"My dad grows corn," April stammered, clutching the charts to her chest as she hovered just inside the cramped ICU room.
Her eyes scanned nervously for somewhere to look that wasn't a tube or a monitor, finally settling on a stray metal supply cart over-flowing with dressings and gloves.
She was sure she'd spoken to Alex Karev before, she must have. He lived with the Chief. He was friends with the Chief's wife… with Meredith, Meredith Grey, who'd been there visiting him just that morning, for almost an hour. She'd seem him changing in the locker room, and watched him snarking with Reed. She must have spoken with him before.
He looked deathly pale, though, and like he wasn't quite awake, and she wished she'd been able to check the timing of his meds before she squeezed back in between rounds. She wondered if he could talk, since he'd just come off a vent the day before, and if he'd even recognize her, or remember her name, even if he weren't still so heavily drugged.
Guys like him never remembered her. Guys never remembered her.
"You're from Iowa, right?" she continued sheepishly. "Iowa has corn."
She'd asked around, so she'd have something to say to him. Reed had suggested that to her once, having something to say in advance; she'd written the suggestion down in her notebook, though at the moment it didn't seem to be helping.
He turned slightly toward her, wincing, his hazy eyes still struggling to focus, and she wondered if it was him or her, or if the room was too bright or if his bandages were too stiff or if his pain meds were late or if he needed another transfusion because there'd been so much blood… she'd seen it, the supply room… all the blood, so much blood
"Reed was my friend," she muttered, her legs trembling as she forced herself to take another step into the room. Guys never remembered her, but they remembered Reed. Reed made them. Reed always knew what to say, even if it made them mad. Reed would know what to do now, too, as his darkening eyes settled on her, brewing like cauldrons.
Reed.
His chest exploded, and he hit the floor with a sickening thud, and vacant eyes too far gone even for pleading hung open as a puddle of blood streaked toward him: His and hers, mixing together, washing him into an elevator that sealed like a crypt.
This is why Reed said I'd never get laid, she thought, frantically looking away from his gaze with a shiver. This is why I was in charge of decorations at the prom. This is why I never had a boy friend. This is why the guys in med school only looked at my notes.
"Reed was my friend," she repeated, shuffling her feet as her stomach dropped to the floor. "She was my best friend," she added hoarsely, clutching her charts tighter to her chest and willing her legs not to tremble, and forcing herself not to bolt.
He recognized her name, she could tell. Reed had liked him, sort of. Well, she thought he was hot, and had a bitchy wife; she thought he might be fun, if he could just get over the shrewish blonde who threw a tantrum over a stupid cubby on their very first day. Guys like him always went for girls like that until they got burned; that's what Reed always said.
"She was a good person," April insisted more determinedly, tentatively steeping another foot closer to his bedside despite her rioting nerves.
She wondered why he didn't seem to get that her statement was actually a question. She wanted to know; had to know. He was the last one who saw her alive. He'd been there when…when…when…
"She was a good person," she stuttered, more loudly this time, her voice shaking as tears streaked her face. He didn't seem to notice she was pleading.
The bullet had gone straight through: Dead center: No scream, no shriek, no death rattling gasp, just two eye whites bobbing in the rush of pooling blood.
They'd offered him sex for surgery, once, those eyes; grown huge when they thought he'd come to collect. No time for fear this time; they were freakishly serene staring back, white buoys on a sea of red.
"You were there," she said finally, her voice sounding smaller then she'd hoped as she reached tentatively toward the bed rail, wrapping her fingers around the cold metal to steady herself.
His breathing was ragged, and he looked even paler up that close, like he was struggling to stay awake, and she wondered if he was trembling because he was cold or because he was feverish, and she'd offer to get him water or ice or a blanket - but if she took one step closer she'd hurl, and if she took even one step back she'd run and she'd never have the guts to do this when he was stronger, and then she'd have to add this to the long list of things she had to do but couldn't… the ever growing list on pages 34-47 in her journal.
"I saw it, the supply room," she said, the words coming out in a twisted jumble as she searched his face, which clouded over like an impending storm.
He was Reed's type, she thought suddenly, averting her eyes. He was probably a football player. He probably rode a motorcycle. He was probably one of those guys you kept bail money set aside in the cookie jar for, just in case. He was probably one of those guys that her mother always warned her about, the kind April herself was always telling Reed to stay away from.
He couldn't help her.
There was too much blood…more then Rebecca … too much damage… more then Iz… too much madness… more then mom, even… she was too far away from the elevator, from him… farther then Amber… she was gone before she hit the ground, gone faster then all the others - all the other he couldn't help.
"I saw…I saw…I saw all the blood," she stuttered. "Did she…Did she…did she?"
She was a doctor, too, as well as a best friend, and she'd heard everybody whispering about how it must have been quick.
But he might have been there when she was still breathing, might have been there for her very last breath, and he might have heard her say something, might have heard her cry for help, might have seen something, might have said something to her… might even have changed something, if only, if only…
She'd heard two Residents from Cardio saying that, too, since they'd seen the… the…the bod… since they'd seen her. She'd heard them talking with people in the hallway about it too. Cardio guys always thought more could be done. Reed loved them, always said that they were the real Cowboys. Reed's heart was fine, though; she didn't even eat meat.
He didn't know.
It was a pop, and a muffled thud, and a blinding explosion in his chest, and vacant eyes staring at him, and sticky red liquid burning his hands as he crawled, and a chilly elevator sealing him in silence. He didn't know how, or why, or who - and where and when were hazy at best – and it still flared in his chest with every breath.
"What do you want?" he muttered finally.
His strangled question startled her, and his eyes were still dazed and struggling, either with the light in the room or just to stay open, she couldn't quite tell, and his voice was ragged and weak, not at all like she remembered, or at least, not at all like how a guy like him should sound, even after being… being… even after… even then.
The raspy words scrapped through her mind, jolting her.
She wanted him to tell her that this was all a mistake. She wanted him to tell her that Reed was still in the supply closet, ragging on him and his loser friends. She wanted him to tell her that she was still alive, that she'd just scrubbed in on some big, exciting surgery, that she'd watched that Oprah episode, too, and used it to get away.
"Was it bad?" she stammered finally, the words spilling out like marbles scattering across the hard polished floor.
She averted her eyes, sure Reed would laugh if she'd just heard her; sure that Reed would tell her this is why she'll be one of those crazy old cat ladies some day, alone in a cottage along a quite lane near her dad's farm, like Mrs. Crantson, hoarding old newspapers and planting Tulips in February and chatting with the squirrels that raided her bird feeders.
That's why guys never remembered her, Reed always said, because she was jittery and tongue tied and over thought every word and it still all came out wrong.
Reed even gave her a list of practice phrases to use when she met someone, and another of standard questions to keep a conversation going. She'd written them on pages 56-59 of her journal, in purple ink, in the fancy script that Reed always said would give her the best penmanship in medical history.
She could flip through to them now, but she had the lists memorized, anyway, and it wasn't like they were doing her much good, though Reed was just trying to help.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on anything but the fire still raging in his chest.
She was still staring at him, looking like she was about to burst into tears again, and he fumbled to recall her name, since he couldn't remember if she'd mentioned it, and he almost wished he was back on the vent, since at least then no one expected answers.
"I'm making a scrap book," she announced abruptly. "For her parents: I wanted them to know that it… that it was…" she continued.
"Quick?" he asked bluntly.
"She was a good person," she repeated, clutching her papers more closely to her chest.
She wanted them to know that, wanted everyone to know that, that … that she was a good doctor, that she had a best friend, that she liked alternative music, and bitter coffee, and blueberry muffins, that people in Seattle liked her, that she was missed.
"She was my best friend," she stammered. "I just, I just… please?" she whispered, forcing her eyes to meet his again. "Did she…Did she…did she know?"
"I don't know if she saw it coming," he said finally.
"Did she say anything?" April asked quietly, stepping closer, suddenly mesmerized.
"Don't think she had time," he replied flatly, abruptly looking away and staring across the room.
She nodded blankly, all the oxygen draining from her lungs. She wanted more details, wanted every detail, every little thread. It would only take one, she thought wildly, one thread that she could trace back all the way to last week, back to that instant - and the instant before - one thread, and maybe everything that had happened since would come undone, and she'd be back again, as if nothing had happened, as if she'd just returned from the grocery store.
"I wanted her parents to know that people here liked her," April volunteered finally, her eyes darting back to his, to the monitors she didn't really see, to the tubes and the cart.
He nodded blankly, looking away again, adding her to the list of women he couldn't help.
"We were new here and all," she said quietly, "but she doesn't have any brothers or sisters, and I just wanted them to know that when she was here, it meant something."
She didn't tell him there'd be two scrapbooks, because guys always thought they were lame. And it wasn't like he'd been Reed's friend, really, even an ordinary friend, much less a best friend.
He didn't need new friends, anyway, since he still had Meredith, and the scary girl from Cardio, and Lexi; even Dr. Bailey had been by regularly to visit him, and she never liked anybody. Well, she certainly didn't like anyone from Mercy-West; none of them did.
They probably all thought the shootings were Mercy-West's fault, too, she thought, and it wasn't even like Reed or Charlie could defend themselves now.
"You didn't really know her," she blurted suddenly, surprising herself as much as him. "I know you guys talked, sometimes, but you didn't really know her."
"She liked yoga," he muttered, frowning slightly.
"What?" she asked, abruptly looking up.
"I saw her, in the locker room," he added, "told her to get out of the way."
"I have that in the scrap book plan already," she noted seriously, flipping through her notebook. "She took an advanced class twice a week, Monday and Thursday," she observed.
"I'm trying to add new things," she explained, pointing to her notes in response to his puzzled expression. "Things I didn't know about."
The details of her scrap booking quest were irrelevant, she realized instantly, which was probably why he was looking at her like that; either that, or his pain meds were wearing off. Guys looked at her like that a lot, even guys who hadn't been shot recently.
"I'm, I'm sorry," she stammered nervously, closing her notebook. "I shouldn't have… I just… I thought if you could tell me just one thing I could add, something different that I don't have already … I."
He almost smirked, for the first time since they'd pulled the vent.
Just one thing: She could have worked a different shift, turned a different way, sent a nurse to get the supplies, snagged a different case, gone to a different stupid yoga class.
Just one thing could have changed everything, at least for her.
"I'm sorry," she stammered again, her face reddening. "I just … she was my best friend here, but I didn't know her that long. I just thought… if you could tell me just one thing… I.. I should go…" she said, abruptly taking a step back and turning to leave.
"She saved a baby," he mumbled.
"What?" she asked, turning back and watching him cautiously, rocking on her heels as she prepared to run.
"We were on Peads together," he muttered awkwardly. "She helped save a premie.
"Oh," April brightened, flipping open her notebook and scribbling rapidly.
"I bet her parents would love to know that," she added, looking over her list and nodding briskly.
"Her dad's a teacher," she added casually. "She used to say both our dads worked with vegetables, since mine grows corn" she said, almost rolling her eyes before realizing what she was doing, and wincing again.
"Sorry, she added. "No offense, like, if your dad grows corn, too, since you're from Iowa. He doesn't, does he?" she asked, almost cringing.
"No," he agreed flatly.
He almost tried to picture it, his old man on a tractor or a grain thresher, actually doing something productive. Things might have been different then, like they might have been if he'd told the cops the truth about his mom, or if he hadn't hit that social worker, or if he'd called Aaron or Amber one in a while, of if he'd seen what was happening with Ava, or if he'd told Addison the gynie squad wasn't so bad, or if Izzie had come back.
"This is great," she nodded enthusiastically as she continued writing, recording the date and time of this conversation, and a note to ask Dr. Robbins if she'd worked on the case, too, if she remembered anything, if she remembered Reed, if she had anything to add.
She could have added that she was sorry he'd been shot, but guys like him wouldn't want to hear that. She could have told him she hoped he'd get better soon, but he'd probably just laugh at her. She could have told him that Reed liked him, at least minus the bitchy wife – or ex wife - depending on which branch of the grape vine you were walking past, but that would have to be in the past tense and she wasn't ready for that yet.
"Thanks," she stammered finally, closing her notebook again. She kept her voice down, because his eyes were fluttering and his breathing was slowing, and she was sure it'd be easier to leave if he just fell asleep. Then she wouldn't have to say anything else, and none of Reed's guidelines would ever cover hospital bed sides.
She could have told him he wasn't as bad as she had expected, but that would come out all wrong, too, and if Reed was there she'd definitely be making fun of her by now over the scrapbook thing, anyway. She could have told him that Reed didn't eat meat, but that would mean her heart should still be beating again, and it didn't matter if he or his friends knew anything more about her now, since they were never interested in to begin with.
He didn't care, she reminded herself, and he was one of those guys, and he was one of them – like his bitchy wife or ex-wife or whatever.
But he told her about the premie, and Reed sort of liked him, and he looked awful, which her mother would have said wasn't a nice thing to think at all – and it wasn't - but, really, he did, like as if the elevator they'd found him in had actually squished him, or he'd been drained by a vampire, and not the good vampires from those movies.
"I could bring you a pudding cup," she whispered, the words fleeing her mouth before her brain could reel them back in. She winced before their sound even evaporated.
It was the only thing she remembered about him, other than the Iowa stuff, and that had been on Reed's list - to learn things about people you needed to talk, so you would have something to say – but she hadn't meant to utter that out loud, and it sounded somewhat stalker like once she did, which wasn't her point at all.
"I mean, I just, I know you like pudding cups," she sputtered, her hands fumbling as she almost dropped her notebook. "I've seen Meredith get them for you at lunch, and I thought well, she's busy with the Chief, ex-Chief, former Chief, Dr. Shepherd, so maybe I could bring you one, since you… you helped me and all."
"When you can eat again" she added awkwardly, noticing the puzzled expression drifting lazily across his face, and scolding herself again. "I mean, … Oh, I know what you're going to say, I don't even know you," she sputtered, collecting her things as quickly as she could and taking an abrupt step back.
"Was going to say chocolate," he mumbled drowsily.
"What?" she asked, stopping suddenly, as if she hadn't heard him right.
"I like the chocolate ones," he said, eying her through half fluttering eye lashes.
"Oh, okay," she agreed, exhaling heavily and trying to center herself. She considered writing that in her notebook, too, just in case, then decided she'd just remember.
"I'll come by again to see when you're ready - for the pudding cup. Chocolate, I promise," she agreed, nodding seriously, though his eyes were mostly closed again. He didn't look so much like a football player or a delinquent like that; she'd remember that, too – even if her mother did always warn her that looks could be deceiving.
He nodded weakly, leaned back in his pillow, and watched her hurry away. She was as freaked as Lexi, if that was possible, and as neurotic as Mere, if that was possible, and probably bat shit crazy, since she'd been in his room.
But he remembered her name, finally, and her hair reminded him of Amber's - something about how it tumbled over her face, maybe, like Amber's, before she left for school in the morning. He doubted she still had it that way, though, since that was nearly a decade ago, and girls were always changing their hair.
He hoped it wasn't too short, and that she hadn't died it dark.
He wondered if she still liked pudding, too, like she had when she was a kid. She liked vanilla then, hated chocolate; that much he remembered, at least. He stole pudding for them once, her and him and Aaron; well, maybe twice. But that wasn't something you could tell someone – not when she was ten, not even when she was seventeen – that you stole pudding for her, before you walked away.
You could maybe tell her that you saved a baby, though; she might understand that; you'd had nothing to tell her for seven years, but that was one thing, at least, that you could maybe tell her - when you could talk better, after the tubes and monitors were gone, after the fire died down some in your chest.
It was just one thing, but it was more then you'd had a week ago; it might even be a start.