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"I was dead for three minutes, and let me tell you, when you are lying on a stretcher, gasping for what you think are your last breaths, you don't think that dying happy is better than living sad."
Pre-show: Derek saves his sister's life. Addison is with him. It might have happened like this.
She understands now.
She understands why doctors aren't supposed to treat their own families: because this is nothing like work, because Derek is screaming at her, keep up, damn it! as he pounds his sister's chest, with little resemblance to the calmly syncopated rhythms they've studied, because his mother's terrified whimpers fill her ears, because she's crying too and when she tips Amelia's head back for the next set of breaths her own tears drip into her open mouth.
This is how it happens:
It's just after Christmas, it's still holly and pine and freshly baked cookies; everyone is sluggish with sleep and food and then there's a noise from upstairs and all of a sudden she recognizes it. She's a doctor so she knows. She knows that this noise will be what they try to describe when people ask what happened.
(there was this noise and we had this feeling)
They run upstairs, an ugly parody of Christmas morning, she realizes, pairs of sibling feet pounding the steps in reverse. Derek's mother is crying what did you do? and Amelia is convulsing, there's vomit in her hair, an amber bottle by her fist and Addison presses her hands to the sides of her head, eyes wild, because this can't be happening, it's Christmas, and yes, she knows about the stealing and the pills and the accident but Amy survived, she survived it all so this can't be happening.
Because despite all she's done, it's still Amy. Not a patient, not an addict, but Amy, who borrowed Addison's bra when she was fifteen and wore it downstairs, stuffed with field hockey socks. Who was so delighted to be a junior bridesmaid at their wedding, begging Addison to let her raise the hem just a few more inches. Who calls Addison sometimes, just to talk to her. I wish you were really my sister, she'll say. But I am, Addison always says back. It's the law, isn't it?
That's how it happened.
Now loose needles from the Christmas tree, lost in the carpet, dig uncomfortably into Addison's knees while her sweaty hands tip Amy's head back again. Biceps strain against the thin fabric of Derek's tee shirt as he thrusts a covered palm against his sister's chest, once, twice, over and over.
"Amy, don't do this, don't do this to us, Amy," he chants, the words taking on the rhythm of his thrusts. "Don't-you-dare-do-this."
Nancy is white with fear, eyes dry and shocked. "Derek, it's been-"
"Shut up." He shakes her off his shoulder. "Where's the fucking ambulance?" He turns on Addison. CPR is exhausting, it's hard physical work; they're supposed to alternate pumping but when she tries to take over he pushes her back, not gently. So she stays kneeling at Amy's head, breathes into her mouth.
"Don't you stop." It's somewhere between a pant and a roar, and spittle flecks Addison's cheek.
"I won't. I won't." She draws a shuddering breath. Counts one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, her head buzzing.
They ride in the back of the ambulance, Derek never taking his hands off his sister, and when they pull up at the hospital, lights flashing, and Addison hears clinically dead, she turns and vomits in a pile of muddy snow.
They hook Amelia up to wires and monitors whose frantic beeping tell a terrible story. No! Derek's shout is as angry as she's ever heard him and he turns, aims a single blow at Amy's narrow chest, between the straps of the gurney. Her chin snaps up, she gasps and the wild beeping of the monitors abruptly changes tone.
"Oh my god," one of the nurses says. And "what the hell was that?"
She has to tug on his arm to keep him back as they wheel Amy away and then he crushes her to his chest, muscles still vibrating with exertion, buries his face in her hair. Addison cradles his head, knowing him well enough to pretend he's not crying too.
"You saved her," she says. "You saved her life, Derek."
And now they wait, like the families of patients, like regular people, for the doctors to update them.
She's stabilized, they tell them. You can see her now.
Derek doesn't move.
"There are still some tubes, and wires, but don't let them scare you." Misunderstanding their hesitation, a different nurse begins a practiced speech.
"We're doctors," Addison interrupts, and the nurse takes her words as the dismissal they were intended to be.
"Derek," Addison says urgently. "Derek, she's awake. We can see her now."
He doesn't look at her. "I can't do this again."
"Honey, she's awake now. She's up."
But he shakes his head. "No. I'm not doing this. You go in if you want."
"Derek, don't-"
"I'm leaving. Ten minutes." His voice is already elsewhere. "Go or don't go."
He turns and walks away.
So she goes in by herself, dons a sterile mask just in case.
"Amy," she whispers. Her sister-in-law's skin is greyish, her eyes closed. There's no mistaking the brilliant blue when she opens them, though. They're huge and pain-filled, the same color as her husband's.
"Hey, sweetheart." Addison smooths her dark hair, damp with sweat and other fluids.
"It's okay. Don't try to talk," she warns as Amelia stretches cracked lips, her throat raw from intubation.
"De..." She tries anyway. "Derek?"
"He's here," she murmurs, the first lie she's let herself tell at a patient's bedside. She swallows painfully at the sight of the padded cuffs encasing Amelia's delicate wrists. "He saved you," she says.
"Sorry. I'm so sorry, Addie," Amelia croaks. A tear runs sideways into her hair.
"Shhh. You just try to rest. Everything's okay. We're all here. You're going to be fine."
Addison strokes her forehead as her eyes flutter shut again.
"She's tied down!"
"It's standard procedure in cases like these," the on-call doctor says casually.
Addison gives him a withering look. "I'm well aware of the procedures, thank you, but what you're apparently failing to understand is-"
"I'm sorry. Excuse us," Derek has her by the elbow, moving her away. Nothing infuriates her more than being apologized for and she pulls her arm out of his grasp.
"Derek, your sister is strapped down to a bed, she's going to be terrified when she realizes it. This is wrong."
"It's not our hospital," he says simply, his calm tone leaving her angrier. But dried tear tracks are still faintly visible on his stubbled cheeks, and tenderness and outrage battle within her.
"Derek," she tries again, gently, and he cuts her off with "let's go."
"We can't just go!"
He looks at his watch, ignores her accusing gaze. "We've already stayed eight hours longer than we were supposed to. You heard the doctor; she's going to be fine. And my mother will be back in a few minutes," he says. "Nancy's in the waiting room. Amy's not alone."
"Derek. We can't leave."
"Nancy drove my car here," he says. "It's in the lot."
"Not because of the car," she hisses. "Because what if Amy needs us, or-"
"Her sister's here," he says and if he sees the hurt flicker across her face there's no reaction.
"Stay if you want to, Addison," he says. "I'm leaving."
She finds Nancy by the ladies' room, kisses her a hurried good-bye, whispering an apology for both of them. "Tell Amy we love her," she says, scripting shared sentiment like a Christmas card:
DerekandAddison send their best. Much love from AddisonandDerek.
She leaves with him, even though it hurts; it actually pains her to walk through the glass front doors of the hospital. Derek's arm is heavy at her waist and she makes one more attempt before they reach the car.
"Derek, we can stay one more night. See her in the morning. I can call-"
"Drop it, Addison," he says sharply.
She stares out the side window as they pull onto the rural road, tears rolling down her face. She's vaguely aware that neither one of them smells particularly good, and the air in the car is sour and stifling: dried sweat from their vigorous attempts to restart a heart, vomit on Addison's shoe that she hasn't bothered to clean.
She glances sideways at her husband. Derek ignores her, his eyes on the road. His left hand is clenched at the bottom of the wheel, his right hand drumming his thigh. She hates when he drives like this.
They've been on the road nearly an hour when he snatches her hand off her lap, annoyed, and tucks it against his hip. "Enough," he says, and she gulps air, tries to stop crying.
"She's fine," he adds roughly, folds their fingers together, squeezes. She hangs on tightly.
He rebuffs her heavy-eyed offer to split the driving; with his thumb rubbing absent circles on her palm, she falls into a restless slumber. And as they've done so many times before, she sleeps, he speeds, and they make it home in under six hours.
His lips against her cheek begin to wake her; she's still half-asleep when he clicks her seatbelt free.
They're home.
"Hey," he says quietly, leans across her to nudge her door open. "Get a shower and some sleep," he adds, and she realizes he's not coming in with her.
"What about you?"
"I'll shower at work," he says, a small shushed part of her aware he's purposely misunderstanding.
"No," she says. "No, you drove all night, honey, please. Let's get a few hours of sleep at home before you go in."
He brushes a lock of sticky hair off her cheek. "You sleep," he says. "I'll be fine." And "go on, Addie," when she doesn't move.
The sun is almost up. She gets out of the car slowly, stretches her stiff legs. He's gone before she turns the key in the lock.
She pushes the heavy front door open and stands alone in the empty hall of their brownstone. Checks her blackberry, an email from Nancy assuring her Amelia's all right.
Numbers are up. Improving every hour. She's asking for you.
With no one to stop her, she slides down the wall, buries her face in her upraised knees and sobs, exhausted, until she mercifully falls asleep.
She wakes up alone.
She understands.
(Fionn Regan, Hey Rabbit)