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SYNTHESIS Interlude - "Re Birth"
Alexandra Eames relaxed in the roomy business-class airline seat, her hand still absently caressing the tumbled hair of her new daughter. Olivia was sound asleep laid across her and Bobby's laps, and, judging by her husband's deep, even breaths, he was asleep as well. She felt drowsy after their eventful week, but not quite sleepy enough. She gazed at Olivia with a mixture of trepidation and happiness that she hadn't quite experienced before. Daughter. Nicole Wallace's daughter to boot, but an entity quite unlike her sharp, sarcastic, and cynical mother. Robert Goren referred to Olivia, whom they had initially known by her first name, Mignon, as "Nicole unspoiled by trauma," and she thought once more of the sunny, slightly conceited girl they had first met in Washington, DC, in 2022, and the bright butterfly of a child who had visited their home two months later. Now her mother, their longtime nemesis, and her father, a French diplomat, were both dead. If she looked back far enough, Alex could recall the face of another child... . . . . . Take a white-hot plier, Alex explained later, and, if you could manage to thrust it into your vitals without breaking or burning the skin, and then used the scorching piece of steel to grip and twist your innards, you might get a tiny idea of what labor pains felt like. Twenty years ago her older sister Elizabeth and husband Stephen had nearly given up trying to have a child. Lizzie simply couldn't carry beyond the third month, and everything else had failed, so Alex had volunteered to be a surrogate mother. She'd worked as long as possible, was eventually confined to desk duty, but had finally taken her medical leave from Major Case, leaving Bobby Goren partnered with a still confounded G. Lynn Bishop, and, for the ultimate two weeks of her pregnancy, she lived in her sister and brother-in-law's guest bedroom. Lizzie and Steve had prepared it to pamper her, and she both luxuriated and chafed with nothing to do. Once a day Bishop shot her a text, still feeling her way around Goren's obscure ways, and once each evening Goren would call her, asking after her health, then filling her in on the day's cases with excruciating—but welcome—detail. At night when she couldn't sleep because of needing to pee what seemed like every half hour, she soothed her nerves with Rose Hogan's old "Stillmeadow" books at the bottom of the night table. That night she'd been dreaming of country fields and cocker spaniels in 1940s Connecticut when a god-awful spasm rippled through her belly and woke her. She'd had Braxton-Hicks contractions a little over a week ago, and those had been bad enough—but this! About the same time, she realized the bed was wet. Luckily her sister had prepared well for such contingencies—the sheets were older ones and she'd bought a waterproof covering for the mattress. Alex groaned as the contraction passed, then knocked hard on the wall over the bed. It took three tries to get someone to wake—she hoped they were more alert after the baby came—but finally Lizzie came plodding in just as Alex was struggling to sit up. "Allie? Everything okay?" "I'm listing to port," Alex huffed as she made it upright to switch on the light so that Lizzie could see the drenched bed. "Contractions?" Lizzie asked, her breath quickening. "Just one," Alex said, "but as Dad would say, it was a doozy." "You sit," Lizzie said. "I'll wake Steve and then get your suitcase." "Sit?" Alex joked. "Heck, I'm going waterskiing." Lizzie bit her lip, eyes already tearing up. "Allie...thank you again for this...so much." Alex felt her eyes welling, too—damn hormones!—and she said roughly to cover up, "No crying! You're going to drown the poor kid before he learns to swim." Lizzie gave a watery laugh and disappeared; Alex automatically reached for her cell phone and sent "It's started" as a text. Did the man never sleep? Goren replied almost immediately. "Labor?" "Yes Capt Obvious." He was silent for so long that Steve had time to tell her the doctor had been called and that Liz was getting dressed. "Alex," said the next text, "you're OK? Closing gamer case today, but can let Bishop handle." 'Alex'? Letting Bishop close the case without him? He was worried. She swallowed a little, but joked to herself, "Who are you and what have you done with Robert Goren?" She tapped back, "I'm fine. Get your perp. Want details when done." He was brief. "OK." She admonished as she had for weeks, "Be nice to Bishop!" Lizzie bustled in to help her clean up and get dressed. Her phone went into her purse. The next contraction hit about twelve minutes after the first. Alex gasped a little, winced, and crouched, and Lizzie began to hustle. It wasn't long before they were in a taxi and not much longer for the ride, and certainly not all that much longer that she was at the hospital, admitted to obstetrics, and nurses were checking her heartbeat and the fetal heartbeat. Finally there came the annoying part when she had to convert to a hospital gown and then scootch up in the stirrups. What seemed like days later one of the nurses, the older one with the kindly eyes, asked, "Ms. Eames, have you ever had a child before?" Alex, already exhausted by six hours of labor with contractions getting closer together each half hour, breathed, "No, why?" "Your labor is progressing very quickly for a first child. I've had first-time mothers in labor for 24 hours or more." "Lucky me," she groaned. A first child. Muzzily, she thought about Joe. Didn't 'first child' imply there would be others? And who was going to settle down with Alex Eames, always on the job and busy as Robert Goren's defender and ally? True, she'd had a fun few months with Terry—the benefit for first responders they'd attended had been a bit hokey but enjoyable and for such a good cause—but he was back on the road with his band and she hadn't heard from him in five weeks. She saw Ken Jackson, one of her brother Jack's fellow firefighters, occasionally, and Gary Ormond was always good for a few laughs if she didn't mind his mercurial temperament. Heck, it kept her in practice for Goren, didn't it? When the nurses weren't taking stats, she was allowed to walk, Lizzie at her side most of the time, sometimes Steve. She found herself talking nonsense about cases and chuckling between gasps of pain about the stream of questions that kept coming from poor Bishop: Who the heck is James Croyden? Or Wally Stevens? And is her name Nicole or Elizabeth, Hitchens or Wallace? Maybe that's when the family ribbing her about marrying Goren really got started, because it seemed like all she talked of that morning and into the afternoon was her quirky partner. Then finally it was time to push. She did it as she did anything else, with her full effort. Lizzie reminded her to breathe. It became all about the pushing—the breathing—the nurse enthusing "You're doing so well, Alex!"—pushing—breathing—"Breathe, Allie"—"You're doing fine, Allie"—push—breathe—"I can see his head!"—push—breathe—"One more good push, Alex!"—PUSH!- Her baby...no, Lizzie and Steve's baby...wailed. Lizzie was weeping audibly. Alex always said that at family disasters she didn't need to cry; Liz did it enough for both of them. "He's out!" said Steve, and even with Alex's eyes blurred with effort, perspiration, and emotion she could see tears creeping down his cheeks. The kindly-eyed nurse was holding the baby in her arms. "Alex," she said softly, "I know you had this baby for your sister, but would you like to hold him first?" Inwardly Alex cried out "yes!" but she whispered, "I don't know." Lizzie said through her tears, "You first, Allie. You'll see him as often as you like, too. And when he's old enough to understand where babies come from, he'll know the wonderful thing you did." Another nurse, the tall younger one, gave Alex a drink of water. So good. So good. She ached to hold the baby. "Please?" she asked. He stayed nestled in her arms for a few minutes, eyes open wide but not yet tracking, a little tuft of dark hair at the top of his head, tiny body cuddled so perfectly in the warm cradle of her embrace. Square face, just like Steve. Blue eyes like a kitten. So soft, so small, so warm, the wee fingers...so beautiful. She had known him so well for the last few months, his turns, and kicks, and hiccups...she bit her lip, smiling, thinking of the day only three weeks ago when they were both doing paperwork and she caught Goren staring at her because he could see the baby's hiccups...the expression on his face...curiosity...and always with Bobby, wonder... For a few seconds a madness overtook her; she considered fleeing with him. Goren could play uncle...he loved kids...Robbie Bishop, was he happy with his uncle and aunt? And Maggie Colter, would she ever truly get over her trauma? Then she steadied herself and smiled. "Sweet little nephew," she whispered, kissing his forehead, back to being sensible Alex. "Let's get him cleaned up and weighed now," said the tall nurse, noticing the expression on her face, and he was gone. Even after the water, her voice was raspy. "Liz–" "Yes, Allie," and Lizzie was caressing her forehead now, as she'd done when Alex was her baby sister. "Did you...decide on his name?" Lizzie looked at Steve, then smiled. "Edward Stephen." Alex's eyes blurred. Damn these hormones! "Oh, Liz...you don't...have to." And she recalled a late-night I-can't-sleep-the-baby-is-kicking call she'd exchanged with Lizzie over a month ago, after an earlier evening spent discussing boys' names. She'd wistfully mentioned how she and her late husband had talked about baby names once, and how he didn't want a Joe Junior, but would prefer to name a son after his dad. Edward. She'd mentioned to Lizzie that she'd liked the name, too. "We both think Edward's a fine name," said Steve patiently. "And I didn't want him called 'Stevie.'" Lizzie chuckled softly, brushing her sister's hair back as she had done when they were younger and Alex needed cosseting. "So long as he doesn't act like Eddie Haskell." Alex made a face at her. "But Eddie was the most interesting character on the show." "Only you, Allie," Lizzie said, laughing and crying at the same time. Things had to be finished; there was the delivery of the placenta and her being checked out six ways until Sunday, then a nurse gave her a welcome sponge bath and she was wheeled into a hospital room for some blessed peace. "We'll bring you something to eat soon, Ms. Eames," the nurse said kindly, "and here's some water for now. Is there anything else you need?" "I'd like my purse, please," Alex said, and the nurse fished in the nightstand to retrieve it for her. "Thank you," Alex said, and slipped her phone out. "Baby here, all fine. 7lb, 8oz," she texted, then lay her head back. Someone brought her food: a cup of fruit, a ham sandwich, some chocolate pudding, hot tea. She'd barely finished sugaring her tea—thank goodness she could go back to sugaring her tea properly without worrying about gestational diabetes!—when the cell rang. Just as she figured. "Hi, Bobby." "You're okay?" She almost could see him fidgeting in his seat. "I said I was. Sure, it was strenuous, but no problem." It seemed terrible during labor, but now that she'd seen Eddie things had changed. "Seven pounds, eight ounces, huh?" "Yep," and she nodded automatically even though he couldn't see her. "Twenty inches long, all fingers and toes intact. He's beautiful, a little bit of hair sticking up from the middle of his head, and he looks so much like Steve!" "I r-read somewhere that there's a theory...um...most babies look like their fathers at birth," and she recognized his "I researched this at the library" voice, "and for about a year afterward. They say it's apparently an...evo- evolutionary survival process left over from prehistoric times. A man would b-be more likely to protect a child he...um...was sure was his own. Other theories say it's totally psychological, just emotional perception." "Very interesting, Bobby," she said, suppressing a chuckle. "Did you get the gamer case closed?" "Yes," he answered. "Just before your text came in. B-Bishop was nice enough to file the report so I could call you." "Look," she returned, because he sounded more rattled than she felt, "they're finally letting me have a meal and I'm starving. Why don't you go back and help her and I'll call you after I've had some food and a nap? I still want to hear about the case." "Sure, Eames," he said in relief. Then a beat. "But you're...all right?" Then another small pause. "And...you'll be back soon?" "Yes to both," she said with a fond smile. "Talk to you later." . . . . . Now her eyes were growing heavy, as they had after Eddie's birth—she'd fallen asleep while eating the grapes in the fruit bowl and her tea was stone cold when she awoke. She'd always been in Eddie's life: she was there when he took his first steps, and went to nursery school, there at his first piano recital and his high-school commencement. Eddie called her "his other mom." She kept his delivery room photo on the dresser so she could always remember that first, special look at his face. The day she returned to Major Case, a round of applause and cheers made it around the squad room and Captain Deakins excused himself from a meeting to welcome her back, but it was only the one face that had lifted from his magpie's nest of a desk, the face with eyes and smile that had lit up the room, that was burned into her memory. Next to her Bobby was still breathing steadily, Olivia was relaxed with her head burrowed next to Alex's left arm. I still don't forgive you, Nicole. Not for your victims, not for Frank Goren, not for your abuse of Bobby. But you did right by Olivia, and I will, too, I promise. With her hand curving around Olivia's body protectively, Alex laid her head back and fell asleep.
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