Sara's POV:
I'm going home. I've been in the hospital for five days; I've been awake for three. Nick has been sitting by the side of my bed since I woke up. Our interaction was still uncomfortable. I heard him say something to Grissom about taking the vacation time that he had managed to stockpile over four years. I wasn't sure if Grissom was going to allow the lab to be down two CSIs. I was secretly hoping that Grissom wouldn't grant Nick the time off; I wanted so badly to be alone with my thoughts for a little while.
Greg came by every morning. I apologized to him. He said that it was okay; Greg said that it was really okay . . . it was a mistake. Greg kissed my cheek and told me to talk to the psychiatrist. Greg made me promise to start talking to the doctors. I honored my promise. The doctors spent hours with me; I hadn't realized how maladaptive my coping patterns were. The doctors started changing my medications; they were hopeful that I would start feeling 'normal' within the next few weeks.
Nick told me that I'm going home with him. I stupidly asked why I wasn't going home with Greg. Nick said that my only other option was to go home to my parents. I refused; I yelled at Grissom for calling them. I told him that he had no right to interfere in my life like that. Grissom calmly explained that their names were listed as my emergency contacts; I put their names down because I never thought something like this would happen. Grissom told me to feel better; he told me to call him when I thought I could back to work.
I called my mother. She was busy cooking for her guests; Dad was in the garage refinishing some of the antique furniture that they found during a recent vacation to Napa Valley. Mom said that I shouldn't be so stupid; Mom said that marriage comes before babies. I wondered who the hell she was to give such advice. Mom said that I would have to explain how stupid I was to Dad. I hung up the phone before any conversation could progress. I hoped that I wouldn't have to talk to her for a few months.
"Sara, how's my girl?" Greg joked. It was nine in the morning; he looked exhausted. He must have worked last night; I was pretty sure that he wasn't sleeping well when he did have the chance.
"Good, Greg. I'm going home today . . . well, I'm going to be held captive at Nick's house," I replied. Nick had gone to get coffee; I was free to express what I was thinking . . . momentarily.
"Well, it isn't a bad idea. I cleaned out your apartment," Greg replied as he sat down on the edge of my bed.
"What did you clean out?" I asked.
"You know . . . anything that could possibly interact with your medications," Greg replied as he held my hand.
"Oh. Did you pack any clothes for me to change into?" I asked.
"I found some stuff. Sara, it's okay . . . you'll look decent," Greg replied. I must have looked worried about his choice of clothes for me. He laughed. I didn't realize how good of a friend Greg was.
"I didn't mean . . . you know," I replied, "How's Warrick and Catherine? I haven't seen them since . . . a long time."
"Good. Picking up some extra cases; they wanted me to tell you to get better soon," Greg replied.
"I want to get better soon . . . I want to go back to work," I replied.
"Sara, I don't think I've ever told you how brave you are," Greg said. His eyes were locked on mine.
"I'm not brave," I whispered.
"Braver than anyone I know," Greg replied, "I'm going to go say hi to Gina. Get dressed, young lady."
Greg left the room. With him, I could momentarily forget all the pain I felt. There was a full-length mirror on the back of the door. Only in Vegas did the hospital rooms play into the vanity of the city. I looked at my body as I dressed. Everything was so flat. I didn't have the curves that other women had. I stared at my flat stomach . . . wishing that maybe there was a reason why it wouldn't be so flat. I wanted so badly to break down in tears, but today I was going home . . . today was supposed to be a happy day. I finished dressing. I combed my hair and brushed my teeth. I could hear Greg and Nick in the hallway.
I sat on the edge of my bed. The bed was no longer mine . . . I heard Greg say something about discharge papers. I was happy to be leaving. I was sick of people watching over me constantly. I needed some privacy; although, it was privacy that nearly killed me.
"Sar, you ready to go?" Greg asked as he stuck his head into my room.
"Yeh, ready as I'll ever be," I replied. Greg handed over my purse and my house keys, "Are you going to still come visit me?"
"You couldn't keep me away," Greg kidded. I felt horribly insecure. I was still uncomfortable around Nick; Greg had seen me at my worse . . . several times. It wasn't hard to be myself around Greg; it was harder to be true to myself when Nick was around. I felt like I was walking on eggshells.
We walked to the parking lot silently. Nick was carrying all my paperwork and a bag of medical equipment that I had been intimately familiar with. Greg occasionally checked me with his shoulder. I would push him back. Nick would tell Greg to behave himself. I was thankful that Greg was breaking the tension, but I could tell Nick was sick of games that Greg and I played. Greg told me to behave; he whispered in my ear that if I needed anything all I needed to do was call him. Nick loaded all my things into his SUV; he then proceeded to load me into his SUV despite my protests. I was much more capable than he wanted to let me be.
"We can go to your place first so you can pack some stuff, okay?" Nick asked. I almost laughed at how clumsy his sentence sounded, but my best judgment told me to be compliant. Maybe in a few days this interaction wouldn't feel so forced and foreign. While Nick watched over me, we didn't really talk about the baby or me. I don't even know what we talked about. I very well could have been mute for the last few days, but I talked to the psychiatrist and Greg until my jaw hurt. I don't know why I did that. I don't know why I couldn't talk to Nick; he was probably feeling the same things I was. Maybe I was just terrified of having to feel all those bad things again.
"Sara?" Nick asked. I wondered how long he thought I had been ignoring him; it wasn't purposeful . . . I was just lost in thought.
"Sorry, I was just thinking," I replied, "What did you ask?"
"I said that we are at your place," Nick replied. I was hoping that he would ask what I was thinking or what I was feeling, but he opened his door and began to walk towards the door to my apartment building.
I followed him. I opened up the door. My apartment was immaculate. I knew that wasn't the way that I left it; Greg must have spent a substantial amount of time cleaning. There was a card sitting on my kitchen counter; next to it was a small bouquet of sunflowers. I picked up the card; it was from Greg, Grissom, Catherine, and Warrick. There was another card that was from Hodges; I laughed . . . Hodges was the last person that I thought would care. Both cards had awkward condolences; without this experience, I wasn't sure what I would write on a card. I quickly sifted through my mail; most of it was garbage.
"Sara," Nick said. He stood behind me; his hands were on my hips. I wasn't sure if I was okay with the intimate gesture. I let myself lean back on to him. I just wanted to hear him say something; I wanted to know what he thought of me. I wanted to know if he thought I was a troubled slut, a friend, a coworker; I just wanted to know.
"Nick, let's not play this game. I'm too tired. We can't lie in limbo forever," I replied slightly irritated. I wasn't sure what I was mad at; I was probably mad at myself for letting a friendship fall by the wayside while I debated the importance of the life of another.
"Sara, I was just going to say that you smell good," Nick replied. I laughed at him; I wasn't sure if he addressed my statement.
"I smell like a hospital. Do you mind if I shower and change before we leave?" I asked, "Don't worry. Greg already 'Sara-proofed' my apartment."
"I wasn't worried. You said it was an accident; you haven't given me any reason to doubt you," Nick replied as he sat on my couch. He was so patient with me; sometimes, it made me feel like an awful person.
"Oh, I'll only be a few minutes," I said as I began walking towards my bedroom.
"If it was a girl, I would have wanted to name her Irene . . . after my grandmother. If it was a boy . . . I don't know. I can't think of any good boy names," Nick blurted out of no where. I walked back to the couch where he was sitting. There was almost of a void of expression. I sat next to him; I rehearsed baby names in my head for days following my miscarriage.
"I'm sorry, Nick," I said as I sat down. I rested my head on his shoulder; his hand was on my knee. I was shocked to see him cry; I'd never seen him get this emotional before. I told him that every day got a little easier; you can't miss what you don't know. He said something about it feeling right . . . that our baby . . . it just felt right. It did; everything about being pregnant felt right. It just took me a while to figure out how right it felt. I ran my fingers through his hair; I didn't expect him to look me in the eyes. I knew the guilt he was feeling; it wasn't much different than my own. The best we could do was sit together; quietly comforting our feelings . . . trying to figure out our next move.