Archive of Our Own ^beta

The second year, she goes to the cute stationery shop that's around the corner of the hospital to buy a stack of Christmas cards. When Jackson (her now best friend Jackson) teases her about the number of cards she wants to write, she pauses and tells him that one of them is for Reed's parents. She doesn't know what kind of reaction she expects, but his eyes turn into a stormy, impossibly blue color, and he looks like he's picking his words very carefully when he answers that she's always been the kind one of their intern group, and that Mr. and Mrs. Adamson will be happy to hear from her. She beams at him in response, and once she's filled the ones for her family and friends, she sets out to write the card for Reed's parents. She foregoes the Bible quote she has shared in most of her other cards, opting to simply wish them a meaningful and hopeful holiday season (she almost writes "with your loved ones", but quickly decides to leave that out). She then adds a little note on another piece of paper, saying she's still in her residency, leaning towards trauma surgery, and that she's just moved in a new flat and is now living with two of her coworkers. She mentions Jackson by name, because Reed's parents know him – they were the only two from the hospital at Reed's funeral, besides Dr. Bailey and Dr. Webber. She pauses, wondering if boasting about her life is the right thing to do. If Reed's parents wouldn't find it cruel that she's telling them she's living the life their daughter should have lived, and experiencing things she never would, but she then remembers the words of the therapist the hospital has hired, the words that Jackson has echoed during all their sleepless nights spent taking about their friends: she should not feel guilty for surviving, for keeping living her life, just because Reed's was cut short. So she pushes the thought away, sticks the note inside the card and seals the envelope. The phone call she receives a few days later, from an emotional but loving Mrs. Adamson, is worth it.

The third year, April still sends a card, but almost doesn't send an accompanying note. Updating people on your life is all good and fun, until your life becomes a giant mess you can't make sense of. What can she say to Mr. and Mrs. Adamson this year? That she failed her boards? That she had a falling-out with Jesus? That when the going got tough, she fled to Ohio, her tail between her legs, almost throwing years of studying and training out of the window? That she kissed, slept with, guilt-tripped, lost her best friend, the one person she thought would always be in her life, protecting her? That if they don't reconcile all of this with the April Kepner they met a few times, it's okay, because she doesn't recognize herself anymore? Thus her decision to write a generic, Christmas-y message in the red and gold card she bought. Rereading it, it feels way too formal and impersonal, and she's afraid they'll think she's brushing them off. So she picks up her pen and writes about inconsequential things. She mentions she's a trauma attending (but steers away from the boards), talks about Seattle and how time flies. She asks about them, says she hopes they'll have a nice holiday season. Before slipping it into the card, she adds: "P.S.: There are moments I find myself missing Reed so much it feels like a kick in the stomach, or wondering what she would say if she could see me now." Maybe it's the wrong thing to say, to write, but she figures that Mr. and Mrs. Adamson miss her every minute of every day and would appreciate someone sharing that sentiment, even for a minute. The card she gets a few days later in the mail confirms that yes, they do, and that she'll always be welcome to write, call or visit.

The fourth year, she doesn't send that many Christmas cards. One reason is that she's pretty sure everyone hates her for running out of her own wedding just a few days before, and she can't really convey "sorry I made you come to my wedding only to run away at the last minute" in a standard season's greetings message. The main reason though is that if she were to send cards, she would want to do it the proper way, with a glossy picture of Jackson and her, smiling and dressed up, with a traditional caption reading "Love is patient, Love is kind. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from April & Jackson". But she can't do that, because the whole world (minus her brand-new husband) is unaware that Jackson and April are now Jackson and April, husband and wife. They've both decided to keep it a secret for the time being, because they may look like monsters to outsiders, but they're not, and they don't want to parade their happiness too soon (and oh, how happy they are). So maybe it's because she can't tell anyone else, or maybe because she doesn't feel like lying to Reed's parents, or omitting this huge, life-changing, universe-altering thing that recently happened. Maybe. But she prints a picture of their wedding, the one where they're sitting on a bench, looking at the camera, Jackson's arm flung around her shoulders, his other hand covering her own on his knee, and she adds a note: "No one knows yet, but Jackson and I got married a few days ago. It was a surprise, even for the both of us, and you're the first to know, but I couldn't be happier. Reed wouldn't believe it (I still can't sometimes), and she would tease Jackson relentlessly, and Charles would probably be glad us Mercy Westers are still sticking together. I hope you're okay and am sending you so much love. Merry Christmas." In response, Mr. and Mrs. Adamson send her a congratulatory card and a lovely set of mugs adorned with their initials, and it's the only wedding gift she doesn't return or give away.

The fifth year, April doesn't want to send anything. Her Christmas cards are ready, have been for weeks now, because she's organized and wanted them to be perfect, but she thanks God (or she would, if she was in a forgiving mood. She's kind of giving him the cold shoulder right now) she hasn't sent them yet, hasn't thought of it between all the scans and needles and tests and tears. Because sending that beautiful picture of Jackson and her, proudly displaying her baby bump, smiling so hard you could feel their joy radiating from the picture, and having people receive it at the same time they were experiencing the most painful day of their life, the one where they had to meet their baby and say goodbye to him at the same time, wiping those broad smiles off their faces, to probably never be seen again? It would have been another deep, painful paper cut on top of the open wound she's currently feeling in her body and her soul, and she doesn't know if she can stomach even one more shred of pain. She's so angry, and Christmas is not the season to be angry (nor it is the season to be sad, to feel empty, to watch her husband put away the little baby Air Jordans he'd bought for Samuel, but here they are). Sitting in the nursery (what would have been his nursery), in the rocking chair her husband has painstakingly built, she realizes that she now has another thing in common with Mr. and Mrs. Adamson, besides missing Reed. They have all lost a child, and for a minute, all April can feel is jealousy, because they got to experience Reed for twenty-seven glorious years, and she only had a few minutes with her own son. They saw their daughter love and grow and run, and she only has the ghost feeling of Samuel squeezing her finger. Her eyes fill up with tears when she realizes that's she's comparing grief, and she wants to vomit (what? Her stomach has been empty for days). She silently apologizes to them in her head, but she doesn't send a single Christmas card that year.

The sixth year, April doesn't do Christmas cards. First, because glittery or cute stationery is kind of hard to find in the middle of the Jordanian countryside. Second, because she's starting to believe she's changed so much she's no longer the type of person who sends Christmas cards anymore. Third, because she almost wills herself to forget it's already December, the days spent in a blur of military operations and soldiers to operate on. She still writes letters though. She has written dozens to Jackson, though she has yet to send so much as one. One afternoon, during a lull in surgeries, she goes to her CO's office and takes a few sheets of paper and a pen. At first, she doesn't address her letter to anyone. She just puts on paper everything she has been feeling. How she's lost, how she ran away, how she can't shake that feeling that she doesn't know who she is anymore and won't ever again. How she's trying to find a new purpose, since being a mother was cruelly taken away from her, and she wonders if she'll be able to one day think about Jackson without picturing his tear-streaked face or feeling his hand cover hers during the worst day of their life. Still writing, she asks what she's doing, across the world from her husband, from anyone she knows and loves, and tries to find words to describe her grief. A few tears splash on the piece of paper, but she keeps writing, and it's only after the ninth paragraph that she understands the letter is for Reed's parents. She wants them to read it, to know that she's not lying when she says she shares their pain. She ends the letter by apologizing about not sending a card or calling last year (because she doesn't know who she is anymore, but she apparently still has good manners) and hoping they'll forgive her. She doesn't know, won't for a few months, but Reed's father writes in answer a four-page-long letter she'll read again and again when she's back in Seattle, taking comfort in the fact that as much as she hates it, someone, somewhere, gets it.

The seventh year (and oh God, April wonders, how has it been already seven years?), she goes back to a standard Christmas card, but she still attaches a note. While she shares her struggles to go back to her previous life, she steers clear from delving into what she really feels. She and Jackson are in that weird stage where they're still married, but it doesn't feel like it, even with all the counselling sessions and weird discussions they're having, and if possible, she's even more lost than before she left. She talks a bit about her work, mentions Kamal, the little boy who got back his hands because of incredible teamwork (but deep down, of course it's only Jackson who is to thank, no matter what he claims) and a few other patients. It's not fair, she knows, and she doubts Mr. and Mrs. Adamson are that interested in what she's got going at the hospital, but it is her safe place these days, and she doesn't want to disappoint them by talking about everything that's wrong. About how Jackson looks at her now, about how she still can't go into the room that used to be the nursery, about how everyone seems to have forgotten about Samuel, about how she still sometimes wants to abandon everything and fly to the other end of the world. She reads Reed's father's letter again, she almost knows it by heart now, so much that she has underlined a few passages. One says, "One thing you'll soon learn is that there is no timeline on grief, no how-to guide, and you don't have to apologize for how you try to stay afloat or how long it takes for you to reach the shore." She tries to remember it when she feels angry at the world or hopeless about her future. She wants Reed's parents to know how they helped, are still helping from afar, but she can't find the words, so she ends her note with a simple "Thank you. Your words mean more than I can say." and hope it's enough.

The eighth year, she prints a few pictures of Harriet to accompany the note and the card. She still can't believe she got her miracle, but she doesn't go into details, opting to talk about the mundane, obvious baby stuff. She doesn't mention the divorce, simply says that Jackson and her are co-parenting and that she still can't believe the two clueless kids from Mercy West are grown-up enough to have a kid of their own and to take care of a baby. She doesn't mention the awkwardness between her and her roommate, her indecisiveness about moving out of Jackson's apartment, her first moments of motherhood that were nothing like she'd expected (but then, her very first moments of motherhood with Samuel hadn't been anything she could have expected either, so she guesses it's par for the course). She doesn't mention either the hope that has been clinging to her heart ever since Jackson and her came back from Montana a few days ago, the fact that she feels like she's seen the real, raw version of Jackson for the first time since it all went to hell, the maybes that she doesn't dare to dream. Instead, she asks about them and their family, their grandchildren. Sealing the envelope, she wonders if Mr. and Mrs. Adamson will be able to read between the lines and understand what she cannot and doesn't want to say. That sometimes she looks at Harriet and sees another baby. Or that when she sees Jackson rocking Harriet to sleep, she has to make a conscious effort to stop daydreaming about another life, with a big brother, a baby and no divorce. Or that she got her miracle, and she should be grateful (she is), but she still can't make the ache for what she's lost, what she's still grieving, disappear. We all have stuff we don't talk about, she once said to her coworkers, even among kindred spirits. And anyway, a Christmas card isn't the place to do so, so she does what she does best: she fakes it, hopefully until she makes it.

The ninth year, she buys the most generic, basic greetings card she can find. Jackson has Harriet for the night, so she goes home, opens a bottle of wine and sets out to write, only to find she has absolutely nothing to say. It's not like she can rely on a good old Bible verse, like she used to do, like she was raised to do. God won't help her tonight, like he hasn't helped that little boy shot by the cops in front of of his own home, like he hasn't helped Matthew Taylor's wife. Like he won't help her ever again, it feels like. She sneers at the naivety of her past self, believing those verses without questioning them, without questioning Him. Actually, she doesn't know if it's naivety or stupidity. Because it's not like there weren't signs before. She killed a young mother and was fired. She slipped in the blood of her best friend and faced a man with a gun. She humiliated a man in front of his whole family. She lost a son and fled everything she knew. Her list of failures starts feeling bigger than her accomplishments. She failed the most important exam of her life, failed to be a good Christian, a good wife, failed her son when he was still in her belly, failed the one person she had never wanted to fail, the one she had made vows to, the one who she was so proud to call her husband. Why has it taken that long for her to get it? To understand that you can try to do everything right, but that it doesn't matter, because God can punish you either way, or worse, God won't even care? And she's not Miss Popularity, never has been, so she doubts people will care about her pity party and her melodrama. So she drinks, she writes a standard greeting and mails the envelope with the others. When Mrs. Adamson calls a few days later, on an evening where Harriet is again at Jackson's, she doesn't pick up the phone. 

The tenth and the eleventh year, despite being a mother, a wife again, a Christian (again, because for a while it really felt like she'd stopped), she doesn't go back to what she feels is expected of her as all those things. She doesn't print a photograph of her, Matthew, Harriet and Ruby in their church clothes, doesn't print a Bible verse or a generic greeting like "Merry Christmas from the Kepner-Taylors!" (Matthew is still annoyed she has kept her maiden name, but it's one of the only things she's not willing to compromise on). Her correspondence with the Adamsons is private, something that only she needs to know about, and so she gets a nice letterhead and waits until she's alone to start writing. She tells them she remarried (but this time they don't send her a present, and deep down, she knows), talks about Harriet, the joy of her life, and glosses over the work she does at the clinic, helping rural communities in dire need of medical care. A work that should make her heart sing, and her soul feel complete, but if she's completely honest with herself, sometimes the urge to pick up a scalpel and cut into someone to make him better is still as strong as ever, no matter how hard she tries to repress it. When she rereads the letter, checking for typos or grammatical errors, she realizes how boring it sounds, how what she once dreamt for herself now seems a bit stifling. The contents of the letter are standard and dull, but it will take her a few more months to realize that it's because her life is as well. That the calm and stability she has craved after the past ten years were just a facade, an excuse for her not to see that she was settling. It's like she's stopped dreaming, stopped going against the currents, and she wonders if Mr. and Mrs. Adamson will recognize her, if they'll feel disappointed, or if it's what they've been expecting all along.

The twelfth year, for the first time, the return address for her cards reads "Boston" instead of "Seattle". And because the fog has finally lifted, because she finally feels that she's where she's supposed to be, her Christmas card to the Adamsons this year is anything but boring. Well, the official one is pretty standard, as Christmas cards go. But the now traditional note she attaches reflects her new start in life. How fulfilled she is by her new position in the Catherine Fox Foundation, how charming she finds Boston, if a little cold, how sometimes she stops to look at Jackson reading Harriet a story and feels her heart bursting out of her chest, in the best of ways. She guesses that by now the Adamsons must be very entertained by her life, because it does look sometimes like a soap-opera from the outside, but deep in her heart, she knows they won't judge. Not when she's finally this happy, this at peace with herself and with the world. And the best way to show them what she wants to say is in the picture she slips in the envelope. It shows Harriet, Jackson and her wearing matching Christmas pajamas and equally matching grins. A picture that required hours of pleading, because apparently Jackson isn't the type to wear silly P.J.'s because "it's not an Avery thing", but, after lots of cajoling and pleading and the unsanctioned use of her eyelashes and dimples (who said she had to fight fair?), he'd conceded that it could be a Kepner-Avery thing after all. A picture that took a few more hours to shoot, because two members of this Kepner-Avery family love to stare at the camera with a dignified pout just to mess with April, forgetting that she, the third member of this family, is more stubborn than the other two combined and won't leave them alone until she gets her picture. And she does get it. She gets all of it, the grin on Harriet's face that showcases one missing tooth, the little girl so happy ever since they moved to Massachussetts, the grin on Jackson's face that is reserved just for her and their daughter, that he wears more often than not, her own grin that she once thought she would never see again. The grin she sports when Jackson, on his way to help Harriet decorate the tree, sees the address written on the envelope and kisses her cheek. She seals the envelope, puts it on the pile of cards already written and looks at her family: it is the season to be joyful, and she'll strive to embrace the sentiment for as long as she can.