposal as Tom.  Twenty-one dishes...a tour de force tasting menu--all Italian, all personally relatable to the happy couple.  To throw Grace off the track, he’d chosen her birthday as the perfect time to spring his proposal—no wondering about a special night out...this was expected, and he’d been talking up the special meal for a week. He had a lovely birthday gift picked out, a diamond necklace and earrings, so she wouldn’t expect an engagement ring on top of that.  He’d hired a violin trio to serenade them. They were going to dance and eat and walk on the beach. And then, when they returned to his place, when she least expected it...he was going to finally ask Grace to marry him.

At least, that was the plan.  Reality it seemed, had its own ideas.  It started with rain. It was a light drizzle as he drove to the jeweler’s that morning to pick up Grace’s necklace and earrings.  As he pulled up in front, he noted that the shop looked dark.  Too dark.  There was something on the door, so he hopped out of his car, and dodged raindrops to find a sign that said, “Closed due to family emergency.”   Tom shook his head.  Oh well, the necklace was going to be a surprise...and thank god he already had the engagement ring, so he’d just have to find a quick substitute birthday present.  He drove home in the steady rain, worrying about this weather that was supposed to blow over by the afternoon. 

At home, he worked on his proposal surprise. He had rose petals, had changed all the light bulbs to 150 watts so she’d be able to see…some. He had the music cued, even a blank track of their song…which he planned to sing to her. Champagne was chilling in the fridge, the ice bucket was filled and ready.  Everything was nearly complete...just a few finishing touches, and it would all be ready.  His phone rang, and he answered.  

“Hey Dad.”

“How’s it going, Tommy?”

“Good, if the weather cooperates.”

“Uh oh.  Say, did you get a letter in the mail today?”

“Um, let me check.”  He flipped through the envelopes and ads he’d thrown on the table.  Found one with a Boston postmark.  “Yeah, what is it?”

“Just a little gift for you and Grace, to celebrate.”

“Can I open it?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Tom opened the envelope, and his jaw dropped.  “How?  How did you get these?”

“Ah, you meet all sorts of people, son.  Like FSU alumni with extra tickets to the Orange Bowl.”

“Grace is going to lose her mind.  This is great Dad, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  Good luck tonight, son.”

“Thanks Dad.  Give Ma a kiss for me.”  He hung up and grinned. Awesome.  Birthday present, handled.  He hoped she’d like his proposal as much as she was gonna love these tickets.

*****

Things however, went downhill fast. There was a lot of rain.  Torrential was putting it mildly.  No end in sight.  So, patio dining and the expensive lighting plan were out the window.  They would have to eat inside.  And inside was a dark restaurant, lit by candles, without a dance floor and with a canned soundtrack of low- level Italian elevator music.  Scratch dancing and the romantic violin.  Then Tony called with more bad news.  The torrential rain had knocked the power out, and the kitchen roof had sprung a substantial leak.  So, no twenty-one course meal.  And then he got a call…from  the hospital.

Tom grabbed his keys, ran through the downpour to his car, and raced through rain-soaked streets to the hospital.

***

A small port town somewhere near St. Thomas, in the Virgin Islands

"Cassandra?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Do you mind if I don't come shopping with you this afternoon?  I'm feeling a bit worn out."

Cassy squinted in the hot tropical sun as she looked up from the magazine she was reading.  She regarded her mother worriedly.

"Oh, please, I'm fine.  Don't look at me like that," Evelyn St. John complained.  "I just find the crowds in the native marketplace tiresome."

Cassy smiled tightly.  "Of course, Mother.  Would you rather I stayed here on the boat with you?  We could play bridge again."

"No, dear.  I'm going to take a nap.  You go shopping.  Try to find something that fits.  All your clothes look as if they're two sizes too small.  Maybe one of the native sarongs would be flattering."  Evelyn went back to working on her crossword puzzle and Cassie kept her face impassive, though she was digging her nails into her palms.

"I'll see you at dinner, then?" she asked, and her mother nodded, not bothering to look up.  Cassy got up, dutifully kissed the air near her mother's cheek, and headed for shore--and freedom.

Well, she'd wanted to be punished.  But this was far worse than anything she'd expected. Nearly insane with grief and guilt after leaving Tom behind, she'd quit her job, put her condo on the market, packed her bags and took off without a word to anyone.  Two weeks of driving along the gulf coast hadn't helped her come to any conclusions.  Then she made her mistake.  She went to her mother for help.  

Evelyn wasn't surprised to see her--in fact, mainly she seemed bothered that she hadn't heard the news about her daughter from Cassy herself and had to learn it from Harry.   In an uncharacteristically generous gesture, Evelyn had suggested that they get away together and offered to take her on a cruise.  Cassy had wanted solitude, and escape from her problems, and when her mother suggested taking a trip on her late father's yacht, it seemed like the answer to a prayer. But it was a nightmare. They'd done the islands; they'd done the coast of Mexico.  They'd done it all--and Cassy learned that three months cruising the Caribbean with Evelyn St. John felt like three years in solitary confinement, with only an indifferent jailer for companionship. 

Her mother didn't talk--she sniped.  Nothing was good enough for her--not the food, ("I don't care if it is the national dish, I don't like papaya, and I told him NOT to cook with it.") not the perfect weather, ("Too sunny, I'm going to wrinkle terribly.  My crow's feet will be almost as noticeable as yours.") not the shopping, ("Native markets?  Oh dear, not again.  You know I can't stand the smell of those places, all those people.  It's unhygienic.") and especially not her daughter--the clothes remark being relatively kind compared to her usual digs.  Evelyn must be feeling tired.

Cassy walked past the marketplace, and headed into the port town.  She wasn't even sure exactly where she was anymore--all the islands looked the same.  Each town, each port was full of strangers.  She was bored to tears with shopping and bridge and tropical sunsets and breathtaking scenery and the vast ocean.  She would have killed for a dead body, and many nights, Evelyn didn't know how close she came to fulfilling Cassy's wish.  She missed her job, her home, she missed her friends, Harry and Frannie, and, most especially, she missed Tom.  But it was because of him that she couldn't go back.  Each time she felt alone or miserable, she thought of Tom and how awful things must be for him--all because of her.  She wondered how he was doing, and longed to hear his voice reassuring her, but knew she no longer had the right--she'd surrendered that when she walked out on him.  It was a selfish act, and she was thoroughly ashamed, but now, she understood where the despised trait had come from--she'd inherited it from her mother.

Since the first moment Cassy had gone to Evelyn, seeking help and comfort, she'd suspected it, but these past few weeks had confirmed it.  Evelyn was unrelentingly selfish and self-centered.  The trip, which she'd proposed, had been more for Evelyn's benefit than Cassy's, and Cassy had honestly forgotten what a ruthless bitch her mother could be.  She wondered how her father had stood the complaints and "constructive" suggestions for as long as he had.  The time with her mother proved one thing to Cassy--her father would have left, regardless.  His leaving had very little to do with Cassy, and more to do with Evelyn than her mother would ever admit.  And his premature death turned out not to be so premature after all.  Evelyn had let that secret slip a few weeks ago when she wanted to chide Cassy for what she considered "excessive" drinking.  Two glasses of wine with dinner.

"You need to watch yourself, Cassandra.  The St. John's were all alcoholics, and not one of them lived past the age of fifty.  All of them died of cirrhosis, just like your father."

When pressed, Evelyn admitted (after a few more glasses of wine) that her husband had been diagnosed with the disease nearly two years before he left home, and that most of their arguments were about his drinking.  Apparently, the doctors had ordered him not to drink at all if he wanted to live.  But, her father drank, and her mother cried, and neither action had anything to do with her.  She was merely an innocent bystander.  Her father didn't die of a broken heart--he died by his own hand, succumbing to his own weakness and selfishness.

She remembered the tension in the house--and saw clearly for the first time that the only happy moments in the St. John household were when her father was home--and not drinking.  Those times had been few and far between. Why hadn't she seen it?  Why had she taken on that undeserved load of guilt?  Was it because she was only a child and didn't know anything different?  Or was she making excuses, trying to protect herself from the truth about her family life?  And the truth was--it was horrible.  No wonder she was such a mess, personally.  She'd been doomed to failure from the start by her very parentage.  

Cassy sat down on a weathered bench and watched the people walk by.  Mothers with small children following along like baby ducks, senior citizens dressed alike, tourist couples, sunburned and holding hands.  She thought of her grandparents, and wondered how such a nice couple could have produced someone like her mother.  She realized that the time she spent in Del Rio with them was probably the happiest of her life, and that her mother had done her a favor by sending her away.  Perhaps, for once in her selfish life, she'd been trying to protect her eldest daughter-- from becoming just like her.

It hadn't worked.  Nature had once again proven to be stronger than nurture.  Now, here she was, following in Evelyn's footsteps, regardless.  Selfish, hypercritical, controlling--Tom had complained about those behaviors when things went bad between them, but she'd blown him off, and deflected the insults back at him--immature, sloppy, infantile.  What garbage had she been feeding herself?  He was no worse than any man--and in lots of ways, he was far superior.  At least he cooked, he was romantic, and he loved her--or he did before she drove him away--just like her mother drove her father away.

A woman in a sarong walked by.  Cassy remembered her mother's hurtful words--and suddenly couldn't bear to face her again--it was like glimpsing into her future.  She couldn't be like Evelyn St. John--living out her life alone and bitter, and eating her young--if she ever had any, and that was doubtful.  She had to change--had to.  She couldn't live like this for one moment longer.  

Cassy made her way into town, to a travel agency, and booked a flight home to Palm Beach.  She called her realtor, and told her to take the condo off the market, and then, she called Harry.  He was overjoyed to hear from her, and told her he'd be glad to pick her up at the airport tomorrow night.  He asked what she'd been doing, and she filled him in on her vacation from hell.  Harry was properly sympathetic--he had never been one of Evelyn's fans.  In fact, he despised her almost as much as Tom had.

And then, nearly choking on the words, she asked about her former husband and partner...and was shocked to hear Harry's report.  It was the last thing she'd thought she'd hear.

Cassy gave Harry her flight number, and hung up.  Only one thing left to do--she'd walked out on Tom, her home, her friends and her job--everything that was dear to her--without a second thought.  How hard could it be to walk out on her mother?

                                                                *****

Tom got to the hospital in record time, raced into the ER, straight to the desk, and was asking for Grace Sharpe when he heard someone say his name.  He turned, and saw her sitting in a bed in one of the curtained bays, just inside the door.  She was holding an ice pack to her face with her arm in a sling.  It was the most wonderful sight he’d ever seen.

“Tom?” 

In an instant he was across the room and by her side. “Grace, what happened, are you okay?”  

“I think so.  Randy’s hurt worse.  We got hit by --” then Tom had her face in his hands and was kissing her.  Over and over, then she moaned, and the kissing suddenly stopped. 

 “I’m not hurting you, am I?  God, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t think.  I’m just so happy to see you.  I was panicking, they said you were here and wouldn’t tell me anything…”

“It’s no fun being on the other side of the whole hospital experience is it?” she said, reaching up to touch his face.

“It sucks.”

“It sucks from this side too,” she said.

“Hospitals just generally suck,” Tom agreed.  “When are they going to release you?  Is your head okay?  Your arm?”

“Slight concussion, they said.  Still waiting on ex-rays to see if my arm is broken, or just badly bruised.”  She shook her head.  “Happy Birthday to me, huh?” 

“Yeah…” Tom said.

“Oh god, the dinner at Angelini’s!  Oh no, Tom, is it too late?”

“Well, it turns out that the rain swamped the outdoor patio, and the electricity went out, so, the dinner’s off anyway.  I’m sorry.  I wanted your birthday to be memorable.”

“You gotta admit, this is pretty memorable,” Grace said.  “Do you think you could find out how Randy is?  I’m worried about him.”

Tom got up.  “On it.  I’ll be right back.  Don’t go anywhere.”

“Not planning to.”

“Good.” He kissed her again, and went to do some recon.

Tom returned with the good news that Randy was in stable condition with a broken leg and whiplash, and was expected to make a full recovery.  More good news, Grace’s doctor had already been in to see her, and signed her release papers. 

“So, everything is okay?” Tom asked.  “Any instructions?”

“Well, I think so, but…I’m not sure because he gave me this.”  She handed Tom a paper, with written instructions.

“And…expected you to read it.  Right.  Okay, give it here.  Idiots.”  He started to read it to her, paraphrasing the medical jargon for English.

 “Your arm wasn’t broken, but your shoulder was badly bruised, and you might have a small tear in your rotator cuff. You should wear the sling until you get sick of it.  And you should ice your shoulder every two hours.  And take ibuprofen as needed, and have someone with you for twenty- four hours to make sure you don’t slip into a coma.”  He looked up from the paper. “A coma?  Are they kidding?” Tom asked.

“My eyes don’t react to light normally, so they want someone with me to keep an eye on me in case I get goofy.”

“Get goofy?” 

“Shut up.”

“This all sounds super fun.  Okay, your house or mine?”

“I’ve got a spare cane at your place, right?”

“Oh, one or two,” he said, thinking of the drawer full he had stocked up on.

“Your place then, you’re more likely to have food in your fridge,” she said.  “Can you find my clothes and help me get dressed?”

“The world is upside down right now…usually I’m taking your clothes off.  We’ll set things straight when I get you home.”

“Ha.  Right.  Not sure I’m going to be up for extracurricular activities.”

“Well, it’s a good way to make sure you’re not in a coma.”

“Is it really, though?”

Tom laughed, pulled the curtain around, and helped Grace get dressed.  

                                                                                 *****

Tom watched Grace doze, her head against the window.   He knew how exhausting this stuff was—the adrenaline crash from the wreck, the hard work of battling pain, the fear, and the disorientation.  He was just so goddamned grateful that she was alright that he wasn’t even upset about all his birthday/engagement plans getting tossed in the dumpster.  He was going to take her home, put her to bed, make her soup, ice her shoulder, break out some of his stronger painkillers (Ibuprofen?  Were they kidding?) and hold her in his arms until she fell asleep…and then apparently wake her up every two hours.  He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do. 

Well, he could, but she’d already put the kibosh on that, so…

When they got to his house, he was going to wake her, but decided not to.  He went up to his door, and opened it, then went back to the car and carefully opened the door.  Grace murmured nonsense that he hoped wasn’t “goofy”, then he bent down and slid his arm around her shoulders gently, slid his other arm under her knees and lifted her.  She woke.

“What are you doing?” she muttered, letting her head fall on his shoulder.

“Carrying you across the threshold.”

“Did we get married and I missed it?”

“We sure did. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Mmkay,” she muttered sleepily.  Tom carried her into his house, pushing the door shut behind him.  He carried Grace into his bedroom, settling her gently on the bed.  She patted the empty space beside her and he walked around and got in next to her, pulling her close.  She snuggled up to him, and lay her head on his chest, his arm circled protectively around her. “Tell me…first, how did we get engaged?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t remember.  It was your birthday, and I arranged a special dinner for us at Angelini’s. Twenty-one courses, each one more delicious than the last.”

“Twenty-one?  Surely we didn’t sit there and eat twenty-one courses without a break?”

“Of course not.  We had all night and the whole outdoor patio all to ourselves.  I booked a violin trio that played romantic music, and we danced and talked and laughed for hours.  There were special lights, high intensity so you could see your plate, your food, your wine…and me.”

“That sounds wonderful.  What was my favorite course?”

“Dessert of course.”

“Of course.  Tiramisu?”

“And affogato…with a special ingredient.”

“Oh?

Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, put it on her finger. “It got sticky, and cold. But I fished it out, wiped it off. I got down on one knee, and said, ‘Grace, I love you more than life itself, and I can’t live another day on this earth unless you agree to marry me.’”

“And what did I say?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I said yes, and it’s about time.”

“That’s exactly what you said.  Uncanny.”

“And then we got married,” she said with a dreamy smile on her face.

“You remember that, huh?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

“Like it was yesterday.  We got married at the Orange Bowl, after FSU won in a shutout.”

Tom chuckled. “I’m afraid you might be getting goofy.”

“All right.  We got married in Boston, at your old parish church.  All of your family and mine were there.  It was a beautiful ceremony, flowers everywhere, and you sang the Ave Maria. They played all my favorite hymns…yours too.  Also, my dress was stunning.  Everyone cried.”

“You were a vision.  There’s never been a more beautiful bride.”

“That is true.  Say, did we have a honeymoon?”

“Why Grace, that’s what we’re doing right now,” he said and they kissed until they were dizzy, breathless and wrapped in love.  

Grace sighed, nuzzling Tom’s neck. “No wonder I’m so happy.”

“Me too.”  He kissed her again.   “Are you feeling okay?  How’s your head?  Your shoulder?”

Grace lifted her head.  “All good…but, maybe you should check to see if I’m in a coma?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

                                                                *****

                                                             Epilogue

“Papa, Papa, this way, c’mon,” little Maeve said, pulling on her grandpa’s hand, 

“I’m coming Maeve,” he said.  “Be patient with your old Papa.”

“You’re not old, Papa” Liam chimed in, grabbing Tom’s empty sleeve and pulling him along.

Tom chuckled.  “Tell that to my knees.”  The children walked him to the back of his daughter’s large backyard, where a brand new treehouse was waiting for his approval.

“Oh my gosh, kids, that is one crackerjack treehouse.  And you both helped your dad build it?”

“Uh huh!” Maeve jumped up and down with excitement.  “Come on up…come on Papa, come and see!”

Tom looked up into the tall tree.  “I don’t know, kids.  I don’t have my hand…it’s still charging.”

“You can do it, Papa.  Even Maeve can do it,” Liam cajoled.

“Oh, well if Maeve can do it…”  Tom put his foot on the bottom rung, stepped up, then put his other foot on the next rung, and was in the process of pulling himself up when he heard a voice from the past calling out to him–

“What in the name of all that is holy do you think you’re doing?  Get down from there right now!”  Theodora came running out of the house, wiping her hands on a dish towel, flour splattered on her navy tee shirt.

“You’re not my mother, Theodora, even though you sound just like her.” Tom said, grudgingly complying with his daughter’s commands.

“If you act like a six year old with no sense, I’ll treat you like a six year old.  You could have broken your hip…or your neck.”

“I played a round of golf with no cart yesterday…nineteen holes.  I think I can climb a little ladder.”

“With one hand?  Where’s your hand?”

“Charging,” he said a bit sheepishly.  Ever since Grace had passed last year, he’d had a hard time remembering to put his myo hand on the charger at night.  She’d always reminded him. A lot of things had slipped away from him in the past year.  Things like joy, and laughter and love. That’s why he was here…he needed some grandkid joy.  And he was getting that in spades.  

Theodora, though, was using her mother’s gentle persuasion tactics, dangling adorable kids, good food, and companionship in his path…to get him to bend to her will. He knew she wanted him to move in with her, she worried about him living alone in his big empty house, but he was resisting her.  He could still feel Grace’s echo there, and he wasn’t ready to walk away from the home they’d built together, the home where they’d raised their family.  Besides, he was only 70.  That wasn’t old.

“I’ve got to get back to my bread,” she said and pointed at Tom and the kids, “You be good.  ALL of you.  Supper in an hour…no snacking!” 

The kids looked sad.  “Sorry we got you in trouble, Papa,”

“Eh, in for a penny, in for a pound,” he said, pulling two packages of M&M’s out of his shirt pocket and handing them to the kids, putting a finger to his lips, then pointing up to the tree.

The kids giggled, and scurried up into the treehouse.  He stood, surveying the large backyard and the little garden plot that Grace and Teddy had started three years ago before she got sick.  The flowers were beautiful, and the vegetables were State Fair ribbon worthy.  Grace didn’t have any gardening experience before his own mother came to live with them,when his father died.  Theodora was five…just a little older than Liam was now.  And it was good for both his child and his wife to have a grandparent in the house.  Maeve spoiled Theodora rotten.  Claimed it was her prerogative.  But she was also a friend and a confidante for Teddy, and for Grace.  He missed his mother, and his wife terribly.  He bent over to pull a weed from the flower bed, and stood to find his daughter standing behind him, a wistful look in her eyes.

“I miss her so much,” Theodora said, putting an arm around her father’s waist.  “I miss Grammy too.”

Tom put his arm around his daughter.  “I’ve been so fortunate to have such good women in my life.  You, for one.”

“I remember how wonderful it was to have Grammy living with us…I know it’s being selfish, but I want my kids to have the same kind of friend I had growing up.  And that’s you.”

“Teddy…” Tom said, “you know I’d do anything for you, but…”

“No, don’t give me that “But….”  Think about it.  We have room, and if it’s too crowded, you could always sleep in the treehouse.”  She poked him playfully.

“Now you’re trying to bribe me.”  He sighed, kissed her on the head.  “I will think about it.  I promise.”

                                                            ******

Father Donnelly was just finishing up the last rites when Tom’s bedside phone rang.  He let it go to voicemail, and waited to see the Father out.  He’d been getting last rites weekly for the past three months.  It was pretty much a habit by now.  

“See you next week, Tom,” Father Donnelly said.

“Not if I see you first,” Tom replied, then shut the door to his room and sat down on the bed.  He was tired.  And he wanted to go home.  Not home to his old house in Florida, but home to Grace.  He’d been here with Teddy and the kids for almost ten years now, and it was a good decision for him, and them.  He hated that he was going to die in their house, though…but Teddy wouldn’t hear of him going to hospice.  She was keeping his pain in check and caring for him.  No, he just knew that this room would always be where Papa died.

Lately, he’d been thinking back on his life, remembering the good and the bad.  His time as a ball player and the injury that took that away, but led to other opportunities.  Remembering his parents, his old job at the PBPD,  his ex, Cassy, Harry and his boss, Craig Alexander…most of all, he thought of the silver lining that losing his hand had brought him.  It had brought him Grace.  If Cassy hadn’t quit on him,  bailed when he lost his hand, he was pretty sure that somehow, he would have messed up his budding romance with Grace.  

His phone buzzed, and he picked it up, saw a Palm Beach number he didn’t recognize.  He hoped it wasn’t bad news about Frannie…she’d been under the weather a bit lately, despite still going strong at 94.

He pressed the voicemail button, and listened to the message.

“Thomas, I hope you don’t mind that I called, but I wanted to talk to you.  Frannie told me what’s been going on with you, and I wanted to tell you once again, how sorry I–”

Cassy.  Tom hung up, cutting off her words.  He was tempted to ignore her entreaties, but he felt that this close to eternity, it wasn’t wise to be unnecessarily cruel.  So he wrote her a letter.  He told her how much he’d loved and admired her, and he told her that while she might feel guilty about his life-changing injury, she should know that he considered the loss of his hand to be one of the turning points of his life…it made him see finally who he could trust and count on, and it wasn’t her.  It was Grace.  Grace was the silver lining in all that trauma and pain.  And he would not change a thing.   He thanked her for her concern, thanked her for saving his life, and he wished her nothing but happiness.

He signed it, Love, Tom, then sealed it up, addressed it to Frannie, and put a note inside asking her to pass it on to Cass.

His business for the day concluded, he lay down on his bed for a nap.  He heard someone calling his name, and he woke.  He got up and walked to the door, but when he opened it, he didn’t see the family room…he saw a long hallway, and at the end a light.  He went inside, and his pain subsided.   He could walk without pain, he could breathe…he looked up, and Teddy was standing there, waiting.

“It’s about time, little brother,” she said.  “Da is making a feast to welcome you, Ma is making your favorite pie, and Grace…”  she turned her face to the light.  “Grace is waiting to take you into her arms and look at your face.”

Tom looked at Teddy.  “She…she can see?” 

“She can.  Are you ready to make a choice?  Stay longer, or come home?”

Tom looked back down the hall, and could see his daughter coming into his bedroom with his lunch.  

“I love you, baby girl, but I have to go. Your mom is waiting for me.”  He smiled at Teddy.  “Let’s go home.”

He saw Grace, standing in the light at the end of the tunnel, shining like silver, and he ran to her, stopping just outside the light.

“Hello, Tom,” she said.  “Long time no see.”

Tom laughed, entered the light  and took her into his arms–two arms– and swung her around and around until they both were dizzy .  He looked at his hands, and then at Grace, and watched with joy as her eyes tracked with him.

“Hello, sweetheart.  I’ve missed you.” he said, taking her face in his hands.

“Show me how much,” she said. 

He kissed her…and kept kissing her, for eternity.