Green Eggs and Ham
Part II
Author: Robbie (curlygurly87@hotmail.com)
Spoilers: Not really, General up through what we've seen of Season 9
Archive: Ask and you shall receive.
Disclaimer: While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me. They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc …
Authors note: Part II picks up virtually where part I left off. Thanks so much to my reviewers, it's always a boost to my self-esteem to hear positive comments. As per your requests, this part is a little bit longer … I'd love to hear your thoughts! Feedback would be great.
Thanks again to Sara for beta-ing.
Summary: Carter and Abby's first Christmas as a couple. Enjoy …
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She was young and beautiful, late twenties. She had the brightest blue eyes, clear as the sky on a spring day and a short hair style with cropped auburn curls spilling around her smiling face. She came in one day, a distinctive sparkle twinkling in those sapphire eyeballs of hers, clutching the hand of her 3 year old daughter. Any old stranger on the street would have been able to tell you they were mother and child. The resemblance was indubitable; the same curly auburn tresses framing a rosy, round face and those eyes.
It was a particularly busy day in the ER. The weather outside was foul, windy and bitingly chilly. She'd been waiting for hours in triage, patiently succumbing to the needs of other, more serious cases. Her young daughter was so well behaved, so adorable.
We finally got her into a room. She was so thankful for the ten minutes Carter and I spent with her before we were rushed away to help in with multiple victims of a gang shooting spree. Hours later, by the time we got to her, there was a slowdown in the ER.
She complained of abdominal pain and some nausea and vomiting. Taking the history, we soon learned that she was a leukemia patient, and had been in remission for the better part of two years. Growing up, her younger brother died of leukemia after she'd been almost like a mother to him. She'd always assumed that although there was a rich history of the disease in her family, she would be free from it. After all, by the age of 20 she was still symptom free.
But at the age of 24, only two months after giving birth to her daughter, she found out about it. We ran tests, wondering if maybe her sudden illness was in fact the disease returning with a vengeance. But they all came back negative, save the one routine test we run on every young to middle age women who is sexually active.
She was pregnant. Eight weeks, too early to tell her if it was a boy a girl, but she was thrilled to know simply that it was healthy. She assured us that although her husband had a high stress job which he was very consumed with, he loved her and their daughter and he would be as happy as she was. After her treatment, she wasn't sure that she would ever be able to give her daughter siblings. And toting the sweet toddler by the hand, she left the hospital happily, just like she'd come in.
Almost a month later, when the MVA came in - a young women with a young daughter, early thirties, who'd been driving in their small car when a drunk in a pickup blindsided them – the mop of auburn curls soaked by blood, laying on the gurney was unmistakable.
We were far from personal friends, and I'd even call it a stretch to call us personal acquaintances. She'd been a patient, like the hundreds of others that we treat on a daily basis, which we managed to help. But in some odd way, she'd touched us that day. Perhaps it was the intensity in her bright blue eyes or the beautiful contrast between her pale freckled skin and that rich burgundy hair. Maybe it was the kindness that resonated from her soft spoken voice, or the strength we could detect in her character. Maybe Carter saw echoes of himself and his brother Bobby's struggle with Leukemia. Perhaps I saw a shadow of myself and the strength I had to draw from my inner reserves to overcome my own struggle to raise my baby brother. We both admired her will, I wonder if I maybe felt a yearning to share the joys of motherhood with her. Whatever the reason, Carter and I felt some sort of inexplicable connection with this woman. A woman whose name I can't even recall.
Here, not a month after our first meeting, she's dead; the tiny baby growing inside her womb, who never got a chance at life, dead with her. The two people she cared about most in this world, her husband and young daughter, are left alone, without the one bond that holds them together. They are estranged due to the lack of time they have spent together; the toddler has spent every waking moment with her mother, building an intimate relationship, while her hardworking father toils away at the office, raising money to support his growing family.
And here in this ER, two more people, who share a very distant connection with this lovely woman, are too, devastated by her death. The sheer irony that a women could overcome so much, including deadly cancer, only to have her life taken by a drunk driver who will walk away tomorrow with a nasty hangover, a couple of stitches in his forehead and without a care in the world is enough to effect us for a long time.
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Christmas Eve. Outside, a thousand twinkling lights illuminating the city are being blanketed by a soft dusting of powdery snow. Thick, white snowflakes are drifting to the ground, as if swaying to the musical rhythms of Christmas jingles being played in homes throughout the city.
Inside County General's Emergency Room, like the thick covering of snow blanketing Chicago, a calm aura has settled. The few patients being treated for various ailments have long since fallen asleep. Our own array of glittering lights, wrapped around the ceiling beams and wall trimmings all over the department are reminder of the holiday cheer that is said to embrace the city.
But the cheerful and serene atmosphere isn't entirely real. The holiday spirit has failed to spread down the hall, in the dark trauma room that still contains the dead body of the beautiful woman with the crimson curls and azure eyes that will never sparkle again.
Her husband has just arrived, face pale with shock and misery. I take him by the arm and lead him to the room where his wife spent her last waking moments.
"I loved her so much," he whispers softly as I lead him along. He stumbles blindly down the corridor, impulsively grabbing my hand and clutching it tightly in his strong grip, much like Carter did earlier today. "I don't think she knew …"
"She knew," I assure him with a somber, but confident voice.
We come to a halt outside the trauma doors. "Was she in a lot of pain?"
I shake my head slowly. "She wasn't conscious for very long, her death was quick and painless."
I'm lying of course. She was lying in that car in the snow for almost an hour, pinned by the warped metal of her damaged vehicle. She must have suffered immensely in that time and the time we worked on her. Even dulled with pain I hope never to experience, her eyes retained that sparkle. But she's been put of that misery; she has been relieved of her pain now that she's gone. To tell him that she didn't suffer can't harm anyone; it'll only help to ease the pain her husband is feeling. So I make amends with myself.
"Her last thoughts were concern for you and your daughter, Mr. Reynolds," I tell him, placing a reassuring hand on his upper arm. He nods, closing his eyes, and bracing himself for what he's about to see. "She wanted to make sure that you knew how much she loved you."
"Can I see her now?"
I nod. "I have to warn you, there are going to be a lot of tubes. The doctors tried everything they could to save your wife, including opening her chest and applying CPR directly to her heart. The nurses have cleaned her up some, but don't be afraid to touch her."
I push open the door and we walk into the room. It is a ghostlike replica of the action that usually consumes this room; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and colorless* now that the bustling array of doctors and nurses have long since left. The silence that hangs thickly in the air gives no testimony to the chorus of beeping and chirping the machines made during her trauma. Scattered around the room are many discarded items used during the trauma that have yet to be cleaned up. They are the only physical evidence of the struggle to save this woman's life that took place in here hours ago. In time, they too will be cleared, and only the memory of her bright eyes and pleasant laugh will linger on the walls of the hospital.
I walk slowly over to the body and pull down the bloodstained sheet someone has draped over her corpse. I've finished my duties as a nurse, but I can't shake the feeling that I haven't done enough.
"I'll be at the front desk if you need anything …" He nods before I finish my sentence and I turn to leave the room.
He situates himself next to the body, at first reaching out tentatively to touch her. But as soon as he makes contact with her cold skin, I actually see his resolve collapse as he breaks down sobbing, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead.
"Take as much time as you need," I whisper, turning around and leaving him and his beloved in privacy.
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It's been over an hour that he's been sitting with her. But things are slow, we don't need the room, and I'm determined to make it my job that he has as long as he needs with her. My shift ended ten minutes ago, so I sit here and wait. I pretend to be involved in the running conversation among the nurses at the desk. Five minutes ago, they were talking about their various holiday plans, but I've since stopped listening and fleetingly wonder if this is still the topic of conversation before my thoughts are again consumed by this touching family.
"Abby."
Carter comes up behind me, gently massaging my shoulders with strong hands. I close my eyes and tip my head back to see him. He places a peck on my nose, and as my cheeks color with affection, a smile unwillingly spreads across my face.
"Come with me," he whispers in my ear.
Taking his hand, I hop to the floor and he leads me towards someplace we can talk in relative quiet; the drug lockup.
"How's the little girl?"
He sighs and his shoulders slump.
"Sasha."
"That's her name?"
He nods.
"Yeah." He takes a deep breath. "I haven't told her. She keeps asking for her mother, but I just can't bring myself to tell her. I told her that her dad is here, but she didn't seem to care much."
I exhale slowly, carefully deciding what to say. And then I frown.
"It's all so unfair. She was finally so happy, and then this …"
"Death is never really fair, Abby."
I briefly struggle with the words I'm about to say.
"I just keep thinking that … she reminds me so much of myself. If she can overcome so much and finally be happy with her husband and child only to have it taken away, what does that mean for me, for us?"
Without an answer to my anguished thoughts, he leans in and kisses my forehead.
"I'm going to sit with her. Let me know when the father is ready to break it to her."
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* This line was paraphrased from The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy … A great book, BTW ;)
Thoughts, comments, criticisms? You tell me … I'd love to get some feedback and provided this is received well, I still have some more parts written. Thanks!