Part II, and final part. Very possible I might write a sequel after the summer, but I haven't decided that as of yet. Thanks to everyone for reviewing--hope you enjoy!
TITLE: Wrong Decisions, Part II
AUTHOR: Alyssa
CATEGORY: Abby angst, Luka/Abby romance
DISCLAIMER: Hmmm...think about that one for a while. If you have some strong desire to sue me for using these characters, you will probably earn about $3. Tops.
DATE: March 2001
This fic is for Manny...we miss you so much. One love, one heart 3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"For every mountain there is a miracle." Robert H. Schuller
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Voices.
They're clear and resounding, but echoing. Like they're not really there.
Like I'm not really here.
I don't recognize them. I don't know where I am.
"She hanging in there?" a male voice asks. It sounds familiar.
"She's alive," another voice says. This one has an accent. It sounds like he's been crying, but it could just be the accent.
I don't know.
I think I know him.
There's a hand on mine, and it's familiar. Comforting. Like it's supposed to be there.
"What'd they say?" the first voice says.
"That it's still touch and go," the accent says. The hand squeezes mine. "If she makes it till tomorrow, they said they'll have a better idea."
"God," the first voice sighs.
The voices sound sad. I wonder why.
"Why'd she do it?" the accent whispers, his voice thick with tears. "Why would she want to do this to herself?"
"She didn't leave a note?" his companion presses. "Anything? She didn't tell you anything?"
"I told you everything. I walked in there, and she just collapsed. Took the whole bottle."
"God," the first voice says again.
A woman's voice now, high and nasal. "Did you call her mother?"
"I don't want to call her mother," the accent says.
"Maybe you should," the woman says. "Maybe she should be here."
"There's nothing she could do," he says firmly. "Nothing she could do," he repeats. There's a deep, throaty sound--a sob, maybe? "Nothing anybody can do."
"What about her brother?" she adds. "Maybe you should call her brother."
"I--I don't know him," the accent cries. "I barely know her." The hand holding mine shakes, and a terrible weeping sound fills the room.
The accent is praying. He's speaking a language I don't understand, but I can comprehend his meaning.
He wants something very badly.
I know it's his hand clutching mine, and I try to squeeze it back, but I can't. I can't move.
"Molim," he whispers. "Molim." Something warm and wet lands on my cheek. "Volim te, Abby." Lips press against my forehead.
I'm sorry he's so sad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There's a silence that I don't want to hear
There's a hole now where my heart used to be
They say that healing comes in time
But I don't know what that means."
Lee Ann Womack
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a light in my eyes. Sharp, powerful, and absolutely blinding. Worse than a spring Chicago sunrise. A hangover, I remind myself, but then I realize I haven't had a drink in five years. But--oh, God. I jerk my head away, and am surprised to come face to face with Luka.
He's crying.
Oh, God.
I'm still here.
I close my eyes again, as if doing so will somehow put me back in a coma, will make none of this real.
"Abby," he chokes. "Please don't."
I'm grateful for the tube in my mouth, preventing me from talking. He takes my hand in his, but I don't respond. I can't.
A doctor bustles in, someone I don't recognize. "Well, Abby," he says with a phony, I'm-trying-hard-to-be-reassuring-but-I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you smile. "How are you feeling?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He doesn't really care.
"We're gonna see if we can take this tube out," he says to himself. He futzes with the pulse ox machine, then gives me yet another fake smile. "Okay, Abby, take a deep breath." I do as ordered, half-heartedly. "And blow."
It's a horrible sensation, kind of like having someone pull your inner organs out through your mouth. I choke hard, my whole body shaking with painful convulsions. Luka's hands hold me down. "Okay, okay," he says gently. "It's okay."
The doctor disappears, and I'm left alone in the room with Luka. "Do you remember what happened?" he asks, his voice low and unreadable.
I nod slowly.
"Everything?" he presses.
Everything. The baby, and the abortion. The alcohol. The conversation in the doorway. The vicodin.
"You scared me, Abby," he whispers.
"I'm sorry," I choke, my voice scratchy and painful. "I'm really sorry."
"You really scared me," he says, tears rolling down his cheeks. "You didn't come home that night, and I didn't know what had happened. And I kept paging you, and paging you, and I tried calling Carter and the hospital, and nobody had seen you. And you came home, and--oh, Abby, the baby didn't even matter! I was terrified that you weren't okay. And then after you ran into that bathroom, and I walked in, and…and…" He stops to take a breath. "I thought you were dead, Abby. You were on the bathroom floor, and there was so much glass, and--you weren't breathing, and I thought you were dead."
My chest feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and sobs are constricting my throat, but Luka doesn't stop. "Everyone in the ER was horrified," he tells me. "No one understands why. *I* don't understand why, Abby. I love you. God, I love you. I will do anything to help you, Abby, but you've got to tell me what to do. If you don't want a baby, that's fine. But I am not going to leave you. And I am not going to let you push me away." He leans over and brushes the tears out of my eyes. "Please, Abby. Can you talk to me?"
I choke down my tears. I can't look at him.
"Please, Abby," he cries. "Please."
I don't know why I'm doing this. I have found possibly the greatest man on the planet, and I'm afraid of him, and what I feel for him. I'm afraid of myself.
I bury my face in the thin ICU pillow and let the sobs rock my body. "I'm sorry, Luka," I gasp, my voice muffled by the fabric I'm choking on. "I'm so sorry!"
It's something I've become used to-apologizing. Apologizing for my mother's behavior, and for my divorce, and for drunken hours in all-night bars. I've become used to apologizing to myself for every screw up and every tragedy.
Luka's strong hands caress my shoulders, easing me into his arms. I did this to destroy myself--not him. I never imagined I'd hurt him this much.
I never imagined he cared this much. No one else ever has.
"Please, Abby. Can you talk to me?" He pries my face from his chest, and tenderly strokes my cheek.
I can't talk. I'm crying too hard. And even if I wasn't, I don't think I would know what to say. Luka holds me tightly, his hand combing through my hair.
It's all coming out now, torrents of tears for everything I've never cried for before. I cry for the family and the childhood I never had, and for the marriage I failed. I cry for wasted, alcoholic years and lonely, empty nights. I cry for my brother and the relationship we once had. I cry for my father and the relationship we never got to have. I cry for Luka and his past. I cry for the baby I killed, and the man I've hurt so deeply.
"I couldn't have the baby, Luka," I finally manage. "I couldn't be the kind of mother I wanted to be, or the kind of wife you would want, and I couldn't tell you because you wanted the baby so badly! You did! And then I just felt so awful about it, and I expected you to hate me, cause-I killed your baby Luka! I killed her! And then--oh, God, Luka, how could you possibly say you love someone like me? You couldn't!"
"If I have to tell you a thousand times how wonderful you are, I will," he says. "You are amazing, Abby. You are strong, and you are beautiful. If you don't want a baby, we don't need to have a baby. And the only kind of wife I want is you. All I need is you, Abby. That's all I need."
I look at him in wonderment through tear-filled eyes. "Do you mean that?" I whisper.
There's something about his voice that makes me believe him. That, even in this whirlwind of pain and depression, makes me feel loved and welcome. That makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.
"I've always meant it," he says passionately.
I lean against him, examining my fingers. I think the spots are on the right nails now.
I know things will be hard again. My mother will come, the rain will fall, Luka and I will fight. The temptation to drink will flare, depression will come. But I think this time I can get through it. This time, I'm going to make everything all right.
Carter comes in at that moment, and almost cries. "Abby!"
I manage a smile. "Hey, Carter."
"How're you feeling?" he asks gently.
I think for a second, and am almost surprised by the answer. I feel okay. For the first time in…well--ever, there seems to be a point to living. Something good about it.
Amazing that I had to nearly die before I let myself realize that.
"Pretty good," I say, my voice lifting. "Pretty good."
Luka chuckles and kisses my head sweetly.
I think that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved--loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves." Victor Hugo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TITLE: Wrong Decisions, Part II
AUTHOR: Alyssa
CATEGORY: Abby angst, Luka/Abby romance
DISCLAIMER: Hmmm...think about that one for a while. If you have some strong desire to sue me for using these characters, you will probably earn about $3. Tops.
DATE: March 2001
This fic is for Manny...we miss you so much. One love, one heart 3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"For every mountain there is a miracle." Robert H. Schuller
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Voices.
They're clear and resounding, but echoing. Like they're not really there.
Like I'm not really here.
I don't recognize them. I don't know where I am.
"She hanging in there?" a male voice asks. It sounds familiar.
"She's alive," another voice says. This one has an accent. It sounds like he's been crying, but it could just be the accent.
I don't know.
I think I know him.
There's a hand on mine, and it's familiar. Comforting. Like it's supposed to be there.
"What'd they say?" the first voice says.
"That it's still touch and go," the accent says. The hand squeezes mine. "If she makes it till tomorrow, they said they'll have a better idea."
"God," the first voice sighs.
The voices sound sad. I wonder why.
"Why'd she do it?" the accent whispers, his voice thick with tears. "Why would she want to do this to herself?"
"She didn't leave a note?" his companion presses. "Anything? She didn't tell you anything?"
"I told you everything. I walked in there, and she just collapsed. Took the whole bottle."
"God," the first voice says again.
A woman's voice now, high and nasal. "Did you call her mother?"
"I don't want to call her mother," the accent says.
"Maybe you should," the woman says. "Maybe she should be here."
"There's nothing she could do," he says firmly. "Nothing she could do," he repeats. There's a deep, throaty sound--a sob, maybe? "Nothing anybody can do."
"What about her brother?" she adds. "Maybe you should call her brother."
"I--I don't know him," the accent cries. "I barely know her." The hand holding mine shakes, and a terrible weeping sound fills the room.
The accent is praying. He's speaking a language I don't understand, but I can comprehend his meaning.
He wants something very badly.
I know it's his hand clutching mine, and I try to squeeze it back, but I can't. I can't move.
"Molim," he whispers. "Molim." Something warm and wet lands on my cheek. "Volim te, Abby." Lips press against my forehead.
I'm sorry he's so sad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There's a silence that I don't want to hear
There's a hole now where my heart used to be
They say that healing comes in time
But I don't know what that means."
Lee Ann Womack
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a light in my eyes. Sharp, powerful, and absolutely blinding. Worse than a spring Chicago sunrise. A hangover, I remind myself, but then I realize I haven't had a drink in five years. But--oh, God. I jerk my head away, and am surprised to come face to face with Luka.
He's crying.
Oh, God.
I'm still here.
I close my eyes again, as if doing so will somehow put me back in a coma, will make none of this real.
"Abby," he chokes. "Please don't."
I'm grateful for the tube in my mouth, preventing me from talking. He takes my hand in his, but I don't respond. I can't.
A doctor bustles in, someone I don't recognize. "Well, Abby," he says with a phony, I'm-trying-hard-to-be-reassuring-but-I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you smile. "How are you feeling?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He doesn't really care.
"We're gonna see if we can take this tube out," he says to himself. He futzes with the pulse ox machine, then gives me yet another fake smile. "Okay, Abby, take a deep breath." I do as ordered, half-heartedly. "And blow."
It's a horrible sensation, kind of like having someone pull your inner organs out through your mouth. I choke hard, my whole body shaking with painful convulsions. Luka's hands hold me down. "Okay, okay," he says gently. "It's okay."
The doctor disappears, and I'm left alone in the room with Luka. "Do you remember what happened?" he asks, his voice low and unreadable.
I nod slowly.
"Everything?" he presses.
Everything. The baby, and the abortion. The alcohol. The conversation in the doorway. The vicodin.
"You scared me, Abby," he whispers.
"I'm sorry," I choke, my voice scratchy and painful. "I'm really sorry."
"You really scared me," he says, tears rolling down his cheeks. "You didn't come home that night, and I didn't know what had happened. And I kept paging you, and paging you, and I tried calling Carter and the hospital, and nobody had seen you. And you came home, and--oh, Abby, the baby didn't even matter! I was terrified that you weren't okay. And then after you ran into that bathroom, and I walked in, and…and…" He stops to take a breath. "I thought you were dead, Abby. You were on the bathroom floor, and there was so much glass, and--you weren't breathing, and I thought you were dead."
My chest feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and sobs are constricting my throat, but Luka doesn't stop. "Everyone in the ER was horrified," he tells me. "No one understands why. *I* don't understand why, Abby. I love you. God, I love you. I will do anything to help you, Abby, but you've got to tell me what to do. If you don't want a baby, that's fine. But I am not going to leave you. And I am not going to let you push me away." He leans over and brushes the tears out of my eyes. "Please, Abby. Can you talk to me?"
I choke down my tears. I can't look at him.
"Please, Abby," he cries. "Please."
I don't know why I'm doing this. I have found possibly the greatest man on the planet, and I'm afraid of him, and what I feel for him. I'm afraid of myself.
I bury my face in the thin ICU pillow and let the sobs rock my body. "I'm sorry, Luka," I gasp, my voice muffled by the fabric I'm choking on. "I'm so sorry!"
It's something I've become used to-apologizing. Apologizing for my mother's behavior, and for my divorce, and for drunken hours in all-night bars. I've become used to apologizing to myself for every screw up and every tragedy.
Luka's strong hands caress my shoulders, easing me into his arms. I did this to destroy myself--not him. I never imagined I'd hurt him this much.
I never imagined he cared this much. No one else ever has.
"Please, Abby. Can you talk to me?" He pries my face from his chest, and tenderly strokes my cheek.
I can't talk. I'm crying too hard. And even if I wasn't, I don't think I would know what to say. Luka holds me tightly, his hand combing through my hair.
It's all coming out now, torrents of tears for everything I've never cried for before. I cry for the family and the childhood I never had, and for the marriage I failed. I cry for wasted, alcoholic years and lonely, empty nights. I cry for my brother and the relationship we once had. I cry for my father and the relationship we never got to have. I cry for Luka and his past. I cry for the baby I killed, and the man I've hurt so deeply.
"I couldn't have the baby, Luka," I finally manage. "I couldn't be the kind of mother I wanted to be, or the kind of wife you would want, and I couldn't tell you because you wanted the baby so badly! You did! And then I just felt so awful about it, and I expected you to hate me, cause-I killed your baby Luka! I killed her! And then--oh, God, Luka, how could you possibly say you love someone like me? You couldn't!"
"If I have to tell you a thousand times how wonderful you are, I will," he says. "You are amazing, Abby. You are strong, and you are beautiful. If you don't want a baby, we don't need to have a baby. And the only kind of wife I want is you. All I need is you, Abby. That's all I need."
I look at him in wonderment through tear-filled eyes. "Do you mean that?" I whisper.
There's something about his voice that makes me believe him. That, even in this whirlwind of pain and depression, makes me feel loved and welcome. That makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.
"I've always meant it," he says passionately.
I lean against him, examining my fingers. I think the spots are on the right nails now.
I know things will be hard again. My mother will come, the rain will fall, Luka and I will fight. The temptation to drink will flare, depression will come. But I think this time I can get through it. This time, I'm going to make everything all right.
Carter comes in at that moment, and almost cries. "Abby!"
I manage a smile. "Hey, Carter."
"How're you feeling?" he asks gently.
I think for a second, and am almost surprised by the answer. I feel okay. For the first time in…well--ever, there seems to be a point to living. Something good about it.
Amazing that I had to nearly die before I let myself realize that.
"Pretty good," I say, my voice lifting. "Pretty good."
Luka chuckles and kisses my head sweetly.
I think that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved--loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves." Victor Hugo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~