Post-Its

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Dear Jane,

It has been almost four months without you. Everything's the same. Life, people, they've just drifted on. Sometimes, it's almost feels as if you didn't exist, that they've forgotten - you, the effect you had on their lives, the love you brought, the smiles you put on their faces, the laughter you brought to their lives.

Your mother's still working at the cafe; Stanley's the same as he ever was. Frankie's moved up to Vice; you'd be proud of him. Tommy's well. He got a job with a construction company and he's making a go of things with Lydia and TJ. I sometimes see them at Sunday dinner. The three of them as a family and it's hard. It's hard to face what you'll never have; someone by your side, children running round.

TJ of course has just turned two and he's toddling around on those little legs of his. He looks just like you. The same strong features, deep brown eyes, cheeky smile, Rizzoli stubbornness. And I see the kids we'll never have, the years we'll never get to grow old with one another. I think about your classic eye-roll whenever I go off into one of my 'google' moments, the way you deliberately mispronounce words just to wind me up, the way you call Bass a turtle when you know full well that he's a tortoise and at the end of all that, I miss saying your name when you do all those things.

I see the looks from Angela, Frankie, Korsak, Tommy. Even Mother's been to visit more times in the last few months than I can ever remember seeing her when I was young. I see the concern, the tenderness, hear the unspoken words as they tiptoe around.

'You need to let her go,' they say; you need to move on. Sometimes it's not that simple. And I feel a rage burn in me towards them, towards Doyle. Doyle for his hand in the chaos he created both around me and within. Them for thinking I can simply move on, that I can forget. Because at the end of it all, I could never forget. You were it for me.

The nights are the hardest. I miss your arms wrapped around me while we lay in bed, those dark eyes of yours watching over me while I sleep. Did I ever tell you how safe, and loved, and protected you made me feel? How I felt wanted just by your presence?

I dream of you. Even my nightmares have become dreams. And then I wake and I turn toward you expecting to see your smile, your laugh, dusky as the morning sky, your sleep-filled dark eyes laden and still awaking and I reach toward you and my hand hits air as I realise you're not there. And then reality comes crashing down in on me as I recall the moment you were taken away; the moment you entered that room, the moment the trigger was pulled, the moment your eyes locked on mine as you realised what was about to happen, the moment you hit the floor, the moment I held you in my arms while you lay dying, the moment the doctors took you away from me, the moment I let your hand go, the moment the Gods took you away from me...I replay all those moments. I can see them in the blink of an eye.

What you don't realise is you had nothing to apologise for. I was never angry at you. Whatever mislaid beliefs that I took his side in the whole situation were unfounded and untrue. Yes, I was angry. But not because of the fact that you shot him. I was angry because in that moment I felt you weren't acting like my best friend, my lover, my fiance. You only saw the job you had to do in front of you, regardless of my feelings. I was angry because I realised in that moment, that I'd never have the chance to find my biological mother and that he would forever hold it above me, always slightly out of reach, the answers I was looking for.

And you were there.

As you always are.

My rock.

For me to take it out on you. But I refused to give in. I let pride and want and the desire to know my roots take hold. I lashed out at you, the only person who's ever been there for me, who gave me the family I always dreamed about.

But you, my sweet, sweet girl knew. You knew what the foundation for my anger was. You knew that the only reason I wanted to find my biological mother was to prove that I wasn't like him, that whatever qualities I had weren't because of him. But by the time I realised this, it was too late. You were gone. And now, I'm left with this never-ending upending guilt and want and need and desire to see you, to feel you, to hold you in my arms. But it cannot be.

I visited my grave yesterday. Angela brought me. She showed me what I believe you had been going to show me. Only you never got the chance.

I have so many questions. And yet, I don't want answers to any of them. Suddenly, what I wanted doesn't matter any more. What I want and what I need have become two very different things. I want to marry you, and make love to you, and have children with you and grow old with old. But I need you to do all those things with.

Time. The one thing that so simple, yet so elusive. It ticks on in the same way the Earth revolves around the sun. Diphilus once said that time is a physician that heals every grief but your passing has left a heartache that cannot be healed and I long for the day we are reunited, so I can stare into your eyes again, hold you in my arms, feel your arms around me. I want that second chance. But in the meantime, for as long as I can, I will walk this world for the both of us, till we meet again.

I love you, Jane Rizzoli.

Yours Always,

Maura


Maura awoke the next morning to the beginning of the sun's rays shining through her window, the events of yesterday running through her mind. It had been a day of truths and self-reflection to say the least and she'd realised that Jane had been right. She didn't need to know who her biological parents were to determine whether or not she fit in in the world just as she didn't need to know who her mother was just so that she could convince herself she was nothing like Paddy Doyle, to ensure that the traits she had were hers; she had wanted to find her biological parents for all the wrong reasons. Only now, Jane wasn't here to witness that.

She looked towards her night stand where her diary lay open, pen in the middle of the binding. Jane had bought it for her during their first Christmas together.

"So that you can write down all the stuff you have in that head of yours," she said, "you know, knowledge, fun facts, questions you don't know the answer to," she'd teased.

She'd loved it.

Pulling off the covers, she headed to the bathroom. Half an hour later, having completed her morning ablutions, she padded into the kitchen, marginally more awake.

Taking out the necessary items for her usual dose of coffee, she turned to the fridge in search of the creamer. Finding it, she made her way over to the coffee machine where the jug promptly slipped out of her hand and smashed to the floor. There next to the machine was a a single white calla lily and a pale blue post-it lying next to it.

For the life of her, she had no idea why she was tiptoeing towards the island. This was her house for god's sake but as she came closer and her eyes fell on the words written within that small rectangular piece of paper skimming it quickly, she gasped.


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