III"

III

"It's your face I'm looking for, on every street" Mark Knopfler

"When you reach the part where the heartaches start, the hero would be me - heroes often fail. And you won't read that book again, because the ending's just too hard to take"
Gordon Lightfoot

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your patience, we should be landing shortly. The current temperature in Chicago is 52 degrees and the time is 4.17am. Thank you again for your co-operation, we should be landing some time in the next fifteen minutes."
Doug handed the empty cup that had contained orange juice back to the air steward, and dumped the in-flight magazine back in the pocket on the seat in front of him. They had been circling above the city for an hour, waiting for a place in the landing order after a sudden burst of turbulence had thrown them back into the sky during an attempt at landing earlier. The grumbling businessman he sat next to had spent the entire time alternating between loud typing on his laptop and heavy sighing. As a late booking on the flight, Doug had been unfortunate enough to be assigned the middle seat of three and was trapped in his place on the other side by an obese woman who liked to laugh out loud to whatever she was listening to on her Walkman. Standing up to get his hand luggage from the container above meant dislodging himself from his wedged position and trying to politely lift his case out while the woman gave him no room at all, and the businessman cursed under his breath as whatever he was working on crashed. He sat back down, clamping the cheap rucksack between his feet as he reached for the safety belt and discovered that the woman was sitting on one end. He pulled it hard and it shot out from underneath her, enough to expect a reaction but there was none. Increasingly overjoyed that the flight was soon to be over, he did the belt up and chewed one of the offered toffees to stop his ears popping during the descent. The plane finally drew to a halt on the ground and Doug pushed his way out of the plane and into the O'Hare terminal, intent on getting as far away from his fellow travellers as possible. Only when he left the building, light jacket over his shoulders and bag by his side, did he fully appreciate that he was back in Chicago. 'It's home, Captain,' he thought, 'but not as we know it.' Heading in the direction of the nearest hotel, a big tower block by the airport, he let the wind breeze about him, welcoming him back but at the same time blowing a cold warning of things to come.

The room came at a price, but Mastercard could handle it - at least, for now. It was a great improvement on anywhere he'd stayed in the last year, with a king size bed, cable TV, thick carpet and a mini-fridge stocked with refreshments. Helping himself to a bottle of water and a pack of peanuts, he left his bag on the floor and sat down on the bed, sinking slghtly into the rich folds of the duvet. The remote for the TV had so many buttons he wondered that if he pressed the wrong combination he might set off a nuclear missile, but instead found that the set on the wall just increased its volume to deafening levels. Pushing a couple more buttons until it reached a more satisfactory level of sound, he flicked some channels and settled on one showing 'Die Hard'. Or 'Die Hard 2'. Just something with Bruce Willis running around saving the world. He watched with feigned interest for a few minutes until the telephone on the desk caught his eye. Carol's number was bouncing off the insides of his skull and ricocheting around his brain, but something was holding him back. He didn't want to call her and just announce he was back - he didn't want to give her the opportunity to hang up on him. Which he knew she would. Instead, he wanted to confront her, face to face, and tell it all straight out. Apologise. Admit he was wrong - so wrong, about everything. Everything but her. She was the one thing he'd done right in all these years. He ached with the realisation that he'd had her and thrown her away, and it wasn't even for the first time. She had every right not to listen to him. But he was going to convince her, for sure, this time was like no other. This time there was to be no room for mistakes, judgement errors, morals or playing God. This time it was just him and her. And all he could do was pray that she heard him.

Peering through the windows of the house he had known so well the next morning, he felt like he'd walked into a ghost town. He had stood at the door for some time before actually knocking, a tornado of thoughts and fears sweeping around inside him, but when he did knock there was no response. He'd knocked continually for about five minutes, and even called out once, but still nothing. He didn't want to believe that there was no-one home after he had finally decided how to go about this. Now he stood at the window, peering through the thin drapes. Inside it was dark and he had trouble visualising anything, but he could make out the shape of the couch, and what he presumed was an umbrella resting against it. It was definitely still her house, for the drapes were the same and the plant pot on the porch was still there, though the shrub inside had died, wrinkled and brown with age. Stepping away, back down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, he took a last glance back. The paint on the house was peeling, flaking off around the window frames and front door. Unusual for Carol to let the house get into that condition, for that plant to die. Unusual for her not to answer the door. It was entirely possible she was working, or staying with friends or her mother. He would just have to try again later. A slow, sinking feeling hit the base of his stomach when he considered that she could be there and had seen him knocking - but was still so angry with him for what he did that she didn't answer. He tried to brush the thought out of his mind, and sipped at the coffee he held in his hand.

The sun was shining, but the wind was cold and he burrowed down into the collar of his jacket as he sipped, walking down the road. Not knowing where to go, he headed towards the lake and stopped there, breathing in the smells of fresh pretzels, the salt from the lake, and the exhaust fumes from the passing bus. After so long in the country, it seemed like returning to a giant ant hill of people scurrying about at a warped speed, like a documentary clip of night turning into day. It was nice to stand still in the middle of it all and enjoy the anonymity that the city provided. He remembered coming to Chicago years ago for that very reason. It had seemed like any other city to him then, the only other attraction being the lakes. They gave the illusion of living on the coast, and coming from a small town in the very centre of the country made the grass of Chicago look a lot greener. Watching a sailing boat whip around in a tight circle in front of him, his mind slipped back to his reason for being there, which was so different from the original career move he had made. He wondered if he should call Mark to help him establish where Carol was, what she was doing and if he would need to buy a full suit of Kevlar body armour before he went to her house again. But could he really expect Mark to be that responsive either? He'd been screwed over as well, and he'd always been protective of Carol. Feeling like the big, bad wolf, he saw a payphone by the bridge and walked slowly in its direction. If he could talk Mark into meeting him somewhere, where he could confess and unload the burden of his mission, and apologise - he chastised himself for forgetting that the apology should come first on the agenda - well, then maybe it would mean he had more of a chance with Carol. He reached the area where the sidewalk widened into an expanse of concrete occupied by a hot dog stand, the telephone booth, and people hurrying back and forth, muttering into their cell phones, eating pastries and trying to keep their hair in order as the brisk breeze whipped across the bridge. There was someone else using the phone, talking loudly in Spanish into the receiver, and Doug stood waiting politely until the man inside slammed the phone down and left, carrying three huge bags of what Doug presumed was laundry. He moved inside the box and fished a couple of quarters out of his jacket pockets, glad that he'd been lucky enough to find one that someone had left in the hotel drawer. Dropping them into the appropriate slot, he dialed the number he could still remember by heart and waited for a response. When none came he wasn't surprised, as the doctor may well be on shift. Wondering for a moment whether he could remember Mark's pager number, he decided he couldn't and stepped out to let the next person use the phone. He stood by a trash can and bit a fingernail. There wasn't going to be much getting round it. If he wanted any information today and now, he would have to go to County and face the demons. He hoped they hadn't included a restraining order in his conviction, as he crossed the bridge to the center of the city.

"Aah, Dr. Weaver?"
"Randi, what is your job here again? Please tell me if it has changed to include nail painting, because I am obviously under the mistaken impression that you're meant to be sorting these charts." Kerry Weaver dropped a chart with a clang in front of the desk clerk. She looked up to where Randi was nodding her head and saw the dark form of her former pediatric attending walking towards the desk.
"Doug?"
"Hi, Dr. Ross. Oops, I mean, Mister. What happened to your neck?" Randi asked, and picked up the chart that had been so deftly dropped in front of her.
"'S a long story. I don't want to bother you, but I'm looking for Mark, he in today?."
"No, sorry Doug." Kerry rounded the desk, confused, and gestured for him to go into the lounge, an arm behind him to steer. He complied and went in, looking at the lockers and running his fingers over a few name tags he didn't recognise. Kerry watched him for a minute before saying, "Mark's out of the country at the moment, he's on a lecture tour of Britain with Elizabeth Corday." She paused. "Was there something I could do?"
"No, I uhm...Britain?"
"Yes, apparently there has been increase in emergency medicine doctors over there, and they're very interested in how we run traumas."
Doug raised his eyebrows and nodded. The table had changed, he thought, but it looked like they still had the same lousy coffee.
"What happened?" Kerry gestured to the scar that ran from his jaw to the collarbone, and the bruising on his forehead.
"Had an accident. Do you know when Mark will be back?"
"Not for a month or so." She paused. "We haven't heard from Carol since she lost her license."
Doug grunted, then chose to respond to her first comment. "A month? Okay. Thanks, Kerry. I should be going..." he pointed at the door and walked towards it.
"Wait Doug, just stay for a couple of minutes. Tell me what you've been up to."
"No, really Kerry, I have to make a move. Thanks again." He pulled the door open determinedly and shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he left the emergency room. Mark wasn't there, Carol wasn't at home...now what did he do? Go back to the hotel and wait, he supposed. He could stop by at the house again later in the day.

Doug took a hotdog back to his room, not wanted to push the limits of his credit by using room service. He sat on the bed, feeling at a loss, his carefully thought out plans thwarted so soon. Carol hadn't been back to County since the court case, but he wasn't especially surprised. He'd felt like he was returning to the crime scene by just walking through those doors, and seeing the ER again. It wasn't a pleasant experience, so he could understand why Carol wouldn't want to return even to visit. But where was she now? Without a license, she couldn't be working in the medical field anymore, so if she was working then she must have followed another path. He couldn't imagine her being anything other than a nurse, and his gut feeling told him that she had been unable to believe it too. What would someone do in that position? He realised that he was not the best person to be looking at for examples, for what had he done when he was forced to give up medicine? Unwilling to analyse his own behaviour, he hoped with all his heart that Carol had not slid off the rails as badly as he had.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ring of the telephone, beeping loudly on the desk opposite the bed. Doug started, and got up off the bed slowly, suspicious about who would be calling him. His hand hovered over the receiver, watching it shake with the volume and feeling the vibrations tingle against his palm. As it began a fourth ring, he picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Ross?"
"Yeah."
"We have a call for you from Mark Greene. Would you like to accept?"
"Uh, yeah."
Mark was calling him? From Britain?
"Doug?"
"Hi, Mark."
"Is that you?"
"Sure. At least, I think it's me."
"You were looking for me?"
"Uh, yeah. How did you know?"
"I had to call County today, feedback to Kerry on this tour I'm on, so she can justify the hospital expense to the board..."
"Ah."
"Yeah. So..."
"Ahm, I came back to Chicago...it's a long story and I don't want to run up your long distance phone bill, but I'm looking for Carol."
"Oh. I haven't seen her, Doug."
"You haven't? How long have you been over there?"
"No, I mean, I haven't seen her since a couple of days after...when she lost her RN."
Doug was silent. That was definitely weird.
"She was pretty upset, Doug. I wasn't exactly over the moon myself, but-"
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mark."
"Well, Carol took it a lot harder. She disappeared two days after she lost her license. I think she went to her mother's for a while, but she wouldn't take any calls."
"She went to Helen's?"
"Yeah. I'm almost certain."
"Okay. Okay...thanks, Mark. Hope you have a good tour, or what's left of it."
"Yeah, yeah. It's going okay so far. I'll see you when I get back."
"That'd be good. Bye."
Doug clunked the receiving back into its cradle long enough for the ringtone to be restored. He picked up again almost instantly and asked the receptionist for an outside line. Thumbing through the wrinkled old pages of the telephone book left on the desk, he soon came to the listing for Helen Hathaway, and prodded the numbers on the phone with his index finger. As he waiting for the line to connect, he lifted the phone and stretched the wires out so he could sit on the bed, sliding his shoe onto his foot again and starting to tie the laces with the phone balanced between his left ear and shoulder. The phone rang three times before an answerphone message flicked on and confirmed that it was definitely still the Hathaway household. He didn't want to leave a message, knowing full well that if he did it would be erased by Helen before Carol could even get to hear the 'Hello'. Instead, he hung up and grabbed his other shoe, tied it on and closed the hotel room door behind him.

He arrived at the front door to the house half an hour later, his cheeks tinged with red and his mouth blowing warm air so that it met the cold and formed a thin mist in front of him. Once again unsure of his approach, he hesitated on the path and observed the house. The plants on the windowsills were green, and some were even flowering. A doormat lay on the porch with the word 'Welcome' stamped on it. A black and white cat sat in a wicker chair and licked one paw, watching Doug with one beady eye. It certainly looked lived in, which is more than could be said for Carol's house by the tracks. he took a deep breath in, cleared his throat once and stepped forward, up the porch steps and to the door, where he rang the bell once and tried to pat down his hair into some sort of respectable condition. He didn't know why it always felt like he was going to church when he visited Helen's house, but he was aware of the fact he didn't really look very presentable in his clothes that he'd been wearing for almost four days now. He was rubbing at a small white mark on the thigh of his jeans when the door opened and someone said something in Russian. He looked up quick enough to see the door swing shut in his face and the angry retreating form of Helen Hathaway as a blur in the frosted glass. That was not a good start. Sucking up his dignity, he knocked on the door again and listened to her yell from some distance away,
"Go away, Doug Ross. She's not here, thanks to you-" It was shortly followed by more Russian, what he could only presume was a vast tirade of insults. To his left, the cat stood up on the chair, arched its back in a stretch and jumped off the seat. Not being much of a cat person, Doug wondered if it was going to bite him, trained to maim any disgraced boyfriends or unwanted visitors. Instead, it rubbed itself against his leg and meowed at the door, looking up hopefully. Doug stared back at it and let it yowl. A short while later, the door in front of him slipped open again and the cat dashed inside.
"You're still here. You get off my porch now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."
"Wait, Helen-"
"Go!"
"But I-"
"I said go! You understand English, don't you?"
"I want to see Carol."
"She's not here, go away." Her tone, although still harsh and prickled as barbed wire, had changed. Something in her eyes shifted almost imperceptibly. He could sense she was about to verbally abuse him some more, but he got there first.
"I just want to apologise to her, that's all. I don't expect anything else, I just want her to listen to my apology..."
"Well she can't. She's not here, you deaf too now? Go on, get. Get away from me."
"Please, Helen. Where is she?"
"I said, get off my porch! You take my daughter away and now you want to apologise? You-" She was off again. Doug held up his hands in defeat, and backed off down the porch, down the steps and the path as the door slammed so hard that he was afraid the hinges would snap.