Chapter Text
Chapter 1. Swim Until You're Free
Twenty-Nine Years Earlier
Addison breathes out slowly and feels the flush in her cheeks—now lightly freckled from summer mornings spent on the Long Island Sound—begin to disperse. Finally, they fall off the wind and are able to move again, picking up speed as their sailboat slices through brackish water that glistens in the sunlight. The latest stall was Addison’s fault, of course. As were the previous two. She didn’t loosen the main sheet quick enough, so for the third time today the sails, which typically stretch like elegant parachutes under the Captain’s watch, started to flap haplessly, luffing in the sharp cut of the wind. In irons, Addison knows, because you can’t sail into the wind. And at nine years of age, Addison Forbes Montgomery is a shaky first officer on the best of days and a disastrous one on the worst of days. There is also no second officer today (well, if Archer were here, technically she would be the second officer), which only makes things more complicated.
It's peaceful out on the Sound though. It’s a beautiful August morning, one of the last before Addison starts fourth grade. And it’s just her and the Captain today – Archer slept over at a friend’s house last night, and her mother doesn’t really care for sailing. Bizzy also had Garden Club this morning. Or something. Addison heard hydrangeas mentioned last night while she was being ushered off to bed by her nanny. She thinks it’s sort of nice though when it’s just her and her father. When they reach calmer spots and the Captain anchors for his own enjoyment or to stop to have a boat-next-to-boat conversation with friends of the Montgomerys who are inevitably also at Greenwich Point for the day, Addison is able to get into the water for a bit. She is contently doing just that right now, hanging onto the boarding ladder and letting her legs float out lazily behind her. She is thinking about how when they go to The Club for lunch after this (because they always do), maybe she’ll get a Shirley Temple again (with extra cherries, of course).
Addison climbs back onto the sailboat when she can hear the Captain talking to someone on the starboard side. She doesn’t really want to get out of the water yet, but it would be rude not to say hello. She recognizes the woman’s voice and determines it’s the Pruitt family. They’re nice, at least.
“Hi, Addie,” Mrs. Pruitt says when Addison gets back into the cockpit.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt. It’s good to see you.” Addison shines a smile in their direction. She likes that they are the kind of parents who mean it when they say hello, and that when they talk to her, they actually seem interested in what she has to say—not all parents do. “And hello, Esmé.” Her gaze shifts towards Esmé Pruitt, who is a grade above her at Carrington Prep. The greeting Esmé offers in return is friendly enough, but Addison can tell she looks vaguely disappointed. Probably because Archie isn’t here. All the girls love Archie.
“I could see her raise the head sail from back near the dock.” Addison’s father is speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt about Esmé now. “She’s doing great. This one and Archer on the other hand…” he tips his head in Addison’s direction. “They’re breaking my heart,” he says with a billowy laugh.
Addison adopts a small, if not empathetic smile for her father. She and her big brother—just a year older than her—have heard this plenty of times, so it’s not exactly hurtful. And there’s no denying the fact that it’s true. They can’t tack; they’re clumsy with the jib sheets and never get the timing right, and they never pull the main sheet tight enough or loosen it quick enough. They have been hit and experienced near-hits with the boom while jibing more than once. Archer even got a concussion one time.
“Well, they have plenty of other talents,” Mrs. Pruitt says mildly. She directs her attention towards Addison again. “You played beautifully at the recital last week, Addie.”
Not true. She messed up near the end of Sonatina in G Major. She didn’t keep her shoulders down and her hands could have been more balanced for the last three bars. The mistakes were indiscernible to most in the small auditorium, but not to Addison. And not to her teacher. And not to Bizzy. Or to Beethoven, Addison assumes. She played the piece for Daddy on Friday evening, since he couldn’t make the piano recital. He’s never made any of them, actually. She played it better that time though. He told Addison she did great, but to work on keeping her spine “neutral.” This surprises her; she didn’t think the Captain knew anything about piano-playing, but then again, he knows the human body, so maybe that’s enough of the same thing. That’s his job. She goes to New Haven with him sometimes and practices “surgery” on hot dogs in the back of the room while her father’s students mill around cadavers in the anatomy lab. She’s getting pretty good at removing the casing.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pruitt,” Addison replies, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, always, no matter what. She makes sure to speak up and maintain eye contact. She gets scolded for not doing this enough, especially when conversing with adults.
Addison waits patiently for the adults to finish talking. She thinks maybe she should try to speak to Esmé, but she can’t really think of anything to say. She’s gotten better about being more talkative with her peers—stop being shy, Bizzy has whisper-snapped more than once—and she’s been working so, so hard on tongue placement with Miss Linda to get rid of her lisp.
(A “dreadful lisp,” according to her mother. And a few months ago, when Addison was within earshot, she heard her mother say to Mrs. Silverman, “Addie already has red hair and freckles. You would think that would be plenty enough ‘character’ for a young lady to have without throwing in a speaking issue.” Mrs. Silverman had laughed along with Bizzy, which was sort of a shame. Addison had always liked Mrs. Silverman and thought she was nice.)
Addison’s thoughts return to lunch again. Grilled cheese and fries. Or a burger and fries. She probably won’t decide until the last minute. She definitely wants a Shirley Temple though, and hopefully the Captain has a short memory, because she would kind of understand if he told her ‘no’ this time. During lunch at The Club last weekend, she blew into her straw on purpose, making pink bubbles float up. And Addison wasn’t quiet or subtle about it. Mostly it was just a rude thing to do (or “uncouth,” as the Captain said later), but she only did it because the waitress and her father were sharing a laugh and she didn’t like when her father put his hand on top of the waitress’s.
She just wanted it to stop.
. .
. .
Present Day
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays have the potential to be “good” days when it comes to the Shepherd marriage. Derek is usually at the hospital those days instead of at the practice. And today actually does end up being a good day because Derek has some time to spare in between post-ops. He and Addison are in the cafeteria now, volleying recent surgical stories back-and-forth and discussing anything else that is surface-level.
“Hey,” Derek cuts Addison off when he sees Mark approaching from behind her. “How’s it going? You here the whole day?”
“Hey there,” Mark replies. He gives Addison a quick double pat on the shoulder and then takes a seat in the empty chair next to Derek. “Long time no see. I’m here until three or so, and then heading back to the practice.” Mark started his own practice shortly before Derek started his. It’s always been funny to Addison that when the men talk with one another about work, they always say the practice this and the practice that. She isn’t sure when it comes to the ownership of the versus my, if one sounds more arrogant than the other. Maybe it’s not arrogant at all, if Addison really gives it some thought. It’s just that this is Derek and Mark, and although they are best friends—brothers, really—there is no denying the competitiveness regularly brewing between them. “I’m also hiding at the moment,” Mark adds with a sheepish face.
“What did you do?” Derek asks. Even though it’s more likely who.
“Actually, I’m innocent,” Mark says. “I’m just avoiding a patient for as long as I can. Maybe not even a patient anymore. So, basically: husband wants to pay for breast implants for his mistress. Wife finds out about it and shows up at the clinic. Says if her husband wants to leave her, he can, but under no circumstances is he allowed to pay for this other woman’s surgery. Not now, or like…ever. I’m not sure how exactly that works in a divorce settlement, but…yeah.”
Addison winces. “That sounds like a version of the The Lady, or the Tiger? Did you guys ever read that one?” She watches as they both predictably shake their heads. “I won’t bore you with a long explanation then, but it’s an old short story about the daughter of a king who is seeing a guy behind her father’s back who’s not ‘worthy’ of her, and when the king finds out, he utilizes his usual form of public punishment: pick a door. So the boyfriend is brought into an arena to choose his fate. Behind one door is another lady, who the king has deemed an appropriate match—and the lady is also someone the princess hates. And behind the other door is—”
“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess it’s a tiger,” Mark interjects.
“Yep. And before the trial, the princess finds out the positions of the lady and tiger. She secretly indicates to her boyfriend which door to open, but that’s where the story ends. The reader is left to guess what’s behind the door she wants him to open. So it’s basically a choice between love and jealousy. Your situation just happens to be a more, uh, expensive version.”
“With more chance of follow-up work, too,” Mark murmurs, words clipped by the sound of a pager humming to life. Addison grinds her teeth to keep from sighing. Logic defies it, but somehow she thinks she would be less disappointed if she were the one who was being paged and had to duck out of this lunch date early. It’s just too predictable that it’s Derek’s pager.
“The princess would pick the non-tiger door,” Derek says, rising to his feet and already slipping back into doctor mode. “Bye, Mark. I’ll see you at home, Addie.” And then he’s gone. No kiss. No smile. No actual guarantee as to if Derek will even be home tonight for anything longer than a quick shower and change of clothes.
Mark watches quietly for a moment as Derek walks away. “I haven’t seen too much of him lately,” he ventures.
“Mm-hmm. Join the club.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “Sorry. You…you want me to kick his ass for you?”
Addison laughs wearily while she pokes at her salad. “No, but thank you for the offer. Since you’re here though—I was thinking about going to the Hamptons next weekend. I brought it up with Derek, and he’s actually on board at this point. Probably since it’s October—he hates the Hamptons year-round, but a little less when it’s not the summer months. Do you want to come, Mark? I was thinking we would leave in the early afternoon, if you’re able to finish up a bit earlier than usual next Friday. It’s been a while since we’ve done an Addison-Derek-Mark trio trip.”
“Seems like you’re asking not really for the whole spending time with me thing, but because if I go, Derek is less likely to cancel?”
“Well, yes…that, too. I know you hate fishing, but it’s so nice up there this time of year. And, you know. Lots of beautiful women.”
“All right. I’ll get back to you, but that should work…” Mark furrows his eyebrows as he watches Addison. She has folded a hand beneath her chin, knuckles wedged into her skin as she stares off to the side. “Red?” He prompts, drawing her back to the conversation.
“Sorry,” Addison replies. “I was just thinking…the princess in the story is described as ‘semi-barbaric.’ That’s an important detail. I think Derek’s right, that she made sure her boyfriend picked the door with the lady behind it. I’ve always thought that. It doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the end of the story though. Maybe the Princess killed her father afterwards, because as long as he was living, there was no chance she could be with her boyfriend. And then she could have killed the lady, if the lady wasn’t willing to step aside.”
“Damn.” Mark grimaces.
“What?”
“Running away could have worked too, you know. That makes me think about that scenario that tells you if you have psychopathic traits. You know which one I’m talking about: a woman is at her mother’s funeral and meets a guy there who she thinks is ‘the one,’ but she forgets to get his number before he leaves. A few days later, the woman’s sister winds up dead…and you realize it’s because the woman killed her own sister because there was a chance the guy would come to that funeral, too.”
Addison smirks at him. “More likely for me it just means that I over-analyze things and think critically. I’m too WASP-ish to discuss them, but I have far, far too many feelings to be considered a psychopath. And I promise not to kill you or my husband.”
“Even though you’re probably tempted at times.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
. .
. .
It will be eleven years of marriage next June.
There’s distance and there’s silence. That’s their relationship now. Their moment in the cafeteria this afternoon did wonders to lift Addison’s spirits, but it’s just a moment and it’s absolutely the exception now. The silence is the more unnerving of the two qualities, because they don’t even bother to fight anymore and for them, fighting was often healthy. They yelled and then rationalized and compromised. The distance and silence though—and hell, the indifference on Derek’s part—it’s been this way for at least two years now. Maybe longer, but it’s hard to say when exactly it started, because Addison knows she is not blameless when it comes to the fact that they have become more like roommates than husband and wife. They don’t really live with each other now; the lives they lead are very separate. Addison just knows it’s something that’s happening, something that’s been happening. She thinks of a line from her husband’s favorite novel: “gradually and then suddenly.”
Gradually and then suddenly is what guarantees an unhappy marriage. And what are the indicators of a marriage that’s gone bad? Well, Addison can certainly pick apart the “bigger” gradual moments or events that have likely led to this. It’s not one single thing. It’s several. And again, it’s not like she’s blameless. Five things, come to mind though, scattered like tide pools through the ebbs and flows of their marriage.
One: she let Derek go the private practice route. Or, more accurately, she let him go first. It didn’t seem wise to Addison—no matter how much money she has access to—for them both to establish their own practices at the same time. The reasons why she didn’t push back a bit harder at the time now elude her. Derek’s career always does seem to come first though. She hasn’t thought about opening a practice of her own in a while now. That would just put more strain on them.
Two: the pregnancy “scare.” Not that there’s ever an ideal time to have a baby when you’re a surgeon. That’s what Derek thinks, at least. And when this incident happened, at the not-so-young-anymore age of thirty-five, Addison didn’t necessarily disagree with her husband. She understood what Derek was saying, and although it would have taken her a few days or weeks to sort through the feelings, it’s not like she would have ultimately been unhappy if she had ended up pregnant at the time—but she definitely didn’t feel ready. Medical school, residency, fellowship training, eighty-hour work weeks, single shifts that can last up to twenty-eight hours…fine, if you frame it that way, there’s never an ideal time to welcome a baby. But the thing is, had Addison not ended up getting her period a few days later, it wouldn’t have been Derek’s career that would have been impacted.
Three: the “Amelia incident.” Her husband can be such a terrible big brother, sometimes.
Four: the genetics fellowship. They both knew if Addison did the fellowship in Medical Genetics, that meant no kids for another two years. But she had to do it. The opportunity to learn more about the diagnosis and management of birth defects, developmental disorders, and genetic conditions—it would only make her a better doctor. Derek asked, of course, if her interest had anything to do with the fact that the Captain was, among other things, board-certified in Clinical Molecular Genetics. And this, of course, led to an argument, because at the time, they were still bothering to fight, at least.
And then, moment five: the “Bizzy incident.” Not something she wants to think about right now.
Gradually and then suddenly was still something survivable though. Maybe all of these gradual things were just hiccups, temporary setbacks or frustrations that are typical of a marriage once it transitions from the unsustainable infatuation stage to everyday, ordinary love and respect. The current unhappiness did not have to mean Addison and Derek were going to drown and would not be able to save each other or their relationship.
There is distance and there is silence, but in the end, it could have all just been static, really.
But then Addison fell in love with her husband’s best friend.
. .
. .
Sailing. When you get down to it, it’s about vocabulary and knowing the wind’s relationship to the boat. Language and vigilance. That’s what Addison’s father has always said, anyway. It’s what keeps the boat moving forward.
As a little girl, it took Addison a long time to get the terminology down. The parts, the actions—all of it. So much of it is just ridiculous, like a made-up language shared between siblings, like a drunk trying to sound out a word at the end of a long night. Luff. Forestay. Keel. Clew. Halyard. Ahull. Again: ridiculous, and just further proof that people with money are unbearable. Addison remembers this coming up once with Derek, Mark, Naomi, and Sam in their final year of med school when they visited her parents’ country house one weekend. They were playing King’s Cup. Someone drew a Nine and they’d gone around for a bit, and then a competitive shouting match ensued when Addison said clew. They wanted her to drink, because Naomi—a few minutes removed from having her poor head over the toilet—had already said clue, just before Derek said grew.
Addison shook her head. “C-l-e-w. It’s the bottom back corner of a sail. Archer will be back any minute. He can tell you if you don’t believe me.”
“Okay, then…shrew.”
“Mark!” Addison turned towards him when he said this, wearing an expression painted with both amusement and offense, the usual reaction when the best friend of her husband (then boyfriend) spoke. “That is so—”
“Not you, Red. Well, sometimes you, yes.” Mark snuck a glance at Derek, who rolled his eyes, but did not necessarily disagree. “It’s my turn and I’m keeping it going. I think we can all take your word for the weird-ass sailing thing. So…second version of clue, then shrew, and now back to Sam…”
Anyway. An understanding of the language is necessary to be a competent sailor. And then there’s the thing about paying close attention to the wind. It’s broader than that, of course, because vigilance while sailing goes beyond just the direction of the wind. There’s a careful turn of the head to check the wake pattern, the feel of the mahogany and ash tiller under your hand, assessing neighboring boats, and an awareness of dropping into a different tidal stream. It is about complacency. You become part of the sailboat and the sailboat becomes a part of you.
The Captain is a great sailor and a terrible husband. It might be going on forty years, but his and Bizzy’s marriage isn’t a happy one. Addison is a terrible sailor (she waffles on the tense for this one, as she hasn’t been on a sailboat in at least ten years), but a good wife. A good, kind, dutiful wife. And the marriage itself is…well. She’s thirty-seven now. She considers that maintaining a good marriage probably isn’t all that different from what it takes to be a good sailor. It’s about language—communication, actually. And knowing where things stand.
The problem, Addison thinks as she packs a suitcase for the Hamptons, is that she doesn’t know where things stand. And there’s an entire cartography of untamed grammar she can’t bring herself to share about the loneliness.
. .
. .
She shouldn’t talk about her marriage with Mark. It’s not the Montgomery way. It’s inappropriate. It’s unseemly. And it’s not fair to Mark, honestly. He’s not her husband. It’s the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person.
(And it’s undulating towards recklessness. Leaning on someone else as your marriage feels like it’s falling apart is never a good idea.)
But Mark brought it up first, somewhere along the Long Island Expressway. They were successful at leaving earlier on Friday afternoon in an attempt to avoid traffic. They as in just Addison and Mark. Derek plans to join them tomorrow. Something came up last minute at his (the) practice. Addison knows the chances of him actually making it tomorrow are now fifty-fifty.
“Hey, uh…” Mark glances over at her, his hands wrapped loosely around the steering wheel. He offered to drive (knowing full well that Addison would be contributing in her own way, notorious backseat driver that she is), and she took him up on the offer. “I’m sorry things are a bit…rough right now with Derek.” He clears his throat awkwardly.
Addison presses her lips together. “I would say more than ‘a bit,’ and it’s more than ‘right now.’ It’s been going on for a long time. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m trying…but he’s not trying. I’m not really sure what else to do.”
“He loves you, Red. He’s just kind of an idiot.”
“An indifferent idiot. And a selfish one.”
“Yeah,” Mark answers quietly. “It’s just…it’s probably not even about you. It’s Derek being Derek. You know he’s a brooder. And about the perfect thing—yeah, you’re right, no one is perfect, but Addison, I gotta tell you…you’re pretty damn close. It’s kind of annoying, actually.”
“Thank you, Mark. For saying that.”
Having someone to talk to (and perhaps someone to talk to who isn’t her husband, if Addison is being honest) makes the drive go quicker, and the conversation is how it always is with Mark: friendly, natural, freeing. It should be this way, of course; they have known each other for fifteen years. It’s comforting though, and when Mark smiles at Addison after this last comment of his, she can’t help but contently beam back before turning to watch out the passenger window as Lake Montauk slowly comes into view. Boats are dotted along the water, bobbing peacefully.
If communication and awareness aren’t happening while tacking and jibing out on the open water, it’s easy to get hit crossing from low to high side under the boom. The impact can be enough to sweep a person overboard, to make a person drown under the literal weight of their careless choices.
That’s another thing about failing marriages and sailing: watch for the boom.
. .
. .