"Why is he having a hard time?" Mr. Hance asked, looking for something specific.
Did she really have to explain? Laura didn"t know what to say. Mr. Hance had lost four grandchildren and his only daughter in the accident, but his response was to remain stoic.
When Laura told me the story, I called Warren"s dad myself.
"Your son is falling apart," I told him. "You need to help him."
"What should I do?" he asked.
"Just come be with him. You don"t have to talk. Just sit and watch a baseball game with him on TV."
Both my mother and Warren"s father were struggling with their roles vis-a-vis Warren and me. My mother had been a wonderful babysitter for the girls, close and loving and always ready to rush over when we planned an evening out. She was a rock star in their eyes. When she arrived, they always shouted "Nanny!" and ran to the door in delight, their faces glowing at the prospect of the unconditional love that only a grandmother can give.
After the accident, she felt as unmoored as I did. She had lost her three granddaughters-and in her eyes, she had lost her daughter, too. I was different, empty. I had always been relaxed when she came over, never looking over her shoulder or giving instructions on how to babysit. Now I was tense and cold and didn"t have much to say.
Mr. Hance had also been a great babysitter for the girls, and they loved him just as much. But now he didn"t feel comfortable coming over, either. And maybe I didn"t help. One day when Mr. Hance showed up unannounced and tried to talk to me, I gave him a cold, what-are-you-doing-here look. I wasn"t feeling very friendly, and I suppose he sensed it. Part of me wanted him there to commiserate with Warren, but part of me recoiled. I sometimes felt like I was drowning in Hances. With Warren, his brother David, and the ghost of Diane always in our house, I had to control myself from lashing out.
Warren"s role in our marriage was still to take care of me-despite my resentment that he wasn"t always up to the task anymore.
"You have to get Jackie through her pregnancy," friends whispered to Warren every time we went out. "Her hormones are wild right now. Be understanding."
What Warren understood was that I could get away with anything-and he had to put up with it. I wasn"t taking any pills for anxiety or depression, and I had a baby growing inside me, and I"d been through a lot to get to this point. On days when I felt particularly cranky, I wondered why women have to take on all the burdens. So I let myself be melodramatic and tempestuous.
"Just a few more months," those same friends promised Warren when I abruptly left a party pleading exhaustion, then lay in bed for a full day crying.
"Does anybody worry about how I feel?" he asked as Isabelle and Jeannine and a host of others came in and out of the house to make sure I was okay.
"No," I said bluntly. "Not right now. You"re not the one who"s pregnant."
I could handle the physical burdens of being pregnant (and pregnancy hormones, like PMS or menopause, can become just a good excuse for bad behavior), but the whole process felt overwhelming. Even though I had asked Warren about moving and getting a fresh start, I realized I didn"t want to start again. I wanted to live in the house where I could still hear my daughters" laughter. If we moved, my life with my daughters might fade even more.
Almost nothing in the house had changed since the day of the accident. Their beds were practically shrines for me. I still went into the girls" bedrooms and fluffed their pillows and made sure their slippers were lined up. I lay down on the comfy mattresses and thought about them. I had insisted that the girls make their beds every morning because I didn"t like the thought of them getting into unmade beds at night-it just didn"t feel as good. Once I explained, they agreed, and carefully straightened the covers and pulled up the comforters every day before school.
Such good girls.
Someone gave me a book about a woman who had lost her beloved husband in a tragedy, and she described how she immediately packed up all his clothes and belongings and got them out of her home. A few months later, she renovated and repainted so she wouldn"t have to live with the memories. I wanted to live with memories. They would help keep the girls with me forever.
But now we had to get ready for the baby, and figuring out how to arrange the house was complicated. The room Emma and Alyson shared-which we still called "the girls" room"-would get a crib for the baby, replacing Emma"s bed. And we would turn Katie"s tiny bedroom into the walk-in closet that the girls always wanted. Sometimes on vacations the three of them shared a room, and they talked about doing the same at home and making Katie"s room a dressing room for all of us. Now it would happen.
One Sat.u.r.day in June, I went shopping with Melissa, and I really wasn"t thinking about cribs and closets and ba.s.sinets when I walked into the house and went upstairs to put down my packages. I couldn"t believe my eyes. Katie"s room was empty-the bed and dresser gone. All the clothes and personal items that had been in the drawers were thrown helter-skelter into Emma and Alyson"s room.
"Oh my G.o.d! What happened? Where"s Katie"s bed?" I yelled, freaking out. "What happened to all her things? Warren! What"s going on?"
I raced frantically around from room to room, shocked at the sight of my children"s rooms in such disarray.
Warren came trudging up the stairs, his face pale and sweat beading at his brow.
"We said we were going to do this," he reminded me. "I wanted to get the room done and everything moved while David is still here." After staying with us almost every weekend since the accident, his brother was being rea.s.signed by the air force and heading off to Turkey in August.
"But look at this room!" I cried. "This is not how you treat Katie"s stuff! How could you do this? Everything is just thrown around! You can"t do this! What were you thinking?"
"I had to do this quickly. I couldn"t sit and fold clothes!" he yelled back. "We took the dresser to the bas.e.m.e.nt to refinish. And we gave Jonathan the bed for Maddie. She"s just getting out of her training bed and can use it."
I began to howl. I liked our neighbors Jonathan and Desi, and I enjoyed watching their little daughter Maddie zip around the street on Katie"s bike. Warren had shined it up and put on a bell and ta.s.sels before giving it to her months ago, and it was cute as could be.
But to have Katie"s bed across the street? To look out the window and know that Katie"s bed was over there, so close but no longer mine? I guess I knew we had to give her precious bed away to make the dressing room, but I hadn"t really thought it through.
"I want it back!" I screamed.
"Jackie, it"s Maddie"s bed now," Warren said.
"I want it back. Put the bed back, put the dresser back. I don"t need the closet and I want everything as it was."
"No, that"s it," Warren said adamantly. "It"s done."
"It doesn"t make any sense!" I yelled. I went to the open window and began screaming so everyone outside could hear. "I want my bed back! I want Katie"s bed back!"
Warren tried to drag me away, but I was screaming and crying and out of my mind. I went to Emma and Alyson"s room and threw myself on their beds, clutching at Katie"s clothes, which had been thrown everywhere. I cried hysterically, unable to stop. Warren gave up trying to calm me down and finally left me alone.
After close to an hour, my sobs slowed down. But I still lay there, my head on the sodden pillow and my body trembling. From outside, I heard Desi"s voice. She had come over and was standing on our front lawn, talking to Warren.
"Should I bring the bed back?" she asked.
"No," Warren said. "Please don"t worry. Just go in your house and let it sit."
A few minutes later, Laura came over. She talked to Warren outside for a little while, and then I heard her tread on the stairs. I managed to sit up. She stood in the doorway of Emma and Alyson"s room and looked around.
"Let"s get this room cleaned up," she said.
"Can you believe what Warren did?" I asked.
Laura shook her head. "He was trying to do the right thing. It wasn"t easy for him, either, Jackie. David told me that when they were carrying the bed down the stairs, Warren threw up."
I closed my eyes briefly. Funny how our bodies respond to stress. I couldn"t eat. Warren threw up. It happened often now. I heard him in the bathroom gagging, as if his body wanted to reject everything and somehow purify itself. Life without his girls just made him want to vomit.
I got off the bed. "He didn"t plan this very well. I would have packed up their things."
I had already bought some pink bins for the girls" things, and now Laura and I folded everything carefully and tucked pictures and pants and pajamas into the bins. I left out a few things to hang in the closet Warren would build.
Much later, Warren came back.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Packing. Everything can go in the attic over the garage," I said, reasonable at last.
He stared at a pink pillow I had shoved into one of the bins. It was in the shape of a crown and said Princess on it. He leaned over and pulled it out, clutching it close.