DISCLAIMER: This chapter includes very heavy subject matter that some could find triggering. Without giving it away, there is a tragic death described. I always try to handle my stories with grace and I'll do the same for this, but if this isn't your thing or puts you off in any way, please don't hesitate to stop reading or skip this chapter.
…
APRIL
My world is blurry around the edges as I've gone slack in Matthew's arms, one hand on his chest and the other tucked near my side. My slip is covered in blood and my lower belly sears with a white-hot pain I can't describe. I rest my head against him and sob for all I'm worth, wondering what is going to happen now.
"You're okay, you're okay," he says, and when I look up I see that it isn't Matthew at all who's holding me - it's Jackson.
The visual evidence doesn't help much, though. "Matty," I murmur, something thicker than confusion inside my head. I lift my hands and realize what they did, then crumble all over again. "Matty, what did we do?"
"April, it's me," Jackson says, and I know that. I know it's him, but at the same time, I don't. This isn't the first time I've been held by strong arms on a bloody bathroom floor, and I can't get my thoughts straight. When I close my eyes, I'm in the small bathroom at the old house, crammed between the toilet and the wall. When I open them, we're in a ritzy powder room with slippery, red goo all over the floor. None of this makes sense. If I'm not living inside the memory, how is my pain so real? "It's me, it's Jackson."
"I know," I whisper, turning my face into his chest so I can't see the blood anymore. "But we have to do something about… about…"
"We need to get you home," he says, swiftly standing with me in his arms.
"We have to… we can't go home," I say, barely able to keep my head up as he walks towards the bathroom door. Once he pushes it open, the harsh light hits my eyes and makes me squint - sounds from the party are still rising and falling from the other room. "Not this way!" I shriek.
"April," he gasps, taken aback.
"Don't take me out this way," I plead, winding my arms around his neck to hold as tightly as I can. "They'll see me."
"All of the guests are in the ballroom," he says. "The car is right out front. It'll be quicker this way, we can get you home faster."
"My sisters!" I shrill. "My sisters must be home. The light. They can't see me like this. Just take me out the back, please. I don't want them to get scared."
I look at him desperately to find his eyes glassy and shrouded with confusion. "April, your sisters aren't…"
"Please, just turn around!" I say, trying to fight my way out of his arms to get there myself. When I do, though, the pain in my abdomen comes back and I start to cry. "Please, Jackson, please."
"Alright," he says, giving in and going back the way he came. I close my eyes as we make our way through long, twisting hallways towards the back entrance. Once we're outside, the cold air assaults my skin and I curl against him, shivering.
"I didn't want people to stare," I say, soaking in the silence. "They'll know what I did."
"Your sisters?"
"Everyone."
We walk for a while longer, having to go all the way around the house to get to the car, and I press a hand to my stomach and wince. "It hurts," I whimper.
"What hurts?" he asks, glancing at me while continuing to move.
"What you did," I say, letting my head fall again. "It didn't go deep enough. It was a mistake, Matty, we just should have waited… it hurts so bad. You said you would stitch it, and I'm still bleeding."
"April," Jackson says firmly. "I don't know who Matty is, but it's me. Jackson. You're with Jackson."
"I know," I breathe.
"Do you?" he says. "Who is this Matty… Matthew person?"
My face crumples as I start to cry again, neck gone slack so my head is tipped back to look at the sparkling stars above. I stare while trying to find one to focus on, tuning out all the questions Jackson is asking. With my eyes centered on a single star, I'm able to disappear from what I've done and how it's come back to haunt me. I don't give Jackson an answer though he expects one; instead, I concentrate on the throbbing pain in my stomach and the blood coating my skin.
Somehow, he lowers me into the car and I curl into the corner as he gets in, too. "Home, please," he says.
"No," I say, my voice coming out louder than I'd intended. "I need to go to Western and 65th."
"April," Jackson says. "That's too far south. Why do you need to go there? What's down there?"
"I just need to go to there," I say. "And we need to go fast." I wrap my arms around my waist and double over, teeth gritted. "I forgot the blanket. I was going to use that blue blanket," I say.
"You're not making any sense," he says.
"None of it makes any sense!" I say, fading in and out. "Please, just drive. I'm begging you. I need to get to Western and 65th."
There's a long pocket of silence until Jackson nods and gives the driver the go-ahead. I lean against the window and tuck my legs into my side, watching the city pass by as we make our way further and further south. The buildings get smaller, the lights grow dimmer, but the neighborhoods feel more like home. This is where I grew up; nothing is pretty, but it's exactly how I remember. We pass my high school, where I dropped out during my junior year. We pass the old church I haven't been back to since I was 15. We pass the medical center where I met Matthew, looking more dilapidated than I remember.
"McDonald's," I mutter, pointing as we get closer. "That one. I need to get out."
I reach for the door handle as the car is still moving, but Jackson yanks me back. He doesn't say anything, but shoots me a muddled look once the wheels stop. "What the hell is going on, April?"
"Let me go," I insist, pulling my arm away from him. "I want to do this alone. I don't want you to see."
He recoils, stunned, and I climb out of the car in my bloody slip and high heels. Instead of going inside the restaurant, I walk around to the dumpsters. The lids are open and they're not too full, and I freeze in place once I arrive. I rest my hands on the bars melded to the sides and stare inside. That's all I'm capable of. The smell isn't pleasant, but I can't leave.
I stand there for what feels like hours, joints locking, until Jackson comes to get me. He unfurls my fingers and leads me away, wrapping me tightly in his arms to get my shivering to stop. "What are you doing," he mutters. "Would you just tell me what's going on, please?"
"I don't know," I say, face in his neck. "But thank you for stitching me up. It doesn't hurt so much anymore."
After saying those words, I close my eyes and fall into a deep, black sleep with my head on his chest. I don't wake up when he brings me inside or when he lays me down, but my mind shifts from rest into a myriad of dreams I can't control. Images flash across my eyelids like gunshots, blinding me with the force of their impact. A red, slippery bathroom. A towel shoved between my teeth. Matthew's hand clamped in mine. The scalpel in his hand, sutures after. His fingers and my lower half coated in blood. The smell of thick iron, the fuzziness inside my mouth. Physical exhaustion like I'd never known. Then silence. The silence was the worst part.
I wake up screaming, voice gone hoarse. I grip my lower belly, expecting that same fiery pain, but there's nothing. I don't know it could be possible for the pain to disappear, but it did. I'm still covered in blood, but without any physical discomfort. It's caking now, given it's been a few hours since it happened, but I can't believe I haven't washed it off yet. I begin to tremble, a scream swarming in the base of my throat, but Jackson places a hand on my shoulder before it bursts free. "I'm right here," he says. "I was waiting until you were awake to clean you up."
"I want it off," I say, standing up to yank the slip over my head. I crumple it up and throw it in the bathroom trash, Jackson coming behind me to run the water inside the clawfoot bathtub.
He's kneeling on the floor with one hand on the faucet, eyes on me as I stand there in my underthings, flakes of blood falling off my body with every breath. "Do you know where you are?" he asks warily.
I take a while to answer, but eventually I do. "Home," I say.
"Do you know what day it is?" he asks.
"All Saints' Day," I answer. "November first."
"Who am I?" he continues.
"Jackson," I say, both answering his question and mildly scolding him.
He looks towards the water, skimming his fingers over the surface as the tub fills. "It's ready," he says. "Come in."
I step out of my underwear and take off my bra, leaving them both in a small pile as I sink under the bathwater. It's nice and hot, turning a faded red color after only seconds of me being inside. The blood detaches from my skin without much scrubbing and I'm left to sit there among bits of it floating. I rest my head back against the tub and stare at a specific spot on the tile, wondering how it's possible that I'm not in pain. I remember it hurting so badly - for months following that night, the pain brought me back and made me relive it in visceral, cruel detail. Now that the stabbing sensation is gone, I don't know what to make of it. How can I relive the memory so clearly if that feeling isn't there to bring me back?
"Last night, I forgot the blanket," I say out of the blue. Jackson's attention switches over; he'd been staring at the floor where he's still sitting. "I meant to bring it." All he does is stare at me. He doesn't part his lips to speak, thoughts don't churn behind his eyes. All I get is a blank stare, and I don't know what I did to deserve that.
I lower myself further so my chin touches the surface of the water and feel my hair fan out around me. I rest my arms over my belly and brush the scar as I go, which makes me flinch away from myself. My eyes dart to Jackson, who's seemingly keeping his eyes off of me on purpose, and then look down at myself. I see a body I recognize - small chest, skinny legs, a belly with food in it for once. And beyond that, I see a mottled scar that spans from one hipbone to the other - directly below my belly button. The skin is raised and uneven, pinker than the rest of me, healed in a way that's far from pretty. It seems especially noticeable today, right now, but I resist the urge to cover it. Instead, I trace it with my pointer finger - back and forth, back and forth - until I feel something close to soothed.
"April, what happened last night?" Jackson asks, breaking the silence much later. The bathwater has begun to get cold and I haven't washed a single part of me. All I've been able to do is sit and stare, my mind slipping between the past and present. I can't keep anything straight. It's all blurry, but the memories are shiny like they're happening in real time. My mind is beyond control, and that's far from a good feeling. Whatever comes out of my mouth won't make sense, I know that for a fact.
"I don't want to say," I whisper, staring at my knobby knees while continuing to trace the scar with one finger.
"I think we need to talk about it," he presses. He's insistent, but not pushy. There's a gentleness about his voice that I appreciate.
"Why would you make me talk about it?" I reply. "You were there. You… you were there. You saw it all, Matty." I close my eyes and dig my fingernails into my kneecaps. "It wasn't just me. Don't ask me what happened like it wasn't your idea, too. Like you didn't drive us there." Jackson lets out a long sigh and I realize I've done it again - mixed them up. "Jackson," I say, covering my face with both hands. "I'm sorry. I know. I know you're not… I know."
"Will you just tell me what's going on?" he says. "I want to help you. And I can't when you keep going back to this… this place inside your head that you can't get out of."
"I'm out of it now," I say, one hand on my belly to protect the scar.
"No, you're not," he says. "I can see it on your face, you're not. You're still there, wherever 'there' is, and I just want to know what happened."
My facial features pinch together as the flashes of red come back, the bursts of pain, the way my brain short-circuited to try and figure out what to do. Only one thing made sense, only one thing would save us, and that's what I had to do. We had to do. I didn't do it alone, and I won't let him make me feel like I did. "It doesn't hurt anymore," I say, head turned to the side so not to look at him. I don't want to. I don't want the expression on his face to soak into my conscience. I don't like the way he's looking at me - like I'm crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm in pain, and I have been for a long, long time. "Why doesn't it hurt?"
"Why doesn't what hurt?"
I take a shaky inhale and press both hands over the scar now, tears streaming down my cheeks to land in the seam of my lips. "Why do you keep asking?" I say. "You should know. You did it."
"April, I'm not Matty," Jackson says.
"I know," I whimper.
"Do you?" he demands, voice a bit raised.
"Stop yelling at me," I say, curling into myself.
After a beat passes, he lets out a long breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just…" His voice fades before he mutters, "Frustrated," then lifts up onto his knees. "Come here. Let's get you washed up."
He lathers shampoo between his hands and scrubs it into my hair, massaging my scalp while I sit there silent and confused. The inside of my head is a mess and I can't weave any of my thoughts into something coherent. Images and senses mold together, creating a hybrid of what happened five years ago and what I'm experiencing in the moment. I should have never gone into that bloody bathroom. If I wouldn't have seen it, I'd still be normal. I shouldn't have been at that party at all. I shouldn't have panicked and let Matthew slice me when my body worked everything out on its own. Without a scar, things would be easier to forget.
Jackson washes as much of me as he can reach and I let him. I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees in a catatonic state, listening to the sound of the water and my own breathing. After all the blood has been scrubbed from my skin and my hair is clean and soaked, he puts the loofah down and spends a moment just watching me. I don't turn to meet his eyes but I feel them on my face, and when he holds one side of my head to bring it closer, I don't fight. I let him pull me in and drop a firm kiss to my temple, lingering after. "Are we gonna be okay?" I rasp, admittedly unsure of who I'm talking to.
"We're going to be just fine," he answers, and I close my eyes. I rest for a moment then turn, looping my arms around his neck as he helps me out of the tub.
I stand there dripping until he hands me a towel, but I don't wrap it around my body quite yet. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror - pointedly on the scar that's jagged across my lower belly. I trace it like I'd been doing in the tub and keep my eyes where they are, drawing the line over and over. "You did a good job," I murmur.
"Sure," Jackson says, and I realize once again that it's him.
"Sorry," I say, staring at the floor while making myself decent with the towel. "I know you're not… I know. I'm sorry." I meet his eyes. "I'm not crazy."
"I know," he says, one hand in the middle of my shoulder blades as he leads me out of the bathroom.
"I'm really not," I say. "I know you're not him. I'm just confused."
"I know," he says again, pulling open drawers to find loungewear for me. "Here, put these on. They're soft. You should rest."
I change clothes and he lingers, not watching me but seemingly confused about what to do next. When I look away from him, my brain goes haywire again as my object permanence seems to have flown out the window, and suddenly all I can think about is finding that blue blanket. "Where…" I murmur, throwing open the comforter. "Where is it?"
"What are you looking for?"
"I just need it," I say, frantically shoving things out of my path to locate it.
"Need what, April?"
"The blanket," I say. "We left it here. We were supposed to take it and we didn't, and I need it. I just want to hold it."
"You put it under the pillow yesterday," he notes.
I furrow my eyebrows. "Yesterday…" I muse. "You saw… yesterday? I didn't know you were here."
"I came in here and woke you up," he says. "You were sleeping with it. Remember, when I played Blackbird for you?"
"Played for me?" I ask, and only then does the memory of Jackson with the guitar come back. Not Matty with any type of instrument. The only instruments he ever used were medical ones. Of course Matty didn't see me yesterday. I haven't seen him in years. "Oh," I say, trying to make up for the fact that I took too long to piece that together. "Right, yeah. I remember."
"Anyway, it's under the pillow," he murmurs.
I crawl onto the bed amongst the ruffled covers and find it exactly where he said it would be. I bunch it against my chest, breathing in its familiar smell, and feel comforted instantly. It's a little piece I have left of what I never had.
As I sit on my side of the bed and hold the empty blanket in my hands, everything falls into place - for good this time. I'm here in my married house with my husband watching me, never more confused in his life. I have a scar on my belly to show for what happened but nothing else. I'm here and the past is where I left it in the dumpster. Realizing that, I hold the small blanket between my hands and let my body convulse with sobs, wiping my tears with the soft fabric until Jackson makes a move to come closer. "I… no," I say, keeping him at a distance. It's the only way I'll be able to work through this. With him near, I'm afraid I'll only get confused again and I need to pull myself out - alone. "I just need to be by myself for a while, if that's alright."
"Sure," he says, sounding unsure as he backs away. I'm afraid that I've upset him and made him afraid of me. I'm worried that he thinks I'm crazy and I'm not. Deeply wounded, but not crazy.
"I'll come down in a little bit," I say through my tears.
"I'll have the chef make something," he says. "Take all the time you need."
I can tell by the look on his face that he'd rather I take more time than less. I'm sure he needs space, to be away from my messy thoughts and jumbled sentences, and I don't blame him. If it were me in his shoes, I'd feel the same.
I lay down with the blanket near my face and let it all out. In no way does it alleviate the pain from what I did, but it does something in bandaging it. Crying allows some to exit my body and seep elsewhere instead of bottling up to the point of explosion. I don't know another way to cope besides crying, but after a while I stopped letting myself do it. If I didn't put a limit on it back then, I would've spent the rest of my life weeping. I don't know if there's a way to heal after what happened and what I did. My life ever since has been spent punishing myself to some degree.
I fall into a light sleep with the blanket curled under my chin, woken by the sound of Catherine and Jackson talking downstairs. "What in the world happened last night?" she demands, and I open my eyes to her sharp tone. It makes me jump, like she's accosting me in this room instead of scolding her son all the way downstairs. "Do you know how much you and your missus upset my guests? They thought there was a real murder scene in that bathroom! The way you carried her out in a slip, Jesus Christ. Are you trying to ruin us? You left her dress in the bathroom like you'd bent her over and taken her right there! God, you didn't, did you?"
"No," he says immediately. "We didn't… no, we weren't. That's not what happened."
"Then if you weren't having sex, I'd love to hear what actually occurred," she says, pressing the issue.
"It doesn't concern you," he replies, clipped.
"It happened under my roof, so in fact, it does," she argues. "I want to know why I had to have people cart that thousand-pound dress soaked in artificial blood out to the trash. That should've been saved. That was Versace, and she wasted it. A beautiful dress wasted on a mess of a girl."
"Don't," he growls.
"Then tell me what happened," she says.
Tell me what happened.
"It's more than just a question-answer situation," he says.
It's not that simple.
"Why was the bathroom in a worse state than it began? Did she have a fit?" she asks.
Why was there blood soaked into the grout on the bathroom floor? Did you hurt yourself?
"It's not my business to tell you," he says.
I don't want to tell you.
"Jackson, I'm her mother-in-law. I'm not going to publicly smite her," she says.
Baby, I'm your mom. You can tell me anything.
"I don't fully understand it myself," he says.
You'll never look at me the same.
"Just try."
Don't say that. No matter what, I'll always love you.
"As far as I know, she was triggered by something. All the blood, I think. She fell into a panic attack of sorts, something like PTSD, and still hasn't come out of it. I don't know the reason, so don't bother asking," he says.
Please, don't be mad when I say it. Please, don't hate me.
I tune out the rest of their conversation, unable to stomach it even though I'm not physically involved. It's almost worse, not being there to use my voice and instead depending on him to do as much. He's right - he doesn't know any details to why I reacted how I did, but that has to change. Now that my mind is clearer, I have to let him in. There's no choice in the matter. The way I acted was too extreme not to offer an explanation. This was the last way in which I wanted it to happen, but there's not another option. I've never told the story before. The people who know only know because they were there when it happened or shortly thereafter. I don't know how I'll react in recounting it, or if I'll even be able to make it through. I don't know how he'll respond, but my best guess is that he'll hate me and realize I'm not a good person. I won't be surprised if he asks for a divorce, and I'll have to agree. Being married to him had just begun to feel nice, but I deserve to have it ripped away. I'm not a good person. Ever since age 16, I haven't been a good person. My good heart lasted until that one night.
I could do a thousand good deeds, be kind to everyone I meet, but it still wouldn't be enough to redeem myself. Nothing could possibly atone for the sin I committed. And even if there was something, I'm not sure I'd repent because I don't feel I could ever earn it. Whatever pain I'm in - constant pain, perpetual pain - it's present for a reason. It's my penance, and I hope I always carry it, no matter how heavy it gets.
When Catherine leaves, I get up to change my clothes yet again. I need something to put on that will force clarity - so I can tell myself I'm in the mansion; I'm Jackson's wife and no one's mother. I'm 21 years old, not 16. I'll talk to him in the kitchen, not a bathroom.
I put on a robe that's much too expensive - La Costa Del Algodon - beautiful as it flows over my body and rests in all the right places. I tie it loosely and put my hair up after splashing water on my face, waking myself up. I need to be present. I can't let my thoughts take control of my conscious and whisk me back to 2013. I need to be here with Jackson, even if it's the last time.
I walk down the stairs slowly, the blanket tucked under one arm. I hear Jackson in the kitchen listening to talk radio, and he lifts his head once I come through the doorway. For a moment we just watch each other, wondering what the next move is, then I take a few steps closer. He sets his stirring spoon down, lowers the volume of the radio, and places all of his attention on me. "I want to tell you about what happened to me," I say, then shake my head. It didn't come out right. I shouldn't have expected it to. "No. I want to tell you what I did."
He traces the rim of the mug that sits in front of him as the air changes. I'm not sure the direction of the shift, it's not something I can read, but something definitely changed. "Of course," he says. "Please, sit. I'll pour you a cup of coffee."
"No," I say, opening and closing my fingers overtop the granite counter. "No, thank you."
"April, you need something in your system," he presses. "You haven't eaten since midday. I'll make your favorite. How does a cup of oolong sound, with a little milk?"
I give in while staring at my fingers. "And sugar," I whisper. "Just a bit."
"I know," he replies, moving around the other side of the counter as he goes for the kettle. He pours water in with his back facing me and I study the muscles under his shirt, muscles I've run my fingers over and gotten to know intimately. I can't help but think - after I tell him what I'm about to tell him - will he let me near him again? After he knows, I won't be the same person anymore. There's no way I could be. "How are you feeling?" he asks a few beats later, after turning on the stove.
"I'm okay now," I respond, quietly. He turns around and looks at me much in the way I assume a psychiatrist might study their patient. "I am," I insist.
"Do you know my name?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "It wasn't that I didn't before. I always knew you were Jackson and you weren't…" I clear my throat. "Him. But the memory kept forcing its way into my head and making me see everything differently. I never thought you were him. I just thought… I don't know. It doesn't make sense."
"Say what you need to say," he says. "Don't hold back. You won't help anyone if you hold back."
I sigh. "When I say things that are inside my head, they don't sound right," I say. "I was gonna say I never thought that you were him, I just thought he was you. But, see? I sound crazy."
"Don't use that word," he says. "It doesn't describe you and I don't like hearing you say it."
I chew the inside of my lip, the same place I've been worrying for the past few hours. It's been rubbed raw but I can't seem to stop. Physical pain is a good distraction from the hurricane inside my mind.
I don't bother with sitting. As the kettle screams and comes to a boil, Jackson prepares the cup and sets it before me with the certain amount of grace he always sustains. It's perfect, just to my liking; I only discovered how much I like this flavor upon moving in with him. He's a big tea drinker, and I never had been before coming here. I take a sip and it's pleasantly hot against my lips, so I take another. "Come," he says, nodding me over. He's sitting on the other side of the counter, a half-eaten plate still in front of him. "Sit with me."
"No," I say, declining the offer. I clear my throat and amend the statement to say, "No, thank you. I'd rather stand. I don't think I could sit and tell you this. It's… I don't know. It's too much."
"Alright," he says. He sits up straight and poised like always, facing me with his elbows on the counter. Suddenly, I feel very put on the spot. This feels so practiced, so set up and planned. I had no image in my mind of how I wanted to tell him, but it's a guarantee I wouldn't have thought up a scene like this.
"I…" I say, wrapping my palms around the steamy mug. I blink hard and squint a bit, my thoughts threatening to jumble again. "I don't know where to start."
The way he looks at me is gentle and without any pressure. He's comforting in a place where he could be very intimidating, and for that I'm grateful. "The beginning works," he says softly.
I nod to myself and say, "Right." I spend a while thinking it over, wondering where the true beginning might be. I decide to go all the way back so he understands everything - as best as it can be understood, at least. I don't expect him to come out of this with a hug and a kiss for me. I expect much, much less - though I'm not sure specifically what. I've never told someone my secret, I've had no reason to share it prior to this. Everyone who knew was complicit or present. But now, that changes. I'm letting him in because he asked me to, and because I can't continue to keep it. If I do, I think it might kill me. "It started when I was 15," I say. "I was going to Hyde Park Academy High School, it was the summer before my junior year. The summer baby Alice was born, and that plays a big part in this. At the hospital when my mother was in labor, Libby, Kimmie and me were in the lobby. We were alone, waiting and worried. We weren't allowed in the delivery room - she was by herself in there. My dad had just passed away. Then, this intern came up to us and made us feel better. His name was Matthew - Matty."
Jackson's face opens with realization as he says, "Oh."
I stare at my hands again, nails still done-up and fancy from the party. It feels like a lifetime has passed between then and now. "I grew to call him that because we became really close," I say. "He was there for my family in a time of need and he continued to be there. Mostly for me, after a while. I didn't struggle academically in school, but I didn't have any friends. I got made fun of for my hand-me-downs and the way I looked. But with Matty, it was different. I didn't have to try and be someone. I could just be me. We got along great and he made me feel accepted when I needed that more than anything. He was there for me when no one else was, and that sounds exaggerated, but it's really not. My father had just died and I had a brand new baby sister; our family was trying to mend itself when we very well could've ripped at the seams. And he was there for all of that. Back then, I'd never known a love like the kind I felt for him… and it was love. We fell in love at the end of the summer and it happened fast. So fast it should've scared me, but it didn't."
I pause for a moment to catch my breath. It's strange, talking in-depth about my first boyfriend with the man who is now my husband. I can't picture the two existing in the same realm. I was a different person with Matty than I am now with Jackson. I was younger, immature, untouched. Everything that happened with him transformed me into the married woman I am today. I'm not sure what to think about that.
"People couldn't know we were together, though," I say. "My mother knew, but that was all. He was 21, I was 16." Jackson's face changes instantly and I feel the need to defend something that is no longer mine. "I know how it sounds," I say. "But that's not how it felt. You don't know how it felt. I loved him, Jackson. I loved him more than I knew was possible, and he loved me. I had never felt like that before. I'm not asking you to side with me or understand. I just need you to listen."
"Okay," he says. "I'm listening."
I press the tips of my thumbs together and dig one nail into the soft skin of the other. "He was the first man to ever say he loved me - romantically. He listened to me, he kept me safe, at the time it felt like he gave me everything. Everything, including a baby." I don't bother with raising my eyes. I'm not strong enough, nor do I have any interest in seeing the look on his face. "He got me pregnant when I was 16," I say. "We found out in March of my junior year when I was already five months along. I hadn't known I was pregnant… I didn't show. I thought I was getting sick a lot. But no, I was pregnant. And by that time, there was no going back. I was too far along for an abortion, so we decided to keep it."
Thinking about what must be going on inside Jackson's head makes me sick, so I try not to. It's easier said than done, though, because being there might be easier than being inside my own mind. I don't want to say what comes next. I want to run. I want to get out of here and never come back if it means not saying what happened after. I swallow hard and stare at the details in the countertop, seemingly entranced until his voice pulls me out. "April," he says, and I snap back to the present.
"Sorry," I breathe, leaning forward while covering my face with my hands.
"Take your time," he says. "I just want to make sure you're still here with me. I'm right beside you. You can stop, you can do what you need to. I'm not going anywhere. You can lean on me."
I shake my head, eyes burning. It's not that I don't want to lean on him, because I do. But I shouldn't. "I was five months along in March," I say. "And in May…" I shut my eyes for a long time and press my hands to my chest, under which my heart hammers wildly. "In May… something terrible happened. I did something terrible. It makes me an awful person and I know you think you know me, and you might think you know my heart, but you don't." I look up at him when I say the last part and his eyes are shiny. What I'm saying is scaring him and it should. "Matty was over and we were just hanging out like always. We were home alone. I went into the bathroom because I was feeling strange, and when I pulled my pants down, I noticed I was bleeding." My body freezes, blood going cold inside my veins. My jaw clenches, tightens up, and I have to turn all my emotions off in order to get these words out. "Bleeding a lot. More than what was normal. We didn't have health insurance because it was under my dad's name and he had passed away, so I didn't want to go to the hospital. I told Matty I could have the baby at home because he was a surgical intern, and we could do it together. He believed me." I let out a shaky exhale. "I was wrong. I was a stupid, stupid child. Nothing was going right and I didn't want my mom to know. I don't know why I didn't call her. Maybe things would've turned out differently if I had. I don't know." I pause and stare at my untouched cup of tea, the liquid rippling from how hard I'm breathing. "I don't know."
An even longer silence passes this time and Jackson allows it. I haven't gone anywhere in my mind, instead I'm trying to figure out a way to say what comes next without sounding like a monster. There isn't a way, though. There's no way at all. "April," he says after some time has passed. "Then what?"
"The baby was coming," I say, answering quickly like the words had been waiting right at the gate. "I was having contractions. He wanted to come, but it just wasn't working. It was lasting too long. I wasn't thinking clearly and neither was Matty. We were kids… we were just kids." I inhale shakily. "So, I told him to cut me open. He was an intern, he knew how to handle an incision. I don't know what made him agree, but he did. He tried, at least. And it didn't go deep enough."
Jackson makes a sound in his throat that might be a word trying to come to the surface, but it doesn't fully form. I don't wait for him to clarify the thought, though. I have to keep going. If I stop, I'll never start again.
"The bathroom was covered in blood. So was I. So was he. Just everything… all red. The pain was indescribable. I barely remember how badly it hurt because it was so much. But even still, the cut wasn't deep enough. He didn't know what he was doing. He was a brand new intern, not a surgeon. Not a doctor. He was an intern. He was a kid, just like me. And he cut me open without knowing how and gave me my scar."
"Oh," Jackson says, finally realizing. I barely give it time to settle before continuing, though.
"The baby didn't come that way, though, I pushed him out," I say, voice growing quieter. "Somehow, at 16, I pushed a baby out of me and when I did, the room was quiet." I stop for a moment, remembering that silence. Remembering how it soaked into my skin and painted a veneer over me that I've not yet shaken. "He didn't cry. He didn't move. He was tiny and blue. He was born dead. I don't know how long I was carrying him that way. He was so tiny that he fit in my hand." I don't stop. I can't stop now. "Matty and I didn't know what to do. I don't remember who came up with it, it might have been him. But at the same time, it could have been me. I was so afraid of getting in trouble, so destroyed over what I'd done, that I knew we had to get rid of it. Get rid of everything. He was dead… I didn't know what you were supposed to do. So… I wrapped him in two towels and we got in Matty's car. He took me to the dumpsters behind McDonald's on Western and 65th and we dropped our baby inside. He was already cold, but it was freezing out. That's why… the towels. I wrapped him in the towels, but I forgot his blanket." I touch the fabric where it's still tucked under my arm. "So, I kept it."
"April…"
"My mom knows," I say, cutting him off. "I had to tell her. I cleaned up the bathroom before anyone got home, but I didn't do a good job. Matty stitched me up as best he could, but my body was in a horrible state and Mom had to nurse me back to health. I dropped out of high school. I started working as a maid six months later. I didn't speak to him after that night and he didn't speak to me. Ever since, we haven't communicated. I don't know where he is now."
Jackson stands and I jump at the sound of his stool being pushed back. I'm once again toeing the line between the present and past, but I won't allow myself back there again. Now that the memory is fresh and alive, going back might mean never returning.
"Oh, April," Jackson says, coming around the counter.
I stop him with a flat hand, though, arm outstretched. "Please, don't," I say, unable to bear the thought of being comforted after everything I admitted.
I don't know what happens now that I've told him. Are things between us over and done? Is he finished with me? If he's not, is that enablement? I don't know how to move on or if it's even possible. Maybe, I shouldn't have said anything at all. This ruins everything - back then and now. It's my fault and it always has been.
"I need some time to process this," Jackson says, surprising me. I hadn't expected him to say that, but I should have. Anyone would need time. "We should reconvene later."
"Yeah," I respond quietly, the word coming as more of a whimper than anything.
I still can't look at his face, but I watch the back of his head as he leaves. Once he's out of the room, I miss his presence and detest the feeling of being in here alone. I don't want to be by myself, trapped in my own thoughts - right now or ever again.
But I don't have a choice. After I stand in the kitchen for an immeasurable amount of time, long after I've finished my tea, I eventually leave and find my way to the front room. The sun goes down before I hear any movement in the house, and the movement in question is the sound of the buzzer at the gate, of which Antonio answers. When the doorbell rings, he opens the door and calls for Jackson, which prompts me to stand and linger near the stairs, in earshot of what's going on.
"We're looking for a Mrs. April Avery," a stern voice says.
Jackson sounds confused when he responds with, "That's my wife. What's your concern with her?"
"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to discuss that without her present, sir," the voice says. "Would you mind calling her?"
My stomach plummets to the floor as I see Antonio's eyes shine in the low light. He's on the other side of the staircase staring daggers into me, and to his right the mirror reflects who's at the door. Two police officers, asking for me. Called on by the butler who never wanted me near this family.