I'll See You Again Part 42

What are you doing here? I thought as she puttered around, trying to be helpful.

I'd been shocked that Warren had invited her to the shower, given that they hadn't had a relations.h.i.+p in years. When I asked him why he'd been so generous and welcoming, he looked pensive.

"I don't want to hurt anybody," he said. "There's enough hurt going on around here. I can't be the cause of any more."

I was in awe that he been able to forgive the mother who had walked out of his life when he was a young teenager. Now, seeing his mother in our house-ironically, the house where she had grown up-I wondered if she'd watched the HBO doc.u.mentary over the summer, or heard the interviews with the executive producer who theorized about the psychological damage that Diane might have suffered when her mother left the family. The anger had percolated in Warren for so long that I marveled at his ability to be so forgiving now. Diane, the youngest, had probably been hit even harder. We would never know if Eileen's decision to walk away from her family as a young mother had indelibly harmed Diane-and led to our pain.

Jeannine, Isabelle, and Melissa tried to keep Warren's mother occupied as I walked out of the room. Seeing the presents being opened was making me sad. I'm a big proponent of thank-you notes, and I'd written a generic one that was already printed up. But the three of them kept careful lists so I could add personal thanks to each one.

The after-party lasted longer than the party, and I tried to be as forgiving as Warren had been to his mother.

Later that week, Warren sent an email to Isabelle, Jeannine, and Melissa:

Thank you for everything last Sunday. Your complete unselfishness was special. I see the sadness, joy, and hope in all of your eyes as you start this journey right alongside of us. Jackie and I could not do it without you.

I was always amazed how Emma, Aly, and Katie could be so different when they all came from the same place. You three and Jackie are different women from completely different places getting along like sisters-loving, hating, fighting, and making up. Sunday had it all. But mostly it had what I miss the most-the feeling and sounds you can only get in a family. So no matter what life gives us, I hope the four of you never forget the sisterly bond you have. Always remember what's important in life ... friends, family, and friends who are family.

He was right.

I would remember.

Twenty-five

Just when I thought the coast was clear, the paparazzi showed up again. In mid-September, a couple of mornings after the shower, friends started calling and texting to make sure I wasn't upset by the picture in the newspaper.

"What picture?" I asked.

I frantically went online to the New York Post website. Print newspapers may only be good for wrapping fish (as the old saying goes), but their websites last forever. And there it was-an article headlined "Taconic Mom's Baby Joy," with a photo of me walking across my lawn.

"She has gone from bearing an unspeakable burden to bearing a brand-new life," the article began.

In the picture, I had on pajama bottoms, my hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and my hand rested on my belly. I knew exactly when the picture must have been taken, when I walked over to see a neighbor the previous week. I seemed to have a smile on my face, which fit into the theme of the story. But if anybody had asked, I could have explained that at that particular moment, the look on my face was really a grimace of pain, which also explained why I was holding my side.

"Jackie Hance ... was spotted outside her Long Island home last week, noticeably pregnant as she smiled and chatted with a neighbor. Hance declined to comment."

Declined to comment? Actually, n.o.body had asked me a thing. No reporter had approached me and, most disturbing, I hadn't even seen the photographer on the street. If I had known someone was stalking me, I wouldn't have been outside in pajamas.

The article quoted an unnamed "pal" as saying, "We're all there for Jackie right now. It's such a special time. We just want this to turn out OK ... They deserve some joy."

Nice sentiment, but once again, I'd have bet my baby's first bottle that the comment was a figment of some reporter's imagination.

Everyone thought it was sweet and positive, but oddly enough, the idea of people thinking I was happy infuriated me. It took nerve for a reporter to suggest that I could be happy when my kids weren't here. And the headline made me equally furious.

"I'm not the Taconic Mom," I said to Warren. "Your sister is the Taconic Mom. Not me."

I resented it deeply whenever I heard that label, but for once, I decided to let it all go. There was nothing I could do and I wasn't going to let a tabloid drive me crazy.

A few days later, I was out with Karen and Isabelle at the mall when I started getting terrible pains.

"Are you okay?" Karen asked.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I said. "I just need to sit down." But I must have looked terrible, because Karen insisted we leave.

I knew I wasn't in labor because those pains are intermittent and this pain was constant. When we got back to Floral Park, Isabelle wanted to stay with me or take me to the hospital, but I insisted she leave.

"I just need to lie down," I said.

But the moment Isabelle left, I called the doctor and described my symptoms.

"Sounds like it may be kidney stones," the doctor said. "Get yourself over to the hospital."

I decided I could handle this myself and not bother anyone, so I punched in the number for a cab. Warren pulled up before it arrived. "Get in the car," he said, shaking his head at my decision to be self-sufficient at a time like this. "I'll drive you."

When we got to the hospital admitting desk, the nurse couldn't find my name in the system. We eventually figured out that the obstetrician had been trying to preserve my privacy and protect us from prying reporters. In my hospital room, a lovely nurse named Rachel appeared to take care of me. She suggested that I should register under an alias.

"Any idea what name you'd like to use?" she asked.

I shrugged and, changing the subject, complimented her on her beautiful necklace.

"The gold is so pretty," I said effusively. "I don't wear much gold but that's beautiful. I love it."

We talked for a few minutes and then she repeated that I needed that alias.

"You pick it," I said, collapsing onto my pillow. I certainly didn't feel like myself-but I didn't have a name for whoever was lying in this bed.

"Well, let's see, my first name is Rachel, and you like the gold, so how about if we put those together? Rachel Gold." She smiled and stroked my head again. "You can be Rachel Gold. Does that work for you?"

"Sure." Rachel Gold. I felt an odd mix of confusion and amazement at how easy it was to a.s.sume a new ident.i.ty.

Doctors coming in and out the rest of the day all looked at their clipboards and said cheerfully, "Hi, Rachel, how do you feel?" Sometimes I forgot to respond and Nurse Rachel would gently nudge me.

The diagnosis turned out to be a gallstone attack, and after two nights in the hospital, I went home. But I knew that when I came back to the hospital to have my baby, I would once again be Rachel Gold. It seemed right: Jackie Hance had been the mother of three wonderful girls. When they died, part of her died, too. She had become a different person.

Jackie and Rachel. My life had changed so dramatically that it shouldn't have surprised me to have a different name. I had to get used to being myself and someone else at the same time.

We were getting close to the finish line of this pregnancy, but Warren wasn't sure that we'd ever cross it.

Going out with friends usually worked as a good pick-me-up for Warren and me. But one weekend in September, we hit an all-time low when even that didn't work. We had joined a few couples at a nearby restaurant, and as the conversation swirled, Warren seemed far away. He didn't pay any attention as Brad chatted about possibly buying a vacation home and Mark reported how happy he and Isabelle were in their new home.