The leaves were full and green and the nip in the air that had been so relentless had softened to a warm caress. Summer was waiting at the doorstep and Sara felt the first stirrings of a thaw in her own frozen soul. This place she found herself in was becoming more familiar with each passing day. The sameness of the routine, the blankness of the walls and spareness of its furnishings both soothed and numbed her. It was here, out on the lawn, in the presence of the sun and the soft breeze and the living greens all around, that she could really begin to reassemble the non-functional, shattered bits that were once her private world.
Sara pushed back the long, constricting sleeves of her T-shirt and bared her arms to the kiss of the sun. Her arms looked unnaturally thin and pale,she noted, even to her apethetic eyes. She settled herself on the grass and absently plucked at the velvety green spears.
"Sara Tancredi, mail," a nurse called from across the green expanse. She turned and looked in the direction of the hospital doorway. Curiosity briefly coursed through her. Sara had received the occasional phonecall from her father since she'd been involuntarily committed to the rehab center, but he never wrote. And there wasn't anyone else who would write to her, except... no, she would never hear from him again. She'd served his purposes and it was over. There was on one else. No one.
The loneliness she battled constantly threatened to overwhelm her in that moment and she craved a hit. The desire came out of nowhere and was almost crippling. She craved the sudden release that would chase away the pain and leave forgetful euphoria in its wake.
Sara jumped up as if a bee stung her and headed for the nurse with deliberate strides, as if to distance herself physically from her dark desires.
The nurse placed a letter in her outstretched hand. Without looking at it or acknowledging the nurse, Sara turned and crossed the grounds again, seating herself on a bench on the exact opposite side of the expansive yard from her earlier position. Only now did she look down at the letter she held so tightly.
The address was written in a handwriting she didn't recognize nor did she recognize the return address, a post office box in Yuma, Arizona. She flipped the letter over and over, building up the courage to open it. She finally ripped open the flap and removed the contents with trembling fingers to see what mystery lay within.
The letter was two pages long, handwritten, front and back, in small, very legible script. Unable to put off her curiosity any longer, she flipped to the signature on the back and gasped.
"Love always, Michael," stared up at her.
Him. She realized sadly that she'd never seen enough of his handwriting to recognize it. What else didn't she know about him? Swallowing hard and frantically scanning her surroundings for a waste can, Sara briefly considered not reading another word but simply throwing the pages in the trash. In the murky, hellish days since her near death from an overdose, Sara had struggled to make sense of her descent into relapse. She hadn't seen it coming, but it had nearly destroyed her. It had destroyed her career, her freedom, and possibly her future.
Funny, she thought with a bitter smile, it hadn't destroyed her father's career. No, in true Tancredi style, he'd taken the circumstances of her wrecked and ruined life and crusaded against drugs using her as a poster child. His standing politically was stronger than ever. His relationship with his daughter, however, was in tatters. No matter, he had succeeded where it mattered most to him. He would soon be re-elected, if the polls held true.
"Love always, Michael."
She cringed. Sara had dared to believe in him, and in his feelings for her. For the first time in her life, somebody had actually seemed to care about her. She had believed the looks and the words they'd exchanged. And that kiss... the kiss was always right there, always hovering with velvety warmth on the frontal lobe of her consciousness. It was as if he saw her, the real Sara, when nobody else cared to look past the surface. When she had realized that he was one of them, using her, callously, for his own ends, she had crashed. It was the last straw. Nothing mattered any more.
Sara sighed, exasperated at herself. She hadn't even read the damn thing, and here she was spiraling down into the pit of despair once again. She should really throw it out. Look at the state she was already in, just looking at the signature.
She couldn't throw this out, not in a million years. Michael may have used her, he may have manipulated her, but she was the one who'd chosen to smash her life into a million pieces. She was the one who stuck the needle in her arm. Nobody else. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't blame that on him. And in spite of everything, she couldn't deny that this was what she'd been waiting for, hoping for.
She turned to the beginning and began to read.
"Dearest Sara,
I hope this finds you well. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and wish I could see your sweet face one more time. Once you told me to cut the charm act. Please believe that I'm not trying to charm you or get something from you. I just need to know that you're okay. If you want to hate me, that's understandable. I hate me, too, for the things I did to get Lincoln free. Actually, that's not completely true. Getting Lincoln out of there, alive, was my reason for being in prison. It was my only goal. And most of the things I did, I'd do again.
Except for what I did to you. If I could do it all over again, if I'd known the beautiful person I would find behind those prison walls, I'd have figured out another way. Anything, to keep from hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you, you have to believe me. The more I got to know you, the harder it became to remember what I was in there for in the first place. I'd never met anyone like you. You found a way past my defenses, Sara. Nobody's ever done that before.
I saw a newspaper article right after the breakout about you, Sara. The article said you'd OD'ed and were in the hospital in critical condition. I tried every way I knew how to get more information, but I only found out you were still alive last week. One of Veronica's friends is a nurse in your rehab hospital. She says you've been there since you got out of the hospital. Sara, I was as good as dead until last week when I heard you were still alive. I had assumed the worst. I wanted to die myself.
Please, please write to me and tell me how you're doing? I'll understand if you don't. But I'm hoping that you'll drop me a line. If you don't it's okay, like I said. Just knowing you're alive in the same world as I am is enough. You're an incredible woman, Sara Tancredi. Don't ever let anyone tell you different.
Love always,
Michael
Sara sat, staring at the letter in her lap, for a long time. She cuoldn't possibly answer this, she shouldn't open that door again. It had almost killed her the last time. How was anything different now? He was still a fugitive, and would always be so. He'd shown his nature by using her, manipulating her, playing with her affections. Hadn't he? Why would she want to open it all up again?
She held the letter to chest, as if the words within could somehow seep through her T-shirt straight into her heart. Her precious memory of Michael's face, sharper than it had been in months, floated before her mind's eye. Deep down, she understood why he'd done the things he'd done. It hurt, but she understood. And now he wasn't asking for anything. He just wanted to know how she was doing.
Was it really too far a stretch to believe that he was actually concerned for her?
Would it really be that awful of a thing to do to write back a sentence or two? She wasn't committing anything. She would just be letting him know how she was. This was no big deal, she told herself, in spite of the adrenaline-charged feeling in her stomach that warned her a cliff might be lurking just around the next bend.
Sara stood and stretched out her legs. She walked slowly back towards the front door. Walking to the nurse's station, she smiled at the girl on duty.
"Can I have some stationery and a pen? I'd like to write a letter."
A/N: I know I have another fic going, but I HAD to deal with last night's episode! I might continue this; can't decide if this is a good place to end or not. For those of you who haven't seen "Go" yet, I don't think this gives too much away. Actually, so many plot twists were left hanging it would be hard for me to give ANYTHING away! C'mon, FOX, throw us a bone!
