Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas (12 page)

I’m here, sweetie. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be right here.

“What are you doing, Suzie?” Matt whispered. I hadn’t heard him come into the nursery. Daddy can be as quiet as a cat.

“Nick couldn’t sleep.”

Matt looked into the crib and saw your tiny hand clenched to your mouth like a teething ring.

“God, he’s beautiful,” Matt whispered. “I mean it—he is gorgeous.”

I looked down at you. There wasn’t an inch of you that didn’t make my heart leap.

Matt put his arms around my waist. “Want to dance, Mrs. Harrison?” He hadn’t called me that since our wedding day. My heart
fluttered like a sparrow’s in a birdbath.

“I think they’re playing our song.”

And to the high, plucky notes that came squeaking out of your music box, Matt and I danced round and round in your nursery
that night. Past the stuffed animals, past Mother Goose and your homemade rocking horse, past the stars and the moon that
float from your homemade mobile. We danced slowly and lovingly in the low light of your tiny cocoon.

When the music finally wound down to its final note, Matt kissed me and said, “Thank you, Suzanne. Thank you for this night,
this dance, and most of all for this little boy. My whole world is right here, in this room. If I never had another thing,
I would have everything.”

And then strangely—magically —as if your music box were just taking a rest, it played one more sweet refrain.

Nick,

Melanie Bone came over to baby-sit while I went to work. Full day, full load. Melanie’s kids were in Maine with her mother
for a week, so she gave Grandma Jean a breather. It feels strange to leave you for this long, and I can’t stop thinking about
what you’re doing now.

And
now.

And
now.

The last time I felt this tired, I was working my butt off at Mass. General in Boston. Maybe it’s because I’m juggling so
many things again these days. Having a job and a baby is even harder than I thought. My respect for all mothers has never
been higher, and it was high to begin with. Working mothers, mothers who stay at home, single mothers—they are all so amazing.

Something happened at the hospital today that made me think of your delivery.

A forty-one-year-old woman who was on vacation from New York was brought in. She was in her seventh month, and not doing well.
Then all hell broke loose in the emergency room. She began to hemorrhage. It was so terrible. The poor woman ended up losing
her baby, and I had to try to console her.

You probably wonder why I’m writing about this. Even I thought twice before sharing this sad story with you.

But it has made me realize more than ever how vulnerable we are, how life can be like walking on a high wire. Falling seems
a tiny misstep away. Just seeing that poor woman today, and remembering how lucky we were, made me catch my breath.

Oh, Nicky, sometimes I wish I could hide you like a precious heirloom. But what is life if you don’t live it? I think I know
that as well as anyone.

There’s a saying I remember from my grandmother: One today is worth two tomorrows.

Dear Show-off,

You are starting to hold your own bottle. No one can believe it. This little guy feeding himself at two months. Every new
experience that you have, I take as a gift to me and Daddy.

Sometimes I can be such a goofball. Reduced to gauzy visions of station wagons, suburbia, and bronzed baby shoes. So I had
to do it. I had to have your picture professionally taken.

Every mother has to do it once. Right?

Today is the perfect day. Daddy is off on a trip to New York, where someone has taken a liking to his poems. He’s very low-key
about it, but it’s the greatest news. So the two of us are home alone. I have a plan.

I got you dressed in washed-out blue overalls (so cool), your little work boots (just like Daddy’s), and a Red Sox baseball
cap (with the peak bent just so).

The cap had to go! You freaked out over it; I guess you thought I was trying to attach antlers to your head.

Here’s the whole scene, just in case you don’t remember it.

When we got to the You Oughta Be in Pictures photography studio, you looked at me as if to say,
Surely you have made a grotesque mistake.

Maybe I had.

The photographer was a fifty-year-old man who had no kidside manner at all. It wasn’t that he was mean, he was just clueless.
I got the idea that his real specialty might be still life, because he tried to warm you up with a variety of fruits and vegetables.

Well, one thing is certain. We now have a unique set of pictures. You begin with the surprised look, which quickly dissolves
into a slightly more annoyed attitude. After that you enter the cantankerous phase, which swiftly disintegrates into the angry
portion of our program. And last, but not least, irreconcilable meltdown.

There is a small consolation. At least you can’t tell Daddy. He’d get too much mileage out of his
I told you so
’s.

Forgive me this one. I promise I will never show these pictures to new girlfriends, old fraternity brothers, or Grandma Jean.
She’d have them in every shop window on the Vineyard before dusk.

Nicky,

It was a little cool out, but I bundled you up and we took a picnic basket down to Bend in the Road Beach — to celebrate Daddy’s
thirty-seventh birthday.
God, he’s old!

We made castles and sand angels and wrote your name in big bold letters until the surf came and washed it away.

Then we
wrote it again,
high enough up so the water couldn’t reach it.

It was such a total blast to watch you and Daddy play together. You are very much a chip off the old block, two peas in a
pod, Laurel and Hardy! Your mannerisms, your ways, your gestures, are Matt’s. And vice versa. Sometimes when I look at you,
I can imagine Daddy when he was a boy. You are both joyful, graceful, and athletic, beautiful to watch.

So there you are, just back to our blanket from fighting sand monsters and friendly sea urchins, when Matt reaches into his
pocket and pulls out a letter. He hands it to me.

“The publisher in New York didn’t want my collection—
yet
—but here’s a consolation prize.”

He had sent a poem off to a magazine called the
Atlantic Monthly.
They accepted it. He didn’t even tell me he was doing it. Said he didn’t want it to be out there just in case it didn’t happen.
But it did, Nicky, and he got the letter on his birthday.

I asked if I could read it, and Matt unfolded a separate sheet of paper. It was the poem, and he had it with him all this
time.

My eyes teared up when I saw the title, “Nicholas and Suzanne.”

Matt told me that he had been writing down all the things I say and sing to you, that he’d strain to overhear my little poems
and rock-a-bye rhymes.

He said that this wasn’t just his poem but mine, too. He told me that it was
my voice
he heard in these lines; so we had created it together.

Daddy read part of it out loud, above the crashing surf and screeching gulls.

Nicholas and Suzanne

Who makes the treetops wave their hands?

And draws home ships from foreign lands,

And spins plain straw back into gold

And has a love too large to hold . . .

Who chases the rain from the sky?

     And sings the moon a lullaby,

And grants the wishes from a well

And hears whole songs sung from a shell . . .

Who has the gift of making much?

From everything they hold or touch,

Who turns pure joy back into life?

For this I thank my son, my wife.

What could be better than this?

Absolutely nothing.

Daddy said this was his best birthday ever.

Nicholas,

Something unexpected has happened, and I’m afraid it’s not so good.

It was time again for your dreaded baby shots. I hated to have to put you through it. Your pediatrician on the Vineyard was
on vacation, so I decided to call a doctor friend in Boston. It was time for a visit to Beantown, anyway.

While I was in Boston, I would get my own physical. It was also a chance to catch up with friends, maybe do a little window
shopping on Newbury Street, eat at Harvard Gardens, and, best of all, show you off, Nicky Mouse.

We took the ferry over to Woods Hole and hit Route 6 by nine in the morning. This was our first adventure off the island.
Nicholas’s Trip to the Big City!

Your appointment was first. The children’s office looked exactly as it always had.
Highlights,
crayons, and blocks lay everywhere. A black clock cat moved its tail and eyes back and forth to the time. You were fixated
on it.

Other babies were crying and fidgety, but you sat there as quiet as a little mouse, checking out these new surroundings.

“Nicholas Harrison,” the receptionist finally called.

It was funny to hear your name announced so officially by a complete stranger. I almost expected you to answer, “Present.”

It was good to see my old buddy Dan Anderson, and he couldn’t believe how big you were already. He said he saw a lot of me
in you, and of course that thrilled me. But in fairness I had to show him pictures of Daddy, too.

“You seem so happy, Suzanne,” Dan said as he measured, tapped, and tuned you up, Nicky.

“I am, Dan. Never been happier. It’s great.”

“Leaving the big city did you a world of good. And just look at this future quarterback you’ve got here.”

I beamed. “He is the best little boy on this earth. Like you’ve never heard that before. Right?”

“Not from you, Suzanne.” He handed you back over to me. “It’s wonderful seeing you again, Mother Bedford. And as far as this
one goes, he’s the poster child for good health.”

Of course, I already knew that.

Now it was my turn.

I sat at the edge of the examining-room table, already dressed, waiting for my doctor, Dr. “Philadelphia” Phil Berman, to
come back in. Phil had been my doctor in Boston and had kept in touch with the specialist on Martha’s Vineyard. They complemented
each other nicely.

The physical had taken a little longer than usual. One of the nurses outside was watching over you, but I was anxious for
a hug and also to hit the road back to the Vineyard. That’s when Phil came in and asked me to step into his office.

We were old friends, so we exchanged small talk for a minute or two. Then Phil got down to business.

“Your stress test doesn’t look too good to me, Suzanne. I noticed a few irregularities on your EKG. I took the liberty of
calling downstairs to Dr. Davis. I know Gail was your cardiologist when you were here as a patient. She has your records from
the island. She’s going to squeeze you in today.”

“Wait a minute, Phil,” I said. I was stunned. This had to be wrong. I was feeling fine—
great,
actually. I was in the best shape of my life. “That can’t be right. Are you sure?”

“I know your history, and I would be remiss in not insisting that Gail Davis take a look. Hey, Suzanne, you’re here already.
Martha’s Vineyard is a long way off. Just do it. It won’t take long. We’ll keep Nicholas here until you’re done. Our pleasure.”

And then Phil continued, his tone changing ever so slightly, “Suzanne, you and I have known each other for a long time. I
just want you to take care of whatever this might be. It could be absolutely nothing, but I want a second opinion. You’d give
the same advice to any of your own patients.”

It felt like déjà vu, walking through the halls, heading to Gail Davis’s office.
Dear God, please don’t let this happen again. Not now. Oh please, God. Everything in my life is so good.

I entered the waiting room as if I were walking in a misty fog in a bad dream. I couldn’t focus or think.

The ominous mantra that kept repeating loudly in my brain was
Tell me this isn’t happening.

A nurse walked right up to me. Actually, I knew her from the hospital visits after my heart attack. “Suzanne, you can come
with me now.”

I followed her like a prisoner about to be executed.

Tell me this isn’t happening.

I was in there for nearly two hours. I think I was given every cardiology test known. I was worried about you, even though
I knew you were in good hands at Dr. Berman’s office.

When it was finally over, Gail Davis came in. She looked grave but Gail usually does, even at parties where I’ve seen her
socially. I reminded myself of that, but it didn’t really help.

“You have
not
had another heart attack, Suzanne. Let me put your mind at ease about that. But what I detect is some weakness in
two
of your valves. I suspect it was caused by the last cardiac infarction. Or possibly the pregnancy.

“Because the valves are damaged, your heart is having some difficulty pumping blood. You know where I’m going, Suzanne, but
I feel compelled to alert you. This is a warning, a very lucky warning.”

“I don’t feel very lucky,” I said.

“Some people never get a warning, and so they don’t get a chance to fix what could be about to break. When you get back to
Martha’s Vineyard, there’ll be more tests, then we can talk about your options. Valves may have to be replaced, or possibly
not.”

Now I was having trouble catching my breath. I absolutely refused to cry in front of Gail. “It’s so strange,” I said. “Everything
can be going along just great, and then one day,
whack,
you’re blind-sided—a lousy, crummy blow you didn’t see coming.”

Gail Davis didn’t say anything; she just put her hand gently on my back.

Nicky,

In the words of a feisty, little Italian girl, Michele Lentini, who used to be my best friend back in Cornwall, New York,
oh, marone.

Or, in the words of the Blues Brothers,
They’re not going to catch us, we’re on a mission from God!