CONTINENTAL DRIFT
An Epic Overseas Carby
Exploration
(Post-"Now What?")
CHAPTER SEVEN: ReachRating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent).
Summary: Reunited—and it feels so good. Under a shower of bombs and bullets, Abby learns there are only two choices in a crisis: reach out or hide. Meanwhile, fire and smoke may be the least of Carter's challenges.
Disclaimer: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks.
Author's Note: There's comedy in ER, but ER's not a comedy. In fact, the characters we love experience a lot of drama, which ultimately helps them navigate their lives, and that's my intention here. I hope what they experience will free them of the things that haunt them and prevent them from being happy. So to those who are expecting the story to unfold in one way or another, know that life can change on a dime. Trust.
Thank you for taking the time to talk to me through notes and messages here and at boards we share.
CARTER REACHED TO take the baby from Abby. Even though she held out her arms to him, she gripped the infant tightly, confused for the moment by the smoke, the wails of the injured, and the echoes of the firefight from which they just emerged.
"Abby, give me the baby, okay?"
He tried to be understanding but had to move quickly.
"Abby, let me have the baby."
He gently cupped her face with his fingertips and squatted down to her.
"It's all right, you can let go now."
Carter firmly pried the injured infant from her arms and yelled for the best help he could find.
"Luka!"
Out in the main ward, a weak and tired Luka heard Carter's call and set the girl he was carrying down on her bed.
"You're going to be okay," he said to her and quickly checked the sutures that sealed the stump of her elbow. She lost the rest of her arm the week before in a skirmish near her village.
"I'll be back in a little while," Luka said with a wink.
"Luka!"
He followed Carter's cry to the storage room, where he saw him with an infant in one arm. With the other, Carter was trying to clear debris of a fallen ceiling fan from a small, high bed.
"Is there a neonatal intubation kit around?" Carter yelled as he brushed metal fragments from the little bed.
Luka stepped into the room and cleared the carcass of the dead fan. He swiftly lifted the tiny mattress and shook it free of bullet casings and paint chips and put it back on the bed. Carter placed the child on the mattress.
"No. I think Angelique has a pediatric mask—but it's still too big for an infant."
"Damn it, this one's needs an airway."
"How did a baby get in here?" Luka said as he quickly lifted Colette's tiny lids to look in her eyes.
Carter caught Luka's eye and nodded for him to look behind him. There stood Abby trembling. Her arms were crossed in front of her, hugging her own shoulders tightly.
"Abby?" Luka's soft tone didn't hide his surprise.
"I put her in here." Abby choked on the words as she looked up at the ceiling where rifle fire shook the fixture free.
Luka pulled off the baby's diaper and pressed on her belly. He glanced at Abby and quietly asked Carter, "What is she doing here?"
Carter shook his head. "I don't know," he said as he listened to the baby's chest with a stethoscope. "Damn it, no breath sounds. Can you hear anything?"
Luka grabbed his stethoscope, and as he plugged it in his ears, he said under his breath, "She can't stay here, John."
Luka listened carefully.
"Nothing," he said softly to Carter.
"Starting CPR." Carter pumped the baby's heart with his two middle figures and alternated with tiny puffs of air over her nose and mouth. Luka listened with his stethoscope for signs of progress.
Outside the room, the task of triaging victims of the fighting began to heat up.
"Sometimes babies survive blunt chest trauma better than adults because the rib cage is so flexible," Luka explained to Abby with his scope still to the baby's chest. "But if there is a rupture of the tracheobronchial tree . . ."
He shared a look with Carter that said the infant was likely already gone.
"Whose baby is this?" Carter asked Abby between puffs.
"I delivered her, but her mother bled out right in front of me."
"Any other family?"
"No one came for her," Abby said, her lip quivering. "I've been taking care of her."
"How did you get here?" he said, trying to understand. "I thought you were going home."
"I was, but in the airport I met Dr. Albrecht and some people with the Alliance. They were on their way here. They convinced me to come. I thought . . . I don't know . . . I thought maybe I could find you."
"Hold on," Luka said to Carter, who stopped CPR to let Luka get a better listen.
"No resps, no rhythm," Luka announced.
Carter resumed CPR.
"Here, let me," said Luka as he stepped in front of Carter to take over compressions on the infant's chest.
"No, it's okay."
"John," he said and nodded toward Abby. Her hands were cupped over her nose and mouth, her head slowly shaking from side to side.
"Let me," Luka said again, and Carter understood. He walked over to Abby and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders and his lips against her hair.
He whispered to her, "Tell me when you're ready. Take your time."
But it was Abby herself who said to Luka as he pumped the infant's bruised chest, "Enough—leave her alone, please."
No time was called. Nothing marked the beginning of the baby's life, and nothing marked its end. But in her short time on this earth, Abby loved her.
"MAY I HAVE your attention, please?"
Angelique's words sliced through the layer of sadness that threatened to build in the storage room. She was gathering the staff out in the main ward to coordinate the rescue effort in the besieged hospital.
"We have several injured patients as a result of the fighting," she said to her audience, which now included Carter, Luka, and Abby. "Doctors will assess them as rapidly as possible beginning at the far end of the ward. Give pharmacy orders to nurses only, please. Remember to ration the O-neg to likely survivors and suture quickly . . ."
Carter kept his eye on Abby, who seemed to be concentrating on Angelique's voice. But Carter could see her shoulders trembling. He moved closer to her and made sure their arms were touching.
"I want the names of the critical patients that we can't handle here," Angelique said. "We are going to airlift these patients to Kinshasa on the helicopter with Dr. Kovac."
Luka spoke up. "I'm fine. I can stay and help."
Angelique, ever practical, said, "No Luka, we need you to escort the criticals anyway."
She continued her instructions, but Carter was preoccupied with Abby. He sneaked a touch of her hair and whispered to her, "Are you okay?"
"Dr. Carter?" Angelique singled him out before he could get an answer. "What about those supplies you said you brought?"
"Uhh . . . I brought a microscope plus some lidocaine, etomidate, a few liters of saline—it's all in my bag."
"Somebody fetch Dr. Carter's bag for him—quickly," Angelique ordered.
Carter looked toward Abby once again as if his head were on a spring. Abby seemed focused on Angelique, though in truth she was busy replaying the last thirty minutes in her mind. She remembered entering the baby's room stiff with terror from the flying bullets. She remembered seeing that the high ceiling fixture was no longer in its place. She had lifted Colette and held her close to her chest, covering her tiny ears from the noise. She could feel herself being jerked to the ground and carefully tucking Colette beneath her.
And then she remembered a feeling of warmth that spread over her like a soft blanket. She felt his body bring her close, cover every inch of her, and wrap himself through every part of her. It was Carter, and he breathed softly in her ear and reassured her with his body in ways only she would understand that it was indeed he who held her so tightly against the floor.
Now, however, in the absence of gunfire, Abby's defenses kicked in, and she retreated from him to suffer in her own head.
As Angelique continued speaking, Carter reached down and took Abby's hand in his. He caressed her fingers gently and held onto them for safekeeping.
"If there are no other questions, let's move!" Angelique concluded.
Quickly, the medical staff scattered into position.
Carter squeezed Abby's hand one last time and gave her a quick kiss on the head when no one was looking.
"Stay close to me," he said to her, and they joined the others.
Abby didn't react. She was neither comforted nor agitated. She was on auto-pilot, robotically relying on her deftness to carry her through. The three of them—Carter, Luka, and Abby—worked together through the early morning like the experienced team they were, assessing and treating a dozen and a half injured patients before the team of Albrecht, Angelique, and Claire made their way through eight.
Carter and Luka were in the middle of maneuvering a dislocated hip into place when Gillian called to Abby from across the room.
"We need another nurse over here!"
Abby's eyes met Carter's for the first time since they began working, and he reluctantly excused her from their trauma with a nod.
Ten minutes later, as they wrestled with the stubborn femur head, Carter and Luka heard Gillian yell.
"Abby!"
"Stop compressions, Abby, now!" Angelique chimed in from nearby.
"He's just a boy—we can save him," Abby argued as she pumped on the chest of an 11-year-old to the displeasure of the two women.
"But he'll need dialysis for the rest of his life—where is he going to get that in a refugee camp? Better to let him go," Angelique reasoned.
Abby persisted.
"Did you hear me, Abby? Let him go."
Abby continued pumping on the boy's chest.
"Let him go—you are dismissed for the day," Angelique added.
The room fell quiet as staff and patients alike watched the standoff.
"Abby—"
Carter spoke her name from across the room. He was frozen mid-pose with all his weight on the hip joint of his patient.
At the sound of his voice, she slowly lifted her hands from the child, stripped off her gloves, and walked out into the sun and over to her cabin without a word.
When he stabilized his patient, Carter approached Angelique.
"Abby's an excellent nurse—best I've ever seen. It's just that she got close to that baby girl and lost her this morning. She hasn't figured out the right way—"
"There is no right way. Death is part of life. You deal with it and put it behind you."
"But—"
"John, I saw Abby with that baby. She cared for her like she was her own. It was a mistake, and I shouldn't have let it happen. We should have placed her in an orphanage right away. But we have a lot of sick babies here, and Abby will feel better if she uses her skills on the children that have a future."
"Sometimes it's not easy to choose," Carter reminded her.
"That's our job."
He looked out over the ward. "It's not fair that—"
"No, it's not."
He nodded.
"Can you tell me where—"
"Bungalow five."
"Thanks."
ABBY PUSHED THROUGH the door to her bungalow and stepped over fallen towels, a hairbrush, and the strewn contents of drawers to reach the bed. She grabbed a pillow and clutched it tightly.
Moments later, Carter approached her door and knocked softly.
"Abby?"
Inside, she pressed the pillow against her face and drew her knees up to her body.
He knocked again.
"Abby, it's me."
She hugged her knees
even closer to her torso and didn't answer. But why? she thought. Isn't this what I was waiting for?
"Abby, I talked to Angelique. I know you helped that baby. I know you . . . loved her, Abby."
"I'm okay, Carter," she said from her bed. "I didn't get much sleep last night, that's all."
"Okay, get some rest. I'll come back later." He waited for a response from the other side of the door.
"Abby, did you hear me?"
"Fine!"
I know you . . . loved her. Abby didn't know much at all about Colette—except that she was beautiful, and she was perfect. And Abby realized Maggie was right—they're all beautiful, and they're all perfect. "They could be anything, and you'd just love them," Maggie told her about children. Her children—children Abby could mother. Suddenly, a small spot in her heart cried, and a deep spot in her belly felt empty. She put her hand there, just beneath her belly button under the zipper of her pants, and realized she'd had this feeling many times before—and it always made her think about him.
AS CARTER WALKED back to the hospital, he could see a large, military-style helicopter set down in a clearing behind the building. It was emblazoned with a Red Cross insignia. Hospital workers were ferrying patients to and from the aircraft, and Carter detoured to help. When the last injured patient was loaded, Luka sat at the edge of the craft and offered Carter his hand.
"Thank you," he said.
Carter shrugged.
"I mean it—you saved my life."
"Mr. Nyobi and his workers dug you out—"
"You came back for me, Carter. I won't forget that."
Carter smiled modestly.
"Well, at least you get to ride in one of these," Carter said and smacked the side of the chopper. "I haven't done that since I was a kid."
"You had a helicopter when you were a kid?"
"No, but my brother loved them, so my grandfather would hire one every year for his birthday. He'd take me with him, and the pilot would fly us around the city."
Carter twirled his fingers in the air to simulate their flight and smiled at the memory. "But that was a long time ago."
"You don't do it anymore?"
"Don't have a brother anymore."
Carter looked away, but met Luka's eyes when he felt his hand on his shoulder. "Yes, you do."
Luka's words moved him, and Carter reached for his hand.
"Take care of yourself, Luka."
The helicopter propellers started to whirl.
"Take care of Abby," Luka said, raising his voice over the sound of the blades.
Carter nodded his head and shielded his eyes from the propellers.
Luka warned even more loudly: "Get her out of here."
"I will," Carter answered. They were shouting now.
The pilot motioned for Carter to step back from the helicopter.
"Don't let her fool you, John," Luka yelled as the propellers hit full speed.
Carter stepped back, both arms shielding his head. His T-shirt blew furiously as it filled with air from the craft.
"Fool me?" Carter shouted.
The copter began to lift off the ground. Luka pulled his legs in, but before the door slid shut, he shouted as loud as he could: "She loves you!"
CARTER WATCHED AS the helicopter took off and waited until it almost disappeared from view. Then he headed back to the hospital but changed his mind as he peeked down the row of bungalows.
"Abby, it's me," he announced at her door once more.
Knock. Knock.
"Abby?"
Abby? The sound of her name on his lips woke her up. She had fallen asleep layered in a parfait of sweaty sheets and blankets.
"Abby, are you hungry?"
"What?" she answered with sleep in her voice.
"Do you want me to bring you something to eat? There's eggs and toast in the cafeteria."
She didn't answer. Abby retreated inside herself at the first sign of pain—that's what she always did. It was not the first time she found herself holed up in a darkened room—only usually there was a bottle on the bed with her.
He touched his fingertip to the door, trying hard to connect with her.
"Abby, please open the door."
She sat up on her knees with a sheet wound around her.
"Carter, I'm not hungry. Please just—"
That's when she caught herself in the mirror over the wicker chest.
"Abby? Abby?"
She touched her hands to her face and realized she'd had this feeling many times before—and it always made her think about Maggie.
Carter walked slowly back toward the hospital, turning around frequently to see if she'd changed her mind and emerged from the safety of her self-built cocoon. Once inside, he treated several new patients—victims of the morning's fighting as the soldiers penetrated the refugee camps. They worked miracle after miracle that afternoon, and soon smiles began to replace the cries in the ward. Carter wished Abby could see that even though the poor baby was gone, their work reunited many families that day.
CARTER STEPPED OUTSIDE the hospital into the mid-afternoon sun to stretch his legs. He descended the wooden steps, walked to the side of the building, and looked out over the two rows of bungalows down toward Abby's. He caught sight of a man approaching her door and decided to stroll over once again himself.
At Abby's door, Albrecht knocked and spoke to her. "Hey, it's Damon. Haven't seen you all day."
"Hello," Carter said from the bottom of Abby's steps. The sound of his voice spun Albrecht around.
"Dr. Carter," Albrecht said. "Nice to see you up and about."
"I saw you in the hospital, but I don't think we've met," Carter responded with his hand extended.
Albrecht descended the small steps to shake Carter's hand.
"We have, but you were in no shape to remember. I'm Damon Albrecht—Damon."
"John."
They grasped hands.
"She's not doing too well, huh?" Albrecht said, glancing over his shoulder at Abby's door.
"Yeah, well, she got attached to the baby girl," Carter said.
"I warned her about that. She talked about taking her back to Chicago."
"It would have been better if she stayed in Chicago. I understand you convinced her to come here," Carter said. He tried not to make his concern for her sound like an accusation.
"We met in the Paris airport. I didn't have to convince her exactly . . . "
"She's strong, but it's a tough place for her."
"I think she's managing just fine," Albrecht said.
"She's a terrific nurse. I'm just saying it isn't a good place for her here."
"Like I said—I think she's managing just fine."
"You live in Paris?" Carter inquired.
"No, I'm from Vaduz."
"Liechtenstein—beautiful place," Carter recalled.
"Thank you. But I spent a great deal of time in Paris as a boy," Albrecht said. "My parents would bring us every spring, and we'd stay for weeks."
"Mine, too—we're from Chicago."
"In Paris, Le Tremoille was second home to me," Albrecht said. "Still is."
"My grandparents favored the Hotel de Crillon."
"Nice," Albrecht said and reached into his pocket to retrieve a cigarette. "So, Dr. Carter, what do you do in Chicago?"
"I'm an ER attending at our County hospital. You?"
"Oh, I don't have the guts of you guys in emergency medicine. I just dabble in surgery."
"I started out in surgery myself. Sometimes I miss it . . . the appendicitis, the hernias."
"Yes, but I'm more interested in the heart . . . lungs."
"Oh, great field. But it's hard to break into—"
"Actually, I've just been named associate chief of cardio-thoracic surgery at the National Hospital of Vaduz."
In Carter's eyes, it officially made him medical royalty.
"Well . . . good luck with that," Carter said, nodding his head.
Albrecht lit his cigarette close to his face, and Carter wondered why a chest surgeon would have a taste for smoking—unfiltered cigarettes, no less. The match illuminated the jagged scar that ran across his temple from his hairline to the corner of his eye. Albrecht caught Carter's gaze.
"Just another day in the Congo," he said of his souvenir.
"I had a day like that—pretty scary," Carter said and formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it toward the middle of his forehead.
"And yet you came back," Albrecht said as the smoke escaped his lungs.
"Yeah, but I think I learned my lesson this time."
Albrecht laughed and started to walk away. "Good for you, Carter. I never learn." He dropped his cigarette to the ground. "Tell her I was asking for her, won't you?"
INSIDE, ABBY LAY on the lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling. She was tired but unable to sleep, hungry but unable to eat.
At the top of the steps, Carter didn't bother to knock this time. He just spoke to her through the door.
"Abby, it's me."
She heard his voice. I miss you. I don't want to feel this way, she thought.
"I'm worried about you."
I need you.
"I want to help you."
Rescue me.
"I'm here for you. I've always been here for you."
Except when you weren't.
"I know you think I ran away," he said. Frustration started to replace sympathy. "But you keep pushing me . . ."
Push back. Don't just leave me.
He pressed his forehead against the door and said softly, "Abby, don't do this . . . please."
I don't know how to do anything else.
Abby wanted to open the door and let him comfort her. She felt an ache in her chest, and she put her hand there and realized she'd had this feeling before. And when she touched her heart —God, when she touched her heart—she saw the two of them so clearly . . . together.
"I'M NOT GOING anywhere," he assured her as her eyes grew moist with worry over the fate of her brother. She told Carter she'd need something to hold onto in the coming weeks, as they would no doubt learn more about his sickness. It became clear on that day that Eric was suffering from the same mental illness as their mother—the one that robbed them of their childhood.
"Let's heat up the fish and chips. You need to eat something," Carter said after an hour of talking at her dining table.
As they ate, she told long-buried stories of their struggles as children, and his heart broke for her. When he thought she'd relived enough, he stood up from the table, reached for her hand, and led them into her bedroom. He slipped off his shoes, pulled off his shirt, and lay on her bed. She crawled on after, and he patted a spot on his chest for her to aim her tired head. He reached for her, guided her down to him, and caressed her face and hair.
"Thanks," she managed to say.
"For what?"
"For this."
She meant for caring enough to send her home from the ER early. For bringing food for her empty stomach. For listening to the sound of her heart breaking as she came to accept that her perfect baby brother was sick. And for promising to stick by her as the chaos mounted.
He kissed the top of her head.
"Close your eyes," he whispered. "Hold onto me."
Hold onto me. The words were so soft she could barely hear anything but the consonants as they touched his lips on the way out.
She helped him by letting him know his words were comforting—at least, she tried to.
"You know, I never . . . Nobody ever . . . It's hard for me . . . "
She spoke in the bashful language of the self-conscious, the withdrawn, the untrusting. But he felt her leaning on him—and it felt so good.
"Shhh, I know, I know." And he rolled over onto his side, facing her closed eyes, and pulled her closer. He sandwiched her legs between his and stroked her back over and over again. She exhaled deeply and snuggled against the warmth of his body, soothed by the rhythm of his heartbeat and his breathing and his touch.
A little while later, he whispered, "Feel better?"
Eyes still closed, she said, "Yes."
There in her bed, folded in his arms, Abby had the strength to acknowledge that it was one of the worst days of her life.
With her so close to him, depending on him, letting him in, Carter thought, in a way, it was one of his best.
SHE NEEDED HIM. She wanted that feeling again—the feeling she had that night. The feeling that anything could happen and he would be there. The feeling that everything would be okay as long as she could end the night with her head on his chest.
Abby emerged from the cocoon of her bed, hopped over the inventory on the floor, and swung open the door.
"John, I—"
He was gone.
She stepped barefoot out of her door, looked down the row of cabins, and saw him ascending the small steps to his.
"Carter!"
She quickly tiptoed down her steps and called to him again.
"John!"
He disappeared inside. She pursed her lips with her hands on her hips and cursed her bad timing under her breath with an expletive that made good use of consonants "k" and "f," not necessarily in that order.
Abby ran back inside and slammed the door behind her, causing the bulb under the butterfly lampshade to flicker. She washed her face, replaced her borrowed T-shirt with a clean bra and white cap-sleeve pullover, and brushed her hair. And then she went to him as the light under the butterfly lampshade still flickered.
Outside, Abby walked from bungalow No. 5 to No. 4, and jogged from No. 4 to No. 3, and flew as fast as her wings would carry her from No. 3 to No. 2. She ran up the rickety steps that led to his door and knocked hard.
He opened the door, and she stood there looking at him, breathing heavily from her sprint.
"Hi," he said. He was relieved to see her, though he wasn't sure what to do next.
When she saw him, all the words in her head raced for her tongue at the same time: I'm sorry, I need you, I miss you, I love you, I hurt, hug me, help me, hold me.
She stood before him wide-eyed until one thought pushed the others aside. Her lips parted, and all she said was:
"I want to go home."
He knew what to do then. He reached for her waist with one arm, shut the door with the other, and pulled her against him.
"It's okay."
She reached up, clutched his shoulders, and rested her head on his chest. "Please, I want to go home."
"I'll take you home. I promise."
He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. They didn't speak, but his hands were in constant motion—caressing her hair, stroking her back, rubbing her arms, clutching her waist—as if assuring himself she was truly there. She stayed huddled against him with her eyes closed and just let him feel her.
Finally, he pulled her an arm's length away and spoke: "What are you doing here? Are you crazy?"
"Blame Susan—she's the one who thought I should go to Paris in the first place."
"Susan?"
She crawled on the end of his bed, which was still unmade from the night before. She sat cross-legged and looked up at him as he stood leaning against the wicker dresser.
"I told her you went to find Luka. She thought I should try to stop you in Paris."
"How did you know—"
"You left your itinerary on the table in the lounge."
He remembered.
"When I found you in Paris, you weren't even happy to see me."
"I was happy. It's just—you made it harder for me."
"I made it harder for you?"
He couldn't meet her eyes. He was so angry that day . . . so hurt.
"And then the next morning you went away before I woke up," she recalled. "And you left me a check on the nightstand, after the night before we—"
"I had to go, Abby. I didn't think we'd end up together that night."
"Do you know how that felt?" she said. "Do you know what that made me feel like?" She looked down and picked at the fabric of the bed linens.
Carter slipped off his shoes, crawled on the bed, and sat cross-legged in front of her. With his knees touching hers, he reached and pressed his lips to her forehead and held them there.
"You know I didn't mean it like that," he said quietly.
His soft lips made a warm "o" on her forehead that lingered even after he pulled away. Abby missed his lips. She knew if she just tilted her head up a little, they'd fall into a kiss. But she kept her gaze focused on the bed linens as she recounted the difficult morning that brought her to the Congo.
"Just before I left the hotel, a woman from the Alliance called on your cell phone." She reached into her pocket and took out the tiny, silver gadget. "Her name was Bernadette . . . something."
"Dumont?" he said, taking the phone from her.
"Yeah, Dumont."
Carter recalled, "She's the one who called the ER when Luka was missing."
"She said Luka may be alive, and she wanted you to call her. So I looked for you at the airport to—"
"—give me the message?"
"Uh huh, and to return your cell phone—and your check. I didn't want it." She leaned her weight away from him and back on her hands. "I didn't want your money," she pouted. "I wanted . . ."
"What?"
She wanted him to be there when she woke up in a big, foreign city. She wanted him to erase the memory of the night before when she cried herself to sleep after empty sex. She wanted to feel him sleeping behind her with his hands on her stomach up underneath the too-big T-shirt that she borrowed from him. But instead—
"You left me there."
"I was hurt."
"You were hurt?"
He turned and unfolded his legs and let them drop over the end of the bed.
He said angrily, "The key—remember? You took it back." His face began to get red.
She tried to explain, "You disappeared on me—"
"You were disappearing on me long before I ever went to Africa."
He stood up from the bed and looked at her. She saw frustration in his face.
"Abby, you pull away every time something bad happens," he explained.
"When did—"
"This morning. Or how about when your brother was missing in his plane?"
"So you left to hurt me?"
He sat down on the bed again and rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
He fell back on the bed with his feet still planted on the floor and covered his eyes with his palms. Abby crawled over to him. She curled up next to him and rested her head on his stomach facing him. He lifted his hands from his eyes and was surprised to see her so close.
"Yes, you did," she said to him. "I hurt you, and so you wanted to hurt me back."
"You didn't hurt—"
"Yes, I did . . . when your grandmother died, and I went to Des Moines to get Eric. But I did what I had to do, and you got hurt by accident. But you—you hurt me on purpose."
"I know," he reached down and gently stroked the side of her face with the back of his fingers. "I could feel myself doing it. It's very—"
"Immature and despicable?" she offered.
"I was thinking passive-aggressive."
"Nope, I'm pretty sure it was immature and despicable."
"You're right," he said. He bent one arm and rested it behind his head as a pillow and moved his hand to her lips and traced them with his fingertip.
"But what about leaving my stuff in a bag on my locker?" he said. "That was pretty deliberate."
She sat up abruptly.
"Look, I didn't want my key back, and I wasn't really giving you your stuff back. Do you think that's all you had at my apartment? A T-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a picture of us with my brother?"
He sat up, too. "Then why did you do it?"
"I-I was trying to start a fight."
"Why would you want to fight?"
She exhaled loudly in frustration. "I wanted us to talk! I wanted to hear you say that you weren't mad at me and that—"
"Why didn't you just tell me I hurt you? Why did you—"
"I don't know!" Abby felt herself explode. She jumped off the bed and raced to his bathroom in large, heavy steps.
Carter sat on the side of the bed nearest the bathroom with his head in his hands. When he heard the little sliding latch release on the door, he looked up. She slinked out and leaned her shoulder against the door frame.
"It's not true. I do know why," she said. "You hurt me, so I wanted to hurt you back."
He looked at her as her gold-highlighted hair draped half her face, concealing her guilt.
"We do the same thing," he concluded. "We're both—"
—idiots," she finished.
"I was thinking insecure."
"No, I'm pretty sure we're idiots."
"You're right again."
"You'd think you'd be used to it by now."
Their hurt expressions shattered into smiles.
He reached out his hand to her, and she took it. He pulled her onto the bed again with him. They lay side by side across the width.
"What?" she said when she noticed him staring. "Why are looking at me like that?"
"When you smile, you're so . . . pretty."
She pursed her lips. "Pretty bad you mean."
"What?"
"I must have been pretty bad for you to change your mind about me."
"When did I—" he said, but then recalled she knew he bought out the restaurant that evening intending to give her his great-grandmother's ring. "It didn't feel right," he told her later.
"I didn't change my mind about you. I just . . . I want someone who really needs me."
"Well, if you keep doing that super-hero thing . . ." she said to lighten things up. Abby had an extra sense just to alert her when she may need to reveal her feelings, and she side-stepped the discussion expertly.
"Super-hero?"
"Dodging bullets and bombs to rescue me from the Bad Guys," she teased.
Remembering the close call from earlier that morning erased the smile from his face. He leaned over to her, touched his forehead to hers, and stroked her hand with one fingertip.
He said, "When I realized it was you and that you could get hurt, I was . . . scared."
He pulled his forehead away and let his brown eyes penetrate hers. And he saw the look that made him want to pull her body closer and hold her longer—say, for the rest of his life.
"Don't ever do that again, okay?" she said.
"Do what?"
She propped herself up on her elbows. "Throw yourself in front of guns or grenades or a moving train . . . for me."
"I can't make any promises." He slid closer and rested his hand on her stomach.
"Isn't it bad enough what happened today?" The two arms on which she balanced herself trembled a bit. "What if that were you?"
"But nothing happened to me."
"But what if something did?" She was getting agitated. "What if—"
"Shhhhh, but I'm fine. Look at me, Abby, I'm fine."
He brought her face toward him. Her trembling arms gave way underneath her and she lay on her back with her chest rising and falling. He moved even closer and kissed her temple. The repressed pain of the day rose to the surface with each breath.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he said.
"About what?"
"This morning . . . the baby."
"Why?"
"Because it might help."
"There's nothing to say—I delivered her. I couldn't save her mother. I couldn't save h—."
She choked and shook her head, preferring not to speak about it any longer. Carter rolled flat on his back next to her, and they stared over their heads—at the ceiling fan.
A little while later, Abby spoke again: "I know it sounds stupid, but . . . I named her."
"Named her?"
"The baby—I had a name for her. Stupid, right?" She forced a smile while she gauged him from the corner of her eye.
He turned to her and nuzzled her hair with his nose and pressed small kisses against her temple until her smile was real.
"What was her name?"
"I called her Colette because her mother's name was Nicolette."
Though he knew Abby so well, his inventory of her moods and emotions did not include the one he saw when she spoke of this baby. He found himself picturing Abby caring for the little girl. He saw her rocking her in the crook of her arm and bathing her in a tiny tub. He pictured Abby soothing her cries by kissing her head and stroking her back. He took these pictures and filed them away in an album he kept just for himself in his mind. It included an image of Abby in a white gown with his ring on her finger, and another with her mouth forming the words "I love you," and another with her naked breast embraced by chubby baby hands.
"Colette . . ." he thought, coming back to the moment. "It's a pretty name."
She couldn't explain it: Watching Carter as he spoke of the baby girl and called her by her name "Colette" moved Abby deeply. She lifted her arms over her head and dropped them on the bed behind her. She forced a frown and feigned indifference to prevent her emotions from taking over. She exhaled hard, sending loose strands of hair off her face, and stared at the ceiling to keep any tears within the confines of her lids.
Carter could see her struggling. He rolled over onto her and put his hand on her face and stroked her cheek with his thumb until she looked at him. And when she did, he kissed her softly. His lips were a little wet, and hers were puffy from pouting. And when he pulled his mouth away, her expression had changed from defensive to soft.
"It's okay," he said as his thumb stroked her cheek.
He had kissed her shield away. One small tear slipped from the corner of her eye and rolled into her ear and tickled it, and then the rest came down.
He kissed each salty cheek as emotion drained from her. "It's all right," he said between kisses. "It's okay."
When she could speak again, she looked right at him. Her lips said to him: "That baby was all alone—she didn't have anyone but me."
But her eyes said: "I'm not scared anymore, John. I want to be a mother."
He wiped the tears from her cheeks, kissed her forehead, and rested his hand on the side of her face.
His lips said: "She was lucky to have you."
But his eyes skipped her ears and spoke directly to her heart:
"I love you. I want to make you a mother. Can you
hear me, Abby?
I want to make you a mother."
She heard him.
She answered with glistening eyes and full lips on his mouth. And there, huddled together across the bed, a man in love kissed the woman he loved with soft lips and shy tongues.
"Do you know why I came here?" she asked when they pulled away for a moment.
"To the Congo or to my room?"
"Both."
"Why?"
"I came here because . . ." She paused and exhaled as if she were about to lift a heavy weight—or let one go. "I came here because I . . . n-need you."
It wasn't just the sound of the words, it was the look in her eyes that took his breath away.
It felt good to say it. Abby felt . . . normal. So she said it again with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. "I need you."
He kissed her again, harder.
"I'm here," he said, but it was hard to decipher, since his mouth was so firmly against hers.
And then he kissed her again.
And again.
Outside, the late day sun was beginning to set. Strong golden blades of light pierced the small, high window of Carter's bungalow. He pulled himself away from her and slipped off his shirt. He slid up the bed to his pillow, stretched out comfortably, and patted the pillow next to his.
"Come on," he said inviting her. "You've had a long day. Stay here with me."
She followed him to the head of the bed. But before she dropped into the spot he made for her, she kneeled by him and pulled one arm out from under her shirt and then the other, until the bunched-up cloth made a ring around her neck. Then she lifted the material over her head and lay next to him, clad in her bra and jeans. He leaned over her, and her arms slipped around his naked back. And they kissed a while longer.
"Do your stitches hurt?" she asked as she pulled away from him a little to slow them down a bit. She knew what he'd soon want because she already wanted it herself.
"No, not at all. They did I good job," he said looking down at his own chest from his position above her.
"Do you remember the crash?"
He thought a bit.
"I remember examining Luka . . . I remember seeing the bullet holes . . . " He rolled his weight back onto his side but kept his arm around her. "I remember being scared."
She moved closer and placed a kiss near his sutures.
"I did them."
"Did what?"
With her fingertip she traced the line of black threads.
"You sutured me?" he asked.
"You don't remember?"
He shook his head. "They're not bad, though."
"They're pretty good!" she insisted.
He clasped her fingers and held them against his chest.
"I'm teasing. They're perfect. Come here."
He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly, and then more intensely, and then with an unmistakable urgency. He placed his hands on the bed to either side of her and slid his lips down to make a necklace of small kisses from one side of her throat to the other. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. Her arms drifted over her head and clutched the pillow behind her, giving him better access to her neck. And soon his hand freely roamed her body.
"John?" she said softly, trying to get his attention.
"Hmmm?" he responded without moving his lips from her skin.
"Can I ask you something?"
He lifted his head from her neck.
"Sure," he said and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
"Do you remember calling my answering machine from the airport in Paris?"
"Yeah," he said.
"And then you called again?"
He nodded and pulled away from her a bit.
"The second time you left a message that said, 'I just want you to know . . .' but you never said what."
He rolled away from her onto his back. She noticed his eyes grew distant and darker.
"What is it?" she asked, puzzled. "What did you want to tell me?"
She reached out to him, intending to touch his face and gently nudge it back toward hers, but she caught her arm on something beneath her pillow. It was a piece of cloth—no, a strap. A pale pink strap. A bra strap. When she continued to tug, the pale pink cotton of the cups came with it.
Abby sat up and dangled it from her fingers over his face like a flounder on a fish hook. Carter swallowed hard.
"Oh my God," she said and shoved herself away from him. A painful crease appeared where her brow was tightly knitted. Her mouth hung open.
Carter recognized the bra as Debbie's. In her haste to leave his room the night before, Debbie left with just her shirt.
Carter bolted upright and began to breathe rapidly. His face, still pale since the crash, disappeared into whiteness, while Abby's, flush with excitement from his intimate touches, grew redder with anger and humiliation.
"Oh God," she said, her voice trembling. "You were you calling me back to say we were over, weren't you?"
"Abby, wait—"
She swung her legs off the bed and tossed the bra to him.
"I can't believe this," she mumbled angrily to herself as she lifted the covers in search of her own shirt.
"Abby, I—"
"You called back to break up with me? And I came to Africa like a fool when you really meant for us to be over?"
"No, I—"
"No? Then if we weren't over, you were—"
The words got stuck in her throat.
"—sleeping with someone behind my back?"
She couldn't even say the words cheating or unfaithful because of so many familiar fights with Richard. Betrayal defined her marriage to him, just as trust bound her to Carter—until now.
"Well, which is it?" she challenged.
"Neither, I—"
"Whose is it anyway?"
"Debbie's. But—"
"Debbie?"
"She drove us to Matenda to find—"
"I don't understand—was she naked in bed with you or not?"
"Yes. I mean no. I mean not completely, but—"
"I was right," she said as she found her pullover. "You have really big problems, Carter." She pulled on the shirt, stuffed her head and arms through the holes, and tugged her long hair out of the neck. Then she kicked around the floor near the bed to locate her shoes.
"First of all," he said as he found his voice, "you broke up with me the morning I came home. But that's not the point, I hardly touched her!"
Mistake.
A tactical mistake.
He could tell as the words came out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop them.
Abby whipped her head around to look at him, and her hair flew in a wild circle. When it settled, she was glaring at him with fire in her eyes.
Carter felt his hands start to shake. He crawled off the bed on the opposite side from where she stood.
"Abby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Really?" she said with her hands on her hips. "You hardly touched her? I feel so much better now." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Abby, please—"
"And did you think we were broken up when you made love to me in Paris—if that's what you'd call it?"
"No, I—"
"Isn't it ironic?" she cried as she slipped into her shoes. "You didn't think I cared about you, but I did. And I thought you cared about me, but you didn't."
"Abby, you're—"
She flung open the door and slammed it behind her.
"—wrong."
He wasn't going to let her go this easily again. Carter searched through the sheets for his own discarded shirt and pulled it over his head. He slipped into his shoes and opened the door to go after her but was met by Angelique.
"John, I'm sorry, but we need you inside."
"What is it?"
"It seems a land mine had the nerve to separate a young man from his leg."
"Soldier?"
"A 12-year-old with a semi-automatic, so around here that means yes."
Over Angelique's shoulder, Carter caught a glimpse of Abby walking swiftly toward her cabin through the shadows of the setting sun. Her head hung low and her arms were folded across her chest. Carter quickly gathered his stethoscope and followed Angelique toward the hospital, just as Damon Albrecht headed toward Abby's bungalow, too.
ABBY HOPPED UP the three small steps leading to her door and entered her dim room. She reached under the butterfly lampshade and smacked the bulb to keep it steady. She pulled her overnight bag out from its hiding place under the bed, and snatched her clothing one by one off the makeshift clothesline in the bathroom.
A knock at the door was accompanied by Albrecht's voice.
"Abigail, it's Damon. I thought you'd like to know we've taken care of the little one. She'll be returned to the camps for proper interment."
Abby opened the door.
"Thanks."
She left it open for him to enter if he wished, though she continued packing.
He walked in, looked around, and leaned against the wicker dresser with one leg crossed over the other. Abby didn't look up.
"I'm sorry about that infant, Abigail."
"Colette," she corrected as she opened a drawer behind him, forcing him to step aside.
"I know it was a stunning defeat for you today."
She stopped to look at him. "Stunning defeat? Who says words like that? It was a baby's life!"
Grief and anger choked her from the inside, and she dared not speak much more.
"I'm sorry—"
"No, I'm sorry," she said, regretting her show of temper.
She sat on the bed and began folding her clothes, and wondered where things had gone wrong.
TYPICALLY, ABBY WOULD prepare a mug of tea for herself and for Carter when they returned from dinner—but this was not a typical night, since they dined alone in a restaurant in which every seat was purchased in advance courtesy of the Carter family fortune. But on those typical nights, Abby would wait for Carter to come out of the bedroom in soft, fleece drawstring pants and a T-shirt that he kept on the shelf of her closet. She'd put their mugs on the coffee table. While the tea cooled a bit, she'd change into her slender pajama top and equally soft pants and then join him on the couch, where they'd sip their tea and watch television. Later, when their mugs were empty, he'd rest his on a magazine on the coffee table and take hers from her hands and place it down, too. Then he'd lean back on the armrest of the sofa, stretch one leg across the length of the seat, and rest his other foot on the floor. He'd pull her between his legs, and she'd rest her head on his body, and they'd listen to the news of the day. As they watched, he'd stroke her hair and run his fingertips up and down her arm, and they'd comment on events in the world. Many times, they'd fall asleep just that way, and he'd wake up in the wee hours and gently coax her to bed.
"Abby," he'd softly say to her. "Abby, let's go inside."
"Hmmm. You go, I'll be there in a minute," she'd say without ever opening her eyes. Then she'd purr and clutch him closer as she continued to sleep. And he'd lay back, imprisoned, and watch her dream with his stomach and groin as her pillow.
However, tonight he emerged from the room still fully dressed, though he removed his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. So she kept on her silk blouse and black pants. They sat quietly at her small, round dining table and drank their tea.
The evening started out normally except for his strange instructions to meet her outside the restaurant on the frigid February evening. Inside, he surprised her by buying out the restaurant to ensure their privacy. Dinner was followed by a short-but-sincere speech about their relationship—about being ready, "in the right place," making it stick, and something about changing and growing. And though he planned to make their relationship permanent that night—and she suspected he would—they both left the restaurant disappointed and as frightened and insecure as they went in. Maybe more so.
"Are you okay?" she asked as they sipped their tea at the table.
He nodded, but his lips were clenched tightly.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm fine."
They drank in silence. When she was done, she dropped her mug on the table with a heavy thud, just to startle them into communicating. He looked at her but said nothing. She pushed out her chair and went into the bedroom and started to undress. As she unbuttoned her blouse, he appeared in the doorway of the room. His expression was a little sad, even a little cold.
"Are you mad at me?" she asked him.
He shook his head. "No, I'm not mad at you," he said softly, but he made no move to come closer to her. He just watched her with distant eyes.
Carter looked at her and wondered how he could love this woman so much and still feel so unsure. He was beginning to resent that they were not on the same path, and the distance between them felt obvious tonight.
He watched her unbutton the rest of her silk blouse and thought about all the nights he'd touched her. But when he looked at her tonight, he couldn't see beyond this night—and he didn't know why.
She felt it. He'd watched her undress before, but this time she saw no warmth and felt no intimacy, and so when she slid her black pants over her hips and set her breasts free from her satin bra, she turned her back to him.
"GOING SOMEWHERE?" ALBRECHT finally asked.
"I'm leaving in the morning—however I can get out of here."
"Carter going with you?"
"I'm not really interested in Dr. Carter's plans," she mumbled.
"Well, I'm heading for Kinshasa this evening—that's what I came to tell you. I've got a flight to Paris late tonight. I just came to finish out Kovac's stint. Angelique has two replacements coming in a week. May I escort you?"
Abby aggressively sealed the zipper of her bag. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the lavender butterfly underwear she'd carried all the way from Chicago.
She answered: "Sure, why not?" Only she made it a statement and not a question.
ONE TRAUMATIC AMPUTATION turned into a night full of six young teenagers damaged by a stroll though a mine field—not one more than 15 years old. When the marathon was over, four lived, and three of those lost at least one limb. Carter took a breath and went outside, surprised to see the sun again. He reached into a barrel of rainwater and splashed it on his face.
In the distance, the door to Abby's cabin was partly open. Carter ran his wet hands through his hair, took a deep breath, and walked over.
"Abby?" he said as he lightly rapped on the door with his knuckle.
He pushed it open further with the tips of his fingers and slipped inside. As he feared, the small room was empty of her belongings, and a dull pain throbbed in his chest. He sat on the bed and rested his head in his hands. The smell of her skin—that smell that intoxicated him—lingered in the room. He replayed their last few moments together in his bungalow and rubbed his lids to erase the fear of betrayal he saw in her soft, brown eyes.
"Dr. Carter?"
He lifted his head from his hands at the sound of his name. It was Angelique at the threshold of the cabin.
"John, are you okay?"
Carter took a deep breath, nodded his head, and decided to confirm with his ears what his eyes and his heart already knew.
"Abby—she left?" Carter asked.
"Yes," Angelique said. "She left last night with Dr. Albrecht."
"With . . . Albrecht?" The pain in his chest worsened, and he gripped his thighs tightly.
"Yes."
Carter stood and rubbed his hands against his face over and over.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize until recently that you and Abby were . . . acquainted," Angelique said diplomatically.
"Where were they going, do you know?" His voice was faint as he contained his frustration.
"Damon is returning to Liechtenstein. I understand he was accompanying Abby as far as Paris on her way back to Chicago."
She looked at her watch. "If they caught the red eye from Kinshasa, they'll be arriving in Paris this morning."
Angelique could see Carter's frustration. "I'm sorry, John. I know Abby had a rough time here."
"She had a lot to deal with: Luka, the crash, the baby . . . me," he said the last part to himself.
"I wish Abby could have stayed a little longer. There's a woman here to claim the baby. She is the mother's sister—the baby's aunt. I thought she might like to know that Abby had taken such good care of her. I thought Abby would want to meet her."
"I think she would have."
"I was hoping you would talk to her. Tell her about Abby."
"Sure," Carter agreed as he rubbed his eyes in exhaustion and frustration. "I'll be there in a minute."
"She's in the ward," Angelique said and turned to leave.
ABBY STARED OUT the window of the airliner as it made its final descent into Paris. Only the tip of the Eiffel tower punctured the layer of early morning clouds. Abby did not expect to find herself in Paris again so quickly. She pulled the beige plastic cover over the aircraft window and leaned back in her seat.
Albrecht's voice intruded into her thoughts: "You look like you need a shot of bourbon."
"It's 6:30 in the morning," Abby reminded him.
"You're right—maybe we should make it a double."
"No, thanks," she chuckled.
"At least I got you to smile. How about coffee?"
"Aren't we about to land?"
"I can pull a few strings."
She smiled again. "I'm fine, thanks."
"Did you call the airline from Kinshasa? Are you able to get a flight home from Paris?"
"Yeah, there's nothing until tonight."
"You've got a long day ahead," he observed.
That's for sure, she thought.
He leaned his blond head back in his seat and gave her a sympathetic smile. "Allow me to offer my hospitality while you wait."
IN THE WARD, a beautiful woman with smooth, dark skin and luxurious high cheekbones awaited Carter. Except for her much darker skin and eyes, the woman resembled strongly the light-eyed, cream-colored infant he tried to save the morning before.
He introduced himself and brought her to the storage room where the baby remained on the small high bed swaddled completely in a soft, white cotton sheet. The woman cupped Colette's head.
"The innocent," she said softly in the beautiful French-tinged English Carter had heard often in this place.
Carter cleared his throat and explained gently, "There was a woman—a nurse—who looked after the baby when your sister passed away."
The woman looked into his eyes.
"She took very good care of her," he said.
She turned to face him and watched him as he spoke.
"The nurse—she tried to protect her during the fighting."
The woman looked deep into Carter's pained eyes and saw something.
"Thank you for telling me," she said and put her hand on Carter's arm. "I'll pray this woman is rewarded for her kindness."
She reached into a woven bag she carried and pulled out a piece of folded cloth embellished with a colorful pattern of triangles—black and red and gold. She spread it open.
"In our family, this pattern represents continuing life," she explained as she gently began folding the cloth around the baby. "The black represents her loss here on this earth. But the gold represents riches in heaven, and the red is the wish that she be loved."
"It's beautiful," Carter said.
"This baby was born in chaos," she said. "I wish her reborn in peace."
Carter said, "Chaos?"
"My sister lost her husband to the war and her child to polio. And then she suffered indignation at the hands of a stranger."
"Indignation?"
"My sister was raped, and this child the product. She gave life to her, and then I believe my sister let herself die of grief and shame."
"I'm sorry," Carter said.
"She hoped a family would want the innocent child. She knew I could not take in another—I can barely care for my four. And I carry the AIDS."
"Is there something I can do?"
She shook her head slowly and continued: "Most of these assaults you hear of are by soldiers from nearby lands—neighbor against neighbor's wife, you might say."
Carter had heard such stories.
"But not the man who hurt my sister. He was a Westerner, she told me. He came to the tent and told her he would help her son."
Carter was overwhelmed with anger and pity.
" He wore a doctor's mask over his face and a green cap over his hair—"
"Like a surgeon?" Carter reasoned.
"She could not stop him," she continued recounting. "He forced himself on her, but she told me she grabbed a key from his own pocket and cut him."
And with clenched teeth she demonstrated the motion with her fist.
"She told me she made a jagged gash from here by his hair," she pointed to her own face, "to his eye."
"A jagged gash?" Carter's throat tightened.
"Oui—yes."
He held tightly the bed in which the tiny baby lay to keep his hand from trembling.
"From the hairline to the corner of his eye?"
"Yes. His left eye."
He gripped the bed to control his breathing.
"Angelique!" He saw her out in the main ward.
"John?" she said stepping in the storage room.
"Angelique, can you help this lady for a moment?"
Carter didn't wait to hear the answer. He flew past her and pounded through the doors of the hospital out into the early morning heat. At the bottom of the steps, he leaned over and rested his hands on his knees and fought the waves of nausea. He struggled to catch his breath, but the thick, humid Kisangani air was hardly any relief for Carter as he came to realize that a man who called himself a doctor but preyed on women and fathered a baby through violence—Damon Albrecht—was alone somewhere with Abby.
NEXT . . .
Chapter 8: Sugar and Spice