I'll See You Again Part 22

"Oh no, don't tell me," I said, rocking back in my chair in shock. "An email? So how many people are going to show up?"

"Maybe a lot," she admitted. "Someone from the church is organizing it."

"I don't want people to ruin their Christmases for us," I said with a groan. "Everyone's done enough. Plus it's too emotional for me."

"They just want to come caroling so you won't be so sad on Christmas," Isabelle said. "People care about you and Warren."

"I know they care," I said. "They feel sorry for us. I don't need to be reminded that we're the lonely freaks of Floral Park. While they're caroling, they'll be on the lawn thinking, 'Oh, those poor people,' and I'll be propped against the door wanting to die."

"I'll come over and be with you so you're not standing there alone," Isabelle promised. "Mark will come, too. I'll call Jeannine and Rob. Melissa and Brad. We'll all come."

"You'd better be here because I'm not opening the door myself," I said flatly.

On Christmas Eve, Warren and I hardly exchanged a word. The house stayed dark and quiet. We had no excited children waiting for Santa Claus, no presents to sneak out of the closets, no " 'Twas the Night Before Christmas" to read aloud. We had presents for each other, but no stockings were hung by the chimney with care-because we doubted that St. Nicholas would ever be here again.

Christmas morning, I got up early and went down to the kitchen. If friends were coming to my house, I was determined that they be fed-especially on a holiday. By the time Isabelle and Mark and the other couples she'd called had arrived, I had a pretty breakfast spread laid out for them.

Jeannine's eyes welled with tears when she came in and saw the effort I'd made. "This is just what your house always used to be," she said, giving me a hug. "Huge spreads of food and everyone welcome. It's good to see."

"Don't think I'm back to cooking," I said grudgingly.

Jeannine just shrugged, not ready to point out to me that I was making hopeful choices every day, from taking a Thanksgiving run to making a Christmas breakfast. I thought I wanted to die, but the evidence showed that I hadn't completely given up on life.

Before long, the house was buzzing with friends in holiday sweaters, and I was secretly pleased when everyone piled food onto their plates. My homemade version of Egg Mcm.u.f.fins got raves, and the buffet of baked goods that I'd arranged prettily on platters inspired enough Martha Stewart jokes that even I had to smile.

Suddenly we heard voices raised in song outside. I looked anxiously at Isabelle, but she and Melissa marched me to the door and we flung it open.

A convivial group of men and women, probably forty or fifty strong, stood on our snowy lawn singing a cheerful Christmas carol. As they raised their voices, their warm breath turned to steam in the cold air, and some stomped their boots against the chill. I recognized some of the carolers, though not all. Seeing them gathered in bulky winter coats and colorful hats and scarves, I felt like I'd been transported into some Hollywood version of a hometown Christmas, with kindly neighbors gathered to offer "tidings of comfort and joy."

To my great surprise, the carolers' good tidings did bring comfort. Joy wasn't yet an option, but comfort was certainly a start.

Most of them left after finis.h.i.+ng their songs, but a few whom we knew well came in for hot chocolate or a m.u.f.fin. Our friends left to get on with their own Christmas plans, but for much of the day, people drifted in and out, and we got through the day surprisingly easily.

"We're coming back for Christmas breakfast next year," Melissa said as she put on her coat to leave. "This was fun."

Christmas breakfast for twenty. A new tradition at my house.

Fifteen

People started telling me almost immediately that I should have more children. I hadn't yet hit forty, and the theory seemed to be that if my life had been brutally taken from me, I should just start another one.

Honestly, I thought they were nuts.

Children are not interchangeable. I loved Emma, Alyson, and Katie as individuals, and one could not replace another. I had three children and always would. I wanted to be their mother, not any mother.

Into the winter, I continued to wake up every morning furious that I was still in my house and not reunited with the girls in heaven. How could I survive a hurt this deep and an emptiness so vast? I realized that the same accident that took my children also destroyed my ident.i.ty and my reason for being on this earth. For nearly a decade, I had devoted every bit of energy and emotion I possessed to being a mom, and now-like anyone else who loses a job she loves-I felt unmoored.

Emotionally, I couldn't begin to think about having more children. And practically, I didn't see how it could happen. The pregnancies had been difficult for me, and after Katie was born, I had my tubes tied. I had lobbied for the procedure after Alyson, but the obstetrician pointed out that at just thirty years old, I might not be done. And she was right.

The moment Alyson arrived in the world-with a smile on her face that never went away-I forgot about the miseries of the pregnancy and started talking about having another baby.

"No," Warren had said.

"No?" I asked. "You can't just say no. We're a couple. We have to talk about it."

"Nothing to talk about," he said, sounding like a stereotypical man. "Two is easy and three will be too much. I don't want more."

Not knowing how to countermand his unilateral decision, I took the stereotypical female route.

"Then I don't want to have s.e.x anymore," I said.

We both wavered from our positions and in fact had plenty of s.e.x. I hadn't gone back on the pill, which Warren knew, so maybe he had changed his mind. But we didn't discuss it, and when my period was late one month, I panicked and refused to think about it. Finally, Jeannine left an at-home pregnancy test in my mailbox.

"It turned pink," I said, calling her almost immediately.

"That's great!" she said. "What did Warren say?"

"I haven't told him."

Anxious about how he'd respond, I waited a few days, and then finally broke the news.

"We're going to have another baby," I told him one night after Emma and Alyson were asleep.

"I know," he said, kissing me.

"How do you know?"

"I could just tell."

The pregnancy with Katie turned out to be even tougher than the others, filled with anxiety and emotional swings, and Warren and I agreed that after this, we would count our blessings and not ask for more. Emma and Alyson had been born by Cesarean section and we antic.i.p.ated Katie would be, too. The obstetrician said that three surgeries were usually the limit, and that having more could be a problem because of the amount of scar tissue. So, just before the delivery, the nurse gave me the papers to sign saying that I authorized "sterilization."

"Sterilization?" I asked her, slightly alarmed.

"That's what it is," she said. "Deciding to have your tubes tied sounds innocuous, but realize how dramatic it is. You don't have to do it."

"That's okay," I said, signing the paper. "Three's the charm."

I thought our family was perfect now-and complete.

A couple of months after the accident, I got a call from the obstetrician's office where I had gone with all three pregnancies.