Revelation

by Leyla Harrison

Disclaimer: I'm such a mooch. I keep borrowing these characters. I guess
it means I like them.

Rating: PG-13

Classification: Weaver/Carter friendship

Timeline: This story takes place after the events of May Day, and has
references to that episode and also to All in the Family. This is a
follow up to a previous story I wrote called Disclosure. You'll need to
read that to understand this one. 

Summary: At Carter's request, Kerry stays in Atlanta with him for
another day.

***

The phone rings in the darkness of my hotel room, jarring me from sleep.
I roll over to answer it and groan when I realize it's beyond my reach.
Damn hotels. They always give you king size beds that are wide as an
eight lane highway and then you can't reach the nightstand.

I scoot over and finally grab the phone on the fourth shrill ring. And
while I'm on the subject of the pitfalls of hotels, isn't there anything
that can be done about the volume controls on the ringers of hotel phones?

"Hello," I groggily mutter, lifting my head from the pillow slightly and
propping it on one arm.

"Kerry?"

It's Carter. I blink my eyes, trying to clear the morning film away.
"How did you know where I was staying?" I ask quickly.

He sounds nervous. "I, uh, you gave me the number. You wrote it down
before you left yesterday? The W Hotel?"

Oh. I slide my arm under the covers and my head drops back down onto the
plump pillow. I close my eyes. "I remember now. I'm just waking up,
Carter, sorry about that."

He chuckles, his nervousness gone. "From what I remember, Kerry, you
were always a morning person. Up before the sun."

I turn towards the window, wondering why it's so dark in the room before
remembering that I pulled the heavy curtains closed before I went to
bed. "What time is it?"

"Eleven on the dot," he tells me.

"What?" I practically screech. I never, *never* sleep past seven.

I'm definitely up. I throw back the comforter and the sheets and swing
my legs over the side of the bed. My bladder is suddenly, firmly,
reminding me that it's not used to being kept waiting this long.

"Kerry?" Carter asks.

"Yes?" I reach for my crutch, propped up against the side of the
nightstand, and wonder how far the phone cord can reach. I glance at it.
Three feet. Maybe four. Not enough to make it to the bathroom. "What,
Carter?"

"I was wondering if…you were going to be around today. Or if you were
heading back to Chicago right away."

"I – " I pause. I'm not sure what I was thinking about doing. Taking in
the sights of Atlanta, alone? Heading back to Chicago and sitting around
at home for the rest of the week? "What did you have in mind?"

"I just got privileges to go off the grounds this week. So I thought
that if you were going to be around – "

My bladder is not going to wait much longer. "All right," I tell him,
wanting to get him off the phone and yet oddly piqued by the
possibilities. "Can you meet me at my hotel?"

"Sure," he answers. "I'll get a taxi."

"It's the W –"

"I know, the W Hotel. What kind of name is that for a hotel, anyhow?"

"It's just off the Perimeter," I tell him. "I'll see you at say, noon?"

"Sounds good. I'll see you then."

I hang up first, not because I'm trying to be rude, but because I really
need to get to the bathroom.

***

An hour later, I'm showered and dressed. And waiting.

There's a knock on the door. I hurry over and open it, but it's not
Carter. It's the maid.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I can come back later."

"No, no. It's all right. I'm going to go downstairs anyhow," I lie.

She nods and smiles. I step out of the room and pass her cart. Down the
hall, the walls are painted a dove gray, with old gelatin prints of
people in the 30s and 40s framed and spaced evenly between room doors.
Art deco sconces with blue light bulbs in them keep the hall dim but
relaxed. At the elevator, there's a long, thin table with a telephone
from over sixty years ago. I wait so long for the elevator that I
actually pick up the phone to see if it works, but when I put the
receiver to my ear I hear nothing but silence.

Where is he? Carter is always punctual.

The elevator dings, announcing its arrival to my floor, and I hang up
the phone. The elevator takes me down to the lobby smoothly, and when I
step out, I see Carter sitting on a velvet sofa near the front desk.

"How long have you been here?" I ask him, walking over.

"Not long – about ten minutes," he says, checking his watch. "The front
desk wouldn't tell me what room you were in – guest safety reasons, they
said. And you forgot to tell me when we talked. I figured you would meet
me in the lobby."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Carter." I'm usually less forgetful.

"No problem," he tells me, and gets up to look around the expansive
lobby. "This is a great place. Very modern looking."

The lobby is done in muted shades of taupe and gray. Velvet couches and
armchairs dot the main portion of the area, facing the windows, and at
the front desk, tall glass tubes have goldfish swimming in them. The
staff is dressed in black and silver, and everything looks fresh, lots
of clean lines.

"Do you like it here?" Carter is asking me.

I nod. "My travel agent recommended it, but I had never been here
before. The rooms are incredibly comfortable." The shower I took this
morning was with some of the hotel-provided products, from Aveda, much
better than the generic hotel soaps that normally dry my skin. The
towels were fluffy. And the comforter on the bed was down – and so plush
that I ended up balling it into the shape of a body pillow I could curl
around. My leg feels better this morning than it has in weeks.

Carter looks away, wistful, sad. I wonder what he is thinking about.

"So what do you feel like doing?" I ask, trying to interrupt his mood in
case it goes sour.

"We don't have to do anything," he says. "Lunch would be great. The food
at the center is, although good, a little on the boring side."

I gesture at the small restaurant in the lobby. "It's kind of
Asian-American."

"Sounds wonderful," Carter says. "And we don't even have to leave the
air conditioning."

***

I'm just finishing off my wild mushroom potstickers as Carter takes the
last bite of his grilled swordfish.

"God, that was fantastic," he says. "I don't think I realized how bad
the food was at the center until now."

The waiter arrives to take our plates. "Anything else?" he asks.

Carter glances at me and I shake my head, wiping my mouth with the cloth
napkin. "No, just the check," Carter tells him.

"I can take care of it," I interrupt. "I'll charge it to the room."

"No, please, let me."

I debate fighting him for it. It feels awkward to have someone pay for
my meal – I haven't had someone take me out to eat in a long time. I'm
used to paying my own way.

The check arrives and we both reach for it at the same time, our
fingertips brushing. I look up and see Carter's eyes on mine and it
makes me feel strangely warm. "All right, you can pay," I concede,
nervous somehow, and wanting to break the moment.

He leaves cash and what I assume is a generous tip; either that or the
food here is more expensive than I thought.

We get up and head towards the entrance of the hotel. The sunlight
outside is blinding as we approach the glass doors, and the heat is
strong, rising in waves, making air just above the circular asphalt
driveway look wavy and distorted.

"Where to?" he asks.

I shrug. I had taken a quick glimpse of the neighborhood the previous
evening. "There's not much around here. Malls and office parks. We could
get a taxi and a recommendation from the bellhop, I guess – "

"Why don't we go upstairs," Carter leans close and keeps his voice low,
and I uncharacteristically blush.

"Excuse me?"

His face is serious. "I was thinking we could talk. About what you told
me yesterday."

I sigh. "Carter."

"You were willing to tell me. I listened. I told you that you don't owe
me anything, Kerry, but I have questions. Please."

How can I refuse him? I feel like I do owe him something. If I had saved
Lucy, maybe, just maybe he wouldn't be in this situation. I think back
to that night in the ER and shudder involuntarily.

"All right," I tell him. "We can talk."

***

My room is large. My travel agent said they had a special on a
mini-suite; it would cost me the same as a regular room. "You're going
on vacation, Kerry," she had told me, unaware of the reason for my visit
to Atlanta. "Live a little. It won't cost you anything extra."

The mini-suite is a more spacious room than I've seen in hotels in a
long time. The walls are white and the carpet is the color of coffee
with a generous amount of milk. The maid has come and gone, leaving the
room in a state of perfection; the only sign that I am staying there is
my suitcase, propped up on a stand in the corner near the closet.

"Wow," Carter says, taking it all in. "Nice." His fingers touch the
blond wood surface of the desk. He walks over to the balcony and glances
back at me. "Do you mind?"

I shake my head, standing in the doorway, watching him. He slides the
glass door open and steps outside. He fumbles in his pockets and I cross
the room. Before I step across the threshold of the balcony, I can feel
the heat from outside hit me like a blast in the face. Chicago summers
can be brutal, but the humidity in Atlanta is a monster I've never faced
before.

Carter is lighting up a cigarette, leaning against the rail, looking
down at the office park nearby, the manicured lawns.

"I didn't know you smoked," I tell him, stepping out onto the balcony.

"I started. After."

After, I know, is Carter Shorthand for after Valentine's Day. After the
assault.

He inhales deeply, then releases the smoke in a long, fluid stream. The
humidity makes the air dense; the smoke takes a moment to blow away.

"I don't have to tell you how terrible it is for your health," I say,
feeling foolish, feeling like his mother.

He shakes his head. "No. You don't have to tell me." Another long drag,
then he exhales. We stand in silence for a few minutes. I watch the way
his lips wrap around the filter of the cigarette and he inhales,
exhales. I'm tempted to ask for one, but I haven't smoked since college
and I would likely choke on it. I don't know why I even think of asking.
I hate the smell of smoke, but for some reason on Carter it's not
bothering me.

Finally, he stubs the cigarette underfoot and tosses the butt over the
balcony railing, into some bushes below.

"Let's get inside. This heat is terrible," he murmurs to me, touching my
arm, drawing me back over the threshold and into the room.

The air conditioning feels wonderful and I slide the glass door closed
behind me. I turn and see that Carter has taken the chaise lounge chair
across from the bed. His face is expectant, relaxed.

I remain standing. I look him over. "What do you want to talk about,
Carter?"

"What were you addicted to?" God, he doesn't pussyfoot around – no
beating around the bush. I decide I don't want to stand for this
conversation and I pull the chair out from the desk and turn it towards
the bed, towards him, so I'm facing him. I sit down and prop my crutch
against the desk.

"Everything I could get my hands on," I respond.

"Tell me."

I think back. "Vicodin was a favorite of mine." I had the generic ones
and I loved the shape of them. Rectangular with rounded edges. I used to
break them in half sometimes because a half wouldn't get me drowsy,
wouldn't interfere while I was working. Of course, I wasn't at County then.

"What else?"

"Darvocet. Codeine."

"Did you ever inject?"

I study his face, trying to understand what is going on in his head. Of
all the conversations we had when he was living in my basement, I could
have never imagined that we would someday have this one in a hotel room
far from home.

"Kerry?" he asks, waiting.

I nod my head, slightly. "Three times. With morphine I got at the
hospital where I worked at the time. But not at work. At home."

He opens his mouth in a question, but I continue before he can speak.

"The morphine made me groggy. I did it when the pain was severe, when I
didn't have to work the next day, so I could sleep it off. I thought – "
I pause, remembering, "I thought someone would get suspicious. Drug
counts were off for the missing morphine."

"And no one suspected you?"

I shake my head. "I claimed I wasted it down the sink."

He shakes his head in disbelief, in understanding. "You knew I was lying."

I know what he's talking about and I nod.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, looks away from me. "I never
thought I could inject myself. Not that way, anyhow. I figured if I was
ever sick, I could do it, you know, to give myself medication, but I
never thought I could inject myself with stolen meds." He looks up and
catches my gaze. "That was the only time I did it. The only time."

"The rest of the time it was just the pills?"

He nods his head, but he's already moving on. "Tell me about the
stabbing," he prompts me.

My mind races back to Valentine's Day, and bright red blood clouds my
vision for a moment. "Carter, I don't think it's good for you to hear
about that again – "

"No." His tone is forceful. He gets up, comes to the foot of the bed and
sits down on the mattress, directly in front of me. "Tell me about your
stabbing."

A chill passes over me and as if on cue, a throb of pain shoots through
my leg. Carter is staring at me so intently that I am uncomfortable and
I look away. He lifts a hand and touches my chin, gently turning my face
so that I have no choice but to look at him.

His fingers are warm on my jaw.

He takes his hand away. "Please, Kerry. Tell me."

I close my eyes, and go back.

***

I was a third year med student. His name was Bill Racine and he had a
thing for me. Some kind of obsession. We went out twice, maybe three
times. But I was swamped with school, so focused that I barely noticed
anything else. I didn't notice how Bill was always around. Always there.

I said something to him at one point. I don't remember what it was
exactly – leave me alone, I'm busy, find someone else to bother. He
looked hurt, angry – and then did leave me alone. I was relieved.

Two nights later I was walking back from the library after studying to
my dorm. I was about twenty feet away when Bill popped out of the
bushes. I was startled but not scared. I had no reason to be.

I told him I was tired, I was on my way to bed, I had a rotation in the
morning. Mindless chatter. He muttered something I didn't hear and then
put his arm around me.

I tried to shrug him off but he was holding on tightly. Too tightly. His
arm was around my shoulder, and then crept up around my neck. I tried to
push him away, but he was stronger and shoved me down to the ground. I
remember hearing my books as they scattered on the sidewalk.

Something large was in his hands. I caught a glint of it from the
streetlamp, but I wasn't sure what it was. The police found it later : a
tire iron, with blood and bone fragments on it. They told me that it was
a miracle that he didn't hit me in the head with it or I would have been
killed.

Shocked, and unprepared, I was sprawled on the ground, and frozen with
fear as he lifted it over his head. He swung and I tried to move, but I
wasn't fast enough. It came down on my leg, just against the femur. I
heard cracking and I screamed. The pain was completely unlike anything I
had ever known and for a moment I thought I was going to black out.

He let the tire iron slip from his hands and it clattered against the
pavement. He reached into his jacket and I saw another glint. Dimly
through the haze of pain I recognized it as a knife. I couldn't move,
couldn't do anything. He fell to his knees in front of me and held the
knife in both hands, lunging down at my body over and over. Pain seared
through me with each thrust and slash of the knife. My leg. My chest. My
arms. My neck.

Things blurred. He wasn't there anymore. I didn't feel like I could
scream again; I opened my mouth but no sound came out. From what I was
told, the entire attack took no more than three minutes because someone
heard my first scream and came running, and the police were not far behind.

They found me there on the white sidewalk drenched in my own blood. I
was vainly holding one hand over my neck wound; I tried to speak to one
of the police officers but nothing happened. "Oh Jesus," I heard him
say. I lifted my hand to reach for him at one point, because I thought
he was leaving. He saw the wound on my neck and swore. "Fuck," he
muttered, and I reached for him again.

Please don't leave me here, I was trying to tell him. Please don't let
me die.

***

I stop talking and open my eyes. Carter is leaning forward on the edge
of the bed, his hands resting on top of mine, which are in my lap. My
whole body is trembling and tears have spilled over my cheeks.

"It's all right," he murmurs to me, and I nod through the tears.

"I know," I whisper. "I just…I haven't talked about it in many years."

Carter's hands are warm. "Kerry, I'm so sorry –"

"Stop," my voice comes out ragged, raw. "Don't do that. Don't pity me."

He draws back, removing his hands. "It's not pity."

"Just stop." I don't know what is upsetting me more: the idea that he
might be lying, that it is pity, or the fact that I've just told this
story, the story I've only told maybe once in my life before. Or maybe
it's the tears that won't stop falling. I feel completely out of control
and I don't know how to stop it.

My head is spinning and I feel suddenly like I'm going to vomit. I have
an image, a strange and unusual image, of myself on the sidewalk that
evening and alongside me, Carter and Lucy, somehow on the pavement there
next to me, all of us bleeding and terrified.

"I need – " I sputter.

"Tell me," he urges.

"I need to be alone," I manage. "Please, Carter. Please leave."

Hurt crosses his features, but I can't deal with it. Not now. Not in the
state I'm in. "Kerry – "

"Please," I say more forcefully. "Please."

But he doesn't get up and leave, and I can't wait any longer. I get up
from the chair, reaching almost blindly for my crutch, and hobble to the
bathroom. My leg is throbbing incessantly and I curse it as I stumble at
one point on the carpet. I manage to keep from falling and make it to
the bathroom just in time. I fall to my knees, leaning over the toilet,
and I vomit.

END