CONTINENTAL DRIFT
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration

(Post-"Now What?")

Chapter Three: Hop, Skip, Jump


Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent)

Summary: A change of pace, a new locale, the adventure begins. More missing moments plus my personal all-time favorite Carby kiss.

Disclaimer: Of course, I claim no rights to the ER characters etc.

Author's Note: I want to thank everyone who found the time to read the other massive chapters of this story and then took a few moments more to write a comment. I read every one of your kind remarks, and some of you have written comments far more beautiful than I could ever write. You take my breath away.

Health professionals and medical students: I ask your patience about the medicine in this chapter. I do research, but I am no pro.

Thanks to those who offered needed encouragement over the last 48 hours.

CARTER AWOKE BEFORE dawn in the dark Paris hotel room. From his pillow, he could see a strip of hallway light that squeezed under the door. From the other side came the voices of travelers pretending to be considerate of sleeping guests by speaking in loud whispers that echoed through the hall and woke them all the same.

He looked to his left and saw the back of Abby's head. She was fast asleep, evidenced by her slow, rhythmic breathing. She was clad in white panties and his borrowed white t-shirt. She must have put them back on in the middle of the night because the last thing he remembered before sleep overtook him were her faintly tanned arms, legs, and chest and the creamy whiteness of her naked breasts and torso. The T-shirt had hiked up around her waist during the night. It left her bottom section bare except for her panties, which did not come up high enough to hide the tiny tattoo at the base of her back—well that's where she said it was. Anyone could plainly see it was practically on the roundness of her buttock.

Carter, on the other hand, slept naked beneath the sheets. His drawstring pants were on the floor near the bed—just where he dropped them when he removed them to be close to her. He was unhappy with himself about the night before. His frustration and disappointment didn't excuse what he did, which was make love to her while he kept his feelings locked away. Ashamed as he was, all he could think of now was dressing quickly and leaving before she awoke—before he looked in her eyes and wanted to do it again.

From the moment Carter changed his mind about proposing to Abby, he started focusing on the worst in their relationship rather than the best. Before that evening, he was blinded to anything but her beauty, her spirit, her body, her touch, and her vulnerability. Now when he looked at her, he saw a woman who could reject him on a moment's notice. A woman he couldn't make happy. A woman who couldn't be relied on to stay away from alcohol. A woman who was afraid to have children—afraid of everything, really—except pain. Abby had a very cozy relationship with pain.


WHEN HE JOINED her on the steps of her building that cold night, she requested he not ruin her "perfect smoke" by asking about her family. Her plans to rehabilitate her mentally ill brother by salvaging the sibling bond were thwarted when Eric and Maggie fled Chicago, leaving Abby helpless—her role as their savior shattered, her view of herself in tatters. The look on her face was frightening—so much pain swathed in so much sarcasm. She deflected his affection, and it hit him painfully in the face.

Her last bit of hope for peace gone, she announced, "Cancel Christmas," and walked into her apartment building. She seemed not to care whether he followed or not, as if she were so filled with pain that if he hurt her too by not coming upstairs, she wouldn't notice.

But follow her he did. When he entered, he saw her from across the room in the bathroom. She stared at her face in the mirror, hating herself for allowing her family to pulverize her time and time again. He walked up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pressed his lips to her head.

"Let them work this out their own way. You just concentrate on yourself for once."

She thought to herself: Who am I if I'm not busy picking up their pieces?

"Leave me alone, please." She wriggled out from under his grasp.

"I'm hungry," he tried. "Let's get something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Come on, I'm starving!" he pleaded, hoping to distract her from her pain.

He should have known better.

She whipped around to face him. "You're starving?" she asked. Her bitter tone cut like a cold wind. She stormed over to the refrigerator, removed an old pizza box from two nights before, and threw it on the table. It slid almost to the opposite edge and stopped.

"Be my guest." She stood, arms crossed, her weight defiantly on one hip, her words biting, her attitude like barbed wire. She was daring him to leave, daring him to walk away from her like everyone else.

Why did he stay and let her humiliate him? Her eyes. They screamed with pain, desperate with fear and loneliness.

He walked over to her and took her face in his hands. She tried to let the tears roll down her face. She tried to unclench her arms and wind them around him. She tried to rest her head on his chest. But she couldn't bring tenderness to the surface again and risk getting hurt.

"Let go of me, please. I need to be alone for a while."

It would take a lot more than his hands on her cheeks to make her pain go away. Instead, he was dismissed from her premises, destined to feel like a distant bystander.

CARTER TOOK OUT a pen and his checkbook and reached for a notepad. Then he quickly gathered his scattered belongings and packed them in his bag. Before he walked out, he stopped to look at Abby's sleeping form once more. With his index finger he swooped a piece of highlighted hair from her face. He surprised himself when he leaned down to kiss her head and breathe her in once more. She smelled soft like a baby, and he would carry her fragrance with him as long as he could. He took advantage of Abby's dream state to say three words he always meant to say—and a fourth he never imagined he would.

"I love you," he whispered against her temple. "Good-bye."

She had surely broken his heart, and he didn't have the strength to fix it. He picked up his bag and left, closing the door behind him.


 ABBY COULD FEEL the emptiness in the room even before she opened her eyes half an hour later. She knew he wasn't there. When she did open her eyes, she saw a note on the nightstand:

"I took care of the room. Get home safely. Take this for your trouble."

Folded into the note was a check large enough to cover the round trip ticket from Chicago to Paris—and then some.

There were no words of affection, no acknowledgement that just hours before they were touching. And so her body flushed with rage from head to toe. Even her loneliest moments with Luka and angriest moments with Richard did not hurt this way.

Abby admired Carter from the time they met. She wanted to be as skillful as he was, and she appreciated the kindness he offered in her first days in the ER. But lightning-fast he was struck down and fell into a tunnel of his own making. Though she was with Luka, she had a hand in helping him find the man he once was. Slowly they became friends. Soon she noticed that while her nights with Luka were lonely, her days in the ER with Carter were fun. Her nights with Luka were tense, and her days were carefree. With Luka she was silent and reserved, but with Carter she shared and chatted. With Luka she was "not that pretty" and "not that special," but Carter made her feel . . . so . . . beautiful. Soon his voice sounded like love to her—but her fears made her run ever closer to Luka. But months later—long after Luka renounced her ("Carter can have you!")—she was finally in his arms.

When Abby was with Carter, she never enjoyed sex more or silence more. Nothing made her feel better than when he held her and kissed her. And everything hurt less from the first time she buried her face against his chest and discovered the comfort he kept hidden in the folds of his sweater. Abby was in love. She was deeply in love.

But they made mistakes, and with their own hands they dug a canyon of disappointment between them—he by not telling her what he needed and she by giving her body when he yearned for her soul. She tried—she just didn't know how to lean on him, how to love him, or how to make him feel needed. She deserved his disappointment—but not his harshness.

The money enraged her—as if a check would make them even for him leaving her twice in the ambulance bay and now in a Paris hotel room. She decided then she would go to the airport and find him, return his money, and get on the first plane heading anywhere toward the United States. Her jaw set hard, she dressed, lifted her bag, and started for the airport.

Brrrring. Brrrrrrrrrrring.

Before Abby could reach the door, the telephone rang. She picked up the beige phone on the nightstand.

"Hello?"

Only a dial tone spoke back. The ringing continued. Abby walked around the small room, circling the bed in search of the sound. She reached under the covers and dug deep and finally unearthed Carter's cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Carter, please." The woman's voice asked for him in French-tinged English.

"Uhhhhh. I'm sorry he's not here right now."

"This is Bernadette Dumont from the Alliance du Medicin. It's important that I get in touch with him."

"Well, I don't know how—"

"We believe we have located Dr. Kovac alive outside of Matenda."

Luka's alive? She let it sink in for a moment.

"He's alive?" Abby confirmed.

"We have reason to believe he is."

Relief overwhelmed her—until she realized that Carter was on his way nonetheless.

"With whom am I speaking?" asked the woman at the other end of the phone.

"My name is Abby Lockhart. I'm Dr. Carter's gir—" Her steel shell snapped shut.

"Do you know how I can get in touch with him?" said the woman on the other end.

"Dr. Carter is on his way to Kinshasa—to find Dr. Kovac."

"Please tell him to call me immediately. Merci."

"But—"

It was too late. The woman hung up, and the cell phone screen went dark.

She closed Carter's phone and dropped it into the pocket of her off-white jacket. She would give it back to him when she caught up to him in the airport.

ABBY WISHED CARTER had left her cash—it took all the francs she exchanged at the hotel to pay for the taxi to de Gaulle. No longer a stranger to the Paris airport, Abby headed straight for the video monitors to look for Carter's Air France flight to Kinshasa. There were only two flights: One leaving at 7:40 a.m., and another at 8:50 a.m. Both departed from Gate 14. It was 7:06. She knew Carter intended to get the first flight out. But she'd need a ticket to get to him at the gate, so she headed quickly to the Air France counter. A very long line of determined travelers beat her there. Abby joined them as the minutes ticked away. At 7:27 Abby reached the head of the line and purchased a ticket for the first available flight to Chicago—it wasn't until 3:00 in the afternoon. She grabbed the ticket and ran for Gate 14. She arrived at 7:41, just as the doors were closing.

"Wait! Please—" she asked the woman crouched behind the counter fiddling with a printing machine. When she stood up, Abby saw it was the same attendant who paged Carter for her the night before.

"I really need to talk to somebody on that flight."

"I'm sorry, once the doors are sealed—"

"Please, I'm looking for Dr. John Carter. I really need to—"

"Hey, didn't I page him for you last night?"

"Uhhh, yes," Abby admitted.

"Didn't he find you?"

"Yes, he found me."

"Did you lose him again?" the woman teased.

Abby thought a minute. "Yes, I guess I lost him again."

"Bad timing, huh?"

Abby nodded, and the woman gave a sympathetic smile.

Abby had an idea: "You know, he may not have gotten on this flight. Do you think you could page him for me again? Maybe he is somewhere in the airport."

"Look, I remember him from yesterday. Tall American? Big duffle bag? Brown hair, strong nose—cute?"

Abby could only nod; the picture she painted made her yearn for him even through her anger.

"Well, I'm not supposed to say . . . but I think the page is a waste of time."

"Are you saying he got on this flight?"

"Like I said, I wouldn't bother to page him."

Abby understood.

She looked out as the Boeing 747 carrying Carter to Africa crawled away from the gate. She walked to the large window, leaned her forehead against the glass, and watched as the plane made its way toward the take-off strip. She stood there until it built up speed and lifted off the ground. She stepped back from the window and caught her own reflection in the glass as he disappeared into the clouds. The feeling of being left behind was becoming all too familiar to Abby.

What a disaster this whole idea was. She came all this way, and she was going home farther apart from him than before. And he was still headed for danger—

THUD!

Abby was startled by a sound at her feet. She jumped backward and looked down to see a woman on the floor. She was probably in her early thirties, with pretty dark tendrils at the sides of her face. "Oh no, please don't be sick," Abby thought.

Abby leaned over her: "Ma'am . . . uh . . . miss . . . uh . . . mad . . . madame?"

With no response, Abby dropped to her knees.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Abby brought her ear close to the woman's mouth to make sure she was breathing. She placed her fingers on the woman's wrist. Her pulse was weak and rapid, and her skin was pale and clammy. Abby feared she was in shock.

"Somebody call 9-1-1!" Abby yelled, and then wondered if they knew of the 9-1-1 emergency system in France. "An ambulance," she changed it to. "Somebody please call an ambulance!"

"No, I'm okay." The woman suddenly managed to speak in English that was heavily accented with French.

"I think we should get some help for you."

"I'm fine, really." The woman said and began to stand. "I have touch of low blood sugar. Runs in my family. I just need to go home and eat, that's all."

Abby helped her up: "Are you sure? Your pulse is racing."

"No, thank you." And the woman brushed herself off and quickly ran for the exit.

"Sophie?"

Another woman came up, stopped next to Abby, and called after the woman.

"Sophie!"

The woman, blond and older by several years, shook her head from side to side, folded her arms across her chest, and let out a big sigh.

"I knew she'd chicken out," she said.

"She seemed sick or upset," Abby said.

"Maybe—but she didn't really want to go where we're going anyway." She turned to Abby. "I saw what you did. Thanks for trying to help." She held out her hand. "I'm Claire."

"Abby."

"Have you seen, Sophie?" The male voice that came from behind Abby was smooth and deep; the tone caring and concerned. Abby turned around and saw an attractive man in his late thirties with soft dirty blond hair. He had light green eyes with long dark lashes, and creamy tanned skin. Through a few wind-blown strands of blond hair she could see a scar across his temple that made its way from his hairline to the corner of his left eye.

Abby was taken back by his strong presence.

"Sophie's gone," said Claire. "She ran out of here. This is Abby, she tried to help—"

"She fell, and I took her pulse, that's all," Abby explained modestly.

"Are you a doctor?" the man asked her.

"No, I am a nurse."

"So am I," said Claire. "Sophie is a nurse, too. We are traveling with the Alliance du Medecin. We're on our way to Africa. This is Dr. Albrecht."

"Damon," he said, holding out his hand. "Damon Albrecht."

"Nice to meet you, " Abby said. "The Alliance du Medicin? I know it well," Abby said. "It's a great cause."

"It's a wonderful organization," the handsome doctor said, "We travel all over the world."

"Dangerous places," Abby added, glancing at his scar.

"Certainly—In fact, this trip I am covering for a doctor that's missing right now."

"A friend of mine is missing, and my b— . . . and someone else I know went to find him," Abby said.

"Who's in trouble?"

"Dr. Kovac. Luka Kovac."

"We know Luka!" The nurse exclaimed. "Sorry to hear about him."

"I'm Kovac's replacement," Albrecht said.

Abby needed a minute to swallow the coincidence.

"Look, our flight's not boarding yet. Can we buy you a cup of coffee for trying to help our colleague?" Albrecht asked.

"Umm . . . Sure, I guess so. Thanks," Abby replied.

"SO WHO DID you say went to look for Kovac?" Claire asked as the three sat in the snack bar sipping bad coffee from paper cups.

"John Carter. Do you know him?" Abby asked.

"Heard of him from the Alliance," answered Albrecht. "I heard he was good, but I haven't met him. Then again, I haven't been to the Congo for nine months or so."

"I know him," Claire said. "I was here about three weeks ago, and I ran into Carter. Good guy. He and Luka are . . . were . . . close."

"Actually, this morning the Alliance tried to contact Carter. They seem to think Luka may be alive. That's why I am trying to track down Carter."

"Well, that's great news. I hope you find him. But I'm glad you're going to be there for whatever reason now that Sophie's not. We can use all the help we can get," said Claire.

"Oh, I'm not going to the Congo," Abby laughed.

"I just assumed—you were at our gate . . ." Claire responded, a bit confused.

"Oh no, not me."

"That's tough because we could sure use the help . . ." she said, clearly disappointed.

"Believe me, I'm like Sophie—I don't have the stuff."

"Really? I saw you from across the room with Sophie. You moved like a doctor," Albrecht interjected.

"No, I just . . . no, I never even considered it."

"Well, we are short a nurse. Why don't you consider it now?" Claire suggested.

"Go with you? To Africa? I couldn't. I'm sorry."

"Please, we are so short-handed. We are desperate for help," Claire pleaded.

"No . . . I-I'm sorry. It's just too short notice. There's my job . . . my apartment . . . I should have really canceled my newspaper delivery before I came to Paris—"

"Aw. Come on!" Claire encouraged.

"Really, I'm not much of a traveler . . . I'm not even enrolled in the program."

"I can take care of that in a phone call. This is an emergency situation," offered Albrecht.

"I don't have a ticket . . . and I probably need some special inoculations."

"If anybody can pull some strings, Damon can," Claire said.

Abby was running out of excuses. To her own amazement, she started toying with the idea.

Albrecht clinched it. "Come on, you can meet up with your friend and do some good in the world, too." He touched her hand. "Please."

His green eyes stared at her. Abby's stomach twittered a little at his touch. She had to look away because he gazed at her so intensely.

"Am I crazy?" She thought to herself. "I am crazy."

At 8:52 THE DOORS of the aircraft were sealed shut and there was no turning back. As they crept into the sky, the sites of Paris grew smaller, and reality set in. Abby wasn't on her way to a motel in Oklahoma or a diner in Nebraska. She was going to Africa to—you know—help people. And if she happened to run into Carter, she'd tell him about Luka and return his cell phone. However, she'd be sure to give him a piece of her mind and tell him that their relationship was over. She would make sure he knew how furious she was and that she—

It was no use. She was kidding herself. The only thing Abby wanted to tell Carter was that she loved him. All she wanted from him was his word that he wouldn't leave her again. And this time, she wanted him to mean it.


SHE SHOULD HAVE known. She should have seen it coming. This is how he protects himself—he retreats. He did it that evening on the El when they argued about her drinking. Earlier, when she sensed his anger, she offered him a dinner of burgers and shakes and tempted him that he might "get lucky." But as the train pulled into the station in the midst of their quarrel, Abby begged him not to get on. She pleaded with him to stay and work things out. But even she knew that "work things out" meant "see things my way." Despite her pleas, he was able to shut off his feelings and step on that train and leave her standing there alone.

He didn't stay away from her for long. He couldn't. He waited for her to arrive home and surprised her as she climbed the steps to her apartment building. He apologized for walking away from her, explaining that he needed some time to figure out "where we were."

Abby stepped down to met him halfway and announced, "Here we are." Her sweet smile captivated him, and somehow they both knew this relationship was a keeper.

"Come on up. Are you hungry?" she said.

"Your treat, right?"

"What?"

"Your offer—burgers and shakes, remember?"

She laughed.

"Come on," he said and took her hand. They walked down the steps to a café around the corner, which they'd visited many times. They ate at a small round table for two in a corner against a red brick wall. They sat with their knees touching, hers fitting perfectly in the little space his made.

The waiter brought them each a burger and set the plates down in front of them.

"Susan went out with a venture capitalist," Abby told him as she lifted the top of her bun.

On cue, Carter reached for the ketchup and uncapped it. "From cowboy to venture capitalist?" He laughed and poured the perfect amount for Abby on her exposed hamburger (four drops equally spaced) and then poured his (a thick circular ribbon of red). "She like him?"

"Nope, but as she's telling me . . ." Abby paused to take a big bite of her burger, chewed, and then continued. "She's says 'do you think Chen's okay?' I look over and I see Chen dive off the stage and surf the crowd!" Abby giggled and reached for her chocolate shake.

"Deb?" Carter laughed in disbelief. He took a big bite of his burger, and a little ketchup oozed onto the corner of his mouth.

"Yes! I thought Susan was going to fall off her chair laughing," she answered still chuckling. She reached across the table and with her pinky she wiped the bit of ketchup from his mouth and onto her napkin in one quick move.

They finished their meal, joking and enjoying each other's company. He went to pay the bill, but she insisted it was her treat.

They walked back to her apartment and up the stairs.

"Where's the rest of my offer?" he said as he lifted her ponytail and placed several small kisses along the back of her neck as she unlocked the door.

"Rest of your offer?" she asked, hunching her shoulders against his ticklish kisses.

"You said I'd get lucky." He moved his kisses to just behind her earlobe. One hand crept around her waist from behind and pulled her close.

"I said maybe you'd get lucky—and we're out in the hall, by the way." She looked around to see if her neighbors had spied them. She pretended to be disturbed by his indiscretion, but in truth it excited her.

The door fell open, and they entered. "What are my odds?" he asked.

"About a million to one." She yawned and slipped off her jacket as she kicked off her shoes. "All that arguing today made me tired." She retreated to her room, stretching her arms in the air.

"Okay," he laughed. "But I want a rain check."

"Do I owe you a rain check?" she smirked as she closed her bedroom door behind her.

Carter used her bathroom, took a drink of water from the kitchen, then sat on the couch and checked the messages on his cell phone. When he was through, he closed his phone and yelled to her.

"Abby, I'm going head home tonight. Gamma wants me to stop by in the morning," he said tinkering with his cell phone. "She's got some symphony project she wants to talk about. Okay?"

Hearing no response, he looked up toward her bedroom door.

"Abby?"

He stood up from the couch.

"Did you hear me? If you're going to bed, I'm going to head home."

She didn't answer and he walked toward her bedroom door.

"Abby?"

He nudged the door open with his fingertips and stepped into her room. It was pitch black, and he could see nothing. Even the streetlights were blocked by her rarely drawn curtains.

"Abby?" he said quietly.

She came up behind him. The lightly scented shampoo she used that morning gave her away. He turned around. Even in the darkness, he could tell that she wore no clothes and that her hair was down from its ponytail and brushed smooth.

She nudged him backward toward her bed and gently pushed him down onto his back on top of the soft down comforter.

"What's this?" he asked, a knowing smiling breaking out on his face.

"Shhhhh," she answered as she kneeled on the bed next to him and reached for his tie. She unwound it, slid it from around his neck, and unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one pearl button at a time. She ran her hands over his skin and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

For almost an hour she touched him and teased him until he could take no more. And when he was through and breathing heavily with her head collapsed on his chest, he laughed and kissed her playfully. And she rolled away onto the pillow next to his.

However, he couldn't see in the darkness that the expression on her face changed completely. It grew dark.

"Don't do that again . . . okay?" she said.

"Do what?" he said, still out of breath.

"Walk away from me like you did today. Don't do it again."

"I'm sor—"

"Say you won't do it again."

"What's the mat—?"

"Say it."

He looked over at her and tried to see her eyes. Just then a truck passed on the street below. Its bright lights squeezed through her blinds for an instant just enough to illuminate her eyes. They were moist.

"I mean it," she said.

He rolled over onto her. She felt him trace her mouth with his fingertip. And he brought his lips close to hers until they were not quite touching, and he whispered against them, "I won't leave you like that again." Then he pressed his lips against hers in a long, slow kiss that made her body weak and her eyes drift closed. His mouth moved tenderly over hers, his head following, his eyes closed, his breathing steady and warm against her cheek. And the only sounds in the world to her were the barely audible crackles that their mouths made when their lips parted and came together and parted again to form their kiss. When finally he lifted his lips from hers, he whispered once again, "I won't leave you." He left her breathless.

Abby slid out from under him, walked naked into the bathroom, and closed the door. He didn't see her again for a while. That's because behind the door, she sat on the edge of the tub, gripping it with white knuckles, and trembled at how close she came to losing him that evening.

BUT CARTER DID walk away from her again—and again, and now once more.

Damon Albrecht's voice broke into her thoughts.

"Here is your passport back," he said as he opened it to make sure he was getting her name right. "Abigail Lockhart." And handed it to her. He had borrowed it to help get her emergency credentials to travel with the group.

"At the customs desk in Kinshasa there'll be a representative from the Alliance with an emergency visa for you. When we get to the hospital in Kisangani, we'll inoculate you, and you'll be all set," he explained casually.

Abby took a deep breath and shuddered a little as she let it out.

"May I?" He pointed to the empty seat next to her. There were, in fact, many empty seats on the plane, as she found out later there was a U.S. State Department warning against travel to the war-torn Congo. Indeed, many nations imposed travel restrictions to their destination.

"Yes—and it's Abby."

"Thank you, Abigail."

She looked at him.

"Such a beautiful name should not go to waste," he stated.

"Where are you from?" His slight accent was unfamiliar to her.

"I am from Vaduz."

It didn't ring a bell for Abby.

"Liechtenstein—Vaduz is our capital."

"I never met anyone from Liechtenstein before."

"It's very tiny but very beautiful. You should visit one day."

"Visit Liechtenstein? Maybe. I can't believe I made it to Paris—and I'll have to pinch myself when we land in Africa."

"Don't be silly. It's going to be wonderful."

As he spoke she glanced at the scar next to his eye. A few soft blond strands of his hair fell across it.

He noticed.

"It is a dangerous place, Kisangani. But you'll be okay. I'll make sure."

Seven hours later, the plane landed in the Congolese capital of Kinshasa. As promised, Abby's emergency visa was waiting at the customs office—a small room off the main gate area heavily guarded by soldiers with bayonets. She quickly retrieved it with Claire and Albrecht, and they ran to board a propeller plane that would transport them to the smaller city of Kisangani.

From the low-flying aircraft, Abby was able to see the natural beauty of Africa that Carter described. She stared at the lush greenery but saw nothing that resembled a city for miles.

The peacefulness of the scenery from up in the clouds belied the chaos she fell into when the door opened in Kisangani.

Hoards of people crowded the tiny airport. Screaming infants and joyous greeters drowned out the loudspeaker. Soldiers with bayonets lined the airport walls. Bright sunshine poured into the one large waiting room. It was hot—very hot—and Abby struggled to remove her jacket. It got caught on something as she headed for the exit with Claire and Albrecht. "Hold on!" Abby shouted to them, and she tugged at her jacket until she saw it was caught on the bayonet tip of a soldier's weapon. She froze. He released it and smiled at her. Abby tried to smile back, but instead, she ran.

Outside a mud-smudged white van awaited, and the trio piled in. Abby sat in the middle row alone while Claire and Albrecht headed for the back of the vehicle. They introduced Abby to Angelique, who sat in the front passenger seat next to Guillaume, the driver. Claire explained that Angelique was in charge over at the hospital.

The journey to the hospital was over rough, semi-paved roads. The van was not air-conditioned so the windows remained open. The muffler of the vehicle was in disrepair, and so the engine roared with a deafening sound. The heat and turbulence made Abby's stomach turn, and she breathed deeply to control her nausea. She needed something to take her mind off her surroundings.

"Do you know Dr. John Carter?" Abby shouted to Angelique.

"Went to Matenda—there's a clinic there," Angelique shouted back. "He lost his friend around there." Abby noticed she did not bother to turn around to address her.

"So he's not at the hospital where we are going?" Abby felt disappointment wash over her like another wave of nausea—only the disappointment felt worse.

Angelique shouted back: "Not right now. He left with Gillian and Debbie just before we came to pick you up."

"Gillian and Debbie?"

"Yes, Gillian is a nurse from Montreal. She and Dr. Kovac are . . . good friends," Angelique answered.

Luka was "more than fine," Carter had said. I bet he was, Abby smirked.

"Debbie's with the International Red Cross," Angelique continued. "She knows these parts better than most of the population. She's an American too, like Dr. Carter."

"Little bump!" the driver warned just as the van crossed over a deep round hole in the road. They hit hard, and Abby bounced from her seat and whacked her head against the frame of the door.

"Ouch!" She yelled and rubbed her head. "Don't suppose you could have driven around that, huh?" she mumbled.

The van bounced along the dirt road leading to the hospital and came to a rough stop.

"Come with me," Angelique said to Abby. Claire and Albrecht wished her luck and proceeded to get settled. Meanwhile, Angelique gave Abby her required inoculations and a quick orientation.

The hospital outside of Kisangani was an unsightly edifice of aluminum and cinder block that emerged among trees—there were no parking lots, no signs, no place to get coffee. Three wooden steps led from the outside directly into the main ward. It had a high ceiling and slowly spinning fans suspended from it. There were two long rows of beds, with men, women, and children mixed together. Off the main ward to the right were a few smaller rooms: a trauma room, which doubled as the O.R., plus a supply closet and a sort of storage room, which was lit more adequately than the trauma room as it turned out. The room held broken beds and extra mattresses. The next door led to a large cafeteria for the staff. To the left of the main ward was a small isolation ward, with its own set of rickety steps and a screen door leading to the outside. Also off the main ward on the left was small hallway leading to the AIDS clinic, a large room overflowing with patients.

Situated to the right of the main hospital was a small colony of bungalows, where the visiting staff lived. Each was a simple wooden structure about 15 feet square with a bed, a wicker chest of drawers containing clean bed linens, and a small bathroom with sink, toilet and shower—which was really just a pipe overhead and a mechanism to make it spill water over one's head. Any other decoration—lamps, wall art, rugs etc., were courtesy of the previous tenant. There were a dozen or so bungalows —six and then six more directly across from those. Carter had been in No. 2, Abby was informed, while she was put in 5. She didn't know much else, other than Damon Albrecht was across from Carter in 11.

"Put your belongings down and come help in the main ward," Angelique ordered. Abby entered her bungalow and dropped her bag on the bed. The only thing decorating her sparsely furnished dwelling was a small lamp with a paper lampshade bearing a black and yellow butterfly.

Abby fought the blinding late-afternoon sun and walked nervously to the main ward. She climbed the wooden steps and stood just inside momentarily allowing her eyes to adjust to the inside light and her heart to slow down a bit. Immediately, wails of anguish drowned her panic as two men carried a third into the door of the hospital. Their arms formed a chair in which the third man sat. His screams were well deserved, as Abby saw that the lower part of his right leg had been completed torn off below the knee by whatever trauma he'd suffered. A nurse whipped by Abby to help, practically spinning her around. Angelique followed, nearly knocking her aside, and then Albrecht was on top of them also.

"To the trauma room!" Angelique yelled. And they all moved off as a group, leaving Abby frozen in her spot.

In an instant, the man fell unconscious, and though Abby expected the shrieks to stop, they were immediately replaced by the shouts of a woman with a large pregnant belly yelling for help from outside the door at the base of the rickety wooden stairs. She was tall, in her mid-20s, Abby guessed, with smooth chocolate-colored skin.

"Bon jour!" The woman yelled, hoping to get someone's attention. "Bon jour!"

Abby looked around for someone to help, but all available hands were with the traumatic amputee. So she walked outside and assisted the woman into the main ward.

"Hey, I need some help over here!" Abby yelled as they came through the door.

No one responded. They were all preoccupied with the flurry of activity in the trauma room.

"Hey, can I get some help, pleeeeease?" Abby pleaded.

The woman let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Okay, breathe like this." Abby demonstrated the panting breathing common to Western women trained in Lamaze birth.

The woman tried her best to mimic Abby.

"That's right," Abby comforted her. "You're doing great." The woman screamed again.

"Ma'am, what is your name?" Abby said, trying to get her to focus on something other than her pain. "I'm Abby, what is your name?"

The woman understood Abby's English. Panting between syllables, she managed to get out, "Ni . . . co . . . lette."

"Ni-co-lette?" Abby mimicked her syllabication in an attempt to make sense of it. "Ni-co-lette," Abby kept repeating. "Oh, Nicolette! Is that right?"

"Oui." The woman smiled, comforted by Abby's attention and patience, but let out another scream that hurt Abby's ears.

"Nicolette, I'm going to help you, okay?"

Abby yelled in to Angelique. "Is there a bed that's free?"

"The floor," Angelique shouted back. "We're full—there is no bed to waste on a delivery. And we cannot spare a doctor for something nature takes care of by itself."

There was no time to argue, Abby helped the woman into the storage area off the main ward. It was fairly large and bright with a large open area in the center surrounded by a broken bed frame, a small high bed with bars that resembled a crib, and a broken ceiling fan on the floor. Abby grabbed an old mattress off a broken stretcher and helped the woman to the floor. Angelique leaned out of the trauma room, handed Abby sterile scissors, and pointed out the bowl of gloves. Then she tossed Abby a few towels, a stethoscope, and some advice: "Do the best you can."

Abby's heart was pounding, but she managed to compose herself and position the woman so she could examine her.

"Nicolette," Abby said as she tucked her own hair behind her ears and then stretched on her gloves. "I'm going to check the position of your baby."

The woman screamed with another contraction.

"Breathe, Nicolette, breathe like I showed you." And again Abby demonstrated the panting rhythm.

"Where is your husband? Is anybody with you?" Abby asked, trying to take the expectant mother's mind off her severe labor pains.

"I have no one but a sister. My husband . . ." She struggled to find the English word. " . . . est mort—dead," she clarified.

"Oh, I'm sorry. How long?"

"Two years."

Two years? The incongruity confused her for a moment but there wasn't time to wonder . . .

"Oh, no, you're crowning. Go ahead and—"

But before Abby could finish, the tiny baby emerged from the woman's body with barely a shove.

The little one wriggled and whimpered and then breathed normally, and finally Abby did also. She took the wet child in her arms, cut the cord with the scissors Angelique provided, and offered the tiny girl to her mother.

"Nicolette, you have a daughter."

There was no response.

"Nicolette!"

Abby shook the new mother. Her head wagged from side to side from the force of Abby's hands, but the woman was unconscious. Abby placed the baby on the mattress next to her mother and saw the pool of blood streaming from between the woman's legs. Her pulse was weak and rapid; her skin cold and clammy. Abby put the stethoscope against the woman's chest and heard her rapid heartbeat.

"Oh my God," Abby said out loud. "Oh my God,"

Abby grabbed Nicolette's hand and held her own finger against the base of the woman's thumbnail, pressing the pinkness out of it until only white remained. Abby watched for the pinkness to return. It didn't.

"Somebody help me! My patient's bleeding out!"

Abby tried desperately to prop up her legs to keep the blood near her major organs, but without surgery, she couldn't stop the bleeding, let alone tell where the bleeding was coming from.

The team in the trauma room was still busy working on the young soldier, and there were no available hands. Nicolette soon stopped breathing and her heart ceased beating, and Abby began CPR. But the woman's rapidly emptying heart had nothing left to pump. And as she lay dying, her eyes met Abby's.

"Nicolette, stay for your baby," Abby whispered through compressions.

Despite Abby's efforts, the new mother passed to her next life.

Abby leaned exhausted over the lifeless woman who now lay in a pool of her own blood. Too shaken to move, Abby's hands remained crossed over the woman's heart. Soon Abby's own breathing slowed and she grew cold and dizzy. But then the tiny life the woman bore began to shriek wildly and caught her attention. Abby finally removed her hands from the woman's chest and reached down and picked up the crying child. It was then that she realized she had delivered the most beautiful baby girl she'd ever seen. The infant had creamy pale cappuccino skin, the color of light coffee ice cream, with sweet tiny cherry lips. She had ten fingers and ten toes and little more than ten minutes of life, and she was already alone.

"She's beautiful." Abby heard Damon Albrecht's voice from behind her. In his hand he carried a metal bowl. He placed it on the floor next to her. The bowl contained warm water and a small, white washcloth.

"She has no mother or father," Abby responded as she reached in the bowl, squeezed the excess water from the cloth, and began to wash the brand-new baby.

"But she has life, and you helped give her that. In this place, that is no small feat."

Abby had no words.

"You handled the delivery like a pro—"

"For God's sake, the mother died!" Abby snapped back, suddenly managing to express her frustration. She was barely in Kisangani for an hour and a life in her care had already expired. She had failed this poor mother. This ill-equipped place had failed her. These people who called themselves nurses and physicians had failed her, Abby thought. She held the baby in one arm, and with the other, she closed the woman's eyes and stroked her head.

Albrecht signaled two young men to cover the woman's body and remove her. Then he sat down on the floor next to Abby. He took the washcloth from her hand, rinsed it in the bowl, and continued to wipe the baby clean while Abby held her in her arms.

"We got lucky in there. That soldier survived. But there aren't enough of us, Abigail. You'll find that out quickly here. There isn't enough of anything here. But you do the best you can. I meant what I said—you looked like a pro."

"I was an OB nurse before I worked in the ER. I was also a med student for a while."

"Med student?"

"Third year—but I couldn't resist the glamour of nursing."

"But you were almost a doctor . . . "

"Being overworked and underappreciated is more comfortable for me."

He smiled at her sarcasm. Their eyes met, but Abby quickly looked away.

"Seems to me you are a doctor, nonetheless."

She could tell he was looking at her and had to admit she felt a little calmer.

"She'll want to eat soon," Abby said as she cradled the baby. The infant girl instinctively turned her mouth toward Abby's breast and began to fuss. Abby could feel the baby's tiny nose nuzzling her nipple through her white V-neck top and flimsy bra. She adjusted her position, aware of Albrecht's eyes.

He said, "Perhaps we can find a wet nurse in the camps."

"Camps?" Abby asked.

"Refugee camps. They're all around here. Hundreds of thousands of people with no homes, their villages destroyed by this inane fighting. Most of the patients you'll see here are from the camps."

"Oh," Abby said, the realization of where she was beginning to set in.

"In the meantime, ask Angelique to release the storehouse of infant formula we keep for emergencies."

"What will they do with her mother?"

"They'll clean her up and bring her to the camps and try to find family or friends to bury her. Then they'll tell them about the baby, and maybe someone will come and claim her—but I wouldn't hold your breath."

"She has a sister."

"Even so—don't expect her to come."

"Why not? Wouldn't her family want her baby?"

He dropped the cloth back in the bowl, and rose to his knees. He plugged his stethoscope in his ears and gave a quick check of the baby in Abby's arms. "Yes, I'm sure they would want to help," he said. "The people here are very committed to home and family. But no one is anxious for another mouth to feed nowadays. I suspect they may think she is better off in the hands of the international aid community. So like I said, I wouldn't hold your breath for anyone to come for her."

He removed the scope from his ears. "She seems fine."

He reached up and handed Abby a small sheet from a pile on a nearby stretcher. Abby took it and wrapped the baby in it.

"I suggest you keep her in here—away from the general patient population."

"In here? It's just a . . . storage room."

"You don't suggest we put a brand-new healthy infant in with children suffering from malaria, cholera, pertussis—"

"I get it."

"She'll be right off the main ward in case she needs anything. You can put her in this." He grabbed the wheel of a small high bed and shook it to test its steadiness."

"They used to perform surgery on children in this."

Abby made a face.

"At least she won't fall out," Albrecht said, pointing out the low bars that surrounded the small mattress.

"Okay, thanks."

"I've got to go. I promised I'd check on an old patient of mine."

"House calls?"

He smiled modestly.

"I'll be back later. Get used to things, Abigail."

He gently caressed the satiny cheek of the brand-new infant with one finger of his sun-tanned hand. "Welcome to the world, Little One. Meet your guardian angel." He squeezed Abby's shoulder, rose to his feet, and left.

Alone now with the new baby, Abby couldn't resist the temptation to test the softness of the infant's skin by pressing her lips to the baby's forehead. Abby's kiss stirred the infant. Her arms and legs began to wriggle, and for the first time, her puffy newborn lids separated.

Her first sight on this earth was Abby's smile.

Next—

Chapter Four: A Rock to the Head