TITLE At the End of Chaos
RATING PG-13 (and I'm still not really sure why)
SUMMARY Thanksgiving Day, from Carter's POV
AUTHOR'S NOTE This chapter is SUPER long!! Don't keep expecting, it, though; I just didn't want to switch perspectives in the middle.
I continue to be SO grateful for the reviews. You inspire me to keep writing more and more. Many of you are excellent writers, and I am so flattered that you enjoy my work.
DISCLAIMER Carter and Abby are good friends of mine (this is such a sickness), but I do not own them.
CARTER
Thanksgiving day dawns brightly, with the brisk November air wafting through my kitchen window. As I endure my black morning coffee, I close the window to the air that promises to get even colder. It has been unseasonably warm the past week, but according to the news there is a cold front dawning. We may even be welcoming some snow flurries into our Turkey Day celebrations. Ah, Chicago.
The hospital is rife with a staff that is a role call of those without families: Luka, Sam (those two are each other's family nowadays), Neela (who isn't American anyway), Morris (would anyone want to claim this guy as family?), Pratt, and me (this isn't how it was supposed to be). There are, of course, some interns as well. I can't help feeling that it is monumental that Abby is not here, though I knew that she wouldn't be. This the first time in the five years I have known her that she's had a reason not to be here on a holiday. The things that have changed in her life overwhelm me at times, especially when it occurs to me that I had nothing to do with them. Not that I am self-centered enough to think that they should have—though I do, sometimes, have a tendency to think only of myself—but I have to say that it disappoints me to know that I can't share in these newfound joys of hers. I mean, of course, as more than a friend. It seems we only ever really faced the downside of life together, and it might have been nice to know what it was like to taste the sweet nectar of good times as a couple.
Wow, what was in that coffee? What has therapy done to me? I have got to find an alternative to caffeine.
There is always a certain predictability to each holiday at the hospital. On Valentine's Day you get the costumed telegram deliverers and spurned lovers; Easter brings the kids who are sick from too much chocolate; Fourth of July finds firework injuries; Christmas, of course, homeless Santas and parents who have fought over that one last toy at the store. Thanksgiving is no different: knives through hands from people who have failed to properly carve their turkey; food poisoning from whatever food they let their crazy relative prepare, or the turkey that is not cooked through enough. And, of course, the gunshot wounds and stabbings that occur when feuding family members try to sit down for a peaceful holiday meal and end up rehashing old demons and can't help reliving old Jerry Springer-like moments of their lives. You'd think people could find it in themselves to enjoy one day together in harmony, but most just can't do it. Hell, most of the time, my parents couldn't do it.
And just look at Abby's family.
The invitation to join their celebration came as a very welcome surprise to me yesterday. I'd like to pretend that I'm okay being alone on a day that is really meant to celebrate family, but I'm done doing that. It hurts, it really does. And though the grieving process has slowed to a trickle, times like this are what catch me off guard. Fortunately, Dr. Thatcher has taught me how to better deal with these days, so I don't just shut down and shut people out. That, my friends, is what we call growth.
So I go through my day, dealing with the inevitable patients, and the occasional patient whose injury is in no way connected to Turkey festivities. There is one girl in particular, dying from a cancer that has ravaged her whole body, who manages to charm everyone she comes in contact with. She has a vivacity about her that no one in her position has any right to. Her parents tell me she has been fighting for almost two full years, and it seems that, now, she may not even make it to Christmas. I approach her room with caution, not wanting to be the one to have to actually discuss her disease with her.
"Hey Julie, I'm Dr. Carter; how are you feeling today?" I pull a stool up to her bedside. It's just me and her; I sent her parents off to the cafeteria to get a bite to eat.
"A little tired, but okay, I guess," she says, then smiles. "Okay, a lot tired, but we won't tell my parents that." I smile in return, and look over at Chuny, who is inserting an I.V.
"Well, do you want the run down of why you're in here today?" I place the chart down on her bed, glancing up at her sheepishly.
"I think I can probably guess. Low platelet count, etc., etc…I've heard it before." She sounds so much older than her 13 years. It's always funny to me how an imminent death ages the young. "I know I only have a little while left, Dr. Carter. God and me, we've talked it over, and I'm okay with it." She smiles at me again, and though her words are not happy ones, I can't help but smile back. I look over at Chuny, who is smiling as well, but I do notice the glistening in her eyes. She finishes the I.V. and leaves the room. I see Julie watch the nurse leave, then as her eyes make their way back to me, they pause on her hands, which are fidgeting in her lap. She sighs, and looks up at me; this time her smile is sad. "You know what I'm not okay with? All the things I never got to do. And I know Heaven is way better than all that stuff, but still…" Her voice drifts off into silence.
"That's understandable." I consider her for a moment. If I were her—or her parents—I think I'd be raging, throwing things, hitting people. It's one thing to lose a child before you ever get to experience them in this world, but to see them grow up, see them walk and run and talk and play, know the possibility that lays before them, and then see that possibility cut short, has to be the worst thing in the world. To see her strength floors me.
"It's, you know, the little things. High school, and college, and I've never…kissed a boy." She blushes when she says this and looks away self-consciously. Then, a thought occurs to her, and she giggles, the way only a 13-year-old girl can. "My friends and I have a joke about finding the cutest boy in my class and getting him to kiss me. We figure, since I'm dying, no one could say no." She continues giggling, probably picturing that boy, the one they chose to be her first and only kiss. I join in her laughter but there is no mirth behind it. She suddenly becomes serious, and when she speaks it is with a wisdom that it seems only a few people I know have ever achieved. "You know what makes me the most sad?" I nod, answering her rhetorical question. "I see all these adults, people who are supposed to be so smart. And they do know a lot of stuff, about George Washington and Vietnam and that kind of stuff. But what none of them ever really know is how to seize those moments of joy that we all get. They can go on and on and on about history, for days sometimes, it seems. But they don't find time to spend with the people they love. They don't make sure that the people in their lives know how they feel about them. People waste so much time thinking things are complicated and hard to understand, and they never just say what they feel." She sighs, and while she pauses I notice that I am exuberantly nodding along. This child is so incredibly right. "It just…sucks, you know?" She looks up at me with her innocent eyes, which are starting to droop from the efforts of our conversation. I nod again in agreement, and at this moment her parents enter the room. I look back at them and smile gloomily; we are all players in a game meant to keep Julie happy and comfortable until the looming hour of her death.
"How're you doing, sweetheart?" Her mother coos as she steps up to the bed. Julie is starting to drift off into dreamland, a place where she kisses all the boys and gets to live out those experiences that her real life will never allow her.
"I'm…good," she responds, sleepily. Her mother smiles fondly and sadly. She knows that each time Julie sleeps is part of a countdown.
"Why don't you get some sleep, honey?" Her father steps up as well, placing a palliative arm around his wife. Julie does so and promptly, and I make my way out of the room, leaving them alone.
There are doctors who can remain unaffected by such scenes, but I've never been one of them, and frankly I don't understand them. I refuse to become one of those robots who just treats the patients as if they have no emotion. I have discovered that if you take those grains of wisdom that suffering patients can offer you, you can live a better life. Or try, anyway.
At the end of my shift I make sure that I pass Julie off to Luka, who I know can treat her case delicately. I would not trust the likes of Morris to handle her.
The streets are fairly empty, as most people are tucked into their homes on this frigid evening, eating and laughing and reminiscing. I am hoping I can find a parking space in front of Abby's building, which may prove to be impossible with all the relatives I'm sure must be visiting the residents surrounding her.
A small miracle dawns in my life when I find a spot right in front. As I park and get out of my car, I find that there are small butterflies playing in my stomach. Why? I wonder, mounting the steps two at a time. I realize I am excited for this. It is surely a welcome distraction from the reality of the day, and I can't wait for the feeling of family to envelope me, as it tends to do when I'm with Abby. For a short time I imagined that this family would be mine, and so maybe today I can pretend that I am still living in that era of my life.
As I wait for Abby to answer the door, I am transported back to the last time I was here. It was a morning that would irrevocably change our lives. I entered this apartment with a key that would not be mine for long, and watched her sleep, so peacefully, in the shafts of moonlight drifting over her form. When she awoke, I expected a quiet greeting, a happy greeting, and to apologize. Perhaps that we would make love, reconciling the tension that preceded my departure. Instead I was greeted with something probably more appropriate; anger, bitterness, and Abby's stubborn scowl requesting that I return my freedom to enter her home. It shocked and hurt me to the core, though I now realize I probably deserved nothing better.
I'm broken out of this reverie by the door opening, but instead of Abby in front of me, I see the blur of red and orange that is Maggie.
"Oh, John, we're so glad you're here!" she exclaims, and then her arms are around me in a giant hug, marking the amount of time it's been since we last saw each other. It strikes me that the last time I saw her, I was showing her the ring I was going to use to propose to her daughter—the love of my life.
Before I can speak she is ushering me into the apartment I have come to know so well, and the door is closing behind me, my coat being removed.
"Come in, come in!" This request is pointless, as I am already "in", but she says it anyway, her brown eyes sparkling. I smell those typical Thanksgiving smells: turkey, gravy, stuffing, cinnamon. It feels like home.
Maggie ushers me towards the small kitchen where I see the feast laid out as best it can be in the tiny space: platters and bowls lining the counter, the table set with Abby's only good plates and silverware, tapered candles lit in the center. I see Abby's butt before I see anything else of her, which invariably makes me laugh. She is pulling the turkey out of the oven, and as she turns to put it on the counter in the only space left for it, she sees me and smiles in a way I hadn't realized she could. I can't help but mirror it; and I understand that, finally, Abby has allowed herself to be truly happy.
While we end this moment between us—which lasts all of 2.5 seconds—Eric comes into the room. I turn to see him, and I see the look of worry that crosses his face. It is not lost on anyone how we last saw each other.
"Hey, John," he says, hesitantly, rubbing his hands together.
"Hey, Eric," I reply, smiling warmly at him. I want to ease this tension, because I hold no grudges against any of these people. He appears to feel this, and relaxes.
"Where's the bird? I'm on carving duty!" He wraps Abby in a big brother bear hug, and she laughs, the sound filling the air and my soul. He releases her and picks up the electric knife. As the buzzing starts, Abby comes over to me, her hands in the back pocket of her jeans, still smiling. Her eyes move in the direction of both her family members and then back to me, as if saying "see? How weird is this?" She snorts, and I can't help chuckling. There is so much joy in this apartment right now, I might burst.
"You didn't wait for me, did you?" I ask.
"Oh, no; I got the turkey in later than I planned. Are you really surprised?"
"I want to be nice and say yes, but I just can't lie." She punches me playfully in the arm and I feign tenderness. Maggie walks up then, ushering us to the table where Eric is starting to serve the first of the turkey.
"Come on kids, we might want to eat this before Christmas!" She pulls out a chair for me and seats me right next to Abby.
"But mom, we have to get all the food off the counters, we can't sit yet." Abby says, as she sets herself into her chair.
"I thought we'd say grace first," Maggie replies as Eric sets the serving fork on the counter and stands next to his mother. "Who'd like to go first?"
"First? Mom, why don't you just say it and we'll eat? I'm starving," Abby whines, and for a moment I imagine her as an 11-year-old the way she should have been.
"Now Abby, we all have to say what we're thankful for. It's tradition."
"Tradition? Mom, the only tradition we've ever had…" she starts, but I stop her.
"Come on, Abby, let's do it. Your mom and brother came all this way and your mother wants us to share." I wink at her, convincing her to comply. She does, pretending to hate it, but I can tell that she loves this unexpected happiness. "Maggie, why don't you go first?"
"Okay. We should say the blessing first. Bless us oh Lord, for these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive…" She does the traditional Catholic blessing, though I know that their connection to the Church has not exactly been strong in the last 20 years. But it feels appropriate, and I can't help looking at these three bowed heads around me and putting aside any grief that might have crept into my heart this day. There is no place for it among this family.
As Maggie finishes her blessing, I am looking at Abby, and she looks up, catching my eyes. She looks…so content. It's like she's a different person. Changed, which is ironic considering what she said a year and a half ago.
Her face contorts into confusion, and I realize that I must have looked very odd just then, staring at her. Then she is giggling, and I am once again lost in the joy. Maggie begins giving her thanks, and then passes it to Eric, who mentions family and sanity, which makes us all chortle. It is not uncomfortable, which is demonstrative of the progress these people have made.
Then it is Abby's turn, and once again she meets my eyes. I am incredibly curious to hear what she has to say. As she begins to speak, her eyes wander over the three of us, and then they seem to get lost, thinking.
"I'm thankful for…this moment, right now. For all the joy that swells in this room, and for perhaps making up for so much lost time. For my family, who have almost, through the years, driven me as crazy as they are." Maggie and Eric almost fall to the floor with laughter at this, and Abby snorts at her own joke, rolling her eyes at their foolishness. Then, her eyes fall on mine. This time her look is more intense than all the others we have shared this day. "And, finally, for…friends. For friends being so much like family that you almost can't tell the difference." She winks at me then, and a little thrill passes from my head down to my feet. How one person can have such an effect on another is beyond me, but she does it to me every time; always has.
"Oh, honey, that's beautiful!" Maggie says, giving Abby a hug. "You can tell you used to be an English major, your words are so beautiful." She gazes fondly on her daughter, and then looks to me. "John? Last but not least?" She looks expectantly, and I blink. I don't know what Abby has told them about what has happened, but I'm sure if they knew I wouldn't be asked to do this. Abby suddenly looks worried, and puts her hand to her mother's arm.
"Uh, mom, Carter's worked all day, and he—he doesn't have to if he doesn't want to." She glances at me, questioningly. I shrug. It's the least I can do, after all they have given me today.
"No, it's fine. I am thankful for…getting through it all, one way or another. And for having somewhere to turn when you've got nothing left." I wink at Maggie, who smiles triumphantly. I feel Eric pat me on the back, and Abby stands, kissing me on the head. The memory of that is not lost on me, and for a moment I am almost lost in the pain, until her hand on my arm lifts me back out of it and I am content once again.
Dinner with the Wysenskis is exuberant, loud, crazy (which is, of course, appropriate), and loving. They reminisce over their lives, over the last year and a half that they have not seen each other, and they compliment each other on the meal laid before us. And the compliments are well-deserved; I have had many more formal Thanksgiving dinners that did not taste nearly this good. When we finish I am as stuffed as the turkey, barely able to move. Maggie attempts to usher us "kids" out of the kitchen so that she can clean up, but in the end Abby and I argue her away to curl up on the couch with Eric. She has prepared nearly this entire meal, and does not deserve to be washing dishes.
We clean in silence at first, finding a rhythm that only lovers can have together. I don't think this fact passes either one of us by, and it occurs to me that maybe now is the time to put old demons to rest. It is a day to be grateful, and maybe if we do this we can both be more grateful for our friendship.
"Abby—" I begin, but find that she has apparently had the same idea, as she says "John—" at the same time. We chuckle, and I find that my hand rests softly on her arm. When the laughter fades we are left in silence, pondering each other. She is the first one to break it.
"You go first," she says, quietly. I am about to speak when Maggie comes in, putting on her coat.
"Abby, John? Eric and I are stuffed. We're going to go see if we can walk some of it off. Would you like to join us?" She flips her hair over the brim of her jacket, and looks eagerly at us. I realize in that second that my hand still lingers on Abby's arm, and as I remove it I notice that Maggie has seen this, too.
"I think we're going to stay here and get this cleaned up, mom, but thanks."
"Oh, okay. We'll be back in a little while," Maggie says, before exiting the room with a grin. We hear the door to the apartment shut behind them, and turn to face each other. We are silent for a moment, not sure how to continue after the interruption.
"I said you go first," she says, jokingly. She is smiling but I can tell she is uncertain.
"I guess I just…I wanted to say thank you for all of this," I say, gesturing to indicate the food and the table and the whole apartment.
"Well, I know how hard things have been, and I just didn't want you to be alone." She crosses her arms in front of her, still holding the towel with which she was drying the dishes. I take a small step toward her.
"No, Abby, it's more than that. I don't know that I deserve the kind of kindness you have shown me, especially this. Inviting me into your home with your family on a holiday like this was just…way beyond what most people would do." I put my hand on the counter, leaning my weight on it, and she cocks her head at me. It drives me crazy how much I want to know what's going on in her head, but I need to allow her to give it to me at her own pace. I owe her that much.
"Well, I guess you're right," she says, definitely throwing me off guard. But I can see the hint of a smile on her face, and I know that I should take this remark lightly. "Carter, what you said on the roof that day is right: we weren't ever fair to each other. We just constantly hurt each other back and forth with our insecurities. It was never anybody's fault." She moves to the coffee machine, instinctively knowing that a conversation like this requires it. "However, I will say that breaking up with me in a letter that makes it's way through the ER and makes me prime for the gossip mill might have been a poor choice." She pushes the button to start the coffee, and turns to look at me pointedly. I blow out my breath, moving to sit at the table, which is the only thing that has been cleared. I push a chair back and sit with my legs out in front of me, one arm resting on the table. I look at her with what can only be described as a hang-dog expression.
"Oh, Abby…I'm so stupid. Of everything that has happened, that is probably what I regret most. It was the most unequally hurtful thing I could have done. It killed me when you asked me for my key, but I don't think that sending you a "dear john" letter from Africa quite matched that in hurtfulness." She moves to the table and sits next to me, her back to the sink. She clasps her hands together in what looks like a prayer of sorts, then sighs.
"I want so badly to be angry enough to scream and yell for that, John, but to be honest, I got over it a long time ago. It was either that or wallow in my own self-pity, and frankly I think I got a lot more done taking the other road." She smiles despite herself. Then the smile fades, and she very quietly and carefully continues. "What hurt me more than that was seeing you with a new, pregnant girlfriend so quickly after I got that letter." She meets my gaze then, and finally I glimpse the true pain that I caused her. My heart breaks, but this time it's for Abby and not for me. There's silence again, except for the coffee percolating on the counter. I search for words, but the truth is, there aren't enough ways in the world to say "I'm sorry." I guess all I can do is try to find them.
"I'm so sorry for that, Abby. I don't…know what made me not realize how hard that would be for you. Kem and I—we weren't meant for each other. At the time, though, it seemed like an answer. And yet, to this day, I still don't know what the question was." I look down at my lap, and only look back up when I feel her hand on my arm. She is looking at me intensely, but with compassion and love, not anger.
"John, I don't want to try and make you feel like the jerk I once considered you to be. A lot has happened in both our lives; a lot has changed. I know I told you I didn't think people ever really change, but obviously I was wrong. I was always so scared, especially of how I felt about you. I thought that it could only ever end badly, you know? Loving people had only ever gotten me hurt, and I thought that, because I loved you more than I'd ever loved anyone before, the hurt had to be that much—what?" She is taken aback by the shocked expression on my face, which I don't think I'd realized was there. It takes me a moment to speak.
"You—you loved me?" I lean forward, eager for the answer.
"Oh. Well, yes. I thought—I thought you knew that?" She is suddenly uncomfortable, and stands to pour us both some coffee. I follow her.
"No, Abby, I don't think I did. You never…said it, so I assumed you didn't feel it." She stops what she's doing, thinking. So many things seem to pass through her mind in the quiet moments before she speaks, that I think briefly she must be analyzing every second of our relationship. She looks at me before she opens her mouth.
"Jesus, you're right. I guess…it's been so long, I think I just never realized that I didn't say it. I assumed…you knew, you know?" She turns so that her whole body is facing me, her hand still holding the cup of coffee. "Because I did, John. I really, really did."
"Wow. I can't believe…I mean, all that time, I was always wondering exactly how you felt, what you wanted. I think maybe even when I was going to propose that it was partly to find out if you were really in love with me." I see a brief streak of pain cloud her eyes, remembering that rejection. I take her hands in mine, needing to reassure her, making her meet my eyes. "Abby, my not asking you to marry me was not because I didn't want you. Like you said, we were both so insecure, and because I wasn't sure about you, I couldn't risk you saying no." She bites her lip, and now again I'm not sure what she's feeling and thinking. "Abby, I loved you so much it hurt me. I didn't even know it was possible to love that much before I met you. Sometimes I think…that maybe I—" But I can't make myself tell her this now. I stop myself before I say too much. Her forehead wrinkles in curiosity.
"What? What is it you sometimes think?" My mouth opens, but before I can get any words out, the door bursts open and Maggie is shrieking. Panic starts to set in before I realize what she is saying.
"It's snowing! It's so beautiful, you two have to come see!" She grabs our hands and we are being led downstairs, no coats, into the cold. Maggie continues on to where Eric is standing, trying to catch snowflakes with his tongue like a child. Abby and I both laugh at this from our spot on the top step. I look out at the snow; huge flakes fall like puffs of cotton from the sky. It is so beautiful, I almost want to cry. I look over at Abby, who is laughing and smiling and clapping at her mother's and Eric's antics. My gaze returns to the street in wonderment. And as I think about the exquisiteness of this day, of all the things that happened, of the words that have been said by me and Abby and Julie, I suddenly feel a small, familiar hand grasp my own. I turn my head to the right, where this beautiful, complex woman stands next to me, and find her eyes turned in my direction. But we don't speak, we just look at each other, grinning and serious at the same time.
If it's possible, I think we have just moved forward and backward all at once.