A/N: First, thank you so much for the really generous comments on the Toxic two-parter. This week's update is, in a word, enormous. It's long, but I wanted to tell this part of the story in one chapter. I hope you will agree once you read it. Let's just say the Montgomerys are a complicated family, and they need a fair amount of word count. I love writing this story in part because there's room for lighter parts and heavier parts, which to me is very Addek (and very pregnancy, too).
I hope everyone is staying safe and sane, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Cadence (with a K)
Gestational Age: Twenty Weeks, One Day
Baby is the Size of: a canteloupe (she should never have checked that other book, because a cantaloupe is far too corpulent for its maternal grandmother)
Said Maternal Grandmother: is in Seattle
Baby's Maternal Uncle: is arriving tonight
Baby's Father: is being patient and downright dreamy but how long can any of that last around baby's extended maternal side?
Baby's Mother: is surviving on merciful second-tri afterglow and half-glasses of wine, but who's counting?
..
"Are you really sure I look okay?"
"You look more than okay, Addie. You look beautiful."
But the words pass through her without any seeming impact.
(He's unfortunately not surprised, having seen his wife through more visits with her mother over the years than he would have preferred.)
They're close—very close—to their breakfast date with Bizzy.
They're basically there, in fact, but Addison has turned to him from the passenger seat, her shoulders tense, one hand on the door she doesn't seem quite ready to open.
"I don't know about this dress," she says hesitantly.
"It's a great dress." Derek looks at her. "And I don't have any spare dresses in the jeep, so I think even if it were a less than great dress, you're still better off wearing it than going to breakfast in your underwear."
Her mouth twitches, almost like a smile.
"… since we're having breakfast with Bizzy," he continues, "to be very clear, I'm fine with underwear breakfasts when it's just the two of us."
"Oh, you are?"
"I definitely am."
"Even if the breakfast is in a restaurant?"
"… not if the breakfast is in a restaurant." He leans in for a quick kiss. "But that's what the trailer is for."
And it was, this morning, and last night too, and so far he can definitely say the second trimester has been very nice to the Shepherds.
Addison reaches for the door and Derek, taking her cue, reaches for his—only for her to stop again. "What about my hair?"
"What about it?"
"I don't know." She's pulled down the mirror and is moving some strands around—her hair is loose and soft around her face today, and she looks lovely (and if she didn't, he would still know better after nearly twelve years than to say anything about it). "It's hot out … it might frizz on the way in …"
Derek glances up at the entrance to the Archfield's lobby directly in front of their car, and then at the uniformed valet standing a respectful five or so feet from the car, looking rather confused.
"It's a short walk."
"But it's a humid city." Addison pulls out another strand. "A very humid city."
And Bizzy said you shouldn't wear your hair pulled back.
He doesn't say it out loud, but he doesn't have to.
"It's fine." She braces her hand on the door again and, like a choreographed dance, both Derek inside the jeep and the valet outside it move slightly toward it to— "But it's hot out," she adds. "So I don't know."
"Addie," he starts carefully.
"I know I'm being ridiculous."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. Your face says it." She sighs, leaning back in her seat for a minute. "Can we just go?"
"Absolutely." He rests a hand on her leg. "We'll tell Bizzy we had an emergency at the hospital."
"I can't stand her up two days in a row."
"You showed up last night," he reminds her.
"Three hours late. And then I made her storm off."
"She might have stormed off," Derek corrects her gently. "But you didn't make her do anything."
"Oh, stop being so reasonable," she says grumpily.
"I thought you liked when I was reasonable." He reaches up to brush a strand of non-frizzy hair away from her face. "We can leave, Addie."
"No. Let's just go have breakfast." An almost impish smile crosses her face. "Your son is hungry," she says. "I think he still remembers the incredible Belgian waffles he had here last time."
With that, she finally pushes open the door, late summer heat gusting into the jeep along with the humid wind.
Before she can change her mind again, he ushers her ahead of him, a hand resting on her back, figuring at the very least they could use some air conditioning.
"Did you know she was staying at the Archfield?" he murmurs as they approach the glass door.
"Not until she called last night."
"Savvy, Nancy and the girls, my mom … " Derek ticks the previous Shepherd-affiliated guests off on his fingers.
"And us," Addison says almost shyly, and he remembers the night he booked them into the hotel so that his wife could luxuriate in a much needed hot bath.
There's a moment where he remembers the ups and downs of that night—Addison confessing another piece of her relationship with Mark, but not the whole story, and knowing now it was a lie briefly curdles his stomach.
But just briefly.
It's different now, they're different now, and he takes her hand for a quick squeeze. "Think they'll give you a finders' fee?"
"They might have before Bizzy came to town," Addison says grimly. "But once she complains about half the staff … "
Right.
..
There's no reason to be anxious.
Sure, having a meal with Bizzy is about as relaxing as swimming on the Vineyard was the summer Jaws came out, but she's not a kid anymore. She's 39 … and then some. She's twenty weeks (and one day) pregnant, and she's not alone.
This reconciliation with her husband hasn't been easy.
It hasn't been fast.
But it has been worth it.
So she squares her shoulders. There's nothing Bizzy can throw at them now. In fact—
"Derek, wait." She rests a hand on his arm, he nods, and when she returns from the ladies' lounge a few minutes later with her hair pulled straight back, tightly, and clipped to her head?
She can tell from his expression that he understands exactly why.
"Ready?" he asks, offering his arm. She sees his gaze slide down her body—she really does like this dress, in a deep green with an all-over print of ivory leaves. The overall effect is summery, and the fabric clings to the lines of her new figure in a way that's both flattering and exciting.
(In different ways for each spouse, of course: exciting to her to see her growing bump, to look so pregnant, and while those things are exciting to Derek too, she's fairly certain he's reserving a decent amount of that excitement for the way she's filling out the top of the dress.)
"Ready," she says.
And it's true.
She's made it through a three-hours-late dinner with her mother, Bizzy Who Is Never Late.
She's taken control of the story, her story, and ordered her brother to come to Seattle (which was very satisfying), and he's promised to fly in tonight and work his magic to get Bizzy out.
Calm, cool, collected.
What else can Bizzy do now to throw her?
So she walks in on Derek's arm with her head held high to find Bizzy at a round table in what is clearly the best spot in the high-ceilinged dining room, with a view of verdant spruce trees all the way out to the bay.
"Addison," Bizzy says once they've greeted each other, and Derek has done all the things she taught him to do to get Bizzy to accept his previously a little rough-around-the-edges manners. "Do you plan to wear that dress to work?"
She blinks.
She considers repeating Derek's joke from the keep, except she knows Bizzy won't get it.
"What's wrong with this dress?"
"Nothing, dear. It's very flattering," Bizzy says, only she manages to say the word like it's not a compliment, "but it exposes quite a bit for this time of day."
Addison looks down at the dress. Okay, so, to be blunt: her new boobs do look a little different in the dress. (Fabulous, but different.)
But they're fully covered and the dress is similar to several others she has for her non-maternity figure. They suit her. They're perfectly professional. And they're classics: she still has the one she bought in the Seventh on her Paris honeymoon, and it still looks just as good.
(Or it did before the baby, but that's not the point.)
"I like this dress," she says, hating the way her voice sounds so uncertain.
"It's a great dress," Derek interjects in a supportive tone.
Bizzy glances at him, looking amused. "I'm sure you think so, dear," she says to Derek, then turns back to Addison before he can respond. "One needs to be conscious of these things in pregnancy, Addison. A man isn't going to be able to advise you on the topic."
She gives Derek an almost pitying look.
Addison's cheeks flush.
But then Bizzy said in pregnancy. Does she remember her own maternity clothes? She takes a chance.
"Bizzy," she says before she loses nerve, "when you were pregnant—"
But the uniformed waiter is approaching with coffee, and Bizzy's expression—cool and collected, but Addison knows that face—makes clear she's not going to answer.
But that's okay.
Addison can deal with that, it's nothing unexpected.
"Now." Bizzy looks at her once they've ordered. "Your father has had a minor issue with his heart. He's perfectly fine, and if you'd like to send him something, please don't send flowers, because it already smells atrocious in his wing."
"What?" Addison stares.
Nothing Unexpected, starring Bizzy and Addison Montgomery (Shepherd): a play with a twist!
"Too many flowers are overpowering," Bizzy continues matter-of-factly. "The Captain is likely to develop hay fever at this rate."
"Not the flowers," Addison says tightly, "the Captain. What happened to him? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I just told you."
"What. Happened. To his heart," Addison tries again, as Derek covers her hand with his on the table. The warmth of it grounds her.
"Some sort of … obstruction," Bizzy says airily, "with an artery of some sort. His doctors had a needlessly dramatic term for it."
"… widowmaker. He had a widowmaker?"
At her mother's confirmatory expression, Addison exchanges a glance with Derek. "The term might be dramatic, Bizzy, but not needlessly so."
Bizzy makes a gesture suggesting she disagrees. "He had a very minor procedure and was fine."
Addison blinks, trying to process this. "The Captain … had heart surgery … and you didn't call me?"
"There was no reason to bother you, Addison. What could you have done?"
"Spoken with the doctors, for one thing," she suggests shakily. Derek squeezes her hand.
"Your brother spoke with them," Bizzy says, "and seemed satisfied with his care. The procedure was done at Lexington Hill, of course, and they were very solicitous."
(Naturally, since three generations of Montgomerys have been on the board.)
But—wait.
"Archer knew about this?" She hears her voice rise. "He didn't tell me either."
"That's between the two of you."
And he's flying in tonight too, Bizzy, so there's something you don't know.
She doesn't say it aloud, of course.
Bizzy just studies her face for a moment. "Addison. You moved across the country without so much as a word. Surely you can't expect us to track you down to fill you in on every minor happenstance in your absence."
"… I told Susan I was going," Addison says in a small voice, then sits up a little taller. "And the Captain having surgery is hardly a minor happenstance."
"Neither is a pregnancy," Bizzy says coolly, "especially at your age, dear, but I don't recall receiving a personal update from you on that topic."
Touché.
She'll have to give Bizzy this one.
"You still could have called," she says, though, instead of letting it go.
"You never sent an address."
I lived in a hotel. And then a trailer. And then a hotel. And now a trailer again. So …
"I've had the mail forwarded from the house in New York, Bizzy," Addison says, "so I'm not sure I get your point. It's not like you tried to send me a postcard about the Captain's heart."
"There's no need for that tone, Addison." Bizzy takes a moment to adjust her necklace, which is sitting just so on her collarbones.
(She'll give her mother this: she's excellent at wearing jewelry. And scarves. But that's neither here nor there.)
"I don't have a tone. I have questions. I have questions about my father practically dying—"
"—oh, don't be dramatic—"
"—and my mother not bothering to tell me—"
"—did you hear what I said?"
"I'm not being dramatic!" Addison realizes too late she's raised her voice; Derek rests a hand on her arm and Bizzy looks daggers at her that she knows to a passerby would look like perfectly normal and even polite eyes.
"Addison, I'm not going to discuss this with you if you're going to behave this way." Bizzy's tone is perfectly calm. "Your father is fine."
"Who's with him?" Addison asks, suddenly realizing the import of her mother's trip.
"Susan is running the house while I'm away," Bizzy says simply. "Your father has a very … dedicated team of private nurses and a physician checking on him."
She says dedicated in the same tone she used to use to say that one of Addison's nannies, Taffy (yes, Taffy), was energetic.
Then again, directly post heart attack, the Captain won't be strong enough to do what Addison unfortunately walked in on him doing in the library with Taffy when she was ten.
Eleven?
No, ten. Eleven was her French tutor, Mignonette, and it was the gazebo.
… but that's neither here nor there.
"So the Captain's prognosis is good," Derek is saying, in a perfectly reasonable tone, and she appreciates him carrying the conversation. He's always been good at this, at making seamless transitions while Addison tries to process her mother's biting comments. "That's great news."
"Yes, well. I'll pass your regards to him, of course."
Addison has a flash of memory to when Nancy's father-in-law had a heart attack. It wasn't a widowmaker—literally or figuratively—but he did need surgery. And Nancy spent hours on the phone with her mother-in-law, talking her through the medical aspects, organizing her children to draw pictures and write cards; John drove upstate to do things like clear the snow from the lawn and organize a home health visitor. Nancy was in tears when she told Addison the news.
No one passed any regards.
… but then, no one ever accused the Shepherds of being WASPs.
"Does he know you're here?" Addison asks quietly.
"Yes." Bizzy pauses for a moment. "He sends his regards."
Of course he does.
"Does he know that I'm—"
She stops talking, somehow unable to say pregnant.
"Yes," Bizzy says again, "not that you passed on the news."
"I was going to." Addison reaches for her fork, then puts her hand back in her lap. The Belgian waffle the baby was craving tastes dusty and overly sweet. "It's not my fault Mo—Derek's mom beat me to it."
"I'm sorry about that, Bizzy," Derek says, in that earnest voice Addison knows he can put on at will, and she appreciates it. "And so is my mother. She shouldn't have assumed. She was just so excited."
"About another grandchild," Bizzy says drily. "You'd think she'd be used to it by now."
"Seriously?" Addison stares at her mother, hackles rising. She can't help feeling protective of Carolyn. "What does that—"
"She's excited every time," Derek says smoothly, interrupting her, and she feels the warm pressure of his hand on her knee under the table. Just under her skirt, and skin on skin is incredibly soothing.
She draws a deep breath.
"I was going to tell you," Addison says in a small voice. "I wasn't sure how you were going to react."
"You mean whether I was going to be excited?"
Bizzy's tone is light, almost like she's joking.
Addison exchanges a nervous glance with Derek. "We're excited," she says tentatively. "We're very excited."
"How nice." Bizzy's tone is matter-of-fact. "It's good news, of course," she adds, without discernible inflection. "Your father is pleased that you'll be carrying on some of the older names, since your brother has been so reluctant to settle down."
"The older names?" Addison repeats faintly.
"Family names," Bizzy says, her tone indicating that Addison is quite stupid for not catching on. "For your son," she adds.
"No, I know, but we haven't—"
"There are a number of Montgomerys in the Revolutionary rolls," Bizzy continues as if Addison hasn't interrupted. "There's Charles Lee—your father is named for him, of course. George Washington selected him personally as second-in-command."
Lee wasn't exactly a war hero, but luckily the Revolutionary War isn't exactly big in popular culture. It's not like anyone is going to know about—
"He perhaps could have handled the Battle of Monmouth better," Bizzy says delicately. "But Washington was grateful for his service."
"He was shot by Alexander Hamilton," Addison murmurs to Derek, "but who's counting?"
"It was John Laurens, dear," Bizzy corrects her, "Hamilton was just his second, and speaking of lineage one wouldn't want to celebrate … ."
She's quiet for a moment.
"Well. Hamilton has his own descendants, and I'm sure the … uncertainties of his parentage have been forgotten," Bizzy continues. "What matters is the Montgomery line, as you know, and their role in the Revolution. There's Benedict, for example."
Derek coughs, patting his mouth with a napkin while Addison fights a smile.
"—not that one. Benedict Greene," Bizzy clarifies. "Or perhaps Richard Montgomery."
"Didn't he fight for the British?" Addison glances at Derek.
"He switched sides eventually." Bizzy frowns, then turns to Derek. "My children are both named for the Bradford Forbes lineage and it's only fair to the Captain that his family is reflected this time."
Only fair.
Addison rubs the bridge of her nose, where a headache is growing. Somehow, they've moved from the Captain's secret heart attack to what she and Derek are supposed to name their son?
"Bizzy," she says carefully, "we haven't really considered names yet."
"I'm sure you'll give it due consideration." Bizzy glances at her. "You know where your name originates," she prompts.
"I'm named for Addison Bradford," she recites dutifully. "He was a general who spearheaded a major victory in Camden in 1780," she adds for Derek's sake, though he's heard this before, "although …"
She glances at her mother.
"… it was a victory for the British," Bizzy admits, "and Addison Bradford never switched sides, either. But no one is perfect."
Addison looks at Derek.
Derek looks back at Addison.
She has a sudden need to laugh.
Or cry.
Or—
"Really, I think it's admirable," Bizzy says. "It shows commitment."
Okay, fine, more like laugh.
Which isn't so bad.
From Derek's expression, and the way he squeezes her leg again—gently, supportively—he agrees.
"The Captain's really all right?" she asks quietly.
"He's really all right." Bizzy looks down for a moment, then back up again. "As for the rest of the day," she says, businesslike, as if they've asked to review her schedule, "I'd like to see where you work."
"Where I –where I work?"
"The hospital," Bizzy prompts.
"Oh, no." Addison glances at Derek, then at her mother, and shakes her head so vigorously her severe hairstyle nearly falls down around her oh-so-showing face. "No, no, no. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. I'm sorry, Bizzy," she says firmly, "but the answer is no."
..
"That was good, right?" Addison asks proudly as she and her husband stand in the hospital lobby, the command-performance breakfast with her mother mercifully behind them. "You saw what I did," she prompts.
"I did see."
"I stood up to Bizzy."
"I noticed."
"She wanted to come to work with us," Addison recites, "but I said no, I said absolutely not, and I stuck to my guns."
"You certainly did."
"We don't need any more interference from her."
"No, we don't." Derek clears his throat. "So, uh, just to confirm, she …"
"… will be arriving at the hospital at two o'clock, yes." Addison grimaces. "But she did agree to give us some lead time to warn Richard instead of coming right away, and … "
Her voice trails off.
"Baby steps?" she suggests, looking hopeful. Between the phrasing and the way her posture accentuates her bump, he has no choice but to smile.
"Baby steps," he repeats, resting his palm against the curve of her belly; after a moment, he feels movement. "Speaking of which … baby seems to be stepping right now."
"He heard your voice." Addison covers his hand with hers.
"I wish I didn't hear your voice," says another, far less welcome voice, "because I'm trying to keep my breakfast down."
They both look up, Addison's cheeks flushing, Derek feeling his hackles rise.
"What do you want, Mark?"
"Hey, I'm just saying hello to my colleagues." He spreads his hands innocently. "I am collegial. Haven't you read my Chief's Report?"
Addison and Derek exchange a glance.
"What Chief's Report?"
"The one Richard has to write about each one of us to present to the board." Mark cocks his head, while both Shepherds wince to hear Mark Sloan referring so familiarly to the Chief when he's been here such a short time. "You're really not paying much attention to the competition, Derek," he adds.
"Maybe Derek doesn't think he has any actual competition," Addison cuts in, her voice cool, "and maybe he's right."
"Ouch." Mark rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "But doesn't that mean you're not competition for him either, Addison?" He raises his eyebrows. "I get it. You're gonna be too busy picking out baby clothes and playing peekaboo to run a hospital, huh?"
"Mark." Derek glares at him. "Go bother someone else."
"… persistent," Mark says thoughtfully.
"Excuse me?"
"The Chief's Report." Mark puffs up his chest a little. "It also said I was persistent."
"I don't disagree," Derek says, "but I also don't think it's a compliment."
"Of course you don't." Mark smirks. "I haven't seen your report yet, Derek, but do you think there's a one-word description for walks away when things get tough?"
"Okay, okay," Addison has her hand on Derek's arm now; he hasn't done anything more than take a half step forward, but he can feel his blood pressure spiking and hear Addison speaking quietly to him.
"You're an angry guy, Derek," Mark announces at full volume.
"No one's interested in your opinion," Addison says sharply. "Walk away, Mark."
"Isn't that Derek's job?"
There's a moment in which Derek can just hear the sound of fist on bone, how satisfying it would feel to throw a punch in that smug face—
And then the pressure of his wife's hand grounds him once again, and he catches his staggered breath. Inhale, exhale … and the anger dissipates just as surely as it arrived.
Mark … doesn't matter.
And Derek is well aware of what does matter.
"Derek is going to walk away now," he says calmly, speaking of himself in the third person, "it's an excellent suggestion, in fact, since he's not interested in speaking to you. Addison?"
She's already resting a hand on his arm, but she shifts when he speaks her name to tuck her hand through his elbow instead. With that, they walk away together while Mark, open-mouthed, stands and watches them.
..
"Are you okay?" Addison asks once they're several hallways away from that unpleasant interaction.
"I'm fine." Derek glances at her. "I'm sorry," he adds. "I know he's not worth it, he's just—"
"—an ass," Addison supplies. "I know."
"Are you okay?" He pauses to peer at her face, drawing her toward the windows to let other people pass. "You don't need extra stress."
Other than Bizzy, he doesn't say.
"I'm fine, Derek. We both are."
"You sure?" He directs his words to her bump, which makes her smile, and then is quiet for a moment. "I don't want the baby to think … ." He's stops talking, a little embarrassed.
"The baby thinks you handled that beautifully," Addison says, her voice soft.
"How do you know that?"
"Well, because I think so … and all those endorphins I got when you put Mark in his place?" She turns to smile at him. "Straight through the umbilical cord to your son. He loved it."
Derek tilts his head. "Is that science?"
"Which one of us is the baby doctor?"
"That's fair." He pauses. "Listen, Addie, if Mark ends up getting Chief …"
Addison listens.
" … Cleveland," Derek says decisively. "You, me, and the baby."
"It's a plan." Addison smiles. "We can learn to cheer for the Cardinals."
"That's St. Louis." Derek shakes his head.
"… oh."
"Tell you what." He rests a hand on her back as they turn the corner. "You can teach the baby all about fetal surgery, but you let me handle baseball."
"That's fair."
"I thought you might say that."
..
Addison hasn't been thrilled with Mark for quite a while now, going back quite a bit further than his overly dramatic re-entrance to Seattle Grace to try to drive a wedge through her relationship with Derek, his casually cruel comments about her pregnancy, the way he's been taunting them with his Chief prospects … to say the least, she has good reason for a grudge.
But she's the most annoyed about this morning's interaction for an utterly different reason: he took away some of the precious time before her mother arrives.
Fine, it's just an hour, but it's something.
Time for her to prepare.
Prepare as one can only for Bizzy, which means … well, unfortunately she can't drink at work, so actually she has no idea how to prepare.
Meditation?
Not really her style.
Prayer?
She's a WASP who's never gone to church other than Christmas, so the closest thing she can recall to a prayer would be her one cabinmate at horse camp in New Hampshire who used to stage-whisper her thanks to God before they all went to sleep at night for giving her the only real boobs in their year.
(Addison did make up for lack eventually, but it was hard for a while not to associate prayer with the rather smug gratitude for developing breasts.)
And she's pretty sure Dear Jesus, thank you for not making me wear a training bra, isn't going to have much effect on Bizzy.
So she's going to have to find some inner peace the old fashioned way. What was it she read in the newest book from Lizzie (Stop Ruining Your Baby: Turning Negative Thoughts into Positive Pregnancies)? That's right, she's supposed to have a list of things that put her in a positive headspace-or-whatever so she can whip one out when needed.
(Her wording, not theirs. Still, though. Lists? She's got that one in the bag.)
And speaking of bags …
One. Shopping (Purses Edition). Assuming the list is in no particular order, since her husband is going to make a cameo any time now, just the smell of really good leather can send her right to some of her best shopping trips, popping in and out of boutiques with Savvy. But just in case, she'll make a separate entry for …
Two. Shopping (Shoes Edition). Is there any more positive headspace-or-whatever than slipping into a pair of butter-soft Italian boots with a perfectly pointed toe and a heel high enough to change her zip code? (No. There is not.)
Three. Shopping (Clothes Edition). Fine, this is getting repetitive. Enough shopping. But what can she say? It soothes her. She spent her childhood stuffed into uncomfortably high-necked blouses, unforgiving wool kilts, and she could go on. Fine, she will: Itchy sweaters she couldn't dare to scratch. Hard-soled mary-janes and sandals that never seemed to conform to her feet. Delicate taffeta dresses too fragile to play in. Stiff sticky-out skirts she couldn't sit down in without making sure her slip didn't show. Even her pajamas never felt right. So yes, as soon as she had her own credit card and had grown adept at hiding the clothes she knew Bizzy would throw out if she saw … shopping became a pretty damned positive headspace-or-whatever. It's not like she sticks to—heaven forbid—loungewear. (And no matter how many times Elle or Vogue calls it athleisure, she never will, period.) But now—or at least pre-pregnancy—when she bought a slim-fitting skirt or a shoe with a higher-than-exactly-comfortable heel, she did it for her. She did it because something about that article of clothing, or that accessory, made it worth it. She has, not to put too fine a point on it, discerning taste. Discerning taste, and a black card, and a husband who if he couldn't appreciate her love of shopping, never complained when he got to take off said clothing … or what was underneath. Speaking of which.
Four. Sex. Whatever, don't judge, she's in the second trimester. Sex might as well be every entry on the list. And last night's was … well … never mind. It's private. The point is, it's been a journey to get back to a place with Derek where there was enough trust, enough comfort, that they were them again. But she feels confident now that they have, which means that pretty much everything the two of them do alone, together? Extremely positive headspace. Zen, even. (Well, after a pretty high-intensity workout sometimes, but you get the idea.)
Five. Massage. Not the dirty kind. Let's assume all the dirty things are included in number four. Here, she means the kind of massage you pay for, the toe-curling, scalp-tingling kind where you don't even know if you're asleep or awake. Or alive or dead. (She's had some pretty good massages in her day. That one place they went in Mexico, with the whole separate cabin for couples' massages, the plunge pool and the skylights and the rose petals, and then the—but that's veering too close to number four. Moving on.) And for maximum positivity, a massage from someone who does not later call her husband to announce her secret pregnancy.
Six. Baths. She loves a bath. Always has, always will, maybe going back to when she was a little girl and her sweet old nanny used to sit in there with her and read her chapter books while she splashed in the big tub and pretended the water wasn't getting chilly because she loved hearing the stories. They read a lot that way. Adventures of Tom Sawyer. And Huckleberry Finn. Her nanny was pretty progressive, looking back; she didn't think Addison only had to read books marketed to girls. (Fine, Mark Twain is problematic in his own way … but it was the seventies. Cut her nanny some slack.) The grownup version of those peaceful childhood baths involves oversized soaking tubs, imported bath salts Derek used to tease her about, that perfect little ledge to hold a glass of good wine and (to be quite honest) sometimes a decent helping of number four, too.
Seven. Wine. She's a Montgomery. It comes with the territory. And if this doesn't belong on a pregnancy headspace list? Fine, make it a half a glass. Make it zero glasses and just smelling a bottle of … Sicilian red. That would be nice. No, Barolo. Or that one Argentinian wine Savvy found that—well, you get the idea.
Eight. Swimming. It popped into her head. Maybe it was the bathtub memories. Who knows? But she used to love swimming at their beach house, in the waves when their roughness permitted or in the pool. Some of her fondest memories from Shepherd family gatherings involve swimming with their nieces and nephews. And then there's swimming with Derek, which … oh hell, she might as well put everything involving Derek under number four.
Nine. Surgery. This may not have been what Lizzie's book had in mind. But that feeling of closing after a really flawless procedure? (Yes. She can admit some of her procedures are flawless. It's not vanity if it's accurate.) That is a very positive head … feeling. Or whatever.
Ten. Derek. This one is kind of embarrassing, so just … remember that these lists are private. And yes, her husband pops up in other entries already, particularly number four and all its progeny, but this entry is different. It's less about their toe-tingling times together and more … quiet. Like last night, eating burgers side by side at the bar of that harborside restaurant, talking a little, laughing sometimes, just being together. Or later that night, looking at the stars from the porch of the trailer while Doc nuzzled their legs. Or this morning (and she's taking the fifth on whether any four was involved before this), when Derek brought her a cup of decaf in bed and talked to her about lake fishing so she wouldn't obsess too much over the Bizzy breakfast. Maybe that's what Zen is. She's not really sure.
… but she's a surgeon, and she doesn't need to be thinking about Zen or positivity or whatever Lizzie's book says. She can just focus on—
"Dr. Shepherd!"
She's jolted out of her attempt to figure out the best way to keep her headspace positive by Cristina Yang.
… oh, excellent, that particular intern's manner is so calm and peaceful, that will definitely help.
"What is it, Yang?"
"I, uh, I need to ask you something."
"Fine." Presumably about a patient. "Ask me," she prods when the intern doesn't speak right away.
Yang draws breath.
And then: "Did you get pregnant on purpose?"
Addison blinks. That wasn't what she expected.
"Parson me?"
"Oh, sorry. Did you, uh, did you get pregnant on purpose, Dr. Shepherd?"
"My name wasn't the issue, Dr. Yang," she says patiently.
"Oh." Yang pauses. "It's … a rude question?" Her tone sounds like it's a guess.
"It's a blunt one."
"I'm a blunt person."
"I've noticed." Addison props a hand on her hip. "What exactly is your question, Yang?"
The intern blinks. "I don't want children," she says.
"That's not a question." Addison pauses, surveying the other woman. Slowly she nods. "That's … not a question," she repeats, hearing her inflection change.
"Yeah. I thought maybe you – were like that too." Yang looks at her. "When you came out here, and you were all—whatever."
(Addison finds herself grateful that Yang didn't finish the sentence.
"And you didn't have kids yet," Yang continues, "and you were already really old when you got here."
Her eyes widen. "I was already – "
" – older, I mean," Yang corrects quickly. "Older … uh, ma'am."
Addison massages the back of her neck. It's going to be a very long morning.
"I just wanted to know if you – if Dr. Shepherd, the other Dr. Shepherd, did he talk you into getting pregnant? Did you—did you plan it?"
"Yang."
"I know it's blunt. And rude." But the intern is looking at her so intently, almost desperately, that she can't even scold her.
"It's all right. We were both … surprised … at the news," Addison says finally – a euphemism if anything for how Derek found out. "But no, it's not something either of us had ever ruled out. It was an issue of timing, if anything. Of readiness, Yang, and can you please tell me why this is so – "
"Burke wants babies," she blurts.
"Oh." Addison considers this. Preston has been solicitous during her pregnancy, which she's appreciated, in particular when she was looking for support about the cardiac irregularities on the ultrasound and yesterday during the ordeal with the toxic patient. And she's seen him be tender with one or another of her own tiny patients on a consult … but she's never considered his private life so specifically.
Yang nods. "Burke wants babies. A lot of babies."
"A lot?"
"A lot of babies." Yang pauses. " … a non-zero amount of babies," she clarifies.
Ah.
"And you want – "
"A zero amount of babies."
Addison looks at her for a moment. "The pregnancy you lost," she prompts carefully.
She recalls Yang white-faced on the gurney, her head lolling as she fought to stay conscious, the question she's had to ask many times with emergent ectopics. How attached was she to this pregnancy?
"Very, very accidental, and I had already scheduled a termination." Yang stands up a little straighter. "You can judge that if you want, Dr. Shepherd, but –"
"I'm an abortion provider, Yang," Addison says tiredly. "I don't judge other women's reproductive choices. I don't generally get this level of detail from my interns, either, but you approached me."
They're both silent for a moment.
"You're reconsidering marrying Preston," she realizes.
Yang doesn't respond.
"The wedding is in – "
She stops.
It's always been a personal nightmare for her, being left at the altar – your abandonment issues are so subtle, Addie, really – to the point that Derek finally just surrendered his wallet at their rehearsal dinner and let her lock it in the hotel safe with a code only she knew while he diplomatically kept his back turned. If he was offended, if he thought she was being ridiculous … he didn't let on.
He just accepted it.
She swallows hard now, remembering.
"Don't marry him if you're not sure," she says finally.
"Were you sure?"
"I'm never sure of anything," she admits before she can censor herself. "But I knew I would rather … be unsure with him, than without him. Does that make sense?"
"No."
She has to fight a smile. "Yang … Cristina. If you don't want to marry Preston, tell him. Before the wedding. Tell him."
Yang wrinkles her nose.
"You think that conversation will be less awkward after the wedding?" Or – heaven help all of Seattle – at the wedding?
"I can't."
"Yang …"
"I shouldn't have said anything."
"Yang."
"Surgery. I need to go … surgery."
And then she's gone.
Interns.
..
"Okay. Bizzy's going to be here in twenty minutes," she reminds Derek. "She's never late, and—O'Malley, there you are, do you have Ms. Nour's bloodwork?"
"The lab said they need another half hour." O'Malley regards nervously. "Is that—I mean, I could go back, and—"
"In a half hour, Bizzy will be here," Addison says, turning to Derek. "So that's not the worst interruption. It's fine, O'Malley," she says, turning back to the intern. "In fact, it's more than fine. When you get Ms. Nour's bloodwork, come and find me, and no matter what I'm doing, I want you to interrupt. Even if I'm, uh, with my mother."
"Your mother?" The intern pauses, seeming to be putting two and two together. "Why do you call your mother Bizzy?" he, then widens his eyes nervously when she simply looks at him in response. "No, I was just – wondering. Sorry. Not that it's any of my … business. I don't even know why I asked in the first—"
"It's her name, O'Malley," she says, taking pity on him.
"… oh."
The intern stands there, looking from Addison to Derek and back again, perhaps recalling the added stress of the third Dr. Shepherd in town when Nancy visited.
"Come and find me," Addison says one last time, pointing a finger. "Right, O'Malley?"
"Yes, ma'am."
… two ma'ams today. She might need to invest in some new eye cream.
Not that she doesn't look pretty damned good, but hey, any excuse for new eye cream is a good one. Since she can't zip any of her favorite dresses these days, she has to get pleasure somewhere. (Did she forget to add makeup to her list of shopping positivity? Let's just consider it added.)
..
"Shepherd."
He looks up to see Miranda Bailey. "Yes?"
"Do you know where your wife is?"
"What do you mean? Is she all right?" Derek reaches nervously for his blackberry. "Did something happen?"
"She's fine. Physically, she's fine, I'm sure." Bailey's brows furrow. "She's in the lobby. She's talking to a woman about this tall," and she lifts a hand over her own diminutive height, "kind of an older version of Addison except she's intimidating in the bad way."
"Bizzy." Derek groans. "She's early. Of course she was early. Does Addison seem okay?" He's already started walking, Bailey following him.
"She seemed okay.
"Addison introduced me," Bailey says.
"Oh." Derek presses the elevator button again. Why is it taking so long. "And, uh, how did that go?"
Bizzy's track record with humans isn't great.
"Well, she was very polite. Said hello, asked about my job."
"Oh," Derek says again, relieved. "Well, that's not so bad. I mean, that's fine."
"And then she said I seemed like a real credit to my—"
"Parents. Please say parents," Derek interrupts, cringing.
"Okay, I'll say parents." Bailey raises her eyebrows. "Your mother in law didn't, though."
The elevator dings, finally
"I'm sorry," Derek says hastily. "I'm very sorry about her."
"Don't be sorry, Shepherd. She's not my mother-in-law. Or my mother," Bailey adds, studying his face for a moment. The elevator doors open and Derek hastens on.
"Addison turned out pretty well, huh?" Bailey says as he presses the button for the lobby, repeatedly. "Growing up with that woman for a mother."
Oh, you don't know the half of it.
All he can do is nod as the doors close.
The doors have no sooner opened in the lobby than he's corralled by a resident with an urgent CT question. Damn it.
Why did Bizzy have to be early?
"Just make it quick," he says shortly, not really caring how he sounds at this point.
..
"Addison, are you listening?"
"Yes, Bizzy," she lies, not for the first time. Her cheeks are still burning from the conversation with Miranda Bailey.
That's Bizzy: leaving a trail of apologies in her wake.
… never her own apologies.
"So this is the hospital where you work." Bizzy pivots slightly on one high heel, clearly unimpressed.
"Yes. This is it." Addison smooths the skirt of her dress. "So, did you want a cup of coffee, or—"
"Dr. Shepherd!"
She turns to see Cristina Yang for the second time that day. Oh, she'd better have a question about medicine this time.
"Yes, what is it, Yang?"
"George said you had a possible spinal tumor in one of the Hartwell twins and I was wondering if—" Her voice breaks off, and Addison has a moment of terror that she's about to be interrogated about her pregnancy. "You've been married for a long time, right?" she asks instead.
Great.
"Eleven years," Addison says. "Almost twelve. Why, are you taking a survery?"
"No, of course not, I just—" Yang rotates, taking in Bizzy.
There's a moment that probably sounds like silence to Yang and very clearly sounds like aren't you going to introduce me, Addison? You're being very rude, Addison. Remember your manners, Addison.
"Uh, Cristina Yang, one of the interns here, this is my mother."
"Bizzy," her mother says politely, offering a hand in her traditional Bizzy shape that looks more like she's waiting for a kiss until just the last minute, when it slides into a handshake.
Addison never quite mastered that motion. It always seemed so deceptive.
"Your mother?" Yang's eyebrows rise so high they threaten to disappear into her hairline. "Oh. Oh, wow. Your mother is here."
"Yes, my mother is here." Addison taps the toe of her shoe impatiently. "Yang—"
"So you've probably been married a long time too," Yang says, glancing at Bizzy's left hand—it's not like you can miss the rings the Captain gave her. You can probably see them from Sputnik (not necessarily because of size, of course, that would be tacky, but the clarity … oh, the clarity).
"Yes," Bizzy says without emotion.
"Like, a really long time," Yang continues, her brow furrowing now with the calculation. "I mean, you're Dr. Shepherd's mom, and she must be at least—"
Addison clears her throat and Yang stops insultingly calculating her age, actually pausing for half a breath. before her next question.
"How did you know it was the right choice … marrying your husband, I mean?"
"Yang." Addison shakes her head.
This is a hospital, right? It's not just the live action set for my Freudian nightmares?
"How did I know it was the right choice?" Bizzy repeats.
"Yang," Addison says, more sharply this time, then turns to her mother. "Bizzy, I think we should go and—"
"Addison, your friend asked a question. I don't want to be rude."
Addison finds herself at a loss for words, but her pager interrupts and—oh, you have got to be kidding.
"I just have to … take this …" Her voice trails off as she slowly backs away.
Is now really the time to code?
Apparently God heard her in between the impassioned pleas of adolescent girls everywhere to hurry up and fill the cups of her training bra, because just as she gets to the room, her patient—a sweet but chronically ill girl hardly out of her teens—draws a shuddering breath and the resident turns away in relief.
"False alarm, Dr. Shepherd," he says apologetically. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. That's good news." Addison looks down at her patient. "How are you feeling, Brandy?"
(With a slight wince, she tries not to imagine how Bizzy might react to that name.)
"I'm okay." Brandy smiles weakly. "I think I just got lightheaded 'cause Bones was on TV and that guy is like …." She fans herself with the hand that doesn't have the IV.
Addison exchanges a glance with the resident, who shrugs; apparently, the eye candy wasn't doing anything for him.
"Look at him," Brandy says, apparently concerned that her doctors don't understand the severity of the situation; carefully, she angles the boxy remote control toward the television.
Addison peers at the screen.
"Oh, my, the patient care in this hospital is definitely thorough. She's got you watching her shows too?"
Addison looks up.
"I'm Therese, Brandy's mother."
"I'm Dr. Shepherd," Addison offers a hand—the normal way—now that she's finished her brief exam (of the patient as well as of the muscular actor still strutting on the television screen). "Your daughter gave us a slight scare, but she seems to be doing much better now."
"Oh, I was so worried." Therese looks from Addison to Brandy, running a hand through her short, frosted hair. She has the flattened vowels of the more rural locals around here. "Is she really okay?"
"Mom." Brandy sighs. "I told you I was okay. You didn't have to rush here." She looks up at Addison. "I said she shouldn't worry, but you know how Moms are."
Addison's cheeks color slightly.
"He is fine." Brandy's mother looks intently at the screen. "Wasn't he on that other show you liked, honey?"
"Yeah, but he's not the one who—"
"—right, that was the other one." Her mother looks back at the screen for a moment. "His hair looks good that way."
It's a little short for Addison's taste, too crew-cut-like, but—
What is she doing?
Second trimester or no, she doesn't need to be scoping out actors pretending to be FBI agents, no matter how nicely they may fill out a suit.
"My mom watches all my shows with me," Brandy says, reaching her free hand toward her cup of water; her mother seems to notice and brings it to her lips before she has to grab it. "'cause I had to miss so much school to rest or whatever."
"Well, I had to," her mother says, smiling fondly at Brandy, then looking at Addison. "In those days, before we had the CFS more under control, my daughter couldn't really stay awake for a full show. I had to watch to make sure I could tell her the endings."
"It was kind of awkward when Buffy lost her virginity," Brandy muses, "but you put a good spin on it."
The resident clears his throat.
"Brezinski, I'll wrap up here. I want you to monitor fluid output and keep me informed." Addison gets a few last pieces of information from him before sending him on his way, and then turns back to her patient.
"You're feeling better, Brandy?"
"I am. Except I'm thirsty. I really want a Coke. Can I have a Coke?"
"I'd rather you didn't. Caffeine can put stress on your heart," she simplifies, "which can affect the baby."
"I'll go get you something to drink, honey," Therese offers, smiling at her daughter, then glances up at Addison. She's wearing a tight top that Bizzy would probably file in the jezebel column along with Addison's maternity wrap dress, and her skin is weatherbeaten with a deep tan, like she's been working outside. She's probably younger than she looks. "No Coke, Doc?" she confirms."
"No Coke." As the door closes, Addison offers Brandy some water, an admittedly unexciting consolation prize.
She takes a few sips then glances at the door her mother just passed through.
"My mom's been so great. She's always done everything for me, worked two jobs, sometimes three … ." Brandy looks down at the covers. "I felt so terrible when I took that test, like I was letting her down. My boyfriend hasn't even come to a single appointment."
Addison nods sympathetically.
"But my mom said I was an accident too and I was the best thing that ever happened to her." Brandy's cheeks turn pink. "Even though I was a lot of work. I hope Kaylee doesn't have CFS."
"I hope not too." Addison moves the sonogram. "But if she does, I think you'll do a fine job handling it. You have good experience. … So, um, you've decided to go with Kaylee?" she adds.
"Yeah. Kylie's too popular." Brandy looks at the screen, where her daughter's profile, reassuringly normal, looks back. "She's doing okay in there, right?"
"She's doing great." Addison can't help smiling at her patient's expression. "Look over to the left of the screen," she suggests. "She's just about to—"
"Whoa!" Brandy laughs. "I feel her a lot but seeing her kick me … ."
"… is different," Addison finishes. She's heard this before, but now? Twenty weeks and a day into her own pregnancy, she actually understands it. Connecting the motion on the screen to the sensations in her body isn't something she learned on the job.
I learned that from you, kiddo.
"Yeah, totally." Brandy twines a piece of her blonde hair around one finger. "Hey, Dr. Shepherd, you're the same amount of pregnant as me, right?"
Okay, it's clumsily phrased, but Addison gets it.
"I'm a few weeks behind you, Brandy. Your baby should be born," fingers crossed, "about a month before mine."
"Oh, cool." Brandy leans back against the pillows. "Did you pick a name yet?"
"Not yet."
This level of personal question from a patient is also new. What she's used to is patients realizing she and Derek are married and commenting on it: whoa, I thought it was just a common name, but you guys are a couple? Two surgeons? Wow.
Pregnancy, though? It seems to make people feel automatically closer to her. Humanizes her, if you will. Which is quite irritating when she catches someone eyeing her bump as she sips decaf (decaf!) with far more judgment than she likes. But when it's a patient, especially a sweet one like Brandy … well, that's different.
"You can use my boy one if you want." Brandy flashes her a smile. "Since I'm not using it."
"Oh, well—"
"Brayden," she reports triumphantly, "with a Y. See, it's kind of like my letters but moved around to be really manly."
Really.
"That's a nice name, Brandy. I'll definitely keep it in mind."
"Or Cadence."
"With a Y?" Addison teases her gently, feeling guilty about it almost immediately.
Bizzy, this is your fault.
"No. But with a K. Kadence," she repeats. "Do you like the names?" she asks hopefully.
Uh …
"They're great names," Addison says as heartily as she can. "But you may want to save them, Brandy, in case you have another baby and it's a boy the next time."
"Oh, that's true." Brandy looks wistful. "I always wanted a brother, but I'm an only child. What about you?"
Okay, what's next, kumbaya? Addison opens her mouth to gently set the doctor-patient boundary. This isn't a slumber party.
"I have a brother. In fact, he's coming to Seattle to visit tonight."
Addison, what is wrong with you? This baby is making you soft.
She rests a hand on her bump with a quick apology to the baby.
"Oh, that's so cool!" Brandy sighs happily. "What's his name? I should keep track of boy names too for next time."
Seriously? Do not answer that.
"Um."
Fine. Just say: "My brother's name is Dr. Montgomery, thank you very much." Anything else would be totally inappropriate.
It's Bizzy. Bizzy is in her head. Damn it.
"His name is Archer," Addison says boldly, hoping wherever Bizzy is right now she's clutching her pearls in response.
"Oh, I love that name. You can definitely use Brayden or Kadence, Dr. Shepherd, because if I have a boy next time, he's definitely gonna be Archer."
Making the family proud again, Addie.
"That's great." Addison closes her patient's chart, amusing herself briefly picturing Derek's face when she informs him their son's name will be Brayden Kadence Shepherd. Or Brayden Kadence—
And then she pauses, realizing they haven't actually had the how are we doing the surname talk. But … one thing at a time.
"Your numbers are looking really good, Brandy, and so are Kaylee's," Addison says, pronouncing both names with all the dignity she can imbue. If she can get out of here, she can actually go grab a decaf before Bizzy arrives, and maybe a muffin because Brayden is getting used to hospital-issue carbs.
I did not just call you Brayden. I'm sorry, Kadence. I mean—I'm sorry, baby.
"I'd like to keep you here overnight, but if things stay on this track, you can look forward to doing home tomorrow."
Brandy looks understandably delighted with the news. Addison is thisclose to actually leaving when the door opens; it's Brandy's mother, Therese, again, with Brandy's requested drink.
"I got 7up," Therese says brightly, "since Dr. Shepherd said you shouldn't have caffeine."
Addison tries not to wince. Next time I'll say "soda" altogether.
Therese busies herself getting her daughter set up, and then reaches for the other cup in the cardboard tray. "This one's for you, Doc."
Addison looks up.
"It's decaf coffee." Therese shrugs a little. "I figured you didn't drink real coffee since you're pregnant but at least it's close, right?"
She's touched, and thanks her patient's mother before taking a welcome sip.
"I didn't know if you wanted milk or sugar … ."
"I like it black, actually. This is perfect. It's so thoughtful of you."
"I figured you were probably tired, working so hard when you're expecting. I was tired a lot when I was carrying this one." Therese smiles at Brandy. "She used to somersault in my stomach before I had my coffee."
Admittedly, the coffee tastes great. And she did want it.
"I told Dr. Shepherd she could have my boy names," Brandy reports to her mother; apparently not a moment of her day goes by she doesn't want to share.
"Oh, that was nice of you, honey." Therese smiles at her daughter. "Naming your baby can be a real personal thing," she adds.
Addison hopes she can escape the conversation before the provenance of Brandy comes up. Hopefully a cocktail situation and not a strip club, but she can't be too sure. Or a … cheerleader of some sort?
"When I was pregnant with Brandy," Therese begins.
So much for avoidance.
"I was in a rough spot. My parents had kicked me out—they were real religious and didn't like that I was pregnant—and I was sleeping on a friend's couch dancing at a place in Chehalis that wasn't much good."
… so the strip club thing. Addison hopes her wince isn't too obvious.
"I met this older guy one night. He realized I was pregnant and at first I was afraid he was going to ask for a refund."
Addison wonders if she can fake a page.
"…since I was supposed to give him a lap dance…"
Or a stroke.
" … but he didn't ask for a refund, he was actually real nice, turned out he owned a couple places out in the hills and got me one rented for cheap so I didn't have to sleep on that lumpy couch anymore. He used to check in on us and everything."
Yeah, I bet his intentions were very pure.
"Once I told him I was worried 'cause I didn't have any books or anything to read to the baby. And he showed up one day with a whole box of them."
… okay, fine, that part of the story is nice, but she can only assume that an exchange of sexual favors is coming next.
"There was this book about St. Bernard dogs and how they go out on mountains in Switzerland with a barrel of brandy wine around their necks to save people who're lost in the snow freezing to death and bring 'em back to life."
Brandy smiles expectantly like she knows where the story is going; Addison feels her stomach tighten.
"And I thought, well, that's like this baby," and she looks fondly at her daughter, "she saved me too, like I was freezing before. And then I was pregnant and I was warm. And I wasn't lost anymore."
Therese stops talking.
"I guess that must sound silly." Her tone is a little embarrassed.
"It's not silly. It's beautiful," Addison says softly. Her heart is pounding, her cheeks heated. "If you'll excuse me, I have another patient, but I'll check on you later. Good to see you, Therese. Brandy, try to stay in bed unless you're taking a slow walk, okay?"
She ducks out of the patient's room as fast as she can, closing the door behind her. She leans against the wall outside Brandy's room, listening to her own thumping heartbeat and hating herself.
She was so quick to assume Therese with her frosted hair and leathery skin had named her daughter for a stripper, so fast to judge their lives and their choices and consider them less than. Instead of focusing on the love she saw between them, how solicitous Brandy's mother was of her. How much time she devotes to her daughter, despite working multiple jobs. Knowing her likes and dislikes, even keeping up with her television shows. The way she thought to get a decaf coffee for Addison, too, in the cafeteria. Her cheeks flush with shame.
Snobbery. That's what it was. Narrow-mindedness, and she hates it, because it's not her. It's everything she's tried to get away from. It's …
It's Bizzy.
The thought slams into her almost painfully. Bizzy flew across the country to interfere in her life, and the taint of her is everywhere now. That's how it's always been with Bizzy: she seeps into you if you spend too much time with her. Like how she could always tell when Archie had been out at the estate with her parents just by the change to his flippant tone, the way he adopted some of their mother's supercilious phrasing.
Now she's here, in Seattle, and it's seeping into Addison.
Which is dangerous, because everything in Addison right now?
Is seeping into her baby.
Her hands fold protectively over her bump.
Toxic-adjacent, that's how she described her childhood last night. Except that toxicity was supposed to stay on the east coast, where it belonged, not fly out here and seep into Addison's life. Not turn her into a snob when her patients opened up to her.
She swallows hard.
Archer, you'd better hurry up getting here. And then you'd better leave, and take Bizzy with you.
… and she remembers that Bizzy was talking to Cristina Yang, and she has to go and find her.
Damn it.
..
She finds Bizzy and Yang … right where she left them. Oh, Bailey is going to have a field day with this one. Parents in the hospitals, interns hanging out with them instead of working?
Yang seems to realize this and stands up a little straighter, looking embarrassed, as Addison approaches.
"I should, uh, I should check on … my patients," she says.
"Good idea, Yang."
And Bizzy must be fuming to have had to talk to the intern this long. Addison reminds herself to tell Richard to add social skills to the interns' orientation curriculum.
"Thank you," Yang says suddenly, impassionedly, turning to Bizzy. "I never really thought of it that way before we talked."
"You're welcome, dear."
"I'm really grateful."
Addison is staring.
"It's my pleasure." And then Bizzy glances at Addison. "Well. My daughter's expression tells me you'd better hurry back to work … Cristina. It was very nice meeting you."
"Sorry. I mean, thank you," Yang says one more time before scurrying off.
And Addison is left open-mouthed in her wake.
"Close your mouth, dear, in case an errant fisherman is passing by." Bizzy raises an eyebrow. "Or your husband, since I understand the fishing in Seattle is excellent."
She's going to answer her mother.
She is, except….
She can't form the words.
Bizzy was advising Cristina Yang? Talking to her? Helping her?
Bizzy, who's expressed nothing but judgment over Addison's choices?
Her shoulders tense.
Her jaw tightens.
"Now." Bizzy straightens her scarf. "I'd like to see your office."
Addison blinks. "My—office?"
"Yes, dear, I hope they've given you an office. Or did you want to stand here all afternoon? It's very crowded in this hallway.
"No, I didn't want to—it's this way," Addison manages to get the words out, still trying to process what she saw.
..
Addison's not in the lobby.
With or without Bizzy, she's not there.
Derek rubs a frustrated hand through his hair. He's tried calling her—no answer.
The last thing he wanted to do was leave Addison alone with her mother.
He takes a deep breath. He'll find them. He'll find them before Bizzy can do any damage, and it will be fine, and—
"Dr. Shepherd! Mr. Nelson started seizing in the tube!"
… right after he puts out this fire.
Addison, hang on. I'm coming.
..
Bizzy doesn't speak to her again until they've reached her office and then, once Addison holds the door open for her, her mother stands a dozen feet into the room, pivoting slowly on the carpet.
"It isn't much," Addison says before she can stop herself. "My office in New York was bigger, and I had a hand in the decorating, but my practice there was … ." Her voice trails off.
Why are you defending your office to Bizzy?
"Are you going to ask me to sit, Addison?"
She feels her cheeks flush at the correction.
"Of course. Won't you sit down." Addison gestures toward the couch.
Bizzy does sit down, a lady always sits carefully, Addison, cross your legs, dear, you're not French, and then rests a hand on the arm of the couch for a moment, looking displeased.
"Synthetic fabrics can be very irritating to the skin, Addison. You would be better served—"
"What the hell was that?" Addison blurts before she can stop herself, interrupting her mother never, ever interrupt your elders, Addison.
Bizzy looks taken aback at her outburst—still calm, always unruffled—but still, taken aback.
"I beg your pardon?"
"With Yang. Talking to her or—whatever it was that you were doing. You were what, giving her advice?"
"We were speaking," Bizzy says neutrally, "as you know, because you were speaking with us too before you took your leave."
"I had a patient. I didn't take my leave." Addison shoves her hair behind her ears. Her heart is pounding again and she tries to draw a deep breath. She doesn't want the baby to feel her stress. "I don't understand. All you've done since you got here was complain about me. My hairstyle is too severe. My maternity clothes are too slutty," and she's too upset even to enjoy how much Bizzy must be cringing internally at the word slutty, "my office is too small, my couch is too … polyester, but you meet Cristina Yang for ten minutes and you're bonding?"
Bizzy blinks. "What is your question, Addison?"
"What is my question?" It's Addison's turn to be taken aback. A memory flashes into her head—walking in on Bizzy talking about some charity event or another to Susan, her mother's hardworking and long-suffering social secretary, and they were actually … talking. Laughing, almost like they enjoyed each other's company. Like Bizzy was human. "My question is, how can you be like that with other people but not with me?"
Her voice cracks a little on the last word.
Damn hormones.
Bizzy doesn't respond, and Addison has to swallow hard so she won't cry. She absolutely, positively, under no circumstances will cry.
Not in front of Bizzy.
Not ever.
"I asked you one thing … about when you were pregnant … and you couldn't even answer it. Yang asks you about her … love life or whatever, and you're all ears?"
"Addison."
"No, it's not—it doesn't matter." She takes a deep breath. "Except it does. It matters to me, but not to you. I'm … not a person to you," she says, realizing it as she speaks. "I never have been. Not then and not now."
"Pardon?" Bizzy asks again.
"I wasn't a person to you," Addison repeats. "I wasn't real. Not in the womb, not out of the womb—oh, would you stop making that face, womb isn't a dirty word."
"Really, Addison."
"Really!" Addison feels her heart speeding up even more. It's now or never. "You didn't think about me. Not when you were pregnant. Not when I was born. You didn't worry about me. You never put me before anything, or … or thought of me at all. Your decisions had nothing to do with me. Not one."
"You can't understand," Bizzy says tightly. "Not until you're a mother."
"I already am." Addison stands, resting a hand on her bump. From the beginning, all she's wanted to do was avoid Bizzy's mistakes. Maybe it's easier than she feared. "I already am a mother," she repeats, "and I've already done a lot better than you ever did."
Bizzy touches the necklace at her throat, briefly. "Perhaps it's time for me to go."
"No." Addison finds herself actually moving toward the door before she forces herself to stay put. "No, it's not time for you to go. It's time for you to answer me."
"Addison." Bizzy hasn't stood up, so that's—something? Her legs are tightly crossed, her lips pressed together.
"Did you like anything about being a mother? Ever?" Addison props her hands on her hips.
Bizzy is quiet for a moment and when she speaks again, something in her voice seems older. Wearier. "You're … trapping me, Addison. You're trapping me, and I won't have it.
"I'm not. I'm talking to you!" She brushes tears out of her eyes. "This is talking. I'm talking, and I'm—I'm asking, Bizzy—mother—I just want to know. I need to know."
"What is it that you need to know?" Bizzy asks in that same tired voice, turning Addison's words back to her.
She dares herself to say it.
She dares herself to stop.
… she says it.
"You never wanted us, Archer and me … did you?"
And then she braces herself, hard, for her mother's answer.
Whew! Over 11K words and Bizzy is definitely not finished yet. Neither is Addison. See you next week to pick up right where we left off with Bizzy's answer. Meanwhile, wish me luck; I'm in the beginning stages of updating The Climbing Way (I know, I know) and actually wrapping it up. BUT this is QPQ, so here, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, what the Sheplet's name should be, and whether you think Bizzy would enjoy seeing Hamilton (assuming she lives that long). And apologies to everyone in the Revolutionary War for the liberties I've taken with your history ... but since the Captain's official name on Private Practice is Charles, I really couldn't resist naming him after Charles Lee.
Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! See you next Sunday! xoxo