« on: April 04, 2012, 06:08:24 PM »
A/N: Of course we do not own CSI nor its characters; just having a little fun! Short story, several chapters, set after "Malice in Wonderland" and a reason for the plant! Thanks for reading.
An Unusual Sequence of Events
Turmoil: A state of great confusion
The rain came early, unexpected, and weeks before the traditional start of the season, thus no one was prepared for the sudden intensity or magnitude of it. And it rained without ceasing for five days and nights—torrential downpours that made walking on flat ground tricky and traversing a mountainside precariously dangerous. The storm began in the north where dark sullen clouds lay over treetops and mountain villages disappeared in a rain-soaked miasma and then it drifted south, heavier with rain, rolling down the valley. As the storm gathered strength and grew, the group of researchers had worked feverishly to cover several shallow trenches with stout tarps only to see water fall so fast and furious in the first hour of the storm that their work had been for nothing.
Thinking the storm would pass, the first night, as the constant racket of rain and thunder kept them from sleeping, they had talked—of nothing important—of the weather, of life away from this place, of the extra time it would take to excavate the water filled troughs. Or, one suggested, perhaps the rain and mud would prove to be helpful in closing down this site for the season. They had already talked about covering the trenches in loose dirt making their work nearly invisible to anyone looking for artifacts. Not that this dig in the mountainside held any treasure or ancient relics of value to anyone other than researchers, but some of the locals believed the simple presence of these strangers meant there was something to be found worthy of all the manual labor they did.
By the third day, when solar powered satellite phones had been drained of power and the fuel indicator for the small gas range moved into the red bar and the flame sputtered out before coffee was made, they talked of walking into the nearest village—an easy thirty minutes walk in good weather—but decided to wait because surely the rain would cease by the fourth day. It did not.
They were an optimistic group of men—pessimistic people did not traipse all over the world in search of the unknown and certainly not in search of long dead insects—so they waited, talked, read, slept and ate cold food from cans. Several times one man or another commented about how easy it was for men—women, they agreed, would have a tough time in all this rain and mud. No one admitted to missing a wife, but as they were all married men, each one knew the truth. Each one thought about a worried spouse, the one person who would be waiting, puzzled by the lack of a phone call as a third day stretched to a fourth. But none of the men voiced this very intimate concern as they resolved in various ways to wait out this storm.
In their isolation, they had no way of knowing the nation-wide disaster made by torrential rains—overflowing rivers, muddy landslides, sections of roads washed away, entire villages crumbling, and in the country's capitol, the end of an airport runway was simply swept away into a steep mountain valley. Thousands of people lost homes, hundreds were dead or missing; life as it was vanished as the rain continued into the fifth day.
That night Gil Grissom stood in the doorway and watched as darkly opaque sheets of rain created a waterfall along the sloping canvas edge of the narrow porch. At least the building was elevated several feet above the ground, he thought, as water dug deep rivulets into the muddy ground. He swatted a fly on his thigh, thankful for the only dry item of clothing he had remaining—a pair of black silky boxer shorts his wife had insisted he pack because the fabric would dry almost immediately. Everything else was damp or wet and muddy and hanging from pegs and hangers in a futile attempt to dry in one hundred percent humidity.
The other men were soundly sleeping judging from the snores and deep sighs coming from the bedrooms, but he could not sleep—not when his thoughts were thousands of miles away in Las Vegas. Not when he had promised to return on time, no delays this time. He wiped a hand across his face.
He missed his wife. She would know why he had not returned; their last conversation had been about the sudden storm and weather reports were easy to follow—and she would understand. She would tell him "It's okay—a few weeks and we'll try again." But he knew she would be disappointed, saddened again by a missed opportunity. Not angry—Sara would never be angry with him and, he admitted, he often took advantage of that sweet trait of her personality. He smiled imagining her face when she heard this story as she pulled his dirty clothes out of his suitcase—more than once she had met him in a strange city with clean shirts and pants because she insisted he would not be allowed to fly in the nasty, smelly clothing he had worked in for weeks.
Sara made him respectable, he thought with a smile. Going back into the small building, he ambled into one of the small bedrooms in search of an empty bed. The sheets were damp and chilly and reminded him again of the warm bed and body waiting for him at home. Sara waited—gentle, sweet Sara, patiently waiting as she had done for so many years—for him. He still found it troubling at how close he came to losing her forever, and in his isolated loneliness, he could not sleep.
Desperately, he wanted to do the one thing for her she desired, and plans had been made, doctor's appointments kept, bad news and good news led to extensive testing and a round of fertility medications, and then a second try when the first did not succeed. He understood fully the window of opportunity, especially for Sara, for women of a certain age, and he had promised a quick trip and return, back in bed with her and let nature take its course—with a little assistance, of course.
As he lay in bed, beads of sweat forming along his hairline, he thought of Sara, reliving some of their moments together—the way her face looked at climax, when she thought of something that excited her, the way she announced she wanted a child. Only Sara would do it with a book—his book—two copies, exquisitely bound and printed, one for him and one for their future child.
With snoring men on either side of the thin walls, he tossed and turned, tangled in the sheets, tried to plump his pillow, attempted to count sheep, before the steady deluge of rain beating on the metal roof finally put him to sleep. Not where he wanted to be…not where he wanted to be…not what he wanted…
Suddenly, he jerked awake, instantly alert to the sounds of a door slamming shut. The chair creaked and groaned as he struggled to get up; the Barcolounger had seen better days but he refused to give it up; it fit his form, he insisted. He stuck his feet into an old pair of sandals as he heard a voice—a screech from his wife.
"Get in here, Gil! All these groceries are for you! Get out of that damn chair and bring them into the kitchen!" Her loud yell grated on his nerves, but he hiked his shorts and headed to the kitchen. The dog, well aware of the scolding he would get for entering the kitchen, lifted his big head, gave a quiet moan, and resumed his nap next to the chair.
A quick imagine entered Grissom's mind. He wished he could jump this ship—a tropical island, cool breeze moving a hammock while he drank a beer and watched lovely women—real women with hips and breasts and luscious smiling lips. Instead, he answered, "Yes dear. Whatever you want—how about tea? Would you like some tea?"
His wife gave him a penetrating stare. "What have you been doing? You know my temp is up—we got to do it quickly! You better not be drinking beer—or anything else! Are you wearing those boxers I got you? This had better work this time. I'm the one taking the shots and doing everything while you sit around the house! Are you going to bring in the groceries or do I have to tell you to do everything?" She paused for a quick breath. "I'm getting in bed. Get yourself ready. I hope you took a shower while I was gone."
She continued to talk as he ducked into the garage. Groceries consisted of crackers and soup. Several times he had tried to tell her she was too thin—anorexic, her physician said. But she insisted she was small boned—yeah, right, she was half the size now from the time they met. With fertility treatments, she had gained some weight but in bed she still felt more like a coat hanger than a woman.
In the beginning he had been enthusiastic about a baby, his baby, their baby—it would make them a real family—give his wife a way to spend her days while he worked. But now, when they realized it would not be easy, it consumed every thought and action she had. Their lovemaking had turned into an ordeal regulated by time, temperature, and temper. Not what he had imagined. He opened the car door and began removing sacks of groceries; not that she bought real food. Everything was low calories or no calorie—he couldn't remember the last piece of chicken he had eaten that had any taste to it.
Taking longer than necessary, he daydreamed, asking himself how his life had turned into this frightful chaos. Who was this skinny woman in his house? Some long forgotten girlfriend he had never intended to marry! This was not where he wanted to be…
....more to come...