I'll See You Again Part 16

Eager to make them proud-and have a thriving business that would make us all happy-I signed up for a cake-decorating cla.s.s at the Inst.i.tute of Culinary Education in Manhattan. With some training, I could do hydrangeas or daisies or roses. Katie was about to start first grade, and I was about to start my cooking cla.s.ses. We could learn and grow together. But then the accident happened and I couldn't imagine going to the cla.s.ses.

The morning of Emma's ninth birthday, Warren and I went to ma.s.s and then drove out to the cemetery. Friends tried to cheer up the grim scene with balloons and flowers and stuffed animals, but Warren and I cried as we left the presents we had bought our Emma-pink sneakers and a pretty bracelet, her favorite peanut b.u.t.ter, and some magazines she loved. We wanted her to be happy, but the silence of the cemetery seemed to scream a different story. Warren and I walked away without a word, in our own private worlds, with our private tears.

In the afternoon, about forty children and adults came to the house. I felt completely numb. Emma's friends clambered merrily on the swing set like they always had, and watching them, my head began spinning in confusion. How do you have a happy birthday party when the birthday girl isn't there to enjoy it?

I hadn't moved any of Emma's or Alyson's toys or clothes since the accident, and the room they shared remained exactly as it had always been. The beds were made and the duvets fluffed. The eye masks the girls liked to slip on at bedtime waited neatly on the pillows and their slippers were tucked by the side of their beds. Their jackets hung tidily from the coatrack. The familiarity of the scene made their friends comfortable. As they swarmed into the girls' room to play, I pushed aside my own agony. It would be nice if I could still make the other children happy.

"If you like that, you should take it," I said to one little girl who was admiring a kooky pen on Emma's dresser. The pens with faces on them were a big fad then and Emma had a huge collection.

"Really?" she asked, picking it up carefully.

"Sure. Emma would want you to have it," I said, with a smile on my face and a lump in my throat, thinking of how generous my daughter had always been with her friends.

"Oh, thank you!" she said happily.

Almost on autopilot, I repeated similar offers and watched as children walked away clutching little mementos of their lost friends. Even though the offers were genuine, part of me wanted to scream "No, give it back!" each time a child danced off with one of my daughters' possessions. Handing over their toys confirmed that they would never be here to play with them themselves.

I kept up my friendly charade for the whole party. Having so many children das.h.i.+ng through the house and yard and bas.e.m.e.nt was both heartening and heartbreaking. All our families had been so close over the years that I had come to adore many of these children and care about them as my own.

But they weren't my own. My own weren't here.

After everybody left, I fell apart, the facade shattering into shards of grief. And it didn't get better. For a full week after, I barely left my bed, crying mournfully and hoping each time I went to sleep that I would never wake up again. The school year stretched ahead of me, and all the usual high points now loomed as nadirs of unmitigated misery. I couldn't face another birthday party, not to mention Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Mother's Day.

But as Alyson's Communion date approached, I couldn't ignore it. Emma had enjoyed the big party we threw at her Communion, and now Alyson deserved the same, right? Food, music, catering hall-we'd do everything just as Aly would have wanted. In the dark of night, I reeled at the thought of smiling through another party that was missing the guest of honor, but I didn't think I had a choice. I didn't know how to change the track that my life had been on, and despite the accident, I didn't want to. I'd continue to shop for the girls, buy them presents, celebrate big events like Communion.

"If a party is going to be too much for you, don't do it," one of my friends said.

"How could I not?" I asked. "Aly was so excited about her Communion. She'd been talking about it."

"You don't have to, Jackie. Maybe worry about yourself."

I shook my head, troubled and dazed. I couldn't think like that. I didn't ever want to think like that. My friend meant to be kind, but how could she suggest I give up on Aly? As a parent, you may get frustrated and tired or even despairing, but you always put your children ahead of yourself. You sign up to be a parent forever, and the connection never ends. Your children are your children, whatever happens to them.

So I started planning the party.

Communion is a sacrament, but like a Jewish bar mitzvah, the ritual includes both ceremony and celebration. Going overboard seems to be part of a lot of coming-of-age observances, and Emma and I spent a lot of time before her party discussing what white dress she should wear. We knew girls whose families had spent hundreds of dollars on elaborate Communion outfits and then made them a family tradition. But we figured Alyson and Katie would each want their own Communion dresses, rather than a hand-me-down.

"If you're going to wear it once and then outgrow it, why go crazy?" I asked. "We can spend money on something else."

"Okay with me," said ever-practical Emma.

My mom made a special gift of a headpiece, veil, and shawl that all three girls would be able to wear at their Communions. Then Emma and I went shopping and found a beautiful dress that was under $100. She looked like a princess dancing at her party, and when she spilled a c.o.ke all over it and started to cry, I told her not to worry. And I meant it.

And now it was Alyson's turn.

I didn't get to buy a dress for Alyson, but I wanted the party to be just the way she'd like it. I booked a gala room at the New Hyde Park Inn and hired a DJ to get everyone dancing. I sent out invitations, but instead of presents, I suggested our guests donate art supplies to the nearby children's hospital. Aly had been a good artist and wanted to be an art teacher, and she would have liked knowing that other children would get to paint and draw because of her.

The day of the party, I took more antidepressants and antianxiety pills than usual. I'd become masterful at turning myself into some automated version of myself in public, stripped of feeling, able to smile and function. I knew my ever-smiling Alyson would want everyone happy at her party-including me-so I put on my best false front and danced to the music. Alyson's sweet friends gathered around me and we all danced together, with arms swinging and bodies moving. My animation gave them permission to have fun, too.

Alyson would have liked the party. She would have been proud of me.

Warren, though, was responsible for the most memorable moment of the night. Just as the party was beginning, he stepped to the dance floor and took the microphone.

"Thank you all for coming," he said to the gathering crowd. "Before this party starts, I'd like to take this moment to dance with my wife."

I didn't quite know what he had planned, but he guided me gently toward the dance floor and put his arms around me. He had arranged that the first song the DJ played would be Michael Buble's touching and emotional "Hold On." All the guests gathered around, swaying to the music and overcome by the words that seemed written just for us.

Didn't they always say we were the lucky ones?

I guess that we were once,

Babe, we were once.

But luck will leave you 'cause

It is a faithless friend ...

As Buble's mellow, romantic voice filled the room, I leaned my head on Warren's shoulder and held him tightly. All around me, I saw our friends weeping, but I disengaged myself from the moment and refused to cry. I didn't want to hear the lyrics about how once we'd been so lucky and now life had turned. If I managed to hold myself together through this song, then I'd be okay for the whole party-and I could go home later and collapse in private.

And in the end, when life has got you down,

You've got someone here that you can wrap your arms around.

So hold on to me tight ...

We are stronger here together,

Than we could ever be alone.

I let the music wash over me, knowing that if I looked into Warren's eyes, we would both dissolve. Like Sinatra, Buble has a crooning, worldy-wise style, and Warren had chosen the song carefully. However much we had been fighting, however much our anger and grief threatened to incinerate our marriage and destroy us, he wanted me to believe in him. Most of our guests must have agreed with Buble that even though life had gotten us down, we were stronger together than apart. Because as Warren and I clung to each other, there wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.

The sad truth, though, was that Warren and I didn't make each other stronger. He couldn't stand to see me constantly upset, and I had such loathing for Diane and the cruelty of what she'd done that I couldn't stop myself from las.h.i.+ng out. The accusation I kept promising myself not to make eventually slipped out.

"Your sister killed our kids," I hissed in the midst of a fight one evening in October. I knew the comment was rude and wrong, but I couldn't control my venom.

We launched into the kind of pitched battle that occurs only when you think there's nothing left to lose. Grief is harder to handle than rage, so transforming one into the other had its purpose.

"Do you think Emma died scared?" I asked Warren. "Do you think they all did? Every time I close my eyes, I hear her crying." Her sobs from our last phone conversation persistently rang in my head.

"I don't know. We'll never know. But she wasn't crying when I talked to her," he reminded me, as he always did. He had spoken to her after I did.

"They must have known what was happening when Diane drove onto the highway," I persisted, tormenting us both, and beginning to sob. "Can you imagine? They probably looked out the window and started screaming. But they were helpless."

"Jackie ..."

"Why wasn't I there to hold them? Did they cry out for me?" Now my whole body was shaking in anguish.