APRIL
I imagine the room must erupt in smiles, because everyone makes happy sounds in response to our news. I hear clapping, though I can't be sure who the hands belong to, and excited squeals from my sisters.
"Oh, Mouse, that's great!" Alice says, her voice coming somewhere to my right. "I'm so… it's such a…" She takes a breath. "I didn't expect that. I don't think any of us did."
Her statement twists my gut a little, but I try and ignore it. "Well, we really didn't, either," I say, a bit under my breath. I don't think anyone hears.
"Congratulations, sweetheart!" Mom says, and hugs me before I can register her proximity.
The contact makes me jump and jolt away, which, judging by the tension of my mother's body, unsettles her. She's used to me melting into her hugs; they used to be my favorite. But now, I don't have agency over who touches me and when they do it. It's out of my control.
My mother makes a small, apologetic sound, and holds my upper arms in her hands. She rubs up and down, and I try to ease into her affection that I'm simply not used to anymore.
"We're so happy for you," Dad says, kissing my cheek. His beard is short and scratchy, painful in a way Jackson's isn't. I smelled him only milliseconds before he made contact, and I try not to recoil. "Another Kepner grandbaby!"
As if on cue, Peyton squeals with excitement. I can't help but smile in response; her voice is my favorite in the world, soon to be paired with her sibling's.
"Yeah," I say, and my heart rate slows as Jackson rests an arm on the back of my chair. I know it's him instantly - it's all in the way he smells. That's something I'll never lose; his aroma is very distinct. I could pick it out in a room full of a hundred men.
He kisses my cheek, so I lean in and close my eyes. I can sense his pride - having a big family is a dream of his. It's mine, too, it always has been. But right now, his happiness over our new addition means more than anyone else's.
"Pey-Pey is gonna have a little brother or sister, isn't she," Jackson says, and the baby leans back, which means he must be talking close to her face. I hear a kissing sound and laugh softly to myself. He's so good with her. He's a better father than any other man I know, though I might have a bias.
"You're gonna have your hands full with two babies running around," Kimmie says. "What, Peyton will be about 19 months when the little one is born?" She makes a sound of exhaustion. "That's a lot, April."
I feel my face get hot. Who's she to tell me what's a lot and what isn't? But instead of letting my temper get the best of me, I try to keep an even keel.
"Ah, come on, Kim," Jackson says, his tone jovial. "You know us. We can handle anything."
"Well, I'm just saying," she mutters, and I know exactly what words she doesn't want to use. The words she doesn't feel she can use.
"They're perfectly capable people," Mom says, always the peacekeeper. "We don't need to worry for them. I'm sure they're doing plenty of that themselves! Our job is to just be happy. Right?"
"Aren't you scared, April?" Libby says, from far to the left. I try and find her, try to point my head in the right direction, but I'm not sure if I get it. "I mean, you must be thinking about it."
"Thinking about what?" Jackson says. I can't tell if he really doesn't know, or if he's pushing my sister to fill in the blanks she's left empty.
Libby exhales loudly. "Being a blind mother must be so different from being one with sight," she says. "Have you thought about it?"
A laugh bubbles in my throat and bursts free before I have a say in the matter. I cover my mouth as soon as the sound escapes, but it's already done. Peyton swivels in my lap and touches my face, and I stroke her wrist casually. She likes it when I laugh, even if she doesn't know the reason.
"Sorry," I say, shaking my head. "But… have I thought about it?"
"Well, yeah."
"Seriously?"
"April, you're being odd."
"Do you think I've thought about the fact that I'll never know what my new baby looks like?" I say, and my voice comes louder than I'd intended. So loud, that Peyton begins to whine and squall, so Jackson takes her.
"I didn't mean that," Libby says, backtracking. "I just meant the ins and outs of things. Like feeding, walking, changing-"
"No, you didn't," I say, trembling. Jackson places a hand in the middle of my shoulder blades as a silent warning, but he doesn't stop me from talking. I'm glad, because my sisters need to hear what I'm saying. Everyone in the room should hear it. "You can't possibly imagine what it would be like to never see your baby's face. Can you?"
"Well, I… I guess I didn't think…"
"No, you didn't," I say. "Because you don't have to. You don't have to think about what you might trip over while holding your baby - either of your babies. You don't have to think about not being able to find diapers, or putting her in an outfit that doesn't match. Putting the stroller together wrong never crosses your mind. And you never, ever have to dwell on the fact that the last time you ever saw her face was when she was ten months old. And she'll keep growing without you bearing witness. They'll both get bigger. At least I'll have Peyton's baby face to hold onto. But with her sibling, I won't have anything. Right?"
"April, I'm sorry, I…"
"Hey," Jackson says, and the timbre of his voice settles the room. "It's okay. Everyone's just a little worked up. It's okay."
I reach for Peyton without words, seeking my comfort. Jackson hands her back, but she fusses and struggles in my grip to let me know she doesn't want me, she wants him. He's the soothing one in situations like this; I only escalate the emotions at play.
"Dada," she grunts, still squirming.
I keep her, though, and he doesn't fight me on it. I think I hear one of my sisters crying, or maybe it's my mother. I can't be sure; the sniffles sound the same. Maybe it's all of them.
I don't cry, though. I'm hardened, nearly steeled. If I put the fact out in plain terms as I did - that I'll never see my younger child's face - it's somehow easier to stomach.
But it'll always get stuck in my throat going down.
"I need… I have to get out of here," I say, scooting back so my chair makes a loud noise against the floor.
"Hey, whoa, whoa," Jackson says. "I'll take the baby."
"I need her," I say, holding Peyton close even as she fusses louder.
"April, let him take her. She's upset."
"I can handle this!" I snap in the direction of whoever spoke. I have no idea who it was. I close my eyes and adjust the baby on my hip, speaking with my lips close to her forehead as she quiets down. "Please, just let me go. We'll be fine. I just don't want everyone staring at me anymore."
Jackson pauses for a moment before responding with, "Okay. Okay. Just holler if you need help." I start to walk away, then feel his hand on my wrist. "April, don't hesitate to ask. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," I say, knowing how important that is after the fall in the shower - the fall that feels like forever ago.
But this is my childhood home, and I know it without needing sight to guide me. I carry Peyton down the hall that leads to my old bedroom, and use one hand to feel for the knob. When the door comes open, it smells the same as it always did and I know for a fact it's still decorated as I left it when I went off to college. Fuschia walls with white trim, a twin bed with a canopy, and a white desk by the window. I was lucky enough to have the room with the window seat, and I'd always loved looking out to the backyard and the woods on our property.
Now, as I sit on the familiar cushion, I can look out but I can't see anything. Peyton can, though. She pulls herself to a sitting position and I hear the sound of her palms against the windowpane as she hits it.
"You see something?" I ask. "What's out there? Tell Mama."
She buzzes her lips happily, and I stroke her back, just happy we're in the same place alone together. Moments like this come few and far between, though that's no one's fault but my own. Jackson trusts me with her now, he proved as much by letting me leave the table with her. He knows what I'm capable of, and that should allow me to see it in myself. But that proves difficult after hearing the disbelief that followed my family's congratulations.
No one second-guesses a sighted mother's ability to take care of two children. It's not seen as anything close to a big deal. I know we put a lot on my family and I can't expect them to understand instantly, but it still doesn't sit right with me. It was ableist, what they said. Why would they think I couldn't take care of my children? That if I thought the same, I'd be so selfish as to keep the one rooted inside me, still trying to grasp at life?
I clench my jaw and try to keep my tense body language hidden from Peyton, who's still banging on the window I'd looked out every day as a young girl. I'd sit here and read for hours, the world around me completely erased for one written on the pages.
Then, as I sit here with my daughter as she babbles, an old realization hits me in an entirely new light. I won't read again; at least, not in the way I was used to.
The world seems to stop, coming to a screeching halt. When I had the time, one of my favorite things to do was curl up with a book on the couch, fire going, music playing, with my feet on Jackson's lap.
I'll have to learn Braille, but I don't want to learn Braille. What I want is to have my sight back.
Making me jump, the bedroom door comes open and I clutch Peyton tighter around the belly. She grunts with disapproval, but I don't loosen up until I hear a voice I know.
"Hey, bitsy," Jackson says, and his footsteps on the carpet tell me he's coming closer. "Took me a sec to remember which one was yours."
"The pink," I say.
"Shoulda known," he responds.
"You've seen it before," I mutter, petting Peyton's hair. She's settled again, leaning against my thighs as she plays with an embellishment on my shirt.
"Been a while," he says. "Forgot about all these medals. Biggest nerd award… most likely to get thrown in a trash can… some of the classics right here. Proud of you, babe."
I snort, stifling a full-blown laugh. "Shut up," I say.
He comes to sit with us on the window seat, near my feet. He gets comfortable, pulling my legs onto his lap, and makes a satisfied, relaxed sound.
"Is everyone talking about me?" I ask, after a pocket of silence passes.
He takes a breath, maybe preparing to beat around the bush on how they 'mean well,' but he changes his mind. "Yeah," he says, cut and dry.
"I thought so."
"Not in a bad way," he says. "But Kimmie was crying, which made your mom cry. I think they're kind of realizing, you know, slowly, that this is for real. That you're blind, and it's not gonna change. I don't think it really sunk in with them, even when they saw you today. 'Cause you're wearing the shades, and on the surface you still seem like you. I think, after what you said, they started to get it. And it's scary for them."
"Of course it's scary," I mutter, snuggling Peyton close as she leans to rest against my chest. "They don't know the half of it."
"You're right," he says. "But they want to. They want to talk to you about it. And they know they're not saying the right things, and Kimmie knows she went about those questions in the wrong way. They want to make things right."
I turn my head so I'm not facing him anymore; instead, looking out the window I can't see through. I imagine what outside looks like, though, and try to remember what I saw as a kid. If it were a time like any other, I'd be here with 'Anne of Green Gables' on my lap, the cat where Jackson is sitting, watching my dad in the barn. Or maybe watching my sisters on the jungle gym, and they'd meet my eyes and beg me to come out. I'd put the bookmark between the pages and go, just because they were always excited to have me, but I wouldn't stay long. I could never resist the draw of the book sitting there, waiting for me to finish.
"You know, I can't read anymore," I mumble, knowing he has a hard time understanding when I keep my voice low. I'm not sure I want him to hear.
"That's not true," he says. "You can still read. You're not illiterate."
"You know what I mean."
"So, I'll read to you."
"That's not the point," I say, exasperated.
"So, we'll learn Braille."
I scrunch up my eyebrows. "We?" I ask.
"I should get used to it. The kids will learn, too, when they're big enough. We should have it around the house, so they can be familiar with it. It's only fair. It's like… it's like, if you could only read in French, and I had everything in English. That would be cruel."
My face softens a bit. That was the last thing I expected him to say; it hadn't ever crossed my mind like that.
"What if I can't, though?" I ask, shaking my head. "The older you get, the harder it is to learn stuff like that."
"But what if you can?" he says.
"I don't know," I say.
"I know you miss reading," he says, squeezing the arches of my feet. "We always used to sit like this, right? When you'd read."
I smile gently. "Yeah," I say.
"So, you'll do it again. And I'll learn how to read Braille, too, and you can make fun of me for how slow I am."
"Okay," I agree, albeit quietly.
"We should get back out there," he suggests, stroking my ankle with his thumb.
"No…" I say, listening to the baby's breathing slow down and deepen. "I don't want to. I just want to go home."
He makes a disagreeable sound. "I don't think that's the right choice, April," he says.
"Well, I do," I say, digging my heels in.
"It's not fair to them," he says. "You can't keep doing this. I understand that they upset you, and that was wrong. It was very wrong, was Kimmie said. But she wants to apologize, and you should let her. It's not helping anyone if you just keep running away from situations you don't like. Life doesn't work like that."
"Life doesn't work for me in a lot of ways," I say, voice wavering. "I don't want to go back and see them. They'll all just fawn over me like I'm this child they need to take care of. I don't want that."
"Then say something," he says. "You can't expect them to read your mind. You have to let them know, and trust that they'll respect you."
I wipe my tears away, the ones that slide out from under the lenses of the sunglasses. "I just want everything to be like it was," I say, shoulders bouncing with sobs. "I hate this. I don't want this."
"I know," he says, one hand capping my knee. "But you're making it harder than it has to be."
"Harder?!" I shrill, then lower my voice so I don't wake up my sleeping baby. "I'm trying to take care of myself. You think I want to make it even harder?"
"No, I don't think that," he says. "But that's still what you've been doing. Making it harder on yourself, on me, on Peyton. On your family. I get wanting people to suffer like you're suffering, bitsy. I do get that. I've put myself in your shoes time and time again, and you are so much stronger than I could ever hope to be. You amaze me every day. But you have to learn to listen."
I press my face to the top of Peyton's hair, teardrops plopping into her hair. I don't know what to say to him, because maybe he's right. Maybe I have been stubborn for stubborn's sake… but don't I have the right to be? My sight was forcibly taken from me. Don't I have a reason to be angry? Aren't my feelings warranted?
But as I sit there with my baby in my arms and my husband at my feet, I know I'm taking those negative emotions out on the wrong people. Jackson didn't throw the acid on me, it wasn't Peyton who sent me out on the trauma mission that day. All my family has been trying to do is help. It's frustrating, but still not their fault that they don't fully understand.
"Okay," I say, slowly shifting to set my feet on the floor. "I'll go."
Jackson leads me back to the common area with an arm around my waist, and I hold Peyton as she sleeps. He offers to set up a place for her in my old bed, but she's my security blanket. Having her close makes me feel grounded in a way I'm not willing to give up.
"Mom," I hear a voice whisper. "It's April."
"Oh," Mom says. "Honey, you're back."
I nod slightly and try my best to make my expression amicable. I'm not sure how well it comes across.
"Mouse, I'm sorry for what I said," Kimmie chimes in, coming out of nowhere. I can't help it; her voice makes me jump.
"You don't have to call me that because you feel sorry for me," I mutter, and Jackson makes a small sound in his throat. But it's true, I haven't heard them call me 'Mouse' in years, and suddenly it's being said like it's going out of style.
"I didn't mean it," Kimmie says. "I never wanted to offend you. I was just… curious about things, and I guess I don't know what's okay to ask and what's not. I'm sorry. I'm still getting used to it."
Not that long ago, I would've bitten her head off. But instead, I only say, "It's okay. I am, too."
"Are we fine?" she asks, sounding eager. Her tone on its own is enough to make the pity shift from myself over to her. I don't like hearing her sound like that. Kimmie - the one, of any of us, that's inclined to be haughty. When she sounds like a kicked puppy, it makes me question the roles we play, and I'm questioning my life enough as it is.
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, we're okay."
"Good," she says.
Something inside still doesn't sit right, though, and I can't put my finger on what it is. As we all get comfortable in the living room for dessert, it stays on my mind and festers there, rotting. I can't help but wonder if everything will feel put in its place ever again, or if something will always be missing. I wonder if I'll always feel like I'm toeing the circle, never fully involved in the conversations that happen around me. I wonder if I'll feel like an outsider among my own people for the rest of my life.
…
Once it's time to leave, I'm exhausted. The baby woke up, had a bottle and some diced fruit, then fell back to sleep in her car seat. We leave the car door open while we say goodbye, and I know my family will spend too long fussing over me when we should already be on the road. All I want is to shut my eyes and turn my brain off for a while.
"Come back soon," my mom says, holding my cheek. I resist the urge to pull away; I'm not the biggest fan of people touching my face anymore because of the scar tissue. I know it must feel strange and foreign. "Promise me you will."
"I promise, mom," I say, and she pulls me in for another hug. I close my eyes and melt into her, something I know she's been craving, and she holds me for a long time.
"I love you," she says, solidifying each word like a promise. "You know that, right?"
"Of course I do," I say, picturing her face and her inevitably teary eyes. "I promise, we'll be back before you know it."
"And call," she says. "Please, lord, the phone works both ways."
"Yes, mom," I say, an upward tilt to my voice.
"Bye, Karen," Jackson calls, and takes my hand. He takes it, but waits until I step towards the car to lead me, and I throw one last wave in what I hope is the right direction. "You good?" he asks, lingering in the open door.
"Yep," I say, and he shuts it.
Jackson puts the car in reverse and I rest my head back, closing my eyes to let out a long exhale. I cross my arms over my belly, hoping the baby wasn't upset by all the commotion today, then reach for Jackson's hand.
"Hey, baby," he says, squeezing my fingers.
"Hi."
"How ya feelin'?"
"Sleepy," I say. "So tired."
"Take a rest," he says, lifting my hand to press his lips to the knuckles. "I'll get us home."
I do as he says and turn my head to the side, tipping my chair back a little bit. I fall asleep almost instantly; it feels good to be lulled by the motion of the car and the soft music on the radio, until I fall into a disturbing dream.
I'm in the middle of a pitch black room, which isn't much different from what I see on a daily basis. It does count as different in my dreams, though, being that I can usually see during them, which is why I'm partial to sleeping when I'm sad. But not this one. For this I'm stuck in a chair, unseeing, but feeling everything. From the whisper of breath on my neck, the brush of a fingernail across my shoulder, to the way my skirt flutters in response to someone moving alongside me.
I call out to ask who's there, but get no response. I can sense that someone else is in the room with me, though. It's something I've gotten good at. So, I don't give up. I keep asking who's there, but my answer doesn't come with words. Instead, it comes with hands all over me. Over every single inch of my body - wrapped around my ankles and my neck and everywhere in between. I gasp for breath as they strangle me, but two hands soon cover my mouth as I try to scream. Then, the only light in the room comes on and it shines right in the person's face - and I see it's Vince Michaels with glinting eyes, smiling that devilish smile. Before I can do anything to stop him, he removes his hands and covers my mouth with his own, suffocating me in a kiss similar to the one he branded me with on the night of the party. I try and scream again, but the sound only dissolves into his mouth and he steals my power yet again.
I jolt awake, scrambling for something to hold onto. "Jackson?" I say, hearing how alarmed I sound. "Jackson?"
"Baby, I'm right here," he says. "I'm driving. We're still in the car."
"Oh," I say, then find his hand. I grip it tight, resting the other over my heart. "Oh."
"You okay?" he asks. "Bad dream?"
I exhale loudly, letting my chin fall to hit my chest. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah… bad dream."
"What was it?" he asks conversationally.
I shake my head and press my lips together, not knowing if I should resurface this. It put us in such a bad place when it happened, but it became overshadowed with everything else. I was stupid to think it could stay buried forever.
"I don't know," I say, barely moving my lips.
He reaches to hold my thigh, almost able to grip the whole thing in his fingers. "Hey," he says. "I can pull over if you want."
"No, don't do that," I say, overlapping his hand with mine. Feeling those familiar veins brings me back to a calm place and reminds me who I'm with. Vince isn't next to me, holding me, Jackson is. Mine and Vince's child isn't sleeping in the back seat or resting in my belly, mine and Jackson's are. I'm safe, I'm where I'm supposed to be, I'm here with my husband.
But still, that dream made me feel violated in way I haven't since that night. It's a feeling I didn't want back.
"In the dream," I say. "It was Vince. His hands… they were all over me, and his mouth…" I shudder. "I don't wanna say."
"Oh, god."
A bad taste appears in my mouth as I rewind to when everything happened. Jackson was right; I shouldn't have been as nice as I was. Maybe I did lead him on. Maybe I'm to blame for all of it… what do people say about the butterfly effect?
"I'm sorry, Jackson," I say.
"What are you talking about?" he says. "Why are you sorry?"
"For… I don't know. Not acting right while it was happening. Not taking the proper measures, not taking his creepiness more seriously. You tried to tell me. You're right. I don't listen."
"Hey, no, no, no," he says, holding my leg tighter. "No. Baby. You don't have to apologize. Please, don't. I'm the one who should. I acted like a fuckin' ass to you. I said some things that I still think about, and they were really messed up. I am so sorry about that." He sighs, inhales, pausing to think about what comes next. "The accident put things in perspective for what really matters. And I shouldn't have gotten so pissed off about Vince. I mean, yes, I'm still furious that he would do that. He's a pig who should rot. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. That was wrong, and I… I'm really sorry."
"I thought it would just disappear from my head," I admit softly, outlining the shape of his hand with one finger. "I guess that was pretty stupid."
"No," he says. "Nothing you think is stupid."
"Thanks," I say. "For saying all that. Maybe it'll help the memory just… go away, or something. I don't know."
"Maybe you should talk to someone about it," he says, and by his tone I can tell he knows he's walking on thin ice. "Just a thought."
I resist the urge to shut him down or out. Instead, I hold the words in my palms and tuck them close to my chest, saving them for later. "Maybe," I say.
…
A week passes, and when Jackson goes to work I sit in the living room with the piano like it's another sentient being. I can feel it in the corner, existing, practically breathing, but I don't make any moves to go near it. I'm still not ready, after what happened last time. It's a waste of space and was definitely a waste of money - Jackson essentially spent thousands of dollars on an ostentatious decoration.
But all week, I sit in relatively the same spot, the TV on in the background. Peyton goes to daycare - though we fought about it. Jackson was calm and logical in his reasoning; he doesn't think I'm ready yet, and in all honesty, I don't think I am, either. But that wasn't the point. The point was that I feel stripped as a mother when I'm home all day while Peyton spends it with strangers. I should be able to take care of her, but I can't. I still can't.
It's not because I don't want to, because I do. More than anything, I want to spend quiet days at home with my baby, but that's just not possible. While we fought, I cried and moaned, but Jackson didn't relent. It was like fighting two against one - both Jackson and my realism on one side, and the idealistic portion of me on the other. It was a losing battle, and we both knew it. Every morning this week that he left with her and she whined for me, it broke off another piece of my heart. I tried to hide it, though. It was no use making him feel worse.
But when the workdays finally come to an end and the weekend is upon us, I feel even worse than I did being alone. This weekend, we're fitting in an ultrasound and therapy, both of which I'm nervous over for very different reasons. Some would call it cruel to put them on the same day, but I'm glad to be getting them over with.
The baby babbles in the back seat on the way to the hospital, sounding happy. We got her to eat something new this morning - peas. She's never taken much to them before, but she went crazy in her high chair while Jackson and I had oatmeal. He was laughing as she apparently smashed them all over her face, and I tried my best to picture it.
"What ya talkin' about back there, Peanut butter?" he asks.
She shrieks, and I hear the sounds of her legs hitting the car seat. I smile to myself, imagining what her joy looks like. She has the best smile.
"Thinkin' about those peas?" Jackson asks, using the tone he saves specifically for her. He chuckles to himself. "Getting so big, trying new foods. Someone's got a birthday coming up, too," he says.
I get a strange feeling in my chest as I realize that he's right. I'd lost track of time. Of course, the day of Peyton's first birthday could never slip my mind - May 21st, a day unlike any other. But it's hard for me to stay on top of the passing days, and I'm never quite sure what one we're on.
"What day is it?" I ask, a bit urgently. What if I already missed it?
"15th," he says.
"Why didn't you say something before?" I ask, immediately putting the blame on him.
"I thought you knew…" he says, sounding confused.
"How would I know?" I snap, fighting tears. "I never leave the house. I can't read the calendar."
"April…" he says. "Baby, I'm sorry. I didn't think."
I wipe hastily at my eyes, knowing I'm being unfair. "You don't have to say sorry," I say. "I just… sometimes, I feel like I'm living in this bubble and I don't know how to get out. I didn't even realize my own kid's birthday was coming up." I shake my head. "That's horrible. I can't… that's just horrible."
"No, it's not," he says. "She doesn't know, either. Does that make you feel better?"
I have to laugh at that - a sad-sounding, pathetic chuckle. He's right, though; Peyton is in the back seat talking to herself in baby talk and probably chewing on her hands.
"We should do something special," I say.
"Yeah?" he says. "I was thinking that, too. Maybe have some ankle-biters from daycare over to the house, or something."
"And our friends," I say.
"If you want," he says, treading carefully.
"She deserves a nice party," I say, though my stomach is already toiling with nerves as I imagine all those people in my space. At my house, where I can't so easily just leave or remove myself. But Peyton shouldn't be stripped of her milestones just because I can't handle social gatherings. I can get through a few hours.
"Let's talk about it later," he says. "I'm sure Izzie would love to bake stuff."
"Yeah."
When we get to the hospital, Jackson helps me out of the car and continues to support me all the way inside. I keep a good grip on Peyton, who busies herself by touching different features of my face, while trying to ignore the familiar smell of the hospital. Being back here reminds of that day I woke up in darkness for the first time. Each little detail brings everything catapulting back like it happened just moments ago.
It's a different feeling, though, as I lie on an exam bed with cool jelly on my stomach and a kind ultrasound technician to my right. She speaks in a low, soothing tone, and she makes just enough conversation. Not too much, but we aren't left in awkward silence, either.
She gushes over how beautiful Peyton is, and tells us our unborn baby is doing great. I'm about three months along now, which puts the date of conception just a week or so before the accident. It adds up, it makes sense, and a huge sense of relief fills me as I realize that none of my trauma affected the fetus's growth and development.
"So, they're doing okay?" I ask, hands folded behind my head. I hope I'm looking in the right direction.
"Better than okay," she says. "Everything is right on track. Just take these vitamins I'm prescribing, keep eating healthy and exercising, and you got this in the bag. I'll see you back here in a few weeks."
She leaves the room after cleaning the jelly off, and I hear Peyton's voice as she either talks to herself or her daddy. I rest one hand on my stomach, still bare with my shirt pulled up, and stroke the skin with one thumb.
I can't help but relive the conversation from my parents' house. The fact has never been heavier that, right now, there's a life growing inside me that I will never see. I'll hold them, nurture them, love them beyond all means, but I'll never see them with my own eyes. Not in the moment they're born; I won't stare into their eyes and know I did something right by creating that baby. Not in the middle of the night, going into their room just to watch them sleep. Not during their first steps, or their first prom. I won't see any of it.
"Hey," Jackson says, surprising me with a touch to my wrist.
"Yeah," I mutter, assuming he probably knows what I was thinking. He's gotten better than ever at reading my mind.
"I'm here," he says.
"I know," I respond.
"No, but…" he begins. "I'm here. Right here, and so are you. And so is she."
As if on cue, Peyton makes a silly sound. I wish I could see the grin that was undoubtedly paired with it.
"And so is the tiny one. We're all right here."
He's not wrong, we're all together. In one small, warm room. But I don't want his voice to assure me of that, I want to see it for myself. I don't know if taking his word for it will ever be enough.
…
After the appointment, Jackson drives to Lakeview, where my group therapy is located. It's held in a hospital on Wellington, and my hands are shaking by the time we pull up in the parking lot. I don't say anything as he helps me inside, and I let him hold the baby. My arms feel too weak to keep her upright at the moment.
We find the room where we're supposed to meet, and exchange introductions with the group leader.
"Good afternoon," she says, and I learn her name is Cassandra. "There are chairs just inside. Spouses are welcome to stay, but we encourage our participates to embrace their autonomy and attend alone. It's a personal choice, though. Whatever you choose is okay."
I stop in my tracks, and it takes Jackson a second or two realize I'm no longer following him.
"Everything alright?" he asks. "Baby, you coming?"
"Yes," I say, wringing my hands. I'm not sure how to say what comes next. I take a few steps forward to find him, then run my hands up his chest. I cup his jaw and stand on my tiptoes to draw his face close to mine, then give him a gentle kiss on the lips. I work up the gumption to say, "But I think I want to do this alone."
With my hands still on his face, I feel the shock written in his expression. "Oh…" he says, words catching in his throat. "Oh, yeah, sure. Of course. I should've… I should've asked." He clears his throat, then kisses my forehead. "You sure?"
"Yeah," I say, nodding, stroking his beard with my thumbs. "I think I want to. I'm ready."
"Okay," he says, and this time I hear a smile in his voice. "Alright. Well, we'll wait in the car then." He pauses before asking one more time, "You sure you're sure?"
I chuckle a bit, smirking before kissing him goodbye. When I pull away, I give a solid nod and say, "I'm sure."
