Chapter title is a Devics song. Thank you for your reviews last chapter! They are so appreciated (and sorry I'm bad about responding to them – please just know they warm my soul, and definitely motivate me to write quicker). The end notes will be busier this time, so be sure to check those out once you've clawed your way through this bucket of angst. Thank you for sticking with this fic. It's hard to believe I started writing it nine months ago! It's like a full baby now. I'm hoping to have it finished before its one-year anniversary.
This is a long chapter. I mean, they always are with me (over 11K words, we die like men here), but the first scene alone is ten pages…I don't think I've ever had a scene that went that long in a multi-chapter before. And, obviously, it's very emotional.
Content warning, as a reminder from last chapter: child abuse/sexual abuse. Nothing descriptive, graphic, or violent. Also a brief mention of suicide.
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Chapter 45. All Your Beautiful Trees
If there is an appropriate way to share with Addison everything he found out this evening, Mark is uncertain. How do you tell someone this? How does he even begin to talk about it? He opts for a simple text on the way back to the hotel, which, realistically, is what he would have done anyway: Leaving Everett's. Be there in ten. But as for everything that will follow…he does not suspect that in ten he will have a better idea of how to have this conversation.
He proceeds with more caution than usual as he eases onto the street where their hotel is located, keeping his speed in cooperation with the road conditions and avoiding the polished tracks that serve as dark rivers for miles ahead of him. His stomach churns with the thought that if he kept going along Route 20, he would reach the northern end of Skaneateles Lake. Jenny liked the Thayer Park area best.
Is that where it happened? Or where it didn't happen? Mark wonders if it matters though. It was everywhere, really.
"Hey!" Addison greets from the bathroom, having heard the swipe of the key card and the door being pushed open. The bathroom door is mostly open, but from this angle, Mark cannot see her. She is where she said she would be though; when he pulled into the parking lot, he saw that she responded to his text, telling him she was back from her massage and "getting ready for bed," which he understands has less to do with pajamas and crawling under the covers and more to do with a too-many-steps-to-count skincare routine. It is vaguely soothing though, to stand just inside the hotel room's entrance and hear the hollow sounds of bottles and jars being transferred around the counter. He recognizes the rasping noise of the lid being spun closed on a buttery-looking shea and cocoa moisturizer Addison likes to rub on her stomach. It is always the last thing in the getting ready for bed process, and Mark knows the sound intimately, having massaged the product into her skin numerous nights. The texture of the cream is soft in his palms and between his fingers, but Addison's skin is softer.
His mouth opens, but Addison's name is silent on his lips. She never told anyone. She didn't think anyone would believe her. And she was scared.
"I seriously had the best massage, and you're going to receive lots and lots of 'thank you's' for it," Addison says, voice cheerful. There is a pause in her communication, in which Mark can hear a quick rush of water. "I was thinking of ordering dessert…" there is another pause, this time to dry her hands. And then she is coming out of the bathroom, smiling widely and in possession of a glowing look of someone who has had all the tension drained from her muscles. "The room service menu has something called a S'mores Lava Cake…Mark?" She comes to a brief stop, and then is moving quickly towards him, which is all Mark needs to know to confirm his attempt to appear calm is not working. "Oh, Mark, what is it?"
"Something…something happened." His hand is on the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tendons.
"Are you hurt?" Addison does a hurried head-to-toe assessment, looking for some sort of visible injury. He was in a car accident. Someone hit him. A hit-and-run. Those are her first thoughts. "Is someone hurt? Or did something happen to your dad…?" Mark's lips are slightly parted, but there are no words. Addison can hear his breathing though. Not hard, not out of breath, but different, somehow. His face is white-shocked. "Did someone hit -"
"No…not. Um." Mark's arm drops listlessly to his side as he shakes his head. Addison steps closer, eliminating the remaining feet between them. She peers up at him, eyes rounded with worry. "Jenny," he shares feebly. "It's Jenny. He used to…he hurt Jenny."
"Your dad?" Confusion rearranges Addison's facial features. She cannot imagine Everett deliberately hurting someone. He seemed gentle in her presence, if not a touch sad and passive. She knows about the mostly nonthreatening neglect of Mark's childhood, but his expression right now is wild-eyed and frantic; whatever he is trying to tell her seems worse than the sum of all his youthful experiences.
"No. Jenny's dad."
Addison swallows tightly. "How did he hurt her?"
"In…in the bad way." All forms of abuse are bad ways, but Mark thinks that she must understand what he cannot yet bring himself to say. Naming the act is too terrifying, even though the solitary word lingers there like a hovering breath. "Everett said…if she was in the water, she was safe. Her dad didn't know how to swim, so if she was in the water, he couldn't touch her. At…at the lake she'd take me to. And it…it happened at night. It usually happened at night. And not just…the lake, but also not at the lake." Mark wonders if he is making sense. His words feel jumbled, and his voice is quaking. "It happened a lot. My dad was the only one Jenny told. I tried to get more information, but then he…he sort of shut down. He said a little bit more, but then…then he said he couldn't really talk about it anymore. So I just…left, and told him I'd see him tomorrow for breakfast. I didn't…I didn't know what else to do. It's just that at night, with Jenny, her dad would…he would…"
Addison knows. She probably knew the second she asked how, but she knows for certain now, as Mark struggles to verbalize the actual allegation. Of course she knows. For her, it has been over twelve years of trauma-informed care and SAFE training and evaluating sexual assault survivors and conducting examinations and making the appropriate reports and asking questions she wishes had different answers and providing answers to questions that she wishes did not exist. And each time, well. The most recent time is just as upsetting and heart-wrenching as the first. It just is.
"She was sexually abused." Addison starts there, and says it very softly. Words matter, even when there are unknown spaces within the background and context. She watches Mark's mouth though, and sees the rounding of his lips. She knows the letter that is supposed to come first. It is beyond her profession, really; it is a combination of the sheer affection of talking with Mark, of getting to see each quirk and shift of his mouth to share loving words with her, and also speech therapy as a child. His lips are a shivering circle, but there is no tongue movement, no deliberate push of air that follows. I know it's tricky. R is one of the hardest sounds. Her speech therapist said that once. Let's keep trying. You can do it, Addie.
"He raped her," she adds. She does not know if it is helpful to say it aloud, but it feels like the responsible choice is to mirror Mark's language, to offer up the word she knows he is mouthing at her, but cannot quite bring himself to say. She reaches out and rests one of her hands against the thickest part of his arm.
"Y-yeah. And she was…not that anyone deserves…" Mark ducks his head. "She was a little girl. Just a little girl."
It is like motion sickness. That is the physical sensation Mark can best think to describe it, a sudden polarity as he loses control over muscles and joints and feelings. His stomach aches. His chest and lower back feel damp with the beginning beads of sweat. His shoulders jerk. And tears fall swiftly. He cannot really see his mother as a child – there are so few pictures of Jenny from that time, and none of her with her dad. Instead, Mark sees her as an adult. He tries to imagine a faceless person striking her across the face hard enough to leave a twilight-colored bruise. And it's just…impossible. Jenny, with her wide, clear blue eyes with flashes of silver near the pupils, prominent cheekbones, a small nose that would wrinkle when she thought something was funny, and her kind smile. No. Impossible. And the other form of abuse…no. Mark cannot. She was just a child. Someone's child. But apparently that meant nothing.
Less than nothing.
The water was the one place she was not drowning.
"I'm so sorry, Mark. God, I'm so sorry. Come here." Addison tugs on his forearm, and he follows after her, unthinkingly. Her voice is soothing to his ears, somehow penetrating the loud noises that seem foreign to him as they surge out. "Just…come sit with me." She eases down on the side of the bed, and he drops next to her. They are angled towards one another, knees lightly touching.
"My…my hands…"
Addison glances down. Mark's fingers are curled towards his palms, and his hands are trembling. He seems somewhat fascinated by the fluttery vibrations. Those same hands shook at her thirtieth birthday party, too, when he arrived late after losing a patient. Addison remembers that, even though he was able to hide it better then. But then wasn't this.
"I know." Addison buries her hands under his and secures her fingers around his crooked ones. "Just hold onto mine, okay? Keep holding my hands. And try to take slow breaths. There." She nods when Mark drags in a heavy, wheezing gulp of air. "There you go." She observes carefully, measuring the rise and fall of an anxiety attack as Mark tries to follow her guidance. "Slow breaths. Good. Mark, tomorrow…we'll go over to your dad's like we planned, and we'll talk to him, and try to get more answers, okay? We'll see what else he can tell us. You deserve to have any information he can give you. He wouldn't have…it won't be an easy conversation, but I don't think he would have brought it up if he didn't finally feel ready to talk about it with you."
The force of Mark's cries surprises her…until it does not. It was more of a moment for Addison – astonishing, because she has only seen Mark cry once, the day she came to his apartment after Jenny died. Tears fell with silence that day though. And of course something this awful makes his reaction understandable, but it occurs to Addison maybe this is how Mark would sob anyway if he ever allowed himself to. He is not shy, and is not particularly restrained or cautious when it comes to decision-making and actions. His path has never been incremental, methodical. Mark feels. He feels with every part of himself. And he cares and loves without reservation.
"Should I…should I have known?" Mark croaks out, the heaving of his chest starting to ebb. He pulls one of his hands away and brings it to his face, rubbing over cry-reddened skin in the aggressive way a toddler might.
Addison presses her lips together as she shakes her head. "You didn't…you didn't know because Jenny didn't want you to know. I'm sure of it." She tugs at Mark until he leans forward, resting his forehead on her shoulder. Once he seems comfortable, she surrounds as much of him as she can with her arms. "People are good at hiding their pain when they want to. And you were her kid – her baby. It might have brought her some peace, not to talk about this with you, even though now…if she were here now, she'd probably be nudging me out of the way so she could hug you first. And what Jenny…what she experienced…it's different now. There's more support. There's less shame, whether it's a family member or someone you know or a stranger. There are more people speaking out and more opportunities to speak out. More than there were when Jenny was growing up, at least. And she…if it was just her and her dad, she must have been so isolated. The things he took from her…" Addison attempts to battle through the tightening sensation beginning to twist like vines in her throat. Staying in control right now – for Mark – is important. "He probably took her voice, too."
"Yeah." Mark's breathing is still labored, rough. "I'm…I'm sorry for…for all this."
"Don't be." She wants to keep holding Mark close – he is slumped against her, the side of his head now resting on the sharp line of her collarbone – but it feels critical that he see her when she says this, so Addison eases him back. "Please, please don't be sorry, Mark. There's nothing to be sorry for. You don't have to apologize for anything you're feeling."
"This from the queen of apologizing for crying…" his lips pull into a half smile.
"True. But still."
Your heart shows on your face. Which attending used to say that? Byrne, maybe, Addison thinks. She sees it now. She knows every expression of Mark's, which means she knows what his sadness looks like. In the quiet, night-still moments where he will sometimes bring up his parents, a trauma case that was particularly tough that day, or share a memory that involves Derek, where she can tell he half-regrets bringing it up, but thinks it would be weird to cut the story short. But that is sadness. This is brokenness. Raw, unfettered brokenness.
"I didn't know much about her dad," Mark admits. "His name was Neal. Jenny would sort of…shut down, on the rare instances I asked about him. I just assumed he was a mean drunk – and maybe he was. I didn't think there was…more. Not this kind of more, at least. Not for a second did I…the most Jenny ever said was that he wasn't a nice person, she didn't want him around me, and that she hadn't talked to him in…in years. Something like that. That's all I really knew. She grew up in Buffalo, but she came to the city when she was eighteen. Saved up her money, and came here after high school…"
Not came, Mark thinks. Ran. Ran like hell. She would have swum if a channel existed.
"She met my dad at some sort of photoshoot," he continues, voice starting to sound hoarse. Another breath catches in his throat. "They lived in Williamsburg before moving here. And Jenny's mom…she died during childbirth, so she never had a mom who could…" Mark looks sharply at Addison and seems to register the gravity of this statement. "Fuck, I'm sorry." His gaze drops to her stomach. "Sorry, I'm not -"
"I'm fine," she calmly replies. More calmly than she would have expected, honestly. "Keep talking. It's okay."
"She didn't have anyone to protect her. I don't think she really had anyone at all until she met my dad. And then…then me. And there were…things. There were things," he repeats.
Everything feels like a sign afterwards. It exploded into Mark's head on the drive back. His palms were clammy and uncoordinated on the wheel, and his right foot felt slow, but his mind was racing as he picked apart recollections. But for a moment, he could hear Naomi Bennett's voice, clear as a bell: everything feels like a sign afterwards. When he was a second year resident – when they all were – word got out that someone they went to med school with had killed himself. None of them were close to Connor – a resident at UCSF – but it was still unsettling, so that night, Mark went with Addison and Derek over to Naomi and Sam's, where they quietly sipped drinks and tried to recall any interactions they had with Connor. It felt nausea-inducing to Mark, even if he were to take the manner of death out of the equation; it seemed like they were inserting themselves into a grief that maybe was not theirs to share in. They did not really know Connor, after all; there were close to two-hundred students in their graduating class. But he was definitely in Gross Anatomy with them. That much they could remember. Quiet, looked stressed even by med student standards, was the first one out the door after Dr. Kaur dismissed them. None of that necessarily means anything, Naomi warned when they continued to grasp, searching in the way that people desperately do following a tragedy. Everything feels like a sign afterwards. We didn't know him well. And even if we did…we'll never know for sure what was and wasn't going on.
"What things?" Addison asks, rubbing his arm. Mark's eye contact is everywhere right now, but he is shaking less and no longer crying.
"She was just…big on consent." His words unravel gradually as he attempts to explain the memories that rocked over him like a landslide on the way here. "When I was in high school, she would ask me things sometimes to make sure I understood 'no' meant 'no,' not to try another way…and just…not that parents shouldn't care about consent, but she…and then, before that, you know how sometimes – well, maybe you didn't ever do it – sometimes you'd get mad at a parent and yell, 'leave me alone' or 'don't touch me?' Whenever I did that, Jenny would back off immediately. Like, immediately." Mark inhales, trying to separate out more thoughts. "She constantly asked me about my coaches, and before the drinking got worse, she would linger before and after practices, just like, watching. Because, you know, some of those stories about coaches…anyway. She…if she saw something sad on the news, like a tragedy involving a kid, she'd just…she'd consume every second of it, but it was like she couldn't drink fast enough while she did. And I asked her once…I asked her once if she wished she had a little sister, and she just got this like…look on her face, and no…no, of course she didn't want a sister. Why would you want one, if that might mean that your sister might have also…?" He shudders, and Addison coaxes him against her once more, draping her arms around his waist. "Jenny would stay close to me when I was sick," he adds. "I swear, she'd barely even let my dad near me. She was like a mother lion when I had a fever or the flu…when I was at my most vulnerable, my most exposed. And my dad said that…about her going out at night…if it mostly happened at night, then maybe being at home in the dark with her past was just…just too hard."
This might be his reality now. Mark wonders about that. If, when he is drawn to simpler, innocent memories of his childhood – making breakfast with Jenny, when she would clap for each and every "trick" he did off Cindy's diving board, the time they stopped for ice cream after his class trip to the zoo – somewhere inside those memories will exist a hollower memory where he remembers his mother was abused.
He feels Addison's cheek, warm and comforting, as she turns to nuzzle her nose against his temple. "We're going to talk to your dad tomorrow," she says, again putting forth the reminder. "And we're going to email Olivia, and see how soon she can fit you in. Because you're going to have to talk to a professional about this, too." And Mark knows this, and he knows why he has to, but the thought still brings tears to his eyes, and he is sure Addison can feel them when some land on the swell of her stomach. "I know that's going to be hard…but I can go with you when you talk to Olivia, if you want. I don't have to be in the room, but I can at least wait in the reception area. If you want, I mean. You don't have to decide anything yet." She catches his stubble with the corner of her mouth. "I'm here for you, okay? No matter what."
Quiet fills the room. She is holding him. For a few minutes, Mark cannot bring himself to speak. But Addison does not speak either. It is comforting though, and he feels like some of his depleted strength is coming back thanks to her embrace.
"Olivia thinks your name is pretty." Mark is not sure why he feels such an urge to tell Addison this when he pulls back, straightening his posture. "I used to…for a long time, if I brought you up in therapy…" he pauses, lips peeling into a crooked, sheepish grin, and Addison lets out a giggle, following the unspoken reference. Did you talk shit about me today? They make each other laugh with it. It might not be how a session starts, but talking about each other with their respective therapists is sort of inevitable. They are good about talking to one another afterwards though, if they need to. "I started using your actual name in July," he adds. "Before that, if I mentioned you, I would call you 'Ginger.'"
"Hm. Not exactly covert," Addison says, words braided with amusement. "Something like 'Blondie' or 'Coco' might have been subtler. It would have thrown Olivia off the scent."
"Subtle has never been my strong suit. Addie, should I…do you think I should I tell Lynette?"
"Who you tell and don't tell is up to you. But Lynette loves you, and she would want to know, because she would want to be able to support you. If you tell her though – and how much you tell her – that's your call. And this is the kind of thing with your dad, and with talking to Olivia…it won't be a just-once conversation. It's going to take a long time to process this, unfortunately. It's not an 'over' or 'past' thing – you just keep working through it. And you don't…you don't have to decide anything right now, but if you want to take some time off work, that's fine, too. And I'll take time off with you, if that's what you want. Maybe…maybe we should lie down for a bit." Addison flips a palm towards the pillows propped against the mahogany headboard. "How about we do that."
Mark looks doubtful, and then for just a second, she can see fear crowding his eyes. "I don't…I don't really want to go to sleep yet."
"I know," she assures. "No sleep yet. I just want to get you a little more comfortable." Addison retrieves a pair of sweatpants and a different shirt, and hovers close by while Mark begins to trade in today's outfit for something looser. Once she has determined he does not need assistance, she knocks the pillows off the bed, replacing them with the body pillow she brought. It is something Addison is glad she purchased, given the support it offers her back, but now she is grateful for the pillow for a different reason: the curve of her stomach makes it difficult to share a standard-sized pillow if they want to stay close while facing each other. And right now, she does not want to take her eyes off Mark.
Addison encourages him to lie down first, and then scoots in after him. She notices the shifting of her stomach seems to catch Mark's attention as she gets settled on her side. "If anyone…" he says, teeth practically gritted. "If anyone ever -"
"I know." She cuts him off quickly. She knows how that sentence ends, and cannot bear to contemplate it.
"I wasn't…" Mark releases a shaky gasp, and she reaches for his hands again, connecting them with hers between their bodies, chest-high. "I-I wasn't a very good son."
"Mark, no -"
"I was cruel, sometimes. And judgmental. Addiction and alcoholism are diseases, but it felt more like a personal affront when it came to Jenny. I'd say mean things just to say them and I…I put up walls. I didn't want friends to come over. And I didn't want Jenny to answer the phone, because she'd slur her words on the days that were the worst, and there was never any accounting for what days those would be…it was unpredictable. But I didn't need to…I stopped doing the lake thing with her after college, and maybe I shouldn't have. I didn't have any excuse not to go home more often, and to not swim and get pancakes with her. I mocked her once…well, more than once. I accused her of having an easy life. And for…for your wedding." Mark squeezes his eyes shut, and Addison holds a hand up, cradling his cheek. His skin feels shame-hot beneath her palm. "Derek brought up…he said Bizzy was after him to give her names and addresses for people on his side for invitations. And Derek…he talked to me first, to see what I wanted to do, and I told him not to invite my parents. When Jenny asked me later if you guys had set a date, I said it was just going to be family at the wedding, because I didn't…I was embarrassed. Lots of people turn into shitshows at wedding receptions, but Jenny…some of her worst times were at weddings. I couldn't risk it. Maybe she would have tried to keep it together, but I didn't know for sure that she could; history proved otherwise. Everett seemed to get what I was saying though – actually saying – when I said it was just family. He gave me this look, and a small nod…I think he knew. So instead, my parents spent most of June in Mykonos. And I shouldn't have…Everett probably wouldn't have minded either way, but Jenny…Jenny actually would have loved to have gone to the wedding. She loved Derek, and she would have loved you, too. I wasn't…I just wasn't a good son."
"You were a good son," Addison says after he seems to have finished. She works her fingertips along his face, catching any remaining tears that she can. "You were. And Jenny loved you. You were her entire world. Her heart beat for you. Remember she told you that? You know, everyone can always do a little better – as a daughter, a son, a mother, a father, a partner, an anything. And kids are mean to their parents when they're growing up, they just are sometimes…I know Clara will have her moments, too. But having boundaries did not make you a bad son, Mark, and I'm sure Jenny knew that, and understood that. You were right to have boundaries. But I promise you, you were a good son and she loved you so much." Addison leans forward and presses her lips to his forehead, holding them there until Mark lets out another breath. "You were a good son. And none of this is your fault. It was Jenny's job to take care of you, not yours to take care of her. And it wasn't her fault, either…what happened to her, I mean. It's just something really, really horrific. And she did the best she could to live with that pain." Addison does not know the frequency. She does not have the full context. There is a part of her – not the girlfriend part, not the going-to-be-a-mother part, not the doctor part who knows the ins and outs of the subject very well, but just the human being part – that hopes Mark is wrong, and that he misunderstood what his dad told him. But rationally, Addison knows Mark is not wrong, no matter how few words were disclosed this evening. Touch can mean a lot of things. You can touch to show love. To offer comfort. To give support. But you can also touch – somehow, unfathomably and terrifyingly – to hurt.
"Addison…I can't talk to him about it."
"You can. I know it's going to be tough, but I'll be right there with you. We'll do it together."
"No." Mark's voice is barely more than a whimper. "Not…not my dad. I don't mean him. I mean…I m-mean…"
Oh. It is enough for Addison to succumb to tears for the first time tonight. The other him. The tippy-tip of your tongue has to be behind your front teeth to make the 'D' sound. For just a moment, she is with Miss Linda again, bare legs swinging in the yellow stacking chair. 'D' is fun because it's like a little puff of air. Just hold the Cheerio there for three more seconds. This helps you know where to keep your tongue when you make the sound. Good girl. Three…two…one…
"I know. And I'm sorry, Mark. I'm so, so sorry about that." Addison sees him reach towards her dampened cheek – because of course he would, even after all this, try to offer her comfort. She captures Mark's hand in hers and brings it back down. "I'm not crying for me," she says, pressing her mouth to the lines shading his knuckles. "I'm crying for you. I know you miss Derek, and I know you can't talk about this with him. But I'm here for you. And anyone else you want to talk about this with will be here for you, too."
It makes sense to Addison that no matter what happened in the past year, Mark would still want Derek to know. They grew up together, so in some ways, Mark and Derek know each other better than they know anyone, and Derek certainly had a front row seat to some of Mark's moments with his mother, either directly or indirectly. And Derek was always there for Mark when he needed him, even though Mark did whatever he could not to need anyone. Derek sat with him the first time he lost a patient. Derek brought him food and stayed with him after Jenny died. Derek drove up with him a few days before Jenny's funeral service; Addison had to come separately, due to a coverage shortage on the maternity floor. When Mark lost the child who came in with severe burns on the night of her birthday party, Derek asked her the next morning if she would mind if he went out to grab a coffee with Mark, just in case he wanted to talk about it.
"I'm sorry for h-hurting him." Mark's voice is different now, the cadence both reedy and harsh. It reminds her of a wounded animal. "I'm really sorry. I wanted to be with you m-more than anything…but I still didn't…I didn't want to lose either of you…"
"I know," Addison whispers. There is really nothing else she can say to that. "I know."
Derek liked Jenny. She remembers this. She asked him once, about Mark's parents, early in their relationship, but not so early that Derek felt uncomfortable being honest about his best friend's childhood. His dad wasn't around much. I didn't have many interactions with him. And his mom…she's seriously the nicest person. Nice. That's the first word that pops into my head when I think about Jenny. But she has…demons or something. She's an alcoholic – I don't think she ever hasn't been, as long as I've known her, although it got progressively worse by the time we hit middle school – and Mark mentioned something about pills once. He doesn't like to talk about her, so I sort of follow his lead. Mark was neglected…not in an abusive way, but still, still in some sort of way. It's why he spent so much time at my house growing up. And I know Mark has his flaws and he's always borderline inappropriate, but the thing is, Jenny clearly did something right, because he's such a good friend to me, you know?
Her ex-husband is not a monster. Nor is he someone inclined to wish ill will. Things can never be like they were before, but Addison knows if Mark shared what he learned about Jenny with Derek, that Derek would empathize, and might even allow Mark to talk with him about it. But the problem is that in order for the conversation to be facilitated, Derek would have to actually read an email from one of them, or a text message, or listen to a voicemail. And Addison knows he will not do those things, especially now that the divorce is finalized. He might have even blocked their numbers; she isn't sure. She just knows it would not be fair to encourage Mark to reach out – to put this sort of bottomless anguish on the line – if Derek does not respond.
"I don't…I don't think I've ever cried this hard before. Not since I was a little kid, at least."
"This is the kind of thing that sort of guarantees hard crying. And the other thing is…I don't think you've let yourself cry like this before. This past year, you've just…" Addison inhales slowly, wanting to keep her composure. "This past year, you've shown more kindness and patience towards me than I probably deserved at times. You've been so strong, and you helped piece me back together, and helped me stay pieced together. You've taken care of me. Every hug, every moment you made space for me to express myself, every thoughtful gesture...you did all those things. But you did them at the expense of your own feelings. You put me first, even though you've been hurting too. You haven't let yourself feel the loss. At least not openly. But, this…this is what love is, okay? This is what our love is. We take care of each other. And I know up until now it's been you taking care of me, but right now -"
"It's your time to shine?" He interjects, the corner of his mouth tweaking as he tries to smile.
"Something like that. Just let yourself grieve. For her. And for him. Can you…?" Addison places a hand on Mark's side, trying to get him to change positions. "There," she says when he rolls mostly onto his stomach. "Yeah, like that. I'm just going to rub your back. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to, but just let yourself be soothed for a bit." Her palm starts to move over his back. "We're going to get you through this. We'll both get through this. And we have people who will support us…even though Derek isn't one of them. But there might be a day where you can talk to him again. I know it's not likely…but we don't know for sure that it's not a possibility. Everything's going to be okay, Mark."
Everything's going to be okay. Their rallying cry.
His mother probably never once thought that while growing up.
"Jenny used to do this when I was sick…" Mark says quietly. It occurs to him that no one other than his mother has ever rubbed his back before.
"Oh." Addison lifts her hand. "If you don't want -"
"No," he interrupts. "It's okay. It feels…it feels good." There is not really a discernible pattern. Addison's trailing fingers are a map of geography that doesn't quite connect, but it's purposeful, leading somewhere anyway; her hand is warming the valley between his shoulder blades, the ridges of his spine, the basin area at the small of his back. "Thanks. I might…I might just close my eyes for a minute. But you should…you mentioned room service, earlier. If you're -"
"I'm fine. And we have snacks here. I promise I'll eat something if I get hungry."
"Can you…can you just leave the lights on?" Mark is embarrassed to ask, but he knows it's something he needs right now, for some reason, and he feels a flash of gratefulness when Addison tells him that she will. He always turned all the lights on as a kid. He thinks. Well, no. He did. He definitely did. But maybe there were lights Jenny was always turning on, too. And when she and Everett left for the night – usually not returning until anywhere between midnight and three, depending on what they were up to – she would check to make sure every door was locked and that every window was sealed shut.
The logic eludes Mark, but maybe she was trying to keep him safe in her own way.
It is complicated. Or maybe not so much right now, when everything is this fresh, but Mark knows that eventually, it will be complicated, the further he cruises into the processing portion. But already, he can understand some of the difficulties when it comes to the trauma that summarized Jenny's upbringing. It is the if this, then that part of a logic question: her messy parenting and her lost childhood. She loved Mark deeply, and he knows this, but practically-speaking, healthfully-speaking…Jenny wasn't a good mother. And she was also sexually abused. The two aren't necessarily independent from one another, but how much the two things influenced each other, and on the other side, what was just pure, unfiltered negligence and selfishness, Mark is not sure. There are no easy answers. And there is possibly no closure available. It hurts though.
Right now, it is just searing pain.
But Addison is lying next to him, and her presence is a light in a light-washed room.
He has a hand tucked under the pillow, but his other one is resting between them, and at some point, Addison reaches for it with the hand that isn't swirling around his back. She murmurs something, but Mark cannot quite hear it, and he is too tired to ask her to repeat it. He can feel her warmth next to him though, and it brings some comfort.
I love you. And I'm right here, he thinks. Maybe that was what she said.
. .
. .
Thirty Years Earlier
Mark props his water-sluiced arms up when he reaches the side wall, waves lapping all around from his series of jumps. He grins, enjoying how warm the coping feels against his elbows. This has been a fun afternoon. Cindy and Dan are in Florida, so the Sloans have been taking advantage of their pool. Cindy told Mark she would pay him if he would water her plants while they are gone, and although Mark knows it's actually more of a chore for Jenny, since she has to drive him here, she doesn't seem to mind. Jenny likes swimming as much as he does.
"Sorry!" Jenny calls out as she shuts the screen door behind her. "I checked Cindy's stuff and she has graham crackers and chocolate, but no big marshmallows. I called your dad…he said he could get off a little early and come hang out with us. He'll be here in about an hour, and he's going to pick up some marshmallows on the way. That'll be fun, right?" She smiles as she tugs at one of the sleeves of her terrycloth cover-up that is hiding a still-drying red one piece.
"Did you see the jump I just did?" Mark knows he should probably say thank you first, since he was the one who asked if they could stay to roast S'mores over the fire pit. Jenny said she would watch him from the kitchen window though while she searched the pantry. "Not the foot-grabbing one, but the other one? The barrel roll?" He is working through his usual tricks, because he has yet to completely master the front flip off the diving board. He can do the easy kind of flip, where he turns his body over in a somersault just as he slices through the surface of the water in a dive, but it's not a real flip. Kathleen told Mark his flips don't all-the-way count, because his butt – or sometimes his back – hits the water before his feet. And that means Mark is not getting "all the way around." Whatever. Kathleen still plugs her nose half the time when she jumps in the pool.
"I sure did. You're a bit of a daredevil, you know."
"I know," Mark replies proudly. "Do you know how to do backflips?" His front flips might not all-the-way count, but he is close, and the next step is a backflip. He can do them in the water, and can also do one if he holds onto the rough, finger-prickly side of the diving board and hoists his legs up as though he is a monkey swinging from a tree branch, but he has never tried to do a backflip off the diving board.
"No." The way Jenny's nose wrinkles makes Mark think of a raisin. "I wish. I can do front flips, but not backflips. I can do backflips when I'm in the water, just like you – I learned when I was eight, so your age – but I can't jump from land into the water doing a backflip, even off the board."
"Did you try to learn?"
"No, I was a little too scared. I didn't really like the idea of going backwards."
"Yeah. Kathleen does gymnastics, so she can do flips and stuff. She said backflips are easier because it's not like…she said it's not a 'blind landing.'" Mark lifts a shoulder, already bronzed even though summer has barely started. "Johnny knows how to do them, too. When I was playing at his house with Derek and Michael H. last week – remember? – we were jumping on his trampoline and playing 'crack the egg.' And then Johnny showed us his backflip. Backflips look harder, even though Kathleen says they're not. But they're easy in the pool."
"Yes. And safer." Jenny raises her brushed-up eyebrows in a way that makes Mark think she is trying to tell him without actually saying anything that she would like him to only do flips in the water. Well. Maybe he will try when she isn't looking, then. Sometimes when they are here Jenny will go inside, not to look for chocolate and marshmallows, but to get something to drink. Or a little more to drink. That's usually what she says. "It's always better in the water," she adds.
"Yeah. Water is better." Mark does think she's right, even though he wants to keep being a daredevil. "Hey…" he looks up at her, eyes hopeful. "You're coming back in, right?"
"Yes, Mark. I am." Jenny peels off her cover-up, letting it drop on the deck. When she reaches the edge of the pool, she leaps into the air. Sunlight cuts across her body as she makes a seamless arch, legs bound together and toes pointed. She barely makes a splash as she breaks through the water. She does the most perfect dives, Mark feels. She taught him how to dive, too. It was few years ago. He can sort of remember sitting on the edge of the pool at a community center, his small feet brushing against the wall, hands clapped together over his head like an arrow. We're working up to it. That was what Jenny said when he pouted, because you can't dive if you're sitting. And they did work up to it, and Jenny says he's really good, but Mark's dives don't look anything like hers.
Jenny pops back up, water droplets bouncing off her mouth as she exhales. Her hair, which was knotted on top of her head, is tilted to the side now from the force of her entry underwater, but she doesn't reach up to fix it, and Mark likes that about her. He laughs when she playfully splashes some water at him. The water and its accompanying cool air coats over Mark's face, and then he swipes his hand across the rippling surface, getting her back. The water glitters in the sunlight. Jenny hoists her body out of the pool after a few more minutes of trading lazy splashes, only to do another dive. Once again, her jump is perfect.
The water catches you. Mark remembers her saying that once, too, when she showed him how to dive.
. .
. .
He smells chlorine. Or he was dreaming of the smell, maybe. Just like he was dreaming of someone saying his name. As Mark floats to a more wakeful state, he is not sure. He blearily opens his eyes. It is impossible to tell how much time has passed, given that the lights are still on. Ice is stuck to certain spots of the exterior window, spread out in patterns that remind him of ornamental lace, which makes most of the other elements vaguely indistinguishable.
"Mark…"
He rolls towards Addison at the sound of his name – maybe that part was not in the dream he can no longer remember, and from the way her hand is nudging at his shoulder, it becomes clear that she has been trying to wake him. And no, on another deep inhale, Mark determines it is not chlorine. Something beachy, maybe. Whatever they used on Addison during her massage, he thinks. He is used to the moisturizer she smooths over her stomach, and the faint scent of vanilla that lingers on her pulse points even at the end of a long day.
Addison's expression looks guilty when he focuses on her. "I'm sorry," she says, a shy smile gracing her lips. "I know I should let you sleep, but -"
"It's okay." He raises a hand to touch her cheek. "What is it? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I just…" she takes his hand and guides it down to the swell of her stomach.
Mark's eyes widen in surprise at the strength of the kicks under his palm. Clara moves now. Really moves. For several weeks when Addison would hold Mark's hand to certain areas of her stomach or side, the feeling was faint, nothing more than a twinge, but now, every once in a while, Mark gets to feel a good, hard kick. And contrary to what he has read about babies usually being more active at night, Clara is still a little stingy with her kicks and pokes and jabs. Stingy towards her father, at least. They joke about that. Addison can of course feel all the rolls and wiggles, and claims their baby is most likely to throw out a series of pitter-pattering kicks while she is operating on a patient, or at four in the morning. Those stubborn Montgomery-Sloan genes, she has said more than once.
He has never felt anything like this though: a steady, rhythmic engagement. Like a thunderous heartbeat. "Wow," he whispers. "Holy shit." It's not eloquent, but it's really all that comes to him.
"Right?" Addison debated whether to wake him, recognizing how much he needs to get some rest, but she knows now that she made the right decision. She watches the combination of peace and enthusiasm on Mark's face as movement continues to rain beneath his spread hand. "I figured you might want to feel while she's putting on a little show."
"How…" Mark shakes his head, laughing a little. "How do you sleep when she's like this?"
"I don't." Addison starts to laugh, too. "Luckily this doesn't happen often. Not for this long and this forcefully, at least."
"Clara must have sensed her dad needed this."
"That's what I think, too." The doctor in Addison knows differently, and so does the doctor in Mark. But now they are parents before they are doctors, and really, it's a nice thought. Mark's lower eyelids are still faintly reddened from crying.
Times passes. The kicks slow, indicating Clara has gone back to sleep, a sleep more peaceful than either of theirs. Addison points out a water bottle on Mark's nightstand, and he drinks voraciously, not realizing just how dehydrated he was until the first sip. He sets the quarter-finished bottle back on the nightstand, and then turns to face Addison. The bottle was not there when he fell asleep, which means she must have gotten up and gone to the mini fridge, and put it out for him. The gesture leaves him thankful, but also a little sad.
"Addie, I don't want…" he begins uneasily. "I don't want you to worry about me. To like, put extra stress on yourself or something. I'll be okay."
"I know you'll be okay, but I love you, and since I love you, worrying is kind of a side effect of that. You can't hold any of this in though. You understand?" Her fingers circle one of Mark's wrists. "If there's something you need, or something I can do, you have to tell me. I might be brilliant, but I have yet to crack the code on mind reading."
"It's too bad your massage wasn't scheduled for after all this." Mark feels a little contrite as he thinks about the fact that her muscles probably clenched right back up after he got back to the hotel tonight. "You know, with Jenny, we had…we had good times together. When I was little, she would color with me. I would always peel the wrapper rolls off crayons. I liked to try to do it as smoothly as possible, without leaving any wrapper behind; like you were with hot dogs during your dad's lectures, maybe this was my first dive into surgical techniques. But once the wrappers were off, the crayons no longer had names. So we would make up our own, just for fun. And Jenny could draw really good horses. I remember that." He smiles at the memory. "She came to all my games – most of them, anyway, before the drinking and pill-popping worsened. And I know it's probably sexist to say it like this, but she was the only woman I ever met who knew every single breakout strategy, and all the hockey terminology…she was the one who told me Johnny was a little weak on the low blocker side…not my coach." He tilts Addison's chin up with two fingers, and lightly brushes his lips over hers. "You know those giant baby bows…the kind Savvy says are 'obnoxious?'"
Addison smirks, but to her credit, she does not appear confused by the places his thoughts seem to be carrying him right now. "Because they are," she says.
"Yeah, I think so, too. I feel like Jenny…if she were here…she'd probably pick one or two out for Clara that would qualify as 'obnoxious.' She would know they were obnoxious though. But she'd…she'd pick out normal ones, too. She had good style."
"I could tell, in some of the pictures I saw on the wall. Jenny was…she was beautiful. And I can see you in her. Her eye color, her smile, and just…I don't know what else, really. But I could tell right away she was your mom. And her smiles in those pictures…they were genuine. Not every second of her life was a nightmare. Especially not…" Addison inhales hard, making a wet, sucking noise inside of her mouth as she tries to steady herself.
His eyes are searching hers. "Addison -"
"Especially not all the seconds spent with you," she finishes, voice weaker.
"Come here, bunny." Mark shifts onto his back and gathers her close, leading her head to his chest. He realizes that in the thick of all this, he forgot. Addison is upset for him, but her own history must be on her mind as well; she knows what it is like to have something traumatic happen to a mother, too. Or to experience it, at least. And even though she has not assigned a direct I feel statement to anything, Mark has loved her long enough to recognize her sounds and voices. The overwhelmed voice. The sad voice. The anxious voice. "Hey…" he knits his fingers through her hair. "Don't feel like you have to hold back, if you're upset. It would kill me if I knew you were just trying to tough it out on my account."
"It's okay." Addison cups his shoulder in reassurance. "I'm okay right now. I swear. I'm sure I'll cry at some point though," she admits. "Probably lots of points…you know Pregnant Addison is not capable of hiding a single emotion. But this…this feels good, being close to you. Or as close as I can be, all things considered. It's getting harder with the third wheel between us now." She gestures towards her stomach. "To do the bunny thing properly, I mean. And I know this will sound insane, especially given what I do for a living, but sometimes I wish I could take my stomach and like…push it around to my back for a few minutes, so that we could be closer again. Which is cheesy. Very…cheesy and insane. And then sometimes I wish it for the non-cheesy reason of how nice it would be to just like…redistribute the weight for a few minutes. I know it's insane though, no matter what the reason."
"That would be one hell of an ass though, Red." It is out of Mark's mouth before he can stop it, and Addison joins him in laughter. It almost jolts him, to realize he is still capable of making jokes. Of laughing. That he still can laugh, sometimes, even though after today, everything about his mother's life will always contain a haunting footnote.
Addison is lightly stroking his shoulder, and he is doing something similar to her upper arm. The parallel acts seem to remind them of each other's presence. Of their realness and togetherness. All the strength and resilience they have left seems to collect between them.
I'm right here. She does not say it. But Mark hears it anyway.
"Addie…" he murmurs a few minutes later. She feels heavier on his chest, a sign she is close to falling asleep, and Mark thinks this time, he will fall asleep quickly, too. "It didn't happen every Christmas – after a while I got too big for it, I guess, and Jenny sometimes wasn't…wasn't sober enough – but she used to make gingerbread pancakes on Christmas Day. And she'd make this whipped coconut cream frosting to go with them, too. It was a little too sweet, so I'd usually scrape most of it off, but it was…it was supposed to look like snow." He swallows tightly, struck with a memory of Jenny, wearing an apron with smudges of flour on it, putting a button-sized drop of frosting on Mark's nose. You've got snow on your nose, honey. It made him laugh, in that wide-mouthed, belly-thrumming way that children do. "I can…I can make pancakes like that this year, if you want."
"I would love that," Addison replies. "And I'll watch. That way I'll know how to make them, too."
. .
. .
"Do you think we're being rude, just sitting here while Lynette has a five-month-old strapped to her and is trying to keep an eye on Rowan?" Mark asks, nodding in Lynette's direction. Beckett is being worn in a front carrier, and Rowan is working his way up a wooden climbing structure with pegs and netted rope while Lynette hovers close by, earning the role of "most on-duty" while Rowan's parents set out rows of cupcakes for their guests. Mark and Addison are not the only parents (well, parents-to-be) sitting off to the side while Rowan and his friends run around, giggly and grip-socked as they zip down slides, leap into the foam pit, and crawl through tunnels that wind around the length of the indoor play place Rowan's parents rented out for his birthday party, but Mark still feels that maybe he should be doing a little more, even though more comes with a and Addison have plans with Savvy and Weiss this afternoon – pedicures for the women, and a more subdued "hangout" at the loft with Weiss and Phoebe, for Mark – so they really just stopped in to say hello and drop off a present for Lynette's grandson. And even though it somehow feels nightclub-loud in here and the germ ramifications are disgusting to consider, it was worth it to see the look on Rowan's face when they arrived. He shrieked in excitement and scrambled over, his crown with a 4 on it toppling off his head as he wrapped his arms around Addison's legs. He then looked up at Mark, who had the birthday present tucked under his arm, and by way of greeting, asked him, "What did you get me?"
Addison grins at Mark's inquiry. "Well," she says, "you might be acting rude. I'm thirty-six weeks pregnant. It's my right to sit here and do absolutely nothing. The only thing I'm going to do is twirl my…" she captures some of the ends of her hair between her fingers, and uses the fingers on her other hand to mimic air quotes. "My 'sunset orange hair' for the little guy."
Mark nearly snorts. "Sunset orange? Who is he, the freaking Bard?"
"It's a Crayola color. That's what Lynette said, when she asked him. Anyway, she seems fine with the two of them, and look – there's Charlie now, going back over there. Plus, it's Lynette. We could hand off a hypothetical newborn Clara to her right now…" Addison glances down at her stomach and smiles. Not much longer. "And Lynette wouldn't miss a beat between all three."
"True. You know…I'm glad we were able to come by for this. It's giving me a good picture of what our life will eventually look like. And I will definitely be doing more than just sitting here when Clara is old enough to play at a place like this, because I've got news for you: if she winds up being more like me than you as a kid, she'll be figuring out ways to climb the outside of the play structure, not play on the inside like a safe, rule-abiding kid. And…" Mark feels a little ridiculous as another sentimental thought comes to him. "It's been kind of nice, to talk to some of the parents here, right?"
"It is nice. But…" Addison starts to smirk. "It's not just nice, because I'm sure you're doing the same thing I am: trying to decide who we would want to be friends with, if Clara was in Rowan's class." She laughs when Mark confirms he has been doing this, too. It is a good group though, Addison thinks. Certainly there are some mothers she would click with more than others the more they got to know each other, but this time at the play place has provided her some optimism about future friendships. For one thing, it is great to see that, although the range varies, a few of the mothers here are definitely around her age, or older. Addison knew she would not be the only mother to have her first baby under the placard of advanced maternal age, especially in New York, where women do often delay having kids, but her mother and former mother-in-law were able to subtly (and sometimes not subtly) poke at her throughout the years for wanting to wait, and some of those comments stuck with her. And the other thing is, something about the women here today makes them a different breed than most of the other mothers Addison knows (or knew) intimately, either as former sisters-in-law, friends that fell to the wayside the deeper she got into her career, and women she grew up around. Today's collection of women have smiled at her, and at her stomach, but have limited their pregnancy-related questions just to asking how she is doing, rather than making comments of the "Is this your first?" or "You must be due really soon, right?" assortment that Addison has warily come to expect. Such questions are the cousins of being asked over the years if she wanted to have children and when she planned to have children, so this dialogue evolution – or, on her grumpier, more hormonal-laden days, delegation of the term as basic fucking manners – fills her with hope.
She studies Mark closer, still feeling hopeful, but for a different reason now. He looks good today. Well-rested. There were many nights throughout the tail end of December and January where Addison would wake in the middle of the night to feel him pressed tightly to her back, his head buried in the dip between her shoulder and neck. She would roll over each time, and guide his head to her chest. She could never quite figure out his level of consciousness; he was awake, but not fully awake, in her opinion. She would stroke his hair and whisper loving words though, and if Clara was moving around, she would drag Mark's hand down her body, so that he could feel the reassuring kicks. There were times Addison could feel her pajama top grow damp beneath his scratchy cheek, but each morning, he would be breathing easier, and his eyes were open and clear again.
"Want me to grab you a cupcake before we leave?" He asks, and Addison nods, almost embarrassed about how giddy she is about such a prospect. She closes her hand around Mark's elbow though before he can stand up.
They both worked until the end of January, and then quietly stepped away, wanting to treasure some time together before their world completely changes in March. The upcoming months will be the longest either of them has gone without working – they are still trying to wrap their heads around the idea of not having surgical instruments in their hands almost daily. And while Addison does not plan to return to NYP until June, Mark's first day back is unknown. He is thinking April, but Addison told him not to worry about putting a specific date in his head yet, and Olivia advised the same. At any rate, his practice will be able to remain open and almost fully-functional during his combination of personal and family leave. There is no shortage of clerical duties for Lynette, and the physician assistants on staff are well-equipped in administering fillers, collagen induction therapy, and other non-surgical cosmetic procedures, so Mark isn't stressed about the practice languishing without his presence. Besides, the recidivism rate for Botox is higher than the pregnancy one, I'm pretty sure, Mark had said, and Addison laughed, but maybe not as hard as Savvy, who was also there when he shared this observation.
"Before you get me a cupcake, I wanted to ask you, since we were just talking about…well." Addison gives him a small smile. There is no right time to bring this up, she supposes, though something about being surrounded by all this happiness of the child-squealing and play equipment-clanging variety makes her think it certainly is not the wrong time. Or not the most wrong, at least. "It's about an eventually-newborn-Clara. Her middle name…"
"Oh," he says. "Have you changed your mind about Grace?" They batted around a few options, mainly of the one-syllable kind, when they first picked out Clara, and Grace ended up being the one they liked most. There was no particular attachment to it; it just "did the job," in the sense that they both thought it was pretty, and succinct.
"I still like Grace. But I actually thought…I was thinking about another 'G.' What if we did Genevieve? For your mom." Addison has waited to bring this up, not wanting to do anything that might cause an unwanted rush of emotions in Mark's healing process. She wondered if she should have brought the name up at the beginning when they were discussing middle names, but Mark never mentioned it, so she didn't either. "It's completely up to you," she adds, "and whether it's a 'yes' or a 'no,' it's fine with me. I still like Grace. But I just wanted you to know it's an option, if you want to go that route: Clara Genevieve. But only if you want to. No pressure."
Mark's lips curve into a smile as he considers this. "That would…that would be really nice. I'd like that. But I don't want you to feel like…I know you said it's up to me, but I don't want you to feel like we have to honor her." Clara Genevieve Montgomery-Sloan. It does feel like her full name though, now that Addison has brought it up.
Her voice is quiet when she answers. "It would be a pleasure to honor a woman who, for whatever mistakes she made as a parent, for all the things we know and the things we can't know, was kind and had a big heart and survived a lot and loved her son." Addison squeezes his knee. "And would have loved her granddaughter, too. Plus, it's really pretty. I know it's a mouthful, but it's not like Clara's going to have to write out her full name every five minutes. And it passes the Supreme Court test, too."
"What's that?"
"The name you pick – it's one of those out-loud-test things. Like, how you can say the name at a playground to see if…Mark, no." Addison half-giggles and half-squeals when he jokingly cups his hands near his mouth, as though to yell the name here. "Anyway, it's one of those things. You're supposed to try to imagine your baby's name as the name of one of the justices. Does it sound good, or utterly ridiculous? A patient mentioned that to me once, when she was throwing out potential names for her twins. But I think it works for anything legal-wise. If you needed some help, I mean, you wouldn't want someone named…like…let's see…someone named Grapefruit Spinderella representing you, right?"
"I guess it depends on how much trouble I was in. I feel like Grapefruit Spinderella would be a little more understanding of whatever it was I did than, say, ADA Savannah Jacobs-Levin might." Mark brushes his lips to her temple. They need to leave in a few minutes if they want to get to Savvy and Weiss's by four, but for now, the preciseness of this moment feels infinite, or it will for as long as he is with her. "Everything's going to be okay," he adds, voice barely audible over the background noise. Addison hears him perfectly though.
"Everything's going to be okay," she agrees.
"Probably a little bit more okay though if you had a cupcake right now."
"Yes, please."
. .
. .
References/Notes/Nods to Various Episodes
Mark, Grey's 2x18: "Subtle has never been my strong suit." (it's said more like subtle's though, but damn am I having a hard time writing it like that)
Something I have dropped in this fic before (chapter 1 for sure), but (I'm pretty sure) forgot to mention until now: bitty-sized Addison would perform surgery on hot dogs. The Captain told Pete in PP 3x09, while observing one of Addison's procedures, that when she was eight or nine, "She used to love to come to the university with me. She'd sit in the back of my class, cutting on a hot dog while my other students worked on their cadavers…you ever try to take the casing off in one piece? It's like separating the dura from the cerebral cortex."
The other stuff:
Mark does eventually get the chance to talk to Derek when they reconnect in a few years' time (a not-too-serious medical procedure reunites the trio for a few chapters – my God this fic is never going to fucking end, is it). And during their reconnection, Mark is able to share what he's learned about his mother (the extent of the conversation is not shared though). And like I mentioned in the notes in 44, this will not be an ongoing plot or drive the future of this story. But it happened. And that's something that will always be a postscript for Mark. (Also, there's eventually some closure with Bizzy. I keep meaning to mention that. I don't leave things hanging.)
Mark's dialogue in this chapter covers a lot of things that have come up in previous chapters with Jenny-related flashbacks, but I was also mindful to include the (obviously not canon) bit from Naomi: Everything feels like a sign afterwards. Because really…we don't know. I mean, yes, as the writer, I know what I know, but I wanted all of this to be more open-ended, especially when, in the immediate aftermath, a person's mind is spinning trying to process that sort of disclosure (via third party, too). I have a tough time with fics that take, for lack of a better description, an If You See Something Say Something approach. Like when you're sort of hit over the head with clues/signs/etc. Abuse isn't always obvious (in many of my can't-get-into-details-but-trust-me-I-know experiences, it is not). My intent throughout Mark's childhood flashbacks was to build to this moment, but not to make it blatantly clear from the start that, "Oh, his mom was definitely abused as a child." And while it's a sympathetic storyline, there is also no denying that Mark deserved a far better childhood than the one he had…you can love your kid, but still be an objectively bad parent, and Jenny and Everett were (I've tried hard to make Addison and Mark's childhoods different, but there are still some threads that tie them together). More than one thing can be true. So. There's that. Kudos to one reviewer though who sort of wondered about this maybe being the path I was taking before #44 was up – and when you write really long chapters, you run the risk of things getting lost in the weeds, so well done Anon for picking up on that! But anyway, the more relevant Jenny-focused flashbacks if you wanted to do some rereading are in the following chapters: 22, 27, 32, 34, 42, and 43.
Mark Sloan? Is steady. He does not break. He keeps it together. He is flawed, but he does not lose it. I will always think of Addison in Grey's 6x11 telling Mark, "You just lost it in my OR, and Mark Sloan never loses it in the OR. Not ever." And here is my take: I think this applies to his personal life as well. It was made clear in canon that he would have done anything for Addison, and for so many of the things he did, he did them at the expense of looking after his own feelings and taking care of himself. The mental and emotional feelings, I mean…he was able to get his physical needs met just fine when Addison didn't want him (and also when she did), but obviously that cycles back to more feelings-y feelings as well. Mark might have done a number on Addison, but she did a number on him, too. And Mark was often written off and dismissed by both Addison and Derek (sometimes intentionally, sometimes less so). I think for New York Canon, he spent a lot of time trying to hold Addison together (regardless of what mistakes he – and they both, and all three of them – made along the way). And that has been the approach I have taken here. Obviously we are a long way from canon, Toto, but for Mark to express how hurt he is, how guilty he feels, how much he misses his best friend…something would have had to have triggered a meltdown. Something big. He wasn't going to just casually bring it up – not when he has put so much time and effort into trying to make sure Addison doesn't shatter into pieces (while carrying his kid). His pain has always been on the backburner. Which is where this idea came into play. And I love the idea of Addison, for whatever reason, whether it's a Little Reason or Big Reason, being the one to offer comfort.
So. There you have it. And guess what? Baby comes next chapter – that's the plan right now, at least – so it will be significantly happier! (Although I'm not sweeping what happened this chapter under the rug, just to be clear. It's referenced next chapter, just subtler in approach.). Thank you for reading, and for your patience, since it might take a bit longer to get the next chapter up.