JACKSON

No one showed up to Clemmie's fourth birthday party.

It was a beautiful day in August, the kind where the sky was so blue that it hurt your eyes. I spent all morning decorating the apartment with streamers and a big sign that I'd crafted myself out of construction paper. It hung between the dining and living room and read CLEMENTINE IS FOUR!

She had picked out the colors of the paper. There were pink, blue, and purple sheets all interspersed together. The streamers that I got from the dollar store were yellow. Our place looked great, and I had even tried my hand at baking a cake. Her party would have two cakes, though, because she wanted to make one herself. And I let her.

"I do it by myself, Daddy," she told me as I hovered behind where she stood on the stepstool. "I can mix it."

"Alright, you mix it," I said, eyes on the clock. It was 2:30, and people were due to arrive at 3. The party wasn't going to be huge - just my mom and a couple of Clemmie's friends from preschool. "It's your birthday, after all."

Being funny in the way she always was, she said, "No, Daddy. It's your birthday."

I snorted and smirked a little, shaking my head at her silliness.

"My friends are coming today," she said, licking the spoon she was mixing with. "That's why I'm making pink."

"Very smart," I said.

I was glad she was excited about her party, and I faked the same feeling as best I could. I was happy she was turning four, and so thankful she was healthy and well-adjusted. But the day was missing something - rather, two someones - and their absence left a hole that no amount of cake or decorations could fix.

But Clemmie didn't know that. All she knew was that she was turning four and the party was for her. That was all that mattered. I tried to push my thoughts aside, ignore it when my mind roved to what April might be doing with Skye. Obviously, it was her birthday, too. How would they celebrate? Probably with a bunch of family and so many presents. I didn't have much for Clemmie. I gifted her a secondhand dollhouse this morning. She loved it, but I still felt guilty. I wished I could do more.

She deserved her sister. She was too good at playing by herself, and I worried about what that might mean for her future. Would she always be a loner? She made friends at school pretty fast, but that's how preschool worked. What would happen when it took more than sitting together at the art table to get close to someone?

Never mind the fact that, someday, she would get to the age where she needs a mother. She'd get her period and start liking boys. I knew it was far into the future, but I still didn't feel prepared.

I jolted back to earth and realized I was staring at her - that round-cheeked, cherubic face coated in batter. She'd clearly been sneaking tastes as I was lost in my thoughts.

She giggled and I gave her a light scolding look, then wiped her face with a dish towel. "You're gonna be bouncing off the walls, birthday girl," I told her.

"Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce!" she cheered, hopping down from the stool. "Daddy, when are people getting here?"

I poured the batter into a pan and slid it into the oven. After the door was shut, I glanced at the clock again. "About twenty minutes," I said. "Why don't you go put on your party dress?"

"I need help to do it," she said.

"Alright," I said, following her to her bedroom that was right beside mine.

I found the dress lying on her bed on clearance at Macy's, and couldn't believe how cheap it was. I realized she'd probably only wear it once, but the look on her face when I showed it to her was worth every penny I spent. It's a blush pink, sleeveless dress that's about knee-length. And the best part was that, with all the tulle sewn in, it was perfect for twirling.

"Arms up," I said, careful of the hair I painstakingly put into a braided halo last night after her bath. I slipped the dress on over her head and buttoned the tiny button behind her neck, then turned her around. "Oh, so pretty," I said, my hands on her shoulders.

Clemmie did a big twirl and hopped over to the mirror that rested behind her door. "I'm so, so, so, so, so pretty, Daddy!" she squealed, smoothing the skirt with her chubby, dimpled hands. "Everyone's gonna say I'm so pretty!"

"Yes, they are," I said, beginning to smell the cake in the oven. "Let's go make sure everything is set up."

Clemmie sat on the couch while I straightened up the living room area, and stood by the door when I took the cake out and set it on the table. She fixed the skirt of her dress again and again, and asked me what time it was with every passing minute.

"A little past 3, honey," I answered, anxiety rising in my chest.

"When will people come?"

"Any minute."

I didn't know I was lying to her. 3:15 came and went, the same occurred with 3:45. Then 4, and no one showed. No one was going to show.

"I think people must have gotten busy," I said, heartbroken.

Clemmie was lingering by the door, her skirt fanned out around her legs. She'd been sitting there, expectant, for an hour. "Did they maybe forget?" she asked.

"I'm sure they didn't," I said. "They probably just had something really important come up."

"Everyone had an important thing?"

"Must be," I said, but was inwardly cursing not only those awful preschool families, but my own mother - who didn't even bother with a text. "You know what, though? I'm sure they'll remember to bring your presents to school in September."

She considered that statement, pressing her lips together while staring at the floor. "But I already gotted two presents from you," she said. "And that's a lot of presents. Right?"

I blinked hard. She was an amazing kid. "You did get nice presents," I said.

"And I got two!" she said, springing to her feet and holding up two little fingers. "I got more than one!"

"You did," I said.

"And… and…" she said, scurrying to the table. She pulled herself up onto a chair and sat on her knees. "Now, me and you can have two cakes just for us! We don't even have to share! Come on, Daddy!"

I cleared my throat and went to join my daughter, sitting in the chair beside hers - the one I always sat in. I cut Clemmie a huge piece of cake, almost bigger than the paper plate she had in front of her, and did the same for myself. Then, we both took a big bite.

"Mmmmmmmm," she said, her cheeks full and coated with pink icing. "This is the yummiest yummy cake in the world."

I smiled and set my fork down, reaching to hold her tiny face in my hands. As she chewed and looked at me curiously, I kissed her on the forehead and lingered there for a long moment. There would come a day where she'd want to celebrate with her friends at the mall instead of at home with me, but that day wasn't today. Today, Clemmie was happy with a two-person party, sitting at the dining room table with her dad. And no matter how old she got, I would never lose that memory.

"Happy birthday, Clemmie."

She smiled at me, her teeth ringed with pink, and said in her goofy voice, "Happy birthday, Daddy!"

I race towards the water before Skye says anything. I don't need her to tell me that's where Clemmie is. I already know. There's been a sinking feeling in my gut since the girls left the Kepners' house, and it wasn't just because we were with April's parents. I sensed that something was wrong, but didn't trust myself until it was too late.

I've never prayed in my life, but right now I pray it isn't too late. I've never run as fast as I do to get to the water, but I spin around before I get there because April is right behind me.

"Stay here," I demand, not out of aggression but necessity.

Two reasons. One, Skye needs her. Two, I can't lose her.

"Stay. Here," I say, my voice clogged and pitchy. "Stay with her."

"Okay," April whimpers, and backs up while keeping her eyes on me.

I don't waste any more time. I splash ungracefully into the waves and dive under as soon as I'm able. I don't let my mind wander. I came in to do one thing: save my daughter. I won't let any worst-case scenarios drift into my consciousness right now, because I can't afford them. I'm going to find Clemmie, and I'm going to pull her out alive.

I swim as hard as I can. I'm not a swimmer by nature, I don't exactly enjoy it, but Michael Phelps would be jealous of my speed. I have to find her.

It takes me longer than I'd like, longer than I expected, to see her. And she only catches my eye because of the yellow cardigan she has on. She's floating face-up, thank god, but her eyes are closed and her mouth is slack, lips open.

"Clementine!" I shout, and breast stroke as strongly as I can towards her.

I can't touch the sandy ground anymore, so hauling her back to shore isn't easy. I don't want to put her face underwater, but she's so limp and waterlogged that it's hard to keep control of her position.

"Clemmie, can you hear me?" I say, paddling with one hand.

I have one arm around her waist, and only now do I realize how small she feels. She's just a kid, my baby. She is not about to die on me.

"Almost there," I pant, using my feet now to propel me along. "Almost there. Just hang on. We're gonna make it."

When I reach the shallows, carrying her becomes more difficult. Her clothes make her body ten times heavier, so by the time we're on the sand, I'm awkwardly dragging her with my hands tucked under her armpits.

"Is she breathing?!" April shrieks once I lay Clemmie down. It doesn't happen very gently at all, but that's the least of my worries.

I kneel and hover with my ear over her mouth. I don't hear anything, nor do I feel any gusts of air. "No," I say.

I've heard my fair share of patients stop breathing. It's a strange, flat, anticlimactic sound. But when I hear that silence from my own daughter, it forces bile into my throat. I turn away moments before it comes, and I retch on my hands and knees into the sand, my entire body convulsing.

"I know CPR," April says, flying into action. "She's fine. I can…"

Without finishing her sentence, April begins compressions on Clemmie's fragile chest. My little girl has never looked weaker than she does right now, or more delicate. With the amount of force that April is exerting, it looks like she's breaking our daughter. I know that it's necessary, but the sight of it makes me throw up all over again.

"One, two, three, four, five," April says, then plugs Clemmie's nose and puffs into her mouth. Then, she starts all over. "One, two, three, four five." Puff. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

"Mama…" Skye sobs, crawling over wearing barely anything. It's freezing out here. She's shivering so hard that her whole body vibrates. I realize that I can't feel my body, but I don't care. I keep my eyes trained on Clemmie.

"Stop it!" April barks, silencing Skye. "One, two, three, four, five." Puff. "One, two…"

Up until this point, the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard was our first twin - Clemmie - taking her first breath. But the sound of her gasping for air now, being flipped by her mother so she can vomit seawater, is ten times more gorgeous.

"Thank you, God," April says, as seemingly every muscle in her body goes slack. She throws her arms around Clemmie and cries without making any sound. I can only tell she's crying because of the movement of her shoulders. "Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you."

I've never been more exhausted or relieved in my life. I don't know what else to do besides pull Skye in to join April and Clemmie's embrace, closing my eyes while burying my face in one of my daughter's sopping wet hair. At this point, I'm not sure who the hair belongs to, but I honestly don't care. They're both here and they're both okay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Skye wails. "I let her go in. I should've stopped her. Clemmie, Mama, I'm so sorry…"

"Shhh…" April says, soothing us all.

"I'm sorry," Clemmie croaks, and I rejoice just hearing her voice. That voice that called out for me in the middle of the night when she was small and sworn at me when she got bigger. I love that voice. I thought I would never hear it again. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," April whispers.

"Neither of you are stupid," I echo.

Skye adjusts and, for a moment, I think she's going to hug her sister. But instead, she shoves her by the shoulders - roughly, too. Clemmie looks just as surprised as I feel.

"Skye, hey now," April says.

"You scared me!" Skye cries, tears streaming down her already-wet cheeks. "I thought you were dead!"

"I'm sorry," Clemmie says, sniffling.

"I thought you were dead," Skye says, then throws her arms around Clemmie's neck. "I love you. Don't ever do that to me again."

"I won't," Clemmie mutters, facing over Skye's shoulder.

After the four of us are all cried out - at least, for the time being - Karen speaks up. I had totally forgotten she and Joe were here, so it's a surprise to see them standing worriedly off to the side.

"The rain's going to keep steady," she says. "You should come back to our house and warm up. You'll all get pneumonia if you stay out here any longer."

We need refuge. We need to take showers and change into warm clothes. I don't give April the chance to refuse - I answer for all of us by saying, "Thanks, Karen. We'll take you up on that."

APRIL

Before the four of us - myself, Jackson, my mom, and my dad - left for the beach, things hadn't exactly been going well. My dad had finally come inside, but in his typical fashion, he sat at the dining room table and didn't say anything.

My mom was in denial, which I had expected. I came here knowing that we might leave with a severed relationship, and I had to make peace with myself about that.

The argument had been going in circles until Jackson asked about the girls. At first, I wasn't worried. I guessed that Skye might take Clemmie to our old house to show her around; I knew for a fact that no one else was living there yet. But then they were gone for too long, and the weather took a turn for the worst. So, we went searching.

And now, we're here. Soaking wet and beached on the sand, accepting help from my parents who rarely offer it. I'm not irritated with Jackson for taking them up on the offer, either. I like that he's begun to take charge. The way he beelined for the water in search of Clementine showed a side of him that I haven't seen for a long time. I missed it.

He made the right decision, too. The chilly rain seeps into all of our bones, and my girls are trembling violently. Skye still looks terrified and Clemmie, worn out. I need to get them warm, safe, and away from all this.

"I don't know how we're getting back up that hill," Jackson says, lifting Clementine into his arms in one fluid motion. As I'm crumpled on the ground looking up at them, I can suddenly see him parenting her alone when she was small. Picking her up when she fell, kissing her bruises, encouraging her to keep moving. He's a good father. He always has been. Things just got lost along the way.

"Julian is coming with the Jeep," Mom says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn't know how we were going to get back up, either. "Here he is."

The Jeep careens through the sand, and Julian clambers out as soon as it stops. "Jesus Christ, are you guys okay?!" he spews, wrapping me in the tightest hug I've gotten from him in a while. "Bop, what happened?"

"Everything's fine," I say, much too tired to relive it. "We just need to go home."

There are two bathrooms in the house, and we let the girls shower first. But while Clemmie is getting clean, I sit on the closed toilet lid in the steamy bathroom - I can't leave her. I'm not ready to do that yet.

At first, neither of us speaks. The water splashes as Clemmie stands under it, and I can't think of anything to say. I take a moment to consider that I might be in shock, but is that silly? It wasn't me who almost drowned, it was Clemmie. But I almost lost her, and it's hitting me hard.

For 14 years, I couldn't hold her. But in my mind, I still had her. Some part of me always knew I'd get her back somehow, one way or another. The fact that she was simply alive somewhere on this earth allowed me to sleep at night.

The thought of putting her in the ground, never getting to touch her again, never getting to see her smile or roll her eyes again, is one that I can't reconcile. We came close today. Way too close.

I sit with my head in my hands for as long as it takes Clemmie to get warm and clean. When she comes out in a towel, still quiet, I wrap my arms around her torso and bury my face in the plush, blue microfiber. I don't say anything.

She goes limp and I pull her onto my lap like I never got to do when she was a toddler. I never got to lift her off the sidewalk after a nasty fall, or press a band-aid onto a skinned knee. This is the best I can do, but I'm doing it. At least I'm here now.

Clemmie lays her forehead on my shoulder and cries hard. I rub her back as droplets from her hair dampen my already cold t-shirt, and close my eyes. "I got you," I whisper. "It's okay."

She continues to cry, and I feel it throughout her entire body. I rock her like I did many, many years ago, and try to soothe her. The best I can do is be here.

Finally, after a long time, she catches her breath. Without picking her head up, she whispers, "I'm so sorry, Mommy."

Later, after me, Jackson, and the twins are showered, we're all sitting on the couch. I have one arm around either of my daughters, their heads resting on my chest, and Jackson is beside Clemmie. He still hasn't let go of her hand.

My mom is in the kitchen making her famous homemade chicken noodle soup. She even makes the noodles from scratch. It was mine and Julian's favorite when we were growing up; the smell brings me back to my childhood. I didn't ask her to make it, she just did. It's the warmest gesture she's shown in a while.

I don't know where Julian went, but he must be with Dad. I think the scene he came up on at the beach bothered him more than he's able to say. He needs time. We all do.

The girls have been quiet for a while. Due to the slow rhythm of their breath and the slackness of their muscles, they must be asleep. It makes me feel good just to have them close, both of them in one piece. It reminds me of when they were babies, and always got hungry at the same time. I'd sit in their nursery, rocking in that secondhand chair with Jackson on the footrest, and hold them similarly to the way I am right now.

I cup a hand over each of their ears, kiss Clemmie's hairline and then Skye's.

"I was scared today," I whisper to Jackson. I don't want to wake up the kids. "Really scared. I know you were, too."

I wait for him to respond, but he doesn't. I keep going anyway. It feels good to talk to him, to get our feelings on the same plane.

"You saved her, Jackie," I say, stroking Clemmie's cheek with my thumb. "You were there when she needed you. She's here thanks to you." I pause, staring at nothing in particular. "In more ways than one, really."

Still, he doesn't say anything. I crane my neck to see his face, only to discover that he's been asleep this whole time. I smile to myself and lean back again, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. I'll talk to him later. He needs to rest. I would rest, too, if it were possible. But I don't feel tired.

I pass the time by listening to my mom in the kitchen - that is, until the sounds stop. I open my eyes to see her sitting in the armchair across from the couch where me and my family sit, appearing so suddenly that she almost makes me jump.

Instinctively, I move to situate. I try to make my position more appropriate to compensate for her presence. Before I can, though, she puts a hand up and says, "No, don't."

I relax again and watch her face, wondering what to expect. A lecture? Another disownment? Or does she just plan on staring at us until the soup is ready?

"You were brave today," she finally says, eyes on the carpet. "Both of you were."

"Oh," I say, stunned. "Thanks."

She lifts her head, but still doesn't meet my eyes. They're centered above my forehead, wandering.

"You didn't hesitate," she says. "Neither of you. You dove right in after them. You weren't scared at all."

I chuckle humorlessly. "We were scared, Mom."

"It didn't matter, then. You still went in."

I furrow my eyebrows. "Of course we did," I say. "They're our kids. Our babies, Mom."

She's quiet for a while, wringing her hands and pressing the pads of her thumbs together. "I guess… I assumed that you would go in. But him…" She shakes her head. "He surprised me today. He grew up."

"No," I say, as stern as I can without disrupting those around me. "I mean, yes. He has grown up. But he was always good. He didn't have to grow into his morals, he always had them. Even when we disagreed, he always wanted what was best for the girls. And before they were born, he wanted what was best for me."

"Well," Mom says.

"Well, what?"

"He should've let you go, then. To an Ivy League, like you wanted."

"I never wanted that," I say, tension rising in my chest. "You and Dad did. Actually, I don't think Dad gave a shit. But you wanted me in an Ivy League because… I don't even know why. But that wasn't what I wanted my future to look like."

"What did you want, then?" she asks. "I'm sure you didn't picture yourself as a struggling single mother. I'm sure you didn't picture bringing your daughter here and having everyone on the island wonder why she doesn't look like you." She sighs. "I wanted you at an Ivy League because I wanted better for you than what I had. Every mother wants that. There's nothing wrong with it."

I take a deep breath. "No, there's nothing wrong with wanting better. But when you classify 'better' as 'making babies with a white guy,' that's when there's something wrong."

"April Shay," Mom says. "Stop putting words in my mouth. I never said there was anything wrong with Jackson being black. Not once did I say that."

"You didn't need to," I say. "You just hinted at it. People on the island thinking that Skye didn't look like me? Honestly?" I lower my voice, conscious of Jackson and the kids sleeping. "She looks just like me. When she smiles, my dimples show. Our eyes are exactly the same shape. Her body looks just like mine did as a teenager, right down to the freckles. And you really think people assumed she wasn't mine?"

"Not that she wasn't yours," Mom says, backtracking. "But people's minds went straight to…"

"To what? To her black father? Well, good for Skye. She has a wonderful, black father. His genes helped make her beautiful skin, her curly hair… and also her integrity, her sense of humor, and her horrible sense of direction."

Mom sighs loudly. "I don't think you're understanding me," she says. "I'm not trying to say anything wrong."

"Mom, it's not about what you say," I tell her, trying to be gentle. I know that some of this is on me. We should've had this conversation a long time ago. "Not always, anyway. It's about what you don't say, and what you don't do."

"What do you mean?" she asks. "I did everything for Skye. She was here just as much as she was at her own home."

"No, I know," I say. "I don't mean…"

"I taught her how to play violin. That's a skill she'll always have."

"Yes, you did. But…the songs you had her play. Who writes them? Mozart, Bach, Debussy, the usual suspects."

"Well, yes. Of course. I don't know what you're insinuating."

"What about William Grant Still, Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, or Florence Price? They're black composers."

"I didn't know of them," Mom says. "If I had, I would've taught her. I'm sure I would have."

"But that's what I mean," I say. "It was our responsibility to learn about culture other than ours, so we could teach her. She didn't have Jackson around for that, and I didn't do the best job. God knows, I always tried. I read so many books, but I could've done more. I never wanted her to feel alienated from half of who she was, but I'm sure she did. I'm sure we'll have to resolve that someday. But what I'm saying is… you never tried to help me. You never asked if we were doing okay."

"You never brought it up," Mom says.

"Sometimes I just really needed you to ask," I say. "I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk about Jackson and how much I missed him. I wanted to talk about doubts I had with Skye. And I wanted to talk about that stuff with you."

"I didn't know," Mom says softly.

"I know you think I made a mistake with Jackson, but I didn't," I say. "I loved him, and I still do. But I love you guys, too. When you and Dad stopped talking to me… I didn't think I'd come back from that."

Mom bows her head.

"Why did you do that?" I ask. "Why would you just leave us to deal with something as big as two babies all on our own?"

She clasps her hands again. "I was so angry with you," she says. "The potential you had… I felt like you wasted it. All you ever wanted to do was mess around with him. He distracted you."

"We were young, Mom," I say. "You can't fault us for that."

"Your life went completely off track when you started seeing him romantically," she says.

"For a little while," I say. "But doesn't that happen to everyone? No one's life goes completely like it should. But look at me now. I work at the Art Institute of Chicago. My dream job, Mom. This is all I've ever wanted. Don't you see?"

She blinks and stays silent for a long time, going over everything that was said. "I do," she says - and I'm so surprised to hear those words that I can't really respond. I just sit and wait for her to finish. "Today, it was clear to me how much he loves the girls, and you, and how much you love him. It was clear to me for the first time."

She takes a breath and pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

"A long time ago, I told the two of you that you didn't know anything about love. I see now that I was wrong," she says. "Wrong about a lot of things."

My eyes grow hot hearing what my mom has to say. She's never been this open with me, not once in my entire life. "Thanks," I say. "Hearing that means a lot."

"I'll try to do better," she says, and I feel like she means it. "We want to be included in your life. Your dad and me. We missed you when you left."

"You did?" I ask.

"Of course," she says softly. "I liked having you here. With you and Skye on the island with us, it felt… close to whole. And now…" She scans the three people on the couch with me. "Well, now, it is whole. I don't want to lose that."

"I don't, either," I say, then squeeze my girls tighter. "But I don't think we will this time."

That night, Jackson, the girls and I share the guest room. The four of us are crammed onto a queen-sized bed, and I'm right in the middle. Everyone wanted a piece of me, so we managed.

Once again, everyone is sleeping and I'm awake. A myriad of memories begin to float through my head, so many that I have a hard time latching onto just one. But what sticks out the most is Skye's fourth birthday party. It's funny, because the party wasn't fancy or ostentatious - in fact, it was barely a party at all.

As usual, we were at the beach. Instead of wearing a party dress like Nana had wanted, Skye opted for a pink and white swimsuit from the summer before. She didn't care that the colors were faded and it fit a little too tightly. It was her favorite, and that's what mattered. Since it was her birthday and we were the only ones on the beach, I didn't mind that she wore it. It was her choice.

She had a special dinner with her uncle and grandparents the day before, and couldn't think of any friends to invite. So, that day, her actual birthday, the only two in attendance were me and the birthday girl. The dynamic duo.

As Skye played in the sand by the water, building a hill so she could watch the water destroy it, I couldn't help but let her father and sister cross my mind. What were they doing today? Would they have a party? Would he miss me, miss us? I had no idea. But this day, Skye and Clemmie's birthday, was by far the hardest day of the year. I wondered if it was tough for him, too.

On a day where I was supposed to celebrate Skye, I always found myself mourning her sister. Her sister who was still alive, and had no use for my grief. The day never passed easily, though I always pasted on a smile for Skye. The twin in front of me, the twin I could hold.

"Burt-day, burt-day!" Skye cheered, totally unaware of her adorable speech impediment. "It's my burt-day, and the water burt-day, and the sand burt-day, and everyone in the whole world burt-day!" She giggled and crawled over to give me a hug, subsequently covering me in grainy sand. But I didn't care. "And your burt-day, Mama!" she shrieked. "You say happy burt-day to me, and I say it to you. Okay, go."

Playing along, I said, "Happy birthday, KyKy."

She squealed, amused with herself. Then she stretched her arms out wide, stood up tall, and said, "Happy burt-day, Mama!"