It took no small amount of courage for him to knock on the door. He half hoped she wouldn't answer. Really, he didn't even know why he was there, not consciously anyway, and couldn't for the life of him, remember exactly how he had gotten from Point A to Apartment 2B. But something deep inside persuaded him to knock, so he took a deep breath, ran his hand through his tousled hair and knocked softly, slowly on the door.
She was home. He heard her come to the door and with a sinking feeling in his chest, he noticed the seconds it took for her to answer--to open.
"Hey, Carter," she said, quietly. She didn't invite him in, but stood holding a coffee cup with both hands, resting herself against the door. The light from a window came from behind and framed her as in a picture of a broken-hearted Madonna. Aching was the word that came to Carter's mind when he looked at her. He desperately wished he could make her smile.
"Hey." He memorized the picture before him in the frame of light. "Just getting up?"
She murmured her assent. "You finished?"
"Yes," he uttered, barely audible, with a tired nod of his head, then taking a deep breath, he added, in a voice which was louder, but could not be considered loud, "Double shift."
"You look tired."
"I am. I need a two hour shower and twelve good hours in bed."
Unsympathetically, she informed him, "You came to the wrong place. I just used up all the hot water and stripped the bed to wash the sheets."
"How inhospitable of you," he mocked annoyance. "If you offer me a cup of coffee I'll think about forgiving you."
Fear, masked as uncertainty and indecision made a brief appearance onto the canvas of her face, but looking in his eyes, she was reassured, acquiesced and granted the asylum he was praying for. Stepping back from the door, she condescendingly asked, "Carter? Would you like to come in for some coffee?"
Relieved, he stepped into the apartment. The room smelled of her, musky and sweet and warm. It comforted him, replenished his exhausted soul. He removed his coat and made his way to the couch. He resisted the urge to lay down and fall into a healing sleep in this haven, choosing instead, to grab a throw pillow and hold it close against his chest. Hybernation was too much to be hoped for. And then he wondered again how he had gotten there, what he was doing there.
She returned, handing him a cup of coffee. "Martha Stuart at your service," she said, with a tone of self-mockery.
"I had no idea. Martha Stuart?"
"I have talents in the kitchen you can only dream about, Carter."
"Oh, I'm sure you do," he replied sarcastically.
"I can cook," she defended.
"What? Cheese out of a can on a Ritz cracker?"
"And other things too!" she volunteered, with a small attempt to be convincing. He raised an eyebrow in question. It was hopeless and she conceded with, "Hey, cheese on a Ritz is gourmet in some countries."
He laughed out loud and threw her a bone. "Your coffee's good, Martha," he said sincerely.
"Thank you," she said, dismissing the compliment with a shake of her head. She sipped the liquid slowly and savored the warmth it spread.
They sat silently for a full minute, he with his head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and she examining the coffee in her cup. There was no anxiety or apprehension in the silence.
The room was bright with the morning light that only comes in the middle of winter--clean and razor sharp. It penetrated and illuminated every corner. Abby saw areas on a shelf that her dust cloth had missed, but she ignored them. The ticking of the clock and their quiet breathing were the only audible sounds in the room.
Concerned, she asked, "What's going on, Carter? Why are you here?"
It was the one question he dreaded. He set his cup on the end table and turned to look into the darkness of her eyes. There he saw, more than saw, really, he felt all of the reasons why he shouldn't be in her apartment. They seemed countless. Her recent history with Luka to begin with. His relationship with Susan--just barely over. His addiction and recovery. Her addiction. Her mother. His mother. The recent tension between them. Her childhood. The fact that they worked together. The tenuousness of their friendship--its necessity in his life. The list was endless.
For all those reasons and others, he knew he should just thank her for the coffee and go. Yet as he sat in the comfort of her home, only inches away from her, he found he didn't have the strength to leave. He felt the scars she wore and the wounds that had caused those scars and he sighed, heavily, and replied honestly. "I don't know why I'm here."
Gently, she held his eyes, searching them and waiting for more--knowing it would come. She was afraid, but not of him. Never of him. She worried that his problem, whatever it was, might be about her. That she might have done something to cause the burdens weighing him down, the anguish written so plainly on his face. But although she was an expert at avoiding the issue, whatever the issue might be, in this case she felt it necessary to be stoic and brave, and resisted the temptation to run away. She asked again, "What's wrong, Carter?" and waited reverently.
Eventually, he looked away, knowing that she was a sacred bank for his trust; realizing that she would listen in spite of all the reasons not to and feeling guilty for using the privilege.
Finally, her patience paid off. Looking up at the ceiling again he stated, simply, "It's my brother's birthday." Then turning to face her, he added, guiltily, "I don't want to go home."
Abby was relieved. From the minute she had looked through the peep-hole and seen Carter's weary face, she had wanted to run away and hide, terrified that perhaps she had said or done something to cause an upset in the balance of the status quo. The friendship balanced so precariously between the chaos of the ER and the unpredictable real world that was the rest of her life had become as necessary to her as blood or air or food. Abby knew that it couldn't last. Nothing good ever lasted long. Life with Maggie had taught her that and she had learned it well. But she wanted it to last as long as possible, to take the journey to the end of the line, to suck the last drop out of it, savor it, wasting nothing, doing nothing to hasten the inevitable end.
Like her mother's periods of normalcy always ended in depression, Abby expected that her attempted relationships would always fail and end in loneliness. How she had ever allowed herself to become so dependent on Carter, she never knew and scolded herself almost daily because of it. Little conversations with the reflection in the mirror reminding herself that she could not become attached. "You can do it on your own," she told herself. Do what, however, was a question she didn't have the courage to ask.
So with the knowledge that she had nothing to do with Carter's grief and pain, Abby felt the weight of a thousand pounds lifted from her shoulders. It was a huge relief and she instantly felt helpful. With the slightest hint of a smile she offered, "If you really don't want to go home…"
"Yeah?"
"It's possible… I could come up with an excuse for you."
"Really?" he said, interested, intrigued.
"Oh, yeah. I'm an expert at coming up with excuses."
"Better than you are at cooking, I hope?" he proffered.
She gave him a look and then dryly told him, "I was notorious for coming up with plausible excuses in high school. People actually paid me for them." He sat up, looking amused.
"You made money off of excuses?"
"Lots of money," she replied, enthusiastically.
"Define lots."
"Well, we're not talking the Carter Family Foundation here, but enough to keep me well supplied with cigarettes and concert tickets," she bragged.
He considered this. "So… if I wanted an excuse… How much would it cost me?"
"For you, Carter, it's on the house. But only because this is your first time."
The insinuation was obvious and he laughed out loud. "You're pretty confident I'll be back," he countered.
"Oh, you'll be back," she teased.
Carter smiled and led the conversation back to safer ground. "OK, what's my excuse?" he asked.
"Well, the obvious choice here would be the classic, 'I fell asleep,' excuse. Completely reasonable since you've just worked a double shift. And relatively easy to pull off if you can tell the lie with conviction. But the beauty of it is that it can't be argued with. It's so believable. "
"I could've come up with that myself." He wasn't impressed. "I can't believe people actually paid you for an excuse like that. Where's the creativity?"
"You want creativity?" He nodded. "At the expense of believability?"
"Well, for the sake of argument, yes. But really, I just want to see what you can do."
"OK. For the sake of argument…" She was almost cocky. "Something creative…" she mused. "It's winter, so we've got the cold weather on our side--always a plus."
It took only seconds for her to formulate a devious and creative deception and it was food to Carter's soul to watch her face change shape as she plotted out a masterpiece of a plan. It was a rare treat to find Abby this happy.
"How about this one: A fire hydrant burst near where you parked your jeep. It made a pool of water several inches deep and during the night this pool of water froze. You, desperate to get to your family obligation, began to chisel at the ice around the tires and accidentally poked a hole in one of the tires. This didn't stop you. Oh no. You were nothing if not determined. You called the automobile service and they came out to rescue you. Big Fat Tow Truck Guy says, 'Hey, Doc. You did the right thing. The only way to get that jeep out of that ice is to flatten all four tires.' So this, of course, takes a couple of hours and then you had to go and get the flat repaired."
Carter was amazed and began to speak but she wasn't finished. "Oh!" she said, remembering, "We've got to explain why you didn't call. This part has to be simple to be believable or the other part won't be. You'll just have to say that your cell phone battery was dead or that you left it in your locker when you were changing your clothes."
She finished and smiled triumphantly at Carter. He was frozen in awe.
"That was good," said Carter.
"I know," she replied. "I told you I was good."
A kitchen timer buzzed annoyingly, and Abby went to the kitchen to turn it off. Carter's pager beeped as she returned to the couch. "That's my mother calling me," he sighed, "I guess I better go." Carter stood and made his way to the door.
"Yeah, my laundry's calling me. It's always something."
"Wanna trade? I'll do your laundry and you go see my mother?"
"No. But I'll trade you my mother for your mother," she deadpanned.
Carter opened the door and turned to say goodbye. The morning light had shifted and no longer came in through the window, yet the apartment was still bright. It matched his mood. "You working tomorrow?"
She nodded, but said nothing. "See you then," he almost whispered, then turned and headed down the stairs. She stood in the door, watching him descend. After not more than two steps, he called back, "Thanks for the coffee."