Author's Note: This story is headed somewhere, I promise. In fact, things will start changing in the next chapter, so I hope you can be patient while I build the world my dear ClaudyStream likes to call "Mummy Addie." Apparently I'm not the only one who still wants to read what-ifs about the original trio - so thank you, and please let me know what you think.
when the winter comes, keep the fires lit (and I will be right next to you)
The truth is, his children are remarkable.
They astound him. He's just as certain that it's true, objectively true, as he is certain that every other parent thinks this too.
He's guilty of a lot of things, as a parent: being besotted instead of practical, indulging instead of limiting: sometimes forgetting to hide a smile when Max shouts no, or Annabel pouts about bedtime. It's not that he wants to undermine Addison's parenting – if there's anything she must know by now, it's that he's always on her side – more the wonder of seeing each of their children as a unique being, capable of thought, feeling, growth. Even backtalk.
As he sits in the padded visitor's chair at his daughter's bedside, alternately watching her sleep and watching the monitors track the jagged lines of her progress, he thinks he'd love to hear some backtalk from Annabel right now.
"You don't have to sleep. You can lie down and read." Addison is negotiating patiently while Annabel, who is rubbing her eyes despite her protestations of not being tired, all but stomps across the hooked rug in the family room, huffing indignation.
She skated all morning, then ran in the park with the twins from her skating class and her little brother. Max fell asleep in the taxi on the way home and Mark has already carried him upstairs, tucked him in, and returned to the family room to find Annabel awake and full of objection. She's scowling in striped socks and pigtails, cheeks still rosy from the cold, and he's not going to smile – he's not. Well, not much.
"I'm not tired and it's not fair," Annabel whines, propping little hands on her hips. "Why do I have to nap just because Max is napping? I'm older."
"That's not why I want you to nap. I want you to nap because you're tired."
"But I'm not tired!"
"Bel. I know you're tired because you're cranky," Addison says gently. Her tone of voice is so calm and reasonable that Annabel's response is even more jarring.
"You don't know everything!" Annabel yells, loudly, at her mother and Mark suddenly has to turn his back so neither of the women in his life sees him laugh.
It's not funny, it's rude, that's what he tells Annabel afterwards, once he's schooled his face: we're not rude to you and you're not rude to us, that's how it works, that's what he reminds her.
She ends up apologizing to Addison, climbs onto her lap to put both little hands on her mother's face as she has been doing since she was tiny. And then they go upstairs and Mark straightens the jumble of books and toys on the landing until he hears her go quiet just two pages into the next chapter of the Secret Garden, and Addison tiptoes out of their daughters' bedroom and meets Mark on the landing for a kiss.
"What's that for?"
"Attempting to hide your laughter. Not a great attempt, not a very convincing attempt, but still – an attempt."
They're whispering and that makes everything funny, like it used to when they were sleep deprived with two kids under three, Addison still nursing Max, middle of the night laughing helplessly with sheer exhaustion at anything and nothing.
Addison pulls him through the hallway into their bedroom, still laughing a little and shushing him at the same time.
"So you do think it was funny," he teases her.
"Well… it was a little funny." She grins. "And I guess you did a pretty good job hiding it, so… since they're both sleeping…"
He doesn't know why his brain has summoned this memory. It's so…ordinary, Annabel a typical combination of sass and sweetness, Mark and Addison trading good cop/bad cop. It was just an ordinary Saturday – a nice one, all four of them together, much of it outdoors. It was just last month: January, because they still had the decorations up, and when he pictures Annabel stomping on the rug there are green garlands on the fireplace behind her and the tree in the corner, the ornaments the kids made. They never wanted to take down the tree.
The truth is, his children are ordinary.
And then that vision of Annabel – the skating, running, stomping, sassing, hugging, ordinary vision – fades back into the small, still body in white sheets.
Because the truth is that nothing is ordinary now.
"Mark." Addison is back, trying to get his attention, and he forces himself to focus.
"Where's Max?"
"Right outside, with a nurse. How's Annabel?"
"Sleeping." The same.
It's so close to that magic word, to ordinary, so close to the text messages they exchange all day, I'll pick up Annabel. Did Ida get Max yet? Annabel's at the Taylors'. When is Max's haircut? Except that Max shouldn't be outside his sister's hospital room and Annabel shouldn't be the same.
None of this should be happening.
He can't wallow, he knows this, so he turns his face to Addison's, steels himself. He can be strong for her when he can't for himself; he's done it before.
"We should take Max…get him some food, get checked in-"
"He's eaten."
No need to ask if she has.
But he convinces her to bring Max to the hotel, give him some semblance of ordinary on this day of travel and confusion, settle in for the long haul. Dr. Grey returns to check on Annabel, agrees with Mark that Addison should get at least a few hours of sleep away from the hospital.
"She's sedated, for now, so she won't miss you, but you know what it's like to try to sleep here. She's going to be monitored all night, people coming in and out." Dr. Grey's voice is patient, understanding, like Addison reasoning with Annabel.
"An on-call room, then." Addison turns desperate eyes to Mark and his teeth set, torn between giving her what she wants and trying to help her.
"Dr. Montgomery - Addison. Annabel needs you to be rested," she says gently.
It's those words that seem to move her, and she draws a deep, shuddering breath, standing up straighter. "Okay."
"Okay," Mark repeats, squeezing her shoulder, flashing a quick look of gratitude at Dr. Grey. They take turns kissing a sleeping Annabel goodbye like they used to for early morning calls. She doesn't wake up, but Addison whispers it anyway, like she does at home: good night, sleep tight, see you in the morning light. She's been doing it since the kids were tiny, and Mark's still not sure where it came from – ostensibly one of her nannies rather than a parent, but he knows there were so many, the rotating chorus of her childhood.
Max, who has been standing outside with a nurse, holds up his arms as soon as he sees Mark. He doesn't usually want to be carried this much, he's probably feeling the tension among all the adults, and Mark wonders for the hundredth time if they've done more harm than good bringing him here. Sure, he would miss his parents if he'd stayed behind, his sister, but he could be sleeping in his real bed, heading to preschool every morning, trotting off to soccer in the park on Saturdays with his beloved nanny. Maybe it's selfishness, his own need to feel ordinary, to keep all four of them together.
Mark just hoists his son into his arms now, ruffling the back of his hair. It has a tendency to stick up, which he considers a plus and Addison doesn't. She usually smooths it back down once Mark has rumpled it.
"I should go back," Addison starts almost as soon as they've walked into the hotel suite. He's not really surprised.
"Let's get Max settled first," he proposes, knowing that's the one gambit that might work and, sure enough, she nods.
Feeling a bit manipulative, he leans down to transfer Max into his mother's arms.
There's nothing simple or easy about any of this, but he's grateful nonetheless that a team of people in New York has made what they can easier, that there's a place for them to stay so close to the hospital, suited to their needs, that their luggage is already here, that the kitchen in the large living area is stocked with apple juice and milk, bananas and cereal, even the goldfish crackers Max loves.
There's ample room for all of them, a large bedroom on either side of the living area, and he wanders into the one he can tell on first glance is theirs. He splashes water on his face in the en-suite bathroom, takes a few deep breaths. He can hear the low hum of chatter, Addison and Max, in the bedroom on the other side of the suite. He takes another minute or two to grip the marble edge of the sink, gather as much control as he can. None of this is okay, none of it, but if he can master the fear then he can keep it together and if he can keep it together then he can keep them together. His family. And isn't that what it's all about?
He sees the back of both their bright heads first; his wife and son are kneeling side by side, lining up books on the white wooden shelves. Max's green bedroom slippers – shaped like dinosaurs, of course – rest side by side on the fluffy white rug next to one of the beds, just like at home.
Do you really need to pack all that?
He needs to feel normal. Or as normal as he can.
"Need help?"
Addison turns around, smiles at him. "Always. You can do the high shelves."
"Me too, I can help," Max is on his feet now, holding Mark's hands in both of his. "Put me on your shoulders!"
"Hang on, buddy," and he leaves both his hands in Max's, letting his son expend some energy pulling on him, half climbing up his legs, while Addison slowly gets to her feet.
"I'm going to call the hospital," she murmurs, lips close to his ear. She whispers hospital even though he's not sure Max has even learned to associate it yet with his sister's illness. At home, in New York, hospital means one of his parents is going to work, but it also means ice cream in the cafeteria, the soft laps of any number of nurses, and endless pads of paper to draw pictures with file markers.
Mark turns his attention back to his son. Max is going to be restless, cranky, without any opportunity to play outside. At home, the park is his backyard. They keep a car to drive to the country, but in the city they walk everywhere, Max always trying to keep up with his older, taller sister. He was so good on the plane, in the hospital, but Mark knows he needs to run around sooner rather than later.
The hotel has a greenspace on the roof, he remembers. It's not a playground or a park but it will do. There's still an hour or so of daylight left.
Addison is on the phone, on hold, she mouths to him when he walks into the living area with the soccer ball he found in a suitcase under one arm and Max's hand in his.
She nods when she sees them, and he doesn't have to say Max needs to run. He gestures with his chin, and she nods again, all they need to express text me if you have news, and then he takes his son to the roof.
Max is delighted to run around, and they kick the ball for a few minutes, Mark sending long, gentle shots his son's way. Max is mostly incapable of kicking a ball without laughing, a quality Mark knows he'll miss but when he inevitably grows out of it.
Soccer turns into tag, which turns into Mark's failsafe, timing his son's sprints to give himself a chance to stop running around. While he rests, he can watch Max running happily through the grass. It's a cliché, of course, but how can he not see his own childhood in this little boy who looks so much like him, whose freckled face is all youth and promise? And yet Max is different from his father at four years old: he's more certain, secure and loved. Max won't need a surrogate family, not like Mark did.
Max isn't much younger now than Mark was when he first met Derek, when he began the process of folding himself into the warmth of the first real family he knew. He remembers thinking Derek's parents were like something on TV: his mother baked cookies and gave hugs and told them be careful, like a real mom, like she cared. And Derek's father pitched whiffle balls and took them fishing, camping, called them guys like they were grown-ups, not little boys. For almost eight years he lapped up the warmth of this family, the surrogate sisters, surrogate parents, baseball on Thursdays and church on Sundays and helping out at the store Saturday afternoons, sweeping and rearranging stock. And then with a blast of random violence, everything changed.
The truth is, ordinary is all he's ever wanted.
He's had years of therapy; it's no mystery that he's been looking for that warmth ever since, that family, and blown up his own chances over and over. Remembers Kathleen calling him a week after Derek left town, disgusted instead of professional: did you even want her or did you really just want to trump Derek? Is that it, Mark? No, don't answer. I don't want to know.
He growled back into the phone then, hung up before she could, told himself he didn't miss any of them. Told himself that until it almost felt true.
Almost eight years of golden two-parent perfection with the Shepherds then; now almost eight years with Addison. What they have is real and he knows this as well as he knows that the whole Shepherd family was lost to him the night Derek walked in on them. One after the other, back then, they told him what they thought of him. Lizzie, scornful: Do you like playing house with my brother's wife? Carolyn, sad instead of angry on that last phone call, which was somehow worse - oh, Mark, what have you done? - pronouncing his name like goodbye.
But Derek never said a word.
Mark was just erased, like he'd never existed. Addison flew to Seattle two months after Derek left, got some closure – or at least, he thought it must have been closure. She called him from the hotel in tears, told him the papers were signed. He hates me, she sniffled into the phone and he resisted asking does he hate me too? His former best friend. His brother.
Almost eight years later and the first thing he thought when he saw Derek outside the hospital today was oh god, we're old. It's not vanity, it's science. You can ignore the grey in your own hair, the hollows under your own cheekbones, but it's harder to ignore them reflected in a face you grew up with. Derek still hasn't made eye contact with him once, hasn't spoken his name other than to bark to him at Annabel's bedside to get Addison out of his way – rather grimly, he supposes Derek is still willing to talk to him if he can help him with Addison, a rather unfortunate tendency of the last few years of Derek's marriage to Addison.
We got into this together. All three of us made mistakes.
But we're the ones who hurt him, Mark!
He doesn't want to think so much about those days, but Derek was his long before he was Addison's: his oldest friend, his partner in crime, the co-captain of every childhood memory he hasn't abandoned on a therapist's couch.
That first Christmas was the hardest, the first time in 15 years – for her – and more than 30 – for him – they didn't celebrate at least one day with the extended Shepherd family. It didn't help that Addison was heavily pregnant, hormonal, and limiting herself to only a few sips of wine.
He tried to make it easier, he remembered, making reservations somewhere Addison had mentioned, a month or so before, hanging decorations – but she'd stopped him.
She calls him in tears to tell him the agent who's been leasing the brownstone called to find out why she'd had a twelve-foot tree delivered. "It's annual," she whispers into the phone. "I guess I didn't think to cancel it, I didn't think.…" He promises her he'll deal with it.
Then he finds her pulling down the garlands from the windows in his apartment. It's nothing like the grand fireplace in Addison and Derek's brownstone; Mark's place is sleek and modern, central heating pumping so subtly there's not even a radiator to decorate. So he did what he could with the best decorations he could find. He knows how much she loves Christmas. It's been hard for both of them – but he sneaked home to decorate for her and now she's standing on a padded footstool, far more precarious than he'd like, yanking armfuls of pine from the walls.
"Because I don't feel very festive!" she cries when he asks her why. Pine scatters along the blond wood floors.
"Get down from there." He must sound gruffer than he intends because she steps down herself, avoiding the hand he's extended, then lowers herself heavily onto the footstool and dissolves in tears.
"Addison." He crouches next to her, brushes her hair away from her face. "If you don't want decorations, it's fine. I can take them down. You don't need to do it yourself. It's okay."
"It's not okay." She cries into his shirt, apologizes, says she wants to be happy, but-
-there's always a but.
"We can be happy," he insists. "It's … it's her first Christmas," and he knows how sappy he sounds, but he rests a hand on the swell of her belly anyway. "We're allowed to be festive sometimes, Addie. Even if we … did what we did, we're still allowed."
She whispers more apologies to him, thanks him for buying the decorations, and later that night shows him her appreciation as directly as she does. She falls asleep in his arms humming a Christmas carol under her breath. But he finds her crying the next night, holding Lizzie's holiday card.
"Her secretary must have the old list…" Mark offers lamely. They haven't heard from any of the Shepherd sisters in months.
"Walker got into Stanford. And Hannah was Clara in the Nutcracker this year, and -"
He takes the card out of her hand. "Stop torturing yourself."
"What have we done?" She sinks onto the couch, head in her hands, a harder position with her new shape. She's all apologies later, again, reassuring him. I want this, I do, I'm happy, Mark, I swear, but then when Christmas Day comes she doesn't get dressed at all. He cancels the reservation and they eat takeout Chinese on his old leather couch in pajamas.
"I'd still rather be with you," he tells her seriously, and she lifts teary eyes to him with half a dumpling between her chopsticks. "Like this, no decorations, no tree, no … festivity … I mean, I'd rather have this with you than … any other Christmas." He's embarrassed when he's finished; he doesn't say things like this.
But she's looking at him with something like wonder and he thinks he might have said the right thing for once. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, then gives him a watery smile. "Merry Christmas to you too, Mark."
There's a chill in the air as the sun starts to sink and he watches his son, whole and healthy, running up and down the grassy enclosure.
The truth is, ordinary is all he's ever wanted.
"Mommy!"
Max's delighted shriek interrupts Mark's thoughts and he watches the little boy veer out of the loop he's been running to jumps into his mother's arms, excited as a puppy after their short time apart. Addison holds him close for a moment before setting him down as Mark ambles over. "See how fast you can run to the white tree. I'll time you," Addison promises, and Max takes off again.
She nods at Mark, telling him without words that she's off the phone and Annabel is the same, shades her eyes and says: "It's nice up here."
And then Mark is gripped by something: sentimentality, fear, something; he looks right into her eyes, pale almost-green in the low sun, and speaks before he can censor himself, in a fierce whisper: "You three are everything, you have to know that."
"We're not going to talk about it yet, Mark, you agreed, not while Annabel-" her voice is unsteady.
"I know, I'm sorry." He's a little embarrassed; he cups her cheek, briefly and her skin is cool and soft under his fingers. "But, Addie, I just need you to know-"
"I do," she says before he can finish. She turns her face to kiss his palm. "I do know."
Reviews are warmly welcomed and always appreciated.
Lyrics: Warren Zevon, Keep Me in Your Heart