it begins with your family but soon it comes 'round to your soul

There was a moment, the morning after she delivered her son – sore and exhausted, sun streaming overly bright and hot into the hospital room – when Max was fussing at her breast, hungry and cranky, and Annabel, a fierce two and a half, struggled in Mark's arms and shrieked for her mother, Mommy, Mommy, need you, and then Max started wailing too and Addison felt her heart was breaking in two different directions, toward each of her children at once.

She was also hormonal and dehydrated and she'd just buried her brother so she can admit that she started to cry then too, adding to the cacophony in the room, and she thought how can I do this, how can I mother two children, how can I be in two places at once?

But then there was a moment, only an hour or two later, when newborn Max was fed and burped and sleeping contentedly in the crook of her arm, and Annabel was calm and cuddly, nestled on her other side in the hospital bed, holding a picture book, while Mark sat at the chair next to the bed, stroking her hair while he read aloud. And she thought I can do this, I can mother two children, I can be in two places at once, if be in two places meant love my two children at the same time.

She believed it from that day forward, and then when they brought their son home from the hospital and piled onto their big bed, Max nursing and Annabel falling asleep on Mark's chest, she thought we are a family of four and the two pieces of her heart knitted back together.

After that, even when each of her children wanted something different, even when baby Max cried for milk while toddler Annabel howled with indignation at having to wait for a story, even when toddler Max pulled at the hem of her skirt, up, Mama, up, while preschooler Annabel demanded attention, she didn't waver from the basic belief that she could be there for both her children at once.

It helped, of course, that there were four of them. Two of us, two of them, they liked to say. Addison and Mark would pass the children back and forth, sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally. And that was how she went from feeling alone to being the two of us to being the four of us. Sure, it's simpering, it's a bit of a Hallmark card, but if pressed she can admit that the family she and Mark built actually healed her heart.

So why is it cracking in two now at her son's simple question?

"Mommy! Can I put my animals on Annabel's bed?" Max repeats. His tone is guileless, his arms loaded with soft toys he brought with him from New York. She looks down at his innocent little face and can't bring herself to answer.

Mark must have heard her indrawn breath because she feels his hand, warm and strong, squeeze her own. Of course Max would assume the other bed in his hotel room was Annabel's. They've always relished sharing a room on vacation. And of course Max would assume Annabel would be sleeping here tonight.

"Yeah, you can, bud." Mark responds when she doesn't, ruffles Max's hair while Addison watches and wills her breathing to regulate. Of all the fear and pain of the last week, she can't let herself be undone by a pile of soft toys.

Max, dressed for bed in blue pajamas with turtles on them, starts to clamber onto his own bed and then stops. "When is Bel going to come?"

"Not for a little while." Mark helps him the rest of the way into bed. "She's going to stay at the hospital while she gets better."

Max nods, looks from one parent to the other. "Can I sleep in your bed?"

"You can always come in if you need us." Addison finds her voice, strokes her son's hair back into relative submission. She turns to finish unpacking, doesn't want to Max to see the tears in her eyes. Over her shoulder she sees Mark sitting up against the white wooden headboard of what she'll need to start thinking of as Max's bed, their son snuggled into his side. Max looks tiny in the large bed, Mark still somehow oversized, and yet both of them fitting together perfectly.

Mark reinforces her, as he is wont to do: "Start the night in here, buddy. We might be up late and we don't want to keep you up. Plus," and he lowers his voice, "you know Mommy snores."

"No she doesn't!" Max protests, giggling.

"What have you been telling this child?" She heard every word but she's impressed with Mark, he's so much better at keeping things normal for Max, and she wants to help. So she's sifting through the stack of picture books they brought with them for Max's favorite nighttime stories, and for a moment it's almost normal.

"Daddy said you snore!" Max is delighted to share.

"Daddy is occasionally wrong." Addison. "But just occasionally. Max, you want The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar or The Runaway Bunny?"

"Yes, both of them," Max responds cheerfully.

Addison hands the books to Mark, still feeling the sting of the distance from Annabel. It's not right. They should all be together. Even if there's nothing she can do, even if her daughter is sedated and sleeping, she needs to be there. This division, three and one, it's not right.

"Mark," she murmurs, trying not to alert Max to impending separation. "I'm just going to…"

"Mommy, come sit!" Max holds out his arms to Addison, his sweet face shining and expectant and she's torn between leaving for the hospital now, and giving Max the bedtime story routine of his four-year-old dreams: both parents focused directly on him.

Doesn't he deserve that, after they've dragged him 2,500 miles away from everything he knows? She draws a deep breath. "Shove over," she says, smiling down at both of them, and Mark shifts himself and their son to make room for her on Max's other side. She's already changed out of the skirt suit she wore on the plane into jeans and a simple sweater, washed her face; she's prepared to go back to the hospital as soon as Max is settled. But hanging up the suit was difficult; she put it on in their bedroom in Manhattan, the last morning they were all together at home.

Could that really have been this morning? Already it feels like a lifetime ago, and that scares her.

Then Mark starts reading the familiar book and Max busies himself pointing out pictures, sounding out the letters he's starting to recognize, first quickly and then slowly and then even more slowly as he starts to doze. Addison strokes sandy blond bangs out of his eyes, rests her head just slightly against one of his pillows. Her son is freshly bathed; his hair smells like baby shampoo and his little body is warm under his pajamas.

Her eyes feel heavy, the pictures on the page starting to blur under the fringe of her fluttering lashes.

She wakes confused in an unfamiliar dark room, fully dressed, her mouth dry and her eyes gritty, with her son snuggled up against her. His little fingers are tangled in the sleeve of her sweater as he exhales loud, sleepy breaths into her neck.

Disengaging herself carefully – Max usually sleeps like a log once he's out, thank goodness – she pushes open the door to the living area and squints into the comparably bright light.

Mark is standing at the kitchen, a medical journal open on the counter. He looks over and smiles at her. "Hey."

She rubs her eyes. "You should have woken me up."

"You were exhausted." He hands her a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "It's barely been half an hour, Addison, and there's nothing wrong with getting a few minutes of sleep. I would have woken you up," he adds.

"Have you heard any…" her voice trails off when he shakes his head. "I don't like being this far," she murmurs.

"Eight minutes. Six when we have the lights. That's why we-"

"That's still too far. When she's alone."

"She's not alone, Addie. There's a nurse with her, she's sedated and she's sleeping, she's sleeping off a seizure-"

"I know that."

"And Max is here and he needs us too."

She takes a long draw from the cold water bottle instead of answering, since she's not sure she can be charitable in the moment, and they don't snap at each other. They're not like that. Purposefully, consciously, carefully: they're not like that.

So she forces her face into something like neutral, swallows more water, smooths the sleeve of her sweater where Max's clutching fingers have wrinkled it. But she's assaulted with the sense memory of Annabel's little green sweater instead of her own, smoothing her daughter's dark curls during the long cross-country flight. She feels the ache of separation, the terror of the unknown, and then she's sinking down into one of the easy chairs with the half-empty water bottle, propping her head up with one hand.

She feels rather than sees Mark lower himself onto the oversized arm of the chair, run a hand down her back.

When she looks up her husband's familiar face is blurred.

"He can do it. He has to do it." No need to identify who he is or what it is.

There's something in Mark's eyes she can't identify, but then he's running his fingers through her hair soothingly, agreeing with her in low murmuring tones. They huddle there together for a moment, gathering strength from each other before she returns to the hospital to see if her ex-husband has any more news on whether he can do it.

A rental car is waiting for them in the hotel garage but she takes a cab to the hospital instead, as Mark requested, and traces what's become the familiar route to Annabel's room. She sits with her sleeping daughter, kisses one cool, limp hand – the one without the IV – and watches her breathing softly. Just like she used to do in the glider in the nursery when she was a baby.

Just like then, and also nothing like then.

She sees Meredith Grey in the hallway when she leaves for coffee. "How are you doing?" Dr. Grey asks, smiling at her, and it's a nice smile, a good patient-bedside smile.

Addison makes a sort of shrug and then says "Wait, Dr. Grey –"

The other doctor nods, turning back to her.

"Did, um, did Dr. Shepherd say anything else about the surgery?" Addison asks carefully. It sounds strange to say Dr. Shepherd, her own name of more than a decade, but it doesn't feel right to call him Derek right now either.

"We'll reassess in…"

We.

"You're going to scrub in?"

"I'll be assisting. I was actually a resident the last time he … tried this procedure."

"Do you think he can do it?" Addison blurts before she can stop herself.

"What I think isn't really important."

"But I want to know anyway. Please," Addison adds.

"Okay. Well, then, as a doctor? It's never been done before in quite this way, but if anyone can do it it's Dr. Shepherd. As his wife, I am required to say I think he can do anything," and Addison smiles a little bit at this. "And as a mother, I…understand why you need him to try."

Addison nods, swallowing hard. She did ask, but she can't think about try right now, about chances and statistics, not while Annabel is breathing softly, sleeping, feet away.

"Dr. Montgomery…"

"You can call me Addison."

"Addison," she continues. "I know this is difficult to hear, but we just need to wait until- excuse me, I just need to see if this is the nanny." She's busy with her phone for a moment, then looks up. "Nope, everything is fine. We're not usually both here, at night," she explains.

They're still at the hospital because of Annabel. That's why they're not with their own child. She swallows hard, grateful. "Dr. Grey, thank you-"

"It's our job. Now, did you need…"

"Tell me about your son?" she interrupts, desperate enough for distraction not to feel rude at the non sequitur or at the fact that the other woman seemed fairly clearly ready to end the conversation a moment ago.

Dr. Grey takes it in stride. After another quick check of her phone, she leans back against the wall outside Annabel's room and smiles. "My son. Well, he's … incredible. A ball of energy, he knows so many words, it was slower going but-"

Addison's confusion must show because Meredith stops mid-sentence. "Oh, that's right, you don't know… Thomas has been ours for almost 18 months now. We fostered him first and he was … under-stimulated in his first home. He's caught up wonderfully, though. He loves to explore; he'll walk in the grass and just point to everything, he wants to know every word. And taste everything. Including butterflies," and she laughs, and it's warm, musical.

"He sounds adorable."

"He is. I'm sorry, I'm going on…"

"No, no, I asked." She fidgets, not quite ready to end the conversation.

Dr. Grey is holding her phone in her hand, scrolling. "Should I be that person? With the pictures?"

"Please be that person." She's grateful for the distraction

"Okay." The smile creases her face, makes her look younger and softer. "But then you should probably call me Meredith."

"Meredith," Addison pronounces carefully, leaning in to look at the phone in the other doctor's hand. It's a steady stream of captured toddler joy and he's terribly photogenic with big dark eyes, long lashes, creamy hazelnut skin. She admires multiple shots of little Thomas: Holding a stacking toy and laughing. Slightly blurry, running barefoot in the grass. Lips pursed in a kiss, waving a chubby fist. Sitting on Meredith's lap in a rowboat: Derek must have taken that one.

"Oh, he's beautiful."

"Thank you. I know I'm biased, but…"

"We're all biased." Addison smiles at her. "But he really is precious. And it goes so quickly."

Meredith nods. "For us it was more like … slowly, and then all at once. The adoption was only finalized six months ago; we still have three more months of social worker visits. It takes…a long time. Everything takes a long time when lawyers are involved."

Addison nods.

"We tried," Meredith says then, unprompted, perhaps knowing Addison's specialty or just assuming that everyone has the same questions. "We actually went to Los Angeles, worked with one of Derek's old medical school friends who's a fertility specialist now. You must know her too," she interrupts herself. "I forgot you went to med school together."

Addison doesn't have to ask who their consult was. Naomi Bennett, lab partner, study buddy, sharer of exam notes and margaritas in turn. Addison delivered her daughter but she hasn't spoken to her in almost seven years: the Bennetts were yet another casualty of the divorce.

Addison just nods again. "That sounds difficult."

"It was. Harder for Derek in some ways, I think, because I wasn't the most anxious to pass on my genes, um, that's another story, but yes, overall it was…" and she pauses, "…difficult. But now we have Thomas, so…" and Addison knows exactly what she means, she means so now it's all worth it, and she understands because it's exactly how she feels about Annabel.

Addison turns back to the gallery of pictures to lighten the air between them. The next picture is Thomas in his father's arms, wearing a miniature version of Derek's green barn jacket, his little face scrunched with delight. Derek's kissing him on the cheek. She's not sure which one of them looks happier. She pauses on that picture, looks for the first time at Derek as a father.

Meredith seems to wonder if the shot bothers her because she closes down the picture gallery, pockets her phone. "You've indulged me enough," she says with a smile.

Addison feels she should say something. "I'm glad he has … that you both have Thomas," and she thinks it probably sounds ridiculous, presumptuous, but Meredith just smiles.

"I'm glad too."

The bitter cart coffee she swallows black tastes the same as every desperate caffeinated sip of her career. Her hand shakes slightly as she walks back to Annabel's room – she regrets not adding sugar now; she loathes the taste but she realizes she probably needs it. Some of the warm liquid splashes onto her sweater as she rounds the corner. She checks on her daughter – still sleeping – texts Mark a quick, if not substantive, update, and then ducks into the bathroom off Annabel's room to clean off her sweater. The little bathroom is far too bright with the fluorescents on, highlighting the fear and exhaustion she doesn't want to see in her drawn face. So she wets a towel, turns off the light, and dabs at her sweater in the dark.

"Did you review the new scans?"

Addison jumps slightly to hear footsteps passing outside the bathroom into Annabel's room, the voice she recognizes as Derek's.

"I did, but I wanted you to see something." Meredith's voice, much more familiar to her now. From the pitch of their voices, they're standing near Annabel's bedside.

There's no reason Meredith and Derek would think someone's in the darkened bathroom; Addison knows she should announce herself in some way and feels rather guilty for what's essentially eavesdropping, but if there are things they don't want Addison and Mark to know, about Annabel…

Then Derek curses softly and she has to grip the edge of the sink to steady herself. There's no way she's not going to try to listen now.

"The timing is tighter than - it's tight."

There are tears behind her eyes as Meredith murmurs a response she can't quite make out.

"Meredith … look at these measurements." Silence again, then the whipping sound of scans moving around. "I don't know if we can do this."

"She believes you can do this," Meredith says, so quietly Addison almost doesn't hear it.

"Yeah, I know she does." His voice is clearer now.

"Derek…"

"She just had to make it 24 hours without a seizure." Then his voice changes to a softer one, the one she heard him use earlier during Annabel's exam. "You can do that, right, Annabel?"

The next time they speak their voices are clearer; they must be standing closer to the wall now.

"She looks … fine." Meredith's voice. "Like she's just sleeping. I can't imagine..."

"Is Addison here?"

"She came back a little while ago, yeah. I think she went to get coffee."

Addison feels guilty. This woman has been so kind to her, with no real reason to do so, and here she is sneaking around behind her back.

"If we can get one more before…"

Addison leans against the bathroom door, listens to their quiet voices discussing the seizure clock, weighing the benefits of one more mapping image against the dangers of another seizure. It's already so different to see the hospital as the mother of a patient, but now she has a new view, one no parents should really have: listening to her daughter's doctors talk about Annabel in the language doctors use when they think parents aren't listening.

She knows because she's done it herself. Many times.

There's a reason parents aren't supposed to hear.

Because she has to choke back a sob when she hears Derek say: "Look, it's a slim chance either way."

"They said three months…"

"Three months if they choose not to treat. But to operate? I don't think I can wait three days. If it continues this pattern," and she hears the rustling that she assumes is Derek pointing out something in the scans again to Meredith, "we lose the opportunity."

"But if she doesn't seize…"

"If she can make it 24 hours, we'll operate. We'll try. But 24 hours, Meredith. She could throw a P.E. before then, she's more vulnerable to infection the longer we sedate her…."

"Do they know?" Meredith asks.

"I talked to Christian Oosterhuis and his team in New York, I know he met with them, it's a long shot, Meredith. It's never been anything but a long shot, but you know parents hear it differently."

"They're both doctors," Meredith pushes gently.

"No they're not. Not here. Here, they're parents." Derek's tone is abrupt but not unfeeling. "Like any other parents, and they don't want to hear it."

There's silence; she hears them breathing together and wonders for some reason if they're embracing.

"What?" Meredith asks, possibly off Derek's expression that Addison can't see.

"Nothing."

"What are you looking at? She hasn't spiked."

"Nothing," Derek's voice, responding. "I'm just looking."

"Derek."

And Addison thinks from Meredith's tone she must be missing something.

"Derek, you said you wouldn't…"

"Meredith. I'm just looking at her."

"Don't do this."

Addison furrows her brow, confused. Do what?

"She has dark hair." Derek's tone is soft, musing.

"So do most kids," Meredith replies, and she sounds impatient, like it's not the first time they've had this conversation.

"Yeah. Most kids." She hears a muffled noise, thinks she can picture him shuffling between papers in a chart. "You know who didn't, though when they were kids? Addison. Mark."

Addison freezes in the bathroom, pulse pounding in her ears. He doesn't ... he can't ...

"Yes, you've mentioned that, but Derek-" Meredith pronounces his name like a warning.

"And you know who also doesn't? Their other kid."

"Derek."

"My sisters had dark hair, though. So did I."

"You need to stop this. I told you-"

"Meredith, I just need to know."

"Need to know? Derek, you can't ser-" and then the rest of her sentence is muffled by a cart rolling by outside the door, but her tone makes it clear she's not happy.

Addison presses her head against the door, heart pounding, waiting for the noise outside the room to lessen so she can hear what they're saying. Finally the cart rolls by, the orderlies disperse, and she can hear again – except then she regrets that ability almost immediately.

Because Meredith's next five words ring out clear as a bell:

"Derek, what have you done?"

Lyric: Leonard Cohen, Sisters of Mercy.

If you are a fan of Patrick Dempsey's acting and you have not seen his handful of appearances in the hugely underrated but terrific series Once and Again, you should fix that right now. Sisters of Mercy always reminds me of the ending montage of an incredible episode of that show featuring him; I continue to think it's his best work. And you should watch the rest of the series too.