It was nearly 8 o'clock at night and Arizona was rushing through the line at the Johns Hopkins Cafeteria. She had just scrubbed out of a 5 hour exploratory surgery on a four year old girl and she had 20 minutes to scarf down dinner before heading into her tumor resection on an eight year old boy. Hopefully after that, she would be able to head home and get a few hours rest before her shift started early the following morning.
Feeling her phone vibrating in her pocket, she set her tray down on an empty table and answered it, holding it to her ear with her left hand while she shoved some pasta in her mouth with her right. "Hey mom." Arizona mumbled in between chews, swallowing before continuing, "I only have a few minutes before my next surgery. What's up?"
"Arizona! How are you doing?" her mother's cheerful voice came from the other end of the line. Arizona shrugged in ambivalence, even though her mother couldn't see the gesture, "I'm alright, mom. Just busy. Can I call you back?" But Barbara Robbins continued on, ignoring her daughter's request to postpone their phone call, "How are things at the hospital?"
With an impatient sigh, Arizona answered shortly, "It's busy, mom. We're understaffed and we've got tons of surgeries." Her mother hummed thoughtfully, and Arizona could feel that she was preparing to broach a certain topic, one they'd discussed many times, "Mom, now really isn't the best time, can I call you—"
"Arizona," her mother interrupted, "Your brother is flying in tomorrow for Christmas, and I just think it would be wonderful if you could come by sometime. It would really mean a lot to us all—"
Groaning with frustration, Arizona interjected, "Mom, you're in California. I can't just drop in. I doubt I could even get a flight at this point." But her mother wasn't giving up, "Of course you can get a flight! If it's the money, you know we could pay—"
"Mom, it's not the money and you know it!" Arizona shot back, feeling her anger beginning to boil, "I have to work. I'm a surgeon—I can't get Christmas off every year, and it's my fifth year of residency." Hearing a sigh from her mother fueled her anger further, "I've told you this so many times! I can't get the time off, especially not now. It's over. I'll call you all Christmas morning if I get a break."
As she stuffed another bite of pasta into her mouth, her mother tried another tactic, "Well, Timothy's staying for a couple of days afterward. How about you come then?" Rolling her eyes as she swallowed, Arizona tried to stay calm as she repeated her explanation, "Mom, I can't get the time off. And I need to focus on my work right now anyway—"
"Timothy is deploying to Iraq again in February. Who knows when we'll get another chance to spend Christmas together?" her mother pleaded, her voice wet with tears. Arizona slammed her fork down on the table, causing a couple cafeteria guests to look over at her in alarm, "Don't you think I know that, mom? Don't you think I want to come? I want to come! But I just can't make it happen right now, so if you would stop making me feel even more terrible about that fact, I'd really appreciate it." Arizona was practically shouting by the time she finished, tears hovering by the edge of her eyelids.
The phone line was silent for a moment before her mother spoke again, her voice softer, "Arizona—"
"I've got to go, Mom. I have surgery," Arizona mumbled before hanging up her phone. Finding suddenly that she was no longer hungry, she tossed out the remainder of her uneaten pasta before storming from the cafeteria toward the OR.
It was a somber Christmas morning. It was the first Christmas that both Callie and Arizona had been able to take off in years, yet no one was in much of a mood to celebrate. Arizona had questioned whether they should even have a Christmas morning, with present opening and hot chocolate and all of their happy, celebratory traditions, yet Callie had insisted that they do it anyway. "We should try to provide a sense of normalcy. And we can't very well cancel Christmas for Sofia." Arizona had admitted she was right. But that didn't make this Christmas morning any less depressing.
"Oh, Riley, these are beautiful," Callie praised, holding the candlesticks that she had made her, "And so clever. They'll go perfectly with the candles Arizona got me." She smiled genuinely at the young girl, but Riley just nodded, pushing her lips upward in a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and barely lasted a second. Arizona nodded in agreement, "And I love the coasters you made me. You know how I hate rings on the coffee table." The words hung in the air, and Arizona almost winced at the tension. It might have been a funny comment if everyone weren't so sad.
"I love the ipod, moms. Thanks," Sofia added; she really did—she had been asking for one for months, but felt guilty expressing her enthusiasm when Riley was so sad. Arizona smiled appreciatively, "You're welcome, bug." Riley glanced in Callie and Arizona's direction, not meeting either of their eyes, "Yeah… thanks."
"You're welcome, Riley," Callie added softly, looking back under the tree. "Well, I think that's all the presents—"
"Wait, I see one more," Sofia commented, crawling over and pulling a round, flat package from the back. Looking at it, she froze. She hesitantly looked up at Arizona, her worried eyes asking her Momma silently for help. Taking the package gently from her daughter, Arizona looked at it, grasping it tightly in her hands, before softly reading the label. "To Dad, From Riley."
She looked to Riley, sitting in the in her wheelchair with her eyes fixated on the gift. Arizona tried to mitigate the pain of situation, "I can put this away for you—"
"No, give it to me," Riley demanded sharply. Arizona slowly sighed, placing the present gently in Riley's lap. The young girl violently ripped off the paper, staring mutely at the dish in front of her, unable to move. She had made him a plate, painted his favorite shade of blue. She had been so proud of the smooth curves and even surfaces she'd been able to make, but now it seemed like a lopsided pancake, coated with globs of uneven blue paint. She had made it less than a week ago, yet it seemed like a lifetime away. A time when she had dared to imagine her father waking up, eating food she'd made for him with Sofia while he recovered off of this stupid plate. It now felt so silly and naive.
She lifted the plate above her head, an in a quick, jerky motion, hurled it harshly at the ground, where it shattered just below her feet. Sofia gasped in shock, and Arizona and Callie looked at her with worry as she quickly wheeled off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
It was nearly midnight on Christmas Eve when Arizona finally arrived at her Seattle apartment. Having started her Pediatric Surgical Fellowship at Seattle Grace only a few months before, she was stuck working all the holidays—she had to be back at the hospital at 6am. Hopefully an emergency wouldn't call her back before then. It was just as well, though. She wasn't exactly filled with holiday cheer this season. She just wanted to keep working, keep moving, and maybe then, she wouldn't have to think about how it was her first Christmas without Timothy.
When she opened her front door, she was surprised to find the lights already on in her apartment. She wondered if she had forgotten to turn them off, but that would have been very unlike her. When she turned to her living room, she nearly lept out of her skin when she saw two people sitting on her couch. "Ah!" she cried, jumping about a foot in the air and dropping her purse on the floor. But when she got a closer look, she saw that it was her parents, sitting there waiting for her.
"Sorry," her mother said, stepping slowly toward her daughter, "We didn't mean to scare you." Opening her arms, Barbara Robbins pulled her daughter into a hug, which Arizona reluctantly returned. Pulling away, Arizona looked from her mother to her father, three sets of sad, blue eyes staring uncomfortably until she broke the silence, "What are you doing here? I told you I have to work tomorrow—"
"We had to see you, Arizona," Barbara whispered, her voice thick and her eyes watering. Arizona sighed heavily. She was so tired. "I have to go to bed, I have an early shift tomorrow—"
"When will you get off?" her mother asked urgently, but Arizona just shook her head, unable to look her at her parents, "I don't know. Probably late. The hospital is short staffed, and kids still need surgery on Christmas—"
"Well, maybe we can see you on your break?" her mother suggested hopefully. Arizona shook her head, "Mom, I don't even know if I'll have a break, much less when it will be. Unless you want to just sit around the hospital all Christmas—"
"We can do that," Barbara insisted, pleading with her daughter. Arizona looked up into her father's eyes as he starred at her. There was something there she hadn't seen before—desperation. It was too much. "You guys shouldn't have come. I told you not to come—"
"Arizona, please—" the Colonel begged, but Arizona cut him off, talking back to her father for maybe the first time in her entire life, "No! I told you not to because I will have a busy, stressful day tomorrow, and I had a busy, stressful day today, and I just don't have the energy for company—"
"We aren't company, we're your family!" Barbara pleaded, tears now streaming down her face, "It's Christmas and we wanted to see our daughter. And we didn't see you last year—"
"Don't," Arizona spat painfully, tears hovering on the edge of her eyes as she began to tremble. She didn't want to think about that, the last chance to spend Christmas with her brother that she would never get back. Barbara looked at her daughter, empathy radiating from her face, "Oh, Arizona—"
"I can't do Christmas this year, Mom. I just can't," Arizona whispered thickly, her lower lip quivering like a child as the tears building in her eyes overflowed onto her cheek, one after another. "Oh, bug," Barbara whispered lovingly as a sob escaped Arizona's lips and she covered her wet eyes with her right hand. In an instant, Arizona was wrapped in her mother's arms—she felt her mother shaking with her own sobs as she held her tightly. A moment later, she felt her father's sturdy hand resting on her back, shaking slightly as well.
"He should be here," Arizona wept mournfully, choking on her tears as she spoke. She felt her mother nod against her, "He should be here."