Note: EarthToAlex left a brilliant suggestion in the reviews (thank you) that I plan to follow. This chapter may pose some questions as to what has happened in New York, on the way to the hospital, and can easily be read both ways. Read it in the way that you see fit, and the final pieces of this story will be up soon.
It's four-fifteen a.m. in London when her phone rings. She's tired, but she understands that this comes with the job, and she blindly gropes for the phone. Any remnant of sleep leaves her voice at the angry-sounding machine: Will you accept the charges? Mercy Hospital, Mercy in New York, calling her. "Y-Yes," she stutters.
There is a quiet voice on the other end of the line, a sad, quiet voice. Sara spends the next three minutes talking to Elizabeth before she disconnects the call, her pale hands shaking and cold. She scrunches her eyes closed, takes a heavy breath, feels like she's going to implode.
She opens her nightstand to reach for her wallet, and her fingers brush the plane tickets she'd bought on a whim just yesterday afternoon, just after receiving the text from Elizabeth that said Neal is safe, is home. She recalls the feeling of lightheadedness as her phone had lit up. Transatlantic texting was pricey, and while Sara and Elizabeth were certainly friendly, they weren't ones for girlish texts. She'd known it was an update on Neal, was expecting a lead or something… but he was home, was safe, and she'd impulsively bought the ticket, imagining scenarios, imagined seeing Neal again. Her fingers also touch the paper protruding from her sister's old bible. Sara's not religious, nor is she sentimental, but the bible was her sister's… and the paper inside… Neal.
She tugs the paper free, holds it. It's a drawing of herself, sleeping, in Neal's bed, the sheets rumpled, the light filtering through Byron and June's antique curtains. She'd been mortified at first, imagining Neal studying her as she slept, but then an all-over feeling of warmth had encompassed her, whispering that maybe she shouldn't be going to London.
But she'd gone regardless, and Neal had been taken, and Sara had remained in London. She'd followed up leads on her own, had inquired, and when that hadn't worked, had thrown herself into her work. She'd not dated anyone, and nightmares of finding Neal but being too late, of receiving a phone call from Peter, plagued her. A particularly nasty but recurring one involved Sara deciding to hell with London, rushing to see Neal, to talk about that damn-near perfect fake proposal, only to watch James kill him. It was dark. God, it was dark.
Occasionally, her mind would entertain the idea of Neal showing up at work… but bleak reality put that daydream down rapidly.
And now, after tonight, there would be no more daydreams.
She brushes her hair, grabs her overnight back (ever-so practical, she always has one packed and ready because leads with her job take her out of town often and on a moment's notice), and slips on some yoga pants, a shirt, some shoes.
She takes a taxi to the airport, pays a hefty sum of money to change her ticket, and sits in the lobby, waiting for the red-eye to New York.
The airport is busy still, and Sara calmly stands, makes her way to the ladies' room, and throws up.