Whenever I hear April laughing from the other room, I know I'm in for something interesting. I'm on the couch, watching the Bulls game, and she's tittering in the bedroom.
"What are you laughing about, Pillsbury Doughboy?" I call out, one arm stretched across the back of the couch.
Her giggles get louder, so I look over my shoulder. There she is, coming out of our room in her little gray sweatpants and pink t-shirt, carrying an open shoebox.
"You're never gonna believe what I found," she says, shaking her head and grinning like a madwoman.
She's been cleaning out our closet for the past three weeks or so, taking it slow and steady. She got me to help the first couple days, but I don't share her obsession for organizing. I let her take the reins after a bit.
"What is it?" I ask.
She walks over and sets the box on the couch, then pulls out a pair of small, black, ultra-shiny shoes. "My tap shoes," she says.
I lift my eyebrows so high that they almost touch my hairline. "Your what shoes?" I say.
"Tap!" she says, then sits down and puts them on over her ankle socks. "Did I ever tell you that I was in a production of Cats during high school? I played Jennyanydots."
"Excuse me?" I say, muting the TV.
"I'm sure it made me a thousand times more popular than I already was," she says. "You know, because Cats is so cool." She laughs at herself and tightens the laces. "Let's see if I still got it."
I keep my eyes on her as she tip-taps over to the tile floor and gets in position. When she starts to move, winding those arms around and making all sorts of sound with just her feet, I can't help but be impressed. I had no idea she could do that.
But then, as soon as she started, she stops. The clicks and clacks go quiet as she freezes in place and looks me dead in the eyes.
"What's wrong?" I ask. Her face is worrisome. "Baby, you good?"
"Oh, god," she groans, then taps away at top speed towards the bathroom, one arm wrapped around her waist.
The next sound I hear is that of her hurling. I get up from the couch, toss the remote onto the cushion behind me, and go see what's the matter.
...
In bed that night, April and I are turned on our sides and facing each other. She's running her fingers down my face, concentrating on the small patch on my cheek where my beard never grows, with a pensive look on her face.
I hold her wrist and ask, quietly, "What're you thinking?"
She lifts her eyes after a moment and lets out a small breath. "That I should take a pregnancy test."
I nod slowly. She'd insinuated the same thing earlier in the bathroom, but I needed to hear her say it out loud.
She might be pregnant. After Samuel, after everything, she might be carrying my baby again.
We've gone through a lot, but we've worked through a lot, too. Still, does that mean we're anywhere close to ready?
I have no idea.
"I'm gonna call off work," she says, biting her lower lip.
"I will, too," I say.
I don't just need to be there for her when she takes the test - I want to be. I want us to be there so she can lean on me if she needs to - no matter what the result may be.
"I don't think I'm gonna be able to sleep," she says, smiling sadly.
Her eyes glass over with tears and, when she blinks, one slips out and slides over the bridge of her nose. I watch her chin tremble, then her lips turn down in a dramatic frown as she covers her eyes with one hand and starts to sob.
"Come here, sweetheart," I say, wrapping her up in my arms. I hold the back of her head with one hand and twine the other around her waist, keeping her as close as possible while she cries.
"I'm scared, Jackson," she whimpers, her breath trembling as the words come out.
"I know," I say. I kiss her hair and close my eyes for a long moment. Then, I say, "I am, too."
That makes her cry harder, though I don't think it's for a negative reason. It just needs to come out.
I hold her until her sniffles go quiet and her breathing comes evenly. Contrary to what she'd assumed, she falls asleep - and I let myself go soon after she does.
...
After Samuel died, we changed everything about his room. We donated all the furniture, stripped the walls of the animal decals, and repainted. It looks like it could belong to anyone now.
That's what I'm thinking when I find April standing in its doorway when I come home from picking up the pregnancy tests. She's looking inside, wringing her hands like she always does when she's nervous, and that fiery hair is backlit by the morning sun. I can't even see her face, but she is so beautiful.
"You ready?" I ask.
She startles a bit, then looks at me over her shoulder. "Yeah," she says. "Sorry. I was just thinking."
I come up behind her and rest a hand on the small of her back. She leans into me, but doesn't take her eyes off the room laid out in front of us.
"About what?" I ask.
"What this room would look like if it were pink," she murmurs, almost too softly for me to hear. She tips her face up and her eyes are shiny when she asks, "Is that crazy?"
I shake my head. "Not crazy," I say, then look at the room. "I think pink would be perfect in here."
...
April and I use the bathroom in each other's presence on a daily basis, but this is by far the most stressful occurrence to date. I'm sitting on the counter while she's on the toilet and, as soon as the test is taken, she puts the cap on and sets it someplace where we can't watch it.
She gets up, washes her hands, and starts walking back and forth - from one end of the room to the other. "Baby, please don't pace," I say gently.
She looks at me with surprise, like she hadn't even realized she was doing it. "Sorry," she says, then rubs her temples. She meets my eyes again and asks, "What do you want the test to say?"
I think of Samuel's first and only birthday, and how it felt to hold April in my arms as she cradled his dying body. I think of how his face looked, red and tiny, but gorgeous over anything. I could tell that, if he'd gotten to grow up, he would've looked like April.
We never got a chance to learn which of us he'd take after more. He was alive for a little over an hour, and that was it. For his entire life, April held him. It's a bittersweet thought.
The chance of such a thing happening again is slim to none. If she's pregnant, our second child will be here long enough to take her first steps and walk on her own. Not just walk, but run. Skip. Jump. Play.
Laugh. Cry. Yell. Dance.
Live.
I picture a vivacious little girl with springy curls and a hearty giggle. I picture April cradling her after she skins a knee, and I picture myself coaching her tee-ball team. Our girl will be feisty, sweet, outspoken, thoughtful, kind, daring, smart, and loyal.
But, above anything else, she'll be loved. I can't think of a child more loved than our girl. Our girl, who I'm not even sure exists yet.
I meet April's eyes and say, "I want this."
She chews on her lips. "You want it to be positive?"
I nod and ask, "Do you?"
Tears spill and make a pair of tracks down her cheeks. "Yeah," she says. "But what if it isn't?"
"What if it is?" I ask.
The question could be viewed as hopeful or wary, and I know she knows that - but neither of us answers the other. Instead, we wait in silence for the allotted ten minutes to pass.
When it does, April takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and picks up the test with a closed fist. She walks back over to me, locks her eyes with mine, then exhales through pursed lips.
When she opens her palm, the word is right there, clear as day.
Pregnant.
We both gape at the test like it's going to change right in front of us but, of course, it doesn't. April lifts her head, mouth hanging open, then throws her arms around my neck in a silent, tearful hug.
I hold her as tight as I can and squeeze my eyes shut as I do. We spend a while without speaking - then, she says, "I can't believe this. I can't believe that we..." She pauses. "Well. I guess I can believe that we did this. But..." She looks at me with a weighted gaze and holds onto my biceps. "Is it crazy?"
I look at my wife for all that she is and remember all the ways I've ever known her. Stranger, acquaintance, friend, confidante, lover, wife - and forever my best friend. In her face, I already see our daughter and everything she'll be.
This is the furthest thing from crazy.
"No," I say, holding her face in my hands. "It's perfect."