CONTINENTAL
DRIFT
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration
(Post-"Now What?")
CHAPTER EIGHT: SUGAR & SPICE
Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent).
Summary: So in love—yet so willing to believe the worst of each other and to see the worst in themselves. How did they get this way? Finally, the answers are revealed. Meanwhile, an unsuspecting Abby is traveling with Dr. Damon Albrecht, and a distressed Carter plans to take her safety into his own hands.
Disclaimer: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks.
Author's Note: In one sense, you can think of this chapter as a bridge to the finale. It's intense in spots and may not be the chapter you are expecting. I think the complex scene and time changes in this chapter would work well on the screen, but writing them for a reading audience was tricky. Take your time. A powerful love is rich in layers.
Thanks to those who've taken a moment to share deeper feelings about the story and also to those who've left a quick note. It's all of you who amaze me, in that you feel all the emotions and notice all the details. Thank you.
WHEN YOU ARE a child, your smiles and giggles get stored in your heart, and when you grow up, they're given out as love. Abby had few smiles and even fewer giggles in childhood, so her reservoir of love was very small. When you have little to give, you get little in return—at least it feels that way. Thus, relationships for Abby were very hard.
But it wasn't always that way . . .
Abby knew there was something strange about her mother: carefree and exuberant one day, ornery and moody the next. Abby loved Maggie, and she knew her mother loved her also, but Maggie's unpredictability made Abby fearful.
Abby's father felt it, too. For as long as she could remember, her dad seemed to avoid her mother. It wasn't until years later that Abby theorized her father kept company with other women on the nights he came home late or when he took sudden "business trips."
However, when Abby and her brother Eric were tiny, their father represented a consistent source of love and security. For Abby, he was something to hold onto. Her father inspired her, and as a five-year-old, Abby was sure she was pretty and special.
"Ouch!"
She heard her father yell from the backyard of their small, white three-bedroom home in a working-class neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota. Abby ran around to the back of the house and saw her father with an aging power lawnmower turned over on his lap. He was trying to clean sopping-wet grass from the blades. But now he held onto a finger from which a trail of blood began to drip.
"Abby, honey," he said when he saw her. "Get your mother and tell her to bring the first-aid kit."
"Mommy!" She called as she ran to the house, her light-brown hair flapping behind her, her dirty, bare feet impervious to the rocks hidden in the overgrown lawn. "Mommy, Daddy needs—"
She stopped short when she found her mother passed out on the sofa with an empty bottle of tequila on the floor just beneath her outstretched hand.
"Mommy?" Abby said, poking her tentatively in the ribs.
"Abby, hurry up!" She heard her father yell. Abby quickly picked up the bottle and put it in the garbage can in the kitchen. She ran into her baby brother's room, found him peacefully asleep in his crib, and snatched the tiny blanket from over him. She grabbed the first-aid kit from under the bathroom sink, ran back to the living room, and tossed the blanket over her mother. She ran outside yelling, "Coming!"
"No, sweetie, I can't do it myself. It's my right hand. Get your mother."
"Ummm, Mommy's sleeping. She said she has a headache."
"Sleeping, huh?"
"Yes," Abby said without looking in his eye. "She said I could help you. Look, Daddy, I can."
Little Abby unwrapped a moist towelette and wiped the wound clean. She looked it over and declared she didn't think it was that bad. She picked up an aerosol can of antibacterial spray and shook it the way she had seen her mother do before, only she needed two hands and her whole body to do it. Her father hid a smile watching her hard at work. She carefully aimed the spray at his wound.
"Ouch, it stings," her father said.
"I'm sorry!" She blew on his finger over and over again to soothe the pain. Then she carefully unfolded a little bandage and placed it on the cut.
"See, Daddy. It's fine."
He looked at her handiwork.
"That's my girl." He smiled at her, and Abby's heart sprang from her chest.
"My teacher said I'd be a good nurse," she declared proudly as she began to put the supplies back in the kit.
"Yes, you'd be a good nurse, but you'd be a great doctor, pretty girl. You just need to do well in Science."
She loved how he made her feel—like she could accomplish anything. She reached up and kissed him. He folded her in his arms and tickled her belly, and she giggled.
It was one of the few times in her life.
"WE'VE BEEN CIRCLING for an hour," Albrecht moaned. "How long are they going to keep us up here?"
"Huh?" Abby said from deep inside her head.
"The plane—we've been circling Paris for almost an hour. Can't you tell we've been going in circles?"
"I guess I didn't notice. I feel that way a lot," she half-joked.
"The fog's lifted—what's going on?" he said, his temper showing. "It's making me bloody sick, I tell you. The only thing helping is the bourbon."
"You succumbed," Abby observed.
"How about you? You look like you need it more than I do. Can I tempt you?"
No, don't do it. Don't do it.
"No, I'm fine."
But she wasn't.
CARTER SAT WITH his head back in the passenger seat of the shiny, white pickup truck. He stared straight ahead, though his sunglasses didn't make it obvious. His arm rested on the truck's open window. A slight shadow of beard growth from his all-nighter in the trauma room at the Kisangani hospital covered his hard-set jaw. He had one thing on his mind—Abby.
It was hard for Carter to compose himself when he realized that Damon Albrecht was the vicious man who attacked a woman from the refugee camps. He raped her and left her pregnant, though his victim managed to scar him with a key from his own pocket. Abby left Kisangani yesterday evening with Albrecht and traveled with him through the night. The thought took the breath from Carter's body—even more than the fact that she left angry over a misunderstanding involving, of all things, a pink bra belonging to Debbie, a Red Cross worker. He could deal with Abby's anger; he just wanted her safe.
"John!" Angelique had called to him from the top of the wooden steps when she saw him pale and breathing heavily outside the hospital. "Everything okay?"
"I've got to go," he called up to her as he headed for his bungalow. "I'm sorry. I'll explain everything—I'll call you from the States. I'll be back to help, but I've got to go."
Carter emptied his room quickly, tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder, and went to find the hospital driver and his van.
It was Bendu Nyobi he found instead.
"Dr. Carter."
Bendu was polishing a brand-new white pickup truck. He wore a small bandage on his forehead, a remnant of the plane crash days before.
"Bendu!" Carter detoured over to him with an outstretched hand. "I meant to find you. I wanted to thank you for everything."
"Thank me?"
"I'm leaving. I'm looking for the hospital van right now. I have to get to the airport. I know there is an 8 o'clock flight to Kinshasa."
"They took the van to pick up a new doctor at the airport," Bendu explained. "Even so, it's almost 7 o'clock. How do you propose—"
"This yours?" Carter said, eyeing the rig.
"No, a business partner brought it by—no more plane, you know."
"Bendu, it's an emergency. Can you—"
"Hop in."
They'd been driving in silence now for almost twenty minutes. Finally, Bendu spoke: "So, Abby the nurse . . . she is the Abby, huh? The one with the brother?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "The one with the brother."
BOBBY CARTER DIED. They knew he would. In those days, leukemia was a frightening enemy, and no one thought to fight it much—because no one expected to win. Despite the best doctors that money could buy—and the Carter family fortune bought many—Bobby lost the battle.
Though his mother insisted he would recover, Bobby was resigned to his fate. Before he died, he talked with his brother John and assigned him the task of making their mother happy, helping her to forget, ensuring she wouldn't be sad. But it would prove to be a monumental task for the boy, who didn't know his mother ran away from pain, retreated into her own cocoon, and wouldn't let anyone in—even a lonely, brotherless boy. And his father, too weak to fight her, mostly stayed behind in the wood-paneled library in the company of a 20-year-old Scotch.
"A MAN ALONE with his thoughts is a lonely man indeed," Bendu said to coax Carter into talking.
Bendu never failed with his words.
"I did something stupid," Carter confessed.
"Again?"
Bendu caught Carter from the corner of his eye and winked, and then he let out his characteristic roar of laughter. Carter smiled and breathed easier for a moment and proceeded to tell him the whole story.
He told him of Abby coming to the Congo and caring for the orphaned baby. He told of seeing her in the firefight and getting to her with Bendu's help. He described the loss of the baby and what it meant to Abby. He shared how he soothed her in his room and how they found each other once more, only to have it fall apart because of Debbie's garment and his moment of confusion.
Then he told him of the baby's mother and Albrecht and his hidden dark side. Carter's hands trembled, and Bendu drove faster.
"We need to get you to that plane," Bendu said with anxiety in his voice. "If you don't make it, you won't catch the connection in Kinshasa to Paris."
"As soon as I get to Paris I need to catch a connection to Chicago . . ."
"Chicago?"
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"My friend, a man like that would certainly like to spend some time in Paris with a pretty lady, don't you think?"
"Can't you go any faster?"
Bendu roared the engine.
Carter picked up his cell phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"I don't know," Carter said. "French police . . . Interpol."
"Dr. Carter, the only victim of this man that you know of is dead. So is the baby he produced. The only evidence came from a woman whose name you do not know who lives in a refugee camp of thousands—"
"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Carter exploded in frustration. He tucked his phone in his shirt pocket, ran his hand through his hair, and slammed his fist on the door of the truck.
"Go get her, Dr. Carter."
Carter was quiet while his pulse fell back to normal. And then, with pain in his voice, he said quietly: "What do I do when I find her?"
"You do whatever you have to do."
"What if she doesn't believe me?"
"You do whatever you have to do."
"What if he already—"
"Whatever . . . you have . . . to do."
ERIC'S PLANE WAS missing. Carter called Abby when he arrived for vacation in the Central American country of Belize, and she told him what she knew—that it had gone off radar. He panicked for her and knew immediately what he had to do.
There was a knock at his hotel room door.
"Carter?" said a voice.
The knocking turned into banging.
"Carter!"
"Carter, come on, man! Pick up the pace!" said another voice.
Carter was deep in thought as he returned his garments to his suitcase, but the pounding brought him to the present. He opened the door. Behind it stood two young men very much like Carter—young, educated professionals from privileged backgrounds. They met once a year to go scuba diving at various tropical locales around the world. Other than the fraternity they shared in college, Carter didn't have much in common with them any longer, and it seemed like less and less each year.
He left the door open for them and went back to packing.
"P.J. and I are ready to do a couple this afternoon," said Kenny, a tall dark-haired young man with a deep tan—clearly no stranger to a beach.
"Hold on, what are you doing?" said P.J., a stockier, shirtless blond.
"Packing up," Carter answered. "I'm headed back."
"Whoa! Are you crazy? You just got here!" P.J. responded.
"I have to head back. Abby's brother—he's missing. He was in a small plane—"
"Oh man, that's tough," Kenny sympathized. "He crashed?"
"I don't know. He went off radar. That's all they know."
"Well, he could have set it down somewhere—it could be a lot things," Kenny reasoned.
"I know, but I want to go back," Carter said. "Sorry guys."
"Carter, come on! We just got here," P.J. pleaded. "This is our big trip, remember? Once a year, wherever we are in the world, we meet for a dive. Try a couple of dives and call again. I bet they find him by then."
"Yeah, Carter, try out the equipment and then call."
The three men were joined by a fourth who stepped into the room through the still-open door.
"What's going on?" asked Tim, a tall brown-haired young man with a well-trimmed reddish beard that made him look more rugged than his soft features would suggest.
"Tim, talk some sense into this guy. We just got here, and he's already heading back," P.J. whined.
"What's up, John?" Tim asked Carter, who continued to put garments into the open bag on the bed.
"It's Abby—her brother's missing in his Cessna. I think I should be there if she hears any news."
P.J. reached into Carter's bag and grabbed balls of rolled-up socks. He hopped on Carter's bed, bag and all, and began to juggle them. "All I can say, Carter, is she must be some good f—"
"Hey! That's my girlfriend you're talking about!" Carter picked up his bag from the bed and dropped it down hard on the floor.
"Friend," he said, covering himself. " I was going to say 'friend' okay? Geesh, Carter."
"All right, break it up," Tim said. "You guys get out of here, okay? I want to talk to Carter."
Kenny and P.J. reluctantly filed out of the room, but before he closed the door, P.J. said, "Knock some sense into him, will you?"
"Come on, let's go," Kenny said from out in the hall, and they shut the door behind them.
When it was quiet, Carter went back to packing, and Tim spoke: "Do you have any details?"
"No."
"Did you speak to Abby?"
"A few minutes ago."
"She asked you to come back?"
"No—she asked me not to. She doesn't want to ruin my vacation in case he turns up in an hour."
"She's right, you know?"
"Tim, if it were your wife's brother, would you go back?"
"If it were my wife's brother, she'd come down and drag me back herself."
They chuckled, and it broke the tension.
"Well, Abby's not like that. It took a lot for her to even tell me. I think she needs . . . someone . . . to be with her," Carter said, hoping that his intuition was right and that he was that someone. "I'm sorry, Tim. I can dive another time."
"Safe trip, Carter."
"What about Ken and P.J.?"
"I'll take care of those goons. Go take care of Abby."
"Thanks."
They shook hands, and Tim playfully slapped Carter on the side of the arm.
"Man, my wife was right."
"Right about what?"
Chuckling, Tim opened the door, but before he closed it, he leaned in with a mischievous smile and said, "She told me, 'Tim, Carter's in looooove.'"
Carter smiled. He was.
THE PICKUP TRUCK slowed down and snatched Carter from a dark place in his mind. Up ahead, a young boy, 10 or 11 years old, waved his arms frantically, and Bendu pressed on the brake.
"What are you doing?" Carter yelled. "We're never going to make it!"
"The boy has something to say," Bendu said matter of factly. He leaned his head out of the window, and the boy spoke to him.
"Go that way! Go that way!" he said pointing to a turnoff onto a dirt road that led up a steep hill to a long, high ridge that ran parallel to the main road.
Bendu eyed the road straight ahead versus the unpaved turnoff.
"Forget it!" Carter yelled. He was beginning to panic. "Let's go! Move!"
Bendu thought for a brief moment and then turned the vehicle sharply to the right and sped up the hilly, rough path.
"Are you crazy?" Carter shouted and pounded his fist on the door of the truck. "What are you doing? The road ahead was fine!"
"He said to go this way," Bendu said.
"He's just a kid!"
"Sometimes people should listen to children."
"This is insane," Carter said and slapped his hand against his forehead.
They bounced along the steep incline and then turned onto the high ridge and rolled along the dirt road. Within a mile, a lineup of cars appeared below on the parallel main road.
"Roadblock," Bendu explained.
"What are they checking for?"
"Who knows? But whatever it is, these poor fellows didn't fare well."
Below at the checkpoint, soldiers with pistols pulled a driver and a passenger from a blue van. They ordered them onto their knees, pressed the guns to their foreheads, and screamed questions in French.
"Oh my God," Carter whispered.
"Don't look, Dr. Carter."
The crack of a firing pistol echoed off the high ridge and bounced the sound for miles around. The driver on his knees slunk to the ground.
Carter's hands shook and his eyes grew wide. He touched his fingertip to his forehead as he remembered the feeling of hot gunmetal mixed with fear.
"I said not to look," Bendu reminded him.
ABBY LIFTED THE aircraft window shade and stared out.
"Either we're really landing this time or we're in big trouble," she announced.
"Why?" Albrecht asked without batting an eye.
"Well, I see the runway, and we're getting close to it really fast."
He smiled at her. "I'm sure we're landing."
"Do you have a connecting flight?"
"No, I'll take the train to Vaduz, but I'm going to stay in Paris a little while."
"Really? You sounded anxious to get home."
"I changed my mind."
"Oh."
"And since I'll be in Paris anyway, I hope you'll allow me to keep you company today while you wait for your flight home."
"No, that's all right. The airport is no place to spend a beautiful day."
"I have no intention of spending the day in the airport. I intend to show you Paris."
"No, really—"
"I insist."
"Thank you, but I'd rather hang around the airport in case I can get on an earlier flight."
"And what will you do in the airport all day by yourself?"
"Crossword puzzles."
"Nonsense. I won't listen to any arguments."
ABBY HEARD HER parents fighting many nights. Sometimes, Maggie screamed with unexplained rage. Sometimes she roared with uncontrollable laughter. Many times, it was her father yelling while Maggie sat with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands as she agreed with him that she was guilty of all the horrible things of which he accused her. Abby would sometimes watch from the top of the stairs. Though her mother frightened her, Abby pitied her and instinct made her want to comfort her. But Abby was afraid of what her father would think and didn't want to weaken his love for her. She needed him, so she stayed quiet.
The day it happened started out better than most days. Maggie had straightened up the house, made cupcakes for the school bake sale, and gave makeovers to the other moms as they waited for customers for the luscious snacks.
That morning, Abby left for school as content as any seven-year-old could be on report card day. She had tried harder this semester than any before, though being only in second grade, she hadn't much to compare it to. When Sister Marguerite handed Abby her report card, she held the envelope in her hand for a long time and stared at her name, "Abigail Wyczenski," before tearing it open.
And then she saw it—Science: A+. Her heart practically burst from her chest. When the clock struck 3 p.m., the doors of the school flew open, and all the children spilled out, including Abby, who ran home all the way. It was Friday. Mr. Wyczenski came home early on Fridays. When she got there, she thought Maggie might be doing laundry and her father would be playing with Eric, now a robust pre-schooler. She would call them all into the living room and maybe tease them with her news before revealing the beautiful letter "A" followed by a "plus"—the greatest accomplishment of her very short life.
Abby ran down the street, her jacket flapping open in the frosty November wind, her brown hair flying behind her. The pleats of her uniform danced against her blue tights. However, as she turned her corner, she slowed her pace a bit. There was something strange about her house. The door to the garage was open. She slowed to a jog and then to a walk when she saw her father's car was not there.
She headed up the short walkway to her house and opened the door. The folding table on which she'd often lay her books was gone, as was the stereo that sat on it.
From the small den that Maggie mysteriously called her "office," Abby heard the distinct sound of cartoons. She walked in, and there she saw Eric. He stood on a chair, his face and hands up against a 13-inch, black-and-white television.
"No maw cowors," he announced to Abby, shaking his head.
"No more colors?" She translated his poorly formed pre-school consonants better than either of her parents.
"On da tewebijun," he said pointing to the screen.
"Where's the other television—the color one?"
"Da-ee tewk it."
"Daddy took it? Took it where?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Where's Mommy?"
His little fingers pointed up.
She put her books down and lifted Eric from the chair.
As a petite seven-year-old, the strapping toddler was more than half her size. But he let her lift him, his little legs dragging on the floor, and she sat him on the old, ripped couch they kept in the little "office."
"You're too close, you'll ruin your eyes."
She left Eric on the couch, walked slowly up to her parents' bedroom, and opened the door. The pungent smell of alcohol hit her in the face. The curtains were closed, and it was dark and difficult to see, but she could make out Maggie, unmoving, on the bed.
Abby had seen this before—time and time again. Just last week, her mother arrived home with many pots of acrylic paint. She gave Abby and Eric brushes, and they painted designs and smiling faces all over the walls. When her father came home, he roared that he'd spent good money on the wood paneling and that he couldn't take Maggie's careless behavior anymore. Her mother just giggled uncontrollably, and Abby and Eric ran to their rooms. The giggling was always followed by weeks where Maggie would do nothing but sleep in the dark and drink from bottles. During those times, Abby's father would sleep on the couch—if he came home at all. Abby would try to cook and clean and make things seem normal for him. She worked hard at it. The worse things got, the harder she worked.
She should have seen this day coming.
"Mommy?"
She shook her.
"Mom?"
"Abby," Maggie whispered without opening her eyes.
"Mommy, where's Daddy?"
"Let him go, Abby."
"Where did he go?"
"He couldn't take it. He's sick of me, sick of all of it . . . I don't blame him."
Abby walked to the bedroom window and leaned her chin on the sill.
"He'll come back, Mommy."
"He's not coming back, Abby."
"He didn't even say good-bye to me. He'll come back."
"Oh, Abby . . ."
"He'll miss us."
"He'll find somebody else. They always do."
THE PLANE EMPTIED out, and Albrecht and Abby were among the last to disembark.
"I'm starving," he said. "Aren't you hungry?"
In truth, she had eaten very little during her time in the Congo and even less over the last day or so. However, her appetite caught up with her, and she was quite ready to eat.
"Yes, there must be a vending machine around here."
"Vending machine? Nonsense. Let's grab breakfast at my hotel."
"Your . . . hotel?"
"Yes, there is a wonderful restaurant—"
"I'd really rather—"
"Please."
"I'm sorry, but—"
"Okay, forget the hotel. How about a quick bite at this lovely café I know."
"Well . . . "
"I won't take 'no' for an answer."
"Ummm . . ."
"Please, Abigail, I'll never forgive myself if I don't show you a bit of Paris while you're here."
"Okay." She excused herself and went to find a restroom.
THE DIRT RIDGE eventually met up with the main road to the airport, and Bendu floored the gas pedal to race Carter to the crucial Kinshasa flight. Carter perspired, breathed heavily, and sat at the edge of the truck seat.
"Come on, come on," Carter mouthed in silent meditation, his knees bouncing nervously. As Bendu turned into the airport, the line of cars ahead of him was staggering.
"Go, Dr. Carter, go!"
Carter flung open the door of the crawling truck and dodged his way through rows of cars to get into the terminal. Inside, he ran to the information desk, chest heaving, and breathlessly said, "Kinshasa."
The man pointed to a gate, where the door was already closed, and the plane could be seen rising to the sky at a forty-five degree angle to the ground—the ground on which Carter still stood.
Bendu ran in behind him. "Dr. Carter, did you—"
Carter shook his head as he panted heavily. His eyes filled with tears of anxiety. He leaned against the window, and as the plane behind him flew higher, Carter slid down the glass until he was sitting on his heels. He flung his head backward and banged it against the window.
"Bendu, I need to get there," he said as he began to catch his breath.
"You can get there tomorrow—"
"No, I need to go today."
"Dr. Carter—"
"Damn it, I need to get there today!"
Bendu walked slowly over to Carter and offered his hand to help him stand up.
"Dr. Carter, I hope I don't live to regret this, but I know this man . . ."
ON THE DAY of Bobby's funeral, 11-year-old John Carter looked handsome in his dark suit. He stood between his father and grandfather, his grandmother and mother flanking them. He watched as they put Bobby's body in the ground and shuddered with fear. He wanted to cry, but he didn't.
"Don't be a baby and cry, Johnny. You'll make mom sad," his brother warned concerning his own burial.
But Young John cried even at the prospect, though he agreed, "I won't."
"You're doing it now!"
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are!"
"No, I'm not!"
"Don't be a baby."
"I'm not a baby!"
They sparred, but Young John really wanted to hug his brother and never let go. Later, they did.
He loved Bobby.
At his funeral, Young John's stone face was rewarded by his father and grandfather.
"That's it, Johnny. Act like a man."
And so he stood, stoic, burying his tears inside.
THE MAN BENDU knew was a pilot who had his own plane. It was not just any plane—it was a Gulfstream V, a very fast, long-range jet that could get Carter from right there in Kisangani directly to Paris that very afternoon.
"He flies for foreign dignitaries—" Bendu explained.
"Or dictators, you mean?" Carter clarified.
"Whoever can pay him—that's a pretty particular group."
"Call him."
"But Dr. Carter, do you know what kind of money we're talking about?"
"Call Bendu, please."
"Dr. Carter—"
"Please."
"Dr. Carter, he'll want tens of thousands—"
"Call him."
Bendu took his cell phone, stepped out of the terminal, and called. When he returned, he reported the results of his negotiations.
"He said he could have you in Paris by 3 o'clock."
"Good."
"He wants $75,000 U.S.," and he roared with laughter.
"Tell him yes."
"What?" Bendu eyes nearly flew from his head.
"Tell him yes . . . please, Bendu."
"Dr. Carter—"
"Please."
THE EARLY HOUR made traffic around the restroom light. At the mirror, Abby washed her hands. For the first time since she left Africa, she had a moment alone to digest what happened: They were kissing, and touching, and engaging in the intimate talk that for them always preceded sex. And then it was shattered by her discovery that he'd been with another woman. Abby wanted to hate him, but she missed him. She stared in the mirror a long time and found herself reaching for her neck and running her finger in a semi-circle tracing the path of his ring of kisses. She remembered the feeling of his lips on her neck—not just the feeling but the sound. It was so quiet in his bungalow—no traffic or sirens. Just his mouth on her skin and the tiny noise it made when he'd slowly draw his lips away from her neck and press them down again an inch away.
"Abigail."
The sound of her name made her jump.
"Are you okay?" Albrecht stood mere feet away from her—inside the women's restroom.
Her heart jumped from the start he gave her, and she rubbed her face to calm the redness that her memories caused.
"I'm fine."
He stepped closer.
"I was just making sure."
"I'm okay, really."
She busied herself at the sink.
"Oh, see now I have frightened you. I'm sorry."
"No, I just . . . I didn't expect anybody . . . in here . . . in the Ladies' Room . . . with me." She turned on the faucet and moistened a paper towel and pressed it to her burning cheeks.
"Is there anything I can do?" He stepped closer.
"No, I'll just be another minute. You can wait—."
"Monsieur!"
Before she could say the word "outside," the shrieks of an outraged woman came from the threshold, and Albrecht retreated with his hands in the air. Abby laughed, which calmed her racing heart. She forced the thoughts of Carter from her head, and dried her hands.
WHILE MAGGIE SLEPT, Abby looked out the window of her parents' bedroom with her nose pressed against the cold glass. She watched and waited for the familiar headlights of her father's car to pull into the driveway. Just as evening fell, Eric appeared in the doorway.
"Mommy?"
"Shhhh!" Abby said. "Leave her alone." And she resumed her position.
Eric came over to his sister and leaned his head against her arm and tugged at her school uniform.
"Abby, I'm hungwy."
"It's okay, Eric. I am, too."
She walked over to Maggie, leaned close to her, and touched her face.
"Mommy?"
No response.
"Mom, Eric and I are hungry. It's dinner time . . . Mom?"
Still Maggie did not respond.
"Come on, Eric."
She took the boy by the hand and led him to the kitchen. Abby stood on a chair and opened the cupboards one by one, yet found nothing that she could prepare that would make a decent meal or snack: flour, iced tea mix, tomato paste. In the refrigerator, she found a ketchup bottle, an old roast beef sandwich, and a half-empty six-pack of beer. Every dish in the house was in the sink.
From her perch on the chair, Abby could see out the window to the Randalls' backyard. She could see Mrs. Randall and her grandson, a boy two or three years older than Abby who visited from time to time. The Randalls were barbecuing despite the crisp fall evening. It smelled good to her hungry belly.
"Get me your jacket," Abby ordered Eric. She hopped off the chair and put on her own coat, which she had left by the front door.
"Come with me and don't say anything. Promise?" she said to her little brother as she put on his jacket.
"Don't say what?"
"Don't talk!"
The two children went outside and around to the back of their house. Abby climbed the short wooden fence that separated the Wyczenski yard from the Randalls' and threw her legs over, sitting on top. Eric climbed up just enough for his face to look over, and he clung to the fence with two hands.
"Hi, Mrs. Randall," Abby said.
"Hello, Abby. How are you, honey?"
"I'm fine."
"Hello, Eric," Mrs. Randall directed to the boy. "And how are you today?"
Eric remained silent per Abby's orders.
"He's fine, too." Abby answered for him.
"How're your mom and dad?"
"They're fine," Abby said. "They're at a party."
"When are Mommy and Da-ee coming back?" Eric inquired, suddenly feeling out of the loop.
"Shhhh!" Abby demanded.
"A party?" said Mrs. Randall.
"A fancy party," Abby elaborated.
"They went to a party and left you home alone?"
Mr. Randall came to the back door at the sound of the conversation and caught Mrs. Randall's eye.
Sensing skepticism, Abby fibbed. "Oh, no. The babysitter is inside doing her homework."
Abby stared at the barbecue, while the Randalls' grandson held the platter of long, empty buns for the hot dogs, which were just about finished.
"Well, say hello to your parents for me, okay?" said Mrs. Randall. She took the platter from the boy and filled the buns one by one as Abby's mouth watered.
The young boy looked carefully at Abby, whose little legs hung over the fence, and their eyes met.
He called to Mrs. Randall as she opened the back door to the house.
"Grandma?"
He signaled her to lean down to him, and he cupped his hands over her ear. Mrs. Randall watched Abby as the boy whispered to her, and Abby got frightened.
"Come on, Eric. Let's go!" she said and threw her leg back over the fence.
"Abby, sweetheart," Mrs. Randall said before she could climb down. "Would you like a hot dog?"
"No thanks. I'll ruin my appetite. My dad's bringing us food back from the party."
"Abigail, honey, here's one for you and for your brother—just until they get home, okay?"
"Well . . . okay, but . . . ummmm . . . could we have one for our babysitter? It wouldn't be polite to eat in front of her."
From the other side of the screened back door, Mr. Randall stood in shadows. He shook his head sadly and walked away.
"Of course, you can, pumpkin." Mrs. Randall gave Abby a paper plate with three hot dogs, which Abby handed to Eric as she prepared to climb down. As she threw her other leg over the fence, Abby's eyes met the boy's again.
"I'll be inside in a minute, Grandma," he said.
His eyes were round, brown, and warm with kindness. In them, Abby could see he knew her secret. He smiled at her, but Abby turned away.
She had learned her first lesson in shame.
DESPITE THE BRIGHT sunshine, the Paris air was cool, and Abby considered snatching her light jacket from out of her bag. Their taxi stopped on a lovely Paris side street, and they got out in front of a corner establishment with lovely blue shudders surrounding pretty paned windows and a carved yellow door that was shut tight.
"Of all the bad luck. I am so sorry, Abigail. I bet you would have loved this place. Belgian waffles with warm fruit syrup, homemade chocolate croissants . . ."
Her stomach growled.
"When was the last time you were here?" she asked.
"Just recently."
"Really? It looks like it's been closed for months—or even years," Abby said as she peeked through the window. She saw layers of dust and even a cobweb or two. "Maybe they're just bad housekeepers."
"Nobody could be that messy," Albrecht countered.
"You've never seen my apartment."
He laughed and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Look, my hotel is just down the block. Why don't we just eat there? The food is good, and I know the people."
"Your hotel?"
"The hotel restaurant."
"Well, I'm starving, so we'd better go somewhere."
ABBY, WHERE ARE you? What are you doing? Are you okay? The questions rolled through Carter's mind and hurt his stomach as he sat in seat No. 15. He was the only traveler on the luxurious 20-passenger airliner.
"Dr. Carter," said a voice over a loudspeaker. It came from the cockpit. "There's food in the refrigerator near the restrooms."
"Thanks," Carter said to the air.
"We know you have a lot of choices when you travel, but thank you for flying my airline." The voice laughed.
It made Carter uncomfortable.
AFTER BOBBY'S FUNERAL, swarms of people, mostly business associates of John Carter Sr., went back to the Carter Family mansion for the mournful reception. Black-clad adults with plates of canapés and martini glasses swarmed the premises, and Young John Carter wove his way through them invisibly. He stopped on occasion to look at a photo of his brother on a table or credenza, but he always found himself standing before the large oil painting of himself with Bobby commissioned by his grandfather a few years back.
Later, when all the guests had left the Carter family home, it became clear that life for the 11-year-old would never be the same.
He found his father hiding in the library. Jack Carter sat in a high-back chair over which young John could not see—only his hand was visible from the arm of the chair. It held a snifter of brandy.
"Dad?"
"Johnny, go see if your mother is packed."
"Packed? Where are we going?"
"Your mother and I are going to Europe this evening."
"I don't have to go to school?"
"No, Johnny—"
"I don't?"
"No, Johnny, you don't understand. Your mother and I are going . . . alone."
"But Dad—"
"Johnny, go to your mother."
Young John slinked out the door and headed upstairs. He knocked softly at the door to the room his parents used at the mansion.
"Mom?"
"Johnny!" He jumped when he heard the voice of Margaret, the head housekeeper, from behind him. "Don't be bothering your mother now. She's doesn't want to be disturbed."
"But it's just me, and my father wants to know—"
"She said nobody—that includes you and your father. Run and play now. And don't dirty that suit or you'll hear it from your grandmother, I'm sure."
Shortly after, Eleanor Carter emerged from her room and met Jack at the bottom of the steps. Henry the butler brought the bags to the car, and Young John stood on the last stair.
"Why can't I go?" he asked, fighting the quiver in his lip.
His mother looked at him, shook her head, and rested a handkerchief against her nose.
"Be a man, son," his father advised.
"Mom—"
They closed the door behind them, leaving him alone in the darkened foyer.
He stepped down the final stair and walked over to the hall table over which the portrait of himself and Bobby hung. He rested his arms on the hall table and stared at his brother's smile until he dropped his head on his arms. The little man cried.
He looked up, shoulders shivering, salty tears on his young face and said to his brother. "I'm not a baby."
He wiped his eyes and went upstairs just in time to see the door closing on his grandparents' chambers.
"Gamma?"
"Your grandmother is not feeling well, Johnny," his grandfather said as he escorted his wife into the room. "It's been a rough day for her. Why don't you get Margaret to give you some ice cream in the kitchen?"
And he closed the door behind them.
Handsome Young John sat at the top of the dark stairs in his dark suit and made helicopter noises with his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his young cousin on the first floor by the front door of the mansion.
"Chase!"
He stood up on the step.
"Chase!"
The other boy looked up as his mother struggled to put a sweater on him.
"Chase, what are you doing?" Young John said.
"I gotta go home. They're sending me back to school tomorrow. What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Johnny answered.
The woman grabbed Chase by the hand and yelled up the stairs.
"Bye-bye, Johnny. You take care of your mother now. She is going to need all the help she can get. Be strong for her, okay?"
"Yes ma'am."
Once they left, the mansion was empty but for the servants, the sleeping senior Carters, and Young John. The house was huge and dark and quiet. Johnny put his head in his lap and sat in the stillness—alone.
Downstairs, he could see a sliver of light as a door opened. Sounds from inside a room slipped out.
A woman emerged from behind the door. She was one of the maids, a young woman about 25 years old. She looked up and saw Young John at the top of the stairs. He had seen her many times before but almost didn't recognize her: Instead of her uniform, she wore a bathrobe, and instead of her usual hair net, her long, blond locks lay free.
"Hi, Johnny."
"Hi," he said and picked at the sole of his shoe.
"What are you doing?" she said as she moved closer to the staircase.
"Nothing," the boy said as he continued to pick at some dried mud on his loafer.
"Everybody's gone?"
"Yeah."
"Long day, huh?" she said as she reached the bottom step. "I'm sorry about your brother. You must miss him."
He looked up at her. She was the first one all day to ask how he felt about losing Bobby.
"It's late," she said. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
"It's only 9:00," he answered. "Plus, I can do whatever I want," he said defensively.
"Of course, you can. Look at you—you're practically all grown up, aren't you?"
He got a funny feeling as she said that—a tingly feeling—but it frightened him, and he didn't answer.
"Do you want some company, Johnny?" she said, running her hand slowly up the banister and down again.
He shrugged his shoulders, demonstrating his indifference.
"How about television? Do you like to watch television?"
"Yeah, I have my own TV in my room," he answered.
"Me, too. Do you want to watch TV with me?"
His eyes quickly scanned the dark house, stopping briefly at the door to his parents' room, which lay empty now.
"Okay, I guess."
He walked down the stairs and followed her into her room.
That night, she let her bathrobe lay open as they watched television. And the next night he visited her again, but this time she taught him things about her body and his. He may have liked the things she showed him, but mostly, he liked not being alone.
She called him a man that night–just like his father did, just like his grandfather did.
Only they forgot that Johnny was just a boy—a very lonely boy.
Years later, it would be Abby who embraced the boy in him as much as the man. She allowed him to be scared and vulnerable, which in turn made him strong and powerful. She was his friend and companion, and their friendship was laced with love and spiced with sex and cemented with respect and admiration.
She was his family.
One day, he would give her a ring to prove it.
CARTER LEANED HIS forehead against the window of the plane and stared at the ground as if it would get him to Paris faster.
"Hello! Hey!" Carter yelled to the air, hoping the pilot would hear.
Over the loudspeaker, his host responded. "Do you need something, Dr. Carter?"
"Do you have a telephone on this plane?"
"Lift the arm of the seat."
"Which seat?"
"Any seat."
In a compartment by each seat was high-powered satellite phone. He dialed the ER at County.
"ER, may I help you?"
"Susan?"
"Carter! Oh my God, where have you been? Are you okay? Is Abby with you?"
"I guess that means you haven't heard from her." He started breathing faster.
"She left me a message last week from the airport in Paris saying she wasn't coming back right away and I should tell Weaver not to be pissed. But I never heard anything since. I've been going crazy! Did she find you?"
"Yeah, she found me." His voice was slow, deliberate, and weak. He was worried—no, terrified—and he missed her so much.
"Carter, is everything all right?"
"Susan, I did something stupid . . . "
"Carter, what's going on?"
His emotions started to tumble toward the surface.
"Susan, I miss her."
"Carter. Where's Abby?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"She may be coming home. I don't know—"
"Carter, what happened?"
"God, Susan . . . " One hand held the phone; the other covered his eyes.
"Carter, you're scaring me. Tell me what's going on!"
"Susan, if she calls you . . ." he said, his voice cracking.
"Yeah?"
"Tell her I'm looking for her, and . . . I love her . . ."
"Carter, I'm sure everything's going to be okay—"
" . . . and I'm not going to stop until I find her."
"Carter, slow down. When did you see her last?"
"Yesterday, in Kisangani."
"Africa? Abby? How did she—"
"If anything happens to her . . ."
"Why do you think—"
". . . I don't know what I'd do."
"Carter, do you need help?"
"Susan?"
"Yeah?"
His fingers rubbed his throbbing temple. "I need her." It was practically a whisper.
"I know, Carter."
She could hear him breathing on the other end.
"Carter?"
ALBRECHT SEEMED RIGHT at home as he and Abby entered the grand lobby of Le Tremoille in Paris.
"Well, this is very . . . nice," Abby teased, deliberately underplaying the grandeur of the place.
"Home away from home," he said. "Do you have one of those?"
"Not unless you count the car repair shop. I practically live there—"
Before she could finish her joke, Albrecht smiled at a sight behind her.
"Bon jour, Melisande," he said.
Abby turned around when she heard the startled gasp of a tiny girl who quickly covered her upper arms with her hands.
"Bon jour, Doctor Damon," she said in a pure, sweet French voice.
"How are you today, cherie?" Albrecht asked the little girl.
"Tres bien," she said, exalting her good health. "I don't want a shot, please," she returned in the same mix of English and French.
"Of course not—not today." He turned to Abby. "Abigail, this is Melisande. Her grandmother runs the hotel."
"Hello, Melisande," Abby said with the same little smile she used to greet children in the ER.
"Are you a doctor?" the child asked her.
"No, I'm a nurse."
"I don't want a shot."
"That's okay—I don't either," Abby giggled.
"See? You are safe today, ma petite." He turned to Abby once again. "Abigail, why don't you wait here while I check in. Think of what you want for breakfast."
"You can count on it. I'm starving."
Abby exchanged a few words with Melisande and then walked over to the large window and let her eyes scan the Parisian panorama before her. She cursed herself for wishing she were seeing it with Carter, and wondered if he even noticed she was gone. A cigarette craving overpowered her for the first time in weeks.
ABBY SAT ERIC on the floor with a cup of water from the sink and the hot dog from the Randalls' barbecue. However, she ate hers with her nose pressed against the cold glass of the living room window, waiting for signs that her father would return. She saved the other hot dog in the refrigerator for Maggie, when and if she decided to venture from her room.
Abby put Eric in pajamas, watched as he brushed his teeth, and put him on his bed. And then she did the same for herself. She lay on her bed with her report card under her pillow and prayed for her father's return exactly the way she was taught: "Our Father who art in heaven . . ." And when she was through, she wished in a way that had special meaning to her, invoking magic and spirits that seemed even more powerful to a seven-year-old. "I believe, I believe, I believe," she said in language more suited to Disneyland than St. John's Catholic Elementary.
THE RESTAURANT OF the hotel was a brightly lit room decorated with a slight Asian accent. The attentive waiter was very concerned about Abby's comfort and offered her lots of good coffee, which she graciously accepted as she and Albrecht studied their menus.
"I think I'll just have a blueberry muffin."
"You'll insult the chef. Order whatever you'd like, and let me treat you to a lovely meal."
"It's not necessary."
"Please, Abigail, I want to very much. I told you before—I don't like it when people turn down my hospitality."
She went back to her menu.
"If I want French toast in France, would I just order 'toast'?"
He looked at her over the top of his menu and pretended to be offended by her naiveté.
"I think I'll go with the Apple pancakes," she decided.
"Wonderful choice. And I'll have the eggs Florentine."
Albrecht conveyed their choices to a waiter, while Abby gazed out the window of the café with sad eyes.
"Please, Abigail, just have fun."
CARTER TALKED OF butterflies and tornadoes and confessed he'd been drawn to her for two years, but Abby could only think of cooling off from the Chicago heat and humidity. The implicit affection and the suggested attraction made her anxious, as it was only logical that she, too, admit how long she'd been thinking about him. So rather than share, she chose to shock him by baring her body—it was much easier than baring her soul. She reached down and removed her clothes, rather than reach in and release her heart.
And maybe—just maybe—she could have a little fun in the meantime. Fun was something she hadn't had since she was a very little girl.
Carter didn't see her drop her pants and underwear into the sand. By the time he looked up from his explanation of Chaos Theory, she was pulling off her shirt, exposing parts of her he'd barely seen beneath him in the dark let alone in the mid-morning sun.
Abby dove naked into a choppy Lake Michigan right before Carter's eyes. He declared her a mighty and unpredictable tornado and then removed his clothes and joined her in the cool water.
"I don't want to talk anymore. After two weeks cooped up in the ER, we deserve a little fun," Abby decided.
"Like what?"
"Like . . ." she looked around as the waves bounced them up and down. "I'll race you to that buoy over there."
"You think you can beat me?" Carter challenged.
"Yes, I beat my brother all the time. We used to practice saving my mother if she tried to drown herself in a motel pool."
"Well, my grandfather hired a swim instructor for me and my brother."
"That doesn't surprise me."
"He used to come to the house every other day in the summer."
"Really?"
"He was a medalist at the Pan American games."
"Of course, he was," Abby remarked, rolling her eyes.
"Said I was one of his best students."
"Then you should have no trouble beating me to the buoy."
"Okay," he agreed.
"Ready. Set. Go!"
She took off, but Carter didn't move. Instead he watched her slink through the water. Her hair, tinged with gold now, glistened in the sun and swam along side her when she was underwater and gilded her shoulders and back when she emerged. Her arms were smooth and strong, and her legs were shapely as he watched them kick strongly through the water. He remembered running his hands over them and winding them around him the night before in the hospital during the quarantine when they'd hoped that Chen and Pratt were asleep.
She reached the buoy, breathing heavily, and shouted, "What are you doing? You didn't even try!"
She swam back to him.
He grabbed her slippery body by the waist and pulled her close until he could feel her breasts pressed against his chest.
She slipped her arms around him.
"I thought we were supposed to have fun?" she whined.
"I am."
"All you did was watch me."
"Trust me. That was fun."
She pulled away and splashed him as hard as she could. Then she laughed and sped away. This time, he followed her and overtook her easily. He pulled her to him, and she wrapped her arms around him again, and they kissed. Beneath the water, she moved her legs to keep herself afloat, but he pulled them around his hips to keep her still. The giant lake lapped rhythmically over their heads as their lips met and parted only to meet again and lock in a kiss that forced her eyes closed and her mouth open.
Abby recognized the feeling she had in her body with her legs wrapped so tightly around him. What was unfamiliar was the irresistible urge she had to smile. She would soon learn that what she was feeling was happiness . . . caused by love.
She was grateful he waited the two years to be with her.
He would have waited one hundred and two.
"I OUGHT TO think about getting back to the airport," Abby announced after eating her meal.
"Unless I can convince you to stay."
"No, I'd better be getting back."
Abby finished her last sip of coffee and stood up to signal Albrecht that their very long meal was over. What began as a quest for breakfast had turned into a very leisurely lunch. He walked her to the front of the building where a taxi waited. He stepped off the curb and opened the door for her. Just before Abby sat in the vehicle, she turned to him.
"Look, I want to thank you for everything—"
"You're thanking me for inviting you to Africa where you had the most horrible time of your life?"
"I know it sounds funny, but it was good for me," Abby said, forcing a smile. She hiked the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. "I learned a lot about myself—and some things about other people."
Albrecht reached for her and let the fingers of his left hand caress a tendril of her hair. His right hand rested on the rooftop luggage rack of the cab.
"I'll miss you Abigail. I hope we meet again."
"Well, if you ever find yourself in Chicago . . ."
"Perhaps I ought to pay a visit to Chicago."
He looked her in the eye, and in an instant, his parted lips came toward hers. The memory of the pink bra flew by, and so Abby didn't resist his kiss. But just as quickly, it was followed by the memory of Carter's eyes and the way he looked at her and touched her when she cried over the loss of little Colette. She turned her face away.
But this time, Albrecht moved her chin toward his with his fingertips and firmly put his lips on her mouth. For a moment, she let Albrecht kiss her and enjoyed the feeling of being desired by someone who seemed to know what—or whom—he wanted.
Her lips couldn't do it. She felt them resist the intimacy of his mouth. They betrayed her by sticking together and forming a wall against Albrecht's unfamiliar lips. They wanted to kiss the only mouth they trusted. She gave in to them and pushed Albrecht away.
"Don't—" she said.
He looked at her startled—and angry.
"I'm sorry," she added quickly and brought her hands to her lips.
His face changed, and he shook the frightening expression away.
"No, Abigail, I'm sorry."
"I can't . . ."
"I understand. It's just . . . you're so lovely."
"I really have to go."
"Abigail, I—ouch!" Albrecht grasped his hand tightly and stepped back onto the sidewalk.
"What is it?"
"My hand."
"Let me see."
"I cut it on something."
"Let me see it."
"Wretched metal!" he exclaimed, looking at the luggage rack of the vehicle. "Cabby," he said to the driver, "You should warn your passengers that your vehicle is a deadly weapon."
"For heaven's sake, let me see," Abby insisted.
She forced his fingers to unravel from around his hand just enough to see a bleeding cut.
"Well, I can't see anything, but you sure are bleeding so you need to have it checked. Can't you stop by an emergency room?"
"No, no. I am not spending the next 20 hours in a Paris hospital."
"Is there a nurse . . . or an infirmary thing . . . in the hotel?"
"Yes, well, my suite is sort of the 'infirmary thing.' I treat the sick guests whenever I am in town."
"Oh, yes . . . the little girl."
"I gave her a dose of Compazine during a bad flu, and she has never forgiven me."
"We women are sometimes slow to forgive."
"Being right-handed, I can't very well do anything for myself."
"Well, I can help."
"I don't want to keep you. I know you are anxious to get back to the airport."
"My flight's not for hours. You may need a stitch or two," she said as she tried to get a better look at his hand.
"No, but I think a butterfly bandage will hold it."
"Come on," she said. "Let me help."
"Well, if you insist . . ."
He helped her step away from the cab, and then he closed the door, just as the driver got out and began running his hand along the luggage rack to find the offending piece of metal.
He was unable to locate it.
WHEN THE GULFSTREAM V landed in Paris, Carter tried to get a ticket to Chicago, yet no airline seemed to have a flight before evening. Susan confirmed that bad weather in Chicago has closed the airports and backed up flights. He was sure Abby ran into the same logjam, which meant she may have left the airport and gone into Paris with Albrecht—as Bendu suggested.
"Think," Carter ordered himself as he ruffled his own hair with one hand. "Think!"
And the answer came to him.
"In Paris, Le Tremoille was second home to me," Albrecht had said when they spoke outside of Abby's bungalow. "Still is."
"Hotel Le Tremoille," Carter said to a cab driver in front of the airport. "As fast as you can."
ALBRECHT'S ROOM WAS darker than Abby expected, but once he opened the window curtains, she could see it was a generously sized suite with a large bed and spacious seating area with a dining table and lovely black writing desk. It featured a separate dressing area through which she could see a door leading to a large bathroom.
Albrecht retrieved first-aid supplies from a black leather bag he kept near the writing desk, while Abby moistened a cloth in the bathroom.
She caught her face in the mirror and stared at her own mouth. Until Albrecht kissed her a while before, no one had touched her lips but Carter for almost two years. How ironic—Carter helped himself to the breasts of another woman, yet Albrecht's kiss made Abby feel . . . unfaithful.
She somberly brought the cloth to Albrecht and washed the wound.
"Well, it's not as bad as it seemed," she said without looking at him. "I don't think you need a special bandage."
She took a standard band-aid from among the supplies and stretched it onto his finger.
"I don't get a butterfly?"
"Nope, no butterfly."
IT WAS COLD in Minnesota, yet Abby slept without a blanket—only her report card shared the bed with her. She was curled in a tight ball and shivering. She had kicked her covers onto the floor during a restless fit. Abby had promised herself she would not fall asleep as she awaited the return of her father—but that is a promise no small child can keep. However, she awoke quickly when she heard him come home. She knew he would. Abby grabbed her report card and hopped out of bed as if Santa Claus himself had just crawled down the chimney. She bounced down the stairs with her brown hair flapping behind her. Her prayers were answered. Her tiny face glowed. He was home.
"Daddy, look!"
She stopped short two steps from the bottom. He had luggage in his hand.
"Daddy?"
"Abby, honey, go back to bed." He dodged her looks, though she tried to catch his eye.
"I haven't seen you all day."
He stepped in front of his luggage to block her view, but she knew. Her lip began to quiver.
"You're going away, right?"
He hung his head low.
"Abby—"
"But I don't want you to go!" Her eyes started to glisten with tears.
"Abby, I—"
"Please, Daddy, can't you just wait . . ."
She came down the remaining steps and reached for his arm but he stepped away from her. One tear fell from her lid, and then the rest came down.
"I'll call you when I get settled, baby."
He opened the door.
"No, D-Daddy . . . pleeeease!" Her nose began to run and she choked on the words.
He held it open for a minute, as if he might change his mind, but he closed it behind him.
Behind the door stood Abby, crying hard now, unable to catch her breath, with her report card in her hand. Water from her eyes and nose smudged the ink, reducing her name to "Abigail Wycz—."
She stood there frozen for several minutes. And then Abby folded the report card and did with it what she did with all her dreams from that day forward.
She threw it away.
She climbed up the stairs and opened the door to her parents' bedroom. The light from the hall streamed in.
"Mommy, he left," she said, wiping her face dry with her hands.
"Mom?"
She moved closer and saw that Maggie's eyes were open and sad.
"Mommy?" She crawled on the bed and put her arms around her. She pushed Maggie's hair away from her face with soft strokes. "Mommy, are you okay?"
"Go back to bed, Abby."
"HOW CAN I repay your kindness, Abigail?"
"No, problem, " Abby said as she quietly gathered up her bag. "I'd better head back to the airport."
"Are you okay?"
She looked up. "Me? I'm fine."
She was tired, and her mood was darkening. She wiped her forearm across her face and became aware that she was unshowered and wearing the same clothes as the day before.
"You look uncomfortable. Are you sure you want to wait all those hours at the airport?"
"I'm fine."
"Why don't you stay here a while? You can take a shower—perhaps a nap. I bet you haven't slept in days."
She hadn't, but sleep was not what she wanted now—though washing the sticky jungle from her body and changing her clothes would be welcome. But she declined.
"No—but thanks," she smiled. "I don't want to impose."
"Nonsense, you may have just saved my life."
"A bandage on your finger? Hardly."
"Please, Abigail. If it's modesty that's the problem, I'd be happy to leave the room."
"No, I couldn't . . ."
"Look, I'm dying to go out for a smoke."
"No, I—"
"You'll have the whole place to yourself."
It was too tempting—a place to wash away the jungle and be alone with her thoughts, which threatened to overwhelm her at any moment.
"Okay . . . if you're sure you don't mind."
"Abigail, make yourself at home." He opened the door and closed it behind him.
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE lobby of Le Tremoille, Carter startled the unsuspecting desk clerk.
"Parlez vous . . . English?" Carter asked. Despite much time in Paris as a boy, Carter never mastered much French.
"Pardon, monsieur?"
"English—do you speak English?"
"Oui, monsieur."
"Is there a Damon Albrecht registered?"
"Yes, Dr. Albrecht has arrived. Would you like me to ring his room for you?"
Carter was relieved that his instincts led him to the right place.
"Did he check in . . . alone?"
"The room is registered to Dr. Albrecht, monsieur, just like always."
"No, I mean, did he check in with anybody?"
"I did not see him with anyone, monsieur."
"Are you sure?"
"Monsieur, I am sorry, maybe you ought to—"
"Please." Carter hit his palm on the counter and looked at the clerk with worried, round eyes. "It's important," he added softly.
The clerk sighed. "I checked him in myself, monsieur. He came to the desk alone."
"May I have his room number?" Carter asked. But out of the corner of his eye, Carter recognized the blond-haired man that sauntered down the grand center staircase by the front door of the hotel.
"You may use the courtesy phones over by the elevator, just ask the operator for—"
"Never mind. Thanks."
Carter took a deep breath and headed for Albrecht.
ABBY TOUCHED HER mother's head once more and slid off her parents' bed. She left the room, closing the door slowly behind her, and watched as it eclipsed the light from the hall and poured darkness over Maggie.
She passed Eric's room and saw the light on. His mop of curly brown hair was visible among a pile of blankets speckled with toy airplanes.
"Go back to sleep, Eric."
"Where's Da-ee?"
"He went away."
"Where's Mommy?"
She didn't answer. There was a woman in her mother's bed, but Abby didn't know who she was.
"Want me to sleep with you?" She offered her company to comfort her brother, but it was she who needed companionship.
Eric pulled open the covers. Abby shoved a pile of toy airplanes off the bed and onto the floor. She crawled in bed with her brother and closed the light. The two children lay in darkness, pondering the new silence in their home.
Eric crawled close to Abby's ear: "Abby?"
"Yeah?"
"Is Da-ee mad at us?"
She was smart. She was intuitive. But Abby was seven, and she didn't know the answer. She didn't care at that moment. It hurt to picture his face.
Abby's hesitation spoke to the little boy, and it upset him.
"Don't cry, Eric. Everything's gonna be okay."
"You a wiar," he sobbed.
She was.
He turned away from her, and she sat up from her pillow and stroked his soft, brown curls until he fell asleep.
And when he did, Abby crawled out of the bed and stepped into the dark hallway. She looked at her mother's closed door and walked past it into the cold bathroom next door. She turned on the light and closed the door. She turned on the faucet so no one would hear her, and then Abby cried.
After that night, Abby hardly ever shed a tear again. She had lost her imagination, tossed away her wishes, and abandoned her faith. She grew into a hard-hearted girl with sarcastic wit, a cigarette in her mouth, and bottle beneath her jacket. Despite a marriage, her nursing education, and an attempt at medical school, Abby never pursued happiness, believing instead it was meant for others. She never let anyone see inside her, and didn't care very much to see inside anyone else. She buried her heart so deeply beneath her rough exterior that only the most gentle, loving, and devoted person could ever get near it. She was sure no such person existed, and thus she was safe.
But someone did. Not only did he get near her heart, but he touched it, and now he held it in his hands.
And she was terrified.
Because she loved him.
A BIG EMPTY room, a big foreign city, a big ache in her heart.
Abby couldn't control the emotions building in her, and it made her angry. She was angry at herself and angry at Carter for hurting her—and for not being here with her when she needed him.
She picked up the phone and dialed, and for the first time in her life, she found comfort in the voice at the other end.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mom, it's Abby."
She needed her mother.
"Abby, honey, I've been calling you. They said you weren't at work."
"Mom, you'll never believe where I am—I'm in Paris."
"With John?"
"No," she said, her throat tightening.
"Well . . . why? How?"
"It's a long story."
"Abby, are you okay?"
She wanted to tell Maggie that she wasn't okay. She wanted to tell her that she was in love with Carter and that she needed him and that he hurt her. She wanted to explain that even though he did, she missed him so much—and being in Paris made her want him even more. Mostly, she wanted to tell her mother that she was scared—scared of being without him. And she'd only felt that one other time in her life—when she was seven.
But all she said was, "Yes, Mom, everything's fine."
Mental illness never interfered with Maggie's intuition.
"Abby, listen to me. Find him and talk this out."
"There's nothing to talk about—everything's okay."
"Find him, Abby, and get everything out in the open."
Years before, Abby had replaced everything soft inside her with stone. She couldn't get everything out in the open if she wanted to. She couldn't understand her feelings over the last few days—let alone express them—but she was trying.
"You were right, Mom," Abby tried to sound casual, but she sniffled through her words.
"Right about what, honey?"
She was right that Abby could love a baby—no matter what.
"Abby, tell me what's wrong."
Though it was her lifetime wish, Abby had a hard time growing accustomed to Maggie as she gained her sanity. But her long-time anger and resentment at her mother were slowly being replaced by friendship. And Abby was grateful that from Maggie's cocoon of mental illness, a mother emerged.
"Abby, are you there?"
She remembered the warmth of Maggie's arms when she confessed her greatest secret—the one she hadn't shared with anyone, not even Carter. She told her mother she had been pregnant and that fear made her end it. Maggie's arms felt warm and comforting that evening, and she wanted that feeling again. Abby reached down inside of herself, and a frightened child answered. For only the second time in her life, Abby cried sorrowful tears to her mother.
"M-Mom . . . "
"Tell me, baby."
Oh, the tenderness in Maggie's voice soothed the sharp edges of her pain.
"Mommy, I—" Her face was twisted with sobs, but she couldn't bring herself to say why.
But it didn't matter.
"I know, honey, I know. Everything's going to be okay."
A mother knew.
"JOHN, WHAT A coincidence running into you in Paris," Albrecht said as he saw Carter come up the stairs toward him two at a time to meet him mid-way. "Can I help you?"
"I was looking for you," Carter answered a little breathlessly. He tried earnestly to keep himself calm by speaking slowly behind taut lips. "Abby left Kisangani rather suddenly. Have you seen her? She was pretty upset after the baby, you know?"
"Well, as it happens, we shared a flight to Paris," Albrecht confirmed. "But then she said she was going home to Chicago. Sorry I cannot help you any more than that. Perhaps if you go back to the airport right away, you can catch her. I believe her flight leaves at 5 o'clock."
"She stayed at the airport?"
"I tried to convince her to have lunch with me in Paris, but she seemed preoccupied . . . upset. Quite frankly, she seemed a little angry. Do you know why that would be?" he taunted.
Carter looked him directly in the eye—and was angered by the sight of the scar on the side of his face. "She stayed at the airport?" He moved a step closer to Albrecht. "She didn't come into the city?" His eyes were round and serious.
"You sound like you are in hot water, my friend. Consider flowers. I find that—"
"A woman came from the camps to claim that baby," Carter interjected.
"How fortunate," Albrecht said, looking straight into Carter's eyes as if daring him to speak further.
"You left pretty quickly yourself," Carter observed.
Albrecht walked down a step and got closer to Carter.
"You're wasting time, my friend. If you want to catch her, I suggest you be off to the airport." He reached out his hand. "It's been a pleasure, John. I hope we meet again."
"Yeah," Carter said. "Me, too." He ignored Albrecht's outstretched hand and slipped on his sunglasses to hide his disdain.
Carter turned and walked down the grand staircase. He was sickened by the sight of Albrecht, yet relieved there was no sign of Abby. He left Le Tremoille with only one thing on his mind: If he hurried, perhaps he could catch Abby at the airport.
Damon Albrecht watched Carter exit the building. With his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and his sunglasses down over his eyes, Carter walked out into the bright Paris afternoon.
When he could see Carter step to the curb for a taxi, Albrecht turned on the stairs, and slowly, deliberately, and without a sound, he headed back to his room.
ABBY TOOK A deep breath and let down the side pieces of her hair, which she had pulled back with the one metal clip she brought from Chicago. She grabbed her bag and brought it with her into the well-appointed marble bathroom of Albrecht's hotel suite. She pulled her shirt over her head and slipped out of her pants. Her hand reached into the large oval shower to turn on the hot water. Just the refreshing sound of the heavy stream made her feel better. She slipped out of her panties, removed her bra, and stepped under the large waterfall showerhead. It saturated her hair and body, and Abby slowly relaxed as the water began to wash away the emotions she let loose this afternoon. She stood there naked and let the strong shower overpower her, not knowing how desperate Carter was to find her.
OUT IN FRONT of Le Tremoille, Carter was anxious to catch a taxi back to the airport in hopes of joining Abby on the 5 p.m. flight to Chicago. He expected an abundance of cabs at this time of the afternoon, but out front there were none. He sat on a gilded bench in front of the hotel and noticed beautiful, brown, female eyes piercing into him.
These eyes were about five or six years old—maybe seven. They rested on a face graced by a tiny slightly upturned nose with rosy cheeks and dainty pink lips. When he met her eyes, she smiled. When she did, her cheeks dimpled and her eyes wrinkled in the corners. The light danced in them, and Carter could not help but smile back.
"Bon jour," she said.
"Bon jour," he said back in a French accent that even this little girl realized was poor.
"Do you want a taxicab?" she continued in French-accented English this time.
"Yes, I do."
"You have to wait your turn."
"Thanks."
"It won't be long."
"How do you know?"
"I'm Melisande. I live here. My grandmother is the boss of the hotel."
"Really?"
"Oui—yes. She is the boss of everything."
"Well, that makes you a very important person, huh?"
"Yes, it does," she responded as if it were a matter of fact. "Do you know Doctor Damon?"
"The man I was talking to inside? Yes, a little. Do you?"
"He gave me a shot once," she said with a distasteful glare. "Do you like shots?"
Carter pursed his lips, squinted one eye, and shook his head. "Naaaah. But I'm a doctor, so I have to give a lot of them."
The little girl gasped as if she were Little Red Riding Hood discovering the wolf in her grandma's clothing.
"I don't need one today!" she said, quickly covering her upper arms.
"Are you sure?" Carter teased.
"Doctor Damon said I don't need one today, and the lady said so, too. She's a nurse, so she would know." Melisande nodded her head and furrowed her brow to seem more convincing.
Carter leaned forward on the bench.
"You saw Doctor Damon with a nurse . . . today?"
"Oui."
"Here in the hotel?"
"Oui."
"What did she look like?"
"She had eyes like mine," little Melisande said, framing her eyes with two circles she made by touching the tips of her thumbs to her index fingers.
"Did you hear her name?"
Just then a taxi pulled up, and Carter stood to enter.
"Oui," she replied.
"Was it . . . Abby?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Oui, I'm sure," she said, scowling and shaking her head emphatically. "That was not her name . . ."
Carter's tension waned, and relief once again spread over him. He opened the door of the taxi, settled into the back seat, and gave a wave to Melisande as the driver pressed on the gas. With his eyes closed and his head back on the seat, he just barely heard her little voice say:
". . . it was Abigail."
NEXT—
Chapter 9: Carriages & Pumpkins (Finale)