A/N: Penultimate chapter. Some musings about the passage of time as the anniversary of the date COVID-19 was declared a global pandemic arrives, a relatively safe birthday party for Henry and descriptions of him at every age because I'm a sucker for scenes like that, more introspection, some Grey's Henry-related references, and also a little time with everyone's favorite dysfunctional uncle.
Small detail that doesn't matter to anyone: the character named Zoe is mentioned in chapter 1…I was concerned her being brought up in this chapter would feel too random, so I'm just reiterating that. If I've learned anything, it's that writing long chapters means there's less of a chance readers can retain everything. :)
Chapter 12. The light goes on and on
February 2021
In like a lion, out like a lamb. Addison is mulling this over as she flips the calendar to the next page. Tomorrow will be the first of March. She can recall thinking about this weather-specific phrase in 2020, but her reflection was at the end of March, not the beginning. That was the part that was supposed to be as gentle and calm as a lamb, but was anything but, given what the world was like then. Fear, uncertainty, restlessness, and frustration all roared like a lion.
The pandemic is not over, so those feelings still exist. The feelings seem more condensed now though, because while things may not be safe, they are safer, thanks to the widespread availability of the vaccine, and ongoing social distancing and masking.
There is hope.
Depression was not something Addison experienced in March of 2020. That came later. But, even before the pandemic, she wasn't healthy. Content with the life she had, yes, but healthy, no. There was so much inside her that had not been resolved. That sense of completeness that occupied her day-to-day life due to the presence of her loved ones, and an active schedule…it was like her body didn't have the capacity to access anything else.
Especially anything with elements of trauma.
"Hi," she calls over her shoulder when she hears one of the patio doors swing open with a muted whoosh. The footsteps that amble into the house belong to Jake. Henry's movements are louder, particularly when one of his parents arrives home after being away for a few hours. Addison knows she will miss this noisy, uninhibited enthusiasm as Henry grows older and develops more tempered reactions. "I just got here," she tells Jake.
"I can see that. Welcome back." His smile lengthens when Addison angles herself to face him. "I came in to grab my sunglasses. We're down by the water, if you want to join us. Henry is flying the kite."
"Oh. Since when—"
"You know kids." He understands what was left of the question, the reason for Addison's lifting brows. "The second you put something away"—in this case, on a shelf in the garage that requires Jake's car to be backed out in order to grab anything, including a kite Henry has not been interested in for at least two years—"that's when they want it. And your hair looks nice, by the way."
"Thank you." Addison playfully uses the heel of her hand to pump her freshly styled locks, enjoying the compliment, and also the feeling of lightness most women are familiar with that follows exiting a salon. "Rocco said I was a sight for sore eyes." They kept their masks on during the appointment, but when Addison first saw the stylist who has been cutting her hair for years—with a caution-induced gap that extended to thirteen months before this morning's appointment—the force of his grin had his cheekbones rising far up his face. "More like my roots were what was causing the sore eyes. Those at-home kits can only do so much for redheads. Rocco fixed that for me though. Oh, and he said you did a good job when you cut my hair last fall. I still definitely needed a trim—he took off two and-a-half inches—but he said my ends were pretty straight."
"Good." Jake seems pleased by this feedback as he makes his way over to where Addison is standing. "I should probably get in the habit of going to my regular place again—Henry, too—but I've kind of gotten used to you cutting my hair."
"I don't mind still doing it. And speaking of still…well, doing things." She swallows uncomfortably, preparing to change the topic to one that has been on her mind this weekend. Emotion is prickling in her throat. "I think I'm going to stay on my medication for a while."
"Did something happen at your appointment?"
"No, nothing." Addison did not hold back two days ago when Jake asked how her appointment with Dr. Sano went. It was good. And that was the truth. There is never anything of substance to disclose about her standing monthly "check-ins" with her psychiatrist. The real work happens in therapy with Laurel. And those appointments have improved, too. There is still more processing to do, but appointments with Laurel now feel like appointments, not crying appointments—a huge distinction—even though there are still tears sometimes.
"I just mean that I was thinking we're coming up on a year since the world turned upside down," Addison explains. "I know I didn't start taking Zoloft last March, but…I've been thinking about the timeline." She shrugs. "It's just hard to imagine a life without Zoloft."
"Well, you don't have to try to imagine a life without it if you don't want to," Jake reasons. "As long as the medication is helping you, that's what matters."
"You're still okay with waking up to a sweat-soaked wife and sweat-soaked sheets?"
"Yep."
Addison manages to grant him a small smile before he coaxes her into his arms for a hug. It has never been more prevalent to her than in the past year that how someone talks about mental health—and how they view mental health—reveals who they truly are. And, thankfully, when it comes to Jake—and the other people in Addison's life, too—her struggles have always been met with compassion and understanding.
"What if I have to stay on the medication for like…a really long time though? Like…years?"
"Then that lime pill organizer was worth every penny." Jake's lips touch her hair. "Does it bother you," he asks, "if it maybe ends up being a long time?"
"No, I guess not," Addison decides. "It's just not what I expected. Not that anything I expected ended up being what I expected—not from March of last year and onward, at least. But, I know I don't have to make any decisions right now. And I'm grateful for the medication. Therapy has made the biggest difference, but Zoloft has helped a lot, too. It's given me back the…I don't know…like the mental quality of life I was lacking last year."
"That's right. And remember there's no deadline, honey. Whatever feels right is right. We loved you before Zoloft, we love you on it, and we'll love you if you and Dr. Sano ever decide the time is right to wean off it. But, if that time never comes, you know we'll support you just the same. We're here for you."
Addison breathes in deeply. Her husband smells of sunshine, of faith. He is the most familiar thing in the world to her. And Henry. And Angela, too. We, like Jake said. There is nothing more meaningful than the chance to love, and the chance to be loved back. And she has an abundance of each.
March 2021
"It's not going to work."
"Hmm?" Addison glances up to find Jake hovering in the doorway with three balloons cradled against his stomach. His comment leaves more to be desired, but the fact that he still has the balloons—the first of many he is supposed to be placing in Henry's room—means something has not gone according to plan. Addison watches as he lets the balloons—in different shades of blue to match Henry's favorite baseball teams, naturally—tumble to the floor.
"Dodger thinks it's a game," Jake says. "As soon as I put one of the balloons down, she was out of Henry's bed in a flash and started batting at it." He joins Addison, who is sitting cross-legged in the center of their bed, surrounded by several more balloons. Ever since their son was a toddler, they have covered his bedroom floor with balloons the night before his birthday. "Henry rolled over, but luckily it didn't wake him. So, it's a no-go. We'll have to put the balloons in there in the morning before he wakes up, once we get Dodger out. I can help you blow up the rest of these though."
Henry will be nine tomorrow. Addison cannot say why, but nine feels so much older than eight, for some reason. And Henry's birthday is significant because of something else, too: tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of the date COVID-19 was declared a global pandemic.
She and Jake have been tag-teaming the preparation tonight. I'll keep blowing, she told him earlier, gesturing at the unopened plastic bags containing more balloons, and you can put his presents on the coffee table and then start to bring the balloons I've finished into his room. The two of them had exchanged a yes, I know how that sounded smirk at the keep blowing statement, but honestly, at least a quarter of Addison's smile was for Mark, who certainly would have had something to say about keep blowing.
"Help would be great. Thanks. Why did we get that stupid cat again?"
"You know," Jake mock-scoffs, "if Dodger knew her favorite person on the planet was talking about her like that, she'd be gutted."
"As gutted as the balloons she'd apparently love to get her claws on. Did you sign the card for us? I forgot to mention I hadn't done that."
"I did. And I didn't realize it until I finished signing, but I probably need to switch to 'Mom and Dad' instead of 'Mommy and Daddy' going forward. It's just that that's what we were first." Jake sighs wistfully. When it comes to Henry's birthdays, the night before always makes both his parents nostalgic. "Well, technically you were 'Mama,' but I was always 'Daddy.'"
"Whatever you say, 'guy named Jake.'"
Addison can still remember—and it is one of those memories that makes her flush with happiness—when the language shifted from a first name to a parent-distinctive title. It had been Daddy in her head for a while, but it wasn't until Henry was a little shy of a year that it became out-loud-real. She and Jake had been preparing dinner while Henry was in his highchair, picking away at pieces of avocado, chicken, and yogurt spread across his tray. At one point, Henry had accidentally knocked his bottle off the tray, and he let out a gurgly, displeased noise to capture the room's attention. It was possible he did it on purpose, because cause-and-effect was a concept that never failed to amuse him, especially when it involved throwing food, but either way, the end result would be the same: a meltdown if the object was not promptly returned.
"It's okay, kiddo," Addison said while her then-fiancé—who was closer to the highchair than she was—collected the bottle off the floor. "See, Daddy's got it." She realized immediately what she had said, and when Jake turned to stare at her with a lopsided grin, it was obvious he had not missed the significance of the remark either.
"That's okay, right?" She asked next. There wasn't any conceivable scenario in which Addison thought Jake wouldn't be okay with being known as Daddy to Henry, but it still felt important to acknowledge it.
"Damn right it's okay." Jake looked so happy. "More than okay. I was hoping"—he began to chuckle—"that I wouldn't just be 'guy named Jake who shares a bed with my mom' forever."
It made Addison laugh. He was much, much more than that to Henry by that point—and Jake knew it, too—but the joke amused them, and they have brought it up from time to time over the years.
"I meant to tell you, Angela texted 'guy named Jake' earlier," Jake informs her now. "She said her shift starts at seven, but she's going to FaceTime before then to say 'happy birthday' to Henry."
"That's sweet of her." Not that Addison expects anything less from Henry's big sister. "And he's going to love that book about Antarctica she got him."
"He will. You know, Henry actually told me before we tucked him in that he's thinking of this as his 'bronze birthday.' So, this year is bronze, next year is silver, and then the following year—eleven on the eleventh—will be his actual golden birthday."
"That's a good way to view it." Their son has recently become obsessed with the idea of a golden birthday. Addison assumes it stems from Daniel, one of Henry's friends, who celebrated his golden birthday last month, when he turned nine on the ninth.
Henry's date of birth coinciding with his age may still be two years away, but as far as Addison is concerned, that does not at all diminish the brightness of tomorrow's occasion. The strength and perseverance it took for all of them to get to this birthday after everything 2020 hurled at them…what could be more golden than that?
Addison nudges her foot against one of the balloons threatening to skirt back over the threshold dividing Henry's room and the hallway. The blue cluster that she and Jake have finished pushing the balloons into reminds her of bruises, all in various stages of healing. And it is not lost on her that such a metaphor could apply to herself, too.
"I'll be down in a sec," she tells Jake. "Go ahead." Her eyes do not leave her sleeping son's form. "I just want to look at him a little longer."
"Sounds good. I'll get the coffee started for us."
Warmth, appreciation, sentimentalism, and a touch of heartache. That is what it feels like as a parent, to witness your child grow up.
Henry is nine now. But he is also eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, and all the months, weeks, and days that preceded his first trip around the sun.
And Addison can still see him so clearly at each age.
Henry is one. He is walking—and has been for two months by this point—but still in a stumbly-stepped way, his arms forever stretched forward, always reaching for Addison and Jake. He loves the swings and the captain's wheel at South Beach Park Playground. He giggles when his parents slip on the colorful llama Peruvian finger puppets that were a gift from his Aunt Rosie. He likes being rocked to sleep. Mama, Daddy, and ball are part of his vocabulary. He claps when he is excited.
Henry is two. His hair is curly, featuring the most gorgeous ringlets that have replaced the soft, wavy wisps of his babyhood. He loves to play and splash in a plastic kiddie pool, his still-dimpled fists pounding gleefully at the water surrounding him. He loves bath time, too. One day he takes an orange crayon—like all parents, when Addison and Jake's backs were turned for two seconds—and scribbles along the living room walls. The only pajamas he wants to wear at night are the footie ones with a rocket ship pattern. He attends his first Dodgers game.
Henry is three. He runs into his parents' arms after his first day of preschool—there were some frightened tears at drop-off, but it only takes a few more days before the separation gets easier. He proudly holds up three fingers when he is asked how old he is. His interest shifts from sleeping with Tigger to sleeping with a stuffed polar bear. His sentences increase in length, and he begins to gesture more with his hands when he speaks—just like Addison. For Halloween he is a firefighter, pronounced far-fighter. He goes to Disneyland for the first time. He loves dinosaurs, Magna-Tiles, Hot Wheels, water beads, and, of course, baseball.
Henry is four. He is able to write his name in thick capital letters, with Y almost always endearingly backwards. He is completely on board when the "Baby Shark" song gains traction worldwide—Addison and Jake swear the song is never not present in their heads now. He learns to ride a bike without training wheels. He plays T-ball, and although he likes all the positions he gets to try, he enjoys second base the most. After years of only being willing to look, not touch, he feels brave enough to dip a hand into one of the "touch pools" at the aquarium, and he gasps in delight as his fingertips drag over seaweed, clams, and abalone.
Henry is five. Dragons Love Tacos is his favorite book. Pokémon gets added to the list of things he likes. He asks more questions about his adoption, which Addison and Jake do their best to answer. He wears a school uniform, and when he comes home from his first day of kindergarten, he tells his parents about his new friend Surling, whose actual name is Sterling. He learns he is a Pisces, thanks to his big sister, and though he doesn't really know what this means, Henry takes pride in it. He has his first real sleepover when Savvy and Weiss come to visit with their kids; they were going to book a hotel room, but Addison insists they stay with them. It is a lot of people under one roof, but Henry's excitement about getting to sleep in the living room with Ben, Cate, and Isaac makes it worth it.
Henry is six. He is now old enough to have "another hand" when asked how old he is—he likes telling people this. His favorite food is pizza. He learns how to draw five-pointed stars, and he draws them over and over and over again. He loves building forts. He smiles oddly—not his usual smile—in each family photo the photographer takes of them for a Christmas card, so Addison and Jake pick the most decent one of the bunch (Henry thinks he looks fantastic, for the record) and privately just have to laugh about it. Angela and Garrett come for Christmas, and Henry asks them why they aren't married yet, which makes them both blush. He also asks his Uncle Archer the same question. Archer does not blush though.
Henry is seven. It is 2019…his last "normal" year. He loses his first tooth. He is gifted a Lou Gehrig baseball card, and Henry swears that this is his new lucky card, which promptly wipes the Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson, Derek Jeter, and Clayton Kershaw ones out of rotation. On the Fourth of July, he runs around on the beach with Lucas, Georgia, Caroline, Rachel, and Isabella, each holding a sparkler. He prefers to read by himself now, rather than having Addison or Jake read a book to him. That December, while the three of them are out shopping, Henry falls in love with a small, light-up trailer, and he asks his parents if they can get it for their Christmas tree. I think I know someone else who would have liked this ornament, Addison says, feeling a tug in her heart as she deposits the trailer in their basket while Henry is distracted with something else in the store. Or likes, Jake replies, offering an alternative suggestion. Maybe Derek knows, sweetheart.
Henry is eight next. He is still eight, in the way that he is all his other ages, too, even though the date and the year on the calendar in the kitchen prove otherwise. And Henry at eight is kind, smart, funny, joyful, and resilient. So resilient, considering what 2020 is like for him.
And now he is nine.
But, mostly, he is everything to Addison.
Just everything.
Wow. That feels excessive.
"Do parents on the Vineyard have more of a toned-down approach to kids' birthday parties?" Jake asks when Addison shows him the most recent text message from her brother. They both know it has to take a lot for Archer to propose that something is too much. "Because I'm thinking not."
"Archer wouldn't know the answer to that question. He makes it a point not to date women who have kids." Addison is aware though that date is not the accurate word for what her brother gets up to, either on Martha's Vineyard, or in Boston. Archer is planning to finally leave the Bradford family property—which ended up being his "home base" for the past year—and return to his high-rise apartment overlooking the Charles River. "Plus it's not like…" Addison tips her chin at the young boys standing close to the glass, watching as sea otters float lazily on their backs. "It's not like we invited the whole class."
It is absolutely not the whole class. It is Sterling, Will, Daniel, and Matteo who are at the aquarium with Henry today. And their parents, too. At eight and nine years of age, Henry's guests are no longer young enough that unspoken etiquette suggests their parents should stay at the party too, but these ones all jumped at the chance to stay. Addison's theory is that it is directly tied to seeking connections that were missing throughout the previous year. At any rate, she is fine with extra company; her son's friends happen to have parents whom she quite likes, and outside of Carrie and Vince, this is the first time she has seen the others in person since last February. And it is also nice to have some extra people who have been able to help remind the kids to try to keep some distance between themselves.
She and Jake wouldn't have invited the entire third grade even if there weren't safety issues to contend with. Each grade at Wakefield Academy has two classes, which rounds out to twenty-one total boys in the third grade. And if girls are factored in? It's a lot more than that. So, no thank you. They told Henry he could have up to four friends. Addison asked him if there were any girls he wanted to invite—though she was careful not to specifically mention Hannah Ashforth, Henry's supposed crush, by name—but Henry said no. However, it felt pretty telling that he had lowered his head to avoid Addison's eyes as he declined.
Safety is why she and Jake paid extra for the aquarium to only be open to them for two hours on Friday afternoon—and the private rental is the detail Archer deemed excessive when Addison said what they were doing for Henry's party. Her brother is probably right, especially because she has always prided herself on having low-key, no-fuss parties for her son. It is an extra precaution though so that there can be less bodies in an enclosed space. Masks are required in the aquarium, and even if they weren't, Addison still would have asked Henry's guests to wear them. Most of his friends' parents have gotten their first dose of the vaccine by this point, but the child version is not expected to be approved until summer or fall.
They are planning to do something separate to celebrate Henry tomorrow—lunch at a nearby park—with their "work family." Addison also invited Henry's old nanny, Zoe, who eventually moved on to another job when it became clear last spring's stay-at-home order was not going to be brief. Henry will be thrilled to see her, and so will Addison and Jake, honestly. Zoe's acceptance of their invitation has prompted them to start to discuss options in the fall. Henry's school is supposed to resume in-person learning, and the two of them cannot trade off working remotely forever. Addison does not believe she will be able to persuade their former nanny of several years to come back—Zoe sounds pretty happy with her new career—but she can at least ask Zoe if she knows of anyone else who might be interested in a part-time nanny gig.
"Mom." Henry has appeared at her side after weaving through a few of the parents at the entrance to the next room. "Come with me. You have to see this one." He tugs on Addison's wrist, and she loves that even though Henry has been having fun with his friends, and has been talking with them nonstop (Sterling is the only classmate Henry has seen in person since pre-pandemic), there have been moments where he has just wanted to be with her.
She follows Henry further into the deep sea exhibit, acutely aware that it was last July that she was weeping in Jake's arms, post depression-admittance as she shared with him they had forgotten to renew their aquarium passes, and that their son loved the deep sea exhibit.
Addison's eyes continue to adjust to the shadows—this room is kept purposely dark—as Henry walks with her past his friends, who are observing a comb jelly with a ruby-hued body that is so bright it is somehow glowing and sparkling at the same time. Scientists and marine biologists have to use robot equipment to find fish this far down in the ocean, Henry tells her, and then she nearly loses her balance when they make it beyond the display with long-legged sea spiders meandering around chunks of coral, and Henry comes to an abrupt stop.
"Is this the one you wanted me to see?" Addison's breath stalls in her throat when Henry curves his hand inside hers; she is almost too afraid to say anything else, as though words might disrupt their connection. Henry has long considered himself to be "too big" to hold hands with her anymore. Especially while in the presence of friends.
"Yeah," he says while they survey a crustacean that a neon-lettered display sign informs them is a giant isopod. "And it's real, too." Addison can remember hearing—and then visually confirming—the last time their family was here that some of the animals in this room are merely simulations. "It kind of looks like a Pokémon, doesn't it?" Henry adds. "Like Kakuna."
"Mm-hmm." Addison is more than familiar with different Pokémon now, thanks to her son. "I can see that."
Her gaze wanders back in the direction of the rest of the boys to check on them (even though there are other parents here, it's not like Addison can ever turn off being a mom). Henry's friends are now at a tank containing some sort of invertebrate who is glimmering as dramatically as the comb jelly. Most of the animals here, and in the deepest parts of the ocean in general, have to create and maintain their own light to ensure survival. And the light coming from their bodies is still astonishing to Addison. Life that far down is a life lived within the most extreme conditions.
"If I was an ocean animal, I wouldn't want to be any of these." Henry waves a hand to indicate the entire exhibit. "I'd want to be something that swims where there's more sunlight. I'm not scared of the dark." He is quick, maybe too quick, to clarify his position. "I just like the light more."
"I get it," Addison assures him.
She really does.
"It's so nice out." Addison tips her face toward what remains of the sun, letting more warmth wash over her. The temperature has been consistently pleasant as the end of March shuffles nearer, and this evening marks the first time the three of them have had dinner on the patio since last October. Sunset has settled in now, with a canopy mixture of pink and orange forming a line where the water's surface greets the sky.
"It is," Jake agrees. "And it was a pretty great day, too." When he glances at Addison, she understands the pointedness of this follow-up contribution. Parenthood often involves looks, and this one is a prompt for them to facilitate a conversation to lift the spirits of the unenthused Cardinal sitting across from them.
Little League assessments took place earlier this week, and the official team rosters were emailed to parents this afternoon. Henry took the news on the chin when Addison and Jake shared with him earlier what team he had been drafted onto, but they could sense his disappointment that he is not a Dodger or a Yankee, and that Sterling is not going to be on his team this season. And Henry has been quieter than usual during dinner, too.
"So…speaking of great things…" Addison waits until Henry has worked through another bite of his steak. "Matteo and Chase are on your team, right?" She starts there, and she is sure this is where Jake would have elected to begin, too. Matteo is no Sterling, but he is still one of Henry's best buddies, and Chase is in Henry's class as well. Having familiar faces will be a big comfort to Henry, who is friendly, but can be shy around kids he doesn't know. "And Matteo's dad is going to coach," she continues. "Mr. Fabretti is nice. He coached you during your first season of T-ball, remember?"
"And Brayden is on my team." Henry is willing to participate in the conversation, and when he does, Addison feels encouraged. She'd like to chalk it up to growth—the adults aren't the only ones throughout the pandemic who have had the opportunity to assess what is most important in life—but she suspects her son's outlook has more to do with a potential starting lineup. Henry might not be happy about the name of his team, but the competitor in him is happy about who is on his team. "Brayden was on my team last year. Well"—Addison can tell that her son is about to correct himself, because his last season was not actually last year—"in 2019, I mean. He's a good hitter. I hit second and he hit third."
"We remember. You'll have an awesome team this season," Jake says. "And Matteo is probably the best catcher in your division. Having someone good behind the plate makes a huge difference. I know it's tough when it's not the team name you want, and when your best friend—"
"Sterling gets to be on the Yankees. He doesn't even like them. And Mr. Ballard says the Yankees' payroll is shameful." Henry's gaze is sharp and glower-filled when it lands on his dad. "That's what I heard him say once," he elaborates, wanting Jake to reach the same level of outrage he is feeling over this slight. "He said their payroll is shameful."
"I don't know if I'd disagree with Mr. Ballard there, actually." Jake presses his lips together to hold back laughter. "But, hey: this is still going to be a fun season for you. If you can't be on the Yankees or Dodgers, the Cardinals are a great choice. They're a solid team. Good record last year, second in their division, made it to the NL Wild Card Series. I've always liked their uniforms, too." He flashes Addison a grin before peeking at Henry again. "It could be a lot worse."
Yes. It often can be, yes.
April 2021
"You know whose birthday is coming up, right?"
"I do." The circles Addison has been walking in while she speaks to Archer on the phone (the old way, they have joked, since they used Zoom more often than not throughout 2020) begin to increase in size as she develops her response. "Bizzy's birthday is next Tuesday." She has always thought it is kind of sweet that Henry and Bizzy's birthdays are exactly a month apart. Is it one of those things Addison has managed to apply a divine-like meaning to in an attempt to soothe the edges of loss. Grief has taught her that regardless of what your relationship with your mother was like, you may very well long for her every day of your life.
"I'm sure Bizzy would have loved"—and something in how he says loved makes it evident to Addison that sarcasm is about to follow—"that April eleventh was also the date the Titanic made it to Ireland—its last port stop—to pick up all the poors."
"Archer," she scolds. "Seriously?"
"They were. The majority of passengers who boarded in Cobh were third class. I fell into a lot of Wiki rabbit holes last year when I needed a break from writing. And my next rabbit hole"—he releases a faint chuckle—"probably needs to be related to ice sheets and other facts about the Antarctic coast." Henry had talked to Archer first this afternoon, and it took some effort to get him to hand the phone back to Addison. Bribery in the form of Jake offering extra video game time ended up doing the trick. "That was a lot of information to digest."
"I know. Thanks for indulging him though." Her brother has come a long way, but patience with children has never been one of Archer's strengths. "It means a lot to Henry. And to me, too."
"I'm always happy to indulge my favorite nephew."
"Only," Addison predictably corrects. "It's been ten years. Since Bizzy died, I mean."
It was ten years at the end of January. Addison admittedly does not hone in on the specific date too much. The anniversary of Lily's death is in early February, so she tends to focus on that by regularly seeing what she can do to support Jake. And—though it took a while to verbalize this in therapy—sometimes, despite the flurry of trauma attached to the circumstances of her mother's death, she does not feel particularly reflective, or experience a spike in grief associated with the date. There were so many times that, frankly, Bizzy's alive-ness caused more pain than her death did. The what if and what could have been do not always hurt Addison as much as what actually was.
And the acceptance that comes with the passage of time does not mean she can stop knowing exactly how the wounds felt.
"Yeah, I know. Crazy, isn't it?"
"It is. You know what I was thinking about recently?" Addison draws to a halt, scrunching her toes into the wool rug. "A couple days ago I accidentally wore my stethoscope home from work. Henry saw it and wanted to listen to his heartbeat. And when I was handing him the stethoscope—"
"After you disinfected it, I'm sure."
She almost laughs. "You know me well. Yes. But it reminded me that I played 'doctor' one time with Bizzy. I was like four or five…around that age. I think you were over at a friend's house or something. So, I found a stethoscope—a real one, not the plastic ones in the matching toy doctor kits we got for Christmas one year. I don't know; maybe the Captain accidentally brought it home, like I did this week. It was weird that Bizzy was playing with me though, because on-the-ground engagement was usually a task for the nanny."
"And it's kind of weird you remember it being Bizzy, not the Captain. Our old man was all about the 'children should be seen and not heard' parenting practice too, but he's never missed a chance to flaunt his medical knowledge."
"True." Addison breathes in slowly, trying to gather strength. As she searches for her next words, her lips knit together. She was down by the water earlier, so she can still taste the salt lingering on them. And the melancholy, too. "But it was Bizzy who played with me. She showed me how to use the stethoscope, and that's how her heart became the first one I ever listened to. I don't…I don't know why I'm telling you this," she admits. "I just wanted you to know, I guess."
Bizzy's was the first heartbeat she had ever heard. And it was also the most significant heartbeat Addison stopped hearing, when she laid her head on her mother's chest that fateful night. She was certain the further she got away from Bizzy's death, the less sad she would feel, but she has told Laurel—and Jake, too—that it is the opposite. Grief doesn't go away; the landscape of it simply shifts. When Addison gives it serious thought, she feels the ache even more deeply now. The more years that creep by, the more things her mother has missed. The past continues to accumulate.
Archer's voice is quieter than she would have expected when he asks, "Did Henry listen to your heartbeat? Or just his own?"
"He listened to mine too." She had covered Henry's hand with hers and guided the drum-smooth chestpiece to the appropriate spot. Emotion unexpectedly filled Addison while Henry took in the steady rhythm of her heart pumping blood. She refrained from saying it at that moment, so as to not overwhelm her son with a demonstrative, sob-looming response, but she had wanted to tell Henry that every single beat of her heart was for him.
"Hey, did you end up finishing your edits?" She asks Archer next, feeling the need to transition to a new subject. She reasons that she can always talk more about this recent experience with Laurel in therapy, if needed.
"I actually emailed the second draft to my editor last week. I think she'll be happy with it. The book's set to be published in July."
"This is your…what? Fifth one?"
"Seventh. Nice to know you've read the others," Archer deadpans. "Don't expect me to read anything related to your trial then."
"Well, good thing I have a husband who has similar credentials to me and can offer input if I need any," Addison banters back. "You do have time to change your mind though. I'm probably not submitting anything for institutional review and approval until the fall, if then."
"'If then?'" Archer repeats. She assumes it is rooted in judgment, a trait from Bizzy that her brother has never been able to escape, but then it occurs to Addison the question perhaps reflects something more vulnerable. Like concern. "You're not giving up, are you?"
"No. No, not at all. And I'm okay, Archie, if that's what you're thinking of asking. I'm still doing well. I'm just not putting a timeline on the process. I'm too busy most of the time to do anything other than work on it here and there, but it's a good kind of busy. I'm okay."
The potential impact of Addison's trial excites her. But not as much as getting to spend time with Henry and Jake does. She realizes that when she says that she is busy, what she means is, even without the clinical trial, my life is already fulfilling and every beat of my heart already matters. The chronology for the trial is not unlike Addison's perspective on what the future holds for her antidepressant. All she can do is take it one day at a time, be honest about any pain she is experiencing, try not to allow daily demands to overwhelm her, and remain as connected as possible to her loved ones.
"And for the record," she persists, "I did read your first two books." Silence follows. Too much silence. "Archer? Are you still there…?"
"Sorry. I'm here. Hey, if I test ahead of time, and test again when I get there…can I visit you guys?"
"Oh." This surprises Addison. "I mean, of course you can. But are you really that lonely"—she thinks Archer will appreciate her for trying to keep it halfway cheery—"that you're interested in taking a trip to Sodom and Gomorrah?"
"Maybe," he answers, "I just miss you."
Addison's knuckles are poised just an inch off the door to the office, but she refrains from announcing herself, not wanting to startle Jake in the middle of his activity. He is carefully working a paint brush over some scenery rocks for the train table, trying to layer in more brown to give the rocksides of one of the tunnels more of a contoured appearance. This is what Addison thinks her husband is aiming for, at least. He recently watched a video on how to paint more realistic rocks.
She wraps on the door once Jake has set his brush down.
"Oh, hey there. I didn't hear you come in. When the shower is running—"
"And when you're in the zone," Addison interrupts, which triggers a guilty-looking smile from Jake. He is correct about the running shower in the guest bathroom next to the office sort of cutting down on the ability to interpret other sounds, but the shower can't be entirely to blame here. She is glad to hear the taps and thuds of the water though, because that means she is not too late; she has not missed the opportunity to give her son a hug goodnight after a longer-than-anticipated day at St. Ambrose.
She holds up her phone, wiggling it in Jake's direction before she sets the device on the desk. "Did you get to provide any input on the emojis I got?" Addison asks, though she already knows the answer to this. After she texted Jake to tell him that she would be late, Henry had taken over, following Jake's simple OK with a baseball, a smiley face, and a sunflower—more or less his "usual" emoji choices. And then a few seconds later, these ones were followed by a baby and a shamrock. For good luck, Addison assumed as she slipped her phone back into one of the lockers.
"Nope." Jake smirks. "I let him commandeer my phone. What else is new?" He and Addison have been holding out as long as they can, but they have talked about getting Henry an iPhone of his own at some point this year—they'd like to try to wait until Christmas, if they can. "Long day for you," Jake adds. "And a packed one. Your text was so quick." He is talking about the message that preceded his and Henry's responses. Addison was as succinct as possible, because even though so few words may have the potential to come across as brusque or frustratingly vague, that is often all the time a doctor can spare.
M still in labor. Update when can.
Yes, it was a quick text, but the words that were left unsaid are still known. What Addison was saying, and what Jake would say too, in the rare instances where the situation has been reversed is: I will text again as soon as I can. I love you. I am sorry I am not there. Thanks for always being a team with me. I appreciate you. Give Henry a hug and a kiss for me if I'm not back by bedtime. I can't wait to see you when I get home.
"It was Mila, right?" This is Jake's next remark. "She's the only current 'M' patient this close to her due date I can think of who we're both connected to. I figured you wouldn't have shared the initial if it wasn't someone I'd worked with too."
Addison bobs her head. "Yeah, it was Mila. It was a rough labor, but she and Delaney are now the proud moms of a healthy baby boy; his name is Oliver. They're going to email you some pictures tomorrow." Jake had helped the couple to get pregnant last summer. "They're so grateful for you. And I know they have a special place in your heart because Delaney went to Georgetown, just like you."
She waits for a confirming look, for some sort of Hoyas-related comment. It does not come though. Jake is studying her with concern.
"Are you okay?" He asks.
Addison was going to tell him, but not right this second. Preferably after Henry is in bed. Preferably once she has had a chance to get into the coziest pajamas she has. Something on her face must be betraying her though.
"Laurel is pregnant," she divulges. "Twenty-three weeks. She told me during my appointment this morning. I spilled like half the sand out of my Zen garden when she told me. I made her—well, no, I didn't make her, because Laurel could have said no—stand up and show me her bump. And we talked for a bit about how her pregnancy is going." Addison tries to smile, but she can feel her nose start to sting, and then tears fill her eyes. "So I was sort of in the driver's seat for a few minutes," she jokes.
"That's big news." Jake has stood up, but he has not approached yet. She can tell that he is giving her space to have her reaction, and to share whatever else she wants to share.
"It is. And I was happy for her, and able to express my happiness…and then I sort of cried during the session. Kind of like I'm crying now." Addison pats her fingers under her eyes when tears start to move down her cheeks. And then Jake is at her side, gently rubbing her shoulder, offering comfort. "It was just a big thing to process and I guess I'm still kind of processing it."
"Because she'll be leaving you?"
"Yeah. She's planning to work close to her due date—she's due in late August—and then she's taking a long leave. She'll be out until the new year. She said she's definitely coming back though, and that she has someone in her office to 'fill in' for me. She said she would have Erin—that's the therapist she has in mind—join one of our sessions in the summer so that she can meet me, if I want to see someone else while Laurel's away."
"That's good," Jake replies. "It's an option, at least. Do you think…?"
Addison senses that he is trying to act neutral, as though he will be supportive either way. And he would be. Jake totally would be.
But she has already made up her mind about what she wants to do.
"I'm going to stick with therapy. I wish it could still be with Laurel, but that's okay." She draws in a calming breath. "I can make it a few months with someone else. And, in a way, it's maybe even a good thing Laurel will be gone. At one point, this would have been my ticket out, in the same way Henry was my ticket out the last time. Well, it's not entirely the same thing, but you know what I mean. Something changed for me personally, and I used it as justification to walk away. And the funny thing is, if I were to stop going to therapy this time—whether it be forever, or just until Laurel comes back—I probably have the coping skills and mental wellness to still be okay. But, I'm not going to stop. I don't want to be done with therapy yet, and I think if Laurel hadn't told me that she'll be out for a bit, I never would have known that about myself."
She does not want to be done.
And, more than that, Addison knows she is not done.
"The world closed down last year," she continues. "It went dark. And I went dark, too. Really dark. I closed down and I got dark, but then I opened up again. And I'm staying open. Therapy has helped give me a new light to see myself in." She shrugs, feeling a little sheepish. "I swear mental health professionals only talk in metaphors, and now I'm also doing it."
Jake leans forward to brush his lips to hers. "I like your metaphors."
A/N: Chapter title is attributed to Emily Dickinson, with the full quote being: "The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on." Where *specifically* Ms. Dickinson says this, well. I am assuming it's from a letter, but I am unsure…and I promise you, it's not for lack of trying to identify the source. Happy to come back and make the edit though if any of you know. (Except don't tell me if this quote is wrongly attributed to her, because I am too fragile to handle a mistake of that magnitude.)
We are almost at the end! Next chapter is the last one (sob). Thank you so much for following along and for your patience with the time between updates. This fic has been a labor of love, but your kind reviews truly mean so much (and please keep it up—writers always appreciate hearing from their readers).
