Chapter 63.

Sober.

October 2, 2020.

Cristina rested her hands on the podium, looking out into a swell of faces she had come to recognize. Somehow, she knew all their names, knew their stories, and they knew bits and pieces of hers. She did not share much.

"One year ago today I was a different person."

She took a deep breath, settling herself. She had not rehearsed, but she knew what she wanted to say. It was just like giving a report, just like talking to a distressed family.

"I'm not saying that I was weaker or stronger than I am now, or better or worse, or that I found some divine purpose and climbed out of the hole I dug for myself – but I'm different than I was. And I like the version of me that I am now better than the old one."

Someone slipped in through the back door and settled among the crowd.

Cristina cleared her throat. This was the hardest part. "A year ago, I was in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. I had relapsed again, gone completely off the rails, and now I had to look at myself. It was different than it used to be. I used to feel guilty, worried that other people would see me and hate me for it. But that day, I didn't care what other people thought. I hated myself. It was just me and the mirror. And suddenly, I didn't want to be that person anymore."

She scanned the audience, finding many hopeless faces fixated on her. She found everything from engagement to polite interest to blank indifference in their eyes.

"I'm not sure how I did it, but here I am. One year later, not even a taste of alcohol. And for the first time, I know that if I… If I make a mistake, it's not the end of the world. Maybe that was what helped me get here. I don't know."

She stepped away from the podium. No one clapped. It was supposed to be silent.

She slid into her seat and crossed her arms tightly, securely.

It was a standard meeting. Sad stories and tears. Everyone who wanted to speak got their turn. Some talked more than others. Some of their stories were similar to hers – people who missed out on their kids growing up, people who turned on their loved ones. And some were so much worse – people who lost their jobs, lost their homes, lived on the streets and turned to crime. Some people were here because the court made them come. Others wanted to sit in a warm building for a few hours and try to forget about their life outside of it.

It came to an end around nine, and the crowd broke apart. No one was in much of a rush. They drifted to the doors, murmuring to one another, until Cristina was alone in the audience.

Dean rose from his chair near the front, all six feet of him towering in a long, full-body stretch. He came over to her, grabbing a chair from the next row and turning it to face her.

He fished a bronze medallion out of his shirt pocket and held it out in his palm. It was small, no bigger than a silver dollar. It had 'one day at a time' and 'to thine own self be true' written in bold letters around the rim, and in the center, a triangle with '1 year' written in the middle. Cristina stared at it, remembering when he had given her his 10-year chip. Back then, he had wanted to inspire her to keep coming to meetings, giving her a goal. It had weighed heavily on her, challenged her, made her feel that she might never reach this place.

But as she took the one-year chip from his hand, it felt different. It seemed to have no power. It was light and innocuous.

"What are you thinking?" Dean asked.

"I thought it would be much more…"

"Eventful?"

"Something like that." Cristina tucked the chip into her pocket, leaning her elbows on her knees and rubbing her tired eyes. "You kind of let me down, you know. I was expecting confetti."

"I ordered a confetti cannon. Damn thing got lost in the mail."

She smiled, and said genuinely, "Thank you."

"Well, technically, it's part of my job." He grinned, sitting back in his chair. "It feels like way less than a year. Maybe a few months."

"It's been more than a year. Way more. Which makes this chip kind of sad."

"A sobriety chip is like a college degree. Once you have it, nobody gives a shit how long it took you to get it."

Cristina snorted.

"We haven't had a sit-down in a few months."

Cristina groaned, "Please, don't do this to me. Don't drive me to drink on the night I finally get this stupid chip."

He laughed, "You're the one who stuck around. You could've left with the others."

"I wanted the stupid chip."

"You see, that's growth. When you started, you didn't care about the chips. But if that was all you wanted, you can leave right now."

She rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair. "Fine. Whatever."

"Okay. Do you want prompts, or should I just let you talk?"

Cristina shrugged.

"Prompts it is. How is your relationship with Owen going?"

She smiled reflexively. "Right into the meat of it, huh? What are you, my therapist?"

"I'm your friend, and your sponsor. But your friend first. Besides, I don't know any of the people in your life – except for Collin – so you can tell me anything you want."

"So, my therapist, basically."

"A concerned citizen of the world."

"A guy avoiding his pregnant wife."

"Maybe a little bit of both." He rolled his hand. "Owen?"

Cristina thought of her husband, and the room suddenly felt warmer. She could picture his smile, his laugh, his scowl when he was throwing a tantrum. His beard all full of spaghetti. "Owen and I are doing… great. I mean, we fight sometimes, but everybody does. He still goes to therapy every now and then, some months more than others."

She paused, letting a brief, paralyzing wave wash over her.

"We've… been through a lot together. Owen is the most consistent thing in my life."

"What about the kids? How is Collin? I haven't seen him in a while."

"He started first grade this fall. I had to stop bringing him because he keeps repeating things he hears to the other kids – got me in a lot of trouble."

"So, he is talking again?"

"Yes, for the most part. He chooses when he wants to talk, though, which Owen thinks we give him too much leeway for – something we fight about. Sometimes he just ignores people or stops talking for days. But he understands. He's just… kind of a dick about it sometimes."

Dean laughed, "You said something about his leg last time."

"Oh, yeah. His surgery is in December."

"Is it a major surgery?"

"It has risks, but the risks of leaving it any longer are worse. His muscles are having a hard time growing with him." She bit her lip, wondering how much detail to go into with Dean. She settled with, "Basically, leaving it like it is would eventually lead to him losing his leg."

"Oh."

Cristina was suddenly feeling chatty. Dean brought it out of her. He was so easygoing. "You know, I never wanted kids. I kind of stumbled on Collin. Did I ever tell you where he came from? I knew his mom."

"No, you never did."

"It's pretty easy to tell he isn't my biological son – I mean, come on, there's not even a pinch of Asian in that kid. Blonde hair, blue eyes." Her bright mood began to fade when she thought about her old friend, and the hell she had gone through to bring Collin into the world – and the hell she had put the boy through once he arrived. "She was… in a bad place. She never should have had a kid, but she did." And she said more quietly, "Maybe I shouldn't have, either."

"How are the other kids?"

"Monsters. Well, mostly Scooby. Everybody talks about the twos being the worst, but good God, the threes. The worst part is, they're just like me. Smartasses. Literally destroying the house if you leave them alone for five minutes. Last week, they broke a hole in the drywall that cost us $500 to get repaired – that is, after my idiot husband and Meredith's idiot husband tried to fix it."

Dean had bright eyes, "Last time I was over for dinner, Evelyn took my keys. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah, the four-hour argument I had with a three-year-old about where your keys were? I remember. If anything should have driven me to drink, it was that."

"But it didn't."

Cristina smiled, unable to help glowing at his tone. He was proud of her. It annoyed her when her coworkers and family commented on how well she was doing, but it was different when Dean did it. He was her sponsor, after all. Sometimes it felt like his opinion on her sobriety was the only one that mattered. Maybe it was.

"How is your relationship with Shane?"

"He's actually my partner on three ongoing trials – second name, of course."

"So, it's good, then?"

"It's like it used to be, before everything happened. Which is good, I guess. Sometimes I feel like he… he seems more distant than before. Like he's afraid to get too close again. But that could also be because of Owen."

"I guess he put the fear of God into him, huh?"

"He's gotten over it, mostly. At least, that's what he says." She wiggled in her seat, "But enough about me. What about you? Are you excited?"

Dean grinned, "I am. Jeanne is on bedrest for now. It could be any time."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't miss your one-year milestone."

"Go home to your wife, Dean."

"Does that mean our talk is over?"

Cristina moved to get up, but she sensed he wanted to say something else – something she was probably going to hate.

He took on a serious tone. "It's been a year. It happened today."

"I know that."

She thought of white sheets and tiny hands.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I really am. I'm not going for the bottle, if that's what you want to know. I'm here."

He reached between them, taking one of her hands and folding it into both of his. He squeezed. "I want you to know that I'm really proud of you. You turned your life around. Most people would sink back to the bottom after something like that."

She nodded, reluctantly opening that wound, "Sometimes I wonder if October will ever just be… October again, or if it will always just be the month when he died."

"That's like asking if September will ever be just September again, after 9/11."

"I guess."

"I know I always say this, but therapy is an option."

"Why would I need that when I have you?"

He snorted, "I'm not exactly a professional. I'm just a guy who's been there."

"You're a really good person, though. You balance out my natural darkness." She put her other hand over his, briefly finding something special in this connection they had. "I don't know if I could have made it this far without you."

Dean leaned in, and whispered, "Is this where we give each other friendship rings?"

Cristina pulled her hands away, laughing, "As fun as this is, I have to go. I have a patient flying in from Germany in two hours and I have to be at the research center to meet them."

"Part of your trials?"

"He was part of an old trial, actually. I designed a new type of artificial valve to correct Leighton's Defect. I put one in this kid like four years ago. Now I get to open him up again."

"That sounds… fun?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the first wave of my research coming back around. This is what I'll be getting medical awards for. Just me on a stage, accepting a Harper-Avery award, trying to stuff it in the same bag with my Nobel Prize and numerous cardiothoracic achievement awards."

"I'm glad that you're excited for the future again. I was worried for a while there."

Cristina was worried, too.

But life was looking up.

"I would love to stay and list all the award ceremonies I'll be inviting you to, but I really have to go." She stood, stretched, and headed for the door. "See ya in two weeks!"

Cristina smiled all the way to her car, but when the door shut and the interior lights faded, she let the expression melt away. She pulled down her visor, plucking a photograph from behind the mirror. Henry. He was sitting on the couch, grinning. Owen was beside him, looking tired – an obligatory dad expression. It was one of the last photos she ever took of him.

She allowed herself a few minutes to sit there, to let the tears slide down her face, before she turned the car on and headed for the hospital.

She folded the picture into her pocket.