What Do You Hear in These Sounds? part 8
Author: Carsonfiles
Timeline: Follows canon roughly around Time After Time (3:20) through end of Season 3. Then A/U (or I'll be really freaked out next fall) Current chapter roughly around Time After Time
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but if Shonda doesn't quit bending them in ways they weren't meant to bend, I might have to confiscate them.
Summary: It's not just the interns who need therapy. Derek goes to see Dr. Burson
Once In A Lifetime
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wie
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?
Derek asked the resident to finish closing the shunt he had just installed. Not a cure, but it would buy some time for him to figure out where the pressure was coming from. And there was always the hope that it will resolve on its own. But he knew better. Once the patient’s condition had deteriorated to this extent, a spontaneous reversal was highly unlikely. That meant that unless he could find the underlying cause-and solve it-this patient would walk around with a pressure valve in the back of her head for the rest of her life, risking infection and other problems. He nodded approval at the tidy job, grinned at the surgical team and exited the OR. As he scrubbed out, he looked at the clock. Damn. Time for that appointment with Burson. Derek resented being forced into therapy, no question. But there was also no question that he was on the verge of making some major mistakes-had already made some mistakes. The teakettle in his own head was boiling over with confusion and doubt, second guessing things that should be so solid. He tossed his dirty scrub cap and gown into the laundry bin and walked out of the room.
He got to the Bursons’ offices a few minutes early and was glad to sit down in one of the comfortable chairs in the waiting room. Elbows on knees, face in hands, he sat and thought. Where the hell do I start. I just need some clarity. Some distance. Someone to help me sort out what matters from what really matters. Someone to help me choose. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stand a bit and knew that someone was watching him. Running his fingers through his hair, he looked up. The teenaged receptionist looked back down again. Derek rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, and then lifted his face once more. Again, the young girl turned away. He didn’t look down again, but waited for her to look at him again. It wasn’t long before she did, and when she did look his way, to see him waiting for her to look back, a full blush slowly covered her face.
“Um. . .you’re doc, Dr. Shepherd?” she stammered.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Burson’s 1:00. I think.”
“Oh, yeah, and he’ll be right out. But you’re the neurologist? Dr. Derek Shepherd?” She seemed to know him, or know something about him.
“I’m pretty sure. Although there have been some questioning it lately. Why?”
She laughed, and then told him. “You operated on my roommate last fall. She had a pretty big crush on you. Well, I guess you knew that, because Kelly kept blushing and all. Sorry I was staring. Anyway, Dr. Burson should be out in a bit. He’s eating lunch with his wife right now.”
Just then the door opened, and a man about Derek’s age stepped out and offered Derek his hand.
“Jack Burson, you must be Derek Shepherd. Come on in.”
The two men shook hands, and Derek entered the office.
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down,
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground,
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone,
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
Once both men were seated, a few moments of silence passed before Derek suddenly realized something.
“You’ve had Mark as a client.”
“You know I can’t answer that, Derek,” responded Jack.
“You’ve had Mark as a client, and you’ve seen Addison already today,” Derek persisted.
“Where are you going with this, Derek?”
“I’m saying, you already know me from two perspectives. Can I jump in the middle, or do you want to know any details before we start?” Derek had never done therapy before. There had been a few wasted sessions of marriage counseling with Addison, but that man had seemed clueless. Navel-gazing in general had always seemed like a poor excuse for narcissism to Derek. Of course, that was before this year.
“We can start wherever you want to start. Do you have a jumping in place in mind?” Jack’s voice was calm, reassuring. Something to cling to within the chaos of Derek’s thoughts.
“I’ll tell you. I’ve always known who I was. First I was the boy my father wanted, and then I was the man that my father wanted me to be. I was the good guy, the cowboy wearing the white hat. Doing the right thing, that’s what I do. And now, I don’t know. I’ve lost myself somewhere. I still want to do the right thing, but the right thing isn’t there any more. There is no right thing.”
“Why don’t you tell me a story about being the boy your father wanted?”
Flashback
Derek was thirteen when he was chosen to pitch for his Little League Tournament Team. He still remembered the look on his dad’s face when he told him the news, and remembered the sting of the slap when they shared the high five. This game was the most important game he had played in this year; win, and his team would probably end up being in the Little League World Series. Lose, and they would go home. They were playing, oddly enough, a team that was in his hometown, so the stands were full. He looked up into the stands and saw his dad’s face. He was nowhere near his target pitch count, and easily put down the side, one-two-three. This was what it was all about, all of the practices in the back yard, honing his fastball into the strike zone marked on the oak tree that held his tree house. The painful bruising that accompanied his brief infatuation with the Niekro knuckleball, which he had never mastered. The pb& j dinners that he had eaten because he missed dinner with his family for extra practices. Even at thirteen, Derek’s father had drilled into him that working for good things was worth it. And that sometimes, working for the good things was its own reward.
Derek was up. And like most pitchers, most good pitchers, Derek’s batting skills weren’t the part of his card that would put fear into the hearts of other teams. But this time, he connected with the ball, and just from the sound of the crack-damn aluminum bat-he knew he had hit the sweet spot. He put his head down and hustled to first, took the signal from the coach and made it to second, pulled up there. Next to bat was Charlie, who slammed it to the fence. Instead of watching the ball, Derek watched the third base coach, who gave him the signal to run as soon as the center-fielder caught the ball. He tagged third, and ran home, sensed somehow (not hearing, because he could hear nothing but his own heart, not sight, because the only thing he saw was home plate waiting for him, and not touch or taste or smell, because really, how could those help?) that the ball was being thrown home and he needed to slide, so he slid, hoping to cross the plate before the catcher’s glove came down. But he didn’t.
Tagged out, he stood, took off his cap, dragged it across his forehead to wipe off the sweat gotta get a haircut) and went to grab some water before pitching the next half inning. And then he heard what he didn’t expect.
“Safe!”
But that wasn’t true. And it never occurred to Derek that shutting up was the right thing to do, because it wasn’t honest. And honesty was important to Dad, and important to him. So he looked at the umpire and said the words that would end his baseball career.
“He tagged me. I was out.”
The umpire looked at him, shook his head, and did something quite unusual in any sport. He changed his call.
It wasn’t long before Derek realized that honesty wasn’t quite as important to his coach. To the other kids on his team. To their parents. After he’d been tossed from the game by his coach, and not just the game, from the team, he’d already been kicking himself mentally. His dad met him at the base of the stands, and before Derek could bring himself to look him in the eyes, before he could start to apologize for ruining what he and his dad had been working for, his dad stooped slightly, grabbed Derek’s shoulder and told him.
“You’re quite a man, Derek.”
Derek was prouder than if he’d singlehandedly won the game. He had done the right thing.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
That night, Derek ate dinner with his family. But before any of them took a bite, the doorbell rang. Derek’s dad went to the door, and came back with a look on his face that Derek didn’t recognize. “Derek, someone’s here for you.”
Nothing interrupted dinnertime at the Shepherd house. But Derek’s dad nodded at his mom, and she told him to go see who was waiting.
A kid from the other team was looking at the wood planked floor in the foyer. Still dressed in his uniform, dirty, unshowered-and frankly, somewhat rank-hours after the game. Derek stopped in the doorway between the dining room and hall.
“Hey. What’s up?”
The other kid looked up.
“Why did you do that? Why did you say you were out?” His voice didn’t accuse Derek, like those of his own teammates had.
“I was, wasn’t I?” Now Derek recognized the eyes. He remembered them hovering above home plate as he was sliding home. And he remembered the confusion in them after he made his statement. And he remembered how the kid had smiled when the ump changed the call. He was the catcher for the other team.
“I thought so. The ump didn’t. You aren’t supposed to argue with the ump.”
“I didn’t argue. I told the truth.”
“Your team. . .they won. So it didn’t change anything. Except we did get a couple more runs.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw your dad hug you when you left. My dad wasn’t there. I wish he’d seen me score.”
A few more minutes of silence passed. The kid shifted his feet and turned away. “Thanks. I gotta go, it’s a long walk home.”
Derek glanced outside into the long shadows of summer early evening. “You don’t have a ride home?”
“Nah, my dad. . .he’s got the car out.”
“Stay for dinner. My dad will drive you home.” Derek didn’t know this kid, but he knew him. And, besides, it was the right thing to do.
“You want me to stay for dinner?” The kid looked at Derek and grinned. “Sure. I’m always up for a free meal. You’re name’s Derek, right?”
Derek grinned back. “Yeah, Derek. And who are you?”
“Mark. Mark Sloane.”
And as the two boys went back to the dining room, Derek knew that it was. It was. The right thing to do.
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
End Flashback
Jack paused at the end of the story. When it was clear that Derek was done talking, he said softly, “That’s a pretty solid sense of right and wrong for a 13-year-old. Most grownups wouldn’t get that.”
Derek laughed. “I can tell you this-my mom and dad were the only grownups who got it that night. But that story tells you what has driven me for most of my life: the right thing. I still want to be that guy, the one who does the right thing. But the clarity. . .the clarity to see what the right thing is, what I should do. . .it’s clouded.”
“When did you notice it was gone?”
Flashback: Manhattan
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
“It’s good, don’t you think?” Derek heard his wife ask the question, but he had no idea what she was asking about. That Monday evening, Derek and Addison Shepherd were eating dinner together on the terrace of their Manhattan home, enjoying the late summer twilight by sharing a bottle of red wine. “The wine, it’s nice. I like this. Woody, but not earthy.”
“Mmm. Who told you about this label?”
“Savvy read about it, and she and Weiss toured the vineyard on one of their trips to France. She kept raving about it, and gave us this bottle. Don’t you remember?”
“Mm.” His answer was neither yes nor no, but just acknowledging that he had heard. Wine was wine, right? He looked through the glass doors, through the reflection of the cloudless sky, into their Manhattan home, seeing it as if he had were seeing it for the first time that evening. Works by artists whose brokers promised his wife that they were the next big thing. Tastefully arranged furniture; couches by chairs by tables next to bookcases. Derek didn’t know what titles the bookcases held; the books were chosen strictly by their appearance and contribution to the decor.
He and Addison had met in medical school and what had begun as a gentle friendship had gradually become more. They had married the first year of residency, in what she called a small comfortable ceremony, but he called an event of gargantuan proportion. His biggest regret was that his father hadn’t been at the church, hadn’t lived to see him marry the woman he knew he loved. Derek wasn’t great with women-he’d had a couple of relationships, sure, lived with a girl his senior year in college. But somehow, Addison stuck with him through the four years of cadavers and sutures. When they got out, the time was right to make an honest woman of her. He was ready to settle down, and he could tell the night he proposed, she was too: it didn’t come as a surprise. That comforted him; he knew that with Addison, things were right, they were peaceful. Mark, the best friend he’d made by being tagged out, the brother who ended up living with him in high school because his own parents were too flaky to raise a child, stood up with him as best man.
But now, sipping a glass of French wine, he felt like a bit of a foreigner himself. An interloper in the story of his life, a pretender. Looking south from their high-rise home, he could see the Statue of Liberty, which had been a gift from the same country that had given the wine. A bit closer, almost blocking his view of Lady Liberty were the two monstrosities that some called the boxes that the more beautiful Chrysler Building and Empire State Building had come in-the cold, sterile Twin Towers of the World Trade Complex. Mount Sinai had held a dinner at Windows on the World, in the North Tower, when he and Addison had completed their fellowships there.
But now, sitting in comfort that evening, he knew that his father would not be proud. That somewhere, he had missed his goal-he wasn’t doing the right thing.
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was!
“And of course, after the next morning, nothing was the same. At the hospital, we were all alerted that it would be a Code Orange situation-to expect mass casualties. No one went home, no matter how long they had been on shift. And we did get some admissions, but the mass injuries? Never came. People could be treated and released at a trauma station, or they didn’t make it out. There were relatively few people who needed neurosurgery, not much more than a typical day. So I helped in the emergency room, and wished I could do more. But I couldn’t. Nobody could."
And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
“The smell. . .the dust, the clouds of smoke from Ground Zero were horrible, even as far uptown as we were. We sold our home, moved to the brownstone. Looking out the window and not seeing the towers. . .I don’t think that anyone who wasn’t there can understand how hard it was to have an altered view. We needed a change, even if it was to a view that still should have contained the towers. As long as it was through a different set of windows."
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
“I knew I should be doing more. I kept toying with the idea of Doctors without Borders, or some sort of thing that would allow me to do the right thing. But I never decided, never made a move to do that. I just kept working. There was always another patient, another consult, another surgery. And that’s what happened to my marriage.”
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
Jack looked at Derek. “I thought someone else happened?”
"It wasn't the adultery. It wasn't any of the. . .what are they, the four As? Adultery, abuse, addiction and. . ."
Jack laughed. "I think it's just three As. But you're saying there was adultery?"
Derek rolled his eyes. "You don't have to be coy. You know there was adultery. Addison. And Mark. But no, there was no personal upheaval to cause our marriage to fail. No miscarriage, no disagreement about having children. I didn't hit her. She didn't hit me. No drunkenness. Just a wider and wider space, until there really was no us any more."
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?
"Derek, it doesn't always have to be something big. Sometimes it happens. People grow apart."
Derek shook his head and looked away from Jack. "You know, I keep trying to believe that. But it shouldn't be that way. My parents were married for thirty years before my father died. We made a promise. I should have been there. But I couldn't do both."
"Do both?”
"Be a loving husband, be there for Addison, and dedicate myself to the job I love the way I needed to. And that's important. Because now, I have a chance to be chief."
"You are a candidate, yes."
“Webber promised the position to me when he offered me the job. I’d been sitting on the offer, hesitant to bring the subject up with Addison. Until the night I caught her with Mark, then everything changed. I didn’t have to worry about how she would take leaving Manhattan, she wasn’t a factor.”
"But there are other candidates."
"My ex-wife, her ex-lover, and my new best friend. The competition. No wonder we all need therapy. But the other candidates aren't the problem. The problem is Meredith."
Jack had wondered when this name would come up. "How is she a problem?"
"How can I describe Meredith? She's the most fiercely independent, needy, smartest, most foolish, practical, incandescent woman I've ever known. A wonderful mixture of the ethereal and mundane. And I love her. I've loved her since. . .since the first day I knew her. Since our first surgery together. I could tell you that story. But all you need to know is that right now? She is my world. And I want to do whatever I can to help her. I can't imagine being without her. But there's a point, isn't there? How much can I do for her, without losing me? And what if I can't do both? If I can't be the man she needs, and be the man I need to be?"
Derek leaned forward, and Jack was frozen by the intensity in his eyes.
"What if loving her costs me doing the right thing?"
Same as it ever was...
same as it ever was...
"Derek, if it's love, wouldn't that make it the right thing? To love her?"
A tap on the door interrupted the silence after that question hung in the air, a question Derek hadn't thought of asking himself.
Same as it ever was...
same as it ever was...
same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...
“Derek, we haven’t really wrapped anything up, but we’re out of time. Check with Margaret, check your schedule and come back in.” The two men stood, shook hands, and then Derek left the room.
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
A/N: Most fics trace the absent Derek to a personal crisis between him & Addie. But not here. Not every marital crisis begins with a drama. In the flashback, Derek realizes he's gotten off track. You know the date of that patio dinner: 9/10/01. The next day, the world changes. The crisis isn't personal at all. Except for someone genetically engineered to hate everywhere except Manhattan, it is personal. I have personal stories about 9/11--my in-laws work in Manhattan, and I was visiting them the week before. I have pictures from the Staten Island ferry with the towers in the background that are date stamped 9/04/01.
End Flashback
.
Previous Chapters
1-- I don't go to therapy to find out if I'm a freak
2-- I go and I find the one and only answer every week
3-- And it's just me and all the memories to follow
4-- Down any course that fits within a fifty-minute hour
5-- And we fathom all the mysteries, explicit and inherent
6-- When I hit a rut, she says to try the other parent
7-- And she's so kind, I think she wants to tell me something
Timeline: Follows canon roughly around Time After Time (3:20) through end of Season 3. Then A/U (or I'll be really freaked out next fall) Current chapter roughly around Time After Time
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but if Shonda doesn't quit bending them in ways they weren't meant to bend, I might have to confiscate them.
Summary: It's not just the interns who need therapy. Derek goes to see Dr. Burson
Once In A Lifetime
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wie
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?
Derek asked the resident to finish closing the shunt he had just installed. Not a cure, but it would buy some time for him to figure out where the pressure was coming from. And there was always the hope that it will resolve on its own. But he knew better. Once the patient’s condition had deteriorated to this extent, a spontaneous reversal was highly unlikely. That meant that unless he could find the underlying cause-and solve it-this patient would walk around with a pressure valve in the back of her head for the rest of her life, risking infection and other problems. He nodded approval at the tidy job, grinned at the surgical team and exited the OR. As he scrubbed out, he looked at the clock. Damn. Time for that appointment with Burson. Derek resented being forced into therapy, no question. But there was also no question that he was on the verge of making some major mistakes-had already made some mistakes. The teakettle in his own head was boiling over with confusion and doubt, second guessing things that should be so solid. He tossed his dirty scrub cap and gown into the laundry bin and walked out of the room.
He got to the Bursons’ offices a few minutes early and was glad to sit down in one of the comfortable chairs in the waiting room. Elbows on knees, face in hands, he sat and thought. Where the hell do I start. I just need some clarity. Some distance. Someone to help me sort out what matters from what really matters. Someone to help me choose. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stand a bit and knew that someone was watching him. Running his fingers through his hair, he looked up. The teenaged receptionist looked back down again. Derek rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, and then lifted his face once more. Again, the young girl turned away. He didn’t look down again, but waited for her to look at him again. It wasn’t long before she did, and when she did look his way, to see him waiting for her to look back, a full blush slowly covered her face.
“Um. . .you’re doc, Dr. Shepherd?” she stammered.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Burson’s 1:00. I think.”
“Oh, yeah, and he’ll be right out. But you’re the neurologist? Dr. Derek Shepherd?” She seemed to know him, or know something about him.
“I’m pretty sure. Although there have been some questioning it lately. Why?”
She laughed, and then told him. “You operated on my roommate last fall. She had a pretty big crush on you. Well, I guess you knew that, because Kelly kept blushing and all. Sorry I was staring. Anyway, Dr. Burson should be out in a bit. He’s eating lunch with his wife right now.”
Just then the door opened, and a man about Derek’s age stepped out and offered Derek his hand.
“Jack Burson, you must be Derek Shepherd. Come on in.”
The two men shook hands, and Derek entered the office.
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down,
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground,
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone,
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
Once both men were seated, a few moments of silence passed before Derek suddenly realized something.
“You’ve had Mark as a client.”
“You know I can’t answer that, Derek,” responded Jack.
“You’ve had Mark as a client, and you’ve seen Addison already today,” Derek persisted.
“Where are you going with this, Derek?”
“I’m saying, you already know me from two perspectives. Can I jump in the middle, or do you want to know any details before we start?” Derek had never done therapy before. There had been a few wasted sessions of marriage counseling with Addison, but that man had seemed clueless. Navel-gazing in general had always seemed like a poor excuse for narcissism to Derek. Of course, that was before this year.
“We can start wherever you want to start. Do you have a jumping in place in mind?” Jack’s voice was calm, reassuring. Something to cling to within the chaos of Derek’s thoughts.
“I’ll tell you. I’ve always known who I was. First I was the boy my father wanted, and then I was the man that my father wanted me to be. I was the good guy, the cowboy wearing the white hat. Doing the right thing, that’s what I do. And now, I don’t know. I’ve lost myself somewhere. I still want to do the right thing, but the right thing isn’t there any more. There is no right thing.”
“Why don’t you tell me a story about being the boy your father wanted?”
Flashback
Derek was thirteen when he was chosen to pitch for his Little League Tournament Team. He still remembered the look on his dad’s face when he told him the news, and remembered the sting of the slap when they shared the high five. This game was the most important game he had played in this year; win, and his team would probably end up being in the Little League World Series. Lose, and they would go home. They were playing, oddly enough, a team that was in his hometown, so the stands were full. He looked up into the stands and saw his dad’s face. He was nowhere near his target pitch count, and easily put down the side, one-two-three. This was what it was all about, all of the practices in the back yard, honing his fastball into the strike zone marked on the oak tree that held his tree house. The painful bruising that accompanied his brief infatuation with the Niekro knuckleball, which he had never mastered. The pb& j dinners that he had eaten because he missed dinner with his family for extra practices. Even at thirteen, Derek’s father had drilled into him that working for good things was worth it. And that sometimes, working for the good things was its own reward.
Derek was up. And like most pitchers, most good pitchers, Derek’s batting skills weren’t the part of his card that would put fear into the hearts of other teams. But this time, he connected with the ball, and just from the sound of the crack-damn aluminum bat-he knew he had hit the sweet spot. He put his head down and hustled to first, took the signal from the coach and made it to second, pulled up there. Next to bat was Charlie, who slammed it to the fence. Instead of watching the ball, Derek watched the third base coach, who gave him the signal to run as soon as the center-fielder caught the ball. He tagged third, and ran home, sensed somehow (not hearing, because he could hear nothing but his own heart, not sight, because the only thing he saw was home plate waiting for him, and not touch or taste or smell, because really, how could those help?) that the ball was being thrown home and he needed to slide, so he slid, hoping to cross the plate before the catcher’s glove came down. But he didn’t.
Tagged out, he stood, took off his cap, dragged it across his forehead to wipe off the sweat gotta get a haircut) and went to grab some water before pitching the next half inning. And then he heard what he didn’t expect.
“Safe!”
But that wasn’t true. And it never occurred to Derek that shutting up was the right thing to do, because it wasn’t honest. And honesty was important to Dad, and important to him. So he looked at the umpire and said the words that would end his baseball career.
“He tagged me. I was out.”
The umpire looked at him, shook his head, and did something quite unusual in any sport. He changed his call.
It wasn’t long before Derek realized that honesty wasn’t quite as important to his coach. To the other kids on his team. To their parents. After he’d been tossed from the game by his coach, and not just the game, from the team, he’d already been kicking himself mentally. His dad met him at the base of the stands, and before Derek could bring himself to look him in the eyes, before he could start to apologize for ruining what he and his dad had been working for, his dad stooped slightly, grabbed Derek’s shoulder and told him.
“You’re quite a man, Derek.”
Derek was prouder than if he’d singlehandedly won the game. He had done the right thing.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
That night, Derek ate dinner with his family. But before any of them took a bite, the doorbell rang. Derek’s dad went to the door, and came back with a look on his face that Derek didn’t recognize. “Derek, someone’s here for you.”
Nothing interrupted dinnertime at the Shepherd house. But Derek’s dad nodded at his mom, and she told him to go see who was waiting.
A kid from the other team was looking at the wood planked floor in the foyer. Still dressed in his uniform, dirty, unshowered-and frankly, somewhat rank-hours after the game. Derek stopped in the doorway between the dining room and hall.
“Hey. What’s up?”
The other kid looked up.
“Why did you do that? Why did you say you were out?” His voice didn’t accuse Derek, like those of his own teammates had.
“I was, wasn’t I?” Now Derek recognized the eyes. He remembered them hovering above home plate as he was sliding home. And he remembered the confusion in them after he made his statement. And he remembered how the kid had smiled when the ump changed the call. He was the catcher for the other team.
“I thought so. The ump didn’t. You aren’t supposed to argue with the ump.”
“I didn’t argue. I told the truth.”
“Your team. . .they won. So it didn’t change anything. Except we did get a couple more runs.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw your dad hug you when you left. My dad wasn’t there. I wish he’d seen me score.”
A few more minutes of silence passed. The kid shifted his feet and turned away. “Thanks. I gotta go, it’s a long walk home.”
Derek glanced outside into the long shadows of summer early evening. “You don’t have a ride home?”
“Nah, my dad. . .he’s got the car out.”
“Stay for dinner. My dad will drive you home.” Derek didn’t know this kid, but he knew him. And, besides, it was the right thing to do.
“You want me to stay for dinner?” The kid looked at Derek and grinned. “Sure. I’m always up for a free meal. You’re name’s Derek, right?”
Derek grinned back. “Yeah, Derek. And who are you?”
“Mark. Mark Sloane.”
And as the two boys went back to the dining room, Derek knew that it was. It was. The right thing to do.
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
End Flashback
Jack paused at the end of the story. When it was clear that Derek was done talking, he said softly, “That’s a pretty solid sense of right and wrong for a 13-year-old. Most grownups wouldn’t get that.”
Derek laughed. “I can tell you this-my mom and dad were the only grownups who got it that night. But that story tells you what has driven me for most of my life: the right thing. I still want to be that guy, the one who does the right thing. But the clarity. . .the clarity to see what the right thing is, what I should do. . .it’s clouded.”
“When did you notice it was gone?”
Flashback: Manhattan
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
“It’s good, don’t you think?” Derek heard his wife ask the question, but he had no idea what she was asking about. That Monday evening, Derek and Addison Shepherd were eating dinner together on the terrace of their Manhattan home, enjoying the late summer twilight by sharing a bottle of red wine. “The wine, it’s nice. I like this. Woody, but not earthy.”
“Mmm. Who told you about this label?”
“Savvy read about it, and she and Weiss toured the vineyard on one of their trips to France. She kept raving about it, and gave us this bottle. Don’t you remember?”
“Mm.” His answer was neither yes nor no, but just acknowledging that he had heard. Wine was wine, right? He looked through the glass doors, through the reflection of the cloudless sky, into their Manhattan home, seeing it as if he had were seeing it for the first time that evening. Works by artists whose brokers promised his wife that they were the next big thing. Tastefully arranged furniture; couches by chairs by tables next to bookcases. Derek didn’t know what titles the bookcases held; the books were chosen strictly by their appearance and contribution to the decor.
He and Addison had met in medical school and what had begun as a gentle friendship had gradually become more. They had married the first year of residency, in what she called a small comfortable ceremony, but he called an event of gargantuan proportion. His biggest regret was that his father hadn’t been at the church, hadn’t lived to see him marry the woman he knew he loved. Derek wasn’t great with women-he’d had a couple of relationships, sure, lived with a girl his senior year in college. But somehow, Addison stuck with him through the four years of cadavers and sutures. When they got out, the time was right to make an honest woman of her. He was ready to settle down, and he could tell the night he proposed, she was too: it didn’t come as a surprise. That comforted him; he knew that with Addison, things were right, they were peaceful. Mark, the best friend he’d made by being tagged out, the brother who ended up living with him in high school because his own parents were too flaky to raise a child, stood up with him as best man.
But now, sipping a glass of French wine, he felt like a bit of a foreigner himself. An interloper in the story of his life, a pretender. Looking south from their high-rise home, he could see the Statue of Liberty, which had been a gift from the same country that had given the wine. A bit closer, almost blocking his view of Lady Liberty were the two monstrosities that some called the boxes that the more beautiful Chrysler Building and Empire State Building had come in-the cold, sterile Twin Towers of the World Trade Complex. Mount Sinai had held a dinner at Windows on the World, in the North Tower, when he and Addison had completed their fellowships there.
But now, sitting in comfort that evening, he knew that his father would not be proud. That somewhere, he had missed his goal-he wasn’t doing the right thing.
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was!
“And of course, after the next morning, nothing was the same. At the hospital, we were all alerted that it would be a Code Orange situation-to expect mass casualties. No one went home, no matter how long they had been on shift. And we did get some admissions, but the mass injuries? Never came. People could be treated and released at a trauma station, or they didn’t make it out. There were relatively few people who needed neurosurgery, not much more than a typical day. So I helped in the emergency room, and wished I could do more. But I couldn’t. Nobody could."
And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
“The smell. . .the dust, the clouds of smoke from Ground Zero were horrible, even as far uptown as we were. We sold our home, moved to the brownstone. Looking out the window and not seeing the towers. . .I don’t think that anyone who wasn’t there can understand how hard it was to have an altered view. We needed a change, even if it was to a view that still should have contained the towers. As long as it was through a different set of windows."
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
“I knew I should be doing more. I kept toying with the idea of Doctors without Borders, or some sort of thing that would allow me to do the right thing. But I never decided, never made a move to do that. I just kept working. There was always another patient, another consult, another surgery. And that’s what happened to my marriage.”
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
Jack looked at Derek. “I thought someone else happened?”
"It wasn't the adultery. It wasn't any of the. . .what are they, the four As? Adultery, abuse, addiction and. . ."
Jack laughed. "I think it's just three As. But you're saying there was adultery?"
Derek rolled his eyes. "You don't have to be coy. You know there was adultery. Addison. And Mark. But no, there was no personal upheaval to cause our marriage to fail. No miscarriage, no disagreement about having children. I didn't hit her. She didn't hit me. No drunkenness. Just a wider and wider space, until there really was no us any more."
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?
"Derek, it doesn't always have to be something big. Sometimes it happens. People grow apart."
Derek shook his head and looked away from Jack. "You know, I keep trying to believe that. But it shouldn't be that way. My parents were married for thirty years before my father died. We made a promise. I should have been there. But I couldn't do both."
"Do both?”
"Be a loving husband, be there for Addison, and dedicate myself to the job I love the way I needed to. And that's important. Because now, I have a chance to be chief."
"You are a candidate, yes."
“Webber promised the position to me when he offered me the job. I’d been sitting on the offer, hesitant to bring the subject up with Addison. Until the night I caught her with Mark, then everything changed. I didn’t have to worry about how she would take leaving Manhattan, she wasn’t a factor.”
"But there are other candidates."
"My ex-wife, her ex-lover, and my new best friend. The competition. No wonder we all need therapy. But the other candidates aren't the problem. The problem is Meredith."
Jack had wondered when this name would come up. "How is she a problem?"
"How can I describe Meredith? She's the most fiercely independent, needy, smartest, most foolish, practical, incandescent woman I've ever known. A wonderful mixture of the ethereal and mundane. And I love her. I've loved her since. . .since the first day I knew her. Since our first surgery together. I could tell you that story. But all you need to know is that right now? She is my world. And I want to do whatever I can to help her. I can't imagine being without her. But there's a point, isn't there? How much can I do for her, without losing me? And what if I can't do both? If I can't be the man she needs, and be the man I need to be?"
Derek leaned forward, and Jack was frozen by the intensity in his eyes.
"What if loving her costs me doing the right thing?"
Same as it ever was...
same as it ever was...
"Derek, if it's love, wouldn't that make it the right thing? To love her?"
A tap on the door interrupted the silence after that question hung in the air, a question Derek hadn't thought of asking himself.
Same as it ever was...
same as it ever was...
same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...
“Derek, we haven’t really wrapped anything up, but we’re out of time. Check with Margaret, check your schedule and come back in.” The two men stood, shook hands, and then Derek left the room.
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
A/N: Most fics trace the absent Derek to a personal crisis between him & Addie. But not here. Not every marital crisis begins with a drama. In the flashback, Derek realizes he's gotten off track. You know the date of that patio dinner: 9/10/01. The next day, the world changes. The crisis isn't personal at all. Except for someone genetically engineered to hate everywhere except Manhattan, it is personal. I have personal stories about 9/11--my in-laws work in Manhattan, and I was visiting them the week before. I have pictures from the Staten Island ferry with the towers in the background that are date stamped 9/04/01.
End Flashback
.
Previous Chapters
1-- I don't go to therapy to find out if I'm a freak
2-- I go and I find the one and only answer every week
3-- And it's just me and all the memories to follow
4-- Down any course that fits within a fifty-minute hour
5-- And we fathom all the mysteries, explicit and inherent
6-- When I hit a rut, she says to try the other parent
7-- And she's so kind, I think she wants to tell me something