'Past
Dances and Future Tears:'
Abby
Hit The Atmosphere
Disclaimer: I'm just babysitting these kids for a
bit. I promise I won't let them stay out late.
Category: Abby Angst. PG-15 for language of a Long
Shore man nature.
Author Notes: Add-on to everything else written
previously ('Forgive...' and 'Passing...'). This is also slightly based on my
own personal experiences of dealing with a mother who suffers from manic
depression.
So, get the sympathy tissues out, and put on the
Counting Crows song, 'Amy Hit The Atmosphere,' which, funnily enough, happens
to be the title of this segment. Coincidence?:)
Feedback: It's a girl's best friend;
angelpixiedust@bolt.com
*
* * *
"It's always tempting to lose yourself with
someone, who's maybe lost themselves."
-- Patti ("My So-Called Life")
* * * *
"Hey
Luka."
I
take hesitant steps into the darkened lounge area.
He
barely lifts his head up and barely raises a smile. "Oh hi Abby." He
takes note of the bag slung over my shoulder and the absence of my nursing
combat gear. "Going home already?"
I
nod, "Uh, yeah, it's eleven thirty, my shift finished half an hour
ago."
He's got a pen poised in one hand, and a stack of papers sitting next to him. Misery keeping him company. He looks back down at whatever it is that he's attacking with the pen, and then back up at me. "So you're going home?"
I sigh. "Well, I was kind of hoping that we could *both* go home, or maybe get some dinner. There's this Italian place..."
He shakes his head gently, shifting his eyes from the paper in front of him and then back at me. "I don't think-"
I smile. I force a chirpy smile. Abby's good at that. "Sure. It's OK. I understand. Um, how about you come by my place when you've finished?"
He's shaking his head again, and I'm finding it hard to keep my smile. "I'm pretty tired Abby. I think I'm just going to go home and get some sleep."
I nod my head, and begin to edge closer towards the door. Is this the part where I stop smiling? "Sure. OK. So then, well, I guess, I'll see you tomorrow or something, huh?"
He nods his head somberly, tells me a goodbye, and drops his head back down as he shifts his pen along the page.
This is the third time this week when I've found myself standing around anxiously awaiting for his shift to end, before he tells me that, no point Abby, stuff to do Abby, maybe some other time Abby. And I understand. You don't go through the trauma of earning a medical degree to expect to find yourself having the most pro-active of social lives. I understand that. At least I'm trying to.
But, this isn't the reason behind my hurt.
Sometimes, when he doesn't think anyone's looking, I'll catch him looking out into an imaginary distance, his eyes hollow and empty, and lost. And I've asked him. I ask him. If he wants to talk. If he needs a shoulder. He smiles weakly and tells me that it's nothing, that he's fine, that Abby shouldn't worry. And it hurts. He doesn't trust me, trust himself with me. It hurts, that there's this imaginary wall standing between us. An imaginary wall surrounding him.
Adds more doubts to my already doubtful existence.
And I'm trying to understand.
I'm thinking of all the alternative ways in which I could spend my night, as I attempt an invisible trek across the ER floors. I'm thinking of bubbles and baths and hot milk and Ben and Jerry's, only to have Frank yell out to me. Normally, this would have been met with a subtle piss off, a subtle finger raise, masked by a polite 'stuff to do,' stance.
But he keeps calling out my name.
Sighing, and making it obvious to everyone within a two-mile radius that Abby's not in the mood, I approach him.
"What is it?"
He sighs, with a forced chirpy smile, and an outstretched hand clutching at a phone says, "Abby, it's your landlord, he wants to know if you know anyone by the name of Maggie..."
* * * *
"If I could
make it rain today
And wash away this sunny day down to the gutter
I would
Just to get a change of pace
Things are getting worse but I feel a lot better
And that's all that really matters to me"
* * * *
"Where've you been Maggie?"
That's not what I want to say. What have you been doing, Maggie? Which pills have you been taking Maggie? How many windows have you broken Maggie? That's what I want to know. I want to know how many pieces I'm going to have to pick up.
She looks disgusting. Her hairs matted and knotted and cultivating several different forms of smell. She's fermenting alcohol in her hair.
And the doorway to my apartment is the last place where I want us to be. But there we are.
Here we are.
The silence holds the air around us hostage. It's vapid. Suffocating.
It ranks high in my predictability scale.
An 8.6 at least.
The amount of alcohol swimming around inside her head seems to be affecting her balance. She looks at me and then away. Someone inside me wants to take her into my apartment, sit her down and feed her silly. Give her a shower and brush her hair. Talk to her soothingly.
But. Then there's the part of me that wants to hear the slam of the door in front of her face. Wants to make her stand in the rain for four hours whilst I decide what freak of nature I get to screw tonight. The biggest part of me wants to ignore everything she tells me, every piece of soul she bears to me and then hold it against her at some point in the future. But. It's not raining and there are no doors to slam and no souls to bear.
She's looking at me and I can see that she's beginning to forget why she came. And she's not alone.
She looks away from me as she begins her tale. She's changing Abby. She's changing. She promises Abby. She does. She promises.
So much for predictability.
I can't look at her. I've had a crappy day, Maggie. A really crappy day. I've seen people die today Maggie. Real people with homes and families and favourite TV shows. I've seen people die. They don't want to die Maggie. They tell me this as they die. They tell me about regrets, I ever tell you that I'm a part time psychiatrist and priest? No? Well, that's what I am. You know what that feels like? You don't? No kidding, Maggie.
This isn't what I say.
"What are you doing here?" This comes out with an underscore of anger. I'm glad it's not a wasted underscore as she looks up at me sharply. Condemningly.
She reminds me of our relationship. She's my mom. Something about obligations.
Obligations? Right. She's the one who would know all about that.
But this isn't the time. My hallway isn't that place.
So, I turn, in my blood soaked shoes, and slam the door shut behind me.
And my breath is pained. It hurts. I'm crying as I lean up against my doorframe. I'm crying, and I can hear her outside.
I'm a bitch. I'm a son of a bitch. She never wanted to give birth to me. Big mistake, Abby. Biggest mistake of her life. She hates me. She hates me. She hates me.
And then comes the knocking.
She's slamming her fists against my door. She's screaming things. She's drunk, she's manic, and she's screaming my door down. My grocery bag falls against the floor. I can hear a tomato give its bloody farewell.
I drag my hands through my hair.
She hates me. She wants me to let her in. Let her in now, Abby. Let her in. She's going to do whatever it fucking takes. She will fucking get in. Open this door, Abby. She wants me to open the door. Abby? Abby! Open this door.
So she can hate me to my face.
God.
I'm leaning against the wall opposite the door. I can see it shake and tremble under her fists. I'm crying, tears and sobs escaping involuntarily.
The doors shaking with too much ease. Fear shoots up from my stomach.
God.
I reach to pick up the phone. All the logic and possible eventuals being calculated in that one teary second.
This is going to end. I have to stop this.
The operator has an overly soothing voice, and I find myself crying my address to her.
God.
* * * *
"Amy hit the
atmosphere
Caught herself a rocket ride out of this gutter and
She's never coming back, I fear
But any time it rains,
She just feels a lot better
And that's all that really matters to me"
* * * *
"Your mom got arrested Abby?"
I look up sharply. Dave's standing on the other side of the desk, his hands busy peeling at the corner of a chart.
I look back down at my work, suddenly finding this patient's name fascinating. "That's none of your business." I say it and feel stupid. If there was any one thing that I could have said that would have sparked his interest, that was it.
I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my forehead. Keeping my eyes on the chart in my hands that I've already signed and read twice, I speak. "What is it Dave?"
"Well, uh, it was just that, if you ever y'know, need someone to talk to, or um, anything. Well, I'm here OK?"
My head jerks up sharply. I almost get whiplash. He has a look on his face that I don't think I've ever seen before. I think it's concern.
Somewhere pigs are performing crude kamikaze maneuvers around skyscrapers.
I don't know what to say, so I avert my eyes back to the coffee stained chart. "Um, I'm OK Dave, but thanks."
He sucks in a breath, and watches me for a second longer, as though I'm going to smash into billions of little pieces if he doesn't, and then, once he assures himself that I'm not glass he leaves.
I take a deep sigh.
She looked petrified as her hands were linked up behind her back and all the legalities were recited and replayed out to her in surreal slow motion. A deer caught in flashing blue headlights. That lasted for a good solid second. And then came the screaming. The attempts at violence -drunks have a tendency to stumble and fall when they attempt left hooks. I should know. And then I cried as the men in blue uniform questioned me, extracted all the viable information that they could out of me. Once that had been done, the screaming ended and the sirens ended and I was alone.
She's going to be kept behind bars for another day. That's two whole days of peeing in front of other women.
Giving this chart another scan, and deciding that it's as good as it's going to get, I make my way to curtain area four. Three curtains down, second on the left.
I jump to find a hand on my shoulder. "Jesus Carter."
He smiles apologetically. "Sorry Abby, I just wanted-"
"I'm just going to see Mr. McKay now," I say with a smile, as I continue on my way. He follows behind me. I sigh. Or is that a groan? "If you're going to ask me if I'm OK you're a dead man."
"So you're not OK?"
This time it is a groan. "Yes I'm OK Carter."
"About your mother?"
I pull a distasteful face. "Was there some bulletin board notice that I didn't see? Just how does everybody know this?"
He looks away sheepishly. He's been found out. "Uh, well, Dave overheard you telling Weaver, and Jing Mei overheard him telling the nurses, and she, uh, told me."
"Nice to know people can be trusted." I mutter dryly.
He's not giving in that easily. Dammit. Maybe I should put up my own memo. "ABBY'S LIFE FALLING APART. ABBY IS OK. ABBY APPRECIATES YOUR CONCERN BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO PISS OFF. SHOWS OVER FOLKS. NOTHING TO SEE HERE."
Still contemplating this idea I see Luka standing beside the patient in curtain area four. I turn to face Carter, indicating my stop.
He sighs, and his hand is back on my shoulder. "Look, Abby, if you need any thing, money for parole, or, well... If you need anything...someone to bitch to...someone to break expensive stuff with..."
I give him my sincere smile. At least I hope it's my sincere smile. I forget what a sincere Abby smile looks like.
He's still watching me, his eyes both concerned and understanding.
My voice is soft, as I begin to move towards Luka and my patient.
"Yeah, I know."
I smile, as he continues to look at me with uncertainty, "-You're number's on my speed dial Carter."
And with that, I leave him.