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Flowers and candy weren't his style, but she never expected a map. Not that it would help much. If they took a wrong turn, they'd be lost until the fall harvest, amid acres of corn. Folding the paper clumsily, she pawed through her bag for her hair brush and lip gloss. Mothers loved her, she reminded herself again, as she took another deep breath.
"She doesn't know," Alex said a few minutes later, so quietly she almost didn't hear him. "Doesn't know what?" Izzie asked, distracted as she sized up the grain silos and the farm houses dotting the edge of town. "My mom-," he stammered. "She doesn't know I'm coming?" Izzie asked incredulously, her head snapping around to look at him. "No," he said quickly, "she doesn't know that we're…" "Doesn't know what?" Izzie prodded.
"Married," he admitted reluctantly. "How could she not know that?" Izzie demanded, staring at him dumb founded. "She thinks you're my…" he stalled. "Your what?" "Girl friend," he filled in ruefully. "You lied to her?" Izzie asked. "No," he snapped, "I just, I wanted to give her-"
"What else does she think?" Izzie huffed. "That I'm an actress? Or a model?" "She knows you're a doctor," Alex retorted, rolling his eyes. "Where does she think we've been this past year?" Izzie pressed sarcastically, "or haven't we been dating that long?"
"Not really," he acknowledged, "she doesn't know about… about…""She doesn't know I was sick," Izzie whispered , glaring at him as he nodded, his eyes glued to the road.
"Were you planning on filling her in anytime soon," Izzie asked, "or are we just going to-" "I'll tell her," he insisted, "I just wanted to-" "To what," she taunted, "get her approval? Is this a test?" "No, damn it," he sputtered. "I can't believe this," she muttered, shaking her head. "We're almost there," he noted, warily scanning the road signs as the small town came into view. "Are you sure" Izzie smirked, "she might have moved and not told you. The not speaking thing seems to run in your family."
"Iz," he grumbled, "can we not fight about that again now." "Fine," she retorted, folding her arms over her chest, "it's not like we have anything to talk about anyway," she added sarcastically, "since we're barely dating and all." "Iz," he protested, pulling up slowly to a squat, red brick four square at the end of a long five house block. Curious despite her anger, Izzie studied the tangle of wild flowers along the base of the worn wooden steps, and the lacy curtains hanging in the front windows.
Closing the car door, she pulled her arm away from him as he tried leading her to the front porch, then watched Alex swallow nervously before knocking on the heavy oak door. She wondered what exactly his poor mother was expecting, and how little he actually told her; she should have expected as much from him, she reminded herself, jiggling her leg as she surveyed the faded grey picket fence ringing the house.
"Alex!" she heard, when the door finally creaked opened, and his mother embraced him as he bent stiffly forward. "Mom," he said breathlessly, "this is Izzie, Isobel-" "Stevens," Izzie filled in warmly, offering her hand only to be pulled into another enthusiastic hug. "Oh, I'm so happy to meet you dear," the stocky brunette woman said finally, "Alex has told me so much about you." "Really," Izzie said, eying Alex suspiciously.
"Oh yes, yes, but my," she stood back, "he didn't tell me how pretty you are." Izzie chuckled, almost blushing. "I'm Annavey Karev," she said softly, "my friends call me Anna." "Annavey is a lovely name," Izzie said, "is it-" "It's Russian," she said, ushering them in to a living room crowded with over-stuffed floral couches, with newspapers and magazines and throw pillows, and covered in wall to wall pictures.
"My husband, Anton," she noted, motioning proudly to a framed photo of a man in front of a band, "he said it was a good omen, that our first names started with the same letter." "Really," Izzie said, scanning the picture, "is that him?" Anna adjusted her glasses and followed Izzie's finger. "Yes," she smiled broadly, "that's my Anton."
"He was a great musician," she added proudly, "that's him on stage," she noted, pointing to another nearby picture, a faded, grainy photo snapped in a darkened bar. "Alex told me," Izzie smiled, "I'm sure he was very talented." "Oh, he was," Anna nodded, gazing back at the wall, "he would have been famous, if he'd only gotten one good break."
"I'll bet," Izzie agreed. "Would you like tea, dear?" Anna asked, pulling her attention back, "Alex told me you drink tea." "He did, huh?" Izzie smirked. "Oh, yes," she nodded, "and he tells me you're quite the baker." "I love to bake," Izzie agreed, following her and Alex into the kitchen. "Mom," Alex interrupted impatiently, "I told you-"
"Oh, come on," she said, "I won't embarrass you." "I know," he said, "but-" "But nothing," she said, "dinner's almost ready, anyway." "You didn't have to do that," Izzie said, shaking her head, "we could just-" "Don't be silly," she objected, moving toward her stove, "how often do I get to cook for my son and his beautiful girl friend?" Alex cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet as Izzie glared at him. "Besides, I bet Isobel's never had a good Iowa stew." "I haven't," Izzie agreed, "I'd love to try it."
Three hours later, they sat in the small living room, listening as Anna filled in the details of her prized photos. "He was a fine musician, your father, wasn't he Alex?" she asked eagerly. "Yeah, mom," Alex said, picking at his fingers as he pursed his lips. "He was a good man," she sighed, "if only he'd gotten that one great job, you know, the one that would have made him a success. He so wanted that."
"Mom," Alex interrupted, "it's getting late. We've had a long trip." "Of course" she said, rising from her chair, "what was I thinking? Come on, Isobel, I'll show you to your room. I have four bedrooms here, you know. I thought you'd like the one next to mine. Alex said you love pink." "He did?" Izzie asked, eying him curiously. "Yes, it's all made up for you," she added. "And Alex, I put your old quilt on your bed, you know the one with the army tanks." "Mom," he groaned, shaking his head as Izzie giggled.
An hour later, Izzie poked her head cautiously into the small hall bathroom, where Alex had just finished brushing his teeth. "Separate rooms," she commented, "nice touch." "Iz," he began impatiently, "I just wanted-" "No, no, I get it," she taunted, "you don't want her to think I'm a slut." "Iz-" "Or no," she snorted, "I know," she said, "you want her to think that you're some kind of boy scout. I guess there's a lot you don't tell her," she taunted. "Iz-" "Or maybe you want her to think that you're saving yourself until marriage." "Iz-" he protested, piling his towel haphazardly on the drying rack.
"I can't believe you're doing this," she hissed, "I can't believe you want me to lie to that sweet woman." "I told you," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "We'll tell her eventually, I just want to-" "And how do you think she'll feel," Izzie demanded. "that her daughter-in-law lied to her right from the start?" He stared at the faded floor, a tint of red beginning to burn his ears.
"You never thought about that, did you?" Izzie snapped. "You never thought about what we'd tell her later." He moved furiously, rinsing out his glass and zipping his travel case shut. "Do you ever think beyond the next ten minutes, Alex?" she demanded. "Or is it always just what's easiest right now?" "It's not that," he stammered, walking into the darkened hallway. "That's exactly what it is," she retorted, closing the door behind her as he stood frozen in the hall.
"Alex," Anna said, groggily opening her bedroom door, "is everything okay?" "Yeah, mom," he said. "I was just locking up." Anna smiled, taking his hand. "You used to do that every night, remember," she said quietly, "after your father left." "Everything's fine, mom," he repeated, kissing her lightly on the top of her head, "the house is all locked up. Go back to sleep."
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Izzie woke much later than usual the next morning, to the sound of hammering, and wandered into the sweet smelling kitchen a half hour later. "Good morning," Anna said warmly, "would you like to have something, dear?" "Just tea," Izzie said, smiling as she moved to get a mug. "Alex says you usually have toast in the morning," Anna noted, motioning to a loaf of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter.
"You make your own bread?" Izzie asked, wide eyed. "On special occasions," Anna laughed, gathering two plates and some jam. "Alex is replacing a few boards on that old porch," she added, "if you were wondering what that racket was. I'd rather he waited," she said, "but once he gets his mind to something-" "I know," Izzie agreed wryly as she took a plate and a knife and sat at the table.
"You'll have to watch that, with him," Anna cautioned, lowering her voice. "Excuse me," Izzie asked, while spreading jam on her bread. "He really seems to like you," she added, studying Izzie closely, "I can certainly see why," she continued, smiling broadly, "he always went for the pretty ones." "Actually," Izzie said with a laugh, "he doesn't tell me I'm pretty very often." "Of course," she added ruefully, "he doesn't tell me much of anything." "That's my Alex," Anna nodded, gazing out the window where he worked.
"He's pretty handy around the house," Anna noted. "I know," Izzie nodded, "he's done a lot of work on the… on his apartment." Anna smiled, adding more sugar to her tea. "He worked in a hardware store when he was in school, did odd jobs to earn extra money, that sort of thing." "Really?" Izzie asked.
"He wasn't much of a mechanic," Anna said. "But Mr. Gregson, he owns the hardware store, he said Alex might make a good carpenter someday," she added proudly. "I could see that," Izzie nodded. "This," she added, savoring the warm bread, "is fabulous."
"Thank you," Anna smiled. "I never did understand why people went so much for the store bought. So expensive," she noted, sipping her tea, "and not nearly as good." "I agree," Izzie nodded, smiling warmly. "Don't suppose you have much time for baking, though," Anna added, "with all your studies. Alex says you're a fine doctor." "It's a lot of work," Izzie admitted. "Even getting the time off to come here wasn't easy."
"I imagine," Anna nodded, rising to refill their mugs, as the hammering gave way to a few mysterious thuds and an ominous cracking. "Alex always liked to keep busy," Anna laughed, "think that's why he liked the hardware store, spent hours there, even when he wasn't working." "Did he have a lot of friends there?" Izzie asked, stirring her tea.
"I think Mr. Gregson was being nice," Anna replied, "letting him hang around. He always told me we were lucky his father never pressed charges." "Charges?" Izzie asked, her attention drawn back from the sunny, cheerful white kitchen, complete with an actual pie safe, she noticed, and a small flock of rooster cookie jars. "I don't suppose he told you about that either?" Anna asked warily. "He never would talk about it with me."
"About what?" Izzie asked. "They never did get along, such tempers. You'll have to watch that with him," she cautioned again, meeting Izzie's curious expression. "I love my son," she insisted, "but that temper gets the best of him sometimes." "Did something happen?" Izzie asked "He never told you?" Anna asked hesitantly. "No," izzie admitted.
"My Anton was a good man," she noted reluctantly. "He had a certain way to do things, and he tried to teach Alex that, you know, to teach him right from wrong." Izzie nodded. "They had a fight one night, a terrible fight. My Anton was in the hospital for quite a few days," she added, "when he got out - he didn't even tell me when or I would have taken him home, taken care of him - he just left."
"I knew Alex hadn't seen his dad in a long time," Izzie acknowledged, "but I never knew why." "Mr. Gregson said it was just Anton being embarrassed, you know. Alex was only sixteen, seventeen, at the time. We were lucky it didn't make it into the news papers. Of course, a fair number of people in town knew anyway. This is a small place." Izzie nodded, watching as she refilled her tea mug.
"It was all that damn wrestling," Anna added impatiently, setting the kettle back on the stove. "Never did care for it. Made him mean, I think, angry. He wasn't like that until he started all that weight training," she insisted. "But it got him that scholarship to the university," she smiled. "I don't suppose you went to school on a wrestling scholarship?"
"No," Izzie laughed. "I was a model, actually." "Really," Anna said, "well you're certainly pretty enough. You were in catalogues?" "Yes," Izzie said cautiously, almost cringing. "Like in the Sears catalogues?" she asked, smiling broadly. "Yes," Izzie agreed eagerly, returning her smile, "just like that." "Funny," Anna shook her head, "Alex never really went for the sweet ones." "I'm sure," Izzie muttered, under her breath."
"He must like you as much as it sounds," Anna said, watching as Izzie blushed. "He's a good boy," she added, nodding firmly, "I could never have kept this place without him, after his father left. It was a struggle," she noted softly. "It must have been very difficult," Izzie agreed, fingering her tea mug. "He needs someone like you, I think," Anna added, gazing fondly at Izzie, "but that temper of his…" she warned, shaking her head.
"Did you come here to work or to visit me?" Anna asked suddenly, as Alex popped into the kitchen with hammer in tow. "Both," he smirked, moving to rinse off his hands. "I'll take care of that gutter spout tomorrow," he added, wiping his hands as he surveyed the counter and table top. "It's in the refrigerator," she chuckled as his eyes lit up, watching as he drew out the banana cream pie and eagerly grabbed a plate.
"Why don't you show Isobel around town while I'm at church?" Anna asked, watching him fondly. "What's to see?" he shrugged, avoiding Izzie's gaze. "I'd like that," Izzie insisted, glaring at him as he stared at the pie he was devouring.
"Not much to see," he repeated two hours later, shrugging as they drove around a quiet town too poor to be quaint, too suburban to be rural, too much or too little of anything in particular to make it anything special. "We had an interesting conversation this morning," she commented, "your mom and I."
Alex held his breath as he drove, eying her silently. "She's quite the story teller," Izzie pointed out, as the words hung awkwardly between them. "Guess the not talking thing doesn't run in your family," she added tartly, "it's just you."
The stories continued that evening, as Anna told Izzie about her husband's early days as a musician. "Mom," Alex interrupted, "I don't think she's interested in-" "Oh, why not?" Anna asked mischievously, "she might be part of the family some day, if you brought her all the way to see me." Izzie giggled, happy to see him squirm. "Wow," Izzie noted, looking closer at the faded photos, "he played a lot of instruments."
"Yes," Anna nodded, gazing at the picture. "I think Alex has that guitar now," she said, looking to him for confirmation. "Yeah," he said. "He never plays it," Izzie noted. "His father never could get him to practice," Anna chuckled. "It's getting late mom," Alex interrupted, motioning impatiently to the clock by her chair.
Six hours later, he was out on the porch, tinkering quietly with the gutter fastening, when Izzie stepped out the back door into the warm breeze. "It's two in the morning," she said, baffled, "what are you doing?" "Want to get this fixed before we leave," he shrugged, without looking up. "How can you even see?" she asked, sitting on the top porch step. "Moon's up," he muttered. She scanned the sky, noticing that despite the lack of street lights, the yard was still fairly well illumined; even his flashlight sat unused.
"What are you doing up so late?" he asked finally. "I'm dating, remember," she said tartly, ignoring his glare. "Your mom told me about your dad," she said quietly. "Yeah," Alex snorted, "the whole damn night." "Not that," Izzie shook her head, "about the fight." "What?" he demanded, his head snapping back up. "She told me you put him in the hospital," Izzie said, shaking her head. Alex ignored her, returning to his work.
"What happened?" she asked, watching as he struggled to get the pipe fittings together. "Alex," she repeated, "what-" "What, Iz?" he demanded, roughly popping the fittings into place. "I think you should tell me what happened," she insisted. "I thought you had a date?" he smirked, grabbing his tools and turning toward the house.
"Great," she taunted, "that's right, run away." "What do you want?" he snapped, stopping abruptly beside her as he picked up his flashlight. "She said-". "Did she tell you he beat the crap out of her?" he hissed. "What?" Izzie asked. "Did she tell you about the drugs and the booze, and how he'd come home and…" "And what?" she asked cautiously.
"He had it coming," Alex sneered, avoiding her bewildered look. "I couldn't watch it anymore, and she wouldn't do anything, she wouldn't leave, so I did something." "But you mother said-" "She says a lot of things," he snapped bitterly, pounding his flashlight angrily into his hand. "Sounds like she loves him," Izzie protested. "She thought he'd get better," Alex retorted incredulously, "she thought the bastard would-" "Why don't you say something to her?" she asked. "The way she talks, it's like he'll be back any day now."
Alex eyed her warily, remembering the pill bottles and the endless rosaries, the blank staring and the mumbling to people who weren't there, the roiling madness that coursed through the small house, after his father left. "She never forgave me," he said finally, "she thought she could make him better. Those pictures, that's her whole life,"
"Is he still alive?" Izzie asked. "I don't know," he said, moving toward the house. "So what if he comes back," she asked, "you going to keep lying to her, helping her think he's better than he was?" "I'll take care of her," he said, climbing the steps. "Like you did before?" she asked sharply. "You mean will I screw it up again?" he demanded, turning abruptly toward her. "I mean will you ever stop lying to her?" Izzie asked.
Alex glared at her, forcing his arms down to his sides. He'd lied plenty, about the bruises and the bottles, about the black eyes and the bones that broke too easily, and his mother's pills, which always vanished too quickly. He'd lied enough to get the cops to leave, and his mother damn near killed. That was lying; he'd never do that again; this was different.
"I'm not lying," he hissed through gritted teeth, griping her arm as he signaled her to keep her voice down. "I'm letting her believe she had more than did, more like what she deserved." "Alex-" she interrupted, squirming in his grasp and shaking her head as she tried to pull away. He turned from her abruptly, dropping her arm and forcing himself to concentrate on a nearby fence post that needed straightening, on anything that might slow the frantic pounding in his head.
His mother never lied, he remembered; lying was on the sin list; it even made the top five. She always told the curious neighbors they were accidents, and the cops everything was fine; she always promised him it would get better, and that his father loved them, until words lost their meaning. The problem had to be the words, since his mother wouldn't lie for anybody, not even for the God who ignored her prayers.
"I'm protecting her," he hissed, more harshly then he intended. "I 'm keeping her from going back to the pills, and whatever the hell else she used to survive. She's fine, Iz. She's not in a padded cell, she's not a drunk…" "That's fine?" Izzie asked. "It works," he insisted. "She thinks I'm your girlfriend, is that working?" she asked sarcastically.
Izzie watched him warily, waiting a long while before softening her tone. "Why can't we at least tell her about us?" she asked finally. "Wouldn't that be good? I think she likes me." "She loves you," he said, exhaling quietly, "just like I knew she would." "Well if you knew that," she said, "why didn't you just tell her about us from the beginning?"
"She already thinks I'm a screw up," he said finally. "If I, if we, if this hadn't worked," he stammered, motioning vaguely between them, "if you'd changed your mind after you got better, she'd just think I screwed up again." "You thought I'd change my mind," she asked incredulously, "and you never talked to me about it?" "I just thought if you, if you…" he stammered." "Lived?" she filled in quietly.
He looked away. "I thought you might want something else," he admitted, after a long, awkward silence. "You mean, like a husband who could actually talk to me like an adult?" she asked sharply. "Or tell the truth about his marriage? Yeah, that'd be nice," she agreed, stalking past him up the steps and opening the door. "That'd be real nice," she repeated. "Too bad for me, huh?" she muttered, closing the door behind her.
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Alex jolted awake, slamming his alarm clock off and searching his hands. Finding no torn shards of fabric, he dropped back onto the bed. She'd been running again, at dawn, through a sunny field of wild flowers as he chased frantically behind, her white robe unraveling as it caught in his fingers and she charged heedlessly over the grassy hill and out of sight. The chill clung to him as her laughter faded away with the dream.
"Morning," she said as she emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later. He noticed the shabby robe wrapped snugly around her, and chided himself again, for giving her a new white lab coat, instead, for their second anniversary. It seemed practical, after she chose to leave the surgical program, and pursue a family practice residency instead. She'd been less then enthused with his gift, though; he should have known better.
"Hey," he said briskly, toweling his hair dry fifteen minutes later, "you're meeting your new group today, right?" "Yup," she said, vigorously brushing her hair, "the new dream team." He pulled on his shirt, watching her warily. She'd had dreams in the hospital that were more like his, drug induced terrors that left her frantic and shaking, and calling out other names then his, and clawing his arms, her nails never quite drawing visible blood.
But he knew she had different dreams before those, of a brilliant surgical career, and a fairy tale wedding, and a castle in the clouds, and children – always children. But even her fairy tale wedding had been borrowed, acquired second hand from a friend, and no one would ever mistake their crappy apartment for a castle, and they'd never be able to afford kids with medical bills still pouring in and school loans to pay.
"You want to ride in together?" he asked briskly, taking her curt nod for agreement. It was inconvenient, he knew, since they were working different shifts now, but it saved them money. He'd done what he could their past few breaks, to stay ahead of the rent, tending bar at Joe's amid the good natured ribbing from their friends.
He'd been poor his whole life, enough to know that work was work and money was money, and even bar wages could help keep the water running and the electricity on. His father had been too proud for that, he remembered, even when they went weeks with no heat, and his mother wore two heavy coats in the living room, commenting only on the bitter cold Iowa winters - her breath visible in the chilled air- but never on her useless husband.
"You working with Teegan today?" he asked, walking up behind Izzie and closing his arms around her, nuzzling her hair. It was darker and straighter now, but still smelled like spring, like it always had before. "Yeah," she said, shifting away from him, "you ready to go?" "You sure you're ready for a full day?" he frowned, "it's only been-"
"Over a year?" she snapped impatiently, grabbing her bag and slinging it brusquely over her shoulder, as she pulled her coat from the chair. "Iz-" "I've already been over this with Bailey, and the Chief, and the-" she recited the familiar list. "I just-" he started. "And yes," she insisted, holding up her bag, "I've got my hat, and my sunscreen, for the whole two minutes it'll take me to walk from the parking lot. Or were you planning on dropping me off at the ambulance bay?"
"Iz, I just-" "And stay away from Teegan," she demanded sternly. "What?" he asked. "I know you talked to him," she accused. "He told me we could adjust my schedule if I needed more time," she added sarcastically. "Iz, I just-" "I know," she snorted, "you're afraid I'll get a head cold, or won't be able to keep up with the other residents." "I just thought-" "No, you didn't," she retorted, "you never do." "That's not true," he objected. "Did you ever think they may have enough doubts about me already?" she retorted. "They do not," he scoffed, "everybody wants you back."
"They don't even know me yet, remember?" she pointed out, "I'm in a new program now." "You'll do great," he insisted. "And the last thing I need is you going behind my back." "I just-" he protested. "You just can't let me make my own decisions," she accused. "I just wanted to make sure-" he muttered. "What," she demanded, "that your helpless little wife was-" "Iz-" "I mean it, Alex," she insisted, "butt the hell out. And just so we're clear," she repeated through gritted teeth, "this is my decision, not yours."
Her angry words hung between them, her tone echoing that they'd had this fight before. "Are you ready?" she demanded again, turning away from him. "Just have to brush my teeth," he mumbled, wandering back into the bathroom. She was strong, he reminded himself. She didn't need him like his father did, to empty the bottles, or sweep up the shattered glass, or lie about what happened; she didn't need him like his mother did either, to count out the pills for her when the bad patches started, or to hide the bottles when they became intolerable, or even like Ava had, before she slit her wrists.
She had to be strong, to fight her way back from the cancer - after the year of grueling treatments that she'd told him more than once she didn't want - and to charge ahead as if nothing had happened. He knew he could never have done otherwise, but he wondered, sometimes, if she'd ever forgive him for refusing to let her go, even when she begged.
He wondered, but he was sure, usually, that she'd needed him a year ago, if only to push her, if only to sit uselessly in the hard plastic chair at her bedside. But her bad patch was behind her, he reminded himself, as he returned his toothbrush to its slot and hastily dried his face. Moving toward the door, he noticed her white robe hung haphazardly on the back hook, and straightened it automatically as he brushed his fingers across the fabric, noting a few loose threads, and the fraying along the pockets.
He probably should have gotten her something like that instead, he thought, though he hated when she wore it to bed; she'd needed him more last year, too, to feed her beast, when she returned from the hospital. But that too had passed after her last two surgeries, when she winced even over long healed scars, pulling away from his touch. At least she still needed a ride, he remembered, grabbing his jacket as he turned out the light.
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Izzie woke early the next morning, rolling her eyes as she moved out from under Alex's grasp, trying not to wake him. She'd already given up on candy and flowers, but how he'd come up with a lab coat as an appropriate anniversary gift escaped her. At least she'd tried, she thought angrily, spying the silk pajamas she got him, spilling out of their box on the dresser across the room, with the tags still on them.
She knew he was no romantic, but anyone with half a brain should see that family practice was a consolation prize, offered to the pathetic cancer survivor who was too far behind the rock stars on the surgical track, and too tired to catch up, and too deep in debt to start over, her medical bills wiping out all the money her model body had earned her and then some, when she'd still had a body worth looking at.
Surveying their cramped bedroom, she remembered that she'd promised her chemo buddy, Jen, that she'd make the best of any second chance she got. Jen had run out of second chances, but Izzie wondered if she could keep her own promise, amid bills and medical appointments and work schedules, and a husband who apparently thought that a bright white reminder of how far behind she'd fallen was a good idea of a gift.
"Hey," he said breathlessly, twenty minutes later, flashing a grin as she climbed out of the shower, and kissing her quickly as he entered, while she pulled a huge towel hastily around her. She cursed herself for forgetting to lock the door, since the bathroom was too small for two people, and the lighting was harsh, and he always left the door open, which let all the steam escape, defogging the mirror.
Pulling her robe from its hook, she caught a quick glimpse before she fastened it tightly around her, frowning at the scars that would never disappear, and the circles that still tinged her eyes, before she could conceal them. "You're not running today?" she called to him, over the rushing water. She wondered how he did that, despite his eighty hour work weeks, but it let her drive in alone, and gave her a few minutes to herself before the onslaught of new colleagues and program guidelines and procedures.
"Too late," he responded, stepping out of the shower and toweling his hair. "I figured I'd just ride in with you." "Right" she muttered. "You know – since it's your first week." "I know my way around the hospital" she snapped. "It's not like I'm some green intern." She supposed he thought they'd save money, too, even if they didn't finish their shifts at the same time. Not that he'd think that far ahead, she reminded herself, since that was at least eight hours into the future.
"You talk to Mere?" he asked, hastily dressing and grabbing his bag as they left. "About what?" she asked. "Our forms are due, for specialty selection, and-" "Your forms are due," she retorted, "we're on a different schedule, remember? So Mere's going neuro, Cristina's going cardio, you're going plastics, and I'm going flu shots and splinters."
He eyed her curiously as she avoided his gaze. "You don't sound very excited about it," he pointed out. "If you talked to the Chief, or to Bailey, I'm sure they'd let you re-enter-" "You mean start over," she replied, "and be two years behind." "Yeah," he admitted, "it'd be tough, but if you want-" "I told you, I want to do family practice," she insisted, shaking her head. "Okay," he shrugged, "but usually you're more excited about-"
"I'm what?" she challenged, as they piled into his battered jeep, "a freaking cheerleader? "Iz," he said, "I meant you're usually more – " "I'm excited, okay?" she said, forcing a smile. ""I get to work with kids. I'll get to spend more time in the clinic. It'll be great." "I just thought," he said hesitantly, "that you might-""I'm not," she snapped. "And you should be happy anyway," she added tartly. "My residency will be shorter. I'll make more money sooner-" "Iz…" he interrupted. "What," she said, "that's the problem, right? If we ever want to think about kids, we'll have to get out from under all these bills first. Isn't that what you're always saying?"
Alex blanched, gripping the steering wheel more tightly as he watched the road intently. He probably had said something like that, anything to put off the kid discussion until she was clear of…" It's not like we have forever," she interrupted his thoughts, "the embryos won't be viable indefinitely. If we're going to do this sometime – oh, I don't know, in the next ten years or so," she huffed, rolling her eyes.
"I just want to be sure we're ready," he protested, " you know, have a house, and steady schedules, and-" "Right," she snorted, gathering her things as he pulled into a parking spot. "You mean when you're ready" she retorted, popping out of the car and slamming the door shut. She had no reason to wait for him, since they went in separate directions anyway, him with their friends, the rock stars, her with the also rans. She could almost see Cristina smirking, at Barbie on the ultimate mommy track, without even being a mother. At least, not yet, she reminded herself; not yet, but soon.
Later that evening, she dropped into bed by seven pm, aching and groggy, reminding herself that it had been over a year since she'd worked anything close to even eight hours straight, a full shift for family practice interns, practically a vacation on the surgical floor. Her new resident was nothing like Bailey, though, and nothing but accommodating. She wondered if he was giving her extra time to catch up, and extra hours off, because he was condescending, and thought she couldn't hack surgery, or was overly sympathetic, because he knew about her cancer, or if Alex got to him again, despite her instructions, or if she had just become the pretty blonde with the big boobs, all over again.
Leaning back heavily into her pillow, she ran her hand ruefully over the thick fabric of her robe. She may have survived, but Bethany Whisper died on Bailey's operating table. Whatever else she was, she'd never be doctor model again, not with her newly grown hair - still too thin and too limp and too dark - and her body carved like a roast. She'd always resented doctor model, until her hair came out in chunks, and her torso gaped at the seams, and she no longer recognized herself in her own skin.
She heard Alex come in nearly three hours later, and wondered if he had gotten in on some exciting surgery, or spent the day inserting fake boobs into vapid coeds, or if he'd run a half marathon after work. She heard the shower, and felt him slip in quietly beside her, though she stayed turned toward the wall as if she were asleep, even as she felt his arm slip around her, and caught the familiar scent of soap and apples and fall; he always smelled like a crisp autumn evening, as if he'd been spawned in a pumpkin patch.
She lay awake for a long while, ignoring the chiseled arm that still curled around her. He'd be perfect for plastics, she thought, with his heavily muscled arms and his unlined body. She'd seen Sloan's patients, the endless parade of blondes that were actually pretty, or actually blonde, and who someone could actually look at even when the bathroom was fully lighted, and the mirror un-steamed, and the white robe still on its hook.
"You're on my side," she huffed finally, as he settled beside her. "Only on line forty seven," he mumbled as he pulled her closer, and she giggled despite herself. It had been her idea the year before, the stripped sheets, to divide the bed equally. It worked for all of six minutes, until he insisted on counting each stripe for himself, which left her giggling and gasping and shrieking, "Pervert," she muttered, securing her robe more tightly as she wiggled to her left. "Prude," he retorted, nuzzling her neck as he drifted off to sleep.
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"You what?" Izzie asked incredulously, several months later. "I already talked to Bailey and the Chief about it," he shrugged, "it's all set." "You're changing residencies, just like that," she demanded, "without even talking to me about it?" "I didn't know I needed your permission," he snapped. "We make our own decisions, right?"
"This is great" she bit back, seething. "You know I want to have kids. You know I changed my plans so we could do that, and now you put us even further behind." "I won't be behind," he objected. "Simmons said I've done enough work in pedes that if I do extra shifts for the next six months I can join his current cohort."
"You planned all that," she retorted, shaking her head "without once mentioning anything to me?" He avoided her stare, and the tone she always used when she thought he needed a lecture. "Does Mere know," she asked softly, "or Cristina?" "Mere knows," he admitted. "Which mean Cristina knows too," she pointed out.
"No," he insisted, "I asked Mere not to tell anyone." "She tells Cristina everything," Izzie groused. ""I asked her not to tell anyone," he repeated more slowly, as if that ruled out any possibility of her doing so. "I guess that's something," she muttered under her breath. "Don't worry," Alex snorted, "Yang will be calling me Evil Stork as soon as she hears."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she said, exhaling heavily as she struggled to level her tone. He eyed her reluctantly. He'd gotten enough taunting from all of them, Izzie included, when he worked on neo-natal; the last thing he needed was to hear that he was going pedes pink and squishy, especially from her.
"I'll make less money," he mumbled, looking at his shoes, "and if you want like a huge house or something-" "You thought I'd be mad about that?" she asked, shaking her head. He tried to avoid meeting her eyes again. She'd been poor too – trailer park poor – and he knew she'd want something better than that. "You are mad," he pointed out. "That you didn't tell me," she corrected, "not that you changed your mind."
"Lost it is more like it," he muttered, since plastic surgeons were rock stars, and pedes surgeons … just weren't. "It's not exactly…" he stammered, his face reddening. "You're embarrassed," she teased, watching him squirm. "You're embarrassed that you like kids." "Working with kids," he corrected. "Okay," she giggled, "so you don't like kids but you like working them?" "Hate kids" he insisted sternly as she put her arms around him. "The surgeries are just cooler," he grumbled, looking away as she tried to meet his eyes.
"Hating kids? Always a good trait in a pediatric surgeon," Izzie commented, nodding seriously. "It sounds worse when you say it out loud," he grumbled. "That's because you're being ridiculous," she noted. "I meant pediatric surgeon," he corrected, almost grimacing at the words as she laughed, pulling him closer.
"You're not mad?" he asked suspiciously. "I want you to do what you like," she said, "what you're good at." "I was good at plastics," he protested, "and it pays a lot better." "I know," she said, "but this is what you want. And you won't be behind, so we'll be ready to start our family as soon as I finish my residency," she added excitedly. "Yeah," he nodded nervously, his stomach churning as she kissed him.
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He wasn't ready. He promised he would be, but he still watched her sleep some nights – curling her hair delicately through his fingers – and the vivid images still came, of her sagging lifelessly in his arms. He wasn't ready, but he'd promised, and it scared him even more, that his nightmares might eclipse her dreams, sending her running away again, into a sunny dawn beyond anything he could fathom, as she slipped from his grasp.
He wasn't ready, but he left the envelope on her night stand anyway, before he went in for a pre-dawn surgery, as part of his extra training. Later at lunch, she pulled him aside, looking at him quizzically. "Happy Anniversary?" he shrugged, sure she hadn't expected candy or flowers, any more than she had a leather palm tree with a small silver ring.
"I was talking to Rimkin in gynie," he said, "he's got this big old place he was renting out, and he's trying to sell it," he rambled, watching shyly as her face lit up. "It needs a lot of work," he emphasized, sure she was already getting carried away, "but it's in a nice neighborhood and he'll give us a great deal." He studied her warily, knowing that look. "It needs a lot of work," he cautioned again, almost cringing, "but it's ours if we want it."
"We want it," Izzie squealed, nodding excitedly. "You haven't seen it," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. "It's-" "Does it have a yard?" she asked gleefully. "With a white picket fence," he groaned, shaking his head as she threw her arms around him. "When can we see it?" she asked breathlessly. "Thursday," he said, "I thought we could go over and-" "See our future children's' bedrooms?" she filled in, her enthusiasm already bubbling over. "See what needs to be done," he sighed, slurping his soda and shaking his head with a frown, "it needs a lot of work."
Three days later, he put the key in the lock, warily pushing the door open. "Don't you want to carry me across the threshold?" she teased. "We might go through the floor boards," he pointed out gruffly, as he followed her inside. It was at least as bad as he remembered, with old wood floors that needed sanding, and peeling wall paper, and garish orange paint in the dining room, and a hall closet door slightly off its hinges.
"Look at that," Izzie exclaimed, gazing at the big bay window over looking the front yard, "and the fire place, it has a mantle, just like I've always wanted. And that corner," she pointed eagerly, "that's where our Christmas tree will go." "That's months away," he reminded her. "Where's the kitchen?" she asked, beaming at him.
"Through there," he pointed reluctantly, dreading her reaction to the aged appliances, the tile that needed replacing, and the faded floor. She deserved better, he reminded himself, his face reddening as he followed her around the corner. This had obviously been a bad idea. "My own oven," she chirped, ignoring the squeaky hinges as she peeked inside. "And a window over the sink. And is that the back yard? We have room for a swing set."
"How about you check out the up stairs before we move in," he reminded her. "You might not like it," he called from behind her, though she was already half way up the ornate stairway, fondling the solid oak banister. Wandering down the hallway, she gazed happily at the three huge bedrooms with the built in book shelves and the giant windows – one perfect for a nursery, the other two with fire places – and surveyed the enormous hall bathroom.
"I can fix those tiles," he said, almost apologetically. "The bathrooms have updated plumbing," he added, "so I can do the rest of the work myself." He followed her into the main bedroom, watching her peer out of the huge windows overlooking the back yard, and sure she was already picturing children playing on the swing set she imagined.
"I love it," she said softly as they walked back down stairs. "It's a lot of work," he repeated, his stomach churning as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, "and even in this shape, we can barely afford it. But the school district's good – " "You asked about the school district?" Izzie squeaked, suddenly turning back toward him. "I hate kids, remember" he sighed, staring at the ceiling.
"Right," she nodded, moving to the bay window again. "Tell him we want it," she said turning back toward him eagerly. "You sure?" he asked, frowning seriously. "I'm sure," she said, nodding vigorously as she put her arms around him. He pulled her closer, his hands shaking slightly. "Did you bring me here to seduce me?" she asked suspiciously.
"Me?" he asked innocently. "You've got dirty in your eyes," she pointed out. "You always say that." "Yeah, well, now you've got filthy in your eyes," she taunted. "If I'd known that run down old houses turn you on," he shrugged, raising his eyebrows at her. "That's what I mean," Izzie nodded. "It's a new house to us," he said sheepishly, "it will need to be christened." "I think they christen ships, not houses," she corrected, sliding her arms around his neck. "Prude," he protested. "Pervert" she insisted, kissing him softly.
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She'd even told Mere that, unlike Derek, he'd never be a flowers and candy guy.
She should have been more specific, she realized, months after their fourth anniversary, as she pruned the rose bushes he'd given her, for in front of the bay window. Other husbands might offer "dead weeds," as he dismissively called them, normal husbands, husbands who wanted to keep their wives happy; hers presented a dripping half flatbed of "more practical" live bushes and a shovel, leaving her to plant them. And a comically wide brimmed hat, for gardening, and sunscreen, of course, because no gift was complete without sunscreen, even in Seattle.
They were beautiful, though – yellow and pink and white – and had grown well over the past summer, nearly blanketing the railings along the front porch. She surveyed her work happily, stepping back to gather her tools, and storing them for the evening. Passing back through the living room, she reminded herself to put paint stripper on her shopping list, again. She was sure she could restore the huge fireplace to its original luster, currently hidden under an indescribable array of bluish hues, despite Alex's occasional smirks as he refinished the battered wood floors, and wrestled the hall closet door back into place.
Walking into her cheery yellow kitchen, she put on her tea kettle and checked for phone messages. Scanning a crumpled paper on the counter, she studied another ingredient list, frowning as she pondered what it would take to perfect her brownie recipe. She was sure she was missing a simple ingredient, and rattled through her cabinets, shaking her head as she poured her tea. His flight wasn't due until later much that night, leaving her time to do some experimenting.
She was already half asleep when she heard the floorboards creak, and the shower running across the hall, and felt him crawl into bed beside her. "How is she?" she asked softly, rolling over and scanning his face. "Okay," he muttered," they moved her to the skilled care floor. Her sisters still visit her every day." "What are the doctors doing for her?" Izzie asked cautiously.
"Making sure she doesn't wander off mostly," he said, "she was pretty hazy on her address. They have a monitoring cuff on her." "She still knows who you are, though, right, and her sisters?" "Sometimes," he mumbled, turning away onto his other side and burrowing into his pillow. "Does she-" "Iz," he interrupted tiredly, "I had a long flight. I have to go in early tomorrow." "Okay," she said, biting her lip. Ordinarily, she would press him on this, but this wasn't the time, and she knew he'd tell her more if she waited.
He wasn't ready to talk the next day, either, though, or the day after, as he buried himself in his work, as usual, or even the next week, though she overheard him quietly inquiring about moving Anna to Seattle, or the following month, when he flew to Iowa for another quick visit, as she worked on recipes, and visited her own mother more often.
"Is she coming?" Izzie asked finally, a few days after his return the following month, after he'd made sure he was too busy and too distracted to say a word. "What?" he asked, halting mid way through replacing the heating vent filter he was hovering over. "Your mother," she said pointedly, "are you bringing her to Seattle?"
"Why would I do that?" he snapped, popping the filter into place and gathering up the packaging, "her sisters are in Iowa, her friends, her church, her house. There's nothing for her here." Izzie nodded, eying him closely. "Did she remember you this time?" she asked quietly. He ignored her question, sweeping up stray bits of insulation and heading toward the stairs. "Alex," she called, following after him.
"They found him," he blurted, pounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. "What?" Izzie asked, frowning. "My dad," he said, turning away from her as he shoved his tools into the utility closet. "In a gutter in Milwaukee," he added bitterly "with the needle still in his arm." "Alex-" she said, crossing over to the sink where he was rinsing his hands. He moved away abruptly, blindly searching the wrong drawer for a dry dish cloth.
She pulled one out quietly, placing it beside him. "They brought his body back to her. They never divorced or anything…" he rambled, awkwardly unfolding the bright floral towel. "She remembered him," he sputtered. "Alex-" " And I'm the guy who drove him away, that's what she remembers."
Izzie watched him nervously. "I couldn't go back for that. Not to hear her go on about how great he was, how much he loved her…" "Alex-" she interrupted. "She actually loved the bastard," he said incredulously, seething as he threw the towel down on the counter. Izzie took a step forward, halting immediately as he pulled away again.
"He was her whole world," he sputtered, running his hands over his hair and clumsily opening a cabinet, rooting for a glass. She stopped him before he could break anything, pulling it down without a word. He stared blankly at the glass, bewildered and shaking slightly. "I was just trying to protect her," he insisted. "I know," she said softly, barely breathing as she stood rooted in place.
"And I didn't want any damn lecture from you," he seethed, " about how he's still my freaking father and I should just go to the funeral and listen to-" "Alex," she interrupted again, watching his hands trembling as he grabbed his keys and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
He never went home that evening, and never called. Izzie went to the hospital herself, tracking him down and bursting into the far flung on call room he'd holed up in. "This," she insisted angrily, "has got to stop." "Huh?" he mumbled, bleary eyed and disoriented. "This," she fumed, motioning around the room, "you, running away, whenever-".
"I'm going back next month," he retorted, "I'm not just walking out on her." "I didn't think you would," she snapped. "What?" he said. "I'm talking about me," she blurted. "I'm right here," he pointed out sarcastically. "You're not on call," she noted, "you're not at the gym, or at Joe's, yet you're not home." He glared at her as he listened to the litany. "What, Iz-" he said, "so I'm-"
"I've met your mother," she insisted, "I like her. I want to help. You won't even talk to me." "Nothing to say," he shrugged, sitting up gruffly. "Oh, no," she demanded, "how about that your dad died and you're not going to his funeral. How about that your mother –" "I already told you everything," he said. "A month later," she protested, "I wouldn't have lectured." "What do you call this?" he challenged, motioning between them.
Izzie deliberately unclenched her fists, leaning back heavily against the door. "I saw you and Meredith in the cafeteria earlier," she said, working to control her tone. "I'm not sleeping with her" he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I get that Mere's mom had it, too," she continued, ignoring his tone as she took another deep breath. "I get that you're friends. Why can't I help, too?"
"I don't need help," he growled, spitting the words out bitterly between clenched teeth. "She doesn't try to help. She just…" he stopped suddenly, leaning away toward the small window as vague shadows crept across the floor. She watched him curiously, the hair on the back or her neck crawling as she exhaled quietly into the passing storm.
"I want her to forget me," he said finally, getting up and peering out the window. "She remembers things with my dad, good things, that never happened," he added sharply as he shook his head. "She thinks he loved her," he mumbled, sitting back on the cot and pulling at the label from the water bottle he'd picked up. "Did he?" she asked cautiously, her voice carrying softly from across the room, into the anger still radiating from him.
"No!" he glared at her furiously. "You don't beat the crap out of someone you love," he shouted, springing up from his seat. "You don't-"he growled, hurling the bottle toward the cinder block wall, plastic shards splintering and scattering across the floor. Izzie stood silently, her stomach churning and her legs wavering as she groped for words.
"He didn't love her," Alex stammered, after a long silence, "but she remembers that he did." He stood abruptly, moving toward the wall and expertly gathering the plastic shards that littered the floor. "I'm not taking that away," he insisted, "not again." "Alex-" she said quietly, the words burning in her throat. "We did enough damage, both of us," he interrupted, staring at the ground. "She deserved better," he mumbled, as he gathered the rest of the bottle shards in his hands.
"You were trying to protect her," Izzie reminded him softly. "Yeah," he snorted, "did a great job." "Alex-""She almost killed herself," he whispered, "after he left. Think she might have, if…" "If you hadn't helped her?" Izzie filled in. "She wouldn't have needed help," he snapped, "if I hadn't-" "Alex," she interrupted, "you said he was-" "He was," Alex insisted. "But she's happy now. Sometimes," he added with a smirk "she forgets he's dead. But she knows he came back to…" "Fix things?" she volunteered. "To put them back to how they were, before I screwed everything up," he muttered, dropping the remainders of the bottle in the trash bin.
Izzie watched quietly, waiting as the anger receded. Fumbling through her purse several moments later, she pulled out a baggie. "There's three batches in the kitchen," she said ruefully, shaking her head and exhaling heavily. "I still haven't found the missing ingredient." "They're always good," he shrugged, eying the bag as she buttoned her coat.
"You coming?" she asked softly. "Three batches?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, we have milk," she chuckled, shaking her head as he pulled on his jacket, grabbing the bag as they went to the door. "You know this is cheating," he accused, as he dug into the brownies. "Of course," she admitted, "don't get crumbs in the car."
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Peeking around a darkened corner, Izzie giggled, watching the animated discussion wind down as he eased the infant back into his crib. She'd decided years before that that was why he was sometimes talked out by the time he got home; that, or three a.m. was his peak time to communicate. "That must have been his idea," she announced, laughing as Alex's head snapped up. "Huh?" he asked.
"Nurse Yoshi told me you'd be here," she said, noting his startled expression. "They all know," she teased, peering in at the boy he'd operated on the week before. He cleared his throat gruffly as he scribbled on the baby's chart. "I was just checking his vitals," Alex retorted, "it's my job." "Um-huh," Izzie laughed, as she sat in the rocking chair he'd just vacated "Did you need something?" he asked impatiently.
"I couldn't wait to thank you, so I came in early," she replied, rocking happily. "Three a.m.?" he asked, raising his eyebrows suspiciously. "I wasn't expecting it," she noted, beaming at him. "I always get you an anniversary present," he grumbled, sitting in the chair next to hers. "You like it, huh?" he asked, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "I love it. Now I can invite my mother for Christmas, and-" "That's over six months away," he pointed out, leaning his head back and gazing at the ceiling.
"I know," she sighed, "but it looks great in the dining room, now that the chair rail's fixed." "And you painted over that orange," he added, grimacing. "I would have wrapped it," he frowned, "but-" "A table?" she laughed. "Wanted you to be surprised," he said.
"I was, trust me," Izzie nodded, wide eyed. "Well," he admitted, his brow furrowed, "with wood, it's not like there were a lot of options." "What?" she asked, with a baffled frown. He shrugged, looking away again. "I mean, I knew that was the kind you wanted."
"Okay," she said slowly, still perplexed as she rose and peered into the crib again. "So how's Jacob doing?" she asked. "Good," Alex said, following behind her. "He's got one more surgery, but he'll be fine." Izzie leaned down, stroking the baby's arm. "That's what they told me," she whispered to him, "when I was sick, and I'm all better now. And you have a great doctor," she added mischievously, "the nurses say he spoils you."
"Iz-" he groaned. "I don' think he understands yet," she said, rolling her eyes, "and I don't think he'd hold it against you." "I need to be meaner to the nurses," he muttered. "No," she laughed, "they all hate you." "They do, huh?" he smirked proudly. "Yeah," she said "they feel sorry for me." "For what?" he demanded. "We've been married five years now," she reminded him, "they don't know how I put up with you." "They're nurses," he shrugged, "what do they know."
"Alex," she huffed, swatting at him as he put his arms around her and moved in to kiss her neck. "What?" he said innocently. "Not in front of the children," she teased. "They have to learn sometime," he noted, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "Pervert," she insisted, sighing as he nuzzled against her. "Oh yeah" he mumbled dreamily, nibbling her ear. "Alex," she giggled, swatting at him again. "Prude," he groused.
"I talked to Dr. Rooney yesterday afternoon," she said quietly, sliding her arms around him. "Yeah," he said nervously, avoiding her eyes. "My scans are clear, my blood work's perfect. It's been four years," she added. "I know," he whispered. "And next year," she continued, toying with his collar, "I'll be working at the Family Practice Network. Dr. Gentry's already told me they'll have a position for me."
"Of course he wants you," Alex observed, "you're a rock star." "And you'll be a big shot Attending soon," she added. "Years away," he protested. "It's time, Alex," she said, gently lifting his face and forcing him to look at her. "Don't you want this?" she asked, gazing around the nursery as she searched his eyes. "Yeah," he mumbled, scanning all the sick children around them, "I just, you think we're ready?" he asked hesitantly.
"I visited them a few days ago," she whispered. "The embryos?" he asked, wryly. "I want them to know my voice," she insisted. "They're popsicles," he frowned. "They're our children," she huffed, swatting him again. "I even have names picked out for them, two girls and two boys." "What if we only have, say, two?" he challenged. "Then we'll have two girls," she replied immediately. "Why girls?" he demanded. "Seriously," she snorted, "would you rather have two sweet, innocent, beautiful little girls," she crooned, "or two little Evil Spawnlets," she grimaced. "Well," he grumbled, "when you put it that way..."
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"I told her we're going to start trying soon," Izzie said excitedly, months later, after her mother left following her Christmas week visit. "That why she was looking at me like that?" Alex asked suspiciously. "Probably," she chuckled, "she said she's too young to be a grandmother, but wouldn't mind being an aunt." "Sounds like a Stevens," he teased. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded. "Well, you do think a lot alike."
"We do, huh? Then I guess you won't need these," she added, reaching for the plate of Christmas cookies her mother had made. "No," he said quickly, pulling it back, "I just meant great minds think alike." "Liar," she taunted, reaching for the plate again. "No," he protested, stopping her, "I'll be good." "Too late," she groused, settling back beside him on the couch, "Santa already came." "Um-huh," he nodded, inhaling another cookie.
"Do you like what he brought you?" she teased. "It's awesome," he nodded, smiling broadly, "how'd you know?" Izzie laughed, rolling her eyes, "you're practically on top of the television anytime the commercial's on." "I am not," he protested, fondling the shiny box as he examined the front picture. "The batteries are in your stocking," she reminded him. "Sweet," he said, settling back gleefully and studying the glossy photo.
"You used to look at me like that," she sighed. "Iz," he protested wryly. "What?" she complained, "I can't compete with a remote control dinosaur." "Not just a dinosaur," he insisted, vigorously shaking his head, wide eyed and serious, "a tyrannosaurus." Taking the box from him, she set it on the coffee table and pushed him down onto the sectional, kissing him. "Not the right answer?" he smirked. "So not the right answer," she agreed.
"You really like it huh?" she asked smugly, still hovering over him. "Um-hum," he nodded eagerly, "you always pick the best presents." "Well," she admitted, "you don't really count. You're easy." "Not anymore," he objected, "I'm married, remember?" "True," she acknowledged, as he pulled her into a tighter embrace.
"Just think," she added, watching the tree lights glisten, their reflection dancing in the fire, "in a year or two there might be another stocking on the mantle." "Santa taking over for the Stork, is he?" Alex teased. "Careful," she warned, "if you want the triceratops next year, you'll have to be on your best behavior." "I was good this year," he insisted. "Yes," she giggled as he pulled her closer. "But I don't want to spoil you."
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Several months later, Izzie gripped the pamphlet tightly, half listening to the usual list of warnings. Her mind wandered as the current doctor, the fourth they'd consulted so far – she'd stop keeping track of their names – gave Alex the same answers, in the same serious tone, to the same pointed, detailed questions he'd asked all the others, about hormones and studies and statistics, as if she they were discussing a science experiment.
Her thoughts returned again to swing sets and dolls and Christmas stockings, until she realized that they were looking at her, waiting for an answer. "What?" she said suddenly, straightening in her seat as she ran her fingers through her hair. "She was asking about prior pregnancies," Alex said sharply, shuffling the papers in his hands. "Right," she said, forcing a smile. It was always the same questions. "I was pregnant once," she said, "when I was sixteen. It was uneventful," she added, using the standard medical shorthand, as if there could be any such thing as an uneventful pregnancy for a sixteen year old.
"You understand this will be very different," the doctor said firmly, sizing Izzie up. "Yes, of course," she replied, gritting her teeth. They always talked to her like she wasn't even a doctor, like she hadn't been a surgical intern once, even, like she scarcely knew what she was doing, like she didn't have a brain in her head. "I see your previous consults have outlined all the cancer risks," the doctor warned, "with the hormone treatments you'll need and -" "I know the risks," Izzie snapped impatiently. "We'd like to know when we can start," she demanded, glaring at the woman.
"We're still discussing it," Alex commented, not even looking in her direction. "No, we're not," Izzie said, standing abruptly. "We're doing this. When can we get started?" she repeated, ignoring the doctor's puzzled expression. "We could begin this week," the doctor said hesitantly, "but usually couples prefer to-" "When?" Izzie insisted, pulling out her calendar as Alex rose abruptly and left the office. . "Maybe you should talk with-" the doctor began, motioning toward the door. "We don't talk," Izzie snapped, staring intently at the startled woman, "can we please set a date?"
"Okay," the woman relented, "I actually had a cancellation for Thursday at-" "I'll take it," Izzie agreed. "Don't you need to check-" the doctor noted, indicating Izzie's date book. "I'll make time," Izzie insisted, "when should I be here?" "Two thirty," she said reluctantly, "but really, you should talk with-" "I'll be here," Izzie said quickly, gathering her things and rushing out of the office.
Stalking into the hallway, she found Alex pacing. "Come with me," she demanded, grabbing his sleeve and shoving him into the stairwell. "We're doing this," she insisted through clenched teeth, "no more waiting, no more consults, no more studies." "Iz-" he protested. "No," she repeated, cutting him off. "You slather me with sun screen in February, Alex, freaking February. You bundle me up in June. You change the heating filters every month so I'll have clean air," she ranted, rolling her eyes as she stressed the words.
"You just want to pretend none of this matters?" he demanded, furiously waving the papers he clutched. "I know the risks," she taunted, sarcastically emphasizing the word. "The chances of this even working aren't great. That's in your statistics, too, right?" she demanded. "And the longer we wait-" "It's not worth it," he hissed, grabbing her arm. "The odds-"
"I already beat them once, remember?" she demanded, roughly pulling away from him. "And I'll do it again, with you or without you," she added, glaring at him as she held her ground, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "I'm already involved, remember?" he snapped. "Right," she snorted, "you deposited some swimmers into a cup, you're a real hero." "This affects me too," he retorted.
"No," she snapped, "I'm the only one who might get diabetes, or have a stroke, or a miscarriage. I'm the only one that might happen to." "What happened to you having a second chance?" he demanded. "This is my second chance," she shouted, "and I'm doing this," she spat, turning on her heel and storming up the stairs.
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She watched the clock, sure he'd gone to the gym to beat the stuffing out of a resin bag, or for a run – or to Joe's. Throwing her bed covers back, she went to the bedroom across the hall, already painted a delicate yellow, and freshly carpeted in ultra plush pile. She'd agreed to wait to furnish it, until she got pregnant. Sometimes she regretted that, fearing that a wish not whole heartedly expected was less likely to come true, like her mother always said. Wishing was big in the trailer park, since even there, wishes were free.
She did what she could, though, envisioning the nursery she dreamed of, with a white rocking chair, and delicate pink linens in the crib, and a fluffy stuffed lamb on the baby dresser, like the kind she'd gotten for Hannah, before they took her away. She imagined a rag doll, too, and a red bicycle, and a school bus that didn't rumble down a dirt road, and a closet full of pretty dresses that would never provoke snickers from the other children.
She'd already thrown away the pamphlets, scribbled with Alex's notes about risks and odds and cancer. The disease had already taken her hair, and her model's body, and her career; it had almost taken her will to live, more than once. But she would not let cancer take her future from her; she wouldn't let Alex take it, either.
She reminded herself of that the next day, when he came in and out without a word, grabbing some clothes before returning to the hospital, or to Joe's, or to Mere's, or to wherever he'd run away to this time. It was just as well, she noted the next day, when he sat silently beside her at her first appointment, seething, as the injections began.
He returned home the following night, and the night after, and the night after that, and sat silently in the next appointment, as instructions and warnings were needlessly repeated, and yet another appointment made for the first attempt to implant some of the embryos. They first talked two days later, about work, and roof tiles, and traffic and the water bill.
He sat beside her as she listened stoically to the doctors, the day the first implant failed, and the next round of injections was scheduled. He went along for the second failure, too, and the third, and sat silently as the doctor suggested that surrogacy might be their only realistic option.
He slumped awkwardly against the wall that evening, watching her sob silently in the empty bedroom, still a delicate yellow, still unfurnished, as the only future he was sure she really wanted ran down her cheeks. Sitting helplessly beside her shaking figure, he watched night creep into the room and he could hear his heart pounding frantically in his ears – like when he crouched out of sight in a different darkened room, watching another woman cry - until his head grew heavy, hitting the wall behind him with a dull thud, as he fell asleep where he sat.
He woke the next morning to sleet tapping on the huge windows and Izzie curled beside him, clinging to his body as he shifted, stiff and chilly, bile still burning in his throat. He slid his arms around her automatically as she stared blankly past him, shivering, and he noted that the room looked even more empty as dawn broke, and he wondered if insisting that they wait to furnish it had been another failed effort to protect her.
"We're not bringing them home, are we?" she whispered, her words ricocheting around the room like gunshots. They pinned him where he lay, and he was too cold to move and too stiff to form words; he'd been a father to phantoms before, and could do no better this time either, then to pull her closer, until she finally stopped trembling and drifted off.
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She woke hours later, in her own bed, beside Alex, who was still wrapped around her, snoring softly. Easing herself from his grasp, she sat up slowly, her head throbbing from the previous evening. Still groggy and cold, she pulled an old bathrobe from her closet, slipping silently out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Entering her kitchen, she pulled out the cheery, bright red cast iron baking set Alex had given her for their sixth anniversary. She'd wondered at the time if he'd picked the color to lighten the moods that often inspired her baking, only to be told – inexplicably - that cast iron just looked cooler in red.
She was already on her fourth batch when he popped into the room, bleary eyed and rumpled, and sat warily at the counter, watching as she frosted two plates of cup cakes, and removed a batch of muffins before the oven timer even went off. Setting them down to cool, she poured a glass of milk and slid it across to him with a small plate.
"We're out of chocolate chips" she commented quietly, "and I didn't have enough sugar to make brownies." Alex nodded, a wry half smile flickering across his face. She always made him brownies when things between them were fine, and chocolate chip cookies as a peace offering, and oatmeal cookies when she was close to forgiving him, with raisins, if they shared equal blame. Cup cakes were sometimes just sad, though, and muffins were usually just more convenient than pancakes, and beyond that, much harder to interpret.
"These are good too," he nodded, picking up a muffin and placing it on his plate. "I know you don't understand," she said softly, several moments later "but they're all I can think about sometimes. I can't just give up." He watched her hands as she baked, so different from how they were after her surgeries, when they lay lifeless in his. "You're right," he said quietly, avoiding her gaze, "I don't."
Rinsing off her spoon, she watched him carefully. "I never knew, you know, if I'd have another Christmas, or another birthday, with another lop sided cake," she added wryly. "I didn't know if I get a second chance." "You already have," he insisted. "I know," she said, reaching across the counter and taking his hand, "and I want to make the most of it. I want to do everything I dreamed of, have children, everything."
"We could still try surrogacy," he mumbled reluctantly. "I just can't," she whispered, squeezing his fingers as she shook her head. "I've been in that hospital room before," she reminded him. "I even had a name picked for her." "That wasn't the same," he noted as he watched her face darken. "No," she agreed, "but you can't just carry a child for nine months and…," she paused, shaking her head again, "that's not how it's supposed to be."
"Yeah," he muttered, running his thumb across her fingers as he stared at his plate, remembering how white they were when they slipped from his, after her breathing stopped, and the alarms started blaring. "And I can't live like that," she added softly, following his gaze, "always wondering if it's going to come back, putting things off because I might not be here in a year…"
He looked away, forcibly steadying his breathing as he bobbed his head. "But what if…" he stammered quietly. "What if we both live to be 200?" she asked. "Can't you ever be positive?" she pleaded, her brown eyes boring into him as she lifted his face to meet her smile. She knew they were more dangerous to him even than her brownies, and that this was cheating, and that he knew it, too.
"I guess I better fix that oven timer, then," he grumbled, looking away as he picked at his muffin, "if we're going to live here that long." "My bake ware will last at least that long," she pointed out, laughing nervously. "Oh yeah," he said, nodding seriously, "cast iron." "Does cast iron turn you on or something?" she asked suspiciously.
"It's just hard to find iron ideas," he shrugged, missing her perplexed glance. "But now that you mention it," he added, raising his eyebrows as he moved toward her. "Not in front of the bake ware," she insisted, pointing her spoon at him. "Prude," he muttered, taking another muffin. "Pervert," she objected, snatching it back from him.
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"Ooh, what are you making now?" nurse Jaeger asked months later, spying the multi colored fabrics in Izzie's knitting bag. "Another blanket," Izzie chuckled. "For anyone special?" she asked curiously. "One of my husband's patients," Izzie replied, rolling her eyes at yet another less then subtle enquiry from one of her office assistants.
"Wow," the nurse said, "so he operates on them and you make blankets for them." "I don't do this for all of them," Izzie laughed, "but he gave me so much wool for our last anniversary that I had to do something with it." "Wool?" Jaeger asked, puzzled. "He picks some interesting gifts," Izzie laughed, shaking her head and furrowing her brow. "He gave me a tea kettle, too."
"I have one of those," the older nurse chuckled. "A tea kettle?" Izzie asked. "No," she laughed, "a husband with a strange sense of romance. You know, that man has never once given me flowers in the whole sixteen years we've been married." "Careful what you wish for," Izzie cautioned, "I hinted about roses once." "And?" the woman asked. "These big bushes arrived on our anniversary, dripping wet on a flatbed from the local farm supply store, and I had to transplant them all myself." "Not what you had in mind?" the woman teased. "Definitely not," Izzie agreed with a chuckle.
"How long have you been married?" Jaeger asked. "Seven years," Izzie said casually. "Ooh, the lucky seven maybe?" she asked, pointing eagerly to the blanket. "We'll see," Izzie groaned, folding her knitting up and putting it back in her bag. "Hope so," she added, as she cleared her lunch from her desk. "He's finishing his residency soon; we're hoping he gets a fellowship at Seattle Grace. "
"That's where you two met, right?" "We were in the surgical program together," Izzie replied. "Oh, I didn't know that," Jaeger commented, plainly impressed. "I just preferred family practice," Izzie said quickly. "Well," the woman said, "the patients love you." Thank you," Izzie said, smiling as she looked at her roster. "Now, who's next?"
The usual flu shots and health forms filled her afternoon, and she was surprised to find Alex already home, hastily packing, when she arrived by five. "What's going on?" she asked sharply. "Huh?" he replied, as if he hadn't seen her enter the bedroom. "What are you doing?" she repeated, motioning to the mess he was making.
"My mother's sister called this morning," he said, blindly tossing clothes into his duffle bag. "She died this morning, massive stroke." "Oh," Izzie said, walking toward him, "I'm so sorry-" "I gotta go take care of things," he said, zipping the bag shut and brushing past her, not looking up as he shoved his wallet in his jacket and grabbed his keys. "I'll come with you," she said, moving to the closet to grab her own bag. "Iz-" he protested, his voice tired but forceful. "I'm coming," she insisted, "give me fifteen minutes."