A/N: Thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting. I know this story is a heavy one, and I appreciate every single one of you, anon and non-anon.

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what you remember
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If you ask me, the worst thing about telling is that once a story is out there ... you can never go back

Vivian didn't see it that way. She said I could rewrite my story.

You know that expression, how they say history is written by the victors? She thought stories are like that. A story is just what you remember, that's another thing Vivian said.

What do I remember?

I remember her face. Mostly, I remember her face. She was seventeen years old, and her name was Brenda.

I was a fellow, flush with importance and still wanting to save everyone, despite Richard's best head games. They brought her into the pit seizing and bleeding from a fall. I wasn't there, not at first.

Derek was there. So was Leo, the pediatric neuro specialist. Yeah ... peds. She was so young, just seventeen, they weren't sure which of them was in the best position to help her.

This is what Derek told me later, that someone palpated her stomach and realized it, first. And then they cut her clothes away and then I was paged.

It didn't take long to see that had inserted laminaria into her cervix. She'd been prepared for a D&E. By the state of them … it wasn't a day ago, or even two. It was far longer than it should have been. Far longer.

A runner.

Derek shouldn't have been there. But the infection was systemic by then, and it triggered a seizure, and she fell. And I shouldn't have been there. Brenda shouldn't have been there – she should have been treated by whoever started her procedure.

She did regain consciousness, and I tried desperately to get information from her. She would only say two things at first, Joe didn't want me to, and can I see him? I assumed she meant she wanted to see Joe, a boyfriend or partner, but she opened big brown eyes hazy with pain and said the baby, where's the baby.

And then she seized again. And terms like massive infection were being thrown around at her head while I stood between her hastily spread legs trying to figure out if there was any way to reverse her body's course.

The other place said I could see the baby, that's what she kept saying, her voice wispy and panicked, timed with her gasping breaths. They said I could hold him. Can you help me? Can you please help me?

When, I demanded, trying to understand what had happened, medically. When were you there, at the other place. When, Brenda.

Last week …or the other week … I think. But then Joe said he wanted to keep it. He wants us to be a family. A slow smile spread across her face, even with the pain, even with the electrodes and the doctors and nurses surrounding her, the threat of intubation as her blood pressure kept dropping.

You didn't go back, I prompted her.

Joe wanted to keep it. Can I see him? Can I see the baby? Please.

I remember fighting with Dr. Robards, who'd arrived by then. He wanted me to hurry. That maybe clearing the products of conception could reverse the infection. But it was too late and she wanted to see the baby and I refused to do anything but an intact D&E.

Am I going to die? Her voice thin, muffled by the oxygen mask we had to force onto her.

No, I told her. No, you're not going to die.

Please … please can I see the baby? Her words fogged the mask.

I stood my ground and while she coded I screamed at someone, anyone, to wrap the baby and bring him back while I desperately tried to help her. And then I formed Brenda's arms around the body of her child so she could hold him, and I lowered her head, streaked with blood from the fall she took with her first seizure, so she could look at him, because that's what she wanted.

When Robards tried to call time of death I shouted him down. Derek tried next. Brenda was still warm, her limp arms falling away from the blanket-wrapped bundle when I released her, so I grabbed the baby instead. I held the baby in my arms and faced off with my husband in that cramped, sweaty cluster of a non-room, so many of us surrounding the narrow bed and just one small person in it.

Don't quit on her, that's what I screamed at Derek while I held the white-wrapped body of her child, don't you quit on her.

She's gone, she's already gone.

What do I remember? Her face. How she looked at me with those big eyes, filled with pain: Can you help me? Am I going to die?

She died.

I lost the battle and when TOD was called I just walked out from behind the curtain with the baby's body in my arms, out through the rest of the ER, into the waiting room, until I saw him.

I knew him right away. He was at least twenty-five.

Joe?

He said yeah. His eyes were glued to the bundle in my arms. He didn't ask about Brenda.

Joe. Did Brenda tell you she had to go back? That once she started she had to go back?

I didn't give details; I didn't need to.

Yeah, but … she changed her mind.

I didn't have to wait long for him to say more.

I told her not to go back. I told her to have the baby. That what she was doing wasn't right.

There was some bluster in his voice still. Told her, that's how he put it. I nodded as if this all made sense. Then I held out the bundle to him.

Here's your son. I hope it was worth killing his mother.

And then I walked straight out the door, in my scrubs, and walked all fifty-odd blocks home, and then I took one of Derek's bottles of scotch out into the small stamp of garden in the back of our brownstone and sat there alternately drinking and watching mosquitos land on the thin skin at my wrists and elbows. I let them bleed me and didn't protest.

And then I went to sleep. And then I woke up and didn't go to work.

And on the next day I didn't leave my bed.

When Derek tells the story, I know, he'll say I frightened him. He'll say I wouldn't speak, to him or anyone, that I wouldn't eat or dress or bathe or even call Chief Glenn to ask for time off.

She won't talk to anyone, I heard his voice telling someone on the third day, and I was too dazed to wonder who it was.

She'll talk to me, came a warm velvet voice, don't worry, and then I was alone with her.

I stumbled out her name just because I was so shocked to see her in my bedroom.

Dr. Carlsmith?

She was brilliant and all I ever wanted was to work with her, to get to know her. She gave advice freely but took so few fellows. From the first time I stood in her OR I knew I wanted to be like her, even in grief I remember being embarrassed that I was wearing a battered, oversized Bowdoin t-shirt, hadn't bathed in days, that Derek turned off the AC when I kept shivering so the room was hot and close, warm and damp like we were trying to grow something.

Addison, she said. I remember she sounded sad.

She sat down right on the end of the bed – the legendary Vivian Carlsmith, M.D., perched on the end of our bed – and talked to me. She told me everyone has secrets. She told me that she'll keep mine, if I want to study under her. Next year. But you'll have to come back to work if you want to be my fellow.

Why? That's what I asked her. Why was she helping me, why was she here?

A story is just what you remember, that's what she said. We have to write our own stories. Rewrite them. Write them again. Then she stood up and looked down at me, in bed. It's enough, she said. Come back to work. It's time.

When I heard the heavy front door closing downstairs I stood up, stretching weakened legs like a baby foal trying to take its first steps. I showered, I dressed, and I walked downstairs.

What did Dr. Carlsmith want? Derek asked. He kept asking me questions, those days I was silent, even when I didn't answer.

She wanted to help me, that's all I said.

His mouth opened slightly to hear my voice, and I saw his gaze flicker down to my empty hands, and I knew what he was remembering. His arms opened and I held onto him tightly; he felt like the cocoon of the comforter in the bedroom and the sting of the mosquitoes in the garden all at once.

A story is just what you remember.

You see … I know what Derek remembers. He remembers me holding Brenda's baby in my arms while I screamed at him not to call time of death. That's the story he'll tell.

The baby was days past life, but he was beautiful. He was perfectly formed. And if I try to imagine myself in Derek's shoes I can see that must have been disturbing, what he saw. What he saw in me.

But that's his story, not mine.

Wide, terrified brown eyes: Can you help me? Please, help me!

… that one's mine.

…

I'm leaning my head against cold glass; from this corner of the south hallway I can see out to the water. Everything since I walked into Hannah's room with Derek feels like one long inhale, and I need to breathe. The water should help.

I look at the scrap of blue and then I'm thinking about our house in the Hamptons.

Well. My house now, I suppose.

When we moved in there was this one cabinet in the kitchen with a weak base. The kitchen had been renovated a few years back by the previous owners, who were these DIY types – nothing like us. I think Derek was surprised I didn't want to redo it, but it had this mixed-up not-quite-right French country look that I fell in love with – you know, the weathered white wood, little iron handles, china-print backsplash – adorable. But of the cabinets was kind of sinking at the bottom. I used to point it out to Derek sometimes – he thought I was exaggerating, but I could see it starting to buckle. It was slow. It was really slow, almost invisible, each summer, and I was going to tell the caretaker, or have him call a contractor, but I never got around to it. Every time I passed the cabinet I'd study it to see if the buckling had become worse but I never made that call.

The end of that story is that the cabinet did eventually give way, and we walked in on a pile of shattered blue-flowered French china plates I loved from the moment the decorator showed them to me. We walked in on the aftermath of the crash and it looked horrendous, like a tornado had blown through, and it was a disaster we'd need to clean up and figure out how to fix.

But it was also a relief … because I wasn't waiting for it to fall anymore.

…

She's alone when I walk into her room.

"How are you doing, Hannah?"

"I'm okay," she says in a small voice. "Are you – is it time to start? I keep asking, but she said she didn't …"

"Asking Nurse Taylor?"

She nods.

"Nurse Taylor said she's been speaking with you."

"Yeah." Hannah nods. "She told me you would come back. She told me you would talk to me."

"She was right. I'm back. And I want to talk to you." I smile at her. "I know the waiting is difficult, Hannah, and I'm so sorry that I can't do more to move things along."

It's already after 5:30 … almost 6. If she tests beyond 23 weeks tomorrow, Richard is going to want to review it again.

"Is it okay if I take a quick look at you?"

She nods.

I watch the images as I run the wand over her belly.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

I nod encouragingly at her.

"Tad … Tad said he found this place that we can go to … ." She pauses. "It's like … three thousand dollars. And they don't bill you after, either. I don't have that. Well, Tad thinks maybe he can get it."

I don't want to think too much about how Tad plans to get the three thousand dollars.

We talk more about this when the sonogram is finished, when she's not half naked and vulnerable to my looming stance and machinery. I sit down in the chair by her bed.

"Hannah, you should get whatever services you want, wherever you want. If you want to go somewhere else, that's perfectly fine. You have to do what's right for you."

"I don't want to," she whispers. "I want you to do it, but … I don't want to wait."

"I know the waiting is hard. I'm sorry."

"I keep just laying here and thinking about him," she whispers. "I think he's in pain."

"He's not in pain, Hannah." I place my hand on her uninjured arm.

She raises teary eyes to meet mine. "I wanted to be a mother," she says. "We didn't like … plan to have him or anything but then when it happened and I could feel him, you know? I wanted to be a mother."

"You are a mother. You're his whole world right now," I remind him. "You've taken care of him all this time, and you're making the decisions you think will be best. That's what mothers do."

Nice speech, right? I have no idea what mothers do; I was raised by wolves.

It's not that I don't believe what I'm saying. Vivian used to say it, and it made a lot of sense to me. So I say it. I say a lot of things. The stakes may be higher than other professions, but doctors do plenty of winging it too.

"You really think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"I don't want to wait anymore."

"I know. I'm doing everything I can to move things along." I move my chair back slightly, putting a little distance between us. "How is your arm feeling?"

"It's okay. Dr. …"

"Torres," I supply.

"Yeah, Torres. She came in here before and looked at it and stuff. She's nice."

I study Hannah from this more distant vantage point. She keeps absently rubbing her belly with her uninjured hand. She was pregnant – unexpectedly, but making the most of it. Making the best of it. And then a car slammed into her plans and then doctors did the worst part of our job: delivering terrible news no one was expecting.

Hannah made a decision. Hannah made a choice.

But I can't help her. And now she's lying here, in this bed, trapped. It's not right.

"Hannah…"

She looks up.

"I'm going to have Nurse Taylor come in and get you prepared."

"We're starting?" Her face looks eager. "Just Tad…"

"We can wait for Tad." I smile at her. "We're just … getting prepared, for now."

Hannah's already on antibiotics; I started them early. I have Nurse Taylor paged.

"You got the signoff," she says approvingly when she gets to the doorway.

I choose my words carefully.

"We're ready to get started," I tell her.

"Good." She glances into the room at Hannah's supine form. "Poor thing, waiting has been hard on her. I'm glad she doesn't have to wait anymore."

"So am I."

My procedure room is still booked, since I was supposed to get started this morning. I kept the reservation going all day. It's fine – anything emergent would have botted me automatically.

It's like any other procedure: gather the people you need. The supplies you need. Nurse Taylor will be in the room. The staccato beat of my heart inside my lab coat, pulsing tempo behind each step. There's only one person left to page.

…

He arrives with Meredith.

Interesting. I did say she could assist; I can't help but admire her tenaciousness as the two of them walk up to me outside the door to the scrub room. I wasn't planning on having her join, not now. Now when it could put her in an impossible position.

"Karev." I nod acknowledgement to him. "I'm getting started now if you still want to assist."

"I do," he says quickly. "Bailey said you were still waiting for signoff last time I checked with her so I was going to assist Dr. Lewis…"

"But you're here."

"I'm here. I want to scrub in."

"Good."

"You got the signoff?"

Meredith is asking the question, her voice a little scratchy, not accusatory at all, but I look at her coldly anyway.

It's not personal. It's better for you this way, trust me.

"Dr. Grey. I didn't realize you were assigned to check up on me."

"No, I-"

"I have a patient waiting for me, if you're done with your due diligence?"

She glances nervously toward the doorway.

"I'm starting the procedure, doctors," I repeat. "You can scrub in or not." I look from one of them to the other. "Both of you."

Meredith still looks wary. I wonder how much Derek has told her.

And then Karev, who's had his usual insolent look this whole time, starts to look confused, then it seems to register.

"Wait…"

"Karev." I move my glasses so I can stare him down and speak to him quietly and fiercely. "It's time to put your money where your mouth is. You like starting lawsuits, you like starting trouble? Let's see if you can actually play with the big girls."

I think he'll either laugh in my face or storm off, but even though his expression is two parts pissed off to one part wary, he stalks past me into the scrub room.

I turn to follow him.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Not now, Meredith," I tell her, and let the door close behind me.

Karev doesn't say anything; he's scrubbing his hands with ferocity and I do the same. I don't need words right now. I'm tired of words. I need to do something. I need to do something before it's too late.

The door to the scrub room swings open with a gust of unwelcome air.

"Addison."

Oh, you have to be kidding me.

"Who invited you?" I turn to glare at Derek, who's standing in the doorway in his lab coat, still wearing one latex glove.

"Meredith came and got me." That explains the one glove. He walked out of a patient's room? That's not usually his style. "Addison," he repeats. "What the hell are you doing?"

I see her standing behind him.

"Meredith," I say, putting on my best disappointed-school-marm voice, holding my scrubbed hands out in front of me, "that's where you ran off to? To get Derek? Here I thought you and I were going to be friends."

"Dr. Montgomery, I'm sorry, but I was worried that you were going to – "

"To what? To treat my patient, even if your boyfriend disagrees?"

"He's not my boyfriend," she says quickly.

"Mer." Derek puts out a hand – the gloved one. "It's not the time."

I stare at both of them. "This lover's quarrel is … cute, really. But it has no place in my OR, so can you please take it outside? I have a procedure to start."

"No, you don't." Derek takes a few more steps into the room.

"Yes, I do." I move closer to the door.

"Addison, don't go in there."

I ignore him and start to shoulder the door open.

"Addison!" He raises his voice, stalking forward, and for a moment my mind flashes with scenarios of how this will inevitably end but then suddenly there's a wall of blue scrubs in front of me, separating the two of us.

Then I hear Karev's insolent voice, except it's not directed at me for once.

"Dude … really? What, you're going to tackle her?"

"If I have to," Derek says grimly.

"Right." Karev sounds unimpressed. "You'll have to get past me first."

Over the blue-draped bulge of his body I can see Meredith standing just in front of Derek.

"I'm your boss," Derek snaps to Alex.

"She's my boss." I can tell from the jerk of his shoulder in front of me that Karev is pointing at me when he says it. The small room is crackling with tension.

Meredith shoots me a look that says this got away from us fast and in the moment, I couldn't agree more.

A story is just what you remember.

No one moves. The clock on the wall audibly jerks forward through the seconds and I wonder how the hell this story is going to be remembered.

And whether I'll make it long enough to find out.

TBC. Hopefully quickly. Review and encourage me along and it will probably be even quicker...