I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.
Chapter 57—The Family Grey
I can’t feel my coochie.
I know that when I go to the restroom, there’s going to be a mess—some bleeding, some stitches, probably some burning and discomfort, but right now in this bed I can’t feel my coochie. That’s not what I expected after labor. I just pushed two human beings out of there! Well, I guess I should thank God for small blessings because there will be enough pain and discomfort in my future.
I’ve eaten enough food to feed a third world country and Christian won’t let me out of this bed. He’s going to have to give in when I want to piss and when I want to go see my son because there won’t be anything to hold me back from either of those. So far I’ve been okay, but nature is going to call any second now.
Nonetheless, my little Mackenzie looks like a little angel! Christian calls her Minnie Mouse, so I’m sure that’ll be her nickname. She’s a perfect little Minnie. She’s just too gorgeous for words with a head full of red hair. We can’t make out her eye color just yet, but wouldn’t it just be the best if she had gray eyes like her dad? He’s already wrapped around her finger and she’s not even a full twenty-four hours old yet.
So with a multiple birth and Michael still in the Neo-Natal ICU, they’re looking to release me tomorrow or Saturday at the latest. Since Christian put the Amex Black down as payment, we have a little more latitude on our hospital stay. I think that’s a bit unfair. Although I appreciate the time to be able to recuperate before being sent home, new mothers with HMOs or PPOs are sent home within 24 hours of delivery because the health insurance refuses to pay for the hospital stay. I’m sure that they would be more comfortable at home, but I know they would at least like to be sure that everything is okay before they’re kicked out of the hospital!
There has been a steady stream of our family and friends in and out of the room to see our children today and everyone has told me how beautiful and healthy Mikey looks. Daddy and Mandy didn’t make it last night as Harry was a bit fussy and Daddy was exhausted. They showed up today of course—my father sporting the proud grandfather smile and huge chest while his wife looked on lovingly, giving me small bits of advice about the next few days after childbirth. At about 1:00, I now need to use the facilities and I’m ready to see my son. Christian begrudgingly helps me to the restroom where I discover that urinating is not as difficult as I thought it would be, but the clean-up is really pretty icky—much like a period, but a whole lot more going on. My husband handles it like a pro. He never flinches once and makes sure I’m clean and dry and comfortable before I leave the restroom.
He wheels me down to the Neo-Natal ICU and I can barely wait to see my baby. When I get there, Christian takes me to his little incubator…
But it’s empty.
“Where’s my son?” Christian says, his voice laced with panic. “Where’s Michael Grey?” He’s looking around for someone to give him answers and I’m trying not to allow the nausea that’s welling up in my stomach to overwhelm me. I haven’t even seen him yet… or have I? Did I see him after he was born? I was so dazed…
“Calm down, Mr. Grey,” a young intern approaches him with a soothing voice. “You just missed him. They’ve taken him to the nursery. He just needed to stay for a few hours for observation. He’s fine now. If you hurry, you might catch them before they get to the nursery.”
My head is swimming. I don’t know what I thought. I just know that I want to see my son.
“Oh… okay. Thank you. Thank you.” Christian tries and fails to hide his relief as he turns my wheelchair around and we leave the ICU. “What do you say we go back to the suite and just have them bring our children to us?”
“I think… I think that’s a good idea. I’m feeling… a little light-headed.” He examines me carefully.
“You’re looking a little pale, too. Hold on, baby. I’ll get you back to the room, okay?”
Apparently, that small bit of excitement of not knowing where my son was for those few moments were a bit too much for me right after childbirth. My blood pressure rushed to the ceiling and I have to lie down for a while before they bring Minnie and Mikey back to the suite. Christian apologizes profusely for overreacting and getting me all upset, but I can clearly see why he did. All is right with the world, however, when later that afternoon I get to hold and feed my son. He’s not that much smaller than his twin sister, but he is smaller and he’s taking his colostrum from a bottle right now. When he’s latching to the breast, they’ll let me take him home. I don’t think that will be too long because once the bottle is empty, he instinctively turns his face inward and nuzzles my breast.
“Well, when it’s time to feed them this evening, we’ll see if he latches on,” the obstetrician says. “If so, you guys can be in the comfort of home as early as tomorrow.”
“That would make me very happy,” Christian says.
“Now wait a minute, not so fast,” I say. “He was born small and his Apgar was lower than normal. Is everything okay with him?”
“He’s fine, Mrs. Grey,” the doctor says. “He’s got a healthy set of lungs, his coloring is fantastic, and if one of the twins is more than a pound less than the other, we tend to run extra tests to make sure that every is okay and that the smaller twin wasn’t being deprived of anything by the other twin. Michael is fine—4-15 is a good weight. We would hope that premature babies would get up to 4-15. Holding him was just a precaution. Trust me, if we felt there were any cause for concern, we would let you know.” I nod.
“Well, okay then. He’s a handsome little guy and he does seem active and happy.” Mikey has brown hair like me. Like Minnie, we can’t yet make out the color of his eyes, but he’s fidgety and active and very hungry, which makes me very happy. When the doctor leaves, I turn to Christian. “So, the one person I haven’t seen today is Elliot,” I tell him. Christian pushes up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“He was here,” he says, sitting on the bed next to me and taking Minnie from my arms while I hold Mikey and gaze into his eyes for some more quality time. He seems so much smaller than Minnie even though it’s only about a pound and a half—a lot for an infant. I’m beginning to believe that while I thought it was Mikey dominating the space in my belly, it was Minnie all along, which is why she soothed so easily at the sound of Christian’s voice or the touch of his hand. She was a Daddy’s girl even in the wound. Wait a minute… did he say Elliot was here?
“Yes,” he replies, gazing at his baby girl, confirming my suspicions, but turning a sobering gaze to me. “He wasn’t alone. Valerie was here, too.”
My heart leaps. Valerie was here? She didn’t stay? She didn’t speak? Had she come around? Will she come back? Had she finally come to her senses? What did she say? Did she see the babies?
“Nobody saw her but me,” he says, in response to my questioning eyes. “At least I think nobody saw her but me. She didn’t see me, though. We didn’t speak.”
“Oh.” I drop my gaze back to Mikey, unable to hide my disappointment. Why did she come? Why was she here? Was she going to berate even while I was in labor? My heart clenches at the thought. Does she really hate me that much?
“I saw her at the nursery window, Butterfly. She was talking to Mackenzie.” I raise my eyes back to him, fighting the tears that want to escape.
“To… Mac…” Huh?
“She was stealing moments with her,” I tell her, “moments she has promised to steal with her as her secret godmother when she comes to visit Uncle Elliot even though King Christian won’t let Valerie near her and Queen Ana hates her.”
What? What did he just say?
“Queen Ana hates her?” I nearly shout, and Mikey stirs in my arms, protesting gently. I have to calm him immediately. Mackenzie looks over at me as if to say, “At it again, huh, Mom?” So once again, I know which one of the children were disquieted in the womb when I was upset.
“You heard this?” I ask incredulously. “You actually heard her say this?” He nods.
“She stood there crying, pinned to the window like she was being denied access by no fault of her own.” He looks down at Minnie. “I’ve already told Elliot and he asked me to tell you. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, but he says she’s pushing him away, too.”
I shake my head. It just doesn’t make sense. She’s in love with Elliot. I know she is. Look how she reacted when she thought he left on New Year’s Eve. She even came to my house—the last place in the world that she would be welcome in light of her behavior—to retrieve him, and she’s pushing him away?
“For the record,” he continues, “I stopped the tail on her. It came up completely empty. She barely does anything besides work, and lately, she’s barely doing that.”
Okay, something’s really wrong. She loves her job.
“When you say barely, what do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean that in the last three and a half weeks since I started the tail, she’s probably worked a combined 13 days.” I frown deeply.
“And she does nothing after that? She just goes home?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “She goes nowhere else.”
“What about her phone records? Have you checked those?” I ask. He raises an eyebrow at me.
“No, I haven’t,” he says. “When I saw that she only goes to work and home for the last three weeks, I didn’t see the need to delve any further. I mean, I did the standard background check and that came up clean, except…” He trails off. I raise my head.
“Except what?” I ask.
“Some guy in college,” he says. “As far as I can tell, he may have hit her. The next thing you know, he shows up naked wandering somewhere in the middle of the winter—some kind of hazing incident, it was declared. The guy left school and that was that.” I wave him off.
“That was me,” I say, still pondering the facts he’s given me so far.
“What?” he asks, breaking my train of thought.
“That was me. He didn’t die. Drop it,” I say, glaring at him sharply. I don’t want to talk about this. I want to know what’s happening with my estranged friend. “Is it too late to check her phone records?” Christian glares back at me, then drops his gaze to Mikey.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything, Butterfly, really,” he says. “I think there’s really something wrong in her head—depression, bipolar, something…”
“Are you trying to tell me that you think all of this can be attributed to some kind of nervous or psychotic breakdown?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, I am,” he says finitely. “Stranger things have happened.” Well, he’s right about that.
“We may never know about that unless we get her on the proverbial couch and she’s not going to agree to that,” I lament.
“Wasn’t Maxine supposed to talk to her at one point or something?” he asks. “I vaguely remember you saying something about that.”
“I honestly don’t remember,” I say. “Even if she did, she wouldn’t tell me—doctor/patient privilege. And Val probably wouldn’t open up to Maxie for fear that she might tell me anyway…” And speak of the devil…
“Knock, knock, are we interrupting?” I hear Maxie’s voice calling from out in the suite.
“Not at all, come in,” I call out to her as quietly as I can so as not to startle the babies.
“Now’s a good time to ask,” Christian says softly.
“I can’t ask her that!” I hiss.
“Hi!” Maxie says gleefully as she and her family enter the room. “Mindy wanted to see her new friends.” She comes over to me and kisses me on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say with as much of a smile as I can muster. Phil is behind her, pushing Mindy’s stroller. He kisses my cheek in greeting while Maxie softly hugs Christian and looks adoringly down at Minnie.
“Hey there, little fella,” Phil says to Mikey, who looks up at him and simply licks his lips. “He’s a tiny little guy, huh?”
“Yeah, he was born on the small side, but the doctors say that he’ll be fine,” I tell him, cooing at my son.
“So how did your stomach get so damn flat so fast, you bitch?” Maxie complains. I chuckle.
“Post-partum belly belt,” I tell her. “But don’t let me off the hook yet. I’ll be breastfeeding twins and I’ll be doing the belly binding. The moment the doctor clears me, I’ll be on a strenuous get-my-body-back/self-defense regimen. So by mid-spring, you will be calling me a bitch and mean it!” I say with a smile.
“Oh, I hate you already!” she declares.
“Don’t,” I tell her with a shrug. “We’ll dump the babies on the men and you’ll come with me.” Her face morphs.
“You mean it? Oh, it might be too late for me…” she laments. I scoff.
“Are you dead?” I scold. She twists her lips at me. “Then it’s not too late. I’m going to be training some of the women at the Center in self-defense as soon as the doctor clears me and I can set up a class. I’m going to have to loosen up, get back in shape, and refresh myself in order to do that. You can do it with me, learn some moves, be my assistant, tighten up—you’ve already got the form for it. It’ll be great!”
“I would love that!” Maxie exclaims. “I hadn’t even considered it!”
“Me either honestly, but hell, why not? Common goal, you just had Mindy a couple of months ago—you’re not that far out from six weeks yourself. Talk to your doctor and start some beginner yoga. Do some stretching to limber up and get your muscles going. Once I get the clearance, we’ll really get into it! By the summer, you’ll have a banging bikini bod!” We giggle at each other and only now remember that we’re not in the room alone when we see Christian and Phil eying us with dry amusement.
“What?” I say to them both.
“So, Chris, what do you do for jock itch?” Phil says, turning his attention to Christian.
“Remarkably, never get it,” Christian replies. “I manage to keep the boys pretty dry even with all the workouts, but I keep this great product on standby just in case.”
“You don’t say?” Phil retorts. “Hey, I found this great little gadget that gonna help with the blue-ball situation over the next month and a half…”
“Now you’re talking my language!” Christian says.
“Whoap, stop right there!” I halt their attempt at man talk and ridicule. “First of all, you’re holding your infant daughter and second of all, I don’t plan on you having to use gadgets just because one of my orifices is out of commission!” I say, slightly bruised.
“She’s an infant!” Christian protests. “She has absolutely no clue what we’re talking about!”
“And, um, if I may interject,” Maxie says, putting her finger in the air like she’s in class asking for permission. I turn my attention to her. “Your intentions are very noble, but the first day you get home, you’ll think of nothing but those babies. By day two, you’re going to be very sore. By day three, you’re going to be very sore and tired. By day four, you’re going to be very sore, tired, and cantankerous—a condition that will hold on for about four to four and a half weeks. Horny will kick in sometime after that and sore will have dissipated well before then, but if he aims that thing at you at the wrong moment, you’re likely to lop it off and serve it to him for dinner, especially if you’re having any bouts with post-partum depression.”
I look from Maxie to Phil and he just nods before turning to Christian.
“Your week one is going to be a lot like her week one, minus the soreness,” he says to Christian. “Well, I should qualify that. How sexually active you are and how easily you become aroused will determine how quickly you suffer from a case of blue balls—I’m not joking about this one, man. Her boobs are gonna swell to the size of cantaloupes, and a good, stiff wind is gonna give you a woody. So your soreness may come from that and how well you can control it will determine just how long you might be sore.”
Oh, Phil. You have no idea. My husband has had lessons in orgasm control and endurance from the best in the business… or I should say the worst. Blue balls won’t be a problem for him.
“Duly noted,” Christian says, most likely thinking the same thing I am.
“I’m serious, man…” Phil protests.
“I got you,” Christian insists. “Now back to the gadget?”
“One word… Tenga,” he says. “There’s a whole line of products, but they’re not available in the US, so you have to order them online. I started with the eggs…” Christian frowns.
“Eggs?” he says. I have the same reaction.
“Trust me, man. One use, but worth every penny. If you’re one of the more… frequent users, go on and give the eggs a try, but you might want to go with the Flip or the 3D. That’ll actually do you better, that is, if Ana doesn’t mind you having the thing around the house.” I try not to scoff too loudly.
“Ana doesn’t mind,” I say. Our conversation is halted by Mindy fussing in her stroller.
“Okay, I’m not one for public displays, so why don’t you gentlemen take this conversation to the other room while I feed our daughter? I’m sure Christian would rather not see my boobs,” Maxie says as she lifts Mindy from the stroller. Christian places Minnie in her bassinet as she has fallen asleep, and he and Phil leave the room still chatting about the amazing Tenga products.
“Good, now that they’re gone…” Maxie quickly unwraps Mindy, opens her shirt, and Mindy latches onto the breast. I’m still holding Mikey in my arms as he hasn’t quite slipped off into Dreamland just yet.
“You better get used to rubbing one out by at least week four and every few days or so after that,” she tells me. “You’re going to need those endorphins to keep you going and help stave off depression. Use whatever you have to, but by all means, don’t engage the enemy for help! I can guarantee you that no matter how much will power you have, you’re going to fail, fuck him, and end up with babies born ten months apart. You’re going to smell him, see him hard, feel him rubbing up against you and you’re gonna fuck. So just don’t do it.”
“Did you do that?” I ask. “Are you pregnant?”
“No, but we came really close,” she confesses. “I woke up one morning with a boner between my butt cheeks and he was fast asleep. I started rubbing against it and working the button along with my imagination. He wakes up and give me a reach-around with a little added thrust and a kiss or three. The next thing I know, my leg is over his hip and his head is right there at the door and I am aching for him to be inside of me! The doctor could have been standing there with a red flag and a whistle and I still would have dropped down on that dick!”
“What stopped you?” I ask, knowing that I would be the same way after four or five weeks of no sex with Christian.
“Phil,” she said. “He later told me that he thought of being inside of me and all the ways that he wanted to fuck me and it dawned on him that I had just had Mindy and he had to stop himself. I wanted him so bad that I cried. I mean he finished me off and rubbed one out between my cheeks, but it wasn’t the same. I needed him inside of me. Don’t put yourself in that position. I’ve seen you and Christian in public… on the dancefloor… you won’t make it.”
I laugh and lament at her comment at the same time. I’m sure she’s right. If I have to go without my man for weeks and sometime during those weeks, I’m presented with his hot, hard, pink, veiny, angry dick, hell no I’m not turning it down. So I’ll just have to leave it alone and stay away from it.
“I need to ask you a sensitive question and I don’t know how to ask,” I say, changing gears quickly.
“You can ask me anything, Ana. I used to be your therapist,” she says.
“That’s just it, I can’t ask you this,” I tell her, “but I’m still going to ask you, and I need you to answer it in a manner that won’t compromise the integrity of our profession.” She frowns deeply.
“Okay, now I’m curious.” I sigh.
“Have… you seen Valerie in a professional capacity at all since our falling out?” Her mouth falls open.
“Ana! You know I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything like that!” she scolds gently. I nod.
“I know. Let me try this another way…”
“It doesn’t matter how you try it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you either way. You were one of my patients and you’re a therapist. You know this!”
“Please, just hear me out,” I beseech her. “This is not just curiosity or some scorned friend trying to get the skinny. She went from best friend to hate in a nanosecond over something that we would have brushed off over a bottle of wine. She turns into Bitchzilla the minute I show up and it’s like she can’t help herself. She can’t stop it. She was at the hospital when I had the accident and everyone thought I was going to die and she was here last night…”
“No, she wasn’t…” Maxie interrupts.
“Yes, she was!” I insist. “If you saw Elliot, Val was here. I know that you and Phil had to leave to get Mindy home, but Christian saw her at the nursery.” Her brow furrows.
“Why was she here?” Maxie asks.
“To see her goddaughter,” I reply. Confusion mars her face.
“You can’t be serious,” she says. “She treats you like pure shit every time she sees you. She can’t still think she’s Mackenzie’s godmother!”
“That’s not all. Christian heard her say that I won’t let her see Mackenzie because I hate her.” Maxie shakes her head.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she says. “Everybody knows you don’t hate Val. Who was she talking to?”
“Mackenzie,” I laugh at the painful irony, “through the glass of the nursery.”
“I don’t get it.” Maxie is shaking her head. “Maybe she’s saying that you hate her after the way that she’s treated you…”
“No,” I interject. “She referred to us as King Christian and Queen Ana. She’s clearly the victim. So either she’s living in an alternate universe or she’s having some kind of psychotic break. That’s why I asked if she’s under your care—not because I want to know her business, but because I want to know if you have any insight at all on this psychosis going on with her.” Maxie sighs and shakes her head.
“Ana, I can’t disclose to you whether or not Val has spoken to me about anything. Even if I deny that I’ve treated her, I’m still giving you information on her treatment or lack thereof. If I confirm, I’ve told you that I have or am treating her. I won’t do that either way. I will tell you this, though. As a friend, she’s not talking to any of us. She’s shut us all out. We’re as much in the dark as you are and to be honest, you may have more information than any of us. Does that help at all?”
“It… kind of answers my question, thank you… but it doesn’t help the situation,” I lament. Mikey is now asleep and I lay him in his bassinet as Maxie burps Mindy and switches breasts.
“I hate to seem insensitive, Ana, but you’re going to want to hand this off to somebody,” Maxie says. “These next few weeks and months are going to be crucial for you. You’re going to have to get your schedule down with the babies’ and I know you’re going to have help, but it’s still going to wring your mind and body to death and rip your nerves to shreds. Just when you think you’ve just about gotten your schedule down, you’re going to have to go back to work. And then the babies’ sleep habits are going to change. And then you may have to fight off a bout of post-partum depression—and if you think you were crying and moody at the end of your pregnancy, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! With all that on your plate, you’re not going to have time to worry about Val’s case of Bitchicitis, nor should you have to.”
“I know, you’re right. I should be concentrating on my babies.”
“Yes, you should. If she wants to come around, let her come around. If not, let her stay in her own misery. Believe me, it’s self-preservation time.”
As much as it pains me, she’s right. I’m very worried about Val, but right now, she’s not my first priority. My family is. I have to let this go and focus on them.
“I’m kind of glad they kicked us out. There’s something else you ought to know.” Phil takes me down to the cafeteria where we get two cups of coffee and take them out to the courtyard.
“Shortly after Mindy was born, Max slipped into depression. The books all called it the baby blues. Not for Max. It was serious. She wouldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep; she was irritable all the time. A couple of days, she wouldn’t hold or feed Mindy. I finally had to take a couple of weeks off work and take care of them both. After a few weeks, she came out of it and she’s been fine ever since. It’s post-partum depression, but hers came really close to post-partum psychosis.”
I’ve read about both of those. For that reason, I had already planned to be off work the entire six weeks with Butterfly and the twins. I’ll work from home and only go into the office as needed so that I can keep an eye on them all and help out where I can.
“Yeah, my wife doesn’t know it yet and she’s probably going to flip her wig when she finds out, but I’m officially on paternity leave just for that reason. I’ve heard about women flipping out and having suicidal thoughts during that time. As I can’t afford to lose Ana or my babies, I’d much rather be home to keep an eye on them.” Phil smiles.
“’It’s good to be the king,’” he jests, patting me on my shoulder and laughing. I laugh weakly with him, recalling Valerie’s earlier comment of King Christian. “Listen, I don’t mean to keep pressing this, but the Tenga products, man. Get them! They’ll be the difference between sanity and insanity for you. The eggs stretch and fit around your junk—you’ll just have to try them and see what I mean, but whatever you’re going to try, order it today! Express shipping! Get at least six of those eggs, different textures…”
“They have different textures?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I learned about them from another father in one of our childbirth classes. I keep ‘em around now, like when Max is on her period…” He doesn’t know that won’t stop me and Butterfly, but I won’t tell him that.
“So they work that well, huh?”
“Very well. If you try it and you like it, get the Flip. Some women are sensitive about having those kinds of toys in the house, that’s why I didn’t just outright suggest it. I didn’t know about Ana—she and I are close, but we aren’t that close!” he says. I chuckle.
“She’ll be fine with it,” I tell him.
“Now, about the six-week make up, make the doctor’s appointment the day you get home. See if you can make it before you leave the hospital. It may sound anxious, but if you don’t do it, you’re going to be asking her every day from about day 28, ‘Did you make the appointment?’ ‘Did you make the appointment?’ ‘Did you make the appointment?’ ‘Did you make the appointment?’ At about the fifth time you ask her, she’s going to bite your head off and then she’s going to forget to make the appointment, and you’ll both have to wait another four days to a week before you can get laid—luckily, not my story. Again, another piece of useful information from a father in a childbirth class.” I guess I was just too damn unapproachable for anybody to give me any information.
“Put the appointment in your calendar, but let her go alone unless she decides that she wants you to go with her. She’s not going to see her obstetrician anymore. She’s going to see her gynecologist now. Decide what kind of birth control you want to use if you’re going to use it before you even get to that day and have some condoms ready just in case.”
Oh God, I hate those things.
“And here’s the most important thing. Take the next day off from work, which might not be too hard for you since you’re already off. You’ve got staff, have them bring you breakfast in bed… maybe lunch, too, but not before they announce their arrival—unless you plan a special night and you take her to a hotel or something.” I laugh heartily.
“Anything else, Dr. Phil?” I ask. He shares my laugh.
“It did kinda turn into a lecture, didn’t it?” he says. “I was just sharing the wisdom. I was glad somebody told me, ya know…” I pat him on the back.
“I am, too. They don’t tell you this shit in the baby books. Thanks man.” We talk some more about Tenga and breast pumps and nagging family members and things baby that you wouldn’t expect two guys to be talking about until I hear the sliding doors behind us and Jason walks through looking ominous. When I see McIntyre behind him, I immediately know why.
“Press,” I say through my teeth. McIntyre just twists her lips and sighs. “How?” She taps her iPad and hands it to me. I vaguely recognize the social media page as Twitter and see the picture of the dumbstruck nurse from last night with the name @NurseLisaLisa and the following tweet:
#AnaChris just checked into labor and delivery at Seattle Gen. He looks even hotter in person.
“Fuck!” I hiss. “Does Ana know yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Jason says, “not unless she’s looked at her Twitter.” I shrug.
“Let’s hope the babies have her preoccupied.” I stand up and take the elevator to the front desk. “Nurse Lisa Lisa” has just come on staff. She’s looking at the crowd of reporters clamoring to get into the hospital, but being held back by the police and what barricades they could erect, some of them leaning in to take pictures of me standing at the nurse’s station.
“I need your supervisor… now!” I hiss at her and she shrinks in her chair.
“What did I do?” she asks in a small voice.
“Supervisor… now!” I hiss again. Several people in the lobby are looking at the surging crowd at the door and wondering what the fuss is. Nurse Lisa picks up the phone and calls “Nora” to tell her that Mr. Grey wants to see her at the front desk. “Screenshot that,” I tell McIntyre. “Just in case she deletes it.”
“She already has,” McIntyre tells me. “This is a screenshot, and it’s saved to the Cloud. She deleted the tweet between the time we saw you in the courtyard and the time we stepped off the elevator.” I nod.
“Mr. Grey, hi. Is everything okay?” The more helpful nurse from yesterday walks up to me.
“I wish I could say yes. My wife and children are fine, thanks in part to you,” I nod to her and she smiles.
“You’re more than welcome, sir.”
“Unfortunately…” I gesture to the clamoring press outside, “my fan club has arrived.” I hold my hand out to McIntyre who hands me her iPad. “This is why.” I hand her the iPad. She gasps.
“Oh, God,” she sighs in dismay, then turns to Nurse Lisa. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
“What?” Nurse Lisa nearly shrieks. The nurse whom she called Nora shows her the tweet. “That’s not on my page!” she defends.
“Not anymore,” McIntyre says. “You see that timestamp? That shows that you tweeted it last night. You see this timestamp? That shows that I took the screenshot fifteen minutes ago. My internet alerts did notify me that you removed the tweet about five minutes ago as we were stepping off the elevator, but as you can see,” she points to the door, “the damage is already done.”
Nurse Lisa just sits there like a deer caught in headlights and I’m too angry to even speak. Nora covers her face in disgust.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grey,” she whispers, exasperated.
“I’m sorry, too,” Nurse Lisa says in a small voice.
“Don’t!” Nora roars, pointing at Nurse Lisa. “Speak!” She’s angry enough for both of us, so I don’t even need to be the bad guy today. “I can’t do anything with this! I can’t discipline you! I can’t even help you! This is way over my head! Do you know where hospitals get their money from? Patients and benefactors. You just pissed off the biggest of both of those. This is out of my hands. This has to go to the chief. Angelique!” She calls down the hall to another nurse.
“Yes, ma’am?” A petite young African American trots up to them.
“I have to get someone else to help Sarah at the main desk. I need you to cover this one tonight.” Angelique looks at me and my staff, then at Nurse Lisa, and back at Nora.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says waiting for Nurse Lisa to surrender the seat. Nora speaks to me as Nurse Lisa gathers her things.
“Mr. Grey, I don’t know what to say. Someone will be up to your wife’s suite to talk to you. We’ll fix this somehow.”
“I’m sure,” I say with no malice. I feel a little sorry for Nurse Lisa… but not that much. “Will you please send them with my mother so that I’ll know who they are?”
“Your mother?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
“Dr. Grace Trevelyan,” I say.
“Ah, yes, Dr. Grace. Pediatrics. I know who she is. Of course. I’ll make sure of it, sir.”
“Thank you… for everything.” She nods.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Grey.” She walks away with a crestfallen Nurse Lisa behind her. Honestly, this isn’t one of those “pampered billionaire I-want-my-way” type of things. No matter who you are, you should be able to get quality care when you go to the hospital. Yet, being high-profile people automatically means that you’re denied one of the fundamental rights afforded to every average Joe that walks through the door, and that’s privacy. It’s bad enough that your hopes, dreams, fears, highs, and lows are often splattered all over the news—your life events and even your tragedies are spread out for social entertainment, but to come somewhere for professional medical care and to have your privacy compromised by the hospital staff?
There are laws and oaths that prevent doctors from revealing that they are treating patients and for what ailments, but nurses and staff can blab that you’ve checked into the hospital. There should be some type of line drawn—some type of understanding where the staff respects the privacy of the patient simply for the patient’s peace of mind. Apparently, some of the staff are aware of that and some of the staff are not. Now, my family are the ones that are going to have to pay, and so is Nurse Lisa.
“You look sorrowful,” Butterfly says when I get back to the room. Phil returned when I went to the front desk with Jason and McIntyre, who are both now outside trying to nicely get the press to disburse.
“The nurse that was tripping over her tongue when we got here yesterday?” she nods. “She tweeted that ‘AnaChris’,” I do the finger quotes, “checked into Seattle Gen last night. So guess who’s blocking the door right now?” She frowns.
“Oh, no,” she laments. “Another great escape?”
“I’m afraid so,” I confirm. “We’ll work it out later.” I sigh. “We’ve been reduced to a hashtag.”
“Actually, you’ve been upgraded to a hashtag,” Maxine says. “It’s a big deal when you graduate to ‘trending’.”
“Whatever,” I say, waving it off.
“Did you ream the poor girl a new asshole?” Butterfly asks.
“I didn’t have to,” I say. “I didn’t have to say ten words to her. Her boss scooped her up and took her to the chief!” Butterfly scoffs, shaking her head.
“It never ceases to amaze me that whenever we go somewhere or try to do something like normal people do—you know, like shop for lingerie, buy a recliner or two, or go to the hospital to have babies—someone does something monumentally stupid, and by the time we leave, someone gets disciplined or fired. Pretty soon, no one is going to want to serve us!” she declares.
“It’s all part of the cost of this celebrity shit, baby. If people can’t act like they have good sense when we come into the room, this is what happens. Either they don’t know who you are and they choose to treat you like shit, or they do know who you are and they try to make a dime off of you—or get their fifteen minutes of fame. You can’t blame us for being who we are, but a lot of people do anyway.”
“Well, this is ridiculous and it’s getting on my damn nerves!” she huffs. “All of our worst nightmares, our most intimate moments—splattered out live and in living color for the whole world to see! We didn’t even need to bother doing birth announcements! The babies’ names will most likely be released to the press before we even leave the hospital. Do a Google search for Michael and Mackenzie Grey—they probably already have!”
Okay, this is not good. My just-delivered-twins wife is slowly becoming unraveled. I can see it in her eyes. She’s finally reaching her limit.
“Will our children ever live any kind of normal life?” she fumes. “I mean, what’s the plan? Are we going to have to dress them in burkas or habits just so that they can get to school? Will they even be able to go to school? Oh! I know! Maybe Grey Crossing will have to become some kind of cult compound like Jonestown or the Branch Davidian Ranch and we can invite other AnaChristians to come in and teach our children and worship at our feet and erect statues in our honor! We’ll grow our own food and filter water from the lake and live off the land. How does that sound, Maxie?” Butterfly declares wildly attempting to garner support from her now spellbound friend. “You, Phil, and Mindy can come, too. Yeah! We’ll post snipers in the boathouse, on the beach, on the pier, and at the front gate with automatic rifles, bazookas, and anti-aircraft weapons and maybe then, we’ll be able to get a little goddamn peace!”
Oh yeah, she’s gone.
“Baby…” I try to reach for her hand, but she’s too angry, on a tireless rant about how normal human beings would leave other normal human beings to their lives and stop looking for blood in the water at every turn. I see little pink and blue bundles stirring in the bassinets on the other side of the bed and I’m trying to get her attention, but it’s to no avail. I have to let her vent and rave, but I have to get to the twins, too. Noting my distress, Maxine looks over at the bassinets and gestures for me to come over to them. I carefully make my way around a now panting and ranting Butterfly to retrieve a squirming Michael while Maxie, after having fed Mindy and put her back down to rest, scoops Mackenzie up in her arms. Phillip watches carefully over Mindy, certain that the commotion is going to cause her to stir any minute.
We all turn and face Butterfly who has now moved on to the veritable incompetence of the police force to locate her on Vashon Island with Jason tracking her cell phone and me flying Charlie Tango to pick her up, yet in one weekend, they thoroughly managed to destroy a vehicle that she had waited for three months for the dealership to get all of the features that she wanted. When she raises her head and sees that Maxine and I are holding the twins and Phil is attending a sleeping Mindy, a look that I can only describe as immense regret falls over her face followed by utter silence. She looks as if she will vomit and she runs to the en suite, slamming the door behind her.
What just happened?
I look over at Maxine and Phillip for guidance. Phillip shrugs while Maxine has a bit of a knowing look, cradling my daughter in her arms. She wordlessly jerks her head in the direction of the en suite door. Rudderless, I go over to the door and I can hear Butterfly weeping on the other side.
“Baby?” I call out to her, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even stop crying. “Butterfly, what’s wrong?” She continues to weep, but the sound is a bit more muffled, like she’s burying her face in something. I try to open the door with my free hand, but it’s locked. A surge of panic hits me. I try again as if my brain can’t register that the handle simply won’t turn with my weeping wife on the other side and I can’t get to her. I turn to face the other occupants in the room. I don’t know what registers on my face, but Phillip quickly rises and takes Michael from my arms. I inwardly thank him and try the door again, knocking with urgency, but trying not to bang on it and frighten her.
“Butterfly, please… open the door. Tell me what’s wrong,” I beseech her. She continues to weep and won’t answer me. I tug violently at the door, hoping it will give way somehow, but still conscious that any overt act of aggression could frighten my wife. I stand glaring at the unaffected door, running my hands through my hair. I’m a successful businessman—a billionaire—surely, I can figure out how to get one crying woman out of the bathroom.
“What’s going on?”
My mother’s voice is like an angel. I turn to see her standing in the doorway with another doctor—a man, I don’t know who he is—looking at me for answers on the current situation. Please, have the answer, Mom.
“Ana’s locked in the bathroom,” I say, gesturing to the en suite door like a toddler whose toy rolled under the sofa and he can’t reach it… ironic. “She’s crying and she won’t come out. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Did you say anything to her?” my mother asks.
“It wasn’t me!” I declare, my hands gesturing wildly towards myself and my voice several octaves higher than usual. My mother’s hands rise in a defense position.
“Okay, okay,” she says, gently. It’s only then that I hear my own voice playing back in my head and ears, laced with panic. I’ve got to get a handle on this. I’ve got to make sure that Butterfly doesn’t do this again when we’re at home or I’m going to lose it. I’m not accustomed to there being problems that I can’t fix—not with my wife anyway. This time, I don’t even know what the problem is and it’s driving me mad. Mom walks over to the door with that practiced calm that she always has.
“Ana?” she calls out. There’s no answer, just a slight “hiccup” in her weeping. “Ana, dear, are you alright?” There’s a moment of silence before we hear something.
“Yes,” she says, weakly from behind the door.
“Come out, then, dear,” Mom coaxes, and there’s silence again. “Ana… sweetheart, you’re in a hospital. If you don’t come out of there, we’re going to have to call security and have them remove the door from the hinges. Please come out, dear.” There are a few more moments of silence, but then shuffling can be heard from behind the door. After agonizing hours—okay, maybe seconds—the door opens and my disheveled wife emerges from the restroom, gripping a hand towel.
I don’t know exactly what brought on this behavior, so I resist the urge to run to her, scoop her up in my arms and protect her from the world… but my heart hurts seeing her like this. I want to make every bad thing go away and for her to be lost in the happy moment, with our beautiful children and our little family. I don’t want her to feel like this.
She raises bloodshot, swollen, weepy eyes to me and although I don’t know what she sees, she bolts into my arms and puts me out of my misery. The ache in my heart eases a bit as I’m able to help ease the ache in hers, even though I don’t know exactly what’s causing it. I fulfill the urge to scoop her up and back up to the large chair next to the bed with her on my lap.
“Sssshhh,” I soothe as she weeps, rubbing her back, kissing her temple and holding her close. “There, there, now, I’ve got you, Butterfly…”
Dusk has settled over Seattle when I open my eyes. Butterfly is cuddled in my lap and I’m still sprawled in the chair. My neck hurts now from the position I’ve been sleeping in and I realize that someone is trying to get our attention.
“Boss… Boss, you guys need to wake up.”
I blink my eyes open to Jason standing over me. My stomach reacts before the rest of me does. Food. I’m starving. That means my children probably are, too… and my poor, tuckered wife. I raise my head and my painful, resisting neck and turn to face my Butterfly. God, I hate to wake her. She was fitful before she fell asleep. I stroke her hair out of her face and pepper her eyes, cheek, and forehead with gentle kisses.
“Hmmm,” she whimpers, exhaustion laced in her voice. I kiss her a few more times to rouse her from sleep and she opens her eyes.
“Hey,” I say softly, gently stroking her cheek.
“Hey,” she replies, her voice like a mouse, a bit scratchy. On cue, Jason pours a glass of water and brings it to her. She drinks it down and thanks him before stretching a bit and rising from my lap. The delectable smell that greeted me when I opened my eyes is being brought into the room on two dinner plates and place settings by Gail. Butterfly has gone back to the en suite, and I’m a bit uneasy until I hear the water running behind the closed door and she emerges a short time later. I help her get into bed and situate the tray table over her so that she can eat.
“Thank God,” she says. “I’m starving!” The dome over the plate is removed to reveal chicken Cacciatore over creamy polenta with sautéed spinach and crusty bread. Butterfly’s face is almost orgasmic when she smells the food and picks up her fork to dig in. My stomach protests loudly as I remove the dome from my own dinner and begin to tuck in myself. McIntyre comes breezing into the room just as we begin our dinner. I throw a warning look at her and she freezes, looking from me to Butterfly.
“I’m fine,” Butterfly says, waving her off after swallowing a mouthful of food. “Go ahead.” McIntyre looks between us, puzzled. I shake my head and gesture for her to come in and proceed. She steps in cautiously, but proceeds with her business.
“Well, I’ve asked the vultures several times to leave and nobody’s budging,” she says, her voice low and a bit perturbed. “In fact, there seem to be more of them out there every time I go downstairs. They’re pressing harder against the door and making it difficult for patients to get into the hospital to get care.” Butterfly stops eating.
“Well, that’s not good,” she says, and I’m worried that she’s going to have another breakdown.
“Do we have any suggestions?” I ask. “I’m all for Charlie Tango, but I’d have to land her somewhere and they would just be there waiting for us, not to mention that I doubt that the doctors would clear my newborns or my wife to fly in a helicopter just for privacy’s sake.”
“Wife, maybe. Newborns, not likely,” McIntyre says. “Your mother and the chief of surgery are trying to come up with another solution to get you guys quietly out of here. Quite frankly, the safety of your children is at stake just by the sheer size of the mob at the front door if we try to get you out the traditional way. Did they say when you were supposed to be going home, Ana?”
“They said today or tomorrow, but they were leaning toward tomorrow,” Butterfly tells her. She nods.
“If they could lean sooner, that would be great. I know we want to make sure everything is okay with you and the babies, so I’m not trying to rush anything, but I would feel a lot better about your safety if we could get you guys back to the Crossing.”
McIntyre is not one to harp on safety. She’s public relations, concerned with my image and the image of the company—what gets released and what doesn’t. If she has a security concern, we need to sit up and take notice. I gesture silently to Jason, and we make to move towards the sitting room.
“Christian.” Butterfly’s voice stops me before I pass her bed. I turn my gaze to her. “You said you wouldn’t leave me out of the loop anymore.” I pause at the foot of her bed.
“I… Well, a few hours ago, you were locked in the bathroom sobbing. Mom’s not here to talk you out and I’m not sure what you can handle right now.” I go for brutal honesty with her because I don’t have any other cards to play. What happened in that bathroom after she just had my babies took me completely out of my element. I didn’t know what to do and nobody had any answers for me. So I’m not ashamed to say that my taking this conversation into the next room is a total act of self-preservation right now as we have a problem to which I have to find a solution and I can’t create another problem while I’m doing it.
“We’re talking about me, my babies, and our family,” she says. “I can’t afford to be on the outside of this. I won’t lie—yes, I’m a bit fragile, but I still have to know and we just have to deal with it.” She’s right, but if she runs into that damn bathroom again…
“Do you know how to get a crying woman out of a locked bathroom?” I ask McIntyre.
“Christian!” Butterfly chides. What? I don’t know what to do if she locks herself in there again! The last time she locked herself in the bathroom at Escala, I tore the door off the damn hinges. Mom got her out of this bathroom by threatening that security would do the same. What do you want me to do? Noting my exasperation, she sighs heavily. “I won’t like myself in the bathroom again, okay?” she says, resigned.
You say that now…
I have to take her word for it because I don’t want to make a bad matter worse, so I take my seat back at my dinner and gesture for Jason to sit as well.
“Just how bad is it down there?” I ask them. “The usual clamor? Are they likely to rush the door? Are there barricades in place?”
“Yes to all of those,” McIntyre says, “only the clamor is becoming a bit more than usual. People won’t even come to the hospital because of the crowd—for care, that is. Your groupies have been quarantined to the parking lot.”
“Oh, good fuck,” Butterfly declares, dropping her fork onto her plate. And it begins again.
“Butterfly,” I say in a warning tone.
“I’m fine,” she retorts, and buzzes for the nurse. Uh oh…
“If there are barricades, then what’s the problem?” I ask. “Even the press has always honored a barricade.”
“Do you want to take that chance?” McIntyre says, and Jason nods.
“I see,” I say, quickly finishing my dinner. A few moments later, the nurse comes into the room.
“Is it time to feed my babies yet?” Butterfly asks. The nurse looks at her watch.
“Just about. Would you like for us to feed them or would you like to do it yourself?” she asks.
“Yes,” Butterfly tells the nurse. “I’d like for you to bring two bottles just in case, but I’d like to see if Michael will latch on.” She nods and goes to retrieve our children. I look up at Butterfly.
“If he latches…” I begin.
“Make whatever arrangements need to be made to get me and my children out of here,” she says finitely, her voice unwavering. Her blue gaze locks with my grays and I know that she means business.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
“I heard that one of my patients was here and I just wanted to check in on you before you left.”
That extra friendly fucker Dr. Hill is here to see Butterfly and the twins before we make our getaway. Just like his dad, Mike got a whiff of the Butterfly tit and clicked onto that puppy with amazing ease. After explaining the situation to the obstetrician and pediatrician on duty and getting clearance from Dr. Culley, we are leaving the hospital. We would have liked to stay for another day, but the throng of press and attention outside is making it impossible for my wife to relax. My mother is a pediatrician and lives only a few miles from our home and Butterfly had no complications during delivery, so we should be fine.
“Thank you, Dr. Hill,” Butterfly says sweetly. “I’m glad you did.”
“How are you? Any problems with the surgery site?”
“None more than usual…” They have a brief conversation about her phantom/not-so-phantom throbbing when she gets upset and the various memories that still come slowly back to her. As this isn’t an official visit, they don’t get into too much detail, but he can note in her chart that he saw her while she was in the hospital and addressed any pressing concerns. He did tell her that her most recent tests indicated that she’s progressing just fine and show no cause for concern, but cautions her, as always, to call him with questions.
It’s nearly 1am when Butterfly and the twins are finally released from the hospital. It’s going to be a bit of a grim walk, but it’s the safest and most private way for us to get the twins out. We are being escorted home via private ambulance out of the back of the hospital… but we have to exit through the entrance to the morgue. At first, Butterfly was against it until we are assured that it’s completely safe for the twins and no different than being in any other part of the hospital—it’s just the entrance used by the morgue. What a way to start your life!
We pack our things and, with the twins in tow, take the freight elevator to the sublevel floor with Jason, Mom and the chief of surgery, my wife in a wheelchair. I hold Butterfly’s hand as the elevator descends—a short walk to the exit and this will be all over, my love. She squeezes my hand when the door opens and we exit the elevator. I’m not looking forward to that awful florescent lighting that’s usually on this floor.
When we turn the corner to the hallway of the morgue, much to our delight, it’s very brightly lit. There’s a mock red carpet spanning the hallway and the walls are lined with several of the nurses from the maternity ward. They have balloons and signs that obviously can’t go into the ambulance with us, but the signs read things like, “Good luck to the Greys” and “We’ll miss you, Mike and Mackenzie.”
My wife is again moved to tears and the nurses gently pat her shoulder as I push her wheelchair, smiling and wishing us good luck as we pass by. There’s a feeling of warmth and happiness, and I’m eternally grateful that the staff took these great pains and extra measures to make sure that we didn’t feel like we were walking through the morgue.
Nicely done, Seattle Gen.
Butterfly thanked them all through teary eyes and our children are secured onto the stretcher in the ambulance while my wife is secured into a seat with a paramedic sitting nearby. I don a paramedics cap and jacket and sit in the front seat with my head down to avoid detection and we’re off.
The ride home is uneventful, and as the press expects that we’re still at the hospital, no one is at the Crossing when we arrive with the twins—an ideal situation. The ambulance enters through the garage and we bring the children in through that entrance for the least exposure to the elements. Gail and Keri take them immediately up to the nursery while I get my beautiful wife to her recliner in the family room. She’s not quite ready to lay down yet and indicates that she has been in bed so much over the past twenty-four hours that she just wants to sit up for a moment.
“I wasn’t really paying attention because I was more concerned with the twins and whether or not you were alright,” I begin, “but did you practice any of the ecstatic birth exercises during labor?” She shakes her head.
“Not really,” she says, relaxing into her seat. “It was too hard to concentrate. I could only think about getting the twins here safely and making the pain stop, on following the doctor’s instructions and pushing through my diaphragm and not through my face. The concepts that Willow taught were too new for me to focus on, so I just worked on the things that I already knew. I don’t regret it. Dr. Culley’s advice was solid and the twins were born with no complications. I’d say that’s a win-win.”
“I’d have to agree, Mrs. Grey,” I tell her.
We’re flipping through the channels as I snuggle in her recliner with her, sleep beginning to fall upon us, when we see the local news station flash with a special report:
AnaChris Makes a Clean Getaway
Butterfly and I giggle to ourselves as the screen shows the ER door of the hospital and McIntyre walking to a podium that has been erected there, probably one where she has stood numerous times today. She begins to speak:
“Mr. and Mrs. Christian Grey checked into the Seattle General Hospital on Wednesday afternoon so that Mrs. Grey could deliver their twin babies. They will be making a formal announcement concerning the delivery of their children at a later date. They have made several requests for the entrance to the hospital to be cleared not only so that they can leave the hospital peaceably and insure the safe transport of their family, but also so that other patients seeking treatment for possible life-threatening ailments, injuries, and diseases could get that much-needed treatment. Those requests have fallen on deaf ears all in the name of so-called free speech. The Greys would like to formally express that they are disappointed that they could not get cooperation on this one request that was so important to them, and appalled that greed, selfishness, and the next scoop appears to be more important than human life—so important, in fact, that three ambulances with critical accident victims had to be diverted to hospitals miles out of the way because you all are blocking the emergency room doors.”
A silence falls over the crowd. No cameras are flashing and no murmurings can be heard. Vee removes her glasses and does something completely out of character for her.
“On a personal note, I’d like to say that I’ve worked for Christian Grey and Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc., in the public relations department for several years. I’ve seen a lot during my tenure at GEH. I’ve seen even more over the course of my career. However, not since the death of Michael Jackson have I ever seen anyone take this much sadistic interest in the happenings and tragedies of someone’s personal life. I can honestly say that never in my life—personal or professional—have I seen such a blatant disregard for someone’s privacy and/or suffering. Tragedies in the Greys’ lives have been splattered all over the news as fodder for gossip rags bent on selling subscriptions and internet blogs of lonely, hateful, bitter women who make up stories and start vicious rumors to turn an upstanding doctor and citizen into the bad guy simply because Seattle’s most eligible bachelor fell in love with her. Dr. Steele-Grey won’t say this herself, but she struggles to hold her head up and stay strong in the midst of the spiteful rumors and hateful lies and comments thrown at her as she attempts to recover from the horrendous truths of her past that have already been splattered all over the news:
“The vicious attack on her as a teenager in Henderson, Nevada;
“The exposed lies and betrayal of her mother and stepfather during that ordeal;
“The kidnapping and assault she experienced the year before last on Vashon Island;
“The accident last year that nearly cost her life and left her in a coma for 12 days;
“None of these things appealed to the sense of human decency of any of you to give these people a moment’s peace and some of you have even chosen to exploit these items just to sell more papers and boost your ratings. None of you have even considered that anytime you see Anastasia Grey in public, she’s always given you an interview. She’s always answered your questions with decorum and grace—always greeted you in a friendly manner. Even when she was in a hurry, she gave you a smile and a wave, and you repay her kindness by camping outside of the hospital every time she gets admitted, hoping to catch her at her worst—preventing other people from getting crucial care so that you can invade her privacy…”
McIntyre presses an earpiece into her ear for a moment, still holding the silent audience captive.
“My little rant is over now, not that any of you are paying any attention,” she says as she looks at her watch. “I would like to add one last thing. I have just been notified that effective approximately six minutes ago, the family for which you vultures have camped out for two days and blocked a hospital entrance has been transported back to Mercer Island via private ambulance and are now at home resting comfortably. You can all go back to your nests now.”
This was obviously recorded earlier as we’ve been home now for at least an hour, maybe more. After her speech, McIntyre exits the podium to complete silence and walks—undisturbed—through the crowd, to her car, gets in, and drives away.
Somebody’s getting a raise.
A/N: “It’s good to be the king.” History of the World, Part I—Mel Brooks plays a spoof of King Louis XVI during the French Revolution where he walks around openly womanizing, groping, and otherwise inappropriately manhandling females, after which he repeatedly turns to the camera and says “It’s good to be the king.”
So I know that many of you were happy to see that the birth went off “drama free,” but let’s face it… This is AnaChris and the birth of their frigging babies! Did you really expect for that to be drama free??
You can find the songs along with pictures of places, things, and fashions on my Pinterest page at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/becoming-dr-grey/
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Love and handcuffs 🙂