Coming Home
An ER fan fiction by AbCaLuDa
Chapter Four
She sat in the back corner and ordered a beer. The waitress brought it to her and handed it over with a sympathetic smile. Abby nodded and paid with a five. "Keep the change."
Five dollars for a bottle. Seemed fair enough.
Abby fondled the smooth, brown glass. She held it under her nose and took a deep breath. The bitter smell of it filled her. She felt it swirling down her throat, into her belly. It felt like a winter fire, warm and inviting.
Was it worth it?
She had worked so hard to kick the habit. Could she just throw it away, all the weeks and months of sobriety, all the days and nights of resistance. So what if he was gone. He wasn't the only man out there. The only one she really loved, but that could change. She used to think Richard Lockhart was the one she loved, and look how that turned out.
She took another deep, exaggerated sniff, inhaling the bittersweet scent. She wanted it. Desperately. She knew nothing else that could ease the pain in her heart. Only the drink, the good old fashioned, loyal drink. The one constant in her life.
Lord know he was never a constant. Moody, at times worse than Luka ever thought of being. Not many people saw that side of him, but she did. She had seen the full spectrum of his personality. And he wasn't really all that. There were plenty others out there.
She just had to find them.
In the meantime, what would one little drink hurt? Except she knew it wouldn't be just one little drink. Once she took a sip, the first sip, the booze owned her. She would be a slave to it. And without Carter to help her keep her head up, she would drown in it.
She pushed the bottle to the other side of the table and sunk down in the chair to stare at it.
* * * * * * * * * *
He took his shoes off and turned his pants up to his knees. He walked along the edge of the water, hoping the steady hum of the waves would lull his mind. He didn't want to think about anything but putting one foot in front of the other. He didn't want to think about the vast emptiness of the lake, or how the murky blackness mirrored his life.
He had his chance, weeks ago, and he blew it. He had the ring, the dinner, the evening planned. He wanted to make her his wife. But in the end he chickened out. The ring stayed tucked away in his pocket, he didn't ask, didn't complete the night.
She had her chances too, things she could have done to show him she loved him. She could have come to him when he reached out to her, instead of going to her brother. He wondered what that kind of obligation felt like. His brotherly memories were so limited, and most involved distracting Mom from the crying after one of Bobby's treatments.
What would Bobby think of him now? The thought made his shiver despite the muggy heat of the evening. He didn't think of Bobby much anymore, only sometimes when he treated cancer victims at the hospital. Even then, his thoughts remained distant, because trying to get too close to Bobby's ghost made him feel worthless and inferior.
Bobby Carter had been dead nearly twenty-five years. His dying wish, his last words to his little brother had been for John to take care of their parents, and make sure they were never sad. John had failed, he knew. He had failed to keep his parents happy, he had failed to keep them together. He had failed to be the son they so desperately needed after Bobby died. He had failed to be the man he promised Bobby he would be.
He wondered what would happen in he turned and started walking into the water. Four, maybe five feet out it would be well above his waist. Maybe over his head. He could sink into it, easy. Just walk right into it. Let it take him, claim him. He knew drowning was a peaceful death, once the desperate fear ceased. The water calmed the mind in its final moments.
But would he see Bobby again? Would he ever be reunited with his brother? Or would he have to face all the patients he had failed to save over the years? There were so many. Too many in the last two weeks alone. So many he could have helped, if only he had the supplies.
But there were no supplies in the Congo. He had had little more than his own bare hands to work with. He didn't even have the language of the people. He had only his passion, his instinctive need to help.
In the end, it had been enough. The brother of a soldier he had failed to save had rewarded his efforts by sparing his life. But the gun had been there, held against his forehead. One slip, a twitch of the trigger finger, and Carter knew he would be left to die in a strange land. He had felt the heat, the fear. He had smelled the death, his death, Luka's death.
Luka. What would happen to Luka if another rebel soldier stuck a gun in his face? He would probably get his head blown off. John Carter took a step into the water, felt the warmth of it reach his calf. Would he see Luka on the other side?
Maybe Lucy would be there, waiting for him. She must hate him. He couldn't save her. He should have been able to save her. She needed him. She was counting on him. And he let her down.
He let everyone down. Every time.
He took another step into the water. Another. Past his knees now. His pants were wet. TO his waist. Lake Michigan would soon claim him. He could taste the relief, the surrender, in his mind.
"Help! Help me! Please! Someone help me!" His head snapped toward the cry. A woman, not far away, on the shore, with a limp child in her arms. Carter found the first few steps back a little difficult against the pull of the water, but he pushed through.
"Help me, please," the woman called to him. "He isn't breathing."
"I'm a doctor." Carter took the child from the woman and lay him in the sand, just barely beyond the reach of the waves. "How long was he under?"
"I don't know. I turned my back. A minute. Maybe two." She looked over her shoulder. Carter looked too. A man, another child.
The boy had no pulse, no heartbeat. "Do you have a cell phone?" She shook her head. His was on his belt loop. He had been chest deep in the water when he responded to her cries. The phone would be useless. "Is that your husband? Tell him to go call 911. Tell them there is a doctor on the scene." The woman squeezed her son's hand before running back to the man and the other child.
* * * * * * * * * * *
An ER fan fiction by AbCaLuDa
Chapter Four
She sat in the back corner and ordered a beer. The waitress brought it to her and handed it over with a sympathetic smile. Abby nodded and paid with a five. "Keep the change."
Five dollars for a bottle. Seemed fair enough.
Abby fondled the smooth, brown glass. She held it under her nose and took a deep breath. The bitter smell of it filled her. She felt it swirling down her throat, into her belly. It felt like a winter fire, warm and inviting.
Was it worth it?
She had worked so hard to kick the habit. Could she just throw it away, all the weeks and months of sobriety, all the days and nights of resistance. So what if he was gone. He wasn't the only man out there. The only one she really loved, but that could change. She used to think Richard Lockhart was the one she loved, and look how that turned out.
She took another deep, exaggerated sniff, inhaling the bittersweet scent. She wanted it. Desperately. She knew nothing else that could ease the pain in her heart. Only the drink, the good old fashioned, loyal drink. The one constant in her life.
Lord know he was never a constant. Moody, at times worse than Luka ever thought of being. Not many people saw that side of him, but she did. She had seen the full spectrum of his personality. And he wasn't really all that. There were plenty others out there.
She just had to find them.
In the meantime, what would one little drink hurt? Except she knew it wouldn't be just one little drink. Once she took a sip, the first sip, the booze owned her. She would be a slave to it. And without Carter to help her keep her head up, she would drown in it.
She pushed the bottle to the other side of the table and sunk down in the chair to stare at it.
* * * * * * * * * *
He took his shoes off and turned his pants up to his knees. He walked along the edge of the water, hoping the steady hum of the waves would lull his mind. He didn't want to think about anything but putting one foot in front of the other. He didn't want to think about the vast emptiness of the lake, or how the murky blackness mirrored his life.
He had his chance, weeks ago, and he blew it. He had the ring, the dinner, the evening planned. He wanted to make her his wife. But in the end he chickened out. The ring stayed tucked away in his pocket, he didn't ask, didn't complete the night.
She had her chances too, things she could have done to show him she loved him. She could have come to him when he reached out to her, instead of going to her brother. He wondered what that kind of obligation felt like. His brotherly memories were so limited, and most involved distracting Mom from the crying after one of Bobby's treatments.
What would Bobby think of him now? The thought made his shiver despite the muggy heat of the evening. He didn't think of Bobby much anymore, only sometimes when he treated cancer victims at the hospital. Even then, his thoughts remained distant, because trying to get too close to Bobby's ghost made him feel worthless and inferior.
Bobby Carter had been dead nearly twenty-five years. His dying wish, his last words to his little brother had been for John to take care of their parents, and make sure they were never sad. John had failed, he knew. He had failed to keep his parents happy, he had failed to keep them together. He had failed to be the son they so desperately needed after Bobby died. He had failed to be the man he promised Bobby he would be.
He wondered what would happen in he turned and started walking into the water. Four, maybe five feet out it would be well above his waist. Maybe over his head. He could sink into it, easy. Just walk right into it. Let it take him, claim him. He knew drowning was a peaceful death, once the desperate fear ceased. The water calmed the mind in its final moments.
But would he see Bobby again? Would he ever be reunited with his brother? Or would he have to face all the patients he had failed to save over the years? There were so many. Too many in the last two weeks alone. So many he could have helped, if only he had the supplies.
But there were no supplies in the Congo. He had had little more than his own bare hands to work with. He didn't even have the language of the people. He had only his passion, his instinctive need to help.
In the end, it had been enough. The brother of a soldier he had failed to save had rewarded his efforts by sparing his life. But the gun had been there, held against his forehead. One slip, a twitch of the trigger finger, and Carter knew he would be left to die in a strange land. He had felt the heat, the fear. He had smelled the death, his death, Luka's death.
Luka. What would happen to Luka if another rebel soldier stuck a gun in his face? He would probably get his head blown off. John Carter took a step into the water, felt the warmth of it reach his calf. Would he see Luka on the other side?
Maybe Lucy would be there, waiting for him. She must hate him. He couldn't save her. He should have been able to save her. She needed him. She was counting on him. And he let her down.
He let everyone down. Every time.
He took another step into the water. Another. Past his knees now. His pants were wet. TO his waist. Lake Michigan would soon claim him. He could taste the relief, the surrender, in his mind.
"Help! Help me! Please! Someone help me!" His head snapped toward the cry. A woman, not far away, on the shore, with a limp child in her arms. Carter found the first few steps back a little difficult against the pull of the water, but he pushed through.
"Help me, please," the woman called to him. "He isn't breathing."
"I'm a doctor." Carter took the child from the woman and lay him in the sand, just barely beyond the reach of the waves. "How long was he under?"
"I don't know. I turned my back. A minute. Maybe two." She looked over her shoulder. Carter looked too. A man, another child.
The boy had no pulse, no heartbeat. "Do you have a cell phone?" She shook her head. His was on his belt loop. He had been chest deep in the water when he responded to her cries. The phone would be useless. "Is that your husband? Tell him to go call 911. Tell them there is a doctor on the scene." The woman squeezed her son's hand before running back to the man and the other child.
* * * * * * * * * * *