Apologies to anyone who caught this chapter before; you saw a draft which
included an alternative direction for the story and which I rejected. This
version is the correct one.
Also – fixed the "no anonymous reviews" thing. Sorry if that put anyone off.
Part 9
The next few days are real hard. He's exhausted because he can't sleep; what little I can get him to eat he throws right back up, he's edgy, restless, won't talk to me now. He can't get warm but he's clammy with sweat and if I get to hold onto him I can feel that he's shaking. I have to call County and tell them that we both have the flu, we won't be in for a few days.
And he's started writing, pages and pages and pages in his cramped, angular handwriting. He'll stop for as long as it takes to eat something, go ahead and vomit it neatly back up then he starts in on it again. I've asked him what he's writing and he says it's nothing. Yeah, nobody writes this much nothing. He carries the stuff around with him but this morning, when he's in the shower, I sneak a look, expecting to find "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" about 250,000 times. Might as well be; it's in Croatian, but I can make out some names. No prizes for guessing whose, and mine isn't one of them.
If the days are weird the nights are – well, they're freaking me out. It's always the same. He finally falls asleep but he dreams and wakes and then he – I was going to say he makes love to me but I can't call it that. He ... has me, kisses me like it's the only thing keeping him alive, fucks me the same way. It's sure as hell not about pleasure, not for either of us, it's sort of desperate, and afterwards he cries a little and I hold him, soothe him. It doesn't cross my mind to try and stop him, to say no, it's something he has to do, I get that, although I don't know what it means.
I don't know what it means.
Three days in and I'm staring out of the kitchen window over the garden when I sense him behind me and turn around. The light's full on his face and Jesus, he looks like death. He's showered and shaved, his hair damp, but the weight seems to have dropped off of him and there are dark smudges under his eyes like bruises. Right now I want to call Ivica real bad, because I think maybe he's seen this before.
"Hey." I try a smile which he doesn't return.
"I think . . . you should go to work."
"What?"
"You have a 12 noon shift today. I think you should go in."
"Luka – "
"You need to get away from here."
"I don't." I so do.
"You do." He takes my hand, runs a finger over my wedding ring. "I'm fine," he says, "I'm fine." He's so far from fine it's not funny.
"Talk to me."
"Please, I need – please." He lets go of my hand and goes out into the garden, further away from me than he's ever been.
===========================================================
"Hey, you're back!"
"Sure looks that way."
"All better?"
"Better?"
"The 'flu."
"Oh, yeah, all better." Carter glances up at the board.
"No Luka?" No Luka nowhere, no how. "He OK?" he asks. When I don't answer he persists. "Abby?"
"You have a minute?"
"What is it?"
"Nothing." I can't tell him. Not him.
In the end I tell Kerry I have an OB appointment and fetch up on Angela's doorstep.
"Hello, stranger" she drawls, and I can't miss the edge in her voice.
"I've been kinda busy," I say, lamely, "new house, honeymoon, baby stuff."
"Uh huh." She makes tea and picks up her knitting. The click clack of the needles is sort of soothing which is weird because when Maggie knits I want to stab her with the goddamned things. Her grossly fat cat sits about two feet away from me; he's an ugly sonofabitch about the size of a Fiat, and he's staring at me with pure spite. I guess I'm sitting in his spot.
"This is . . . not really about me."
"No?"
"No, it's Luka."
"He cheating on you?" I actually laugh at that.
"I wish."
"Tell me?"
I sip at my tea and I tell her everything, all of it, what my mother said to him, the sickness, the restlessness, insomnia, the sweats, the shaking, the writing, the endless writing. She listens, patiently, only she seems to breathe a little faster sometimes.
"He's sick, Angela, I mean – sick. I think it's like he said, he's drowning in it, he's just letting himself go under."
"I don't know."
"What?" She's rooting around in her bag for another ball of yarn and makes me wait for her answer.
"I'm thinking – disturbed sleep, shakes, sweats, throwing up – remind you of anything?"
"Like what?"
"Withdrawal, detox . . . whatever. You've seen it." Seen it, I've done it.
"He's not been on anything."
"Same process. I mean, especially the writing. Sounds like he's . . . purging himself."
I'm still not getting this. "He's been fine, we talked about all this, about Danijella."
"It's not about her, though, is it? It's the kids. Look, remember when you were first sober, first time you sat in a bar and watched other people drink?"
"Sure."
"Sure. And it felt . . . ?"
"Scary," I can do this, I've worked my steps, I've shared, I can do this. "and lonely."
"Maybe that's what's happened. I mean, he had to have gotten used to not being a father, right? He's past it, it's OK, he's sitting in that bar watching everyone else drinking, and now this, like someone holding a glass of tequila under your nose. This baby – it's the tequila maybe. You figured he got past that. I guess he figured that too, but maybe he didn't. Maybe he never really . . . weaned himself off of them and now he has to."
"I see." I do.
"You had to stop being the gal with a glass in her hand; he has to stop being the guy with a dead wife and kids and be the guy with the wife and kids alive and well and driving him crazy. Only you had AA, rehab, me. He's had nothing."
When she talks about it like that it makes sense, of course it does, and I should know what to do about it but shit, this is virtual cold turkey and it's creeping me out and I don't know how to handle it at all.
"He has me."
"Uh huh."
"What do I do?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe nothing. Leave him to it."
"I can't do that. I don't know what will come out the other side."
"There you go, you're on the outside of it now. And you have to think about yourself, about that baby."
"Can I do that?"
"I think you have to. Be there when it's over. Have a plan for however it turns out – good or bad. Protect yourself. You can't let this take you down too."
Good or bad. I feel sick suddenly. Good or bad, bad or worse, worse or worst. Me and a kid with no dad maybe, and Luka, God help him, spending the rest of his dream life stepping over old brown dogs and going nowhere with only his dead kids for company.
===========================================================
The house is quiet when I get back; there are a couple of dishes in the sink so maybe he ate something.
He only wakes up once and I think I know what's coming next but it doesn't, he just holds my hand and goes back to sleep. I lie awake for an hour, waiting, but he's still and I let myself sleep too.
It takes me a while to figure out that there's something strange about the garden. I take my tea and walk down to where he's been working what we figured was an old vegetable patch. He's been digging and digging, cleared the ground and there they are, two little trees, slender little things, planted, staked and tagged – a cherry and a sweet almond. I think the almond is for Jasna, and Marko will be the little cherry.
Miraculously he's still sleeping when I leave for my 10.00 O'clock shift and I'm trying not to be hopeful because, well, hope doesn't feel like a real safe place right now.
I make it to a meeting before work but I can't bring myself to stand up and in the end I'm glad to leave, to get to County to work, not to think. Kerry asks about Luka and I tell her he's going to need a few more days, this 'flu's hit him really bad. No kidding. She's pissed; she's pissed because her rosta's screwed and I figure Luka's going to be looking at a lot of night shifts when he gets back. If he gets back.
I hate going home, not knowing what I'll find; I wish I had a little apartment I could go to and shut the door, turn on the TV, forget about all this. I realise I haven't spoken to him in two days, haven't even really seen him. What if I never see him again? I'd have to, wouldn't I, I mean if it's all going to end there'd be lawyers because of the house, all our stuff, the baby . . . . Christ.
The house is dark again and there's a weird smell which I can't place at first, but then I realise what it is. Upstairs the door to the little room next to ours, the one we said we'd use as the nursery, is open and it's cold because the windows are open too. Paint, the smell is paint. The walls are painted in the pale green he hated but I said I wanted and there's a roll of carpet in there too. I'm still processing this when there's movement behind me and he's there in the doorway in his oldest jeans, a tee shirt smudged with the same green, little flecks of it in his hair, barefoot.
"Hey," he says, his voice very quiet like someone who hasn't spoken in a long time and has almost forgotten how. I've heard that voice before with patients who have been intubated, the desire to speak and the inability to make that whole voice thing work.
"Hey. You've been busy."
He nods. "Coming to bed?"
"Sure. I'll just . . . I'll clean clean my teeth and - " there's this scary trembling going on inside me but my legs are steady as I make for the bathroom. He catches my hand.
"Leave it."
I leave it.
Also – fixed the "no anonymous reviews" thing. Sorry if that put anyone off.
Part 9
The next few days are real hard. He's exhausted because he can't sleep; what little I can get him to eat he throws right back up, he's edgy, restless, won't talk to me now. He can't get warm but he's clammy with sweat and if I get to hold onto him I can feel that he's shaking. I have to call County and tell them that we both have the flu, we won't be in for a few days.
And he's started writing, pages and pages and pages in his cramped, angular handwriting. He'll stop for as long as it takes to eat something, go ahead and vomit it neatly back up then he starts in on it again. I've asked him what he's writing and he says it's nothing. Yeah, nobody writes this much nothing. He carries the stuff around with him but this morning, when he's in the shower, I sneak a look, expecting to find "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" about 250,000 times. Might as well be; it's in Croatian, but I can make out some names. No prizes for guessing whose, and mine isn't one of them.
If the days are weird the nights are – well, they're freaking me out. It's always the same. He finally falls asleep but he dreams and wakes and then he – I was going to say he makes love to me but I can't call it that. He ... has me, kisses me like it's the only thing keeping him alive, fucks me the same way. It's sure as hell not about pleasure, not for either of us, it's sort of desperate, and afterwards he cries a little and I hold him, soothe him. It doesn't cross my mind to try and stop him, to say no, it's something he has to do, I get that, although I don't know what it means.
I don't know what it means.
Three days in and I'm staring out of the kitchen window over the garden when I sense him behind me and turn around. The light's full on his face and Jesus, he looks like death. He's showered and shaved, his hair damp, but the weight seems to have dropped off of him and there are dark smudges under his eyes like bruises. Right now I want to call Ivica real bad, because I think maybe he's seen this before.
"Hey." I try a smile which he doesn't return.
"I think . . . you should go to work."
"What?"
"You have a 12 noon shift today. I think you should go in."
"Luka – "
"You need to get away from here."
"I don't." I so do.
"You do." He takes my hand, runs a finger over my wedding ring. "I'm fine," he says, "I'm fine." He's so far from fine it's not funny.
"Talk to me."
"Please, I need – please." He lets go of my hand and goes out into the garden, further away from me than he's ever been.
===========================================================
"Hey, you're back!"
"Sure looks that way."
"All better?"
"Better?"
"The 'flu."
"Oh, yeah, all better." Carter glances up at the board.
"No Luka?" No Luka nowhere, no how. "He OK?" he asks. When I don't answer he persists. "Abby?"
"You have a minute?"
"What is it?"
"Nothing." I can't tell him. Not him.
In the end I tell Kerry I have an OB appointment and fetch up on Angela's doorstep.
"Hello, stranger" she drawls, and I can't miss the edge in her voice.
"I've been kinda busy," I say, lamely, "new house, honeymoon, baby stuff."
"Uh huh." She makes tea and picks up her knitting. The click clack of the needles is sort of soothing which is weird because when Maggie knits I want to stab her with the goddamned things. Her grossly fat cat sits about two feet away from me; he's an ugly sonofabitch about the size of a Fiat, and he's staring at me with pure spite. I guess I'm sitting in his spot.
"This is . . . not really about me."
"No?"
"No, it's Luka."
"He cheating on you?" I actually laugh at that.
"I wish."
"Tell me?"
I sip at my tea and I tell her everything, all of it, what my mother said to him, the sickness, the restlessness, insomnia, the sweats, the shaking, the writing, the endless writing. She listens, patiently, only she seems to breathe a little faster sometimes.
"He's sick, Angela, I mean – sick. I think it's like he said, he's drowning in it, he's just letting himself go under."
"I don't know."
"What?" She's rooting around in her bag for another ball of yarn and makes me wait for her answer.
"I'm thinking – disturbed sleep, shakes, sweats, throwing up – remind you of anything?"
"Like what?"
"Withdrawal, detox . . . whatever. You've seen it." Seen it, I've done it.
"He's not been on anything."
"Same process. I mean, especially the writing. Sounds like he's . . . purging himself."
I'm still not getting this. "He's been fine, we talked about all this, about Danijella."
"It's not about her, though, is it? It's the kids. Look, remember when you were first sober, first time you sat in a bar and watched other people drink?"
"Sure."
"Sure. And it felt . . . ?"
"Scary," I can do this, I've worked my steps, I've shared, I can do this. "and lonely."
"Maybe that's what's happened. I mean, he had to have gotten used to not being a father, right? He's past it, it's OK, he's sitting in that bar watching everyone else drinking, and now this, like someone holding a glass of tequila under your nose. This baby – it's the tequila maybe. You figured he got past that. I guess he figured that too, but maybe he didn't. Maybe he never really . . . weaned himself off of them and now he has to."
"I see." I do.
"You had to stop being the gal with a glass in her hand; he has to stop being the guy with a dead wife and kids and be the guy with the wife and kids alive and well and driving him crazy. Only you had AA, rehab, me. He's had nothing."
When she talks about it like that it makes sense, of course it does, and I should know what to do about it but shit, this is virtual cold turkey and it's creeping me out and I don't know how to handle it at all.
"He has me."
"Uh huh."
"What do I do?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe nothing. Leave him to it."
"I can't do that. I don't know what will come out the other side."
"There you go, you're on the outside of it now. And you have to think about yourself, about that baby."
"Can I do that?"
"I think you have to. Be there when it's over. Have a plan for however it turns out – good or bad. Protect yourself. You can't let this take you down too."
Good or bad. I feel sick suddenly. Good or bad, bad or worse, worse or worst. Me and a kid with no dad maybe, and Luka, God help him, spending the rest of his dream life stepping over old brown dogs and going nowhere with only his dead kids for company.
===========================================================
The house is quiet when I get back; there are a couple of dishes in the sink so maybe he ate something.
He only wakes up once and I think I know what's coming next but it doesn't, he just holds my hand and goes back to sleep. I lie awake for an hour, waiting, but he's still and I let myself sleep too.
It takes me a while to figure out that there's something strange about the garden. I take my tea and walk down to where he's been working what we figured was an old vegetable patch. He's been digging and digging, cleared the ground and there they are, two little trees, slender little things, planted, staked and tagged – a cherry and a sweet almond. I think the almond is for Jasna, and Marko will be the little cherry.
Miraculously he's still sleeping when I leave for my 10.00 O'clock shift and I'm trying not to be hopeful because, well, hope doesn't feel like a real safe place right now.
I make it to a meeting before work but I can't bring myself to stand up and in the end I'm glad to leave, to get to County to work, not to think. Kerry asks about Luka and I tell her he's going to need a few more days, this 'flu's hit him really bad. No kidding. She's pissed; she's pissed because her rosta's screwed and I figure Luka's going to be looking at a lot of night shifts when he gets back. If he gets back.
I hate going home, not knowing what I'll find; I wish I had a little apartment I could go to and shut the door, turn on the TV, forget about all this. I realise I haven't spoken to him in two days, haven't even really seen him. What if I never see him again? I'd have to, wouldn't I, I mean if it's all going to end there'd be lawyers because of the house, all our stuff, the baby . . . . Christ.
The house is dark again and there's a weird smell which I can't place at first, but then I realise what it is. Upstairs the door to the little room next to ours, the one we said we'd use as the nursery, is open and it's cold because the windows are open too. Paint, the smell is paint. The walls are painted in the pale green he hated but I said I wanted and there's a roll of carpet in there too. I'm still processing this when there's movement behind me and he's there in the doorway in his oldest jeans, a tee shirt smudged with the same green, little flecks of it in his hair, barefoot.
"Hey," he says, his voice very quiet like someone who hasn't spoken in a long time and has almost forgotten how. I've heard that voice before with patients who have been intubated, the desire to speak and the inability to make that whole voice thing work.
"Hey. You've been busy."
He nods. "Coming to bed?"
"Sure. I'll just . . . I'll clean clean my teeth and - " there's this scary trembling going on inside me but my legs are steady as I make for the bathroom. He catches my hand.
"Leave it."
I leave it.