Rating: G

Category: Holiday/Drama

Series/Sequel: Companion to "IFL: You Are Protected."

Warnings: Hanky alert. OC's if that's not your thing. This is also one of those "Jim/Blair grow up, get married, and have a family" types of stories.

Notes: Jim observes Mother's Day twice, ten years apart. Thanks to HBO for title inspiration. Grace and Daniel belong to me. Everyone else doesn't.

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them.

"Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children."

--Thackeray, Vanity Fair

~*~*~*~

Margaret Ellison slowly woke to the fragrant aroma of brewing coffee. Folger's Hazelnut, to be exact—her favorite. She stretched and opened her eyes. The alarm clock letters came into slow focus. 9:46 am. Margaret blinked; sure she was reading it wrong.

The time remained. For the first time since Grace had been born, Margaret had managed to sleep past the hour of seven. And peacefully, at that. She climbed out of bed, foregoing her robe in the cozy warmth of the loft, and crept downstairs.

The table was set for two, with a large bouquet of yellow and pink roses as the centerpiece. Jim hovered over the store, stirring a pot. Grace slept peacefully in her bassinet by the fireplace, a white noise generator beside her.

"Good morning," Margaret said.

Jim turned, spoon in hand. A soft smile spread across his face. The smile that always melted her heart.

"Morning, Maggie," Jim said. "Happy First Mother's Day."

She walked over and kissed him. He tasted like cinnamon. Margaret licked her lips.

"You taste good," she said.

"Breakfast," he said. "We've got oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins, cinnamon toast and hazelnut coffee."

"You know my favorites."

Jim put down the spoon and wrapped his arms around her slim waste. She rested her head on Jim's shoulder, pressing herself against him.

"How did Grace not wake me up?" Margaret asked, glancing at her sleeping daughter.

"I got up before she did," Jim said. "Gave her a bottle. I think those white noise generators put her to sleep faster than the music box we bought.

Margaret laughed. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Shouldn't that be the other way around?" he countered.

They held each other for several minutes, until a soft rumbling crept up from Jim's stomach. They both giggled.

"Guess we should eat," Jim said.

Margaret sat and let herself be served, enjoying the opportunity to be pampered. She sniffed the warm aromas wafting from the plate in front of her, unable to imagine how much more wonderful it must smell to Jim.

They ate slowly, savoring the chance at a quiet meal. Having a five-month old made these moments extremely precious, making Margaret love her daughter even more for the gift she was unknowingly giving to her mother.

At the end of the meal, Jim produced a small black box, wrapped with a silver ribbon.

"This is from Grace and I," he said, handing her the box. "I know she likes it because she gurgled when she saw it in the store."

Margaret smiled and slid the ribbon off. She lifted the lid and moved aside a piece of flat cotton lining. Tears sprung to her eyes.

Inside was a thin silver tennis bracelet. A slim bar in the center had a single scripted word: Mother.

"Oh, Jim." Margaret looked up, the words stuck in her throat. Jim walked around the table and fastened the delicate chain on her right wrist. She cupped his face in her hands. Jim reached up to wipe away a tear.

"I love you," she whispered.

They kissed, Jim's hands tangling in her dark hair. He pulled away long enough to whisper, "I love you more."

TEN YEARS LATER

Jim arrived home at 12:30 Sunday afternoon to a silent loft. His tie was undone, his face pale and drawn. He hated visiting cemeteries, but this visit was the most painful. He missed Margaret terribly and placing a bouquet of roses on her still-fresh grave had only deepened the ache in his heart.

The ache intensified by the missing presence of his daughter. Grace had refused to come with his this morning. As he entered the loft, he noticed her bedroom door was still closed.

He could hear her heartbeat—a very slow, but steady thump-thump in the next room. Jim placed his keys in the basket, crossed the room and knocked on Grace's door.

Nothing.

"Grace?"

Utter silence, save her steadily beating heart, a sound more precious to him than his own. Worried now, Jim opened the door.

Grace sat in the center of her unmade bed, legs crossed and perfectly still. Open eyes stared at him, glassy and out of focus. The sweet scent of rose and vanilla hung in the air—Margaret's perfume. The bottle sat open in Grace's lap.

Grace was completely zoned out.

"Gracie?"

A lump rose in Jim's throat. The only other time he'd seen his daughter so far gone was ten days ago...the night Margaret died. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Jim sat next to her and began rubbing circles on her back.

"Gracie?" he said close to her ear. "Gracie, it's Dad. Come on back to me, sweetheart."

It was five excruciating minutes before Grace blinked. She tensed under his touch, her grip on the perfume bottle tightening.

"You okay, Gracie?" he asked.

She looked at him with liquid eyes. "Did she like the flowers?" Grace asked.

Jim slipped his arm across Grace's thin shoulders. "I think she did," he replied.

"I'm sorry I couldn't go with you," she said, twisting her hands around the neck of the bottle.

"It's all right—"

"No, it's not," she thundered. Scrambling off the bed, she dashed to stand across the room. "It's not. I was too afraid to go see her on Mother's Day. That was her special day. It's not okay at all."

"Gracie, you don't have to be afraid of cemeteries," Jim said, vaguely wishing Sandburg was there. He was always better at this sort of thing; knew the right words to say. Jim felt helpless to comfort his own child.

"It's not the cemetery," she said.

"Then what is it? We could always talk."

She seemed to sense the sorrow he felt. Grace looked right at him, older than any ten-year old had the right to be.

"I'm afraid to let her go," she said softly. "The night Mom died, I was listening. I heard her heart stop. And I zoned out trying to find it."

An image of Daniel and Sandburg easing Grace out of her zone danced across Jim's mind. He'd been afraid they would never get her back.

"I remember smelling her perfume," Grace continued. "I thought if I could always smell her, she wouldn't really be gone. I know it's stupid—"

"It's not stupid, Grace," Jim said.

Grace's voice cracked as she said, "I was afraid if I went to the cemetery I'd have to admit she was really gone. That she wasn't just at work or at the store. That Mom really died."

She broke then, deep sobs spilling forth with a terrible power. Jim wrapped her tightly in her strong arms and rocked her back and forth.

"She's part of you," he whispered. "She'll never really be gone."

It was then that Jim realized he, too, was crying.

~END~

"A mother is one half of God's greatest gift to a child: his or her parents. Make your mother feel as special as she is this Mother's Day." –KM

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