AN: I usually find chapters quite hard to write, but this time I just started rambling and found that I couldn't stop, so I apologise if it's mind-numbingly boring. I was pleasantly surprised by the positive responses I got last time – they really helped, so thank you! If you find something you don't like, please say so – I'm trying to improve.
About this chapter: no idea why I think the housekeeper's name is Emily, so sorry if it's wrong!
DISCLAIMER: well, if it weren't for all of the bureaucracy involved in adoption and restraining orders, I would own them. But we live in hard times, and with these things called laws I'm finding things a little difficult at the moment. Hard times indeed.
SUMMARY: Carter's been skiving, tut tut. Wonder what Abby has to say about that?
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They were down one attending. Carter had called in sick for the second day running.
She hadn't seen him since the day after his breakdown on the roof. He'd said he'd slept better, even looked a little better, but by the end of the shift they'd lost three patients, and he looked much as he had done on previous days. Abby had been worried, but Carter had pushed her concerns aside, refusing coffee, saying that he was tired and would rather just go home. She hadn't been convinced by his reassurances.
"Kerry, did he say what was wrong?"
"Jerry took the call. I didn't follow it up. I'm trying to cut him some slack; he's been through a lot. In any case, he's got grounds for compassionate leave."
But Kerry didn't know that Kem was gone and Carter was alone.
"How did he sound?"
"He sounded like Carter." She gave him a look. "Look Abby, I'm sorry but we were really busy when he rang. You'd have to call him yourself."
She had. Twice. And four times yesterday. She'd left two answer phone messages on his cell, and one at his apartment.
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She somehow managed to complete her twelve-hour shift. She'd had to cope with the obnoxious attending who'd been called in to cover for Carter.
She succeeded in opening her eyes and bringing her head up to a vertical position so that she was no longer looking at the cracks and some kind of mould which appeared to be growing directly above her on the lounge ceiling.
She dragged herself to her feet and somehow made it to the phone on the table. She dialled the number for Carter's grandmother's house. She got his housekeeper.
She seemed relieved that she'd called. He was home, she said, but had barely left his room for two days. He'd asked not to be disturbed, but Emily had been on the verge of calling his father when Abby had called.
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Emily left her at his door. She knocked.
"John? John, it's Abby, can I come in?...I'm coming in."
She walked through the door, her eyes wandering over the array of bottles before her. She almost tripped on the empty beer bottle which lay at her feet, but caught herself impatiently.
The door closed behind her and she was left in the darkened room. She hit the light switch, and was met with protests from Carter. She ignored them, walking over to where he lay on the couch.
She crouched next to him and watched as he tried to focus his eyes on her face.
"Might've known it'd be you."
He was still wearing the clothes she had last seen him in, now stained with alcohol and a partly digested Chinese takeaway.
Silently she stood and walked to his bathroom, picking up a glass, tipping his toothbrush from it into the marble sink, and filling it with water from his gold taps.
"You need to drink." She held the glass out to him.
He grunted at her and pushed the glass away, soaking the sleeve of her jacket.
"Carter!" she rebuked him gently, exasperated but compassionate. He closed his eyes.
She put the glass on the table next to an almost empty port decanter, and took off her jacket, looking around for somewhere to put it down which wouldn't mean that she had to take it to the drycleaner's tomorrow. She left it on the far end of the couch.
"Carter, you're going to have to sit up."
He slowly raised his arm and tried to flap his hand at her, signalling her to leave. She watched as it swung a couple of times from his wrist before dropping to the floor. She could see the drool about to escape from the corner of his mouth.
"Sit up," she said, grasping his shoulders and pulling him upright.
His eyes opened slowly.
"Abby?" he looked at her, apparently surprised that she was still there, or there at all; she couldn't tell.
She kept a hand on his shoulder to make sure that he stayed sitting up while she turned and grabbed the now half empty glass from the table.
She held it out to him. This time he didn't resist. He lifted a hand to try to help her as she put the glass to his lips. It knocked more water down his front, but she helped him to wrap his hands around the glass anyway, leaving her hands hovering below it, ready to help if necessary.
She took it back from him as he pulled it away from his lips having taken a couple of mouthfuls and left it swaying dangerously in front of him.
"Can you finish it for me?"
He nodded. She gave him a minute, using a thumb to peel back the hair that was stuck to the side of his face and unsuccessfully trying to smooth it back with the rest. She left her hand there, to steady him, she told herself, as she brought the glass up again, keeping one hand on it as he clumsily drained it.
"OK?" He nodded slowly. "You're a mess, Carter." He just looked at her.
"I'm putting you to bed, ok? Arms up," she said, beginning to tug on the bottom of his sweatshirt. He obliged, and she pulled it up over his head, managing to negotiate the crooks of his elbows as he tried to straighten them for her. She left it on the floor, relieved to see that the T-shirt he wore underneath looked relatively clean. She reached for the buckle on his belt, but he batted her hands away, and she watched as he struggled with it himself.
Realising that this could take a while, she went to the bathroom and doused a flannel in cold water, splashing some on her face in an attempt to cool her eyes, which had been open far too long. When she returned she found Carter slumped forward on the couch, half asleep, his belt undone.
With the flannel she gently wiped away the accumulation of the last two days' dirt from his face, his scratchy stubble prickling her hand slightly.
"You think you can walk?" He nodded, and she left the flannel on the table behind her to help him up. She helped him to step out of his trousers, which had fallen about his ankles, and supported him as she walked him over to his bed, keeping hold of his arm as she pulled back the cover for him to get in.
She pulled it back over him and her hand briefly brushed his head as he settled down.
She got a glass of water and left it beside his bed, and he watched her as she started to tidy up, his eyelids quickly growing heavy and closing. She could hear him snoring slightly with the stuffyness that alcohol always seems to produce as she threw the remnants of his Chinese takeaway into the bin and began piling up the bottles in the corner of the room.
The next time she looked up she was surprised to see him standing unsteadily by his bed.
"Bathroom," he announced. She walked over to help him, but he pushed her away. "I'm not a five-year-old."
"You're drunk." He ignores her and continues his journey to the bathroom door, not bothering to close it when he finally reaches it.
She sighs and continues to pick up bottles from the floor, the pile in the corner of the room growing. She is surprised by the amount that he has drunk in the last two days, suspects that some of these bottles have been here longer.
She finds a blanket and a towel which rival the state of Carter's sweatshirt, and they join it in their heap on the floor.
She looks up and sees him making slow progress back towards his bed. She helps him into it once more, and turns away to survey the state of the room. It's still a mess, but she doesn't have the energy to deal with it right now, doesn't know where the cleaning stuff is kept in this house. Probably he doesn't either.
"What are you even doing here?"
Suddenly her sadness dissolves and she is angry. Angry that he's let himself get into this state, angry that he doesn't seem to appreciate her, angry that she has to work tomorrow, and can't stay to sort him out.
"I'm here because I care, Carter. Maybe it makes me a hypocrite. Maybe I should have stopped caring as soon as you ran off to Africa. Maybe it's wrong for me to care as much as I do. But I can't help it." He's asleep. She's trying to have an argument with him, and he's asleep.
She smiles faintly at her predicament. It's ok; he won't remember in the morning. Won't remember the kiss that falls onto his forehead, won't remember the fingers that linger over his hair, across his cheek, just a little longer than they're supposed to. Won't remember the tears that splash onto his face from above him as their owner watches him sleep.
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