"She"s in the girls" room," I said, gesturing toward the upstairs. And I realized that the whole was beginning to form. Kasey"s crib and toys and clothes graced the bedroom that Emma and Alyson had shared, once and always "the girls" room." Many of Emma"s and Alyson"s favorite belongings remained there, and their old treasures mingled easily with Kasey"s new ones. Instead of being eerie, the combination seemed just right. The "girls" room"-maybe now more than ever. Kasey was one of the girls. Instead of thinking I shouldn"t delight in my new baby, I needed to incorporate her experiences with those of her sisters, and vice versa.
In the first weeks, while other people had coddled and kissed Kasey, I had cared for her quietly. I hadn"t talked to her on the changing table. I had fed her dutifully. But now we chatted all the time, and I told her about her sisters. One day, as I changed her diaper, I started singing a little song. I thought I made it up as I went along, but the words must have been in my heart since the day she was born.
K is for Katie
A is Aly
S is for Sisters
E is for Emma
Y is for YOU!
I sang the little tune, and Kasey gurgled happily. Before long, that became our special song. I sang it as she lay looking up at me on the changing table, or when I rocked her in my arms to put her to sleep. The song became a magic ditty that soothed her from any distress. Or maybe the words calmed me down, and Kasey felt that ease. Whatever the case, the song said that Kasey fit into a whole family and a bigger story. She had sisters who loved her even if they couldn"t hold her. But she was more than an addendum to a tragic tale. She gleamed as a precious girl on her own, a little bundle of hope and possibility who existed both as part of a continuum and as a distinctive soul. Her sisters contributed to her name and ident.i.ty, but the Y-the You!-had to be allowed to shine as brightly and boldly as the other letters.
Twenty-eight
I bonded to Kasey and liked taking care of her, but guilt still hung over me like a black cloak. I tried to push it aside. I needed to love this baby. In TV commercials and sappy family movies, the mother looks into her baby"s eyes, the music rises, and her face softens in a haze of tenderness. Joy and happily-ever-after are sure to follow.
Or maybe real life, with all its heartbreak and tragedy, would follow instead. I feared giving my heart to a baby, knowing the risk of having it broken. So many other friends and family members already loved Kasey unconditionally. Why couldn"t I? I kept remembering the exact moments when I fell in love with each of the other girls, and I wondered when-or if-that would happen with Kasey.
With Emma, I had gone back to work after two months. Having found a wonderful babysitter in Salvina, I didn"t worry about being away from her. Little did I know. The first day back on my job seemed to last forever, and as I raced home to pick up Emma, I was almost hysterical to see her again. I rang Salvina"s door impatiently. The moment she opened it, I rushed into the house and scooped Emma into my arms, a rush of devotion surging through me.
Wow, I really love this baby, I had thought.
I smiled at Salvina, who touched my cheek, reading the ardor in my eyes. "You love your little bambino," she had said.
With Alyson, I had the love epiphany at seven weeks, when she smiled at me. Alyson had a big, fat smile that embraced the whole world. The first time she flashed it at me, I knew I would do anything for her. And that feeling never went away.
Katie was just six weeks old when I took her for a regular checkup and the doctor thought she might have a problem that required a neurosurgeon. I couldn"t get an appointment for a couple of weeks. Beside myself with worry, I spent the time reading everything I could find about cranial stenosis, a condition where the soft spot closes too fast and there is no room for the brain to grow. The surgeon has to cut the skull open, and after surgery the vulnerable baby wears a helmet as protection. For two weeks, I had a lump in my throat. The thought of my baby needing surgery was overwhelming because I loved her so much. Katie turned out to be perfectly healthy, and my fears slipped away, but the love never left. Neither did the desire to protect her and keep her from suffering.
Three girls. Three moments of falling in love.
And now Kasey, my fourth girl.
Early on, infants have endless needs, and all they give back in exchange for a mother"s exhausted efforts is an aura of helplessness and a fragrant smell of baby powder, warm milk, and purity. Eventually, that changes.
One day when she was nine weeks old, Kasey slept all the way through the night. I got up at 4:30 a.m. for my usual run, and when I peeked at her, she was off in some happy dreamland. I left, knowing Warren was home, and when I came back an hour or so later, Kasey hadn"t stirred. Feeling my usual postrun energy high, I wanted to feed her and change her and get the day started, so I nudged her gently in her crib to wake her up. She opened her eyes as I picked her up-and she smiled at me.
I felt my heart melt.
"Seriously? You"re smiling?" I asked, starting to laugh. "I just woke you up! What kind of perfect baby are you, anyway?"
She smiled again.
I smiled back at her.
I felt the rush of baby-love that I remembered so well, the stirrings of deep affection rousing my heart. I fed Kasey and played with her for a while, and then I realized she was still tired. No early-morning runs for this baby! I put her back down in her crib and she fell asleep. I stood there for a long time watching her, feeling an odd mix of pride and satisfaction and relief. I knew my baby. I knew what she wanted and needed. As I pulled a blanket over her, I realized my glow was coming from more than a renewed sense of competence.
I love her. I feel like her mom, I thought. I love her.
For a moment, I wanted to stop myself and tell Emma, Alyson, and Katie that I still loved them, too. But I didn"t need to. They knew.
Everyone asked what I would do for Kasey"s first Christmas, and my answer was-nothing. A three-month-old doesn"t need Santa, and however far I had come, I wasn"t quite ready to celebrate. Jeannine and Isabelle offered to make holiday cards for me with a family picture but I declined. I didn"t need them to help me with cards or gifts or decorations-I liked all that stuff. And I"d do it next year.
But once again, our friends wouldn"t let the holiday pa.s.s unnoticed. The previous year, our friend John had placed a graceful white fir tree on our front lawn and Isabelle and company left a basket of ornaments on a table with a notebook, a pen, and a picture of the girls. Friends, neighbors, and people pa.s.sing by stopped at our house to tie a decoration on the tree and leave their good wishes. It looked so pretty that I couldn"t help feeling some holiday cheer. Isabelle had put a note on the door asking people to respect our privacy, but I took it down, horrified. How could I not welcome well-wishers inside? The house was filled with people and noise and laughter-and, as happened so often, the silence crushed me when they left.
That wouldn"t happen this year. With Kasey, the curse of quietude had ended. Silence no longer choked us.
On Christmas morning, our friends came over for my now-traditional (three years running!) holiday breakfast spread. John had left another tree outside that the neighborhood children could decorate. Warren and I took Kasey outside and watched together as the children draped ribbons and ornaments on the green branches. People stayed longer than we"d expected, eating and talking and enjoying the good feeling. When they finally left, a different kind of panic descended. I had too much to do. I wanted to visit the girls at the cemetery, and I needed to fit that in fast because we were planning to drive out to New Jersey for Christmas dinner with my brother Stephen and his family. I hadn"t been to Stephen"s house since before the accident, and I had steeled myself to restart the tradition that the girls had loved. Families should be together, and Stephen"s three children had been hurt by our absence.
"The kids miss their aunt Jackie," my brother had said to me one day.
"Their aunt Jackie"s not here anymore," I had said sadly. The carefree, fun-loving person who adored nieces Isabelle and Marguerite and nephew Spencer seemed to be gone for good.
But maybe Aunt Jackie could come back to the fold. With Kasey, I finally felt strong enough to handle being part of the family again. I eagerly antic.i.p.ated introducing Kasey to her cousins.
The only problem: time was not on my side.
"I"m not dressed and the baby"s not dressed and we still have to get to the cemetery!" I shouted at Warren. "Tell my brother we can"t come! We have to visit the girls!"
Warren checked his watch. Sure enough, we didn"t have time for everything. But with my extended family waiting for us in New Jersey, and a Christmas ham ready to slice, he had a different list of priorities.
"Let"s skip the cemetery and get to your brother"s," Warren suggested. "We"ll visit the cemetery another day."
"Are you kidding? How could I not see the girls on Christmas?"
"Jackie, you don"t have to go there to see them. They know," he said.
"We have to fit everything in," I persisted. "We can"t leave the girls out and we can"t leave out Kasey. Let"s see, you go to the cemetery and I"ll go to my brother"s with the baby. Or, no, I"ll go to the cemetery and you go to my brother"s. Or maybe-"
"Calm down," Warren said, interrupting my tirade.
I glared at him, my mind spinning plans.
"Jackie, we have to live in the present," Warren said firmly. "And that means all of us going to your brother"s together and celebrating Christmas. The girls are with us wherever we go."
I"m not sure why his good sense penetrated this time, but it did. I put Kasey in her special red plaid taffeta Christmas dress and pulled myself together faster than usual. We got to New Jersey, and I walked into my brother"s house, still shaken, but holding the baby in my arms. Some relatives who hadn"t seen Kasey yet gathered around, and my cousin Michele, who lives in the same two-family house as my mom, started crying.
"Stop it, Michele," I said, smiling even as I felt tears popping into my own eyes. "No crying on Christmas."