Unforgettable
A/N: Dear Reviewers, I hear ya ;-) But much time has passed and while it was never my intention to prolong instant gratification – paradoxical, right? – somehow this is what it's become. Not saying that a slight tease of that slow-burn wasn't on the cards though :-P Needless to say, I'm hoping that Unforgettable has not been forgotten.
Anyway, onward my good peeps. The time has surely come to get this locked down ;-)
Oh, and a thousand apologies for the long wait.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately the characters of Jackson and April were originated AND destroyed by Shonda Rhimes and her villainous co-conspirators. I own nothing but this plot. Or rather a tangential offshoot, spawned from canon. I will, however, aspire to show Japril the respect they deserve.
Addendum: Anyone out there still interested in this fic?
I tell you what, let's be a tad mischievous here. So how bout an ambiguous ending, huh? Could be closure? Indeed. OR… could leave the door open for a possible continuation *eyebrow waggle*?
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, dear reader, is that you get to decide which way to go. Bon appétit!
PS: As the length of this was getting outa hand, I went with the impromptu choice of a cut-off. Hence, please consider this chapter to be a penultimate one... a lead up to the Finale, if you will?
PPS: Oh yeah... Also taking a wee bit of poetic licence with the timeline. Hindsight is, of course, 2020 ;-)
Chapter 6
He'd felt her today.
The sensation of her presence, the deficiency in her absence. Her voice in his ear. The faintest hint of her scent. The unique hue to curly locks that demanded attention even if it was only to the edge of his vision and the belly-laugh that connoted both humor and pure joy.
Elation it would have been. Even the granting of temporary custody was cause for excitement and celebration. Kamal was theirs, or would be as soon as the slow hands of time met the swift arm of the law.
No... that didn't sound quite right, did it? Nope. Not at all. Unless you considered it in the context of the #BLM Movement. Which, honestly, wasn't the line of thought he'd been traversing, but which he now had to contemplate the timing of. The undeniable and often painful repercussions of Police Brutality towards Black and Brown People necessitated an immediate life lesson to be imparted to his son.
His son. Their son. Not the one he expected, but the one she'd gifted him with. Courtesy of separation and the Middle Eastern Desert Country whose name, conversely, still gave him chills.
He missed her still. He feared he always would. How was this a refresher course in heartbreaking lament, country song style; her absence a raw ache chafing his subconscious every single day since she'd been gone?
That grief…? It was messy. It crept up on you. Always at the most unexpected, if not downright inopportune, moments. It had neither rhyme nor reason. And no timetable. Never adhering to a regimented, so-called five or even seven stages, despite psychologists punting those theories as a natural order. Yeah. It undeniably whooped his ass. It had shown him all the mercy of a Greek tragedy.
Currently, his life encapsulated work and moments of remembered pain interspersed with seconds of pure joy. Mostly in that space between sleep and wakefulness when her presence beside him was a possibility.
And now when Kamal reminded him so much of her and the faith and belief she'd had in him. He knew that if she were here she would chastise him. "Kamal is his own person," she would say. With the unspoken caveat, of course, being that the little guy was not a stopper to his pain nor a mirror to past happiness.
In his rational moments he knew this. It was a process though. And filing for interim guardianship with a view to adoption, was a step in that operation. End goal as April had always wanted... Family.
"Do I have to?"
"I'm sorry, buddy, but until everything's sorted out this is the best option. Unless…"
"No please, no babysitters. I'm not a baby."
"Yeah, no. Of course you're not, big guy. But this isn't permanent, Kamal. It's just for now," he reassured. "As soon as we've jumped through their legal hoops, had the papers filed and been signed-off by a judge, then boom, we can fast-track to platform adoption and three-quarters."
Righto. Firstly – aside from that somewhat sarcastic pantomime of exploding satisfaction, which he was pretty sure scored him some cool points – he needed to tone down this blatant disdain for Establishment. Even if The Man was no friend of his, Big Brother was heavy. And c'mon, who the freaking freck would ever fancy a visit from Uncle Sam's nephew, the Tax Collector? Yeah, not him and see he was a dad now, so that meant cleaning up his language. Continuous practice could change a habit, no? Anyway… A tick from the IRS would be as desired as… two ticks on his Nikes! Superfluous, in case it wasn't clear. And secondly, someone needed to have an HP reading marathon. Right up his street it was. Diagonally? Or was it Diagon Alley? Okay, enough with the self-punning.
"Wh—wait... Huh?"
He ignored the boy's confusion – Kamal's not Rowling's Potter. Time enough to get to it later. Better when he had book in hand, wouldn't you say? "Only once that's in the works, then we'll be able to have you registered and enrolled at that dope place we had a look at. You liked it, right?"
"Yeah… it was o—kay."
"Just oh—kay?" he similarly exaggerated the bored American-Teen nonchalance that, frankly, was disconcerting. Especially with the realization that neither was Kamal from the US nor was he anywhere near the teen years. And taking into account his lack of Harry Potter knowledge, also confirming his non-Britishness.
Although, all that proved was that, like the rest of the world, he found it equally hard to understand the cockney Posh Spice that was the English accent. He wanted… he wanted… he really, really wan'ed… to Brexit? Just like Harry and Meg's British Exit. Or Vicky herself, settling across the pond. Although it really, really wasn't bout Mrs. Becks here either. No, of course not.
But those Sussexes... was it any wonder that they were anxious to bid a not-so-fond cheerio to a not-so-Great Britain? Considering that they were continuously being subjected to racist, hate-filled, vitriolic hatchet jobs that the UK's mewling, motley-minded miscreants of mainstream media put out, well who could blame them. With Meghan being Bi-racial, England had shown its true colors. Inclusive they were not, but throw in a little crown jewel heist here and artifact theft there, and voilà, Bob's the monarchy's Uncle.
Alright so you caught him… with suspenders unclipped and pants down. Okay, shirt off too. Might as well give the audience a Full Monty. To get the correct amount of Sichuan pepper in his bite though, he'd taken to scrolling through Shakespeare's Shit-list of Insults.
Not that it did much good. None of the aforementioned had any causational, conversational link to the entire UK's wanting to abscond from the European Union. Even suggesting such a correlation was ludicrous. Preposterous.
Yeah, so… He would see you one retired British All-Girl Pop Band and raise you one not so hoity-toity Eton Speaker?
Judging by Kamal's speech patterns, however, one could make the argument that the boy had acclimated swiftly to American culture. Man, what an oxymoron! Now wasn't that plainly contradictory? Of course, Americans had no culture. Unless you considered everything they'd appropriated, he supposed. Stolen, actually. No need to make it sound less corrosive than it actually was.
Stolen. Like the French and their cronies were doing with their continued looting and plundering of the African continent. Then twisting it around by lending to each individual African country their own wealth back, but at exorbitant interest rates. Thus, stealing from them twice, with no end in sight. As steel-balled, Dr. Arikana Chihombori-Quao – the AUs former Ambassador to the US – boldly and baldly unpacked it, "… it's how the sustained colonization by France is responsible for the siphoning off of $500billion from the African continent yearly." It wasn't called 'The Pact for the Continuation of Colonization' for nothing. So it was okay to trash-talk them while simultaneously salivating at everything they could steal? Shit-hole Countries, Uncle Bob's orange ass!
Back to the Americas so called 'Culture' though… So okay, that inbred, white redneck thing? That was all theirs.
Not to mention greedy capitalism too. This was a country that prided itself on bailouts for bloodsucking conglomerates at the expense of its citizens. Those very same corporations who didn't even pay their employees a liveable wage, but whose CEO's padded their bonuses on the backs, blood, sweat and tears of their financial slaves. These white-privileged, fat-cat executives, in the meantime, evaded paying wealth taxes on their overabundant – and yeah, morally ill-gotten – gains, then had the audacity to request public assistance to fund their 'altruistic' donations. Which ironically were tax deductible for the little they did pay. Yeah right, Billiam Gates. And Bozo that Bezos clown had his head so far up his own ass, that profiting over unsafe working conditions – like subpar warehouses and wage deductions for bathroom breaks – was considered by him to be a brilliant maneuver.
The extreme, mercenary acquisitiveness and systemic abuse inherent in this ideology was calculated. A system that would cruelly discard excess production. Like the Food Industry destroying and poisoning extra or leftover food, making it unpalatable and unfit for human consumption. Or the Housing and Banking Industries leaving empty houses unoccupied, rather than cater for the needy and destitute. Diabolical.
And if you were to think that that money-grubbing, no conscience, throw-anyone-under-the-bus materialism only happened in the private sector, well then… they would have a bridge to sell you. Flint still did not have clean water and not one higher-up, government employee responsible was brought to book. Corruption of the highest order. Disgraceful.
Was this American culture then? White American culture, yeah. Ironic really that the original, Indigenous people of the land, with their beautiful, vibrant traditions and heritage had no standing as Americans. So yeah… You could betcha bottom dollar it was white American culture. Avarice, pure and simple. And just so ridiculously brainless. In fact a joke circulating in Germany that was doing the rounds on twitter too went something like this.
"What borders stupidity?" it riddled.
"Mexico and Canada!" was the hilarious comeback.
So… American lifestyle then? Yeah, that kinda worked. Much better word choice, he supposed.
Having orientated to American lifestyle, perhaps Kamal had watched one TV sitcom too many? Sadly, not of 'The Cosby Show' variety. Which comedy had been 'Da Bomb'. Until you discounted the literal explosion of Bill – the other Billiam – Cosby's recent, personal notoriety via his foray into the wrong side of #MeToo.
Cosby's fall from grace had surely soured the institution of the Black Family. Playing Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable – charismatic, lovable, father-figure – he'd inspired a nation, to the point that his alter ego had become known as 'America's Dad'. He was beauty, he was grace, he was Mr. United States Dad.
From that supreme height of being universally loved and admired, he'd plummeted to the lowly depths of having to defend himself against accusations alleging that he was a violent sexual predator. Not by one, two or even a handful or two of women. Approximately sixty – yeah, twelve handfuls – had been the latest figure. And counting.
Mr. US Predator votes tabulated and audited by the accounting firm of Spacey, Allen and Weinstein? Not forgetting junior partner Epstein?
Aah, the white privilege. What the irony, eh? Hiding within the confines of a notorious tongue in cheek equivocation.
Bad as Cosby was and criminally icky though his virulent behavior had been, luckily he was no virus. Or even a conspiracy to increase the numerical value of virus-infected. Hence, there wasn't any fear of actual victim count increasing exponentially. #MeToo had, however, exposed a Pandemic of serial offenders whose modus operandi of Quarantine and chill would not fly. No amount of hand wringing here could unring the bell or still the panic, and no combination of soap and water would ever be able to sanitize, let alone eliminate, the scourge of this societal disease.
Admittedly, Cosby had couched his interactions as consensual sex, with a later admission of having given some of the women Quaaludes: a brand of Methaqualone. Now, Methaqualone – Ludes, Sopers, Soaps, Mandrakes, Mandrax and Mandies being some of its street names – was a sedative; a hypnotic medication. Also a popular recreational and club drug in the late 1960s, early 70s. It didn't just lower inhibitions, the drugs impaired both physically and cognitively. Consequently, it was a common date-rape drug. In this decades parlance, "He'd Roofied them!"
The numbers didn't lie. What they did do was bring into focus the unquestioning loyalty of his supporters. Even with evidence to the contrary, his spouses – TV and RL – maintained that it was all a defamation ploy. The orchestrated destruction of a GOAT.
But, not only had he screwed the pooch, he'd severed the already tenuous link between respectful admiration and disgust. Greatest Of All Time? His ass! With his admittance of drugging and subsequent sexual infidelities, he'd tainted that hard won legacy and destroyed the fond remembrances of a comedic legend.
Ergo, leading to him leaving a giant sized void in the Real Life Superhero universe. Which inevitably carried over into the entertainment industry. And, let's face it, being a Black Man, he didn't have the protection of white forgiveness for whiny, white tears that white offenders had to fall back on. See exhibits B and B – Brock and Brett. Or Turner and Hooch—err Kavanaugh. Yeah, the show about a dog... and another dog. Sorry, dogs, for the comparison to lowlifes.
Was it perhaps time for another production to take Cosby's place in the annals of history? Maybe 'Blackish'... this decade's equivalence in powerful Black representation?
"Yep. Good. Great. Just fine, okay. A-okay."
Really, kid? Can it with the snark already.
"I thought it was 'The One'!" he ignored the sarcasm in favor of adding his own witticism. Basically inundating with puns and going old Hogwarts. Man, he was raking in and rocking the dad jokes.
Now what was so confusing about that one? Like wasn't this a classic example of word play? C'mon really. Still not getting it? Why it was as obvious as the H on Harry's forehead. Hogwarts was a school, muggle. Duh!
"I don't know anyone there! And what if… what if they don't…"
Well now. This was different. The hesitation was too long to sound like a simple trailing off of thought. As was the petering off of words and subsequent continuous silence. He wasn't used to this spilling of emotional guts. But he went with it. Which, thus prompted him to in turn precipitate a follow through. "What if they don't what?"
"What if they don't like someone who looks like me?" was a response so quick-fire that one would not be remiss in figuring out that much rumination had gone into it.
"Oh boy." Still, he hadn't expected to be hit with a whispered existential crises quite so soon. "Look… every person you encounter in life is not going to like you. And that's on them. Some people come with learned prejudices and preconceived notions. Err, what they think you should be like," he clarified, preempting the un-verbalized questioning look. "And some are just entitled A-holes whose parents haven't taught them any better," he continued, instantly regretting the mild though partly censored expletive and rushing past it so as to leave it unacknowledged. Hopefully.
"But—but my hands?"
"What about your hands?" he posited, puzzled. "You've come so far, champ. We'll carry on with the physiotherapy as long as you need and the grafts are looking good, if I do say so myself. I can guarantee that your fine motor skills will improve and how bout those games of catch, huh? You've also gotten way better at baseball. Double advantage right there, sport. Therapeutic fun, am I right, my dude? And you know it will get better. Just need time, that's all."
Yeah, yeah, he knew he was going overboard with this overabundance of endearments.
Almost like someone using fungible nomenclature to hide the fact that they'd forgotten a person's name. On a sliding scale, this typically indicated that the user either had a huge ego or was plainly inattentive. Neither extreme was obviously the case here. Becoming a parent was so not business as usual for him. He was out of his element – and depth! – with no April expertise to back him up. So he was winging it. And trying different nicknames on for size, was one trick. Surely among these they would find that perfect fit.
"It's just, it still looks so… so big. And fat. And ugly. Like meat sticks. Or potatoes."
"Hey c'mon now, you insulting my masterpiece over here? Or are you just hungry?" At least his pretend offence and joke got him an amused grunt. "Not possible after that knock-out breakfast, my man!"
"Applejacks is knock-out?"
"Cereal of Champions, dude." Accompanied by a huge helping of nostalgia. "Beats supercharged bread, no?" he snorted.
"Toast?"
He shuddered at the mental picture, grunting a confirmation. Even upping the vocabulary to bread on steroids didn't help. White Karen had, in one Avocado Toast swoop, ruined two favored ingredients. And no he didn't mean his mother-in-law here. Although… "Applejacks, Mal. With all that fruity goodness. It's like eating an apple a day, wouldn't you say?"
"Yyeeeah." Huge sigh. "That's why I didn't have any."
"Uh, what's that now? You got somethin against fruit in a box?"
"Nope. Apples are one of my bests." Kamal nodded to himself in self confirmation.
"What's your beef then? Not enough animal in your vegetable and mineral? Or were those just not your jam?" Man, he was slaughtering with all these food puns.
"Huh? I donno. I haven't tried Apple Jam."
"No, no, I didn't mean… nevermind. So if you're partial to apples then what's the hold up? Some flavors don't agree with your palette? You don't like the different tastes," he clarified, noticing Kamal's arched brow and still confused expression. Damn! With all the boy had experienced and his, more often than not, serious adult demeanor, he kept forgetting that his kid was just that. A kid.
"No. Nothing like that. I like them all just fine. Golden Delicious, Granny Smith and even the red juicy ones."
"So it is the box you got a problem with? You like em only as nature intended, huh?"
"Nooo." Another exasperated sigh. "I go for them any which ways. Natural, boxed, juiced or canned."
"What, then? Okay wait… I'm not stupid, my brain just be laggin."
"You bufferin, huh?" the kid snorted.
"Hah. Good one, short stuff. But what do you know about buffering, Gen Z? You have Fibre. Makes your Apples go," he in turn sniggered. Real fibre from real apples would give one a motion… to be indelicate, it helped one to poop. Then you had wireless internet connectivity that powered all one's Apple devices by… you got it… an underground Fibre connection! What a bushel of apple puns?! Boy, these jokes were practically writing themselves! How you like them apples, kid!
"Okay, Boomer," Kamal laughed.
"Whoa there, buddy. How old do you think I am?!" He was offended. Obviously he was a Millennial… Gen Y, even.
But Kamal wasn't even listening. He'd moved past that. "Wait, wait, I got another," was his quick interjection.
"Okay. Hit me with your best shot."
It was difficult to clearly make out through the snortles but it sounded like, "Your bandwidth run outa juice?"
"Hah. You got me, apple juice. I guess I'll just have to re-hydrate." He decimated the kids buzz. Killed was too mild of a word to use as a descriptor. "So riddle me this," he continued. "If you love apples so much, why'd you skip out on your Applejacks?"
"You know you're a doctor, right?"
Right. This time he was faster on the uptake. Quicker on the draw. Knowing the idiom was certainly impressive but being clued up on the meme? Now, that cranked up his game. This youngster was meme knowledgeable. A memeologist, one could venture.
It was also quite endearing. And, with the boy's history of losing parental figures, easily explainable. He got choked up just thinking bout it, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing as he gulped.
Anecdotally he wondered why a guy's Adam's apple wasn't individually named. Why Adam? Why not… say… Alex's Apple? Or Jackson's Apple? Which was not to be confused with Jackson's other Apple… April.
But he got it. The laryngeal prominence did have connotations to Adam, Eve, The Garden and, of course, The Apple. Quite the Fibonacci sequence. Well… not really. Unless you were deciphering a Da Vinci Code. "Brown… Dan Brown. I like my audience shaken, not stirred."
All jesting aside, his son refused to eat apples, which the boy loved, so as to not keep this Doctor away. Way to commit, kiddo! Next level dedication to living the meme, yeah?
Speaking of… it wasn't the best time to be putting out spicy memes while there was a shortage on toilet paper.
"Does anyone else—" Yes.
"Am I the only one who—" No.
"Is it weird that I—" Probably not.
The ache caused by having to leave apples behind, felt almost like a physical hit. An absence of nostalgiagasm, if you will. But if it reassured Kamal, then it was time. There were other reminders of her though…
"You know waffles are special occasion breakfasts. Like Sundays," he gruffly diverted the conversation. The emotion in his voice was palpable, but he motored on. "And speaking of special… You know maybe this can be your superpower. THE HANDS OF THANOS—KAMALOS," he loudly proclaimed, earning himself a snort and eye roll at the coined superhero name. It was entirely possible that the reaction had more to do with his perceived error. Okay, let's be real here, the exasperation was likely coz he so extra. And a dork. He had yet to come across anyone who would see the light of a hero in the shadowy outline of a supervillain.
April would have. Aah, April… come she will… have? To that realization! Whadya think he meant?! Like really?! Stop with the sleazy innuendo now! C'mon… his kid was present! He was simply referencing the Simon and Garfunkel tune here. Yep, that's all it was. Respectable he was!
Anyhoo. She – April, duh! – would have thought that Thanos was redeemable. Or at least worth the benefit of the doubt.
"Yikes! You really stretching with that one."
"No wait, hear me out here," he began but quickly changed his mind at the look of scepticism he was on the receiving end of. Also, tiny human did kinda have a point. "Okay then, what about that Rocky dude. You know from that movie…" he snapped his fingers as if that would prompt a recollection. Obviously not a Thanos snap. He wanted to remember, not forget.
"You mean the man that mumbles all the time? That, like nobody understands what he says… That guy? He has a really cool soundtrack, but a very funny name. Not Swat… Swatnator, but the other one."
Weird kid. Were they still using 'Cool' as slang? Chillax, kid. Speaking of… Slang was short for 'Short Language'. So slang was slang for… slang? As youngsters would say, "Effing Cool."
Or maybe… Like everything else that the media and government had taken to convoluting, he wondered, if the word now meant its opposite? Had it perchance morphed into an alternative fact? In that case, he was clearly befuddled. "Yeah, no. Not Schwarzenegger. He's still The Terminator, last I heard. I reckon that franchise must have reached double digits by now. What do you think? Terminator 13? Maybe even up to 25? Or how's about TT33? That guy… he'll be back. Many times." He sniggered at his movie jab. "I tell you, Hollywood has run out of original ideas. Art imitates life, yeah? Then it copies itself… then copies that copy… and copies… and copies… and copies. Multiplicity." He shook his head in disdainful resignation. And yeah that was a hard look for him to pull off. As painful as it sounded.
But luckily for him he wasn't an actor on a regurgitating soap-opera. Talk about your pained expressions! Even luckier still that said ensemble faux-drama didn't have a Prima Donna-ish, one-trick pony getting rid of all talent that eclipsed her… err, easily showed her up? Outshone by a spotlight meant only for her? All the same, he was by turns saddened and disgusted.
"Movie Microsoft?"
He had to laugh. "You got it, buddy. Copy and paste." Did he forget to mention that his kid was a genius? "But I get where you were going, Mal," he continued. "And nope, it's not him. Sly Stallone is Rocky and yeah 'Eye of the Tiger' still packs a punch," he winked, "but no. See what I did there? You know with Rocky being a Boxer and all?"
"If you have to explain the joke…"
"Smartass." Wait, was he certain that this wasn't his biological kid? Sure sounded like his DNA. "Right. You got me. But anyway, I know you know this dude! C'mon, man. That guy, you know? The Stone one?"
"You mean 'The Rock'? Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson?!"
Okay, someone was fangirling. Bigtime. But c'mon now, Dwayne wasn't even that impressive. I mean, in a game of Dwayne Johnson, Paper, Scissors everyone and his stationary knew that Rock would be bested by Paper. Every time. Was he right or was he rite? Now if he were Dwayne's manager or agent – man, even the name was ol timey nerd boy – he'd have gone with a real kickass of a showbiz nom-de-plume. Something like… Stony Boulder, maybe? Yeah, that didn't sound obnoxious at all. Aah well. Opportunity missed. Okay, look. He wouldn't be a total douche about the guy. So props to Dwayne for his girly role in 'Be Cool'. Like, it did showcase his acting chops. And the dude was a little funny. Just a teeny tiny bit, though.
"No, no, no. This bloke was made of rocks." He tried prodding those memory synapses. "He was in that old movie we watched the other day? The original. Remember? From before you were born? What was it again? The one with Jessica Alba."
"You talking about 'Thing' from The Fantastic Four?" was the wide-eyed comeback. "The guy that was like a pile of rocks? That one?!"
Right. Nice going, Jack-ass! Though he was new to this gig, he didn't bother to infer pre-teenage sarcasm in his young son's voice. Not this time. Yep, the incredulity jumped out. It was blatantly obvious… He was an idiot.
"Umm—I didn't mean that your rocks were like fingers. Of course not. Just…" Dang! He was flubbing this up big time. Why did it feel so hot in here all of a sudden? Possibly the intense scrutiny from tiny eyes. Midget crossed arms didn't help any. Now he knew what a bug under a microscope felt like. Or a teenager's dad. "Hang on. I'm not dumb, I'm just panicking."
"Chill, bro."
"Say what now?"
"Sowwy?" The kid tried it. But then he laughed, knowing that Jackson was onto him. Yeah, the boy was a quick study. He'd already caught on that a cute lisp, rolling r's into w's and pairing all that with puppy dog eyes could wrap a marshmallow dad around his little finger. He'd played him but good. The last time Kamal had pulled that, he'd promised himself was the last time that he would cave. But here they were. Just this once more he would let it slide. Not because it was adorable. Of course not. Even though it was. But, well, he was kinda distracted by his own verbal faux pas. I mean, who compared their kid to a dude made of stones? Who did that?!
If he didn't think it impossible, he would seriously wonder if Kamal was April and his biological child. That hangdog expression and slight stutter – well more like swallowing of syllables – was all him. Not to mention the hair, if he grew his out. And those Bambi eyes… it was like April gazing out of them. They had a similar effect on him too, in him not wanting them to reflect sadness ever again.
Fuck it. He was going in! "You look fine. Good, even. Chill. Lit. Cool beans? Hot adjacent? Whatever the freaking new buzzword is! But, you know what? If they don't want to get to know you, then that's their problem. Who knows, maybe those fellas are insecure about whether you'll like them."
"You really think so?"
"You betcha I do."
"What if they are A-holes?"
"Err—uhh…" Aah man! Trust your children to focus on your vocab slip-ups!
Yeah, he had not been minding his P's and Q's. An admonishing April echoed in his ear. "Language, Jackman!" she would have scolded. Well, lesson learned. For him, that is. Words and how one used them, were so important. He'd vowed to himself that his parenting style would never be a 'Do as I say' type. The 'Do as I do' part was the one to bite him in the ass, coz that was where the crossroads intersected, causing many an accidental mash-up. Obviously, both 'Say' and 'Do' needed to correlate. Concord, dude!
As his own mother was wont to famously repeat, "With great power comes great responsibility!" No, wait... it sounded like her but also... not. What was it again? As he recalled, she'd even played on April's hero worship of her, with that one. How, you ask? By conniving April into viewing her as a wise and talented orator. Wait... it was coming to him… on the tip of his tongue, as it were. Or since this was all in his own head, he supposed that, on a flashing brain synapse would be more accurate. Oh yeah. "That's how the world changes, baby," she would say, "by good people raising their babies right." Nailed it.
Back then, with the onset of impending fatherhood, he had gleefully wondered if he'd ever get to try out a 'Good-Cop/Bad-Cop' scenario. But yeah, now he was one good-cop short. Or knowing April as he'd done, he was fairly certain that she woulda made a pretty good bad-cop too. Loving and little though she'd been, she could be fierce… and a fiery dynamo when crossed. She certainly would have rebuked him for his language. And not let Kamal get away with emotional manipulation.
"Ash-holes? Arse-holes? Ass-holes?"
"Stop. I'm sorry, bud, I shouldn't have said that. That's not how we talk. We make good choices. We use good words. And look, I don't think that anyone at that school will give you a hard time."
"You don't?"
"I don't. But you know that I'm here for you, right? There's nothing that we can't put our heads together to solve. I suppose that the majority of people are kind…? Or whatever. At least that's what April believed."
"Did I do something bad? And that's why she couldn't stay with us?"
"What?! No way!" He was gobsmacked. Where had this come from? "Why would you think that, huh? You didn't do anything wrong. Nothing here is your fault. Or hers. It was a freak accident. Sometimes things... just happen. Why would you blame yourself? It's not on you. Or even her."
Now why couldn't he take his own advice? Coz yeah, he blamed himself. If he hadn't been such a huge-ass coward and had that conversation with her, maybe... maybe she wouldn't have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She'd still be alive.
And yeah, perhaps he blamed her too. Slightly. Did she have to go and be so dramatic? And competitive. Dang. Girl could'na let him win one argument!
"Okay, I guess. And I spose it's alright to look like 'The Thing'. He was beeeg. And strong!"
"Now wait just a minute…" Holy Hell! What was up with the universe today and especially his kid? How to proceed? He was literally in a catch-22 here. Like what was the right answer? Looking like an unattractive boulder while also having boulder-like strength versus looking fine but being human weak? Not as clean-cut as being bitten by a radio-active insect, huh? So, here he was. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Man, even his inner thoughts were punkin him.
"Did you know I couldn't be President of the United States?"
"Yeah. Wait, what? No, no you can. You can be anything you want to be."
"No, I can't. I wasn't born here. But if I could..."
"Yeah?"
"If I were President... I would find a way to bring back Dr. Kepner and put the real bad guys in jail."
"Buddy... you know that's not—wait, what real bad guys?"
"The ones that bombed the ambulance."
"Oh Mal... Buddy... it wasn't a bomb. It was an accident, okay? That paramedic didn't safely secure the oxygen tank and it just... blew. I know in Jordan you experienced—"
Kamal looked doubtful at his explanation. "If I were President," he continued, seeming to ignore everything from before, most notably his Jordan experience, "I'd make us all eat Pop Tarts for dinner. And I'd make everyone be nice to me."
"Aah. So you'd be a dictator." Alright. He could also play this avoidance game. In fact he was a Pro. See a couple of thoughts back. Like you know that time when he'd recalled being a donkey's behind? Yep, that one. Good times. So yeah, avoidance was his default Go-To. For now he'd let Kamal dictate the pace of their conversations. When he was ready he would open up and Jackson would be there for him. To pick him up – I mean he had a car – or even just to lend a listening ear. He had two. Besides, this moment called for some levity.
"What's a dictator?"
"It's like a really bad President." This got him a smile. "Okay. Right. Anyway, as I was saying before… until you start at the school – and even after – you'll still have to spend some time in Daycare, right? After school lets out. And you know it's not only for babies."
"I guess. I'm sorry, Papa. Daycare is okay, I spose. But I really just wanna be with you."
"And I'll be right here, champ. Within calling distance," he replied over the lump in his throat. It wasn't the first time and he'd been thrilled when Kamal initially let it slip, but it was still new enough to punch him in the gut. He was someone's Dad, someone's Papa. It was a continuous, bittersweet reminder of her. "Tell you what?"
"What, Papa?"
"How bout we get lunch together today? No apples. Or toast. I promise. I'll come break you out and we'll go grab a bite, okay?"
"Spageddy?"
"Whatever you want. And I think we're in luck. Today is Spaghetti Tuesday at the Cafeteria."
"Yes! That sounds like a plan. You're the Man, Dan," and his little dude grabbed ahold of his tummy, chortling uproariously at his own wit. He, Dan The Man, simply looked on, shaking his head, all the while attempting to disguise the unbidden grin of amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. They had to work on the boy's humor, but yeah, the kid was a hoot. His hilarity was joyful, with a chuckle so contagious it forced a like-natured response. So much like April.
Sometimes when he laughed so freely at things only a young child would find funny, it was easy to forget that his kid had lost three parents already. And yet at other times his manner and language was of a wizened old man who had seen too much. War would do that to you, he supposed. Star Wars. No, no. Scratch that. He was tryna have a serious moment here, but you had to admit, the Yoda analogies and daddy issues jumped out. Why, they practically leapt off the word document.
"Look, I am your father." Sorry. Last one. He promised.
About his kid, though. It could explain the boy's insecurities. The constant need for reassurance and overblown protective instincts. He needed to show Kamal that he was his father, that this parent wasn't going anywhere and that it was his job to take care of him.
"I thought he was The Guy?"
"Dr. Riggs!"
"Hey there, Mini-Machine. Although... you looking more like Avery's mini-me," a smiling Riggs interrupted the conversation he'd been having with his son, directing a questioning glance towards him. A non-verbal cue, as it were, as to which rest-stop on the great state of Washington's bureaucratic red tape adoption process tortoise line, they'd been halted upon.
"Mornin, Riggs. Nope, nothin yet. Everything's with the lawyers, just waiting on a hearing date," he replied aloud. There was no reason to be secretive. Like any child, Kamal was full of questions and he tried to be as direct and upfront with him as it was possible to be. Honesty was always the best policy, right?
"I wouldn't worry, Avery. It will happen."
"Yeah, well... We're just on our way to Daycare, so we'll see you later, then."
"To the bathroom first, Papa." Then, upon noticing the unembarrassed dad excitement that lit his father's eyes, probably knowing the dad joke that was imminently brewing, "Oh no! Please, do not… Please can you not…"
"Guess I'll just won't," he, sad dad, said disappointingly.
"… sing," Kamal finished, causing a conversational cross-over. "Aah… okay, go for it," his soft-hearted kid, not very convincingly, attempted a casual agreeability.
Now here's where April woulda come in handy. She definitely knew how to set-up a joke. Like no one could beat her straight-man. Kamal, on the other hand, couldn't hide his anticipation. It was palpable. Props to him though, for tryna play it cool. His words to the contrary, excitement oozed outa him in waves. Nonchalance, he could not pull off.
"A toast to the room! To the room, to the room, to the room," he Hamiltoned. Luckily he didn't have an audience of more than two, coz his singing voice… now that was basis for execution. At the very least a Les Misérables causation. "And to the bath! To the bath, to the bath, to the bathroom!" he ad-libbed the catchy bride and groom toast song from that other famous Broadway Musical. "From your father, Angelica…" Say what? Oops, the original was not to be denied. But he swiftly course corrected, adding himself to the chorus. "Err—from your Papa… Avery! Avery! Avery… who is by your side!"
A surprising Riggs chorus. "To your union," he sang, "of bladder and bowl! To indoor plumbing! And the hope that it provides. May you always, always be satisfied. And relieved."
Wow, Riggs, way to bring it! Even with that last ad-lib throwing the tune off, he was impressed.
Kamal erupted into such giggles that for a moment he feared they'd have a bathroom accident on their hands. However, seeing as there was no emergency and thus no imminent danger of flooding, he continued with the joshing, sans song. "Mission Log: Porcelain Throne…" he straight-faced it. "…To infinity… bed, bath and beyond!"
"Daaadddd," Kamal sniggered some more between guffaws.
"Listen, son, I don't want to be responsible for delaying your rendezvous with bladder command!"
Not to be outdone, Riggs went with a platitude. "Stay safe," he mock cautioned. "Don't fall in," he added. "That's a good motto to have, dontcha think?"
"What's a motto?"
"Nothing. What's a motto with you?"
"So, Nate, do a lot of people tell you that you need therapy?" he had to interject here.
"Pfft. Hit the road, Jack." Accompanied by a pointed thumb over the shoulder motion. His version Jackson Action.
Riggs was on a roll here. He was like the fun parent. Although, Jackson was no slouch in that department either. Yeah, it was weird. Where he'd been so jealous of Riggs at first, of the relationship he'd developed with April, she woulda certainly found it hilarious that now they were almost co-parenting Kamal.
Seemingly having had enough – or perhaps the situation having become emergent – Kamal took Riggs at his motto. "Okay. Bye, Dr. Riggs. See you later, Doc Gator," Kamal greeted, unable to hold back more peals of laughter. The sound was refreshing and beautiful to witness. Once again it brought home to him that Riggs behavioral manner in not suppressing everything that April had been to them, and just everything about her in general, was the kind of normalcy that Kamal needed.
"In a while, Kam Crocodile," Riggs winked, seemingly enjoying the interchange.
"By the way, what are you doing down here, Riggs?" he wondered aloud before he and Kamal made tracks.
"Huge trauma coming in. Upper body GSWs, apparently. Speculation of a drive-by or some gang initiation gone bad. I better get my ass to the Trauma Bay. Should be crawling with cops over there. Anyway, keep me in the loop about this little guy, okay? I think I may need to be deposed as a character witness soon."
"Yeah sure, will do. And Riggs?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
Out of necessity the drop-off had to be a quick one. As usual, he was running late – not helped by the bathroom break – though misplaced keys were never the problem anymore. He was no longer a can't-find-my-keys kinda dude. Not that he would have ever admitted it to her, but key hook by the front door was a classy solution.
Yeah yeah, he was now firmly a hook guy. In fact, one time the offending wall accessory had played a prominent role in their foreplay. "Are you a fisherman," he'd seductively purred, "because I think you're a reel catch. You certainly hooked me," he'd whispered as he'd caressed the inanimate object while slowly hanging his keys. Now admittedly the routine didn't have the desired results as April had burst into loud guffaws. He'd turned it around though and accompanied by much humorous banter, sealed the deal.
Now throw pillows, on the other hand, were a serious no-no. Even friend-zoning was too good for them. They'd caused him such intense displeasure that whenever he and April were having loud differences of opinion, he would mentally flip each and every colorful square the bird every time he passed them by. So it was strange to him that since she was gone, not only couldn't he seem to get rid of them, but they were actually a source of comfort. Weird, huh?
Thankfully, he was already known at Daycare. Of course, that was in major part due to his late wife, whom he would swear had been on a first name basis with each and every person employed at the hospital. The bereavement casseroles he and Kamal were still eating attested to that fact. So getting Mal settled was easy peasy, along with the added advantages of close proximity and peace of mind for himself.
Exiting the elevator felt like he'd mistakenly wandered into a gangsters paradise. Even though it wasn't visible to the naked eye, he knew that these guys had to be packing some serious heat. Much caution was required here. It was almost as if a mob-boss had been hit and his crew were closing ranks trying to protect him while he was down. Didn't these fools know that open-carry first necessitated a license of whiteness? Security needed to proceed with extreme care to avoid any nervous trigger fingers from turning this into a situation.
How the hell had they gotten through the metal detectors at the hospital's entrance? Unless… did they all come in via Emergency? This red-flagged a major hole in their safety procedures.
Active shooter protocols had been implemented after that incident when they lost Reed and Charles and when Shepherd and Hunt had both been shot. But with the recent spate of School Shootings – perhaps he really should be looking into home schooling?! – had Hospitals become classified as safe zones? Or safer than Schools, it seemed. Which and of itself was a scary prospect.
As he stood there contemplating the protocol in these circumstances, a couple of good ol boys in blue entered, and surprisingly, de-escalated what could have turned into a blood-bath.
"Come back here, you little shit!"
Looks like he spoke too soon. But no, it wasn't Five-O chasing down an innocent young Black child. No. Not today, Satan. Nope. Not on his watch. Fuck 12. He would not let that happen. He was in the know and they didn't know that he knew what they didn't want him to know.
"Whoa. Hold up there, kid. Where you goin in such a hurry?" Would you look at that? So many youthful faces really. They were recruiting babies, man! Pulling them in way earlier. Were they robbing Kindergartens? Gangland, not the Blue Brigade. Why, this one was a little runt, but stronger than he looked. And judging from his appearance someone that needed his specific skill set. There was also something very familiar about him. Not to mention it felt like looking into his own eyes.
"Leggo!"
He grunted and tightened his grip on the boy's shoulders as the youngster totally ignored his question while trying to escape the hold he had on him. The tiny human had bumped into him so it was just fair that he apologize or at least answer some questions. Right? "Stop. I just wanna talk, tough guy."
"Thanks, Mister. I got it from here," an out of breath megala-goon interrupted, tryna snatch up the squirming, attempted escape artist.
"Hold up. Is this child with you? Are you a relative?"
"Err—yeah. Yeah. He's… urhm… fam. Definitely. So, he's like… He's… uh… my cous…" His nervous laughter seemingly shook him up some, for while he didn't exactly become aggressive or even openly hostile, he did appear to find a well of confidence. With nary another stutter he replied, "What's it to you anyways? Kid's my little bro."
Riiight. Like that didn't sound suspicious at all?! Jackson got his hackles up. Exasperated, he said, "Oh heck, guy, give it a rest, would you? I'm not an idiot."
One glance at the boy's expression was enough to convince him that Tiny over there wouldn't be garnering any truth praising accolades nor winning any acting awards.
"So what's up, huh?" He tried an overture. "What're you in here for?" he continued, posing the question to the child but not really expecting any answers and consequently not disappointed when no response was forthcoming. "C'mon now. The doctors here are not so bad."
"Err—he dun say much, Doc. Ant here's kinda shy."
"My name's not Ant!"
"You better watch dat mout, Teeny Ant-teeny." Pretend Big Brother actually giggled then swiftly sobered up, probably realizing how absurd the girlish twitter sounded emerging from such a huge guy.
"Not Tiny. Not Ant or Antiny! I told you it's André now. Dré for short." Obviously not so shy.
"Look Ti—err Dré, I'ma tryna look out for you."
Dré looked unconvinced. "Yeah rite," he scoffed. Turning towards him Dré asked for permission, "I need the bathroom, man."
Effing Hell! Which of his degrees qualified him to become Hall Monitor today! "Congratulations?" he commented.
"That's what they all say," the boy snorted displaying an unusual knack for picking up humorous sub-text.
Not getting it and not to be left out the gargantuan dude butted in. "Whatcha doin heres anyway? You know he not gonna like it!"
"It ain't his hospital," was the belligerent, all be it true, response. If anything it was his hospital… at least 51 percent worth. But, so much for the kid's urgent need to empty his bladder, huh?! Dré had obviously been stalling or looking for a diversion.
"Since when you care about Lobo's health?" Even though it seemed rhetorical the big guy waited for some kind of reactionary rebuttal. Until a sort of realization overcame his expression. "I see how it is. What is it with you and that woman?"
And that's when the kid went intellectual activist. It was surreal. "Maybe I'm just a feminist," was the boy's in-your-face, almost accusatory response.
"Say what? So you're a feminist now? Okay… Name every woman." Incredible. Did this guy even know how feminism worked?
Dré cracked him up with his ludicrous, though extremely witty response. "Whitney Houston," he smirked.
Having had it Tiny didn't even crack a smile. "Okay. Hand it over," he demanded of Dré.
"What?" Innocence personified.
"You little…" big guy lunged towards little guy.
Yeah, it was time to step in and step up. No child abuse on his watch either. "Hey! Break it up!" he shouted inserting himself between the two. The smaller boy was wiry… and feisty, so it necessitated him changing tack. Trying to pull Dré away from his attempt to pummel a much bigger opponent – a David v Goliath situation apparently – he was beset with a strong sense of déjà vu. Man, little dude wanted to go! The upshot of the experience was that Big Tiny disappeared in the melee and youthful Dré almost got away scot free when he turned around to look for the burly fella. Yes, Dré escaped but not without leaving behind a vital clue. Or, more accurately, the property of Lobo that he was left holding. Unintentionally, of course, as he had grabbed the boy by the rounded neckline of his T-Shirt and in so doing dislodged a heavy chain. A piece of jewelry that seemed to be hiding secrets of its own. Kinda like a nesting doll. But without the numerous smaller dolls within. Okay, so that comparison actually didn't work. All he meant was, that it appeared mysterious.
Chase had been futile. Young Dré was agile and swiftly disappeared. So it became a matter of going directly to the source. But, you know, he wasn't simply gonna hand over the contraband. There had to be a reason why Dré had willingly put himself in harms way to attain the object and he was so up to finding out the wherefore of it all.
Of course it was not as simple as a Butler who-done-it. Neither did it seem to be a complex Cluedo type, hidden clue searching mystery. C'mon now, Colonel Mustard with a Candlestick in the Pantry? Yeah, no. That it wasn't. But it was cryptic enough to get his neurons all a flutter. Almost like figuring out a radical solution to an incurable medical condition.
Between the 'El' and the 'Lobo' on the chains heavy gold links, nestled an attractive diamond-studded wedding band. It's not like he expected the punk to be sentimental. Or, for that matter, married. But the ring… it brought up questions. Yes, it looked like April's. But then April's ring – elegantly and expensively simple though the design was – was not a uniquely one-of-a-kind pattern. At least the outside wasn't. The engraving inside definitely was.
What prompted him to inspect the band so thoroughly, he would never know. It was definitely more than simple curiosity. But what he found? Well…
The words 'Me' and 'You' separated by a heart. And on the opposite side the name 'Sam' enshrined between the two pieces of a broken heart. How was it that a known hoodlum, possible drug dealer and gang linchpin had April's wedding band?!
He remembered it like it was yesterday. He'd planned it down to the minutiae. Now technically they were already hitched, but unlike the lead-up to the joining in holy matrimony, when he'd declared himself and run away with the bride, their engagement was going to be perfect. Well, that was the idea anyway.
He loved her. He loved her way more than Kanye loves Kanye. Like, a lot more. Which was really saying something, coz everyone in the know knew about Kanye's obsession with himself. I mean, the guy took narcissism to a whole new level. Trust him, he knew what he was talking about here. Surgeons had this major God-complex going on, practically all the time. Almost on par with Actors.
And let's face it, sometimes he was just her little bitch.
She was his road dog. Wait, what? Did that even make sense? Maybe he meant she was a road hog? But what did that have to do with the price of toilet rolls during a Pandemic?
Anyway, he'd come to the conclusion that when you found someone who matched your goofy, it was best to lock that shit down. Could that be the reason for the run on toilet paper, then?
So why was he so nervous? She'd already accepted him, hadn't she? Perhaps it wasn't so much rejection that he feared, but wondering if regret was involved...? More likely though, it was worry that he would come across as cheesy… or that he would somehow look the loser in an unscripted, unacknowledged game of one-upmanship with the dorky Paramedic.
He was aware that she didn't put much stock in expensive trinkets and domesticated rocks. But it was what the rock represented that would touch her. So there was an engagement ring hiding in their house waiting for that perfect moment. The big reveal.
He was on his phone, scrolling through correspondence, tryna find the email confirming the joining of their mobile accounts. She grabbed the cell from him, either too impatient, or doubting his competency in the face of his distraction at Kobe on the court. Poor guy. If he knew then that the world had a very short window of opportunity to watch Bryant live, perhaps all his attention would've been on his TV screen. Be that as it may, his focus was splintered as he watched her type something in the email search bar to bring up the information, remembering too late about that other order confirmation. The one from the jeweler. He knew immediately that she'd spotted it. She froze. He froze. But then she proceeded to pretend like she hadn't seen the message.
He took a stab at it. Feelin her out. Getting a lay of the land, so to speak. Sans bauble. Relationship goals: thermodynamic equilibrium. Yeehaw.
"You know urban dictionary's definition of Wife, is an extreme hardcore version of a girlfriend."
"Hmmm...? Wait, what? What even are you talking about?"
"April, will you be my wife?"
"Err—we're already married?"
"Right. But since we're doin everything in reverse…"
"You're proposing? Now?!"
"Well, you know, my heart says yes even if my mom said no. And technically our engagement was fifteen minutes at a rest stop on the turnpike…"
"Ha-ha."
"So what do you say?"
"Seriously, Jackman!"
"Hey, don't knock it till you try it, Red. You know, Lake Tahoe is only 13 hours away..."
"Yeah, about that... why didn't we just fly down?"
"Uhh, you see... Ehrm, right. It was... So, it's like this... Do you remember the time..." he tried a Michael Jackson.
"Yeah... go on," she prompted, totally missing his song cue.
"Right. So do you remember the time when you thought I knocked you up?"
"Oh, you mean the 'condoms don't break' conversation?"
She could've tacked on 'Red' as his nickname this time, if the flush he felt on his face was any kind of embarrassment barometer. Probably couldn't see it though, thanks to the combination of his parental gene-pool that blessed him with a darker skin tone.
This blushing thing had freaked him out the one other time it had happened. When he'd discovered exactly what sort of specialist Mayfield in 22 was. Luckily, only Karev had been witness to his humiliation then and since Alex had been equally mortified, he hadn't paid any attention to Jackson's own horror. Shame did not form part of his vocabulary, and really, he wasn't the sort to get easily ruffled. I mean, he flustered others. Like, had you seen him without a shirt on?! It was crazy.
"Yeah. Well you know I was all in, right? And my net surfing had Lake Tahoe as the go to destination for a quickie wedding."
"Oh. I would've thought Las Vegas..."
"Well, you did want a field with bees, Mzz Mint to Beeez."
"Butterflies, not bees. Oh..." Yeah, she caught on that he knew what it was, but that he'd made light of it to hide his hurt. It stung like a bee – someone please stop him! – that her wedding to the Paramedic had those very things. Butterflies and Mint-to-be's were their thing, dammit. "I'm sorry."
"Nah, it's okay. We're good." He brushed off the apology, but her soft smile in response to his words and relaxed facial expression, told him that she knew he knew she knew how much it meant to him. "So, what's it gonna be? We getting pre-hitched or what?"
"Umhmmm… well this is all so sudden! And I'm not really the impulsive sort. I'm gonna have to give this some thought."
"Wait… say what now?" He knew she was kidding, but even so, the punch line took him by surprise.
"I'll get back to you."
Bada Bing, Bada Boom.
So a few minutes later they were both on the couch and they just started kinda... giggling. And couldn't stop.
"Why are we laughing?" he wondered.
"I don't know," she hiccupped between uncontrollable snorts.
"Uhh huh. No, but yeah you do," he called her out. Which led to even more laughter.
"Shut up, you love me."
"Do you care to elaborate on that?"
"Welll now, didn't you just propose? Although… I don't see any bended knee or shiny hand ornament…" she trailed of, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
"Yeah, no. Not gonna happen. Bum knee and all that. But, wait. Are you done thinking, then?"
"Hmmm." Still non-committal, but curiosity apparently getting the better of her she asked, "Do you have it?" At his nod she interrogated further. "Is it... here? Is it… hidden?" He nodded again. "So… you wanna play the Hot or Cold Game?" she flirted, batting her luscious lashes, flashing dimples and those sparkling, gorgeous greens. That gamine grin lent an air of playful naughtiness to the sexy.
However tempting the idea – she was the best temperature feeler… ever – he regrettably answered in the negative, "Absolutely not."
She blew a raspberry, clearly surprised. Consternation on the other foot, eh? Understandable, though. I mean, they were still in their honeymoon bubble and he was Mr. Horny for her. "You sure? No foreplay today?" she questioned seductively, her breathy undertone almost undoing his resolve.
Jackson, predictably, rose to the bait. No euphemism. "Hey!" he growled, "Knock it off." He wanted a PG engagement story. One where he didn't have to reverse embellish – downplay sexy times? – for his future, impressionable and as yet hypothetical, children.
He was so utterly giddy. And so impatient too. According to his calculations, this was the moment. His window had opened. Amidst the nervous laughter and dizzying heights was… Showtime! And if that romantic gesture didn't score him some cereal bowl washing…
The engagement ring was a hit. The size though had rendered her momentarily speechless. Initially only, of course.
"Jackson… it's beautiful. But—but it's too much! And so big!" Her eyes had widened, looking almost cartoonish. Like spinning saucers.
"That's what she said," he swiftly got in a Michael Scott, ignoring her exasperated splutter.
"It looks very expensive. You should return it. Exchange it for something less extravagant. I'm sure they'll take it back."
"April. Zip it." He pantomimed zipping her lips. "You know I have a Trust Fund, right? But…"
"But what?" she mumbled. "Oh, sorry." She in turn motioned unzipping her lips.
"You don't need to be such a smartass. I just meant that I wanted to get this for you. Without Avery money."
"Oh! You mean…?"
"Yep. Bought and paid for with lotsa butt-fat. Err—sucking. Butt fat. Sucking of butt-fat."
"Okay, Plastic Posse Party of One."
"Say what now?"
"Just spitballing. You know, the twisted sisters McNamed all the hot doctors at the hospital, and what they came up with felt… kinda cheap, you know? And objectifying. But wait, lemme try this on for size… McPlastic? Or McLipo? See, instead of emphasizing your physical attributes, it accentuates your skills. Not what you are but what you do."
"Aah, so a rite of passage, I assume."
"You know it. And I got your back, McHottie," she finger-gun saluted.
"Wait… didn't you just say… Okay, I see you. Big Mood, huh? Which one piss you off?"
"Not Yang. Apparently she's not just a friend, she's a fan."
"So Medusa, then?"
Huge sigh. "Don't worry. I'll get over it. You know I just gotta be dramatic first."
"Since when? No one is less of a Drama Queen than you. I donno what crawled up Grey's ass but I won't have her disrespecting you anymore. You're my wife and deserving…"
"I got it," she interrupted. "Thanks. But I don't need you to be my knight in shinning armor slaying the snake-haired beast."
"Well in that case…"
She dimpled, never ceasing to amaze him with her resilience, that huge forgiving heart, her mostly sunny disposition and the arsenal of smiles she had at her disposal. This one sparkled with a hint of mischief. "Won't say no to the rock though," she laughed. "So get up off that thang and bring back ma bling," she grinned. "You liked it..."
"Then I should put a ring on it," he winked while doing just that.
Even if it was big enough to stray into gaudy and yeah, way extravagant, it also wasn't something she could wear all the time in the ER. She did seem to enjoy what it represented, though. That it was no hurried, shot-gun decision. That he chose to be vulnerable to her. That he made the effort.
But what she really loved was the wedding band. Especially when he presented it to her again, engraved. Accompanied with a dramatic flourish and the hidden engagement ring. In fact she became so enamored with the idea of emotionally scripted jewelry, that he was now similarly in possession of a meaningfully scribed eco-friendly timepiece. The inscription burnt into the back of his WeWood TIC Voyage read, "Jackson, my heart belongs to you, April."
Back to her rings though. Yeah, he was still tryna outdo a flashmob proposal. Looks like all it took was some history and a chiseled grammatical inconsistency to come out on top. The wedding ring never left her finger. Until…
Who knew that devastation came in such a tiny package? One day blissfully content, joking about baby names. The next, burying your child. It amazed him that a Buddha posture could actually be a bad portent, but here they were. And to feel so helpless in the face of her all-consuming grief? Tryna make it better with that idiotic suggestion… of course their baby boy was not replaceable!
Now he understood why the Ancient Greece phrase, 'May you live in interesting times' was considered a curse.
It had been thoughtless and a sloppy attempt to jar her back. She'd looked lost and oh so sad. So still and unmoving in that Nursery rocking chair that, once upon a time, he'd gladly and very industriously put together. Twice. Her gaze had been blindly fixed on nothing as she'd clutched that stuffed toy dog like a lifeline. As if to draw some modicum of comfort from it. And when she spoke, each word seemed to be ripped agonizingly from her throat.
Witnessing her pain, he'd been flooded with a torrent of conflicting emotions. So he'd just tried to reach her somehow. He didn't blame her for the angry expletives. But yeah, that hadn't worked either. It had simply been a temporary sign of life.
They were too strong to be defeated. But in these exigent circumstances, he'd bungled it bigtime. There was no way to finesse this. He would bury his own grief and just give her time. He would forever recall that tiny hand gripping hers, though. And that remembrance he had had photo-inscribed on the ring that occupied a finger of the hand Samuel Norbert Avery had held, then let go.