Two Wrongs
by Emily Brunson
(c)2003
It’s all supposed to work now. It’s all supposed to come together. And you’re waiting for that, that moment when everything starts to make sense again. It’s been promised to you, an invisible, intangible grail that nevertheless will reveal itself in time, as has been foretold by shrinks, by therapists, by people in your goddamn group sessions and those fucking NA meetings that you can barely stand but you keep on going because there’s a Time ahead, a Time when All Will Come Together.
Only it keeps not happening yet.
But you’re gonna stick it out. It’s not as if there’s any great alternative, after all. You can do what you want to do, or you can do what you don’t want to do, but one’s right and the other’s wrong and you know full and goddamn well which one’s which. And until the past year you’ve been about doing the right thing, so that’s the path you put your feet on every day. Even though it isn’t what you really want to do.
You’ve been told that this part will end eventually. This ugly part, this sometimes painful part, this eternally tiresome part. That will pass, and things will get better. You want to believe that, the way you believe in a God, because if you don’t, then nothing makes sense. And things have to make sense, somehow, or what’s the fucking POINT anymore? Right is right, wrong is wrong, and whatever.
It’s just getting dark, and it’s time to head for work. Dudley Snort-Right, going off to do battle against the bad guys yet again. In your own way, of course, since Dad ix-nayed the whole cop thing years ago, said, No, Nick, I just can’t let you keep on doing this, it’s too dangerous, what if you got shot, or or something or whatthefuckEVER, blah blah blah, which was Stokes-Speak for I want you to stay under my finger like you always did instead of making your own life, doing something I can’t control, can’t call the fucking shots like I so enjoy doing.
Gee, Dad, if I told you what I had been doing lately, what would you say then, huh?
It’s been enough time that work feels almost natural now. You’ve been back, what, three weeks? Had a couple of weeks in the Fun House, followed by a week of Outside the Fun House, and then pseudo-freedom punctuated by Narcotics Anonymous meetings and sessions with your pansy-ass psychologist, who you’re starting to suspect kind of gets off on what you tell him, because there hasn’t been a single suggestion as to what to DO exactly, now that you’re clean and sober. It’s mostly talking about all your shit, and okay, you can do that, but is this moving anything forward at all? Or is it just a twice-weekly wallow in boring old shit?
It’s not that you’re not glad to be back. You are. Kind of. There’s a sweet familiarity in the work, in the byplay. What there is of that, since your colleagues are still getting with your New and Improved Program, testing the waters, seeing if they can give you the regular kinds of shit without suddenly having you leap up screaming and grabbing for the first controlled substance you can score.
It’s not their shit that makes you want to jump off the wagon, you want to tell them. Their shit is pretty goddamn sweet-smelling next to your own. But you don’t tell them that, because they probably already know, and if they don’t, well, damn, you’ve already felt what it’s like to lose the last of your innocence. You won’t foist that off on anyone else if you can help it. You’d give anything to get your own back.
But even though you don’t mind the work, even though you still admire a lot of the concepts, precepts, whatevercepts, it doesn’t mean to you now what it used to. And that’s the area where you truly can’t go with any of your colleagues, because they still believe it means something. Even Catherine, who you know has been in a very similar pair of shoes to the ones you’re currently wearing. Even she buys into the hype. The rightness of it. Even Catherine doesn’t see that right is a construct. Right doesn’t mean anything. Anything at all.
You get through work just fine, all things considered, and when you head out into crisp cold sunshine Grissom gives you a look, doesn’t say anything, but that looks speaks very clearly. He’s proud of you. Proud of what you’ve pulled together, how you’ve yanked yourself up by your own bootstraps and gone forward. His pride feels good, too, in a kind of reflected way. It’s good to make him feel good for a change.
But you watch him walk over to his truck and climb in, and your own smile fades, because not even Grissom really understands. Maybe the closest, everything considered, but not completely. Justice still means something to him. And you wish it did to you, too.
You make it to the diner just after nine. McAda’s already there, sipping that tarry black sludge Paco calls coffee and looking so completely at ease with the world, it sends a stab of yearning through your chest. You’d give anything to be that content. Anything at all, or more.
"Hey, Nicky," Mike booms, giving you a big grin. "Pull up some Naugahyde."
You’ve been meeting Mike McAda here for breakfast since two days after you came back to work. It’s already a routine. Even the crap you both order is familiar. Three over-easy, bacon, hashbrowns, and about a loaf of toast for Mike; pancakes for you. You’ve had a killer sweet tooth since you stopped using, and it’s probably gonna make you fat or something eventually, but jeez, if it feeds the need, who cares?
"So how’d it go?" Mike asks. It’s code, sorta, since Mike knows one hell of a lot more than you ever really talk about. Mike’s not really talking just about work, but you fill him in anyway: not too bad a night, did you hear about this, yeah, and what about that. It’s not like they don’t pass occasionally in an official capacity, but this is just two guys sitting around packing cholesterol in their veins and shooting the shit, check your badges at the door.
"So," you tell him, after the food’s mostly gone and the sun blazing through the blinds is warming even the frigid December air outside. "That offer still good?"
Like you’d hoped, it takes him by surprise. But Mike’s no slouch, not him, and he fields it pretty well. "You bet it is," he replies, sitting back in the booth and staring at you. "You sayin’ you’re interested?"
You poke at the remains of your pancakes and nod. "Time for a change."
"Jesus, Nicky. I mean, you sure about this?"
You just nod again.
And that’s kind of all it takes, oddly enough. There’s stuff to be done, of course, a shitload of paperwork, and you’ll have to re-certify, been way too many years since you turned in your shield in Dallas. But in a weird way, it’s all done, right there in a run-down diner on a blameless Wednesday morning.
You wonder if that Right Feeling will happen now. But it’s not really surprising when it doesn’t. Right Feelings are a myth. There’s wrong and less wrong, and that’s about the best you hope for these days. That psychologist can go fuck himself. You’re done with that therapeutic bullshit. Time to simply go forward.
You wait until the following week to tell Grissom. But you’re busy with taking the PD’s damn tests, re-qualifying with your sidearm, all that crap, and it’s not hard to put it off. Anyway, you’ve had to kind of build yourself up to it, because you figure you can handle the reactions of most of your colleagues, but Grissom’s the kahuna, he’s the big cheese, and he’s also been a lopsided kind of mentor. And to put it bluntly, you know this isn’t what he wants you to do.
But Grissom’s not your dad, he’s not the tall, bone-thin, aristocratic lawyer and family man whose disapproval had you scrambling to learn all this forensics crap just to keep yourself from having to completely start over. It doesn’t feel great to know you’re going to disappoint Grissom, too, but maybe it’s time to stop disappointing yourself, and if that takes letting a few people down, then, well. That’s the way it’s gotta be.
"Are you sure?" Grissom asks, looking as if you just punched him in the chest. The expression on his face is amazingly floored. You didn’t picture him looking quite this surprised.
"Yes," you tell him honestly. "I’m really sure."
He nods with sadness in his eyes.
"We’ll miss you."
"I’ll be around. Just – not here."
"Still."
You grit your teeth through a stilted little party, and say the right things. There’s no doubt in your mind that these people really do wish you well. And that’s the hardest part, maybe, or one of them. It’s hard to have a beginning without an ending, and this ending hurts more than even you had anticipated.
"Stay in touch, okay?" Catherine tells you. Her hug is tight, and fierce, and you’re going to associate that perfume with her and with this moment for the rest of your life.
You nod and promise you will.
Warrick helps you get your shit out to the car. It isn’t so much that you really need the help, but you let him take a box, because he wants to. He stands and watches you stuff it in your trunk, and shifts from one foot to the other awkwardly. You haven’t seen Warrick look awkward very often. "Don’t be a stranger, man," he says in a thick voice. "Not gonna be the same without you, you know that?"
"No," you agree, softening it with the best smile you can muster up. "But different’s okay. You take care of yourself, you hear?"
"Always."
And then you drive away, and it’s over.
Mike’s waiting outside when you pull up. He’s got a case of Shiner Bock under one arm and an envelope in the other hand. He grins when you climb out.
"What’s that?" you ask, after you’ve gone inside and turned on a few lights.
"That?" Mike’s grin gets bigger when he puts the envelope on the counter. He gets out two bottles of beer and pops the tops. "Open it."
You already know what’s in there by the weight of it, the shape of it, but you go ahead, and you’re grinning now, too, because it’s your new shield. All nice and shiny, and that’s your number on there.
Mike hands you a beer and holds his up. "To new starts, Nicky," he says, still smiling, but sincere for all that.
You nod and tap your bottle against his. "Wrongs making a right," you reply.
He nods, too. The beer tastes dark and sweet.
END