A KW/LKo Series, Part 7
Waiting On A Friend
By Miesque
miesque48@hotmail.com 

Song: ‘Waiting On A Friend’, by The Rolling Stones 

Watching girls go passing by
It ain't the latest thing
I'm just standing in a doorway
I'm just trying to make some sense
Out of these girls go passing by
The tales they tell of men 

I'm not waiting on a lady
I'm just waiting on a friend
A smile relieves a heart that grieves
Remember what I said 

I'm not waiting on a lady
I'm just waiting on a friend
I'm just waiting on a friend 

Don't need a whore
I don't need no booze
Don't need a virgin priest
But I need someone I can cry to
I need someone to protect
Making love and breaking hearts
It is a game for youth 

But I'm not waiting on a lady
I'm just waiting on a friend  

Luka woke up shivering, and cursed April in Chicago. One minute, warm, next, freezing cold-even snow at one time. He climbed wearily out of bed, checked the thermostat, muttered darkly about his damned landlord, and searched his refrigerator for something to eat. It was still dark outside, and he didn't have to go to work until six the next morning-a whole day off. He turned on the television, surfing through sixty-five channels to find that nothing was on.  

He ate some bread and cheese for breakfast. His stomach was doing a little better than usual, but he couldn't afford to take any risks. He had endured several surgeries a child, the doctors trying to figure out what was wrong with him. Finally, one of them came right out and told his mother: "He has a rotten stomach. Simple as that." Nonetheless, Luka's gall bladder had been removed when he was in his teens. He had to avoid rich foods at all costs, and anything greasy could have Luka bedridden for days, his stomach killing him.  

Sitting alone in his tiny living room, Luka suddenly just couldn't bear it any more. He had to get a bigger place. This was driving him crazy. Even worse, Sanja was due to visit his apartment on Monday. He had no doubt she'd have some choice words to say about how small and cheerless this place was. And it was cheerless. Depressing, actually. It certainly did little to help him on bad days. Though his nightmares were fewer and much farther between, it was disconcerting to wake up in a cold sweat, lying on a big bed in a tiny room. 

Of course, it wasn't just the small room. It was the emptiness in the bed. There was no warm body beside him, no arms to get lost in, no comfort. Of course, his libido had taken quite a beating nine years ago, but he still missed the scent of his wife, the way she felt in his arms, the sound of her heartbeat, the way her soft skin felt against his own... 

For the past year or so, Luka had felt like he was waiting for something to happen. He had drifted around for so long that he had gotten used to a kind of limbo existence. Everything was on hold, in a way. Now that he was settled, no longer migratory, he felt like he was floundering a little, just spinning his wheels. When Kerry had fired him, he had taken a job at a hospital in Oklahoma City, but something about the area-maybe the bleakness of the surrounding countryside-had made him uneasy. It reminded him too much of the rural areas around Vukovar. He knew it was irrational, but it had scared him so much he'd bolted.

Of course, he had waited for a more reasonable excuse to run. That excuse had come very quickly, in the form of a pretty young nurse at the hospital. She had befriended him, more or less, and he had felt drawn to her, sensing loneliness in her, too. But he had been mistaken-at a hospital party, she had kissed him, making it clear that she was interested in more than friendship.

He had been so surprised, and shocked, that he had pushed her away. Strange, but now he couldn't remember what she looked like. She had been warm and soft and kind, but he hadn't been ready. It was fortunate, he supposed, when he came back to Chicago and Kerry called him back a day after he returned. He had, as Carol said, flown South for the winter, but that morning he'd returned he still intended to fly South again, before the first snow. He hated winter-hated the cold of it. Everything had blown up during the winter, after all. The first chills of the season had sent Luka winging toward warmer climates, away from painful memories.

He still didn't know why he had moved around so much; it wasn't like winter was the only time he pulled up stakes and ran. Maybe it was to avoid situations like with that nurse. Julia had reawakened something in Luka that he had buried long ago. Now, he was ready for something. But he wasn't sure what.

Coming back to County, he had found it relatively easy to talk to Carol, but he was wary of her-he had a strange sense that she wanted something from him-something he really wasn't capable of giving her. She needed help from someone; he certainly didn't see Mark Greene doing much for her, and he was supposed to be her best friend. So long as their conversations remained more or less banal, he felt comfortable. But still...he felt drawn to her. But he still couldn't talk about his past with her. Maybe it was his own loneliness. He sensed the same confusion in Carol as he felt in himself.

He didn't talk about his personal life with her or anyone else...except Kerry, of course. He sensed much greater loneliness in her. Carol's, he suspected, was of the self-imposed variety. Kerry's was different. Besides, there were actually times he found Carol rather annoying. He would never say it out loud, but she seemed kind of self-centered and whiny.  

He didn't like the idea of losing his high regard for Carol, though-she had been kind to him, after all. He didn't know why, exactly. Maybe it was because she was lonely. It didn't really dawn on Luka that she might be attracted to him until he saw how Carol acted around Abby. Thus, he started to distance himself from Carol. He remained friendly and polite, always willing to help her, but he felt like he was cutting her off a little-at least, until she invited him to her house for a 'spring BBQ'. He had felt some strange change in their relationship, and it half-scared him. He had thought, for a split second, that maybe...then, it just died away.

Luka refused to delve too deeply into his own psychology or emotional state. That would mean dredging up things from the past that were too hard to face. He didn't understand why he felt like he could help Carol-that he had to help her. He hadn't been able to protect his own young family, so maybe he could protect her and the twins. He could see that. But he had a strange feeling she wasn't going to be staying in Chicago for very much longer, and so he found himself backing away from her, avoiding future hurt. 

She seemed to sense it, too, and was backing away, too. It was for the best. He sensed confusion in Carol-that she was struggling with a decision. He didn't want to be used toward that end, that was for sure. So he separated himself from her, and moved toward other circles. Kerry, Carter, and, surprisingly, Peter Benton, were more and more willing to talk to Luka, and he felt like he didn't really need Carol any more. In fact, there were days when he scarcely said two words to Carol.

It was even harder for him to talk to her after he one of the nurses filled him on Carol's situation. "Her boyfriend got into some trouble here at the hospital-he was a pediatrician-and left town. The twins are Doug's, but she doesn't want anything to do with him any more." That had shocked Luka, but he still said nothing about it. He didn't feel he had a right to judge anyone, considering the mistakes he'd made in his own life. But in his own heart, he knew that his friendship with Carol had changed, and not for the better.

On Sunday morning, off work for once, Luka attended Mass with Sanja, then walked home, enjoying the spring weather. She was going sailing with John, and asked him to come along. "You can show John how to really sail a boat," she had laughed.

Luka considered it for a moment, but declined. He didn't want to sail today. He just wanted to walk for a while, to think.  

"Okay," Sanja said. "Get some sleep, then. You look so tired. It's spring-you ought to be enjoying yourself now...the air is full of romance..."

"And pollen," Luka sniffed back.

Sanja giggled. "Then I'll see you tomorrow afternoon!"

Luka had sold his boat after Kerry hired him on as a permanent staff member. It was an old boat, built in Croatia, and in excellent condition. One rarely could sell a boat in Chicago during the winter, but the buyer had been from Texas and had been pretty gung-ho about sailing around the world come summer time. He wanted something sturdy and reliable. Well, the boat certainly was that. Luka had inherited it from a friend who was killed in Zagreb, and Luka had sailed it from Croatia to Charleston, South Carolina. New York, and the Statue of Liberty, held no appeal for Luka. He did not feel free yet; he had escaped from the war and the horrors of his old life, but the ghosts of the past still haunted him too much for him to 'breathe free'. He knew one thing: he could never go back to Croatia. He couldn't imagine why anybody would ever go back there again.  

He laughed to himself suddenly, remembering Sanja's almost childish query, as he had driven her back to Paris. He had been more or less on the road to recovery then, at least physically. The doctors-what did they know?-had told Luka he'd be lucky to walk without a cane, much less walk at all. His gait was still awkward, after five years, but it had been special joy to throw that crutch into the ocean one night as he sailed for America. 

"You promise you'll never go back, Luka?" She had looked at him, so intent and serious for a seventeen year old who prefered shopping and parties to studying. 

"I promise," he had answered absently, looking out the window at the countryside-cows and trees and hedgerows, little villages with church spires reaching toward heaven. A beautiful part of the world. No bombed out buildings. No lines of refugees heading toward God knows where-the only certain thing for them had been uncertainty.  

He remembered that game he had played, called "Is There A God?", when he and other physicians went searching for bombing & sniper victims in devastated neighborhoods. Not only did they have to avoid landmines, but they had to be careful of just who they dealt with. Luka had been robbed at gunpoint so many times that he finally devised a fake wallet, full of fake money, while he kept his own cash in his shoe...as if that cash was worth anything anyway. Funny, but he'd been shot at a hundred times by Croatians, Serbians, Bosnians, Christians, Muslims...it was all the same. He hadn't been injured, but he had come home with bullet holes in his clothes. He had learned not to trust anyone after a while. He still didn't. Not really...though he did trust Kerry almost completely.  

Still, in Vukovar, Luka Kovac had lost a lot of his innocence. Yet, despite that, he was still shocked by the things people did to each other. It still got to him-he hadn't become hardened to the world. But the more he saw of the world, the less he was satisfied with it.

He hadn't known, just then, if he could keep the promise he made to Sanja. He had said it to quell her fears. But the look on her face had told him that he needed to be honest, just as he'd always been. He had told her about their father's death-sitting down in that hospital waiting room with her and looking her right in the eye, explaining everything to her: explaining the tubes that she would see, and the IVs. She had been about five then, him not quite eighteen. Telling her lies-shielding her from the truth-would have been a sin. Death was a natural thing...at least, it had been then. Luka's wife and children had not died naturally...

Then, as now, Luka railed against Death. He refused to die young, like so many of his friends-like his wife, his children. He was stubbornly, even selfishly, determined to live a long, long life. "Self- preservation...it's a bitch, isn't it?" a friend in Vukovar had said once. Luka clung to life almost like a madman, spitting in the face of the Grim Reaper, challenging him like Don Quixote attacking windmills. He was determined to outlive the people who took his family away from him. He was determined to win in the end. He didn't care if he had to live to a hundred-he'd do it, just so he could know that last murderer had entered the gates of Hell, where he belonged.

"Really? You really promise...you'll never go back there again, once you go to America?" He remembered the expression on her face-that sweet, hopeful naivete that could only exist in a seventeen-year old. Or, he had thought at the time, a person who hasn't seen what he'd seen. It haunted him even now; he had seen that look on so many faces in Vukovar. Sanja had not seen Monika's face. She had not seen the bodies of his children. He had been honest with her about that, too, but he had unconsiously shielded her from everything he'd seen. The priest had given her a few of the details, but not many. Did Sanja really need to know everything? Did anybody need to know all the details?

No, Luka had decided. She was the only person he had left to protect at the time, and Luka was determined to protect her better than he had his own wife and children. At least he could keep the world from crushing her spirit. It seemed almost symbolic, then, to think that Sanja was leaving the City of Death to live in the City of Lights. It was where she belonged. There was always going to be light in Sanja, and he wanted that for her. He was determined to keep the world and it's darkness from destroying her.

At the time, Luka had no idea where he belonged. He was still alive-he had developed a kind of black humor about it, checking his pulse every morning to make sure. But there was no light in him then; just crushing darkness and exhaustion. Maybe he really had suffered a breakdown. He had been too stubborn, then, to admit to that kind of weakness. He didn't trust psychiatrists at all, and had refused to see one until the priest actually encouraged him to do so. "It'd be like talking to an old, knowledgeable friend."

"An old, knowledgeable friend who charges a fortune per hour," Luka had answered coldly. "I could make more progress talking to a bartender, and he'd only charge me for drinks." But Luka had finally given in and gone to talk to one of the doctors at the hospital in Zagreb. That man had diagnosed Luka with dysthimia-a milder form of depression that came in cycles. Treatable by drugs, of course. Everything is treatable by drugs. Luka had endured the battery of pills for a long time, but had finally flushed them all down the toilet when he arrived in Chicago for the first time.

He had been telling himself he was better, but he was lying. Funny, how the lie is easier to believe than the truth. Lately, he had been considering seeing a shrink again. He needed something to make his days easier to get through. Not that every day was bad, but there were times when the ghosts and the darkness enveloped him.

"I promise...I promise I won't ever go back." His own words echoed in his head. Walking down the street, he said it out loud. "I will never go back." A woman stopped and stared at him, amazed, wondering, but he didn't even see her.

He had kept his promise to Sanja-he had not gone back. Croatia held nothing for him any more. He had no desire to return, and had vowed that the only way the American government could send him back would be by putting his dead body in a box.

One thing Luka Kovac always did was keep his promises.

"I could run to Norway and back," he had told the priest one afternoon, shortly before he sailed for America. "I could climb Mount Everest. I could take on the Serbs, unarmed, and kill every last one bare-handed. But my son never will...my daughter never will...never can. They never will. My wife never can..." His despair at the time had been so horrible, so overwhelming, that Luka had wondered if he'd ever get out of that black pit. He had, in many ways, overcome it. There was still a lot to wrestle with: his guilt, his grief, his anger and loneliness. But lately, he had been seeing a bit of daylight. It was a long way away, and it was almost frightening to think that there was a future. But it was there, and he had no option but to move forward. He had to. He had to survive.

He was reading the newspaper when he heard knocking at his door. His instincts, his basic fears, told him to be careful when opening that door-some small part of Luka remained uneasy about living in an apartment. Friends had been killed by snipers while in their own apartments. That was why, unconsciously, he avoided standing near windows. Hell, he even ducked when passing the windows at work. 

"Who is it?" he said loudly.

"Sanja, silly! Let me in! It's cold in this bloody hall!"

He slid back the bolt and let her in. He was not mistaken in his guess that she'd be displeased about his choice of living arrangements. "Good God, Luka, this place is just awful. You must get a better place." She ran her finger along the edge of a sideboard, noting the dust. She wrinkled her nose at him.

"I was just thinking about that," he admitted.

"And it's so sparse...Luka, why don't you have any pictures up? Of Monika and the children?" She looked around the apartment, clearly upset. She returned her gaze to her brother, watching him carefully. He looked as lonely as this tiny place.

He didn't know why he hadn't put up any pictures. Looking at those photographs only made the pain worse. "Do you remember when you stayed with me in Zagreb?" he asked suddenly. 

"Yes. After..." 

"After they were murdered," Luka said plainly. "We sat around the woodstove and I had to burn books to keep us both warm. Nothing worse than burning books. It's almost...sinful, somehow. We'd read out loud from them, remember? Just for a last memory? Remember that Sir Walter Scott poem...'My Native Land'? 

"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned.
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathes, go mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim-
Despite those titles, power and pelf
The wretch, concerted all in self,
Living, shall forfeit far renown
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung
Unwept, unhonored and unsung."

Sanja sighed. That had been such a sad time for her-she had been seventeen, totally unprepared for what she had seen in him. Watching her brother sink into the very depths of his despair and grief had been heart-breaking; she had been so afraid for him, so terrified he'd do something rash. He had played The Beatles' White Album a lot, and The Rolling Stones, and it had only added to the atmosphere of gloom in his house. She doubted she'd ever forget that song, "Waiting On A Friend". It played in her head sometimes, especially when she was feeling a little blue, and it gave her fearful shakes.

That's what he was still waiting for-a friend. He didn't need a romantic relationship right now, she decided, though he desperately needed to be loved and to love someone again. He needed someone he could cry to, and someone to protect, as the song said. At least he could protect Kerry-he could be there for her. And maybe, after they had gotten to know each other well...Sanja hoped to come back to America to see Luka happy again, surrounded by people who loved him and wanted the best for him. She was already seeing evidence that he had a handful of friends who really did care for him-one, in particular, that Sanja suspected was already in love with him. And why not? There was no purer, kinder, more gentle soul on the planet, as far as Sanja was concerned. Who wouldn't love Luka? Only a shallow, bitter, mean-spirited person would fail to see the depth of his soul, the strength of his character. 

"Yes, I remember," she said at last. "But you don't have to do that any more, Luka. And you're better now. Your soul is nowhere near dead. You beat them, Luka. You beat them...they lost the war, remember? It's all over." She looked out the window, causing Luka to stand up quickly. His fears still remained, however foolish they were. "Croatia is at peace now...and you should be, too. I think things are just starting to happen with you now. You're not alone any more. You have friends now. You have me-you'll always have me!-and John...and Kerry. I know they'll always be there for you, and Paris is just a phone call away."

"I know, Sanja. I'm not as bad off as you think, though," he said. He wasn't, really. He was a lot better than in 1991. Almost nine years-he had been a different person then, almost unrecognizable, in fact. He had wanted to die then, but he recalled what Sanja had said before he left for America. "You remember this-you survive. If you let them win, Luka, it'll have been for nothing. Surviving is the best revenge. If you give up and let yourself ....fade away, they'll have won. Never let that happen. You're a survivor, and there has to be a reason for that. God has a purpose for you...I know it. I just know it."

He was surviving. But not for her. Not for anyone, really. He was surviving for himself, for once.

She smiled at him. "You really should get a bigger place. And let me decorate it...I love to decorate...and by the way, I'm staying for the summer."

"Really? That's great," he said, but he sounded kind of unenthusiastic.

"Well, thanks a lot!" she laughed. "Glad to see you're so happy about that."

"I know you're not staying for me, Sanja," Luka grinned at her. "You're staying for John."

She blushed. She liked John a lot...maybe more than anyone she'd ever met. He was such a really nice guy-but that darkness around him scared her a little. Lately, his behavior had been slightly erratic-not toward her, but in general. She had a good instinct about how to help people in times of trouble-her friends said Sanja would do wonders as a teacher or a therapist-and she wanted to stay & help John somehow.

"And I know you're staying here for someone, too," Sanja challenged back. "A certain red-headed doctor..."

"Sanja..."

"Don't let yourself push her away, Luka. She cares about you. And she likes you. Don't be afraid to let her in."

He looked away, chewing nervously on his lower lip. He had been thinking about Kerry a lot lately, and it confused him as much as it frightened him. Sanja smiled at him, knowing that he was going through quite a lot of conflict now. She remembered what Monika had told her once: "Luka is so clueless...it took me three months to get him to even say 'hello' to me. He just has no idea...he's like a little boy that way; just so innocent and naive...but he's worth all the frustration!"

"Well, I'd also love to help you find a new place. And decorate it." Sanja decided to change the subject, to let him off the hook for a while, at least.

"I will not tolerate lace curtains and little angels everywhere," he said, frowning at her.

She laughed. "So you'll think about getting a bigger place?"

"I am thinking about it. Very seriously." There was lots to think about now.

To be continued...