APRIL
The world looks no different when I'm awake than when I'm sleeping. That fact alone makes it hard to open my eyes in the morning. There doesn't seem to be a purpose.
They don't have much feeling anymore anyway, because the nerves inside them are dead. The burnt skin surrounding is working its way back to life, but Mark is keeping an open mind to skin grafts if my body can't do the work on its own. I've let him do whatever he wants. I'll never see my own face again, but at least I can spare everyone else the horror.
The undersides of my knees feel prickly, like I need to move. But that's the last thing I want to do. I'd rather lay in bed forever with my eyes shut, salve soaking into my face like usual, thinking about nothing.
I actively try and think about nothing, because it's easier. When the thoughts trickle in, the restlessness is harder to bear. I've kicked the sheets off in a fit of rage before and told Jackson it was because of a dream. I'm not sure if he believed me, or if he just pretended to.
I'd know for certain if I could've seen his expression. I always used to read his face, but that's impossible now. I can't spend every waking minute with my hands on his features. Because of that, I'm missing out on so much; a huge sector of his personality came through his expressions. But now, that space is left blank and empty for me. I lost a piece of him when I lost my sight.
I spend a lot of time listening. Jackson has taken a leave from the hospital to be at home with Peyton and me, though I've frequently spurned him this past week. It still doesn't feel like this could possibly be happening to me, though it was only a few days ago. I can't be sure of how many. Without being able to see, the days and nights run together and light means nothing at all. For all I know, it could be midnight right now.
The sounds of the baby from downstairs tell me differently, though. I hear her babbling and squealing, and the low rumble of Jackson's voice as he talks to her. I miss them so much it hurts, but I can't force myself to go downstairs. I don't want to sit there and just listen, or be told what she's doing. I want to see it for myself. I want to see my baby's face, and I want to see my husband smiling at her.
Without my sight, I live life from the sidelines. I wait for things to happen to me instead of happening to them. It's even worse than that, though, really. It's not that I'm waiting for something to happen, it's that I hope nothing does. My life is a black pit, and I'm slowly sinking further into it. I can't climb out because I have no motivation to do so.
I turn onto my side and curl my legs close to my chest, wrapping my arms around my knees. I let out a long sigh and feel the urge to cry, but fight it. When the saltwater tears drip over my raw skin, it stings. Sometimes it's a nice distraction from the pain on the inside, but I don't want it right now. I'm complacent in my cocoon of numbness.
Though I've just woken up, I try and drift off again. I stay still with my eyes closed for what seems like forever, but sleep won't come. My body isn't tired - it's the exact opposite, actually, so there's no way a nap is in the cards for me.
I keep my eyes closed, though, when I hear Jackson's feet on the stairs. It's quiet, which must mean the baby is going down for her late-morning nap. I'm right, because he doesn't come into our room for a little bit, and I assume that means he was laying her down.
His footsteps aren't hard to miss when he comes through the door and near the bed. He thinks I'm asleep, I can tell by the gentle way he's moving.
"Honey…" he says, voice soft and unassuming. "It's time to wake up."
He runs his fingertips over the round of my shoulder and upper arm, then strokes the inside of my elbow. I don't stir. I'm not sure why, but I don't want to make this easy on him. It's not easy for me, so I don't see why it should be for anyone else.
"April," he says, voice a bit louder now. "We have an appointment with Mark in an hour. It's time to get up and start getting ready." He sits on the edge of the bed and rests a palm beside my opposite hip. "Baby."
"Hmm…" I say, flipping over. I don't bother opening my eyes. I, of course, have no idea what they look like, but I can't imagine it's anything good. I get the feeling that the sight of them unsettles Jackson, and I don't want that. What if he's afraid of me?
"There you are," he says, and holds my chin between his thumb and first finger. He strokes the skin a few times and puffs a small bit of air from his nose. I think that means he smiled. "Can I give you a kiss?"
Something pangs inside my chest when he says that. Before all this happened, I can't remember the last time he actually asked to kiss me. We'd just make eye contact, usually look at each other's lips, and go. Most of the time, it wasn't even that much. We would just know. It was routine, it was habitual, it was expected. We're married. Married people don't have to ask for kisses. They're simply given.
"You can just kiss me," I say, grumpily. Everything I say lately comes out grumpy. There's nothing I can do to stop it.
"I know," he says, then presses his lips to mine carefully, like I might break.
"Then why don't you just do it?" I say. "Why do you ask now?"
He strokes my hair that's lying on the pillow, then traces the shell of my ear. He knows how sensitive my ears are, and I shy away from his touch there. I don't want my senses to be woken up like that, not now. I'm too afraid of what I'll experience once they come alive.
"I don't want to scare you when I do it," he says. "You always jump when I touch you."
"Because I can't see you," I say. "I can still feel you."
"Okay," he says. "I won't ask, then."
"Good."
He clears his throat and adjusts the way he's sitting. I wonder where his eyes are. Is he looking at me? If so, what is he looking at? Does he hate what he sees?
"We have Mark in an hour," he reminds me. "Want me to help you get in the bath?"
I frown. "I can do it myself," I say, though there's no proof of that. I've only bathed twice since last week, and both have been at his hand in our large bathtub. I don't want that again, though. It makes me feel dependent and despondent. I can wash my body on my own.
"I don't know if that's smart," he says, standing as I begin to fidget.
"I'll be fine," I say. "My eyes are broken, not my legs."
"I-" he begins, but cuts himself off. "I just don't think…"
"What?" I snap, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
He sighs, and I picture him closing his eyes in frustration. He's fed up, but I don't plan on giving in. If I don't start now, when will I ever relearn to be independent? I can't rely on him forever. That's not how a marriage works; it's supposed to be equal.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "I can just run the bath. I don't have to stay in there with you."
"I don't care if you stay," I say. "I just want to do it myself."
I stand up and straighten my arms in front of me, stiff as boards. I spread my fingers out and move my arms back and forth, looking out for anything I might run into. As I take a step forward, Jackson guides me with a hand on the small of my back, but I move away from him.
"I know the way to my own bathroom," I say harshly.
He takes his hand away. Even without sight, I can feel the hurt wafting from him in droves. I should stop taking out my anger on someone so innocent, but he's closest. If not him, then who? I do enough to myself as it is.
I take clumsy, disjointed steps to the bathroom. When I feel the doorjamb on either side, I clamber around the wall until I find the switch, then flick it on. As soon as I do, though, I laugh sardonically. Of course, there's no change. I turn it back off and say aloud, "I'll save us a lot on electricity."
"That's not funny," he says, then turns it back on. I can hear the sound of the switch.
"I don't need it," I say. "You know I can't see shit, right?"
"That's not funny, April," he says, referencing the lightness in my tone, I'm sure. "I need it. I'm staying."
I purse my lips and find my way to the shower, maneuvering over the rugs and around the half-wall that it's positioned behind. I pop open the glass door and work the handle, using muscle memory to turn it to the correct heat and pressure. I wait in silence, feeling Jackson's presence, while the water heats up - undressing after a few moments of tension. I crumple my dirty pajamas into a ball and set them on the floor, then open the glass door again.
"Be careful," he says, closer than ever. His voice sounds like it's right over my shoulder, which is probably where he's standing.
"Jackson," I snap, shivering from the draft. "Please."
He doesn't say anything then. I hear him back up a bit to give me some space, and I'm satisfied because of it - I feel like I have room to take a breath. I widen my arms and feel my way inside the shower, gripping onto whatever I can find when I get a good hold. I lift one leg with my fingers wrapped around the bottom of a ledge, but when I try and follow with the other, my left foot slides forward and I slam face-first onto the floor.
My heart stops beating for a moment as I lose my breath, completely stunned and silent. I caught myself with my forearms and elbows, my head didn't hit, but my limbs are all tangled up and I have no way to get my bearings. Time moves slow as the hot water pelts my back and my skin stings with new wounds, then I start to cry like a child who's fallen off their bike. More scared than hurt.
"April!" Jackson exclaims, and his footsteps pound the floor as he rushes over.
I let out a long wail as he picks me up from under the armpits and gets me to my feet. He reaches to shut the water off then holds me at arm's length, probably checking me over for what damage I did to myself.
"You're okay," he says, stroking my face. I'm trembling because now I'm not only cold, but wet and cold. "You're okay. Barely bleeding, I swear. I'm just gonna get a towel to clean you up."
"If I'm barely bleeding, why do you need a towel?" I screech, wrapping my sore arms around myself. "I'm freezing!"
"I'll start the bath," he says, then the water comes on. He wraps a fluffy towel around my shoulders while I wait, then holds my arms out straight while he examines my cuts. "You should've let me help."
I don't respond. I keep my face turned away, eyes still leaking tears. I don't have anything to say. It's not that I think he's wrong, it's that I know he's right. And I can't bear it.
"April, you have to let me help you," he says.
I still don't acknowledge him. I refuse to look in his direction, I just stay sniffling towards the source of the water. I can't even reach up and wipe my tears because the skin is too sensitive. I just have to let them fall.
"Okay," he says, a bit later. "Tub's filled up."
He takes my elbow and I let him, stepping into the steamy water one foot at a time. He guides me between the shoulder blades as I sink lower, then stays close once I sit down.
"Do you want me to wash you?" he asks.
I shrug. I might as well let him, seeing as if I try and do it myself, I'll probably mess up and cause yet another catastrophe. My arms throb as a reminder of the last one.
I lean my head back while he shampoos and conditions my hair, and the silence is heavy between us. It usually passes like nothing - the quiet has always been comfortable. But at the moment, that isn't the case. It's quite the opposite, actually. Even not being able to see his face, I know there's more he wants to say. I'm sure he can tell how tense I am, too.
I know he's about to speak when he lets out a terse sigh. He swipes my wet hair off my forehead with a flat hand before saying, "April, from now on, I'm going to help you whether you want me to or not."
I keep my eyes closed and my arms wrapped around my knees, barely moving. He's not finished, and it's not worth it to interrupt.
"You were this close to hitting your head. Imagine if you had. What would I have told Peyton? Your arms are all cut and bruised. I just… I can't have you killing yourself on my watch."
My insides tingle with fury and pent-up frustration. He has no idea what it's like to be trapped in here, a prisoner of my own head, unable to see the outside. He has no idea what it's like to have a vibrant world ripped away because a mentally unstable man acted on an evil whim. Took his rage out on me. Jackson will never know that feeling, and I have to live with it for the rest of my life.
Sometimes, I wish I didn't.
With quivering shoulders, I work up the gumption to say, "I wish it would've killed me. I wish I would've just died. I can't stand to live like this. This isn't a life - this isn't my life. You don't get it! You never will."
He doesn't say anything. It's so quiet that it almost seems like he's left, and fear finds its way to my gut. I sit up and hold onto the lip of the tub, swiveling at the waist to try and sense if he's close.
"Jackson," I say, urgency in my voice. "Are you still here? You can't just… you have to say something."
"Sit down," he says, and a mixture of relief and annoyance floods through me. He places his hands on my shoulders and gently presses me back into the water, and I comply. I don't have much of a choice.
By the charge in the air, I can tell he's upset. That's fine, because I'm upset with myself, too. I shouldn't have said what I did - I'm pretty sure I don't mean it - but there's plenty of reason behind it. My life will never be the same. I don't have a purpose here anymore.
He washes my hair and what he can reach of my body, handing me a washcloth to do the rest. I do it habitually, not needing my eyes, and stand up when I'm finished - in the middle of the water, waiting for a towel to be wrapped around me. And eventually, one is.
He helps me get ready without offering any conversation. He helps me into yoga pants and a crew neck sweatshirt, careful of the seared skin on my face. He sits behind me and brushes out my hair, though I don't need sight for that. Still, I let him.
"What time is it?" I ask, after everything is done.
"Almost 1," he says. "We have to be there at 1:15. Do you wanna go wake up the baby while I get the car started?"
I frown. "I can't do that," I say.
"I'll help you down the stairs when it's time," he says.
"No," I say. "I'm not going to hold her without you there."
"April, you're gonna have to tr-"
"Try, and then what? Drop her? No, Jackson," I say, then stand. I walk with purpose towards our bedroom door and end up smacking my face into the wall near the door. "Ouch, shit!" I say, features pinching. I rub my nose and back away from the wall, using my arms as guides after that. "See, I can't even walk without running into something like an idiot. And somehow, you expect me to hold Peyton?"
He doesn't respond, but I hear him get up. He comes over and puts a hand on the small of my back, then nudges me onward.
"Can you use words, please?" I say, dragging my feet. "You need to tell me where we're going. This silence isn't gonna work."
"We're gonna get the baby," he says. "Then, we're gonna go."
I follow his lead into the nursery, where there's no noise. Peyton must still be in the middle of her nap, and she won't be a treat to wake up. I let Jackson do it, stepping back with my arms crossed, totally resigned. I still don't like the thought of her seeing my eyes that are apparently stark white. I can't imagine how unsettling that must be for a baby.
"Peanut," Jackson coos. I can almost picture him leaning over the crib, one hand on her little belly. "Time to get up. We gotta take Mama to the doctor."
He makes a small noise, and I know he's picked her up. I hear her whine softly as she wakes up, and they move to the changing table on the far side of the room while I stay rooted in place.
She starts to cry not long after - she hates having her diaper changed - and she doesn't stop when it's over.
"Want Mama?" Jackson asks her, and his voice gets closer. "She wants you, mama," he says.
I turn away, face downcast. "No, she doesn't," I say. "She's scared of me. I'll just make it worse."
"She's not scared of you," he says. "She's reaching for you right now. She wants you to hold her."
Peyton cries more insistently, grunting and apparently fighting against Jackson's grip. I won't take her, though. She may not be scared of me, but I still don't like the way it feels when she's in my arms. Not the way her weight feels; I love that. I don't like the way I know she looks at me. I feel her studying me each time she's in my arms, so I've begun to avoid it altogether. I don't like feeling like a stranger to her.
"I don't want to," I say, petulantly.
"She has to get used to it," he says, reading my mind as always. "She's not scared. She doesn't think you're a freak. She thinks you're her mom, and something is different about you. She's just trying to understand what it is."
"Yeah, well, so am I," I say, and storm past him, out of the nursery. I head to the stairs but stop before I begin my descent, one hand gripping the knob of the banister with all I have. I've not yet gone down the stairs without his hand on my back, showing me the way.
So, I wait. I wait until I hear footsteps on the carpet and a fussy baby from behind, then I feel his hand between my shoulder blades as he walks down beside me. I let out a terse breath and take them slow, one at a time, until we reach the bottom.
He helps me tie my shoes. It's humiliating, but he has to. Otherwise, we'll spend all afternoon with me doubled over on the bench, losing track of my laces.
"Everyone ready?" Jackson says, making the noise he always does when he hoists the baby on his hip.
He cups the back of my head with one hand and kisses my cheek, and I don't resist the urge to lean into him. It's a strange contradiction, how much I miss his affection, yet have been spurning it all the same. In small doses, I can accept it. In large ones, it feels like it does when Peyton stares at me. Like he's trying to get used to his new wife, while the old one is right in front of him. Staring at nothing.
…
When we get to the hospital, I stay close to Jackson's side and keep my eyes towards the floor, lids barely open. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, balancing Peyton on the opposite hip. He has his hands full, and if I let myself dwell on it, guilt creeps in. So, I try not to. I don't know what I'd do without him here.
Jackson leads us to an exam room where Mark is already waiting. As the baby babbles in his arms, he guides me to an exam bed and helps me sit, then finds a seat against the wall and takes the baby with him.
"Alright, Kepner," Mark says, and I feel that I've shrunk into myself. I don't feel like me today. I feel like disappearing and never coming out. It doesn't feel right that people are still able to see me while I can't see them. There's something not right about that. "How you feeling?"
I shrug one shoulder and shake my head. I'm not up for small talk.
"Just eh?" he says, assumably going through routine procedures that I can't see.
I can picture him in my mind's eye, though, wearing dark blue scrubs, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly coiffed. I wonder how Jackson did his hair today - and I wonder what Peyton's looks like. Did he remember to brush it down? How come I didn't remember to ask? I don't even think I've touched her today. I'm a horrible mother.
"I'm fine," I peep.
"Your skin looks like it's doing okay," he says. "I could use a bit more improvement between your eyebrows, I'm not loving the patch-up there."
"I was thinking that, too," Jackson says, from the corner.
My stomach twists. They're talking about me like I'm not here. Without sight, it's easy for me to become a simple fixture. Especially between two surgeons who know more about my case than I do.
"I'm gonna look into a prescription for that," he says. "Something to give your skin a little bit of oomph it can't produce on its own. It's strong stuff, though, so I gotta do blood tests first. Once they come back positive that you'll be a good recipient, we can get you started. Then, hopefully we won't have to do skin grafts at all. I'm trying to avoid those at all costs," he says.
"I know," I respond.
"So, I'm just gonna stick ya," he says, sliding over on the rolling stool. "No big deal. Just a little-"
"You don't have to talk to me like that," I say. My voice is calm and even, but I get my point across. I can tell by the sheet of tense silence that falls over the room.
"Alright," he says, after pulling it out. "Perfect. Got all that we need. I'm gonna send these to the lab, and I should get the results back within the next couple days. They have to go through a series of tests to see if you're eligible."
"What if I'm not?" I ask.
"You most likely are," he says. "I don't even wanna worry about the other yet. But if we have to, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."
I nod and close my eyes.
"How's your pain?" he asks.
I shrug again.
"Been taking your painkillers?" he says.
"Yeah."
"Not enough," Jackson chimes in. "Sorry, but she's not. She should be taking more, at least in my opinion."
A moment passes where I'm not sure of Mark's expression. I don't know him like the back of my hand like I do Jackson.
"Are you getting through, though?" he asks. "Are you sleeping, or is the pain keeping you up?"
"I'm sleeping," I answer.
Jackson clears his throat. I grit my teeth together and will him to stop talking for me. My eyes might not work, but my voice is fine.
"I'm going to give you a referral to the hospital's rehab specialist," Mark says. "I think you could get some valuable information from her, and a lot of good resources."
I hear a pen scratching on paper, but stand up before he has a chance to finish. "I'm not going to rehab," I say, taking two tiny steps forward. "I'm fine. I'm doing fine. I just want to go back home. I'm tired."
"April, he's gonna give you-"
"I don't want it," I say. "I want to go home. Can we just go?"
"I… sure," Jackson says, then sighs deeply. "Alright, come on. We'll see you, Mark. Give us a call when those tests come back."
"Will do," he says. "And Kepner, I'll have this number for you whenever you're ready. Just give me the heads-up."
I don't respond. I don't think I have to.
…
When we get back home, Jackson keeps a hand on my back while I take off my shoes, and I let him. I stand in the entryway with no apparent purpose while he gets Peyton comfortable, then gravitate towards the stairs.
"Will you take me up?" I ask, speaking into the open air. I'm not sure where he's standing.
"What?" he says, moving further away. Due to the tiny stomps I hear, my guess would be that the baby's getting away from him. "Why?"
"I wanna go to sleep," I say. "I'm tired."
"You were asleep all morning," he says.
No, I wasn't, I want to say. I was lying there thinking how much I hate my new life.
But I don't say that. I keep my mouth shut, eyes open, drowning in blackness. My lack of response is enough to let him know that I don't plan on budging.
"Pey," Jackson says, hurrying away. "Geez. You're fast. Hey! Come back here."
"Jackson," I say, insistently, still standing by the stairs.
"The baby, April," he says. "Why don't you just stay down here with us? Lay on the couch while I make her some lunch?"
"No," I say. "I need silence. I want to be in bed."
"You're gonna go crazy with all the quiet," he says. "Why don't we put on some music? A little classical, maybe? Pey loves that."
"I don't want music. I want to go to sleep," I say, and realize he's not going to see my side. So, I shake my head and say, "Whatever. It's fine."
I turn around and feel my way around the banister before my hands find the railing. I tighten my fingers around it and take the first step up, steadying myself as I go.
"April, wait," he says, voice drawing closer. "Come on. Just stay. We want you around."
"I'm tired," I state, and keep walking. I almost expect him to follow me and help me in a way he didn't initially want to, but he doesn't. I climb the stairs all on my own, and I'm not sure where he is. I don't know if he watches me from the bottom the whole time, or if he goes to collect the baby instead.
When I get to the top, I press both hands to the wall while I make my way to our bedroom. I come close to knocking a frame off, but get inside the room successfully.
There's no way I can find my comfortable clothes, though. Jackson had helped me out of them, and I don't know where he set them. So, instead, I strip down to my underwear and cami and get in bed without trying to change.
As usual, I'm not sure how much time passes. But eventually, I hear footsteps on the stairs and Jackson clears his throat near the entryway.
"Hey," he says. "Me and Peanut are gonna go run an errand. We'll be back in a bit."
I roll onto my back. "I don't like being left alone," I say. "Where are you going?"
"Just out," he says. "She's antsy. We're gonna take Cork, too."
"But I'll be alone," I say.
"...no," he answers. "I asked Izzie to come over and hang out while we're gone."
"Jackson," I say, a whining tone in my voice. "Why would you do that?"
"She's your friend," he says. "And she loves you. She wants to see you."
"Well, I don't want her to see me."
"Keep the door shut, then," he says, tersely. "You can't just hole up in there. Life is still here, it's still going."
"Not for me, it's not."
"Yes, it is," he says. "If you'd let it. Me and Pey will be back in a while. You want this door shut?"
"Yes."
"Alright," he says. "I love you."
I inhale deeply and let it out with a long sigh. I know he loves me, and I love him, too. Very much. But right now doesn't feel like the right time to say it, so I roll over and face the opposite direction and listen for when the door shuts.
I try and fall asleep so I don't hear Izzie come in, but it doesn't work. She arrives while Jackson and Peyton are still leaving, and I hear them exchanging conversation one floor down. Peyton squeals happily when she sees her favorite friend, but I don't even smile hearing it.
I don't want Izzie here. She and I are the two most optimistic, friendly people at the hospital. We go together perfectly, two peas in a pod - we're so alike. But now, we couldn't be more different. In all the places she's light, I'm now dark. She can't begin to fathom a pain like mine, and it's not my responsibility to teach her how.
"April?" I hear, a few moments later. The house is quiet - Jackson and the baby are gone. I feel a sort of uncertainty knowing they aren't downstairs, since I haven't spent a moment without them since it happened. "It's Izzie."
I don't answer. I want her to think I'm asleep so she'll leave me alone. She doesn't need to see me like this.
"Jackson told me you're awake," she says. "Why haven't you let me come see you?"
I roll over, taking the covers with me.
"April," she says, trying again a few beats later. "Why didn't you want to see me?"
"Because I can't see anything," I snap, surprising myself.
"Oh… I…" she stammers. "I meant, why haven't you wanted to be with me?"
I press my lips together and tuck my hands under my chin, protecting myself. I bend my knees and curl into a ball, ducking my head so I'm all folded together.
"I miss you," she says. "I've been so worried. I cooked enough to feed an army. I brought it all over."
I stay in my ball, eyes shut, breathing slowly. I don't want her to try and cheer me up, and I don't need her sympathy.
"We've all been thinking about you at the hospital," she continues. She's persistent, I'll give her that. "Mark hasn't told us anything besides the fact that you'll be okay, so don't worry. I just wanna…" Her voice falls away before she restarts. "I miss seeing your face. Can I come in?"
"No," I say, voice muffled because of the covers. "I want to be alone."
"April, if you're worried about the way you look-"
"I'm not," I say. "I just want to be by myself. I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep. I appreciate you being here, but I would appreciate it more if you left me alone."
There's only silence on the other end for a long time, then a deep sigh. There seems to be plenty of those in this house today.
"Alright," she says. "Well, I love you. Whenever you're ready, I'm here. With Chinese food, ice cream and bad movies, like always."
She's trying too hard. I don't need to be babied. I'm blind, not an infant. With my lack of response, she eventually leaves and goes back downstairs, and I'm left in the room with only my thoughts to keep me company. I just wish they weren't so loud.
…
I wake up some time later to a hand on my shoulder and a soft voice near my head. I jump and gasp - I'd been in a deep sleep - and the voice continues.
"It's just me," Jackson says. "We're back. I got something for you, though, and I want you to see it. Will you come downstairs?"
I really have to go to the bathroom, but I feel groggy and like I'm still stuck in a dream. I sit up slowly, one hand tightly gripping his as he supports my back and helps me to a standing position.
"Bathroom," I say, slurring. "What time...?"
"Around dinner," he says. "How long you been out?"
"Don't know," I say, leaning against him while he leads me to the bathroom and helps me to the toilet.
While I sit there, he keeps a hand on my shoulder and rubs his thumb in circles. It's an intimate gesture, one that shows how deeply comfortable we are with each other, and I like it.
When I stand up, I don't move right away. I stay still for a moment and just breathe, smelling Jackson's faint cologne and the warm, crisp smell of outside on his clothes.
"Hey," he says, and takes me in his arms. He hugs me tight with both arms wrapped around my shoulders, and kisses the top of my head repeatedly. "I love you."
I lean my head against his chest and relax against him wholly, feeling my muscles slacken while he supports my weight. He runs his fingernails up and down my back, and I squeeze his waist reassuringly. This time, I say it back.
"I love you, too," I say.
…
While Peyton plays in her bouncy seat, Jackson helps me down the stairs.
"What is it?" I ask.
With an arm around my hips, he pauses and kisses the swell of my cheek. Distracted, I lean into the kiss, but stretch my arms out straight in attempts to figure out what's in front of me.
"Lower," he says.
I walk forward and do as he says, then run into something with my thighs. He lets go and lets me figure it out on my own - and I'm fully concentrated while running my hands over the smooth surface. It feels like polished wood, and it's cool to the touch. I move one hand sideways to find where it ends, discovering that there's a cutoff that leads to second level.
Suddenly, feeling the slope of the cover, I know what it is. I should've recognized it sooner - I used to have one growing up that I used until I was a teenager.
"A piano," I say, very quietly. I take a step back. I don't want to touch it anymore.
"Yeah," Jackson says, sounding pleased and excited. "I remember you told me you once knew how to play. I thought it might be something fun for you to learn how to do again."
I curl my fingers up and bunch them into fists, bending my elbows to keep my arms by my chest. I take another step away from it and bump into his chest, unable to go any further.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"You shouldn't have," I say.
"I wanted to," he says.
"It's stupid," I spit. "It was a waste of money. I can't read music, it's not like I can ever be good again."
"April," he says, sounding shocked that I'm reacting the way I am. "I thought you'd like it. You don't need to be able to see. You can just play."
"What, because I'm Mozart?" I say, voice trembling with the onset of tears. "No, I can't. I'm not some amazing prodigy. I'm not some miracle. Don't you think I'd still be able to see if my body were capable of miracles?"
"Playing the piano isn't…" he says, trailing off.
"I don't want it," I say. "I won't use it. I don't want to be reminded of how incapable I am. I can't even see the keys. How am I supposed to play?"
"Babe, Beethoven was deaf and he-"
"I'm not Beethoven!" I shout, and that makes the baby cry.
Jackson walks away to assumably pick her up and comfort her, and I stay right where I am. I don't move closer or further away from the piano, but it feels like the literal elephant in the room. Standing there, breathing heavily, waiting for someone to make a move.
Peyton whimpers and Jackson shushes her. I cross my arms and hunch my shoulders forward, shrinking into myself. I don't like the position I've been put in. He's expecting too much of me. I went blind a week ago, and now he wants me to be Stevie Wonder.
"I don't-" I begin, but the phone ringing cuts me off. The new noise upsets the baby and she starts fussing again, louder than before.
"Can you get that?" Jackson says, voice risen above her cries.
"I'm blind!" I retort. "I don't know where the phone is."
"Here," he says, and opens my hand to drop it in my palm. "Take it."
He walks out of the room with our screaming baby and I fumble while trying to pick up the call. I swipe the wrong area of the phone and it takes me a few tries before the ringing stops and I lift the device to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Kepner?"
"Speaking."
"It's Mark," he says, though I already knew. He clears his throat. "Uh, any chance you and Avery could make it back in to the hospital today?"
I remember what Jackson said - it's dinnertime. Peyton is fussy because she's tired and hungry, and our day is ending. Going out again will mess it all up.
"No, not really," I say. "Why?"
He clears his throat again, which strikes me as odd. He's not usually one for nervous tics.
"Your test results came back. I put a rush on them. And I'd like to discuss them in person, if possible."
"Well, it's not," I say, at wit's end. "Mark, you can just say it. It's me. I'm a doc…" I stop mid-sentence and think about what was about to come out of my mouth. "I was a doctor, too," I finish.
"I know," he says. "It's not that. I just think it'd be better if you were here."
"I don't," I say. "We have a fussy baby who needs to go to sleep, I'm sure you understand the struggle. I have a right to know my own results, though, so please tell me."
"April," he says, and it comes as a shock. He rarely ever calls me by my first name. "You're not eligible for the medication I wanted to put you on."
"What?" I say, steadying myself as I bump into the wall. I'm used to walking around while I'm on the phone, but I force myself to stay still. "What are you talking about?"
"I can't start you on it…" he says, seemingly steeling himself for what comes next. "Because you're pregnant."
