I'll See You Again Part 47

"I just want to know what was different about this morning," he said.

"I have two hours without the baby. Some rare free time for myself. I'm trying to use it productively. Fighting isn't productive."

I could hear his incredulity through the phone. "So that's it?"

"That's it," I said. "And I love you."

The truth is that I couldn't really explain what had made today different. Maybe just thinking about positive energy had given me some. Letting go of anger felt a lot better than holding on to it.

Sometimes our marriage felt like a seesaw-when one of us was up, the other was down. We never seemed to be in the same place at the same time. And maybe that was good. When I hit bottom, Warren had stayed strong to pull me off the ground. But now that I seemed tougher and more determined, Warren could give in to his own disquiet.

Friends still stopped by regularly, and our house was often packed with people when Warren came home from work. He usually slipped quickly through the living room, often giving Kasey a quick kiss, before disappearing for the night. One night, Warren got home and barely said h.e.l.lo. A few minutes later, he sent me a text: "Can you bring Kasey upstairs without anyone noticing?"

Without asking him why, I gently took the baby from the neighbor who was rocking her and headed to our bedroom.

"What's wrong?" I asked Warren.

"There were so many people, and I didn't feel like talking," he said. "But I wanted to see her."

I put Kasey on the bed next to him and lay down, too. The three of us stretched side by side-a small and slightly awkward family gathering on a big comfy bed. Kasey's sparkly dress shone in the light, and she looked irresistible.

Warren cooed and cuddled for a few minutes, then handed her back to me. "Okay, thanks," he said. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to sleep."

"That's not fair," I said. "You can't just get home from work and go to bed anymore. The day's not over. We have a baby who needs us. You have to spend time with her."

"You don't really need me," he said. "There's always someone to take care of her."

"But you're her father," I said. "I don't want to do this alone."

Warren looked despairing. "I know, Jackie. I'm going to try, I really am. I just can't do it tonight."

I shook my head. How could I ask Warren to share my timetable for recovery? He had coped with my abject misery, and now I should be respectful of his need to adjust. But it was tough. For two years, I had cried and screamed and raged and stared down my hopelessness. Now with Kasey, I wanted to inch forward to the future. But Warren had spent that same time trying to be stoic and denying the pain. He closed down at the end of the workday and tried to keep grief from edging its way into his consciousness.

I suppose he thought if he could shut out the memories, he wouldn't hurt so much.

But he couldn't shut out Kasey.

Looking at his little baby girl, he saw again in full living color the faces of her sisters, and he wasn't prepared for the deluge of emotions that holding her raised. Along with the affection and love and need to protect came the agony, grief, wretchedness, and torment that he had been trying to avoid.

"There's dinner in the kitchen," I said, thinking that practical matters provided the safest ground.

"Did you cook?" he asked hopefully.

"Don't press your luck," I said with a laugh to lighten the mood. Neighbors continued to drop off home-cooked meals and take-out extravaganzas. My amazing support network was stepping forward in every way possible to help us raise a happy and healthy baby-and to make sure that Warren didn't go hungry. But cooking had always been both a favorite hobby and a way I showed love. Kasey would be ready for solid food soon, and even if I couldn't whip up cakes and souffles just yet, I needed to do better than power bars and diet soda.

A few days later, feeling particularly brave, I put Kasey into a cute outfit and bundled her up to go outside. As we stepped out the door, Warren called on my cell phone just to check in. Isabelle often teased that despite our fights, Warren and I remained as close as high school sweethearts joined at the hip.

"What are you doing?" Warren asked, not expecting any groundbreaking answer.

"I'm going to the grocery store," I said casually, as if going to the local grocery store were as much a nonevent for me as it would be for most moms. "We need bread and milk."

"The grocery store?" Warren asked. He sounded so shocked that I might as well have said I was heading to a strip club to learn pole dancing. "Are you ready for that?"

"Yup!" I said. "It's like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to do it fast and get it over with."

The visit to the store was uneventful. I popped bread and milk and a few other things into my cart and headed to the checkout. I still recognized the ladies at the registers, and they knew me, too. They clucked and cooed over my pretty baby, did the transaction, and that was that.

No big deal.

A few days later, I took Kasey to the big supermarket and emerged equally fine-grocery bags in hand and emotions unscathed. One dark place gone from my life.

I reminded myself regularly that all I could do was try my best and make myself overcome other uncertainties. As with the grocery store, I worried about taking Kasey for a walk by myself. Being seen in public with my baby unnerved me. What would people say? It was time to find out. I put Kasey in her stroller and ventured outside, just the two of us, walking through town. By now, most people in Floral Park recognized me and many stopped to talk.

One woman I'd never met came up and introduced herself, gushed over Kasey, and then took my hand. "I'm so glad you have a new baby," she said simply. "But I want you to know that I still pray for Emma, Alyson, and Katie."

"Thank you," I said, tears of grat.i.tude filling my eyes. What could be better? She admired my pretty baby but saw Kasey as one part of a larger family of sisters, all equally beloved. This stranger had struck the magic formula.

I continued the walk and realized I felt fine strolling with my baby.

Just like any mom.

I made little faces at Kasey as we walked, acting as silly as every new mother who gets thoroughly entranced trying to make her baby smile. Kasey looked so sweet and she deserved a happy life.

When we got back home, I called Isabelle. "I think I may like her," I said.

"Like who?" she asked.

"Kasey."

Isabelle laughed. "That's good to hear."

"No, I mean it. I don't love her yet, but I'm starting to like her." I paused, even that admission causing a tinge of guilt.

"I still miss Katie's hugs," I added quickly. "I wish Kasey could hug me like Katie did or smile at me like Aly."

"She will," said Isabelle. "Give her time."

One day, I stood with Kasey and contemplated the pictures of Emma, Alyson, and Katie on the wall.

The girls had been real, my flesh and blood, my beloveds. But now they had vanished, and Kasey would have things they never did. Emma had yearned to go to Disneyland, and I promised her a family trip when she turned ten and Katie would be old enough to enjoy it, too. But putting it off meant none of them ever got to go. I wouldn't wait to take Kasey to the Magic Kingdom. Carpe diem. But would taking her be a way to honor the girls' memory-or seem simply unfair?

Holding Kasey as I walked around the room, I rocked back on my heels in confusion.

BA-Before the Accident-my life had been happy and busy and filled with children and love. AA-After the Accident-had been sad and miserable and lonely. Now I had unwittingly stumbled into a third stage, which included parts of each and memories of both. I struggled to understand the jumbled mix of BA happiness and AA sorrow that I now experienced every day. In this new stage-AAA? After After the Accident?-the disparate pieces of my life started to merge into a coherent whole.

A couple of days later, a friend came over and wanted to see Kasey.