Mini-Episode: Farewell Nica

[“Charlie on the MBTA in D” plays.]

[Sound of an envelope getting ripped open and a letter being removed.]

[Shawmut jail environment. Clanging bars and cells. Echoey murmurs from farther away. The rumble of a Red Line train.]

[Nica sighs.]

Nica Stamatis—Kelly McCabe
Dear Nica,

Michael Tate—James Oliva

Dear Nica,

I hope this doesn’t alarm you. It’s the last way I want to start this thing off. That said, if things go the way I expect them to go, I will already be dead by the time you receive this letter. I have spent these past months locked in the secret office of the publisher atop the ThirdSight Media offices. There is a secret elevator behind the kombucha machine, but I don’t know the passcode. I believe you’ve been to the office before. The time Dipshit invited you for a seance? Yeah, that was weird. But in case you don’t remember, the address is on the envelope.

Nica
I almost chickened out, sending this to you, although you were one of the first people I thought of when I set out to write these farewell letters. There’s a few reasons why. For one, I don’t want to burden you with more death. I know losing me will pale in comparison to losing Leon, but I also know that Leon’s death bothered you more than you ever let on, more than you would ever talk to me about.

Michael
And that’s the other reason why. The last time we spoke in person, you told me to leave you alone. That hurt, I’m not going to lie to you. But I also respected it. At the time, in my head, I convinced myself I was checking up on you, and, uh, you know, making sure you were okay. But that’s not at all I was doing, you know? I was tethering myself to Leon with the closest connection I had. And that was you. And you didn’t want to be tethered to, and who am I to blame you for that? In the aftermath of his death, I needed Leon like I needed alcohol. Like, like a drug. But that’s not what you needed. You needed something else… You needed something else, and who was I to insert myself into whatever that was?

Nica
Sometimes I think about picking you up from Wonderland, barely in any state to drive. We didn’t speak the whole ride. I turned the radio on and futzed with the dial at traffic lights. I finally found a song and it was that oldie classic. “Blue Moon”. And we laughed. Do you remember that? Something about the baritone voice that kicks that song off.

Michael
[Sings] “Blue Moon…”
It made us both chuckle. And then we couldn’t stop laughing. We didn’t speak but we laughed. My best friend had just died. Your brother. And, and we shared that vulnerable laughter. We gave ourselves permission to laugh. I’ll never forget that.

Nica
By the time I dropped you off, all the laughter, the brief ray of light you had let out had drained from your face. And instead I saw blame. Blame for yourself. Blame and unforgiving doubt. 

[“Archibald MacDonald of Keppoch” plays.]

Michael
You need to forgive yourself, Nica. It’s not your fault Leon died. It’s not your fault that you struggled with his death. It’s not your fault that you felt alone, feel alone. It’s not even your fault that you blame yourself so much, and so unfairly. But you should know that’s what you’re doing. And you should have a frank conversation with yourself about it. Tell the mean Nica to be kinder to the kind Nica. And you know what you should do? You should sing her “Blue Moon” and impersonate the baritone.

Nica
This friend I had once? She told me she needed some space. She asked me to keep my distance. She told me to leave her alone. But then she did something really remarkable. She wrote me these letters under this alias. I had no idea who it was at first because the references were really vague. Lots of movies I’d never seen. But then I realized what I was getting was advice. Which was pretty funny because I was writing an advice column at the time. And the advice I was receiving was about letting go of my dependency on others. Especially… one… other. Letting that go and having the confidence to depend on myself for a change. Make my own decisions. And I listened. And it worked.

Michael
That friend was really kind, especially in the thoughtfulness of how she delivered her message. She didn’t beat it over my head. She—she layered it in carefully in a way that only I could understand. And something clicked. It’s been clicking ever since. These letters reminded me of a conversation I once had in a bar. There are no bad people. There are no good people. There’s only choices and the consequences of those choices.

Nica
If I die, I hope you choose to write yourself a similar kind of letter, a letter that urges you to choose to be kind to yourself.

Michael
Choose to forgive yourself.

Nica
Choose to direct yourself.

Michael
Choose to be the best fucking Ben Affleck you can be.

Nica
If somehow I live, I’ll write that letter for you. Hell, maybe I just did. 

Michael
If this is the first you’re hearing of my possible demise, please alert the authorities about the location of my body. I’ve made my peace with dying here, but I don’t want to be dead in ThirdSight forever. And if I am dead… If I am dead, I’m glad I’m dying with you in my thoughts, Nica. I’m glad you’re with me now at the end. Just like I’m sure Leon was glad to have you by his side too. 

I love you, Nica.

Nica
Goodbye.

Your friend,

Michael

Michael Tate.

[Nica sniffles. Music plays throughout credits.]

COOKIE:
Kelly McCabe:
[Laughs.] We’re having a big Chicken Butt moment in our house with Charlie, so I’m glad I didn’t say I almost Chicken-butt. Okay—I almost chickened out! Give me just one second to find it.