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

The legal stuff: John Carter ain't mine. Neither are any of the other "E.R." characters I mention here. They belong to Warner Bros., NBC, Amblin' and probably lots of other people. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

"Hey, y'all. I'm Ed, and I'm an addict."

"Hi, Ed."

"My card says 'fear.' A feeling of anxiety and agitation caused by the presence or nearness of danger, evil, pain, etc. Timidity. Dread. Terror. Fright. Apprehension.

"How many of us in here can plead guilty to a few of them?"

The rustling made it clear just about every hand in the room was raised, but Carter couldn't lift his eyes to confirm his ears' diagnosis. He was sobbing now, but shallowly, more of a drizzle than the downpours he'd gotten used to over the last couple of months, when he was lying awake at night or sitting alone in one of the stalls in the hospital's mensroom. Part of him wished he could open the spigot a turn or two, let more of the hurt flow out, but it wasn't safe. Not here. Not in front of everybody. Not in front of all these strangers.

He still felt kind of stupid for doing it in front of Benton. What was Benton going to think when they were back at County, working together again? How could Benton ever look at him the same again, ever respect him again, after what happened? If the roles were reversed - if it was Benton who punched him, who cried like a baby in his arms, who needed an escort to a rehab center - would he be able to think of him the same way afterwards? Hell, no. He wasn't even able to look at Chase the same way afterwards.

He felt sick. Physically sick. Like he was going to throw up. It felt like whatever it was that was making him cry was the same thing making him nauseous. Like if he could just cry enough of it out, or puke enough of it up, he'd be back to normal. The old John Carter, ready for action.

But how much was enough? How many times was he going to have to feel like this until it was OK again?

With morphine and Fentanyl, there's a threshold. If the pain is too bad, or if the memories are too bad, you just increase the dosage. Keep at it until your back goes numb, until your hands stop shaking, until you can smile at work. Until you can close your eyes without seeing Lucy's face.

But there's no threshold now. Not here. How much crying, how much puking, was it going to take until he was free?

" ... and that's when I learned that the only way I was gonna be able to lick this thing was to stop bein' scared."

Ed was still talking about fear.

"I had to decide, make a choice, to do whatever it took to get sober. Even if it meant being embarrassed, or being hurt, or being rejected, or being laughed at, or whatever. You know what it was like? It was like I was a football player, and bein' clean was the end zone. And fear was the middle-linebacker, tacklin' me every time I got the ball.

"I couldn't outrun him. I couldn't outfake him. So finally I just had to run him over."

"And with God blockin' for you," Ed added, his voice thick with the fatness of his smile, "well -- that's not that hard at all."

He makes it sound so easy, Carter thought. And maybe it was for him. He only had one linebacker to get by, after all. How easy would it have been for him if he had a couple of safeties and a whole defensive line staring him down, too? All bigger than he was. Tougher. Meaner. Sneaking up from behind. With knives.

He lifted his head up from the table, the weight of it requiring he use his arms to push himself upright. God, he was tired. More tired, more deeply tired, than he'd ever been pulling double or even triple shifts. He drew a sleeve across his eyes, erasing any dampness still lingering in them and around them, and reached for his last cigarette.

I'd give anything to not be afraid anymore, he thought. To not see Sobrickis around every corner. To not wonder if the guy sitting at the next table at a restaurant, the guy standing behind me at the grocery store, was going to hurt me. Even the 50-something guy sitting one chair away, even he made him nervous. Even though his smile was so friendly, even though the vibe he gave off was so warm, even though ...

Well, he'd been wrong before.

Why hadn't he seen it coming with Sobricki? The way he reacted to the spinal tap - that should have tipped him off. How could he have just left Lucy there to handle him, after that?

He was supposed to take care of her. She was his responsibility. His student. Like he was Benton's. Benton was still taking care of him. Benton was still helping him. He got on a plane and flew halfway across the country just to make sure he wasn't alone, for Christ's sake.

But when Lucy needed *him* most, he wasn't there. *He* left *her* alone.

He closed his eyes and remembered hers. It was like they were pleading with him - but disappointed in him, too. Like they were reaching out to him, across the floor, through the blood, her blood, pooled there. He tried to move, but he couldn't. He tried to reach back, but he couldn't. The pain was too severe. The darkness too quick.

The fear too real.

Had he always been afraid? Or did it start at that instant? Were the - what were the words Ed used? - dread and terror already inside him? The worries about screwing up, about being weak, about letting someone down, about dying? About living? Did Sobricki cause the fears, or just activate them?

Could he have wound up here, anyway? Even if he hadn't been stabbed? Even if Lucy hadn't died? If it wasn't Sobricki, could something else have flipped the switch? His relationship with his dad? The stress of losing a patient? That uneasy feeling that gnawed at him after every misdiagnosis, after every failed romance, that he wasn't as good a doctor, or as good a person, as he should have been?

Did he take the drugs to fill up what Sobricki took from him?

Or to fill up what was already missing?

He looked at the cigarette in his hand. He hadn't even lit it yet. And suddenly he didn't want to.

If God was supposed to be this great cosmic blocker, knocking fear on its ass to clear his path to the end zone, why hadn't he answered any of these questions for him? Why was he leaving him all alone out here to face the rush by himself? Why did he let him wind up in a place like this?

What exactly did you have to do to get God's attention? Go to church? Feed the hungry? Save everyone who ended up on a gurney under your stethoscope? Or was it as simple as Ed and everybody else in this room was making it sound? Just follow the program. Work those steps on the wall, the ones they read at the start of the meeting. Just admit you're powerless over your addiction, that your life is unmanageable. Let go, let God.

But what if you're even too afraid to do that?

The tears came in a rush this time. Out of frustration as much as pain. He dropped his head to the table again - not because he cared anymore if anybody saw him crying, but just because it seemed too heavy to hold up any more.

Too many questions, he thought. Isn't this place supposed to be about answers?

"Hey, Chris. Is that you?"

Ed was finishing up. Couldn't be more than 10 minutes left. Carter could hear his watch, right under his ear, counting them down. Emotions Monday couldn't end fast enough.

Tick ...

... tick ...

"We haven't seen you around here in a 'coon's age. Get on up here, boy."

... tick ...

... tick ...

He could feel the 50-something guy sitting one chair away moving again. How much coffee can that guy drink?, he wondered.

... tick ...

... tick ...

... tick ...

... tick ...

... tick ...

... tick ...

"Hi, everybody ... "

His head was off the table like a shot, like a patient who'd been whacked with the paddles. It was the 50-something guy sitting one chair away. At the podium.

" … I'm Chris," he said, with that warm smile everybody else in the room probably had no trouble trusting, "and I'm not an addict."

To be continued....