JACKSON

PAST

I've never seen so much red hair before in my life. But on the patio of the farmhouse in Moline, it's the only hair color around. Besides me, that is.

I'm standing in front of the grill, watching everyone mingle and interact with each other. It's Father's Day weekend, and the whole clan is together at April's parents' house. I see her standing across from her little sister, Alice, with one hand on the small of her back and the other rested on her very pregnant belly.

Our sweet little Rae is due next month, and April is ready to be done being pregnant. I smile to myself as she wipes the sweat from her forehead and talks emphatically, her facial expressions animated as always.

It's cheesy, but the phrase that runs through my mind is: I love her so much.

"How're the burgers and dogs coming, Jackson?" Joe asks, coming up from behind me. He pats me hard on the back and I turn to smile at him.

"They're comin'," I say, flipping a couple of them. "We got enough food here to feed an army."

"That's Kepners for ya," he says, then hangs an arm around my shoulders. "And you two are about to give us one more. What a blessing."

I push some air from my nose, which makes a small sound. "Yeah, April's really ready for that little girl to be born," I say.

"She holds herself well," Joe says. "Always has. Her mother barely complained once while she was pregnant with the four girls. How's April on that?"

I give him a knowing look and we both start laughing. "Best not talk about it," I say.

"Good man," Joe says. "Let me know when these are ready. I'll wrangle everyone up."

"Sounds good," I say, and my soon-to-be father-in-law walks away back to the throng of people standing in the grass.

I continue my work on the grill, then feel a familiar hand slink around my back to hold my waist. I look down and see April standing and beaming up at me, her face shiny from the summer heat.

I wipe a bead of sweat from her temple with my thumb and kiss her forehead. "Hi, honey," I say.

"Hey," she replies, squeezing me a little. "How's it coming?"

"Good," I answer. "They're cooking just like that baby's cookin' inside you."

She swats my arm and we both laugh.

"Which are you having?" I ask.

"Both," she answers. "The two of us are hungry. As hell."

"Don't cuss around your family," I say, nudging her hip with my own.

Her lips pull up in a smirk and she pinches my waist. "Shush," she says. "My dad didn't bother you too much, did he?"

I turn the sides of my mouth down. "No way," I say. "Joe Kepner? He's harmless."

"He doesn't think so," she says. "He thinks he's a big shot. A very big shot."

"Nah," I say. "He was talking about how our little Rae-Rae is such a blessing."

April rubs her belly, running her hand over the taut material of her tank top. "Well, she is," she says. "She's kickin', too, daddy. Wanna feel?"

I set the spatula down and press my palm against her belly, where I feel Rae moving inside her. "God, that's so cool," I say, flicking my eyes up to hers to see that she's watching me. "I can't believe that she's in there. Like, our kid."

She sighs and raises her eyebrows. "I sure can," she says.

I laugh a little bit and kiss her cheek, picking the spatula back up. "Only a little bit longer, though," I say.

"Too bad you can't hold your actual physical baby on your first Father's Day," April says, pouting her lips out before pressing them over my shirt on my upper arm.

"I can holdthis baby, though," I say, wrapping my free arm around her shoulders and pulling her even closer. She giggles and hugs my waist, so I kiss the top of her head by the base of her ponytail. "Okay, I think they're all pretty much ready. Wanna grab a plate? I'll dish you up first."

As we're all sitting around the table, Karen pipes up as I'm taking a sip of lemonade. "So, Jackson," she says, and I feel April's hand tighten on my thigh. "How're you feeling about your first Kepner family Father's Day?"

I smile. "Good," I say.

"You did a great job on the hamburgers and hot dogs," she says, and across the table there's a murmur of assent from everyone.

"Well, thanks," I say. "I tried."

"We're so excited," she continues. "To have you as a part of this family. And your little one. Even though she didn't come around in the most conventional of ways-"

"Mom," April says, her tone a warning.

"Let me finish," Karen says. "Even though she didn't come about in the most convention of ways, that's all put aside now. She's on her way, and that's what matters. And we already love her."

One side of my mouth pulls up in a grin. "I do, too," I say, covering April's hand with my own. "A lot. Kinda crazy how much."

I feel April's eyes on me, all warm and loving.

"You'll be amazed at how much that love's gonna grow as soon as you see her face," Joe says, piping up from the other end of the table. "Once you hold that baby… wow."

"He's right," Alice's husband, Darren, says. "When Halley was born, it was wild. I'd never felt anything like that before."

Halley looks up from where she sits beside her mother, but decides the conversation isn't worth her time and goes back to her potato salad.

"Are you going to stay in Chicago after she's born?" Karen asks, the question directed at April.

"Of course we are," April says. "Our jobs are there. Our whole lives are there." Libby makes a sound in the back of her throat. "What?" April says, calling her out.

"Oh, nothing," her oldest sister says. "It's just that… do you really want to raise a child in that city?"

April and I make quick eye contact, then break away.

"What's so wrong with 'that city?'" April asks.

"Girls," Karen says.

"No, I wanna know what she thinks," April says. "I know she's been thinking it the whole time I was pregnant. Actually, since I moved there from Seattle. I'm just curious."

Libby sighs exasperatedly. "You moved from Seattle back to the midwest, yet you had to go there. You couldn't come back home? It's like you think you're too good for us now or something."

I narrow my eyes at April, wondering how she'll answer.

"So you're not worried where I'll raise my child, or how I'll raise her, you're worried about how I see you," she says. "Seriously?"

"Now you're just twisting my words," Libby says.

"Guys, stop," Kimmie says. "Just shut up."

"April and Jackson will do a good job raising Lorraine wherever they live," Alice says. "They're gonna be awesome parents."

"Thanks, Alice," I say.

"It's true," she replies, eyebrows up. "You guys love each other, you're gonna be such a cute little family. I can tell you're gonna be the type to have like, a million kids."

April snorts. "Maybe not a million," she says. "Let's get the one out first."

We finish up dinner and when everything is cleaned up, Halley and Layla, Alice and Libby's daughters respectively, ask me to play with them. "Play Blob! Play Blob!" they chant, and I look to April for help.

"What's Blob?" I ask.

"We run around in a circle and you try to catch us!" Halley informs me, shouting at the top of her lungs.

So I do it. I hover in the middle of the yard as the two little girls circle me, and grab them each around the waist pretending to be 'the Blob.'

"Oh, I got you now," I say, holding them over my shoulders like potato sacks as they shriek happily. "I got you now, the Blob's gonna eat you up for dessert!"

"No, Uncle Jackson, no!" they chorus while pounding on my back. "Let us down!"

I carry them around the yard and pretend to toss them over the fence, which they love. When I'm all Blobbed out and they're being called back to their mothers, I wipe the sweat from my brow as I saunter up to April on the deck.

"Those kids tire you out?" she asks, hands flat on my chest.

I wind my arms around her body and rest them on the small of her back. "For sure," I say.

She reaches up and runs a finger down my neck, which is also sweating. "They love you," she says, then mimics them. "Uncle Jackson, Uncle Jackson!" She laughs, then grows quiet again. "You're gonna be a great daddy," she tells me.

I beam down at her, then kiss her salty forehead. "Thank you," I say.

"Happy Father's Day," she says, drumming her fingers. "Rae told me to tell you."

APRIL

PRESENT

"Do you want to wear purple or yellow?" I ask, crouched down and digging in an open suitcase lying on the hotel floor.

"Purple," Rae answers, from where she sits at the foot of the unmade bed that we both slept in last night.

We're in Chicago, which is something rare. We haven't been here for three years - we moved away right after Jackson's funeral. But a work conference called me back, and it landed over Father's Day weekend. My work portion is over and today, on Sunday, Rae and I are going to see her dad.

"Your daddy loved purple," I say, pulling out the dress she requested and shaking the wrinkles out.

She looks at me with those big, green, doe eyes. "But he can't see me," she says. "We're going to see him, but he can't see me."

I open my mouth, then close it as I try to piece together my answer. "Well… no," I say. "You're right. But I think Daddy's always watching us."

"In heaven," she finishes.

"Exactly," I say.

I've been especially businesslike today, given the holiday. I know if I'm anything less, I won't manage to get us out of this room. And before we get on a plane back to Columbus, seeing him is something we need to do.

I don't like living so far away from where he lies, but his mother wanted him buried here. He hadn't liked Boston growing up, and he moved away from Seattle. He made Chicago his home. It was a part of who he was. She said that he'd want to keep his physical body here, make this city his final resting place, and I had gone with her word.

I couldn't have made the decision on my own, anyway. I was thankful for her.

"Can Daddy talk to us?" Rae asks, hands on my shoulders as I hold out a clean pair of underwear for her to step into.

"What do you mean, baby?" I ask, sitting her down to face front on my lap. I get a wide-toothed comb and work it through her hair as she talks and winces at the same time.

"At the ceme…" she trips over the word. "Where he is."

At the cemetery. That's what she's trying to say. "Oh," I say. "No. He can't talk to us."

"But he's there," she continues. "If we're going to see him, why won't he talk?"

I close my eyes for a brief moment. I've tried to explain the concept of death to my daughter time and time again, and each time I think she's finally grasped it. And each time, I'm wrong. And I'm always wrong in a different way.

Her misunderstandings make his absence hurt worse, but I know I can't be frustrated with her. She's six. And while some children her age do understand death, she doesn't. Even though it happened to her firsthand, she still doesn't.

She thinks her daddy is coming back.

"He's not going to talk to us because he's gone, sweetie," I say. "He's with God now. Remember, how I told you? You were really little when he went away."

"You go away for work sometimes," she says, bracing her neck as I braid back her hair. "Are you not gonna come back?"

"No, no," I say, sighing. "When I go away, I will always come back. I shouldn't use those words. Your daddy didn't just go away. He died, honey. His brain got sick and we couldn't make him better."

"But you're a doctor," she says. "You make people better all the time."

"I know," I say. "I know. But I couldn't fix him. No one could."

"Why was his brain sick?" she asks.

"It…" I stare up at the ceiling and blink hard. "It got a tumor inside it. A tumor is a bunch of bad guy cells that attack the good guy cells. And Daddy's good guy cells just couldn't fight it off, and it made his body stop working. He got very tired, and his brain shut off, which made his heart stop pumping. And he died."

"He died," Rae repeats. "If he's dead, then how can we go see him?"

"He was buried," I say. "He has a pretty headstone with his name on it and when he was born, and some nice words that me and Grandma Catherine picked out. We're going to go put some flowers by it today, and wish him a happy father's day."

"Yeah, it's daddy's day," Rae says. "My friends at school talked about it."

"Yeah?" I say. "How did that make you feel?"

She shrugs. "I don't know."

We get ready, both of us wearing formal clothes, and head out the door. We'll come back here before we leave for the airport, so we don't have to take all of our luggage with us to the cemetery. I'm not carrying much, but it's enough. In one hand I have a bouquet of flowers and in the other, I hold my daughter's grip.

In our Uber on the way there, Rae is quiet. She watches the buildings pass as we drive through downtown with amazement in her eyes. The part of Columbus that we live in is suburban and looks nothing like this.

"We used to live here?" she asks, one hand gently pressing against the glass.

I've told her plenty about our old life in Chicago, but she can only remember bits and pieces. Her memories come in spurts, like some have been deliberately erased by her conscious.

She has nothing left of Jackson. Nothing more than what I tell her.

"We did," I say. "Can you remember?"

She pauses for a moment, eyes still on the skyscrapers. "It didn't look like this," she says. "I remember a black gate."

I can't help but smile. "You're right, Rae, that's a good memory. We did have a black gate." I reach across the seat and hold onto her leg. "We lived in a brick house on Leavitt street, in a neighborhood called Wicker Park. We had a black gate around our house."

"That locked when you closed it," she finishes.

My eyes burn with the onset of tears. "That locked when you closed it," I repeat. "You do remember."

We're quiet for the rest of the ride, and I bid the driver a good day when we pull up to the cemetery. The sun is shining brightly down on us, and I squint into it as we walk past the entryway.

Rae takes my hand again as we walk down the path, observing the stones surrounding us.

"These are all people who died?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "They're all buried underground here. We can't see them, but they're there."

She holds my hand tighter, and our footsteps fall into pace together. Jackson's plot is a little ways in, which was done on purpose. Neither Catherine or I wanted him near the road; we wanted him tucked away, with some space between him and the busy outside world.

When we get close, the air has quieted. We're in the shade of a handful of low-hanging trees, and Rae's grip has become less worried and more lax on mine.

I see his headstone, and my knees grow weak. I've thought about coming back here for a long time, ever since he died, but haven't been since we left Chicago. And we left not long after he passed. It's been too long since I've visited, and I'm overcome with guilt.

If the tables were turned, I know he wouldn't have moved away. He would have stuck it out - maybe moved houses, but that's it. He would've stayed in the city I was in, come to visit me every chance he could, and I couldn't do that. Couldn't be that brave. He's always going to be stronger than I am, even in death.

"Here he is," I say gently to Rae, then stoop down to my knees in front of Jackson's headstone.

It reads:

Jackson Michael Avery

November 18th, 1980 - October 6th, 2016

Beloved father, son, and husband

You made a beautiful difference in our lives

My hands are shaking and my mouth is dry as I lay the bouquet of flowers in front of the stone. I smooth them down unnecessarily and clear my throat in attempts to choke back my tears, but it doesn't work. A few errant ones slide down my cheeks anyway.

"My daddy is under here?" Rae asks, breaking the silence. I look over, and she has her hands pressed into the earth, claiming it.

I nod. "Yes," I say. "He was buried here when you were three. We were both at his funeral, where it happened at."

She takes my words and looks away, back at the gray stone. She points at the script lettering and says, "That's my daddy's name. Jackson. I can read it."

"You're right," I say, weakly smiling. "That is his name."

Rae untucks her legs and sits down criss-cross style, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. The concentrated expression on her face is so much akin to Jackson that I can't bear to watch her come to grips with the fact that this is all she will ever have of her father.

"When Daddy would get done being a doctor and take me to play on the playground, I remember that," she says, eyes still on the headstone. "He would come in and play with me, too. Even though it's silly for a daddy to do that."

I clench my fists tightly together. I know for certain she doesn't remember that - she was very, very small. But this is a story that I've told her plenty of times, and it makes me happy to hear her recounting it.

"When I was a little baby," she says. "I remember that."

"You do?" I say.

She nods. "Uh-huh."

"What else can you remember about your daddy?" I ask her.

She presses a finger to her temple. "My eyes," she says. "He gave me my eyes."

"You're right," I say. "You and your dad both have those beautiful eyes."

She rocks back and forth, struggling for more. "He maked you wear sunscreen. Even when you didn't want to. Just like you make me."

I flash her a small grin.

"He didn't like your music you have," she continues. "But he liked it when you singed and danced."

I sigh and force another grin. These things should be making me happy, but they aren't. Hearing her recall these 'memories' are only solidifying what I already know; none of these belong to her. She's recalling stories that I've told her, and what little she had left of Jackson is all the way gone.

A few moments later, Rae is gazing off into the distance and I get closer to his stone. I rest on my knees in front of it and run my hands over the slopes, reading and rereading what's written on the front.

"All I wanted was to start a family with you," I whisper, still stroking the cold granite. "I miss you so much. So, so much."

There's not much more I can say that I haven't already said. I talk to him a lot - all the time, actually. And I really think he hears me, at least that's what I have to tell myself.

A period of silence passes, then Rae speaks up. "Mama?" she peeps, inching closer to me. Soon, she's pressed against my side, so I wrap one arm around her and kiss the top of her head. "Can you tell my daddy something?"

"Sure," I say. "But you can tell him, if you want. We're right here, both me and you. If you just talk, he can hear you."

She shakes her head, lips pressed together tight. "You," she says. "You tell him."

"Okay," I say. "What is it?"

She pushes herself up on her knees and cups her hands around my ear, telling me what I need to pass on. When she pulls away, I nod meaningfully and lean forward on my hands and knees to speak very close to Jackson's stone.

"Happy Father's Day," I say, my palms pressed firmly above where he lies. "Rae told me to tell you."