I'll See You Again Part 15

On evenings Warren and I expected to have a few drinks, we used to hire a local guy named Gersham to drive us. If he wasn't available, we arranged for a cab or a.s.signed someone in our crowd to be the designated driver. From a very young age, the girls knew that Mommy and Daddy would never drink and drive. n.o.body should. It was too dangerous.

Thinking about that, I dropped the lipstick and stared into s.p.a.ce.

Explaining the open vodka bottle that the police found, Danny insisted that Diane was simply transporting it home-an excuse that caused eye-rolling from most people but made some sense to me. Diane once told me that with a lot of teenagers around the campsite, she left only fis.h.i.+ng equipment in the camper during the week, worried that somebody would break in.

"That's all I need-kids drinking in my camper," she had said.

But the facts seemed to point in a different direction. Open vodka bottle. Drunk driver. Wasn't it all obvious? The problem was, I could not imagine Diane swigging vodka in front of the children.

And thinking about Emma and Gersham and our getting-dressed-before-a-date conversations, a new thought struck me.

If Emma had seen Diane with a vodka bottle, she would have said something. She knew you didn't drink and drive. She knew.

The very thought made my head spin.

Are you saying an eight-year-old should have stopped her? a more rational part of myself retorted.

No! I argued back. But Emma knew the danger, so she would have said something on the phone.

But she didn't. Are you trying to blame her?

Of course not! But maybe that proves something else happened. Maybe Diane wasn't drunk. Because Emma would have mentioned it.

Somehow, I managed to stop perseverating long enough to put on makeup and get dressed. My mind far away, I added chandelier earrings, a few necklaces, and the stack of EAK bracelets I always wore. I smiled, remembering how Dr. O'Brien had teased me that I might be suicidal, but I still accessorized.

I tried to put myself in a better mood as Warren and I drove silently to a local restaurant called Fiore. Often Melissa and Brad, Jeannine and Rob, or Isabelle and Mark would scoop us up and take us out on Sat.u.r.day night, hoping that a couple of hours of laughter and good food would be some relief. Tonight, they were all there, along with several other couples, at a noisy table dotted with wine and beer bottles. Warren and I sat down to join the revelry, and the owners came by to make sure we felt comfortable.

"I just want you to have a good time," one of the owners said generously. "Anything you need, just tell me."

"Oh, thanks, we're fine," I said, lying.

Someone put a beer in front of me, and I looked around nervously, feeling self-conscious about the people at nearby tables. If I thought it wrong to be having fun, how much more judgmental would others be? Everyone must be gossiping about us, shaking their heads in surprise to see me laughing or holding a beer.

You shouldn't be partying, the ever-chiding voice in my head warned.

I looked across the table at Warren and saw him trying to put on a brave show. Okay, we could smile for a couple of hours, enjoy our friends, act like normal people. I let my spirits lift ever so slightly.

Later, when Warren and I got home, a toxic mix of guilt and gloom descended on us the moment we closed the front door.

"You really didn't eat very much tonight," Warren said as we walked into our empty living room. Maybe he meant to be nice, but it was enough to start a fight.

"I don't know how you could eat," I retorted. "The girls don't get to eat. Why should we?"

"Not eating won't bring them back."

"It's disrespectful. If you had a child in a wheelchair, would you dance in front of her?"

"It's different, Jackie!"

"It's not. If they can't enjoy food anymore, why should we?"

"We have to accept what's happened and try to live," Warren said, trying to be reasonable.

"I don't want to live," I said bluntly. I folded my arms across my chest, loneliness enveloping me like a shroud. Warren stood very still. He wanted to make things better for me, and I knew of a way he could.

"One of us has to be with the girls," I said, thinking I sounded very rational. "They're so little. They need a parent to take care of them. You kill me and I'll go to heaven and be with them."

"I'm not doing that, Jackie," Warren said sadly. "I refuse to make this story any worse than it is."

"Then I'll kill you," I said earnestly. "I don't care if I go to jail. What difference does it make? I'm glad to sit in jail if I know you're in heaven with the girls."

"n.o.body is killing anybody. We've had enough death."

"Please, Warren! Kill me or I'll kill you! I don't care which! One of us has to be with the girls!"

I started sobbing. I didn't expect Warren to hold me, since that wasn't in our repertoire anymore. He couldn't make the pain go away, and sometimes being with him only made it worse.

I ran up to the girls' room and slammed the door. It was swelteringly hot but I wouldn't turn on the air-conditioning. Forget the glorious images I liked to envision of heaven-the girls were lying buried in the ground. They were probably hot. And I would sit here in their room, hot, sweating, crying, alone. It was the only way I could be close to them.

Nine

Birthdays had always been big events in our family. I liked throwing parties at our house with throngs of friends and outsize buffets. I loved to cook and bake and people always raved about my food. Even more important, I knew how to make pretty displays that got lavish praise before anybody even took a bite of the goodies inside.

In September, as Emma's birthday approached, I started planning her party. Whether the girls were with me or not, I was their mother. Nothing could change my dedication. Even though she was gone, Emma deserved a celebration on September 9, the day she would have turned nine.

Emma's first birthday had been my best bash ever. We had rented a big tent for the backyard, which we put next to the brand-new swing set our friends had chipped in to buy, one big gift instead of many smaller ones. Already seven months pregnant with Alyson, I whipped up pastas and salads and a prettily decorated cake. I convinced one of Warren's longtime friends to get into an Elmo costume I'd rented, and he wandered around entertaining the little ones. I'd also hired a clown I found through an ad. She arrived cheerfully dressed in a jester's costume but turned out to be a slightly weird middle-aged woman who kept fanning herself and complaining about hot flashes.

After Emma's first birthday party, I had envisioned all the birthday fetes yet to come-and went out and bought a party tent. Warren had gasped at the $2,500 price tag.

"It'll be worth it!" I promised him. "We won't have to rent again. It's a great investment."

Just for fun, I bought a popcorn machine, too.

My purchases paid off in pleasure in those early years and even led to a catering business that I launched after Katie was born. I got hired for a few big functions like christenings, showers, and an engagement party, and the girls always had fun pitching in. For one Communion brunch, Emma helped me take little baby quiches off the baking trays and we arranged them together on platters, with pretty tomato rosettes between them. I remember looking up at her, hands sticky and face streaked with flour, and thinking how lucky I was to have such a perfect a.s.sistant.

People loved my parties, but I spent so much making everything look special that I lost money on every gig. I switched to cupcakes-only-catering, and once again, the girls were my secret weapon. We decorated cupcakes with candies and gumdrops and streaks of sparkle sugar that were a big hit at children's parties. I got hired for a wedding shower, and I was excited until the bride announced she wanted different-colored hydrangeas on each cupcake. Hydrangeas? I didn't know enough icing tricks to make elaborate flowers, so I bought premade fondant blossoms to scatter across the frosting. Sure enough, guests cheered when I brought out the trays, but my bank account suffered.

The girls and I loved to watch cooking shows on TV, and one night we all sat together, giddily watching Ultimate Cake Off on the Food Network.

"You should be on this show!" Alyson had said.

"You bake better than anyone," Katie agreed, giving me a hug.