"Neela, what is going on with you today?" By this time, he was really worried. He hadn't seen her that upset since..."Oh, God, Neela. August 27th...today's the day Gallant died, isn't it?" Neela just nodded, trying unsuccessfully to hold back another flood of tears. Carter took her in his arms. "Shhhhhh...it's OK," he whispered, stroking her hair, as her entire body shook with the deep sobs. "Everything's gonna be OK." He let her cry for a while before he pulled out his handkerchief. "OK...OK, calm down," he said as she coughed and sputtered. "Keep this up and you'll make yourself sick. Now blow," he ordered, holding the handkerchief to her nose. She did as she was told, and couldn't help but laugh a little.
"Thanks, Dr. Carter. I think I can take it from here," she said with a half smile, taking the handkerchief. "I'll, uh, return it tomorrow."
"Don't worry about it," Carter replied, turning his attention to her swollen, bleeding hand. "You ought to have someone take a look at this. Could be broken."
Neela wiped the blood away with her lab coat. "Naw, it's OK. Just a wee bit sore is all."
"Well, at least put some ice on it," he said, leading her back to the ER just as Abby walked out, on her way home. "You really shouldn't be here like this. Why don't you go home, take a day or two off."
"I can't. I still have half a shift to finish."
"Hey, I can cover for ya," Abby chimed in. She wasn't exactly sure what was going on, but could tell that poor Neela was in no condition to be working. "I could certainly use the money."
"Are you sure? Thanks a million. I owe ya one."
Back in the ER, Carter cleaned and bandaged Neela's hand and gave her some ice. "Can I give you a ride home?" he offered.
"Thanks, but I'll walk. I'm just a few blocks from here," she said.
Neela walked home and curled up in bed, icing her hand and staring at the picture of Gallant that sat on her night table. "Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
By the time the ice had melted, she felt a little better. Climbing out of bed, she changed into a t-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers, and jogged to the cemetary where Michael was buried. Sitting on the lush, green grass, she stared at the simple gray stone. "Michael Gallant 1977-2005" she read over and over. It made no more sense to her now that it had a year ago. "Why, Michael, why? I lived up to my end of the bargain," she said, remembering the last conversation they'd had before he left for Iraq. "Why couldn't you live up to yours?" She'd promised him that when he returned, she would be a good doctor. After a bit of uncertainty at the end of her fourth year of med school she figured out what she wanted to do with her life, and was now in the beginning of her third year of residency. But where was Michael?
Then she stopped herself. Poor guy. It really wasn't fair to criticize him so. He had tried his best.
"Thanks, Dr. Carter. I think I can take it from here," she said with a half smile, taking the handkerchief. "I'll, uh, return it tomorrow."
"Don't worry about it," Carter replied, turning his attention to her swollen, bleeding hand. "You ought to have someone take a look at this. Could be broken."
Neela wiped the blood away with her lab coat. "Naw, it's OK. Just a wee bit sore is all."
"Well, at least put some ice on it," he said, leading her back to the ER just as Abby walked out, on her way home. "You really shouldn't be here like this. Why don't you go home, take a day or two off."
"I can't. I still have half a shift to finish."
"Hey, I can cover for ya," Abby chimed in. She wasn't exactly sure what was going on, but could tell that poor Neela was in no condition to be working. "I could certainly use the money."
"Are you sure? Thanks a million. I owe ya one."
Back in the ER, Carter cleaned and bandaged Neela's hand and gave her some ice. "Can I give you a ride home?" he offered.
"Thanks, but I'll walk. I'm just a few blocks from here," she said.
Neela walked home and curled up in bed, icing her hand and staring at the picture of Gallant that sat on her night table. "Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
By the time the ice had melted, she felt a little better. Climbing out of bed, she changed into a t-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers, and jogged to the cemetary where Michael was buried. Sitting on the lush, green grass, she stared at the simple gray stone. "Michael Gallant 1977-2005" she read over and over. It made no more sense to her now that it had a year ago. "Why, Michael, why? I lived up to my end of the bargain," she said, remembering the last conversation they'd had before he left for Iraq. "Why couldn't you live up to yours?" She'd promised him that when he returned, she would be a good doctor. After a bit of uncertainty at the end of her fourth year of med school she figured out what she wanted to do with her life, and was now in the beginning of her third year of residency. But where was Michael?
Then she stopped herself. Poor guy. It really wasn't fair to criticize him so. He had tried his best.