A/N: Title is a line from the Margaret Atwood poem, "Flying Inside Your Own Body." Definitely worth reading the poem before you read this, if you can.
Your Heart Is a Shaken Fist
"What's going on with the patient?"
Addison gives her husband a smile as he passes her a mug of freshly-poured, steaming coffee. The tweak of her mouth conveys appreciation that Jake went ahead and got the coffee started—and gentleman that he is, he offered Addison coffee first before tipping some into a mug for himself—but the reason for her smile is also related to the question. It is an understandable assumption on Jake's part that her mention of Seattle is tied to a surgical procedure, since this is why Addison has gone there twice in recent years. This time, however, he is wide of the mark.
"It's actually not for a procedure. Miranda"—she sees Jake nod in recognition; he only knows Miranda by way of knowing his wife, but Addison has always felt the two of them would like each other—"asked if I would fly up there to help with some sex ed videos they're filming. One of the OB/GYN residents created a curriculum for teenagers. So, they're going to make some short videos, and then post them on social media."
Jake raises his mug to his lips. "When would you go?"
"On Tuesday. There's one more thing though: Miranda also asked if I had time the following day, if I would come with her to volunteer at a women's health clinic in Pullman. Someone she knows—from med school, I think—runs it. Pullman is on the eastern side of the state, close to Idaho. The clinic has apparently had an influx of patients from Idaho because of—"
"Their abortion restrictions," Jake finishes.
"Exactly. So, I'd just be gone for two days. I know it's…well." Addison shrugs, trying to latch onto the right words. She knows she has her husband's support—always, no matter what—but they both know her reasons for traveling to Seattle this time are ridiculous. Not because the tasks themselves are ridiculous—they aren't—but because there is an ample pool of qualified Washington-based physicians to choose from. "I know it's not much," she continues. "It's not like I'm the only one on the West Coast able to talk about safer sex practices or help out at a clinic. I just figure that every little thing counts. What do you think though?"
The universally-understood "mom guilt" settled upon Addison as soon as she read Miranda's text last night, but she reminded herself shortly thereafter that she and Jake don't leave Henry—either jointly, or separately—often. He is their top priority. Family is their top priority. Jake knows what it feels like to have a physically, permanently absent dad, and she knows what it feels like to have—or had, as is the case now—emotionally absent parents, so they have done everything they can to make sure Henry is never lacking in love, stability, and security, and that he can feel assured of his parents' presence.
Also, Jake is not a stranger to the "every little thing counts" approach. Addison told herself this as well, during last night's musings. What is going on in their country right now matters to Jake, too. He has volunteered on multiple occasions as a clinic escort at a Planned Parenthood in East Los Angeles, and just last month he drove over two hours to volunteer at an understaffed, primarily Spanish-speaking family planning center in Chula Vista for a weekend.
"What do I think?" Jake is grinning now, and his voice is chalky with mirth when he tells Addison, "I think that this feels pretty conveniently timed."
She lifts an eyebrow, ready to be playful back. She loves these slow, lazy Saturday mornings, the banter and easy laughter they exchange before their son wakes up. Not that there isn't laughter when Henry is awake, of course—light and laughter only multiplies when the very center of their world is around them.
"How so?"
"You'd do anything"—Jake's smile lengthens—"to get out of seeing those rehearsals, wouldn't you?"
They both hold back grimaces at the mention of rehearsals. The third and fourth graders at Henry's school have been rehearsing for a play—some sort of twist on Robin Hood folklore—that will be performed next Saturday. Rehearsals recently increased to every day after school, but as far as Addison and Jake can tell, this has not generated any improvements. The two of them alternate picking Henry up from rehearsal—and get help from their part-time nanny, Erin, when needed—but each day the parent in charge of pick-up can only provide the same report: it's still pretty bad. It is difficult to imagine that a week from today, what happens on the stage will be any more bearable, no matter how cute their son is as a member of Robin Hood's band of outlaws, and then, in a later scene, forest tree # 2.
In defense of the drama program at Capehart School—because Addison and Jake really are trying to optimistic—it is worth pointing out they have only seen snippets of the different acts, and, as Jake reasoned, the final ten minutes of a rehearsal—when the kids tend to be antsy, hungry, and ready to go home—isn't a fair measurement of the overall production value. But…nothing either parent has observed on any of their pick-up days has been promising. It is almost painful to watch, and while their preference would be to just wait out in the parking lot for Henry to emerge from his school's auditorium, arriving a little early and making themselves seen is what works best for their son. Henry has always been friendly, brave, and confident—things Addison wants him to be. Things she and Jake have raised him to be. But, he can be a worrier sometimes, so being able to spot one of his parents before an extracurricular activity comes to an end is something he needs (thankfully, a few other parents also come inside to collect their kids, so Addison and Jake aren't alone in this).
"I truly would do anything to get out of witnessing that train wreck," Addison shares now. She has been vaguely comforted by the notion—though she knows how unkind it sounds—that while Henry is a part of the train wreck just by virtue of being on the playbill, he makes a lovely tree, and the few lines he has as one of the outlaws are delivered well enough (not that she or Jake would tell him if this was not the case). "But this—Seattle—it just feels like this—"
"It's important," Jake interjects, which is more or less what she was going to say. "You should go; we'll be fine, honey. This Robin Hood abomination though…maybe next year we won't tell ourselves we're being good parents, when what we're actually doing is just punishing ourselves."
Addison inclines her head in understanding. She and Jake haven't been ready yet to pull the trigger on a year-round sport, even though if Henry had it his way, he would be playing baseball morning, noon, and night. Honing in on only one activity feels too intense for a nine-year-old, in their opinion. In recent years, baseball takes up Henry's spring, which segues into All Stars in the summer, and then in the late fall and winter there's basketball. The window of time between baseball and basketball has always been wide open though, and Addison and Jake usually attempt to fill it with something new—guitar lessons, a robotics class, and a reading club were past options, all of which Henry liked.
But, this year, before they could start to look into what could keep their son busy one or two days a week after school, Henry brought home a permission slip to sign up for the drama club. The request was a surprising one; it didn't feel like the sort of thing Addison thought her son would be interested in. She assumes the interest stemmed from having some friends who signed up. Or because—and God help her, because she is not ready for early adolescence yet—there are a number of girls in the play, and her son has started to notice girls more this year. Oh, and the felt bow and arrow set. Henry is thrilled that during his outlaw scenes, he gets to carry one of those.
"The play one-hundred percent solidified that we'll let him do fall ball next year," she replies. "Or travel ball if he wears us down. We can't risk this again."
"I agree. So, Tuesday and Wednesday then?"
"Yes. And kind of Thursday. I'll fly back that morning. I won't plan to go into work that day though, so I'll pick Henry up after rehearsal."
"Perfect. Hey." Jake's expression softens. "I'm glad you're gonna go." He reaches out and weaves a strand of creased-from-sleep hair behind Addison's ear. "It's important. Even the little things are important."
She feels tight-throated at his reminder that even the little things matter. They do though. They really do. And outside of the individuals who Addison loves so completely, she cannot think of anything more important than fighting to make sure women can have safe, easily accessible healthcare and abortion services.
Stand big. Stand strong. The words slip into Addison's head without warning as she takes another sip of coffee. Stand big. Stand strong. Those are the instructions she overheard Henry's drama teacher, Mrs. Ziegler, tell the trees during one of their recent rehearsals.
It is a better world, Addison feels, because Henry is in it. And Jake, too.
But it is not actually a better world, in a sense. Not in some of the ways that count.
May 2022
"It's only a draft." Jake gives Addison a sideways glance as they continue to get ready for bed. The air has been tense ever since the news broke a few hours ago that a ninety-eight page document with broad, sweeping ramifications had leaked. "We don't know for sure—"
Addison cuts him off with a sad mumble then, because the writing—pun not intended—is on the wall. She knows her husband is trying to be reassuring, and she loves him for that, but reassurances that nothing has happened yet, that this is not the final, official ruling on the Dobbs opinion, are just going to fall flat. "We kind of know," she says.
"Yeah. We kind of know," Jake concedes. "But for now, we'll continue to do whatever we can for any patients at the practice or St. Ambrose. And we'll keep fighting the good fight."
He takes Addison's face in his hands, and kisses her, long and deep, but it is the kind of contact that can either be a comforting one-off, or much, much more, depending on her preference. Addison opts for the latter, flicking her tongue over his as they shuffle over to the bed. Something about being as close as possible—as connected as possible—feels right. It feels like something they both need. And want, of course. Want is kind of a given though.
Once Addison straddles his hips and sinks down, she takes her time moving, legs anchored in place as she rocks forward and backward. Jake's hands scale up to play with her breasts, lightly massaging, and she settles her hands on top of his, holding them there. She tosses her head, sighing with pleasure.
Her eyes fall closed next. She allows herself to consider just how privileged she and Jake are—but her especially—that the sex they are having right now is so unburdened. She doesn't want to reflect on the lingering pain of having experienced infertility—though therapy helped with addressing and healing much of her historical pain, once Addison finally realized how bad her depression had gotten during lockdown, and decided to do something about it—so she arches her back—oh, that feels good—and focuses on the other relevant factor instead: time. She loathes the phrase "too old," because she feels young in many ways, but medically speaking, since her menstrual cycles came to an end a few years ago, "too old" is accurate. Addison is too old to have to wonder if birth control—no longer necessary—will be effective enough. She is too old to have an unplanned pregnancy.
She and her husband can make love without worrying about getting pregnant. And, more than that, if age and infertility were not barriers, there is also the freedom that comes from not having limited options—or zero options—if she did become pregnant.
Jake's hands shift, or untangle, or something. Her eyes are still shut, so she can only rely on sensations. It took a long time for her to find Jake, for them to find each other. And Addison is so, so thankful they found each other, and infinitely thankful that Henry came to her in the most unexpected way. Her husband and son are everything to her. But, one of the reasons that Jake and Henry are a part of her life—or are her whole life, really—is because of a choice she made seventeen years ago. A painful choice. Just because it was the right choice for Addison does not mean it was an easy or burden-free one (talking about that in therapy helped, too). But the fact that she was able to have a choice at all is a pretty remarkable thing.
And the idea that others may not have this choice because a conservative majority on the bench—
Addison.
Her body goes still when she hears Jake murmur her name. He skims his fingers along her hairline, then cradles one of her flushed cheeks in his hand. The gesture is soothing, centering. Addison's eyes flutter open.
"Where are you?" He asks softly when she blinks down at him. For as great as this feels for them both, Jake can tell—because he knows her well, and they know each other's bodies well—that she hasn't been fully present. Plus, they normally love to watch each other during sex; it has always made it more fun, and more satisfying for them both.
"Sorry." Addison moves her head so she can kiss Jake's palm. "I'm here." She takes a deep breath, and then circles her hips again, which makes Jake groan. His voice has brought her back, refocused her. She exhales sharply when he drops a hand between them, a finger rubbing with intent. His eyes are shaded dark with lust—though his gaze has remained gentle, somehow—as he studies her reaction to his touch. "I'm here," she says again.
She collapses forward once they finish, lazing on top of Jake's body, weak-limbed and sated. She is here. He is here. And Henry is here, too, just at the other end of the hall, sleeping peacefully, probably dreaming of all the ways he will try to persuade his dad to get back on eBay and outbid all other interested parties for a Sandy Koufax baseball card.
"That was amazing," Addison whispers when she finally catches her breath. Her praise feels half-buried due to her face being nestled between Jake's neck and shoulder, so she uses what limited energy she has to raise her head and press the point of her chin into his chest. This way, they can look at one another properly. And just in case she needs to repeat herself.
"Yeah, it was." Jake smiles at her while moving his thumb along her kiss-plumped bottom lip. He heard her just fine. "The giant brain of yours can just never power off, can it?" His words are sweet, teasing, and it makes Addison smile back at him. He might not be able to read her exact thoughts, but she is sure Jake has a general sense of what she had been thinking about earlier.
"You okay?" He asks next. She knows that he means as okay as she can be. And the same thing applies to Jake in this instance. He cares, too. No one who cares about the constitutional right to bodily autonomy can be entirely okay at the moment.
"I am."
She is here. And there isn't any other place she'd rather be.
"You know those gates at the front of castles with the sharp spikes at the bottom?" Henry twirls his fork, capturing more spaghetti as he stares at Addison, who is seated across from him at the patio table. "That kind of gate is called a portcullis. I learned that today at rehearsal."
"Portcullis." Addison smiles at him as she tries the word out. She is enjoying this time with Henry, and enjoying how pleasant everything around them is, too. The silken light of an amber and orange sunset, and the accompanying salt-coated breeze is nice—they will not be able to have dinner outside for much longer. "That's pretty cool," she states. "So…when Landon almost pulled down the gate today at dress rehearsal…what he actually almost pulled down was the portcullis, then." Addison had only been in the auditorium for about a minute when Henry's classmate Landon—well, Friar Tuck, at the time—tripped over his tan, floor length robe, and his flailing attempts to find his balance nearly brought down the castle-themed backdrop in the process.
"Yeah."
"About that—"
"You're going to give me the costume tomorrow to bring to school, and I'll give it to Landon," Henry intones. "You already told me. And I was right there when you told Mrs. Elbrecht." He sighs, mustering all the annoyance he can, but then his features resettle, and he sweetly adds, "I bet because you're a doctor no can sew as good as you."
Addison nearly blushes at the compliment. Henry isn't as easy to impress these days. And she was happy, honestly, that Serena Elbrecht took her up on her offer after today's rehearsal to bring Landon's costume home with her and shorten it. Due to the hours Addison works, she cannot really be a "room parent" in the most traditional sense, or help out as much as she would like to at Henry's school, so getting to pitch in here and there makes her feel useful. And hemming something? Like her son alluded, it is an incredibly easy task for a surgeon.
She watches as Henry refocuses on his spaghetti. She and Jake already finished their portions, and Jake has taken their plates and dirtied silverware inside. He mentioned he was going to start cleaning up, which is normally the kind of task they would do together, but Addison suspects he is trying to give her and Henry extra one-on-one time, since she leaves for Seattle tomorrow.
Their son is growing so quickly. He will turn ten years old in just a few more months. He will blow out ten candles in a world that does not afford women the same rights it did when he turned nine, or any age before that. Addison briefly thinks about one of his lines in the play, spoken to a fellow fourth grader who is Cassie in real life, but Elizabeth in the play: These gold coins Robin Hood stole from the sheriff of Nottingham are for your mother's medicine. We want to help you.
"You should FaceTime me when you're there." Henry's suggestion pulls Addison out of her thoughts. "When you're with Aunt Amelia and Scout," he clarifies.
"I will. And I'll tell them to come visit us sometime, too."
Henry nods approvingly. "You said you were going to make videos, not do something with a patient," he begins, trying to puzzle it out. "Are they, like, practice surgery videos or something…? So that new doctors can learn how to do operation stuff?"
Addison has to choke back laughter at the repulsed look on her son's face once she has explained the purpose of the videos. None of the information she revealed is of any surprise to Henry. Because of what his parents do for a living, he can't not know exactly how babies are made, or some of the safer ways to prevent pregnancies.
(Mason and the triplets have it worse. It's not like Henry's mother is a sexologist.)
"I guess the hope is that the videos go viral," Addison elaborates, which only adds to the discomfort Henry is showing. "That way more teenagers will be able to learn—"
"Mom. That's so embarrassing." This word has come into his vocabulary more lately. "Don't go viral. You can't—"
"I promise to do my best not to embarrass you, kiddo."
June 2022
"Can't sleep?"
Addison's voice is hollow-sounding when she admits, "I don't think I'll ever sleep again." Jake cannot see her face—in the darkness, they are back to front, her head tucked under his chin—and they have been quiet for so long now. He must have sensed that she was still awake though. Or maybe he felt her grief, somehow.
She can certainly feel it.
"You will." Jake's lips press warmly against her shoulder. "Just not easily."
"What they've done…what they're going to do." Addison swallows, trying to take a breath that feels both strangled and water-logged in her throat. The majority opinion was released this afternoon; Roe has been overturned. And it will surely pave the way to concerted efforts to strip away other human rights, too, but at the moment, all Addison can think about is the final line in the dissenting opinion from Justices Kagan, Sotomayor, and Breyer: with sorrow—for this Court, but more, for the many millions of American women who have today lost a fundamental constitutional protection—we dissent.
"You know," she tells Jake, "I was born a few years before the Supreme Court made their initial ruling. I was just a toddler though, so for all intents and purposes, I never knew a world—well, specifically the places I've lived in this country, and it's not lost on me how damn lucky we are to live in California—but, anyway, I never knew a world that didn't offer me reproductive freedom and a right to privacy." Under the covers, her fingers fold inward, digging into soft skin, as her hands transform into tired, bitter fists. "But now…now I live in that world again. Somehow, unbelievably, I live in that freaking world again. And this time I'm old enough to know that I live in that world. So I guess my question is…what the hell do we do now?"
"Well. Tonight we're gonna stay in this pain and shock and anger for a bit." Jake's response is slow, measured. Practiced. She thinks, perhaps, he has been reflecting on what he would say to her. About what their next steps are. "And then tomorrow we get back to providing the best and most informed care to our patients that we can. And we continue to offer them medically safe abortions, when that's what they want. We support local clinics. We contact politicians. We get loud. And we march. And we vote." His lips brush Addison's shoulder again. "Right?"
"Right." It is not groundbreaking. It is nothing Addison wouldn't have thought of herself, but it does resettle her heart a little to hear some of the examples laid out like that. "And"—she pauses to rub her damp eyelashes—"and we make sure our son understands why women deserve to have reproductive freedom and bodily integrity, and why we need to protect—and not just protect, but expand—abortion access."
She knows that she and Jake may need to adjust the conversation in some ways, perhaps, for nine-year-old ears, but probably not much, since their son is not new to activism. Henry was with them in January of 2017 for the Women's March. He was only four years old, so he had what could only be considered a rather innocent, age-appropriate understanding of why they had gathered in downtown L.A., but he walked with fervor until exhaustion set in. He was, however, all too happy to trade in his tired legs for a piggyback ride from his big sister; Angela had marched alongside them.
Jake tugs at Addison's limbs now, helping her to turn around in his embrace. He dips his head to kiss a tear stranded on her cheek.
"It would hurt no matter what," she says shakily, "given my profession, because it's like everything I've ever tried to do to support the girls and women I treat is being erased. But it's also more personal for me, since I know what it's like—as a person, not a doctor—to terminate a pregnancy…"
"I know." He does not prompt her or attempt to fill in the unspoken gaps. He just shares an acknowledgment, which is something Addison has always appreciated about her husband. Jake is able to tell when she needs him to talk, and offer advice, or when she just needs him to listen. And, this time, Addison mostly just needs him to listen.
"If I had kept that baby, and either found a way to make it work with Mark, or done the post-relationship co-parenting thing"—because for all of Mark's flaws, and for all the things she thought he would have been terrible with or at least outright struggled with, perspective has allowed Addison to see that he would have wanted to be involved with his child, and in time would have been a good father—"it could have been a nice life. I would have found a way to have made it a nice life."
"Yeah, you would have."
"But"—she is able to smile through her tears—"it wouldn't have been this life. And this is the life I want."
"Here you go. It was just where you said it was." Jake hands over an extra power adapter and cable, and Addison smiles her thanks as she crouches down to tuck the items into a pocket of her open suitcase. "Gotta keep that phone juiced up for the three-hundred emojis you're going to get while you're away," he jokes. "Need anything else?"
"I'll double-check again in the morning, but that should be everything. You know what I was thinking earlier today, when I was setting up my out-of-office message?" Addison stretches back to her full height, as though her muscles are trying to loosen ahead of making a more morbid observation: "I was thinking about my mother's reaction if she found out I was going to be talking about sex on camera."
Jake smiles weakly. Dark humor is more her thing than his, but he can still always partake. "And it would only get worse when you told Bizzy the intent was to go viral. Once you explained to her what going 'viral' means in this circumstance, at least." He is quiet for a moment—reading her expression, Addison knows—and then he says, "What else are you thinking about?"
"I was thinking that…I know we already talked about it, but I need you to remind me again that every little thing counts. And that leaving you guys—"
"Just until Thursday. It'll go by fast. You're not going to miss out on anything with us, Addison. And you're not a bad mom or a bad wife for going somewhere without us."
"Yeah, I know." The sigh Addison releases is a woeful one. She can remember hearing somewhere that the average human has anywhere from 60,000 to 80,000 thoughts a day. And that most of those thoughts are negative. "I just…I need you to remind me that going there actually matters. Because I could be here with you rather than—"
"It matters. You've heard that kind of cheesy story about the woman and the starfish, right?"
Maybe. Probably. Addison cannot really remember it though.
"Okay," Jake begins when she shrugs uncertainly. "Well, after a really bad storm, a woman is walking along the beach—or there's a version where it's a young boy, but the first time Ange and I ever read it together, it was a young woman. Anyway, so the woman is bringing starfish that washed ashore back down to the water. And an old man sees her, and he tells her the beach is too big and there are too many starfish, so she won't be able to make a difference. The woman picks up another starfish, puts it back in the sea, and then she tells the man, 'It made a difference for that one.'" Jake reaches out to squeeze Addison's hand. "It matters, sweetheart. What you're doing matters. Every little thing really, really does count. And that includes sex education videos, and volunteering at a clinic."
"Thank you. I think the problem is that it just never feels like enough. I know I can only do so much though. And I know I can't save them all." Addison exhales slowly. "And I know I can't change policy, or ultimately sway ugly, wrinkled old white men who probably can't even name half the vulval anatomy and think that women can't pee if they have a tampon in from thinking they get to decide anything about my body, and other women's bodies, but—"
"But you can still do some things."
"I can still do some things."
They have repeated each other's statements—and just plain interrupted each other, honestly, though it really is for the purpose of agreement—so much in recent months. It is not just because they are on the same page though. Or not only. It is because they desperately want to support each other through all this heartache and uncertainty.
And they are stronger when they are a united front. Addison cannot speak to the day's overall positive-negative count, but as she starts to fall asleep in Jake's arms that night, she is certain that any remaining thoughts she has while teetering on the edge of slumber are positive ones.
August 2022
Addison keeps her eyes on the plane—about a foot in length, and with a red and white wingspan that does not appear to stretch much further than that—as she makes her way down to the beach, where her boys are. The plane is gliding slowly through the air, seemingly fighting back against the wind as its user makes precarious-looking loops over the murky blue water of the Pacific.
Jake is just a spectator this afternoon, standing about fifteen feet back, while Henry is right at the shoreline, his bare, browner-with-summer feet close to being overrun with the spitting foam that advances and retreats with each roll of a wave. A controller that sort of reminds Addison of a large camera is pinched between Henry's hands.
She comes to a stop next to Jake. "This seems like an incredibly bad idea."
"Yep." Jake's arms are crossed in a way that reveals he is relaxed, but Addison can tell by his tone that he does not disagree with her. "I told Henry if that plane ends up in the water we're not replacing it. He knows what he's doing though. And the remote control is in beginner mode, so it's pretty easy to use. And I told him no flips and rolls."
Addison sets a hand above her brow to get a better view as the plane edges higher. It was given to Jake in the fall of 2020, passed on from the husband of a patient Jake helped to get pregnant. The couple—and their new baby, who Jake delivered that July—were relocating to Texas, and the plane ended being among the items they did not want to bring with them (they said they were moving because they wanted more land, but Addison and Jake both privately suspected they were among the many individuals in California who were unwilling to abide by the COVID-19 safety protocols). Jake told Addison the subject of model trains had come up during one of the ultrasounds, which then segued into a conversation about remote control planes. So, it kind of made sense that the patient's husband ended up emailing Jake to ask if he wanted one of his planes, a beginner one outgrown a long time ago. Addison is grateful though, for many other reasons, that the pandemic came to an end—or things became infinitely safer, at least—when it did. Jake and Henry have not ended up tooling around with the plane that often, but from Addison's point of view, an interest in model trains seems like it could very easily be a gateway to an interest in building and collecting model aircrafts. And, frankly, the trains were bad enough.
"And no House of the Dragon for Henry either if he crashes that thing," Jake adds, which makes Addison laugh. The show's first episode premieres tomorrow night. Henry hasn't mentioned it yet, but he will. Addison and Jake lost track of how many times over the years they told their son that he was not allowed to watch Game of Thrones, even though Henry continued to insist that he really only wanted to see the scenes with the dragons; his parents were not willing to budge though. Absolutely not. "My more notably questionable parenting choices," Jake continues, "generally don't go beyond giving him too much sugar or letting him fly an RC Sport Cub over a body of water. No gratuitously violent shows for him, no matter how much he wants to see the dragons. I read something about there being a lot more dragons in this show. Way more than Daenerys ever had."
"Well, you have fun watching it…you know it's not really my scene." Addison follows the path of the plane as it starts to veer left. "You know what?" She says. "Henry actually seems like he's pretty good at this. Especially for not using it very often."
"He is." Jake is beaming with fatherly pride when she looks over at him. "He's got a good handle on how to keep the plane steady. Not too nose-heavy, not too tail-heavy. See how he's going against the wind? It's more difficult that way, but he's still nailing the center of gravity." Jake lightly nudges her shoulder. "I figured with House of the Dragon we can just do what we did with Game of Thrones and show him any promo pictures and episode stills that feature dragons. That's all he gets though. I mean, we can only do so much for the kid, right?"
"Right." Addison cannot help but reflect on how unrestrained the plane is as it makes another loop, darting lower and then circling back around. Henry has the plane heading in the direction of the wind now, and the thrust in momentum is allowing it to travel even faster.
That plane is infinitely freer than millions of women on the ground are.
"But, we'll keep trying," she whispers as the plane continues to steadily move forward, its wings almost glittering against the rays of sunlight. "We'll just keep trying."
Her remark is a quiet one, so Addison does not think Jake heard her, but that's fine.
It was more for herself, anyway.
Henry's mouth is a tight, flattened seam as he sets the milk carton down on the counter. His gaze trails over to Addison, because even though both parents are with him in the kitchen, and they are both perfectly capable of executing any caregiving and household duties, certain things, in Henry's opinion—namely, finding something that is missing, and reporting on the status of food and drinks—belong solely to his mother.
"What is it, kiddo?" Addison asks, as though she does not know exactly what it is.
"We're out of milk." Henry shakes the carton to make his point, and the muted sloshing confirms there probably is no more than a half inch remaining in the carton.
"It sounds like someone—someone being a person who stands at four foot six and has curly hair, since that's the person who drinks most of the milk in this house—must have forgotten to tell me it was getting low." Addison once again wonders if she should implement Savvy's method of shading a line near the bottom of a carton to serve as a trigger for her two kids to tell Mom it's almost empty when the juice or milk hits a certain level. But, today is not the day for that, and Addison is not the one who has to ability to deal with it right now anyway, so she shifts her attention to Jake and informs him, words light and jovial, "This also sounds like a 'you problem,' since I'm leaving for the airport in a few minutes."
"I'll manage." Jake says, and then he tells Henry, "We'll pick some up after rehearsal today. And I have good news for you in the meantime, buddy: you can't have donuts without having milk; it's just not as good. So we'll get you some milk at DK's." He is planning to take Henry to get a donut before school. This was a great motivator to coax their son out of bed earlier than usual so that Addison could have more time with Henry, and give him a proper hug goodbye.
"You turned your bedroom light off, right?" Jake asks next. Having an obsession with lights not being left on is one of the dad clichés I allow myself, he has told Addison before.
The answer is a yeah from Henry, but Addison can spy the doubt crowding her son's eyes. His performance as an outlaw and a tree is a lot more convincing than what he is delivering this morning.
She holds her arms out for him. "You come give me a hug goodbye, and then go check again anyway. And you also have enough time to make your bed before you and Dad go get donuts. Don't give me that look," she adds with a smile when Henry frowns over the additional task. "You're only allowed to give me that look if I go viral."
"I don't want you to go viral." Henry wraps his arms around Addison's waist, and she stoops down to kiss the top of his head. "But I do want you to do a good job," he adds, voice a little more sincere. "And to have fun with Aunt Amelia and Scout. Remember you said you're gonna—"
"FaceTime, I know." Addison takes a step back, even though, truly, she could hold her little boy in her arms forever. "I promise we will. And I'll text you a lot, and you'll text me a lot."
She cannot resist giving Henry one more hug before she sends him on his way. The last thing Addison hears as she and Jake start to head out to the driveway is Henry's bounding footsteps going up the stairs.
"Thank you," she murmurs when Jake hefts her suitcase into the trunk of her car. He had offered to arrange for Erin to take Henry to school so that he could drive Addison to LAX, but she said she could drive there and just leave her car in the daily lot. It was kind of Addison's preference, actually, no matter how much she loves spending time with her husband, and no matter how much she hates navigating the lower level roads at LAX. She can't really explain why, but it feels right, in this instance, for this particular "every little thing" to just belong to her. And that includes getting to the airport, no matter how silly it feels to include this as an actual part of her practice and advocacy efforts for the next two days.
"Hey." Jake's eyes are soft when he peeks back at her after shutting the trunk. "What you're doing—"
"Matters. It matters," Addison says. "You and Henry matter more though. More than anything. You know that, right?" She knows that Jake knows. The question comes with such a nice answer though, so she doesn't mind posing it.
It occurs to her then that maybe she was so insistent on driving herself to the airport because she has the will and the strength and the passion to have this be only her thing from start to finish. That is why it feels so right. She thinks Jake probably understands that. And maybe even her son, too, in his own childlike way.
Does she have to do any of this alone? No. Never. She has Jake and Henry's support no matter what. But those qualities that have Addison willing to do anything and everything she can—even little things—to fight for the rights of women in this country…she can be those qualities specifically because of the people in her life she loves, and who loves her back. And that feeling of profound love, in and of itself, sustains her.
"I know that. Henry and I both know that." Jake brushes his lips against hers, and then opens the driver's side door. His hand lingers on Addison's shoulder while she gets settled in the seat. "Text me when you land, okay?"
"I will. I promise."
