Wait,
We
swear we'll love you more
And wholly, Jezebel
It's we, we that
you are for only
One year later
She breathes.
He watches it happen. Her tiny chest rises and then falls, air moving through the perfectly round "O" in her lips. He waits, stalling his own breath. It happens again. Absolutely silent. The air conditioner for these last days of summer hums somewhere below the threshold of his awareness. Asleep, gently-shut lids obscuring those opaque blue eyes that he's sure will eventually turn hazel-brown.
He doesn't dare move – moving would induce noise, which would induce waking, which would induce another round of crying and this has been the first quiet time all day. So instead he stands like a statue, hands resting gingerly on the crib's railing, observing this little thing.
Her chest moves again beneath a lavender onesie which is, by coincidence, the same shade as the four walls that surround them. It's one of the cheap ones for napping and spitting up in, from a variety pack, unlike the more expensive and well-crafted ones from Carter's or The Children's Place. But these chinchy ones are softer, the cotton turned into velvet over innumerable washings. He wants to touch it so he tries to do it without disturbing the time bomb. He traces a slightly lopsided oval-ish pattern on her belly, delighted when she just stirs and doesn't awaken. He takes it one step further, smoothing the downy jet black hair that stands almost straight-up from her head. He touches it just enough to feel it. It floats right back up and he can't help but smile.
Two months, and it still hasn't fully registered that she's here. That she's alive. And that she breathes. That one fact shouldn't carry as much novelty as it does. But she breathes. Like a normal human being.
No, she is a normal human being, he corrects himself. Sometimes he has to force himself to remember that just because she wasn't created in the conventional way doesn't change her status as a regular baby.
She makes this noise in her slumber, a small, shuddering moan. Her eyes don't open, but squeeze shut even tighter. Mark cringes, convinced that the wailing is about to begin again. But the baby settles again and keeps breathing, confounding him every time she inhales.
She's here. She's been here.
She's the result of a long, hard journey that began last year. He remembers that night like yesterday – standing on the beach patio of the woman he once loved, staring in silence at the ocean, lamenting the miracle child that could have been but never was. His thumb was pressed to the wedding ring that connected him to the woman he loved and was waiting for him. The gold was warm with his body heat. In that moment, surrounded by the sea and its rhythm, he swore to himself and the unpredictable future that he would make things even. He would avenge the child he lost with the child he would have. Not a replacement, but another child entirely; another chance. Pinpricks of heat stung him everywhere as a deep breath of salty air filled him with exhilaration.
He had leapt from the lawn chair he was perched on and rushed over to Addison, satisfaction and determination gleaming in his eyes. She gazed up at him, her own blues doused in sadness and regret, and Mark knew that she might never have this chance. It was, at the same time, the most heartbreaking and most liberating thing he could have thought of. Unable to find any words to justify speaking, he cupped her cheek in his hand, feeling the porcelain contours that he hadn't held for seven years, staring into her eyes and hoping to convey the message But I have another chance.
Then he took off, back to Lexie, to kiss her and tell her that yes, he was still there, and yes, let's go through with this. Let's have our baby.
The appointments began. Psychiatric with Dr. Turner, gynecological with Addison herself, and the rest with Naomi. They didn't get the go-ahead for another month. When it was time, they went with the ICSI; less chance of multiples, and Naomi had a (only marginally) higher success rate with it. Naomi, Addison, and a few lab techs did what they should have been able to do alone, with just their bodies to aid them. Lying on separate beds, Mark having just received the needle of a lifetime and Lexie waiting nervously for it, there was this overwhelming awe between them that Lexie managed to convey in a single simple sentence.
"Mark," she whispered with frantic wonder when she saw Naomi approaching her, smiling eyes above her mask and apparatus in hand.
"What?"
A pause. She swallowed over the lump in her throat and succumbed to the stream of tears that began to fall from her eyes.
"We just made a baby."
His heart rapidly climbed into his throat.
The pregnancy wasn't easy. They were required to see Addison and Naomi for their neo-natal appointments, so they had to travel between Seattle and Los Angeles quite regularly. It became downright hard toward the end. Lexie was willing but wistful when it came time to go on leave from her fellowship. But all of the trouble was completely and entirely worth it when they saw the first sonogram, when the baby moved for the first time, and especially when they heard the words "it's a girl." The instant they got back to Seattle, Mark picked up the light purple paint they had decided on for a baby girl's nursery, as opposed to the royal blue they had picked for a boy's.
When the time arrived, Addison came to Seattle to deliver their daughter. Lexie screamed and pushed, gripping Mark's hand as if life depended on it (and life kind of did depend on it). The birth was painful but uncomplicated. She slid into the world, totally helpless and totally loved.
She isn't a miracle child.
She isn't an unnatural existence either.
She's just Erin.
She's a baby. All she does is cry, eat, poop, and sleep, with the occasional not-quite-yet smile thrown in. She's really just a blob – she has no personality, she's too young for that. Mark's not the kind of parent who will make something like that up (that being said, there's this one face she makes that, according to him, looks exactly like an expression of Lexie's).
And she's not a particularly simple baby either. Prickly. Colicky. Spits up most of what she's fed. Screams when she's put down. Still sleeps about as well as a newborn. Cries constantly, save for rare moments of peace like this. Won't calm down unless someone sings "Heat of the Moment" by Asia. More than enough to totally exhaust both of her parents.
But at the same time, she's so much more than a slightly cranky infant. She's an enthralling novelty for the scab-kneed Shepherd twins; a baby who wasn't their sibling ("Gently," Meredith would caution them as they took turns holding her, and it was probably one of the only times they actually applied the term). She's the source of wary curiosity from her shyer three-year-old cousin, who would only look at her from a distance, usually from behind Meredith's legs. She's a future playmate for Meredith and Derek's eleven-month-old son. She's a beloved niece and daughter. She's Mark and Lexie's entire life, she makes the world turn, she's the missing piece of the puzzle, the completion of their family. ("We've done well," Lexie would say with this soft smile if she was here with him right now, watching their baby girl sleep)
She's their renewal. Their happiness. Their everything.
Come to think of it, she is kind of a miracle.
As soon as the thought occurs to him, Erin squirms and her face contorts. A wail erupts from her, loud and unabashed, and Mark cringes for a moment. Another breath. Another scream.
Quickly, he reaches in and picks his daughter up. She's so warm in his arms.
Cradling her, weathering her cries, he murmurs the only words he knows to say – the ones he's heard in movies (he still hasn't come into his own as a father yet, no amount of preparation is adequate, but he's learning). "It's alright. You're okay. I've got you."
But in his mind, it's a prayer. Over and over again, as best he can.
You're here. You're here. You're here.