Chapter Text
She woke up to the sound of the door closing. She heard a soft whisper coming from her living room. She didn't want to do it, but she did: she got out of bed with a heavy heart, dragging her feet to her bedroom door. She wanted to see who had arrived.
The new guest in her home was none other than Maggie, who was standing in the middle of her living room with a suitcase by her side. She didn't need to be a psychic to understand what she was doing there, standing, trying to analyze her with her gaze. Meredith had called her, and the truth was she didn't want her there; she didn't want anyone there.
Ever since Winston gave her the fateful news, everything had crumbled for her. Meredith had found her in her lab devastated, in a secluded corner, totally lost in her thoughts.
She didn't understand how she had arrived so fast. Maybe Mer had called her after finding her in her lab; she didn't really remember that conversation, she didn't remember anything since the news. Since she arrived home, she had remained in her room, secluded in her bed by her own choice; it made it hurt less.
“You shouldn't be here,” she pointed out as she left the room on her way to the kitchen; she needed some water.
“No, but I want to be here for you. I know what you’re going through,” Maggie noted while trying to connect with her gaze.
Meredith added: “You have us here to support you.”
With a listless tone, looking them in the eyes, she said: “You should give up on me.” She truly believed it: she only brought chaos, pain, and death to everyone around her. She didn't deserve their friendship, she didn't deserve their affection; she wasn't enough and she never would be.
She saw pity in their eyes, sorrow, and something else she couldn't decipher. She didn't like it; she didn't want to feel that way again, to receive those kinds of looks once more. Sadness invaded her chest again, so she crossed the living room and went back to her room, to her safe place. She threw herself back onto the bed, wrapped in her blanket, staring at the ceiling while listening to another soft murmur coming from the living room.
“You told me Link was stable. Why is she like this?” Maggie asked, bewildered by Amelia’s attitude.
She sighed resignedly; she couldn't do anything to help her sister, and the simple memory of the accident brought her sadness. “It’s not because of Link. He’s in the ICU, but he’s stable; he’ll need a lot of therapy,” she said as she sat down and grabbed a Scout plushie.
She could see her sister's bewildered look, so she continued giving her more information: “In OR 5 was one of the interns, Millin, along with a patient and the pediatric surgeon, Mónica, Dr. Beltrán.” She took a breath to continue; everything surrounding her death was tragic and melancholy. “She didn't make it. She got trapped by a light; it took the firefighters a long time to get in. She passed away from internal bleeding due to crush injuries.”
She could see how Maggie swallowed hard upon hearing the account. She sat on the other side of the sofa, shocked, and asked: “Why didn't the intern help her?”
She knew the answer, but she still wondered the same thing; she wanted to understand the decisions that had been made inside that operating room.
“She tried. Millin really tried, but Beltrán wouldn't let her. She guided her through the procedure with the patient, deceived her at every turn about her symptoms, and didn't let them treat her until the patient was stable; and by the time that happened, it was too late for her. She gave her life for the boy.”
She didn't really know Beltrán; she wasn't working at the hospital before leaving for Boston, and in her few visits, she had never crossed paths with her. She didn't know her, but the little she interacted with her before the explosion showed her she was a person who cared about her patients and her friends. She felt genuine concern in her voice for Amelia, and after learning what had happened in the OR—the decisions she had made—she could only think of her as someone brave, someone who deserved to live.
It seemed Maggie wanted to ask something else, but she continued narrating the events of that early morning: “Since I found her in her lab, lying in a corner, she hasn't said a word, she hasn't wanted to eat, and she doesn't want to leave the room.” She saw the door, firm, closed, and stoic; it was just a door, but behind it, she knew there was pain, sadness, and guilt. “Winston told her about her death, and from that moment on, she entered this state. I don't know what kind of relationship they had; she doesn't say anything.”
“Let me write to Winston; he should answer me,” she commented while taking out her phone. While typing the message, she asked: “Do you think they were in a relationship?”
The question surprised her; she hadn't thought of that possibility. It would explain many things, but she didn't believe it; it didn't feel that way, but she wasn't sure. She didn't have a clear answer: “I don't think so. She tells us everything, we’re her family; we would have found out if she had a new romance. Since Kai, she’s been single; she told me so, she had given up on love.”
Maggie didn't agree with her words; she shook her head after hearing them: “You might be right, but we haven't been here for her. We left the city and she stayed here, alone with her cat, living with her nephew.”
The sound of a notification caught her attention. She furrowed her brows and read aloud: “It’s impossible they were dating; they were just work colleagues and had handled many cases together.”
“Well, I don't believe him. Winston isn't that trusting. He knows something we don't.” She weighed everything—the message, Maggie’s opinion—and she was starting to believe it; there could be something there, it was logical after all.
“She was the one who warned us about the threat in OR 2. She explained she realized something was wrong when she passed by Dylan’s room and didn't find her. The first thing she did was try to communicate with Amelia; she couldn't reach her. Lucas was on his rotation and she couldn't find him either; the other intern in charge of Amelia wasn't showing up, and she decided to look for them. And that’s how she discovered what was happening.”
She settled a bit more on the sofa; memories were flooding her. The tragedy still seemed overwhelming to her.
“She was very scared. When we were in the room with the police, she was worried because Amelia was operating without the necessary equipment. You should have heard her; she was really nervous and restless, she couldn't stay still. When Dylan’s results came in, you could see the terror in her eyes at the thought that something could go wrong in the OR.”
Overwhelmed by everything, she let out a sigh. She set aside the Scout plushie and fixed her gaze on the cold, stoic door. Reality had hit her: she wasn't a good sister.
She could hear what they were talking about; not very well, but she could recognize some phrases. She wasn't paying attention, but immediately she recognized her name: “Mónica,” seconds later “Beltrán”; it was Meredith talking about her.
Her eyes filled with tears again; she clenched her jaw tightly, tense, and only wrapped herself tighter in the blankets, squeezing them, looking for a refuge she knew she couldn't find in them.
Sadness pierced every part of her being; tears fell uncontrollably. Phlegm built up, preventing her from breathing normally. It had all happened because of her recklessness; Mónica had lost her life because of her irresponsibility.
“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. You trusted me and I wasn't able to respond properly. I disappointed you, I disappointed everyone. I’m sorry, Mónica, I’m really sorry.” She said those words to the air, in a faint whisper; guilt was eating her alive.
She didn't want that, she didn't want to accept it. Mónica, the only person who didn't judge her, who didn't see her through her past, who was more interested in her, in her person; who truly trusted her, in her hands, was gone and it was her fault. She had snatched that sparkle from her eyes, genuine kindness. Mónica was dead and she was responsible.
She closed her eyes tightly; her thoughts tormented her. She didn't want to feel this way, she didn't want to be a disappointment to everyone. Tears continued to stream down her face; she cried as much as she could and wanted to keep doing so, but exhaustion took over and, after a few minutes, she fell fast asleep.
---//---
She woke up from her sleep overwhelmed; she blinked for a moment, trying to wake up completely, and in that instant, she noticed it. She looked around: she had just parked her car. And it couldn't be; she shouldn't be there.
A movement beside her caught her attention, so she turned. Meredith was holding one of GrandPaw’s toys with puzzlement, so she asked: “Did you get a cat?”
She couldn't believe it; she had lived this situation before. Her subconscious answered automatically: “I’ve given up on finding a soulmate.” Was it a dream? Was her mind playing a horrible prank on her?
The sound of a horn snapped her out of her thoughts. Was it possible? Her body moved on its own. She didn't know if it was her subconscious acting again or her desperation to know what it could mean. She turned and looked out the window.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing: everything was the same as the first time she saw her. She was holding her phone while driving her SUV. Mónica was there, alive and once again angry at her recklessness.
“Hey! I was waiting for that spot!” she shouted from where she was, truly angry; her brow was furrowed again, she had missed it.
She didn't know how to act, so she tried to repeat what she had said the first time: “Well, you were on your phone.” And she knew it instantly: she had been an idiot all over again.
“Responding to an important message,” Mónica replied. She knew she had angered her even more; she didn't remember ever seeing her that angry again after that first meeting, but there she was, enraged and stressed.
She tried to reply, but again her subconscious acted, saying: “There’s another spot...” And before she could complete the sentence, Mónica rolled her eyes and accelerated her SUV, disappearing among the other cars.
She watched her pull away, still trying to figure out what had happened. She returned to her initial position as she felt Mer get out of her car; she heard her say some things she didn't catch.
Once silence took over the space, she felt she could breathe again. At some point she had stopped, making her take a gulp of air and, after exhaling, while gripping the steering wheel tightly and focusing her gaze on some irrelevant spot, she said aloud, trying to expel everything her mind was feeling at that moment: “What the hell is going on!”