September 12, 2009

He has gotten to know furtiveness over the years, first when avoiding a marriage in shambles, then when hiding his wife from his girlfriend, but most of all when shedding mistakes, letting them roll off like water over oil. He thought he had kicked the habit until he finds himself tucking the letter to Addie under his scrubs, against his frantically pumping heart, as Mark swaggers up to him in the hallway.

"Shep!" he calls, and the booming tenor chases away any chances for subtlety. "You up for drinks after -"

"Not now, Mark," Derek snaps, his voice harsher than intended, and Mark stares after him openmouthed as he jogs through the hospital. One corner of the envelope digs into the tender skin of his sternum, as if his correspondence with Addie is poking and pushing its way into his heart.

He shouldn't feel the need to scribble the words out under the guise of post-op notes, shouldn't have to ink out her address in the velvety darkness as Meredith slumbers. The letter shouldn't have to be tucked snugly under his navy scrub top. Because, after all, Meredith probably wouldn't mind him contacting Addison, and Mark already knows he is writing to his ex-wife.

But he fears he has splattered a bit too much emotion across the pages, feelings hiding behind casual words. He cares about Addison, that is indisputable, but this sudden urge to see the oceans contained in her azure eyes lit up by sunlight is unanticipated. It is safer to duck under what little cover is offered from the pelting droplets on the way to the post office by himself, with no one else the wiser.

Dear Addie,

Neither Savvy nor Archer has called yet, but it's only a matter of time, and Nancy did, right before she showed up on my doorstep with my mother and sisters. Needless to say, Meredith was unpleasantly surprised and there wasn't even any time for the ridiculously high ponytail (one of Izzie's attempts to make her more appealing to mothers). Nancy wanted to know why you weren't answering your phone, although why she thought to ask me I have no idea.

She claims she's clairvoyant, but I think she's really indulged in every sort of denial related to Meredith. She also secretly hopes we're getting back together. Oh, and now my other sisters are referring to Mer as the 'slutty intern' as well, even though she's not an intern anymore.

Anyway, Meredith and I took Ma and my sisters out to dinner, which was kind of a disaster. My mom may have hated you, but my sisters loved you, you know. In fact, they kind of made you the central topic of conversation at dinner, despite all efforts to the contrary. Nancy went on for twenty minutes about how you're in Africa delivering babies in the wilderness. Then Kathleen joined in with her psycho-babble and implied that Meredith was selfish because she wasn't doing the same, and then of course Lizzie and Amy couldn't resist commenting. Meredith wasn't happy. Neither was Ma. But it was an entertaining meal.

Mark says hi and to be careful because there's only so much he can do if you get your face blown off. Always so sentimental and politically correct, but that's Mark for you. He broke up with his intern, by the way, and is now actually attempting to date women instead of simply sleeping with them. Callie says hi as well and that she needs someone to mooch money off of because her dad cut her off for being a lesbian. Also she wants a picture of a giraffe and any hot guys you meet. I didn't want to write that in the letter but she threatened to break my nose, and hey, she could probably do it.

You never said how long you're going to be gone, but I was thinking, on the way back if you have a long layover in Seattle, maybe you could stop by. A lot of sucky things happened here, I know, but Mark, Callie, Richard, and Miranda all really miss you. And … I miss you too, Addie. It's okay for exes to miss each other, right? Just as friends?

You're probably surprised to get this letter, but I want to put everything that happened last time in Seattle behind us. I'd like you as a friend, Addie. And I want to know all about Africa. How are the wildebeests treating you? (Are there wildebeests there?) I utterly fail in imagining you going for a day without a shower, not to mention days on end. And I'm guessing the housing there is … less than ideal, but I can't see you and all your shoes living in a hut (I shudder to think of how many pairs you brought. Just one of your shoes could probably feed those people for a year.)

Things with Meredith are fine, although I see through your charade of nonchalance. We don't have to do that thing, you know. The thing where you ask about my fiancée and I ask about whatever guy you're dating. I'm not sure I'm ready to do that thing.

Anyway, I hope Africa is treating you well. I admire you for doing this, you know, especially since it's not exactly your kind of thing.

Derek

P.S. Don't forget the SPF 50 sunscreen. Remember our honeymoon?
P.P.S. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to

She has yet to acclimate to the beige sand that twists and turns in the wind, swept over her bare feet in a second and then removed the next. The sky is a soft, cloudy grey instead of the brilliant blue she'd imagined, but it is bright under the ever-present sun. Sweat clings to her body, the beads on her skin joining to form drips.

This desert solace is her single comfort in a country impaired by ruthless violence, she has already see too many brown-skinned children, eyes huge in emaciated faces, succumb to various sicknesses and injuries that could be cured if only she possessed an OR and scalpel. The babies she delivers are too thin, too malnourished, and the mothers too young, too sick, too poor. There have already been a few infants she has imagined spiriting back to LA just so they can experience something other than starvation.

It might be better if there was someone who understood the depths of sorrow being showcased all around her, but Violet, Pete, Charlotte, and Naomi are utilizing their skills at one of the clinics and Sam and Cooper are stationed in a different village. She'll see them in a few weeks, she knows, but it would be nice to share her terrors of delivering infants in crude clay huts with someone who has actually seen how a child should come into the world.

"Doctuh Montgomery?" a heavily accented voice asks, and she turns to see Matak, one of the young men from the village, approaching her. She knows the males were skeptical of her at first but when she proved she could do more than just deliver babies, she gained the grudging respect of some and near-worship from others, especially the younger ones. Now she is followed whenever she sets foot in the village by children tugging on the scarlet strands of her hair.

"Hello, Matak," she says, hoping he has not come to ask for advice or whether all the women in America have strawberry curls.

"Dis came for you," he replies, giving her a shy smile and holding out the letter. "Eet is strange. We receive few lettahs here."

"Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are," she mutters as she takes the envelope from him. Why her fingers tremble around the worn paper she is unsure, or why the nearly illegible address of her ex-husband creates a hummingbird sensation in her chest. Derek sent her a letter? Derek, who skipped out on birthdays, who forgot their anniversary, who traded time with her for his beloved surgeries?

"Doctuh Montgomery? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm … yeah. Thanks Matak," she mutters, arranging bronzed legs and a loose white skirt she would have never been caught dead in while in LA on the top of one sun drenched dune. Her fingers fumble with the envelope, nearly ripping the precious paper inside, and when she finally beholds it and finds she has to squint to decipher his writing, it touches her heart in tender places she was sure she'd locked up long ago.

When she finishes she lays splayed out in the sand, soaking up sunlight like it is a balm for her sudden uncertainty. Reading Derek's letter was like drinking water after a long drought, but the mix of heartwarming worry, gentle teasing, and general news confuses her. If she had been expecting correspondence at all, she would have thought it would be short, brisk, hurried. The only key to Derek she currently possesses is time, however, so she simply relaxes, replies to his commentary already forming from the whirl of thoughts in her head.