Disclaimer and Author's notes:
I don't own them, except Luka's father, which now has a different name, because I've been told that Pavle is, unfortunately, NOT a Croatian name. So. . . He's now Petar Kovac, ladies and gentlemen. However, he's the same one that was introduced to you in chapter 6.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Petar held the door of the elevator open for Gillian and then went out to the OR floor. He stopped chewing the end of his moustache when he realised he was doing it. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. It was a habit he'd tried to drop, but the lack of cigarettes here in the States had thrown him back to it. It was amazing how limited were smokers here in America. What were people supposed to do here when they needed something to channel their nervousness?
He had been trying to keep a cool head the whole morning during their visit to the museum and during lunch in that small and homely restaurant, but now the anxiety that had been eating him up since he had talked to Luka on the phone early that morning was getting the upper hand. He tried not to start running towards the nurse's station, to adjust his pace to Gillian's, to wait for her to ask about Luka. After a short inquiry, she turned around.
"Luka sleeps," she explained. "He gets moved to his room when he wakes up. Would you like some coffee?"
"Can't we see him right now?"
She shook her head.
"No, he's still." she tried to find the words. They had had a conversation about it earlier in the day, she should remember it. "In Intensive Care."
She smiled, proud she had learnt it, but Petar didn't smile back. He looked worried. He glanced at his watch. It was way over three in the afternoon. Luka had been out of the OR at quarter past ten that morning. The doctors had told them the removal of the frame had been a simple procedure with no complications. Now he had been down for over. five hours. Was it normal that he slept so long? Was something going wrong? Gillian noticed his concern and leant her hand in his forearm.
"It is okay, Petar. Luka wakes up in some time. An hour, two hours, maybe."
He cast her a doubtful look, and she was touched by how unguarded he looked. All those days, even when he had had to cope with Luka's low spirits or foul temper, Petar had been very serene, very centred.
She had admired his tranquillity, had hoped she had some of the calmness and bravery he displayed. She wished she could have been able to enter Luka's room without cringing at the thought he might send her away once again. She longed to have some friendly conversations with him in those last few days she spent in Chicago. But instead, she had been shying away from him. She dropped Petar by the hospital door and always gave him some kind of excuse for not coming up with him. Either she had to arrange her flight back to Toronto, or she had some errands to run, or she had to find a parking space. She spent hours in the diner across the street and then, when she was sure Luka was already tired or Petar was hungry and looking forward to lunch, she made a fleeting appearance by Luka's room.
"It's normal," she tried to explain in English. "It always takes everybody a long time to come to their senses after surgery."
His forehead creased. He hadn't understood. What was the word for everybody in Croatian, now? She sighed, and tried it:
"All people sleep very much after surgery."
Petar smiled, but still he asked:
"Sure?"
"Yes. Do you want to see Luka? We can see from corridor," Gillian added.
He nodded, and she took him to the door of the ICU. Petar looked through the windows. It was quite a large room, with several beds. Luka was lying on the second bed to the right. He was hooked to a myriad of machines. Petar shuddered. He couldn't get accustomed to all those strange looking monitors, though Luka had explained to him several times what they did. Blood pressure, heart rhythm, oxygen in the blood were quite normal bodily functions, but still Petar couldn't help an involuntary wince at the appearance of the devices that measured them. Luka stirred on the bed and rolled his head to the side. His eyes were half open, Petar noticed. It seemed as if he was looking at the door, but Petar had the strong feeling he couldn't see them. Luka stirred once again. One of his hands waved just above the covers and bumped against the railings of the bed, and then he made a movement as if he was going to shift on his side, but didn't quite manage it. Petar touched Gillian's forearm.
"He's awake," he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
She smiled at him comfortingly.
"Slowly," she said.
He didn't know what she meant with that. He looked back at Luka. A nurse was now bending over him. Luka quieted under her care, but when she turned and started going out of the ICU he started moving again, restlessly. The nurse smiled at them through the windows and they stepped to the side as she pushed the door.
"Are you related to Dr. Kovac?" She asked.
Petar nodded, and wished she would speak a little bit slower. He had only caught Luka's title and last name.
"He's coming to his senses, but it might take a while before he's completely conscious," she explained, and Gillian wished she had a better knowledge of Croatian so she could explain to Petar that everything was going fine with Luka. Petar's anxiousness seemed to be mounting with every minute.
Petar looked instinctively at Gillian. She tried to find the words in Croatian, but then the nurse took a sharp breath as if she had just realised something.
"Are you Gillian?"
Gillian's eyes widened in surprise. She nodded. The nurse smiled.
"He's been calling you." She cast a look at the nurse's station and down the corridor. "I'm not supposed to let you in, but I think it might help if you are with him for a minute. He's feeling a bit sick. I'm getting him something for it."
The nurse held the door open for her, but Gillian hesitated. She didn't want to leave Petar in the corridor, but knew she had the chance to be at Luka's bedside only on account of the kindness of this nurse. She looked up at Petar, confused, but then he smiled. The nurse was letting Gillian in.
"Go," he said. "I wait here."
Gillian went in, and cast another dubious look at Petar when she was halfway to Luka's bed. He winked and waved at her. He watched how she came close to Luka and took one of his hands. Luka's head had just thrashed to the opposite side, so she put her hand on the side of his face and gently made him turn his head towards her. She spoke to him, and Petar saw how Luka painfully tried to focus on her features. He said something and she answered, an immense tenderness showing in her face. Gillian caressed his cheek and Luka relaxed. Petar smiled, relieved, and slowly started chewing the end of his moustache.
Ten minutes later Gillian made her way out of the ICU. She felt an irrational surge of fear when she didn't spot Petar on the corridor. She walked towards the nurse's station and then she saw him sitting in the waiting area. He seemed calmer now, one of his arms resting on the back of the chair beside him. He smiled instantly and stood up.
"Is Luka better?"
She nodded.
"He sleeps again," she answered. "He was."
Uh, she didn't know that one. She put her hand over her stomach and made a face. But the gesture wasn't clear enough. Petar just stared at her, bewildered. She then opened her mouth and put two fingers in it while holding his other hand to her belly. That one was much more effective. Petar burst out in a peal of laughter that made everybody in the hall turn around and stare at them.
"Was he?"
She nodded.
"But now he is good," she explained. "The nurse give medicine and he sleeps."
"But now he is DOING FINE," Petar corrected. "The nurse GAVE HIM SOME MEDICINE TO HELP HIM SLEEP."
She dutifully repeated the sentence. Petar wondered, for the hundredth time, at her patience and tenacity. She had learnt a lot of Croatian in the past week. Her Croatian was now, in fact, as good as his English.
"I'm sure you also helped a lot," he added, and smiled when he noticed her pleased blush.
Things were going much better. Gillian's spirits had lifted. The spark that Petar had seen when he had met her in the airport was back in her eyes, and not the dull, inanimate look matted by pain, which had haunted her during the last week. And Luka had been calling her. He had stopped trying to hold her at an arm's length. He had wished to talk to her, and maybe would shed that reticence, almost verging on rudeness, that he displayed towards everybody here in America.
Petar still didn't fully understand what kind of transformation Luka had gone through while living in the States, but that morning, when Gillian had shown him the paintings by this American (What was his name now?) in the Art Institute, he felt he had gained a new insight into it. All the paintings were very similar to each other. They were made with an astounding neatness and simplicity, and they all depicted large, naked, brightly lit interior spaces. The surfaces in these spaces were all clean, almost devoid of objects, like Luka's apartment. And the few people that inhabited them seemed all immersed in themselves. It was as if their eyes were turned towards the inside. However, they were not peacefully concentrated on themselves; they were rather painfully locked inside.
Petar had seen reproductions of some of these pictures before, but he had brushed over them. However, now, standing in front of the pictures themselves and able to appreciate their true colour and format, he was suddenly impressed with the kind of loneliness and isolation they conveyed. It was as if these people had been trying too hard to hide from the exterior and now had lost the ability to communicate with the outside. He'd been shocked by Gillian's evident adoration of these pictures. But then, he thought, if she admired the pictures that much, she could maybe understand Luka's inability or unwillingness to reach out to other people. Well, probably those two would be able to figure it out in the end, Petar wistfully thought. Despite the fact they had had so little time to talk in Africa, despite the fact they knew so painfully little about each other, despite the fact Gillian came from another country and soon would be going back to it.
"Would you like some coffee?" She asked.
He faked surprise.
"Yet ANOTHER cup?"
She chuckled. And then he saw doctor Carter coming down the corridor. Petar smiled. The young doctor had come to check on Luka. Dr. Carter smiled and shook Petar's hand, and he engaged in a brief conversation with Gillian. She had to be telling him how Luka was doing, for Dr. Carter nodded approvingly, while he rubbed his eyes with a hand. Petar noticed the dark shades under Dr. Carter's eyes, and then he took the young doctor by the elbow.
"You need coffee," he stated in a way that allowed no refusal, and dragged him to the stairs, enjoying the young doctor's confusion while Gillian laughed as she followed them.
When they started going downstairs, Carter put up some resistance.
"Mr. Kovac, the cafeteria is on the seventh."
Luka's father stopped and stared at him for a second. Carter thought he hadn't understood him.
"No, no cafeteria coffee," said Petar, and Carter marvelled at how slight Luka's accent was, compared to his father's. "Real coffee. I buy you."
"Uh, yeah, thank you, but my shift's not over yet." protested Carter.
Luka's father glanced at Gillian, and she attempted a translation.
"He works right now."
Carter darted a curious look at Gillian. He hadn't got over the fact that she was learning Croatian. But he had to recognise it had been a good idea. She had been a great companion for Luka's father. Much better than the priest Kerry had contacted, it seemed. It was a shame Gillian had to go back to Montreal in a couple of days.
They day before, when he had come to visit Luka, he had found Luka's father and the priest arguing heatedly in the corridor. Carter had wondered what could have got them into such a vehement discussion.
Luka's father's grasp on his elbow only got a little tighter.
"You escape work," he declared.
"But."
"You take coffee cafeteria, you take coffee out, what difference?"
Carter had to laugh. Petar's logic was indisputable.
"All right," he gave in. "But I'll have to get my coat."
"Good," said Luka's father, but he didn't loosen his grip.
They made a bee line through the ER and into the lounge without being disturbed. Carter was amazed. Petar's presence conjured every problem away from him. He wondered whether he could convince Petar to stay in the ER a bit longer. Who knew? Maybe he could even conjure Romano.
"I'll come back in fifteen minutes," he told Chen at the nurse's station. "Can you cover for me?"
"Sure."
When they were out, Carter lifted the lapels of his coat against the cold November wind. It was the end of the month and Christmas decorations were already up. Carter shuddered in disgust. He didn't particularly like the Christmas season. During his childhood it had always been haunted by Bobby's death, and then during his youth he'd been too busy trying to avoid all the dinners and receptions Gamma would try to get him into, just to make him get involved with the foundation. Gamma. He missed her. By this time of the year he'd already have got two or three phone calls from her which he would have brushed off with annoyance. He felt a slight pang of guilt. Now he was attending the dinners and receptions, but it was too late. He shrugged and tried to push the thoughts away. Petar was holding open the door of the coffee shop and watching him with a keen eye. Gillian had already come in. Carter smiled and went past Luka's father and into the shop.
They sat around a table in a quiet corner. Carter cradled his cup while he watched how Petar sipped his espresso. He smiled as he noticed that both Gillian and Luka's father had asked for the same kind of coffee. Yet another thing they had in common.
"I hope you didn't have too much trouble with the priest yesterday," said Carter out of the blue, just because that was the first thing that came into his mind.
"Sorry?"
Carter repeated his remark, suddenly noticing that Gillian had blushed and seemed very interested in the contents of her own cup.
"Ah." Petar said when he managed to understand Dr. Carter's sentence. "No, I no trouble with priest. He trouble with me. Priests, they have too many principles."
He put a hand over Gillian's forearm and squeezed it gently to ease her shame. Father Pritic had been scandalised when Petar had told him he didn't intend to tell Luka anything about the tapes and then he had tried to tell Luka himself. Petar had found him right before the priest made his way into Luka's room, and had stopped him. Dr. Carter happened to come by when Petar was giving father Pritic a piece of his mind about private affairs. Still, Petar was worried about the priest making another attempt.
He hadn't talked about it with Gillian yet, but he thought it would be better if one of them broke the news to Luka now, instead of having a third party telling him about them. But he still didn't want to tell Luka about the tapes. He didn't want to do anything that could set a barrier between Gillian and Luka at the moment. He was only too aware of the fragility of the ties that knit those two together to want to introduce even more problems between them. Luka desperately needed somebody he could talk to, and he only seemed comfortable with Dr. Carter and Gillian. Besides, Luka would insist on listening to the tapes, and that would only depress him, if not scare him out of his wits. Deep inside, Petar knew that his own fears regarding his son's health were also part of Luka's obsessions, though it was a subject none of them would ever touch.
Petar had managed to listen to about half an hour of the tapes. To listen to Luka's demons had been harder than he had at first thought. He had translated some of it to Gillian. Then he had done his best to explain to her who Danijella, Jasna and Marko had been, and about Luka's life both before and immediately after the war. She had listened carefully, and asked some questions, and then she had asked him about the years in which Luka had emigrated to the States. Petar had been surprised to notice she seemed more eager to know about how Luka had lived during the last years than about his tragic experiences during the war. She didn't seem ready to judge Luka on the basis of his loss and suffering, like most other people did, and Petar could only like it. He was also ashamed to admit he knew painfully little about what had happened to his son in the last few years. He realised, with a pang, that Luka had managed to push away not only his acquaintances in the States but also his family in Croatia.
Carter lifted his eyebrows.
"Well, it's their job to maintain moral principles."
"Bad job."
Petar's comment made Carter smile, but it also left him without words. There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Are you travelling back to Montreal, then?"
Gillian looked up from her coffee cup, startled.
"Eh. . . huh. . . Yeah. . . On Wednesday."
"Damn work, eh?"
She nodded and shrugged.
"I'll miss you," added Carter. "Luka will miss you."
Like hell he will, thought Gillian bitterly, but bit back her words. As much as she tried to keep Luka's former words out of her mind: 'You don't have to stay. You have already expiated whatever you had to atone for,' they kept coming over and over again. Even today, when he'd been so sweet, those words had still resounded in her ears. When she had taken his hand in the ICU he'd spoken to her in French, had asked her about Chance and Chance's mother, and the clinic in Matenda, as if they were still in the Congo. He'd been disoriented and confused, so it hadn't been him that had been calling her, but the heavy duty drugs. Gillian had tried to fight her disappointment. She had tried to convince herself that the drugs were allowing him to show the feelings he didn't dare to display when fully conscious, and she had almost succeeded. Almost.
She noticed Petar's kind touch on her arm again, and she looked up at him. She would miss Luka, she would miss Petar. She smiled and swallowed back a surge of sadness.
"I'll keep in touch," she promised, knowing she'd most likely not keep her word.
Carter nodded again.
"You'd better. Luka's too much to handle by myself."
His lame joke made her smile, and then she attempted to translate it to Petar. Petar shook his head and sighed.
"Luka," he said. "Too much trouble."
Carter and Gillian were stunned. Petar's words could be interpreted in so many ways. They feared Petar was being brutally earnest with them. But then he smiled, a naughty spark shining in his eyes.
"Poor doctor Carter," he added. "Alone with Luka when Gillian and I go."
Then it was Carter's turn to shake his head and give out a mock sigh. He realised he didn't know when Luka's father had to travel back to Croatia. Luka had told him Petar wouldn't get more than two weeks off work, and he'd already been in Chicago over a week.
"When are you travelling back?" Petar's forehead creased. "To Croatia?" Carter added.
"In seven. no, six days."
"Soon."
"Yeah. Damn work."
Carter laughed heartily. American expressions in Petar's lips sounded truly hilarious. He glanced at his watch.
"Talking about work. . ." he said while standing up and putting his coat on. "I'd better go back before my boss kills me."
"Boss?"
"Yeah. Robert Romano," explained Carter.
"Ah, Dr. Romano. Not bad man."
"Ah, Petar. If you only knew. . ." Carter complained. "Thank you for the coffee."
Petar shook his hand.
"You're welcome. We see later?"
"Yes. I'm off at six. I'll drop by Luka's room."
Petar stared at him, and Carter had to wait until Gillian had translated for him. Then he waved her goodbye and made his way out of the coffee shop. It was already dark outside. Carter sighed as he pulled up the lapels of his coat again and thought about the dreary winter that awaited them all.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Through half opened eyes he could just catch a glimpse of the succession of lights and shadows in the corridor as his gurney was rolled out of the ICU. The monotonous sound of the wheels against the linoleum floor was lulling him back to sleep. Luka knew he wasn't supposed to fall asleep again. Only God knew how long had he been out and Tata and Gillian would be waiting for him in the room, so he had to be at least partially alert. He couldn't just start rambling. They had both heard enough of his rambling. They certainly didn't need any more of it. He had to prove to them that he had a fast hold on reality. HE needed to prove to himself that he had a fast hold on reality. But the drugs that had kept him down were still working on his system and he felt as if he was comfortably floating over the gurney, and not lying on it. Besides, it didn't seem as if he had a very fast grip on his conscious processes at the moment, anyway. Why was he so certain that Gillian was waiting for him in the room? She had been shunning him the whole week, since he'd said those vile things to her. She didn't have any reason to wait for him to come out of surgery.
Luka concentrated as he suddenly felt there was something he was missing. And then he remembered her in the ICU, holding his hand, caressing his cheek, talking to him in the same soothing manner she'd done in Brussels. The memory hit him like a warm wave. He felt his heart racing. Then it missed a beat. Had he imagined the whole thing? And if he hadn't, if she had really been there, what had he told her? Had the words he'd been holding back all those days slipped his mouth? After all his careful and studied attempts to draw her away?
He didn't deserve her, didn't deserve to go back to the warm world he had been locked out of for years. Moreover, she didn't need this. She didn't need to bear with the mangy reject he'd become, the man that drowned everything he'd once been in endless work, in alcohol, in one-night stands. The man that lay in bed, staring emptily at the ceiling for hours on end wishing he could fall asleep; the one that feared the moment he did because then he would have to battle the demons that made him scream night after night. The one that lost himself in his past so often that there were times when he didn't even know where he was. No. She didn't need that. He was too damaged for her. It would be better for her if she headed home to her family, to her friends, to her 'wanton ways in the world', as she had put it.
Besides, where had he gotten the idea that she'd ever want to deal with him? Because Luka knew she felt nothing, nothing except pity. Maybe some sympathy, but nothing else. He'd seen it in her eyes. And yet, there was that small chance that she felt something. . . Hadn't she been trying to learn Croatian? He hadn't asked her why she was doing it. He was sure he would never gather the courage to ask her, but he couldn't come round the fact she. . .
"Dr. Kovac?"
Luka looked up. The RN was looking at him with a worried look on her eyes.
"Are you all right?"
He nodded, and swallowed the painful knot in his throat.
"Are you sure."
"Yeah. I'm just. . . I'm just tired."
She winked reassuringly, as she pushed the gurney into the elevator.
"We'll get to your room in a second and then you'll be able to get some rest."
He nodded, and attempted a smile. He took a controlled breath: in and out. And then he tried another one. He had to concentrate on immediate things and stop the wanderings of his mind. Forget both the niggling and the happy thoughts. Especially the happy ones. They were but idle illusions.
The doors of the elevator opened and he was rolled out. Then, suddenly Tata was hovering over him. Luka pasted a smile on his face.
"Hello, Tata. Want a ride?"
Tata cocked one of his eyebrows.
"I don't know. Is it good?"
"Not as exciting as grandpa's tractor, but it's all right. . ."
"I'm sure it's not. Especially because you can't knock down fences and kill cows. . ."
Luka chuckled.
"Dr. Kovac?"
Luka looked up at the RN and the orderly. They were standing beside the gurney after having placed it beside the bed.
"We're going to move you into bed now. . ."
Luka nodded, and waited, not understanding why didn't they just do it straightaway.
"Maybe your father and Ms. . ." the RN nodded towards the window. Luka's gaze followed her nod, and there she was. Jesus. With an enormous effort, he faked a polite smile. Nothing big, nothing too expressive. It only had to reach the corners of his mouth.
"Gillian," he tried not to cringe at the sound of his own voice. When had he learnt to play the cold bastard so flawlessly?
She stood up from the window sill and ran a hand through her hair.
"Well, I'll guess we'd better wait in the corridor. . ." she whispered awkwardly as she went past the bed.
Tata stood where he was, an astonished look in his eyes.
"Tata, it's better if you wait in the corridor," Luka translated.
Tata glared rays and thunderstorms at him. Luka's gaze darted down towards his hands. He heard as they went out.
"Now, Dr. Kovac, could you try to move over? Use your elbows and your right leg. We'll do it gently. At the count of three. . ." said the orderly as he scooped him under the arms.
They went out when they had settled him in bed, making sure he didn't need anything else. Tata came in.
"Where's Gillian?" Luka blurted out, before he could help it.
"She made up some excuse and went away."
Tata's voice was sharp. Luka looked down, embarrassed. Petar watched him keenly. There was a strained silence. Petar hesitated. He wanted to give Luka a piece of his mind about Gillian, but he perfectly knew he had no right to. Oh, hell. It wouldn't do this blockhead of a son any good if he kept his mouth shut, anyway.
"Luka, you really. . ." He started.
"Tata, it's none of your business," retorted Luka in a rather abrasive tone.
Petar bit his lip. Luka was right. It was none of his business. He'd stopped meddling in his youngest son's private life ever since Luka had fallen for Danijella, at the age of twelve. And now he was trying to lecture a grown man on something he didn't quite understand himself. He took a chair and pushed it to the side of the bed. He sat down.
"You're right Luka," he whispered in defeat. "It's none of my business."
He rubbed his face with his hand. He was exhausted.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The answering machine on the table by the sofa was blinking. Gillian pushed the play button while Petar disappeared in the kitchen with the groceries they had bought. The first message was in Croatian. It started with: "Tata?" so Gillian guessed it was Luka's brother. Unfortunately, Stjepan spoke too fast. She didn't understand what he said. She guessed he'd called to know how had Luka's operation gone. She'd play the message for Petar later. The second message was from her travel agent. Apparently there was some kind of trouble with her credit card. She sighed tiredly. She'd sort that out tomorrow morning. The last message surprised her.
"Ms. Gillian Ronin? I'm Anne Lawrence, chief of staff of Greenwood Terrace Nursing Center. We received your CV and are interested in your services. Would you please call me back to set a meeting? My telephone number is. . ."
Gillian stared at the machine for a while, before pulling a notepad and a pen from her bag. She played the message again and wrote down the number. She had sent some CVs around during the first days she'd been in Chicago, but she hadn't thought they would contact her so soon. Then he had just forgotten all about it. She sat on the sofa, the notepad on her lap, trying to make up her mind. Should she return the call?
"Gillian. . ."
Petar was standing in front of her with a couple of beers in his hands. She took the one he was offering her and smiled.
"Is there something wrong?"
"Wrong? No. . . I only thinking."
"I WAS only thinking."
"I WAS only thinking," she repeated as she opened her can and poured the contents into the glass.
She noticed Petar staring at the notepad on her lap.
"Stjepan called," she hurried to tell him. Then she hit the play button on the answering machine.
Petar listened to the message with his head tilted to one side, in a gesture characteristically his. Gillian loved that gesture.
"I'd better call him back," he commented when the message was finished.
He watched as she erased the other two messages.
"Anybody else called?"
"From the travel agency."
She smiled at the thought she'd come to learn the strangest words in Croatian: "travel agency", "Intensive Care Unit", "Zimmer frame", "physical therapy" were not the expressions you expected to find in a beginners language course. Well, maybe the first one. It had been in her little phrasebook, though the pronunciation key had been a little misguided.
"Was it for you, or for me?"
"Huh?"
"Is 'Huh' an American expression?"
"Sorry?"
" 'Huh'. Luka uses it all the time."
Gillian smiled. Petar was right. It was one of Luka's favourite words. Well, if you could call it a word.
"It is not American. I must. . . I learnt it from him. I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. . . But don't learn any more bad habits from him, okay?" Petar said with a warm smile, lifting an admonishing finger. "Was the call from the travel agency for you or for me?"
"Me. I have to go tomorrow."
She stood up.
"I start with the food. You call Stjepan, no?"
"Okay," said Petar as he watched her put her notepad away.
There was something she didn't want to tell him, but he wasn't going to pry. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number while she went out.
In the kitchen, Gillian put a pot with water on the stove and took the vegetables out of the plastic bags. She'd promised Petar she would cook something for him that evening, and she had chosen pasta primavera, something easy and which she knew she would succeed at. She doubted whether she could compete with his cooking. Despite what he'd told her, he was a superb cook.
She washed the vegetables and started chopping them while her thoughts trailed back to the phone call. No, she wouldn't return it. There was really no point in hanging around in Chicago anymore. But then, was there any point in returning to Montreal? She had lost her job, her acquaintances were not really close friends, and her mother and her had but a distant relationship. They called every month or so to check on each other, but that was all it came to. She'd visit her mother on her birthday sometimes, but they had even started to spend Christmas and New Year by themselves, a few years back, when it became clear they really didn't enjoy each other's company. So, what was so important in Montreal? Why couldn't she try a new life somewhere else? She had just made up her mind to return the pone call when Petar stepped into the kitchen.
"Stjepan sends his regards," he said.
"Thank you."
Petar chuckled, and Gillian looked at him to find out what he found so amusing.
"He wasn't happy. I woke him up."
It took her a heartbeat to figure out what was so funny.
"What time is it over there?"
Petar glanced at his watch.
"Half past two."
Gillian lifted her eyebrows. It was Sunday, and Stjepan would surely have to work the next day. According to what Petar had told her, Stjepan's life was that of a very busy tradesman, wrestling with an economy in crisis, a quarrelsome wife and two teenager daughters. It sounded exhausting. No need to get phone calls from abroad in the small hours of the morning.
Petar made a pout, as if he was ashamed of himself.
"My children will end up rejecting me. . ."
He realised he had chosen too complicated words when he saw her frown.
"Sorry?"
"Stjepan and Luka. They will throw me out."
Gillian's frown got deeper. Petar tried not to sigh. It was so difficult to joke around.
"Stjepan and Luka will say:" He stood up straighter, and squared his shoulders, while lifting his right hand and signalling the door: "Tata, OUT!"
Only then she laughed.
"Don't worry, Petar," she answered. "I will. . ." She stopped when she realised she didn't know the word. "I will adopt you," she ended up in English.
"Sorry?"
Gillian sighed, and then she used a sentence that had become a standard one between them.
"We need the dictionary."
Petar smiled tiredly.
"I'll get it," he said, going out of the kitchen.
I don't own them, except Luka's father, which now has a different name, because I've been told that Pavle is, unfortunately, NOT a Croatian name. So. . . He's now Petar Kovac, ladies and gentlemen. However, he's the same one that was introduced to you in chapter 6.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Petar held the door of the elevator open for Gillian and then went out to the OR floor. He stopped chewing the end of his moustache when he realised he was doing it. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. It was a habit he'd tried to drop, but the lack of cigarettes here in the States had thrown him back to it. It was amazing how limited were smokers here in America. What were people supposed to do here when they needed something to channel their nervousness?
He had been trying to keep a cool head the whole morning during their visit to the museum and during lunch in that small and homely restaurant, but now the anxiety that had been eating him up since he had talked to Luka on the phone early that morning was getting the upper hand. He tried not to start running towards the nurse's station, to adjust his pace to Gillian's, to wait for her to ask about Luka. After a short inquiry, she turned around.
"Luka sleeps," she explained. "He gets moved to his room when he wakes up. Would you like some coffee?"
"Can't we see him right now?"
She shook her head.
"No, he's still." she tried to find the words. They had had a conversation about it earlier in the day, she should remember it. "In Intensive Care."
She smiled, proud she had learnt it, but Petar didn't smile back. He looked worried. He glanced at his watch. It was way over three in the afternoon. Luka had been out of the OR at quarter past ten that morning. The doctors had told them the removal of the frame had been a simple procedure with no complications. Now he had been down for over. five hours. Was it normal that he slept so long? Was something going wrong? Gillian noticed his concern and leant her hand in his forearm.
"It is okay, Petar. Luka wakes up in some time. An hour, two hours, maybe."
He cast her a doubtful look, and she was touched by how unguarded he looked. All those days, even when he had had to cope with Luka's low spirits or foul temper, Petar had been very serene, very centred.
She had admired his tranquillity, had hoped she had some of the calmness and bravery he displayed. She wished she could have been able to enter Luka's room without cringing at the thought he might send her away once again. She longed to have some friendly conversations with him in those last few days she spent in Chicago. But instead, she had been shying away from him. She dropped Petar by the hospital door and always gave him some kind of excuse for not coming up with him. Either she had to arrange her flight back to Toronto, or she had some errands to run, or she had to find a parking space. She spent hours in the diner across the street and then, when she was sure Luka was already tired or Petar was hungry and looking forward to lunch, she made a fleeting appearance by Luka's room.
"It's normal," she tried to explain in English. "It always takes everybody a long time to come to their senses after surgery."
His forehead creased. He hadn't understood. What was the word for everybody in Croatian, now? She sighed, and tried it:
"All people sleep very much after surgery."
Petar smiled, but still he asked:
"Sure?"
"Yes. Do you want to see Luka? We can see from corridor," Gillian added.
He nodded, and she took him to the door of the ICU. Petar looked through the windows. It was quite a large room, with several beds. Luka was lying on the second bed to the right. He was hooked to a myriad of machines. Petar shuddered. He couldn't get accustomed to all those strange looking monitors, though Luka had explained to him several times what they did. Blood pressure, heart rhythm, oxygen in the blood were quite normal bodily functions, but still Petar couldn't help an involuntary wince at the appearance of the devices that measured them. Luka stirred on the bed and rolled his head to the side. His eyes were half open, Petar noticed. It seemed as if he was looking at the door, but Petar had the strong feeling he couldn't see them. Luka stirred once again. One of his hands waved just above the covers and bumped against the railings of the bed, and then he made a movement as if he was going to shift on his side, but didn't quite manage it. Petar touched Gillian's forearm.
"He's awake," he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
She smiled at him comfortingly.
"Slowly," she said.
He didn't know what she meant with that. He looked back at Luka. A nurse was now bending over him. Luka quieted under her care, but when she turned and started going out of the ICU he started moving again, restlessly. The nurse smiled at them through the windows and they stepped to the side as she pushed the door.
"Are you related to Dr. Kovac?" She asked.
Petar nodded, and wished she would speak a little bit slower. He had only caught Luka's title and last name.
"He's coming to his senses, but it might take a while before he's completely conscious," she explained, and Gillian wished she had a better knowledge of Croatian so she could explain to Petar that everything was going fine with Luka. Petar's anxiousness seemed to be mounting with every minute.
Petar looked instinctively at Gillian. She tried to find the words in Croatian, but then the nurse took a sharp breath as if she had just realised something.
"Are you Gillian?"
Gillian's eyes widened in surprise. She nodded. The nurse smiled.
"He's been calling you." She cast a look at the nurse's station and down the corridor. "I'm not supposed to let you in, but I think it might help if you are with him for a minute. He's feeling a bit sick. I'm getting him something for it."
The nurse held the door open for her, but Gillian hesitated. She didn't want to leave Petar in the corridor, but knew she had the chance to be at Luka's bedside only on account of the kindness of this nurse. She looked up at Petar, confused, but then he smiled. The nurse was letting Gillian in.
"Go," he said. "I wait here."
Gillian went in, and cast another dubious look at Petar when she was halfway to Luka's bed. He winked and waved at her. He watched how she came close to Luka and took one of his hands. Luka's head had just thrashed to the opposite side, so she put her hand on the side of his face and gently made him turn his head towards her. She spoke to him, and Petar saw how Luka painfully tried to focus on her features. He said something and she answered, an immense tenderness showing in her face. Gillian caressed his cheek and Luka relaxed. Petar smiled, relieved, and slowly started chewing the end of his moustache.
Ten minutes later Gillian made her way out of the ICU. She felt an irrational surge of fear when she didn't spot Petar on the corridor. She walked towards the nurse's station and then she saw him sitting in the waiting area. He seemed calmer now, one of his arms resting on the back of the chair beside him. He smiled instantly and stood up.
"Is Luka better?"
She nodded.
"He sleeps again," she answered. "He was."
Uh, she didn't know that one. She put her hand over her stomach and made a face. But the gesture wasn't clear enough. Petar just stared at her, bewildered. She then opened her mouth and put two fingers in it while holding his other hand to her belly. That one was much more effective. Petar burst out in a peal of laughter that made everybody in the hall turn around and stare at them.
"Was he?"
She nodded.
"But now he is good," she explained. "The nurse give medicine and he sleeps."
"But now he is DOING FINE," Petar corrected. "The nurse GAVE HIM SOME MEDICINE TO HELP HIM SLEEP."
She dutifully repeated the sentence. Petar wondered, for the hundredth time, at her patience and tenacity. She had learnt a lot of Croatian in the past week. Her Croatian was now, in fact, as good as his English.
"I'm sure you also helped a lot," he added, and smiled when he noticed her pleased blush.
Things were going much better. Gillian's spirits had lifted. The spark that Petar had seen when he had met her in the airport was back in her eyes, and not the dull, inanimate look matted by pain, which had haunted her during the last week. And Luka had been calling her. He had stopped trying to hold her at an arm's length. He had wished to talk to her, and maybe would shed that reticence, almost verging on rudeness, that he displayed towards everybody here in America.
Petar still didn't fully understand what kind of transformation Luka had gone through while living in the States, but that morning, when Gillian had shown him the paintings by this American (What was his name now?) in the Art Institute, he felt he had gained a new insight into it. All the paintings were very similar to each other. They were made with an astounding neatness and simplicity, and they all depicted large, naked, brightly lit interior spaces. The surfaces in these spaces were all clean, almost devoid of objects, like Luka's apartment. And the few people that inhabited them seemed all immersed in themselves. It was as if their eyes were turned towards the inside. However, they were not peacefully concentrated on themselves; they were rather painfully locked inside.
Petar had seen reproductions of some of these pictures before, but he had brushed over them. However, now, standing in front of the pictures themselves and able to appreciate their true colour and format, he was suddenly impressed with the kind of loneliness and isolation they conveyed. It was as if these people had been trying too hard to hide from the exterior and now had lost the ability to communicate with the outside. He'd been shocked by Gillian's evident adoration of these pictures. But then, he thought, if she admired the pictures that much, she could maybe understand Luka's inability or unwillingness to reach out to other people. Well, probably those two would be able to figure it out in the end, Petar wistfully thought. Despite the fact they had had so little time to talk in Africa, despite the fact they knew so painfully little about each other, despite the fact Gillian came from another country and soon would be going back to it.
"Would you like some coffee?" She asked.
He faked surprise.
"Yet ANOTHER cup?"
She chuckled. And then he saw doctor Carter coming down the corridor. Petar smiled. The young doctor had come to check on Luka. Dr. Carter smiled and shook Petar's hand, and he engaged in a brief conversation with Gillian. She had to be telling him how Luka was doing, for Dr. Carter nodded approvingly, while he rubbed his eyes with a hand. Petar noticed the dark shades under Dr. Carter's eyes, and then he took the young doctor by the elbow.
"You need coffee," he stated in a way that allowed no refusal, and dragged him to the stairs, enjoying the young doctor's confusion while Gillian laughed as she followed them.
When they started going downstairs, Carter put up some resistance.
"Mr. Kovac, the cafeteria is on the seventh."
Luka's father stopped and stared at him for a second. Carter thought he hadn't understood him.
"No, no cafeteria coffee," said Petar, and Carter marvelled at how slight Luka's accent was, compared to his father's. "Real coffee. I buy you."
"Uh, yeah, thank you, but my shift's not over yet." protested Carter.
Luka's father glanced at Gillian, and she attempted a translation.
"He works right now."
Carter darted a curious look at Gillian. He hadn't got over the fact that she was learning Croatian. But he had to recognise it had been a good idea. She had been a great companion for Luka's father. Much better than the priest Kerry had contacted, it seemed. It was a shame Gillian had to go back to Montreal in a couple of days.
They day before, when he had come to visit Luka, he had found Luka's father and the priest arguing heatedly in the corridor. Carter had wondered what could have got them into such a vehement discussion.
Luka's father's grasp on his elbow only got a little tighter.
"You escape work," he declared.
"But."
"You take coffee cafeteria, you take coffee out, what difference?"
Carter had to laugh. Petar's logic was indisputable.
"All right," he gave in. "But I'll have to get my coat."
"Good," said Luka's father, but he didn't loosen his grip.
They made a bee line through the ER and into the lounge without being disturbed. Carter was amazed. Petar's presence conjured every problem away from him. He wondered whether he could convince Petar to stay in the ER a bit longer. Who knew? Maybe he could even conjure Romano.
"I'll come back in fifteen minutes," he told Chen at the nurse's station. "Can you cover for me?"
"Sure."
When they were out, Carter lifted the lapels of his coat against the cold November wind. It was the end of the month and Christmas decorations were already up. Carter shuddered in disgust. He didn't particularly like the Christmas season. During his childhood it had always been haunted by Bobby's death, and then during his youth he'd been too busy trying to avoid all the dinners and receptions Gamma would try to get him into, just to make him get involved with the foundation. Gamma. He missed her. By this time of the year he'd already have got two or three phone calls from her which he would have brushed off with annoyance. He felt a slight pang of guilt. Now he was attending the dinners and receptions, but it was too late. He shrugged and tried to push the thoughts away. Petar was holding open the door of the coffee shop and watching him with a keen eye. Gillian had already come in. Carter smiled and went past Luka's father and into the shop.
They sat around a table in a quiet corner. Carter cradled his cup while he watched how Petar sipped his espresso. He smiled as he noticed that both Gillian and Luka's father had asked for the same kind of coffee. Yet another thing they had in common.
"I hope you didn't have too much trouble with the priest yesterday," said Carter out of the blue, just because that was the first thing that came into his mind.
"Sorry?"
Carter repeated his remark, suddenly noticing that Gillian had blushed and seemed very interested in the contents of her own cup.
"Ah." Petar said when he managed to understand Dr. Carter's sentence. "No, I no trouble with priest. He trouble with me. Priests, they have too many principles."
He put a hand over Gillian's forearm and squeezed it gently to ease her shame. Father Pritic had been scandalised when Petar had told him he didn't intend to tell Luka anything about the tapes and then he had tried to tell Luka himself. Petar had found him right before the priest made his way into Luka's room, and had stopped him. Dr. Carter happened to come by when Petar was giving father Pritic a piece of his mind about private affairs. Still, Petar was worried about the priest making another attempt.
He hadn't talked about it with Gillian yet, but he thought it would be better if one of them broke the news to Luka now, instead of having a third party telling him about them. But he still didn't want to tell Luka about the tapes. He didn't want to do anything that could set a barrier between Gillian and Luka at the moment. He was only too aware of the fragility of the ties that knit those two together to want to introduce even more problems between them. Luka desperately needed somebody he could talk to, and he only seemed comfortable with Dr. Carter and Gillian. Besides, Luka would insist on listening to the tapes, and that would only depress him, if not scare him out of his wits. Deep inside, Petar knew that his own fears regarding his son's health were also part of Luka's obsessions, though it was a subject none of them would ever touch.
Petar had managed to listen to about half an hour of the tapes. To listen to Luka's demons had been harder than he had at first thought. He had translated some of it to Gillian. Then he had done his best to explain to her who Danijella, Jasna and Marko had been, and about Luka's life both before and immediately after the war. She had listened carefully, and asked some questions, and then she had asked him about the years in which Luka had emigrated to the States. Petar had been surprised to notice she seemed more eager to know about how Luka had lived during the last years than about his tragic experiences during the war. She didn't seem ready to judge Luka on the basis of his loss and suffering, like most other people did, and Petar could only like it. He was also ashamed to admit he knew painfully little about what had happened to his son in the last few years. He realised, with a pang, that Luka had managed to push away not only his acquaintances in the States but also his family in Croatia.
Carter lifted his eyebrows.
"Well, it's their job to maintain moral principles."
"Bad job."
Petar's comment made Carter smile, but it also left him without words. There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Are you travelling back to Montreal, then?"
Gillian looked up from her coffee cup, startled.
"Eh. . . huh. . . Yeah. . . On Wednesday."
"Damn work, eh?"
She nodded and shrugged.
"I'll miss you," added Carter. "Luka will miss you."
Like hell he will, thought Gillian bitterly, but bit back her words. As much as she tried to keep Luka's former words out of her mind: 'You don't have to stay. You have already expiated whatever you had to atone for,' they kept coming over and over again. Even today, when he'd been so sweet, those words had still resounded in her ears. When she had taken his hand in the ICU he'd spoken to her in French, had asked her about Chance and Chance's mother, and the clinic in Matenda, as if they were still in the Congo. He'd been disoriented and confused, so it hadn't been him that had been calling her, but the heavy duty drugs. Gillian had tried to fight her disappointment. She had tried to convince herself that the drugs were allowing him to show the feelings he didn't dare to display when fully conscious, and she had almost succeeded. Almost.
She noticed Petar's kind touch on her arm again, and she looked up at him. She would miss Luka, she would miss Petar. She smiled and swallowed back a surge of sadness.
"I'll keep in touch," she promised, knowing she'd most likely not keep her word.
Carter nodded again.
"You'd better. Luka's too much to handle by myself."
His lame joke made her smile, and then she attempted to translate it to Petar. Petar shook his head and sighed.
"Luka," he said. "Too much trouble."
Carter and Gillian were stunned. Petar's words could be interpreted in so many ways. They feared Petar was being brutally earnest with them. But then he smiled, a naughty spark shining in his eyes.
"Poor doctor Carter," he added. "Alone with Luka when Gillian and I go."
Then it was Carter's turn to shake his head and give out a mock sigh. He realised he didn't know when Luka's father had to travel back to Croatia. Luka had told him Petar wouldn't get more than two weeks off work, and he'd already been in Chicago over a week.
"When are you travelling back?" Petar's forehead creased. "To Croatia?" Carter added.
"In seven. no, six days."
"Soon."
"Yeah. Damn work."
Carter laughed heartily. American expressions in Petar's lips sounded truly hilarious. He glanced at his watch.
"Talking about work. . ." he said while standing up and putting his coat on. "I'd better go back before my boss kills me."
"Boss?"
"Yeah. Robert Romano," explained Carter.
"Ah, Dr. Romano. Not bad man."
"Ah, Petar. If you only knew. . ." Carter complained. "Thank you for the coffee."
Petar shook his hand.
"You're welcome. We see later?"
"Yes. I'm off at six. I'll drop by Luka's room."
Petar stared at him, and Carter had to wait until Gillian had translated for him. Then he waved her goodbye and made his way out of the coffee shop. It was already dark outside. Carter sighed as he pulled up the lapels of his coat again and thought about the dreary winter that awaited them all.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Through half opened eyes he could just catch a glimpse of the succession of lights and shadows in the corridor as his gurney was rolled out of the ICU. The monotonous sound of the wheels against the linoleum floor was lulling him back to sleep. Luka knew he wasn't supposed to fall asleep again. Only God knew how long had he been out and Tata and Gillian would be waiting for him in the room, so he had to be at least partially alert. He couldn't just start rambling. They had both heard enough of his rambling. They certainly didn't need any more of it. He had to prove to them that he had a fast hold on reality. HE needed to prove to himself that he had a fast hold on reality. But the drugs that had kept him down were still working on his system and he felt as if he was comfortably floating over the gurney, and not lying on it. Besides, it didn't seem as if he had a very fast grip on his conscious processes at the moment, anyway. Why was he so certain that Gillian was waiting for him in the room? She had been shunning him the whole week, since he'd said those vile things to her. She didn't have any reason to wait for him to come out of surgery.
Luka concentrated as he suddenly felt there was something he was missing. And then he remembered her in the ICU, holding his hand, caressing his cheek, talking to him in the same soothing manner she'd done in Brussels. The memory hit him like a warm wave. He felt his heart racing. Then it missed a beat. Had he imagined the whole thing? And if he hadn't, if she had really been there, what had he told her? Had the words he'd been holding back all those days slipped his mouth? After all his careful and studied attempts to draw her away?
He didn't deserve her, didn't deserve to go back to the warm world he had been locked out of for years. Moreover, she didn't need this. She didn't need to bear with the mangy reject he'd become, the man that drowned everything he'd once been in endless work, in alcohol, in one-night stands. The man that lay in bed, staring emptily at the ceiling for hours on end wishing he could fall asleep; the one that feared the moment he did because then he would have to battle the demons that made him scream night after night. The one that lost himself in his past so often that there were times when he didn't even know where he was. No. She didn't need that. He was too damaged for her. It would be better for her if she headed home to her family, to her friends, to her 'wanton ways in the world', as she had put it.
Besides, where had he gotten the idea that she'd ever want to deal with him? Because Luka knew she felt nothing, nothing except pity. Maybe some sympathy, but nothing else. He'd seen it in her eyes. And yet, there was that small chance that she felt something. . . Hadn't she been trying to learn Croatian? He hadn't asked her why she was doing it. He was sure he would never gather the courage to ask her, but he couldn't come round the fact she. . .
"Dr. Kovac?"
Luka looked up. The RN was looking at him with a worried look on her eyes.
"Are you all right?"
He nodded, and swallowed the painful knot in his throat.
"Are you sure."
"Yeah. I'm just. . . I'm just tired."
She winked reassuringly, as she pushed the gurney into the elevator.
"We'll get to your room in a second and then you'll be able to get some rest."
He nodded, and attempted a smile. He took a controlled breath: in and out. And then he tried another one. He had to concentrate on immediate things and stop the wanderings of his mind. Forget both the niggling and the happy thoughts. Especially the happy ones. They were but idle illusions.
The doors of the elevator opened and he was rolled out. Then, suddenly Tata was hovering over him. Luka pasted a smile on his face.
"Hello, Tata. Want a ride?"
Tata cocked one of his eyebrows.
"I don't know. Is it good?"
"Not as exciting as grandpa's tractor, but it's all right. . ."
"I'm sure it's not. Especially because you can't knock down fences and kill cows. . ."
Luka chuckled.
"Dr. Kovac?"
Luka looked up at the RN and the orderly. They were standing beside the gurney after having placed it beside the bed.
"We're going to move you into bed now. . ."
Luka nodded, and waited, not understanding why didn't they just do it straightaway.
"Maybe your father and Ms. . ." the RN nodded towards the window. Luka's gaze followed her nod, and there she was. Jesus. With an enormous effort, he faked a polite smile. Nothing big, nothing too expressive. It only had to reach the corners of his mouth.
"Gillian," he tried not to cringe at the sound of his own voice. When had he learnt to play the cold bastard so flawlessly?
She stood up from the window sill and ran a hand through her hair.
"Well, I'll guess we'd better wait in the corridor. . ." she whispered awkwardly as she went past the bed.
Tata stood where he was, an astonished look in his eyes.
"Tata, it's better if you wait in the corridor," Luka translated.
Tata glared rays and thunderstorms at him. Luka's gaze darted down towards his hands. He heard as they went out.
"Now, Dr. Kovac, could you try to move over? Use your elbows and your right leg. We'll do it gently. At the count of three. . ." said the orderly as he scooped him under the arms.
They went out when they had settled him in bed, making sure he didn't need anything else. Tata came in.
"Where's Gillian?" Luka blurted out, before he could help it.
"She made up some excuse and went away."
Tata's voice was sharp. Luka looked down, embarrassed. Petar watched him keenly. There was a strained silence. Petar hesitated. He wanted to give Luka a piece of his mind about Gillian, but he perfectly knew he had no right to. Oh, hell. It wouldn't do this blockhead of a son any good if he kept his mouth shut, anyway.
"Luka, you really. . ." He started.
"Tata, it's none of your business," retorted Luka in a rather abrasive tone.
Petar bit his lip. Luka was right. It was none of his business. He'd stopped meddling in his youngest son's private life ever since Luka had fallen for Danijella, at the age of twelve. And now he was trying to lecture a grown man on something he didn't quite understand himself. He took a chair and pushed it to the side of the bed. He sat down.
"You're right Luka," he whispered in defeat. "It's none of my business."
He rubbed his face with his hand. He was exhausted.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The answering machine on the table by the sofa was blinking. Gillian pushed the play button while Petar disappeared in the kitchen with the groceries they had bought. The first message was in Croatian. It started with: "Tata?" so Gillian guessed it was Luka's brother. Unfortunately, Stjepan spoke too fast. She didn't understand what he said. She guessed he'd called to know how had Luka's operation gone. She'd play the message for Petar later. The second message was from her travel agent. Apparently there was some kind of trouble with her credit card. She sighed tiredly. She'd sort that out tomorrow morning. The last message surprised her.
"Ms. Gillian Ronin? I'm Anne Lawrence, chief of staff of Greenwood Terrace Nursing Center. We received your CV and are interested in your services. Would you please call me back to set a meeting? My telephone number is. . ."
Gillian stared at the machine for a while, before pulling a notepad and a pen from her bag. She played the message again and wrote down the number. She had sent some CVs around during the first days she'd been in Chicago, but she hadn't thought they would contact her so soon. Then he had just forgotten all about it. She sat on the sofa, the notepad on her lap, trying to make up her mind. Should she return the call?
"Gillian. . ."
Petar was standing in front of her with a couple of beers in his hands. She took the one he was offering her and smiled.
"Is there something wrong?"
"Wrong? No. . . I only thinking."
"I WAS only thinking."
"I WAS only thinking," she repeated as she opened her can and poured the contents into the glass.
She noticed Petar staring at the notepad on her lap.
"Stjepan called," she hurried to tell him. Then she hit the play button on the answering machine.
Petar listened to the message with his head tilted to one side, in a gesture characteristically his. Gillian loved that gesture.
"I'd better call him back," he commented when the message was finished.
He watched as she erased the other two messages.
"Anybody else called?"
"From the travel agency."
She smiled at the thought she'd come to learn the strangest words in Croatian: "travel agency", "Intensive Care Unit", "Zimmer frame", "physical therapy" were not the expressions you expected to find in a beginners language course. Well, maybe the first one. It had been in her little phrasebook, though the pronunciation key had been a little misguided.
"Was it for you, or for me?"
"Huh?"
"Is 'Huh' an American expression?"
"Sorry?"
" 'Huh'. Luka uses it all the time."
Gillian smiled. Petar was right. It was one of Luka's favourite words. Well, if you could call it a word.
"It is not American. I must. . . I learnt it from him. I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. . . But don't learn any more bad habits from him, okay?" Petar said with a warm smile, lifting an admonishing finger. "Was the call from the travel agency for you or for me?"
"Me. I have to go tomorrow."
She stood up.
"I start with the food. You call Stjepan, no?"
"Okay," said Petar as he watched her put her notepad away.
There was something she didn't want to tell him, but he wasn't going to pry. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number while she went out.
In the kitchen, Gillian put a pot with water on the stove and took the vegetables out of the plastic bags. She'd promised Petar she would cook something for him that evening, and she had chosen pasta primavera, something easy and which she knew she would succeed at. She doubted whether she could compete with his cooking. Despite what he'd told her, he was a superb cook.
She washed the vegetables and started chopping them while her thoughts trailed back to the phone call. No, she wouldn't return it. There was really no point in hanging around in Chicago anymore. But then, was there any point in returning to Montreal? She had lost her job, her acquaintances were not really close friends, and her mother and her had but a distant relationship. They called every month or so to check on each other, but that was all it came to. She'd visit her mother on her birthday sometimes, but they had even started to spend Christmas and New Year by themselves, a few years back, when it became clear they really didn't enjoy each other's company. So, what was so important in Montreal? Why couldn't she try a new life somewhere else? She had just made up her mind to return the pone call when Petar stepped into the kitchen.
"Stjepan sends his regards," he said.
"Thank you."
Petar chuckled, and Gillian looked at him to find out what he found so amusing.
"He wasn't happy. I woke him up."
It took her a heartbeat to figure out what was so funny.
"What time is it over there?"
Petar glanced at his watch.
"Half past two."
Gillian lifted her eyebrows. It was Sunday, and Stjepan would surely have to work the next day. According to what Petar had told her, Stjepan's life was that of a very busy tradesman, wrestling with an economy in crisis, a quarrelsome wife and two teenager daughters. It sounded exhausting. No need to get phone calls from abroad in the small hours of the morning.
Petar made a pout, as if he was ashamed of himself.
"My children will end up rejecting me. . ."
He realised he had chosen too complicated words when he saw her frown.
"Sorry?"
"Stjepan and Luka. They will throw me out."
Gillian's frown got deeper. Petar tried not to sigh. It was so difficult to joke around.
"Stjepan and Luka will say:" He stood up straighter, and squared his shoulders, while lifting his right hand and signalling the door: "Tata, OUT!"
Only then she laughed.
"Don't worry, Petar," she answered. "I will. . ." She stopped when she realised she didn't know the word. "I will adopt you," she ended up in English.
"Sorry?"
Gillian sighed, and then she used a sentence that had become a standard one between them.
"We need the dictionary."
Petar smiled tiredly.
"I'll get it," he said, going out of the kitchen.
