When she was born, you stood over her crib and decided her life for her. You did this because you had the right. You did this because you felt that if you didn't make yourself clear, she might make the same mistakes you made.
She did, anyway, through no fault of her own.
When she was born, you refused to hold her due to a massive case of post-partum depression. Your nipples were cracked from trying to breastfeed, and she had bad colic that caused you to shut the door on her and walk away while Thatcher hovered nervously outside the nursery, wondering if he should step in. He did eventually, and she'd always stop crying for him. She'd always stop for him when she would never stop for you.
Mothers and daughters sit at loggerheads to each other. It's a cliché and it's very well-known, but you never tried with Meredith because you were too afraid. A girl who looks exactly like you; holds her mouth in the same way as you do – considers things through distrustful blue eyes and is almost afraid to cry – how can you love this person without breaking her?
You're too imperfect, but through trying to protect her, you ended up screwing it up, anyway.
/
"She told me to be extraordinary."
The words fall heavily on the air, and you refuse to look the psychiatrist in the eye. She, however, leans down a little lower to catch your downturned eyes. She refuses to let you just stare off into space, thinking. You find it innately uncomfortable to meet her frank gaze for too long.
"And was she?"
"Was she what?"
"Was she extraordinary?"
The thought is one to consider. What you remember about Ellis Grey was her constant movement. Even before she died, cooped up in a nursing home, she was always tapping or moving her foot. She never had time and she was always busy.
She was an extraordinary surgeon. She knew a lot and was the best in her field. She had an extraordinary skill with a scalpel.
"No, she wasn't extraordinary. But she hoped I would be. To the point of neglect, she hoped I'd turn out better than she was."
"Neglect?"
The skeptical look on the doctor's face makes you see red. If she only knew – the hungry afternoons waiting for Ellis to get home, Thatcher running out when you were a mere five years old; losing your second father to a transcontinental move; the nervousness that caused chronic vomiting and bedwetting until you were a teenager.
"Yes, neglect. Do you want to hear about what my mother was like? My mother was a surgeon and should have stuck with that job. She certainly wasn't fit to be a mother."
"Do you feel you've never had a mother figure in your life?"
You pause before answering that question.
/
You always wanted a child, but you'd be goddamned if you'd settle for being a single mother. That's point number one.
Point number two is the fact that he's driving himself into the ground, and he doesn't seem to give a damn that although you're an amazing homemaker, there's not much point in making a home for someone who's never there.
But the problem isn't only Richard. The problem is, you've got a big family with lots of brothers and sisters who are only happy to pass their children to Auntie Adele, but the hugs and kisses and cuddles that get you through the lonely nights aren't a replacement for the hug of a child all your own.
Today, at the hospital, you're waiting outside the office when she comes around the corner.
Your first impression of her is that she's so, so tiny. She's blonde and little, and she's obviously lost, since there's no parent behind her, checking to make sure that she isn't wandering into somewhere she shouldn't. You put her age at about two years old, but you find out later that she's really closer to three.
You look behind her, but no one's there. And she's sort of a mess. She's got a snotty nose and a dirty face, and in one fist, she clutches a sticky red lollipop. As she gets closer to you, you smell that she probably needs changing, too.
Almost immediately, you know who she must be.
"Hi, sweetie. Where's your mommy?" Your voice, so soothing to so many of your nieces and nephews, causes her face to crumple. She immediately starts to cry, rubbing tears into her already sticky face and sitting down in the middle of the floor.
Looking around once again, you just give up and take her into your arms, bouncing her a little up and down. She stops crying to stare curiously into your face and you smile at her. Her blue eyes, already suspicious, search your brown ones before she sighs, hiccups, and lays her head on your shoulder.
You try not to think about your expensive jacket getting smeared with candy, mucus and tears, and instead, rub slow circles on the tiny back.
Walking in the direction of the nurses' station, you're not surprised when Nurse Debbie runs towards you.
"Adele, thank you so much for finding her. I turned my back for a minute and she's gone . . ."
"Why are you looking after her, Debbie? And who is she, anyway?" you add, knowing very well who she is.
"That's Meredith Grey. Dr. Grey's little one. And we have her because the daycare won't take her today. She's got a cold and a little fever." She shoots you a desperate look. "But I can't watch her every minute – I have to do my job and we don't have anyone to spare. I haven't been able to even give her any lunch today."
You shift Meredith's weight in your arms and stroke her hair back. "It's okay. I'll look after her for now."
Debbie hands you the diaper bag. "Thank you so much, Adele."
Later on, as you cradle a changed, fed and sleeping Meredith against your chest, you wonder about the woman whose daughter this is. How can you literally have no time in your day for this?
/
"Daddy issues. Mommy issues. I've just got issues. Does that really surprise you?"
The doctor never knew your mother, but just by reading your file, she knows exactly how many hours you've logged in therapy. "No. But that doesn't mean you get to get away with it."
"Maybe if he'd loved her more. Maybe she would have been happier."
"Your father?"
"No. Richard. Maybe if he'd paid attention to her, instead of working himself into the ground. You know, his wife is the sweetest thing. I don't know why she never had a child of her own. She was so good to me over the years."
"Tell me more about Richard."
"I don't know what to tell you. I don't really remember him too well."
That's a cop out, and you both know it.
"Meredith."
You sigh, and open your mouth to speak.
/
The crushing pain in your chest seemed like a dream at first. You were in the middle of surgery when it happened and now you find yourself in a hospital bed.
It was a minor heart attack; but you know that nothing related to the heart is really minor.
Stress, alcohol, and overwork, and you could have told the cardiologist that, too. Picking at the blankets impatiently, you order him out of the room so that you can think.
The last day you saw her was three years ago.
She had long hair then, and held tight to the hand of her five-year-old as you walked through the rain. While Meredith whirled on the merry-go-round, she begged you to stay.
How could you stay?
You're not a good husband. You work too much and you have no time. The hospital always has something that needs attention. And you didn't realize how much you didn't pay attention to the right things until now.
But she's gone, now. Adele never knew the difference.
You find out later that like everything else in your life, that was a lie, too.
/
In the end, the doctor is tired and so are you.
"Extraordinary?"
"What about it!" You snap a little bit, wanting to leave this conversation now. Bringing up the past hurts. Thinking about her with a knife to her wrist hurts, especially since she could care less whether or not you're self-mutilating. You used to take Percocet to numb the pain, when you could get it. Leftover pills from a wisdom tooth prescription lasted a long time.
"She wasn't extraordinary. None of us are."
"Then why does it matter?"
"Because you have to keep going. Don't stop. Don't give up on everything like she did. That was the main message of all of this."
Finally, the doctor looks pleased.
"Yes. Exactly."
Later, as you sit on the front porch where you cried, laughed, ate ice cream and stared at the stars on a summer night, you think more about it.
It's not that she didn't love you – it's that she loved you too much.
These precious things have serrated edges.