Author: Daydreamer
Date: 26 February 2003

The Rocking Chair

"I don't know, Jim," I say for about the four hundredth time since the plane took off. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

He takes a deep breath and I think he's trying really hard not to get too annoyed with me. And I know how hard that is -- hell, I'm even annoyed with myself. I suddenly seem to have all these insecurities that just shock the shit out of me. I mean, I've always been Mr. Cool. Even if I didn't always feel self-confident, I could project the image. You don't go to college at sixteen unless you're pretty self-confident.

But here lately -- anything but. Insecurities have risen up and almost strangled me. Loud noises make me wince; unexpected touches make me flinch. I don't sleep but I can't remember what makes me wake up. I'm nervous and jittery and I can't keep still. And while I haven't quite gotten to the point that I'm crying over everything, my eyes do fill with tears far more easily than they ever have before.

And Jim has been patience personified through all of this.

But all this whining about 'Are you sure?' has got to be driving him nuts. I know I've got a sheepish look on my face, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth I turn my head in embarrassment and stare out the window, muttering, "Sorry."

There's a soft sigh from beside me, and then Jim's hand is on my arm. It just rests there for a minute, then slowly travels upwards, over my shoulder. When it gets to my neck, strong fingers massage my tight muscles and a thumb strokes my jawline for a moment before grasping my chin gently and turning my head towards him.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Blair," he says in this quiet voice so full of understanding that my damned eyes fill again. "This is hard for you, Chief, and that's okay. It should be hard. No one should have to go through what you did -- your strength amazes me."

Oh shit! My strength he says ... It's like his words go straight to my gut and the tears in my eyes spill. God! I hate this! I cry when I think about it. I cry when I try not to think about it. I cry whenever someone is nice to me -- just ask Jim or Simon about that last one. Normally I'm pretty happy to be in touch with my emotions and all that, but lately I've been wishing Naomi had instilled just a little more 'boys don't cry' and a little less 'let it out, sweetie' in me. It's getting fucking embarrassing!

Jim's thumb sweeps up and brushes the tears off my face then he rests his arm over my shoulder. I can't believe he's holding me like this on an airplane. I can't believe how badly I want to bury myself against him. I can't believe how much I resent the hell out of these damned armrests that are locked in place between these too small seats.

"I just don't know why this girl would want me to come to her baby's baptism ..." I say when I've halfway gotten myself under control.

"She named the baby after you," Jim answers. "And she thinks you sent me out there -- to save her and her brother from Don."

I shudder at the mere mention of his name, and Jim tightens his hold on me, awkward as it is. I still can't believe that after all these years, there was someone who cared enough about me -- about what happened to me -- to go and confront that son of a bitch. It humbles me beyond words.

It also frightens the shit out of me when I think of how close Jim came to being arrested, to maybe even killing the bastard and going away for life. I shudder again and mutter, "Not going to think about that," forgetting for a moment that there is no sound too soft for my Sentinel.

"Think about what, Chief?" he asks immediately.

Shit! I don't want to tell him what I'm thinking. I don't want to remind him of what he did. He feels so bad about the boy being hurt already. I don't want to bring it all up for him. Since Jim got back, I've slept better, but the nights I have awakened, it seemed to my fear-fogged brain that my roommate was already up -- fighting demons of his own. Demons that I knew revolved around a young boy, a belt, and a broken arm.

The hard part is -- I have no words to comfort him. Me -- the wordsmith extraordinaire -- and I have no words with which to comfort my partner. I shrug and turn my head to stare out the window again.

"It's okay, Sandburg," he says, his lips hovering by my ear. "I'm here and it's over -- all of it. Nothing to worry about anymore."

"God, Jim," I breathe, "I can't believe you took that risk for me -- that you confronted that bastard for me."

He's still for a minute and I feel his head drop and rest against my hair. "I can't believe no one did it years ago, Blair," he whispers. "It was long overdue."

His head rests against mine as I stare out the window, his arm still around my shoulder and it's awkward and it's uncomfortable, and I can't imagine the looks we must be getting, but right now, there isn't anywhere else I'd rather be than beside this man -- my champion.

The words are true but even in my state I can see the humor in them and I give this little snicker.

Jim lifts his head and looks at me with a smile in his eyes. "Want to share with the rest of the class, Chief?"

"My hero," I say in a simpering voice, and am rewarded with his laugh. He pulls his arm back and cuffs me on the head.

"Nuts, Sandburg," he says, still smiling. "You are completely nuts." ****************************

"God, Jim," I say, the breath suddenly leaving my lungs. "I know this place!"

After the plane landed in Norfolk, we had rented a car and driven for two hours to get to this small, sleepy community of Edenton, North Carolina. I'd been pretty wiped out and had managed to sleep a good bit of the way, but now, waking up, I was shocked to find I recognized this house we were parking in front of. "I've been here," I say in amazement.

Jim shrugs. "The kids live here now. The woman who took them is Don's mother's sister. From what the Sheriff told me, she lost her own child when he was very young and she's been taking in strays ever since."

We're getting out of the car and Jim's hand is on my back as we go up the walk and I just can't shake the feeling that this is all so familiar ... We get to the door, and while I can't sort out all the feelings, there are two that resonate with me: one -- this is a safe place, a good place, and two -- even though I don't mind being here, I don't want to be left here. My heart seizes up and I turn to Jim, clutching the front of his shirt. "You're not going to leave me again, are you?" I whimper and he looks at me with sudden concern.

His arms enfold me and he's shaking his head and whispering in my ear, "Never leaving you, never." His voice is heavy, thick, and I can tell how hard all this is for him. His words tumble over me, making me feel loved, making me feel safe. "You and me, partner. We're just visiting ... Not leaving you, I promise."

I feel four years old again, full of conflicting emotion, and I don't want to leave these arms ever again. Here, within these confines, with this chest to lean against, these arms encircling me, his hands stroking my back, I am completely safe. "I don't know what's going on with me," I stammer into Jim's shirt.

"Shhhh," he soothes, "It doesn't matter. There's a lot of stuff getting stirred up, Chief. The dust will settle eventually."

I lean into his embrace for a moment longer, then pull back with a sigh. "I sure hope you're right, Jim," I say as I wipe my face and try and do something with my hair, "'cause this sucks."

Jim laughs and -- now that I've finally gotten it to almost lay down again -- he tousles my hair. I just shake my head. The man simply cannot leave my hair alone. He's holding out a hair tie and I shake my head again. There are times when I definitely like my hair down -- it can provide a curtain to hide behind if need be. And I'm thinking I may need. The hair tie goes back in Jim's pocket.

"You ready, Chief?" he asks, and he's smiling again.

I take a deep breath and nod. Guess it's now or never.

"Remember, Blair," Jim says as he knocks, "this is a good visit -- nice people, a new baby -- good things."

I'm nodding as the door opens and this older woman, maybe five foot two, soft and round, with long gray hair pulled up in a loose bun and wire rim glasses perched on her nose opens the door.

I can see the small, neat living room behind her and the scents of home suddenly surround me. Apples and cinnamon and cookies in the oven. I can smell a pot roast simmering and I know without a doubt it's in the crockpot, because I've helped slice the potatoes and carrots and I've been allowed to place the lid on the pot and then turn the thing on. High at first, and then back to low. I remember how the meat would be so tender, it would fall apart under my fork and NanaKat would laugh when I'd eat with my fingers. I smell pine and lemon and I know she must have cleaned today.

And then she's reaching out, pulling me to her and I'm crying, weeping uncontrollably, and she smells so good -- like home and safety and baby powder. I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck. "NanaKat, Nana, Nana -- Naomi told me you were dead ..."

She's patting my back, stroking my hair, and murmuring, but I can't make out the words, just "baby, baby, baby," over and over again. And then, "Not dead, baby, not dead."

I can't stop crying.

She's pulling me into the house and Jim is walking with us, this huge smile on his face and some part of me is thinking 'he knew -- he knew' and I don't know if I should be furious that he didn't tell me or touched that he cared so much to set this trip up.

Hell, I can't be mad at him -- not when he's looking so damned pleased with himself.

Nana's pushing a towel into my hands, a tea towel, and I remember how she always kept one over her shoulder when she was working in the kitchen. I used to insist on having one as well and every time she would wipe her hands, I would wipe mine.

But now she's wiping my face and she says something to Jim, and he's going into the kitchen. I remember! I watch Jim walk through the house and I know where he's going. If he'd gone left instead of right, he'd have ended up in the bedrooms.

I'm sitting on the couch now, kinda hunched down like a little kid, leaning against NanaKat, and her arm is around me, holding me like she's never going to let me go. Jim is back with a wet rag and a glass of water, and now Nana is washing my face and urging me to sit up and drink, but I don't want to let go of her, I don't want to lose this feeling.

"I could die right now," I mumble around the glass. "I could die and it would be all right. You love me Nana, right? You love me?" I ask.

And she nods fiercely. "Oh baby, yes! Yes, I love you!" She peppers my face with little baby kisses and then rubs her nose against mine. "I adore you, Blair," she whispers.

I nod, suddenly as content as a child to have the obvious reaffirmed. "And Jim loves me. Two people," I sigh, completely and utterly content in my happiness. "Two people who love me." I lean in and snuggle against Nana's soft side. "I could die happy, right now."

"Oh, baby," Nana says softly, "let's not talk about dying. I thought you were dead and now here you are. A precious gift returned to me." She pulls me up and looks in my face. "And so, young man, let's talk no more of death. I won't have it. We'll talk of happy things."

"Yes, ma'am," I say automatically, and then I wonder at myself. I don't think I've used that term in --twenty years -- and yet it tripped right off my tongue for this woman. I realize I've stopped crying and again, I wonder how she does this. When Naomi would leave me, I would cry inconsolably everywhere but here. Here I would cry, but then Nana would hug me or hold me or rock me, and before I knew it, I'd be over the crying and just be happy to be here.

I look around and spot it. Over in the corner where it always was, with a table and lamp beside it, an afghan draped over the back, and a stack of books under the table.

The rocking chair.

I get up and walk slowly over toward it, just standing there, staring.

"You used to rock me," I whisper. "When I cried, you would rock me."

"It comforted you," she says softly.

"Even when I was too big, you still would rock me."

"A child is never too big to be rocked," she says in that no-nonsense voice that brooks no argument. The voice I loved, because it was so sure, so certain that what she said was truth, I had no choice but to believe. If Nana said I wasn't too big to be rocked, then I wasn't. If Nana said it was okay that I wet the bed, that it happened to all little boys sometimes, then it was okay. If Nana said my mommy loved me and she was coming back, then Mommy did love me and she would be back. I loved that voice.

I reach out and push the chair, watching it move gently back and forth, listening to it creak against the hardwood floor. Touching the afghan, I trace the blue and white stripes, the delicate shell edging. "You made this for me, the first time I was here."

She smiles. "You would sit in my lap. We'd rock, and you'd watch TV and I would crochet."

"I remember. When it started getting big, you would wrap the part that was done around me." I look over at Jim, my hand on the old afghan. "This is mine, Jim. Nana made it for me."

He nods and smiles. "It's beautiful, Blair."

"I loved it here," I say, completely in awe that I've found my way home after all these years.

"I didn't know," Nana says, and now she is crying, suddenly weeping and she throws herself into my arms, clinging to me, holding me desperately close to her. "I didn't know how bad it was, baby boy," she breathes. "You have to believe me." She pulls back and looks up into my face, her hands rising to cup my cheeks and hold my gaze. "Blair, you have to believe me. I didn't know what was happening."

I nod. I knew that. The few times I stayed here when Naomi was with Don, he didn't touch me for weeks before they brought me. And after Don, well, it was never that bad again. Oh, yeah, I still got spanked sometimes, and some of the guys Naomi was with were rough or just plain mean to the geeky little nerd boy, but nobody was like Don, so yeah, I can believe she didn't know. "It's okay, NanaKat," I say and I can smile as I say it. "I believe you."

"Your mother loved you, Blair," she says seriously. "I'm not making excuses for her here, but she was young and immature, and I was so delighted every time she brought you to me. I tried so hard to help her see how you needed some stability, but she was just so ..." Nana pauses and the observer in me wonders what word she'll use to describe Naomi. "Flighty," she finally says with a laugh. "I tried to help her see how much more you needed, but Naomi was just too determined to live up to this image she had created of herself as a free spirit."

" 's okay, Nana," I say, and I'm surprised to find that it is. "Why did she tell me you were dead?"

Nana shrugs and takes my hand, pulling me back to the couch. When we sit this time, I put my arm around her and she leans against me. "You're so big now," she says with a smile. "All grown up and I missed so much."

"Am I still your baby?" I can't help but ask and I wriggle with delight when she hugs me hard and nods.

"Always, baby boy, always. You'll never be too big to be my baby."

I'm content to hold her in my arms, to feel her against me and realize that my Nana is not dead. "Why did Naomi tell me that?"

She sighs. "When you stopped coming, I called Don. He told me you and Naomi had been killed in an accident." She looks up at me. "We had a memorial service at the church," she says. "And Rabbi Gelman led a prayer service at the temple, too."

I look at Jim. "When I stayed with NanaKat, we went to temple on Saturdays and church on Sundays."

"It was important that the boy know his own religious heritage," Nana says in explanation. She looks back at me. "I think Don told Naomi I was dead, too. For years after y'all moved away, she'd still show up on my doorstep with no warning, with you in tow, wanting to know if I could keep you for a while."

I smile and hug her. "And you always did. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an inconvenience."

"You never were, my beautiful boy. Having you here was such a joy -- I loved you so much and you were such a delight." Nana looked over at Jim. He was sitting on the loveseat, still smiling that wonderful smile and watching us. "He was so incredibly smart, Detective," she says with pride. "This child had a hundred and ten questions for everything he saw. It was incredible."

Jim laughs. "He hasn't changed much then, Ms. Mercer," he said. "He's still questioning everything."

"Nana," she says quietly. "Everyone calls me NanaKat."

"I'm Jim," he says with a nod, I am filled with love for these two people.

"Blair was always the scientist. He would find something that interested him, and then -- you won't believe this -- he'd start thinking up tests to see what made it tick."

Jim snorts. "Oh, I think I can believe that, Ms. -- uh, Nana," he says. "He's still got a penchant for thinking up tests about the damnedest things."

"It's because he's brilliant, you know," Nana said, her hand coming up to smooth my hair.

My face is suddenly hot as I blush, half in embarrassment, half in pride. "Nana ..."

"Well, you are," she says bluntly and she uses that tone again, the one that says I have to believe her words. "You were the most brilliant child I'd ever seen. And now," she looks at me and her eyes are filled with pride, "you are a wonderful, loving, brilliant man."

I'm saved from any more discussion of my so-called brilliance when the front door opens again and a young girl enters, carrying a baby, a small boy with his arm in a cast following her.

"There you are!" Nana says in her mock-scolding voice, as she rises and moves to the entryway. "I was starting to get worried about y'all."

Jim and I both stand, and I am so relieved when he steps over to stand by me. His hand against my back is a reassuring presence.

The girl laughs and lightly kisses Nana's cheek. "Sorry, NanaKat," she says. "Ryan met some kids and he didn't want to leave." She looks at her brother affectionately. "He was having a good time."

There are layers to her words and I can tell that this is a boy who hasn't had too many good times in his life, hasn't been able to play with friends too many times.

"Wonderful!" Nana proclaims, swooping down to enfold the boy in her arms and kiss him soundly.

"Nana ..." he protests, as any eleven-year-old boy would, but he doesn't protest very hard and he doesn't make any move to pull from her arms. I can relate to that: I remember those loving hugs and how safe and secure and wanted and welcome and cared for and loved they made me feel.

She smothers him with love a moment more, then steps away and eyes him critically. "Ryan Stanley," she says in mock-irritation, "you are a mess. You go take a bath before dinner and get into some clean clothes. I'm not having you sit down to the table looking like that."

"Ah, Nana ..." the boy whines as he looks curiously at me and Jim. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you have to," she says briskly. "But you'll have plenty of time to talk to our guests after dinner, okay?"

The boy nods, then holds up his cast, and I can feel Jim wince beside me. I put my hand on his arm and will him to understand that it's not his fault.

"I need someone to wrap this for me," Ryan says.

The girl passes the baby to Nana, then puts her hand on her brother's shoulder. "C'mon, Squirt," she says, "I'll help you."

"Make it quick, you two," Nana calls, the baby now tightly ensconced on her shoulder. "Dinner's in twenty minutes." She turns and looks at me. "Ready to meet your namesake, Blair?" she asked.

I swallow hard and look at Jim, who nods encouragingly. "Uh, yeah," I stammer as I step forward.

NanaKat is holding the baby out and before I know it, this tiny, fragile scrap of humanity is nestled in my arms, bright blue eyes staring up in frank curiosity at me. "She's so small," I say in amazement, turning to show Jim.

"She's a beauty, Blair," Jim says softly. He reaches out and touches her hand, surprised when her tiny fist grips his finger tightly. "Look at that," he says. "Kid knows a good thing and won't let go."

"Just like my Blair," Nana says in approval. "I'm going to check on dinner. Why don't you rock her for a bit?"

"Nana?" I balance the baby carefully against my chest with one arm and reach out to catch her shirt with the other. "Nana, who ... Sara? The, uh ... Who's the father, NanaKat?" I finally blurt out. I have my suspicions, but I need to know.

"Does it matter, baby?" Nana asks me, smiling, and I can hear the echo of her words in my memory, in my heart.

"No," I say firmly, "no, it doesn't. Ann Blair here is her own person, and who she becomes doesn't depend on who her father was -- it depends on who she is."

"You remember," Nana says as she comes back and pulls me down so she can kiss the top of my head. "And look, Blair," she says, waving her hand at me as if I am some incredible treasure, "just look at what a wonderful person you've become." ***********************

NanaKat had insisted we spend the night. She wouldn't hear of us going to a motel, and so here we were -- Jim and I -- sharing the double bed in the guest room in the one place out of all my childhood where I had felt loved and cherished.

You'd think I'd have been able to sleep.

But the dreams that wake me this night weren't of horrors or fear, but rather of sadness and loss. I pull myself from Jim's loose embrace, moving carefully so as not to wake him, and rise. Without even realizing it, I'm up and padding barefoot out to the living room to sit in the old rocking chair. I pull my afghan down around me as the cool air reminds me of why, since I started sharing Jim's bed as a refuge from the nightmares, I always end up wrapped in his arms. He's warm.

"Here, Chief," he says, and I look up to see him standing there, his short hair standing straight up, sleep in his eyes, and holding out a pair of socks for me. "Want some tea?" he asks as he passes the socks to me.

I nod and when he heads for the kitchen, I bend and slip the warm socks on my feet. Jim can say more with his actions than anyone I know.

I rock quietly for a while, lost in thought and memory and then he's back, handing me a cup of tea while he sips from one himself. He grabs the ottoman from in front of the overstuffed wing chair and pulls it over to sit in front of the rocker.

"What's up, Blair?" he asks quietly.

And so I tell him.

"I was seven years old and this one kid who lived down the road kept bullying me. NanaKat had talked with his parents, talked with the boy, and he didn't hit me anymore, but then he started name calling -- and bastard was his favorite, even though it was a bad word and he knew he'd get in trouble if his mother heard him use it. But it bothered me. Don had called me a bastard; some of Naomi's other boyfriends had too, and I was intelligent enough to know that it meant I didn't have a father."

"So one night, after I'd had a bad scene with Robbie, Nana was rocking me. My afghan was wrapped around us both and she was reading me The Hobbit. Bilbo had just found the ring, and I suddenly blurted out, 'Do you know who my father is?'"

"Why?" she asked me. "Did someone say something to you? Is Robbie Elkins after you again?"

"She just jumped right in there, Jim, ready to pounce on anyone who was hurting me." I look up, tears in my eyes. "I'd never had anyone immediately jump to my defense like that -- ever! And after NanaKat, it never happened again. Until you."

He drops his head to rest on my legs and his hand reaches for mine. "Chief ..." he whispers.

" 's all right, Jim. Twice in one lifetime -- it's almost too much." I can't help the amazement, the sheer wonder that colors my voice.

"You deserve so much more," Jim says, his voice hoarse and broken. "So much more ..."

"This is more than I ever expected," I reply and my hand strokes his head. His hair is soft, almost baby fine, and he gives out this little sound of pleasure at my touch, then sits up.

"Maybe we should get a rocking chair," he says quietly.

"It would make marks," I say, pointing to the lines on Nana's floor.

Jim shrugs. "No biggie. We could put a rug under it, or something."

"Or something," I agree as I rock contentedly and sip my tea, warm socks on my feet, my afghan wrapped around me. My Nana is sleeping down the hall and I know, if I want to -- if I need to -- I can go and wake her and talk to her and she would never be angry. She would just love me and it would be all right.

And Jim is here, following me in my nocturnal wanderings, bringing me socks and making me tea, and comforting me with his presence.

And you know what?

For however I got here, whatever has happened in the past, there is one thing I know with absolute certainty.

I am blessed.