JACKSON
When we found out April was pregnant with Peyton, I can still remember the look of pure joy on her face and how light my heart was. She leapt into my arms and I spun her around, laughing into her neck as she held me as tightly as she could.
I'm standing by the beautiful, new piano and staring at April's back while she's on the phone. I keep one hand on the cool surface and force my frustration down as the muscles in her shoulders tense. I don't know who's on the other line, but whatever news they've given her must be upsetting. She barely sounds like herself.
Her voice is hysterical and afraid before she hangs up, and when she turns around, her white eyes look right through me. For a fleeting moment, I'm glad she can't see my face because I'm sure it's horror-struck and ashen. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I whisk it away.
"I can't get on the medication," she says.
"What?" I say. "Was that Mark?"
She nods and goes to set the phone down, but misses the piano entirely so it clatters to the floor and bounces a few times. She jumps from the sound, and I do, too. I don't move to pick it up, though, she does. I keep my eyes on her and wonder what the next move is.
"Yes," she answers.
"Why can't you take it?" I ask.
"Because, Jackson," she says. "I'm pregnant. You got me pregnant."
Her words ring through my mind as I stand in their wake, stunned. The same ones echo from about two years prior, when we were out to dinner with Mark and Lexie. I had ordered April a glass of merlot, her favorite, and she softly rested her hand on my wrist and shook her head.
"What?" I'd asked. She'd been busy talking, so I took it upon myself to order for us both. I knew her well; I knew what she liked.
"I can't have that," she whispered, eyes twinkling.
"Why?" I said.
Her cheeks flushed pink as she fought a gleeful smile. She was trying to keep it between us; it wasn't yet news meant for Mark and Lexie.
"Because," she said. "I'm pregnant. You got me pregnant!"
There's a stark contrast in tone to the way she says that statement now. Our lives are completely different, and instead of it being happy news - this time, it tears her to the ground.
Peyton had been so wanted. We had wished for her, dreamed of her, planned extensively for her arrival. We pored over baby name books for days, and read everything we could about being new parents. This feels nothing like that. Though it can't be bigger than a bundle of cells, I feel sick at what an inopportune time this baby has found us in.
Everything seemed to fall into place when April told me she was pregnant the first time. Everything else faded away, retreated to the sidelines, because we had a baby coming. That was all that mattered. It was our dream, and it was becoming a reality.
This is so much different.
We'd talked about having another baby when Peyton turned two. It was a loose plan, but it was something. It feels like forever that we traded those words in bed, with our little girl between us. I think I also said something along the lines of wanting a million more if they were anything like April, and that still holds true. For me.
But judging by her face, she doesn't feel the same. Her skin is red, and there's a vein in her forehead that looks near to explosion. The tension in the air simmers, and I'm not sure what will crack it until something does - when April drops the phone again and it breaks to pieces against the hardwood floor, battery pack coming out with batteries spilling all over.
Reacting to the loud noise, Peyton starts to cry. But at the same time, April makes a sound I've never heard come from her - some sort of inhuman grunt mixed with a growl, all the while her teeth are clenched tightly together. Her cheeks bulge, her hands are bunched into fists, yet she stays rooted in the same spot.
"April…" I say, walking closer. I grip her upper arms and she thrashes her head to one side, fighting my grip. I don't hold tight, I let her break loose - and as she gets louder, Peyton does too.
"I can't," she says, finally stopping the noise. Peyton is still crying, though, and I don't know who to comfort. I'm not sure what April is capable of right now, but the baby is despondent. I don't want to hold her while April is behaving in such a volatile manner, though.
I turn around and look the baby in the eye. "It's okay, P," I say. "It's okay. Don't be scared."
She stops crying and just whimpers, staring at me with shiny, blue eyes. She reaches her arms out to be lifted up and held, but I can't do that for her at the moment.
"Daddy'll come get you in just a minute," I say.
"It's your fault," April says, looking in the wrong direction. In any other instance but this, her lack of eye contact would be funny. I'd turn it into a joke. But not now.
"What are you saying?" I ask, and she turns her head to look in the correct spot.
She starts to cry. Big, fat tears roll down her cheeks and over her mottled skin, slipping past her parted lips. All I want to do is cross the room and hold her, but I know she won't let me. She's nearing the deep end, about to fall in. The best I can do is talk her down from the ledge.
"I don't know," she sobs, nearly screams. "I don't know! I don't fucking know!"
"Bitty," I say, concerned now. I've never seen her act this way, and she's scaring the baby. Peyton has begun to cry again - the cry that lets me know she's scared. "Bitty, you have to calm down. You're scaring the baby."
"I'm scaring the baby?" she says, voice trembling as it's reached the top. I back away and pick Peyton up, and April takes a step forward and bangs into the piano accidentally. She stops moving, rubs the spot she hit, and leans forward with her elbows on the surface as I try and soothe our child. "Won't it be great when we have two babies crying, and a blind mother who can't take care of them? Won't it be great with me just sitting there, and you having to do all the work? While I can't even watch? I just have to fucking sit there?"
"That's not true," I say. "Stop talking like that. That's not how it will go."
"Yes, it will," she says. "I can't even pick Peyton up."
"You could, if you'd try," I say. "It's just like before. It's no different. Why do you have to see to pick her up?"
"Imagine if I dropped her!" April screams, and Peyton clutches at the neck of my t-shirt and sobs right into my ear. With both of them going at full-blast, I might be deaf by morning. It's clear where Peyton got her lungs.
"You won't drop her," I say. "You're just using that as an excuse because you're scared."
"Of course I'm scared," she says. "I'm not half the mother I was. Not anymore. That was what… I used to be so good. And now I'm just… this. This blind, incapable lump who can't even look her daughter in the eye! Do you know how that feels? Do you really think I can handle that with another baby?"
"You're not even trying," I say.
"She's about to turn one," she says, as if I hadn't spoken. "And I won't see it. Do you realize I'll never get to see her blow out the candles? And if we have this baby, I won't see them at all? Not once?"
One word sticks out from that tirade for me: if.
"April," I say.
"What?" she says.
"What do you mean?" I ask. "The way you're talking… what are you saying?"
She wraps her arms around herself and holds tight, face crumpled beyond recognition. Peyton still has her face buried in my neck, clutching me with all her might. She doesn't recognize this version of April, and I don't either. I thought she'd been different right after discovering the blindness, but that was nothing compared to what I'm looking at right now.
"How can I love a baby that I don't even know?" she asks, voice still raised.
Peyton pushes herself closer, as close as she can possible get. She wraps her arms around my neck and trembles, whimpering, "Dada dada dada dada," in the midst of all her sobbing.
I rub her back. I can't do much more at the moment. I still don't understand what April is getting at - or, really, I don't want to.
"How can I love a baby I've never seen?" she demands, taking a step back. "I can't. I can't do that. It wouldn't even feel like they were mine."
I hold our daughter closer, wishing she wasn't privy to all this. I know she doesn't understand the words April is saying, but she feels the thick tension just as I do. She hears the pitchy, unstable tone of her mother's voice. I don't want her to feel scared of April, but I can't do much to resolve the situation. The best place for her at the moment is in my arms. There isn't another option.
"What are you saying, April?" I ask, once again. "You don't want to terminate, do you?"
I don't know," she says, backing up until she runs into the wall. Her head knocks against it and bounces once, and she winces without making a sound. "I don't know. But I don't think bringing a baby into the world right now is a good idea."
"Does anyone think it is?" I say, adjusting the baby in my arms. "No one ever feels ready. It's scary and life-changing, and it feels like nothing ever goes right. It's not like the movies, we've said that before. Everyone has hardships they go through, but the end result is so beautiful."
"Not everyone's situation is quite as drastic as this," she says.
I feel lost, crestfallen and helpless. Between us, she's never the one without hope. She's always been the one to offer it, sometimes forcing me to listen. I'm not used to being on the other side of the equation, and I've found I don't favor it. She's more stubborn than me, and ten times angrier.
"Just look at her, April," I say, facing the baby outward before realizing what I've asked.
"I wish I could!" she screams, and Peyton scrambles to turn around, hiding against my chest as April lashes towards us - off by a lot. "Fuck you, Jackson."
"I didn't mean it like that," I say, getting angry because of how she's reacting. She has no right to take this out on me, no matter how upset she is. I didn't do anything wrong, yet I'm the one who's shouldering the brunt of her pain. "Stop it, April. Just stop it."
"What would you like me to stop?" she asks, facing blossoming red. "Being blind? How about I try?"
I realize that no matter what I say, I'm not going to win this. I come to the conclusion that this is a winnerless argument anyway, and it seems at this point we're only out to hurt each other.
"Maybe you should pray," I say, knowing how it usually helps her. I have no doubt she'd enjoy talking to just about anyone other than me right now, and God is probably the best option.
"Because that'll fix everything, right?" she spits. "Is that what you think, when it comes to me and religion? Is that your solution when I get to be too much for you?"
"Why are you putting these disgusting words in my mouth?" I ask. "You know that's not true. I know you don't mean that."
"I'm not praying anymore!" she bellows. "I'm done with it. Obviously, God hates me. God made me blind and pregnant with a child I don't want. A child I can't take care of. He made sure I'll never see my firstborn's face ever again, or my husband's, for that matter. So, why should I talk to Him when all He wants to do is shit on my life? He doesn't give a fuck about me, so I don't give a fuck about Him."
As I look at my wife standing across from me in the room we've spent so much time in, I feel something I've never felt before in regard to her. Fear. I don't know what she's thinking, and I don't know what she'll do next. She's never been the 'loose cannon' type, but at the moment she's behaving more like that than not. She's flown off the handle, lost the ability to be reasoned with. This isn't the April I know. This isn't the April I married.
Or maybe, now, it is.
That fact sits with me like a hot stone on an even hotter day. It burns when I touch it, and I have to set it down. I can't consider that at the moment, all I can do is walk away. This won't be resolved tonight.
But I can't walk away. It's not that simple anymore. She can't get around the house on her own yet, and I should help her.
"Come on," I say, walking forward to take her arm. Peyton pulls away as we get closer, and I pretend not to notice. It makes me feel too sick.
"No," April grunts, belligerent. She rips her arm out of my grip and cradles it close, glaring at what I assume she thinks is my face, but it's not. She's looking too far to the right.
"Okay, then," I concede. "Then, me and Peanut are gonna go make dinner. I'll call you when it's ready."
I look over my shoulder on the way to the kitchen to see April leaning against the piano. She has her hands braced in front of her, head hanging down, back heaving with deep breaths. What I want most is to go over and comfort her, but I think both of us could use a step away. Peyton, too.
The kitchen is quiet save for music I put on in the background, and I set the baby in her high chair with some diced-up fruit. Before I start on dinner, I sit across from her and look at her face with my chin rested in my hands, and she meets my eyes while shoving a fistful of strawberries in her mouth. "I'm sorry Mommy scared you," I say, very quietly, so April won't hear from the other room. "She didn't mean it."
I reach over and fix a tuft of her hair, smoothing it out of her face. She leans into my touch and grins with her eyes shut, softly. Nothing huge.
"She loves you," I say. "Very much. We both do. You know Mama and Dada love you?" I ask, and she extends a handful of squishy fruit to feed it to me. "Thank you," I say, taking a small bite.
"Dada," she babbles, picking up a blueberry with her pudgy thumb and first finger. "Dada, dada, dada, dada."
"I know," I say, then hold her head in my hands while leaning forward and kissing the top. She smells like she always has. April says the scent is more like mine, but I could swear it mirrors hers. "I wish you didn't see all that. Let's agree to just forget about it, okay?"
My worst fear is having Peyton be afraid of April because of how she's behaving during this period. April won't hold her as it is, but it would kill her if Peyton preferred me once she was ready. I can't have that happening, but April is definitely not making it easy on any of us. Namely, herself.
I leave Peyton in her high chair while I make Caesar salads for dinner. I let my thoughts wander while I chop up the lettuce and add all the ingredients, all the while wondering what April is doing in the living room. It's silent out there, so she's not causing any trouble, but that almost makes me more nervous. She's not a child, though, so I leave her be. We both needed space, and since she's giving it to me, I should give it back.
But once the salads are ready, I have to call her.
"April," I say, voice risen enough so she'll hear it. "Dinner's ready."
I put a few croutons on the baby's tray and reload her with fruit and yogurt, all the while getting no response from my wife. I furrow my eyebrows, curious, then look at the baby with a wondering expression.
"April?" I call again. "Time to eat. Do you need me to come get you?"
After a few beats, I still hear nothing. So, I get up, run my hand over Peyton's hair casually, and walk out of the kitchen to investigate. When I turn the corner to the living room, I find April on the floor amongst the rubble of the phone, and for a fleeting moment fear spurs throughout my entire body. But after a second passes, I realize she's only sleeping.
I kneel down and touch her side, but get no response. She twitches a bit, stirs, but that's all. Her hands are tucked by her face and her knees drawn up, face free of the worry it had been riddled with just a bit ago. She looks more like herself now. This is my wife.
"April," I whisper, stroking her side with my thumb. "Itty-bitty."
She doesn't wake, though. She must be exhausted. She used to be the light sleeper between us, but since her world has been cloaked in darkness, almost nothing will wake her. When she's out, she's gone until she decides not to be.
So, I pick her up gently and bring her to the couch. She adjusts once she's flat on the cushions, nestling her head close to the pillow, and I cover her with a soft throw. I kiss the side of her head and sigh deeply while looking at her face, wondering how I could love someone so much in the midst of all this strife.
…
The next day when we have to go back to the hospital, April is in a horrible mood.
"Peyton shouldn't come with us," I say to her, laying out the clothes she requested. A pair of jeans, a white camisole, and a dark blue cardigan. "It'll be one less thing to think about."
"Where do you suggest she go, then?" April snaps. "To the mall?"
"She's napping," I say. "We can just call Izzie and see if she can hang out for a little bit while we're gone. Pey probably won't even wake up."
"No," she responds, offering no further explanation.
"No?" I say. "Just no."
"Yes, no," she says. "I don't want that. We can just drop her at the hospital daycare."
"No," I say, mimicking her tone from before. "They're dealing with a stomach flu outbreak. I can't have that on my hands right now."
"Right, because you already have enough to do, taking care of the one blind mouse," she says, biting my head off. "I don't want Izzie here. Izzie is gonna wanna talk to me and catch up and find out how I'm doing. You wanna know how I'm doing? Like shit! I'm in pain all the time and I can't see. And as for the cherry on top, now I'm-"
"Please," I beg. "She can be here in five minutes. You don't even have to see her."
"Lucky for me, I can't see anything," she quips.
"You know, you're not being funny when you say stuff like that."
"Do you think I'm trying to be?" she chides.
"I know you are," I say. "I know you're trying to dig the knife in deeper by throwing in those stupid, offensive jokes. I wish you'd just stop."
"Some of us have different methods of coping," she says. "Maybe this just happens to be mine."
"It's not," I say. "Stop it with the front. You do it to make me feel bad. And you know what? It works. So, I'd appreciate it if you'd fucking stop."
She gives me a hard look, mouth set in a frown, jaw clenched. "Fine," she says, buttoning the buttons on her sweater wrong. I don't bother with correcting her in fear of losing a hand. "Call Izzie. See if I care."
Bile rises in my throat. With every passing hour, she pushes me further and further away. I know I have to keep trying to break down that wall, but she makes it so difficult with how nasty she can be. She's acting worse than a petulant child; she's an angry one. A furious one. One that hates her life and everyone in it. And that means I'm not only frustrated, but hurt. Hurt for myself and hurt for Peyton, who has no idea what's going on or why Mommy is acting the way she is.
"Alright," I say. "Finish getting dressed. I'll call her."
On the phone, Izzie says she can be over in ten minutes, which is just enough time to get April down the stairs while she pretends she doesn't need help, and assist her with shoes. She refuses to wear slip-ons, because that would be much too easy, and instead insists on boots with complicated ties and buckles. If I didn't step in, we'd be sitting on the bench for weeks, at least.
When Izzie arrives, she doesn't bother with knocking. "Hey, guys," she says, breezing inside.
April jumps and turns away from the sound, closing her eyes as she does. She frowns deeply, hands lifting from her boots as she wordlessly tells me to finish them up.
"Hey, Iz," I say, tying April's laces. "Thanks for coming."
"Yeah, no problem," she says, then chuckles. "As soon as you guys leave, I'm gonna sneak up to Peanut's room and wake her up so I can play with her."
I laugh along, but April snarls, "Don't do that. You'll mess up her whole nap schedule and she'll never go back down for us tonight."
"She was just kidding," I say, one hand on her knee.
"I don't care," April says. "She's not the one who will have to put her to bed later."
I want to say, and you're not, either, but I don't. I keep that to myself.
"Don't worry, honey," Izzie says. "I really was just kidding. I won't even go up there. I'm not gonna disturb her, I'll just chill down here with the baby monitor until you guys get back."
"That works," I say, standing and helping April up, too.
She doesn't have anything more to add, apparently, and I find myself wishing I had a moment alone with Izzie. It's the first time I've ever wished for something like that, and I don't really know what to do with it. I've always wanted April in the room, preferred her presence over her absence, but now I need someone to listen who will understand. Though I've spent every day around April and Peyton since the accident, I don't remember a time where I felt more isolated.
"You just going in for a checkup, or…?"
April tightens her grip on my waist and I throw Izzie a sidelong glance. By the nature of her eye contact, I can tell she knows I want to say more than I'm given the space for.
"Yep," I say. "Mark's gonna redress those burns and take a look at how the healing's coming along. We shouldn't be more than two hours."
"Sounds good," she says, then touches April's shoulder. I tense because of it; Izzie hasn't been here the last few days, she doesn't know what a short fuse April operates on. I do. "April, you look great. Really." I see her eyes flit to April's mismatched buttons, but she says nothing. I commend her for that.
"Well, I wouldn't know, would I?" April jabs, shying away.
"I know," Izzie says, voice calm and even in the way I've lost the ability for. "That's why I'm telling you. You look good. Your hair is growing back, your skin looks like it's healing, and I'm glad you're feeling okay enough to get out of the house."
April grunts in response, and I feel an unyielding gratitude to Izzie for saying those things, and also for not faltering to April's icy exterior. April has to realize that it's not going to keep her afloat for the rest of her life, though it's worked at home for the past few days. Worse since we found out about the pregnancy. I can't get a word out without her biting my head off.
"Thanks," I tell Izzie, one last time before we head out the door. Once we get in the car, April fumbles with the buckle until I help her click it, then I back out of the driveway so we can make our way to the hospital.
When we get there, she cowers close to my side like usual, head down. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and avoid anyone's passing stares - however subtle they may be. I stroke her skin softly, reminding her that I'm here and she's safe, and she hugs my waist with both arms to stay as close as possible.
"You're okay," I say quietly, with the exam room in sight. Mark is waiting outside, waving in a friendly manner. It's not exuberant or anything like that; it's just enough. Any more happiness, and it would be inappropriate.
"Hello there, Averys," he says, welcoming us inside before shutting the door. Once we're in the quiet sanctuary, April breaks from me and feels her way to the exam table. She climbs up and faces outward while I get comfortable in a chair against the wall. "How are we doin' today?"
I wait for April to answer, but she doesn't. She stares at the floor and swings her legs slightly, arms crossed over her abdomen. Following the strange, empty pause, I figure I'm the one who should answer.
"Uh, could be better," I say, clearing my throat.
Mark looks at me, interest piqued. "Yeah," he says. "I assume the news I shared with April came as a shock. I guessed you guys weren't exactly… trying."
"No, we weren't," April cuts in, voice sharp like a knife that's been sheathed until now. "Not at all."
Mark nods. "I understand, and I'd like to share with you some alternate routes we can take re: dealing with the skin on your face," he says. "There are other-"
"No," she says. "I want the medication we talked about."
"Well, given the fact that you're pregnant, that's not possible," Mark says. "It would do harm to-"
"You don't get it," April interrupts. "I don't plan on going through with this pregnancy."
Mark sits there, stunned, for a moment before he says anything. His eyes dart to her, where the rest until he looks to me - disbelief transforming his features.
"You don't?" Mark asks, still shocked.
"Why do you say it like that?" April asks.
Mark straightens on the stool he's sitting on and tries to steel himself, though it's clear he's been sent reeling by her statement. I hadn't heard her say it in such plain terms until this point, but I do my best to hide my surprise. I should've seen it coming. I can't begin to process it, though.
"I… I wasn't saying it in any way," Mark says.
"Good," she says. "Because it wouldn't be very professional if you did. I'm your patient. You have to treat me as such, or I should just switch doctors."
"You and I both know that wouldn't be in your best interest," Mark says. "So, let me clarify - you plan on terminating the pregnancy?"
April sits there on the exam bed, spine straight as a rod, and nods.
Mark writes something on the clipboard, and I let my mind stray from the situation at hand. I never thought we'd be in a position like this; where I was fighting for April to regain her faith, and she was pushing against me with all her might. Imagining April even speaking aloud the word 'abortion' doesn't feel right. It feels blasphemous, almost, but I have no say in the matter. Though it's half my baby, it's her body entirely. What she wants to do with it is up to her. I don't want to hold control over her choices, and I would never try.
But the thought of a life we created together being extinguished is enough to make me sick to my stomach. I imagine Peyton at home, sleeping soundly, and the thought of harm coming to her makes my world flip on its head. There's a baby inside April right now - however flat her stomach - but soon, there won't be. I can't wrap my head around that fact at all.
"Alright," Mark says, and I hear a hint of regret in his voice. He doesn't like this, either, but that's not something he'd ever admit aloud. He's technically not allowed to, because April is his patient. But I'm sure he wouldn't even say it to me in confidence. He respects the both of us too much to insert himself. "Well, then that needs to happen first, before I can write you a prescription. Once the procedure is done, I'll see you back here and we can get you started."
"Okay," April says, and her voice is weak.
"How are you faring with everything else?" Mark asks. "Loss of sight, how's it affecting your mental health? I have the number for the rehab right here, if you feel you're ready to take it."
"I don't need it," April says. "I'm perfectly fine. I'm dealing with being blind just how you'd expect me to. It's not a walk in the park."
Mark raises his eyebrows and nods. But, quietly so she won't hear, I reach across and take the business card from him - passing it right in front of April without her knowing.
…
When April calls to schedule the appointment, I make it a point to remove myself from the room. She did it immediately after we got home, shooing Izzie out of the house with barely a goodbye before enlisting my help for dialing a number I didn't want to call.
But I did dial it, because it's what she wanted. It wasn't up for further discussion, and it doesn't feel right for me to press the issue. What kind of man would that make me if I asserted my power over her decision, her autonomy? That's not who I am. So, I take on the role of a bystander. I don't have much choice.
"Jackson?" she calls, assumably after hanging up the phone.
I'm in our bedroom now, sitting in the armchair near the window, watching the rain come down. "In here," I answer. "Bedroom. Do you need help?"
I hear a bit of a ruckus as her clunky footsteps get closer, but then she appears in the door.
"Here, baby," I say. "By the window."
She makes her way over, slowly but surely. She runs into my legs, then backs up with her arms stretched out to either side for guidance.
"It's in two days," she tells me. "The appointment."
"Okay," I say, heart heavy.
"Will you take me there?"
"Of course," I answer, right away.
"Okay," she replies, then hovers like she isn't sure what to do with herself. She clasps her hands together, shifts her weight from foot to foot, and closes her eyes out of what seems like self-consciousness.
"Do you want to sit with me?" I ask, bearing the risk of her refusal. She hasn't wanted to be close lately, as much as I've offered.
She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she feels for my body and lowers herself onto my lap, curling up like she always used to. She tucks her head in the crook between my shoulder and neck, and presses her forehead to my pulse while bending her knees. She doesn't need to speak for me to know what she's thinking, because the same thoughts are running through my mind, too.
…
The days before the appointment pass quietly. It's not worth it to talk about anymore, because all we'll do is run it into the ground. I know she doesn't plan on changing her mind, and I don't plan on forcing her hand.
The two days are spent mourning something that isn't yet gone. The presence is palpable in the air, inside every room in the house. Like another member of the family, a new baby, has arrived. But a new baby will never fill this space.
Neither of us bring it up. We don't talk much at all, actually, at least not to each other. Peyton gets the same attention as she always would, and the house calms down in terms of fighting. I'm glad for that. The baby doesn't need to be subjected to those blowouts - not now, not ever.
As the hours fly by and the day creeps closer, the dread in my stomach twists tighter. Before I know it, it's the night before and the sun has already gone down. By the next morning, we'll be headed to the hospital to have the termination done. Izzie is coming over to watch the baby, assuming that we're going to another burn appointment. But that's far from the truth.
April tries to help me clean up dinner as best she can, and though she fumbles and drops things, I appreciate her efforts. She gets tired fast, though, and rests against the counter with her weight braced forward. It reminds me of the way she'd been standing at the piano that one incendiary evening, and the image bolsters its way into my mind. The way her face looked when she was screaming at me, the creases of anger on her mangled forehead, how her hands bunched and clenched. I don't ever want to see her like that again. And if removing this fetus from her body is what it will take to make her somewhat okay with life again, then that's what we should do.
It isn't late by the time I'm ready for bed. The baby is already down and the kitchen is cleaned up, now there's nothing left to do but go to sleep.
"Ready for bed, bitsy?" I ask April, who's at the dining room table doing nothing at all. Just sitting there with her hands folded in front of her, face downcast, unmoving.
Getting no response, I walk over and place a hand gently between her shoulder blades. "Honey," I say, and jolt her out of her mind.
"Huh?" she says, lifting her head.
"Are you ready for bed?" I ask.
"Oh," she says, scooting the chair out. "Yeah."
I guide her up the stairs, one hand in hers and the other wrapped around the small of her back. As per every night, I help her change into pajamas, put toothpaste on her toothbrush, and comb her hair. By the time she's lying down, I'm just getting started on my own bedtime routine and don't join her until a little while later.
She's not asleep yet, though, because she turns on her side to face me with her eyes closed. Acting in a way she hasn't for days, she reaches her arms out and wordlessly asks to be held, and I don't hesitate.
I pull her body to my chest and kiss her head, skimming my fingers down her side all the way to her hip. She hugs me tight, our torsos pressed together, and I let my hand pause just slightly on the skin exposed above the waistband of her shorts.
When Peyton was first conceived, I couldn't believe there was a little human growing inside April. The concept was wild to me, and I'd spend so much time with my face near her belly, saying and doing silly things. I'd shower her skin in kisses, talk to the baby long before it could hear, and I'd lift her shirt every chance I got so I could stroke her stomach.
But tonight isn't like that. Tonight, it's enough just to feel her body without any further expectations. It's enough just to have her close and to know she wants it, wants me. Because I don't know what I'd do without her.
…
I wake up in the middle of the night from a dream I can't remember, heart hammering. I roll over to seek April out, to pull her little body close for comfort, but I find her half of the bed empty. It's still somewhat warm, though.
I sit up and rub my eyes, trying to clear my head and reorient myself. I frown and blink hard, still waking up, and touch her side one last time to make sure she's not there. It's empty, though, that's for sure.
For a moment, I'm worried. That is, until the lights on the baby monitor change with the presence of audio, and when I listen closely, I hear April's soft voice coming from Peyton's room.
Confusion hits me instantly as I wonder what she could be doing. She hasn't gone in there unaccompanied since everything happened, so this is highly unusual. I can't resist - I have to get up and see what's going on.
I pad across the hall with deliberate care and peek my head into the nursery. What I see catches me off guard, but not in a bad way. In fact, in a very, very good way.
April is sitting in the rocking chair we had handcrafted for the nursery, rocking back and forth slowly and steadily. Peyton is on her chest, arms spread out, face turned to the side, sound asleep. April's eyes are closed, her lips pressed to our baby's curls, as she speaks quiet words I can't come close to hearing.
"You're holding her," I say, unable to keep silent any longer.
I expected April to jump, though it wasn't my intent to scare her. But she doesn't flinch. It's like she sensed my presence long before I made it known.
"Yeah," she whispers, stroking Peyton's back over the soft onesie she's wearing.
I stay standing in the same spot, not bursting the bubble they've created. It's not my moment, it's theirs. And I don't want to take it away from them.
When I look closer, I see that April is crying. Not hard, not violently, but there are tear stains on her cheeks that shine all the way below her chin. It's clear she's been at it for a while, and her sniffling confirms as much.
She rests her cheek on top of Peyton's head and faces my direction, sideways instead of down. If her eyes were open, and if they weren't white, she'd be looking right at me.
"I can't do it," she says, and without an explanation, I know what she means. It's not the same 'I can't do it' as before, meaning she couldn't raise another child. This 'I can't do it' means the opposite.
She can't terminate.
"We were talking about having more," she whispers, kissing Peyton absentmindedly. "Our dream was more."
I nod slowly, knowing she can't see me. I don't want to sway her decision either way; it's hers to make.
"I can do anything," April says, almost as if to prove it to herself. "I'm a mother."
