Author: Daydreamer
Posted: January 11, 2003

The Box

I'm looking for a book that Sandburg said should be on his desk. Something to use as a reference for the occult symbols that were drawn on the bodies of our last three homicides. But of course, you couldn't find anything in this mess he calls a room if your life depended on it. I do not understand how the man can live like this. I've checked on the desk, beside the desk, in the desk, and now I'm checking under the desk. I didn't bend all the way down, trusting that even without Sentinel touch, I can recognize a book without looking.

But instead of a book, I find a box. And without really knowing why, I pull it out and look at it. It's old. Cheap cardboard that's been taped together many times and still looks like it's falling apart. Across the lid in a childish scrawl I see the word "Treasure" and I can't resist the urge to open it and take a peek into a juvenile Sandburg. What did he find worthy of being a "treasure" when he was young?

I open the box and my mouth drops. This wasn't at all what I expected and I don't think Sandburg is going to be too thrilled that I've invaded his privacy this way. But as I gently sift through the contents and see that they are all the same, I can feel the anger begin to rise. Somehow, I know what this represents.

A sad and lonely little boy trying desperately to hold on to love. I think I want to know what prompted this "Treasure" box. I think I need to know. And maybe, just maybe, I think Blair may need to tell someone.

To tell me.

"Sandburg?" I call as I walk through the French doors.

He hasn't realized what I have in my hands yet, and his voice is relaxed, a little distracted even. "Yeah?"

"What is this?" I've opened the box so that I can see the contents, so that I can be reminded of what a young boy went through to ensure he felt loved.

He looks up now, smiling at me, then he sees what I'm carrying. His heart rate triples and his face flushes so fast, I'm almost worried he's having a stroke. He drops his eyes, not willing to look at me and I can imagine the mantra he's chanting in his head. Maybe "He's got the box. He's got the box." Or "Not this. Not this. Not this." Or possibly one of my all time favorites: "This is not happening. This is not happening." Whatever it is he's saying in his mind, I can tell that he is less than thrilled that I've dragged this piece of his childhood out. He's staring at it with a combination of looks reserved for the most precious article in the world and things we've never seen before. I wonder how real this is to him. Whatever it is he's feeling, the only thing I can be certain of is that it hurts.

"Sandburg?" I ask and my voice is quiet. I don't want to startle him, don't want to upset him anymore than seeing the box in my hands has already done.

"Uh, Jim," he says, and I can tell he's struggling to keep things on an even keel, to sound like nothing major is happening. And he almost makes it. Would have, if it wasn't for the racing heart, the off-scent of fear and pain, and the way his face has paled now that the initial flush is over. "That's not the book you were supposed to get."

"No, it's not," I agree and I move a little closer, lifting one of the tissues up for inspection.

He almost panics. His breathing accelerates and the heart picks up again -- something I wouldn't have thought possible. He reaches out, in one of the most plaintive moves I've ever seen and whispers, "Please, put it back." As the words leave his mouth, I can see the exhaustion settle over him, as if he's just completed a physical task and used his last reserves to do so. Unnamed emotions flit across his mobile face.

I handle the tissue carefully but still I hold it out. "Are they all like this?" I ask.

He nods, a more miserable movement I've never seen. There's a set to his jaw that he gets when he doesn't want to talk about something and I can see it happening now. He's worried I won't understand -- afraid I may feel sorry for him or think him weak. But I'm determined to know what happened to this man I care for that caused him to have this collection.

I watch him and I can tell the exact moment that he realizes I'm not going to let it go. He kind of sags into the chair, even though his eyes are still on the box. "It's okay, Sandburg," I say softly as I put the precious scrap of tissue back in the box.

His features flood with relief and I pass the box to him, carefully schooling my face not to show my surprise at the way he clutches it and hugs it to his chest. This box is important to him.

My hand is on his shoulder now, squeezing gently in what I hope is a comforting kind of way. He's upset. His heart still races and I can smell an odd scent on him -- not exactly fear, but there are traces of fear in it. Beneath my hand his shoulder is tight and when I brush his neck, his skin is cold and clammy. But even without my Sentinel input, I would only have to look at him to see how upset this has made him.

And it infuriates me.

But I can't tell him that so I ask, "Can you tell me about it, Chief?" I'm trying to keep him calm. My hand strayed from his shoulder to his neck when I was scanning him, and I leave it there now, just barely moving, but wanting him to know that I am Right Here -- and I'm not going anywhere.

I can see him struggle with himself. He's trying to decide if he can talk about this, trying to decide if he wants to talk about this. I almost hold my breath and inside I'm cheering him on, 'C'mon, Blair, tell me about it. Let it out. It's over now.' He's still got the damned box clutched in his hands -- the treasure he will never relinquish and I'm wondering if maybe I shouldn't have pushed him like this. But then he speaks. "It's silly," he mutters and even I have to strain to pick out his words.

"I don't think so, Blair," I say. "I think it's important to you -- and I'd like to know."

Wonder if he noticed I used his name? Not Sandburg. Not Chief. Not Darwin or Einstein or Frosty or any one of the hundreds of nicknames that fall from my lips in the course of a week. But Blair. I want him to know I'm serious. I want him to know I understand how important this is. And I want him to know I care. He shrugs and I'm at a loss as to what he's thinking now. Probably trying to figure out how to tell me what they are without making me want to smack his mom. My hands want to clench, but I force them to stay relaxed and the one on his neck keeps moving in what I hope is a comforting touch. It's too late to keep me from wanting to smack Naomi. I figured out a long time ago that while she loves her son, her selfishness left him with some serious emotional baggage.

"They're Naomi's," he says, looking up to meet my eyes.

"I thought they might be," I say and then I wait. My hand is still now, but I don't let go. I'm not going to rant at his selfish, self-centered mother. I'm not going to make this any harder for him than it is. I'm just going to be here -- and listen.

When he speaks again, I realize he is talking so softly that only I can hear. Even he doesn't want to hear what he's saying, and I am amazed at the depth of trust this man has for me. "She went away a lot," he says, and something in my heart splinters. I knew it was coming, but now it's been confirmed. God damn her!

I want to reassure him, to let him know I've heard and that it's okay to go on. But I don't want to speak. I don't trust my voice not to betray my own emotions now. So I squeeze his neck gently, just to let him know I'm here, and I wait.

"She's beautiful, you know," he says, looking up again. I nod. Beautiful on the outside, I agree. I sometimes wonder about her soul though. For someone who's lived the life she has and espoused the various spiritual beliefs she does, I often wonder if she has a clue what she's done to her own son. "She always was -- beautiful, that is," he continues and I know it is important that he think I understand this, so I nod again. "And she loves me."

Ah ... That is the crux of the matter, isn't it, Chief? A piece of my heart cracks just a little bit further as I hear the insistence in his voice, the fierce loyalty that backs those words. 'She loves me.' How many times did he whisper those words to himself as he lay in a strange bed, in a strange house, with strange people and tried to convince himself he had not been forgotten? How many times did he shout them at kids who taunted and teased him for being left behind when his mother took off yet again?

He's watching me and again, I know it is important that I understand and accept his words. "Of course she loves you, Chief," I agree and even though I feel a little awkward, I kind of hug him and laugh, saying, "What's not to love?"

He snorts at my words. That's the only word for that strange sound he makes and for a minute I am offended. Here I am, Big Jim Ellison, trying so hard to be warm and caring and supportive and nurturing, and he snorts at me. Then I look at him and I see that he's not really laughing at me -- he just accepts that this is the way I do things. And he eases back in his chair a bit, relaxing just a little under my touch and I know I said the right thing.

"She really did love me, Jim. She was just so ..."

I wait, almost amused. I don't think I've seen Sandburg at a loss for words before. I wonder what he's going to come up with when he finally figures out what he wants to say? He makes this little fluttering motion with one hand and says, "She was almost like a rare bird -- she couldn't be caged." Rare bird? Now I wish I could snort, but I don't because it would upset him. Oh yeah, buddy. That's definitely your mom -- a bird of some kind. "And she had the plumage to boot," he adds.

Plumage? What the hell is this kid talking about? I keep myself from rolling my eyes and wait, letting him tell it in his own way.

"She wore make-up," he explains, and the plumage thing may almost make sense -- in a Sandburgian kind of way. "Lipstick." He opens the box and lets me look again at the stack of lipstick covered toilet paper.

Paper kisses.

I knew what they were when I saw them, but it still breaks my heart to hear him, to see the way his hand reaches out and gently touches the top one.

"Oh, Chief," I say as softly as I can. This is all so sad. I know it's years too late, but I want to go back there and tell this woman who kept leaving her son that he was collecting her lipstick on toilet paper just so he could be close to her. Did she ever have a clue? Did she kiss him? Hug him? Hold him close? He's a touchy kind of guy, not in a 'you hurt my feelings' kind of way, but in a 'I have to touch you' kind of way. So he must have had some affection growing up, but, Geez ... I look in the box again and I could cry.

He shrugs. "She loved me, Jim. And she did kiss me. I mean, I got lots of hugs and kisses and cuddles -- the whole works. You know how touchy-feely I am. I didn't pick it up off the street."

Okay, so she did touch him. Still -- why did he have to collect these -- these paper kisses? I wave toward the box, asking why without words.

"These are just from when -- she was leaving." He shrugs again. Seems to be doing a lot of that in this conversation.

I'm going to speak now, and I don't want him to know how much this bothers me. How angry I am at Naomi and how hurt I am for him. So I take a deep breath and steady myself and then I say, "When she was leaving." I hope it's enough that he'll know what I want.

"Yeah -- you know, if she was taking off and I was staying behind. For a couple of days or a couple of weeks or a couple of months. Leaving."

I nod and run my hand down his arm and back up again. I can't stand beside him anymore. I don't trust my face not to give me away. Jim "Stoneface" Ellison, I've been called, but when it comes to this man, my face is an open book. He doesn't need my pain and anger now -- he's got enough of his own. So I move and stand behind him, hiding from his gaze.

"I used to go in the bathroom, after she did her makeup, and I'd get the paper she used to blot her lips. Paper kisses, I called them."

He smiles, but it's not a Sandburg smile. It's a sad little boy's smile who's trying hard to be brave for mommy and not make her feel bad. I want to smack her again. I look in the box, quickly estimating. "There must be over a hundred in there, Chief," I say in surprise. "How many times did she leave you?"

"One hundred and seventeen. From the time I was four until I left for college at sixteen." He looks down. "I don't remember before that."

I'm stunned. I'm glad I am behind him and he can't see my mouth gaping open like a fish. One hundred and seventeen. That's -- what? Almost ten times each year? Who the hell raised this man? I look at my partner with renewed respect. I knew he'd had to struggle to adulthood on his own, but I had no idea how really alone he'd been. What the hell was wrong with that woman?

He looks in the box, a sad expression on his face. "But there's only ninety-two left. I -- lost some."

He -- lost some. I can just imagine what that means. Suddenly, I can't touch him. It's like he'll know what I'm feeling if I touch him so I lift my hand and rub at my eyes. "Aw, shit, Blair," I mumble. "I'm sorry."

And it is then that I realize how totally inadequate those words are.

He shrugs again and for some reason that move infuriates me. Sandburg, the human dictionary, the man who never stops moving, never stops talking, is reduced to this -- a shrug. And his mother is the one who reduced him. I know he wants me to think it's nothing -- that none of it really mattered. That he was just a kid and you know, kids do silly stuff like this all the time. But it does matter and I tell him that. "It is a big deal." And then I wonder -- what happened to him when she left him. So I ask, "Who did you stay with? Did they take care of you? Were you okay?"

He's got one of the kisses out now, and he's holding it to his cheek. I wonder if he even realizes he's doing it. He's twenty-seven years old and his emotional development got stuck somewhere around four when it comes to this particular topic. And now he wants mom's comfort, but he doesn't call her, or write her a letter, or email her, or God forbid -- go see her. Because of course, even if he wanted to go see her, who knows if he could even fucking find her. Instead, he reaches in an old box, in a move that is all too practiced and holds a scrap of toilet paper to his cheek. I want to cry. I want to throw up. I want to reach out and kiss him and tell him it's all right and that no one's ever going to leave him again.

But I wait and then his voice comes, answering my question, and I understand why he needed his mother's kiss -- even if it was only a paper one. "It wasn't bad all the time," he whispers.

I close my eyes and let my shoulders sag. Oh, God! You don't have to be a cop to figure out that if it wasn't bad all the time -- sometimes it was very bad. He needs me and I rest my hand on his shoulder again but I know he can feel my tension. He feels fragile and ineffably light and I can almost believe I am the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

"I'm so sorry, Sandburg," I say, squeezing gently. "I can't imagine ..." He doesn't move, doesn't respond, so I try again. "It was a long time ago, Blair, but you're here now. I'm not going to leave." Still no answer and I'm beginning to worry. "Blair?" I whisper, leaning over to speak into his ear. I give his shoulder a little shake and repeat louder, "Blair." If I didn't know better, I'd swear he'd zoned. "Blair!" I say, almost shouting. He looks at me with soft unfocused eyes and I realize he didn't hear anything I said, and only reacted to the fear in my voice.

" 's all right, Jim," he murmurs, the paper kiss still tucked against his cheek. Despite the tears running down his face, he still tries to comfort me. I touch his hand, not wanting one of his kisses to dissolve in his tears and he lifts it away carefully, looking at the wet spot in shock. He doesn't even know he's crying.

I take the precious bit from him and lay it back in the box. I put the lid on and take the box from his hand and place it on the table. I've moved back to his side and I turn his face so he's looking at me. I cradle his face in my hands, and carefully wipe away the tears and then I realize it's not enough. I pull him to his feet, and engulf him in my arms. He's stiff at first, awkward, but then he lets go and leans into my chest, letting me hold him. I can feel the exhaustion seeping from his bones and while I desperately want to know about the 'bad' times, I'm not going to push anymore right now.

"C'mon, Chief," I say, leading him to the couch. I sit and pull him down with me, and I keep one arm around his shoulder. He's been left enough -- I'm not leaving him tonight. "We'll talk about the bad times later."

I think it surprises him that I'm not pushing, but hey, I can be sensitive. Especially when it comes to this man, my friend. He sighs and then snuggles closer as if he's cold, so I drag the afghan down and wrap it around him.

He's about to pull his feet up, trying to curl onto his side, but the shoes are going to have to come off first. "Nuh-uh," I say. "No shoes on the sofa, Chief," and it makes him laugh. I laugh too -- I need normal for a few minutes.

He manages to kick his shoes off and finally pulls his feet up, sliding more tightly against my side. I'm stroking his arm while he wiggles a little, getting comfortable. "Sleep," I murmur, and his eyes close.

I sit there wishing I could go back in time and fix things. Wishing I could make Naomi be the kind of mother he deserved. Wishing I could kill the people who caused the 'bad' times. Wishing I could be there so he wouldn't have this fear of being left that makes him cling to paper kisses.

But I can't do any of that so I do the next best thing.

I hold him tight so he knows I won't leave, and then I kiss his hair. A real kiss from a real friend -- one who's never going to leave him behind.