Shards of Crystal

"Officer, Marco has some difficulties remembering. You come back tomorrow around five. I'll talk to him and he'll have more for you by then."

"Ahhh, thank you, Mrs. Bianchi, but he has my card. He can call me if he remembers anything else."

"No, you come back tomorrow. He'll have more for you. Five o'clock. We'll have manicotti. You'll come. He... Marco, my boy, he smiled today. The first time since... You just come back. Five o'clock."

So I did, and then again the next day and the following. Soon, I was a regular. I had a job to do, so sometimes my visits were after normal visiting hours. My badge got me through. There were always pastries left on the rolling desk next to where I sat in my chair. She had Tupperware filled with food for me whenever I saw her.

"You're far from home, helping us. Please, take it. You're a lovely girl, you need to eat."

If she was there when I arrived, she would be gone after no more than five minutes, leaving us alone. We talked about his large loving family and how they sometimes drove him crazy. We spoke about how I'd love to be driven crazy by a large family and how it was just Dad and me. Sometimes we'd just sit quietly as I typed away on my laptop, filing reports and helping others do the same.

There were good times and there were bad times. One of the few occasions I had arrived when his family wasn't there was during the dinner service. That was decidedly one of the bad times. The man bringing the meals to each room stood to the side of Marco's bed as he was berated.

"Does that look like chicken? It looks like fish to me. Did I order fish? I'm pretty sure I didn't. Know why?" His voice grew in volume. "It's 'cause I'm fucking allergic to seafood! What the hell is wrong with you people? The leg wasn't enough? Now I'm just supposed to grin and bear it and take whatever I'm given? Get the hell out of here and take this slop with you."

The foodservice gentleman was professionally stoic, and I realized that he must contend with overwrought patients on a regular basis. I felt bad for him and worse for Marco. When he was with his family there was a veneer of joviality, no hint of inner pain. For the first time I was wondering how much damage had been done to him emotionally.

There were a couple of times when we sat in complete silence for hours, me typing, Marco staring at the wall.

There were also good days. He wasn't in his room when I arrived early one evening. A nurse told me that he was in the pediatric ward working with some children. After walking over, I stood at the doorway watching, remaining unseen.

Marco was there with his brother Michael. There were about a dozen children sitting with him and he was holding up a Chromebook, showing them how something worked. When he was done, Michael passed one out to each of the kids. He was showing them how to access games and preloaded apps when a little girl called out. "Yeet!"

"Is yeet good, Melissa?"

"The best. Thank you, Mr. Marco. Oh, and Michael. Thank you, too."

Michael laughed. "It's all Marco. I'm the dumb brother who lugs stuff around. He's the smart brother with the computer stuff. Me strong, him smart." He scratched under his arms like a cartoon version of a chimp.

A confusing rush of emotions swept over me. I wanted to laugh and cry, both sad and uplifted. If I had suffered a loss like Marco had, I would be inconsolable. Here he was, helping children who were likely in situations as grave as his.

As I walked into the room, he called out. "And here's Rebecca. Maybe she could help Michael read some stories while I tweak the Chromebooks."

A little girl wearing a knit cap spoke up. "Mr. Marco, is that your girlfriend?"

"What? My girlfriend? I was waiting for you, Melissa! Are... are you breaking up with me?"

The little girl covered her mouth as she giggled. Parents and staff approached Marco as Michael dug some books out of the same box from which he had pulled the Chromebooks. Smiling, he tossed me one. "Okay, who wants to hear a story from a real live police officer?"

I shot him a mock glare, but I couldn't back out at that point. Michael and I alternated in the reading while Marco talked to the parents about security and parental controls.

As we headed back to his room, Michael pushing the wheelchair, Marco explained.

"I was losing my mind sitting there day after day. My company is doing well. They weren't expensive and setting them up gave me something to do."

As we passed the elevators, my hand found its way into his.

Two weeks later I was done and had to return home. We promised to write and call, and we did for months. I drove up to see him a few times and told Dad all about Marco and his family. We eventually drifted into that place where contact slowed and then almost stopped completely. He had his life with recovery and getting back to his computer consulting business, trying to make a living. I got back to my life with the NYPD, working hard and volunteering where I could, hoping to keep the momentum going on joining the Counterterrorism Unit after Boston.

I had been home for almost a year and was at the Public Information office on my day off. Everyone there loved to see me, but I wasn't sure if it was because I was helping to lighten their load or if it was because I brought cronuts from Dominique Ansel Bakery.

"Trubadeaux, someone's downstairs looking for you. Civilian. He's in 11A."

That was odd. I checked my phone, but there were no missing messages from Dad, and I didn't think that any of my friends would know to look for me here. I went down to the designated waiting room and saw Marco sitting in his wheelchair.

"Hi. Your birthday's coming up. I thought maybe we could get some dinner. If you don't have other plans, I mean."

"I... Marco, what are you doing in New York?"

"This is where I live now. I moved down last week. My client base was growing in the area and I thought it would be good to put in a physical presence. I can work remotely, so my Boston clients will be fine. I may even be doing some consulting for the Department."

Dad first met Marco at an early birthday dinner. It was almost a month before the actual day, but I didn't mind. I wasn't sure how dinner would go. Dad rarely had to share my attention, but he seemed to genuinely like Marco. In a quiet fashion, not as obvious as Marco's mom, Dad quizzed him about his background, his goals, his injuries, and prognosis. I'd never seen him like that before. Dad was good, way too good to be an amateur. I was convinced that Marco had no idea what was happening and thought it was all just polite conversation.

The day after, we went alone to Peter Luger's for a steak dinner and their bacon appetizer. NY is blessed with numerous great steakhouses, and Luger's was near the top. I should have warned him ahead of time, but they only take their own credit card. Unfazed, Marco pulled out his wallet and he had to have at least $700 in cash. I had no idea why he was carrying that much around with him, but his company had to be doing well.

He invited me to the Mets home opener against the Nationals. We went to dinner before the game at a restaurant in the small Chinatown in Flushing near CitiField. We drove the short distance back to the park and he pulled a Red Sox jersey out of the backseat. Fans gave him a bit of a hard time, hurling casual Red Sox insults our way. It was tempered by his being in a wheelchair and that our seats weren't in the bleachers.

One drunk was particularly obnoxious. "Hey, asshole, go back to Bahstahn." He continued for a couple of innings until another fan spoke up.

"Shut the fuck up and enjoy the game. Look at the name on the jersey, jackass."

Noticing that Marco was wearing a Bill Buckner jersey changed everything. Any true Met fan knew that Buckner letting the ball dribble past his legs helped assure the Met's 1986 World Series victory. The drunk sent a few beers our way as an apology and we otherwise had a great time. People came up to Marco to slap him on the back and congratulate him on his jersey.

It was almost fated when we found a parking spot in front of my apartment building. Serendipity like that just doesn't happen in New York City.

We took the elevator up, and Marco was uncharacteristically reserved. He had to know what it meant that I asked him up for a drink. Standing side by side as the elevator climbed upwards, I moved my hand towards his. As he went to take it, I pushed past and rested my hand on his thigh. When we hit the floor below mine, I brushed my fingers over his crotch and turned towards him, reaching up to pull him into a kiss.

I could feel his growth as he pushed into my waist. His lips met mine and the tentative forays of my darting tongue met his. Lost in each other, we both jumped a bit at the ding and rocking of the elevator as it arrived and the doors opened. Getting out, we rushed to my door. I almost dropped the key twice trying to get it open.

Wrapped up in each other, I steered us to the couch. We kissed and our hands roamed of their own volition for a while before I knelt on the floor. As I started to undo Marco's belt, he took my arms and gently pulled me up again. My blouse found its way to the floor as we continued kissing and I eventually slipped back to my knees.

Again, he pulled me up. It was then that I realized that he didn't want me to see his prosthetic. It wouldn't be the first time viewing it. I'd been with him at rehab many times and had seen him in shorts. It would, however, be the first time under these circumstances. I didn't know if he was just nervous or it was tied into his masculinity somehow, but I knew I had to tread lightly.

Staying with him on the couch, I removed my bra. My lips found his earlobe, then his jawline and then his cheek and mouth. His palm supported my breast until he slid his fingers to the nipple. Light as a feather, he ran them over my areola before ducking his head and taking the nipple in his mouth. As he teethed, laved and teased, I slipped my hand down and into his jeans.

Marco finally used his free hand to push the jeans down as he lifted his butt. I hesitated until I felt the gentle pressure of his hands pushing down lightly on my shoulders. Once again, I slipped down to my knees. This time, I stayed there. Fishing his hard cock out of his boxers, I slowly licked, then kissed my way down the shaft. He didn't last long, and I didn't want him to.

The first one out of the way, the second would be much better. I led him to the bedroom where we made love for the first time. It was odd at first. We were both self-conscious. He was able to get purchase with his leg and we established a rhythm as he rested above me. Eventually we shifted and I rode him until we both came.

It was the most emotional and satisfying sex of my life and I knew then I never wanted to be away from Marco.

After finding some amazing therapists, he continued his recovery in New York. Marco alternated between his prosthetic and a wheelchair, with the wheelchair being utilized less and less. After three months, I moved into his apartment. His mother was giddy. Marco became verbally forceful with her when he saw how her frequent comments about beautiful grandbabies affected me.

"Sorry. I know that she can be a bit much sometimes. I grew up with it, so I guess it's easy for me to deal with. She'll back off."

"It's not that... Look, Marco, we talked about this. I definitely want kids, it's just that they scare the crap out of me. I'm terrified that I am going to be a bad mother."

"What?" He took my hand and tilted his head as he stared in my eyes. "That's crazy. You're gonna be fantastic. The kids in the family all love you, and you are the kindest, most patient person I know. Why would you think that?"

Trying to give him a reassuring smile, I spoke softly. "I know, it's crazy. Silly fears. I'll get over it."

I wasn't my mother. I wouldn't destroy my family. I just needed to keep repeating that.

Four months later, we were again at Peter Luger's on Northern Blvd. He had insisted on the steakhouse, as it had been the first place we went to on an official date in New York. After dinner, he ordered us the apple strudels. They each came out warm on a white plate under a metal top. I opened mine to see "Marry Me" written in chocolate on the plate and a ring on top of the strudel.

"I, uhhh, I can't get down on my knee, but Rebecca, I..."

"Yes. Of course, yes. Always yes. I love you, Marco." Tears were streaming down both our faces and the rest of the diners slowly caught on and started applauding. Getting up from my seat, I stepped around the table. He stood and placed a hand on each of my cheeks. "I love you, Rebecca." It seemed like our kiss lasted forever, and we only separated when we noticed the waitstaff standing there with glasses and a bottle of champagne.

Marco pulled out his phone and dialed. "Mr. Trubadeaux? Sir, she said yes."

He called Dad? Of course he did. Marco was old school, from an old school family. He would ask Dad's permission to propose to his daughter. We laughed, and we cried some more. Every time I took a forkful of strudel I'd stop and stare at the ring.

"I need a promise from you, Marco. You need to promise me that we're going to be together forever and we're going to have lots of kids."

We started practicing as soon as we got home.

AMANDA

It was a beautiful day to be out and about. Even after the senator had to cancel, Amanda still had her driver take her to the restaurant where they had her table waiting. As unobtrusively as possible, her staff occupied the reserved tables nearby where they could be seen if needed. She nodded to a few acquaintances and politely listened to the social climber that approached as she ate. As she looked up when the woman left, she dropped her fork when she saw her daughter walking towards her.

Amanda's heart pounded as she saw the young woman striding determinedly towards her. She reached down to her seat and grabbed it as hard as she could, trying to force herself to stay calm. Regardless of what she was feeling, she would maintain a veneer of calm.

"Mrs. Bennet?" Crystal looked exactly how she expected her to, but photos can't describe mannerisms and body language. Those were all her father's.

"Hello, Crystal. Please sit down." As she spoke, she waved off her staff who were sitting at other tables in the Michelin starred restaurant. They sat back in their chairs, but monitored the situation. Until ten seconds ago she thought she would never see her daughter again. Her emotions were swirling, but she exhibited an iron will as she remained collected.

"That's not my name. I'm Rebecca Trubadeaux. How did you know who I am?"

She took a deep breath before continuing. "Every Christmas your father sends my parents a package with photos of you and generic updates. They've always loved you dearly and none of what happened was their fault. As much as I hate Manny, he deserves credit for that at least."

"You hate him? You're as messed up as he said. Your hypocrisy is astounding."

"I know it's not rational, Crys—, Rebecca. Sorry. Rebecca. I know I'm a hypocrite, but he took from me the thing that I loved the most in the world. Whether I deserved it or not, I hate him." She felt the tears starting to build.

Rebecca looked around, noticed that she was the only one in the restaurant looming over a table and sat down. "I'll be brief, Mrs. Bennet. I need to know about your side of the family's medical histories. I had no idea if you would cooperate or not, but I figured you owed me that much."

It suddenly seemed as if Amanda's heart was in her throat. "Is, is there a problem?"

"No, not that I know of, but I just found out that my fiancé and I are having a baby."

Everything that Amanda had missed suddenly crashed down upon her. First day of school, first kiss, drawings hung proudly on the refrigerator, crushes and heartbreaks, graduations and wedding announcements. The tears wouldn't be held back.

Rebecca looked about, embarrassed and started to stand, ready to leave.

"No!" Amanda panicked. "Please, just a few minutes. Please. Look!" She pulled out her phone and showed it to Rebecca, scrolling through almost twenty-years of photos. "Every photo. Every one. They've kept me alive for two decades. I have the same photos in my home. The same photos in my office. Wait." She scrolled through her phone again. "That number? That's the security agency we used. For twenty years. More than eleven million dollars. They had three full-time staff working just on finding you. Their countless leads, all of them dead-ends."

She took in a shuddered breath and paused for a second.

"I feel like a woman who has been holding her breath for almost two decades and someone just walked in and told me I could breathe again. I never stopped loving my daughter. Never."

REBECCA

My hand was shaking as I sat on the couch and dialed the number. No matter what time I called, Dad always answered by the second ring sounding wide awake. "Baby, what's wrong? Another nightmare?"

Whispering, I tried not to wake Marco. "I... I saw her in a crowd. She turned to me and opened her arms. I tried running to her, but people kept getting in the way. They're all women, Dad. They all sort of looked like her. I pushed through them, but she was gone. I spun around and they all turned their backs to me and started walking away. I kept spinning and spinning and I couldn't feel my legs and I could make out any details and, and..."

"It's okay, Becca. It was just a dream. Everything is all right. Breath for me, okay? Just like we practiced. Deep in, slow out."

We spent another 10 minutes on the phone as he talked me down. I crawled back into bed and draped myself over Marco, cuddled to his back, my arm over his lean chest. Trying to slow my heartbeat, I willed myself to sleep. This was going to be a big day. We were having dinner with his extended family.

Marco had second-cousins who lived in Rego Park. They were five families living within a few blocks of each other. We had dinner at one of their homes at least every other weekend. It was like an expanded version of what I saw in Boston. Loud, boisterous and loving people of all ages, coming and going, extensions in the dining-room table and huge pots of gravy simmering for hours.

It was an odd combination of intimidating and comforting.

Marco seemed at ease with it all and I'd watch nervously through the window as he would toss a football with the ever-present children. The improvement in his mobility was almost miraculous, but that didn't stop me from worrying every time he pushed the envelope.

I didn't hear Angela approach and was lost in my concern until I heard her voice. "You know he has to do this, right? He has to push to get back to where he was. He has to be willing to fall, and be willing to get back up."

Turning, I smiled, and she took my hand when I responded. "I know. It's just... difficult sometimes. He won't commit to a date for the wedding. I know it's petty, but I get so frustrated until I see him like this, outside playing with kids. It gets me thinking about how he'll be with our kids and seeing him have to rest every five minutes breaks my heart. All the frustration just melts away and I just want to forget about the wedding, forget about the date, forget about everything and just hold him until everything is okay."

"Just keep loving him and give him time. He'll come around. The boy is crazy about you. Do me a favor? Let them know that dinner will be ready in 20 minutes."

AMANDA

Once she had Crystal's new name, finding Manny was simple.

"Twenty years go by and you look almost the same. How are you, Manny?"