Title: Serendipity
Author: Andrea
Rating: R, just in case my foul mouth take over.
Summary: Abby's pregnant. But try as she might, Susan can't figure out who the daddy is.
Author's Note: Big ups to COURTNEY, LISA, and BETH. I know I said I was gonna update the other stories first before I got this chapter up … but that's not the way it worked out after all. But I'm working on the others, as well as chapter 7 of this one, so I should have something else to post quickly. And don't forget how much I love those reviews. If you want to inspire me to write, that's a great way to do it.
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Serendipity
Chapter 6: Falling
"Surprise!" Everyone yells as Susan and I enter the lounge.
She turns and gives me a look of pure hate. "I'm going to kill you," she says through clenched teeth and a great, big, false smile.
"This is not my fault," I say behind an equally fake grin pasted on my face. "I told them. They insisted. I'm just an unwilling accomplice."
"Hey, baby," Chuck says, coming up to Susan and draping an arm over her shoulders. "Surprise. Isn't it great?"
"Did you do this?" Susan asks him in a none-too-friendly way.
"Hey, don't look at me." Instead he looks at me. Hey, wait a minute now.
"Don't look at me," I say somewhat indignantly when Susan levels a gaze at me again.
"Okay, who did this?" Susan asks the room at large in a sugary cheerful voice. Completely fake of course. Naturally no one is willing to cop to having done the deed. Murmurs of protest ripple through the room.
"Susan," Sam says. "It's a baby shower. Not a ritual sacrifice."
"Well, it's sort of a baby shower," I add.
"What do you mean by that?" Sam asks.
"Well … we are in the doctor's lounge. Hardly the place for a real party."
"Hey, I said we should go to Ike's. And it's not like you came up with anything better. " I give her a wide-eyed stare, trying to denote that I can't believe she just said that.
"I thought you said you had nothing to do with it." Susan's looking at me again. Why isn't she looking at Sam like that?
"I didn't say that. I said I was an unwilling accomplice."
"You should have stopped them. You knew I didn't want this."
"I know. But everyone wanted to do it for you. So just smile and be gracious."
"Fine. But I am so going to get you back."
"Me? Why me?"
"Because it was all your idea," Sam helpfully suggests.
"It was not!"
"It was too."
"No, it wasn't."
"Whatever," Susan interjects in the argument between Sam and I. "I'll just get you both. I'm sure you both deserve it for something.
"Oh, we do not," Sam tells her.
"Yes, you do," Susan argues.
"Ladies … let's save the arguing for later. C'mon, let's cut the cake." Oooh, cake. Leave it to Chuck to steer us in the right direction.
Of course we can't get right to the cake. Susan has to stop every six inches to be congratulated, hugged, patted, and variously mauled and molested by everyone. No wonder she warned us six ways to Sunday not to do this. God, I hope her idea of paying me back isn't doing this for me in a few months. I'd have to kill her. I really would. Maybe it would be best if I just move to Canada. And change my name. I wonder if I'd have to learn to speak French? Nah, probably not. Probably only if I go to Quebec. But I better get used to adding 'eh' to the end of every sentence. I wouldn't want them to think I was some sort of American spy … eh?
"Abby!"
"Huh? What?"
"I was just saying that the cake is beautiful," Susan says.
"Oh. Thanks."
"Did you bake it?" She asks in what must be one of those weird pregnancy-induced moments of idiocy.
"Yeah, Susan. I baked this two foot long cake in the industrial oven in my crappy little apartment. And, of course, in my spare time, between med school and being a nurse, I've been taking cake decorating classes."
"It's really too bad about how you can't get a handle on that whole sarcasm thing," she says dryly.
"Yeah, you seem to have that same problem," I shoot back.
"Well, it's beautiful."
"I am the one who picked it out, though. And picked it up from the bakery. They did a nice job, eh?" Never hurts to get in a little practice. Just in case.
"Uh … yeah, they did." She gives me a somewhat confused look, but smiles as she looks down at the cake. "It's so cute." She wrinkles her nose up as she giggles. Guess she's forgiven me for my part in this whole subterfuge. I take a look at the cake myself. It did turn out pretty well. Since Susan is going to be surprised about the sex of the baby, I went for a neutral theme. Yellow icing with a darker shade of yellow spelling out the words "Welcome Baby." Various plastic baby-type items like bottles, pacifiers, and diaper pins --who uses diaper pins anymore? --have been placed on the top along with some confetti-like pink and blue sprinkles to really make it festive.
"Speaking of the cake, should we cut it?" Chuck asks, wielding a plastic butter knife. How ceremonial. Still, I think I might just be falling in love with Chuck a little bit. He seems to spend about as much time being obsessed with food as I do these days.
"Wait, wait. You can't cut the cake, yet. I have to take a picture." Someone made a mistake of putting a camera in Chuny's hand and now she seems intent on recording each hug and handshake for posterity. And now we need a shot of the cake. And then a shot of Susan and Chuck and the cake. Then Susan and I and the cake. I almost suggest a field trip down to the bakery so we can get the baker and the cake, too, but I'm a little afraid that Chuny might take me up on the suggestion.
We finally get to the ceremonial cutting of the cake which turns out to be a rather messy affair thanks to the five pounds of frosting on the cake and the butter knife Susan is using to cut it. To her credit, she manages to avoid licking her fingers in between cutting each piece. It doesn't take long for everyone to have their plate of icing … um, cake. People are soon busy chowing down while Susan and I stand guard at the cake table. Supposedly we're there to hand out cake to anyone who wants seconds, but mostly we're just helping ourselves.
"You know, Abby, if you don't want people to get suspicious, you're gonna have to stop matching me piece-for-piece," Susan points out, watching me reach for my third -- or is it fourth? -- piece of cake. So much for trying to keep my sugar intake to a minimum. Oh, well. There are worse things in the world than a little sugar. Still, Susan has a point. So I put down the cake and switch to Chex mix. Actually, this would go pretty well with the cake. Salty, sweet. Soft, crunchy. Maybe I could just cut a little piece. Or just scoop off some icing with a pretzel.
"There aren't going to be games, are there?" Susan demands suddenly.
"Um, I don't think so. But I wasn't on the entertainment committee, so I don't really know."
"Because the last thing I want is people tearing off lengths of crepe paper that they think represent the size of my waist, such as it is these days. My God, talk about humiliating."
"That does sound like an ego-buster," I comment as I slip a frosting-drenched mini-breadstick into my mouth. Mmm, that's good. I hope I'm not moaning out loud.
"Abby."
"What?"
"Stop eating."
"What? There's plenty of food."
"I know that. But if you keep shoveling it into your face, people are gonna figure out your not-so-little-anymore secret. I'm supposed to be the pregnant one here, but you've managed to eat more --and more disgusting combinations of-- food than I even thought about. So you might want to cool it before someone else notices and wonders. Unless, of course, you want people to find out."
"No, I don't want people to find out."
"Find out what?" Carter asks, appearing at the table, presumably in search of cake. Impeccable timing, as always.
"About my Chicago Idol audition," I say without missing a beat.
"What?" He definitely sounds befuddled.
"Who knew you could twirl a baton?" Susan says.
"While singing easy-listening hits of the 70s no less," I add.
"Okay," Carter says, picking up his cake, "I guess that's your way of saying that it's none of my business."
I give him a strained smile and raise my eyebrows at him, indicating that he's correct. He gives me a look as if he's contemplating saying something, but in the end he just walks away, shaking his head slightly.
"How much do you think he heard?" I ask Susan as soon as he's gone.
"Not enough. Besides, this is Carter … I could probably spell it out for him in big red letters, and he'd still ask me what I was trying to say."
"Don't you dare spell it out for him in big red letters. Or anyone, for that matter."
"I know. I know. I get it, Abby. Don't tell anyone. I won't."
"Well, then maybe you could stop bringing it up in public."
"Maybe you could stop eating like you're trying to bulk up so you can get into the next weight class in public."
"Shut up."
"Fine. I won't warn you the next time you're giving away your little secret."
"Fine," I say, only a little bit snootily.
"Fine," she says.
"Sus … babe," Chuck calls from across the room, "Look at this." He's standing in front of the table where everyone has stacked their gifts. "You gotta see this!"
Susan makes her way over to Chuck, and since I'm trying to heed her advice and stay away from the food, I follow.
"Man, we hit the mother load," Chucks says as he surveys the pile.
"No pun intended?" Susan asks.
"What do you think is in all these?" He asks, as he picks up a package covered in pastel-colored baby-sized footprints and starts shaking it.
"Baby stuff," Susan says.
"All of them?"
"It's a baby shower, Chuck. They're not gonna give us power tools."
"Why not? What kid doesn't love to play with power tools?"
"Ah!" Susan sighs in exasperation. "Why don't you go get some punch?"
"I don't want any punch," Chuck replies.
"Are you sure about that? I wouldn't mind giving you a punch."
"Like a punch in the head?" He asks.
"Maybe the stomach," Susan clarifies.
"Why don't I go get us some punch?"
"What a good idea," Susan says with just a little bit of sarcasm as Chuck goes over to the punchbowl.
"You have him trained well," I observe.
"Not really. But I'm working on it."
"He's gonna be a fun dad," I say, glancing over at Chuck as he's rather exuberantly talking to Carter at the food table. I can't tell what Chuck is trying to explain, but even from here, it looks funny. It's amusing to watch even at this distance.
"Yeah, probably." Susan sounds like she's in agreement, but perhaps not too sure how she feels about Chuck's … uh … penchant for fun.
"What?"
"I don't know. I just worry sometimes. You know, that I'm not gonna have one kid, but that I'm gonna have two."
"Yeah. But at least he seems excited about the baby."
"Oh, he is. He keeps bringing home little baseball caps and telling me all about how he can't wait to teach him how to throw a curveball."
"Him? Does Chuck know something I don't?"
"No. He doesn't know. He just thinks he knows."
"He thinks it's a boy?"
"More like hopes it's a boy."
"And what about you?"
"I don't care either way. I just hope that if it's a girl, he'll be okay with it."
"Of course he will be. He'll just have to teach her to throw a curveball."
"Teach who to throw a curveball?" Chuck asks me as he hands me a cup of ferociously red punch.
"Thanks. What's in this?" I ask idly, inspecting my beverage.
"Your daughter," Susan says to Chuck, ignoring my neurotic ramblings about the possible impurity of the punch.
"Daughter? I think you mean my son. Little Chuck."
"Little Chuck? Why? So you can be big Chuck?"
"How about we call him Charlie?"
"I don't think so."
"Okay, then. Back to Chuck, Jr."
"You can just forget that junior stuff. I already told you, this baby is a Lewis."
"We'll see about that," Chuck challenges.
"You know," I interrupt before this has a chance to get ugly, "Girls can play baseball. And I should know."
"Abby's very proud of her Little League All-Star status."
"All-Star? I'm impressed," Chuck tells me. "Maybe our kids will be on a team together. I can coach, and you can be my assistant."
"Hey, wait a minute," I start.
"Chuck," Susan interrupts in a warning tone of voice and then drops down to a whisper, "Didn't I tell you not to mention Abby's you-know-what when we're out in public?"
"Not that," I say. "What's this crap about you being the coach and me being your assistant. I'll be the coach, you can be my assistant."
"What?" His tone implies that maybe I've gone nuts.
"Well … were you a Little League All-Star?" I ask.
"No, but …" he trails off, looking back and forth between Susan and I, realizing, I suppose, that he's treading on thin ice.
"But?" I prod.
"Well, I'm a man." Susan and I exchange a look.
"There it is," she says.
"I know you didn't," I say to him. I can feel a full-on debate about to start, but luckily for an outnumbered Chuck, he's saved by the bell. Or rather, by Sam who's yelling across the room at Susan.
"Hey! Are you ever gonna open these gifts or what? C'mon, let's go … we don't have all day. Sure, there's barely any patients now since I told the paramedics we were closed to trauma, but how long is it gonna be until they get wise to that one?"
Susan looks over at me. "Did she really close us to trauma?"
I shrug. "I don't know. It is oddly quiet out there."
"If Weaver finds out, she'll have her head."
"Sam doesn't seem to worry about that much. I think she could hold her own with Weaver."
"I guess I better get over there and start opening the gifts, huh?"
"If Sam says so? Yeah."
Susan and Chuck make their way over to the seats Sam has assigned to them. A couple of chairs conveniently located next to the gift table. The rest of us find seats or are forced to stand around in a semi-circle so we can watch the gifts being unwrapped and then pass them around for closer inspection. It's just my luck that all the seats have been snagged, and I'm forced to stand among a crowd of people who seem to be exuding way too much body heat. The first half of the gift unveiling is okay, but somewhere along the line the standing, the warmth, the toxic punch, all get to be too much. I don't exactly feel faint, but maybe a little bit woozy. I put my hand on the back of the chair in front of me, and drop my chin to my chest, closing my eyes and trying to get in a few deep breaths.
"Abby? You okay?" Sam, who is standing right next to me, asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I manage with a small nod.
"No, you're not."
"I'm okay."
"Hey, Jerry. Get up," Sam demands.
"What? Why?"
"Abby needs your seat."
"Why does Abby need my seat?" Jerry's looking at Sam like she's suddenly sprouted wings.
"Because she does. Now get up."
"No, it's my seat. I was here first."
"Come on," Luka says. "Be a gentleman. Give the lady your seat."
"You know, thanks, but I can handle this on my own," Sam chides Luka.
They continue to argue back and forth, which frankly, is doing little to help the situation.
"Watch out. Watch out. Coming through." I turn to see Carter walking across the room with a chair in his hands. He hoists it up over his head and pushes through to the front of the group, putting the chair down right in front of Jerry. "There you go, Abby. Sit down."
My first thought is to refuse, just on principal. But I really need to sit down. And it was nice of him to get me a chair from somewhere. Don't be stupid, Abby, I tell myself. Sit down. It's just a chair.
"Thanks," I say moving around Jerry and sitting down.
"You okay?" Carter asks quietly.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"I'm fine."
He looks like he wants to say something more to me, but in the end, a big 'aww' over the latest gift Susan has opened gives me an opportunity to turn away from him, and he seems to take the hint, moving to stand behind my chair.
The rest of the gift opening is a bit easier for me since I'm seated. I'm still not feeling great, but I don't think I'll be keeling over anytime soon either. I am slightly worried that I might burst into tears, though. Every time some tiny, adorable little outfit or colorful baby toy gets passed to me, I find myself growing a bit misty … although I'm not sure why exactly. I think it's one part happy… and one part melancholy. I didn't expect this to be a bittersweet experience for me, but somehow it's turned out that way. Maybe it's watching Chuck and Susan opening the gifts together, arguing as they plan their child's future. A future they will both be there to share. It reminds me suddenly of what I'm missing out on. It reminds me of what this baby will never have.
"Abby, here. Last one." Sam's poking me, handing the last of the gifts. I look up and see that Chuck's gathering up the wrapping paper, and Susan is starting to work her way around the room, thanking everyone. I look down at the gift that was dropped in my hands. A set of baby feeding necessities, complete with bibs. And the white bib on top just happens to have the words "I Love My Daddy" spelled out in jaunty, cheerful yellow letters.
"Cute, huh?" Sam asks.
"Yeah," I say vaguely. Behind me I hear Luka murmuring something to Sam about how cute she is, and I glance back in time to see them share a little kiss, not especially shy now that their romance has gone public. It's sweet. And I'm happy for them. For both of them. Luka deserves some happiness in his life, and Sam is great. I think they're really good for each other. But with the mood I'm in, seeing even the most minor public display of affection just makes the lump in my throat get bigger. What's wrong with you, Abby? You're lucky enough to be having a baby. What else really matters?
I pass on the basket of mealtime goodies to the next set of hands, Chuny's I believe. "Oh Carter, look at that," I hear Chuny say. "'I Love My Daddy.' Just what you need. Pretty soon you'll shoveling in applesauce and getting carrots spit all over you. I bet you can't wait," her voice makes her happiness and excitement for him obvious.
"Yeah, I can't wait" he echoes. There's a softness … something wistful in his voice. A longing for fatherhood? Missing his girlfriend and unborn child?
"You're gonna be a great dad," Chuny tells him. The exact same thing that I told him not too long ago. The exact words.
"Thanks. I hope so."
And that's about all I can take. Suddenly I feel as if the flood gate has broken. I can barely hold back the sobs that want desperately to break loose. I stand up abruptly and push my way through the crowd, choking out mumbled 'excuse me's as I make my way to the door. I push through the door and blaze a trail to the ambulance bay as if my ass were on fire and the only puddle was on the other side of the sliding doors. The few people manning the admit desk give me curious looks, but I ignore them, intent on my destination.
It's only once I get outside that I let the tears start to flow. Sitting on a bench, my back to the doors of the ER, I do everything I can think of to stop the tears, but nothing works. So I sit in the warm, dark night sobbing like a child. The thought that I'm going to have to go back inside to get my stuff only makes me cry harder. All I want is to go home. Get away from this place. Escape to my nice, warm bed and sleep. It's the one method of escape still left to me. I frantically search my pockets, and realize that I happen to have my El pass in my pocket. Okay, a way home. I can get one of the neighbors to let me in the building and then retrieve the spare key to my apartment that's hidden in a loose baseboard in the hallway. Well, at least that's one thing to be grateful for. I can avoid facing my colleagues … at least until tomorrow. After a good night's sleep maybe I can handle it. I heave myself off the bench as the sobs dissipate somewhat. There are still tears running down my cheeks, but I think I can manage to make my way to the El.
I'm just standing up, about to leave, when I hear the door open up behind me and footsteps quickly approaching. Susan, I think, coming to check on me after my abrupt departure. No, she wouldn't leave her own baby shower. Sam. Luka. Maybe Sam and Luka.
"Abby?" Wrong. So very wrong. Not Sam and Luka. Certainly not Susan. Oh God, I can't deal with this right now. I can't deal with him right now.
"Leave me alone, Carter."
"What's wrong, Abby?"
I take a breath, swallow the tears, try to make my voice sound normal. "Nothing. I'm fine. I just needed some air. Go back to the party."
"I can't do that."
"Of course you can. Just go, Carter."
"Not until you tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong."
"Then why are you crying?" He's standing right behind me now. He's so close that I can feel his breath in my hair. Way to respect my personal space.
"I'm not." I try for cheerful, tinged with amusement at his silly suggestion, but I know it doesn't work. My voice sounds shaky, even to my own ears.
"Yes, you are." He puts his hand on my arm and moves around to stand in front of me. "Tell me what it is, Abby. You can talk to me."
"I don't want to talk to you."
"You need to talk to somebody if something has you this upset."
"Well, not you."
"Look, if it's Sam and Luka you are upset about … maybe you should talk to one of them."
"Sam and Luka?" I ask, completely confused. "Why would I be upset about Sam and Luka?"
"Well, you know … I mean, I don't know what went on with you two, but …"
"What went on with who?"
"You and Luka. Look, Abby, I guess you know what's going on with Luka and Sam now … but I'm not sure you know everything that's gone on with Luka. And I really think you'd be wise to think long and hard about getting involved with him again."
"What?" I demand with something that is a cross between being indignant and confused. I don't know what the hell he thinks he's talking about, but whatever it is, it's none of his business.
"I just … well, I don't want to see you … Just don't let him hurt you again."
"Let Luka hurt me?"
"Yeah."
"Well, that's almost funny coming from you." The tone of my voice is little more sharp, a little more shrill. But at least I stopped crying. "And just so you know … my life is none of your business. I can do whatever I want with whomever I want, and you have no right to say a word about it. You wanted me out of your life, so stay the hell out of mine!" I yell.
He looks amazed. And confused. Like this is all news to him. "But … I thought we were okay." I just roll my eyes at him. "So … I guess not. But this isn't about us, right? This is about you and Luka."
"Me and Luka?" This is truly absurd. I wouldn't bother telling him anything, but God only knows what crazy ideas he'll get if I don't set him straight. "Nothing is going on between Luka and I. Nothing has gone on between Luka and I. Not for the last three years. We're friends. That's it." I'm not yelling anymore, but there's still a definite edge to my voice.
Now he looks confused. "But what about … well, I mean, all the …"
Oh. Now I get it. Well, I get where he got this crazy idea, anyway. "Rumors?" I ask. "Yeah, those were just that. Rumors." I throw my hands up in the air for emphasis.
"So you're not …" he trails off, giving me a funny look. He almost seems to be … checking me out. I watch as his eyes track downward, studying me from head to toe. Maybe I'm paranoid, but he seems to be staring at my mid-section. It makes me wish that it wasn't too warm for a jacket this time of year. Or that I had my lab coat on. Somehow I feel like he can see right through the baggy shirt that I'm wearing.
I cross my arms in front of myself. "I gotta go. I need to get home." I move as if to start walking toward the El, but he blocks my path.
"Look, Abby. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions. I should know better than to ever listen to the rumors. And … I … I'm just sorry."
"Yeah, well … you should be."
"Is that … am I what's bothering you?"
"No. Not at all." For once my voice doesn't betray me, but comes out strong and solid.
"But there is something bothering you, right?"
"No. Everything's just peachy." I can't help it. Sometimes the sarcasm just slips out.
He looks at me for a long moment before asking, "Is there anything I can do?" With a somewhat helpless look on his face, he asks, "You need a ride home?"
"Not from you," I tell him, trying to move around him. He takes hold of my arms, forcing me to stand right in front of him. I refuse to look at him, preferring to stare at my shoes.
"Isn't there anything I can do?"
"You wanna know what you can do for me, John?" I ask, looking up at him. He nods earnestly. "Okay. You can stay out of my life."
"Abby. You don't really mean that."
"Sure I do. It's pretty much the only thing you can do for me now. It's the only thing I really want from you."
"But … I thought we were … I mean, I hoped we were … friends."
"No, John. We're not friends. We're not anything. So just leave me alone, okay? No chatty small talk. No pretending like we can talk the way we used to."
"You don't even want to be my friend?"
"I can't be your friend, Carter."
"But you and Luka are friends. Right?"
"Yeah, well, that's different."
"How?"
I just stare at him, wondering if he really just said that. I chuckle, but it's a mirthless sound. "If you don't know then you don't need to know." I wrench myself out of his grip and push past him, heading for the stairs that lead up to EL platform.
"Abby … wait!" He calls out behind me. I know he's following me so I speed up my pace a little bit.
"Abby! Can't we talk about this?" Oh, this is an interesting turn of events. Carter chasing me toward the El, asking me to stay and talk. Now he wants to talk? Typical.
"Leave me alone," I yell back at him, as I start to run.
"Abby …"
He catches up to me just as I make it to the bottom of stairs.
"Please don't leave. Abby …" There's something about his voice … he sounds so close to breaking.
I pause momentarily on the steps.
"Abby?" His hand on my arm, encouraging me to turn back toward him.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough strength to shake him off and walk away. Instead, I find myself turning toward him. And then, suddenly, something happens. My feet suddenly slip out from under me. For one moment I seem to hover in the air, looking up at the star-scattered night sky.
And then I'm falling.