Disclaimer: Characters and recognisable plot details belong to NBC etc
SPOILER WARNING – THIS CONTAINS SEASON FIFTEEN SPOILERS
Author's Note: This is the companion piece to An Afternoon in Baton Rouge, and is, as you will no doubt be able to guess, focused on Neela. Rather belated, I know, but real life, you know. As before, please take note that this contains extreme spoilers, and should be read only by those who do not mind being spoiled. Thank you for the reviews on the last piece, and any comments you have to make on this one will be equally appreciated. By the way, I mainly wrote this before the season finale so doesn't take into account Abby and Luka's reconciliation – thought I'd mention that. I had intended these pieces to just be a pair, but I have a bit of a hankering to add to them. I can't help but feel Luka and Abby need a voice in this, and probably Morris as well. What do you think? And now I'm back in the habit of writing again, you never know what might get updated next!
Thanks for the reviews, particularly the one pointing out the tense issues. Although I always had this piece in my head right from the outset as being written in the present tense, it's unbelivably difficult to keep the whole thing together without slipping out of it. So I've just gone through this and tried to correct the errors that found their way through my first edit.
An afternoon in Chicago
After much deliberation, and several other options that she discards on her bedroom floor, she wears the same dress she wore to Michael's funeral. She hates the idea of having a "funeral dress" – it seems altogether too depressing that, at the age of thirty-one she has been to enough funerals of loved ones that she has a specific outfit – but she really doesn't have anything else remotely suitable and she supposes neither of them will mind.
She is working hard to keep her mind as clear as possible, absolutely determined not to lose her grip on reality, at least, not until after she is through this afternoon. She knows that if she allows herself as much as a second to think that it's only been two years since she buried her husband, and only a year since she lost her best friend into an indefinable limbo, she will crumple into a heap and never find the strength to get up again.
She puts on some make-up, and concentrates hard on what she is doing, not what she is thinking, or worse, feeling. A little foundation, she doesn't bother with concealer; the dark circles under her eyes are no larger and no blacker than anyone else's who is going to be there so there's no point in hiding them. Eyeshadow, some eyeliner. Mascara – definitely waterproof. She wonders if she's being vain, if it's inappropriate to be getting dressed up for a funeral, but if she doesn't anchor herself in mundanities, the tiny thread of strength she is using to hold herself together is going to snap and she knows she will be lost.
It's five days since it happened. Five sunrises and five sunsets that seem to carry on, regardless of the fact that everyone's world is no longer turning. Five nights without sleep, and three more before that where she sits outside his room with everyone else in vigil, waiting for a recovery that they know in their hearts becomes less rather than more likely as the time passes.
Each day since then is passing in something of a blur for her, and if she's being frank, she prefers it that way. It saves her from having to think too much. One night, when the thoughts begin to creep up on her and invade her brain, she tries a self prescribed mixture of tequila and sleeping pills to shut them out but all she ends up doing is scaring herself and runs to the toilet, sticking her fingers down her throat. Much as she craves oblivion, her friends, Pratt's friends, don't need any worries right now, and finding her passed out and in need of a stomach pumping would certainly give them that.
She looks in the mirror, checking her appearance. Not too bad, she supposes, not that she cares. She realises then that the dress really doesn't matter; the only person who would know this it's the same one she wore to Michael's funeral is Pratt and, well, it's not like he's going to know about it.
As if on cue, there is a knock on the door. Yesterday, Morris says he will pick her up and drive her so she doesn't have to come in on the El on her own, and although she appreciates the thought, she would rather be on her own but agrees for his sake. After Pratt-watch ends, they all take turns on Morris-watch. Out of everyone, he is hit the hardest; after all, Pratt is his best friend, and they try not to leave him alone if they can help it. He is putting on a brave face, but Neela recognises the emptiness in his eyes behind the bravado as one she has seen in her own more than once, and she knows there aren't any words that help with that.
Secretly, she also keeps an eye on Abby, who on the surface seems to be handling things well enough, or at least, no worse than the rest of them are, but she knows Abby's thread of control hangs a little thinner than most. So far though, as far as Neela can tell, she isn't drinking again and Neela is proud of her for that.
Grabbing her keys and purse, she calls out, 'Just coming,' as she makes her way to the door. When she sees Morris on the other side, she puts aside her staunch self control for a minute and gives him a hug. They cling to each other for a moment, but he lets go quickly and Neela knows that he is finding it even harder than she is to hold back the tears.
The traffic is heavy, as if for some reason the people of Chicago don't care that their friend is dead and are going about their daily business as normal, and Neela glances at her watch nervously. A quarter to two. There is a deafening silence hanging between them, but it isn't awkward and it seems too grave an occasion (pardon the pun) to fill it with small talk.
She looks across at Morris, and he seems as if he is trying to say something.
'We'll do him proud Morris,' she tries to reassure him. Then, when that doesn't appear to help, she adds, 'it's okay to cry. It's even okay to scream and shout.' She shoots him a brief smile, even though she doesn't feel like it. 'Believe me, I've done it all.'
'Have you spoken to Ray?' he asks, which surprises her, although she isn't sure why. She knows she isn't the only one who misses him.
'Not yet. I keep trying, but I can't get the words out. I keep dialling his number and hanging up,' she admits reluctantly. She doesn't think she can handle talking about Ray on top of everything else right now, not even to Morris, who she knows is asking for the right reasons.
'He should be here,' Morris replies quietly.
'Yes, he should,' she agrees, and doesn't just mean for the funeral.
Two o'clock, and they file into the chapel. She tries not to look at the coffin but her eyes are involuntarily drawn to it. Lots of people have sent flowers and the pale wood is partially hidden by them, but it doesn't change the fact that Pratt's dead body is lying just a few feet in front of them; even if they can't see it.
A tall authoritative looking man who introduces himself as Pastor Watkins starts the service and although Neela is quite sure he is saying all the right things, she doesn't listen. All she can do is sit there, and stare blankly at the coffin, tuning out completely.
The more she stares at it, the more the scene before her morphs into something else. She is no longer sitting in the hospital chapel, but in a military cemetery on an overcast afternoon. The coffin is draped with a flag that will never be hers, and she recoils when it is folded and held out to her, flinches with each and every one of the twenty one shots that ring out through the grey drizzle.
She crashes the shutter down in her head that she uses when she needs to control her emotions. There must be no tears, not today. Today she must be strong. Strong for herself, and for Michael, and for Pratt, and for her friends who need her.
She watches as Luka steps forward to deliver the eulogy. She isn't interested in the Pastor's words of acceptance and God's will, but she senses that everyone in the room needs to hear what Luka has to say. He might not be their Chief anymore, but just for today they are in need of a leader and he is going to have to be it whether he likes it or not.
'Friends,' he begins, and already Neela can feel a little of the grief in the room subside as his strong deep voice washes over them. 'I…' Please Luka, she thinks, please know what to say now. We need you to.
'When I asked Pratt to stand up for me, almost exactly a year ago, I didn't think I would be returning the favour in this way, and it breaks my heart that I am. I wish I was able to find some words that will take the pain away and make everything okay for you all. I sat up all of last night with a pen and paper trying to find those words, but I know that there aren't any.
'I could stand here and tell you, as Pastor Watkins has, what a good man Greg Pratt was, but we all know that. He was a colleague, a brother,' he nods at Chaz, sitting in the front row, but he is far too grief stricken to acknowledge it, 'a son,' Charlie Pratt smiles a tight, bitter smile in response, 'a fiancé,' Neela doesn't have the courage to look at Betina, but she doesn't need to, she's been there herself, she knows, 'a gifted doctor, and perhaps above all of those, a friend,' Luka continues.
'I could stand here and tell you that some higher power, God, or whoever you prefer, was behind this, that he had a plan for him. Even that the good die young. I'm not sure I believe any of that anymore.
'So instead, in the absence of something better to say, I am going to tell you what I am feeling right now, and I hope it strikes a chord. I hope it makes each one of you feel a little less alone right now, I hope it helps us share the grief we are feeling among the friends we have left.
'I think Greg's death was a cruel twist of fate, and it isn't fair that he died. He had a future with Betina to look forward to, a chance to far eclipse me as Chief of the ER,' a watery chuckle resonated throughout the room. 'He wasn't playing the hero when he died, he was doing his job, as we all do, every day. We risk our lives to help people, and sometimes it's decided that to call in that risk. I can't stand here and tell you that it was a sacrifice Greg was happy to make, because I don't think it was; I know I wouldn't want to be as happy as he was only to have it stolen away from me.'
Neela wonders how much willpower it takes for Luka not to look at Abby right then. A scarier thought is that perhaps it didn't take any, but she doesn't want to think of that possibility.
'But however cheated he may feel, it's worse for those of us who are left behind,' he continues. 'We are the ones who have to piece our lives back together and learn to live without him, without our colleague, brother, son, fiancé, friend. We are the ones,' and here, at last, his voice cracks, 'who miss him so damn much.' He presses his lips together to compose himself, and this time Neela sees his dark, tortured eyes flick ever so briefly in Abby's direction and she feels her heart jump for her friend despite her grief.
'So all I can say to you all is that even though we have lost Greg, we still have each other, and I know he wouldn't want us to lose sight of that. That even if we want to go home and lock the door and pull down the blinds, and immerse ourselves in our grief, we cannot do that. He would not want us to. He would want us to fight on, to live another day, because that's what he would do. So that is what I will do, and what I hope you will too.'
She doesn't listen to the rest of the service. She thinks there's some singing, but she couldn't say for sure. Instead, she sits quietly, and holds Morris' hand tightly. She can feel his shoulders shaking but she doesn't look at him – if she does, she knows he will cry too.
When it is all over, they are meant to be going to Ike's. Where else? She is about to follow on when she feels a hand on her arm. It's Brenner, and immediately she looks for an escape route. If nothing else, she is grateful that this tragedy is enough to make her reassess her life and she knows fooling around with Brenner is not the answer.
'Neela, are you coming to Ike's?'
He barely knew Pratt, she thinks. All he did was argue with him. How dare he even show his face at the wake?
'I, uh…' Then she sees Dubenko. He looks like he wants to speak to her, and she jumps at the opportunity. 'I'll follow on later,' she says to Brenner, already pulling her arm away from him and starting to walk away.
'Do you want me to wait for you? Walk you over?'
She bites back a nasty retort. 'No thanks. I'll come over with Lucien in a bit.'
She and Dubenko walk to a park, one near the hospital, a patch of green amongst the bustle of the city without saying a word to each other. Dubenko is clearly not himself, quiet and withdrawn, but Neela knows she is no better so she doesn't push him. Eventually, when they are sitting on a bench watching a young mother with a pair of toddlers, twin girls, absolutely identical down to the pink ribbons in their golden ringlets, playing on a swing set, she cannot bear the silence any more. She needs to talk to someone, and Dubenko is there.
'I wish Ray was here.' The words are out before she realises they were the ones she intended to say.
Dubenko doesn't reply, but he looks across at her softly, compassionately, as if he understands. And then the words come tumbling out.
'I wish Ray was here all the time. I never stop wishing he's here. He's in my head, all the time, and I don't know what to do. Every time I have a good surgery, I want to share the success with him. Every time I lose a patient, I want to go home and cry on his shoulder. I… I don't know what to do.' She knows there is a note of panic rising in her voice, but she can't stop herself now.
'I haven't known what to do for such a long time. I've been lost for such a long time. I'm lost without him. I'm lost without Michael. I'm just lost… and I don't know how to find myself again.'
Those blue grey eyes stare back at her calmly, as if he knows she is about to fall apart and there is nothing he can do but hold her when it happens. It's that piercing look of empathy that pushes her over the edge she has been teetering on this last week.
The grief that over the last two years has faded to a dull ache that has been resurrected with Pratt's death is suddenly sharpening with a vengeance, dragging her right back to the black abyss of guilt and loss that she has been steering herself away from. It creeps up from her stomach into her chest and constricts her heart and before she knows what is happening, a huge sob escapes from her throat. It is too loud in the face of Lucien's silence, but she can't stop herself. A floodgate is suddenly open and now there is no closing it. She feels his arm around her shoulders but her eyes are swimming with tears and she can no longer see him.
The guilt is choking her. Guilt for Michael. Guilt that even now she doesn't love him like she knows she should do. She doesn't miss him for him, she misses that her life with him was simpler, all planned out. She misses a time when her head isn't such a bloody mess as it is now. She misses…
She misses him. And him doesn't mean Michael, which not only adds to the Michael-guilt but opens up a whole new hole in her heart. She has managed to keep it in for a whole year, but actually voicing how much she misses Ray, letting on just how many pieces she was in, she feels the self control she spends all her time weaving around herself dissolve into salty, bitter tears.
Then, just as she feels herself begin to hyperventilate, the sob dies in her throat as she her cellphone starts to vibrate in her pocket. If it was any other name flashing up on caller ID she wouldn't have answered.
'Come and see me.'
'I…' She starts to talk before she realises there is a lump in her throat so large that she cannot squeeze a single word over it.
'Neela, please? I… I need you.' His tone is soft, vulnerable, but decisive. It is the tone of someone who has reached their lowest point and now wants to climb back up. And needs her help to do it.
She is amazed at how just the sound of his voice makes the pain dissipate. How she can leap from the depths of grief and despair to something she has forgotten the feel of… hope.
'I…' She falters again, and then her mind clears and she knows there is only one answer she can give. It's the only answer she wants to give. It's the only answer she has ever wanted to give him.
Yes.
She wants to scream it down the phone. She wants to scream it so loud that he can hear her all the way from Baton Rouge.
Instead, she takes a deep breath. 'I'm on the next plane. I'll call the airport right now.'
Dubenko is smiling at her, almost proudly, and she smiles back, thankful. It seems right somehow that she shares this moment with him. He has been her only link with reality this last year, and letting him see her happy at last is the only way she has to repay him.
There is one more thing she needs to say. 'Ray?'
'Yes?'
'I love you.'
And as she says the three words that set her free, a shaft of sunlight breaks through the dirty grey clouds above and shines right on her. And she knows they're all going to be okay.