A/N: Finally. I know. Thank you so much to everyone who has been patiently waiting and motivating me to continue this story. I never abandoned it and I never would, but it's such an enormous story at this point that updating it challenged me in a number of ways. This chapter always felt important to me: this was my first MerDer story and I so appreciated being trusted with that ship. A reader asked me a long time ago to include the baby's birth and all of you deserve to see that. As a result, it grew and grew until it was too long even for me. So now it's two chapters, and I am going to post the second one at the end of the week. This is the longest story I have ever written and I almost can't believe how close we are to the end. I hope you enjoy this chapter, starting with the story's first time jump.
all shades of blue
...
The ostensibly final week of Meredith's pregnancy is filled with the word no.
(Ironic in some ways, when saying very much the opposite of no is what led to her pregnancy in the first place … but that's another story.)
This week, it's no.
No, she isn't dilated yet.
No, her cervix isn't softening.
No, they haven't decided on a name yet.
"I want to meet him first," Meredith says now—unnecessarily, since she knows Derek is on her side, just on principle.
"I know."
"It makes sense. Doesn't it?"
"It makes perfect sense to me," Derek says and Meredith decides that even though it's her husband's fault she can no longer tie her own shoes … he's still pretty great.
She tucks a hand into his arm as they make their slow, steady way to pick up their daughter.
(No, she hasn't stopped working yet, not completely.)
Zola runs to greet them with a big grin. "Did the baby fall out yet?" she asks eagerly.
"No," Derek and Meredith say in unison.
"It's almost his birthday," Zola says, unruffled; Meredith watches with a smile as Derek helps her gather her things, zips her into her little coat and then wraps an arm around her to watch their daughter say fervid goodbyes to all three teachers, the remaining two children playing, and the goldfish swimming lazily in a bowl high atop one of the bookshelves.
Meanwhile, Meredith waits for Derek to scoop Zola up before she settles the hat over their daughter's head—at least there's something she can still do when she's seventeen months pregnant.
Zola beams up at her from under her pink striped hat with its big pink pom pom on top.
Why can't cuteness trigger labor?
It doesn't, though, clearly, because at thirty-nine and three she's still a hard no all around. It's not that she's trying to rush. It would just be nice to see a little progress. Any progress.
Spicy food can trigger labor, but although Zola has developed an affinity for chicken tinga—with sufficient avocado to cushion the blow—it doesn't.
Pineapple, for dessert, until her mouth tingles and Zola sticks her little pink tongue out with a wince.
"I'm not showing any signs of labor," Meredith reminds her husband after Zola's in bed, "but at this rate our mouths are going to fall off."
"… which would be inconvenient," Derek says, raising an eyebrow, "since we still have one more trigger to try tonight."
It's a perfect opportunity to say no. She's about six hundred pounds, for one, and she can't see her own feet much less anything else of interest in the general region.
But Derek is smart, very smart. And his hands are good, very good, and he's currently massaging her feet—at least she's pretty sure it's her feet, not that she can see them—in that way that reminds her toe curling isn't actually just an expression.
She's very, very, very pregnant, she's a no to labor, and her body feels like … well, like a large baby has taken up residence inside it, and is currently teaching itself to square dance using the placenta as its partner.
"It's no use," Meredith says, tipping her head back to rest against the pillows currently propping her up. The foot massage feels good. Being in bed feels … eh, just like everything else since her body decided it was done being a condominium. "It's not going to trigger labor. I'm going to be pregnant forever."
"You're not even forty weeks."
"Seriously?"
"I mean in a good way," he says hastily. "Just—it's nothing to worry about."
"I'm worried I'm going to be pregnant forever."
"Meredith." He's smiling, and she frowns at him.
"It won't be so funny when you have to knock down the wall to roll me out of the house," she says darkly.
And then she stops talking, because he's doing that thing to the arch of foot that makes it feel like her muscles are melting. She's had some cramping off and on for a few days, Braxton-Hicks most likely, since it hasn't actually progressed her labor—but honestly, at this point, her feet are a much bigger concern. They hurt.
Or at least they did before Derek started doing that thing. She closes her eyes.
"Mer … let's go to sleep," he suggests.
"Derek … ."
"Hm?"
"I never said no."
…
It doesn't trigger labor, though.
Derek wakes up to the feeling of his son moving against his hand via his very pregnant wife, sending a thrill through him just like it did the first time.
"This is why Mommy can't sleep," Meredith addresses her bump directly. "These … overnight soccer games."
"Let Mommy sleep," Derek advises their son, who seems to be doing some sort of high kick routine inside his mother. "She needs rest to get you out of there."
"He's never coming out, so it's fine." Meredith pushes her hair out of her eyes. "I'm just preparing myself."
"For what?"
"For being pregnant forever."
"Meredith."
"No, it's fine. He'll just get bigger and bigger in there and I'll … waddle around and doctors will come from all over to study me."
He shakes his head.
"What? I'll let you write the first article. You'll get a grant. Which will be good, since you'll have to support me and my … giant pregnancy."
He leans over to kiss her instead of responding.
"What was that for?"
"Nothing." He sits halfway up and smiles at her. "I just love you … and your giant pregnancy."
"Mm, keep that in mind when I'm—good morning, Zozo!"
Their daughter bounds in before Meredith can finish her sentence, clambering onto Derek's side of the bed, accepting their praise for sleeping in her bed all night and then leaning over her father to study her mother with a look of utmost concentration.
"The baby's still in there, sweetie."
"I thought so." Zola smiles up at him with a scientist's pride. "When is he coming out?"
"We don't know yet."
"Can we get him out?"
"He won't come out until he's ready, Zo," Meredith reminds her gently.
Zola scrunches up her little nose pensively. "Before Christmas?"
It's February, as the expression on his wife's face indicates, so Derek stands up quickly, scoops up his bright-faced daughter and, after tipping her down to get a kiss from her mother, carries her out of the room to start coffee and discuss the finer points of the Gregorian calendar.
…
At thirty-nine and four, Meredith begs off dinner—it doesn't feel like there's room for anything else inside her except the baby she's convinced must be almost the size of his older sister by now.
Derek doesn't push her, just brings Zola outside with him to give Meredith a chance to rest, and she does; it's temperate enough to leave the windows cracked so she can hear the sound of father and daughter enjoying the fresh air together. They cook together on the grill and the scents wafting in don't bother her, not when she can picture Zola in her little apron that matches her father's, stomping her favorite pink boots on the wide wood planks they selected themselves.
"You don't have to eat," Derek assures her quietly when they're back inside, smelling faintly of charcoal and pine. "Zola just wanted to show you what we made."
"See?" Their daughter hangs onto the edge of the tray Derek is holding. "I helped Daddy do all the fish."
"You did? You're such a good helper." Meredith starts to sit up, struggling a little, and is impressed that Derek manages to switch the tray of fish to one hand and use his other to help her, all without losing any of his balance.
… yeah, she used to be all coordinated like that too, before a toddler took up residence in her uterus.
But it's impossible to say no to Zola's beaming little face and when she joins them at the table she realizes she actually is hungry. And the fish is delicious, cooked the way she likes it by her two favorite chefs—both of whom take care of the cleanup and one of whom even does all the manual labor, afterwards, of bathing the other one.
She misses that ritual but kneeling in front of the tub doesn't exactly work anymore. And she still gets to enjoy directly-post-bath Zola who, from her very first one in their care, has ended at least every other bath with joyous towel-clad giggles.
(And, when not quickly corralled, often a lap or two around the house without said towel.)
But it's February, even if it's temperate, and Zola is wrapped snuggly in her pink terry bathrobe with the silver unicorn horn on the hood.
"Where does the baby take a bath?" she asks with interest, lolling against Meredith's side on her parents' big bed.
Or what used to be Meredith's side and is now a smallish mountain.
She glances at Derek, who is smiling at both of them. "In there," she tells their daughter, cuddling Zola a little closer as their daughter touches what Meredith, with mostly affection, has started thinking of as the bump that ate the world.
Zola's eyes widen. "He has a bathtub in there?"
He could fit one, that's for sure.
"He has everything he needs right now inside Mommy," Derek says this time.
"But when he comes out … " Zola sits back on her heels. "Then he'll get a real bath?"
Meredith remembers the book they were reading the other night, one of many in which small animals acquire even smaller baby siblings. "Yes, that's right, Zozo. He'll get a bath when he comes out."
Assuming that ever happens.
"Okay." Zola seems satisfied, burrowing back down between her parents in a cloud of sweet-smelling baby shampoo before she—of her own accord—sits up and informs them it's bedtime.
Meredith and Derek exchange the briefest of raised eyebrows and Zola kisses both her mother and her unborn brother before being carried off to bed, silver unicorn horn bobbing as her head lolls on her father's shoulder.
…
What he didn't predict is that Zola's version of nesting has included a sudden, impressive spurt of independence around bedtime. Looking at his daughter's sleepy smile as she nestles against her pink-printed pillows, knowing that her sweet see you in the morning is actually factual this time Derek has to contend with the briefest twinge of sadness—at the passage of time, not at having the ability to sleep through the night without being kicked by tiny, accurate feet.
Their daughter is growing up; of that he has no question. The sheer amount of change they've witnessed in this one small person is nothing short of remarkable.
He's considering this as he returns to the bedroom to find Meredith not resting as he'd hoped but studying the stacks of semi-sorted supplies they've prepared for their son's arrival. His eye is caught, not for the first time, by just how small those supplies are.
It's another reminder that while the baby they're awaiting won't be their first child, he will be their first infant, small enough that nothing of Zola's could fit him.
"Meredith."
"I'm resting," she says without turning around. "This is resting."
"You're resting," he agrees, brushing some of her hair back—there seems to be so much of it these days.
"That's all I'm saying." She turns to smile up at him; her eyes are tired but her smile still reaches them. "I want to be ready, that's all."
"You're nesting," he suggests.
"That too." She picks up a minute white sleeper. "This … seems very small."
"He's going to be very small."
"Really." She lifts an eyebrow. "Because he feels very big right now."
She smiles at him though, softening the words, and he rests a hand against the place where their son is growing. It feels drum-tight and swollen, pulsing with life—he could come any time, that's what the OB said at the last visit.
Which is comforting and nerve-wracking all at once.
He just picks up the closest sleeper—blue and fuzzy, with jaunty rugby stripes. "Kathleen?" he guesses.
Meredith glances at it. "I think so." She pauses. "I'm not sure if I thanked her. Did I thank her?"
"It doesn't matter."
She frowns. "It matters. I should have thanked her."
"We'll send her a picture of the baby wearing it. That's better than sending a note."
He's pleased when she seems to agree; vaguely, he recalls one of his sisters telling him that, a lifetime ago. Before sending pictures was as easy as it is now.
As long as Meredith doesn't feel compelled to respond to his sisters when she already has enough on her plate, though he's touched that she's even thinking about it.
His wife never seemed to him like the type for a traditional baby shower, which is putting it mildly, but his sisters couldn't seem to pass up the opportunity to shower her with gifts. They're the benefactors of much of the tiny clothing Meredith is still sorting. His mother, too. All of it typical once he had a chance to think about it, characteristic: practical things from Liz and Kathleen, Liz's a bit more casual, Kath's a little preppier. Fancier and far less practical clothes from Nancy. Handmade bits and pieces from his mother: a new blanket in shades of deep blue, but not until after she sent Zola the pink and purple one she'd requested. He appreciated that. And the bonnet and bunting she made for Derek nearly half a century ago now.
The sheer number makes him shudder although it's hard to resent your advanced age when it brings with it so much new life. Even Addison sent a gift, which was kind of her when their family was already dealing with so much.
The outfits she sent made Nancy's crisp little linen playsuits look like one of Kathleen's sensible onesies.
"It was nice of her. Of them." Meredith is frowning now as she holds up a fragile looking little scrap of clothing. "It was very nice. They're just – "
"Fancy?" Derek raises an eyebrow.
"Fancy. Very fancy. Fancier than anything I own, I'm pretty sure, and probably more expensive." Meredith pauses, a shadow crossing her face, maybe feeling guilty. It never felt like a gifting situation, exactly, but he understands.
"Hey."
She looks up.
"We'll make up for it. We can still send them something. A … flannel shirt."
"A fishing vest," Meredith proposes, smiling a little now.
And then they both stop. "Have you heard –" he starts, then breaks off. Throughout her pregnancy, he's wanted to protect her. From the fifteenth week on, that protection has included some form of censoring the intersecting tragedies surrounding the Sloans.
"He's still in the NICU." Meredith looks down again at the outfit. "It's cute," she says quietly after a moment. "I like the color."
"Mer – "
"We'll put it in the dresser," she continues resolutely, "with the … stuff., and your son can spit up on the nicest clothes in town."
…
Thirty-nine and five, and they're still not quite a family of four.
Derek informs his daughter of this fact when she hurls herself at him for her traditional post-daycare greeting, thwacking his neck pretty solidly as he lifts her with what turns out to be a lump of baked modeling clay.
"Ow."
"Sorry." She grins at him, and he remembers all the clichés about melting hearts, about little girls who wrap their fathers around their little fingers. He's never tried to deny it; there's too much pictorial proof from one princess tea party or another to build a believable case anyway.
"I forgive you." He kisses the tip of her nose. "Show me what you made, sweetie."
"It's for the baby." She holds the sculpture aloft in two small hands. "It's a hat," she adds, apparently realizing he needs a hint.
"I see. For the baby to wear?"
"No, silly." She giggles, holding the sculpture higher. "It's art. You can put it in his room. And it will make him smart."
"Ah. I think I get it now. That's a great gift, Zo." He helps her tuck the ceramic hat safely in her little pink backpack with its cheerfully smiling ladybug printed in the center. She gives the bag an affectionate pat before slipping her small hand into her father's for the walk to the car.
Two days from forty weeks, and—
"Nothing," Meredith reminds him with a sigh while he cuts Zola's dinner into smaller pieces for her. "No signs at all."
He'll come when he's ready. It's what he might say to a patient but he's not so foolish as to say it to his wife. He just gives her a sympathetic smile.
Zola, meanwhile, retains optimism in the process, if nothing else.
She's eager bordering on impatient one minute, wary the next. She climbs into Derek's lap after dinner – her mother's lap has been nonexistent for a while now – and fixes long-lashed eyes on his face.
"Maybe the baby's here now," she suggests, glancing meaningfully toward Meredith. "Maybe he already fell out."
Her gaze slides down her mother's body as if the baby might have fallen directly into her sweatpants.
(Well, really his sweatpants, but it was the least he could do.)
"Not yet, sweetie." He eases onto the rug in the big open space of the living room.
"Can you get him out?"
At this point Derek's not sure which of his favorite women is actually more impatient to evict the newest member of their family.
When in doubt, choose distraction: "Hey Zozo, why don't we play a game?"
Zola brightens. "A tea party?"
"Sure."
"On the floor."
"Sure."
"…with Mommy," Zola adds firmly.
"Zo …"
His daughter's little pink mouth settles into a pout; she's still getting used to her mother's hiatus from formerly beloved activities like puppy piles … floor wrestling … and sitting criss-cross applesauce for extended tea parties.
"The floor isn't a good place for Mommy to sit right now," Derek reminds her gently.
"Why not?" Zola looks dejected.
"Because Mommy is carrying around an extra five hundred pounds." Meredith eases herself down on the couch, very slowly, with Derek's help, and then pats the cushion next to her. "Zozo, come sit with me, and we can have a tea party right here."
"I don't want to."
"We can play a game up here." Meredith pats the empty space again. "Do you want to get your checkerboard, sweetie?"
It's magnetic, meant for travel, but Zola shakes her head vigorously, braids swinging.
"How about your animal family?"
Another shake of the head, and a teary eyed Zola finally confesses she wants to build with modeling clay.
On the couch.
Maybe she's hoping to make her baby brother even smarter with some more sibling-crafted art. Which is fine, very-pregnant fine, and Derek scores husband points he doesn't keep track of by crafting a decent, maybe not even all that destructive pottery setup using a two-handled kitchen tray and several old towels.
It's a fair bit of work for a project unlikely to hold their fast-moving daughter's attention for long, but both of his favorite women seem to appreciate it.
He handles the cleanup of both couch and child; he wants to let Meredith rest but he's also enjoying what he knows are the last days of having just one child to dote on. That means taking his time, not rushing his daughter through toothbrushing (singing the ABC song twice as requested while she does so; Zola adds, patriotically if rather confusingly, the Star Spangled Banner) or selecting predictably pink pajamas, or supervising while Zola stands furrow-browed with hands on hips to determine which of her stuffed animals will get the prized pillow position tonight. She selects her kangaroo, a frequent winner, and then pauses in front of her little pine dresser, holding her arms aloft. He scoops her up so she can kiss the photographs good night, a tradition too adorable not to linger.
Zola takes the ritual seriously, lifting the framed picture of her baby self in her aunt's arms and then placing a kiss on the glass. "Good night, Aunt Lexie and Baby Zozo," she says, like always, and like so many times before his daughter's sweetness soothes the stinging reminder of losing Lexie far too soon. "Good night, Mommy and Daddy and little Zozo," she continues, a Halloween shot of his beaming bumblebee that never fails to make him smile. "Goodnight Vivi and regular Zozo," she says next, and the frame she's holding is a newer one, holding a shot from their visit to the Sloans' Hamptons house last summer. It was taken underwater, with the camera they gave Vivian for her sixth birthday, so the angle is semi distorted but still splashed with sunlight. Zola and Viv are both beaming, Zola turned toward the older girl with her hand outstretched. Mark sent them the picture, and Zola pounced on it before it was open. There are other new pictures in the house since that summer in New York, including his mother and some of the extended Shepherd family with Zola, but they are elsewhere in the house, where family pictures tend to crop up. But the dresser is Zola's space, and when she set the frame there, it stayed.
She turns in her father's arms, smelling of strawberry-flavored toothpaste, and he gives her an impulsive squeeze. She's already so much bigger, so much more independent, than the little girl they brought with them to Manhattan last summer.
Zola is cooperative and cuddly when he moves her toward bed, taking advantage of her considerable charms to request a second book. He waits, interested to see if it will be one of the new big-sibling books, the ones he and Meredith have been referring to as baby propaganda.
Indeed, Zola's book collection has expanded considerably as they await the baby, all the way from rather outdated titles recommended by his sisters to a more updated one from Miranda Bailey. Almost all of them involve animals. Some psychologist out there must have decided children are more likely to accept new siblings if they resemble tiny hedgehogs in denim overalls, or a family of penguins shuffling around the south pole. He adds it to the list of topics he won't cover with Kathleen.
Zola gives him a look suggesting she understands his intent, slides down from his arms and returns with a generic princessy book of the type he and Meredith both tend away from. Somehow, though, her shelves are full of them. Maybe it's the pink spines. Or the fact that saying no to their daughter has never come easy.
In fairness, it's hard when she's this adorable.
Meredith is propped up in bed, looking none too comfortable, when he's finished.
She looks over as he walks into the room. "Did she go down okay?"
"Like a champ." He strips off his shirt on his way into the bathroom, then returns with his toothbrush; the conversation feels unfinished.
"She's disappointed. When I can't do things." Meredith glances at him; apparently he was right that there was more to say. "She's not used to hearing no. Which is my fault."
"And my fault," he reminds her.
"Your fault, that's right." Meredith's face turns teasing, then serious again. "Derek … you think she has any idea what the new baby is going to mean?"
"No," Derek says honestly. "But I'm not sure there's anything we could do differently."
Meredith looks unconvinced. "How can we know that?"
How can they?
"Zola's great," he says.
"Of course she's great."
"There you go." He leans over to kiss her.
She smiles up at him as he stands. "You taste like toothpaste … and you didn't really answer my question."
"Just part of my charm," he says as he returns to the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed.
…
One of the less pleasant perks of the third trimester, aka the you're kind of a trespasser at this point, almost forty weeks, totally fully developed baby stage: she doesn't really sleep anymore.
She's very tired, and she does sleep … sort of … but not for any extended periods. Vaguely, from the birthing class with the woo, she recalls that there's some hormonal reason for this. She's extra alert to keep predators from eating her newborn or something warm and fuzzy like that. Warm, fuzzy, and oh-so-applicable inside a comfortable modern home. Sure, there are bears in the woods, but she's almost positive not a single one of them has noticed she's pregnant. Which is just fine with her.
All of the extra awake time, free from predation, means more time to think.
She has a lot to think about.
She thinks about whether she'll ever be able to tie her shoes again.
She thinks about what they'll name their son, once they meet him.
She thinks about whether Zola will forgive them for shaking up her cozy world, the sweet pink one where she's the center of their universe. Meredith can't blame her: she loves that world too.
Maybe there's some woo-caveman reasoning for this too, but the final weeks of Meredith's pregnancy has coincided with a noticeable spike in their daughter's independence. Night after night, she's been staying cuddled in her own princess bed, until pink heart stickers are marching across her sleep board.
(Yeah, she's also that mom, who makes a sleep board to motivate her daughter, and sure, she snagged one of the spare posterboards from the scheduling easel in the attendings' lounge to make it, and used charting markers to draw in the squares, but it still counts.)
And Zola mastered the last, nocturnal stage of potty training seemingly on her own, glorying in the ruffled days-of-the-week underwear she can wear as a result.
The next morning—still very pregnant, no thank you very much—she watches their very independent daughter place her little purple puffy coat on the floor and flip it on all by herself just like she learned in day care.
"But you can do the zip," she offers, making both parents smile.
Derek has to exert some effort to help close Zola's coat and she watches, marveling at how much their daughter has grown: what's visible, and what isn't. She's so much older.
But not too much, thankfully, as Zola takes advantage of her father's distraction to launch her little purple-coated body at his, somewhere between a missile and a marshmallow. He lets her tackle him to the rug before he retaliates in their traditional manner, poking her ribs gently until she's squealing with laughter.
Meredith can't join in, but she's not a bystander. Not in this house.
…
"Any day now!" the daycare teacher says brightly—the perkier one, of course.
"Yeah, any day now." Meredith forces a smile as she echoes the words.
"You almost sounded believable," Derek teases her as they walk down the hallway together … slowly.
Not easy in a hospital, but she's put in her time here. She can take some time now.
"Yeah? I'll have to try harder next time."
…
At forty weeks, four days, she tells Derek not to come with her to the OB. "Go to work," she says. "Drop Zola off, cut some people open. It's not like there'll be anything to report."
(Privately, she's hoping for a little reverse psychology, in case the baby is as competitive as his parents, but apparently her uterus is too smart for that.)
He comes anyway.
"No progress," Meredirh reports from the stirrups before the OB has even touched her.
"That's the spirit."
Okay, fine, getting a semi-sarcastic OB was a decent move.
But still …
"It will happen. When he's ready."
"I've tried everything," she says as Derek helps her sit up. "All the things. More than once. A lot of things."
"He's not ready to come out." The OB smiles at her. "He's comfortable in there."
"At least someone's comfortable," she says grumpily.
…
"No, the baby is still not here," she says in lieu of hello when she answers the phone.
"The baby? Oh, you mean the parasite."
Meredith frowns. It's marginally better than just calling to find out whether she's in labor, but— "The parasite. Really?"
"Factually. Yes."
"He's a baby."
"He's a fetus."
"Cristina … you love Zola," she reminds her friend.
"Of course I love Zola. Zola is not a parasite. She's not even a fetus. Zola … is a person."
"This one will be a person too."
"Zola doesn't leach your calcium stores without consent," Cristina continues, "until your risk of osteoporosis –
"Got it. The point is, you love Zola."
"I do love Zola." There's a pause. "How's she doing?"
"Well, she's confused about why the baby hasn't fallen out yet."
"A scientist," Cristina observes. "I always knew she was smart."
Smart? Yes, very.
Patient … maybe not so much.
It's not that Meredith blames her. She's getting pretty impatient herself.
"It's good to hear your voice," she admits.
"Don't get all hormonal and weird. I'll hang up."
"You won't."
"You know I will."
… she doesn't.
…
Dinner is chicken vindaloo: eye-wateringly spicy, with copious yogurt and cucumbers for Zola, who pronounces it delicious.
"Maybe this is the problem." Meredith raises her eyebrows. "The baby also thinks it's delicious."
"Like sister, like brother?" Derek smiles at her.
"They both have good taste."
"If the baby doesn't fall out," Zola begins casually, "doesn't ever fall out … can we get a pet llama instead?"
"We'll see," Derek says, channeling his own mother, who at his request has diplomatically switched to emailing him for updates rather than calling. Zola, for her part, seems satisfied.
"If the baby doesn't ever fall out, I hope you and the llama are very happy together," Meredith says quietly, for Derek's benefit only, then smiles at their daughter.
Zola kneels up on her chair, unperturbed. "No pineapple," she says before anyone discusses dessert; they can't exactly blame her.
"No pineapple. Hey." Derek stands up and holds his arms out. "I have another idea. You want to help me, Zozo?"
She does.
He pulls out the pricey blender Meredith teased him about, but if anyone can appreciate a perfectly sharpened blade it's a surgeon. Two surgeons. He sets Zola on her kitchen helper stool, which always makes her look adorable, and together they concoct dessert.
"A milkshake?" Meredith's eyes widen. "I'm a little full."
"It has dates!" Zola can hardly contain her glee. "They're like giant raisins, Mommy."
"I guess I can't pass up a giant raisin shake."
There's vanilla ice cream in it too, it's thick and undeniably delicious.
"… I'll get three straws."
Zola has a milk mustache and a not unnoticeable sugar high when they've finished.
And Meredith, well …
…
"I'm still pregnant."
"I noticed." He leans over to kiss her. "You have to give the dates some time."
"Sure. I have nothing but time." She tries to adjust her position, Derek figuring it out quickly and helping her stand. On her feet, she rests a palm against her lower back ruefully. "I can't get comfortable."
"I know." Gently, he massages her lower back, replacing her hand.
"I'm ridiculously pregnant, Derek."
"But you make it look so good."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
She makes a face at him. "You know I already married you."
"I noticed that too."
"I'm about to give you a second child—well, assuming he ever comes out."
"And I'm very grateful."
She smiles a little now. "I'm just saying … you don't have to work a line with me."
"No? But it worked so well the first time."
"Mm." She leans in to kiss him, having to twist sideways now that she's a few times her normal circumference. "What are we going to tell the kids about where we met?"
"Church," Derek suggests solemnly.
"Church." Meredith laughs in spite of herself. "Something believable, Derek."
"The hospital, then."
"See, now that's believable." She touches his face. "Derek …?"
"Hm?"
"I know I said you didn't have to work a line …"
"… but it worked?"
"Don't gloat."
…
Forget spicy food and pineapple and dates and cleaning the floors—that was her mother-in-law's suggestion, of course, which Meredith tactfully promised to consider, but even the birthing class with the woo had something about it. Screw yoga—she's never going to be a yoga mom—and she'll take her long walks around the hospital, thank you very much.
This trigger, though?
This one she can get behind.
This one … really plays to her strengths.
…
He can't lie: it's his favorite potential labor trigger. It hasn't worked to induce labor, but he would say it works nonetheless.
… which is not to say it hasn't required some creativity … some flexibility … but they've never had a problem there.
He loves the new shape of her, so different in its contours but still so much the same. He's skimming his hands over her gently, enjoying how responsive she is.
"Derek?"
"Hm?"
" … did you happen to notice my cervix?"
"Did I happen to – " He pulls his head away, then sits up. "Please tell me I misheard that."
"I just figured as long as you were down there … ."
"As long as I was down there … " His voice trails off. "Your cervix. Your cervix?"
"I'm just saying.'
"And I'm just saying – which I never thought I would in your presence – that I am very turned off right now."
"Oh, yeah?" Meredith arches an eyebrow. "Then how do you expect to bring on labor?"
"I'll think of something," he mutters.
"Think of my cervix," she suggests. "Think of whether it's – "
"Meredith."
"Derek." She repeats his name with equal urgency. "I want this baby out of me."
"He will be. Soon."
"Clearly.
"Meredith … if I could make him come out faster, I would."
"You put him in me," she reminds him darkly. "I didn't hear you complaining about that."
"I was definitely not complaining about that. And I'm not complaining about this," he adds, reminding himself how very pregnant she is, how physically taxed and uncomfortable. How much of this sacrifice is hers. He rests a hand on the tight drum of her belly. What a miraculous thing her body has done, her strong and healthy and unusually flexible body, and even after more than forty weeks sheis still so much herself.
She sighs, sounding very put-upon. "Fine … keep going."
He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that it's not really her fault she's treating him like a … labor inducing machine, with a side of not-quite-consenting obstetrician.
It's still her. It's still them, and when he smiles at her it's genuine.
"See you later," he tells her, arching one eyebrow, before he eases his body lower on the bed.
"And while you're down there, Derek … you can rub my feet," she suggests, and then it's his turn to sigh.
(He does it, though. He's no fool.)
…
Forty and six. Forty and six.
That's it. That's the end of forty. Everything after that will be forty-one.
She's on the couch, feeling like a whole … school or whatever of beached whales, alone but not alone because she has a good view into the kitchen. She's watching Zola flit around and chat with Derek, who is cleaning up, in her sweet little voice.
(She loves the openness of the house. It was part of the plan all along: to be inside but also outside, to be close together but also have space and height. And while she wasn't exactly planning to be fifteen months pregnant or five hundred pounds, the space has worked out pretty well.)
"Maybe the baby will fall out tonight," Zola says thoughtfully, climbing onto the stepstool they set up at the kitchen island just for her. It has a little rail in front to keep her from pitching forward and they've always gotten a kick out of the princess-in-a-turret look their daughter has when she's perched up there. "Or you can get him out. Here, Daddy."
She thrusts a pink plastic plate emblazoned with a butterfly in her father's direction.
Meredith recognizes the pause Derek takes as the husband of the pregnant wife thing where he tries to figure out which answer is less likely, when overheard, to piss off the massively about-to-pop woman who's listening.
"Maybe," he says finally, sounding rather strained.
…
The baby doesn't fall out that night, and they don't get him out either, whatever that would entail.
The baby is still very much secured when she senses Derek waking up behind her the next morning. Not that she was actually sleeping, not when their son prefers her awake to fend off bears or whatever.
"Good morning."
Meredith rolls on her side with no small amount of effort, finally accepting her husband's tactfully discreet help. ". . . I'm still pregnant."
"Good morning to you too."
But his eyes are twinkling, so she can't hate him as much as she really should for that. Plus, his hair is still all tousled from last night's . . . labor encouragement. And his hand on her neck is warm, and it's doing nice things to her stiff muscles, so she'll just kill him later.
Her point is that she's still pregnant.
Still.
And that's a lot of pregnancy.
Even for shiny, happy, pregnant mommy Meredith. And let's be clear, there are positives. Some positives.
Her hair looks objectively amazing. Her already adorable daughter has begun singing lullabies – charmingly off key with half the wrong lyrics – to her baby bump, and she and Derek have taken to heart their OB's advice for the last two weeks and dedicated themselves to attempting to bring on labor through one of their favorite activities.
(Of course, that would be a little easier if she weren't currently slightly larger than the trailer where her husband was living when she first met him … but they're nothing if not creative.)
They've set a plan with Alex for Zola and one of the lovely, bonded daycare teachers as extra backup. They've set up their daughter's old crib and a tiny bassinet in their bedroom, washed the dozen sensible white onesies she picked out and the ridiculous number of … ridiculous onesies that were gifted to them, too. Zola proudly selected a plush cow as her baby brother's first lovey and has begun regularly setting a place for him at her ever more intricate tea parties.
In short, they're ready.
Right?
Except for just one thing.
One very small thing.
The small thing … is kind of her cervix.
… still.
"How does it look?" she asks hopefully just a few hours later, propping up on her elbows as much as she can when she's this big and unwieldy and in stirrups, Derek sliding an arm under her back to support her.
"Still closed."
Of course.
"How closed?"
"… closed." The OB snaps her glove off.
"I guess that means you're not sweeping my membranes today," Meredith says glumly. "Again."
"There's nowhere for me to sweep." The OB pauses. "Meredith. I know you want to wait to discuss induction – "
"Just because we have time," Meredith says quickly, glancing at Derek. "Not in a … birth plan way."
" – and that's fine, but I'm putting you on the schedule for Monday," the OB continues. She's punching something into the computer, and then she turns around again. "It's not a commitment. You can just think about it as an option."
She doesn't want to think about it, period. "Are you sure I'm still closed?"
The OB lifts an eyebrow.
"I'm just saying." Meredith is trying to shuffle her now ridiculously thick hair into a ponytail while they talk; it's everywhere these days. "I've been eating a lot of pineapple. And … other strategies."
Derek coughs politely into his fist and then she has to press her own lips together.
Closed.
Of course it's still closed.
…
What it all comes down to, is this:
"He's never going to come out." She stabs the elevator button dispiritedly.
"Mer." Derek rests a hand on her shoulder. "He's going to come out."
"And yet … ." She raises her eyebrows, leaning closer so that the tight drum of her belly rests against him, emphasizing her point. She gestures to the empty tiled floor in front of them. "Do you see him? Is there a baby here?"
"He's going to come out."
"Forty-one weeks, Derek. Forty-one!"
He nods sympathetically, and she carries the conversation into the elevator.
"Remember that birthing class you talked me into, with the yoga balls and the massage and the … woo?"
"I remember the class," he says. "I also remember your being pretty happy about the massage."
"The massage was fine. The woo was … less fine. My point," she continues, "is that I ended up on an email chain with all those women and I'm pretty sure I never agreed to that, by the way, but my point is, they've all had their babies. All of them!"
"You're going to have your baby too," he says calmly.
"All of them," she says, continuing the conversation as the walk to the car. "Even the ones who weren't showing yet."
"Meredith."
"Even the ones who were due after me."
"Mer."
"That one who wanted a water birth?" she continues. "Baby. Here."
"Did she have the water birth?" he asks.
". . . she had the pool, anyway." They share an amused, if uncharitable, glance. "The point is, her baby is here."
"And our baby will be here too," Derek says, unlocking the jeep.
"But he's not."
"But he will be." He offers her a hand, supporting her as she climbs in.
Meredith just shakes her head, returning to her list as Derek helps her get the seat belt comfortable settled around her. "The one who kept doing handstands during break? Her baby is here."
"Of course," Derek can't seem to help muttering, "he probably fell out."
Meredith ignores him, waiting until he's climbed into the driver's seat to continue the list. "The one with the giant husband who you said looked like grunge Paul Bunyan? Here."
"Was the baby giant?" he asks, keys halfway to the ignition, curious.
"Nine pounds six ounces."
They both take a moment to consider that.
"Meredith – "
"Even the one who brought her emotional support rabbit," she continues as if he hasn't spoken. "Baby. Here."
"Our baby will be here, too."
Somehow, he still sounds calm. He actually sounds calm.
… this is why she hasn't killed him yet.
…
Years of practicing medicine have taught him that humans can get used to just about anything, a lot faster than you'd think. It has something to do with preparation, with numbers and making lists. With the nothing – and everything – is in your control, at the same time.
So he packed a bag, he read more than one book, he selected the birthing class his wife has been teasing him about since. As if it's normal. Birth.
They were ready by 38 weeks.
They were still ready at 39 weeks.
On their son's due date, they stick a candle in a pink cupcake – Zola chooses it, of course – and let their daughter sing a hopeful happy birthday in the general direction of her unborn brother.
Forty and one. Forty and two.
They've been counting like Zola's old number board books, the ones they stacked up and put away for the new baby.
And the same weary report he heard this morning:
Still pregnant.
He's used to it now. He expects it.
Still pregnant.
And so his reassurances: he'll be here as soon as he's ready, maybe even today –
They've become second nature too.
Normal.
Which means that this morning, at forty one weeks and two days, when he presses a kiss to the fragrant fall of her hair to wake her, he says the same words.
Except this morning, she just stares at him when he says it.
"What?"
"You said today." Her eyes widen. "He's not coming today."
Derek tries to figure out where he went wrong. Weakly, he smiles. "So… not today, then?" he offers.
She just pulls the covers over her head in response.
… normal.
…
He doesn't push her on it, and she doesn't bring it up again until he's finished what's become their morning routine: waking their daughter ("did the baby fall out yet?" Zola asks cheerfully), getting her washed up and ready for the day while Meredith is supposed to snatch an extra half hour of sleep.
Not that she ever does.
As usual, she's already dressed when he heads to the kitchen, sans Zola, who's requested just five more minutes, Daddy, to finish something before breakfast.
"Not today, Derek," Meredith says as he approaches. "I mean it."
"Not today," he repeats, still trying to catch up.
"Absolutely not today," she says firmly, looking up from the apple she's been chopping for Zola's breakfast. She glances down at the swell of her belly, which he's convinced by this point is larger than she is. Not that he's about to tell her that. She would say she passed the cute phase of pregnancy months ago, and he would disagree. But as beautiful as she looks, there's no doubt she also looks … less than comfortable.
Which is why he's confused that she doesn't want their baby to arrive today.
"Not today," she repeats. "You heard me, right?" she murmurs in the direction of their stubbornly unborn baby.
"Did he answer?" Derek asks with interest.
"Very funny." She frowns at him. "This isn't funny, Derek. It's not funny."
"It's not funny," he says agreeably, the policy he's adopted for the third trimester and one that's been, if not successful, at least moderately low-failure.
"He's not allowed to be born today." She eats one of the apple chunks she's cut for their daughter, then makes a face. "Does this taste a little off – don't you say it," she adds before he can respond.
. . . least worst choice, anyway.
"I didn't say anything," he points out.
"You were going to say that could be a sign of labor."
Another phrase that used to be reassurance and apparently, today, is insult. That's fine. She's doing all the heavy lifting; he can hang on for the ride.
He swipes his own apple chunk to eat since it seems safer than responding.
Off just means sour in this case, at least to him. Zola's a passionate devotee of tart green apples which, in what he assumes is a rather touching nod to the grandmother she met in New York City last summer, she refers to as Grammy Smith apples.
Meredith is watching him closely. "No baby today. There's no baby coming today. Okay?"
"Okay." He leans in to sweep up the apple peelings and core before she can yell at him for cleaning up after her.
I'm pregnant, not lazy!
As if anyone could call her lazy.
But at forty-one weeks and one already very long day pregnant, she's … well, she's very pregnant, and he doesn't think anyone would fault him trying to make things a little easier for her. If he can just carefully do it with her noticing –
"Derek, if you wash that peeler for me, I'm going to divorce you."
"Noted," he said, setting the peeler back down on the cutting board.
She does lean in to kiss him – it takes a fair bit of leaning, in her present state – which softens her threat a bit.
He rests a hand on her belly, which has evolved from the cutest of tiny bumps like a shared secret to a firm little bowling ball that swelled him with pride whenever he saw it, to –
"What?" Meredith catches him looking, then follows his gaze to where his son's foot or elbow or something visibly pokes from the stretched skin of his mother's belly. "Yes, I know, I'm a soccer field. Don't remind me."
She rests her own hand next to his, and he sees the way her thumb caresses their baby's little dancing limb. She glances at him. "Do you think it's bad that this seems normal to me?"
"I don't think it's bad."
"I'm basically that woman in Alien." She frowns. "You know, the one with the – thing. And now I can't even remember who that was. See? He's stealing my brain cells."
"I don't think that's how it works."
"I'm married to a neurosurgeon," she reminds him primly, "and I'm pregnant, so I'm pretty sure I get to decide how it works."
"That's fair." He steals another kiss, marveling at how hard and … present … the baby is now. A firm kick – or maybe an elbow – underscores the point. "You get to decide."
"Thank you." She points the peeler at him emphatically. "Now say you agree he's not allowed to be born today."
He opens his mouth to say the words.
Meredith taps one bare foot on the floor – no, not the floor, the anti-exhaustion mats he purchased that she mocked and then relished in turn.
And since, eight days after her due date, the baby has shown no definitely signs of arriving … he thinks it was a pretty good purchase.
…
"I give up."
"You? You don't give up." Meredith sighs. "Fine. Just look at the calendar."
He does.
"Because today's a holiday?"
She sighs again.
"Sorry," he says immediately.
She looks concerned. "Am I that bad?"
"You're not bad at all."
Meredith looks a little happier now, at least. "It's not that it's a holiday, Derek. Holiday babies are okay. I'm fine with holiday babies," she says. "Groundhog Day … he could have been born on Groundhog Day. Or Lincoln's birthday. Either of those holidays would have been fine."
"That's very generous of you." He tries, and fails, to hide his smile.
"Or he can hold off until Washington's birthday," she offers, scrunching up her face slightly in the calculation. It seems politic not to mention how adorable the gesture makes her look, so he keeps it to himself. "That might be too far away. At some point, we stop waiting, right? Or do we just let him walk out?"
This seems like one of those questions it's best not to answer.
"My point is … I'm fine with holiday babies," she repeats, "just not this one."
"What's so bad about this one?"
"Derek!" She spoons oatmeal into Zola's little pink silicone bowl with exasperated movements. "It's Valentine's Day!"
"So?"
"So, he's not going to be born on Valentine's Day. We're not those people."
"What people are those?"
"Valentine's Day people." She wrinkles her nose. "Pink hearts and flowers people."
Ah. If he forgot the date it's because they don't do that kind of date, he and his wife. They never have. Which is not to say they don't celebrate. Don't memorialize. Their moments of private celebration – and there are many, in a given year, some more printable than others – are just that: private. They've never been the sort to take direction from Hallmark as to when to remind each other of all sorts of promises.
That, he gets.
But – pink hearts and flowers?
He's not so inexperienced at this pregnancy thing to say it. So he focuses his gaze on his wife's eyes – pale green in this light and very, very pretty – rather than on the rest of the kitchen, which is, well …
Let's just say there's no dearth of pink hearts or flowers.
He studiously avoids looking at the refrigerator, where their daughter's floridly floral artwork, in shades of pink and more pink, is swapped out each week. Or the rubber tipped spoon she likes at breakfast time – well, it's purple, but there are hearts on it. Their son's ultrasound pictures unfold like origami on the same refrigerator, held in place with copper magnets shaped like … hearts. If he were to turn his head just a bit – not that he would dare – he'd gaze out at what used to be their living room and is now a combination Zozo Zone and family area. The soft blanket his mother crocheted for Zola – pink and purple with a pattern of hearts – is draped over the arm of the couch. There's a plastic sugar bowl and two teacups on the table in differing pink floral patterns; just one tea seat couldn't be enough for their daughter. By the door, pink rubber rainboots with pink-and-white flowered lining are waiting for their mistress. And next to them –
"Derek."
He nods, keeping his face as still as possible. He's just noticed Meredith is drinking out of the large earthenware mug from Liz, painted with two big and two small bears across its oversized surface. Mama, it says on the second-biggest bear. There's a heart painted on each of the little cubs flanking her. It's been in heavy rotation since his sister sent it, Meredith insisting it's only because she liked the copious amount of decaf it held.
"No Valentine's Day," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"No Valentine's Day," he repeats obediently.
"And don't look at me like that." She points a spatula in his direction, seems to notice it's pink, and stuffs it hastily back into its mason jar home. "Derek. Valentine's Day is a made up, commercialized, really kind of gross waste of – oh, what a beautiful card, Zozo!" Her tone changes abruptly mid-sentence as their daughter darts into the room holding a large construction paper card in the shape of a heart.
Derek turns, welcoming his daughter's arrival – for many reasons, not the least that he longer has to hide his smile.
"I made it!" Zola puffs out her little chest; she's wearing a pink sweater with red hearts knit into it, but then again this is Zola – she'd wear that any day of the week if they'd let her. It may not be Valentine related. The card, though? "It's for the baby," their daughter explains.
Derek raises an eyebrow at Meredith – a very clear want to revisit that Valentine's Day ban? eyebrow – but she ignores it.
"That's so sweet of you, Zo." She clears her throat a little. There's some emphatic purple crayoning on the oversized heart – Zola has been working on her printing with admittedly more enthusiasm than coherence. "Will you read it to me?" Meredith asks, a tactful way around illegible preschool handwriting picked up from Zola's daycare teachers.
"Yeah." Zola stands on her tiptoes to look at the card. "It says dear baby brother," and she beams at Meredith and Derek in turn; he feels his heart tighten with the sheer love for their daughter, "dear baby brother," Zola repeats in her sweet voice, "get out."
Derek covers his laugh fairly effectively with a cough.
"Get … out," Meredith repeats faintly. "That's what it says?"
"Yeah, get out. Of your belly!" Zola reaches a small hand out to touch what can really no longer accurately be called a bump. "'Cause he's late."
"He'll be here soon, sweetie."
"When?"
Meredith and Derek exchange a glance.
Not today.
…
She was perfectly clear.
She explained it and everything.
Not today.
Simple as that.
So why is he looking at her like that, just because she flinched, a tiny bit?
"Mer – "
"I'm fine, Derek. It's not the most comfortable being four hundred pounds, but I'm fine. Not every … twitch is a sign of labor."
"I know that."
"I'm not even that late," she reminds him, knowing but not particularly caring that it's pretty much the exact opposite of her chorus every other morning. She's carefully easing her considerable bulk into the passenger side of the car while Derek equal parts hovers and pretends he's not hovering. It's obvious, but it's … sweet, whatever.
She took it for granted, is the thing, being quick and light, lithe. It's not about a clothing size. It's not vanity. It's the sheer luxury – history now – of never having to wonder where you'll fit and how soon you'll be out of breath and the sweating.
So much sweating, even now in the chilly last months of winter.
Sweating. Not glowing. She's a surgeon: surgeons don't glow.
"Is it the baby, Mommy?" Zola calls from the backseat with interest, her father in miniature.
"Not yet, sweetie." Meredith turns, with some effort, worth it to be warmed by her daughter's smile.
In the backseat, unperturbed by her brother's delay, Zola kicks her feet in their pink fuzzy boots and hums to herself.
And Meredith turns back to her husband.
"It's an estimated date of delivery, Derek. We don't actually know the date of conception."
That's what Addison emphasized, anyway; with everything else the Sloans have been dealing with, she still reached out to check on Meredith's pregnancy. Admittedly, she's touched. Especially since, if things were different, Addison might also still be pregnant. Well … maybe not this late, at forty-whatever weeks, but with Meredith's EDD two days from Addison's precise IVF-assisted calculation … their pregnancies should have been stair step all along.
"Estimated. I know." Derek turns over the ignition.
"And the French set their EDDs at forty-one weeks, not forty."
"Should we be French?"
"We could be French."
"We should probably wait until you can drink more wine."
She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he drives, pausing for some animated discussion with Zola on, for a reason neither parent is sure, koala bears.
"I'm pretty sure they're not native to Washington," Derek is saying now, "but I'll check on the computer, while I'm at work, and I'll tell you tonight, Zozo. Okay?"
"Okay!"
There you go. Their daughter knows:
It's okay.
…
"Mer … it's okay."
"I know that."
And she snaps it rather than saying it, which is … unfair.
She knows she's being unfair.
But she frowns at her husband anyway. "Stop worrying."
It's unfair because she's allowed to do the worrying thing. The fretting thing. The oh-my-god-what-if-the-baby-just-up-and-refuses-to-come-out-ever thing. Derek … is supposed to just trust her. Which means trusting when she doesn't want the baby coming out, too. Like today, for example.
(See? Unfair.)
Apologetic now, she reaches a hand over the console to rest on his leg; he gives her a brief smile while focusing on the road.
Damn hormones.
"You're going to be great," he says.
She doesn't respond.
"I'm not worried," he says.
She doesn't respond.
"Mer … he is going to come out – but not today," he adds hurriedly. "Definitely not today."
She turns to look at him in profile as he drives. "He'd better not."
…
"Not today," Derek says again – it's already the Grey-Shepherd family motto – as he lifts Zola down from her carseat. "Hold Daddy's hand," he reminds her, never trusting the other drivers in the parking lot. It's a hospital; people are distracted.
Meredith reaches down – not comfortably – to adjust her daughter's hat halfway to slipping down over her eyes.
"Mommy." Zola tugs at her mother's hand with her free, pink-mittened one, then pats the bulge of her belly. "When is the baby coming again?"
"Not today," her parents respond in immediate unison.
Zola accepts this, and leads them towards the hospital entrance, one of her hands in either of theirs.
Meredith has a pang, watching her daughter like this. Between them. Still, despite the fact that her baby brother has been gestating for approximately three years … still, an only child.
But not for long.
Derek has a surgery and kisses them both goodbye at the elevators, extracting promises of updates and offering reassurances of not today in equal measure.
Zola hangs onto her mother's hand, chattering about her day in the sweet voice Meredith could never tire of. Forget not today. It's hard to think that this life, this normal, is about to end.
"Good morning, Zola!"
Zola beams at the enthusiastic greeting. And Meredith winces, hopefully not in too obvious a way. The always bright and cheerful classroom seems to have suffered what can only be called an Explosion of Pink. There are puffy tissue paper hearts hanging from the walls, pink balloons bobbing at the ceiling, a big pink heart shaped box in the middle of the room.
"Valentines go in there," the teacher says with a smile.
Meredith has a moment of sheer panic – I'm the worst mother, I'm already neglecting my firstborn – before she remembers the package Derek pressed into her hands at the elevators.
Valentines.
Thank god.
It was smart of her husband not to bring them up, in fairness, considering her anti-Valentines Day stance, but at least she's been subtle about it.
"Daddy helped me," Zola tells her teachers, taking the pink box from Meredith. "My mommy does not like hearts."
… okay, fine, maybe not that subtle.
"Hearts are … fine," she says weakly; Zola doesn't seem convinced.
She says goodbye instead of trying further to defend herself. Her schedule, at fifteen months pregnant, involves rare time on her feet. But she's taken on additional teaching responsibilities to flesh out her days, additional certifications to keep her skills sharp. And she doesn't want to be late.
"Have fun today, Zozo. I love you."
The daycare teachers have become pros at this – scooping Zola up so she can kiss Meredith goodbye since her days of squatting down to her daughter's level are behind her.
"But Mama, don't forget to come and get me if the baby falls out," Zola reminds her sternly, three kisses later, and Meredith has to swallow a smile at her serious expression.
"I won't. Well, Daddy might come," she reminds her daughter, more concerned with Zola's security than the Valentine's Day debacle, "or Uncle Alex, but I promise I won't forget."
As if her daughter could be anything but unforgettable.
…
Here's the thing: it's not that she wants to be seven hundred pounds forever and frankly she wouldn't mind seeing her feet again, at least to check that they're both still there.
Then again, she signed on for this. She made a choice.
Zola didn't make a choice.
And no matter how many times their sweet daughter asks about her brother, generously adds discarded pink teacups, outgrown tutus, and sometimes a used tissue to the baby brother pile in the corner of her play area … it still seems fair to say Zola has no real idea what's coming.
Meredith has been gently warned by more than one of Derek's sisters that Zola's newfound independence – her delight in her ruffled days-of-the-week underpants and the way she carefully fists her little pink rubber safety knife at meals, even her unprecedented streak of sleeping full nights in her big-girl bed – are bound to be affected by the arrival of her baby brother.
It seems patently unfair.
She wouldn't mind borrowing a little of her husband's optimism right about now, or the junior version of it that's drifted down to their daughter.
The side of him that thinks worrying about Zola's reaction to her as yet unborn brother is borrowing trouble or something we can worry about when we get there.
Meredith doesn't, as a rule, wait until she gets places to worry.
She worries less, since being a lifelong loner somehow, someway burst into the intimacy of the family she has now.
She worries less about her baby, specifically, since the early days with their fears of malformation and miscarriage, the panic that stole her breath that hot afternoon in Manhattan.
She worries a lot less.
But still. She worries.
…
"Hi." He leans in for a quick kiss. "How are you feeling?"
She looks up from her desk. "Huge."
"Other than that."
"Enormous."
" … Meredith."
"Take it up with your baby, Derek. If he's even still a baby and not a … toddler or whatever by now."
"Mer . . . "
"My cervix is still closed."
"I know."
"It's Valentine's Day, and my cervix is still closed."
He reaches for her hand.
"I'm sixty five weeks pregnant and my cervix refuses to open."
"That's how it is sometimes," he offers gently.
"Oh, what do you know? Is there a giant baby about to wreck your vagina?"
His eyes widen.
She's going to kill him.
Except –
"I guess Addison did say it was normal for a first-time pregnancy, even this late," she admits.
Derek looks amused. "Well, if Addison said it."
"What's so strange about that?"
"Nothing," he says. "It's very normal for my ex-wife to weigh in on my current wife's cervix."
"She is an expert," Meredith reminds him. "It would be a lot stranger if she were … a podiatrist or something."
She can't help laughing at the face he makes in response. She'll just have to kill him later.
"I know, I know. You'd never marry a podiatrist."
"Well." He leans in for one more kissbefore they part ways. "Neither would you."
"True."
…
"What do you know? It seems like your son actually listened."
Derek looks up, amused, from the living room floor, where he's been picking up some of the remaining two or three dozen tiny pieces of their daughter's toys. Zola helps clean up, of course. It's a sheer numbers game. Every man on board.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I told him not today, and he came … not today."
"Oh, that." Derek smiles at her expression. "I'm glad you're happy."
"I didn't say I was happy." She frowns. "I'm just saying."
He picks an impossibly small pink shoe from the threads of the carpet. "Does this actually fit someone?"
"Some doll, sure."
"We're going to have to keep this kind of thing off the floor when the baby's here."
"Derek." Meredith props a hand on her hip. "Do you really think now's the time to lecture me about childproofing?"
"I wasn't – " He stops before he can defend himself. "You're right," he says instead.
"Good." She glances at her watch. "So … yeah, your son listened, for now, but I'm not taking any chances."
"No?"
"No. There are still three and a half hours of Valentine's Day left, so I'm going to go read Zola a book – not a pink one – and, I don't know, keep my legs crossed."
With some effort, he keeps his face neutral at the image.
"I'll come join you in a few minutes."
"You do that." She smiles at him, softening her earlier tone, and lets him steal a kiss without too much grumbling about how he has to hug her sideways.
…
But it seems he waited too long to join story hour – it can't have been more than fifteen minutes, but when he gets to Zola's rather pink room, he sees both mother and daughter asleep on her ruffled sheets. Considering the chorus of snores, they've been sleeping for a while.
He takes a moment just to look at them.
Zola is wearing the long-john style pajamas that always make her look like a tiny ski bunny to him. They're pink, printed all over with purple hearts. She's curled into her mother's side so sweetly, fitting so perfectly, it's hard to believe she was never a part of that body. Meredith is propped on the pink bolster pillow at the head of the bed, her long hair – even more of it due to pregnancy, falling over the sheets.
She looks beautiful.
Tired, but beautiful.
Beautiful … and very, very pregnant.
She's slightly on her side, Zola fitted neatly into the curve of her like the S-shaped body pillow that's taken up residence in their king-sized bed. Carefully, he moves some hair away from her face, not wanting to disturb her sleep.
When that doesn't wake her, he lets his hand come to rest on the crown of her head. It's so hard for her to find comfortable sleep; he hates to wake her. Then again, he doesn't want her to wake up stiff from the unexpected position.
He'll split the difference, he decides: he'll let both his girls sleep like that for a few hours, while he takes advantage of the quiet to finish cleaning the kitchen, to deal with some papers, to do what he can recognize as the masculine version of nesting knowing there's a baby on the way any day.
(Any day but today, that is.)
He's in his study, jotting notes on a patient for the exit file he thought would be in use by now, when the creak of the door interrupts his focus.
"Daddy?"
"Zozo." Automatically, he holds out his arms and then there's a warm little bundle of daughter on his lap. "It's late, sweetie. Did you wake up?"
"Yeah." She snuggles against him. "You forgot to say goodnight."
"I didn't forget, Zo." He kisses the top of her head. "When I came in to say goodnight to you, you were already sleeping."
She peers up at him. "I was?"
He nods.
"That's silly." She beams and then relaxes against him again. "Daddy?"
And her little head pops up one more time. His sweet jack in the box. His first baby, the focus of their lives, the beating heart of their family, since the first moment the three of locked eyes and he just … knew.
Along with his excitement for their growing family, he's anxious about its changing contours.
Not that he would share that.
He's not the one ten months into a physical ordeal, preparing for a marathon, and he's not the one about to be lovingly displaced from her solo spot either.
"Daddy," she says again. "You know what?"
"Tell me, Zo." He strokes her soft cheek.
"Mommy's in my bed!" She smiles impishly.
"She is?" He feigns shock and Zola giggles.
"She's sleeping." Zola puts a tiny finger in front of her pink pursed lips. "Shh."
"Okay. I'll be very quiet." He takes a moment to hold his daughter close. "How about we go wake her up now so you can have your bed back?"
"I like sharing with her."
"I know you do." He smiles at her. "You're a very good sharer. But Mommy will sleep better in her bed and you will sleep better with your bed all to yourself."
"Maybe," Zola says, dragging out the syllables, sounding less convinced than usual. She's been sleeping in her own bed, all through the night, for months. He'd be lying if he said a part of him didn't miss the days of bedsharing just to get some sleep, their daughter's warm little body taking up an inordinate amount of room in the oversized bed. Last summer, in New York, they gave up any pretense of sleep in your own bed and just coslept, the relentless air conditioning making it feel almost like a rational choice. It's winter now, but the weather has hovered mildly in the mid-forties all week, nothing like the wind chill misery he can recall, with some effort, of his former life in Manhattan. True to his experience, everything is milder here. A coming together rather than a battering of extremes.
"Maybe I can sleep in your bed," Zola proposes as Derek stands up from his office chair with his daughter in his arms.
"Maybe." He kisses her cheek. "You don't want to sleep in your bed, Zozo?" he asks, keeping his tone casual.
"I don't know." She smiles down at him, busying herself playing with the collar of his flannel shirt.
"Well, then." He hoists her a little higher as they walk. "Let's see how you feel when we get there, okay, Zozo?"
"Daddy, wait." She thrusts a little hand out to hang onto the door frame before he can move them both into her pink bedroom. It's dark, the only light coming from the pink heart-shaped nightlight on the dresser. It's enough to cast a faint glow over the bed, where it seems his wife is still sleeping just as peacefully as the last time he saw her. Peaceful sleep hasn't exactly been easy to come by, not for weeks now.
He hates to wake her up.
The options: he could take Zola into the other room, let Meredith have a few more uninterrupted hours – but no, she should sleep more ergonomically. And his daughter is pulling at his collar again.
"What's wrong, sweetie?"
Zola rests both little hands on his shoulders, chewing her bottom lip pensively.
"Well … my bed is wet."
Ah. That makes things a little clearer.
"It is? That's okay, Zozo, it happens. Daddy will help you get cleaned up."
"I'm not a baby."
"Of course you're not. It happens to big girls too. Hey." He nudges her gently. "It's late, sweetie. You can sleep in our room while I change your sheets, okay? Should we take a quick bath first, or would you rather have a shower?"
She looks conflicted for some reason. He's setting her down on her feet, about to help her change her pajamas, when he realizes she doesn't feel damp at all.
"Zozo – "
He reaches for the tableside lamp, hoping not to wake Meredith; Zola tugs at the bottom of his flannel shirt.
"It wasn't me," she whispers.
He's pulling a fresh pair of pajamas out of her drawer. "What wasn't you, Zo?" he asks distractedly.
"Mommy did."
"Mommy did what?" He kneels down in front of her. "Arms up."
She lifts her arms up, then pulls them down again before he can strip off her pajama top.
"Zozo …"
She's chewing her bottom lip again and he sits back on his heels, reminding himself what a trooper she's been throughout these long, last few weeks of the pregnancy.
"What is it, sweetie?" He cups her face. "What did Mommy do?"
"Mommy wet my bed," Zola says. "But it's just an accident and it happens to big girls too."
Derek blinks.
Wet the –
"Hang on, Zozo."
…
"No," Meredith mumbles sleepily, pushing his hand away. "Derek. I'd know if my water broke."
"Mer … ."
"A person doesn't sleep through that. A person doesn't – " she pauses, her expression changing as her hand disappears under the pink blanket. "Derek?"
"I'm right here."
" … I think my water broke."
"I think you're right." He can't seem to stop the smile that's spreading across his face. It's finally happening. "How do you feel?"
"Wet." She pauses. "Can you just help me – " She struggles to sit up; he moves in quickly to support her. At this rate, throwing out Zola's sheets seems like the best option – their daughter is already tucked cozily into her parents' bed with the iPad, leaving Derek to sort out the next steps.
"Meredith. Hang on, don't – "
"What time is it?" she asks.
"Almost eleven." He smiles down at her, brushing back a strand of her hair. "I'll call Alex for Zola. You want to shower?" They've discussed that part of the plan. "I'll help you, but we should – "
"Almost eleven?" she repeats.
"Almost eleven. … Mer." He touches the side of her face. "It's okay. Everything's okay."
"No it's not." She tips her head back against the pillows. "Derek – it's still Valentine's Day."
For a moment, he's not sure if she's kidding. The lights are on now, and her face looks a little paler than he'd prefer.
"It's still Valentine's Day," he admits when it seems like she's serious, "but only for another hour. You're good, Meredith, but I still don't think you're going to deliver this baby in the next hour. So you're safe."
"He broke my water on Valentine's Day."
"So he must dislike the holiday as much as you do. Hey." Derek leans in and kisses her, cupping her face between his hands. "It's time. It's what we've been waiting for."
"My water broke."
"I know." He rubs his thumbs over her cheekbones, trying to focus her. "Are you – do you feel like you're having contractions?"
"I don't know. I have … something. Cramps. Maybe. Not that different from before."
"Mer – "
"But it is different. It must be. Because my water broke, and I slept through it." She reaches up to grip his wrist. "What if I sleep through labor too?"
"You won't sleep through labor. Nancy would be out of a job if that were a real possibility. I promise," he adds.
…
With Zola dozing in front of the prized iPad, covers drawn up to her little chin, Derek runs a warm shower while he runs through the lists that have taken up residence in his head for months.
He's made so many.
And they all make sense.
And they've had so much time.
But it seems far away and fuzzy somehow, his attention coalesced in the present instead.
Everything feels slow, but also fast. It doesn't make sense, but it makes perfect sense.
So he focuses on the present.
And his present is mostly trying to stay out of his wife's way while she showers, but support her discreetly at the same time. It takes all of his concentration. It takes all four of their hands to wash her hair but the appreciative noises she makes when he massages her scalp are worth it. Inside, he's itching to leave for the hospital.
It's not an emergency. He knows that.
Of course, no emergencies start out as emergencies … but still, he knows that.
But he's out of his element. In the steam-warmed bathroom, water sluicing over their bodies, time seems to fall away.
Except that time is very important. She's gripping his wrist as he supports her, breath coming heavily. "That one was … something." She grimaces.
He breathes with her. "You can do this."
"It's okay." Her fingers dig into his skin briefly, then release. "It's okay now. It's coming back though. Right? That's how this works?"
They're not doctors right now, neither one of them, not really. He's not timing anything; he's just … there. So he nods.
Under the shower, long hair slicked back, her eyes are enormous, focused on him. He's supporting her, hands wrapped securely around the new contours of her body. He feels her wince, takes some more of her weight.
"Another one?"
"I don't know. Maybe." She looks up at him and then grits her teeth as he takes her weight.
"Breathe," he coaches gently.
When she lifts her head up, water droplets cling to her lashes like tears.
"He's really coming," she says softly.
He moves wet hair away from her face. "He's really coming."
She looks down then, moving her hands over the swell of her pregnant belly. The skin is so taut it looks painful, but she's mapping its shape with an almost serene expression on her face. She looks … wistful. Wondrous.
The last day of this normal.
"Hey." Carefully, he covers her hands with his over the space where their son has grown and borrows their daughter's terminology: "Let's go get the baby out."
To be continued. I hope you'll review and let me know what you think, and I am excited to share the second half with you once it's proofed and polished. I appreciate hearing all your thoughts and taking this very VERY long journey with me. This story is a huge undertaking for both writer and reader and I am grateful for every one of you.
