TITLE: Things Behind the Sun (10/12)
AUTHOR: C. Midori
EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: Drama (JC/AL/SL/LK)
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Seasons 6, 7, 8 (except "Lockdown"), and for the prequel Through the Door.
ARCHIVE: Do not archive without permission.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many, many thanks to all of you for reading/reviewing TBTS9--noa4jc, KenzieGal, Solard, Charlotte15, dreaming, abbyfan, Kate, flicker, ILoveCroatia, JD, jakeschick, Christy, Steelerfan, not-so-dumb-blonde, Tracey, Ella, charli, enigma00, Carolyn, Sandy, Elisa, and Caroline. You are all wonderful people and deserve lots of sugar. But elephantine thanks go to the intrepid charli for doing a fabulous job beta-reading on such a short notice--so much rockage, so little time. ^_- With apologies for the epic wait, and Happy Valentine's Day!
SUMMARY: The one where the shit hits the fan. A love story in two parts.
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
Full Circle
You thought that it could never happen
to all the people that you became,
your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame.
But here, right here,
between the birthmark and the stain,
between the ocean and your open vein,
between the snowman and the rain,
once again, once again,
love calls you by your name.
* * *
Once upon a time.
They said she was worth the life of a good man. Worth the betrayal of king and country, the slaying of men and the sinking of fleets. Worth a graveyard of blood. Enough to make a river flow the red of sunsets and pearls; enough to make a river the threshold of myth and afterlife.
They said she was a dream. As vast as empire, as long as dynasty, and more immortal with each retelling. They said she launched a thousand ships, an odyssey, a treachery, a story.
They said her name was woman.
A beautiful woman can turn your world into dust. Words his father had said to him, at a time when he could still take the measure of himself by a succession of pencil marks against a wall. Stories his father had told him, by lamplight, as his mother stood silhouetted in the doorway. Truths that unfolded before him, in the anonymity of motel rooms and the back alleys of bars.
Now.
Death, dynasty, and a woman watching the world fall apart at his fingertips. It was history, repeating itself and pressing in upon itself, like the folds of an accordion or the darkness at twilight. It was his story, ageless and timeless.
It was a love story.
* * *
Part One: Leaving Greensleeves
Alas my love you did me wrong
To cast me out discourteously
For I have loved you so long
Delighting in your very company.
Now if you intent to show me disdain
Don't you know it all the more enraptures me
For even so I still remain
Your lover in captivity.
*
It was too cold for December, the sky furious with ice and the trees calligraphic. Almost too cold for snow. The lounge was freezing; according to Frank the heating system was on the blink (again), according to Weaver Maintenance was sitting on its ass (again). Meanwhile, someone had hung tinsel to the walls and strung lights along the windows. Someone, Abby suspected, with far too much time on their hands.
Abby gazed out the window. She could see her reflection in it cleanly--her face pale and ghostly and too tired, her body stiff with cold and exhaustion.
"Did Carter leave already?"
Abby resumed buttoning up her coat. "I don't know."
"I thought you worked the last trauma together."
"We did," Abby said, assuming her defenses. Hat, scarf, gloves.
Impatiently, Susan tapped a pen against the clipboard in her hands. "Well, he forgot to sign off on it."
"His coat's still here," Abby shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling in neat succession. "He's probably still around here somewhere."
Susan grumbled. "Are you off?"
"Half an hour ago."
"Get out of here," Susan scolded her. "And don't be late. Party starts at seven."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Who's coming?"
"The usual suspects." Susan paused. "Carter'll be there. Luka, too. If that's what you're asking."
"That's not very funny."
"Do you see me laughing?"
"You know," Abby said, securing her gloves with a final tug, "It's a good thing we're friends--"
"Or they'd be scrubbing me off the walls for years," Susan finished for her. "Yeah, I know. So what's going on between you and Luka?"
Abby gave her friend a wry look as she reached for her bag. "It's complicated."
Susan looked faintly amused. "Isn't it always?"
*
Simple: GSW to the head. Complicated: GSW to the head of a twelve year old boy. Time of death: twelve years and twenty minutes later. Eleven-and-a-half, actually, but tall for his age, his mother had said, and then she had cried.
Carter yanked at his tie, stained with blood and tears and hanging like a noose around his neck. Damned if he knew how many times he had stood on this rooftop--first for the view, and then for the drop, and then for the view again. He wasn't sure whether he was here tonight for the view or for the drop. To be sure, there wasn't much of a view. It had started to snow in the last ten minutes and already he could barely make out the waistband of the expressway.
The tie lay in his hands, limp and still. Freckled with blood. A dead thing.
He flung it over the side of the building.
"Dry cleaning would've done the trick."
Carter knew who it was but he turned around anyway.
"Dry cleaning's expensive," he said, his words disappearing into the wind.
Abby snorted in reply. "I brought your coat."
"Thanks," Carter said. He shrugged into it with relative ease, now that his cast was off and his crutches were gone. Six weeks of imprisonment had ended with one neat buzz of the saw. Predictably, the blade had made him shudder. "How'd you find me?"
"Metal detector. You're wearing enough gold to prop up the currency of a struggling Third World economy."
"It's just a watch," Carter protesting, shaking out his wrist. "An early Christmas gift." From Phil, of course.
"Some say it with flowers, others say it with fourteen carat gold."
"Eighteen."
"Show off. What are you, retiring?"
Carter shrugged. "Maybe."
"Nothing's opened up in the ER?"
"Nothing's going to open up."
"Talk to Weaver," Abby suggested. "I'm sure she'd make an exception for you."
Carter looked away.
"You've already talked to Weaver," Abby said, comprehension dawning on her face. The cold began to creep into her bones. "You're not going to stay, are you?"
"Was that a question?"
"Not really." Numbly, Abby stuffed her hands in her pockets. "When did you make up your mind?"
"I haven't."
"So you're just going to let Weaver make up your mind for you. Wait for the pink slip, for permission to walk away."
Carter glanced at her. She was looking away from him, her eyes were fixed on the lights in the distance and her shoulders covered with a light dusting of snow. "You make it all sound so…"
"Irresponsible?" Abby supplied.
"I was going to say clandestine but irresponsible works, too."
"I was going for irresponsible."
"Right. Irresponsible it is, then."
"I'm glad you see things my way."
"Your way or the highway, huh?"
"Now you've got me confused with Weaver." Abby gave him the coldest stare she could muster. "That's not cool."
Carter smiled, and buried himself deeper into his coat. The smile vanished from his face.
"Phil asked me to move in with her," he said, apropos of nothing.
Abby said nothing. Briefly, she tried to imagine dialing Carter's number and hearing Phil's voice on the other end of the line. She felt vaguely like throwing up. Preferably on Phil.
"That's nice," Abby said, searching her pockets. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," Carter said, sounding sheepish. "Like the last time she asked me, and the time before that."
Abby yanked a cigarette from the pack she didn't know she was clutching. "Why don't you?"
Carter shook his head. "I don't know."
A small flame erupted, the tip of her cigarette glowed. She smoked her cigarette, her face emptied of all expression as she took care not to blow smoke in his direction.
*
Susan's party was in full swing by the time Luka arrived at her apartment. A fire crackled in the hearth and Christmas carols blared from a set of speakers. In the corner stood a large, decorated tree, its lights twinkling and its boughs drooping over a pile of brightly-wrapped gifts.
Susan hollered at him over the din of the crowd. "Just put your gift with the others!"
Next to her, Jerry burst into a round of impromptu caroling.
Luka took a deep breath: pine and gingerbread. He wove his way through the crowd, Jerry's C above high C nearly splitting his head in half. He stopped to shake a couple of hands from X-Ray. It never hurt to get an in with those guys, especially since he had a strong suspicion that they played favorites with the female Attendings in the ER. When he had suggested his theory to Susan she had merely flipped her hair and laughed.
"Merry Christmas," he said, finally making his way across the room.
"I thought you were working tonight," Abby replied.
"I traded," Luka said. He dropped a gift by the tree and kept a second one in his hands. "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to know that Yosh and green spandex are a deadly combination. No, don't look."
Luka followed her eyes. He winced.
"Can't say I didn't warn you," Abby said calmly, sipping at her eggnog. She still felt cold from her conversation with Carter on the rooftop; she had stayed longer than she had intended and heard more than she had wanted to know. She felt a sudden stab of irritation. "God, I really hate the holidays."
Carter would've made some mildly appeasing remark in an effort to make her laugh. But Luka looked as if he didn't know how to respond to her sudden burst of animosity.
"How was your shift?" he said finally, shifting the conversation to more neutral ground.
Abby shrugged. "Okay."
"I've got to work after this."
She nodded; neither of them said anything. Something about them made silence so very easy.
"Well…" Luka broke her train of thought. "Merry Christmas."
Surprised, Abby looked down to find a small box in her free hand. She looked up, wonderingly. And not for the first time since he unveiled that painting of her, she wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She was pretty sure it was nothing like what she saw when she looked in the mirror. She couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Luka looked--almost--apologetic, and a little bit unsure. "I know we're getting each other gifts for the Secretive Santa--"
"Secret."
"Secret Santa, but…"
He shrugged. The moment was quick, and ruthless, but it was there and she saw what she needed to see. And that was all that mattered.
Abby looked down at the gift in her hand. She felt totally, completely…
Empty. Strangely empty.
"Luka, I…"
…can't accept this?
…don't know what to say?
…love you?
"Can't," Abby said, her heart contracting. "I can't do this."
"You can't?" Luka echoed, looking bewildered. "You can't do what?"
But she never knew what she was going to say next. Because at that moment the door to Susan's apartment opened, and Carter walked through it.
And so did Phil.
*
Susan eyed the newest arrivals. Carter and Phil were mingling, every bit the veteran socialites: Carter, handsome in a dark suit and bright tie, and Phil immaculate and composed in cashmere and heels. Phil was laughing at something Yosh was saying (or wearing, Susan couldn't honestly say) and Carter seemed taken by Susan' gingerbread. So far, so good.
Meanwhile, Luka and Abby stood in the corner. They looked involved in what Susan suspected passed for conversation between them: Luka looked hurt, confused; Abby clutched a small box in her hand and stared at the ground with the unmistakable expression of a trapped animal.
Okay, maybe not so good.
With a martyred sigh, Susan excused herself from an attractive pediatrician whose opening line left something to be desired ("Call me Bob"). She smiled in greeting as she made her way to the couple.
"Merry Christmas!" Susan beamed. "Have you tried the gingerbread? It's homemade."
"No," Luka said, with a preoccupied air as Abby mumbled, "M'Christmas."
Susan touched her elbow. "Abby, I need you for, ah, that thing."
Abby looked blankly at her. "What thing?"
"You know," Susan cleared her throat. "That, ah, thing we talked about earlier?"
"I don't remember any 'thing'," Abby said, sounding irritable.
"You don't remember?" Susan said, through gritted teeth. "That. Really. Important. Thing. In. My. Bedroom."
"I don't--ooh, yeah, that thing."
Smiling through her teeth, Susan excused them both and guided Abby towards the bedroom. She glanced back and couldn't help but feel sorry for Luka. He looked irredeemably lost.
"You're welcome," Susan said, as soon as she had shut the bedroom door behind them.
"Thank you." Relieved, Abby plunked down on Susan's bed and placed the gift more gingerly beside her, as if it were a bomb.
"Is that for you?"
"Yeah."
"Is he your Secret Santa?"
"No."
"Hmm. Looks jewelry-sized."
"Don't say things like that."
"Carter's here."
Or that, Abby thought to herself.
"He brought his girlfriend," Susan continued, merciless.
Abby shut her eyes. She remembered the entrance they had made: he, pale but handsome in a dark suit and she, sweet-faced and flawless. All shiny. The ideal couple.
"Right," Susan said evenly, "Lots of baggage there."
Silently, Abby shrugged. She didn't know it, but she wore on her face a look that Susan had seen many times before: Phil looking at Carter, Carter looking at Abby…
Mark looking at her.
"You better make up your mind," Susan said bluntly. "Or someone's going to get hurt. Again."
Mutinous, Abby folded her arms across her chest. "What do you want me to say?"
"Me?" Susan was incredulous. "It doesn't matter what I want. This, all of this, has nothing to do with me. But for some reason I'm always in the middle of things and frankly I'm a little tired of helping along everyone else's love life at the expense of my own."
"Join the club."
"Yes, well, it's not my club and not my clubhouse and, hey, that metaphor stopped making sense awhile ago."
Abby looked at her expressionlessly. "Does it help you to know that I hate her?"
"Who?" A narrow thrust of sympathy pierced Susan's heart. "Oh. Her."
"Yeah," Abby said, mostly to herself.
"I really liked her coat," Susan remarked, and she took a seat on the bed next to Abby.
Abby scowled. "I bet she skinned the mink herself."
"That was low."
"Yeah. Count me out for sainthood."
"I think that happened awhile ago." Susan glanced at her sideways. "So what are you going to do about it?"
"Me?" Abby had a blank sort of look on her face. "Call the SPCA, I guess."
"I wasn't talking about the coat," Susan said gently.
"Oh." Abby got up from the bed. "I don't know."
"I've never known you to be the jealous type."
"I'm not," Abby said, going to stand by the window. She raised her hand to the glass. It was ice cold against her fingertips. "Not even with Richard."
"Maybe you didn't love him," Susan said, her voice quiet.
Abby was very still. "Maybe."
*
Carter was on his second glass of mulled wine when he spied Susan slipping out of her bedroom to rejoin the party. Excusing himself, he left Phil in the middle of what he suspected was a fast-growing club of admirers. Frank, Jerry, and Pratt were all hovering by her elbow and hanging onto her every word, laughing uproariously every time she made a joke and even when she didn't.
Shaking his head, he made his way over to Susan. He caught her by the door. "Merry Christmas," he said, kissing her on the cheek.
"You are not flirting with me again," Susan retorted.
Carter guided her attention upwards. Mistletoe. "Are we hoping to get lucky tonight?"
"Are we hoping to leave with all our limbs intact?"
"Come on," Carter said mildly. "I want to introduce you."
Obediently, Susan let him take her arm. He guided her towards Phil, detaching them from the crowd. "Phil, this is Susan Lewis, my coworker and an Attending in the ER. Susan, this is Phyllis Weston."
"Nice to meet you," Susan smiled. The last time she met Phil one of them was unconscious, and the time before that was a decade prior. She hoped the third time would be the charm. "Glad you could make it."
"Thank you for inviting me," Phil said. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name, again. John's said so much about you."
"All lies, I'm sure," Susan said, at the same time Carter said, "Again?"
"We've met," Susan explained. "Ten years ago. You were both med students."
Except only one of us chose to stay, Carter thought.
"Seems like only yesterday," Phil said, with a pretty laugh. "Ten years already."
"Nah," Carter shook his head, memory fleeing his fingertips. "Dr. Weston's discovered the fountain of eternal youth."
Susan coughed to smother a spasm of laughter as the other woman rolled her eyes. So there was something left of the dorky med student after all.
"What?" Carter said.
"Nothing," Phil shook her head. "Is that Dr. Kovac?"
"You two know each other?"
Hastily, Susan coughed again. Carter did not look entirely pleased with this revelation.
"Sick," Susan explained weakly.
"Médecins Sans Frontières," Phil said with mild amusement. "We met at an orientation meeting."
"Is there anyone you don't know?" Carter asked, only half-jokingly.
Phil looked impassive. "I don't believe I've met Abby."
"No," Carter said equably. "I don't think so."
Susan raised an eyebrow. But before she could say anything there was a touch at her elbow.
"Susan," Luka said. "Have you seen Abby?"
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flicker of interest betray Carter's face. If she wasn't mistaken she was sure Phil had caught it, too.
"Uh," Susan stalled. "No?"
Luka looked unconvinced.
"No," Susan repeated, more forcefully. "No, I haven't. Have you seen Abby?"
"Luka," Carter broke in, "This is Dr. Phyllis Weston."
"Yes," Luka said, his attention now entirely focused on the woman at Carter's side. "I think we've met."
Susan glanced over at Carter as his girlfriend and Luka exchanged pleasantries and began to chat animatedly about his time with in Croatia with Médecins Sans Frontières. Carter glanced back at Susan and shrugged. He looked as if he was about to say something but his attention was diverted elsewhere as he pulled out his cell phone.
A funny look crossed his face. "Excuse me, I've got to take this."
Suddenly, Susan had a flash of genius. Or madness. It was hard to tell sometimes. "Why don't you take it in my room? First door on the right."
Preoccupied, Carter nodded and touched Phil's elbow before making his leave. Phil and Luka seemed to be getting along fine so Susan excused herself as well, hoping she had made the right decision but becoming increasingly worried that she had just made a potentially fatal one.
*
Blame it on the divorce, Jack Carter thought humorlessly as he downed the rest of his scotch. It was the divorce, combined with recent disquiet within the Foundation, which had led him to postpone his yearly physical with his physician. It was the divorce, combined with an unexpected solitude, which had led him to ignore the first signs of his own body breaking, failing him. The collars around his neck loosening with the weight loss, the waists of his pants tightening with the swelling.
Already, he was learning the worth of his money, in tests and needles and reams of white paper. Already, he knew he was learning his lesson too late.
"Sir?"
Jack opened his eyes, unaware that he had shut them. "Yes?"
The housekeeper hovered in the doorway to the study. "Mrs. Carter would like to know if you wish to eat."
"No," Jack drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "Tell her I'm on the phone. Business."
"Of course, sir."
"Oh, and Emily?"
"Yes, sir?"
"It's just Eleanor, now."
Emily nodded, and he poured himself another glass as he waited for his son to call him back.
*
"Sorry about that, Dad," Carter said, closing the door behind him. "I couldn't hear you in the other room."
"How's the party?" Jack asked.
"Festive," Carter said. He could still smell gingerbread and pine on him.
"Good to hear. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," Carter said distractedly. He decided to get to the point. "Did your lab results come back?"
Jack swirled the liquor in his glass. "Yes. Yes, they did."
Wavering, Carter slid to the ground. He sat with his back against the door. "What do they say?"
"Have you made a decision about the Foundation?"
"No."
"No, you haven't made a decision or no, you're not going to head it?"
"The first," Carter faltered.
"John, you do know that the board will need time to select a new head before the end of the year if you choose not to do it."
"I know," Carter said weakly. "What do the test results say?"
On the other end of the line, Jack Carter shut his eyes. He imagined his son's face, tense and hopeful, and desperate. He imagined his son's eyes, and the disappearing of the faint dreaming distance behind them.
"Dad?" Carter whispered.
"They've ruled out surgery as a viable treatment."
Back against the door, Carter felt the world fall apart at his fingertips.
*
Carter didn't know how long he stayed like that. Gradually, he became aware of the shuffling of feet in the hallway, the muted din of the party in the other room. Mostly he became aware of himself: the jagged edges of his breathing, blood pumping in his ears. The things that should have reassured him, reminded him that he was alive. Instead, they seemed like they were taunting him.
"Carter?"
He jerked his head up. His eyes were dark, and unfocused. "Abby? What are you doing here?"
Abby was standing where Susan had left her: by the window, one hand lingering on the pane. She looked unreasonably pretty, her hair falling loosely around her face and all that dark hair and dark eyes against the whiteness of a frosted pane. All that familiar territory, and all that undiscovered country.
"Luka's looking for you," he said.
Abby didn't move. "I know. Are you okay?"
Carter picked himself up off the floor. His face was pale but expressionless. He wouldn't have been able to pull that off a year ago; the fact that he could a year later was a testament to how much she had taught him.
He wondered if she was ever sorry for how she had changed him.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."
Abby looked at him carefully. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. We should get back to the party."
But he didn't move. Neither did she.
"Was that your father?"
Something inside him began to hurt.
"Carter?" Abby said softly.
"It's not operable," Carter said, with a fierce and terrible sadness, and he felt the hotness at the back of his eyes as she crossed the room to go to him. "It's not operable."
Grief broke over him like a wave, and he clung to her. As if she could save him, when all she could do was hold on to him and hope that they would not both drown in the tumult of his sorrow.
*
As Carter held her, held on to her, Abby was seized by a sudden memory of the last summer she had ever spent at the beach. Once a year her neighbors used to rescue her and Eric and whisk them away to the seaside. Eric had always taken to the water as fast as his spindly arms and legs could get him there; Abby had followed more slowly. She preferred to stop right where the ocean met the shore, preferred to listen to the sound of the water lapping against the sand and preferred to feel the spray of salt and not water on he skin as her brother splashed in the sparkling, sea-green waves.
That last summer, the last summer before things got really bad, Eric nearly drowned.
Summer slipped into autumn, but the feeling stayed the same: the sureness that she was watching the sea swallow up the person she loved best in the world, the certainty that she was about to lose someone she loved very much, the knowledge that she was too late. It strangled her when she thought Eric was drowning, and it strangled her every time Maggie had one of her manic attacks. It strangled her now. That Carter would drop everything to be with her, that it said something about the nature of his feelings for her, and that now she would drop everything to be with him--
Oh, Abby thought. My God.
And he was holding her, his arms clenched around her and his fingers fitting themselves between the grooves of her ribs. There was a fierce desperation to the way he touched her--as if he was cracking, through and through like glass shattering; as if he was drowning, and she the only thing standing between him and a great darkness. The pulse at his neck was evidence of his life in her hands, and the trembling in her bones evidence of her life in his.
She wanted to tell him. That memory was a cheat, and sanity overrated, and there were some things in life you never got over, things that stayed with you not because you were too weak to fight them off but because you were too strong to let them go. So you endured, and made them a part of yourself, trading the possibility of a perfect self for a self that was messy and flawed--and complete, in a way that perfection could never, ever be.
But she never got to say any of it, because the door opened from behind them. And because Carter was standing with his back to it, and because he was holding her so tightly that her face was pressed against his heart, neither of them ever saw the look that crossed Phyllis Weston's face before the door closed again.
*
Their fingers were knitted together, pale and ringless, as they lay awake and stared at the ceiling together. Phil gazed at the blank surface, at the shadows that flickered like candlelight across it. She was remembering their past with a kind of abstract fondness, as if it was a story that wanted telling but she could not find the voice for it.
Maybe that was the problem, maybe they were still grappling with a lifetime of back story. Maybe they were still trying to figure out where their present selves fitted within the context of too much history.
But Phil knew that wasn't it at all. An entire lifetime of possibilities had been swept away, not by time but by the choices they had made. For the first time she realized that he wasn't fully to blame. She had made these choices, too.
"John?"
She heard him rustle in bed beside her. "Mmm?"
"You never introduced me to Abby," Phil said. In her mind she saw a woman being held by a man in a way that Phil herself could never remember being held. Not ten years ago, not now. Not ever.
Carter paused, and stared up at the shadows that floated across the ceiling like ships. "Yeah, I guess not."
"How long have you known each other?"
Mentally, Carter calculated the years in his head. "Three or four years, I think."
"She's pretty."
Carter glanced at her sideways. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "I guess so."
Phil rolled over in bed so that she was facing him. "Do you still have it?"
"Do I still have what?"
"The ring."
He rolled over so that he was facing her as well. Her grey eyes were fixed on him, cool and steady.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
"Why did you keep it?"
"Glutton for punishment," he said, shrugging lightly, though sometimes he wondered the same thing himself. "Besides, it was an expensive ring. I broke the Carter family trust fund for that one."
"Money's no object," said Phil, her slender fingers toying at the pendant at her neck. He had given this to her as well.
"Spoken like a true Weston," Carter quipped.
"John…"
"Yeah?"
"I want you to be with me because you want to be with me, not because of a promise."
"What?" Carter turned to her. Snow and moonlight bleached her features white, hair platinum and eyes the color of water. Her gaze shimmered, mother-of-pearl. "Where is this coming from?"
Phil blinked rapidly, an unfamiliar swelling behind her eyes.
"I love you," she said. "But I don't think that's the point any more."
* * *
Part Two: Swan Songs
"Tell him yes," she said. "Even if you are dying of fear, even if you are sorry later, because whatever you do, you will be sorry all the rest of your life if you say no."
*
A cold freezing rain hammered the city from sunrise to sundown. Abby felt as if she had spent all day trying to dry off in the ER for no good reason; at the end of the day she was forced to wade through the city again. The El was wet, and dank, the windows steamed white and the floor littered with sopping newspapers; the walk to her apartment short but punctuated with the sound of rain splattering against the sidewalk and sewer grates.
She spent all evening trying to warm up, curled up on her sofa with a thick blanket and a thicker book, her cigarettes sitting just out of reach. She had blown through three packs since the party, and had come to work reeking of so much cigarette smoke that Susan had wrinkled her nose and told her plainly that she smelled like cancer. Carter, to her surprise, said nothing, merely asked for a cigarette when they were on break together. Luka said nothing as well, but that was because she avoided him.
Putting down her book, Abby reached for the stack of unopened cards on her coffee table. She began leafing through the stack and opening some here and there. Halfway through them she lost interest. The only one that made her smile was the one from "Santa Claus"; the candy cane he had attached was laced with nicotine. She didn't know they made candy canes like that.
Putting down the cards, Abby leaned over and picked up her gift from her Secret Santa. Socks, with a reindeer print. The reindeer noses lit up when you walked.
She was pretty sure they were from Yosh.
There was a knock at the door; Abby wasn't expecting anyone but she had a pretty good idea who it was. Very few people knocked on her door, and both Luka and Susan were working that night.
Shrugging, Abby pulled on the socks and shuffled to the door.
"Hey Carter," she said, pulling the door open.
The person on the other side of the door blinked. "Excuse me?"
Oh, shit.
"Dr. Weston," Abby said.
"I'm sorry for the hour," Phil apologized, gracious and repentant as she stood at Abby's door. The rain had let up but not abated; Phil was wearing a raincoat and matching umbrella. Beads of water fringed her eyelashes and the edges of her hair.
"It's not late," Abby said. She was at a complete loss as to what to do. Invite her in? Throw her out? Feign a seizure?
Phil glanced down. "I like your socks."
Feign a seizure.
"Oh," Abby said, feeling all of six years old. "Yeah. They were a gift."
"I remember," Phil said, her voice pleasant. "The Secret Santa, right?"
"Right." Abby did not fail to notice the smart pantsuit and crisp collared shirt, the pendant that shone in the hollow of Phil's neck. She felt increasingly foolish in her sweats and reindeer socks.
"Do you have a moment?"
No, Abby thought.
"Sure," she said, swinging the door wide open.
"That won't be necessary; I won't take more than five minutes."
Abby gave her a short, sharp nod, her socks lighting up like a Christmas tree.
"I don't think we've properly met," Phil apologized, all at once embarrassed and unruffled. "Other than that once. I'm Phyllis Weston, Dr. Carter's--"
"Girlfriend," Abby finished for her.
The hallway was dark but Abby could have sworn that she flushed slightly under her makeup.
"Colleague, I was about to say."
Abby raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"Abigail Lockhart, right?"
"Abby."
"Abby," Phil repeated. "You're a nurse in the ER."
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
"You work with John."
Inwardly, Abby sighed. "Yep, I work with Carter. We're colleagues."
Either Phil didn't pick up on her sarcasm or didn't care to acknowledge it. "You know him well."
"We're friends," Abby said, unable to keep her voice anything less than curt.
"Friends," Phil echoed. "Then--I thought you might tell me--tell me about John's father."
Abby's mouth was dry. "He didn't tell you?"
"No," Phil admitted, her eyes steady. There was a hard edge to her beauty, confined as it was to the dark hollow of the hallway.
"I'm not sure I'm in a place to say."
Phil gazed at her steadily, and Abby knew that behind that gaze was a woman who had just choked down a lifetime of pride. "I thought you might say that."
I don't think you came here for this, Abby thought.
"Anyway." Phil gave her a smile: cool, unruffled. Counterfeit. "Sorry to be a bother."
A strange, inexplicable rush of sympathy tugged at Abby. "I'm sorry I can't help you."
"It was nice meeting you again, Abby," Phil said, shaking out her umbrella.
Abby bit her lip. "Are you sure I can't get you some coffee?" she said finally.
"No, thank you."
Phil turned to leave. But she turned around again, and it was the only time Abby would ever see Phyllis Weston looking anything other than self-assured.
"He said he loved me too."
*
The day after was full of ice: ice slicking sidewalks, frosting the trees in a jagged-cut lace, and hanging from roofs in daggers. Still, there were signs of Christmas everywhere. Row after row of houses shone with lights and store fronts boasted wreaths and garlands. The streets were busy with shoppers hurrying from department store to department store, the bags in their hands splashed with reds and greens and trimmed with gold and silver.
Only ten days 'til Christmas! a flier reminded them.
There was ice on the railings along the river. Nevertheless, Carter rested his elbows atop the iron bar, his hands clasped in prayer and a thoughtful expression on his face. Abby stood next to him with her gloved hands jammed in her pockets and said nothing. The wind rubbed against her cheeks.
Abby finally spoke up. "I'm freezing my ass off. What are we doing here?"
Concentration finally broken, Carter looked over at her and chuckled. "Patience, young grasshopper. All will become apparent in due time."
Abby grumbled, but said nothing further.
Carter resumed his gaze. The city before them was pale, still, a solemn metropolis of concrete and ice that grew darker as the light in the west began to fade. Below them the water was clear and gray, and would swallow what he had in his hands to offer. If he chose to drop it.
"My dad started chemotherapy."
"Intra-arterial?"
"Yeah. He got a pump and everything. Doesn't even need batteries."
"So much for the energizer bunny."
Carter smiled. Birds winged overhead, their cries sharp in the twilit air.
"Your girlfriend stopped by last night."
Carter looked interested. "Phil? Really?"
Abby fingered the cigarettes inside her pocket. "I didn't know she knew where I lived."
"I didn't know either," Carter said honestly. "What did she want?"
What did she want?
You, Abby thought. She wanted you.
"I don't know," she said lamely. "I hardly know her, Carter."
"Huh." Pensive, he scratched the back of his head. "What did she ask you?"
"She asked me about your dad."
Upon hearing this, Carter didn't look too surprised.
"Are you ever going to talk to her?"
"We talk," Carter said, his tone defensive. "I don't have to tell her everything."
"Now that sounds like a winning attitude," Abby remarked, her tone dry.
Carter rolled his eyes. "Pot, meet kettle. This from the person who avoids Luka like the second coming of the bubonic plague? I thought you two were dating."
"Well," Abby said, not looking at him, "We're not."
Surprised, Carter looked at her, a faint distance lighting his eyes. "You're not?"
"We're not," Abby repeated, for emphasis. It was the first time she had said it to herself out loud. She felt…relieved.
"Well," Carter said, suddenly cheerful. "Don't you think you ought to tell him that?"
"Sure. As soon as you talk to Phil, Luka and I will sit down for one of our infamous heart-to-hearts."
"See, this is why I'm not going to be taking attitude lessons from you any time soon."
"Hey," Abby said, defensively, "They let me out on good behavior."
"He loves you," Carter said, abruptly.
"And she loves you," Abby countered ruthlessly.
She felt the warm pressure of his arm against hers, watched the latticed trees cast shadows across a face she hadn't seen for a long time. One that was warm, and open, and--unguarded.
Carter looked at his hands. "I know," he said slowly. Impulsively, he looked up at her. "Thank you. For being there. For being you."
Dizzy, he watched as her eyes darkened, and she gave him a quick, nervous smile.
"Don't sweat it, Carter."
"Abby--"
She cut him off hurriedly. "It doesn't mean anything."
Carter pinned her down with his eyes. "It means everything."
Abby said nothing, just stared at him with eyes that were too bright.
"Abby," he said, and he reached for her.
Something fell from his hand, and with a clink bounced off the iron railing and onto the ice at their feet. Abby beat him to it, her fingers closing around the small object.
She knew what it was without ever opening her hand. And she heard the beat of her blood in her ears, and she became flooded with the sick giddiness of too much loss. Her father, her childhood, her marriage, and then her mother, and now…
Her fingers curled open, her hand unfolding like a wilted flower. It was a ring.
Abby looked up at him. "You proposed," she said faintly.
Carter nodded, but before he could explain she cut him off.
"What did she say?"
Carter looked at her, aware that his response mattered to her in a way that he was not used to seeing. "She said…she said no."
Abby exhaled.
"Ten years ago."
Her chest contracted. "So what did she say this time?"
Carter stared at her intently. "I don't know. I didn't ask."
"Then what are you doing with it?"
He didn't answer her. Not right away.
"Do you…do you love her?" Abby asked, unable to pretend that the answer to that question didn't matter, unable to pretend that she didn't care or that she didn't want to know.
"Not the way she wants me to. Not the way she deserves."
"That's stupid," Abby said, her voice thready. "You don't love somebody because they deserve it, you love them because they don't. That's what love is."
Carter looked down. The ring now rested in the hollow of his hand. When he looked up she was already walking away from him.
"Abby?" Carter jogged after her. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going home," Abby said, without stopping. "It's cold out here."
"Abby." Impatiently, Carter caught at her arm.
Abby turned around, so that even in the waning daylight he could still see the expression on her face.
"I shouldn't be here with you," she began, her voice low but clear as the wind whipped around her. "I don't want to wish bad things for you and Phil. I don't want to sit on the sidelines waiting for you to break up, and--"
She stopped. And the expression on her face--half misery, half longing, and all his own for so long--flung the breath right out of him as he realized that she was about to say what he had waited to hear her say for three years.
"I love you."
She didn't dare look at his face as she turned to walk away.
*
"Fourth down, one to go, and the Bears are on their own twenty seven."
American football. Luka had never cared much for American football. But he couldn't find anything else to watch in spite of his four hundred and twenty nine channels. Hard to believe but there it was.
He glanced at his watch. An hour to go before his night shift.
He supposed he could do something productive with this hour. He supposed he could finish the painting. But that would mean doing something he didn't really feel like doing. It wasn't hard to figure out that Abby was avoiding him, it wasn't hard to figure out what that said about her and him.
So he decided to make her job easier. He started avoiding her, too.
He was in the middle of deciding whether he should watch American football or show up to work early when the doorbell rang. He ignored it; he reclined in his chair and turned up the volume on the game.
The doorbell rang again. And again. And again.
"Who is it?" he called loudly.
No answer.
Sighing, he swung his legs off the chair and trotted to the door.
"Hi," said Abby, when the door opened.
"Hi," said Luka, blinking. She was the last person he had expected to see on his doorstep.
Fidgeting, Abby forced herself to look him squarely in the eye. "Can we talk?"
Luka opened his mouth, and then closed it again. She never did grow tired of surprising him. But then again he suspected he never did grow tired of being surprised by her.
Still.
He gave her a frigid look. "So now you want to talk?"
Abby winced; his voice sounded positively acidic. "I deserved that."
Luka remained unmoved.
"Please," Abby pleaded. "I know I've been avoiding you, and I'm sorry."
Luka stared at her. They had always been so bad at this, at talking. The limits of language were so painfully clear; in a way, English was a second tongue for both of them. What he remembered of their time together was the way he used to reach for her in the dark or the way she would come to his side when he least expected it. What he could not recall was a single thing of importance she had said that was not in anger.
"Sure," Luka said, softly, and he moved aside. "Come in."
Abby stepped inside. She heard the door close and lock behind her. This is it, she told herself. No running. No going back.
Luka held his hands out to her. It was such a simple gesture, and seemed to say to her in one moment exactly what his words said in the next.
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk."
Folding his arms across the chest, he leaned against the door and waited for her to continue. All exits barred, Abby noted to herself. Maybe she could use the window if things got really hairy. He did, after all, have a fire escape.
"So talk."
Abby was very still for a moment. She reminded herself that whatever had happened between them, whatever was happening between them, she still cared about him. Very much.
And she owed him this much.
"You were right," Abby said. "I was never happy."
Luka looked puzzled for a moment, and then he closed his eyes in recognition. As she knew he would.
"I'm sorry I took it out on you. I'm sorry I didn't even give us a chance."
The room was dark, and lamplight lit his features.
"So give us a chance," he said. "We'll start over. Do things differently."
"I can't," Abby said.
"We made a lot of mistakes--"
"I don't want to make another one."
Luka was very quiet for a moment. "So that's it."
Heart full of ache, Abby nodded. He deserved better than her. Someone who wouldn't look at him as a second best, someone who wouldn't settle. Houses were supposed to settle, not people. Maybe if it were a different time, a different place…
No, Abby thought. It's this time, and this place, and these choices, and I choose to live with that. He deserves someone who can make him happy. We both do.
"I finished your painting."
There was something heavy and stiff in his voice, but with his permission she crossed the room and stood in front of the covered easel. Slowly, she took a hold of the hem; slowly, she used her hand to lift the sheet--
She found herself facing herself. Surreal, and strange, and fantastic, and--
"Unfinished," Abby managed to say. "It's not finished."
"No," Luka said. "It's done."
Abby felt her throat tighten. "I'm sorry. Luka, I'm sorry."
Luka nodded. She was a dream he kept having, but like all dreams this one too had an end. He guessed that this was his waking, and he felt his heart break.
When she left, she left behind his gift: snow falling on a Croatian village, in a glass globe that played "Greensleeves".
*
Ominous heavy clouds gathered as Carter picked his way down a sidewalk glazed with water and with ice. The heels of his shoes stamped fragile fossils upon the ice-encrusted landscape and left a fairytale trail of footprints behind him. If he followed them back they would take him to Northwestern, to Phil and to his father.
He continued walking forward.
As he walked through a flood of ambulance light, he felt as if he was moving underwater: everything came slowly, sluggishly. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could trade these things--the long hours and the thankless pay, too much starch on his sleeves and then too much blood, the things he loved--for the things that were asked of him, for the other things that mattered. His father, duty and family, a position at the head of the table. He wondered if he could stomach it. This wasn't the kind of choice he would have had to make ten years ago, a med student unshakable in his faith in a better person and a better world, in better choices. But it was the kind of choice he had to make now. He lived in this world, with these people and these choices, however wrong they all seemed to be.
And apparently there was a lot he could stomach when he saw his father looking at him from behind a sheet of hospital glass, death all at once a ghost of the past and a question to be answered by the future.
Carter walked through the double doors, glass sliding open before him and behind him. He waved to Susan who was standing behind the desk.
She looked surprised to see him. "Are you on?"
He shook his head. "You?"
"Night shift. What are you doing here?"
"Got some business to take care of," he responded, before heading into the lounge.
Luka was in the lounge, seated at the table with a stack of charts and a cup of coffee. "Hey, Carter."
"Hey."
"You on tonight?"
"Nope." Carter spun the dial and his locker door popped open. "Are you?"
Luka studied his movements. "No. Are you leaving?"
Carter didn't bother to ask how Luka found out; these things just sort of made their way through the ER gossip mill. He turned around, a sheet of paper in his hands. "I guess I am."
"I'm sorry to hear about your father," Luka said, putting his pen down.
Carter groped for a pen. "Thanks."
"Is that why you're leaving?"
Carter was silent for a minute before answering. "Don't have much else left to lose."
You're in love, Luka thought. Everyone in love has something left to lose.
Aloud, "Have you talked to Abby?"
Involuntarily, Carter tensed. In his mind he saw very clearly the image of her walking away--and he had let her. He had stood there, dazed and dizzy, a ring in his hand, a name in his throat, and he had not gone after her.
Carter pressed his lips together. "I saw her earlier today. Why?"
Luka regarded him silently. "No reason." He cleared his throat. "She's been avoiding me."
He suppressed a smile as he pulled a pen from his briefcase. "That sounds like the Abby we all know and--"
"Love?" Luka supplied.
"Tolerate," Carter said.
"You're in love with her."
The edges of his vision blurred, and his heart beat rapidly against his ribcage. He felt alive, so alive, in a way he hadn't felt for a very long time.
"Aren't you?" Carter said at last.
Luka's eyes flickered, but his face betrayed no emotion. Instead, he rose from his chair and walked over to stand in front of Carter.
He extended his hand: a concession, or a confession; Carter could not tell.
"We will miss you."
*
Carter signed the letter with a hand that was still warm from handshake, and a pen his father had given him. He sat outside Kerry Weaver's office with the letter in a sealed envelope, and the envelope in both hands. She had asked him to wait for her there.
Exhausted, Carter closed his eyes. It was a different kind of exhaustion from the one he had been experiencing with the closing of the year, not born of the certainty that he had nothing but of the peace that came with doing everything, everything he could to hold on to what he had. An exhaustion born not of releasing the past but of carrying it.
A face appeared. Phil. Her eyes, bright; her smile, uncomplicated and undeserved as ever. You know I care, she said. How can you even think for a moment I don't care?
Suddenly, Susan was gazing at him. With great gentleness and pity, and when she spoke her voice had none of its usual hard, sarcastic edge.
You better make up your mind.
But she, too, disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. In her place his dad appeared, hazy and wavering and mirage-like.
It's a responsibility, John. It's your responsibility. But it's an honor, not a burden.
Then he heard Luka, his voice catching.
You're in love with her.
Carter caught the other man's eye, briefly. But Luka, too, disappeared, in a swirl of color and light.
And then--
Abby.
You don't love somebody because they deserve it. You love them because they don't. That's what love is.
She looked at him, smiling as she did only for him.
I love you.
"Carter?"
Startled, he opened his eyes. Kerry Weaver peered into his face.
"I'm sorry to hear you'll be leaving us," she said, an unusual gentleness replacing the usual brusqueness of her voice.
Carter rose from his chair, the envelope in his hand. "You've still got me for two weeks."
"I wish there was something we could do about it," Kerry said, shaking her head. "I've asked for more money in the budget--"
"I know," said Carter. "It's my choice."
"Well," said Kerry, the sentiment all but gone from her voice, "There's a reason I wanted you to come to my office. There's someone here to see you."
Carter looked at her questioningly, and then looked inside the room. There was a woman seated in the office, young, no more than thirty years old. When she saw him she smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes.
"Dr. Carter," Kerry said quietly, "This is Alicia Holbrooke. Her husband was in a car accident with you two months ago."
Time slowed, folding in upon itself, he was standing on nothing, he was holding nothing, he was nothing, rainheadlightsshatteredglassmemory screaming in his head--
Time slowed, thickened to a syrupy consistency, and swallowed him whole.
* * *
CREDITS: The quotation from the beginning of the chapter is courtesy of Leonard Cohen, who also supplies the title and quotation for Part I with his take on "Greensleeves" entitled "Leaving Greensleeves". The quotation for Part II is taken from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera. Echoes of "Rampage", "The Longer You Stay", and "Hindsight" are scattered throughout the chapter for those who may find themselves experiencing an odd sense of déjà vu at frequent intervals. ^_^