WHAT IF … Ó
by
An idea came to me the other day. What if the premise for "The Last Kiss Goodnight" was scripted differently. This is that story. With a new twist to it. (Warning: Handkerchief or Kleenex may be required)
Captain Harry Lipschitz is slowly rubbing his temples in a circular motion with the tips of his fingers. The headache is getting worse, and that churning in his stomach hasn’t let up either. He is sure they are brought on entirely from anxiety over his detective. No doubt about it.
He is now staring out his office at the detective in question. No more bright smiles, and no more sparkle in those eyes. How can three short months change someone so much? There was everything to live for, and now it seems, nothing. Fate can be so cruel sometimes. How can things have gone so wrong …
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Chris had just come out of the Businessman’s Bank of Palm Beach with the bag containing the surveillance tapes that Ray Quiller had kept in a safe deposit box. His cell phone began ringing. He answered it.
"I have something you want; you have something I want. You’ll be contacted."
A chill ran down Chris’s spine. He had a real bad feeling about this. He got into his car and sped off in the direction of his home. He was hoping against hope that his feeling was wrong. Rita would be home safe and sound, and preparing the fancy dinner she promised him. But when he reached the parking spot behind their home, his heart sank. His worst fear had just been confirmed. He saw the LeBaron and its open trunk, and the spilled grocery on the ground. Cold fear struck him that very instant – Jesus Montoya had his Rita.
Just then his cell phone rang again.
****************************
Chris had been sitting in the car the last couple of minutes, waiting for Montoya to show up for the exchange. He had taken precautions – he was wearing a bulletproof vest. He saw a few people in the distance playing hockey on rollerblades. A black stretch limousine approached, and came to a stop near Chris’s car.
Montoya’s goons got out of the limousine first, surveying the area. Chris got out of his car slowly with a grim but determined look on his face. He saw Montoya getting out of the limousine, pulling Rita with him.
Chris reached into his car and took out the bag. They approached each other for the exchange.
They were now just a few feet apart.
"You okay?" Chris asked Rita.
"Yeah," she whispered.
"I’ve known for some time Ray had a little insurance policy. I’ve even known where he had kept it. But I could never get to it without a warrant," Montoya was explaining, snickering at his own ingenuity. "I apologize for these tactics. I hate using women, especially beautiful and charming one as this."
He tried to caress the side of Rita’s face, but she flinched away.
"Touch her again, I’ll drop you where you stand," Chris threatened grimly.
"Ah. I suppose the message for the day is ‘Chivalry is not dead.’ Yet," Montoya said smoothly. "The bag?"
Chris opened the bag to show him the contents. "My wife?"
Montoya released his grip on Rita, and Chris tossed him the bag. Rita ran to Chris to stand behind him.
When Montoya was satisfied with the contents in the bag, he left with his goons. In the distance, the hockey players had also stopped playing and were packing to leave.
Chris turned to Rita to cut the tape loose from her wrists.
"Sam!" Chris hugged his wife tightly. "I’m so glad you’re all right."
"I thought that was gonna be it," Rita said.
"I’ll never leave you again," Chris whispered to her before giving her a lingering kiss on the lips.
They began walking towards the car, arms around each other. Neither noticed a masked hockey player dropping his hockey stick and skating in their direction.
Chris was opening the front passenger door for Rita as they smiled lovingly at each other. Rita was about to get into the car when Chris heard a clicking sound behind him. He turned around and saw the masked rollerblader skating towards them, aiming a submachine gun.
The assailant began firing first. Chris reached for his gun, and at the same time, pushed Rita into the car. He fired back furiously. He ducked behind the car door and continued firing.
The assailant was hit twice and he fell to the ground. With his gun still pointing at the masked man, Chris emerged from behind the door and approached cautiously. He kicked the submachine gun away and knelt down next to the unconscious man. He pulled off the hockey mask. Detective Wayne Burns!
Chris felt for a pulse. There was one, but it was very thready.
He shouted to Rita over his shoulder. "Rita! He’s still alive. Get an ambulance!"
When there was no response from Rita, Chris turned around. He began running to the car.
"Sam?" he called as he reached the open car door. He saw Rita slumped face down on the passenger seat.
"Sam?" he asked again, this time fear rising to his throat.
"Sammy …" Chris was whispering, his heart pounding, as he tenderly lifted Rita and placed her on the ground.
She was unconscious. It was also then that he noticed blood on her suit. He located the wound on her abdomen.
"Oh, God, No, No, No …" Chris cried out in agony, futilely trying to use his bare hands to stop the bleeding. "Sam, please! Please answer me!"
He reached into the car to grab the radio receiver, screaming into it, "Officer down! Beachfront on North Shoreline Drive. Officer down!"
He dropped the receiver and turned back to Rita. He was stroking and kissing her face lovingly, trying to get a response from her. "Sam, please! Talk to me! Oh, God, please, please be all right …"
He could now hear the sounds of sirens approaching. He glanced up, and saw for the first time that a bullet had pierced right through the car door.
***************************
Chris was sitting in the hospital waiting room, his head in his hands. He heard a familiar voice.
"Chris?" Harry Lipschitz asked softly.
Chris looked up at his captain, the pain and agony clearly in his eyes.
"How is she?"
Chris could only shake his head. "I don’t know, Cap."
Harry rested a hand on Chris’s shoulder.
"She’ll be all right, you’ll see," Harry tried to comfort.
They stayed there in the waiting room for the next four hours; Harry pacing the floor and Chris just staring off into space.
A man in surgical scrubs approached quietly. "Mr. Lorenzo?"
Chris jumped up from his seat, looking anxiously at the man.
"I’m Dr. Palmer. Please sit down, we need to talk," he said, taking a seat and waiting for Chris to do likewise.
Chris sat next to him, while Harry remained standing with a reassuring hand on Chris’s shoulder.
Chris swallowed hard, whispering, "My wife?"
The doctor looked Chris squarely in the eyes. "A bullet entered the right side of her abdomen here," he explained calmly, illustrating on his own body where the bullet entered. "It was a black talon – cop-killer – bullet."
Tears clouded Chris’s eyes as he forced himself to listen.
The doctor continued, "I think I don’t need to tell you that the fetus didn’t make it. Your wife was bleeding very badly internally, and there was quite a bit of damage done by the bullet. We’ve managed to stabilize her, but her condition is still critical. She’s now in I.C.U. The next 48 hours will be crucial."
"What are her chances?" Harry inquired.
"Is she a fighter?" the doctor asked.
"She’s a fighter," Harry said confidently.
"Then that’s the best we can hope for."
The doctor got up to leave. Chris had his head in his hands, too numb from the news to react.
He finally looked up and called hoarsely, "Doctor?"
Dr. Palmer stopped and turned around.
Chris explained clearly to the doctor, "It wasn’t a fetus. It was our baby."
*****************************
He was sitting by her bedside, holding her hand. There was silence in the room except for the sounds emanating from the heart monitor and respirator. There were a variety of IV tubes attached to her arms, and a tube running to her nose to help her breathe. He was slowly touching her hair, sweeping it back from her forehead.
"Sammy, I know you can hear me. Open your eyes and come back to me," Chris said quietly, bringing her hand to his lips. "I love you so much."
"Chris," Harry said at the doorway.
"Hey, Cap."
"How’s she doing?" Harry asked, entering the room.
Chris was shaking his head, "The doctor said there hasn’t been any change in her condition."
Harry went round the bed to Chris’s side, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder.
"She’s a fighter. She’ll pull through," Harry paused, before continuing. "Chris, I have some good news. Burns was able to finger Montoya before he died, and we have a possible lead on his location. I’m meeting Rawlins there."
Chris was momentarily torn between staying with Rita and going after Montoya himself. It took him just a second to decide.
"Rita and I are counting on you, Cap, to bring this bastard down," Chris said, taking a glance at Rita as if to seek her approval.
"You can count on me," Harry said determinedly.
"Be careful, Cap."
"Always, kid," Harry nodded as he departed.
***************************
Chris was dreaming of Rita. They were walking on the beach hand in hand, discussing their future and the impending arrival of their baby. She looked so beautiful and radiant just then that she literally took his breath away.
"I love you, Chris," she said, smiling at him brightly.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw that smile. "I love you too, Sam."
He was suddenly awakened from his nap to a loud beeping noise from one of the machines behind him. He got up in shock as a team of doctors and nurses rushed into the room.
"We have a Code Blue! Flatline!" a nurse shouted, trying to pull Chris away.
Chris was shouting at them, clutching Rita’s hand, refusing to let go. "What’s going on? What’s wrong? Rita! Don’t you leave me!"
"Sir! You have to go and let us do our jobs!" the same nurse was saying. Together with an orderly, she managed to pull a distraught Chris to the doorway. All he could do was stand and watch, while tears ran down his face.
A doctor was applying a pair of defibrillators to her chest. He shocked her and then looked up at the heart monitor. Nothing.
He told the nurse, "Crank it up to 300!"
He shocked her again. Still nothing.
"340!" Another shock. Everyone was looking at the heart monitor.
Chris had been holding his breath. He had not prayed in a long time – not since he was a little kid living with Grandma Rose and saying his prayers before bed – but now, he was praying hard. Praying for his Rita’s life.
Just then, a small blip appeared on the heart monitor. Then another, and another …
"We’ve got a pulse," the doctor announced.
Chris saw the blips. He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. "Thank you," he mouthed, glancing upwards.
****************************
Later that day, Harry broke the news to Chris that Montoya was dead – shot by Harry and Holly Rawlins while trying to escape a police dragnet.
But that piece of good news brought little comfort to Chris, nor could it ease the pain he was feeling. The doctors had informed him less than an hour ago that there was no significant change in Rita’s condition even after pulling through that close call, and that in fact, she had slipped further into a coma.
****************************
Later that same week, a quiet burial was arranged for their baby. With only their closest friends in attendance, Chris buried their son.
Except for that day, Chris was rarely away from Rita’s side. He would talk to her about anything and everything – the day they first met, when they became partners, their fascination with Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon, walks on their favorite stretch of beach – in the hopes that these memories would bring her out of her coma. Even friends would visit and spend time talking to her as if she were awake and listening. But, there was nothing. She just looked as if she were blissfully asleep.
As the hours turned into days, and the days turned into weeks, the toll began to tell on Chris. Most days, when Harry came to visit, he would find an unkempt and unshaven Chris by Rita’s bedside, holding her hand and whispering to her. It scared Harry sometimes, seeing his friend like this. He decided he needed to do something, to give Chris a breather and to get his mind off Rita’s condition. He finally managed to persuade Chris to transfer Rita to a private nursing home where she’d get more individual attention and care.
**************************
Chris was tucking the corners of the bedcovers in, making sure Rita was comfortable.
"You comfortable, Sam?" he asked Rita, caressing the side of her face, and trying to sound happy. "I’m sure you’ll like this room. I picked it out myself. See, it faces the ocean, just the way you like it."
He sat on one side of the bed, leaning forward to talk to her. "I know you can hear me, Sammy. Please just open your eyes and come back to me. I need you so much," he whispered fiercely, tears stinging his eyes.
A middle-aged woman bustled into the room. "Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll come back later," she said with an Irish lilt.
Chris wiped the tears from his eyes with the palms of his hands, and looked up. "No, it’s okay."
"Hello, I’m Kate O’Shea and I’ll be taking care of Mrs. Lorenzo," the woman with the gray hair and gray eyes said. She approached Chris to shake his hand. "You must be Mr. Lorenzo."
Then she turned to Rita, "Hello, Mrs. Lorenzo. I’m Kate. So, how are you doing this morning?"
She walked over to the windows and opened them with a flourish, making sure as much sunlight came in as possible. "Fresh air and sunlight, you’ll be well in no time."
She winked at Chris and smiled. "Don’t you worry, sonny, she’s in good hands."
Chris relaxed a little. He could see Rita would be well taken care of.
****************************
It was Harry who suggested Chris returned to work. He hoped it would at least keep Chris’s mind on something else besides worrying about Rita. What he didn’t count on was seeing Chris’s emotional well-being unraveling right before his eyes.
The first indication that there might be trouble ahead was the change in his attitude towards his work and the people around him. Often, he would be moody and quiet. But, what worried Harry the most was the anger he seemed to carry around with him, seething just below the surface, ready to explode.
Then there was his partnership with Holly Rawlins. Holly had been feeling guilty about Rita being shot by Wayne Burns, and had confided in Harry that if she hadn’t pursued Ray Quiller so relentlessly, then maybe none of this would have happened. Harry tried convincing her it wasn’t her fault.
She tried communicating to Chris about her feelings, but it seemed, Chris didn’t much care what she thought or felt. He never said it out loud, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the presence of Holly was becoming intolerable to him – a constant and sad reminder of what had happened to Rita. So, mostly he would just ignore her and pretended she didn’t exist.
Harry tried talking to him. "Come on, Lorenzo! It wasn’t her fault! Give her a break, will ya? It’s already hard enough for her without your I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude. And, for Pete’s sake, get a shave!"
Chris was rubbing the stubble on his chin as he lounged in one of the chairs in front of Harry’s desk. "I dunno, Cap, I kind of like it."
Then he shrugged his shoulders. "As for Rawlins, if she can’t hack it, I suggest she get a transfer."
"What are you saying, Lorenzo?"
"Nothing. Just that I don’t think this partnership is working out," he answered indifferently.
True enough, by the end of the week, Holly did request for a transfer. She just couldn’t take Chris’s silent treatment any longer. Although Harry had misgivings, he authorized Holly’s transfer to Vice to work with Michael Price, and assigned a new partner to Chris.
And, as if that don’t-give-a-damn attitude wasn’t bad enough, he was also beginning to get in trouble on and off the job. According to a report filed by Chris’s new partner, Jim Tetler, that on-the-job trouble started when they heard over their car intercom that a drug buy was going down in a park. Chris had insisted they take that call and help out since they were closest to the park.
When they arrived at the scene, they observed a group of four men talking near their cars and making some sort of exchange. While Tetler was calling for backup, Chris got out of the car and started walking towards the suspects. He raised a hand to show his gold shield, and started shouting at them, "Police! Put your hands up where I can see them!"
The four men were startled. Three pulled out their weapons and started shooting, while one ran for cover. Chris returned fire, killing two and wounding one. While his attention was focused on the wounded man, the fourth suspect crept up behind Chris.
"Drop it!" the man said, pointing a gun to Chris’s head. Chris slowly lowered his gun to the ground.
"Freeze!" shouted Tetler, as he ran from the car, his gun aimed at the suspect.
The suspect grabbed Chris by the throat and used him as a shield against Tetler. He still had the gun on Chris’s head. "No, you drop it!"
"Drop your gun and nobody gets hurt!" Tetler was saying.
There was a momentary standoff as Tetler and the suspect assessed their situation. By then, police backup had also arrived, and there were now other officers pointing their guns at the suspect.
But, it was what happened next that chilled Tetler to the bone.
Chris who had been standing very still, suddenly looked at Tetler with steely eyes and shouted ruthlessly, "If he wants to die – shoot him. Just shoot him!"
The suspect was stunned, and during that split second of hesitancy, Chris used the back of his head to butt the man on his face. He turned around swiftly, twisting the man’s arm, and wrestling the gun away. Holding on to both sides of the man’s head, he head-butted the man again, causing his face to be bloodied. But, that did not stop Chris.
"You wanna die?!" he yelled angrily, and head-butted the now dazed suspect another time. Blood streamed down the suspect’s face. Tetler and a couple of officers had to pull Chris away.
The suspect was led away, screaming in a dazed manner, "He broke my nose! Did you see that? He broke my nose!"
Tetler shoved Chris angrily. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"
Chris, who was breathing heavily, simply shrugged and said, "Just doing my job to rid this city of scumbags."
Then he walked away.
*****************************
Like Holly Rawlins, Jim Tetler also found his partner’s behavior unbearable. So like the team of Lorenzo and Rawlins, Tetler and his partner also parted ways.
To add to Harry’s worries, he had also received a complaint about Chris getting into trouble the other night at "Society", the cop bar. Chris had become a regular late-night patron of Society’s, preferring the crowded bar to the solitude of the loft apartment. He had also begun drinking quite heavily – a way for him to not think too much, or feel too much.
Chris was at the bar downing another shot of whiskey when someone tapped him on his shoulder. Derek McNeal slid into the seat next to him.
"Hey, Chris. How ya doin’?" Derek asked.
"Just peachy, McNeal," Chris said sullenly. He called to the bartender, "Steve, another one."
"Don’t you think you’ve had enough?" Derek asked, concerned.
Chris glared at Derek. "If I need a mother, I’ll be sure to call her in L.A."
He downed another shot.
"Chris, look, I’m really sorry about Rita, but this is no way –"
Chris grabbed Derek by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer and saying, "Don’t even go there!"
Then just as suddenly he let go of Derek’s shirt, straightened the creases on the shirt with his hands and mumbled apologetically, "Sorry, man."
He returned to staring at the bottom of his shot glass.
"It’s okay, Chris. I understand," Derek said, giving Chris a comforting squeeze on the shoulder. "Just take it easy with the drinks, all right?"
Immediately behind Chris and Derek was a group of men playing pool.
One of them was whispering to the other, "Hey, Pete. Isn’t that Lorenzo from Homicide? The one who set I.A.D on to us because of Quiller and Burns?"
Pete replied, "Yeah."
He nudged his friend, smiling wickedly. "Watch this."
He went to the end of the pool table that was closest to Chris, and pretended to take aim of a ball with his cue-stick. In actuality, he was aiming the tail end of the stick at Chris’s back. With a shove of the stick backwards, he hit Chris squarely on the back.
Chris turned around to look, clutching his back. "Hey!"
Pete smiled. "Sorry, man. An accident."
Chris turned back to his drink and his conversation with Derek. There was another hard prod.
"Hey! Watch it!" This time Chris stood to face the man, his hand rubbing his back. Derek had also turned around.
Pete was snickering. "Hey guys, look who we have here! Mr. Homicide himself. You know, the one who started I.A.D prodding up the ass of the entire Vice division? It’s the Big Man himself!"
Derek interrupted. "Lay off, will ya, Wilson?"
"Butt out, McNeal! It’s between him and us. Us cops are supposed to stick together, or have you forgotten, Lorenzo?" Pete walked up threateningly to Chris, eyeballing him and nudging him on the chest. "Whatcha gonna do about that, Big Shot?"
Chris was holding on to his last strand of self-control to stop from decking the jerk there and then.
"Nah, you’re not worth it," Chris said finally, waving a hand to dismiss the man and turning back to his seat at the bar.
"So, how’s your beautiful wife and the kid?" Pete provoked further, knowing that’ll get Chris’s attention.
Chris froze. He turned around slowly to stare at his tormentor. Then just as suddenly he lunged at the man, forcing him to fall backwards onto the pool table.
He punched Pete in the face. Pete’s friends went to his rescue while Derek went to Chris’s.
That was when the fracas broke into a full-fledged bar brawl with everyone involved; a free-for-all with punches flying, and stools and bottles being thrown.
****************************
"Chris, in my office now!" Harry Lipschitz hollered to his detective.
Chris sauntered into the Captain’s office. Harry closed the door and indicated that Chris should sit down.
He stood in front of Chris, leaning against his desk and folding his arms across his chest. He was staring at the cuts and bruises on Chris’s face. "Busy night?"
Chris touched the cut above his eye and shrugged.
"Did you honestly think I wouldn’t hear about it?" Harry asked angrily. Again, not a word from Chris.
He reached for a folder on his desk and waved it in front of Chris. "See this? A complaint from the suits upstairs. What have you got to say for yourself?"
Again, another shrug. "He deserved it."
Harry sighed heavily. "I know things have been real tough, Chris. Still there’s no reason for you to get into fights like that." He paused. "You got off light this time. Derek McNeal and Steve the bartender have explained that Wilson provoked the fight. And Steve has declined to press charges as long as you and the others pay for the damages. The suits also want to keep this real quiet. Won’t do the PBPD image any good if the press gets wind that about twenty cops were involved in a bar fight. And …as for you, Sergeant, they will let this one ride on one condition, … that you agree to see the department psychologist for a psych evaluation."
Chris shot up from his seat, shaking his head profusely. "No way, Cap! Have some shrink get his jollies telling me there’s something wrong with me? No thanks!"
"Look, Chris," Harry explained, "you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. You need help dealing with what happened to Rita, to your baby. It’s not going to do you any good bottling everything up. Talk to the doctor, that’s all I ask."
Harry put his arm around Chris’s shoulders. "C’mon, kid, it’s not going to be that bad. And it’ll keep the suits off your back."
Chris just shook his head grimly.
****************************
The lady was trying to speak to Harry Lipschitz as he walked along the hallway leading to the Homicide Division.
"Captain, can I have a minute of your time?" she asked urgently, trying to catch up to him.
Harry kept walking. "I’m busy, Doc."
"It’s about Sgt. Lorenzo," she said and then stopped walking, knowing he would do the same.
He stopped and looked at her. "Well?"
"Is there somewhere private we can talk?"
Harry indicated one of the empty interrogation rooms to their right.
As soon as they were in the room, Dr. Rosen explained, "All right, here’s the deal. Sgt. Lorenzo is having a lot of problems dealing with what happened to his wife –"
"Wow! What a brilliant observation, doctor!" Harry interrupted sarcastically.
"Please Captain," she said, trying to continue without interruption. "Sgt. Lorenzo has this deep-seeded anger that’s eating him up – dictating his emotions, his actions. He’s mad as hell at the world, but more so, he’s mad at himself. He’s on the edge, Captain. If we don’t do something soon, he’ll go over that edge. And when he does, he’ll bring himself and whoever’s with him along."
Harry looked very upset.
The doctor continued, "I strongly suggest that he be taken off active duty and put on leave. And, immediate counseling to deal with that anger."
"You’ve got to be kidding, right, Doc?" Harry asked incredulously. "All he needs is a little more time to deal with what happened, that’s all. The job’s all he’s got now, I can’t take that away from him!"
"It’s for his own good and for the safety of those around him."
"C’mon, Doc. Chris is not dangerous to anyone!"
"What do you call that fiasco at the park with the suspect, and that bar brawl? Things could have been a lot worse. He was lucky. Until he learns to deal with that anger, he is a danger to himself and others."
Harry shook his head This was not good, not good at all. And that churning in his stomach! Where were his antacids when he needed them most?
"Look, Captain. I know you’re close to your detective … but he needs help."
"All right, all right. I’ll see to it," Harry said reluctantly.
"Soon, Captain. It better be soon."
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Harry has been playing the last three months’ events in his head. He loathes having to admit it, but the doctor is right. Chris has become too unpredictable and reckless on the job. When Rita was around, she was always there for him, supporting him, and tempering his sometimes "Neanderthal" ways, but without her …
Harry shakes his head sadly. Why them? Why now when they’ve finally found each other? It all seems so unfair. He sighs heavily, looking out his office at his detective. He knows however unpleasant the task ahead, he has to set his emotions aside and do what needs to be done for Chris’s sake.
He calls to his detective sitting at his desk. "Chris, can you come in here?"
Chris enters the office.
"Take a seat."
He does as instructed.
"Chris, Frannie and I’ve been to visit Rita, and Kate O’Shea mentioned that you haven’t been in to see Rita in over a week. Is everything okay?" Harry questions gently.
"Yeah … it’s just that I’ve been real busy the last couple of weeks with the Anderson case, and the visiting hours there are kinda lousy …" his voice trails off guiltily.
"That’s what I want to talk to you about … the pressure of the job … I think this may be a good time for you to take some time off to recharge yourself."
"Cap, I’m fine. I don’t need any time off."
Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Chris picks up on it. "This isn’t just about some time off, is it? What’s really going on here, Cap?"
Harry rests his elbows on the desk and laces his fingers. "Look, Chris, I think you’re not coping very well with what happened to Rita, and it’s affecting your work –"
Chris sits up straighter. "Your thoughts or those of Dr. Rosen’s?"
"Both," Harry says. "As your friend, I understand what you’ve been going through. But as your Captain, I have to honestly say you haven’t been coping too well on and off the job – the change of partners, that incident at the park and at Society’s … that’s why I think you should just take some time off to recharge, maybe talk to Dr. Rosen a little more, and then before you know it, you’ll be back on the job again."
Chris is getting angry. He stands up. "So, you’re going to take the shrink’s words over mine? I told you I’m fine. I just lost my temper a couple of times, that’s all."
"No, Chris, you’re not fine," Harry says firmly, standing up too. "You’re having problems, and you need to deal with them."
Chris is silently fuming. He finally asks, "Is this an official request, Cap?"
"Not if you want to make it one, Chris. It’ll just go on my records as time off for vacation."
"So, you’re insisting on it?"
Harry nods his head.
Chris pulls out his holstered gun and shield, and slams them on Harry’s desk. "Then I QUIT!"
He turns and stalks out of Harry’s office towards the double palm tree doors.
Harry is stunned. He finally yells after Chris, "Lorenzo, come back here! LORENZO!!"
*****************************
Chris is in the loft apartment, drinking.
He is slumped on the couch. He takes another swig from the almost empty whiskey bottle, and stares glassily ahead.
***
"Have I told you how much you mean to me?" Chris asked as they lay on the couch.
"Hmmm … don’t seem to recall you saying it, Sam," Rita smiled.
"Well, you do, Sammy, you mean the world to me. I don’t know what I’ll do without you," he said emotionally.
***
Chris stands up, and runs his fingers through his hair. He begins to stumble aimlessly about the apartment. He has been avoiding their upstairs bedroom for weeks. He just can’t bear lying in that bed without her; the bed where they had shared their most intimate moments and most intimate thoughts. He finally approaches the guest bedroom, and hesitates at the doorway.
***
"This will be perfect, Chris," Rita said, walking into the empty guest bedroom and coming to a stop in the middle of the room.
She whirled around happily as he watched from the doorway, smiling.
She chattered on excitedly. "Well, let’s see. The crib can go over there," she pointed to the spot, "and my chair over there, and the toys and books over here …"
She stopped and looked at him, smiling radiantly. "Well? What do you think, Sam?"
"Sounds like an idea, Sam," he said, walking over to her and putting his arms around her.
He kissed her. "Except for one thing … you forgot to mention that basketball hoop rrrright over there," he said, pointing. "Then it’ll be perfect."
She smiled indulgently at him. "No, … more like parfait."
***
Chris is now looking into the unfinished baby room. There is a ladder in the middle of the room and cans of paint lie on the floor. One of the walls is already painted and wallpapered.
He walks into the room. Suddenly, tears begin streaming down his face. All that pent-up anguish finally finds a release. He lets out a scream – which sounds more like the tormented wail of an injured animal – and flings the whiskey bottle viciously against the wall, smashing it.
Then he lifts the ladder and slams it down on the ground. He picks up the cans of paint nearest him and hurls them angrily at the wall. Like a wild animal, he approaches the newly wallpapered part of the wall, and begins tearing at the wallpaper. He continues tearing the wallpaper until he is completely exhausted.
Then he sinks slowly to the floor, weeping uncontrollably.
****************************
Harry has been knocking on the door for the last couple of minutes. He has been very worried about Chris, and had decided to come over to check on him. When there is no response, he decides to try the door. It is not locked.
He opens the door slowly and enters.
"Chris?" he calls out.
The living room is dimly lit.
He calls out to his detective again.
He hears a sound coming from the bedroom to the right of him. He goes over and enters.
"Chris?" he says, squinting to get used to the darkness of the room that is illuminated only by moonlight filtering through a solitary window.
There is no answer.
He reaches for the light switch and switches on the light. He is shocked by what he sees. The torn wallpaper, the spilt cans of paint, the broken glass from the whiskey bottle, and Chris – sitting motionless against the wall, with his head bowed.
Harry hurries over to Chris and kneels down next to him. "Chris, are you all right?" he asks urgently.
There is no response.
He gently puts a hand under Chris’s chin and lifts his head. He is now staring into a pair of glassy and drunken blue eyes. In his drunken stupor, Chris is oblivious to the man in front of him.
Harry is suddenly very angry. He yanks Chris by the upper arms and forces him to stand up. Supporting him, Harry half-drags Chris into the bathroom to stand in front of the sink.
Chris still has his head down. Harry pulls Chris’s head up and forces him to look in the mirror that is above the sink.
"Enough is enough, Chris! Look at you! Just look at you and what you’ve become!" a frustrated Harry yells angrily at Chris, shaking him at the same time.
Chris stares at his image for a second and then lets his head droop again.
Harry has never been so incensed before. He drags Chris to the bathtub behind them. He turns on the shower full blast and shoves Chris’s head under the cold spray of water.
The cold water seems to have its desired effect. Chris wakes up from his stupor and begins sputtering as the water enters his nose and mouth. He pushes Harry away and reaches out to turn off the shower.
Harry then forcefully sits him down on the edge of the tub. He now has his hands on his hips as he waits for Chris to gather himself.
Chris finally looks up defiantly at Harry, water still dripping down his head to wet his shirt and pants. He reaches out both hands to his head and smoothes his wet hair back.
"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Chris asks angrily.
"I might ask the same of you," Harry says, a little calmer now.
"Why can’t you just leave me alone? I quit, remember?"
"Oh no, you’ve not. Your resignation has been formally rejected by yours truly, Sergeant!"
Chris is glaring at Harry. "Why are you doing this?" he asks frustratedly.
"Because the Chris Lorenzo I know is no quitter. So where is he? I haven’t seen him around in a long time."
Chris is quiet for a few seconds. Then he whispers, bowing his head, "He died the day Rita got shot."
Harry kneels down on one knee so that he is at eye-level with Chris. "Talk to me, Chris. Please."
Chris is silent for a while, but then he begins to say, "Don’t you understand, Harry, it’s all my fault. I’m to blame for what happened! If I hadn’t antagonized Montoya, none of this would have happened. Rita would not have been shot, our baby would not have died! I should’ve protected them, pushed her out of the way faster, but I let them both down. It’s all my damn fault!"
The sheer agony in Chris’s voice is clear.
Harry rests a hand on Chris’s shoulder. "It’s not your fault, kid. You did the best you could under the circumstances to protect Rita and your baby. You must believe me when I tell you it’s not your fault."
Chris looks at Harry as tears run down his face. How can he adequately explain the pain he feels deep in his heart, his soul, every hour, every minute and every second of the day? How can he explain to his friend that he wishes he was the one shot; that he would willingly give his life for his wife and child? And, how can he explain that he has stopped visiting Rita because he can no longer bear the pain of seeing her like that? That his only solace from that constant ache in his heart is the alcohol that helps numb the pain?
Harry asks gently, "Why have you given up, Chris? Rita’s not dead yet, so why are you acting as if she’s already dead?"
"Seems like she already is," says Chris in a defeated tone, bowing his head once again.
"Look at me, Chris. Look at me!" Harry says, holding on to Chris’s upper arms and shaking him a little.
Chris finally looks up.
"Chris Lorenzo is no quitter, you hear me? Don’t you understand? Can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours? When you quit on yourself, you quit on Rita! When you lose faith in yourself, you lose faith in her! Fight for her when she can’t fight for herself! She needs you now more than she ever did! You’re all she’s got! Don’t you leave her! Don’t you let her down now!"
Harry’s words seem to finally cut through the haze Chris has been in for the last three months. He has become exactly the kind of man he swore he would never become – the kind who would let Rita down when she needed him most; the kind like her dad and Eric Russell. Chris shakes his head in disgust. What was he doing? How could he have been so stupid and selfish? She is his life, and yet he has done nothing to fight for her life. He gave up when she needed him most. How could he have done that to his Rita?
"Chris, did you hear me?! Quit wallowing in self-pity!" Harry continues to say.
"Yeah, I heard you, Cap," Chris says finally, standing up. "And, you can stop shouting in my ear."
Harry stands up too, and the two men stare at each other. Then a slow grin appears on Harry’s face. He can see that flicker of life back in Chris’s eyes. The old Chris is back.
Chris takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I’m going to be fine, Harry, and so will Rita," he says with determination in his voice. He puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders. "Thank you for waking me up."
"Anytime, kid, anytime." They give each other a much-needed hug.
Harry knows instinctively, like a father knows his son, that Chris is going to pull through just fine.
*****************************
Chris is walking down the hallway. Christmas decorations in the nursing home are already up, and the sounds of Christmas carols being played drifted from the reception area. Chris pauses at the door to Rita’s room, nervously gripping the bouquet of red roses in his hand. Just as he is about to push open the door, it opens. Kate O’Shea is standing there.
She says in a surprised tone, "Mr. Lorenzo, how nice to see you."
"Mrs. O’Shea, how are you?" Chris asks awkwardly.
"Oh, I’m just fine. How are you, Mr. Lorenzo?" she asks understandingly.
"Better. Much better. Thank you," he answers, then pauses. "How … is she?"
"You’ll be pleased to know she’s doing a lot better. We’ve taken her off the respirator. Why don’t you go in and take a look?" she says, moving out of the way. "I’ll be back later, Mr. Lorenzo."
"Mrs. O’Shea?" Chris fidgets, thinking of the right words to say. "I haven’t been … uhm … I’m … uhm … sorry …"
"I understand, Mr. Lorenzo. We’re after all, only human. The important thing is you’re here," she says smilingly. "Now, go on in, she’s waiting for you."
Chris nods and turns to go into the room.
He walks up quietly to the bed.
"Hey, Sam," he says simply, staring at her sleeping face. He leans down to kiss her gently on the lips. "I brought you these," gesturing to the bouquet of roses in his hand. "Hope you like them."
He busies himself putting the flowers in a vase. He finally pulls up a chair and takes a seat, holding her hand.
"I’m glad you’re doing better, Sam. Mrs. O’Shea told me about the respirator," he says, smiling.
With his other hand, he strokes her face and hair. He is glad to see that she’s now got more color on her face. Then he notices a few split ends on her hair. "Guess Mrs. O’Shea’s been using the wrong kind of shampoo, Sam. I’ll remember to bring yours from home the next time."
He then falls silent.
Suddenly, he gets up and leans over Rita’s sleeping form and lifts her, putting her a little closer to the other side of the bed. Then he gets into bed with her, and turns on his side, so that he is facing her. With one arm, he pulls her against his body. With the other hand, he continues to stroke her hair gently.
He rests his head very close to hers, his lips brushing against her cheek. "I’m sorry, Sam," he whispers into her ear. "I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been behaving like a stupid jerk. Please forgive me?"
He lies there for a long while, waiting and hoping that she will answer him. Tears begin to form in his eyes.
"Why won’t you wake up, Sammy?" he pleads. "I try so hard to be strong, but without you … I love you more than anything in the world, you know that, don’t you, Sam?"
He pauses again, trying to find the right words to tell Rita how he feels. "All my life I’ve been searching … waiting for love to come and stay, and it was on that very day I met you that I found it. Remember the day we met?" he smiles, sniffling a little, at that memory. "I think I knew there and then you were the one. But I was always too stubborn, too scared to admit it to myself, to you."
He sighs. "Seems like it’s taken us forever to find each other. It’s been quite a journey, but well-worth the wait, don’t you think so, Sammy? And now that I’ve found you, don’t think you can just slip away from me like that. I want more, much more of our life together … I want to make new dreams with you everyday … grow old with you …"
Silent tears begin to roll down his face. "It’s too soon, Sammy, for us to say our good-byes. I won’t let you go, I can’t let you go! Don’t you see, I’m just no good without you. You make me whole! Please come back to me, and make me whole again!"
He pleads, sobbing uncontrollably into her shoulder.
And then, unbeknownst to Chris, from the corner of her closed eyelid, a single tear forms. It rolls slowly and imperceptibly down her cheek to meet with the tears he shed on her shoulder.
"You know that thing about is the glass half-full or is the glass half-empty?" he had asked her once.
"Yeah, it’s called optimism versus pessimism."
"Yeah, optimism versus pessimism. I think that’s how we all live our life. We’re either looking forward to the best it has to offer, or … we’re trying to get ready to deal with the worst thing that can happen to us."
"So which one do you think you do?"
***The End***
Phillysteak
Ó December 1997
Well, what do you think? Are you personally a person who views the glass half-full or half-empty? I think that will certainly color the way you read into the ending. What do you think of the portrayal of Chris as a man who loses control of his life when faced with his loss? A real possibility or Nevah!-in-a-million-years. Let me know your thoughts. Email sporean@hotmail.com
Thanks Kyle for putting this up, and thanks Carla S. for doing the editing chores. To everyone: Merry Christmas and may you always see the glass as full.
Disclaimer: This is strictly a fan-fic story. The sale and use of this document for any profit purposes are expressly forbidden. "Silk Stalkings" and all its characters are the property of Stu Segall Productions, Steven J. Cannell Productions, the USA Cable Network and New World Distribution. All other characters are my creation. Part of this story was derived from the fifth season episode "The Last Kiss Goodnight." "What If …" is a fan-fic publication and no infringement is intended on the properties held by the above.
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