by Jackie Hance
“Jackie, I did everything I could,” Warren said wearily.
I had stopped going to mass because it seemed pointless, and a bad sermon from a priest could throw me into a funk. On the other hand, I had joined a women’s prayer group—just in case. I was afraid not to.
“I come here out of superstition,” I admitted to Kathy, the lovely woman who ran the group. “I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t.”
“We’re here to pray for you and your children,” she said kindly.
We’d go around the room and tell our intentions and do a rosary. Everyone in the room asked for something nice. One woman needed a job, another prayed that the world would get safer. A few times I just prayed for Warren, because I understood that if he wasn’t okay, I couldn’t be, either. It was simple and straightforward, just hope and goodness without any overlays of guilt and confession.
My mom believed in the Rapture, a final resurrection when we would all be together again. She talked about heaven as a wonderful place.
“The girls never have to go through pain again,” she said to me. “Doesn’t that make you feel good?”
I had believed in heaven when my dad died at age fifty-six. And when my paternal grandmother followed a short time later, I was glad that they were together again. But now I had nagging doubts.
Is there a heaven? I wondered.
Who really knows? Maybe the girls were just in the cemetery, in the dirt.
Regardless, my hope that I would—and could—see the girls again persisted.
My childhood friend Cortney was the only one who was completely understanding. We’d known each other since we were four years old, and she loved me so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of my suffering.
“Okay, I get it,” she said. “If that’s what you need to do, you should.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy?” I asked.
“No. You can’t live in this pain. I know that.”
Her affirmation had an oddly calming effect on me. I could be with the girls whenever I wanted—the timing just wasn’t right yet. I always had something to get to first. I had to make it through Alyson’s Communion. I could never let people’s kindness go unnoticed, so I had to write thank-you notes to everyone who had given gifts and donations. And it wouldn’t be fair to leave before I had celebrated Katie’s birthday. I had to be here for Family Fun Day, of course. And then write more thank-you notes to all the volunteers. I might be suicidal, but I wasn’t rude.
“I can’t kill myself until after May,” I told Dr. O’Brien during couples therapy one day.
“Why is that?” he asked calmly.
“I have to be here for Family Fun Day. It wouldn’t be right for everyone who’s working so hard if I weren’t here.”
“I think that’s a good decision,” he said.
“But after that . . . I don’t know.”
“Then just focus on May,” he said. “After that, we can make another plan.”
“I can’t listen to her talk this way anymore!” Warren shouted, exploding in anger. “Every time I go out, I wonder if she’ll still be here when I get home.”
“She’s here,” Dr. O’Brien said, trying to provide some perspective.
“But she talks about killing herself all the time. You have to make her stop.”
“Jackie needs that coin in her pocket, Warren. Don’t take it away from her.”
“I can’t stand it,” Warren persisted.
“You have to understand that it’s helpful to Jackie to know she has a way out,” Dr. O’Brien said reasonably. “But she hasn’t taken it yet. And Jackie’s a planner. If she has a date set in her mind that she has to get to, she’ll get there.”
But we all knew that May and Family Fun Day were still far away.
“Plan a trip together,” Dr. O’Brien advised. “You both need something closer to look forward to.”
This time, Warren jumped in to help. He talked to Brad and Mark about where we could all go for a grown-up vacation. The guys settled on a long weekend in Key West—figuring there wouldn’t be many children there. A nonfamily location was important. This would be a getaway for all of us.
“We have the tickets,” I told Dr. O’Brien at the next therapy session. “We’re going to Key West.”
“That’s great!” Dr. O’Brien said with huge enthusiasm.
“Why are you so happy?” I asked grumpily.
“The trip is another stepping-stone for you. You need those. We’ll just keep jumping from one to the next.”
“And when we get to the end I can kill myself,” I said.
“But not until after Key West, right?” he asked. He knew how to make a deal.
“Well, we have the tickets. You know I can’t kill myself now,” I said.
• • •
The trip turned out to be ridiculously fun. With beautiful weather and delicious food to keep us going, we laughed for four days and left reality behind. At one point, the six of us walked into a shop in town filled with typical tourist paraphernalia. I started exclaiming over a little ceramic rooster that said “Key West” on it.
“I love this,” I said. “I want it for my kitchen.”
“Buy it,” said Melissa.
I picked it up just as Brad spotted a huge light in the awkward (and ugly) shape of an octopus.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed, flicking it on and off. “An octopus light! Isn’t it great? We’ve got to get it.”
“Ugh,” said Melissa. “Where would you possibly put it?”
“My man cave,” he said with a wink. Given Melissa’s household perfectionism, Brad’s “man cave” was the one room in the house that he was allowed to decorate as he liked. Melissa didn’t get any say over it. But she tried a practical argument.
“We’d never be able to get that, uh, thing home on the plane,” she pointed out.
“We ship anywhere,” the shopkeeper chimed in helpfully.
“You do? That’s great. We’ll take it,” said Brad. Then, turning to the rest of us, he said, “While we’re shipping, we might as well get a lot of other stuff, too!”
“Oooh, good!” Melissa and I said.
On a vacation-induced high, we strolled around the store, picking out all the Key West crafts that we absolutely had to have—from wooden signs with silly sayings to a Santa on a surfboard.
“I’ll get these,” said Melissa, picking up salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Key West’s most dreaded tourists—a heavyset man and woman in bathing suits.
We giggled and kept adding more items to our shipment. It reminded me of the shopping trips with Karen—just getting out of the house and indulging myself a little turned off the serious part of my brain.
Later, we wandered back into the sunshine, ate wonderful food, and sat by the ocean. Sitting in a lounge chair the next day with the sun beating on my face, I closed my eyes and thought about how sad I was. But as I tried to concentrate on my misery, I heard the gentle sounds of the waves on the shore and felt the warm breeze against my skin; bright sunshine hit my eyelids, making my interior life lighter.
I sighed and opened my eyes again.
“Here’s a lesson,” I said to whoever wanted to listen. “You can’t be depressed on a beach. It just doesn’t work.”
Melissa laughed. “Well, then, maybe we should all move permanently to the beach.”
If only. When the glorious getaway ended, my sun-induced high spirits fell.
Melissa and Isabelle had been sensitive enough not to talk about missing their kids while we were away, but as we sat on the plane home, I knew they could look forward to eager children greeting them at the door, telling them stories about what they’d done while their parents were away.
I sat on the plane, the window shade pulled. I’d lost the sunlight I’d had on the beach, the sun that forced my darkness away. The air-conditioning in the cabin was freezing, and a slight sunburn I’d gotten made the chill penetrate to my bones. My feet were so cold, I wished I
’d worn socks and shoes instead of sandals. The murmur of the passengers faded away as I realized that all I could look forward to getting back to was crying in my bed. And the moment the plane landed, the guilt descended, too.
“That whole trip was so wrong,” I said to Warren as we dragged our suitcases into our empty house. “We were laughing and pretending nothing had happened. It was terrible and disrespectful to the girls.”
“We have to allow ourselves moments of being normal,” Warren said calmly.
“We’re not normal. I’d rather feel miserable all the time than have these ups and downs.” My indignant words seemed to echo in the desolate room. “Why have fun if it’s such a letdown to come home?”
“It’s worth it. If you stay miserable all the time, you’re not participating in life.”
“Fine. I don’t want to have to participate anymore. I’m done with having fun,” I said adamantly.
“We have to keep trying.”
“NO! That whole trip was wrong and makes everything worse!”
As I got more agitated, Warren did, too, and our conversation deteriorated into yet another argument. I should have learned from other experiences that any high would be followed by an even lower low, and in the following days, I sank deeper into depression. The pleasures I’d felt on the beach in Key West disappeared into buried memory—until Melissa called, a couple of weeks later.
“You’ll never guess what arrived,” she said, her voice deep with foreboding.
“What?”
“A huge box from Key West. I have the octopus light and all the other stuff right here. Should I bring yours over?”
I tried to revive the happy spirit of the vacation shopping spree, but it had long receded.
“I don’t need any of that,” I said. “What were we thinking?”
“We were thinking that we deserved to have fun,” Melissa said gently. “Even you.”
A few days later, she brought over the ceramic rooster. It sat in my living room for a long time, a vague reminder of being happy for a moment in my new world order. I would look at the rooster and a book of photos that Brad made from that weekend and be amazed at how carefree we had been.
How could I have felt so good? And will it ever happen again?
Seventeen
For our eleventh wedding anniversary at the beginning of April, I didn’t expect any celebrating. I was too upset to recognize how much Warren wanted to make me happy. He liked to see my face light up, and he was growing worried that it never would again. I sometimes wondered if we were doing ourselves any favors by staying together. I had married Warren in part because he seemed so strong and solid, the man I could always rely on. When I was young, I was insecure enough that knowing a man could take care of me had an old-fashioned appeal. But now Warren’s own inner resources had been so crushed that he couldn’t possibly provide what I needed. Probably nobody could. I had become an empty shell, unable to give him the compliments, comforts, and caresses that he desperately desired. Just looking at each other caused pain.
A year earlier, Warren had marked our tenth anniversary by surprising me with lessons at a local dance studio—particularly amazing because he hated dancing. Whenever we went to a party, I begged him to join me on the dance floor, but he stood on the sidelines while I stepped out. So the lessons were the ultimate selfless gift and got me grinning immediately. He topped off the gift certificate for the lessons with a seductive dress that I could wear dancing and a full-day pass at a spa for hair, makeup, massage, and pre-dance indulgence. A perfect package.
“This is definitely worth another ten years together,” I teased him. And I meant it. How could I not love a man so thoughtful?
But the accident happened before we got to learn a single dance step together. I ended up donating the lessons to the foundation for a raffle and sticking the dress in the back of a closet.
Most of the time, Warren didn’t make a big deal of gifts. He’d often leave a package in the kitchen before he went to work, knowing I’d rip off the ribbon and open it myself. However, for our eleventh anniversary, Warren had a present that he knew I’d like. With an awkward smile, he handed me a prettily wrapped box and then stepped back, watching me closely as I opened it, probably hoping to see my face light up again.
“You bought it!” I said, opening the box and taking out a gorgeous diamond cross.
“The holy crap cross,” he joked.
“I never thought you’d buy it,” I said, holding it tenderly.
A few weeks earlier, I’d gone into the local jewelry store to thank the owners for the contributions they’d made to the foundation. Always friendly, they invited me to have fun and try on anything I wanted—and I got busy checking out pretty bracelets, fancy watches, and oversize cocktail rings. But my religious heart won out, and my eyes popped when I saw a big, sparkly necklace in one of the display cases.
“Holy crap, look at that cross!” I exclaimed, without thinking. “If I wore that cross, the girls could see me from heaven!”
When I went home and told Warren the story, he pointed out that I already had a cross.
“Not like that one. It would sparkle up to heaven,” I said.
Now for our anniversary, Warren wanted the girls to see my cross from heaven. He clasped the heavy strand at my neck and I looked in the mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I’m going to wear it all the time.”
“I hope it gives you a little happiness,” he said, his voice choked with tears.
We all need magic in the midst of misery, and that cross around my neck felt like a beacon of hope, connecting me to my girls in heaven. It also had earthly significance, as a gesture of love. Warren didn’t believe that the diamond cross would let the girls see me. He didn’t think we needed to spend money on jewelry right now. But he knew the cross might mean something to me, and that was enough. In the midst of all our fights and anger and hostility, I could pause now and then to touch the cross and feel a whisper of hope. Even if Warren didn’t always know how to improve our situation or ease my anger, he kept trying.
• • •
The cross reminded me of another happy gift Warren had given me. A few days before my last birthday, I had overheard Emma on the phone with Warren.
“No, no, Daddy, you have to buy a pink bike,” she had said, taking the portable phone out into the yard so I wouldn’t listen. “It has to be pink.”
I smiled to myself. The girls had been plotting a big birthday surprise for me, and they already told me that they wished I had a bike so I could go riding with them. I agreed.
“I can’t find a pink bike,” Warren told her. “What about a nice blue one?”
“No, pink.”
“Find out if Mommy would like a blue bike.”
Emma hung up and came back in. “Mommy, what’s your favorite color?” she asked.
“You know my favorite color is fuchsia,” I said, describing the deep pink that we all liked.
“Do you like blue?” she asked.
“I love blue, too.”
“Oh, good!” she said, a smile lighting up her face.
On my birthday, I was out doing errands when the babysitter called to ask when I’d be home.
“Soon,” I said, guessing why everyone was so eager.
A few minutes later, Emma called with the same question. I rushed to get home right away. As soon as I walked in the door, the girls began jumping up and down.
“SURPRISE!” they called out.
“Oooooh!” I said as they grabbed my arms and dragged me into the living room. The shiny blue bike stood in the middle of the room, and the girls had tied a big red bow on it.
“It’s perfect!” I said, admiring the leather seat and handles and the big basket in front. They’d picked an old-fashioned beach bike, just what I needed to go riding with them.
After I admired the bike and hugged each of the girls at least twice, Emma suggested we go on my first spin around the block.
&n
bsp; “Sure,” I agreed.
Alyson wanted to come, too, but I hadn’t been on a bike in ages, and I figured one girl at a time was all I could handle.
“I’ll come back and get you,” I promised Alyson.
Emma raced off to change from flip-flops to sneakers and to put on her helmet. We’d made safety rules long ago and they were inflexible.
“Where’s your helmet?” Emma asked me when she came back ready to ride.
“I don’t have one yet,” I said, new to the game.
“Maybe you should wear your ski helmet,” she suggested, ever careful. “And you should change your shoes, too. If I can’t wear flip-flops, you shouldn’t wear those.”
“I’ll be okay.”
But I should have listened to Emma. White bell-bottom jeans and sandals with high wedges aren’t proper garb for bike riding. We’d barely gotten around the block when my pants leg got caught in the chain and I fell over.
“Whoa!” I called as the bike tipped and I landed on the ground. I wasn’t hurt, and when I started to laugh, Emma did, too. I came home with torn jeans, a dose of humility, and a promise to do better. After that, I bought more practical biking outfits and rode everywhere with the girls. In part, I wanted to supervise them and keep them safe. But I also just liked being outside with them and feeling like a kid again on my cushy leather seat.
Now I couldn’t imagine that I would ever ride that bike again. I wanted to donate it to a charity, but Warren insisted I keep it.
“Why shouldn’t I give it away?” I asked him.
“Maybe you’ll ride it again,” he said. “You never know.”
I didn’t know where he thought I’d ride the bike—or with whom. But I left it in the garage, a sad reminder of a happy time.
I’d always made sure that birthdays were a big deal in our house, but I couldn’t imagine my birthday this year would be anything but misery. Turning thirty-nine, the famous Jack Benny age, didn’t mean a thing to me. I decided not to observe the occasion in any way, not even the usual lunch or dinner with friends.
So it was completely unexpected when my friend Maria, the hospice nurse, came over that afternoon and gave me a birthday hug.
