The Space Between Promises (5 page)

I am remembering the day she was born, remembering that no feeling I had ever felt compared to that moment, and I am jealous for her and almost wishing it was she that was wrapped fastidiously in that familiar pink and blue hospital blanket. Gregory must have known the ache I felt from the onset, and he became the best version of himself that I had ever known. He had always taken care of the babies when I worked my odd jobs during the day. He had always been a loving father. He knew his way around a diaper, a contorted onesie, side-snapping sleepers, and a three piece bottle. But with Tessa, it was different. She would be the one that softened him, the one that saved him. Without me realizing it, Sam had been my salvation, Maggie my joy, but Tessa would be the healer.

Chapter Twelve

It has been many years since I was here last. I slowly climb the painted wooden staircase, holding on to the banister, my eyes reaching for the light at the top of the stairs. Step by step, cautious of the dark that surrounds me, curious, as is fitting for a child, to know if there are unfriendly beings lurking in the hallway. Miraculously, when I reach the top, I slowly turn, my ruffled nightgown brushing against my bare ankles. I remove my hand from the banister and take that first step. Because I have been here many times, I know what will follow. The sweetness of what is to come embraces me, and I hope it will not end soon. I want the moment to linger. With the grace of an angel, I float, suspended slightly over the staircase, toward the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. And then, I awake.

I shift toward Gregory who is slightly snoring, his broad back to me. I reach for him, and slide my hand between his arm and stomach, wrapping it as far around his large frame as I can. He stirs and turns to face me. His eyes question me first, and in a moment, he moves toward me and kisses me, reaching for me beneath the covers, exacting the rhythm that has become us.
Slumber is heavy, thick with familiarity and security. As I breathe next to him, feeling the moist warmth of his body clinging to me, I sleep with the knowledge that I was meant to overcome impossibility, and this strength was given to me as a child, when first I dreamed that I could fly in the face of my fears. It was the beginning of songs. Songs, that God promised, would be given in the night.

Chapter Thirteen

Sam kicks at the gravel in his new boat shoes, digging as always for some kind of ancient artifact in our very own driveway. He shuffles around, studying the ground. It comes as no shock to me that he claims the future of an archaeologist. That is, when he is not planning to open a toy store, be a missionary, or own a restaurant where the food is free. He knows the drill. I will snap a few casual pictures of him looking downward, while he is fiddling with the dirt, ask him to look up and smile. Take a close-up of his big white teeth and the freckles that line his nose and spill over onto his cheeks. He knows I will get chocked up a few times, smooth his hair for the tenth time, try to kiss him on the head, and finally stand back, holding my breath, as the big yellow bus makes its way to the end of our driveway. It will groan to a belabored stop, the door will open, and my heart will follow those four little feet, hostage for six long hours until it is delivered promptly at 3:32 p.m. The door will close and I will gasp, waving, praying, and thanking God that little Tessa is waiting for me inside, not wanting to imagine what the day will feel like she leaves me too.
Maggie, however, stands quietly, shifting a massive backpack on her tiny shoulders. It didn't look quite that large in the store. I offer to hold it for her, but she politely refuses. She is, after all, a big girl now, on her way to Kindergarten. Her toes, still blissfully stubby, are peeking out from a pair of sandals that were purchased on clearance, and perfect for a warm September day. They strongly suggest to me that she in no way should be shared with the public school, but should remain at home with me, until they get skinnier and longer. I am completely irrational. Her dimpled hands are folded neatly in front of her, and she stands facing the road, awaiting the unknown. Her blonde hair is tied into a tight little knot on the top of her head, promising to bounce loose as the day goes on.
I busy myself taking pictures, radiating nervous smiles that are far too large for my face, and spewing grandiose confessions of how proud I am of them, along with high-pitched promises for the day that awaits them.
Then, in what seems to have been an eternity, and no time at all, the bus chugs down the hill, and my stomach lurches. How is it that loving them never gets easier? It grows, bending with time, stretching with each inch they grow, swallowing me in its ever-reaching arms. I try to breathe, and find I cannot. How is it that love can both imprison and free you at once? I wave, the tears flowing now, and I try to steady my hand as I take a final picture of the bus pulling away. I watch it disappear and looking down, head for the door.
Gregory is waiting inside with Tessa. He had come outside earlier and given his pat on the backs, hugs, tapping Maggie's bun, and then making his excuse to manage Tessa indoors while I waited. Truth is, there were tears in his eyes, and he is no better at this than I, but has the unfortunate disadvantage of being a man, loathed to shed a tear.
I walk up the stairs and I cannot speak. He won't look at me, because he can't without letting go. I sit next to him on the couch, dip my head into his chest and cry. He holds me for a long while, until I find my words.
"How can it be, Gregory? How can my baby be in kindergarten?" I plead, looking for an answer to stop the stabbing pain in my throat. "She is not your baby," he says quietly, his voice carrying just the slightest hint of reminder. "Tessa is."

Chapter Fourteen

It has been hanging for a few weeks now, empty. I picked it up at a local novelty store, the last of its kind. A small, white metal Victorian style birdcage. Finding it a delightful trifle, I had bought it on a whim, knowing I'd find a use for it. I looked at it for a few days, deciding its fate, and in a flurry of inspiration, I hung it near a kitchen window with the intent to place a small English Ivy inside. Weeks later, it remains empty.
It could never be said that I had a green thumb, and every plant I had ever brought home died within weeks. Except for the English Ivy I bought just weeks before we were married. It stood only three inches tall, its immature leaves a tiny promise. Within a year, its branches dangled boastfully a foot and a half from the breakfast table. I loved that plant. It was a constant source of cheer throughout my pregnancy. I was intensely proud of its growth, its healthy leaves, its fullness. I would look at it and feel such a sense of accomplishment. I had sustained it, cared for it, gently cleaned its leaves, and watered it. It was full, like a zany head of bushy hair. Its leaves were bright green and seemed to vie for a spot on the branch. In fact, the branches were so plentiful that I would often pause between a kitchen task and meander over to gently untangle them, like children in the middle of a fuss.
Shortly after Sam's birth, in a different kitchen than the dumpy little apartment we had previously occupied, my Ivy died. I didn't notice it immediately. The branches became thin, leaves began to wither and disappear. I noticed that it seemed weaker, and I attributed it to an inadvertent lack of water. I bought some plant food, watered it faithfully and tried to nurse it back to health. Admittedly, it hung on for a while, sustained by the life support I was providing, but the truth was, it had died months before. There was no new growth, and there were gaping spaces between the leaves, stringing along on skinny, brownish branches. It was no use. This went on for a while, until I couldn't bear to look at it in its pitiful state, knowing its former glory. One day, without planning, I picked it up and stuffed it in the garbage. It was the last ivy I ever brought home.
Each year, the kids will bring home some grassy type of plant in a pot they painted, and expect that I will have this plant forever. There is s graveyard of orange clay pots lining a shelf in my kitchen cabinet. I will try to keep them alive for a respectful month or so, until the kids seem to forget and then I toss them. Nothing grows here, I tell myself. Lack of light. And so it would be that my kitchen would be full of pretty knick-knacks, a hutch with floral china and expensive figurines, a few treasures the kids had made, but no plant life.
Watching the night give way to morning, waiting for the kids to pop out of bed any moment, I roll the coffee around on my tongue, and take note of the empty birdcage. It is the right size for a baby Ivy, its cage structure allowing for branches to squeeze through and grow to whatever length they wish. Nestled directly in front of the window, there may be just enough light to sustain it. I make a mental note for the third week in a row to stop into a local store and adopt an English Ivy.

Chapter Fifteen

At times, I feel as though I am surrounded by broken things. There is the ceramic Pilgrim who toppled over one November day and broke his neck on my tile floor. Unable to separate him from his loving wife, an equally charming display of orange, green and wheat, both purchased at a local cider and donut farm store, I glued his head back on and returned him to his rightful place. Year after year, I unpack him, and regret the line of glue etched around his neckline. There is Maggie's teacup, painstakingly glued in several joints, betrayed by several minuscule chips where lavender petals once belonged. There are several wobbly legs of furniture tenderly patched with wood glue. My china sugar bowl, its knob so carefully glued, that you cannot notice the seam. The list is long. Ten years of patched treasures that I lovingly display.
It could be that this trait was inherited from my mother. I had left the record unattended on the floor, and in her fluid movement, no doubt tending to a household chore, she stepped on it and it broke it two. I looked up from my record player, and my six-year-old heart cried out first, soon followed by voice. It was my favorite record, made up of tunes such as "Merrily We Roll Along." Her face twisted in sorrow and blame. I was crying now, and she was desperate to right the situation. "Maybe Daddy can glue it," she offered, fervently hopeful. My father and I exchanged knowing glances. There is no way to mend a broken record and we both knew it. But there she stood, so hopeful, so guilt-ridden, that it was she we both pitied in that poignant moment. She was not a simple woman, as you might think, knowing her request. It was that she was so inextricably in love with her children, and so engrossed in their happiness, comfort and security, mixed with her sweet belief that my father could, in fact, fix anything, that led her to such a moment. Years later, we would laugh at the time Mom thought Dad could glue my record, and even in the laughter, her expression was slightly pained, knowing it was she who had accidentally broken a piece of my happiness. What she could never truly know is that it was in those broken moments that I would feel the most love. Her love for me, her admiration for my father, his love for me, which would always tell the truth, hiding nothing. And somehow, in those moments, I felt remarkably whole.
I remind myself of this as I pull out the crystal carafe, which had once been paired with a matching water glass. It was called a "bedside carafe," and I had to have it! How romantic and pretty it was, its floral motif etched in the clear crystal. And how impractical it had been for me to actually leave it on my nightstand, submitting it to the fate of two chubby toddler hands. All that remained was the carafe, which I now use as an occasional vase, blending nicely with my farm house full of mismatched treasures, patched heirlooms, and mended trifles. I arrange a handful of painted twigs in the carafe, pleased with the look, and set it on the table. I have use for things which have been broken. I find beauty in their story, and I long to make them useful. I fall hopelessly in love with their pain, empathize with their loneliness, and will go to any length to restore their dignity. This is how I came to love Gregory.

Chapter Sixteen

"dear mom and dad, your the best parents ever. I love you. Love, Sam. Sign a note on the back."
I had found the little note on the kitchen table, and smiled, my heart once again melting at the warmth that comes from his little soul. He was only seven years old, yet his ability to love surpassed his years. We had done nothing special that would warrant this unexpected sign of affection. It's not as if we had just bought him an expensive toy that he would jump up and down over,  throwing random hugs our way and squealing that we were the best parents ever because we had spoiled our child, catering to selfish whims. No, it was an ordinary day, an ordinary note, and one more letter to add to my linen bag. After I answered the back of the note with gushing praise of what a wonderful boy he was, I tucked it away for safe-keeping. I look at it now, two years later, inspired by the desire to put it in a frame, and I smile as I finger the raw edges where it had been torn from a small notebook.
Maggie had been a clingy child, loving to be held, clutched, tickled, scratched, whatever sensory input one could give. She would never leave my side, follow me to the laundry room, sit on my lap while I folded laundry, and squeeze between my legs in the kitchen. I would move awkwardly from stove to sink, aware of the bulky burden that was nuzzled under my skirt. This is how she shows her love for me, by proving her need for me. And it's okay. She was the only baby I cried over when it was time to wean her from the breast. Sometimes, even months later, I could feel my milk let down as I ached to nurse her. But, after a year, she was no longer satisfied, and I knew it was time. She is a needy child, and I love the way she feels tucked in my arms, so I require no praise from her. Our relationship is uncomplicated. I was ecstatic from the moment of conception, and each moment that she is stuck to me brings me a surge of pure joy. She sparkles.
Sam loves with his actions and his words. And his love requires nothing from me, yet fills me. When his thoughts and deeds are kinder than my own, I am overwhelmed with both pride and shame. I had been such a hard mother to him those first few years before Maggie came. I gave very little love, and I was quick to cut him down with harsh words. He was just a baby and I would yell and glare at him. It wasn't until he was about three, that I began to realize what a beautiful boy he was, and I promised myself I would spend a lifetime becoming worthy of him. Slowly, I became a mother, and when I did, I was met with overwhelming guilt for the woman I had been.
It is his ninth birthday today, and he had asked everyone for money, instead of gifts so that he could save for a camcorder. It came as no shock to me when the family showered him with money because he is the kind of boy you want to give the very thing you love most. He, however, is shocked at his good fortune and says, "Mom, I think I can buy Maggie a Nintendo DS!" "But, Sam," I say, not wanting to discourage his generosity, "that would be half of your birthday money. You won't have enough for the camcorder."
"That's okay, Mom," he says, "I can buy some Lego sets and then I can buy Kirk a game for his birthday, and then I can buy Maggie a DS." I gently suggest that maybe we tuck the money aside and think about it a little later, while telling him that he is a very, very sweet boy. He is satisfied with letting the subject go for the time being, but I know my Sam, and when his heart speaks, there is no stopping the outpouring of love. He simply cannot help himself. He is the kindest person I have ever known, and each day that I spend loving him, becomes another day that I bow my head and thank God that He loved me enough to send this little boy to light my path. I have no doubt, he is the very gift that would lift me from darkness, one scribbled note at a time.

***
It was in those early months after Sam's birth that I cringed while driving over a bridge, or near a guardrail that stood just feet away from a fatal embankment. My fear was not that the bridge would collapse, or that I would lose control and plunge over the embankment. My fear was that in a moment's time, impulse would decide my fate and I would finally have the courage to drive off the bridge or sail over the guard rail. These feelings came over me without warning and I was terrified that without consulting my brain, I might just do the unthinkable.
After all, what waited for me at home? A baby with numerous health issues, a brooding and silent giant who would not acknowledge me when I spoke, and would refuse to talk to me for days, leaving me to guess at what evil I had committed.

Surrounded by friends bouncing happy babies on their hips, watching their husband's careers take off, buying houses, taking vacations, living their happy-ever-after
only served to alienate me further. With mounting credit card debt, a one hundred year old reconstituted farm house, no expendable cash, and a husband whose job would be the same job in twenty years that was now, I was alone. My words became less and less, the only one with whom I could truly communicate refusing to acknowledge my existence.
I draw a hot bath in the old-fashioned tub, which thankfully we kept when renovating the house. It keeps the water at a steaming boil for an hour. I sink into its mercy, staring straight ahead at the faucet, watching rivulets of water drop one by one into the vast pool where they seemed to belong. There is only the sound of water as it caresses my body, working to relieve some of the tension of the day. I close my eyes and my face is already flushed and clammy, my hair sticking to my temples. I indulge myself for a moment before reaching for the razor, knowing that after I shave I will want to drain the water. Then, without an invitation, comes the hateful voice.
"It is a good night to kill yourself," are the words that echo in my head, and I sit upright, furious that they have invaded this sacred space. In that moment, I have had enough. Months of plaguing insinuations, temptations, and unbidden suggestions have clung to me like a dirty sweatshirt that one wears every day, not realizing that its seeming comfort and promise of warmth is in fact an ugly mask for the beauty that lies underneath.
I whisper a prayer, and though it is soft, I hear the sound that my words make as they fill the silent space around me, and they are firm. They are strong. They boldly require an audience, and there is no fear. With absolute certainty, I am heard. It would be the last time that I would suffer the suggestion of suicide. I will not be anyone’s victim. I will not be my own victim. Of this, I am certain.