I Don't Know How to Say Good-bye
Mid-September 1998
Standing in the open French doors of Nikita's balcony, Madeline was only vaguely aware of the passage of time: that the sun was long set and the sky had turned black, filled with innumerable points of light. The cool autumn air drifted around her as she tried to shut out everything except the feel of it caressing her skin. All she wanted was to reclaim the sense of inner calm that eluded her. Yet even here, one of the few places where she had felt anything that resembled peace or emotional security in recent years, she couldn't escape the underlying anger and restlessness that plagued her.
Nothing worked. Her mind kept coming back to the events of the day: kept coming back to Lauren Haas. With the thoughts and the memories came the desire to strangle the blonde recruit.
Lauren was everything Section wanted and needed in a female operative - especially now. Her ratings and performance evaluations were consistently high. She had even managed to garner Operations' early approval for her easy acceptance of the ways of Section. She was a potentially excellent operative. Lauren was tall, blonde, and aesthetically pleasing. Madeline realized that some thought her beautiful, and at one time Madeline would have agreed - she didn't now.
Madeline had played her "Section Mother" role flawlessly as she had carefully prepared and examined Lauren before her "final exam". While she had noted every detail, including recognizing the girl's "beauty", she had still found her lacking: there was nothing compelling about her. When they had finished, Lauren had smiled her sweetest smile, thanked her, and sauntered out of the room.
In that moment, Madeline realized she hated her. Venomously. She had been almost gleeful when she realized that Lauren's lighthearted, happy attitude would end in an ugly struggle for survival. It had taken the better part of the evening to release the last vestiges of the hatred from her heart and to chase the random disturbing thoughts from her mind only to have them return with the sunrise when Lauren reentered her office.
Just as she was concluding her check-in with Walter, the door alert had sounded and released the lock. She had looked up and seen Lauren standing by the chair in front of her glass-topped desk, affecting a rebellious, impatient stance. Immediately, Madeline's trained eye recognized something wasn't right. She did a quick mental scan and noticed the calculated attempt on Lauren's part to "reflect" Nikita's style and personality. Her blonde hair was pulled over one shoulder and wrapped by a leather cord. Madeline had seen Nikita wearing a similar apparatus in her hair on occasion, but never in that style. Even her non-section style of dress seemed a deliberate attempt to elicit a subconscious comparison to Nikita.
When Madeline had gestured to the chair across from her desk, Lauren had drop herself into it and smiled: the same sweet smile she had used the night before. It had taken Madeline a great deal of reserve to not reach across her desk and smack it from the young woman's face. She had asked Lauren how she envisioned her role in Section. Lauren had played coy, toying with her shirt, not looking Madeline in the eye. When Madeline asked her point blank if she would like to be assigned to Michael's team, a look of satisfaction had immediately appeared on Lauren's face. Knowing she was close to personally canceling the twit, Madeline had given her a Mona Lisa smile and told her, "That will be all." She just barely managed to keep her eyes from squinting as Lauren strolled out the door.
Later, she had watched as Lauren tried to "cozy" up to Birkoff, who was promptly repelled by her behavior. Lauren had even managed to cause the usual calm and indifferent Ken to loose his cool. Madeline had rounded the corner of the corridor that lead to the workout area just in time to see Ken step back from a visibly startled Lauren. For one unguarded moment Madeline had seen Ken's face twisted in disgust and anger. Each incident that Madeline witnessed left her feeling proud and more than a little vindicated.
Leaning back against the door frame, Madeline ducked her chin to her chest before rolling her head from side to side, hoping to alleviate the tension that had spawned the incessant throbbing behind her temples. Taking a deep breath, as if to bolster herself, she admitted that perhaps her harsh reaction to Lauren had more to do with who she wasn't rather than who she was. Here, in the privacy and security of Nikita's home, knowing that all surveillance had been turned off, she could admit that she missed Nikita. She could admit to herself that she felt angry about Nikita's death, angry with Nikita for dying, and angry that she hadn't foreseen what would happen. Intellectually she knew it was illogical - Nikita's death was not something she could have foreseen. But the gnawing flutter that had twisted her stomach for the last two months whenever she pulled up Nikita's reports told her she was wrong. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something. It grated at her. Lauren, thanks to her behavior and appearance, was just a convenient outlet.
Walking back to the kitchen, Madeline placed her small china cup on the glass counter and refilled the kettle, setting it back on the stove to heat. While she waited, she again wandered the apartment, taking in the changes Nikita had brought to the place since Madeline had last been there.
The first time Madeline had come to Nikita's apartment, the color and exuberance of the place had moved her - shocked her. The room seemed alive, filled with strong vivid colors and whimsical motion. It was a sharp contrast to the austereness which now surrounded her. The only connection between the old Nikita and the one who had lived in this apartment were the variety of candles dispersed throughout the room.
At the sound of the kettle's whistle, Madeline returned to the kitchenette and prepared her cup of tea. Wanting to watch the shadow of flames dance across the walls, she grabbed her purse off the counter to retrieve a lighter. Unexpectedly her fingers brushed along the edges of a wire sculpture; she froze momentarily, then slowly pulled it from her purse.
Staring at the brightly colored wire object, Madeline remembered the second time she had been to Nikita's apartment. She had returned, ostensibly to prepare it for housekeeping, after Nikita had been listed as "cancelled" following the botched Shay's mission. Madeline had begun to see the signs of guilt weighing on Michael and watching him slowly tear himself apart caused her to doubt her own conviction that he had somehow saved Nikita. Needing to reaffirm her belief in Nikita's strength and vitality, in her ability to survive, Madeline had come to the wildly decorated studio; it had been the only possible place where she felt she could do that.
The wire sculpture had been left on Nikita's kitchen counter. To Madeline, the mass of thin, brightly colored, tangled wire constrained by thicker black wire seemed to represent life entombed by death. It was a perfect reflection of what Nikita's state of mind had been when she had left Madeline's office prepared to end her own life. Madeline had gambled that Michael could save Nikita when she had ordered the cancellation of "Josephine". When she left Nikita's apartment that time, Madeline had pocketed the small wire sculpture, and, for some reason she had never bothered to analyze, had carried it ever since. She had kept it hidden, retrieving it only when she was informed of Nikita's death.
Placing the sculpture back inside her purse, she retrieved the lighter and set about illuminating the dark room. In the flickering glow of the candles, Madeline turned on the CD player, the last disk Nikita had listened still in the player, and tried to recapture the essence of Nikita in the room. Retrieving her tea, she settled on the sofa; she had to resolve her feelings here - now. Madeline had recommend that Lauren be transferred to a substation and she would be on her way by the time Madeline returned to Section. With Lauren gone, there was no longer an easy target for her anger and frustration; she had to come to terms with her anger and grief instead of externalizing it. She was glad, however, that she would have one less unpleasant reminder of Nikita's absence to deal with on a daily basis.
The only surprise left to figure out then was Operations. He had not only agreed with her decision, but seemed genuinely relieved to know Lauren was leaving. She had caught him watching the young recruit in the past few weeks, noting the resigned expression on his face that many mistook for acceptance, whenever he looked at Lauren. Madeline realized that Nikita's death had affected him more than he was letting on, more than he wanted to accept. Now all she had to do was find a way to help him deal with his feelings - after she dealt with hers.
Rising from the sofa, she took one more look around the room, then walking up to each candle, Madeline remembered an occasion with, or a particular nuance of Nikita's, then extinguished the flame and said good-bye to the light that had lived there. Finally, the room in darkness, she placed her cup on the counter, took her purse and exited the apartment. Closing the door behind her and standing with her back to it, she called Housekeeping.
~~*~~
Three weeks had passed since Nikita's funeral, almost a month since her death. Even though he had accepted that as fact, there were times when Michael could swear she was just in another room - he could feel her; times when some small voice within him refused to accept that she was forever gone from him - beyond his reach. In quiet moments, that voice whispered to him, comforted him. Ironic, that in the midst of one of the greatest tragedies of his life, Michael had found his soul - Nikita's last parting gift to him.
Although he didn't find comfort in any form of organized religion, Michael did find comfort in believing that there was more to Nikita than flesh and blood. That in some way, some form, call it a soul or spirit, she continued. He doubted he would ever stop aching for her physical presence, but he believed that as long as he needed her, she would somehow be there, if only in his heart.
From his position on the edge of the bed, Michael slowly scanned the room. He knew this might be the last time he would be in this house, this room; he wanted to remember every detail. The room itself was uncluttered and airy; a large frosted glass window dominated the far wall and flooded the room with light. The bed was neatly made; the crisp white comforter lay flat and smooth, the pillows fluffed and placed back into their matching croqueted shams. Running his hand across the soft fabric, he allowed himself to feel her presence and to remember the nights he had sat up and watched Nikita sleep. The moon's light drifting through the frosted window, seeming to cocoon them in peace and tranquility: in a sense of rightness and belonging. He had loved to simply gaze at her, as moonbeams illuminated her beautiful face, and know that she would always be his love. Taking a fortifying breath, Michael stood and walked around the room.
The wooden chest sat open at the foot of the bed, filled with the colorful pillows and chenille blankets Nikita had loved. Her favorite indigo throw was stored safely in Michael's bag. The oversized, overstuffed, chair sat in the corner, a stack of dog-eared books beside it. Michael's armoire stood against the wall opposite the bed. He moved quickly to it and opened the bottom drawer, reaching inside, his questing fingers searching for a jewelry box. Feeling the soft brush of the velvet knap against his callused fingertips he grasped it tightly and removed it from the drawer, opening the tiny hinged lid. Inside, on a bed of satin, rested the platinum charm bracelet he had planned to give Nikita. Silent tears falling from his eyes, he raised the bracelet to his lips, kissing is softly before placing it securely in his pocket.
Standing, he turned his attention to her closet. The doors were closed and Michael knew that it was empty now. With Walter's and Linda's help, and patience, they had bagged and boxed up most of Nikita's clothes to be given to a homeless women's shelter. Somehow, he knew that would have made her happy.
Turning, he faced the bathroom door; her white bathrobe still hung behind the door. It had reminded him too much of the one she had brought with her on the Armel mission and Michael had been unable to put it in a bag and give it away. Somehow, knowing it hung there was comforting. As far as he knew, her hair brush and toiletries were still in the medicine cabinet. He didn't understand why he felt so compelled to hold onto these items; he hadn't needed to hold onto anything when Simone had died. When he had lost her, he had felt the need to purge her from the house, finding only pain in what she had left behind.
With Nikita, there were many items Michael didn't particularly want, but the memories attached to them were still too clear, too strong, to give them away. Some, like the bathrobe, had evoked a nearly violent emotional reaction when he watched Linda place them in a box and close the lid. Overwhelming fear and grief had shattered his senses and caused him to move with startling speed to retrieve it from the box. It had been like Nikita was dying all over again and he hadn't been able to stand it. He could still feel the relief that had washed over him when he had stumbled back and fallen into the oversized chair, the bathrobe clutched to his chest. He had wept then, cradled in Linda's arms, with an abandon he had never experienced before, all the while whispering, "I'm sorry."
Shaking the memory off, he turned his attention to the last important piece of furniture: Nikita's dresser. It was completely empty. All the clothes that had been in it were either packed in boxes on their way to the shelter or in his bag. Knowing he may never come back to this house, there were some items he refused to leave behind, like the plain white shift Nikita had often worn to bed. Even now, he remembered the feel of the silky fabric brushing against his skin as Nikita unconsciously snuggled against him in her sleep.
Slowly, Michael reached out and caressed the top of the framed picture that stood in the corner on top of the dresser and wondered, not for the first time, when Nikita had taken it. It was here in this house: he was standing by the French doors, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Lifting the picture, he removed the back of the frame. A loose slip of paper fell out, addressed to him in Nikita's handwriting. He stood for a moment, torn between the desire to open the letter, see the words she had meant for him, and the fear that doing so would break his resolve and what little control of his emotions was left to him. Tucking it carefully into his coat pocket, he looked back to the picture. On the back was written, "Nikita, I couldn't resist taking this picture of Michael. It's the most expressive I have seen his face. Ever! With all the noise in the house, thanks to the Patrick's and Rob's antics, I don't think Michael even knew I took the picture. Of course, it could also be that watching you on the beach captivated him. Love always, Linda"
Replacing the back on the frame, he set it back in its place and turned his attention to the bottles of perfume. He gently brushed the red top of the Samsara bottle with his fingertips. He loved the way the perfume always took on the subtle characteristics of Nikita's own scent when she had worn it. Next, he lifted the bottle of gardenia oil to his nose, inhaling the delicate scent, lowering it to the dresser, his hand faltered. Holding the bottle tightly he turned and placed it in his bag. Slinging the strap onto his shoulder, he turned and strode from the room, closing the door behind him.
Walking into the living room, Michael allowed his eyes to drift, drinking in the feel of Nikita that filled the space. Her personality and style permeated the room, and somehow she seemed at once both incredibly distant and infinitely near. Walking to the entertainment cabinet, he lifted the picture of her. "Are you still here, Nikita? Can you see me? Hear me?" Pausing, he gently traced the curve of the frame. "I have to leave, Nikita, to return to Section. You gave me back my soul. I will not surrender it again. Stay close, mon coeur. I love you."
Placing the frame back on the cabinet, he turned and froze. Turning back, he lifted the picture and slipped it into his bag, along with his other momentos of the woman who had saved him. Then making his way to the entry foyer he reached for the door handle, closed his eyes and imagined Nikita standing by the French doors smiling at him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he assured himself that the St. Michael necklace, the charm bracelet and Nikita's letter were there. Opening his eyes, he pulled open the door, activated the security system, stepped through, and then closed it behind him. Taking a calming, centering, breath, Michael walked toward the black Jeep Cherokee where Walter waited to accompany him on the trip back to Section.
*****
The leaves must turn
the wind must blow
the heart must learn
when it's time for the heart to let go
but when I think of you
my heart knows why
I don't know how to say to say good-bye
The world moves on
with no regret
and though your gone
there are feelings I'll never forget
so I remember you
and though I try
I don't know how to say good-bye
The house we used to share
still looks as if your there
and I won't change a single thing
not even the wedding ring I wear
The evenings fall
much harder now
the stars grow small
and the moon seems so different somehow
but every time I think of you
the moon and I
know you're the only reason why
I don't know how to say good-bye
From Linda Eder's album, It's Time
Music written by Frank Wildhorn
Lyrics by ??? (sorry, can't find cd insert!!)
Mid-September 1998
Mid-September 1998
Standing in the open French doors of Nikita's balcony, Madeline was only vaguely aware of the passage of time: that the sun was long set and the sky had turned black, filled with innumerable points of light. The cool autumn air drifted around her as she tried to shut out everything except the feel of it caressing her skin. All she wanted was to reclaim the sense of inner calm that eluded her. Yet even here, one of the few places where she had felt anything that resembled peace or emotional security in recent years, she couldn't escape the underlying anger and restlessness that plagued her.
Nothing worked. Her mind kept coming back to the events of the day: kept coming back to Lauren Haas. With the thoughts and the memories came the desire to strangle the blonde recruit.
Lauren was everything Section wanted and needed in a female operative - especially now. Her ratings and performance evaluations were consistently high. She had even managed to garner Operations' early approval for her easy acceptance of the ways of Section. She was a potentially excellent operative. Lauren was tall, blonde, and aesthetically pleasing. Madeline realized that some thought her beautiful, and at one time Madeline would have agreed - she didn't now.
Madeline had played her "Section Mother" role flawlessly as she had carefully prepared and examined Lauren before her "final exam". While she had noted every detail, including recognizing the girl's "beauty", she had still found her lacking: there was nothing compelling about her. When they had finished, Lauren had smiled her sweetest smile, thanked her, and sauntered out of the room.
In that moment, Madeline realized she hated her. Venomously. She had been almost gleeful when she realized that Lauren's lighthearted, happy attitude would end in an ugly struggle for survival. It had taken the better part of the evening to release the last vestiges of the hatred from her heart and to chase the random disturbing thoughts from her mind only to have them return with the sunrise when Lauren reentered her office.
Just as she was concluding her check-in with Walter, the door alert had sounded and released the lock. She had looked up and seen Lauren standing by the chair in front of her glass-topped desk, affecting a rebellious, impatient stance. Immediately, Madeline's trained eye recognized something wasn't right. She did a quick mental scan and noticed the calculated attempt on Lauren's part to "reflect" Nikita's style and personality. Her blonde hair was pulled over one shoulder and wrapped by a leather cord. Madeline had seen Nikita wearing a similar apparatus in her hair on occasion, but never in that style. Even her non-section style of dress seemed a deliberate attempt to elicit a subconscious comparison to Nikita.
When Madeline had gestured to the chair across from her desk, Lauren had drop herself into it and smiled: the same sweet smile she had used the night before. It had taken Madeline a great deal of reserve to not reach across her desk and smack it from the young woman's face. She had asked Lauren how she envisioned her role in Section. Lauren had played coy, toying with her shirt, not looking Madeline in the eye. When Madeline asked her point blank if she would like to be assigned to Michael's team, a look of satisfaction had immediately appeared on Lauren's face. Knowing she was close to personally canceling the twit, Madeline had given her a Mona Lisa smile and told her, "That will be all." She just barely managed to keep her eyes from squinting as Lauren strolled out the door.
Later, she had watched as Lauren tried to "cozy" up to Birkoff, who was promptly repelled by her behavior. Lauren had even managed to cause the usual calm and indifferent Ken to loose his cool. Madeline had rounded the corner of the corridor that lead to the workout area just in time to see Ken step back from a visibly startled Lauren. For one unguarded moment Madeline had seen Ken's face twisted in disgust and anger. Each incident that Madeline witnessed left her feeling proud and more than a little vindicated.
Leaning back against the door frame, Madeline ducked her chin to her chest before rolling her head from side to side, hoping to alleviate the tension that had spawned the incessant throbbing behind her temples. Taking a deep breath, as if to bolster herself, she admitted that perhaps her harsh reaction to Lauren had more to do with who she wasn't rather than who she was. Here, in the privacy and security of Nikita's home, knowing that all surveillance had been turned off, she could admit that she missed Nikita. She could admit to herself that she felt angry about Nikita's death, angry with Nikita for dying, and angry that she hadn't foreseen what would happen. Intellectually she knew it was illogical - Nikita's death was not something she could have foreseen. But the gnawing flutter that had twisted her stomach for the last two months whenever she pulled up Nikita's reports told her she was wrong. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something. It grated at her. Lauren, thanks to her behavior and appearance, was just a convenient outlet.
Walking back to the kitchen, Madeline placed her small china cup on the glass counter and refilled the kettle, setting it back on the stove to heat. While she waited, she again wandered the apartment, taking in the changes Nikita had brought to the place since Madeline had last been there.
The first time Madeline had come to Nikita's apartment, the color and exuberance of the place had moved her - shocked her. The room seemed alive, filled with strong vivid colors and whimsical motion. It was a sharp contrast to the austereness which now surrounded her. The only connection between the old Nikita and the one who had lived in this apartment were the variety of candles dispersed throughout the room.
At the sound of the kettle's whistle, Madeline returned to the kitchenette and prepared her cup of tea. Wanting to watch the shadow of flames dance across the walls, she grabbed her purse off the counter to retrieve a lighter. Unexpectedly her fingers brushed along the edges of a wire sculpture; she froze momentarily, then slowly pulled it from her purse.
Staring at the brightly colored wire object, Madeline remembered the second time she had been to Nikita's apartment. She had returned, ostensibly to prepare it for housekeeping, after Nikita had been listed as "cancelled" following the botched Shay's mission. Madeline had begun to see the signs of guilt weighing on Michael and watching him slowly tear himself apart caused her to doubt her own conviction that he had somehow saved Nikita. Needing to reaffirm her belief in Nikita's strength and vitality, in her ability to survive, Madeline had come to the wildly decorated studio; it had been the only possible place where she felt she could do that.
The wire sculpture had been left on Nikita's kitchen counter. To Madeline, the mass of thin, brightly colored, tangled wire constrained by thicker black wire seemed to represent life entombed by death. It was a perfect reflection of what Nikita's state of mind had been when she had left Madeline's office prepared to end her own life. Madeline had gambled that Michael could save Nikita when she had ordered the cancellation of "Josephine". When she left Nikita's apartment that time, Madeline had pocketed the small wire sculpture, and, for some reason she had never bothered to analyze, had carried it ever since. She had kept it hidden, retrieving it only when she was informed of Nikita's death.
Placing the sculpture back inside her purse, she retrieved the lighter and set about illuminating the dark room. In the flickering glow of the candles, Madeline turned on the CD player, the last disk Nikita had listened still in the player, and tried to recapture the essence of Nikita in the room. Retrieving her tea, she settled on the sofa; she had to resolve her feelings here - now. Madeline had recommend that Lauren be transferred to a substation and she would be on her way by the time Madeline returned to Section. With Lauren gone, there was no longer an easy target for her anger and frustration; she had to come to terms with her anger and grief instead of externalizing it. She was glad, however, that she would have one less unpleasant reminder of Nikita's absence to deal with on a daily basis.
The only surprise left to figure out then was Operations. He had not only agreed with her decision, but seemed genuinely relieved to know Lauren was leaving. She had caught him watching the young recruit in the past few weeks, noting the resigned expression on his face that many mistook for acceptance, whenever he looked at Lauren. Madeline realized that Nikita's death had affected him more than he was letting on, more than he wanted to accept. Now all she had to do was find a way to help him deal with his feelings - after she dealt with hers.
Rising from the sofa, she took one more look around the room, then walking up to each candle, Madeline remembered an occasion with, or a particular nuance of Nikita's, then extinguished the flame and said good-bye to the light that had lived there. Finally, the room in darkness, she placed her cup on the counter, took her purse and exited the apartment. Closing the door behind her and standing with her back to it, she called Housekeeping.
~~*~~
Three weeks had passed since Nikita's funeral, almost a month since her death. Even though he had accepted that as fact, there were times when Michael could swear she was just in another room - he could feel her; times when some small voice within him refused to accept that she was forever gone from him - beyond his reach. In quiet moments, that voice whispered to him, comforted him. Ironic, that in the midst of one of the greatest tragedies of his life, Michael had found his soul - Nikita's last parting gift to him.
Although he didn't find comfort in any form of organized religion, Michael did find comfort in believing that there was more to Nikita than flesh and blood. That in some way, some form, call it a soul or spirit, she continued. He doubted he would ever stop aching for her physical presence, but he believed that as long as he needed her, she would somehow be there, if only in his heart.
From his position on the edge of the bed, Michael slowly scanned the room. He knew this might be the last time he would be in this house, this room; he wanted to remember every detail. The room itself was uncluttered and airy; a large frosted glass window dominated the far wall and flooded the room with light. The bed was neatly made; the crisp white comforter lay flat and smooth, the pillows fluffed and placed back into their matching croqueted shams. Running his hand across the soft fabric, he allowed himself to feel her presence and to remember the nights he had sat up and watched Nikita sleep. The moon's light drifting through the frosted window, seeming to cocoon them in peace and tranquility: in a sense of rightness and belonging. He had loved to simply gaze at her, as moonbeams illuminated her beautiful face, and know that she would always be his love. Taking a fortifying breath, Michael stood and walked around the room.
The wooden chest sat open at the foot of the bed, filled with the colorful pillows and chenille blankets Nikita had loved. Her favorite indigo throw was stored safely in Michael's bag. The oversized, overstuffed, chair sat in the corner, a stack of dog-eared books beside it. Michael's armoire stood against the wall opposite the bed. He moved quickly to it and opened the bottom drawer, reaching inside, his questing fingers searching for a jewelry box. Feeling the soft brush of the velvet knap against his callused fingertips he grasped it tightly and removed it from the drawer, opening the tiny hinged lid. Inside, on a bed of satin, rested the platinum charm bracelet he had planned to give Nikita. Silent tears falling from his eyes, he raised the bracelet to his lips, kissing is softly before placing it securely in his pocket.
Standing, he turned his attention to her closet. The doors were closed and Michael knew that it was empty now. With Walter's and Linda's help, and patience, they had bagged and boxed up most of Nikita's clothes to be given to a homeless women's shelter. Somehow, he knew that would have made her happy.
Turning, he faced the bathroom door; her white bathrobe still hung behind the door. It had reminded him too much of the one she had brought with her on the Armel mission and Michael had been unable to put it in a bag and give it away. Somehow, knowing it hung there was comforting. As far as he knew, her hair brush and toiletries were still in the medicine cabinet. He didn't understand why he felt so compelled to hold onto these items; he hadn't needed to hold onto anything when Simone had died. When he had lost her, he had felt the need to purge her from the house, finding only pain in what she had left behind.
With Nikita, there were many items Michael didn't particularly want, but the memories attached to them were still too clear, too strong, to give them away. Some, like the bathrobe, had evoked a nearly violent emotional reaction when he watched Linda place them in a box and close the lid. Overwhelming fear and grief had shattered his senses and caused him to move with startling speed to retrieve it from the box. It had been like Nikita was dying all over again and he hadn't been able to stand it. He could still feel the relief that had washed over him when he had stumbled back and fallen into the oversized chair, the bathrobe clutched to his chest. He had wept then, cradled in Linda's arms, with an abandon he had never experienced before, all the while whispering, "I'm sorry."
Shaking the memory off, he turned his attention to the last important piece of furniture: Nikita's dresser. It was completely empty. All the clothes that had been in it were either packed in boxes on their way to the shelter or in his bag. Knowing he may never come back to this house, there were some items he refused to leave behind, like the plain white shift Nikita had often worn to bed. Even now, he remembered the feel of the silky fabric brushing against his skin as Nikita unconsciously snuggled against him in her sleep.
Slowly, Michael reached out and caressed the top of the framed picture that stood in the corner on top of the dresser and wondered, not for the first time, when Nikita had taken it. It was here in this house: he was standing by the French doors, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Lifting the picture, he removed the back of the frame. A loose slip of paper fell out, addressed to him in Nikita's handwriting. He stood for a moment, torn between the desire to open the letter, see the words she had meant for him, and the fear that doing so would break his resolve and what little control of his emotions was left to him. Tucking it carefully into his coat pocket, he looked back to the picture. On the back was written, "Nikita, I couldn't resist taking this picture of Michael. It's the most expressive I have seen his face. Ever! With all the noise in the house, thanks to the Patrick's and Rob's antics, I don't think Michael even knew I took the picture. Of course, it could also be that watching you on the beach captivated him. Love always, Linda"
Replacing the back on the frame, he set it back in its place and turned his attention to the bottles of perfume. He gently brushed the red top of the Samsara bottle with his fingertips. He loved the way the perfume always took on the subtle characteristics of Nikita's own scent when she had worn it. Next, he lifted the bottle of gardenia oil to his nose, inhaling the delicate scent, lowering it to the dresser, his hand faltered. Holding the bottle tightly he turned and placed it in his bag. Slinging the strap onto his shoulder, he turned and strode from the room, closing the door behind him.
Walking into the living room, Michael allowed his eyes to drift, drinking in the feel of Nikita that filled the space. Her personality and style permeated the room, and somehow she seemed at once both incredibly distant and infinitely near. Walking to the entertainment cabinet, he lifted the picture of her. "Are you still here, Nikita? Can you see me? Hear me?" Pausing, he gently traced the curve of the frame. "I have to leave, Nikita, to return to Section. You gave me back my soul. I will not surrender it again. Stay close, mon coeur. I love you."
Placing the frame back on the cabinet, he turned and froze. Turning back, he lifted the picture and slipped it into his bag, along with his other momentos of the woman who had saved him. Then making his way to the entry foyer he reached for the door handle, closed his eyes and imagined Nikita standing by the French doors smiling at him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he assured himself that the St. Michael necklace, the charm bracelet and Nikita's letter were there. Opening his eyes, he pulled open the door, activated the security system, stepped through, and then closed it behind him. Taking a calming, centering, breath, Michael walked toward the black Jeep Cherokee where Walter waited to accompany him on the trip back to Section.
*****
The leaves must turn
the wind must blow
the heart must learn
when it's time for the heart to let go
but when I think of you
my heart knows why
I don't know how to say to say good-bye
The world moves on
with no regret
and though your gone
there are feelings I'll never forget
so I remember you
and though I try
I don't know how to say good-bye
The house we used to share
still looks as if your there
and I won't change a single thing
not even the wedding ring I wear
The evenings fall
much harder now
the stars grow small
and the moon seems so different somehow
but every time I think of you
the moon and I
know you're the only reason why
I don't know how to say good-bye
From Linda Eder's album, It's Time
Music written by Frank Wildhorn
Lyrics by ??? (sorry, can't find cd insert!!)
Mid-September 1998