A Fight to Remember

You're My Person Pt. 2

Cristina:

One night, in a smoky bar... when the world turned on me, I found my person. "You're my 'Person,'" I stated, meaning Meredith Grey was the name I scrawled under, "contact person," meaning she was the first person to know about my pregnancy. She became my person.

"I am?"

"Yeah, you are. Whatever." It didn't mean anything, did it?

"Whatever."

'Person' meant: someone to be there, someone to help you home. After. Over the decades, it became that and so much more. Who knew?

We'd been standing here for about fifteen minutes, staring at the wreckage of a place I used to call home, even though I didn't exactly live there for very long. But it was that place we all felt safe in. A place anyone could come to.

Now, it'd been damaged. The fire had scorched the kitchen to a crisp, spread along the ceiling and walls to the living room and the stairs. The front windows were shattered, the frames on the outside marred black. Ash and blackened debris filled the foyer.

A large yellow sign marked the home, 'Condemed,' and 'Slated for Demolition.'

She asked me to take her here, and I didn't know why. They'd been allowed in once, to quickly gather what few belongings weren't damaged by fire and water, but it hadn't been much. So why were we here? "Mere?"

"I don't know," she said, wrapping her arms around herself and twisting her torso side to side.

"Do you want to leave?" I asked.

"No."

"Okay," I sighed. The swing was still intact, though it had been moved away from the house. I sat down in it and patted the spot beside me, inviting my Person to sit. "Wanna talk about it?"

Meredith rubbed her thighs and blew out a breath. We didn't have to do the talking thing. We understood each other, that was the crux of our friendship, we got each other. But Alzheimer's changed things.

"I'm losing," Meredith said.

"Losing what?"

"The fight... I'm-I..." she shook her head, sniffed. "I'm losing me."

My hand found hers. To me, she was still Meredith, my best friend, my Person. "How?" I asked.

Meredith planted her feet and pushed back, and I let the swing rock. "It's... I... can't explain..."

I squeezed her hand and met her gaze briefly. Try, I pleaded wordlessly.

"I feel like I'm in a fog," she said. "It used to just be sometimes, but now it happens more. I'll do something, and then... I'll forget what I just did. I'll write something, or talk to someone, but then it's gone."

I nodded and stared at the house. "That's the disease," I said. "You're still you."

"Still me," she sighed and pushed the swing, her watery gaze on the damaged house. Yeah, right."

"Mere-,"

"How many times did you tell me the house burned down?" she asked.

I blinked. "Meredith-,"

"No, tell me," she said fiercely, "how many times?"

This was another Person test. Honesty. I thought back to the car ride. "Three," I said.

There're no bathrooms where you're going.

That ponytail looks like crap.

"Three times..." Meredith repeated. "Once every five minutes or so." She shook her head. "I don't even... I don't remember it happening. My hippocampus is shot now."