Author's Note: A thousand apologies for not updating for...ever. I've been laid out with bronchitis and c. diff for the past month, on top of travel and schoolwork. I didn't want to be hasty in writing this chapter, so I let it run its course in due time. Many, many thanks to Color Esperanza for her help on this one. I know it's a risk and a bit of...well...artistic license, I guess. I went back and forth on it a lot. I'm eager for and afraid of reviews, but, hey, "ER" was originally rejected by every single network, so I guess I can handle whatever feedback I get. Also, I know the language is getting, well, rough. I feel that it's necessary for this story in particular, but I'm willing to up the rating to 'M' if people feel it's warranted. Personally, I swear like a drunken sailor, so this is pretty mild for me...


"Winter"

"Have you ever heard the term 'master status'?"

"Rings a bell." It's been way too long since college.

Celia smiles. "It refers to someone's most predominant identity. Their perceived social role, and the way it shapes their lives."

"Ah. And you think mine is 'alcoholic'."

"I think that's the status you assign yourself, and that it creates a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy for you."

"No shit."

She lets that one pass. "How do you think Luka would describe you? If he had to assign you a master status?"

I contemplate that. I think the problem is that Luka puts me on a pedestal, refuses to see my flaws. And that was comfortable, it was refreshing, to have someone look at me and not see all the things that need fixing. Until I stopped trying to look at the flaws myself. They were still there, still eating at me, but I wasn't working on them. And when Luka was gone, and all of a sudden things got too much, they were there, to fall back on, and he wasn't, and even if he had been, I don't know that I'd have asked for his help, because I didn't want to break that image of me that he had. And I sure as shit didn't want him to look at me like that, because, as far as I know, he's the only person who's ever looked at me and not wondered what could be.

"His wife."

"His wife?" Celia looks surprised.

"His wife…his soulmate…some perfect being that doesn't really exist."

"I see."

"I think that's why it's so hard for him. This. He has a hard time with my being human."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Aren't we supposed to be talking about me?" I get a look that says my bad mood is not welcome here. "Fine. I think…I think it's because he sees me as his savior or something. I mean, he was pretty messed up for most of the time I knew him. Haunted."

"By his first wife?"

"And his kids, yeah. And…just everything that happened there. It really sort of…I don't know, broke him. He was always there, but there was all this…damage on the surface. Not like he was tainted or something, I'm not saying that. But, like…jagged. Rough. And he just kept making himself more miserable, drinking, sleeping around – not while we were together – looking for happiness in the wrong place. And, I mean, I wasn't doing much better. And then…we just…" I try to find a way to tell her about that night without it being too personal. That night is sort of a sacred thing, you know? It's hard to express exactly what happened – I'm not sure I even know.

"Found each other?" Celia offers. She's seen the compass.

"Yeah. And things just sort of fell into place. We both found a way to let go of all that and just…be. And I know, whether it was me, or Joe, or whatever, that he changed. Healed. And I think he gives me the credit for that."

"I see."

"I don't know that I want to change that. I mean, I'm not being egotistical. I'm not into being worshipped. I just – whatever that did it for him – I don't want to take that away. I don't want to break him again."

"Is there a way for him to see the flaws without letting it ruin the image he has of you?"

"I don't know," I murmur. "I guess we'll see."

Celia looks like she's trying to process this and find a way to make something productive of it. She's all about productivity. And sure enough, she tilts her head and sort of inspects me, furrows her brow – the stereotypical "and how does that make you feel" look. "What would you ascribe to Luka as a master status? If you could only choose one thing, what would it be?"

I run through the options in my head – sex god, Croatian sensation, Doctor Feelgood, and all the other sexual euphemisms that are probably not the answers she's looking for, but still up there on my list. And then there're others, mostly very nonspecific ones, like Croat, doctor, father, husband. None of which encompass him. And see, even though the first thing I think of when I think of Luka is how absolutely in love with him I am, it's not the same thing as how he sees me. I think I can see his flaws and love him in spite of them. Or, really, because of them, as much as anything else. I mean, he wouldn't be who he is without them, and yeah, sometimes they drive me crazy, like when his intensity gets the better of him…or when his brooding goes from being sexy to being downright annoying…or, and this is dumb, but still – the fact that he gets absolutely ridiculous when it comes to some things, like soccer, or Christmas, or whatever else, and turns into a five-year-old. I have the feeling that there's a soccer hooligan somewhere in there. And it's cute to a point, until he decides to tape mistletoe to every surface in the house, or order some obscenely expensive television package so he can watch every single game of that stupid European soccer tournament, or – no joke – hide Easter eggs around the apartment, which is fine until he forgets where they are and we don't know until they rot. But see, there are those things, his flaws, and there's the rest. The jaggedness. And that part isn't a flaw, I don't think, it's his past, his damage. And the damage is a hell of a lot harder to deal with than the flaws, but it's worth it.

"Luka isn't any one thing but complicated."

She raises an eyebrow. "Complicated?"

"Luka doesn't have a master status. There's…there's no real way to describe him without leaving something important out."

Celia smiles, clearly thinking me adorable for saying that. "Do you think that applies to you, as well?"

"What?"

"Not having a master status. Not being summed up by any one thing."

"Well…I mean, I guess you can't really give anyone a master status, really. I mean, I get the idea of it, but it sounds…alienating. Like pegging someone based on something that could be totally irrelevant to who they really are."

"That's my point, Abby. That you hang onto this stigma you assign yourself of being an alcoholic, and I think it becomes a way for you to devalue yourself."

Okay, that right there, I have to give her credit for. "The night I drank…the night I fell back into it…I was just so overwhelmed. And then it was there, this bottle of wine, and I didn't even want it at first, but it was like something woke up and it just told me that it was a way to cope, and that it wasn't like anyone really cared if I fucked up."

"Is that how it was the time before? The first time you relapsed?"

"No. Then, it was about not wanting to be myself, I think. I wanted to just be normal, not have to carry it around, so I tried to bury it, and just have a beer, prove to myself and everyone else that I didn't have to worry about it."

"And it got out of control."

"Yes and no. Not at first. And then…I just hated myself for it. For being that person. So I stopped. It wasn't like this time, where I just needed a drink so bad it hurt. It was sort of like a really bad experiment and I decided to just sweep it under the rug. I didn't work much on it, not like the first time I got sober."

"What made you get sober the first time?"

A wry little laugh comes from my throat. "I hit rock bottom. Hard. And realized that unless I got sober, I'd just keep landing on my ass."

"What do you mean by that? Rock bottom?"

"I…I lost control. Not just of my drinking, but of myself, when I was drinking. And when I wasn't. Of all of it. I lost who I was. I mean, I wasn't happy before, and I sure as hell didn't have it all together, but at least I could look in the mirror. But it just got to a point where I wasn't numbing pain, I was just numb, and sort of gave up all of who I was."

"How so?"

"I just…I lost all the things that made me…me. I was just this zombie, walking around calling herself by my name. I wasn't thinking about anything but how much I hated myself and wanted to drink that away, I wasn't aiming for anything except to get through the day and have a drink, I wasn't…I wasn't making my own decisions."

"Who was making them?"

"When I was drunk? Anyone and anything that wanted to. I was just…a mess. I was fucked up enough sober; drunk, I was a train wreck."

"And when you were sober?"

"Hmm?"

"Who was making the decisions for you when you were sober?"

I want to tell her it wasn't that easy, that it was everything – the tornado that was Maggie, my manipulative jackass of a husband, my job, my own insecurities – but I know what she'll say, that I'm always in control of my own self, and my own decisions, and obviously that's true since I'm here, as hard as it was. "Me. It was me. But I was doing a really lousy job of it, and I usually deferred to whatever and whoever seemed to know what the fuck was going on." Well, okay, in Maggie's case, she didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I like to think that my mother is the exception to every rule in the book.

"But they didn't make good decisions for you?"

"Not really. Not what I really wanted, or needed, at least. Richard – my first husband – he was very…certain of himself. I think that's part of what attracted me to him at first, because I wasn't, so he seemed…I don't know, grounding. The antithesis of my mother. And for awhile he had me convinced, I think, that I wanted what he did, for him, and that I was okay with coming second. I'm not saying it was all his fault. I just…I don't know. I didn't know what I wanted. He knew what he wanted, and that was good enough for me, I guess."

"And now you know?"

"Yeah. Fuck yes, I know."

Celia nods and we both sort of sit in silence for a minute or so, and I take the little metal puzzle thing from the side table and attempt for the ten thousandth time to solve it.

"When you say you lost control, what did you mean? How did you take back control?"

How I took it back. Right. Like it I just decided, hey, today would be a good day to clean up my entire life. Sitting down and contemplating it. Maybe it seemed like it was a decision that I just made all of a sudden this time, but it was a hell of a lot more of a realization. Opening the gates and letting all of the shit that had happened finally hit me full on and actually looking at it instead of just drinking it into submission. Seeing Luka and Joe slip away from me and realizing that it wasn't going to be okay, not this time. Though I think that was comparatively easier than the first time. Losing them was a big motivator.

"Do we really have to get into that?"

Celia picks up on the panic I've apparently not disguised very well and her eyebrows head north. "Yes, I think we do."

I can remember it perfectly, though, what pushed me past the need to be numb and into the zone of needing to get my head on straight, and I'd really not think about it, but here we are at reckoning day and I know damn well I haven't got a snowball's chance in hell of backing out of this one.

"Richard used to have his college friends over once a month to sit around and drink and a couple of them would get loaded and they'd…I don't know. Relive their college heydays, play poker, video games, that sort of shit. I usually went out, made sure I wasn't around, because some of his friends were real assholes. But this one night, I was just…I don't know, not in the mood. For anything. And anyway, I was there, and they were all drinking and one of them who I didn't actually loathe invited me to join them. And, of course, I got plastered with them, except that I guess they weren't as plastered as I was. And…I don't know…I sort of lost control, acting like a complete moron, although I can't really remember. And Richard grabbed me by the elbow – I remember that because it was like I was a kid, or something – and took me out of the room and said I was embarrassing him and I should just go to bed."

I wait for Celia to ask me how that felt, but she doesn't, so I plow on through.

"I was just standing in the bedroom, staring at myself in the mirror, hating myself for being such a fuck-up, and the same one of his friends who'd invited me to join them came in and he put a hand on my shoulder and said that I didn't deserve to be treated that way. That Richard shouldn't take a girl like me for granted."

"He was right."

"Yeah, well, it felt…I don't know. Disingenuous. Anyway, I was still just staring at the mirror, completely out of it and had that feeling like I wasn't in my body, and all of a sudden, he starts kissing my shoulders and my neck, and I just stand there like an idiot, totally…stuck…and he had his hands all over me, but really gentle, not like he was asking for anything, and Richard just…he never used to do that, be sweet to me. And it wasn't, but it was…it was like, if he'd have been harsh, I might have done something, snapped out of it, but I didn't. I was numb. And I didn't know what to do, and I mean, I don't even think I knew my name at that point, and so I just…let him."

"Let him? Let him what, Abby?"

She wants me to say it. And she can go fuck herself, because she knows damn well.

"Abby?"

"Yeah."

"I need you to tell me what happened. You know I do."

"You know where I'm going with this. I'm not spelling it the hell out."

"Abby – "

"Look, I told you about Moretti. I told you what I did. I'm not going through the exciting details all over again. Copy and paste it from the last time."

"Abby…" She sighs and twirls a pen around in the air. "Did you ask him to stop?"

He leads me over, sits me down on the bed, clothes coming off. Too much vodka, Abby. Too much vodka. He's laying me down, touching me, whispering. "Richard doesn't know what he has. If you were mine…" More lips. And what if I were? Would he send me to bed without supper, too? Lips, hands, tongue. My socks are still on. Where did the rest go? He wants to make love to me, he says. Make me feel good. What do I want? I want to sleep.

"Was it consensual, Abby?"

"I don't…I don't think…" That's the problem, isn't it? He's kissing me and I can't say anything through his lips. "Shh. I wouldn't hurt you. I've wanted this for a long time. Haven't you?" I just want to sleep. Maybe I am. Maybe this is just a dream. Maybe too much vodka. I should remember that, shouldn't I? Maybe not so much vodka next time.

"Abby. Did he hurt you?"

Laying on top of me, warm and heavy. Pressing too much weight, I think, because it's hard to breathe with him on me. He's whispering to me. Wasn't that amazing, Abby? Fingers in my hair. "Better than Richard, right? It always feels better when it's with someone who really loves you." Loves me? He can't love me. He doesn't even know me.

"I never said 'no'. And he didn't hurt me."

"That doesn't make it consensual, Abby. You know that."

I do know that, except when it's me, because I know myself and I know I ought to have stopped him. Said something. Anything.

"How long have you been a doctor?"

"What?"

"How long have you been a doctor?" she repeats.

"Officially? About two and a half years. Plus a year of med school before that, three years of being a nurse before that, three years of med school before that –"

"So, awhile."

"Yeah." Feels like a lifetime, when I think about it.

"And in that time, have you ever had anyone tell you what you just told me?"

Oh, fuck. I know where this is going. "Yeah, but –"

"And how many times did they tell you they didn't say 'no'?"

"A couple." Bitch. Absolute bitch. "Look, can we not do this?"

She stares me in the eyes, real even, head tilted to one side, lips pursed, the classic I-know-you're-bullshitting-me look. "We need to do this, Abby. You know that."

Yeah, I do, but the amount of money I'd pay to not have to do this involves selling off my major organs and committing a couple of felonies. "You're saying that even though I didn't ask him to stop that it wasn't consensual. I get it. Except that my husband was two rooms away and would have beat the absolute shit out of him if I'd made some noise."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because…I didn't."

"Was it because you were embarrassed?"

"I don't know what I was."

Celia raises an eyebrow at me. "Did you trust him to realize it wasn't your fault?"

"I'm not a real trusting person." Understatement of the month.

"Did he ever give you any reason to feel that way?"

"A few."

"A few? From the way you've described him –"

"Yeah, well, we both gave each other more than enough reasons not to trust each other."

"Did you ever tell him what happened?"

I give a little laugh. "Right."

"Abby…" She sighs. "From what you've told me, it sounds like it wasn't consensual. And whether or not you said no, whether or not he was violent –"

"I wasn't raped. Not by him, and not by Moretti. Drunk or not, I made decisions. Really fucking bad ones, but decisions."

"Abby –"

"No, you know what, no. I'm not going to call it something it wasn't just to excuse it. I could have asked him to stop. I could have fought him. I could have screamed and let Richard come in and see and kick his sorry ass." I also could have not had that vodka, not had that martini, not let Moretti drive me home, not gotten out of his car, not followed him upstairs for the lure of a drink, not had the drink, not gone along when he kissed my neck, not kissed him back, not let him undress me…there were a thousand and one things I could have not done. "You can call it whatever the hell you want, but I'd like to actually take responsibility for my screw-ups."

"Abby –"

"Just stop it. Please."

She nods, and I'm a little pleased to see the look of defeat on her face. "For now. We'll drop it for now."


I'm exhausted after the session with Celia, and all I want is to hear his voice. Even if it's angry, I want – I need – his familiarity. To hang onto that. Because it's eating at me, our last conversation, and I need to know, for my own sanity, that I'm doing the right thing, here. I know it's killing him; I get that, even if he thinks I can't possibly get it. Because I've been on the other side before, wanting to know and being shut out, wondering if it's going to take us both down, wondering if I have the strength to do this.

And the thing is, there's a big part of me that wants to tell him, just get it over and done with, because it's eating at me like a bacteria, but I know it's not right. Not like this. As much as it's going to suck, I know I have to say it to him, looking right at him, facing what I did to him, to us, to Joe. You get one chance at this sort of thing.

I have to dial a few times, because this calling card plus the international number is a pain in the ass, something like thirty numbers, and I inevitably hit the wrong one halfway through. The beeps ache in my ear like the sound tests they do on little kids, you know, clap when you hear the beep. I don't really want to clap, though.

"Molim?"

Not Luka's voice. That much I can tell. "Hello? Niko?"

Some rapid Croatian is fired off at me and then some more in the other direction and another voice that does not belong to my husband comes over the line. "Hello?"

"Hi, Niko?"

"Yes. Abby?"

"Yeah. Hi." I wait for him to greet me as well, but he doesn't, so I keep going. "Is Luka there?"

"No. Luka is not here."

"Oh. Well…do you know when he'll be back?"

"No."

"Okay, well, when you see him…can you tell him to call me, please?"

"Okay." It sounds like he'd really rather tell me to take a hike. I wonder what Luka told him, or if it's just that he's been moping around, or what, because that is not the same brother who smiled at me like I'd just told him he won the lottery and called me extraordinary.

"Look, Niko…I'm sure Luka told you what's going on, I just want you to know how sorry I am for the way I acted. I wasn't…I didn't mean to be so distant. I was going through a bad time."

"And now Luka pays for it, eh?"

"Excuse me?"

His voice drops, just like Luka's when he's pissed. "Nothing. Nothing. Forget what I am saying."

"Niko –"

"I will tell Luka you are calling when I see him. His choice if he calls you."

I go to say something else, apologize again, but there's a dial tone and I don't think it would have gotten me too far anyhow. "Shit," I mutter, and hang up. I see Celia heading for the door, leaving for the day, and chase her down.

"Hey. Wait a second."

"Abby. I'm just leaving. If you need –"

"Look, I know this is a big favor, but could I please, please go out to smoke? I can't…I can't just stay in here. Please." I'm practically groveling, but those revoked smoke breaks I'm still paying for are killing me.

She sighs and glances at the board that keeps track of what we're allowed on a given day, a big red zero where it says how many breaks I get. "You'll have to take that up with the shift leader."

"Please. Just…five minutes. To clear my head."

She looks at me and I see the process – from hesitation to pity to surrender – and she dips her head. "Five minutes. I'll let them know I okayed it."

"Thank you." I could hug her. Really, I could. But she points to the clock meaningfully and I take off, grab my coat and a pack of cigarettes and practically throttle the nurse at the desk when she takes her sweet time getting me a lighter and then bolt out to the smoking area in back of the unit.

It's snowing, and has been for awhile, apparently. I wouldn't know thanks to my lack of smoking rights in the past thirty-six hours. I don't know what possesses me, but I find myself a good, sturdy pile of snow on a little patch of what I'm assuming was grass before it was frozen and precipitated on, and heave myself back into it. Arms and legs clear out a space, just like when I was a kid, and there I am, making a snow angel and smoking, and I can only imagine what sort of ridiculous poster child for the clinically insane I must be right about now.

I can remember my first snow angel, actually. Eddie taught me, when I was about five, I think. There was this massive blizzard – we were living just outside St. Paul at the time, so when I say blizzard I mean half of Everest fell on the city – and I had a solid week off school while everyone regrouped. Maggie was in the hospital at the time, and Eddie didn't know what to do with me, I don't think, so we spent the whole week just playing in the snow, building not only a snowman but an entire extended snow family and a small village of forts, sledding at the park. We'd just gone down what was probably a tiny hill but seemed like a mountain to me on the little purple saucer he'd bought me and completely wiped out at the bottom. There was blood in the snow, and I must have cut my lip, but the real thing I remember is just laughing, laughing my little snowpants off, and Eddie picked me up out of the snow and tossed me back into a fresh patch and told me to wave my arms and legs. And then he lifted me up out of my patch and showed me my handiwork. My snow angel. I remember feeling like he must be the greatest dad in the world, right then.

Well, that didn't turn out quite like I thought back then, but it's a good memory still. I think about when I'm out, and maybe Joe's a little young now, but next year, I'll teach him to make a snow angel of his own. And Luka, too, and teach them how to sled, because he told me once he's never gone sledding, which is a crying shame if you ask me.

And of course all this hinges on Luka, and on me, and if we've gone past the point of no return or not. I know, for me, I'm still there, still want him and want to make this work, but it's becoming abundantly clear that while it's about what I've done and what I do now, at least in large part, it's not up to me quite as much as it's up to him. I know that if he wants me, still, then I'm in. Hell and highwater, I'm in.

But see, Niko's got me thinking that maybe it's not enough for me to apologize and try to make it right. Maybe all that jaggedness isn't fixed, really, just covered over, and here I've gone and unearthed it and now it's out there and then some, and maybe this was the straw that broke the camel's back. Broke Luka, finally. Maybe he was never really okay, just biding his time in the sun, hoping it lasted, not dealing with all the shit covered over by what we had. It didn't really occur to me, not until now, but maybe this isn't all me. Maybe this, and his father, and going home, maybe it's too much.

And for the first time, I consider the possibility that Luka really has had enough.