The breezy day, well, it's the type of day when soft things happen. It doesn't mean that it's not important. It doesn't mean that just because the world is pastel and the wind is soft and the sunshine is in that mode between bright and warm that it's a day to write off; one of those cotton-candy days that you remember vaguely, but only in light and sound and the scent of flowers on the air. Maybe you can feel the sunshine on the back of your neck; maybe you remember a smile in the light. But what's important about days like this is that they're the type of days that you can stockpile for the times when you can't remember what spring feels like. And that's the kind of day it is today.
You turn and your hair blows with you; and he grins at you as he gets out of the car and smooths down his jacket nervously. It's been months since you've been to mass, and you can read his mind: "Will they know if I miss a word of the liturgy? Will they turn and look if I'm not singing?" But in the end, you know, it doesn't really matter. What matters is you're here. And you've got mass to go to.
And in your arms, she stirs a little; her eyes flutter and you touch a corner of her bonnet to protect her skin from the soft sun. Because it's taken so much to get her here. And the mass today, well. It's more than the general Sunday church service that's a duty rather than an experience.
Today, it's all for her.
I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Amid layers of christening dress, she's quite comfortable as long as no one tries to take her from your arms. And there are a lot of people who would try it; she's just as much their baby as she is yours. But five times was really the charm, here, and no one blames you for being a little bit possessive. No one blames you for wanting to hold her as long as you can, to touch her cheek and kiss her hair. No one blames you at all.
It's been a year since the incident on the highway. A year of watching your belly grow bigger and clasping Mark's hand until your fingers turned white every time she kicked. It's been eight months of barely breathing; of avoiding sushi and grabbing the railings of stairs. It's been a year of therapy and of a husband who stood in the background, but never minded, because this was something bigger than you. This was something that could be a miracle.
You started to show at month four. You were already three months along when Mark found out. He went out the next day and got a glass bowl of tulips, all different colours and sizes, all in different stages of bloom. And then he took a red tulip and traced it over your belly, smiling, so gentle and without any cynicism at all. The tiny bump, the barely-there roundness on your flat stomach – he'd bowed his head, tried to listen, hear the heartbeat that you knew was there but that you couldn't hear yet.
"Addison."
You'd placed your cold hand on his and he'd looked up into your eyes. "It's not going to be that way. Not this time."
And breathing, barely breathing, you'd whispered, "How do you know?"
He'd lowered his head, you ran your fingers through hair that was greyer now than it had been six months ago, and nothing was said, not for a long time.
When you started to cry, he'd cupped your cheeks and kissed your tears, and whispered, "It's not going to happen five times. It's not."
And unlike any other time in your entire marriage, you just believed him.
"Okay."
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out
The morning sickness was hell – it was morning, noon and night sickness, of the sort that you could barely control. Surgery consisted of you easing from aching foot to aching foot and running out of the room at least five times during a three-hour procedure. But you continued like always, saying nothing, although the penetrating eyes knew and tried to catch yours in hallways, in exam rooms. You said nothing.
The fifth month, you lay in the examination room and clenched your hands desperately by your sides. The flutters of movement – the tiny butterfly. It was unreal that you could have made it this far. It was unreal that you could make it this far. And you found yourself making quick calculations – how viable is a baby if there's spontaneous abortion, now?
Before the ultrasound technician came in, Mark grabbed one of your clenched hands and shook his head, sharply, even a little defiantly.
"Stop this."
"Stop what?" Your voice was ragged, sharp with edges of anxiety that had come back after you took yourself off the SSRIs, for fear of harm – because you damn well would not be responsible for one more hurt, broken fetus; wouldn't be responsible for any complications of this fucking pregnancy.
"Stop obsessing. Stop calculating." His voice softened. "Addison. Don't overthink this. Don't."
And you flared a little; was he challenging you? "Listen here, Mark Sloan. Until you grow a uterus and can carry a child, don't you ever –"
"I know, tell you what to do." His eyes met yours. "I need to. Because you're not telling you what to do here. It's going into autopilot and you would be the first person to tell a woman that pregnancy should be a special time."
You'd gulped. "It is. It's . . . unreal. It's supposed to be unlike anything you've experienced." And then you raised a hand to your face, because it is. It's all of those things and it feels so stolen, so ticking-time-bomb.
He wrapped his arms around you; you pressed your face into his rough scrubs and his hands found your hair. And then, he said, "It's yours, Addie. It's okay."
"It's yours, too."
"Yeah. It's okay."
/
When you see her face on the ultrasound; her pointed little nose, the thumb in her mouth and the way her fist is clenched, just like yours, you smile tentatively and Mark smiles back.
"It's a girl."
The ultrasound technician nods and smiles. "You'd know that, Dr. Montgomery. She got a name?"
You sigh deeply, and look up at her. "No. Not yet."
You're lying through your teeth, but why jinx it when it's going so well?
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice - you have a choice
You've made it now
You get unwieldy. You have to shift your weight back to your heels and you can't stand all day in surgery. But you and Mark spend hours balancing various chips, popcorn, and candy on your belly. And like a charm, every time – she kicks and it flies off. And then you laugh stupidly while "Friends" is on and it's all so ridiculous perfect.
Mark is quieter; he's more introspective. He makes his famous Alfredo pasta while you sit at the table and admire the curve of his shoulders in the old soft Yankees T-shirt that he treasures and wears to every game. But lately you haven't heard him chatter; you haven't heard him say anything at all.
She kicks, once, twice, and you put a hand on your stomach, watching it roll back and forth as the baby tries to get a better position. And then Mark drops the spoon.
"Fuck!"
You're up; he's running his hand under the cold water tap and his face is set, hard.
You pause before you touch him. "Mark?"
"It's all so fucking perfect, Addie, and I can't get the bad feeling out of my head," he snaps without preamble, and you know that he's not talking about the Alfredo sauce. And it's strange, seeing him as the one who breaks down; the one who admits worry. Because Mark Sloan was never one to complain or to let on how he felt. And now, as you put your arms around him, and she lies between you, the little butterfly of life inquisitively touching the warmth she feels against her sanctuary, he smiles again.
"I'm being stupid."
"No." You kiss him; your lips press against his and he pulls you closer to him. You stay that way for awhile, until the smoke alarm goes off and the smell of burnt milk pervades the kitchen, and then he finally raises his head.
"This time is going to work."
"It's going to work, Mark."
Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won
Naomi twirls a straw wrapper in her hands; you're sitting in a café and you keep shifting uncomfortably. She's enjoying the feel of the soft breeze on her face, and she barely notices when you put a hand to your abdomen.
"Ow. Jellybean, calm down."
Jellybean became the nickname; you've chosen a name, but you're slightly superstitious and despite everyone asking you about it, you refuse to tell them.
Naomi's face changes from absent to concerned. "Addie. Are you okay, girl?" She puts a hand on your shoulder. "Braxton-Hicks?"
You didn't recognize the back pain as labour, but now that the next contraction starts, you realize that it very well could be. "It's a few weeks early."
"Ha." Naomi shoots you a knowing look and you concede, nodding. "Yeah, like that makes a difference."
When you stand up, your water breaks. "Oh, shit."
Naomi shoots you a look. "Either you just peed your pants or . . ."
"Or we're going to have a birthday today or tomorrow." You pull out your cell phone, but Nae snatches it from your hands and speed-dials Mark. "Sit the hell down."
When he pulls up, your contractions are timed at seven minutes apart, thirty seconds in length. He doesn't say anything and neither do you, but you shoot a look at him in the rearview mirror on the way to the hospital and he meets your eyes, for a brief second.
You realize you're not scared anymore.
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
Alexa Elizabeth Montgomery-Sloan; six pounds, five ounces, and twenty-one inches long, sleeps in bed with you.
It wasn't your choice; it was hers. And despite the fact that you've tried to break her to the crib; you've done the conventional things like rocking her and nursing her and letting her fall asleep in her baby swing, she refuses to sleep anywhere but curled up right against you, her little face turned into your chest, your arm cradling her closely. And Mark, who went through a "what if SIDS happens" scare, has finally just learned to accept it. It's a king-size bed.
And what the hell. You hear her every move; her every breath echoes in your dreams. You can't have someone share your body for nine months (okay, eight and a half) and not know her inside out; not see your eyes in hers and Mark's nose on her face and the exact shape of your fingernails on each of her tiny hands.
It was like a dream; her hair is too downy to show up on her blue-veined head, but you argue with Mark whether it's brown or it's red (he votes red). Her eyes have the blue depths of yours but the shape of Mark's. She's long-bodied like you; Mark keeps measuring her with a carpenter's measuring tape that snaps back on his hands and causes you to laugh, but she's yours and Mark's, totally.
She has a serious, observant look; she watches leaves flutter to the ground and birds in the sky with her ageless blue eyes and you almost wonder if this is the same baby who screams for five hours a night and causes cracked nipples and has already ruined three of the pretty outfits she was given by Auntie Naomi and Uncle Sam with poop and spit-up. Because she's not a perfect baby, but you wouldn't trade her for the world.
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
And today, in this church, with the dust motes high in the clerestory and the congregation rapt and waiting while the priest holds Alexa and strokes oil onto her soft forehead, it's almost still like a dream. The last year and a half; the dark times in the bedroom under the covers; the wandering blindly down black streets; the highway drive that seemed to take half a lifetime; it's all replaced when her face crinkles in a needy cry or when she waves a fist at you, your eyes following her every move.
But it's not gone. It's just behind. And Derek stands with Naomi as godparents; they know how you couldn't look your husband in the eye – they know how you feared and loved this pregnancy, a dichotomy that made no sense but yet was the way of it for months.
But he takes your hand; he steps forward and you make the promises, to raise her in the church; to raise her in the light.
It's no longer feared. A sunbeam jumps down through the jeweled window, lights up her white dress and the image of her hand on your collar, and there can't be the amount of darkness there was with this tiny shard of light.
She's there, now. Not the saviour; not the miracle child. But the tiny star, so dark and bright in the glowing sky, creating the hope that you can rebuild on.
She is the new beginning.
Falling slowly, sing your melody
I'll sing along
You've made it now.
