𝙓𝙓𝙓𝙑𝙄𝙄.
PETUNIA
──────
NEW YORK
I HAD TO choose carefully.
The fourth year in medical school meant placement in a Manhattan hospital.
And although the tiny island had a thousand practices crammed into its streets, a Manhattan hospital meant a fifty/fifty chance of working with someone who already knew me. I'd had to sit down one night and write it all out.
Addison had Bellevue tied down, Archer seemed to wander between his clinic and Manhattan East, Derek had New York Pres as his playground and Mark would tell anyone who had ears that Lincoln Memorial was where you needed to be when it came to surgical innovation.
Even Amy had gotten her shit together long enough for her to get a residency at Manhattan East. I crossed each placement off my list and sighed— that left one of my top five.
Manhattan West Hospital was nice. It'd started as an open sexual health clinic in the wake of the AIDs crisis set up by ManEast, but soon seemed to pick up speed and turn towards surgical teaching.
It was a little further than I would have liked to commute, but I saw that as an opportunity to learn Manhattan a bit more. It wasn't the top teaching hospital in Manhattan by any means but it seemed to attract some of the highest risk traumas in the Tristate area; during my placement interview, I'd listened in awe to the intercom as they demanded medical aid in their ER department.
It was new, it was shiny and most importantly: none of my immediate family or friends worked there. I'd signed the contract as soon as they'd offered it.
"You're not supposed to take the first placement you're offered." Addison had scolded me, my contract in her hand and her glasses balancing on the top of her nose.
We'd sat around the lounge in her brownstone, her friend from medical school, Naomi, sat opposite the two of us. Her husband, Sam, was busy pouring Bloody Mary's in the kitchen; it was a Tuesday evening. I'd watched with raised eyebrows as she flicked through the placement contract.
"You've got to be more competitive than that," She said, "you've got to be hot product— you've got to get them to beg—"
"Okay, okay," I'd cut her off, my eyes wide. "I didn't realise they needed to seduce me—"
"No— you need to seduce them."
She had been persistent; this lead to Sam shooting the two of us odd looks as he walked into the room, cocktails balancing in his hands. Addison's glance around the room had been tainted with a tiny bit of exasperation.
"You need to get their attention and make them work for it," Addison kept going and I was, for a moment, so worried that she'd never stop, "No wonder your love life isn't going very well, you have no idea how to keep people interested-"
"Addie," Naomi took initiative to interrupt. She shot my sister a look, one that had Addison sinking back into her chair. She must have seen the look on my face; she gave me a kind smile. "What happened to that nice boy from Brown?"
"We broke up," I answered her, ignoring Addison completely, she rolled her eyes in the background, downing half of the cocktail Sam had just handed to her. That nice boy hadn't been her favourite. "And then he died."
"Oh," Her face crinkled. "I'm sorry to hear that—"
"What sort of contract is this anyway?"
It seemed that it was Sam's turn to take initiative. He plucked my contract out of Addison's grasp and gave it a once over.
"A trauma ER placement?" He raised an eyebrow over at me. "I thought you wanted to do surgery?"
"I do." My head bounced up and down. "Baby steps, my tutor recommended-"
"Medical students can't break the skin." Addison reminded Sam; he shrugged, handing me the contract. I hid it away in my bag. Again, I decided to completely ignore the fact that Addison was on some sort of downward spiral today. "I still think you could have gotten a better offer from Bellevue— maybe even Lincoln—"
"I think it's brilliant that you've found somewhere you like." I smiled at Naomi, appreciating her support. Addison, in the background, coughed loudly.
"Still think you should've applied to Bellevue." She sounded as if I'd made a big mistake.
"I didn't want Bellevue," I said curtly and left it at that.
"You sound like Mark," Sam chuckled, taking a seat beside his wife and throwing his arm around her. She leant into him, sipping idly on her cocktail. Mine just sat in front of me on the coffee table, looking rather sad. Sam was a damn good bartender but I wasn't in a damn good mood. "He's been complaining about all of his offers for the past month."
I frowned. "Offers?"
"He won't shut up about them," Sam continued, "Constantly talking about how he can't find the right place, how they're not pursuing him like they need to be— Personally, I think he's running out of options—"
"What happened to Lincoln?"
I was completely lost. I frowned at Sam from across the room. He looked slightly baffled that I hadn't heard the news.
"They dropped his funding."
At my look of surprise, Addison raised an eyebrow. "I thought you and Mark were talking again?"
Well, Addison, I wanted to say, We don't talk at all if you know what I mean.
"We don't talk." I opted for instead.
We didn't talk at all.
Mark hadn't told me that Lincoln had dropped his project. He had told me fleetingly that they'd offered to fund one of his plastic surgery projects, one that he claimed was going to help him make it big on the East Coast.
He hadn't shut up about it until I'd had to find a way to stop him from talking about it. But after that— absolutely nothing. I wasn't particularly invested in his career, but it would have been nice to have the heads up that Lincoln could've received my placement CV.
Even still, having your funding dropped was pretty major.
"He's applied to every funding program in the city, even as far upstate as Rochester." Sam continued, feeling the need to fill me in with everything Mark hadn't. "I don't think he's going to take them, though. I heard from Derek that he got a pretty solid offer from Mayo."
Mayo? That wasn't in Manhattan.
For some reason, I couldn't imagine Mark Sloan existing outside the city. It was as if he breathed through it, or the city breathed through him. He'd lived here his whole life. I wasn't sure what New York City would do without him.
"I also heard that he's still complaining about Mayo— apparently it's just not right—"
"I'll give him 'not right'," Addison muttered. "An offer from Mayo is incredible, especially in the plastics researching department. One of my colleagues at Bellevue spent his tenure there, said that it was almost impossible to get into—"
"Tell that to him," Sam said, shrugging. He looked over at me and tilted his head to the side. "Seems like the two of you are as equally stubborn. You can't be picky when it comes to medicine, I'm happy that you've found somewhere you love."
I gave him an appreciative smile. I kept to myself as he burst into an account of his week; apparently, he'd been dealing with a few psychotic breakdowns at Archer's clinic. He'd recently signed onto the Montgomery Clinic to work as a psychiatrist, specialising in wellness.
"I'm thinking about writing a book," he said, leaning back on the chair. "C'mon look at this face— it belongs on a hardback."
"Hmm," I drawled, cocking my head to the side. "No, paperback."
The look on his face was like something I'd expect on a scolded child. His lips bunched and Naomi placed a hand on his arm, trying not to laugh.
"Very funny," Sam replied, sarcasm ringing true in all of his words.
As we all drank our cocktails and discussed our week, Addison grew more and more inebriated. I watched her from across the coffee table, watching as she began to slur her words, just very slightly. Briefly, Naomi and I met each other's eyes.
It was brunch. It was 11 am and Addison Montgomery was tipsy.
We were about to bring it up when the doorbell rang; Addie's apartment had a very specific doorbell tune, one that seemed to bounce across every stretch of the hardwood floors.
Sam forced Addison to stay seated and instead swept towards the doorway. Naomi watched after him, but I raised an eyebrow at my sister.
"Who is it?"
However, before she got the moment to respond, Sam's voice, inflicted with surprise, filled our eyes. "Petunia."
My chest tightened as the divorcée came waltzing into view; she was dressed lavishly, as always.
Chin tilted upwards, dark hair in pinned curls. I wasn't sure whether it was the dim lighting of Addison's apartment or her noticeably heavier makeup, but she looked her age: far older than the rest of us.
Addison rose from the chaise lounger she'd been sprawled across (delicately and elegantly in a way only my sister seemed able to achieve). They kissed each other's cheeks in a faux continental Europe way.
"Oh, I love a good brunch." She said and clapped her hands together, rubbing them as she eyed Sam's cocktails (he was devilishly good at them and had briefly bartended through college).
In my head, I could see her as an evil fairytale character, some monster that lurked under a bridge. She was small, had barely any fat on her bones and if you squinted, kind of looked like a wicked witch— The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side.
But there was something off about her today; something that didn't feel right. Petunia Vanderbilt had big bitch energy at all times.
There was something consistently smug and lavish about her that clogged the back of my throat like flu that just persisted. Today, there was a disconnect. Somehow, Petunia seemed to be subdued. She accepted her first cocktail and downed it within moments.
Again, Naomi's eye met mine, I shrugged.
Yay alcoholism.
To say that I didn't like Petunia, was an understatement. Every time she spoke, I had the inherent impulse to roll my eyes.
She was just so unlikeable, an opinion I was sure that I shared with her ex-husband. Other than being the definition of conceited and severely Upper Class, she also had, quite possibly, the most annoying voice in the world.
She'd married into money, a distinguished family that had a knack of funding Republican campaigns and marrying for trophy wives. She had a degree in sociology from Yale, had a thing for younger men and plenty of alimony from her ex (Nathaniel Vanderbilt was a dentist turned politician who was currently, in 1997, running for the mayors office in New York Office— he would later lose to Rudy Giuliani, which surprised no one).
She branded the whole marriage 'loveless', claiming that Nathaniel was too old for her (he was one year her senior) and that she'd never been bothered to have kids with a man who couldn't.
Since her divorce, she'd blossomed as per Maggie Smith in The First Wives Club, top of the social chain because she'd Ivanka Trump'd her husband to the point where he'd had to jump careers after closing his dental practice for alimony payments.
I swore that every woman on the Upper East Side worshipped her. Addison was no different. If Petunia was Maggie, my sister was Sarah Jessica Parker.
I watched as the two of them conversed. Petunia must have been at least forty against my sister's early thirties. Addison was always enthusiastic when it came to their conversations and Petunia thrived in the attention— Naomi and I sat silently, just letting the conversation play out.
Petunia was in peril, apparently (her words not mine) and Addison was behind her every word, nodding and squeezing her arm in consolidation. The amount of "aww's" that filled the air caused me to exhale loudly into my cocktail.
"...But of course," I turned back into the conversation in time to hear Petunia sigh to herself; it was the sound of self-pity. "Mark is utterly lost without me."
Out of the corner of my eye, Naomi glanced over at me, before saying something to Sam in an undertone. My gaze lingered on the way Petunia shook her head, looking extremely sorry for herself, and sorry for herself only.
"I don't know what he's thinking," she sniffed, "what a silly little boy."
"Sorry, not to intrude on the conversation," Naomi very politely piped up from opposite my frowning, deeply empathetic sister. The look Petunia gave her was very sharp. "But we should probably get started on planning," She made Sam check his watch. "We have to be downtown in an hour and a half."
Suddenly, Addison was happy. "Oh yes— New Year's Eve."
Oh yes, NYE.
This brunch had a purpose. Addison was somewhat organised this year, she'd gathered us together so she could give out jobs a month in advance. Petunia, Sam and Naomi had all volunteered.
Naturally, I hadn't been given a choice, but Addison had softened the blow with Sam's bartending skills.
I didn't mind it too much; Addison's eyes lit up as she spoke at length about this year's theme, the guest list etc. For a woman who was so particular, you would have thought she'd have been more prepared in the past years.
But it showed the Montgomery in her. Despite how hard she tried to hide it, the Montgomery chaos gene liked to shine at the end of the year.
Addison placed me in charge of decor (that garnered an eye roll from Petunia, who apparently was feeling very bold today.) She'd only received entertainment (the fucking audacity of it all!) and didn't seem too happy about it.
Sam and Naomi were sharing invitations respectively while Addison would dedicate herself to her favourite thing on the list: catering. She spoke animatedly about her plans for the evening, but I wasn't sure whether it was pure enthusiasm or just the cocktail she'd chugged before midday.
Apparently, Derek was indisposed— Naomi and I exchanged another look.
"Can I make a request on the guest list?" Petunia asked haughtily as the impromptu brunch came to a close. We were all getting to our feet as she said it. Addison shrugged. "Can I blacklist—"
"You're not seriously considering blacklisting Mark from Addie's New Years Party?"
Sam's eyebrows were raised, his tone pitched in a way that had Naomi yanking on his arm, attempting to stop him from getting involved. We all looked over towards Petunia; she'd picked up her fur coat from the back of the chaise and regarded us all for a few silent moments.
Then, she exhaled sharply out of her nose. Who knew exhaling could be just so bitchy.
"If you knew what I knew about that dreadful man you'd want to do the same."
She seemed as though she'd been rehearsing that line in front of the mirror for hours. Over her shoulder, I could see Addison cocking her head to the side, the alcohol allowing her to let her shoulders relax a little bit. Even she looked slightly put off by the melodrama of it all.
"Okay—" Naomi dismissed the tension by directing the conversation to Addison. "We'll get back to you in a few weeks about the invites— Although I have to say, it's awfully late for RSPV's, don't you think?"
Addison was late every year with her invitations but she always managed to get a crowd, it was part of her charm, almost a superpower she had.
As I grabbed my coat (a noticeably less lavish coat than Petunia's but warm all the same) from the bannister, I wondered whether people would come to an event I hosted if I'd invited them at short notice.
Probably not, I concluded after a few moments. I busied myself, patting down my pockets and trying to find my cellphone.
"Hey Addie, did I leave my phone—"
The sound of my ringtone echoed through the apartment, in an eerily similar way to how Addison's sounded at Petunia's entry.
I followed the sound across the apartment and into the kitchen— only to find Petunia stood there, staring at my phone as if it had just grown a pair of legs and had started speaking. My apprehension grew as I leant over at slid it towards me, her eyes snapped up to meet mine and she scowled.
My glance towards the caller ID was brief; it was Mark.
"Of course, he's onto the next one."
She didn't sound bitter, just impassive. I looked across the phone as she set it back down onto the table. I had half a mind to ask why the hell she'd look at the phone in the first place, but I just stared at her, feeling my jaw slacken.
They'd be broken up for nearly four months now, yet I had the feeling that the wounds hadn't healed.
"Excuse me?" I asked, my brow furrowing.
I didn't exactly appreciate being referred to as 'the next one'. It wasn't exactly flattering. At my reply, Petunia raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, as if she hadn't expected me to speak.
Her gaze was heavy, I hadn't noticed that before, although, to think of it, I don't think I'd ever had a private conversation with her before. She was the sort of woman who lived in crowds, who fed off of other people— with her alone, she almost seemed like a thrown-away toy.
"He's not worth it." She seemed intense at that moment, her eyes stormy and face pale. Again, the lighting in Addie's kitchen seemed to age her. She glowered at me with a serrated gaze, almost reminding me of the Evil Queen from Snow White. "He'll just use you for your money as he used me—"
"It's just a phone call, chill out."
My words were sharp, too sharp I supposed. I'd always been shit at poker. I wore my heart on my sleeve and Petunia could tell.
She let out a similarly empty laugh, her disdain towards me extremely clear in the way her crimson lips curled.
She'd always had that witchy feeling to her as her sharp eyes could see into your soul.
Petunia and Mark had that in common. Maybe they were the perfect match after all.
Her eyes ran the length of me, from my oversized t-shirt to my jeans and my scruffy trainers. Her smirk was pronounced, her lip curled. She grabbed her purse and pushed my cell phone across the countertop at me.
"It's never just a phone call with Mark, you silly, naive little girl."
***
2009 / SEATTLE
I was staring at Mark pretty intensely, arms crossed over my chest and back resting against the wall. He was stooped, holding the sink in the attending's staff room with a very tight grasp.
I couldn't quite tell what was going through his head, but I knew that it wasn't good.
How we'd gotten into this position, I wasn't too sure. All I know is that Mark had requested to one of the nurses to not let me near Petunia Vanderbilt under any circumstances; somehow that had been lost in translation and instead, I'd been specifically paged to Petunia like some sick twist of fate.
He'd then shortly dispersed Lexie to another part of the hospital, carted Petunia off into a private room, thrown a plastics resident in after her and dragged me out of the pit in the meantime.
We ended up in the attendings lounge and Mark was making coffee.
The sound of the faucet filled the space in between us and I found myself perusing my surroundings. I'd never been inside here before and wasn't exactly sure whether I was allowed here.
But I stood, leaning against the wall with my eyes never leaving Mark's stooped form.
I couldn't quite gauge what he was thinking, he'd always been so hard to read, but I could tell that he wasn't happy.
He kept rolling his shoulders back like he was restless.
I was too distracted by his offset mood to ask what I was doing here.
"No cream, right?"
His voice caught me off-guard. I'd come so accustomed to the silence. He hadn't said anything for at least twenty minutes. I swallowed uncomfortably, watching as he fished two mugs out of the cupboard above him.
"Yeah and one sug-"
"One sugar, I remember."
The mug he gave me was from sort of clinic. It had a cartoon heart on the side with a band-aid stretched across it, a pair of beady eyes and a wide smile. Mark was facing me now, in his hand was a plain black mug, one that felt very foreboding and serious compared to mine.
I looked between the two of them and kissed my tongue. The vibe in the room was very weird and seemed to only be exaggerated by the difference in our mugs.
We weren't alone in the staffroom either; a few other surgical attendings I didn't recognise were in the corner, probably just getting over some rather long surgeries. One of them exited as I went to sit down; he nodded at Mark in recognition and Mark gave him a friendly, professional smile.
As Mark was distracted, I let a flash of pain dance across my face— sitting down was hard work, but I had a feeling this impending conversation was going to be harder.
"So, Petunia?"
"I don't want to think about it."
My attempt to address the situation was shut down immediately. I'd expected that. He'd never, ever spoken about Petunia. It was as if she'd never existed to him.
So instead, I attempted to strum up some sort of dialogue.
I asked him about his day, which he was very short and curt about.
I asked him about his surgeries, but again he was quite tightlipped.
I even asked after Sloan.
"She's not doing too good." I thought back to her surgery as Mark spoke.
Of course, she wasn't doing well, Mark had refused Addison's better judgement and shut down the surgery that would have saved his grandson's legs.
He went onto just talk a few more words about her, mentioning briefly that he was considering flying out to LA and letting Addison continue the surgery.
After that, he fell silent.
I attempted to reposition myself in my chair but a traitorous wince left my lips; Mark noticed, his eye caught on me as I caught myself, gently lowering myself back down.
He sat opposite me at the same moment, massaging his forehead as he let out a soft sigh. Relieved that he hadn't said anything, I just crossed my legs, sipping on my coffee very solemnly— as much as I hated to admit it, Mark had always made fucking good coffee, and I took coffee very seriously.
A silence descended. A fucking awful silence. I didn't like it.
Silent Mark was a pretty shit Mark, ranking very low on the scale of Marks that I'd had the misfortune to meet.
He was pensive. I'd learnt not to ask why I was being brought to places, especially in this hospital. Instead, I just sat and waited for him to say anything.
Petunia? I don't want to think about it, he'd said. But I didn't have that freedom.
She was kind of like a forest fire, able to consume your thoughts within seconds. What a wicked woman, what a wretched bitch. I admire her and hated her all at once. She was so powerful but so fucking intolerable— Petunia Vanderbilt refused to be ignored.
I couldn't help it.
"You always would refuse to talk about her."
Mark let out a groan, one that almost rivalled the one my wince.
If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he'd just been stabbed. He continued to massage his face, this time, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.
His eyes were closed, his mouth set in a very solemn line and jaw clenched as if he was chewing a wasp.
I really couldn't help it.
"Sometimes, I wonder whether she's real." My voice carried on the stiff air, it was Mark's turn to subtly flinch. I noticed. "She's like a cartoon, there's nothing real about her. A unicorn— well, a bitchy unicorn that I was never sure actually existed—"
"She's real," Mark grumbled, hand still pressed over his eyes.
I was half-submerged in thought. "Maybe unicorn wasn't the right words— The sort of woman you thought you just hallucinated as if the whole thing was made up by a bad drug trip I had in '97—is she even real?"
"Petunia Vanderbilt is very much real," Mark repeated, distaste clear in her tone. "She won't let me fucking forget that she is very real—"
"But you would never talk about her, about your relationship." I pressed my lips together, attempting to organise my thoughts into something that resembled sanity. I took a large sip of my coffee, thoughtfully letting it sear the back of my throat. "I had to pry it out of you, like a fucking detective interrogation."
Mark snorted, but it was almost resigned. I paused, clearing my throat.
"I've always wondered whether you're like that with me— do you refuse to talk about me?" I pitched the question to the crown of his head as he held his face in his hands.
When he was quiet for a good minute or a so, I assumed that that was a no.
"I've always wondered, in that case, what makes her so special."
"She's not special." He sounded very sure.
"She's pretty." Mark raised his head and opened his eyes just to roll them at me. I wasn't sure whether it was the statement that made him react or the way I said it. "Well, I mean if you're into that sort of thing."
"I should take credit for that. I redid her nose and forehead back in '95."
"She's a textbook cougar I guess— I googled her a couple of years back, she remarried in '99 to a 40-year-old Middle Eastern Oil Tycoon. Probably divorced the poor bastard by now." I shrugged to myself, biting my cheek when that movement caused me immense pain. "She's rich... and pretty."
I wrinkled my nose. I'd seen photos of a young Petunia and she'd been Brigit Bardot pretty.
The years had not treated her well. There was age with grace and then there was age weirdly with the help of various plastic surgeons, including the one sat opposite me.
"All of the women on the Upper East Side are," Mark responded very poignantly. "We both know I'd had a great time."
He was making fun of himself in the subtlest way. He held my gaze for a few moments. My mouth twitched but I didn't smile at him.
"Yes," I replied instead. "You're well acquainted with their bedrooms better than their personal shoppers."
Again, he rolled his eyes.
It had never made sense to me. Mark Sloan and Petunia Vanderbilt.
She was Mark's only other ex-girlfriend that I'd ever met, and I'd always got the impression that Mark had a thing for younger girls, not older. After all, I was ten years younger than Mark and Lexie was even younger. Petunia had nearly ten years on Mark— not that there was anything wrong with that, it just didn't seem Mark's style.
Even then, I supposed, he wasn't too picky when it came to bedwarmers.
Even now, there was a tension in his body when it came to that woman. He looked deeply uncomfortable as if he didn't want to be anywhere near her.
"Did you tell Lexie?"
Mark seemed to jump at that. "About what?"
"About Petunia?"
"Oh." He rubbed his face, "There was nothing to tell—"
"Really?" I scoffed, surprised that it had been over ten years and he was still completely emotionally shut down by the whole topic. "Mark, I know enough to know that there's a lot to tell about you and that woman. You almost have more history with her than we do— I like to consider myself your most problematic ex but holy shit—" I jerked my head back as if she was stood in the corner of the room. "That psychotic bitch? I think it's a tie."
"I've had worse," Mark grumbled.
I lifted an eyebrow. "Oh really?"
"I had a girlfriend in high school that tried to set me on fire."
"Are you forgetting when I—"
Mark sighed, scratching his cheek and finally turning to face me. "I like to think that was the fact you were high out of your mind, not really you—"
He stared at me, waiting for me to confirm what he'd just said. I paused for a moment, debating whether to just go with it or tell him the truth. In the end, I just shrugged vaguely.
"And Petunia's not my ex."
This again. We were having the same argument that we'd had ten years ago. "I know you didn't consider her your girlfriend or in a relationship but she was your ex-something."
"Ex what exactly?"
"Su-"
"Don't." He cut me off sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I just shrugged again. Yes, it still hurt. "You asked."
"Remind me to not do that again." He sounded tired.
"So, how much does Lexie know?"
"About what?"
God, now I was getting tired.
"Petunia. About Petunia."
"Like I said— nothing."
"Have you told the poor girl anything?" I was exasperated.
I was suddenly reminded why Mark was so exhausting; despite the fact he was extremely self-focused and arrogant, he was never able to navigate a relationship properly. It took far too long to learn things about him that carried any sustenance.
For example, it'd taken me two weeks to learn the whole timeline of his high school football career, but nearly three years to learn he was severely allergic to shellfish.
Mark was serious about Lexie, he was all in. If he wasn't talking to her, then Lexie was as frustrated as I had been.
The look Mark gave me was flat.
"I didn't feel the need to." He was impassive. "We broke up a few days ago."
"Oh." I'd half dismissed what Mable had told me as gossip. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"And I did tell her a fair bit," Mark let out a sharp sigh. "Last week, I told her about you."
Oh.
"And?"
He shrugged.
"But not Petunia?"
He shook his head. "Never Petunia. As I said, I don't want to think about it."
I stared at him for a while, watching how he finished his coffee. He got to his feet and washed his mug out in the sink. My stare burned into his back, into the dark blue scrubs.
He finished with his mug, placing it on the draining board and tiredly stretching out his arms. He'd been busy today, he'd already mentioned that— the day was catching up with him.
"Why is she here?" My question was innocent; he didn't look back at me, rather just shrugged.
"You were right, she divorced the oil tycoon. Now she runs her own non-profit back in Manhattan for female abuse victims. She's here to speak at a conference over at McCaw Hall."
Oh, so I wasn't the only one who'd been googling our little friend. Non-profit, also, made me want to snort. That didn't sound like Petunia's style at all. Mark let out a long breath, almost as if to confess.
"As you heard, she had a minor accident on the way there," He said and he looked as though he wasn't exactly unhappy about that part, "We were the closest to take in the trauma."
"Did she know you were here?"
He laughed. "She requested me." This time he turned around to face me. "How fucked is that?"
The question was rather incredulous, panicked maybe.
"She tries to ruin my life and here she is—" Mark was momentarily speechless. "I'm treating Petunia."
"Well," I said after a few moments. "Maybe you shouldn't be such an asshole to the women who love you." Mark stared at me.
"Huh." It was an expression of surprise. He readjusted. His voice was rather raw. "Should have seen that one coming."
"Yeah," I replied monotonously. I set the half-empty mug on the table. "Thanks for the coffee. Hopefully, the cyanide kicks in soon."
He watched as I very gingerly got to my feet, trying my hardest to not betray the amount of pain I was in with every shift of my bones.
"Beth-"
"I'm fine." I cut him off before he could say anything.
I didn't look particularly fine, but I would be damned before I admitted it to him of all people. Successfully, I got out of the chair.
When I looked over at Mark, he was shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. He looked exasperated with me.
Good, I'd recently promised myself that I'd make his life as impossible as I could. I gave him a cheery smile, hoping to brighten up the mood.
He was broody these days; his old man energy was showing today.
I went to leave, but something held me back from crossing the threshold. When I turned back around, Mark was almost waiting patiently.
I met his gaze directly, tilting my head to the side and sweeping some hair behind my ear. I somehow got the sense that he'd been expecting this question the whole time.
"Why did you drag me here, anyway?"
Even though he knew I'd ask the question, he didn't seem excited to answer it.
He cleared his throat. "You're the only one who knows what happened with Petunia."
My eyebrows rose. "Really?" He nodded. "Not even Derek?"
"Derek would have lost his shit."
I didn't exactly disagree. Derek was the most judgemental of the bunch, possibly even more than Addison. He, without a doubt, would have lost his shit.
"In that case, you're right." Mark raised an eyebrow. I don't think I'd ever said he was right about something, ever. "I was wrong— Petunia's not special, I am."
He rolled his eyes. I went to say something further witty (naturally) but my body shifted. Deep within me, a stray, traitorous muscle spasmed. I groaned deeply, my whole body shuddering.
Mark swore loudly.
"Beth!"
"I told you— I'm totally fine."
He shook his head once again, sharp, definitive movements. He wasn't having it. He hadn't been having it all day. I had a feeling Mark wasn't buying this at all. It was my turn to be exasperated. However, instead of being angry, he just exhaled loudly and forced me to look at him.
His voice was soft, almost like a beg.
"Go see Callie. Call Charlie. Go home."
I held his stare, then, after a long few moments of contemplation, very softly, I nodded.
***
NEW YORK / 1997 - NEW YEAR'S EVE - 11PM
Mark didn't want to come to this year's New Year's Eve party.
He'd actively fought against the invitation, using every single excuse that he could pull out of his ass. First, it had been that he had a family dinner, that his parents were back in the city and they had reservations for Le Bernadin, but then Derek had poignantly pointed out that his parents had been dead for nearly ten years.
His second excuse had been work, but then we'd all pointed out for him that he was currently unemployed.
"I don't see why we have to go to this." Mark wasn't happy.
We were stood in the elevator. Derek, Mark and I.
We'd all arrived separately.
Mark out of his car, Derek from a taxi and me from the taxi. I was rifling through my purse, trying to find some last notecards with the final price totals for Addison.
Mark was counting down the floors with a sense of dread in him. Derek, well, he just looked vaguely amused.
"Honestly, I'm surprised you're here." Mark shot daggers at Derek as his best friend patted him on the back. "I didn't think you wanted to be in the same room as Petunia."
My head raised slowly and I stared between the two of them, my suspicions raising. My ears seemed to always prick up at her name these days.
"Your wife insisted."
Derek smirked. "How lovely of her."
He then proceeded to launch into a recount of his workday, which surprised neither Mark or me.
That's how Derek was, focused and dedicated on his work. It's all he would talk about, all he would commit his time too... much to the despair of his wife. He'd had a long and very challenging day today. I stood there, having found the notes, and stared at the back of his head. Mark glanced back at me over his shoulder, catching my eye. As if he wasn't acting dramatic enough this evening, he rolled his eyes.
I wondered, idly, whether it made him sad to hear about Derek's work, being that he didn't have a job anymore.
The deal with Lincoln had completely fallen through, much to everyone's surprise. Last I'd heard, (from Addison because Mark never spoke about it to me) instead of accepting an offer, he'd been working on getting his funding re-instated.
He liked Lincoln, apparently, but suddenly for some wild reason, Lincoln didn't like him and they cut him off completely.
"How was work for you, Beth?" Derek looked back at me, a sparkle in his eye.
"Good." I supplied.
Did Derek mean to be an asshole tonight? Probably.
Mark was silent, staring up at the floor count. We'd arrived. The doors parted, revealing the familiar sight of Addison's foyer.
I paused for a moment, looking pointedly at Mark, who didn't seem to want to move. For a second, I thought Derek was going to say something, but he seemed to think against it.
Instead, he walked straight out of the elevator and into the party, leaving Mark and me alone.
"You didn't tell me you were fired from Lincoln."
It wasn't the best time to bring it up, but I couldn't compress the urge to say it. I couldn't help myself. Mark let out an empty laugh, momentarily hanging his head.
The elevator stayed still. I think we were some of the last guests. Still not looking at me, Mark shrugged.
"My funding was dropped, I wasn't fired."
He couldn't see the look of brief agitation that flickered across my face. I'm forever going to be left out of the loop.
I just kissed my teeth, adjusted my bag on my shoulder and walked around him, determined to make a curt exit. I was almost there, almost out of the elevator— but Mark stepped forwards, catching my wrist as I stepped over the threshold into the foyer.
Momentarily alarmed, I looked back at him.
"You look stunning, by the way."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
My eyes dropped to his outfit.
His suit jacket and slacks matched my navy dress and heels. I had the feeling that he'd seen my dress at some point and had gone to the effort of matching it.
When I got to his face, he was smirking at me in a way that made me feel dirty. I shook my hand out of his grasp and, just as the elevator doors went to close on the two of us, quickly entered into Addison's New Year's Eve party.
The sound of my heels echoed around me.
The first thing that hit me was music. Loud, lots of it— but not like Amy's disaster circa 1993. No, it was almost tasteful, classy, just in the way that Addison always wanted.
A minimal band was in her dining room, a catering spread coming out of the kitchen and a dance floor allocated in the same area we'd sat within while planning this very party. I paused just a few steps away from the kitchen, looking around.
To be honest, I'd fucking killed it with the decor. Her apartment was decorated very Gatsby, that's the theme she'd been going for.
Gold was everywhere, champagne glass towers, candles, streamers hanging from the ceiling. Opulence was the word that came to mind— I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I'd done a good fucking job.
Everyone was dancing, we'd arrived late to the party and it was already 11 pm. People were noticeably intoxicated; I spied Addison juggling a cocktail and Derek's hands as they danced in front of a singer that was crooning out some 20's song.
The first glass of champagne went down in one go— I swapped it for a second. I had a lot to catch up on and I had good reason to want to be drunk tonight.
I felt oddly lonesome.
This was the first one of Addie's NYE party I'd arrived to without a date. I hadn't had the chance to ask anyone as my placement at Manhattan West was getting so busy on top of the work I still had to submit to my college.
In all honesty, I hadn't been seeing anyone other than Mark, and I'd be damned if I turned up to one of Addie's parties with his arm around my waist.
That is if he'd even agree to come with me anyway.
As if he was summoned by my thoughts, I felt a presence behind me.
Briefly, his fingers glazed the small of my back. I inhaled sharply, goosebumps trailing down my arms.
Then he moved around me, just as I'd done to him in the elevator. Subtly, I glared after him, hoping that he felt the weight of my eyes on his stupidly handsome head.
Asshole.
There is something frustrating about not knowing things. We were sleeping with one another, just sex nothing else.
But even still, to know nothing about his life was frustrating. It was more than frustrating— it made me feel stupid like I was some sort of sex doll that he didn't feel the need to talk to.
I was also an incredible fucking girlfriend to have (not to toot my own horn or anything), but he wasn't interested in that, either. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't pining after him. That had stopped a long time ago. I just wanted to feel like something other than an object.
Huh, talking about objects.
I caught sight of Petunia on the other side of the room. A glass of wine in one hand, canapé in the other, she was truly in her element. She looked better than the last time I'd seen her too.
She'd gained back some sort of sparkle in her eye; dare I say, she looked a little bit human. The socialite was avidly chatting with some very handsome looking men. Probably her next targets.
"Beth! Hey!"
A nondescript acquaintance approached me, embracing me in a greeting that I wouldn't remember the morning after. Then another, and another. People who didn't know anything about me other than the fact that I was Addison's little sister and I was doing something in the medical field. It was nights that these that you were everyone's friend; although my smile was plastic and something told me that there's were 100% polyester.
"Well I'll be damned— Beth Montgomery?!"
That was another introduction people liked to use. Usually, it was people from my childhood, elderly people who Addison had invited from our hometown that hadn't seen me so grown up.
I turned towards the voice, very slightly tipsy, expecting it to be some wrinkly old lady who'd once seen me sneeze when I was a month old or some other bullshit— Instead, it was someone I recognised.
"Margot?" I stared at her, not quite believing that she was here. Margot, the middle school best friend, a random bubbly blonde that was staring at me in equal shock. She laughed in disbelief, offering me a frazzled hug. "What the fuck-- I haven't seen you since high school."
Another laugh. "Same here. I thought I was going crazy but you haven't changed since senior year."
She stepped back, looking at me. She hadn't changed either. Same golden hair, same perky, breathtaking smile. She looked healthier from what I remembered, that was a good chance.
"That's crazy."
"It is, isn't it?"
Over her shoulder, I watched Mark slide in and out of the crowds with a glass of scotch in his hands, manoeuvring away from whatever direction Petunia was in. I kept her in the corner of my eye.
I had a feeling if those two met, it would spell disaster.
I caught sight of my brother in the furthest corner of the room just as Margot mentioned him. Like Mark, he didn't look too happy to be there.
The two of them ended up standing together, looking across the room like the two bitter elderly male muppets. Even when I was looking in the opposite direction, Margot was not perturbed from recounting this memory.
"We were so young once," Margot said softly as if she was slowly shifting into a sad drunk. "Isn't that crazy?"
"Hm."
It wasn't that I wasn't happy to see Margot and traipse down memory lane but I was in a mood for literally anything else.
Like Margot, I was starting to tumble down into a more angsty drunk path; I glowered at the champagne glass in my hand.
You little traitor, you were supposed to make me happy.
So I changed the conversation. I asked Margot what she was doing here in New York. She'd only recently moved from our hometown. She, too, had gone into medicine.
She was starting a job in pathology next week at a hospital in Manhattan. When I asked where, she replied Lincoln, and it took all I had within me to not look at Mark across the room.
"Between you and me," The Prosecco had made her loose-lipped. She smiled at me lazily, in the way a drunk girl does when she's about to tell a secret. "I might have had a little bit of help getting the job."
I raised an eyebrow but tried to minimise judgement. The little bitchy part of my brain that was not feminist and buried way at the back of my head made a small, flyaway comment about how she'd probably slept with someone to get the job. It wasn't unheard of but not very progressive in this day and age.
"After all that shit that happened in high school I barely scraped it into community college talk about a decent paying job—" Margot laughed at herself.
She'd struggled with an eating disorder in the senior year. It'd been some of the most popular gossip in our year group. I'd always been crippled with empathy for her. Margot had cracked under the pressure and it had given way to a lot of awful things. Bulimia and depression being one of them.
"Luckily, my Aunt has shares in the hospital board and managed to slip my recommendations into the Chief's pocket." She was talking so nonchalantly and so freely about something illegal. Drunkenly, Margot even giggled. "And then she was even nice enough to get me an invitation to this party— I mean how fucking cool is this? It looks like Jay Gatsby's house in here?"
I smiled a very strained, borderline constipated smile.
"Who is your aunt?"
I assumed that I must have known her aunt if she was able to get Margot an invitation. Sam and Naomi had dealt with all of the invitations personally. I'd even looked over the guest list a few times, I must have missed Margot's name on the list, or maybe she'd been a late addition.
If that was the case, the aunt must have been very good friends of Addie's for the last moment addition.
"She's over there— wait, I'll go get her and introduce you two—"
Margot lunged in a random direction and I finished my champagne.
She must've only taken seconds before she dragged back her aunt. I was slow to turning back to them, occupied with trying to find Petunia and Mark in the crowds. I could see Mark still in his corner, without Archer now, but I'd lost track of Petunia completely.
As if he could tell I was looking at him specifically, Mark met my eye. I looked away after a burn ran down my spine.
"Beth, this is my aunt. P-"
A beaming Margot was squeezing Petunias arm. Petunia. Mark's Petunia. Addison's Petunia.
Everyone's favourite fucking Petunia.
Margot's Aunt Petunia.
The same charming socialite I'd spotted across the room was staring at me impassively, just a single eyebrow raised in that bitchy way she seemed to always fall back to. My ex-best-friend looked between us expectantly.
Her words faded into background music as my brain seemed to do extensive gymnastics. I sensed some sort of clue that had arisen, something that made a light bulb explode inside my tiny little mind.
Margot was still talking.
"-This is Beth, my best friend from school back home. Isn't it crazy that we're at the same party and everything?-"
Like me, Petunia looked resigned with the talkative drunk girl. I'd never taken her as a family woman so it didn't surprise me in the slightest. She smoothly moved her arm out of Margot's grasp and stared me right in the eye as she brought her glass of champagne to her lips.
She was dressed elegantly. Like me, she wore navy. My stomach twisted but my brain seemed to join all the dots.
My jaw almost dropped as I realised what had happened.
No fucking way.
"We were just talking about that thing I was talking about the other day—"
Margot turned to her aunt with the guise of a small child who required constant attention. Her sad drunkenness had dissipated into a tireless enthusiasm. I had the feeling I wouldn't be that lucky. Petunia didn't look at her niece, just continued staring at me. It was creepy really, kind of like making eye contact with a wax figure.
"That thing with the boy in the park—"
No fucking way. Mark wouldn't- I cut that distracting thought in half. I had an inkling that he would.
"Oh yes." She interrupted, finally gracing us with her dramatic voice; Petunia spoke with grandiose, always. "I've heard all about it." She licked her lips, dapping the corner of her blood-red lipstick with the side of her finger. "How brave for you to go up against the big bad wolf."
I don't think I registered what Petunia had said. My mind was all over the place. All I knew was that the puzzle pieces had all fallen into place and I knew what was so off between Petunia and Mark.
I looked over Petunia's shoulder to an empty corner where Mark had once stood. He'd disappeared and I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd left the party completely. Suddenly, I felt very angry. Maybe I'd been wrong, maybe I'd be an angry drunk tonight.
He'd done it. That son of a bitch.
Instead of replying to the two of them, I just excused myself and headed to the kitchen. If I was to survive the rest of this night, I was going to need something a little stronger.
***
2009 / SEATTLE
"Yup. Just as we all thought."
From my position on the examination table, I groaned.
That was not what I wanted to hear. After ten minutes of poking and prodding, me wincing and breathing sharply, Callie had made her diagnosis.
Broken ribs, two to be exact.
Both on the side I'd hit the floor.
It wasn't exactly a hard diagnosis to make, I was a textbook case. Everything fucking hurt and, when I'd removed my shirt, my torso looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Callie removed her gloves and picked up my chart. I hadn't seen her in a while so we'd made brief small talk.
If I remembered correctly, the last time we'd spoken had been when Charlie had had his accident with the pumpkin carving. She asked after him and I said he was doing well, stressed about work, but doing well. Her passing comment about how hospital cuts had meant that Charlie's check-ups had been passed onto a Mercy-West resident caused me to sigh.
Charlie hadn't told me about the change in doctors and call it a rivalry, but I didn't like the thought of a Mercy-Wester attending to my boyfriend.
I still hadn't taken to many of them. As a psychiatrist, working with conceited asshole surgeons was challenging enough, but the Mercy-Westers seemed to all have something stuck up their asses.
The other day, Reed (the infamous bitch of a resident who was slowly making everyone's lives hard) had refused to give me a chart for one of my consultations and kept me waiting for nearly forty minutes.
For the last Mercy-West page, Helen and I had drawn straws out of a mug in her office.
"You don't need surgery, it's only minor, barely even breakages." She'd had me through the x-ray swiftly, knowing that I'd have gone through kicking and screaming otherwise (or maybe not seeing as everything HURT). I was pretty satisfied with my x-rays, it'd been a while since I'd seen a set of those. I'd managed to do a pretty job on my ribs, though. "I'm prescribing painkillers—"
"No opioids," I stated like it was a rehearsed line that I'd said so many times in the past ten years. I was wary as she hadn't brought it up.
There was no way I was going on opioids, I didn't want to put myself through that sort of shit again. Callie paused, looking up to me and nodding. I watched as she seemed to erase the prescription she was writing and begin a new one. I didn't like that.
"No opioids." She repeated back to me. To lighten the mood, she chuckled. "Hey— would it be bad if I said I had a bet with Daphne on your diagnosis."
Callie held out my prescription and I took it from her. She watched my reaction. I just sighed.
"Disappointed but not surprised." Daphne was the sort of person I guessed had a wild side. "At least someone's got to profit off of this pain, I'm sure as hell not."
"Neither will Charlie," Callie commented snakily. "No sex." I shot her a look. It was supposed to say 'as if I would even be capable of it right now.' To her, it must have seemed exasperated. "I mean it Montgomery if you come back here with a rib sticking out of your chest I'm calling Addison and telling her that you're not well."
I just snorted, gingerly making my way off the bed with my prescription in my hand.
"Oh, and the patient is out of surgery, by the way. I heard from Teddy that you might want to know how he's doing." I looked over at her expectantly. "They repaired his ear but turns out he had a lot of scarring in his chest. Helen was taken off the case. The guy was hearing his heart in his head because it was echoing around his body. Crazy, right?"
"Insane."
Crazy, just like having a doctor who doesn't take notice of addict restrictions on medical files when prescribing opioids.
"Nice tattoo, by the way." She nodded at the inscription underneath my bra as I carefully shrugged my shirt back on.
Leaving the clinic and having finally been convinced to go home by Callie, I planned on going into the pharmacy to collect my prescription. She'd simply prescribed Tylenol which would probably do fuck all but it would do something minor.
With my coat and my bag, I found my way through the hospital and towards the ER. The outpatient's pharmacy was going to be my best bet and I doubted that they would have any trouble finding what I needed; it was just on the other side of some of the outpatient surgical rooms.
Luckily, I'd ditched my heels pretty early on today so I was happy strolling (still pretty slowly) in my running sneakers. I glanced down at them sadly, another thing I wasn't going to be able to do.
Running and sex were probably my two favourite things, spoken like a real junkie. It'd become something to fill the void, substituting the rush for something a bit more, uh, physical.
Now I wasn't going to be doing either of those things. Not like I was getting laid a lot. Charlie was too busy with work to even be in bed with me when I woke up talkabout getting handsy. My sexual frustration had bubbled into something else entirely. I missed sex but I missed romance shit too, even if it did suck ass.
I turned the corner to approach the ER but was caught off-guard by a small body almost colliding into me. My whole body tensed and I winced, drawing a couple of steps back. My hand clutched my side as I gazed down at the child in front of me. A nonchalant set of eyes looked back at me.
I frowned, looking around me— the corridor was empty, this kid's parents were nowhere to be seen. Turning back to the said kid, I realised it was the same kid from earlier, the child from the trauma room who had watched me get completely wiped out by Mr Preaker.
"Uh, hey."
There was something ominous about finding a kid in an abandoned, quiet part of the hospital. Despite it's proximity to the ER, this corridor was usually deserted, usually only used by staff members when they needed to urgently get a patient from one side of the hospital to the other. It was the sort of corridor you wouldn't know was there unless you'd been told about it or knew the building well.
I was fairly sure this was a staff-only area.
"Are you lost?"
"No." The kid answered with such brilliance, a sharp and unfazed by the fact he was not with his parents. "I'm Toby."
"Hi Toby," I said, internalising the fact that something was off about this kid. "I'm Doctor Montgomery, but you can call me Beth."
"Okay," He was quick at speaking. "You're not dressed like the other doctors."
"That's because I'm a special doctor," I said patiently.
"Like a psychiatrist?"
I blinked at him. "Yes, do you need me to find your parents?"
"Just my Mom." He corrected me. Talking with him reminded me of talking to a middle-aged man. This little kid, who couldn't have been ten at the most, regarded me with a pair of crystalline blue eyes and a wide, friendly smile. This kid, Toby, placed his hands on his hips and sighed. "I know where she is, I told her I was going to go watch the doctors."
"Watch the doctors?" I repeated.
"Yes, I like watching." He'd been watching earlier, watching as Mr Preaker had stuck a pencil in his ear. He'd watched me crack some ribs on the floor. He'd also watched Mr Preaker scream and scratched at Owen like an angry cat. I couldn't imagine the amount of stress that could inflict on a child. "I find it fun."
Fun? For a split second, I was ready to high-tail it down the corridor and out the door. Toby was straight out of a creepy movie. I'd seen too many movies like this where the kid was a ghost and he was leading some innocent victim to their death, my death.
I glanced around. I couldn't leave a kid alone here, not when it was likely he'd get run over by some high-speed gurney.
"Come on, let's get you back to Mom."
He went with noticeable reluctance. I had to shepherd Toby through a few doors, past a few other doctors and up some stairs. His mother was on the surgical floor, nestled in the labyrinth of the short term care beds. I passed a desk that housed a rather confused looking Eli; his gaze bounced from me to the kid in front. I just mouthed 'don't ask' at him as I passed.
All the while, Toby was happily telling me about everything that he'd witnessed in the pit today. He described in great detail the moment James Preaker had stolen my pencil and stabbed himself in the head. I grimaced when he recited the moment I'd hit the ground. Apparently, he'd also watched a woman overdose on cocaine, a man bleed out from a gunshot wound and two lateral skull fractures.
"Do you want to become a doctor then?" I asked tiredly, feeling the day catch up with me as we approached his Mom's private room.
"No." Toby chirped back. "I just like to watch."
I frowned as he pushed open the door, revealing a room full of doctors. Shit, was his Mom okay? Toby paused in the doorway, momentarily put off by the sheer amount of people in the room.
From here, I couldn't see the patient bed; but I could see the back of Mark Sloan's head. Slowly, every head in the room turned to face the two of us. Once Toby had got his bearings, he scampered off towards his Mom, leaving me alone in the doorway.
"Doctor Montgomery-" Once again, Mark seemed alarmed to see me.
"I just found this kid wandering around downstairs I—"
"Doctor?"
Crap.
"Did he say Doctor Montgomery?"
The crowd of doctors parted to reveal a very amused and appalled looking Petunia, holding onto the arm of an impassive Toby. As if instinctively, my eyes flickered to Mark; he closed his eyes momentarily as if it was the least he could do to not have a stroke. Still stuck in the contract of bedside manners, I orchestrated my face into a well-kept smile. The pause in the room was broken by a loud scoff.
"You've got to be joking me-"
"Petunia." Mark attempted to rather robotically interrupt, but, he was cut off.
"Who did you have to sleep with to get that job?"
I recoiled slightly and it definitely silenced Mark. There was a looseness about her, she was on some sort of painkiller probably that had loosened up her lips. I'd never seen her so... resentful.
"Last time I checked you were too tweaked out on drugs to even spell doctor talk about to be one."
The words stung a lot but I didn't falter.
Last time I checked, Petunia, you were too high-strung to be married talk about have a kid.
I held her gaze,waiting for her to continue. The people around us were all awkward looking elsewhere; within the crowd stood Lexie, Jackson and a few of the other Mercy-West residents who I hadn't cared to get acquainted with.
"Beth, I'd suggest leaving—"
"Oh no, stay!" She spoke over Mark again. Beside her, Toby watched with the same nonchalance, as if everything was perfectly peachy and that his mother wasn't hanging out all of my dirty laundry for a handful of strangers to see. "Even better, why don't you tell everyone about that time you got kicked out of your internship because you killed a patient while high off your ass— Addison told me absolutely everything, why not I just do all of the talking?"
I didn't appreciate being made a spectacle of. My shoulders were heavy with shame. I felt like falling through the floor and into a black hole. Mark's brow was furrowed and his jaw was tight, he looked over at Petunia and quietly dismissed all of the doctors; the only person who made eye contact with me while leaving was Lexie.
Her eyes burned brightly, ponytail swinging wildly as she hurried out first. The rest all seemed shell-shocked, leaving in a line. I didn't want to wait in the doorway, but I did.
When everyone was gone, I just turned to Petunia and smiled politely.
Something told me that this was a woman who had reached her breaking point, quietly literally. By the looks of it and something I'd neglected to notice before, her nose was broken and face badly bruised. That told me that there were some broken bones hidden underneath there somewhere.
Secretly, I hoped her whole face shattered. There was no way Mark would fix it, I could see it in his eyes. He was moments away from either yelling or angry sex. Somehow, I could tell the second option wasn't on the table.
Petunia had this airy quality about her as if she was drunk. She turned over towards Mark, wobbling in her bed. Mark asked Toby to leave, without issue, the young boy hopped off of his bed and out the door. I turned my head to watch him saunter past me and then down the corridor, probably to resume his watchful gazing in the ER.
I had many worries about this boy but I had a feeling that Petunia would hear none of it.
"I don't appreciate you verbally abusing the staff members." Mark's voice was tight. I looked back just in time to see Petunia open her mouth to respond. He shook his head. "Doctor Montgomery is a staff member here at Seattle Grace Hospital and we have a zero-tolerance policy for abuse. If you have any problems with that I'd suggest to talk to the Chief of Surgery, which you should have no problem with seeing as he's a personal friend."
Of course, he was, everyone was Petunia fucking Vanderbilt's personal friend. Everyone was your friend when you had that much money. "Not only have you abused her, but you have also humiliated her in front of her colleagues. You're gonna need to apologise."
"I said the truth." She was slurring slightly. Clearly, she'd just returned from some surgery and the painkillers were still heavy in her system. "I don't apologise— I was just expressing my concern that such a volatile individual is employed here. Are they not aware that she was suspended from surgery indefinitely for her reckless actions?"
My gaze dropped to the floor. Talk about opening old wounds.
"She doesn't work in surgery."
"Good." Petunia retorted. "It's all she cared about— ample punishment for her to suffer in a career she doesn't want for the rest of her life."
As much as I loved being talked about blatantly in front of me, I felt the need to step forward. Mark was doing a good job of keeping his cool but it was cracking; him defending me, I believed was more of a reaction to Petunia rather than the words she was saying. He'd expressed the same disgust towards my past as Petunia had many years ago, so I knew that he was just using this as an opportunity to put Petunia in his place without losing his job.
And again, as much as I loved being a scapegoat, I really didn't want to hang around.
I tried to come up with a small lie to get us out of there as quickly as possible. "Doctor Sloan, one of the nurses told me to tell you that your daughter is on the phone."
"Daughter?" Petunia echoed, her eyes incredulous. "You had a daughter." I shook my head, realising that this wasn't probably the best idea. From the slightly red hue in Mark's face, I knew that I'd fucked up. Her eyes flew to mine. "You had a daughter?" I shook my head harder this time.
"Excuse me," Mark said curtly; before she could say anything, he marched in my direction, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me into the corridor. Before I was completely out of Petunia's eye line, I gave her a perfectly professional smile.
"Lovely to see you, Daffodil."
***
NEW YORK / 1997 - NEW YEAR'S EVE - JUST SHY OF 12AM
"I know what you did."
Mark's back was turned to me but I could see the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
My words slurred a little bit too much. I'd had a lot to drink. Like five glasses of champagne, vodka shots and I'll-be-definitely-vomiting-tomorrow-morning a lot.
I leaned against the doorway, looking over at him as he stood on the balcony at the back of Addison's apartment, staring over the city. My vision was pretty blurry at this point, but I could still make out the way he nursed his alcohol and neglected to look over at me. I took a few staggering steps towards him, taking my place alongside him.
All I could see was the blur of lights, feel the New York December air on my face.
I was calling in 1998 very drunk and very emotional.
"What did I do?" Mark asked nonchalantly as if he didn't exactly expect me to be capable of shocking him.
It was the same way you'd act amused at a kid who wanted to race against you; you say 'sure' even though you know the kid can't win. It was almost self-serving. He was looking at me now, looking at how drunk I was.
His eyebrows raised very slightly; I hadn't been this drunk in years.
"Slept with Petunia so you'd get the Lincoln funding."
I could pinpoint the exact moment that the blood drained out of his face. He'd been so sure, so arrogant and secured until the moment those words had come out of my mouth.
Not only had I just accused him of something very illegal, but it was also very compromising to his career too. He froze completely. Then, as if nothing had happened, he collected his composure and carried on. It was as if someone had accidentally stepped on the television remote, realised their mistake and then pressed play again.
Only, I was left staring at him, internalising his reaction with a drunken slowness.
"You fucked her for money," I repeated, slower this time.
Mark didn't react, he just stared ahead, not saying anything. I didn't expect him to say anything, I'd watched enough crime dramas. Crap about silence, crap about what you said being held against you in a court of law. Blah Blah Blah.
"You prostituted yourself to Petunia so that she'd recommend you to the board of directors. You had sex with her so she would help fund your little plastic surgery project-" My voice got louder. "You fucked her for—"
"Stop." His interruption was paired with a very pained expression.
"No," I replied, my eyes narrowing at him. I swayed very slightly, standing straight. "Admit it." Nothing. A muscle in Mark's jaw twitched. "Admit that you lost Lincoln because you broke up with Petunia. Admit that you used her—"
"And you don't think she used me?" Mark looked over at me, visibly unamused. "She knew exactly what she was doing. She's done it countless times. You wouldn't be surprised at how many people have had their careers kick-started because Petunia let it happen."
There it was, an implied admission. I breathed in sharply, my palms flat against the wall in front of us.
"It was an equal agreement," Mark shrugged, "She's lonely, divorced. I was looking for something to help boost my budget. We both got what we wanted."
"But you didn't." I slurred. "You lost Lincoln."
"I did." He said, an impassivity about him. "She screwed me over."
"I'm sure she did."
"Stop." He closed his eyes. "You don't understand."
"Oh no," I begged to differ. "I understand that you sleep with people to get what you want— to achieve some sort of fucking agenda? If you were a girl you'd be labelled a slut and tossed off of the top of this building. But you're a guy it's okay— it's totally okay to break the law with your dick just so you can get a shiny laboratory for your fancy little plastics ideas."
"Beth-"
"How much did she get you?" I continued to rattle onwards. "A couple of hundred thousand? Lincoln is a nice place, a lot of nice funding grants. I always thought it was weird you didn't go to Mayo— did they not take what you were offering? Were all of the women on the board married?"
He looked more upset than angry, but that didn't register in my drunk little brain.
"I must be special then...." I paused and looked down at my hands. "I get the goods for free... or am I going to wake up one morning and find an invoice on my pillow?"
I sounded sad too. Not mad, sad.
The promised sad drunk girl was shining through. So far, this past hour I'd done a pretty good job at restraining her. I supposed that the last shot had loosened her chains. I looked at Mark with tears in my eyes.
"What do you want from me?"
"What?" He asked, his voice hushed.
"If you have an agenda with me, what the fuck is it?" I sounded pitiful, impatient and just straight up exhausted. "If you're going to ask me to do something, tell me what it is."
"Beth," Mark didn't sound like himself. "You're not making any sense."
"I don't have money for your plastic project."
"I know."
Admittedly, no, I wasn't making any sense. My words were mumbles, borderline incoherent as the fire burned out. Mark had to move closer to me to hear what I was saying.
The proximity just made me cry. Despite everything, all of those people in the room, I was still as lonely as I had been the night Mark and Petunia had called it quits. The night we'd slept together and begun this unconventional little casual relationship. I think Mark saw that, that night.
"Then why?" I asked. "Why are you..."
I think I finished because I'd forgotten what I was saying. Alcohol had a funny way of messing up my mind and putting things where they didn't belong.
Mark just stared at me for the longest time. I must've looked like a mess; mascara tracks were certainly down my face, my hair was definitely out of place and I'd for sure lost my hairband already. I didn't like the way he looked at me, even drunk and completely disorientated, I could still feel the vulnerability, the tenderness and the hopelessness that radiated from him.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again, then closed it a final time. Uncomfortable, he shifted around from foot to foot, eventually placing his glass down and leading me away from the wall. He sat me down on the chair and then, after a few more skittish paces, sat beside me.
"I don't know."
I don't know whether either of us knew what we were talking about at this point. I'd gone from swaying to full-on sagging, leaning heavily against Mark's shoulder.
Very slowly and very hesitantly, his hand come outwards to hold mine (which was a very cold, numb and flaccid appendage that seemed to have itself own agenda). Said hand grasped him tightly as if it was the last thing tethering me to the earth and stopping me from floating away.
"I like you," He sighed.
"You like me?" I mumbled.
"Yeah." He lifted my hand and pressed a kiss to it.
"That's nice."
"It is, isn't it?" Mark looked over at me, watching as I was borderline asleep on his shoulder. "I think you're very nice."
"Thanks."
"You're too good for me." He said that even quieter. I wouldn't recognise that sound for a few years to come. It'd be something that my drunken brain would drink in and ruminate over, before randomly releasing it to me out of the blue. Too good. Too good. Drug addict me found that fucking hilarious. "I don't have an agenda. Or maybe I do. I don't have any fucking idea what I'm doing with you—" He paused. "I think it's because I like you."
"Good," I said.
Unbeknownst to me, the whole of the sky was exploding in light and colour. It was officially the New Year and I had passed out on Mark Sloan's shoulder.
I uttered one last thing before I fell into a (pretty awful) sleep.
"I like you too."