November 3rd, 2010

The Christmas before they went to Africa, Addison had sat Christian in front of the clay animation version of Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town during one of her more intense decorating frenzies. She later came to regret that decision, as her son's favorite part was when the Winter Warlock learned to be good, and banishing the accompanying song from her head had seemed impossible.

Oddly enough, it is that song that keeps her going.

One foot in front of the other, she thinks to herself. Just put one foot in front of the other. Christian's head lolls against her neck, damp with sweat, the light cloth she'd secured slipping back across his forehead. He's heavy, after long days of walking, but she won't part with him for an instant, not when any instant could be their last.

They've been walking for days; she isn't precisely sure how many. All she knows is that they need to get north – north means Egypt, north means (relative) peace. The few vehicles they have drive slowly beside those strong enough to walk – having been stateside for the past couple of weeks with meals readily available, Addison counts herself among them. A couple of old jeeps, a pickup – all are laden with food, water, and the sick, old, and weak. A couple of carts are even pulled by donkeys. They walk slowly, aware of each iota of strength the sun saps, of every milliliter of water they consume. Her fellow doctors, Eileen and Cailen, walk beside her, and she occasionally allows one of them to bear Christian's sweet weight for a while, but there are other children to carry, children of other mothers who are injured or sick or dead.

The events of the night the world turned upside-down play behind her eyelids when she is too tired to keep herself distracted with other things. Running into heat and dust, gathering her son in her arms, kneeling protectively around him as other grenades sound around them. She can skill feel the clumps of dirt and mud pounding at her back, remnants of sharp objects littering them both with scrapes and cuts. She remembers sprinting through the village, carrying her son to the secret cellar with an opening only wide enough for a small child. Shoving him quickly in with his friends before closing the latch, and watching his wide, fearful eyes disappear behind a flimsy layer of wood. She recalls gunshots and explosions, screaming, pleading, crouching, hiding, and praying. Dust stung the corners of her eyes, blood dripped from a shallow scrape on her neck down onto her chest and between her breasts, her breaths were all at once too loud but not nearly deep enough.

It was the first time she was glad the village was so poor, because they had little for the insurgents to steal.

She'd never been so aware, she thinks, of being a woman, of what that meant if their attackers decided they wanted to take even more from them. There would have been nothing she could have done, not to protect herself, not to protect any of the other women or girls she'd come to know during her time in the village. She's treated so many victims of rape in this ravaged country; it's hardly uncommon. She'd clutched Eileen's hand all throughout the night, seeing the same fear in the other woman's light jade eyes, as Cailen knelt by their side, fingers constantly dancing over the knife that the three of them knew would be little good in the face of a semiautomatic weapon.

They'd gotten lucky, and the insurgents were gone before dawn's distant arms stretched over sloping desert hills. But that fear is never far, it eats at her as they hear shots in the distance; it cripples her every time they see any sign of another living being. The only thing she fears more is her son's still body and lifeless eyes, limp limps haphazardly arranged and tiny chest completely still. That terror haunts her horror-strewn, macabre nightmares whenever she deigns close her eyes.

They put one foot in front of the other, children and adults, Sudanese and foreigners, until gives the sun gives respite by slipping beneath the horizon. That night, they settle in a gutted mini mart and have warm orange soda and pre-packaged snack cakes for dinner. Such a meal would have once delighted Christian, but now his eyes, just like those of the other surviving children of their group, are glazed over from heat, exhaustion, trauma, and fear. Her guilt is difficult to bear – he could be well fed and rested in Seattle, sleeping under a canopy of puffy clouds and gentle showers, as safe as a child could ever be in this world. But he isn't. He's here, with her, because she was selfish and afraid. The work they're doing is important, she knows that, but she should not have brought her son back here. The regret leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She should be sleeping, curled up with her child in case, heaven forbid, tragedy strikes and it is the last time she is able to do so. But there's something she has to do before cuddling her sweet son. Addison pens the letter on a ruined floor covered in dust and rubble, crouching in the semidarkness. Then she copies it twice, leaving her with three letters – one copy for Christian, one copy for her, and one copy to give to Cailen in case something happens to her.

Derek,

I don't have much time or energy and I don't know how long this pen will hold out. If I had more hours or more ink, there's a lot more I would say in this letter, but that's not the case, so here goes.

As I am writing this, both Christian and I are alive and okay, though dusty and tired, but there is no guarantee we will stay that way. The conflicts over here have escalated again, and the village we were staying at was bombed and we had to flee. We are trying to make it to a refugee or foreign aid camp, but we don't know where to find one or even exactly where we are. I hope beyond all hope that we will survive to see you again, but in case we don't, I've given a copy of this letter to a friend of mine, who will do his best to get it to you. Please know that whatever happens, I did everything in my power to protect our son.

You may be furious at me for bringing Christian back here, and I wouldn't blame you, but even you cannot be angrier with me than I am with myself. I was stupid and naïve and selfish, and I'm sorry. I should have never put him at risk. There are no real excuses I can give, except that the conflict had died down over here for a while, and I thought we'd be safe.

In case I never look into your eyes or see you smile again, I'll say it here: I love you. I've always loved you. Through mistakes and divorce and infidelity and lies and both my stubbornness and your own, I've loved you. We've wasted a lot of time and I regret it, facing death daily has finally brought clarity. We could be together right now, with our son, safe and happy. If I ever get the chance to have that with you again, I will grab onto it and never let go.

Take care of our son, Derek, if I am not here to do so.

I love you.

Addison

P.S. If something happens to me, please give the bottom part of this letter to Christian, when he's old enough, and never let him doubt for a second that I loved him more than anything in the world.

Dear Christian,

There is nothing I can ever say in a letter that will be enough, but I will do my best. If you are reading this, something has happened to me, whether recently or a long time ago. If it were up to me, we would have had a lifetime together. You were the greatest joy of my life, my baby boy, my precious son. I had never fallen in love so fast as I did when I first laid eyes on you, just after you came into the world. It was instantaneous, my life was changed forever. You were my miracle.

I'm sorry for the mistakes I've undoubtedly made. Right now we are in Sudan, and you are four, and I don't know if we're going to make it out. But I've made mistakes in the past and will make them in the future, I'm sure. I love you more than anything, and I'm doing my best to be a good mother to you, but I'm not perfect. Whatever those mistakes are, I hope you can forgive me for them.

If I'm gone, I hope that you're with Derek (aka Dadek). I hope that you boys ride ferries together and go to the zoo and remember to eat your fruit and brush your teeth. I hope that your life is filled with joy and challenges and friendship and love. Remember to be kind, to help others, and that deep down, most of us are more alike than we realize. No matter who you are or who you become, I will always love you. And no matter what you decide to pursue in life, I pray that it's something that makes you happy.

Most of all, I pray that you never have to read this letter, because I am by your side and I can tell you all of this myself. But as your grandmother Bizzy always said, "People plan, and God laughs." There are no guarantees in life, so live and love at every opportunity. Remember me and mourn me, but don't be sad forever. Know that you were the light of my life and the best thing that I ever did. I love you to the moon and to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, to infinity and beyond.

Love,

Mom

The minute Derek steps into the hospital that morning, stares and whispers follow him. It isn't the first time he's been the subject of the Seattle Grace gossip mill, but it is the first time he has no idea why. Sure, people had talked when he'd returned from his sojourn to the East Coast, especially since Addison and his son had visited Seattle in his absence. But even the most die-hard gossips had gotten bored with that news weeks ago.

The unexpected behavior gives him a sense of foreboding, but he does his best to ignore it and go about his day. He heads first to the attending's lounge, and he's anticipating his daily caffeine rush from the mediocre hospital coffee when he opens the door and stops dead. Something is very wrong.

For a moment, Derek is reminded of 9/11, and his stomach lurches sickeningly. There are several doctors crowded around the TV, and he can hear what sounds like a news report in the background. But what really throws him is Callie Torres sobbing unrestrainedly on the couch as Mark attempts to comfort her. Neither of them notices his arrival, but some of the other doctors do, and they part like the Red Sea before him as he approaches the TV.

It isn't another 9/11. America is safe. But now he understands the whispers following him and the reason why Callie specifically is so upset.

The conflict in Sudan has quite literally exploded, and behind the intrepid reporter pictured on the TV, there are limp bodies and ruined buildings. Thousands are dead. Entire villages are gone. No one is safe, not citizens or tourists or foreign volunteers or journalists.

Christian. Addison.

He's barely aware of falling to his knees in front of the TV, of Callie digging her nails into his arm or Mark placing a hand on each of their shoulders, head bowed. He isn't aware of people offering him platitudes or condolences or cups of water. All he's aware of are the words.

Please let them be okay please let them be okay please let them be okay please let them be okay …