September 28, 2009
At a month on the other side of the sea, her skin is sun-burnished bronze, her hair a fey mix of sunshiny butterscotch and the ruby red of wine. Her decision to come to Africa wasn't a maudlin, self-sacrificing venture, but rather a reacquainting with her old friend escape; now she finds that sniping umbilical cords with garden shears and wrapping newborns in rags gives her job a sort of fantastical thrill.
Picking out telling features in rich cocoa skin has become almost second nature; her tongue now flicks and flutters to say even the most unpronounceable names correctly. She is still followed, still joined at night by pattering feet and wide eyes so she can tell by dim lantern light of glowing cities, golden mansions, and food spun of sugar. She is now allowed to sit while they perform intricate, ancient dances, though joining in is still beyond her. They try to give her the best food, the best supplies in exchange for her medical assistance, but she only redistributes them, her $25 million trust fund weighing on her mind.
Pete has contacted her to express concern about Violet bonding with a baby boy, a surrogate for the one she'd lost to Katie Kent's demons three years ago, Naomi to lightly complain about having to dust off skills from medical school. Cooper and Sam tell her a story about a boy with no legs that reduces her to tears when she thrashes in her own sweat at night. Here, despite her failure with meaningful romantic relationships in general, she cannot help but feel lucky.
And each shining new experience begs to be shared with Derek, tantalizing her with potential comments and facial expressions.
It is one thing to squeeze these things from her pen and into the ink that stains the paper, and another to stand in the opening of her hut, sparsely decorated with two cots, a small table, her suitcases, and a clay jar for water, with the intention to actually send it. But nevertheless, the letter travels from her crude dwelling through the blinding white sand of the village and finally to the small, empty box reserved for mail.
"Who is dat lettah to?" She spins to find the village priest, a kindly smile on his ancient face as he watches her drop the envelope into the box.
"Oh, um, just … a friend," she stutters, surprised and blushing.
"A friend, hmm?" Nyanath, one of the few refugees who speaks English, asks slyly. Addison delivered her son, Jafar, just two hours after Nyanath staggered, bloody and exhausted, into the village a month ago, making the small, ebony skinned boy one of the first born by her hands in Africa.
"Yes, a friend," Addison says firmly, dodging curious smiles and the eager assistance that follows her everywhere. It is a lie only by omission, because Derek is her friend, and yet there are so many hidden meanings lurking behind that word.
Dr. Shepherd, your eloquence surprises me, as does your ability to find time for something so trite as letter writing amidst a renowned career in neurosurgery.
I could pretend I feel bad about the 'slutty intern' thing, but I am 'Satan' after all, so I won't bother with that. You've been engaged for three years now, so you'd think your sisters would have gotten used to the idea. When are you and Meredith getting married? I thought you were pretty eager to tie the knot.
I've heard from Nancy (who says I gave her carpal tunnel), Savvy (she and Weiss want to adopt a child from Africa, I'm trying to set something up for them) and Callie (she says she's been neglecting post-op notes to tell me all the gossip). Tell Mark that I knew he had a romantic side and that he could write once in a while.
The plan is to stay over here for six months, but Naomi and Sam will probably leave sooner because Maya is staying with her aunt in Boston. She doesn't mind, but as Naomi and Sam are still in denial that they want to get back together … well, we'll see how it goes. It's been good for all of us, I think. Violet and Pete have had a hard time after Katie Kent murdered their son and if they stay, Charlotte and Cooper probably will to. I guess you don't really know any of these people besides Sam and Nae, so I don't know why I'm telling you this.
Maybe you would fit in better here than me considering you're a wood-chopping, flannel-wearing fisherman these days. It's been hard but also a real wake-up call; when kids are starving I don't really notice I haven't had a shower.
Sorry. That was a bit snippy. It's just hard watching babies die and not being able to do anything about it. Later on I'll be working at an actual hospital but for now I am stationed helping the refugees from the south pouring into these villages. I hadn't done an amputation since my internship and now I've done at least thirty – mostly on innocents injured by the fighting in the south.
Since you asked, yes, I do live in a hut. I brought a bunch of designer shoes, too, but on my second day here I shipped most of them back to LA. It made me feel like a terrible person, having so much, so the next day I gave away all the jewelry that I'd brought. The village kids were in awe and pretended they were princes and princesses. Yesterday, when they lost their ball, I caught them playing catch with one of my Jimmy Choos pumps. I didn't have the heart to ask for it back.
Several years ago when Denny Duquette left her the $8.7 million, Izzie Stevens asked if I felt bad being rich when others were so poor. I've been rich my whole life – I've never really thought about it. But now I feel so guilty, Derek, all the time. And I don't mean to foist my problems off to you, it's just that it's consuming me.
Anyway, the people here are all very nice. Once a week, me and a few others teach them words in English. Most of the time I'm too tired, though, there's always another person who needs medical help.
Yes, I was very surprised to hear from you, but it was … nice. We should be friends, I think we owe that to ourselves. Tell everyone hi for me.
Addison
P.S. Thanks for the sunscreen reminder, although my skin is several shades darker now anyway.
P.P.S. Good. Just wanted to make that clear. Because talking about it … we just shouldn't.
Autumn once again is making itself known in the softly falling leaves and the way the winds whips through his midnight curls, scattering them across his face. Hands tucked deep in the fleece-lined pockets of his windbreaker; he awaits the mailman with an urgency that puzzles even himself. His first surgery isn't until two o'clock, he has plenty of time, and Meredith isn't even home to berate him about his behavior.
Although she may be hearing about it, because Izzie is giving him some decidedly odd looks from her position in the kitchen, where she flips pancakes for Alex and Lexie. Derek ignores her, eyes trained on the road, until the sprightly old mailman pulls up, steps out of his truck, and winks at Derek.
"The only people I see waiting so diligently for letters are children and lovers. You're sure not a kid, so who is she? Or he?" The old man's eyes twinkle with delight from under a mop of snow-white hair, and he beams at up at Derek from chest height.
"I'm not waiting on a love letter," Derek says firmly.
"Well, I doubt you're out here in this weather waiting for bills," the man replies cheerfully, undeterred by Derek's stoniness. "Let me see …" he flips through envelopes and packages of various sizes, and Derek's eyes don't leave the scrawled addresses and foreign stamps. "Ah, here we go. You must be Mr. Shepherd."
"Doctor," he corrects quietly, automatically.
"Well, Dr. Shepherd, this one's all the way from Africa," he holds the letter out, smiling indulgently, and Derek notices belatedly that the letters embroidered on his navy jacket spell 'Charles.'
"Thank you," he murmurs, already journeying through villages erected from sand and mud and topped by palm fronds, across desert-speckled plains of prickly grass and lone acacia trees illuminated by harsh sunlight. He alternately frowns and smiles as he scans Addison's narration, some topics begging discussion while others make him cringe. Already he is calculating the hours and minutes before surgery in which he can pen a reply.
