The actual act of moving back hadn't been as bad as he'd thought it would be. Kevin Moretti had told him about some new apartments that were wheelchair accessible and he'd gone on line and found a website for them. As soon as he'd seen the images he'd been on the phone to rent one and he was pleased to see that the reality of it lived up to his expectations. He'd hired a removal company to move his stuff, it seemed excessive but there was no way he could have moved it all on his own and apart from Moretti, no one knew he was coming back. He hadn't wanted to tell Abby or Greg or Katey in case something had happened, in case it hadn't worked out. That, and the showman in him wanted the grand entrance of walking back into the ER. That wasn't why he was back though.
He reached into his pocket to check the time on his cell, but it wasn't there and he realised he must have put it down somewhere earlier. The kitchen was the most likely spot; he'd been unpacking in there while the removers brought the rest of the boxes in. He'd ended up doing a lot of the cooking when he'd been at home once he'd learnt to negotiate the various obstacles in the kitchen, first in his wheelchair, and then on his prosthetics, he'd had to. He'd forgotten how bad a cook his mother was, even worse than Neela and that was saying something.
The thought of her made him stop in his search. He'd hardly slept for the last few nights, concern about the move, worry about Neela eating away at his sleep. And he definitely hadn't slept in the 24 hours since talking to Katey. Abby's words had distressed him enough but what Katey had said had terrified him. Before he'd spoken to them this week, he'd been dreaming of walking down that surgical corridor to her, to show her he'd made it through, that he was capable of helping her through her own nightmare, but his sleepless nights had proved once and for all that he didn't need to forgive her, because in reality he didn't blame her, it had just been easier to focus his anger on her instead of admitting that it was just a tragic accident. He just hoped they could rebuild their friendship, and possibly, hopefully something much more.
I ran the blade of the scalpel across my fingertip and watched as the droplet of blood sprung to the surface. It was sharp; I had been worried that the blade would be blunt, I couldn't remember how I came to have it, Greg had searched my belongings when I'd moved back in, but he'd obviously missed it. When Tony had said Chaz was coming over, I'd sat there and waited, and when he didn't appear after an hour or so I'd realised that it was the opportunity I'd been waiting for. I wasn't sure if I could carry through with my intentions, it seemed so drastic but I hated feeling the way I did. I'd tried, I really had, to lift myself from this hell I was inhabiting, for a while I even thought it was working, my sessions in psych, my friends around me I started to feel more positive, but it had just been a temporary illusion.
I watched as the droplets of blood leaked from the cut. Even before I was a surgeon, there was something about watching a scalpel cut into skin that fascinated me. The ability of the blade to break through the protective barrier, the deep red globules appearing on the surface. I'd been cutting myself for weeks; they'd found the scars, healing and fresh on my stomach and thighs when I collapsed that day. For a few minutes the act of cutting had alleviated my pain, but that respite had never lasted and it hadn't been long before I was desperate to cut again. This time though, I wasn't contemplating simply cutting myself. This was bigger than that. It wasn't about momentary respite. I'd had enough; I needed for it to be over.
There was one last thing I needed to do before the cool metal touched my skin for the final time. I hadn't tried to speak to Ray since that night three months ago, when I'd been numbed with tequila, but not so numb that I hadn't felt his rejection when the phone went dead. Then I'd been calling for forgiveness, and in a way that was what I was doing this time, but really all I wanted was to hear his voice one last time. To say goodbye without saying the words. For his voice to follow me into the great unknown, to be the last I heard. For the light to fade with his beautiful accent resounding in my head. I dialled the number and held my breath, it rang and it rang and then with a click I heard what I'd been longing for for so long, his voice, I'd reached his voicemail. I wasn't to get my final wish.
He found his cell buried under a pile of bubble wrap and newspaper, he checked the time, he needed to get going, he was slower on his feet these days and he knew there would be none of the last minute dashing out of the door that had been an every day occurrence in the past. As he glanced at the screen he noticed the message stating that he had new voicemail; he'd have to check it on the El, otherwise he'd be late.
Once on board, he grabbed a seat and flicked through the options on his cell until he reached the voicemail one. Neela. It had been so long since he'd heard her voice, he hadn't allowed himself to talk to her since he'd left, too much pain and hurt and emotions that he hadn't been able to address.
But her message scared him. It wasn't her words so much, she was asking for his forgiveness, but her voice was weak and, it sounded, it sounded haunted, as if the act of speaking was too much for her, as if she was trying to say goodbye. As he listened to her message he realised that they hadn't been exaggerating, if anything they'd probably been protecting him from the full extent of her illness and it was like a cold blanket had been draped around his body and he felt that he would never be warm again.
He thought about her words, forgiveness, how could he forgive her when there was nothing to forgive? It had taken him so long, too long, to realise that she wasn't to blame for the accident, that that was all it was, an accident. Could he make her see that? He wanted to see her to talk to her, but he'd made a commitment to Moretti and he couldn't break it.
He closed his eyes remembering the last time he'd seen her, in that stark white hospital room, still dressed in blue scrubs, her voice choked with emotion, her large, brown eyes shining bright with unshed tears. Her tender kiss on his neck, meeting her eyes, so many things unsaid, and then her promise 'you'll get through this, I promise' and he had, and in the process he'd pushed her away, but he was back now, and he was going to help her through her own private hell too.
Greg had been wrong, it had never been about walking back into County, that had never been the important part, deep down it had always been about walking back to her, but he'd been afraid to admit it, to leave himself open to her rejection again. He wanted to show her that he was just as capable of looking after her, of loving her, as he'd ever been, so what if his legs were made of metal and plastic, it couldn't detract from how he felt about her. He wished that he could give this 'thing' a miss, and just go to her, but he'd promised Kevin and he'd been good to him about the job, the apartment, everything, and the responsible Ray, the person he'd become under her influence, couldn't let him down. He was determined that he'd find Abby or Greg afterwards and find out from them where she was. She'd only left the message 20 minutes ago, in theory he would be with her within the hour, two max. He'd been gone nine months, surely two hours wouldn't make too much of a difference, but he knew he was trying to convince himself of that and that he wasn't succeeding either.
I had a moment of conscience about what I was about to do, it didn't stop me, my only concession was to move from Greg's spare room to the bathroom, the mess would be less in there. I leant against the wall, the scalpel light in my hand, I knew this wasn't the quickest way to go, but my options were limited, if my meds hadn't been locked away that would have been my chosen method, but he rightly didn't trust me with them, so this was all I had. I drew the blade across the pale skin on the inside of my right wrist and realised instantly that it needed to go deeper than the cuts on my stomach and thighs had. I tried again on my left but it still wasn't deep enough, though the blood was bubbling to the surface. I pulled the blade across my right wrist for the second time; I felt as it sliced through the ulnar artery and the blood started to pump down my palm. I transferred the scalpel to my right hand, my blood leaching onto the handle, and cut deep into my left wrist. I felt the life flowing out of those two broken arteries as everything became a rich shade of blood red, it was like one of Ray's horror films, blood smearing down the shiny, white tiles, running across the cool, slate floor, being absorbed by the fluffy, white towels.
My eyes flickered shut, and once again I was in the apartment I'd always thought of as home, with the only person I'd ever really loved, I was happy, I was at peace, all the pain was gone, and finally my guilt was easing, and then I was in a car, in the snow, and my lips were meeting his in the most exquisite kiss I'd ever experienced and I knew that it was finally over.
