Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss & Love (23 page)

I stacked our luggage neatly in the back of the rental car, strapped Madeline securely into her car seat, and climbed into the driver’s seat to wait for my friends. It was time to get back to our real lives. Mexico had been the right place to come. Here, Liz and I had learned that our relationship was not just grounded in Minneapolis, not just caught up in our high school years, not just based on our homegrown, hometown crushes.

Over the past few weeks, as this anniversary had approached, I had noticed some kind of resolution creeping into the voices of the people I talked to every day. Like we had made it to the end of the race, or that everything would now be better. Well, I could confirm that everything was just as it had been before the twenty-fifth. I was never going to not miss Liz, but during this trip I had realized that there was a way to hang on and let go at the same time. That I could retain all of the positive parts of my love for Liz without gripping so tightly to her memory that I cut off the oxygen flow to other parts of me.

In the five minutes it took for A.J. and Sonja to find Emilia’s missing pacifier, I figured out that I would mourn Liz for the rest of my life. I figured out that it would get easier to mourn her. I figured out that the unending anguish I felt would gradually become less intolerable. It would get more comfortable, this memory that I carried. It would fold itself into my blood, into my cells, into my DNA. My heart would pump it and my veins would carry it, every moment, all the time.

In my head I apologized to Liz for forgetting Maddy’s cake, and promised her that I would never do that again. Then I promised her that I would never move on. And right there in the rental car in the driveway of the condo, I switched my wedding band from my left hand to my right, where it will remain until the day I die, and I promised her that I would keep on learning how to move through. For her. For me. For Madeline.

Chapter 27

i’m dreaming of soap,

warm water and

a wash cloth

as some asshole

hands madeline

a cupcake with

green frosting.

it was something

she had no

intention of eating,

and i knew it.

M
adeline deserved a day that was just about her. I had to keep those two landmarks entirely separate, and the trip to Mexico had really been for Liz and for me, too. The proximity of Madeline’s birthday to her mother’s death was something she would be dealing with for the rest of her life, but I didn’t want her to ever feel overshadowed when we commemorated her life and her accomplishments.

I also felt a bit guilty for taking Maddy away to celebrate her birthday in Mexico, so having a second party at our house seemed like the best way to make it up to all of our friends and family. Even before we had purchased the plane tickets, I knew that I would want to celebrate her first birthday at our house in a major way when we returned. Actually, that’s an understatement—I wanted to make sure my daughter had the best fucking party we could possibly throw.

All the grandparents came out from Minnesota, and Deb came down from San Francisco. There was a fair amount of preparation to be done in order to properly entertain a house and yard full of people, and everyone was excited to be involved in planning out the details. The grandfathers were great about finding projects around the house that I’d long neglected. On this trip they decided that I should have a new dishwasher, stove, and tankless water heater installed, and they planned to have everything done in under two days. It sounded impossible, but my dad had been a contractor since the 1970s, and I swear he could build an entire house in a week. Whenever he came to visit, especially with my stepdad and Liz’s dad, too, I was ready to have my house turned into a construction zone. Deb and the grandmothers decided that the first task was cleaning up and reorganizing my house, and by the time they were done, I could see the floor in my dining room for the first time in almost a year.

As for the party itself, there was going to be ice cream, cake, party favors, and pink and blue balloons, and goldfish. Yep, live goldfish.

But the ice cream never came because the shop we ordered it from had a power outage and everything melted. The woman who was supposed to deliver Madeline’s birthday cake got into a (minor) car accident on the way to my house and never made the delivery. And the goldfish? When they arrived, they already seemed to be struggling. Of course, one expects a party favor goldfish to die eventually—but at the party? Unconscionable.

Deb saved the day by picking up two cakes and a couple of buckets of ice cream from the local grocery store, and my dad grabbed a straw and blew bubbles into each of the fishbowls, literally breathing new life into the struggling fish. I couldn’t believe it worked.

At most children’s birthday parties, there are many more adults than kids, and this one was no different. My friends, Liz’s friends, and new friends I had met through the blog were all clustered in the backyard. There were a significant number of children, though—enough for at least one mom to comment that she’d never seen so many children at a one-year-old’s birthday party. I thought that was pretty awesome.

It was like almost every other day in Los Angeles—sunny and hot—and people were standing and sitting wherever they could find some shade. The kids old enough to walk made their way along the short trails that wound around my yard, flipping over rocks to find lizards and throwing stones into my koi pond when their parents weren’t paying attention. The older guests sipped beer and wine while my dad flipped burgers and bacon and pineapple sausages on the grill. I played the good host, walking from group to group and stopping to make a few jokes or hold a baby. When everyone had had their fill of grilled meat and conversation, it was finally time for cake. Remembering how much Madeline had loved it in Mexico, I half-hoped she’d end up on top of the cake again. The other half of me—the clean freak half—hoped she wouldn’t get her outfit dirty.

My daughter sat atop the table in her pretty denim dress, waiting patiently as the party guests sang “Happy Birthday.” She had no idea what she was waiting for, but she knew that she had everyone’s undivided attention, and that was enough to keep her from making any sudden moves. I looked around at all of the people who’d assembled in our backyard, everyone who came to share in my family’s joy, and then it hit me: there hadn’t been this many people in the backyard since Liz’s wake. It was like déjà vu, but with a twist. Many of the faces surrounding me had been here just a year ago—but now they were here for a far different purpose, not dressed in dark funeral clothes, not crying. As I brought myself back to the present, a few tears flowed from my eyes.

I was crying for Liz, who would never see this birthday or any that would follow; I was crying for Madeline, who would never meet the woman I loved, the mother who had wanted to meet her so badly. I tried to shake the thoughts from my head, working hard to keep my promise of focusing today on Madeline’s happiness rather than on my own sadness. But it was hard. The reminders of Liz were everywhere, and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be our family of three.

When it came time to blow out the candle in the middle of the cake, Maddy stared at the flame, not sure what to do. She reached out, aiming her little fingers at the flickering light, and I quickly blew it out before she had a chance to learn what a second-degree burn felt like. Everyone clapped and cheered, eliciting a huge, largely toothless smile from Madeline.

In addition to constant hand washing, part of my pre-baby OCD included an aversion to messy little kids with dirty little faces. I used to get sick to my stomach when I saw a kid licking the mixture of snot and accumulated dirt from his upper lip while trying to suck the steady stream of mucus back up into his nose. Madeline had cured me of this disgust for the most part, but now I was beginning to cringe. I was fucking dreading the whole first-birthday rite-of-passage thing in which parents allow their children to purposefully smash cake in their faces and smear frosting all over everything. But I knew I had to be a fun and carefree father. I’d learned.

It began slowly. Madeline grabbed the candle, getting a little frosting on her arm. Okay, I thought, maybe she’ll be satisfied with that. But she suddenly tossed it aside and started grabbing fistfuls of cake, like a bank robber trying to pick up the cash spilling from his bag as he fled the scene of the crime. She was squealing with delight as the frosting gushed through her fingers and flew in every direction while she waved her hands with excitement. Within seconds we were both absolutely covered in cake. And for a few minutes, I completely forgot about everything but Madeline’s happiness.

She looked so damn proud of herself after the destruction, and truth be told, I was pretty proud of her, too. To see that smile, and to think just how far we had both come—that was enough.

The food and drinks disappeared and the sun began to set, signaling bedtime for the littlest guests at the party. After everyone was gone, the grandparents were back in their hotel rooms, and Madeline was fast asleep in her crib, I flopped down on my couch and picked up my BlackBerry for the first time in hours. There were two texts from my friend Katie. The first one read, “Buying fish food at Petco right now. Husband cursing your name as we speak. Great party. Thanks for having us.” The second one, also from Katie, one hour and thirty-seven minutes later, said, “Fish is dead. Back to Petco to return food.”

It’s a momentous occasion in any parent’s life when your child makes it through the first year, and now it was finally time to stop counting in weeks and months. My daughter was one year old, but so too was my pain. It was the first time I had thought about things on such a large scale—time had been filled with hours, days, weeks, and months, all counting back to Madeline’s birth and Liz’s death. It wasn’t like I suddenly decided to stop marking time in small increments—before the first year of anything, there’s no other way to count the passage of time. Mondays reminded me just how amazing my life was, and when the sun rose on Tuesdays, I was instantly transported to that twenty-fifth day in March when the only woman I’d ever loved died right in front of me. Each week that passed was excruciating, and each month that I confronted was yet another kick to the balls.

Yes, Maddy and I had made it through a year without Liz. But really, a year is nothing. It felt like such an arbitrary measure, especially when it was used to quantify the time since sadness had entered my life. Of course, it had also been a year since Madeline—and the happiness that only she could bring—had entered my life. I had never ever imagined I would be in the position I was in, and I wished like hell that I would someday wake from some sort of deep coma to find Liz and Madeline sitting next to me, telling me that it had all been an awful dream. But I knew that would never happen. We had officially made it through the worst fucking year of our lives. I took comfort in the fact that Madeline wouldn’t really remember a goddamned thing about it. I wish I could say the same for myself, but I knew I would remember every second of it. But with a year now behind us, maybe—just maybe—we could begin to look to the future.

Restlessness suddenly got the best of me, so I walked back outside, the lights directly below the pitch of the roof illuminating the entire area. I stood in the wet grass, looking at the disaster that was my backyard. Only one thing had been missing from this party.

I closed my eyes and remembered the day we first saw this house, how Liz squeezed my hand and looked at me with eyes that told me that this was the house where we would soon start our family. I remembered the photos I took of her, standing right on those stairs—beaming with the kind of glow that only an expectant mother could have—just days before she would walk out of our house for the very last time. I remembered the look of relief on her face when she saw Madeline for the first and only time. Before I let myself remember what she looked like just after she died, I opened my eyes to emptiness.

I went back inside and headed straight for Madeline’s room. I quietly opened her door, and just like I’d done every night since the day she was born, I kissed the tips of my fingers twice and touched her forehead. One kiss from me, and one from your mother. One for what could have been, and one for what will be.

Dear Madeline

I
t’s been three years since you first changed everything. Without you in my life, I wouldn’t have one at all.

You’re the one who has gotten me through…

Through my darkest hours.

Through my most difficult moments.

Through the times I miss your mom the most.

Because of you I’ve been able to confront a lifetime of memories.

Together we’ve walked where she walked in Los Angeles, New York, Minneapolis, Vancouver, Akumal, Paris, Singapore, Kathmandu, Agra, and so many other places. And so many more to come, too.

I’ve hugged you close as I stood in the place where I met her.

I’ve floated with you in the same waters where I swam with her.

I’ve squeezed your hand as you walked the steps where I asked her to marry me.

I’ve held you tightly while standing where I vowed to love her forever.

I’ve cradled you in my arms in the place where she died.

Because of you I can wake up in the morning.

Because of you I can smile.

Because of you I am.

And when I look at you, I see so many things.

Happiness.

Hope.

A future.

And though you only met her once, I see so much of your mom in you:

The way you put your left hand on your hip while scolding me and pointing at me with your right.

The way you say “nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh no” when I ask you to do something you don’t want to do.

The way you clap your hands together under your chin when you get excited about a cupcake.

The blonde hair she paid so much to have.

Your smile.

The look in your big blue eyes when you say, “I love you too, daddy.”

That’s your mom.

You’re of her.

She’s in you.

And it’s through this book, our travels, the memories, and the photos that I hope you learn about the woman who loved you more than you will ever know.

I’d give anything in the world to have her back here with us. I’d give everything. Everything but you.

Here’s to a lifetime of joy.

Love,

Dad

P.S. You were a great baby. You better be an even better teenager.