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Part Three
The sun on the lake was dazzling. Carter had sat staring over the water since the end of his shift. He was barely aware of the people around him, of the sights and sounds of lakeside Chicago on a perfect August day. He felt faintly nauseous and knew that he should eat something, but the inertia which had settled on him over the past two hours was now overwhelming.
"Luka."
It had been unmistakable. He'd tried to rationalize it. Kovac was the last person she'd seen before passing out, she must have thought that it was him turning her, speaking softly into her ear. His anguish intensified when he thought of how often Kovac must have roused her from sleep, how many times she had woken in his bed, in his arms, how often she had given herself to him. But she hadn't been happy with Luka, he knew that for a fact. It was Carter she turned to when she needed a sympathetic ear, him she had laughed with. He knew her, understood her, and had loved her for so long that he could barely remember a time when he hadn't. What was it she had seen in Kovac, to have stayed with him for a year? The man was a memento mori; death hung about him like cheap scent. "Sad and dark"? Well he had that in spades. Carter had never liked him. He'd disliked him on sight. His complete - what was it? - virility, masculinity, irritated him. A creature with no music in his soul. Except that he knew that wasn't true. He'd watched appalled as both Susan and Abby had gazed, spellbound, at the Croat as he delivered his little party piece from Hamlet; hell, even Gallant had been bewitched. And then that little self deprecating smile had completed Carter's humiliation. He'd wished he could undo the whole day and cringed at the recollection of his own conduct. Still, at the end of it all Susan had released him and had spoken words which were balm to his soul, urging him to claim Abby. And in the end he had, and she hadn't turned him away. Even Luka's quiet, insistent presence had been unable to quell his spirits then. Quiet. If he were to be honest it was this that made the older man a thorn in Carter's flesh. For all the horror which he had purportedly endured there was a quietude, a centredness about him which Carter found galling. He hadn't turned to drink, or to drugs; he had loved his wife and his children, and spoke affectionately of his father. He'd known happiness. And Carter hated him for it.
He wished he had a cigarette. If Abby were here he'd cadge one from her, as he did from time to time. Abby. She'd come to him repeatedly when she was with Luka. He'd known it was only a matter of time. And yet, when he'd had his chance he'd known too that he didn't want Kovac in their bed with them, and he'd turned from her with something akin to disgust, seeking out Susan to ease his pain. It hadn't worked. Of course it hadn't.
Damn it. He stood and approached the woman seated on the adjoining bench.
"Excuse me, but could you spare a cigarette?" She eyed him speculatively.
"Sure"
Carter took the cigarette and accepted a light. Nodding his thanks he returned to his seat, and missed the disappointment which flashed across her face. The nicotine conspired with his hunger to make him light headed.
And when he had finally taken Abby into his embrace and kissed her he had felt sure that at last all the pieces of his life would fall into place. He shook his head and smiled, wondering now at his naivety. He'd stopped her drinking, he had. She'd done that for him he told himself. Their torn souls had seemed to fit together with a kind of ghastly symmetry: her mother, his mother; her drinking, his addiction, her need, his need. For a while it had worked. They'd continued to laugh, to tease, to put one another down, knowing it was safe. But he had been haunted by a vague sense of disquiet underpinning his happiness. He missed Mark, he realised. Mark, a man not so very many years older than himself, dead. But he too had known happiness and his presence was still tangible in the ER. And himself? He had felt like a teenager, felt his peers' discomfiture, felt keenly the disadvantage at which his addiction had put him. And, contrary to what he'd expected, being with Abby hadn't helped that.
And then there was the sex. It was . OK. After the first time he had always felt that Abby was somehow not there. He'd been suspicious, wondering if she was thinking of Luka's hands and mouth on her, Luka moving inside her. He'd had to stop thinking like that. They would simply have to work at it. After all, they knew one another, understood. You couldn't have everything.
Carter flicked his cigarette end away and watched as it smouldered on the ground.
He knew all the rules of course. Recovering addicts shouldn't form new romantic attachments for at least a year after embarking on recovery. But they were different. Their attachment was there, if undeclared, already. Benton had done it for him, rubbed his nose in his own dirt, and it had worked. After a fashion. He had been desperate to prove to them all that he could do it, and do it he had. And Abby had been there for him. Until Kovac. He remembered the night they'd returned to the ER, their attacker dying on a gurney, Carter and Corday unable to save him. And through it all, all he'd been able to think was that she'd backed out of going to a meeting with him to be with Kovac. His hatred of the man had crystallized there and then.. He'd been angry that after her neighbour had attacked her she'd gone to Kovac. What after all was the difference between him and the man on the gurney? Between him and the man who had beaten her? And when he had seen her in her apartment, beer in hand, he had been afraid. If she could turn back, what might he do?
He'd cracked, finally, and confronted Kovac, angrily demanding to know how he could allow her to drink whilst in his care. And still the man and been immovable. It wasn't until later, when his rage had abated, that he'd entertained the possibility that Luka had not known. About Abby. About her drinking. And when he grasped it as a truth he felt vindicated. She hadn't told this man with whom she had shared her bed and her body. He had known what Luka had not, and he had felt a curious sort of pride in that. And he could help her, make things right as Luka could not. She had resisted at first, but in the end the days without a drink had turned to weeks and then to months.
Until last night.
Part Three
The sun on the lake was dazzling. Carter had sat staring over the water since the end of his shift. He was barely aware of the people around him, of the sights and sounds of lakeside Chicago on a perfect August day. He felt faintly nauseous and knew that he should eat something, but the inertia which had settled on him over the past two hours was now overwhelming.
"Luka."
It had been unmistakable. He'd tried to rationalize it. Kovac was the last person she'd seen before passing out, she must have thought that it was him turning her, speaking softly into her ear. His anguish intensified when he thought of how often Kovac must have roused her from sleep, how many times she had woken in his bed, in his arms, how often she had given herself to him. But she hadn't been happy with Luka, he knew that for a fact. It was Carter she turned to when she needed a sympathetic ear, him she had laughed with. He knew her, understood her, and had loved her for so long that he could barely remember a time when he hadn't. What was it she had seen in Kovac, to have stayed with him for a year? The man was a memento mori; death hung about him like cheap scent. "Sad and dark"? Well he had that in spades. Carter had never liked him. He'd disliked him on sight. His complete - what was it? - virility, masculinity, irritated him. A creature with no music in his soul. Except that he knew that wasn't true. He'd watched appalled as both Susan and Abby had gazed, spellbound, at the Croat as he delivered his little party piece from Hamlet; hell, even Gallant had been bewitched. And then that little self deprecating smile had completed Carter's humiliation. He'd wished he could undo the whole day and cringed at the recollection of his own conduct. Still, at the end of it all Susan had released him and had spoken words which were balm to his soul, urging him to claim Abby. And in the end he had, and she hadn't turned him away. Even Luka's quiet, insistent presence had been unable to quell his spirits then. Quiet. If he were to be honest it was this that made the older man a thorn in Carter's flesh. For all the horror which he had purportedly endured there was a quietude, a centredness about him which Carter found galling. He hadn't turned to drink, or to drugs; he had loved his wife and his children, and spoke affectionately of his father. He'd known happiness. And Carter hated him for it.
He wished he had a cigarette. If Abby were here he'd cadge one from her, as he did from time to time. Abby. She'd come to him repeatedly when she was with Luka. He'd known it was only a matter of time. And yet, when he'd had his chance he'd known too that he didn't want Kovac in their bed with them, and he'd turned from her with something akin to disgust, seeking out Susan to ease his pain. It hadn't worked. Of course it hadn't.
Damn it. He stood and approached the woman seated on the adjoining bench.
"Excuse me, but could you spare a cigarette?" She eyed him speculatively.
"Sure"
Carter took the cigarette and accepted a light. Nodding his thanks he returned to his seat, and missed the disappointment which flashed across her face. The nicotine conspired with his hunger to make him light headed.
And when he had finally taken Abby into his embrace and kissed her he had felt sure that at last all the pieces of his life would fall into place. He shook his head and smiled, wondering now at his naivety. He'd stopped her drinking, he had. She'd done that for him he told himself. Their torn souls had seemed to fit together with a kind of ghastly symmetry: her mother, his mother; her drinking, his addiction, her need, his need. For a while it had worked. They'd continued to laugh, to tease, to put one another down, knowing it was safe. But he had been haunted by a vague sense of disquiet underpinning his happiness. He missed Mark, he realised. Mark, a man not so very many years older than himself, dead. But he too had known happiness and his presence was still tangible in the ER. And himself? He had felt like a teenager, felt his peers' discomfiture, felt keenly the disadvantage at which his addiction had put him. And, contrary to what he'd expected, being with Abby hadn't helped that.
And then there was the sex. It was . OK. After the first time he had always felt that Abby was somehow not there. He'd been suspicious, wondering if she was thinking of Luka's hands and mouth on her, Luka moving inside her. He'd had to stop thinking like that. They would simply have to work at it. After all, they knew one another, understood. You couldn't have everything.
Carter flicked his cigarette end away and watched as it smouldered on the ground.
He knew all the rules of course. Recovering addicts shouldn't form new romantic attachments for at least a year after embarking on recovery. But they were different. Their attachment was there, if undeclared, already. Benton had done it for him, rubbed his nose in his own dirt, and it had worked. After a fashion. He had been desperate to prove to them all that he could do it, and do it he had. And Abby had been there for him. Until Kovac. He remembered the night they'd returned to the ER, their attacker dying on a gurney, Carter and Corday unable to save him. And through it all, all he'd been able to think was that she'd backed out of going to a meeting with him to be with Kovac. His hatred of the man had crystallized there and then.. He'd been angry that after her neighbour had attacked her she'd gone to Kovac. What after all was the difference between him and the man on the gurney? Between him and the man who had beaten her? And when he had seen her in her apartment, beer in hand, he had been afraid. If she could turn back, what might he do?
He'd cracked, finally, and confronted Kovac, angrily demanding to know how he could allow her to drink whilst in his care. And still the man and been immovable. It wasn't until later, when his rage had abated, that he'd entertained the possibility that Luka had not known. About Abby. About her drinking. And when he grasped it as a truth he felt vindicated. She hadn't told this man with whom she had shared her bed and her body. He had known what Luka had not, and he had felt a curious sort of pride in that. And he could help her, make things right as Luka could not. She had resisted at first, but in the end the days without a drink had turned to weeks and then to months.
Until last night.