First Steps
Part Two
By Gary Schneeberger
TheSchnays@cs.com

OK, I felt a burst of creativity today. For some reason, this thing is just pouring out of me. Beginner's luck, I guess. I can't imagine I'll be posting two installments a day forever, but you gotta go with the flow, you know?

Legal stuff: I don't own John Carter or any other "E.R." characters. I couldn't afford to buy them even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'm just a fan who wants to play with them for awhile. Warner Bros., NBC, Noah Wyle - please don't sue me.

(For some reason, I've posted this twice in the thread for part 1, too. Maybe my computer's acting up. Maybe this'll be the third time it ewinds up in there. Sorry - I'm a first-timer)

Guilt?

Carter turned away from the card and blinked a couple of times, suddenly aware of the thick soup of smoke in the room. His eyes stung, and he closed them tightly to stop the flow of tears that had involuntarily rushed up behind them. That's all I need, he thought. These people see my eyes watering, and they'll think I'm crying. Even the doctors in the room, the other patients from the rehab center, the ones who know that tears are the body's natural way of protecting the eyes, of washing away irritation, they'd look at him and think he was crying. But he wasn't. It was the smoke. It had to be. Thirty-five people in the room, two-thirds of them sucking down cigarettes two at a time -- how else were his eyes supposed to react?

He set his own cigarette in the ashtray and rubbed his eyes roughly, wishing he could stuff the few drops that had dribbled out back inside, but settling for just wiping them away. He blinked a few more times, just to be safe, sniffled softly - another of the body's rote defenses -- and looked back down at the card.

Guilt.

Underneath it, in smaller letters, printed rather sloppily in pen, not Magic Marker, was: "A painful feeling of self-reproach resulting from a belief that someone has done something wrong or immoral." Christ, Carter thought, they actually had to write the definition of the word on the card. What kind of idiots am I dealing with here?

"I'm Roger," a voice from the podium said, "and I'm an addict."

"Hi, Roger," the sing-song chorus responded.

Carter looked at his watch. 8:18.

Talk a lot, Roger, he thought.

"Well, I got 'confusion' '' Roger said. "Bewilderment. Distraction. Embarrassment. Failure to distinguish between things," he added, reading the definition for the benefit of all the rocket scientists in the room.

Confusion, huh? Carter knew all about that. He was confused about why he was here - in this meeting, in rehab, in Atlanta. Confused about why he got on the plane with Benton. Why he got in the van with Benton. Why he didn't punch that son of a bitch harder, so he just could have quit like he wanted to? Who the hell was Benton, or Dr. Greene or Dr. Weaver or Deb, -- Deb, for Christ's sake! -- to confront him like that? He was still doing his job. Doing it damn well, too. Bailed Green out. Bailed them all out at one time or another - pulling double shifts, correcting their misdiagnoses. And now, because he was having a little trouble dealing with getting attacked, with almost getting killed, for Christ's sake - because he needed a little something to manage the pain - they stuck him here?

Yeah, he overmedicated. And he lied when they called him on it. What was he supposed to do? Tell them the truth? So they could threaten him and judge him and punish him like they wound end up doing anyway? They told Anspaugh, for Christ's sake. Anspaugh! Pulled him into their little intervention just to intimidate him, embarrass him. How could they do that? How could they betray him like that? Didn't they know what he'd been through? Didn't they know how he felt? Not just about being stabbed but about -

"Thank you, Roger." It was Rick again, at the podium. "Rather than lose time waiting for volunteers, since we got started a little late and because my new suit and I have dinner reservations with my wife at 9:30, we'll just let each speaker pick who follows them."

"Perfect," Carter muttered, his voice barely audible, even to himself.

"You say something?" the 50-something guy sitting two chairs away asked.

"No. No. Just ... ah ... you know ... Confusion," Carter replied, flashing a fake smile.

"Yeah ... Confusion ... " the 50-something guy sitting two chairs away responded, flashing a real one.

"Hi, everybody. I'm Frank, and I'm an addict."

Looked like Roger had picked the next victim.

"Hi, Frank."

God, that was getting annoying.

Carter picked his cigarette back up, watching the last bit of white burn away above the ring of gold as he inhaled. He stamped it out and reached for another. His eyes were feeling better, even if his body wasn't. His back hurt, and they weren't giving him anything but Tylenol for it, and the last ones he took were - Jesus, two hours ago. His ribs hurt, too, and his chest, and his arms, and his throat. All that throwing up. His muscles ached like they did after he'd started working out a few months ago. But different, too. They felt hollow this time. Not sore because the lactic acid was coursing through them, but sore because nothing was coursing through them. Like he was sick, like he had the flu or something. Just thinking about it, focusing on it, made him shiver. When was the shivering going to stop? Even now, even though a few of the other people in the room were fanning themselves, he was cold. And it made his hands shake. Just like Chase's hands used to shake.

" ... to share another person's thoughts, emotions or feelings."

Frank was still reading the definition on his card. Carter had missed the word. "To share another person's thoughts, emotions or feelings"? Must be sensitivity. Or understanding. Or empathy. He knew a lot about that, too. How could you work in an emergency room and not know about that? You get it on both ends. The pain of the patient on the table, and the pain of the family in chairs. How many times had he wished he could have done more to save one that got away? How many times had he wished he could have done anything but have to tell a father or mother or husband or wife or child or friend that the person they loved was one of the ones who got away? How many times had he winced at the patient's reaction to his efforts to save them? From the ones who just didn't like needles to the ones who had bones sticking out of their legs?

Even Sobricki.

Carter blinked again, kept his eyes closed just a second, to stop that thought in its tracks.

Damn right. How could you be an E.R. doctor and not sympathize or empathize with the people you treated? He couldn't. He tried. But he couldn't. He'd tried to be more like Romano. Cold. Businesslike. Almost mocking. Sarcastic. Like the patients were ... what? ... some other species? Like you were just a carpenter and they were just wood? No need to worry if you lose a piece. Scrap it and pound on another. Plenty of trees in the forest.

Romano. How come he wasn't at that sham of an intervention? Probably made the others do his dirty work. No, that wasn't his style. He wouldn't have missed the opportunity to take a shot. "Well, Dr. Carter, looks like we're going to have to send you on a little vacation before our Fentanyl budget goes into the red." He'd have been there if he knew. They must not have told him. They must have come up with it themselves. Christ, who'd have thought Benton and Green and Weaver and Anspaugh would wind up having less empathy or sensitivity than *Romano*?

"Hi, Donna."

Carter checked his watch again. 8:26. Donna was Speaker No. 3. Roger and Frank had babbled for eight minutes, then. Four minutes apiece. Time was flying. He was safe.

"Hope," Donna said. "The feeling that what is wanted will happen. Desire accompanied by expectation."

She paused. Carter looked up.

"I ... uh ... I have a lot of that now."

Her voice was shaky. So were Carter's hands, still, as he lifted his cigarette to his lips.

"I can't believe it, really. Three months ago ..."

She took a deep breath. Carter took a deep drag.

"I ... uh ... left my husband, my kids. I was living with this dealer ... umm ... I had to get the drugs, you know? Somehow. But I missed my kids ... I missed my life. I missed ... me."

She started crying. Carter didn't.

"So I ... uh ... tried to kill myself, you know? Figured if I lived for the heroin ... I might as well die by it, too."

Rick walked over with a Kleenex. Carter fidgeted with the cellophane on his cigarette pack.

"And I remember lying there on the floor ... With everything slowly going black ... And just thinking, "I don't ... want to die."

She wiped her eyes with the Kleenex. Carter rubbed his with his fists.

He remembered lying there on the floor, too. He remembered everything slowly going black, too. He remembered thinking, "I don't want to die," too.

And Lucy.

He remembered Lucy, too.

To be continued....