POCKET CHANGE 3: Hide and Seek
by Sharon R.

Chapter Thirteen

Sam stirred as the bright sunlight pierced through the thin white cotton scalloped curtains adorning the bedroom windows. Stretching away the morning stiffness, she noticed that she was alone. A familiar smell drew her out towards the kitchen, the house so small it was just a matter of a few footsteps to get there.

Luka sat at the end of the kitchen table, his large frame a good foot or so larger than the previous tenant of the radiator seat. Sam leaned against the door frame in back of him and watched as he struggled to fit in the small space, his knees knocking against the table in front of him that hosted a tea cup filled to the brim with black coffee, a newspaper and one piece of burned toast.

"I didn't know you like your toast burned."

"Good morning," Luka said as he shook a wrinkle out of the newspaper in front of him. "I don't, but I think it's the only way that toaster makes it."

"Where did you get a newspaper?"

"In that pile over there," he said nodding towards a stack of old newspapers in the entryway.

Sam looked over his shoulder. "It's from 1991."

"I didn't live here in '91. Look," he said pointing to an article, "a representative from Governor Chumo's office arranged for The Town of Fine to receive a grant to study the landfill." Pretending to be totally involved in the article, Luka leaned forward and read part of the piece. "It says here, Geologists from the Department of Environmental Conservation working with a team of scientists from Cornell University have chosen the landfill as its centerpiece for a groundbreaking study on methodologies for soil and sediment fractionation using single and sequential extraction procedures."

Sam stared blankly at Luka. "That's Cuomo, not Chumo."

"See, that's news to me. What's a landfill?" he asked.

"The dump - you know, where the garbage goes."

"Oh."

"Kids up yet?"

"Already outside."

Sam found a tea cup of her own and poured herself a cup of coffee. "They never had real mugs," Sam mumbled to herself. "Always tea cups." She liked Luka's coffee in the morning. Good and strong. "Been up long?"

"Mmm. I suppose. Couldn't sleep. Too damn quiet."

Sitting in the other chair opposite Luka, Sam noticed his cell phone in the middle of the table. "Need to call someone?"

"No, just habit to carry it around I guess."

"No cell service up here anyway."

Luka looked at the old black rotary phone on the wall. "What about the regular phone?"

"Party line."

"Party?"

"Three or four of the homes on this road share it, including George. Pick it up and you're more than likely going to hear somebody else's conversation. And don't answer it unless it rings one long, two short."

"Morse Code?" Luka asked eyebrows raised.

"Might as well be. And in case you were wondering, you can't make long distance calls."

Luka stood and stretched, his hands reaching the ceiling. "I am going to get dressed and go check on Alex."

"…and Amanda."

"Yes, Amanda too."

Sam watched Luka as he rounded the corner into the bathroom. Opening his cell phone she noticed that a number had been dialed before she got up. Pressing the right arrow key, the name belonging to that number was Carter.

They had to step up onto the steep ledge to reach the top of the boulder which had been secure in its location for hundreds of years or more, deposited when the glaciers etched out the landscape of New York State. Amanda and Alex parked themselves on top of the rock surface, the coldness of the morning settling through their jeans to their bottoms. They weren't up that high, but to them it felt like it. The morning air there always exuded a moist feeling which served to punctuate the smells of the soil, trees and decaying wood and leaves around them. There was no traffic to talk above and certainly no EL. The only consistent sound that drabbled in the background was the fast flowing creek that was out of sight over the hill to their left.

"How come you aren't with your mom and dad?" Alex asked quite pointedly.

"My mom died."

"What about your dad?"

"He works overseas."

"Doing what?"

"Can't tell you."

Alex laughed at her. "He doesn't have a job, does he?"

"Does too," she snotted back at him. "I know Luka isn't your dad 'cause you call him Luka. So what does your real dad do?"

"Can't tell you."

"Yeah, well my dad is a spy. He's worked all over the world."

"Yeah right," Alex laughed again, totally not believing her. "You are such a liar."

"Am not. He's coming to get me. He'll be here any day now, you'll see."

"Hey, look at that," Alex said pointing at the ground in front of them. A fat brown animal with short legs wobbled out from the woods and sat on its haunches gnawing at something. "I think it's a groundhog."

Amanda slid off the side of the boulder onto the ledge again, slowly making her way to the groundhog. Once she got within a few feet, it scrambled back into the bushes. "I'm going to leave him my apple," she said, putting her half eaten piece of fruit at the base of the tree. Back on the boulder, she and Alex waited for a second appearance. Within a few minutes, the furry creature re-emerged and set to work on the gift of food. "Cool! I'm going to call him Grover. Grover Groundhog."

"What trouble are you two getting into?" Luka came from behind the garage, startling the two kids who had been intent on watching Grover eat his breakfast.

"Shh," Alex shushed him pointing to the animal, "he's eating Amanda's apple."

"You fed him?" Luka's voice caught the attention of the groundhog who left his apple and went back into hiding.

"You scared him away," Amanda chided him.

"It's really not safe to feed wild animals," Luka tried to tell them unconvincingly. "You don't know him, he may not be well. He could turn on you."

"But he's cute," Amanda pleaded, her big beautiful eyes working on Luka.

Every deed and every relationship is surrounded by an atmosphere of silence. Friendship needs no words -- it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness. -Dag Hammarskjold 1905-1961, Swedish Statesman, Secretary-general of U.N.


Carl DeRaad had already admitted three patients, discharged five, tended to morning outpatient appointments and butted heads over the budget with the hospital board by the time he strolled through the ER. John Carter was signed in but didn't have a patient assigned to him on the board.

"Dr. Carter?" he asked as he walked by a couple med students, both shrugging their shoulders and quickly finding something else to busy themselves with.

"Excuse me," he interrupted as Haleh and Connie talked over coffee in the lounge, "where can I find John Carter?"

The two women exchanged glances before Haleh spoke up. "You might be able to catch him in the suture room. He's been pretty busy."

"Thank you." The head of Psychiatry wandered down the hall to the suture room and opened it, finding Morris working on a knee lac. "I'm sorry, have you seen Dr. Carter?"

"Ah… on the phone, maybe… at the Admit desk. Or check radiology."

"Thank you."

Back out front to Admit and Carter was nowhere in sight. Frank stood between two stacks of charts, the phone ringing off and on.

"Excuse me, Dr. Car -"

"Don't know. Don't care," the gruff man said dismissively.

"He's signed in but isn't on the board."

"Do I look like his nanny?"

"I need to find him. If you could just have him paged."

Frank walked away mumbling, "…climbing up my ass for everyone to see…"

DeRaad continued on his journey peeking into every room with a door open, finally nearly running into Susan who stepped out of a darkened Exam-2 draping her stethoscope back around her neck.

"Susan, hey maybe you could help me. I'm looking for John Carter and getting the run-around from your staff."

"Oh, well yeah. They're loyal to a fault."

"And your unit clerk, Frank - does he have issues with me or my department?"

"It's not you. He's been threatened with a public viewing of his prostate." Susan felt DeRaad's frustration as she pointed at the door. "He's in here, sleeping it off."

"It? As in…?"

"As in he showed up drunk last night and we're trying to keep Kerry, who's in a meeting, from finding out. Which is where I should be right now. I just came down to check on him." Susan opened the door for the psychiatrist who took one look, then backed out to continue the conversation.

"Don't you think it's excessive?"

"He claims to have only consumed five beers, but I found his car around the corner parked up over the curb in front of Coughlin's Pub. I bet he stopped off for something a little stronger on his way here."

"So you've got him on monitors?"

"Pratt called me at two o'clock. Found Carter on the floor with dry heaves. Dehydrated, shitty BP, cardiac arrhythmia probably from electrolyte imbalance or just plain bingeing. He's really not a drinker. Probably hasn't eaten or slept much." Susan reached in her pocket and took out the two vials of meds she had confiscated from him the night before. "Not good when you combine it with these."

DeRaad took the vials and looked at his watch. "Okay, I'll wait for him to wake up."

"Give him these," Susan said, handing him the keys to the Jag. "It was a nice change from the EL. Tell him it's parked in his spot in the parking garage." Before she walked away, Susan lowered her voice even more. "One more thing. I know you're the expert here, but I don't think John is suicidal or anything. He's dealing with some issues and doing it all on his own - as usual."

DeRaad duly noted the "DND" - do not disturb - sign taped on the door written almost appropriately on the back of a code inventory sheet. Once inside he sat in a chair to the side and worked on some charts he had with him to bide the time. As the morning wore on, Carter slept soundly occasionally thrashing his legs against the side rails of the bed. He had an IV in his right arm, lead wires peeking out from the top of his hospital gown going to a monitor, and oxygen flowing through a nasal cannula. It was shortly after noon when he raised his hands to rub the crusty sleep from his eyes.

"What the…?" he questioned as the IV line flopped onto his face. He cleared his throat a couple times before looking over at the psychiatrist parked next to him, the added on to stack of charts now reaching at least a foot high. "What time is it?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

"Twelve seventeen."

"PM?"

"Yes."

Carter pulled out the top of his gown looking at his chest, then up at the IV. "Shit," he complained, "isn't this overkill?"

"Is it?"

Carter ignored DeRaad's questioned answer while working on getting his body back to reality. "What are you doing here?"

"Needed a good excuse to get my charting done," he said as he closed the last file and added it to the pile, then gave his full attention to his patient. "You can really learn a lot about someone watching them sleep."

"You going to put me on a three day hold?"

"Do I need to?"

"Why do you always have to answer a question with a question?"

DeRaad shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe because you already know the answer."

"How's my patient?" Pratt asked, as he turned the light on.

"Oh, Christ," Carter whined as he rolled his eyes.

"That good, huh?"

"I've got a shift I should at least finish," Carter mumbled as he pulled the cannula from around his ears. "Help me out here."

"Not 'til I clear you."

"If I'm not mistaken, I'm the attending, you're the resident," Carter spit out as he sat up gradually, first resting on his elbows. "Who's the boss here?"

"I'd say inside these four walls, the guy whose new shirt you puked on last night and who was kind enough to hold Mr. Urinal for you. That's who."

Carter fell back onto the mattress and sighed the big sigh, both humiliated and exasperated. "Did you sell tickets to the event?"

"It was just me and Lydia. She tells me she took care of you when you got these last scars." Pratt nodded towards Carter's abdomen as he lifted the gown and palpated him. "Well, liver's not enlarged."

Carter pushed Pratt's hands out of the way. "Shut up."

"Quiet," Pratt ordered as he listened to Carter's chest with his stethoscope. "Sit up. Deep breaths," he continued, putting stethoscope to back as he checked out Carter's lungs. "Good, lie back down."

"This is ridiculous," Carter snarked.

"You know what's ridiculous?" Pratt sarcastically asked tossing Carter's chart on top of him, inviting him to read it, "finding you on the floor in your own vomit, semi-conscious, heaving, BP bottoming out and a cardiac arrhythmia that would give any cardiologist a gold medal hard-on. Now, open your mouth." Carter reluctantly did as he was told as Pratt looked at his mucosal membranes with a pen light and tongue depressor. "We started a chart but didn't enter you into the system. Lydia and I cleaned you up, put you to bed and worried about you while simultaneously played games with Weaver and Anspaugh who now assume that you're Super Doc this morning, so busy seeing patients that you're unreachable. Now read that chart and tell me what you would do if you saw that patient."

Carter flipped through the chart, reading what his body had silently told Pratt through the night. "I would do just what you did," he confessed. "The Pratt I know would have given me Tylenol and sent me back to my park bench."

"What can I say? I'm feeling charitable. That, and I'm waiting on my evaluation from you." Pratt pulled the tape off the IV site and carefully took out the threaded catheter making Carter wince. "Hold that," he told him as he pressed down on the site with a gauze pad and finally taped it on. Taking down the front of Carter's gown, Pratt removed the leads, but left the adhesive circles behind. "You can rip those off yourself in the shower. Now, Lewis said you can finish your shift if you feel up to it, but no traumas. Take this," he said giving Carter a dosage cup with a small tablet in it. Carter looked up at him, puzzled. "Atenolol. Just take it. I'm going to give you a script, one BID for three days, then PRN if your heart goes aflutter. Still have symptoms after a week, find another doctor - please. Eat this," Pratt put a banana in front of him, "you need the potassium, and while you're showering - and believe me, you DO need a shower - I'll get you some soup and crackers. As for your clothes, they're in a bag in the nightstand, but I'd just burn 'em. Clean scrubs on the other bed. Any questions?" Finding no response from Carter, Pratt pointed at DeRaad on his way out the door. "Good. He's all yours. I got real patients to see."

"Pratt," Carter managed to snag him before the door closed "…Greg, thanks."

"No problem. But see, now ya owe me." Carter caught the signature Pratt-grin as the doctor finally gave patient and shrink some privacy.

Carter wasted no time whipping off the flimsy hospital gown and replacing it with the scrubs Pratt had left.

"So?" DeRaad asked during the clothing change.

"So…?"

"Why are we here doing this?"

"You have better things to do?" Carter asked while tying his shoes.

"How about you answer my question."

"I think you know the answer," Carter put back onto him, mirroring DeRaad's earlier comment. "I've got a warm shower waiting for me."

DeRaad put his hand on the door, preventing Carter from opening it. "You think Susan should have cleared you to work?"

"I think this is Susan's way of keeping an eye on me, and frankly, this is the most sleep I've had in over a week. I feel pretty good, albeit appropriately humiliated, ashamed and self conscious… in a good way," he answered with a hint of humor in his voice. "And this place is a far cry better than sharing a great big empty mansion with a dog."

"I think you have more friends here than you realize." The psychiatrist doubted Carter's analysis of himself, but had enough faith in him to let him go. "You know where -"

" - I know where to find you. Carl, thank you, but I don't think I'm ready to talk about some things. Not yet."

"Why not?"

Carter paused as the words started to form on his lips. He was thinking clearly, finally, and let it slip. It wasn't much, but for some reason just saying it lifted the weight off his shoulders just enough to make the rest of the day and maybe even future days tolerable. "Because people's lives are in danger," he said quietly as close to DeRaad's face as he felt comfortable getting.

"Just who would that be, John?" DeRaad stepped back a few inches to eek in some fresh air around Carter's stale post-vomit breath. "Do you see these people?"

"Look," Carter sighed as he winced away the predictable shrink response, "talking about people who have died - who have been killed - won't bring them back. It will only cause more problems for people close to me and possibly make an unstable country more volatile than it already is."

"You think people are out to get you, John? Is that what your dreams are about?"

"It's not paranoia when it's really happening. And no, it's not me they want."

"They?" DeRaad wondered about his stability. Carter was convincing, but sometimes the most delusional are also the most persuasive. "Have you been experiencing black outs? Suddenly unaware of your surroundings?"

"No." Carter rolled his eyes and cocked his head. "I knew that you… Listen, Carl…, Luka and I got tangled up in some really dark rebel activities. Do you believe me?"

"It's certainly real to you. I believe that."

"Oh, brother. Here we go," Carter mumbled as he looked up at the ceiling in disbelief. "What I've told you may sound delusional, but that's only because you don't know everything.

"I can get you as much help as you need, John."

Carter laughed out loud. "Not the right kind, Carl. Look, if it was all in my head, would Luka be sharing my paranoia?" Their eyes met as Carter nodded. "Trust me, okay?"

As Carter put on his doctor-face and blended in with the daily flow of life in the corridor, DeRaad stayed behind in Exam-2, close mouthed, and almost not even wanting to know what happened. Everything the Psychiatrist had learned and subsequently taught made him want to throw Carter into a Psych ward for a couple weeks. But something inside believed him.

By the end of his shift, Carter felt as though he'd done a whole big bunch of nothing, but that was alright with him. He was occupied, even if it was with chart review and inventory. And as he shot hoops outside in the ambulance bay, he made mental notes of just how stupid he had been the previous night.

"How's your shot?" DeRaad asked. Overcoat on, he was on his way home, briefcase in hand.

"It's been better… and worse."

"I bet. Here are your keys," he said, taking Carter's car keys out of his pocket. "I think Susan rather enjoyed babysitting the Jag. Check your spot in the parking garage. And I've seen her drive. Check for dings too."

"Okay," he laughed, just a little. He had seen Susan drive too.

"John, who do you talk to? I mean besides me."

Carter shrugged his shoulders and threw another ball. Nothing but net.

"And the last time you had a girlfriend?"

"I don't know. Year ago maybe." Stopping the ball under his foot, Carter rested his hands on his hips. "There have been a couple occasions where, ya know, I've… but it was all for the wrong reasons. And frankly, Old Johnson here can't seem to stand at attention lately."

"I don't think it's your meds - it's a low dose. You took them before and didn't experience prolonged impotence. Not saying it's not a possibility, just that I think that what's going on in your head has a whole lot more to do with it."

"Yeah. Maybe." He took a couple more shots hoping that DeRaad would take the hint and leave. When he didn't, Carter decided to finally ask a question. "What do you suppose brought all this on after five months?"

"Sense memories. We've talked about this. Putting yourself in an environment that triggers the repressed memories. For some people it's smells, others it's sounds or sights. For you, just the mention of a name brought it on. But you're dealing with it - getting it under control."

Carter nodded in agreement.

"Here." DeRaad gave Carter the two vials of meds Susan had confiscated from him the night before as well as a prescription. "Thirty days of your anti-depressant, but no more sleep aid. Let's see if you can do without after these last few are gone."

"I agree."

"Today is Friday. Come see me Monday so we can work out a schedule. Okay?" Carter nodded again. "Good. See you then."

Carter spied Artie and Bobby standing outside in the bay leaning up against the far wall. Bobby getting his smoke, Artie along for the ride.

"Shift over?" Kerry asked as she too took leave for the day.

"Just about."

"What did you do to your arm?" she asked, pointing at the adhesive and gauze still over the IV site.

"Ah, sort of self inflicted I guess."

"You'll be relieved to know that your drug tests came back negative."

"I should be relieved? I think you got that backwards."

"Listen, John," she countered as though not even hearing Carter's hint of absurdity, "I know you're going through some difficult times, so if you want to take some time to decompress I can arrange it for you."

"Decompress? Thanks," he gave her as he squared himself up to take another shot, "but I'm doing fine."

As Kerry walked off, Artie approached Carter, Bobby close behind.

"She scares me," Artie said with a shaky voice.

"Ha! She's hot!" Bobby lit another cigarette and leaned against the basketball pole all cool-like. "Wonder if she takes that crutch to bed. Kinky."

"That's enough," Carter reprimanded as he saw how uncomfortable Artie was.

"What, you telling me you don't think of that babe when you, ya know, spank the old monkey?"

Carter left the ball where it rolled by the wall and walked into the slacker's face. "Bobby, go home, your mommy's calling you."

Tossing his butt on the ground, Bobby walked back into the hospital one snit short of a tantrum.

"How did you do that?" Artie asked amazed with Carter.

"You just have to stand up for yourself, Artie. Don't let him push you around." He tossed the ball to Artie. "Come on, let's shoot some hoops."

"No. I'm no good."

"Neither am I. Come on," he prodded pointing to the basket. Artie's ball didn't make it to the rim, but close enough for Carter to give him a pat on the back. "You have to follow through with your hand," he told him showing him how to shoot. "Artie, I understand you know where Dr. Luka and Nurse Sam went on vacation."

"It's a secret. Can't tell anyone."

"Not even me?"

"Nope."

"Happy May Day," Sam announced as she exited the house with a large basket. "I made some sandwiches. Thought we'd check out the camp and have dinner up there."

"Walking?" asked Luka.

"Oh yeah," Sam answered as she started walking down the sloped driveway. Skate Creek Road forked in at the bottom of the drive just before the main road and somewhat paralleled it "It's only about a half mile up, and cars usually get stuck."

"Don't cars ever go by the house here?"

"If they do, they belong to cousins."

Amanda and Alex stopped at the bottom of the drive and squatted down, marveling at the ant hills that were nestled into the cracks of the decades old blacktopped surface.

"Eww," Alex whined. "Do you suppose they bite?"

"How about you stick your hand in there and see?" Amanda whispered to him so the grown-ups wouldn't hear.

"How about you do that," Alex countered, swiftly grabbing her wrist and shoving her hand into the small sand hill. But as she did nothing but coldly stare into his face, her hand crawling with ants, Alex let go and backed off.

"What's wrong, Luka?" Sam had to move her legs a bit faster to keep up with him as they made their way down the dirt road.

"The sounds," he answered looking intently at the ground as he continued on. "I don't like the… the sounds."

"What sounds?" Sam looked around trying to pick up what Luka was hearing. "I don't hear anything."

"The crackling in the woods. The trees… the…" Luka finally stopped and realized his head had been somewhere else. "Never mind. It's nothing. Let's go."

The camp consisted of a simply built cabin with a screened in porch facing the pond. Most of the area was shaded by the dense foliage letting the sunlight dapple in, spotting the earth like a patchwork quilt. The kids were quick to find the crudely built row boat and took it out for a go around in the still water while Luka and Sam sat on an old log watching them.

"He's okay, Luka."

"Who?" he asked, knowing full well.

"Carter."

"I know." Luka sat up straight, then stood slowly turning around to check the landscape.

"What?"

"Someone's here. Watching us."

"Come on. Your body just isn't used to being out here."

"Hey chickadee," a voice called out from the woods near the pond overflow. "Don't let them kids get near the old beaver dam here." Uncle George appeared from behind a row of tall pine trees. "I parked on Browns Falls and cut through. Last time I tried to get my wife's Chrysler up Skate Creek it got stuck and stayed there for three weeks until the road dried out." He made his way over to the log and propped his leg on the end, lighting a cigarette. "There's dynamite sealed in plastic in that old dam," he said secretively before taking another long, hard drag. "Now don't get all liberal animal loving on me. Them beavers vacated that dam last year, but now it's just keeping the water in the pond stagnating it. A couple good rains and it will flood the camp then collapse and flood the main road, Browns Falls, taking a shit load of years old dead timber with it. I figure as soon as you leave I'm going to clear out the woods and let her blow."

"The road wouldn't be impassable," Luka said. "We got here without getting to this end."

"Yeah, but you came the front way. It's faster for you. Think of this as a horseshoe and the main house is closer to the front end than the other. Those folks that live on the other half usually come in by the back way. But since rescue comes from Star Lake near the front end, if Browns Falls gets cut off, they'd have to go all the way down Route 3 to Edwards and wiggle their way in the back way. Take a whole lot longer. That's why you guys came the way you did. It's a lot shorter and you didn't have to cross the one lane bridge over the Oswegatchie river."

"Anybody ever come up here to the camp?" Sam asked as she and Luka followed George to the cabin.

"Nah. Not really. The wife and I will camp out here when it gets real hot in the summer. It's a lot cooler here with all the shade."

"You don't lock the door?" Luka asked as George walked straight in.

"Nope. Nobody's got any business being on posted land, and if someone finds themselves lost then I'd rather they walk in than break in. Nothing valuable up here anyway."

"Hey," Alex yelled running in the cabin, "look what I found."

"Well don't that beat all," George exclaimed. "Guess I left that out by the brush pile last fall."

"Put it down, Alex," Luka demanded.

"It's just an old dull machete," George tried to excuse.

"I've seen what old dull machetes can do. Now put it down."

George reached over and took the machete from Alex and surveyed the wear on it. "See, it's dull but had a lot of use over the years. These things are strong, don't chip away like picks and axes."

"Only when they hit bone," Luka added as he closed his eyes, his mind awash with frightening memories.

The most dramatic conflicts are perhaps, those that take place not between men but between a man and himself -- where the arena of conflict is a solitary mind. -Clark Moustakas, Humanistic Psychologist