Skeptics And True Believers
Originally, this was actually going to be a one-shot, but I couldn't do it justice in that amount of space, so it became a three-shot and then a four chaptered story. I want to thank everyone for their amazing support and I hope you enjoy the last chapter!
Would you believe me if I said I didn't need you?
'Cause I wouldn't believe you if you said the same to me.
Near death, last breath, and barely hanging on.
Would you believe me if I said I didn't need you?
We are eating one of Izzie's cakes, so intent on letting the spongy, sweet pastry distract us from the excruciating waiting, that neither of us notices when Vera's eyelids flutter, her dark eyelashes quivering as she blinks. Addison transfers another large bite of the pink cake to her mouth, getting a dab of white frosting on the red perfection of her upper lip. I lean forward to wipe it and that's when I notice my daughter barely waking.
Addison leans in as well, perhaps under the impression that I am about to kiss her, but I stand up quickly when I see Vera moving and Addison loses her balance and falls forward, nearly knocking me over.
"Derek!" she exclaims. "What was that?"
"Shh," I tell her, moving quickly to Vera's bedside. "Honey?" I whisper, pushing a lock of red hair out of her face.
"Daddy," she sighs, and the terrible tension that has held my heart captive relents, allowing me to fully be able to breathe again. "Are you eating cake?"
"Yeah, baby, we're eating cake," I chuckle. "Izzie made it for you. Do you want some?"
Vera nods, but as I turn away to get her a piece, the memories crash down on her and her lip begins to tremble. Within seconds her entire body is shaking with sobs, diamond tears dripping down her rosy cheeks to stain the overlarge hospital gown. I reach for her but she leans away. My daughter doesn't want me and I cannot breathe. I want to reach for her, and comfort her from whatever phantoms haunt her, as is my job as a father, but I restrain myself from making her more alarmed.
Addison moves quicker than I would have believed, her Marc Jacobs heels cast carelessly aside as she climbs up onto the bed behind Vera. Vera looks startled by the sight of the white coverings of her own arms but it doesn't stop her from snuggling up to my wife and burying her head in the wool top that bares her shoulders tantalizingly and outlines the growing life inside her. Vera is incoherent as the words she attempts to convey to us are lost in her wordless tears, and jealousy swallows me as Addison holds our daughter tightly in her arms, as if that could keep her disjointed mind together.
"What, honey?" Addison asks as Vera chokes over whatever she is so desperately trying to tell us.
"I didn't want to. I didn't want to. They made me," she sniffles.
"Okay, it's okay. They're never gonna touch you again, baby," I tell her from my chair at the bedside, still a comfortable distance away.
"That's what you said when you came here, Daddy. But you lied," Vera states in the lifeless voice I have come to incessantly dread.
"I – the medicine was supposed to -" But there is really no excuse I can offer, nothing I can say this time to make it better.
"They were dead people. They were taking me, Momma. And I said no, just like you told me but they still came and they made me …" Vera says into the warm comfort of Addison's shirt, her little nose pressed between her chest and the baby bump. She frowns, pushes herself back, and feels the roundness that has become Addison's stomach.
"Mommy, why are you fat now?" Vera giggles, and relief encases me, relief that Vera is finally living in the right world again, even if it is only for a second.
"I'm not fat, sweetie … I'm …" Addison wrinkles her nose at the word 'fat' and takes one of Vera's hands. I make a grab for the other, but Vera pulls it away from me, her expressionless eyes not leaving my face. "Mommy is having a baby. A little brother or sister for you."
Vera's mouth pops open curiously, her hand exploring the curved skin, grappling with this concept of new life. She gasps as Addison's skin ripples and the child inside her squirms in its enveloped home. "I want a baby sister," she says.
"Well, you can't exactly choose, honey," Addison tells her, stroking the brilliant hair that has become rumpled after eight days in a coma. We refused to even consider stopping life support, but after eight days I can tell exhaustion drenches her delicate limbs.
"How did the baby get there, Mommy?" For a second, Addison and I get a glimpse of how life would be if Vera was a normal kid, her childhood untroubled and her development undisturbed. While other parents might cringe away from such a question, I revel in its ordinariness, because nothing about Vera's existence has ever been regular or easy.
"Let's talk about that later," Addison says with a small smile, and I can see the twinkle inhabiting her eye as she smirks at me. "Vera, about what you did – if you ever think you need to do that again, I need you to tell us."
"I tried to tell Daddy," she says, and I speculate, in an offhand kind of way, if you can die from guilt.
"Vera," I say, my voice interlaced with seriousness. I fall to my knees beside her bed, refusing to be distracted by the fact that Addison's skirt is riding up and I can see below it, and Vera leans forward cautiously. "I owe you an apology," I say sincerely. "I will never forgive myself for not listening to you, but if you can forgive me -"
"I forgive you, Daddy," Vera states, her head cocked to the side, and her fingertips graze my unshaven cheek. The whiteness of the bandages is blinding, an inescapable scar on our family that will never truly fade. Her words set me free from a prison of remorse, but she will forever hold the key to the prison, a trump card that she doesn't not yet comprehend the value of.
It was going to be one of those picture-perfect, happy family moments that we achieve so rarely, but before it can attain the required aspects, the door is pushed open to reveal Dr. Sigh, two important looking representatives and a police officer. "Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd?" a suited representative inquires.
"It's Drs," I snap, rising to stand in front of my wife and child.
"We need to speak to you privately, and until further notice, a doctor or nurse must be present in the room while you are visiting your daughter," the man tells us sternly. "Dr. Sigh, if you could have someone sit with the child, as I understand she is still on suicide watch …"
"Of course," Dr. Sigh replies, unclipping his pager. He is straight-faced, inexpressive, and yet his air of victory makes me wonder why exactly he has it out for me and Addison so bad. His dead daughter is no longer a valid excuse.
"You – you can't do this," Addison says faintly, tucking Vera's limbs under the blanket as she rises, and anger mounts inside me as all four of the men's eyes travel up her creamy legs as she struggles to stand. "Dr. Webber and Dr. Nguyen said …"
"Dr. Sigh reported possible child abuse, so Dr. Webber's authority is compromised," the officer tells us. "We need you to come with us right away, please."
"Don't leave!" Vera shrieks in opposition to his words. I am being tugged apart, split straight down the middle between love and law. "Daddy! You promised you would never leave me again!"
I had promised her that, and after pretending she didn't exist for two months and neglecting her to the point of suicide (it sounds worse said like that), I feel like I'm running out of second chances with her, like someday she'll look at me and all she'll see is a line of all the times I've let her down. "I'll be right back," I promise.
"What if they get me?"
Addison is already standing by the door, her forearm imprisoned by the rough grip of the police officer, but I can see her straining against her bonds, her arm bloodless and white from the struggle. "Now, Dr. Shepherd," the officer snaps threateningly, and Vera, who has scooted to the edge of the bed and flipped onto her tummy so her feet can reach the floor, flinches but still attempts to make her way off the bed and over to us.
"Vera, no!" I shout desperately. "Don't get out of bed, baby, your IV -"
But it is far, far too late for that. As Vera rushes at me and Addison, unsteady on legs that have lain dormant for eight days, the IV is ripped from her hand, the trickle of blood an echo of what her arms had looked like before. She cries out in pain and I lunge toward her, managing to capture her hand before the policeman releases Addison in favor of me.
Chaos erupts – they interpret my sudden movement toward my daughter as more violence and page security, who have the unpleasant task of separating me from my screaming, struggling child. Vera is shouting as we are taken away, left in the presence of strangers who are indistinguishable, to her, from the wraiths that haunt her visions. Reality used to be a sanctuary, but now her phobias have leaked into our life too and neither place provides her with safety or sanity. Addison is knocked to the side, her lithe form bending the wrong way, and as I am forcefully escorted I notice her arms cradling her belly, perhaps reassuring the little life inside.
Bailey, Richard, Dr. Nguyen and George all arrive within the span of a few seconds. George and Bailey head for Vera, stroking tangled curls and smoothing rumpled gowns and checking bandages as they steer her back to the bed. She is still crying, and the nightmare once again gobbles up reality, just when I was sure it was banished.
Nobody speaks as we traverse the crowded halls to the conference room. I thread my way through the moving bodies toward Addison, who has tears coursing down her face silently and her hands still around her bump, and I catch her eye and ask silently if she's in pain. She shakes her head and for a second, her mask slips and I see her terror-filled expression, tormented eyes wondering how this could have gone so wrong. Dr. Nguyen and Dr. Sigh emanate fury in equal quantities, albeit for different reasons, and I can tell by each individual footstep of Richard's that he is beyond livid.
We all arrange ourselves around the table, and Addison rests her swollen feet on the edge of my chair. Richard, Dr. Sigh, Dr. Nguyen, the two social workers, and two security guards convene around us. "According to Dr. Sigh, Vera has some ambiguous bruises that her parents were unable to explain satisfactorily," one of the social workers begins.
"As I have already told Dr. Sigh, Addison, Derek, and Vera have visited the top children's psychiatrist on the west coast and he found no indicators of abuse. In due time, after Vera had recovered from her ordeal, we planned to investigate the cause of the bruises." Richard's voice adds to the overall chill of the room, and in my mind I can see the frost of bitter, unwanted feelings coating Addison's hair, covering Dr. Sigh's shoulders, forming on the tip of Richard's nose.
"I saw a child in a situation that could possibly prove harmful to her health and I acted as I saw fit!" Dr. Sigh retorts heatedly.
"You're making this personal, Dr. Sigh. Doctors at this hospital do not make cases personal," Richard booms. "You thought you saw something and you pushed and now I have an inconsolable, mentally unstable child, a father who's sick with worry, and a five month pregnant mother who is having unnecessary stress put on her unborn child."
"We did find some possible explanations for the bruising," Dr. Nguyen says quietly. "We think the smaller fingerprint bruises, which are too small to be Addison or Derek's, by the way, were caused by Vera's peers when they became a little too eager in interrogating her about her visions. As for the larger ones … it seems that Vera may have done that herself. She has spoken several times about trying to get things 'off of her.'"
"Very well," one of the social workers replies. "We will talk with Vera ourselves and see if she indentifies your theories of the true cause of her injuries. But the previously mentioned conditions still stand – until we have reached a conclusion, neither Addison nor Derek may be in Vera's room unaccompanied." They both stand up to leave, accompanied by Dr. Nguyen, to go pick apart my daughter's head to find a truth I already know, and Richard dismisses the security guards as well as Dr. Sigh.
Addison, who had been sitting erect and still throughout the duration of the interview, slumps in her chair in defeat. I lace my fingers through hers, and she gives me a wan smile. Richard's head is nestled in his hands, his body drooping over the table. The conference room is comfortable, bland, as stereotypical as possible, and it does not reflect the wrecked and ruined canvas of my life.
Addison and I are mere moonlight shining on the gate of the ocean that is Vera's fate. We illuminate her path as well as we can, and try to bathe her in comfort and safety, but the truth is there are so many other competing factors that our impact is limited.
Stone statues, exhibiting fluidity and movement even in utter stillness, are more mobile than Addison and I. Richard disappears after his hand ghosts across the top of Addison's head and pats my back, and the soup that arrives ten minutes later, via an extremely wary Meredith, was obviously sent by him. I am not totally unfeeling, so I acknowledge that seeing Addison and I so obviously but not visibly united must be painful for her. But I am not really in a state where anything I say will make a difference, so I simply nod as she sets down bowls of soup from the cafeteria and Cristina follows her with coffee and juju.
We have a curious audience composed of bored doctors, gossip-hungry nurses, and inquisitive interns, all lurking outside the conference room wondering what has gone wrong in the life of the Shepherds now, but Addison rests her head on my shoulder and for a moment, it is only us two. We occupy a world untouchable by any other sentient being, there's just me and her and the hope that our daughter will not be taken from us.
"They can't," Addison says softly, the words taking an unusually long time for my brain to register. "They can't take her, there's just no way."
The problem is that there is a way. Vera is six, and six-year-olds oftentimes find words flying out of their mouths that do not match the meaning they intended. All it takes is one implication, one hint of harm for custody to be called into question.
"You're right," I agree, because we're Addison-and-Derek and this is just what we do. "I can't imagine them finding justification for taking her away." There is unspoken fear for our nameless unborn child as well, a child that has not received the care and attention before birth that it ought to have in light of Vera's issues.
Only one thing is clear: Waiting is a vindictive bitch.
We both jump when Addison's pager and then mine begin going wild, and I am on my feet before I am even sure that it is Vera's room number. But it is, and a bright smile graces her flawless face when she sees us at the door.
"Mommy! Daddy! Guess what, I told all these people about my sister!"
"Remember, we're not sure it's a girl, honey," Addison says gently, moving forward gracefully to sit beside her child. No one makes a move to stop her, and I marvel at this turnaround, that my daughter is showing actual emotion and we are not barred from Vera's room. As I shadow my wife, moving towards the bed, one of the social workers even smiles at me.
"Vera confirmed the sources of her injuries, and after talking with her our only concern is the impact of your possible divorce," he tells me, and Vera's azure eyes grow wide as coins, the pleading expression in them heartbreaking. She's more observant than I gave her credit for.
"We are certainly not getting a divorce," I say firmly. It is one of those moments when tangible happiness sprouts from every pore of my being, and I wonder if this level of euphoria is legal. Sure, nothing is perfect – but that's the beauty of life, finding perfection in all the imperfections.
Besides picking up a new type of antipsychotics from Dr. Nguyen, the only thing Addison, Vera and I do is curl up on Addison's heavenly comfortable bed. Vera's head rests on my chest, her knees touching the bump that is her sibling, and Addison and my legs mingle under the down comforter. We all lay there, Vera in pink footie pajamas, Addison in my pajamas, and me in my coziest sweats, reveling in the miracle that is our family. We don't move for the entire rest of the day.
The truly remarkable thing about life is that even when you're sitting in wreckage that you have yet to rebuild, everything moves forward. Addison and I interview ten different teachers at seven different schools before we find an environment in which Vera will hopefully thrive. Addison ironed the little plaid uniform, as is required at Seattle's top private school, endlessly until we were almost late. Vera's crimson hair nearly reaches her waist and Addison has tied light pink bows in it. She looks like a redheaded angel.
The teacher, Mrs. Adams, smiles as we approach, and Vera smiles shyly back. Her classmates look curious but not nosy or prying, and I manage to feel somewhat okay with leaving her here. Vera kisses me, Addison, and the large bump that is the baby before bouncing forward to embrace her new life.
*~*~*
Both of Vera's hands are held tightly and securely as we tow her along to her first dance class. I hold one, but it's not Addison holding the other; she is lying on the couch being fawned over by my mother and sisters, the baby three days overdue. Holding Vera's other hand, muscled form slightly uncomfortable in this role, is Mark.
There are some things that, no matter how hard you try, can never truly be broken, and the Derek-Addison-Mark friendship turns out to be one of them. Mark joined us in Seattle, bringing promises of fame and revenue to Richard. I was absolutely livid and Addison was extremely uncomfortable, but in time, we adjusted, and the glaring matches that took place in the halls became rarer until they ceased to exist.
It took Mark and I three hours to pin Vera's long ruby curls into the bun required by the ballet studio, but I persevered, knowing how badly she wants to dance. She donned the pink leotard and white tights, purchased by Addison, so proudly it was infectious, and Mark, Addison and I clapped as she did a trial pirouette.
Now, as we enter the dance studio, her small form trembles, I can feel it in my hand that she clasps so tightly. After a few minutes of wandering, Mark and I locate the correct room and walk our six-year-old ballerina up to the teacher. The woman stares at the jagged red lines that run the length of her arms, left bare by the leotard. I'm used to this, because it happens everywhere we go and because the scars, even after numerous ministrations, have only faded slightly; time will be the only true alleviator.
But Vera lets go of our hands and skips forward with almost the vigor and excitement she used to possess, and as usual, I am forced to leave her to fend off all the questions and inquiries, as she has had to learn to do. The other girls stare from their clump, sensing, perhaps, Vera's otherworldliness, and I have to nudge Mark to get him to leave. Sometimes, you can only do too much to help a child, and then any more will harm them. It's a tough lesson to learn, especially when I want to bundle her in the car and speed away from all this hurt.
Rosalie Shepherd is born ten hours later, and her resemblance to Vera is unmistakable. Addison curses me during the delivery, although not as much as the first time, and I note the progress, a third child already hovering at the back of my mind. Vera stares at the baby once she has been taken from Addison's body, full of awe but also jealousy, for a perfection she will never have. For although Vera and Rosalie are exactly identical, except for the fact that Vera has my dark curls, there is no dark hint of schizophrenia in my newborn daughter.
As I hold her, the first one to do so besides the nurse, I wonder how I ever fathomed giving up this bundle of beauty, her blue eyes intent on my face although such focus in a newborn is unusual, and her tiny hand, each miniscule digit perfect as it brushes the slight stubble of my chin.
I think it annoys Vera that Addison and I refuse to leave her alone with Rosalie. She enjoys spending time with her little sister, running her hand over the fabric covering her tummy, touching the midnight fluff that decorates her head, and later taking the little hands when Rosalie begins to walk at eight months old, her development racing along at a pace opposite of Vera's. I cannot help following along as Vera helps Rosalie toddle, not wanting to make the same mistake a second time.
One time, while we watch Rosalie and Tuck, Bailey's son, play on the same grass, both babies lovely but Rosalie's ethereal beauty unmistakable, I become fully aware of Vera's discomfort. As we sit on the porch, warmed by the sparkling, fey light of summer and Addison scoops a giggling Rosalie up and begins to apply pale pink polish to her nails, Vera sighs.
"What's up?" I ask my daughter, who sits with her head cradled dejectedly in her hands.
"I wish I was perfect like Rosalie," Vera whispers.
I hurry to tuck an arm around her, pulling her skinny frame to my side. "Nobody's perfect," I tell her, "although all babies have a certain charm. But it's people's flaws, not their perfections, that make them truly beautiful. You love people despite and because of their faults, because without them, they're not truly human."
*~*~*
I first came to Seattle full of despair, worried that my marriage and my daughter's childhood were over. But life is funny, because although it can put you through a meat grinder, you somehow come out fine on the other side, bouncing back from things you had deemed impossible.
Vera's new antipsychotics are much more potent, and although they cause her to be slightly more irritable at times, spinning tantrums out of the most ludicrous situations, it is a small price to pay for the lack of visions, injuries, and suicidal tendencies. And although there will always be something that sets her apart, and although she hasn't succeeded in making a friend yet, Derek and I are optimistic about the future.
Our marriage evaded a minefield of disaster and ends up stronger than ever. Communication, though to some appears minimal and short, is really done through wordless glances and soft touches, because devastating as our fall was, it gives Derek and I an unprecedented understanding of the other.
Dr. Nguyen's wife, Anna, gives birth to a healthy set of triplets with my help. Two of them are fawn-haired boys who already resemble their father, but the third and smallest one, the only girl, has hair as brilliantly red as roses. This is inexplicable in the biological sense, because Dr. Nguyen has brown hair and his wife has honey-blonde and there are no recessive genes to account for it, but some things must be explained by God, spirituality, fate; whatever you believe in. They name her Vera.
Derek stays friends with Meredith, but I don't mind, because he comes home first to ravish me everyday. It is after one of these times, the afterglow still radiant and evident (we pray that Rosalie and Vera are still occupied with their movie), that Derek mentions it.
"You want to go back to New York?" I ask as his hand caresses my bare skin, still covered by a soft sheen of sweat from our lovemaking. Truthfully, I can see the allure. Seattle has been good for us, but New York is our home.
He shrugs, the motion pushing our bare bodies even closer together, and desire rises in me again. "Yeah, I'd like to, if you're okay with it. I miss it. Mark will be annoyed about having to move again, though."
"Okay," I say. "We can go back. But not until Brooklyn is born."
"All right," Derek whispers, his lips brushing mine as he rolls me over again, careful of our third girl growing inside me.
Would you believe me if I said I didn't need you?
Cause I wouldn't believe you, wouldn't believe you now.
The end ... or maybe not. While this story is done for now, there is a possibility I might write a one-shot sequel in the future. Would you be interested in that? Let me know!
I would be eternally grateful for one last review telling me if you were satisfied with the end :D :D