Author's Note:
I'm honored with your reviews- thanks for the encouragement, seriously. This is another POV of Erica, but I'm planning on doing a 3rd person view on the next chapter. My muse got a little carried away, as you can see….
Disclaimer:
Hmmm- I'm going to start to faze these out. If you've gotten this far in reading this fiction then you already know that these lovely people aren't mine, much as I wish they were hehe. . But still, they belong to Shonda and company.
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Like I said before, I'm definitely not a big fan of surprises- truth be told, I'm not really sure why, just—I'm not. I think it has to do with the fact that I'm not in control, that I don't know what's coming next- it makes me feel vulnerable. And I can't afford to feel vulnerable.
That's why my stomach feels like it's fallen to my feet the morning after I came home from the hospital. I'm usually the first one up out of the two of us, and I walk to the table where I dumped the mail after coming home last night. The early morning sun is dappled out upon the tiles as a splash of light, making them warm and hospitable to my bare feet. A stiff envelope not shaped like a bill catches my eye, and I open it to reveal an invitation. The lettering is in the raised, golden ink that you only see in movies, and I can't believe what I'm reading: Walter Tapley is hosting some sort of event, and I'm invited and can bring one guest. I already know who. Speaking of whom….
"Hey," Callie says, coming up from behind me and hugging me from behind, her hands comfortably around my waist. "Morning," I answer vaguely, reading the rest of the invitation. There's quiet as she reads over my shoulder, both our eyes ticking across the raised gold ink letters. "So are you going to go?" She asks me. I nod. A chance to talk to Walter Tapley? The father of cardiothoracic surgery- and coincidentally the man I saved- wants me, Erica Hahn, to come to some gala event? Hell yes, I'm going.
"You're taking me, right?" Callie whispers in my ear, kissing and nibbling her way down to that small hollow of soft skin just above the clavicle and between my neck. The sensation makes my eyes roll back in my head and I fumble the invitation from the feeling. Damn. Its odd- no one else besides her has discovered that sensitive patch of skin on my chest and treated it with such care that she does. What she does do with it though…well, when I finally recover, I give a sardonic laugh that's shaky from the way my body is responding.
"Yeah, who else would I invite? Sloan? Yang? Please," I reply finally, sifting through the rest of my mail. Finding nothing else more interesting than bills and a few pieces of junk mail, which I tear up with a flourish, I can't help but look at the invitation again. It makes me know that I am the best. I'll bet that even that arrogant ass Burke didn't get an invitation.
There's a loss of warmth as Callie moves away to start preparing coffee.
"Erica?"
"Hm?"
"You do have something to wear to this, right?" Callie asks conversationally. There's a pause before my answer- the silence is filled up with the growl of the coffee bean grinder. "I'll just pick something out of my closet," I say absently, toying with the invitation, running my fingers over the smooth ink. I feel her eyes on me and I look up. She says nothing, but has an amused grin. "What?" I ask. "Nothing," she answers, instead turning around to finish spooning the grinds into the coffee maker. Huh. Weirdo. I pensively consider her back for a little while longer, and when she doesn't turn around I do, making my way up to the stairs to get ready for work.
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I've discovered, over the years, that I am indeed a perfectionist. And this time, I'll not say it's not wholly because of the God complex, although it's safe to say that it does certainly contribute. During all my school years, I'd be dissatisfied with what I'd get if it was anything less than the best. If I had a 98 on a test, I'd march up to the teacher and demand why I hadn't gotten the extra two points. I cannot, and will not tolerate failure, my own or anyone else's.
So through that, it's not too hard to understand why I feel like I've been sucker punched by the Incredible Hulk when the steady harsh cry of the monitor announces to all that I've failed in my job as a heart surgeon, and in my job in trying to save a life. I squeeze my tired eyes shut and open them, looking now at the clock. "Time of death….14:36," I say, stripping off my gloves and pulling off my headgear. Every bone in my body is aching, not helped by the knowledge that in about fifteen minutes time I will be telling the Gibson family that their son's injuries were too great, and although I did everything I could, I failed in bringing him home safely.
I'm sitting in the scrub room with my polka-dot scrub cap in my hands. My hands deftly tie knots in the strings and pick them apart just as fast as I try to mentally disconnect, and isolate my feelings from the rest of me. It's not easy, as much as I wish that it were. I do have feelings, as much as other people would like to think.
Sighing, I pull my cap back on and tie the strings as I walk out of the spiritual and physical sterility of the scrub room. As I break the news to the family, I see the eyes of the mother pool with tears as she probably relives every last moment of her memories with her son before the car crash. The patient's father hangs his head, and, following suit, so does his son. Dammit. I have to get out of here. Now.
And I do, walking away to change out of my blue surgical gown and into my cerulean scrubs, going on to make my rounds. As I finish them, asking the questions on rote, I suddenly realize that today's the day for the invitation. Sure enough, I check my phone for the date and it's about a week and two days since I found the invitation in the mail that warm morning. Hm. Definitely not the best way to start my evening.
My car pulls up to my house and I see I've gotten a text from Callie, saying that she'll be there semi-soon to get ready; there was a last minute trauma. The dinner is at six thirty, and it's about three. Cutting it a little close, but that can't be helped. Hell, he should understand if a few of us are late due to surgeries that take a little longer than expected.
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Showers are under-rated. As the intense spray pounds down on my back, most, although not all, of the tensions are rinsed down the drain in a blindingly hot spray. It's at times like this that I can just float away and not have to worry about anything. Walter Tapley's gala event seems a million years away, the events of today and losing Timothy Gibson on the table seems ever farther. I give a start when there's a quiet knocking on the bathroom door and I see through the frosted glass that it's Callie. For a second I almost forgot I gave her a key to my house one time when we were to rendezvous here after work so we could go dancing. I momentarily turn off the shower and poke my head out. And what I see makes me want to die- but in a good way.
Callie has this sort of….inner beauty. I know, I sound like a guest self-help specialist on Oprah when I say that, but I'm serious. It was probably this, along with other things, that got me thinking of her more than a friend. But now, as I'm sticking my head out side of the frosted panes of the shower, I can definitely say that she's got physical beauty as well. I wasn't lying or talking to hear my own voice when I told Addison in Joe's that she was beautiful.
She's dressed in a gorgeous strapless maroon dress that compliments her coloring to a T and flows along her body in all the right places, like a lover's caress. She's wearing matching shoes that make her stand with graceful bearing. Her hair is swept up, with her bangs down in front and two curls escaping down the nape of her neck. She's put some sort of glitter lotion on or something- but instead of looking cheap she wears it well, and it gives her a sort of added elegance. Simple ruby stubs are in her ears, complimented by another ruby on a thin choker she has on. Callie's bangs are swept forward, her sweet chocolate brown eyes shelved beneath that. And yet, despite their sweetness, her eyes give off smokiness that take my breath away to the point I'm not exactly sure if I can get it back.
"I hope your silence means you approve," she finally says to break the silence. Her tone is wry and I finally notice she's holding a dress on a hanger. It's a neat shade of blue and I already know without looking in the mirror it's going to match my eyes. Hah. So much for being late due to a trauma. "How much was it?" I ask, having every intention of paying her back. But she simply smiles and hangs it up on the back of the bathroom door. "If you're done, I can do your hair," she says instead and over her shoulder as she leaves the bathroom. I blink and I realize that I'm still behind the frosted glass with my hair sopping wet and time rapidly running in short supply, pretty much nowhere near a state resembling 'ready'. Great.
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By the time we arrive, we're a half an hour late and it's drizzling- a fine mist. Thankfully, they're still greeting people at the door. I'm surprised- but I shouldn't be- to see Richard there, with his wife Adele. I see his eyebrows rise at how Callie and I are dressed, me in the silky blue dress she picked out and her in the eye-drawing red. Introductions are made, and then I hear the gravely, booming voice of the host. "Dr. Hahn!" I turn and, there he is. God. In human form. This is like some sort of pilgrimage for me- like going to some sort of Cardiothoracic Mecca. I smile and lean forward, shaking his hand. "Dr. Tapley. A pleasure and an honor," I say with a smile, and I mean it. The founding father of Cardiothoracic Surgery is standing here, with a smile on his face, thanking me for the work I did on his heart. I turn to introduce Callie, but she's not there- she's still talking to the Chief about something. Probably by the look of it, it's about me. His face twitches with a smile as he asks her a question and she blushes just a little and responds with a small shake of her head. Commotion at the far end of the hall draws my eye, however. It's time for dinner.
Dinner conversation is kept light, with Walter Tapley sitting at our table with the Chief, Adele, Callie and I. Introductions are made, once more, and we sit to eat. Except….something's wrong. Callie's body language is rife with the feeling of angry and shame, and while my brain is auto pilot, trying to keep up with whatever Tapley's saying, the rest of me focused on her. A few times I look her way, trying to read her face but I read nothing. And she doesn't meet my eyes. That's never a good thing. Dammit. I AM socially awkward, and it's at times like this I wish I wasn't so I could read and understand what the hell is wrong here. Under the tablecloth, I bump my thigh against her, gauging her reaction and what she does- or rather, doesn't do steals my breath in a not-good-way and makes me sick. She actually readjusts her posture so that we'd actually have to make it obvious to touch. She's moving away. Shit. Something is seriously wrong, and I can't say I'm not glad when dinner is over and the guests start to stream outside into the cold, drizzly night. I have to find out what's wrong.
Walter Tapley thanks me again, and this time in front of all his colleagues, and announces to them that this was the woman who saved his heart. This is accompanied by a hearty laugh and a one armed squeeze. I see the looks on their faces and it makes me happy- true, but Callie's behavior is preventing me from hearing that special bell chime inside of me when I show people up. I gently yet firmly disentangle myself from Tapley, all the while saying my apologies- "I have a tricuspid valve stenosis to attend to!"- And search for Callie. She's near the door and I see her slip out, but through the west entrance. We parked at the south entrance. She doesn't want me to see- that much is clear, but I follow her and finally catch up. "Hey Callie!" I say loudly. The clop of her shoes on the slick cement pause, and she turns. Her gaze is flat, with none of the sparkle she's got when she usually looks at me. "What?" She asks her voice just as flat.
"What's wrong?" I say, walking closer. She doesn't have an umbrella, and the drizzle is making quick work of her hair. I, however, do have an umbrella, and as much as I'd wish she'd step under it with me-
-she doesn't. She takes a deep breath and I see something flash in her eyes- anger, before she begins to speak. "You're a career minded woman, and I respect that. I know that you've worked your ass off to get to the point where you are today, and again, I respect that. Your career is your life. But-" she steps closer now-"what I am not okay with is that you swept me under the carpet! What the hell was that Erica?"
Shock slams into me like a wrecking ball, and destroys the scaffolding of my mind just as quickly.
"I- wait what?"
"Don't play dumb!" She fires back, walking a little closer now. I rack my brain. What the hell does she want me to see? Conversation scrolls through my mind and- shit. There it is. Introductions before dinner. Dr. Tapley, this is Callie Torres, my friend. Just a friend. Not girlfriend, or even best friend, even though she's all those things and more. I feel like I want to climb into a black, gaping abyss and never come back out. Comprehension's on my face, for she snorts and turns away, but doesn't start to walk. "Callie, I-" My mouth is a million miles behind my brain as I try to helplessly articulate what I feel. But it's no use.
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I hate crying. The wobbling chin, the burning pain in your eyes, and the heavy corded knot in your throat- it's terrible. I used to be able to count the times I've cried on one hand, and that's including through the course of my life. But, that was before coming to Seattle Grace. That was before meeting Callie, and all the emotions involved therein. Now, I have to add my ninth finger. The umbrella totters listlessly from my hand, and now I'm being drizzled upon as well, in this Seattle weather. I'm being baptized- and am just as vulnerable. Tears are in my eyes and as I look at her, she turns into a red swirl of color- alarmingly like the day she was shot. And she's leaving me now, just like she almost did oh-so-long-ago.
Taking a hitching breath that show's she's near crying, Callie starts to speak again. "I didn't kiss you in the cafeteria as a stunt," she begins. "I kissed you because I wanted you to know that I didn't care what anyone else thought. I wanted to prove that I was serious. About this. About us. To prove that this isn't some joke, some stunt, or some experimentation."
She looks up, presumably at the moon, which bathes her in a ghostly radiance. My heart is caught in my throat, and the golden afterglow of the party has completely faded like incense on a whip crack of wind. "I'm starting to wonder if you're as committed to this as I am," she finishes, her voice cracking. I'm frozen. I know I should say something- hell, I NEED to say something but my body's not co-operating. I'm struck mute as she holds her hand high for a cab and one promptly speeds up. She doesn't look my way as she gets in and I'm left in the rain.
By myself.
Just as I had begun.
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As a general rule, I don't do apologies. I'm usually the one right, anyways, so why should I? And yet, even today, I know that I need to. Tapley's social ended relatively early, so it's just turning ten as I walk through my door. Alone. Soaking wet and looking like a pathetic wall flower that got stood up. This fuckin' sucks. I change out of the dress into something more comfortable and stare at my phone. I also don't do small talk, and I've learned many a time that trying to apologize for something rarely works over the phone- they can always hang up on you. I know what I have to do.
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When she opens the door, her eyes are red and I know that she's been tossing and turning, crying or even a combination of all three. I start talking first and don't give her a chance to interrupt.
"You're right. I love my career. Cardio is an old boys club, true enough, but that shouldn't- it doesn't excuse me from not introducing you properly- as-" I take a breath-"my girlfriend. Something more than just a friend. I…-" Dammit. I'm losing steam; my thoughts and my carefully planned speech is going all over the damn place and trying to catch it is like trying to grab fragments of broken eggshells from out of the yolk in the mixing bowl. My words, formerly so clear, so concise, are muddled. Finally I dig deep for courage, and look up, meeting Callie's brown eyes with my own. "My career was what gave me that special glow in me that said 'Yes. I can do this, and rise above everything else that stands in my way.' Dr. Wyatt says that I was empty before-" as I say this, I see her eyebrows rise. Clearly she didn't expect me the 'Therapy Type'. –"and that my career was the only thing that filled me up." Letting out a harsh bitter laugh I press on, needing to purge this, to clean it, and cut it out like a defective valve. "I can't accept not having you with me Callie. If it's my career or you, then I'd choose you." Nothing's left to say. I've bared my soul and it's horrifying. Quickly I turn my heel and all but run out of the building, and to the cold and empty sanctuary of my house.
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The lyrics of Adele's Hometown Glory are surfing my brain as I stare at my cell phone. So far, I've missed five calls. The screen starts to light up, and the garishly bright tune assigned to Callie's ringer is jarring on my mind like the smell of tequila during a hangover.
I'm not so sure now. I'm not Erica Hahn, and that's who the call is for. Closing my eyes, I don't answer the phone, and instead curl up in my bed. The phone's silent now, and I'm not sure if I'm happy or sad. I feel like my Dr. Hahn persona and my Erica alias are fighting. My fingers twitch in the direction of the phone. Erica's winning. The phone starts to ring again, and this time I answer.
.
.
"Hello?"