I'll See You Again Part 18

"Do you like it?" he asked, wanting confirmation for what he already knew.

"It's perfect! I can't believe you bought me a convertible!" I said, bouncing around delightedly.

His grin got even bigger. For months now, nothing Warren tried to do eased any of my anguish. The only expressions he'd seen me show were grief and pain and anger. This flash of happiness must have felt like suns.h.i.+ne breaking through the clouds. And in fact, the literal and metaphoric happened together that afternoon, because as Warren opened the door so I could sit in the car, the rain stopped and the sky turned blue.

"I love it!" I said, sliding onto the leather seat. It's probably hardwired in guys to want to please their wives, and my enthusiasm made Warren puff out his chest just a bit.

Once Warren and I finished admiring the new car, I drove around the corner to show off to Isabelle.

"What fun!" she said excitedly. She and Kailey and Ryan piled into the convertible and we all drove through the neighborhood laughing and talking.

And then I got panicky. What was I doing? Given my constant fears of how other people perceived me, I suddenly dreaded the thought of anyone seeing me with the top down.

How awful! She traded in her kids for a convertible!

The crazy voices in my head always imagined what other people would be saying, and now they screamed that Grace Kelly could ride around with her hair blowing (or neatly tied with a scarf) in To Catch a Thief, but I had no right. I was a mom in mourning, not a Hollywood starlet.

The pleasure of the new car disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Fortunately, Warren had gotten the hardtop, so from the outside, n.o.body could tell that the square Volvo sedan could morph into a racy convertible. I never put the top down around town and figured everyone would a.s.sume that I'd appropriately moved from a minivan to a safe, smaller car.

But then a funny thing happened. On one of our Tuesday outings, Karen and I were shopping at a mall far away from Floral Park. Going where n.o.body recognized me allowed me some feeling of release, so when we started driving home and she goaded me to put down the roof, I figured, What the heck. Why not.

But transforming from sedan to convertible wasn't as easy as I thought. It started off okay. When we stopped at a red light, I put my foot on the brake and held down the b.u.t.ton. I felt like the captain of the stars.h.i.+p Enterprise as the roof lifted slowly, going straight up, before beginning its descent into the trunk, which had also smoothly opened. Then the light changed to green and I started driving again. Big mistake. Safety features don't allow that. Once I took my foot off the brake, the whole action stopped.

The roof was straight up in the air at a 90-degree angle, like a sailboat mast. It was a windy day, and given the awkward angle of the roof, the wind gusts slammed against it with unexpected force.

"The roof is going to fly off!" I called, almost screaming.

"Can't happen! Swedish engineering!" Karen shouted back, starting to laugh.

"Well, if it does, you're going to explain it to Warren. This was your idea!" I said, also laughing.

We were on a one-lane road with no place to pull over, so I drove slowly, not going above 20 mph. With the gusts pummeling the upright roof and the cars behind us honking, the whole situation struck me as hysterically funny. It felt like the car might just lift off the ground-a Volvo version of the Flying Nun.

I laughed louder and Karen did, too. By the time we pulled safely into a parking lot by the side of the road, our gales of laughter blew louder than the wind.

"OhmyG.o.dohymyG.o.dohmyG.o.d!" I said, trying to catch my breath.

We laughed so hard that we both started crying, and happy tears streaked down our cheeks. It was one of those unexpectedly exuberant moments that gives a jolt of sheer silly pleasure, making us forget everything else in the world. Given all the tears of devastation I'd shed-usually accompanied by howls, wails, and sobs-I didn't mind these tears at all. They certainly felt different.

We finally steadied ourselves, put the roof back up, and drove home. That night, I tried to tell the story to Warren, but except for my giggling in the retelling, it didn't sound very funny anymore.

"I guess you had to have been there," I finally said lamely, almost to myself.

Falling asleep that night, I realized that a car, great jewelry, new furniture-they're all just things at the end of the day, and they offer no lasting feelings. Children-and the memories of children-are what endure. A home, Warren, family, friends.h.i.+p. I needed to find what mattered again, to understand what had happened to my life and how to rebuild it when all that had truly sustained it was gone.

Eleven

Some of my friends say that Warren and I make an unlikely pair. We are simply wired differently. He's always evinced an easy contentedness, while I get restless. I don't need much sleep, and I never relax, even on vacation. The summer we joined a beach club, friends joked that I could never sit for very long.

"Anyone need anything?" the cabana boy asked one day, coming over to where my friends and I were lounging.

"We're good," I said. Then a minute later, I jumped up and dashed off to get some water or suntan lotion.

"Why didn't you ask him to get that?" Melissa asked when I came back.

"I needed to get up, anyway," I explained. I have a lot of energy-and a lot of anxiety-that I need to release, whether in useful activities like running or planning, or fruitless ones like worrying.

Warren and I grew up with different backgrounds, which partly explains our contrasting styles. My Italian family was emotional, voluble, and dramatic-so it's natural that I want to talk about everything. Sometimes too much. Warren has the more steadfast approach of his Germanic father. Mr. Hance, a retired postal worker, seemed resolute and resigned in the face of tragedy. He tried to keep his life orderly and unemotional, getting done what he needed to without a lot of fuss or fervor. He lost his only daughter and four of his grandchildren in one inexplicable accident, but he didn't talk about it much. Instead, he trudged to the cemetery every week to water the plants and tend the plots.

I sometimes wonder if men who maintain a pragmatic approach have emotions roiling underneath that they cover up with a solid facade. Or is the facade really the truth? Mr. Hance never talked about the breakup of his marriage decades earlier, but the pain must have reverberated. When Warren was fifteen, and Diane, the youngest, only eight, their mother had an affair and left. After Eileen moved out, Mr. Hance stayed behind to raise the four children on his own. Warren and his siblings had very little contact with their mother.

Warren became a pillar for his family, the one his siblings-his twin brother, John, their brother David, and the youngest, Diane-could rely on. The parents made a plan that when Diane reached twenty-one, they'd sell the house and split the proceeds. But as that birthday approached, Diane and Mr. Hance still lived there and Warren, ever the good guy, didn't want their lives to be disrupted. He bought half the house and let them stay. He eventually moved in with them while we were dating. When we got married, they left and Warren and I made it our home.

It's not surprising that Warren felt deeply connected to the house, but I just considered it the place we currently lived. He had strong roots, while I floated around, always imagining the brick-and-mortar that might make us happier. Once the girls. .h.i.t preschool, I talked about house-hunting in the nearby town where Jeannine and Rob and Melissa and Brad ultimately moved.

"Garden City has a middle school the girls would attend, rather than going from elementary school to high school," I said.

"The local schools were just fine for me," Warren insisted.

"I don't like that the girls have to share a room," I said, trying another angle. "The house is too cramped for three children."

"When I grew up, we had four children here," he said.

Try to argue that one.

Emma, Alyson, and Katie loved the house and our big backyard, too. I was the only one who had a problem with it, who wanted to move on.

I knew he was right about the town, though. Friends and neighbors cloaked us in love and support. I don't know if every community is like ours, but people gathered around us with extraordinary warmth and caring. Warren and I joked that we had an open-door policy, and we meant it quite literally. We never locked the door, happy to have anybody stop by, and fortunately, people popped in regularly.

We've always been lucky with our friends, and now several couples in our closest circle seemed to put everything else aside to be with us. They never made a fuss about it-they just showed up. The five women in my running group bolstered me daily. Friends I had grown up with-many of them still in New Jersey-checked in regularly, and those from Warren's early years-many of them still in Floral Park-recharged their bonds. My cell phone rang constantly with women from the bowling league or prayer group that I had joined. Neighbors and fellow parents from town came by on unexpected evenings with food or funny stories.

"h.e.l.lo, Hances!" our ever-merry friend Bob GaNun would call out when he sauntered in, a couple of nights a week. "It's Uncle Bob." He would sing a song or do an Elvis impersonation so good that he could be onstage in Las Vegas. For a few minutes, Warren and I would smile and feel safe from our endless arguments.

Warren's brother David got a leave from his air force posting in Korea for the funeral and then, not wanting to abandon Warren, asked to be transferred to New Jersey. We converted our bas.e.m.e.nt into his weekend bedroom, and having him nearby was good therapy for Warren. The two of them bonded over drill bits and chain saws. Warren had many home-improvement ideas, and David, a great hands-on guy, actually knew how to do them. Typical guys, they didn't have to talk to get comfort. Pounding nails and climbing ladders seemed to do the trick.

David became the weekend cus.h.i.+on between Warren and me, keeping us from turning volatile on those long Sat.u.r.days and Sundays when other people were busy with their families. I loved David and appreciated what he did for Warren. But he was a Hance, a brother of Diane, yet another reminder of what had happened.

"I can never get away from your family!" I yelled at Warren one afternoon. "Diane is dead, but she won't leave us alone!" When I went to visit the girls at the cemetery, I saw her tombstone. When I talked to Warren, Mr. Hance, or David, I glimpsed her face. No matter what I did, I could never get away from her.

Feeling ambivalent about family was new for me. Warren and I had always kept blood relatives close. Emma, Alyson, and Katie had adored my mom, who babysat for them often. Mr. Hance-Poppy-was a daily presence in their lives, and many aunts and uncles and cousins came by frequently. When the girls had questions about other relatives, we answered them simply.

"Mommy's daddy is in heaven," I told the girls, and we visited him in the cemetery often.