"Homewards" (2/3)
Disclaimers included in chapter one.
Okay, it's weird. Warning you. :D Um... I wrote it around when Witch Hunt aired in the US, so it was still L/A... but I threw in lots of A/C for good measure. ;)
The whole thing was written before Sailing Away, even, so I thought that Florida was Abby's hometown. I was wrong. I apologise to all the pedantics, like me, for this. :)
I forget why I've never posted it up here before... probably because I was incredibly insecure about what all one of you, who've already read this and told me to post it up (::waves at Jen::) would think. So, if you do, for whatever reason, enjoy reading this, please don't hesistate to say so. I'll do a dance that will put Michael Flatley's to shame. C'mon, you don't want the neighbours to miss that!
* * * *
"At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives,
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,"
"The Waste Land" T.S. Elliot
* * * *
Frustration, noun: Time only ever moves forwards... even if we don't.
* * * *
It's just gone seven in the morning and Abby's been awake since three.
She watched infomercials until four fifteen and after she had began to get a pang for scissors that could actually cut through shoes, she switched it off and made her way to bed.
Four twenty five had found her picking up medical journals that she had brought along as a last resort, should she ever get that bored or that insane, and she had flicked through them absently, attempting fascination at all things pus.
Four thirty eight and she was staring at the phone. Willing it to ring, crinkling her forehead and giving a Bewitched nose twitch and then staring at it with resentment, she had cursed. Stupid, worthless, piece of crap.
She could tell Luka that she wanted to hear his voice. Maybe she could get him to recite some mushy poem in Croatian to her. Dammit. She would have settled for the editorial of a magazine on the feeding habits of the Rare Bolbono Apes.
Carter? Maybe he was just as awake as she was. Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling worthless and alone. She would really have been doing him a favor. Nothing selfish at all. She hung up when a sweet old lady answered and asked her who she was and what exactly did she want with the Carters' at four forty two in the morning. She was the Wrong Number.
At five twenty two she had showered, dressed, applied and re-applied her make-up. Written up a shopping list that she knew would never see the light of day again. Went over several medical procedures in her head, going over all of the major muscles in the legs, the Periodic Table of Elements, the effects of tar on the lungs.
She was on her fifth cup of coffee at five forty nine, the crumpled letter stretched out on the table in front of her. She analyzed it for significant meanings, for hidden relevancies, applying a million Freudian concepts to each full stop and dotted "i."
Her mother wanted something. Her mother wanted money, a place to stay, the leading spotlight. Her mother wouldn't stop until she had more than enough of this something.
No doubt Abby would be the one left with the weak foothold on sanity, her mother gone before any consequences could establish themselves. She would be the one left picking up the pieces, super gluing her life back together. Her mother's a cancer; her own personal melanoma. Arrives, refuses to be cured, plays dead for the longest of whiles, only to return again when she leasts needs it, teasing and playing with her until something gives way. Something inside her breaks or snaps.
At nine minutes past six she had dismissed every conclusion that she had arrived at, and smiled at herself, for getting so easily worked up. She was there because Maggie had asked her to come, had promised her that things had changed, things were different now, and then signed it with too many loves and kisses. She was here because Carter had talked her into coming. And she back-tracked. No. Carter hadn't. He hadn't held a gun to her head as she had booked a flight, he hadn't packed her suitcases or carried her onto the plane kicking and screaming.
And at eleven minutes past six in the morning, the epiphany arrived:
She was here because *she* herself wanted to come.
So now it was seven in the morning, and she had had a total of three hours and fifteen minutes sleep, five cups of coffee, half a tuna bagel and nineteen crackers, tabbed one phone call to room service, made another two calls to reception enquiring if her phone was working, and had one epiphany. Overall not a bad morning.
Oh and how long will that last Abby? The skies due a collapsing any day now. Wouldn't want to be caught off guard when that happens do you Abby?
Sighing and scrawling down her mother's address on a scrap of paper she shoved it into the pocket of her jacket with her keys, wallet, and the slushy remains of tobacco, and standing on the sidewalk she signaled for a taxi.
She brought an umbrella. "Expect the unforseen." It was in her weather forecast.
The air was light; the calm after the storm, relaxed, unburdened, spent. She fidgeted with her hands in the back seat of the cab, the lack of sleep and the excess caffeine making her hyper sensitive and nervously alert. She envisioned all those things that could go wrong. The screaming, the arguing, the blame, the guilt, the all too familiar silences. The fear that this was how it would ever be between them. Attack, defend, attack, defend. On stand-by. Guard up, armor on. Just waiting for World War --what was it now? twenty-three? –to break out at any second. Always ready. Always waiting.
She realized she didn't have anything to say and fidgeted some more.
The cab had stopped, and she turned to stare out of the window, half expecting to find her mother running along the street naked, singing Christmas carols. Half expecting to find herself pretending not to have any idea who this obviously insane person calling herself her mother was, only to have to wrap her up in a blanket and calmly take her home.
Kids played in the grass in front of a neat row of bungalows. A group of adults stood and sat on a front porch, discussing and talking. Mothers being mothers with other mothers. Sharing recipes on raising perfectly mal-adjusted children and how to make perfectly crispy chocolate brownies, the eyes in the back of their heads keeping constant surveillance over their young. Stepping out, she paid her fare and then stood there, waiting for the right moment to just sneak up on her.
She was about to go and hunt down a tobacconist when a familiar head popped out from behind the house, laundry basket in hand, and then stood to stare at her. Within minutes clean clothes lay scattered across the dewy ground, and she was grinning with her mother as her hands encircled her, and her name became a mantra.
"Oh god, Abby! Abby! Abby you're here! Oh Abby!" Her mother's words were chocked with tears, and Abby returned the hold just as warmly and strongly. She was here because she wanted to be.
Maggie loosened her grip, leaning back to stare at her, eyes swimming, and Abby noticed herself noticing that they weren't dilated; a symptom of mania. Maggie stroked her hair, gently confirming her existence.
Abby grinned, "Hey mom." She could see her mother's eyes cloud over with emotion, and she smiled kindly, eyes darting back to the cozy looking bungalow. "This yours?"
Maggie turned to look at the building, one arm still nestled against her daughter. "I only just got it a month or two ago. Finished decorating last week."
Abby nodded, quietly taking it in. "It's...its nice."
Maggie grinned with pride, and eagerly began to lead her daughter towards the front door. "Come inside, come inside, you have got to see the colour I painted my living room. Aquamarine blue. You loved that colour as a girl," she turned to flash one more grin at her, "I'm so glad you're here Abby."
Abby nodded and shrugged a smile, following behind her as she unlocked the door. "Me too mom."
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Frustration, noun: too much of anything, too little of everything.
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Aquamarine blue had been her favorite color ever since she could remember. She thinks it had something to do with mermaids and summer skies. She thinks. She can't stand the color now. Ever since having been subjected to wearing it almost ostentatiously for four months out of her life, day in day out, on call and on the way to being off call; everywhere she looked, everyone she knew; aquamarine blue, aquamarine blue, aquamarine blue. Too much chocolate isn't good for you. That much aquamarine blue wasn't good for anybody. So now it's black. It goes with everything lately, especially her mood.
Randy has promised to be just a second more than two hundred and thirty five "just a second" 's ago. She patiently plays with phone wire, immersed in the aquamarine glow of the room. Her mother wonders if she wants a set of underwear in that shade, if her "Euro-Doctor" would appreciate her in it. Does he like aquamarine blue too?
She can hear the sounds of an ER on full alert in the static on the other end; Weaver's voice reverberating against all her flock, blood demanding attention, diseases standing by. She's comforted by it, by its familiarity.
"Hello?"
"Luka?" She asks hopefully.
"Abby?"
She grins, "It's so great to hear you! I thought Randy had left me for dead."
She can hear him smile. "Wouldn't be the first time." He stops. "I haven't missed you a bit."
She smiles, playing along. "Oh no? Found someone else already have we?"
"Oh sure."
"Is it the Room service Guy with the bad timing?"
"You're invited to the wedding."
She's grinning; he makes it that easy. "I'd come but I'd be afraid that my crying might upset the guests."
His voice is still tainted with his smile. "So how's your mother doing?"
"I think she's..." she hesitates and listens to the sounds coming from the kitchen. She isn't screaming, crying or singing. She's making coffee, "...I think she's doing OK Luka."
There's a slight pause and his voice is warm, his tone sincere. "That's great, that's really great Abby."
She smiles. "Yeah, it is."
Her mother calls from the kitchen, and her head juts up. She returns her affections to the phone and laughs, "I think I'm going to have to go –she wants to show me her new juice maker." She pauses and then smiles. "I love you Luka."
There's a silence; a film of sweat building up against her skin.
"So I'll see you in two days Abby? Bye."
She tries to say something else, but the only words that come out are, "OK then...bye Luka."
She stares at the phone as she puts it down, as though it has all the answers. As though it were responsible for all silences, all hesitancies. As though it had stolen the words, held them hostage; a slow but thorough torture.
Surprised at the ease in which they do.
Her mother's grinning at the door. "Abby? Are you going to come and see it or what?"
Shooting one more parting glare at the phone she turns to grin at her mother, the enthusiasm infectious. "Sure, sure, let me see this legendary juice maker of yours."
And she leaves, forgetting, that, juice makers rarely make up for lost words.
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This is probably one of the most amazing moments in Abby's life.
Her mother's talking about the weather. It almost never rains in Florida, Abby, always so warm, the weather here's beautiful, Abby, don't you think, Abby? And she grins and nods, fork picking up another slice of lasagna, real lasagna, not that microwavable stuff, the real actual home made thing, although she has an inkling that Martha Stewart played a part, and she eats it, and it tastes great.
Her mother's discussing the weather, she's eating lasagna, it's Florida, the weather's great isn't it Abby, she has a tomato stain on her new blouse, and this is one of the most amazing moments in Abby's life.
She thinks that it's true, what they say, it really is the little things.
Her mom's newfound domestic ability makes her want to scale ceilings and perform musicals on her head, instead she smiles and nods, she's right, the weather in Florida is beautiful, it really is, Maggie.
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Frustration, noun: Reality rearing its ugly head.
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Abby sighed, shifting in her sleep, one arm reaching out to drape itself across Luka and maybe pull him closer. She was beginning to feel cold.
With a slightly discontented moan she shifted again, this time to her elbows, eyes managing to open halfway. She quickly surveyed the room. Luka? No Luka? Why no Luka?
She smiled and shook her head at herself, remembering where she was.
Groaning, with one hand attempting to sort out the bird's nest on her head she stumbled out of bed, and tried to remember where exactly the nearest bathroom was located.
It was still slightly misty outside. Way too early. As soon as she'd answered nature's call she was going to go straight back to bed and forget that she was ever alive.
She paused for a minute in the hallway. Listening for any other signs of life in the house. She could hear birds and traffic dimmed by double-glazing. The house remaining asleep, unaffected by the world moving on around it. Just silence.
She was asleep.
With a smile she continued on her way, making an attempt at retaining this peacefulness.
She yelped with pain as her toe came into contact with something big and large and evil and proceeded to mutter curses at it in a charming mixture of Croatian and American. So much for being quiet.
Finding the toilet she quickly observed her reflection in the mirror. Oh boy. Tufts of hair stuck out at random angles on the top of her head, drool lined her chin and two very tired looking eyes glared back at her. Just who did _she_ think she was looking at? Yikes. Thankful that no one else was there to share in this enlightening experience she dragged both hands through her hair, wiped at the drool and avoided any eye contact with herself whatsoever. All for the best.
She couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by just how things were turning out. They hadn't had one argument. All china in the house still in one piece.
She contemplated how they could spend the next few days in Florida. Maybe they could take one of those tours. The See All Things Florida for Only Fifteen Dollars Tour Bus, filled with too many celebrity seeking Japanese tourists with digital cameras and irritating kids who don't understand the concept of silence. And she could tell her about her "Euro-Doctor" and they could catch up on the last decade or two of each other's lives. You went to medical school? He didn't say I love you? And You're getting a job where? You know what would look great with aquamarine walls?
Shaking her head, with mild amusement at this mental image, she washed her hands. She could feel her toe begin to swell up and looked down at it. The purple thing at the end of her foot throbbed back at her.
Wincing she opened her mother's medical cabinet, searching for a plaster and some lotion to help ease its misery. Tylenol, Advil, moisturizer after moisturizer, and then she stopped.
Shaking the bottle in her hands and then re-reading and re-reading the label.
"Prozac: See prescription."
Her mouth dried itself out, and she could feel a rush of anger growing from her stomach.
She shook it again. A jangle. A jangle of pills.
She raised both hands to her head and took several steps back.
She mentally began admonishing herself.
You believed her, you believed her, you believed her, more fool you, you believed her.
With a sudden surge of hurt, she stormed out of the room, marched up to Maggie's, bottle clutched in her fist.
She switched her light on, thundering the door open by way of greeting, and then she stood there, exposing the bottle to the sleeping form, as though it were an answer, a reason, a bottle of pills that had the word "Prozac" scratched on the label.
"Maggie?"
She ordered the sleeping form. It shifted in its bed, hand shading eyes from the sudden glare.
"Abby? Abby...?" Eyes opened midway. "...S'everything OK?"
She managed a humorless laugh. "I found this. I think it's yours. And no, it isn't."
And with that, the small bottle began a warp speed path to her mother's bed. It landed with a guilty jingle on Maggie's, more than mildly confused, lap.
Abby didn't wait to see her response.
She'd seen it a million times before anyway.
In an instant she was back in the guest room, jumper being pulled over head, zipping up her jeans, and then she began a grab at all of the things she'd brought with her. Small travel case, her wallet, her presence, and soon all that alluded to her stay was an un-made bed.
Her mother was standing in the hallway when she left, and she moved to pass by her, making no eye contact, avoiding all and everything that she was telling her.
It became lost in the blur of tears that began to distort her vision.
More fool you, you believed her, more fool you.
The front door wasn't locked and Abby didn't bother to shut it as she left.
Her mother was still calling out to her, pleading, pleading her innocence, it was old, it was dated, she didn't realize that it had still been there, she didn't, where was she going, just where did she think she was going, Abby? Abby?!
She silently promised herself that this would be the last time that she would ever hear those words. She figured that her mother should just put this lecture on tape and have Abby replay it once a week, saving them both the travel charges.
With a shake of her head, she raised a hand and signaled a passing taxi.
The driver gave her a look as she read out the hotel address, her mother's screams penetrating the electric windows. She was standing on her porch, in a robe, looking disheveled; just woken up or mania, just woken up or mania?
And then she watched as her reflection faded into a dark smudge in the rearview mirror.
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Frustration, noun: Leaving your ruby slippers in the drawer at home.
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Her bags rested at her feet, and she found herself pacing around them nervously.
"Pick up...pick up...c'mon...pick up."
The tip of her cigarette glowed orange as she inhaled. The nicotine burning through her veins and she was awake.
Her lungs were black and blue from all the abuse.
Life was beginning to arrive to Florida, people in suits frantically checking watches, buying lunches, using mobiles, as she stood in the background of it all, against a phone box, coins in one hand, bags at her feet. She felt strange not being part of it all, part of the rush. She checked her watch again. Nine minutes past seven. She'd been awake since six.
The phone continued to ring out in Chicago. She groaned. "C'mon...pick up...pick up will you...pick up..."
There was a shifting on the other end, and the ring tones stopped. "Hello?"
It was a woman's voice. She sounded tired.
Oh god.
"Um...I-I just- is Carter there?" She stuttered, instantly regretting ever having picked up the phone. Oh god.
There was a rustling, muffled voices and then it was him. "Hello?"
She debated hanging up.
And debated.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
She spoke quickly. "Yeah, yeah, it's uh, it's me."
He paused, and she imagined him torn between confusion and surprise. "Abby?"
She took a lungful of the cigarette, practically choking on the raw tar and nicotine that invaded her lungs. "Hi Carter." And she stopped. "So... who was that?" It was a redundant question. She _knew_ who it was.
"Uh, that was, that was Rena. She stayed over. Everything OK Abby? You sound a little...nervous?"
"Oh Rena." She was aware of how accusing she had sounded and back-tracked. "No. No. I'm fine... It's just –you're not in the middle of something are you?" And then her words began to congeal as she continued, "Because, I mean if you _are_ then I can always call back some other time, it's really not that important, in fact it isn't important at all, I'm sorry I didn't mean to disturb you, so I'll see you...later today?, sorry-"
"Woah slow down." And she could hear shifting in his background static and knew he had moved rooms. He exhaled into the receiver, "See me later today? What happened Abby?"
She paused. What happened Abby? God, if she was telling anyone anything it certainly wasn't going to be the disembodied voice of Carter. "I can tell you about that...on the ride home?" She asked hopefully.
There was a pause and a confused hum. "Ride home?"
She fidgeted with the cigarette, beginning her pace around the discarded baggage. "I really hate to do this to you Carter...But you were the first person that I could think of to ask. No... you're the only person that I could think of to ask," She sighed. "Would it be at all possible for you to meet me at O'Hare airport, in say, five hours?"
He hesitated, voice concerned, "Is this about Maggie?"
"Later, Carter. I just...I really need to get out of here."
The disembodied voice of Carter was smiling, "What did you do Abby, kill your mother?"
She found herself grinning dryly, "No...but I haven't ruled out the possibility. So, can you do that, at one, Chicago time?"
And she sighed with relief as she heard him. "Sure, I'll be there. One o'clock?"
She stubbed the glowing butt out against the phone. "This means a lot to me Carter. I mean it. I owe you one."
He paused, his voice still light. "Anytime Abby. It's nothing; I'll just stick it on your tab. So one it is?"
She hesitated. "Oh and Carter?"
"...Mhhhm?"
"I'd really appreciate it if... you didn't mention any of this to Luka."
Another pause. "Sure. No problems. So I will see you later, OK?"
"...See you later. Thanks again Carter."
She sighed, putting the phone back down against its hook.
She stared at it momentarily, considering making another long distance call, to Luka, claiming that she was currently living out that fairytale ending, and, that, she would see him in however many days when she would be riding back into that misty sunset on the back of a pink unicorn. But the words jammed in her throat, her previous ones forming a blockage. Maybe she should see a doctor about that.
She slung the bag strap across her shoulder, and made her hand available to yet another taxi. And she grinned at herself. Why did Rena make her nervous? Carter must have been mistaken. Why would _Rena_ make _her_ nervous?
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Airports remind her of hospitals.
Everyone, everything, moving, rapidly moving around her, flowing like magma, with purpose, incentive, motive, nothing ever done quietly, voices raising and then getting dimmed by the continual onslaught of new passengers, nameless and faceless, belonging to no where and no one. Going and going and going, accepting that they have little say on how they get there. Leg room, or smoking? Haemo-aid, or blood?
She shifts through it all, anonymous, and she could be in Anywhere, an Anyone. An Abby in the midst of a thousand Abby's.
She stands on her toes. A sea of heads stretches out for miles, in all directions around her.
She could be anyone.
Any other Abby.
And she thinks that it's so easy. It's so easy to forget who you are. It's so easy to get lost.
She sighs, and then spots something.
Duty Free Cigarettes.
Gaining purpose she begins marching towards them...
"Hey!"
"Carter!" And she throws her arms around him, pulling him close, and she can smell the hint of after shave mellowed out by the smell of coffee.
"Hey? Your flight was early?"
His voice is warm against her hair and she doesn't know what to say. How to begin and where to end -will there ever be a full stop at the end of that sentence? Or is it destined to remain open-ended? A coffin refusing to be sealed. The ghost of Maggie with Marley's chains haunting her at every corner. She hasn't considered exorcism. Doesn't believe that things ever truly disappear.
She nods and then sighs gently pulling away from him.
And then they stand and face the other.
Hasty business and boarding calls floating around them, the mass of namelessness drowning her and she isn't sure where she is.
Is anyone, really?
He speaks first. "My car's just outside."
And then she nods, and he begins to find the exit, turning to look back occasionally, ensuring that she's not getting caught up in the chaos of No-one's in suits going off to Anywhere's.
Chicago greets her with a gust of wind and a dusty gray sky. She doesn't feel as though she's ever left. Who wants to walk around in next to nothing anyway?
And then he's taking her luggage, and he's finding his car, and she's following behind him, listening as he catches her up on all the latest from the County soap opera mill, nodding and smiling and throwing the occasional verb in and she knows he notices but he doesn't say anything.
He opens the door for her, and she quietly slides inside, seatbelt on, and then leaning back. Eyes closing almost instantly.
She was beginning to feel the world spin manically on its axis. Round and round and round and she could feel her stomach disprove of this motion.
He slides in next to her, and she can hear him insert the key, the growl of an engine and then a silence, that gets longer and longer and longer.
She sighs, and finally opens her eyes to turn to look at him. The battery's dead? No connection fluid? Why aren't they going anywhere? She distractedly thinks that she's never going to be able to walk to her apartment in these shoes.
He's staring at her. Both eyes silent question marks. Genuinely concerned question marks.
She forces a smile. "I'm OK Carter."
He makes as if believing this, and then says, "You want to talk about it?"
She holds his gaze for more than a beat. "It's..." And then she sighs, turning to look out her passenger window. "She was on Prozac Carter...She promised me she was taking the right medication and I found, an, um, bottle of Prozac." And then she turns to smile humorlessly at him. "I'm an idiot Carter. You don't have to say it. I'm an idiot for ever having believed her. I'm the biggest idiot."
His voice is soft. "And you left it like that?"
"Hmmm? Like what?"
He looks at her pointedly. "With you being the idiot."
She smiles, bemused, "What on earth are you talking about?"
He shrugs gently, looking at her and then the steering wheel and then back at her, "...She loves you Abby. Not every child can say that."
A sigh. "...Don't lecture me."
He pouts stubbornly. "I wasn't."
The silence becomes a third passenger, sitting behind them and discussing the weather at inane length, sitting between them and humming Mozart off-key. Neither moves to quiet it.
He finally draws out a long breath. "...You have to deal with it sometime."
She turns to look at him sharply. "You don't think I'm dealing with her Carter? I deal with her every day of my life; all I ever do is deal with her... She doesn't want for me to deal with her. Oh no, she wants me to make her feel better. She wants me to say, 'I forgive you, mom,' but I can't. I don't forgive her. I don't forgive her for anything."
He raises his shoulders, "So...is that what you told her?"
She shakes her head, as if explaining a crystal clear point for the umpteenth time, "And what would be the point of that? So she could flip the coin over and blame it all on me like she usually does?"
"The point is... the point is she's your mother Abby. She's your only mother," he says this and then looks at her.
She sighs, refusing to meet his gaze. "This isn't the lecture?"
And then he shakes his head, continuing to watch her. "Ok fine Abby. But sooner or later you're going to have to confront this, sooner or later you're going to just have to deal with these feelings of anger and resentment that you have for her. But fine, just handcuff yourself to her for the rest of your life. At least then it'll be you causing all the pain."
And she turns to look at him sharply.
He twists the key and the engine kicks back into life.
Neither of them saying anything as they weaved out of O'Hare Airport. Saying nothing as they got caught up in the one and only place that you can truly sit back and watch the world go by, the Chicago lunch-hour, the third passenger resuming his rendition of the classics. Going over "Ride of the Valkyries" twice as they stole glances at each other, but never more than a glance. And their eyes never met.
* * * *
Disclaimers included in chapter one.
Okay, it's weird. Warning you. :D Um... I wrote it around when Witch Hunt aired in the US, so it was still L/A... but I threw in lots of A/C for good measure. ;)
The whole thing was written before Sailing Away, even, so I thought that Florida was Abby's hometown. I was wrong. I apologise to all the pedantics, like me, for this. :)
I forget why I've never posted it up here before... probably because I was incredibly insecure about what all one of you, who've already read this and told me to post it up (::waves at Jen::) would think. So, if you do, for whatever reason, enjoy reading this, please don't hesistate to say so. I'll do a dance that will put Michael Flatley's to shame. C'mon, you don't want the neighbours to miss that!
* * * *
"At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives,
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,"
"The Waste Land" T.S. Elliot
* * * *
Frustration, noun: Time only ever moves forwards... even if we don't.
* * * *
It's just gone seven in the morning and Abby's been awake since three.
She watched infomercials until four fifteen and after she had began to get a pang for scissors that could actually cut through shoes, she switched it off and made her way to bed.
Four twenty five had found her picking up medical journals that she had brought along as a last resort, should she ever get that bored or that insane, and she had flicked through them absently, attempting fascination at all things pus.
Four thirty eight and she was staring at the phone. Willing it to ring, crinkling her forehead and giving a Bewitched nose twitch and then staring at it with resentment, she had cursed. Stupid, worthless, piece of crap.
She could tell Luka that she wanted to hear his voice. Maybe she could get him to recite some mushy poem in Croatian to her. Dammit. She would have settled for the editorial of a magazine on the feeding habits of the Rare Bolbono Apes.
Carter? Maybe he was just as awake as she was. Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling worthless and alone. She would really have been doing him a favor. Nothing selfish at all. She hung up when a sweet old lady answered and asked her who she was and what exactly did she want with the Carters' at four forty two in the morning. She was the Wrong Number.
At five twenty two she had showered, dressed, applied and re-applied her make-up. Written up a shopping list that she knew would never see the light of day again. Went over several medical procedures in her head, going over all of the major muscles in the legs, the Periodic Table of Elements, the effects of tar on the lungs.
She was on her fifth cup of coffee at five forty nine, the crumpled letter stretched out on the table in front of her. She analyzed it for significant meanings, for hidden relevancies, applying a million Freudian concepts to each full stop and dotted "i."
Her mother wanted something. Her mother wanted money, a place to stay, the leading spotlight. Her mother wouldn't stop until she had more than enough of this something.
No doubt Abby would be the one left with the weak foothold on sanity, her mother gone before any consequences could establish themselves. She would be the one left picking up the pieces, super gluing her life back together. Her mother's a cancer; her own personal melanoma. Arrives, refuses to be cured, plays dead for the longest of whiles, only to return again when she leasts needs it, teasing and playing with her until something gives way. Something inside her breaks or snaps.
At nine minutes past six she had dismissed every conclusion that she had arrived at, and smiled at herself, for getting so easily worked up. She was there because Maggie had asked her to come, had promised her that things had changed, things were different now, and then signed it with too many loves and kisses. She was here because Carter had talked her into coming. And she back-tracked. No. Carter hadn't. He hadn't held a gun to her head as she had booked a flight, he hadn't packed her suitcases or carried her onto the plane kicking and screaming.
And at eleven minutes past six in the morning, the epiphany arrived:
She was here because *she* herself wanted to come.
So now it was seven in the morning, and she had had a total of three hours and fifteen minutes sleep, five cups of coffee, half a tuna bagel and nineteen crackers, tabbed one phone call to room service, made another two calls to reception enquiring if her phone was working, and had one epiphany. Overall not a bad morning.
Oh and how long will that last Abby? The skies due a collapsing any day now. Wouldn't want to be caught off guard when that happens do you Abby?
Sighing and scrawling down her mother's address on a scrap of paper she shoved it into the pocket of her jacket with her keys, wallet, and the slushy remains of tobacco, and standing on the sidewalk she signaled for a taxi.
She brought an umbrella. "Expect the unforseen." It was in her weather forecast.
The air was light; the calm after the storm, relaxed, unburdened, spent. She fidgeted with her hands in the back seat of the cab, the lack of sleep and the excess caffeine making her hyper sensitive and nervously alert. She envisioned all those things that could go wrong. The screaming, the arguing, the blame, the guilt, the all too familiar silences. The fear that this was how it would ever be between them. Attack, defend, attack, defend. On stand-by. Guard up, armor on. Just waiting for World War --what was it now? twenty-three? –to break out at any second. Always ready. Always waiting.
She realized she didn't have anything to say and fidgeted some more.
The cab had stopped, and she turned to stare out of the window, half expecting to find her mother running along the street naked, singing Christmas carols. Half expecting to find herself pretending not to have any idea who this obviously insane person calling herself her mother was, only to have to wrap her up in a blanket and calmly take her home.
Kids played in the grass in front of a neat row of bungalows. A group of adults stood and sat on a front porch, discussing and talking. Mothers being mothers with other mothers. Sharing recipes on raising perfectly mal-adjusted children and how to make perfectly crispy chocolate brownies, the eyes in the back of their heads keeping constant surveillance over their young. Stepping out, she paid her fare and then stood there, waiting for the right moment to just sneak up on her.
She was about to go and hunt down a tobacconist when a familiar head popped out from behind the house, laundry basket in hand, and then stood to stare at her. Within minutes clean clothes lay scattered across the dewy ground, and she was grinning with her mother as her hands encircled her, and her name became a mantra.
"Oh god, Abby! Abby! Abby you're here! Oh Abby!" Her mother's words were chocked with tears, and Abby returned the hold just as warmly and strongly. She was here because she wanted to be.
Maggie loosened her grip, leaning back to stare at her, eyes swimming, and Abby noticed herself noticing that they weren't dilated; a symptom of mania. Maggie stroked her hair, gently confirming her existence.
Abby grinned, "Hey mom." She could see her mother's eyes cloud over with emotion, and she smiled kindly, eyes darting back to the cozy looking bungalow. "This yours?"
Maggie turned to look at the building, one arm still nestled against her daughter. "I only just got it a month or two ago. Finished decorating last week."
Abby nodded, quietly taking it in. "It's...its nice."
Maggie grinned with pride, and eagerly began to lead her daughter towards the front door. "Come inside, come inside, you have got to see the colour I painted my living room. Aquamarine blue. You loved that colour as a girl," she turned to flash one more grin at her, "I'm so glad you're here Abby."
Abby nodded and shrugged a smile, following behind her as she unlocked the door. "Me too mom."
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Frustration, noun: too much of anything, too little of everything.
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Aquamarine blue had been her favorite color ever since she could remember. She thinks it had something to do with mermaids and summer skies. She thinks. She can't stand the color now. Ever since having been subjected to wearing it almost ostentatiously for four months out of her life, day in day out, on call and on the way to being off call; everywhere she looked, everyone she knew; aquamarine blue, aquamarine blue, aquamarine blue. Too much chocolate isn't good for you. That much aquamarine blue wasn't good for anybody. So now it's black. It goes with everything lately, especially her mood.
Randy has promised to be just a second more than two hundred and thirty five "just a second" 's ago. She patiently plays with phone wire, immersed in the aquamarine glow of the room. Her mother wonders if she wants a set of underwear in that shade, if her "Euro-Doctor" would appreciate her in it. Does he like aquamarine blue too?
She can hear the sounds of an ER on full alert in the static on the other end; Weaver's voice reverberating against all her flock, blood demanding attention, diseases standing by. She's comforted by it, by its familiarity.
"Hello?"
"Luka?" She asks hopefully.
"Abby?"
She grins, "It's so great to hear you! I thought Randy had left me for dead."
She can hear him smile. "Wouldn't be the first time." He stops. "I haven't missed you a bit."
She smiles, playing along. "Oh no? Found someone else already have we?"
"Oh sure."
"Is it the Room service Guy with the bad timing?"
"You're invited to the wedding."
She's grinning; he makes it that easy. "I'd come but I'd be afraid that my crying might upset the guests."
His voice is still tainted with his smile. "So how's your mother doing?"
"I think she's..." she hesitates and listens to the sounds coming from the kitchen. She isn't screaming, crying or singing. She's making coffee, "...I think she's doing OK Luka."
There's a slight pause and his voice is warm, his tone sincere. "That's great, that's really great Abby."
She smiles. "Yeah, it is."
Her mother calls from the kitchen, and her head juts up. She returns her affections to the phone and laughs, "I think I'm going to have to go –she wants to show me her new juice maker." She pauses and then smiles. "I love you Luka."
There's a silence; a film of sweat building up against her skin.
"So I'll see you in two days Abby? Bye."
She tries to say something else, but the only words that come out are, "OK then...bye Luka."
She stares at the phone as she puts it down, as though it has all the answers. As though it were responsible for all silences, all hesitancies. As though it had stolen the words, held them hostage; a slow but thorough torture.
Surprised at the ease in which they do.
Her mother's grinning at the door. "Abby? Are you going to come and see it or what?"
Shooting one more parting glare at the phone she turns to grin at her mother, the enthusiasm infectious. "Sure, sure, let me see this legendary juice maker of yours."
And she leaves, forgetting, that, juice makers rarely make up for lost words.
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This is probably one of the most amazing moments in Abby's life.
Her mother's talking about the weather. It almost never rains in Florida, Abby, always so warm, the weather here's beautiful, Abby, don't you think, Abby? And she grins and nods, fork picking up another slice of lasagna, real lasagna, not that microwavable stuff, the real actual home made thing, although she has an inkling that Martha Stewart played a part, and she eats it, and it tastes great.
Her mother's discussing the weather, she's eating lasagna, it's Florida, the weather's great isn't it Abby, she has a tomato stain on her new blouse, and this is one of the most amazing moments in Abby's life.
She thinks that it's true, what they say, it really is the little things.
Her mom's newfound domestic ability makes her want to scale ceilings and perform musicals on her head, instead she smiles and nods, she's right, the weather in Florida is beautiful, it really is, Maggie.
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Frustration, noun: Reality rearing its ugly head.
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Abby sighed, shifting in her sleep, one arm reaching out to drape itself across Luka and maybe pull him closer. She was beginning to feel cold.
With a slightly discontented moan she shifted again, this time to her elbows, eyes managing to open halfway. She quickly surveyed the room. Luka? No Luka? Why no Luka?
She smiled and shook her head at herself, remembering where she was.
Groaning, with one hand attempting to sort out the bird's nest on her head she stumbled out of bed, and tried to remember where exactly the nearest bathroom was located.
It was still slightly misty outside. Way too early. As soon as she'd answered nature's call she was going to go straight back to bed and forget that she was ever alive.
She paused for a minute in the hallway. Listening for any other signs of life in the house. She could hear birds and traffic dimmed by double-glazing. The house remaining asleep, unaffected by the world moving on around it. Just silence.
She was asleep.
With a smile she continued on her way, making an attempt at retaining this peacefulness.
She yelped with pain as her toe came into contact with something big and large and evil and proceeded to mutter curses at it in a charming mixture of Croatian and American. So much for being quiet.
Finding the toilet she quickly observed her reflection in the mirror. Oh boy. Tufts of hair stuck out at random angles on the top of her head, drool lined her chin and two very tired looking eyes glared back at her. Just who did _she_ think she was looking at? Yikes. Thankful that no one else was there to share in this enlightening experience she dragged both hands through her hair, wiped at the drool and avoided any eye contact with herself whatsoever. All for the best.
She couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by just how things were turning out. They hadn't had one argument. All china in the house still in one piece.
She contemplated how they could spend the next few days in Florida. Maybe they could take one of those tours. The See All Things Florida for Only Fifteen Dollars Tour Bus, filled with too many celebrity seeking Japanese tourists with digital cameras and irritating kids who don't understand the concept of silence. And she could tell her about her "Euro-Doctor" and they could catch up on the last decade or two of each other's lives. You went to medical school? He didn't say I love you? And You're getting a job where? You know what would look great with aquamarine walls?
Shaking her head, with mild amusement at this mental image, she washed her hands. She could feel her toe begin to swell up and looked down at it. The purple thing at the end of her foot throbbed back at her.
Wincing she opened her mother's medical cabinet, searching for a plaster and some lotion to help ease its misery. Tylenol, Advil, moisturizer after moisturizer, and then she stopped.
Shaking the bottle in her hands and then re-reading and re-reading the label.
"Prozac: See prescription."
Her mouth dried itself out, and she could feel a rush of anger growing from her stomach.
She shook it again. A jangle. A jangle of pills.
She raised both hands to her head and took several steps back.
She mentally began admonishing herself.
You believed her, you believed her, you believed her, more fool you, you believed her.
With a sudden surge of hurt, she stormed out of the room, marched up to Maggie's, bottle clutched in her fist.
She switched her light on, thundering the door open by way of greeting, and then she stood there, exposing the bottle to the sleeping form, as though it were an answer, a reason, a bottle of pills that had the word "Prozac" scratched on the label.
"Maggie?"
She ordered the sleeping form. It shifted in its bed, hand shading eyes from the sudden glare.
"Abby? Abby...?" Eyes opened midway. "...S'everything OK?"
She managed a humorless laugh. "I found this. I think it's yours. And no, it isn't."
And with that, the small bottle began a warp speed path to her mother's bed. It landed with a guilty jingle on Maggie's, more than mildly confused, lap.
Abby didn't wait to see her response.
She'd seen it a million times before anyway.
In an instant she was back in the guest room, jumper being pulled over head, zipping up her jeans, and then she began a grab at all of the things she'd brought with her. Small travel case, her wallet, her presence, and soon all that alluded to her stay was an un-made bed.
Her mother was standing in the hallway when she left, and she moved to pass by her, making no eye contact, avoiding all and everything that she was telling her.
It became lost in the blur of tears that began to distort her vision.
More fool you, you believed her, more fool you.
The front door wasn't locked and Abby didn't bother to shut it as she left.
Her mother was still calling out to her, pleading, pleading her innocence, it was old, it was dated, she didn't realize that it had still been there, she didn't, where was she going, just where did she think she was going, Abby? Abby?!
She silently promised herself that this would be the last time that she would ever hear those words. She figured that her mother should just put this lecture on tape and have Abby replay it once a week, saving them both the travel charges.
With a shake of her head, she raised a hand and signaled a passing taxi.
The driver gave her a look as she read out the hotel address, her mother's screams penetrating the electric windows. She was standing on her porch, in a robe, looking disheveled; just woken up or mania, just woken up or mania?
And then she watched as her reflection faded into a dark smudge in the rearview mirror.
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Frustration, noun: Leaving your ruby slippers in the drawer at home.
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Her bags rested at her feet, and she found herself pacing around them nervously.
"Pick up...pick up...c'mon...pick up."
The tip of her cigarette glowed orange as she inhaled. The nicotine burning through her veins and she was awake.
Her lungs were black and blue from all the abuse.
Life was beginning to arrive to Florida, people in suits frantically checking watches, buying lunches, using mobiles, as she stood in the background of it all, against a phone box, coins in one hand, bags at her feet. She felt strange not being part of it all, part of the rush. She checked her watch again. Nine minutes past seven. She'd been awake since six.
The phone continued to ring out in Chicago. She groaned. "C'mon...pick up...pick up will you...pick up..."
There was a shifting on the other end, and the ring tones stopped. "Hello?"
It was a woman's voice. She sounded tired.
Oh god.
"Um...I-I just- is Carter there?" She stuttered, instantly regretting ever having picked up the phone. Oh god.
There was a rustling, muffled voices and then it was him. "Hello?"
She debated hanging up.
And debated.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
She spoke quickly. "Yeah, yeah, it's uh, it's me."
He paused, and she imagined him torn between confusion and surprise. "Abby?"
She took a lungful of the cigarette, practically choking on the raw tar and nicotine that invaded her lungs. "Hi Carter." And she stopped. "So... who was that?" It was a redundant question. She _knew_ who it was.
"Uh, that was, that was Rena. She stayed over. Everything OK Abby? You sound a little...nervous?"
"Oh Rena." She was aware of how accusing she had sounded and back-tracked. "No. No. I'm fine... It's just –you're not in the middle of something are you?" And then her words began to congeal as she continued, "Because, I mean if you _are_ then I can always call back some other time, it's really not that important, in fact it isn't important at all, I'm sorry I didn't mean to disturb you, so I'll see you...later today?, sorry-"
"Woah slow down." And she could hear shifting in his background static and knew he had moved rooms. He exhaled into the receiver, "See me later today? What happened Abby?"
She paused. What happened Abby? God, if she was telling anyone anything it certainly wasn't going to be the disembodied voice of Carter. "I can tell you about that...on the ride home?" She asked hopefully.
There was a pause and a confused hum. "Ride home?"
She fidgeted with the cigarette, beginning her pace around the discarded baggage. "I really hate to do this to you Carter...But you were the first person that I could think of to ask. No... you're the only person that I could think of to ask," She sighed. "Would it be at all possible for you to meet me at O'Hare airport, in say, five hours?"
He hesitated, voice concerned, "Is this about Maggie?"
"Later, Carter. I just...I really need to get out of here."
The disembodied voice of Carter was smiling, "What did you do Abby, kill your mother?"
She found herself grinning dryly, "No...but I haven't ruled out the possibility. So, can you do that, at one, Chicago time?"
And she sighed with relief as she heard him. "Sure, I'll be there. One o'clock?"
She stubbed the glowing butt out against the phone. "This means a lot to me Carter. I mean it. I owe you one."
He paused, his voice still light. "Anytime Abby. It's nothing; I'll just stick it on your tab. So one it is?"
She hesitated. "Oh and Carter?"
"...Mhhhm?"
"I'd really appreciate it if... you didn't mention any of this to Luka."
Another pause. "Sure. No problems. So I will see you later, OK?"
"...See you later. Thanks again Carter."
She sighed, putting the phone back down against its hook.
She stared at it momentarily, considering making another long distance call, to Luka, claiming that she was currently living out that fairytale ending, and, that, she would see him in however many days when she would be riding back into that misty sunset on the back of a pink unicorn. But the words jammed in her throat, her previous ones forming a blockage. Maybe she should see a doctor about that.
She slung the bag strap across her shoulder, and made her hand available to yet another taxi. And she grinned at herself. Why did Rena make her nervous? Carter must have been mistaken. Why would _Rena_ make _her_ nervous?
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Airports remind her of hospitals.
Everyone, everything, moving, rapidly moving around her, flowing like magma, with purpose, incentive, motive, nothing ever done quietly, voices raising and then getting dimmed by the continual onslaught of new passengers, nameless and faceless, belonging to no where and no one. Going and going and going, accepting that they have little say on how they get there. Leg room, or smoking? Haemo-aid, or blood?
She shifts through it all, anonymous, and she could be in Anywhere, an Anyone. An Abby in the midst of a thousand Abby's.
She stands on her toes. A sea of heads stretches out for miles, in all directions around her.
She could be anyone.
Any other Abby.
And she thinks that it's so easy. It's so easy to forget who you are. It's so easy to get lost.
She sighs, and then spots something.
Duty Free Cigarettes.
Gaining purpose she begins marching towards them...
"Hey!"
"Carter!" And she throws her arms around him, pulling him close, and she can smell the hint of after shave mellowed out by the smell of coffee.
"Hey? Your flight was early?"
His voice is warm against her hair and she doesn't know what to say. How to begin and where to end -will there ever be a full stop at the end of that sentence? Or is it destined to remain open-ended? A coffin refusing to be sealed. The ghost of Maggie with Marley's chains haunting her at every corner. She hasn't considered exorcism. Doesn't believe that things ever truly disappear.
She nods and then sighs gently pulling away from him.
And then they stand and face the other.
Hasty business and boarding calls floating around them, the mass of namelessness drowning her and she isn't sure where she is.
Is anyone, really?
He speaks first. "My car's just outside."
And then she nods, and he begins to find the exit, turning to look back occasionally, ensuring that she's not getting caught up in the chaos of No-one's in suits going off to Anywhere's.
Chicago greets her with a gust of wind and a dusty gray sky. She doesn't feel as though she's ever left. Who wants to walk around in next to nothing anyway?
And then he's taking her luggage, and he's finding his car, and she's following behind him, listening as he catches her up on all the latest from the County soap opera mill, nodding and smiling and throwing the occasional verb in and she knows he notices but he doesn't say anything.
He opens the door for her, and she quietly slides inside, seatbelt on, and then leaning back. Eyes closing almost instantly.
She was beginning to feel the world spin manically on its axis. Round and round and round and she could feel her stomach disprove of this motion.
He slides in next to her, and she can hear him insert the key, the growl of an engine and then a silence, that gets longer and longer and longer.
She sighs, and finally opens her eyes to turn to look at him. The battery's dead? No connection fluid? Why aren't they going anywhere? She distractedly thinks that she's never going to be able to walk to her apartment in these shoes.
He's staring at her. Both eyes silent question marks. Genuinely concerned question marks.
She forces a smile. "I'm OK Carter."
He makes as if believing this, and then says, "You want to talk about it?"
She holds his gaze for more than a beat. "It's..." And then she sighs, turning to look out her passenger window. "She was on Prozac Carter...She promised me she was taking the right medication and I found, an, um, bottle of Prozac." And then she turns to smile humorlessly at him. "I'm an idiot Carter. You don't have to say it. I'm an idiot for ever having believed her. I'm the biggest idiot."
His voice is soft. "And you left it like that?"
"Hmmm? Like what?"
He looks at her pointedly. "With you being the idiot."
She smiles, bemused, "What on earth are you talking about?"
He shrugs gently, looking at her and then the steering wheel and then back at her, "...She loves you Abby. Not every child can say that."
A sigh. "...Don't lecture me."
He pouts stubbornly. "I wasn't."
The silence becomes a third passenger, sitting behind them and discussing the weather at inane length, sitting between them and humming Mozart off-key. Neither moves to quiet it.
He finally draws out a long breath. "...You have to deal with it sometime."
She turns to look at him sharply. "You don't think I'm dealing with her Carter? I deal with her every day of my life; all I ever do is deal with her... She doesn't want for me to deal with her. Oh no, she wants me to make her feel better. She wants me to say, 'I forgive you, mom,' but I can't. I don't forgive her. I don't forgive her for anything."
He raises his shoulders, "So...is that what you told her?"
She shakes her head, as if explaining a crystal clear point for the umpteenth time, "And what would be the point of that? So she could flip the coin over and blame it all on me like she usually does?"
"The point is... the point is she's your mother Abby. She's your only mother," he says this and then looks at her.
She sighs, refusing to meet his gaze. "This isn't the lecture?"
And then he shakes his head, continuing to watch her. "Ok fine Abby. But sooner or later you're going to have to confront this, sooner or later you're going to just have to deal with these feelings of anger and resentment that you have for her. But fine, just handcuff yourself to her for the rest of your life. At least then it'll be you causing all the pain."
And she turns to look at him sharply.
He twists the key and the engine kicks back into life.
Neither of them saying anything as they weaved out of O'Hare Airport. Saying nothing as they got caught up in the one and only place that you can truly sit back and watch the world go by, the Chicago lunch-hour, the third passenger resuming his rendition of the classics. Going over "Ride of the Valkyries" twice as they stole glances at each other, but never more than a glance. And their eyes never met.
* * * *
