The sheet slides over his face, and then it's done. Ten hours of surgery; an aching back and bladder – feet that feel they can't carry you another step, and it ended in five minutes with a heart that just wouldn't start again.
It's easy for you to decide you win some, you lose some. It's easy to decide that it's left up to some great Fate, or that maybe it was human error, because doctors aren't God and Christ, don't you feel that every day – but this was straightforward. An infant with a birth defect that nine times out of ten can be fixed. And the worst part of it all?
You have to tell Meredith and Derek that their son died on the table.
That, out of everything? Makes you wish you'd decided a different profession instead.
/
You wait for her to come out of surgery, your long black hair tied efficiently back – you know that she'll be surly and tired even if it went well, because that's what happens when Erica stands on her feet for hours with low blood sugar.
And you know that you'll cuddle her in another hour, massage the place where her back aches from standing (and she won't consider orthotics – not even to be more comfortable, she's that vain and afraid someone will find out that she has some sort of a weakness), and you'll kiss her warm forehead and feel her eyelashes flutter against your cheek, listening to her breathing get a little more regulated, her body grow heavier in your arms. She sleeps marathons after a surgery like this one. You love to watch her face smooth out like a child's.
Meredith stands to the side; she has nothing to say, being as it's her two-year-old on the table and she's a mother who forgets what it's like to be a doctor in times like these. Derek got called to surgery and he isn't here to make sure that she's okay, so you volunteered to sit with her. Meredith never says much when she's happy – but she clung to your hand until she couldn't anymore and that spoke more than her words could.
You sigh and recross your legs, and Meredith looks up at you with blue eyes that are hunted and scared.
"Tell me again that it's routine?"
"It's routine, Meredith." You try to modulate your voice, but this is about the fifteenth time she's asked the question and it's starting to grate.
She suddenly begins to cry, and you feel bad. "Mer, I'm sorry."
"No, no." She sniffles, wipes a hand across her eyes until you hand her a Kleenex (stuffed up the sleeve of your shirt like your grandmother – Erica always laughs when she sees you pull one out). "I'm sorry," she finishes. "I shouldn't be this fragile, I guess."
"I think it'll help when you know something," you say lamely, and then look down at your hands, with one of Meredith's twined between the palms. Your capable surgeon's hands holding hers and you still feel so inadequate to help her.
She smiles for you, anyway.
"Thanks, Callie."
"For what?" It's weird, because you're not close with her, but no one should have to go through this alone.
She doesn't say anything, but you can read it all, anyway.
/
You step out of the scrub room with your hands half-bleeding from your vicious washing, and take a deep breath to clear the tears threatening to spill out of your chest and eyes and throat. You've got half a mind to tell an intern to deliver the bad news, but you know that you'd never forgive yourself if you didn't tell Meredith yourself, and so you walk out into the waiting area with your hands clenched tightly together.
She stands immediately – you can see she's been crying and holding Callie's hand. You can't even look at Callie – it's enough to keep your eyes focused on those burning blue eyes. Meredith won't break your gaze and you know she knows, anyway.
When your voice finally comes, it's hoarse, rusty with disuse after ten hours. "There were complications. We managed to stop the bleeding, but we couldn't get his heart to start again."
And then Meredith, her voice totally devoid of emotion, asks oddly, "Time of death?"
Without even thinking, you tell her. "15:46."
Her face crumples – melts, almost, and she sinks to her knees in the middle of the floor. The harsh sobs are ripping, renting the air and you put a hand to your chest suddenly, feeling it tighten with the grief of this woman who's just lost her son.
"Where's Derek?" she gasps. "Where's Derek? Where's my husband?"
Somehow, he's paged. Somehow, he manages to get her off the floor of the waiting room where she's kneeling, half-gasping, half-sobbing, showing emotion that no one thought she was even capable of. And his face is worse – it's twisted and hurt, because when they lost little Devon, they lost a part of their joy and culmination of the journey they'd both been on for four years.
You've been in this situation a million times. You've been the surgeon left holding the pieces; left watching the grief unfold in front of you. But you've never been the surgeon having to take responsibility for a friend's child's death. And this is why you should have refused to do it, you realize now. You were too close even though you stand outside of them all.
And Callie stands with you, her hand on your arm, her head on your shoulder. But you can't even feel it – you can't feel her because your whole body's encased in ice.
She's crying, but you can't make the tears come when you remember the look of utter hatred in Derek's eyes.
/
She won't look at you. She can't be touched. You have a hard time offering warm comfort, the type that you, raised in the empathetic, loving Spanish culture, have no trouble offering in normal situations. You hug everyone. You touch strangers' arms. You kiss friends, family and even acquaintances twice on the cheek in greeting. But Erica isn't that type – she's the type that takes a long time to even touch someone's shoulder.
She sits in the corner of the on-call room and she has her shoes half-untied. Her hands hang down between her knees and her hair, the long, rich, thick locks of golden hair, obscure her face. She doesn't say or do anything. She just sits and that's what's frightening. You've never seen her like this.
"Erica?" Your voice, just like with Meredith, rings out lamely. She doesn't move, and you suddenly realize that standing across the room from her isn't making this better.
"Mija, look at me."
She doesn't move, but you notice a tear drop onto the generic linoleum. You put a hand on her stiff shoulders and start to rub, feeling the knots of surgery move under your powerful fingers. More tears appear in dots on the lino.
"Whatever this is, it's not you, okay? This isn't your fault."
She doesn't say anything, but a sigh puffs out from her lips and she sniffles a little bit. You pull her into your arms, and she doesn't engage, but she does rest her head against your shoulder and you feel her tears wet your scrub top.
"Oh, hey," you murmur. "Shhh." Her tears start to come harder and faster, until her breath is catching in her throat and you can hear rattling when she breathes. You alone know of her asthma, and you alone pull her inhaler, hidden in the inside pocket of her scrubs, out and place it to her lips.
She breathes deeply, once, twice, and then raises her wet face to look you straight in the eye, pieces of hair stuck to her cheeks and chin, her blue eyes meltingly, achingly heartbroken.
You murmur, "I love you."
She doesn't say anything at all, but she buries her face back in your shoulder and lets you stroke her hair and rub her back until her breathing evens out and her head grows heavy. Long after she falls asleep, you hold her close, counting her heart beats that synchronize with yours.
/
You're not allowed to come to the funeral. A note slipped through the door of your locker tells you so.
It's written in Derek's strong, black hand, all the t's crossed; all the i's dotted.
Erica:
Both Meredith and I realize your hard work in trying to save Devon; we know that you feel badly about the situation and wish to deliver your condolences. However, under the circumstances, we would both rather you stayed away from Devon's funeral today. It will be hard enough to say goodbye to our son without having to engage your grief as well. I'm sure you understand.
Derek Shepherd.
It's not even that the note is hurtful. It is, but it's understandable. It's the guilt that it strikes into you – the fact that you, and you alone, are responsible for this occasion. That you caused the child to lie in a tiny white coffin, in a tuxedo that will forever remain stiff with newness and little wear – hair that will remain slicked across his head and eyes that won't open again. They were Meredith's eyes – those cheerful blue, little-boy eyes.
He'd been so cheerful even though he'd had an IV put into his arm; even though most children cried at the sight of you, he'd simply giggled and tugged at the strings of your scrub cap. He'd clung to you, refusing to lie on the gurney, and you'd carried him down the hall into the OR, and he hadn't cried, not even when the anaesthesiologist had put the mask over his face and he'd closed his eyes.
The pain is incredible – like a thousand knives stabbing into your heart. You drop the letter on the floor and lean your head against the cool locker door, feeling the tears well into your eyes; even though you swore that crying doesn't help – that it's better just to do your job without thinking.
Callie appears at your side. "Hey, babe." Her voice is so comforting and you let your hair fall over your face, just so that she doesn't have to see the tears again. It's a public place, after all. You don't cry, and you don't want her to comfort you where everyone can see you. It's a point of pride – and you know it's stupid, but there it is.
"Are you ready to go?"
You suddenly look her in the eye – how can she ask that question? But then you realize, she doesn't know about the letter.
"Uh," and your voice is stuttery, rough and upset – "I have a surgery that came up."
"Well, can't you cancel? I mean, this is sort of important." Callie's voice is sort of incredulous, and you realize the ridiculousness of the situation. After all, why wouldn't you attend a friend's son's funeral? What would be the reason for missing it?"
"Well . . ." and you debate showing her the letter, but then your pride pushes the thought down. "I just need to do this. Why are you questioning me?"
She looks surprised and then a little angry. "Erica, what is wrong with you?"
You don't answer her, just turn your back and start walking away.
"Erica!" Callie's voice turns panicky, and you almost turn back. Almost.
But the door swings shut behind you and you head to the ER, forgetting about the letter lying on the floor of the locker room until it's too late.
/
The funeral is beautiful, as funerals go. A nurse from the Peds unit sings "Ave Maria" and the priest conducts a beautiful mass. There's no eulogy – after all, what do you say about a two-year-old? His life wasn't long enough to really document beyond first words, first steps, first smiles. It's still fresh in everyone's mind.
Meredith cries at the side of the church. She's not Catholic, but she puts up with it for Derek's sake. Derek stands by the casket with his head bowed; the tears fall down his cheeks and despite your hatred for the way he's treating Erica, your heart breaks for him. You put a hand on his shoulder as everyone files out and he covers it with his own. Mark gives you a sombre look as he and Derek heft the coffin onto their shoulders, it being so small that only two pall bearers are required. It's heartbreakingly small; too small to even be real.
Later on, at the wake, Cristina asks you where Erica is, but all you can do is shrug. "She has a surgery."
"Well, couldn't she cancel?" Even Cristina, who's one of the most unemotional people that you know, has tears on her cheeks. It's Meredith's baby that she's lost – and she loves Meredith more than most people realize.
"I said that, too." You shrug again. "She wouldn't look at me."
"Rumour has it that Derek told her to stay away," says Alex, sidling up to you and Cristina with a plateful of food. He's wearing a suit, but his face is devoid of tears and he doesn't look that upset. You hate him for a moment before realizing that he's dealing with this the best he can.
"Derek wouldn't do that," says Cristina, shaking her head. They, with you, cast a look at Derek, who's swilling a glass of Scotch (about three fingers more than there should be in a proper glass of Glenlivet) and staring moodily down at a picture of his son propped on the table.
"Does he blame her for the death?" You hate the way you sound, so you clamp your lips shut and drop your eyelashes.
Alex doesn't say anything, but his expression does, and you sigh. It explains a lot.
Later on, you catch up with Erica outside the hospital.
"Hi, mija." You kiss her, but she doesn't respond, and then you get a little angry.
"Erica, for God's sake." You spread your hands apart and she looks down at them, her expression unreadable.
"Sweetheart, what? What can I do to help you?"
"Callie, I can't, okay? He hates me – they all hate me because I killed their son, and I just can't. I can't do it."
"What is it you need to do?" Your voice stays gentle, but her eyes are blazing.
"It's so easy for you – you're not responsible for it, are you? You didn't hold the scalpel, getting passive-aggressive letters from brain surgeons who blame you for their son's death. I couldn't stop the bleeding, okay? I couldn't do it, and now I have to live in hell because of it."
"Erica, shh, come on." You try to put your arms around her, but she pushes you away and your eyes widen.
"I can't do this."
And with that, she leaves.
