CHAPTER SEVEN

HAZED AND CONFUSED
November 1998

He found her out on the deck, sitting on a bench with her knees to her chest. It was wonderful, with sturdy wooden beams that faced the brick facade of the building next door. Twinkling white lights decorated the railing and beams, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere. She loved this deck. Since moving in, Carter found her out there most days, sipping her tea or reading a book. It was no surprise to find her there now.

"Okay, get ready to try this…" Carter announced his presence, carrying two bowls of steaming spaghetti as he entered from the kitchen. Gracie straightened immediately, reaching for what he offered.

"I'm afraid."

"My cooking is not that bad!"

"John, you barely know how to heat up popcorn."

"You are going to be eating your words in a minute here, trust me," Carter declared, settling himself on the other side of the bench. "I'll be expecting a formal apology."

Gracie took a bite. The pasta was al dente, which was a surprising feat. "It tastes like spaghetti."

"Hey, that's supermarket Ragu there. The highest quality."

"Color me impressed. Where did you learn this?"

"I can read directions," he defended, amusement in his eyes as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. "Where's my apology?"

She laughed. "You're blue blood, hey? I won't apologize for having expectations."

Still, he delighted in the way she teased him. It was the part of the day he looked forward to. He liked having her near, and relished being brought further into her circle. There was something all too easy about living with her and Oupa. His days were effortless, always starting on a positive note. It was like experiencing the family unit he had never had.

But what mattered was this; spending time with her. He found himself wanting to know her deeper, wanting to understand her view of the world, and it was for this reason that Carter understood long before anything else that she was going to be a force in his life. It was just a question of how.

Carter's eyes glimmered with amusement, reaching to fill two wine glasses with merlot. "It's my understanding that it's not very Italian without the wine."

"Now, I've heard that," Gracie accepted a glass from him and took a sip, quirking a brow. She noted hints of cherry and mocha on her tongue, and it would accent the pasta beautifully. "My father's side of the family is actually Italian, but I never got to go to any legitimate Italian family dinners, so I wouldn't know. But I've heard that they are flowing with wine."

"I didn't think Abrahams sounded Italian."

Gracie flashed him a bit of a look. "It's my mother's name. I took hers."

"Why?"

She sighed, before simply shrugging. "My father was not a father. At least, not to me."

Part of him could understand that. His father had been distant as well, although he suspected not in the same way she meant. His father had been present, but he had spent his childhood distracted by the family business: creating wealth. Carter pursed his lips and nodded. "He left?"

"When I was four. Took my brother with him, back to the States. My mother raised me, basically. She was my family, and Oupa, and Ouma. And then, Mum died and I was left with my grandparents. When Ouma passed, I brought Oupa to the States." Gracie smiled, almost wistfully, as if recalling a fond memory. "It was all a very middle class existence. Nothing like what you're used to."

Carter scoffed. "Well, not any more. I'm here, aren't I? I'm living it."

"Living the dream," Gracie stifled a smile behind her wine glass. There was something so magnetic about the way their conversation flowed. She was completely in the moment, watching the way he twirled pasta and listening to the timbre of his voice. And when their eyes connected, she did not look away. She was comfortable here, in his gaze.

It seemed he felt it too, as Carter spoke first, a rush of words on his lips. "I want to get to know you, Gracie."

Gracie stilled, astounded. She could not speak, and Carter sought to fill the silence. "I want to know what you're thinking. The things you like. What you don't like. I want to know you."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Maybe you have something interesting to say," Carter suggested in response. "Or maybe I just like you."

"I don't recommend liking me. I don't even like me sometimes."

"Well," he shrugged, the kind of smile finding his lips that she would remember later. "We can talk about hazard pay."

She erupted with laughter, nearly dropping her bowl of spaghetti on the deck floor. She would lose track of how long they sat out there talking, but Carter's bottle of wine was long finished by the time Gracie headed to bed.


THE MIRACLE WORKER
Christmas Eve 1998

"You're awake?"

Gracie looked like a deer caught in headlights as she made her way in through the front door, sticky with sweat. Her cheeks were flushed from her daily morning run, and she hesitated in the doorway for a moment, gazing into dimly lit surroundings. It was only six in the morning, and she had not thought anyone would be up yet. Let alone Carter; but there he was, sitting at the kitchen table, a warm cup of coffee nestled between his hands. Gracie shut the door behind her, feeling a bit like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, although she could not understand why. She had every right to go running at the crack of dawn; she had always done it. Still, she felt a little sheepish. "John," she said, stepping further into the kitchen. "You scared me."

"Sorry. I'm on at seven."

"Oh." She came to a halt in the doorway, realizing the full depth of what was taking place in her kitchen — finding her grandfather standing by the electric stove, with what seemed like a million pans sitting on the burners. "Oupa!" Gracie exclaimed, in what appeared to be shock more than anything else. Carter took a sip of his coffee and watched as she entered, stepping over Oupa's long trail of oxygen tubing in order to reach him. "Wat doen jy?"

Oupa had been frying homemade sausages in oil. He turned to look at his granddaughter, replying in a croaky voice, "Wat lyk dit soos?"

Gracie rolled her eyes but said nothing further, kissing the top of her grandfather's head, albeit reluctantly. She then moved to sit across the table from Carter. "I see Oupa's been force-feeding you," she said, noting the half-eaten plate of food next to his newspaper: eggs, fresh bread, creamy salted butter, thick cuts of back bacon, plump sweet tomatoes, and the aforementioned sausages. It had been quite some time since she had seen her grandfather cook up a storm in the kitchen, and she was so disconcerted from it that she could not decide whether to be concerned.

"Yeah," Carter laughed, shaking his head. He glanced down at his plate and admitted, "This language barrier is rough, I can't understand a word he says. He kept pushing the plate toward me and saying ontbyt, ontbyt! And I was just like, if you insist… he really can't understand English?"

"Not well. He can't speak it to save his life, but he understands a bit of it. It's harder for him, though, as he gets older. The sicker he gets, the more he loses."

Carter nodded sagely, then pointed to the sausages on his plate. "What're these called?"

"Boerewors. It's a traditional recipe."

"And… he made them himself?"

"He always makes them himself."

Carter hummed in reply, as if the mysteries of the universe had just been solved. It was quiet for a moment, then he said, "They're excellent. How do I say they're excellent?"

"Hulle is uitstekend."

Oupa shuffled up to the table then, a cup of Gracie's usual tea in his grasp. She thanked him, and Carter repeated the phrase he had just learned, pointing to his plate and stumbling over the words. Gracie could not help but stifle a smile behind her teacup, taking a sip in an attempt to disguise it. Oupa chuckled and told Carter, "Dankie," before shuffling back to the stovetop.

Carter shot Gracie a playful glance, as if accusing her of setting him up to fail at pronunciation. "I'd better get going," he said instead, taking one last sip of coffee before rising from his seat. "Are you on today?"

She pursed her lips and enveloped the outside of her teacup with her hands. "Actually, no," she said, almost surprised. "For once."

Carter grabbed his coat. "You two doing anything special?"

"What? Why?"

Carter chuckled as he slipped his coat on. His grin was wide and almost disbelieving. "It's Christmas Eve?"

She blinked. "Oh." She took a moment to respond. "No, we're never very spectacular around here. Christmas isn't how it used to be."

"That's pretty cynical."

"No, it's the truth. Christmas back home was always summer weather, no snow. We had pine branches decorating the house rather than a Christmas tree, and we hung up stockings by the bed on Christmas Eve for Father Christmas to put presents in." Gracie shrugged, sipping her tea. "Now, we just have dinner, watch a little television, go to bed."

Carter watched her with a steady gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's okay. The only good thing about Christmas were the candy canes, anyway."

"I could cancel on my family—"

She scrunched up her features, looking mildly offended at his suggestion. She said, "God, no, John. Don't you dare. Family is the most important thing we have." She took another sip of tea.

Carter said nothing for a moment. "Well, all right then, I've got to go. I'll catch you later."

"Geseënde Kersfees!" Oupa called as Carter headed towards the front door. Gracie's eyes lingered on the space he had occupied after he left.

Much later, when the sky had dimmed and snow was imminent, Carter returned, slipping into a darkened home. He locked up behind himself, and eased quietly through the condo until he found himself in the bedroom of a deeply snoozing Gracie. He watched her sleep for a moment or two, before gently laying a candy cane on her pillow.

He slipped out of the room just as quietly.


THE STORM
February 1999

"Africa, there you are!"

She screwed up her features at Conni, bustling into the admit area with an apologetic air. "I know, I know, I'm late—"

"Like anyone even noticed?" Randi groused in her usual way.

Gracie loosened the scarf around her neck, glancing around with confusion. Admit seemed placid, almost hazy with inaction. The night shift was officially on the clock, but at the moment it felt like no one was on schedule. "Where is everybody?" Gracie asked. She was not sure she wanted to know.

"School bus versus snow plow," Randi sing-songed.

"Oh, God—"

Conni was gathering her things, preparing to clock out, and she swept by as she did so, placing a hand on Gracie's shoulder as she went. "Don't worry girl, I covered for you; but now I am off… bye, ya'll—"

"How bad?" Gracie asked Randi almost breathlessly, brushing the snowflakes off her shoulders. Randi chuckled.

"You won't be happy."

Gracie's disdain for such a trauma was notorious. The younger the victims, the more agitated she got. Gracie did her job and did it well, but she was never happy to work a severe pediatric trauma. She was not certain anyone was.

On an afterthought, Randi added, holding out a piece of paper, "Oh, and Dr. Carter asked me to give you this."

It was a prescription for Naptime : TID : PRN, scrawled out in Carter's familiar handwriting. Gracie rolled her eyes and shrugged off her coat, unable to help laughing. She thought about the conversation she and Carter had had earlier, that had provoked the Rx. Staying up until ungodly hours taking care of Oupa was beginning to become the norm for Gracie, and Carter was of the opinion that she was running herself a little ragged.

"This is going to interact with my previous prescription," Gracie remarked wryly.

"Previous?"

It took a minute for Gracie to remember that Randi had no way of looking back on the past with her. She paused, chuckled, and explained, "One day, back when Carter and I were still… feuding, I guess you could say—"

Chuny, just passing by, snorted. "Shut up," Gracie told her immediately, turning to point at her co-worker before continuing with her story. "Anyway, he wrote me a script for Bitchstop : maximum dose : repeat for infinity."

"I remember that!" Chuny chortled as she checked her labs. "You nearly killed him in front of Anspaugh!"

"I would have gotten written up, but Anspaugh just told him to stop antagonizing the Africans."

"Would have?" Chuny pointed out amusedly. "What are you talking about? Gracie, you've always been Anspaugh's pet."

"I have not!"

Chuny began mimicking Anspaugh's crusty voice. "Oh, Ms. Abrahams, if you have a moment, I'd like to discuss with you the finer points of the emergency care system in South Africa, only if you have a moment, of course—"

"And I told him that he might think we do, but ER nurses never have a free moment."

"Sure."

Suddenly, Malik appeared. "Hey ladies, if you don't mind, we're gettin' swamped out here!"

That was the shotgun at the races.

It was only later, much later, when things died down and Gracie felt certain she would never be able to feel her legs again, that the weight of the evening became clear. She found Doug Ross out in the ambulance bay.

He looked like he was on his way out, but he was standing there with an indescribable expression on his face, kicking the ground, as if he were reminiscing. "Hey, kid," Doug greeted her, a bit glumly.

Gracie wrapped her cardigan more tightly around her form, ambling up to where he stood. "Hey, boss," she replied softly. She was trying to be sensitive to the situation at hand. Ricky Abbott had died, and now Doug was facing criminal charges. She had heard through the grapevine that Doug had resigned, and even though it was probably for the best, she could not help but feel sad. Doug was a friend. "Didn't think I'd let you get away without saying goodbye?"

"Oh, you had time, I'm in no hurry."

"No hurry? I'm shocked," Gracie noted dryly, leaning against a wall.

"First time for everything."

It was quiet; for how long, she was unsure. It seemed like much too long, even though in reality it was a few mere moments. But finally, Doug stuffed his hands into his pockets, licked his lips like he had something important to say, and continued with a clearing of the throat, "Hey, Africa, uh—" He paused. "I'm not the best person to be taking advice from. But, ah… don't let a good thing slip away."

Gracie rose an eyebrow; she was clearly confused. But all he did was pull a hand out of his pocket, affectionately pat her on the forearm, and say, "I'll see ya."

With that, he was gone.