Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas (11 page)

Where was Suzanne right now? Maybe she should try to call her on Martha's Vineyard. Maybe they should talk. Katie wasn't sure if that was a good idea or if it would be one of her worst blunders ever.

She tried to work it through. What did she have to lose? A little pride, but not much else. But what about Suzanne? What if she had no idea about Matt? Was that even faintly possible? Of course it was. Wasn't that pretty much what had happened to Katie? Anything seemed possible to her right now. Anything was possible. So what had really happened?

This was so overwhelming--unbearable. The man she had loved, and trusted, and thought she completely understood, had left her. Wasn't that just typical these days? Wasn't it sad?

She remembered a particular moment with Matt that kept her going. He had woken up beside her one night and was crying. She had held Matt in her arms for a long time. She stroked his cheek. Finally Matt had whispered, “I'm trying hard to get everything behind me. I will. I promise, Katie.”

God, this was crazy!

Katie pounded her thigh with a closed fist. Her pulse was racing too fast. Her breasts really hurt.

She pushed herself out of her sofa, hurried into the bathroom, and threw up the pasta she'd just eaten.

A LITTLE WHILE later, Katie went into the kitchen and fixed herself more tea. She and Guinevere sat staring at the four walls. She had hung the kitchen cabinets herself. The guys at Chinatown Lumber knew her all too well. She had her own toolbox and prided herself on never having to call the super to fix anything. So fix what's wrong with your heart, Katie thought. Fix that!

Finally, she reached for the phone.

Merlin opened one sleepy eye as she nervously punched some numbers and heard a pickup on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Mom. It's me,” she said in a voice that came out much smaller than she intended.

“I know, Katie. What's the matter, sweetheart? Couldn't you just come home for a couple of days? I think it would do us all a world of good.”

This was so hard, so bad.

“Could you get Daddy to pick up, too?” she asked. “Get Daddy, please.”

“I'm here, Katie,” her father said. “I'm on in the den. I picked up when the phone rang. How are you?”

She sighed loudly. “Well . . . I'm pregnant,” Katie finally said.

Then all three of them were crying over the phone--because that's the way they were. But Katie's mother and father were already comforting her, saying, “It's all right, Katie, we love you, we're with you, we understand.”

Because that's the way they were, too.

Nicholas,

Just for the record. You started sleeping through the night early on. Not every night, but most, starting when you were about two weeks old, to the envy of all the other moms!

When you go through your little growth spurts, you wake up hungry. And what a little eater you are! You will eat anything--whether you're breast-fed, or bottle-fed formula, or water, you chow down and aren't picky.

On your first visit to the pediatrician after the initial hospital checkups, the doctor couldn't believe how you were already focusing on the toys she had laid out. She exclaimed, “He's extraordinary--sensational, Suzanne.” And she said you're “so smart and so strong” because when she turned you on your tummy, you lifted your head.

That's a great feat for a two-week-old. Nicholas the Warrior!

You were baptized at the Church of Mary Magdalene. It was a beautiful day. You wore my christening gown--a handmade heirloom of my aunt Romelle's family in Newburgh, New York. It was also worn by my cousins and various other relatives over the past fifty years, and it was in perfect condition. You looked sweet and were such a charmer.

Monsignor Dwyer was completely taken with you. During the baptism, you kept reaching for the service book and touching his hand. You were looking right at him, attentive as could be.

Toward the end of the service, after you hadn't missed a trick, Monsignor Dwyer said to you, “I don't know what you're going to be when you grow up, Nicholas. On second thought--you are grown up.”

It's my first day back at work today. Not surprisingly, I miss you already. No, let me make that a little stronger: I'm bereft without you.

I wrote something as I sat thinking about you--even between patients.

Nickels and dimes

I love you in rhythms

I love you in rhymes

I love you in laughter

Here and ever after

Then I love you a million

Gazillion more times!

I think I could come up with dozens of Nicky nursery rhymes if I tried. They just come to me when you do something silly, or smile, or even when you sleep. What can I say? You inspire poetry.

Matt loves them, too. And coming from him, it's a real compliment. Make no mistake about it, your daddy is definitely the writer in this family. But I still love writing these little love poems to you.

Yikes, here comes one now!

You're my little Nicky Knack

I love you so, you love me back.

I love your toes, your knees, your nose,

And everywhere a big kiss goes.

I kiss you tons, and know what then?

I have to kiss you once again.

Okay, little man, I have to go now. My next patient is here already. If she knew what I was doing behind closed doors in my office, the poor woman would flee to the free clinic in Edgartown.

I thought I'd ease into work with a half day, just to get used to the routine again. But ever since I arrived this morning, all I wanted to do was look at your pictures and write silly poems.

Anyone peeking in at me would think I was in love.

I am.

Nicky, it's me again--

I heard you crying tonight and got up to see what was the matter. You looked up at me with such sad little eyes. Your eyes are so blue, and always so expressive.

I looked to see if you needed changing--but it wasn't that. Then I checked to see if you were hungry--but it wasn't that, either.

So I lifted you up and sat with you in the rocker next to your crib.

Back and forth we went, back and forth, in a rhythm about double the rush of the ocean surf.

Your eyes started slowly closing, and your tears dissolved into sweet dreams. I placed you back in your crib and watched your heart-shaped bottom rising in the air. Then I turned you over on your back and watched your little tummy rise and fall.

I think all you wanted was a little company. Could you really just have wanted to be rocked and held and talked to?

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 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 moons 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 sos.

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.