When Danijella was worried - if money was short, if Luka was pulling double
shifts, if the children were tetchy - she cleaned. Jasna and Marko would
be dispatched to a neighbour and then cupboards would be emptied, linen
laundered, wardrobes and drawers rearranged, windows polished. Luka would
come home to an apartment smelling fresh from the open windows, and
sparkling from her attentions. At first he'd be hesitant to sit down, to
make coffee, unfold his newspaper until she'd catch his eye and she'd shrug
as if to say "Humour me", and lead him to clean sheets. He could smile at
the memory now, remembering how later she'd pretend to be vexed at their
clothes dropped on the floor, the crumpled bedding. When he came back from
the neighbours with Jasna sleeping in his arms, and later with a child on
either hip, they'd put them to bed, and he'd reason with her that their
bed had already been messed up, so why not .
Well, Danijella had had a wise head on her shoulders and if it had worked for her he was willing to give it a go himself. He'd forgotten that putting down roots led to the acquisition of possessions, that permanence required maintenance. So. Cupboards were emptied, linen laundered, wardrobe and drawers rearranged, windows and floors polished. He cleared out the fridge, cleaned the oven and left the windows open to catch what little breeze there was. Every surface was cleared, cleaned, polished. Eight hours later, his furniture concentrated in the middle of the room, he was preparing to reinstate his belongings when there was a knock on his door.
Abby. This was becoming a habit. She took in the disarray of the apartment and raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question.
"Spring cleaning." he said
"It's August."
Luka shrugged. "I didn't do in the spring." Humour me. He offered her coffee and, when she grimaced, made tea instead, and they stood in uneasy silence. Why was she here? She didn't seem about to volunteer the information. Luka wondered if he'd spend the rest of his life breaking awkward silences.
"Abby - "
At the same moment she decided to do the same.
"Luka - "
"Well, at least we know our names. You go."
"Carter talked to you."
"Yes." Oh dear.
"I - he -"
"It's Ok. I understand. This is hard for him."
"Too hard. We broke up."
"What? Why?"
"Because this means too much to him. I can't carry that weight, not just now." And because I can't stop thinking about you.
"I'm sorry."
She smiled at him. "Yeah. I think you are."
"Is he OK?"
"I don't know." She paused. "I'm considering rehab."
"You did it before."
"Yes."
"It helped then?"
"Yes. I think I just forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"That I'm a drunk. That I can't drink, not ever. It just kinda slipped my mind there for a moment."
"So for you this will be like . a refresher course?"
She laughed then. "Something like that." No. It was back to square one.
"Well, I hope -"
"I know."
"When?"
"I don't know. I have to find myself a place."
"Anything I can do?"
"Not this time. I almost called you last night."
"Oh?"
"But I decided I needed to do this in person." "Do what?"
"I need to say that I'm sorry. Not for the other night. For everything."
"There's no need."
"Yes. There is. I deceived you."
"No -"
"Yes, I did. I didn't know how to do anything else."
"I don't feel deceived." That wasn't entirely true. He didn't feel that she'd set out to do it.
"And I guess we both have things to be sorry for, yes?"
"You've been a good friend to me Luka."
"Not so much. Not as good as I could have been."
"Sure you have." There would be more to say later; this was a start, she thought. "So, you need some help?"
"With what?"
She nodded at the furniture.
"Oh, no, no, it's OK."
"Come on, just this once, let me help." She winked at him. "You owe me."
Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The hall was pretty much full. An overhead fan made a desultory and wholly ineffective attempt to alleviate the stifling heat of the place. Carter ran his palm over his face and listened intently to the speaker at the front of the hall. A story not dissimilar to his own. Pain. It was always pain that did it, brought them here, and not the sort that could be dulled by a shot of morphine, although for many that had seemed to be an almost magical solution. At first. Shattered homes, fatherless children left in their wake, mothers, daughters, sisters, brothers, sons, all lost to themselves. "I know now that I have an illness and more than that I know where it came from. And like any sick person I have to take my medicine. My medicine is being here, looking at how I got here. I used to need people to care. But they could never care enough to fill me up because there was a slow leak that meant it would always fall short." The man laughed a little. "I'm a plumber. I should know. My care for myself. I've learned that I have to care for myself, because in the end that's all we can be sure of, all we've got - ourselves." Carter wasn't sure that he agreed with that. He had his grandmother, his work. In a sudden moment of clarity he saw it. He had them; they no longer had him, not really, because he too had lost himself. He'd suffered and had been ashamed. I didn't do to suffer in his family, in their world. No sir. "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." Did it? Could it still? Maybe it could. The prospect of embracing his suffering, of wedding himself to it for better, for worse, was an appalling one. But it was part of him. If he denied it he might as well have been cutting off a limb. Abby had seen it festering and had turned from it in terror, her own pain calling, siren-like to her.
He thought of the patients he had seen in the ER, paying the price for their bad diet, smoking, lack of exercise in the pain of a heart attack. He'd found it easy enough to tell them to look at themselves, how they'd brought themselves to that place. Told them that they had to understand their condition, live with it, address it, do what was necessary to prevent further damage. If they didn't pay attention to their pain it would kill them in the end. Well, he was there now. He'd worked his way back into his job, thinking that John Carter MD was who he was, got his Attending position finally, functioned just fine, thank you. But the disease was still there, it's underlying cause,(Your diagnosis, Carter? "Emotional malnutrition exacerbated by familial hypothermia and a bad guilt infection") unresolved.
He couldn't undo any of it of course. The stabbing, Bobby, his parents. He paused there thinking of his mother. She'd said she loved him, but he knew that she remained as paralysed by her guilt and grief as she'd ever been, and saw himself in 20 years time, impotently protesting his love to someone else that it could no longer touch. She'd done the best she could. A poor best, true, but he had to admit that he hadn't done his, not yet. What had happened had happened and there was no undoing it. The question before him was "What now?"
He thought of his grandmother, of the illness which he had been instrumental in diagnosing, knew that it would kill her sooner or later. Did he want to absent himself, damage and all, from her remaining years? Did he want to be absent from the rest of his life? And Mark Greene. Carter didn't know how long he might have, how long he could put off fixing this. And Abby. He was surprised to find that he didn't miss her as much as he'd expected. She was gone now, in rehab, and she'd been optimistic, empowered by her decision. It was an optimism he tried to feel about his own return to the programme, determined this time to mean it. The time would come - and soon - when he would have to speak to Kovac. The man was on his list. He found himself almost looking forward to that moment and the release it would afford him. He felt his shame melting away by degrees and when he stood up his voice was firm and clear. "Hi, I'm John and I'm a drug addict."
Well, Danijella had had a wise head on her shoulders and if it had worked for her he was willing to give it a go himself. He'd forgotten that putting down roots led to the acquisition of possessions, that permanence required maintenance. So. Cupboards were emptied, linen laundered, wardrobe and drawers rearranged, windows and floors polished. He cleared out the fridge, cleaned the oven and left the windows open to catch what little breeze there was. Every surface was cleared, cleaned, polished. Eight hours later, his furniture concentrated in the middle of the room, he was preparing to reinstate his belongings when there was a knock on his door.
Abby. This was becoming a habit. She took in the disarray of the apartment and raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question.
"Spring cleaning." he said
"It's August."
Luka shrugged. "I didn't do in the spring." Humour me. He offered her coffee and, when she grimaced, made tea instead, and they stood in uneasy silence. Why was she here? She didn't seem about to volunteer the information. Luka wondered if he'd spend the rest of his life breaking awkward silences.
"Abby - "
At the same moment she decided to do the same.
"Luka - "
"Well, at least we know our names. You go."
"Carter talked to you."
"Yes." Oh dear.
"I - he -"
"It's Ok. I understand. This is hard for him."
"Too hard. We broke up."
"What? Why?"
"Because this means too much to him. I can't carry that weight, not just now." And because I can't stop thinking about you.
"I'm sorry."
She smiled at him. "Yeah. I think you are."
"Is he OK?"
"I don't know." She paused. "I'm considering rehab."
"You did it before."
"Yes."
"It helped then?"
"Yes. I think I just forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"That I'm a drunk. That I can't drink, not ever. It just kinda slipped my mind there for a moment."
"So for you this will be like . a refresher course?"
She laughed then. "Something like that." No. It was back to square one.
"Well, I hope -"
"I know."
"When?"
"I don't know. I have to find myself a place."
"Anything I can do?"
"Not this time. I almost called you last night."
"Oh?"
"But I decided I needed to do this in person." "Do what?"
"I need to say that I'm sorry. Not for the other night. For everything."
"There's no need."
"Yes. There is. I deceived you."
"No -"
"Yes, I did. I didn't know how to do anything else."
"I don't feel deceived." That wasn't entirely true. He didn't feel that she'd set out to do it.
"And I guess we both have things to be sorry for, yes?"
"You've been a good friend to me Luka."
"Not so much. Not as good as I could have been."
"Sure you have." There would be more to say later; this was a start, she thought. "So, you need some help?"
"With what?"
She nodded at the furniture.
"Oh, no, no, it's OK."
"Come on, just this once, let me help." She winked at him. "You owe me."
Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The hall was pretty much full. An overhead fan made a desultory and wholly ineffective attempt to alleviate the stifling heat of the place. Carter ran his palm over his face and listened intently to the speaker at the front of the hall. A story not dissimilar to his own. Pain. It was always pain that did it, brought them here, and not the sort that could be dulled by a shot of morphine, although for many that had seemed to be an almost magical solution. At first. Shattered homes, fatherless children left in their wake, mothers, daughters, sisters, brothers, sons, all lost to themselves. "I know now that I have an illness and more than that I know where it came from. And like any sick person I have to take my medicine. My medicine is being here, looking at how I got here. I used to need people to care. But they could never care enough to fill me up because there was a slow leak that meant it would always fall short." The man laughed a little. "I'm a plumber. I should know. My care for myself. I've learned that I have to care for myself, because in the end that's all we can be sure of, all we've got - ourselves." Carter wasn't sure that he agreed with that. He had his grandmother, his work. In a sudden moment of clarity he saw it. He had them; they no longer had him, not really, because he too had lost himself. He'd suffered and had been ashamed. I didn't do to suffer in his family, in their world. No sir. "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." Did it? Could it still? Maybe it could. The prospect of embracing his suffering, of wedding himself to it for better, for worse, was an appalling one. But it was part of him. If he denied it he might as well have been cutting off a limb. Abby had seen it festering and had turned from it in terror, her own pain calling, siren-like to her.
He thought of the patients he had seen in the ER, paying the price for their bad diet, smoking, lack of exercise in the pain of a heart attack. He'd found it easy enough to tell them to look at themselves, how they'd brought themselves to that place. Told them that they had to understand their condition, live with it, address it, do what was necessary to prevent further damage. If they didn't pay attention to their pain it would kill them in the end. Well, he was there now. He'd worked his way back into his job, thinking that John Carter MD was who he was, got his Attending position finally, functioned just fine, thank you. But the disease was still there, it's underlying cause,(Your diagnosis, Carter? "Emotional malnutrition exacerbated by familial hypothermia and a bad guilt infection") unresolved.
He couldn't undo any of it of course. The stabbing, Bobby, his parents. He paused there thinking of his mother. She'd said she loved him, but he knew that she remained as paralysed by her guilt and grief as she'd ever been, and saw himself in 20 years time, impotently protesting his love to someone else that it could no longer touch. She'd done the best she could. A poor best, true, but he had to admit that he hadn't done his, not yet. What had happened had happened and there was no undoing it. The question before him was "What now?"
He thought of his grandmother, of the illness which he had been instrumental in diagnosing, knew that it would kill her sooner or later. Did he want to absent himself, damage and all, from her remaining years? Did he want to be absent from the rest of his life? And Mark Greene. Carter didn't know how long he might have, how long he could put off fixing this. And Abby. He was surprised to find that he didn't miss her as much as he'd expected. She was gone now, in rehab, and she'd been optimistic, empowered by her decision. It was an optimism he tried to feel about his own return to the programme, determined this time to mean it. The time would come - and soon - when he would have to speak to Kovac. The man was on his list. He found himself almost looking forward to that moment and the release it would afford him. He felt his shame melting away by degrees and when he stood up his voice was firm and clear. "Hi, I'm John and I'm a drug addict."