Abby angst...if you really hate Abby, or really hate Abby and Luka, please don't read this. Or just don't respond to it. I'm not interested in being flamed for not putting Abby with Carter. Otherwise, please enjoy!
The South African legend is, of course, from the wonderful play, "The Syringa Tree." Go see it at Playhouse 91 in NYC!!!
I don't own any of the ER characters. And if you want to sue me, you will probably be forced to spend thousands of dollars in legal costs to earn the $10 in my piggy bank, so it probably isn't worth your trouble. Thank you to all my Lubies--I love you all!
This is for Manny: One love, one heart 3...we miss you!
Wrong Decisions
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We're all dysfunctional. Get over it."
--Anonymous
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's an ancient South African legend that says you can tell how lucky you'll be by how many spots you have on your fingernails. My grandmother, who grew up in Johannesburg, used to tell me all the time: some spots are good, and some are bad. If you have them on your thumb, it symbolizes friends. They represent fortune on your middle finger, and joy on your pinkie. On your index finger, however, they mean pain, and on your ring finger, misfortune.
I have spots on all the wrong fingers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Abby." Luka's voice is coming in from very far away. "Abby," he singsongs. I can hear the smile in his voice.
Luka, it's way too early!
"Abby," he chuckles. The warm softness of his lips meets mine, and I struggle to open my eyes. Sleep-dazed pupils are greeted to the blinding light of a Chicago spring sunrise, and my lids slam shut.
Luka's fingers comb through my tangled, pillow-matted hair. "Abby, it's 6:30."
My eyes snap open. "Dammit!" I jerk my head away from his hand. "She's gonna kill me," I cry, clapping a hand to my forehead.
"Who?"
"Weaver," I gasp. I fly out of bed, narrowly missing smacking Luka in the face. "I've been late twice-oh…God." A wave of intense dizziness passes over me, and then next thing I know, I've landed on the floor with a hard *thunk.*
"Abby!" Luka cries, taking a mighty leap off the bed. He's by my side in a flash, holding my face in his hands, and morphing into "doctor" mode.
The world is spotting in front of me, and I have a nauseous feeling in my stomach. "I'm okay," I assure him, focusing on a point in front of me and waiting for the stars dancing around me to fade away."
"Does anything hurt?" he says, his voice full of concern.
I realize I'm curled up in a very ungraceful heap on the wooden floor. "No," I say firmly. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" he asks nervously.
"Yeah, fine," I promise, offering a weak smile. "Just got a little dizzy."
His expression is confused. "Abby, you just collapsed," he reminds me.
Thank you, Captain Obvious. "I'm okay," I say. "Really. Just-sat up too quickly, that's all." Another swift glance at the clock tells me that it's 6:32, and Weaver is going to have my ass if I'm not standing at the Cook County General Admit Desk in under 28 minutes. I pull myself off the ground and practically sprint for the bathroom. "Just taking a shower," I call, glancing over my shoulder at Luka.
He frowns, but nods, looking worried.
I close and lock the door, turn the shower on high, and barely manage to make it to the toilet before my stomach expels everything in it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Abby?" Carter's voice is coming in from very far away. "Abby?" he singsongs.
I snap my eyes away from my coffee cup. "Huh? Sorry, Carter. I wasn't paying attention."
He laughs. "I got that, actually. I asked if you were okay."
What is it with everyone today? Am I wearing a sign or something? "I'm fine," I say irritably. "Why?"
"Your face is really pale," he says kindly. "And you've been staring into that coffee cup for a good five minutes."
Oh. "Oh." I manage a small smile. "Sorry. I really am fine, though."
Dr. Greene pops his head into the lounge. "Abby, Carter, MVA coming in, let's go."
I set my coffee mug down on the table and jog after Carter to trauma two. The patient is already on the table, thrashing and screaming, and quite obviously drunk.
It's organized chaos, County ER style, but for some reason, today I just can't keep up. Luka is calling for a chest tube tray, and Carter wants me to draw a blood alcohol level, and Dr. Green needs someone to start an IV. My head is spinning.
"Abby!" Carter says urgently. "Abby! 8.0 ET tube!"
ET tube? My mind struggles to comprehend. Lights flash past my eyes, colorful and dazzling. Voices echo through my head, in slow, drawn-out tones. "Aaaaaabbeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee-Tttttttttt tooooooooobe, Aaaaaaah-bbeeeeeeeeee!"
My body collapses to the ground, taking an equipment tray with it. My head remains in the air, circling the room like a balloon full of helium. "Aaaaaaa-bbeeeeeeeeeee! Aaaaaaaaaa-bbeeeeeeeee!"
Luka kneels beside me, and my eyes struggle to focus on him. "Abby?" his voice breaks in loud and ultra-clear through the foggy haze surrounding me. "Look at me, Abby." The murmur of voices ceases, the colors blot out, and all I see is Luka, all I hear is his voice. I feel his arms lifting me up, and then all senses cease.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Luka's concerned face is hovering directly in my line of vision, and I can feel the strong grip of his hand in mine. "Abby," he says with a worried smile.
"Hi," I offer weakly. I try to sit up, but gravity and intense dizziness pulls me back down to the gurney. "Where am I?"
"Exam four," he replies. "You passed out, remember?"
Right. "Yeah," I say. I have a sneaking feeling that something is terribly, horribly wrong. It's the same feeling I always got before my mother's moods changed. The feeling I got before my father left. The feeling I got before I caught my husband.
Call it disaster intuition.
"We're just waiting on labs," he says comfortingly, rubbing my arm.
"What kind of labs?" I ask, leaning back and propping myself up against a pile of thick, fluffy pillows.
"Just a blood workup. CBC, Chem 20, pregnancy test."
Pregnancy test?! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. How could I have been so stupid?
I keep my face composed and calm-tricks learned from alcoholism. No, officer, I'm not drunk, why would you suspect that? Just got engaged, you'll have to forgive me-a little giddy, that's all. "Oh. Okay. You don't think it's anything serious do you?"
"No, no," he says, but his face is worried.
Carter breezes in, holding a sheet of lab results. "Hey," he says gently, handing the white computer printout to Luka. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah," I say, smiling falsely. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. This is fucking unbelievable. "So?"
Carter shakes his head quickly. "I didn't look."
Luka hasn't looked either, and I can see by their faces that neither of them want to know. That both of them are absolutely terrified about what that lab sheet says, and I'm too shocked over my own stupidity to be touched by their worry, or even frightened that I might somehow be wrong.
"Luka," I say sternly. He takes a deep breath and looks down at the paper in his shaking hands. There's a long moment of eerie, frightening stillness before his face lights up, and my self-diagnosis is confirmed.
"Oh, Abby," he says, happy tears in his voice.
He springs up and takes my face in his hand, kissing me tenderly. I'm too numb and frightened to respond, and when he finally pulls back, I manage a weak, "I'm pregnant?"
He's crying now and he nods, not bothering to ask how I knew. "I'm so happy!" he laughs, holding me tightly. "Oh, Abby!"
Oh, God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Luka's riding on cloud nine.
He's sitting at the desk in my apartment now, making lists of baby names. "What do you think about Jessica?" he calls out. "Or Jason? Or maybe Jana, for a girl?"
I'm leaning against the window, my forehead pressed to the cold glass. "Nice," I manage vaguely. I watch a child holding a red balloon tear down the sidewalk, and I can almost hear the joyful shriek that emanates from his lungs. A little girl follows him at high speed, laughter on her face. Behind them strolls a young couple-the woman, blonde haired and tall, is visibly pregnant. Her husband has his hand on her belly, and is kissing her hair.
I can't go through with this. I just can't do it.
"Abby?"
"Yeah?" I say, without turning around. My stomach is rebelling again.
"Do you want to get something to eat?"
"No, thanks," I say, continuing to watch the pregnant woman and her husband walk slowly down the sidewalk.
"You really need to eat, Abby," Luka says. "I think that's why you passed out this morning. Come on, we'll go out to Pero's, get salads."
"Really, Luka," I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I'm feeling really nauseous." The cold glass feels good against my burning face, and I know it's not nausea I'm feeling-it's fear. Pure, liquid terror.
"Are you okay?" he asks tenderly.
"Fine," I manage, but my voice cracks. I bite my tongue hard, keeping my eyes focused on a young businessman, dressed in a black suit, cheerfully walking down the street swinging his briefcase.
Luka's arms are around me, and I realize that my face is covered in tears. "Abby, Abby, Abby," he whispers softly, stroking my hair. "Shh, shh. Everything's okay." He rocks back and forth. "You're going to be a mother, Abby!" he says, as if that's the greatest thing in the world. "We're going to have a family!"
In my experience, families are dysfunctional. Mothers are flighty, and fathers don't care. Parents fall apart, and children are left to pick up the pieces.
I know what it's like to pick up pieces. I don't want my baby to have to.
"What's going to happen to us?" I say through tears.
"We'll get married," Luka says, as if that's the only logical idea. "We'll be a family!"
But I know what it's like to be in a loveless marriage. And while I don't think Luka would ever cheat on me, I don't know if I want to do it again. Because I don't love Luka. Someday I'd like to grow to love him, but right now, I don't. And I know he doesn't love me. Maybe a few months from now, we'll be able to honestly say we love each other. But now we can't.
"Come on," he grins. "Why don't we go out and celebrate?"
"You go," I say weakly. "I-I really don't feel well."
He shakes his head. "I'll call for pizza." He reaches for the phone. "You've got to eat, Abby."
I nod. "I'm going to lie down."
I curl up in the corner of my bed, knees to my chest, vaguely listening to the gentle drone of Luka's voice ordering a large cheese pizza and two diet Cokes. Scenarios run through my head like a crazy film reel.
Wailing babies. Broken bottles of cheap liquor. Luka, angry. Me, crying. Divorce papers. Fear. Mistakes. Anger. Hate. Screams and sirens. Mania and depression and inflicting my childhood on someone else. I can't. I can't be the kind of mother I wanted when I was a child, the kind I wanted to be. I can't be the kind of wife I wanted my own mother to be.
"Abby!" Luka's shaking me hard. "Abby!"
I realize I've fallen asleep, and my face is again wet with tears. "Huh?"
"You were screaming," he says softly, rubbing my shoulders.
"Oh," I say, wiping my face. "Wha-what did I say?"
"Nothing," he says, rocking me back and forth in his arms. "Nothing." I have a feeling he's not telling me something.
The doorbell rings, and he kisses my forehead and goes up to answer it.
I watch him retreat, rubbing my forehead in my hands.
I can't have this baby.
Luka comes back holding a white cardboard box. "Pizza's here!" he says cheerfully.
He chatters excitedly about nurseries and cribs and toys and baby clothes as I pick at the cheese on my pizza.
I can't meet his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Mankind's greatest gift, but also it's greatest curse, is that we have free choice. We can make our choices built from love or from fear." Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"How are you?" Carter's voice calls from the doorway.
I turn around to see him, and the peacoat I was trying to hang in my locker slips out of my hands. "I'm okay."
He strides across the room and picks the coat up off the floor. "You don't look okay."
"I'm just tired," I promise, avoiding his gaze.
"Are you excited?" he says slyly. I look at him, my face for just a split second, betraying all the anguish in my heart. "Nervous?" he asks, his tone and expression changing.
"It hasn't really sank in yet," I lie smoothly. "D-does anyone else know that I'm…"
"I don't know," he says cheerfully. "You know how quickly news travels around here!"
"Yeah," I say, slinging my stethoscope around my neck. "I do."
A group of nurses are standing at the admit desk. Lydia spots me first. "Abby!" she cries, and they all turn around.
"Congratulations!" Haleh croons, rushing to hug me.
Oh, boy. "Thanks," I say, putting my practiced fake-smile into use and trying to look as happy about this as everyone else is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to my OB, who is NOT Dr. Janet Coburn, I'm at about 6 weeks. She says morning sickness is normal, which I know, but mine is "unusually bad."
Apparently my body doesn't want this baby either.
I'm so nauseous I can barely get out of bed in the mornings. I can't keep any food down, and I'm so dizzy I can't even see straight. Luka wants me to take time off from work.
He's so into this baby. Wants it more than anything in the world. I don't want to hurt him, but-oh, God, what am I doing?
I'm in a family planning clinic, by myself, trying to appear composed as I discuss my options with the gynecologist.
She doesn't know me. I don't know her. In fact, I've told her my name is Lisa Nelson, and I'm a graphic designer. I'm a career oriented woman, you know, not married, and, well, my boyfriend and I just don't want to keep the baby. Our parents would disapprove of adoption, so we've decided abortion is the best choice. My boyfriend? He, uh, had to work today.
She understands. She sees a lot of women in my situation. She can do it today if I'd like.
I have a horrible feeling I'm making the wrong decision. In fact, I know I'm making the wrong decision. But--*I can't have this baby!*
She escorts me to a creepy exam room.
Here we go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've done a terrible thing. Terrible, terrible, terrible.
It's a mortal sin. I knew I was wrong when I did it, and no amount of repenting or confession will ever make God forgive me. I'm doomed to an eternal life in hell.
I've taken human life, and I've hurt my boyfriend so badly. So badly he'll never want to see me again.
Why do I have to hurt everyone?
Luka's face appears in my mind. I wonder if he'll hit me. I wonder if he's capable of hitting me.
I deserve to be hit.
My pager beeps for the umpteenth time that night, vibrating against my hip. I swallow the last drops of vodka from the glass and check my watch. Three-sixteen. AM.
I drop a twenty on the counter and stumble towards the door. I've only had 5 shots of vodka, I muse as I drunkenly pull at the knob. Back in the old days, I could throw down hard liquor for hours before I'd even notice an effect.
Five years. I've just killed five years.
I've killed many things today.
The late April evening air is bitter cold, cutting me to the bone as I stagger the few blocks to my apartment. What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?
What am I going to tell him?
The building appears too quickly, and I find myself knocking at my own door. Luka answers.
"Abby?" he gasps. "Where have you been? I was so worried!" He leads me inside. "Are you-drunk?" he says, his voice rising in a combination of confusion and shock.
"Oh, Luka," I sob. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Luka."
"What?" he says, his voice gentler now. "What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Luka." I'm hysterical now, tears gushing in torrents, my whole body shaking. "I'm a horrible person, Luka. I'm so sorry!" My knees give out underneath me, and he joins me on the floor. "I'm so sorry." My head is on the ground, my throat letting out ungodly wailing.
"Abby," he says cautiously, nervously. "What happened?"
"I miscarried," I lie, my voice thin and pained. Luka's eyes say they believe me. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Luka. I'm so sorry," I sob.
"It's okay, Abby," he's crying now, too. "It's not your fault."
Oh, God. What have I done? He believes me-he's not mad. He should hate me. He deserves to hate me. I deserve to be hated. "I didn't miscarry," I blurt out suddenly, without thinking. Alcohol. "I had an abortion."
There's a deadly silence. I can't catch my breath.
I'm expecting Luka to scream, or slap me, or run out of the room. Instead, he quietly asks, "Why?"
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I-I was wrong, but I just couldn't do it! I couldn't do it!"
"Couldn't do what?" Luka says. His voice is so gentle-sad, rather than angry, and it's driving me crazy. I know he hates me, so why doesn't he just *say* it?
"Couldn't have the baby, Luka. I couldn't do it. I can't be a mother; I'd be a horrible mother. And you don't love me, and we couldn't do it. I know you hate me, and I'm so sorry, Luka, I'm so sorry." I'm slurring my words now, babbling desperately like the drunk I used to be.
Like the drunk I am.
"Abby," he cuts me off, and takes my face in his hands. "Why don't you think I love you?"
"You couldn't love me," I say. I feel like my mother, sitting on the floor, screaming and crying. "No one could love me. I'm a horrible person, Luka. I'm a coward, and I'm a drunk, and I'm a murderer, and I hurt everyone. No one could love me. No one ever did love me." I'm pouring out things I've never told anyone, things that have hurt me since I was 7-years-old.
Why doesn't he hate me for this?
"Abby," he says firmly. "Look at me, Abby." I manage to do so, but my head is swimming so much I can barely see him. "I love you, Abby."
Great. Now he loves me. Now that I've killed his baby and destroyed everything we've ever had together. Now he says he loves me.
But I still don't love him.
I'm incapable of love.
"Don't, Luka, don't," I sob.
"Please, Abby," he begs. He tries to hold me, but I shrug away from his grasp.
I get up and blindly run for the bathroom. He doesn't follow me.
My head throbs painfully, as I lean against the door trying to catch my breath. I hate myself, more than I ever have, more than I ever thought I could. I hate my life.
Slowly, I stumble towards the medicine cabinet. I've never wanted to do it before. Never even thought about it.
Of course, I know I'm lying to myself. I've thought about it every day since I was 19-years-old.
Since I was 7-years-old.
I fill a glass with water and find a prescription bottle. Vicodin. A full bottle. If I remember correctly, which is difficult to do in an alcohol and tear-induced stupor, I only took one, eight years ago. I don't know why I kept it.
I dump the contents of the bottle into my hand and swallow as many as I can with one gulp of warm water. When they've slid smoothly down my throat, I stuff the rest into my mouth, choking them down without the aid of the water.
Then I stand there. In the middle of the bathroom, drunk and depressed, waiting for several thousand milligrams of Vicodin to paralyze my body. To end all this.
I've killed a lot of things today. Why not finish it off?
I know in my heart this is the wrong decision. But-I've spent a lifetime making the wrong decisions. This is the last one I'll ever make.
The door flies open. I forgot to lock it.
"Abby," Luka sighs. His eyes are closed, and there are tears running down his cheeks. "You have to-Abby?" He spots the empty prescription bottle on the floor and picks it up slowly, as if in a daze. Or maybe it just looks that way to me. "You didn't." He shakes his head very slowly, even though he knows I did.
I can't focus on him anymore. The world is a thousand colored spots, and my head is about to explode from an overdose of light. "Abby!" Luka cries. I can barely hear him. "Oh, God, Abby! Abby, talk to me!"
The glass slips out of my hands. Time stops.
"Abby!" Luka shrieks. "Abby, please! Abby!"
The glass shatters.
The world disappears.
3/21/01
The South African legend is, of course, from the wonderful play, "The Syringa Tree." Go see it at Playhouse 91 in NYC!!!
I don't own any of the ER characters. And if you want to sue me, you will probably be forced to spend thousands of dollars in legal costs to earn the $10 in my piggy bank, so it probably isn't worth your trouble. Thank you to all my Lubies--I love you all!
This is for Manny: One love, one heart 3...we miss you!
Wrong Decisions
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We're all dysfunctional. Get over it."
--Anonymous
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's an ancient South African legend that says you can tell how lucky you'll be by how many spots you have on your fingernails. My grandmother, who grew up in Johannesburg, used to tell me all the time: some spots are good, and some are bad. If you have them on your thumb, it symbolizes friends. They represent fortune on your middle finger, and joy on your pinkie. On your index finger, however, they mean pain, and on your ring finger, misfortune.
I have spots on all the wrong fingers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Abby." Luka's voice is coming in from very far away. "Abby," he singsongs. I can hear the smile in his voice.
Luka, it's way too early!
"Abby," he chuckles. The warm softness of his lips meets mine, and I struggle to open my eyes. Sleep-dazed pupils are greeted to the blinding light of a Chicago spring sunrise, and my lids slam shut.
Luka's fingers comb through my tangled, pillow-matted hair. "Abby, it's 6:30."
My eyes snap open. "Dammit!" I jerk my head away from his hand. "She's gonna kill me," I cry, clapping a hand to my forehead.
"Who?"
"Weaver," I gasp. I fly out of bed, narrowly missing smacking Luka in the face. "I've been late twice-oh…God." A wave of intense dizziness passes over me, and then next thing I know, I've landed on the floor with a hard *thunk.*
"Abby!" Luka cries, taking a mighty leap off the bed. He's by my side in a flash, holding my face in his hands, and morphing into "doctor" mode.
The world is spotting in front of me, and I have a nauseous feeling in my stomach. "I'm okay," I assure him, focusing on a point in front of me and waiting for the stars dancing around me to fade away."
"Does anything hurt?" he says, his voice full of concern.
I realize I'm curled up in a very ungraceful heap on the wooden floor. "No," I say firmly. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" he asks nervously.
"Yeah, fine," I promise, offering a weak smile. "Just got a little dizzy."
His expression is confused. "Abby, you just collapsed," he reminds me.
Thank you, Captain Obvious. "I'm okay," I say. "Really. Just-sat up too quickly, that's all." Another swift glance at the clock tells me that it's 6:32, and Weaver is going to have my ass if I'm not standing at the Cook County General Admit Desk in under 28 minutes. I pull myself off the ground and practically sprint for the bathroom. "Just taking a shower," I call, glancing over my shoulder at Luka.
He frowns, but nods, looking worried.
I close and lock the door, turn the shower on high, and barely manage to make it to the toilet before my stomach expels everything in it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Abby?" Carter's voice is coming in from very far away. "Abby?" he singsongs.
I snap my eyes away from my coffee cup. "Huh? Sorry, Carter. I wasn't paying attention."
He laughs. "I got that, actually. I asked if you were okay."
What is it with everyone today? Am I wearing a sign or something? "I'm fine," I say irritably. "Why?"
"Your face is really pale," he says kindly. "And you've been staring into that coffee cup for a good five minutes."
Oh. "Oh." I manage a small smile. "Sorry. I really am fine, though."
Dr. Greene pops his head into the lounge. "Abby, Carter, MVA coming in, let's go."
I set my coffee mug down on the table and jog after Carter to trauma two. The patient is already on the table, thrashing and screaming, and quite obviously drunk.
It's organized chaos, County ER style, but for some reason, today I just can't keep up. Luka is calling for a chest tube tray, and Carter wants me to draw a blood alcohol level, and Dr. Green needs someone to start an IV. My head is spinning.
"Abby!" Carter says urgently. "Abby! 8.0 ET tube!"
ET tube? My mind struggles to comprehend. Lights flash past my eyes, colorful and dazzling. Voices echo through my head, in slow, drawn-out tones. "Aaaaaabbeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee-Tttttttttt tooooooooobe, Aaaaaaah-bbeeeeeeeeee!"
My body collapses to the ground, taking an equipment tray with it. My head remains in the air, circling the room like a balloon full of helium. "Aaaaaaa-bbeeeeeeeeeee! Aaaaaaaaaa-bbeeeeeeeee!"
Luka kneels beside me, and my eyes struggle to focus on him. "Abby?" his voice breaks in loud and ultra-clear through the foggy haze surrounding me. "Look at me, Abby." The murmur of voices ceases, the colors blot out, and all I see is Luka, all I hear is his voice. I feel his arms lifting me up, and then all senses cease.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Luka's concerned face is hovering directly in my line of vision, and I can feel the strong grip of his hand in mine. "Abby," he says with a worried smile.
"Hi," I offer weakly. I try to sit up, but gravity and intense dizziness pulls me back down to the gurney. "Where am I?"
"Exam four," he replies. "You passed out, remember?"
Right. "Yeah," I say. I have a sneaking feeling that something is terribly, horribly wrong. It's the same feeling I always got before my mother's moods changed. The feeling I got before my father left. The feeling I got before I caught my husband.
Call it disaster intuition.
"We're just waiting on labs," he says comfortingly, rubbing my arm.
"What kind of labs?" I ask, leaning back and propping myself up against a pile of thick, fluffy pillows.
"Just a blood workup. CBC, Chem 20, pregnancy test."
Pregnancy test?! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. How could I have been so stupid?
I keep my face composed and calm-tricks learned from alcoholism. No, officer, I'm not drunk, why would you suspect that? Just got engaged, you'll have to forgive me-a little giddy, that's all. "Oh. Okay. You don't think it's anything serious do you?"
"No, no," he says, but his face is worried.
Carter breezes in, holding a sheet of lab results. "Hey," he says gently, handing the white computer printout to Luka. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah," I say, smiling falsely. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. This is fucking unbelievable. "So?"
Carter shakes his head quickly. "I didn't look."
Luka hasn't looked either, and I can see by their faces that neither of them want to know. That both of them are absolutely terrified about what that lab sheet says, and I'm too shocked over my own stupidity to be touched by their worry, or even frightened that I might somehow be wrong.
"Luka," I say sternly. He takes a deep breath and looks down at the paper in his shaking hands. There's a long moment of eerie, frightening stillness before his face lights up, and my self-diagnosis is confirmed.
"Oh, Abby," he says, happy tears in his voice.
He springs up and takes my face in his hand, kissing me tenderly. I'm too numb and frightened to respond, and when he finally pulls back, I manage a weak, "I'm pregnant?"
He's crying now and he nods, not bothering to ask how I knew. "I'm so happy!" he laughs, holding me tightly. "Oh, Abby!"
Oh, God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Luka's riding on cloud nine.
He's sitting at the desk in my apartment now, making lists of baby names. "What do you think about Jessica?" he calls out. "Or Jason? Or maybe Jana, for a girl?"
I'm leaning against the window, my forehead pressed to the cold glass. "Nice," I manage vaguely. I watch a child holding a red balloon tear down the sidewalk, and I can almost hear the joyful shriek that emanates from his lungs. A little girl follows him at high speed, laughter on her face. Behind them strolls a young couple-the woman, blonde haired and tall, is visibly pregnant. Her husband has his hand on her belly, and is kissing her hair.
I can't go through with this. I just can't do it.
"Abby?"
"Yeah?" I say, without turning around. My stomach is rebelling again.
"Do you want to get something to eat?"
"No, thanks," I say, continuing to watch the pregnant woman and her husband walk slowly down the sidewalk.
"You really need to eat, Abby," Luka says. "I think that's why you passed out this morning. Come on, we'll go out to Pero's, get salads."
"Really, Luka," I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I'm feeling really nauseous." The cold glass feels good against my burning face, and I know it's not nausea I'm feeling-it's fear. Pure, liquid terror.
"Are you okay?" he asks tenderly.
"Fine," I manage, but my voice cracks. I bite my tongue hard, keeping my eyes focused on a young businessman, dressed in a black suit, cheerfully walking down the street swinging his briefcase.
Luka's arms are around me, and I realize that my face is covered in tears. "Abby, Abby, Abby," he whispers softly, stroking my hair. "Shh, shh. Everything's okay." He rocks back and forth. "You're going to be a mother, Abby!" he says, as if that's the greatest thing in the world. "We're going to have a family!"
In my experience, families are dysfunctional. Mothers are flighty, and fathers don't care. Parents fall apart, and children are left to pick up the pieces.
I know what it's like to pick up pieces. I don't want my baby to have to.
"What's going to happen to us?" I say through tears.
"We'll get married," Luka says, as if that's the only logical idea. "We'll be a family!"
But I know what it's like to be in a loveless marriage. And while I don't think Luka would ever cheat on me, I don't know if I want to do it again. Because I don't love Luka. Someday I'd like to grow to love him, but right now, I don't. And I know he doesn't love me. Maybe a few months from now, we'll be able to honestly say we love each other. But now we can't.
"Come on," he grins. "Why don't we go out and celebrate?"
"You go," I say weakly. "I-I really don't feel well."
He shakes his head. "I'll call for pizza." He reaches for the phone. "You've got to eat, Abby."
I nod. "I'm going to lie down."
I curl up in the corner of my bed, knees to my chest, vaguely listening to the gentle drone of Luka's voice ordering a large cheese pizza and two diet Cokes. Scenarios run through my head like a crazy film reel.
Wailing babies. Broken bottles of cheap liquor. Luka, angry. Me, crying. Divorce papers. Fear. Mistakes. Anger. Hate. Screams and sirens. Mania and depression and inflicting my childhood on someone else. I can't. I can't be the kind of mother I wanted when I was a child, the kind I wanted to be. I can't be the kind of wife I wanted my own mother to be.
"Abby!" Luka's shaking me hard. "Abby!"
I realize I've fallen asleep, and my face is again wet with tears. "Huh?"
"You were screaming," he says softly, rubbing my shoulders.
"Oh," I say, wiping my face. "Wha-what did I say?"
"Nothing," he says, rocking me back and forth in his arms. "Nothing." I have a feeling he's not telling me something.
The doorbell rings, and he kisses my forehead and goes up to answer it.
I watch him retreat, rubbing my forehead in my hands.
I can't have this baby.
Luka comes back holding a white cardboard box. "Pizza's here!" he says cheerfully.
He chatters excitedly about nurseries and cribs and toys and baby clothes as I pick at the cheese on my pizza.
I can't meet his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Mankind's greatest gift, but also it's greatest curse, is that we have free choice. We can make our choices built from love or from fear." Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"How are you?" Carter's voice calls from the doorway.
I turn around to see him, and the peacoat I was trying to hang in my locker slips out of my hands. "I'm okay."
He strides across the room and picks the coat up off the floor. "You don't look okay."
"I'm just tired," I promise, avoiding his gaze.
"Are you excited?" he says slyly. I look at him, my face for just a split second, betraying all the anguish in my heart. "Nervous?" he asks, his tone and expression changing.
"It hasn't really sank in yet," I lie smoothly. "D-does anyone else know that I'm…"
"I don't know," he says cheerfully. "You know how quickly news travels around here!"
"Yeah," I say, slinging my stethoscope around my neck. "I do."
A group of nurses are standing at the admit desk. Lydia spots me first. "Abby!" she cries, and they all turn around.
"Congratulations!" Haleh croons, rushing to hug me.
Oh, boy. "Thanks," I say, putting my practiced fake-smile into use and trying to look as happy about this as everyone else is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to my OB, who is NOT Dr. Janet Coburn, I'm at about 6 weeks. She says morning sickness is normal, which I know, but mine is "unusually bad."
Apparently my body doesn't want this baby either.
I'm so nauseous I can barely get out of bed in the mornings. I can't keep any food down, and I'm so dizzy I can't even see straight. Luka wants me to take time off from work.
He's so into this baby. Wants it more than anything in the world. I don't want to hurt him, but-oh, God, what am I doing?
I'm in a family planning clinic, by myself, trying to appear composed as I discuss my options with the gynecologist.
She doesn't know me. I don't know her. In fact, I've told her my name is Lisa Nelson, and I'm a graphic designer. I'm a career oriented woman, you know, not married, and, well, my boyfriend and I just don't want to keep the baby. Our parents would disapprove of adoption, so we've decided abortion is the best choice. My boyfriend? He, uh, had to work today.
She understands. She sees a lot of women in my situation. She can do it today if I'd like.
I have a horrible feeling I'm making the wrong decision. In fact, I know I'm making the wrong decision. But--*I can't have this baby!*
She escorts me to a creepy exam room.
Here we go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've done a terrible thing. Terrible, terrible, terrible.
It's a mortal sin. I knew I was wrong when I did it, and no amount of repenting or confession will ever make God forgive me. I'm doomed to an eternal life in hell.
I've taken human life, and I've hurt my boyfriend so badly. So badly he'll never want to see me again.
Why do I have to hurt everyone?
Luka's face appears in my mind. I wonder if he'll hit me. I wonder if he's capable of hitting me.
I deserve to be hit.
My pager beeps for the umpteenth time that night, vibrating against my hip. I swallow the last drops of vodka from the glass and check my watch. Three-sixteen. AM.
I drop a twenty on the counter and stumble towards the door. I've only had 5 shots of vodka, I muse as I drunkenly pull at the knob. Back in the old days, I could throw down hard liquor for hours before I'd even notice an effect.
Five years. I've just killed five years.
I've killed many things today.
The late April evening air is bitter cold, cutting me to the bone as I stagger the few blocks to my apartment. What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?
What am I going to tell him?
The building appears too quickly, and I find myself knocking at my own door. Luka answers.
"Abby?" he gasps. "Where have you been? I was so worried!" He leads me inside. "Are you-drunk?" he says, his voice rising in a combination of confusion and shock.
"Oh, Luka," I sob. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Luka."
"What?" he says, his voice gentler now. "What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Luka." I'm hysterical now, tears gushing in torrents, my whole body shaking. "I'm a horrible person, Luka. I'm so sorry!" My knees give out underneath me, and he joins me on the floor. "I'm so sorry." My head is on the ground, my throat letting out ungodly wailing.
"Abby," he says cautiously, nervously. "What happened?"
"I miscarried," I lie, my voice thin and pained. Luka's eyes say they believe me. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Luka. I'm so sorry," I sob.
"It's okay, Abby," he's crying now, too. "It's not your fault."
Oh, God. What have I done? He believes me-he's not mad. He should hate me. He deserves to hate me. I deserve to be hated. "I didn't miscarry," I blurt out suddenly, without thinking. Alcohol. "I had an abortion."
There's a deadly silence. I can't catch my breath.
I'm expecting Luka to scream, or slap me, or run out of the room. Instead, he quietly asks, "Why?"
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I-I was wrong, but I just couldn't do it! I couldn't do it!"
"Couldn't do what?" Luka says. His voice is so gentle-sad, rather than angry, and it's driving me crazy. I know he hates me, so why doesn't he just *say* it?
"Couldn't have the baby, Luka. I couldn't do it. I can't be a mother; I'd be a horrible mother. And you don't love me, and we couldn't do it. I know you hate me, and I'm so sorry, Luka, I'm so sorry." I'm slurring my words now, babbling desperately like the drunk I used to be.
Like the drunk I am.
"Abby," he cuts me off, and takes my face in his hands. "Why don't you think I love you?"
"You couldn't love me," I say. I feel like my mother, sitting on the floor, screaming and crying. "No one could love me. I'm a horrible person, Luka. I'm a coward, and I'm a drunk, and I'm a murderer, and I hurt everyone. No one could love me. No one ever did love me." I'm pouring out things I've never told anyone, things that have hurt me since I was 7-years-old.
Why doesn't he hate me for this?
"Abby," he says firmly. "Look at me, Abby." I manage to do so, but my head is swimming so much I can barely see him. "I love you, Abby."
Great. Now he loves me. Now that I've killed his baby and destroyed everything we've ever had together. Now he says he loves me.
But I still don't love him.
I'm incapable of love.
"Don't, Luka, don't," I sob.
"Please, Abby," he begs. He tries to hold me, but I shrug away from his grasp.
I get up and blindly run for the bathroom. He doesn't follow me.
My head throbs painfully, as I lean against the door trying to catch my breath. I hate myself, more than I ever have, more than I ever thought I could. I hate my life.
Slowly, I stumble towards the medicine cabinet. I've never wanted to do it before. Never even thought about it.
Of course, I know I'm lying to myself. I've thought about it every day since I was 19-years-old.
Since I was 7-years-old.
I fill a glass with water and find a prescription bottle. Vicodin. A full bottle. If I remember correctly, which is difficult to do in an alcohol and tear-induced stupor, I only took one, eight years ago. I don't know why I kept it.
I dump the contents of the bottle into my hand and swallow as many as I can with one gulp of warm water. When they've slid smoothly down my throat, I stuff the rest into my mouth, choking them down without the aid of the water.
Then I stand there. In the middle of the bathroom, drunk and depressed, waiting for several thousand milligrams of Vicodin to paralyze my body. To end all this.
I've killed a lot of things today. Why not finish it off?
I know in my heart this is the wrong decision. But-I've spent a lifetime making the wrong decisions. This is the last one I'll ever make.
The door flies open. I forgot to lock it.
"Abby," Luka sighs. His eyes are closed, and there are tears running down his cheeks. "You have to-Abby?" He spots the empty prescription bottle on the floor and picks it up slowly, as if in a daze. Or maybe it just looks that way to me. "You didn't." He shakes his head very slowly, even though he knows I did.
I can't focus on him anymore. The world is a thousand colored spots, and my head is about to explode from an overdose of light. "Abby!" Luka cries. I can barely hear him. "Oh, God, Abby! Abby, talk to me!"
The glass slips out of my hands. Time stops.
"Abby!" Luka shrieks. "Abby, please! Abby!"
The glass shatters.
The world disappears.
3/21/01