In Plain Sight, Season 5

Mary:
[voiceover] There's a phenomenon some people experience, those who've lost an arm or a leg, called "phantom limb". They feel pain, heat, cold, even movement, despite the fact that, strictly and scientifically speaking, there is no "there" there. It's as if the body can't accept that something so essential so natural a part has moved on... The memory of what had always been there so strong that even in its clear and sudden absence, the connection cannot be denied.

Delia:
[to Marshall] Listen, after you meet with your witness I was thinking we could duck and hide on the answer.

Mary:
Aw, have you two deskmates developed your own little secret code language? So sweet. Excuse me while I puke on this puke.

Marshall:
We're taking about Stan.

Mary:
What about him? Whoa, whoa. Back up. Is there Stan gossip? I'm on the sidelines six months and you withhold? You know I live for Stan gossip! All right, hit me.

Marshall:
Stan McQueen has taken a lover.

Mary:
No! Oh my God, this is huge! And ew! Is she cute? Is she fat? Tell me she's fat. Hold on! Is it someone we know? Brief me! Down to the last, dirty detail.

Dr. Shelley Finkel:
The pregnancy was unplanned?

Mary:
Uh, yes. Not that it's any of your business. I'm sorry, what does my family planning have to do with the shooting?

Shelley:
I don't know, but 39-year-olds don't tend to have accidents with birth control.

Mary:
Yeah, they do; all the time.

Shelley:
You want my theory? Your sister was getting her act together.

Mary:
Was being the operative word.

Shelley:
Your mother was sober.

Mary:
Still is.

Shelley:
You need someone new to protect, so you got yourself knocked up. So, my theory: what do you think?

Mary:
I think that the hour is up.

Mary:
It's so not the same.

Marshall:
Who's saying it is? I'm just saying we were up all night with Oscar; the stomach thing.

Mary:
I swear to God, there should be a special place in prison, a wing at Gitmo, for people who compare owning an animal to having a baby.

Marshall:
Would you call it your pet peeve?

Mary:
Oh, fun! Word play. Look, dogs are lazy, Marshall, they're laconic. Babies are terrorists, they're relentless, they never let you rest; they're like little, fat alarm clocks.

Mary:
Did you see that? That was the you know. That was the "personal event."

Marshall:
Yeah, and he was humming. Humming!

Mary:
Exactly. Sure, Stan's a positive guy, chipper; I mean, hell, he's a jolly, white George Jefferson, but he is not a hummer! That came out wrong.

Mary:
I'm ready to talk about the shooting. It was horrible, he deserved it, and I'd do it again.

Shelley:
But it hurt you to hurt him.

Mary:
I didn't hurt him, I killed him. I had to, to protect Stan, to protect Marshall, because that's what I do. I protect people.

Shelley:
Which is why you didn't make an adoption plan for Norah.

Mary:
She was so tiny, so fragile, but most of all, she was mine. I just felt like, feel like, I just realized no one could protect her like I would; like I can.

Mary:
[voiceover] Children are our phantom limbs. Even when they leave, they're never really gone. They come back from time to time for laundry or a shoulder or a fist full of cash... To dance with you at the wedding of a friend. And those sleep-deprived whirling dervish early days that you swear will never end... Somehow they do. Then you blink, look up, and you find a boyfriend with a beard and a U-Haul on the lawn.

Mary:
[voiceover] Psychologists say children believe in magic because their brains can't grasp the limits of natural law. As a kid, I tried to bend spoons with my mind like a magician I saw once on Saturday morning TV. It broke my heart when it didn't work. If I couldn't think a spoon into a knot, how could I will my mother to put down the vodka long enough to cook dinner, or wish my father into coming home to eat it? Beginning again. Some witnesses embrace it the chance to start fresh, to leave whatever baggage behind. For others, though, change means a dizzying loss of control. They cling to their baggage like a flotation device.

Marshall:
So, Norah, tough first day?

Mary:
You know she doesn't understand, and even if she did she couldn't answer. You know why?

Marshall:
'Cause she's a baby?

Mary:
She's a baby.

Marshall:
They're like sponges at this stage. She must have picked up something.

Mary:
I'm so tired. You know what I need? A stay at home wife. Gay marriage, that's not legal yet?

Marshall:
There's always a statewide referendum. You want a hand?

Mary:
I got it. You know what, just take the diaper bag. And my other bag. [picks up Norah's carrier] Honestly, just pick me up.

Mary:
[voiceover] What is unleashed in the soul when we love outside ourselves is sharp, unexpected and beyond words. Love turns smart people stupid and conjures courage from thin air. That we can love so wildly, so recklessly, yet feel it in tame ways of every day is something of a miracle. For some, a miracle ordinary or otherwise, would take a miracle. Still, there's room for repentance; there's hope, if only in glimmers. For others, hope is all there is. Love, miracle, hope, not my kind of words, but I find as life pushes relentlessly on that they nudge their way in and set up shop; undeniable as moon tides. Pie in the sky magical thinking is replaced by grounded, grownup sense of wonder, and the reality that something as simple as a sunrise can still surprise you.

Mary:
[voiceover] Somewhere between the primordial soup and the dirty cell phone pic, our minds invented a sneaky way to course-correct for our mistakes and disappointments. Leon Festinger called it cognitive dissonance. Worst part is it works, if only for a while.

Mary:
[looking at a horse] You can't trust them. The ratio's off; too much animal for that little brain. You know it's like a lemon?

Marshall:
You'll be fine.

Mary:
I'll be fine, but will he be fine? [to the horse] One false move and I turn you into a duffel bag. Got it?

Mary:
[referring to their guide] She's pretty. Pretty young.

Marshall:
I hadn't noticed.

Mary:
Really? You hadn't noticed her shameless flirting?

Marshall:
I'm kind of focused on the manhunt.

Mary:
Here's what I don't get: when did you become the George Clooney to the Veronica Mars set?

Marshall:
You've got a little venom on your chin.

Mary:
[voiceover] The mind's ability to fool itself knows almost no boundaries, but eventually the lucky among us come to our senses, the smoke fades, and we see things for how they really are. Whether by words of wisdom or the flicker of a flashlight, we muddle through the fog, landing on the long and winding road we're meant to travel. However baffling, we learn to trust the path or at least stay on it, and having no earthly clue where it's heading means we'll never be lost. At least not for long.

Mary:
[voiceover] According to my memory of sixth-grade social studies, 200 something years ago, our founding fathers fought for certain inalienable rights Free speech, the pursuit of happiness, the simple chance to have a choice. But there's such a thing as too many choices. I long for the days of three TV channels. Experts call this the paradox of choice, where having too many options can lead to the wrong one, or to the worst one making no choice at all.

Mary:
[to Marshall] I don't care what you say, Stan gave you the hothead heave-ho and not me. That's it, every year on this date we're having cake!

Mary:
Wait a minute, what? The guy who couldn't stand to be in the same room with John suddenly is simpatico? Oh, I see. You've got it too: the Betty/Veronica complex. The blonde work wife, the underage, brunette girlfriend.

Marshall:
Did you just call yourself my work wife?

Mary:
[whispers] I think I did. [makes a face]

Mary:
[voiceover] Everyone thinks they want freedom, or at least they say they do. The chance to choose whatever they want. But choices come with consequences. Every time you make a choice, you also take a risk. Risks that, for better or worse, alter your options for the rest of time. Options. Coke or Pepsi. Betty or Veronica. The wife you leave at work or the one you come home to at the end of the day. Some people think they can have it all. I don't get that.When did having enough stop being enough? And even if you did have it all, where the hell would you put it?

Mary:
[voiceover] This witness once told me there's truth in fairy tales. The problem with fairy tales... and I tried to explain this to him... is that they end too soon. They are, at best, a prologue for the messy chapters to come. Sure, Snow White and Prince Charming may do "happily every after" for a while. But then she comes home to find him banging Rapunzel in the big bed and you've got a different story. There's no truth in fairy tales, not really. Know how you can tell? They're called "fairy tales."

Mary:
[breaking up a fight between a civilian and witness] All right, cool it, both of you!

Angry Father:
Who the hell are you?

Mary:
I'm a sleep deprived mom with a Glock and an itchy trigger finger. Next question.

Mary:
I've got this dinner with Raf.

Marshall:
Raf? When did this happen? You didn't mention that?

Mary:
[pointing out Marshall's not telling her he proposed] Oh, by the way, I got engaged. The Isotopes hired him as some kind of coach.

Marshall:
Okay, so this dinner/date, is it dinner or a date?

Mary:
Dinner with Raf and his wife. Yeah, that's right, he dropped the wife-bomb on me and then ran for cover.

Marshall:
You didn't cancel.

Mary:
Why would I? I broke up with him. Anyway, he's a friend, I want to see how he's doing.

Marshall:
Don't think so. No, I think.

Mary:
Here we go.

Marshall:
-- you and Raf didn't work out so how, pray tell, did the story end?

Mary:
Shoot me now.

Marshall:
You don't do well with unresolved. Understandable, given your decided lack of resolution with your father.

Mary:
Okay, Freud, kick back and get your feet up. You know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Marshall:
Mary, it's me.

Mary:
Okay. Fine. Yeah, fine. So yeah, maybe I'm curious. Maybe I want to see how things turned out.

Marshall:
You just want to see if she's pretty or not.

Mary:
I hate when you know me.

Mary:
[voice-over] There's a reason we outgrow fairy tales. Let's face it: happily ever after is a crock, it's a con, a shell game for the sucker on the street. They're just words, pretty words, the equally empty book end to "once upon a time," but our lives aren't determined by some storybook, star-crossed destiny. They're not determined by what we're told is meant to be. Our lives are determined by dumb luck, the actions we take, and the courage we summon at our moments of truth. Unlike fairy tales, real life doesn't come with "the end" in gilded cursive on the very last page. Our stories never end. Happily ever after, for most of us, is really just the beginning. There's a million ever-afters in everybody's lives, because every time you think you've reached the finish line, the gun goes off again.

Mary:
This is bullshit, Stan. I'm a WITSEC inspector. If I wanted to be a douche bag special agent, I would have gone to douche bag special agent school!

Stan:
I'm not saying you have to do it.

Mary:
Look, I don't expect much out of DOJ, but is this office seriously going to bite down this hard on a big fish story peddled by one of its most wanted?!

Marshall:
Listen, my dad is in town for the weekend.

Mary:
I know.

Marshall:
And his arrival, totally planned, it's thrown me. Just him showing up.

Mary:
What's your point?

Marshall:
Your dad showed up unannounced, out of thin air, and you're having to be professional at a time when personal issues, for years deeply personal issues, well let's just say "thrown" doesn't even touch it. Mary, talk to me.

Mary:
I've been talking all day.

Marshall:
Yeah. Okay.

Seth Mann:
Do you know what your mother would say if she were here? Abigail is the girl we'd always hoped you would bring home.

Marshall:
Thanks, dad. You know, I can't help but notice that ever since you retired that the old, gruff you is MIA.

Seth Mann:
I'm not finished.

Marshall:
There he is.

Seth Mann:
The thing is, in marriage there is no guess work, and who you're there for at four in the morning, that's the one. So you've got to ask yourself, is Abigail the girl you always thought you'd bring home?

Mary:
I remember when I was seven, almost seven, I remember asking someone "what's the point of a partner if you're just going to do it yourself?" My whole life I think I haven't understood that word. Not really. I don't know. I just know a partner doesn't leave you on the doorstep; he follows you there, even at four in the morning.

Marshall:
I wonder what you're dad would say about that.

Mary:
The same thing he always said: never trust your partner.

Mary:
[voice-over] Everything's mythical when you're seven-years-old: fathers, mothers, Santa, God, the alleged protective powers of a gold medallion. It's not that certain things seem larger than life, it's just life seems larger, but the world keeps spinning and in a tiny thousand surrenders, or sometimes in one fell swoop, what you'd seen as truly miracle you learn is merely myth. The good news, if you can call it that, is that ultimately you find other myths to believe in, and other men as well. You see the myth for what it is: close up and in its bones, smaller and greater and more like you than you care to admit, and it nevertheless leaves you, always, every single time, sitting foolish on the doorstep awaiting its return.

Mary:
[voiceover] Ask an artist how he knows he's finished with a painting, and odds are he'll say you never really know. I read somewhere Picasso used to touch up paintings on living room walls smudges on canvas he'd sold years before. Like his relationships, like all of ours, his paintings lingered unfinished, somewhere between not quite dead and pulsing with life.

Mary:
Hey, so if I were someone who could tell these things, how could I tell if these were fake?

Marshall:
Ever gotten faux jewelry from a guy?

Mary:
I've never gotten jewelry from a guy, and don't say faux.

Mary:
[voiceover] Everyone always says life isn't fair. Bad guys get away with the goods and the good die young, but we carry on anyway, because what other choice do we have? In the face of unfair, we carry on, holding on and bracing ourselves and only sometimes forgetting that there's another storm right around the corner. But life, I find, is often more about the storms than the peace they seek to overwhelm. They lurk, ready, any minute now, to shake things up and take your breath away.

Abigail:
So it was just the two of you at the funeral home. Wow. Intimate.

Marshall:
It's her father, Ab. She's my partner.

Abigail:
Marshall, I need you to remove the phrase "she's my partner" from your arsenal. I know she's your partner.

Marshall:
My arsenal?

Abigail:
I don't want to be that girl. Don't make me that girl. The insecure -- yes, she's your partner and she is your friend. Your best friend.

Marshall:
You've got to understand --

Abigail:
When do we come first? I mean, Marshall, skipping an appointment to meet with our minister?

Marshall:
I wasn't skipping.

Abigail:
Cancelling. Last minute because Mary needs you. Again.

Marshall:
Look, Mary and I --

Abigail:
I get it. You know what? I don't get it. I don't even think you do, not really, and until you do, until you figure this out, I think we need to put any appointments with ministers, any anything with ministers, on hold.

Marshall:
Abigail.

Abigail:
Marshall, I love you. This isn't jealousy. This is important for me, important for you. Just talk to her.

Marshall:
This, what we have, it's undefinable, and up until now nothing's ever come along to jeopardize that.

Mary:
Marshall, you're my best friend. You're my only friend. I mean, forget friend, you're -- you know.

Marshall:
I know. I love that. But that's the problem.

Mary:
Because you're getting married.

Marshall:
Yeah. I'm getting married. I love Abigail deeply, and because I do that's why I need you to do something for me.

Mary:
Anything.

Marshall:
I need you to release me. I need to be free enough to have a life with Abigail, and I need you to be okay enough for that to happen, because if you call I'll come. Every time.

Mary:
Well, I don't know a lot these days. All I know is that more than anything in the whole world, I want you to be happy. So, I'm going to say this once and only once: I want you to marry Abigail. She makes you happy. I like her and I like you together. I know, I hide it well.

Marshall:
Yeah. Okay. So, shall we get on with the rest of our lives?

Mary:
You first.

Mary:
Douche bag. I can't believe you buried the lead.

Marshall:
With all that's gone on this week, my making chief hardly makes the lead. It's ancillary.

Mary:
Don't say ancillary.

Marshall:
Why not?

Mary:
I don't know. It's annoying.

Marshall:
It's the exact word for what I'm trying to convey.

Mary:
Don't say convey.

Mary:
[voice-over] Nobody likes letting go. From our earliest moments, from birth until we're six feet under, our instinct is to grab, grip, cling to a finger, bottle, best friend, to a faded old racing form. Sometimes we hold on for dear life to the very things that keep us from living it, but that comes with an upside. It's the way we feel when we finally let go. The trick, I guess, is to not find a way around the curveballs life serves up, but to live with them; a halfway happy, uneasy alliance, and to search for new things to cling to, and when you finally find them to hang on just as tight. And around and around we go, holding on until the time comes to say goodbye, and like it or not, ready or not, you have to accept one universal truth: life is messy. Always and for all of us. But a wise man once said, maybe messy is what you need, and I think you might be right.