Remembering You

by Stella MacLean

  “So, you’re coming over this evening after I get home? Do you want to make the cake at my house?”

  What I really wanted was to go to my daughter and tell her how much I loved her, needed her and lived in fear that I'd smother her with all my desperate good intentions. To escape the feelings of helplessness and loss that inhabited my life.

  “That's a great idea, I could bake and then do any housework you need done while you rest”

  Amy gathered her infant son in her arms and kissed his forehead as she glanced at me. “I know that look in your eyes. You're mentally reorganizing my closet, counting the number of windows that should be cleaned. But I don't want you doing my housework. I want you to enjoy your grandson.”

  “But I need to feel useful, and you need your rest after the past few days.”

  “I'll rest, but in the meantime, I'd like you to sit down in that chair over there and hold your grandson.”

  Nearly yanking the little guy from his mother's arms, I cuddled him as I settled into the chair. “So, are you ready to go home when Thomas gets here, or do you need some help packing up?” I asked, touching Graham's tiny fingers poking out of the blanket. How I loved the feel of an infant in my arms, his soft form, his baby scent.

  “I'm all ready,” Amy said, tidying her bed table.

  “What a perfect time for you and Thomas. Your life will change in so many marvelous ways.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I can handle being a mother,” Amy said, uncertainty shimmering in her eyes.

  Where was that coming from? “You're going to be a fantastic mother, just you wait and see,” I reassured her.

  “I hope so.”

  “And your father’s office will make a great playroom. We’ll have hours of fun with baby Graham there. I’m going all out with the redecorating,” I said, enthusiasm rising in me.

  “Yeah, I’m half afraid I’ll come over to find a pony tethered to the lamppost,” she teased, the old, confident Amy back again.

  Graham playing in his grandfather’s office seemed so right to me. Thinking of my husband reminded me of Sam’s dilemma. “I promised I’d ask you for the name of someone to assess Sam Bannister’s grandson for possible speech and reading problems.”

  “Sam? The same Sam who’s only ever talked to you about gardening? What’s up?”

  “Nothing. He’s looking into a fence to replace the hedge. He’s been very kind and I want to return the favor.”

  “Don’t tell me that man’s putting the moves on you. Mom, he’s not your type. Besides, there are lots of widowers around, men who do something other than gardening. What about traveling? You often said you wanted to travel. In all the years we lived next door to Sam Bannister, I don’t remember him ever taking a trip. He’s a stay-at-home, Mom. It’s time you had a little fun in your life.”

  “I’m not marrying the man, I’m trying to find someone to improve his grandson’s learning abilities, for heaven’s sake,” I said, half indignant, half laughing.

  Yet I had to admit that Sam's sudden decision to confide in me about his grandson was puzzling.

  Amy's focus went from the sleeping infant in arms to my face. “I'll see what I can do, but in the meantime, you could help.”

  “Me? What good would I be?”

  “You were a teacher. You could work with him on his reading. What not?”

  My daughter had a point.

  And as I drove home, I went over what she'd said. Sam Bannister might not be my kind of person, but what would it hurt to work with his grandson? That is, if I got the opportunity. Sam or his son might not want my assistance.

  But if being helpful to Sam got Amy and the boys off my case, what better proof that I'd gotten a life than to be back working as a teacher for a while?

  Chapter Four

  Last evening at Amy's, we toasted wee Graham’s homecoming and I cried a little; but they were happy tears. Connor and Jonathan had sent a huge bouquet of yellow roses, Amy's favorite. The cake turned out perfectly, much to my delight. Amy and Thomas dived into it as if they hadn't seen dessert in months. Pleasing them made me feel so good. I’d held Graham every chance I had, and this morning I could still smell the faint scent of baby.

  With the pleasant memories to offer comfort, I picked up letter number three and opened it, only to find the paper wrinkled, some of the words smudged.

  Dearest Susan,

  It’s January 2, one of the coldest on record, and my hands are shaking so badly I can hardly hold the pen: I’ve never cried like this in my life.

  It’s two o’clock in ‘the morning, and I’ve come down to the office, relieved that you finally fell asleep. If I could’ve faced this without hurting you, if I could’ve kept this secret, I would have—anything to save you from the pain I saw in your face as I told you what was happening to me.

  As I spilled my story, you began to sob. I struggled to hold it together as I stumbled over my words of explanation. Telling you about the cancer, how few months I had left to live, was too much, too fast, but it seemed that once I started, I couldn’t stop. All the pent-up anguish and fear, the need to share with you what was going on, forced the words out of me. I’ve never needed you as much as I did tonight...

  Sitting here looking at your photo on my desk calms me a bit. I’ve got to stop this, stop thinking about all of this or I'll go crazy. I want to concentrate on happier times, on those moments when we believed the world was ours.

  Remember the day we learned you were pregnant? We left the doctor’s office that day, and you insisted that we go and buy our baby a teddy bear. We laughed, made plans and ate pizza, sitting in a street café with our new purchase; his glass eyes staring at us from across the table. And you were so beautiful when you were expecting Jonathan. Did I ever tell you that? I think I did, but if didn’t, or if you’ve forgotten...you were gorgeous. Your skin glowed and your hair was never shinier. The sight of you on that old sofa in our apartment, a faraway look in your eyes as you rested your hands on your big tummy, filled me with joy.

  We'd waited so long for Jonathan, and as soon as he gave his first howl we were hooked. I remember how you held him so lovingly in your arms, your expression blissful. Remember how he held his little fists against his cheeks when he cried?

  You were able to calm him, while I seemed to make him cry harder. I remember how you used to hum lullabies to him, which surprised me as I believed babies liked their parents to sing songs to them. You were so comfortable with the whole baby business, which made me feel even more anxious about my baby-care skills.

  One of the scariest instances of my child rearing ineptitude was the day you packed him into the carriage and sent me off for a walk in the park. I hadn't gone to the park in years, and was surprised to see so many families and dogs along the meager pathways. The sun on my face made me sleepy, so I found a bench in a quiet corner and sat down.

  Obviously, Jonathan wasn’t happy about staying in one place, because he started to scream. I jiggled the carriage and made soothing sounds at him. Still he screamed. Embarrassed by the attention of people walking by, I loosened the blankets I and picked him up.

  I held him facing me and tried to reason with him—to the complete delight of an older woman who strolled by with her dog. Jonathan picked that precise moment to give a kick, which caught me in the stomach and nearly propelled him out of my arms. Terrified of how close I’d come to dropping him, my arms trembled as I clutched him tightly. When we got back to the house; I didn’t mention the incident, too proud to admit my clumsiness.

  Somehow he survived my failings. I recall the day he toddled around our house for the first time and plunked himself down on the kitchen floor with a big smile on his face. Those times were among the best—learning to be parents, finding out who we really were, what we valued. The three of us were making a life together.

  And as much as I love the twins, that first experience of holding Jonathan was life altering. Writing about him has made me feel a little better, but th
ere’s still something I need to say, then I’ll leave it for now.

  No matter what the days and months ahead hold for us, I promise you we will face it together. You've shown me that I’ m not alone in this anymore. Your love gives me the strength to face whatever comes.

  As my grandmother was fond of saying, every cloud has a silver lining. You’re my silver lining.

  Love always,

  Graham

  * * *

  I closed my eyes against the sting of grief remembering those terrible hours when Graham had explained his diagnosis and what it meant. My husband was dying. So many dreams came crashing down as he spoke the words that completely changed our lives. My world withering, I listened to what he’d been living through and my remorse knew no bounds.

  Yet, for all our pain and grief, Graham and I were never closer than in those days after he’d told me his awful news. We were trapped in the fight of our lives, a fight we couldn’t win. But in those dark times, we found solace in the feeling that there were no barriers between us. We lived for each other.

  I grew accustomed to waking up in the night, and from the way Grahams was breathing, I'd know he was awake...

  “Are you okay?” I ask in the darkness one night.

  “Yes” His sigh fills the silence.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “About the time my uncle Jack and I went trout fishing on the Penobscot River?”

  “Your uncle taught you to fish when you were young,” I say to encourage him while I imagined him as a boy with his fishing rod and tackle—a cute kid with his copper-red hair and freckled cheeks. I wish I'd known him then. I wish we'd gone to high school together, wish I could've been part of his life from the beginning.

  “Hmm... I was around ten, maybe a little older. Uncle Jack loved to fish. One day we were out on the river in a canoe, and Uncle Jack got a bite on his line, a big fish. He stood up to reel the trout in and in his excitement tipped the boat. He went over the side, fishing hat and all, his line tangled in the stern of the boat... the trout gone.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I braced my hands on the gunnels trying to keep the boat from flipping while my uncle swore and cursed...and laughed. I laughed too.”

  My eyes now adjusted to the dim light of the bedroom, I touch his cheek. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Want to go fishing? We could take off and go up on the Penobscot, spend a few days. I'll watch you fish.”

  “You'd be willing to do that? You don’t like fishing.”

  “I love fishing.”

  Graham takes my hand in his. “And I love that you're willing to lie for me.”

  “It’s up to you,’ I say, my mind pleading with my heart to hold back the rush of feelings that will drown us both. I want to savor this moment, hold it close and never let go of the intimacy flowing between us.

  I rubbed the rumpled pages, feeling the stain of his tears on the vellum, and reread his words. His memories of Jonathan’s first few months tighten my throat. And that crazy night I went into labor...

  * * *

  “Hurry!" I yell, flapping my hands over my huge tummy as a sharp pain has me grabbing the bedpost for support.

  “You're in labor?” Graham asks jumping up from the bed, his eyes wide with excitement as he helps me into my oversize pants and top.

  “Get the car started,” I say through gritted teeth as another contraction comes. I've got a death grip on the bedpost for this one.

  “I’m not leaving you,” he tells me, stroking my shoulders as I breathe through the pain.

  “They’re coming fast. We’ve got to get to the hospital,” I say, meeting his sleep-deprived stare.

  “Here, take my hand. You'll need help down the stairs.” Graham hugs me. I hug him back before I waddle toward the door. He's following with my overnight bag.

  "I'll be glad to drop this hippo gait,” I joke, feeling the beginning twinges of yet another contraction.

  “Did I mention I love hippos?”

  “Don't flirt with me. I'm in agony,” I moan.

  “Got it.”

  Graham get me into the car, and by the time I groan through another contraction we're at the emergency entrance of the hospital. Graham is all business as he helps me into a wheelchair and up to the delivery room.

  I grunt and complain my way through the next contraction. I'm about to scream with the pain when my stretcher is wheeled into a room with a huge light hanging from the ceiling and aimed at my nether regions. My feet are stuck in stirrups and there I lie, feeling like a trussed-up turkey. I clutch the cotton gown barely covering my body and gaze up into Graham’s anxious face. “Don’t look,” I warn, seeing his strange pallor.

  “I love you,” he whispers, his hand clasping mine.

  “Love you, too.” Another contraction glows red-hot across my consciousness.

  “Push!” someone yells.

  I push, pant and scream, all the while holding on to Graham’s hand.

  Suddenly the pain stops. The room is silent. Then a baby cries. People are congratulating us. “It’s a boy, I hear someone say. A flannel-wrapped bundle is placed on my chest.

  Ever so gently, I put my arms around our son, feeling his warmth, hearing his first whimper. It’s as if there’s no one here but my baby and me. I close my eyes, my heart crashing into my ribs as I lie perfectly still and let the feelings roll over me. Feelings of love so intense it takes my breath away, feelings of connectedness. This precious little boy, who lived all these months as part of me, will remain part of me forever.

  “Look, his eyes are open,” Graham murmurs, his own eyes wet with tears.

  I ease back the blanket. “So they are.”

  “Has he got all his fingers and toes?”

  “Let’s check,” I whisper, peeling back the blanket to have a closer look. His little body is encased in a white shirt and a tiny cloth diaper. I turn the plastic band on his ankle to be sure I have our baby, then count his toes.

  “Yep, he’s ours and he’s all here.” Graham touches the tiny fingers and I see his hand tremble. “So this is Jonathan. Should we pick a second name for him?”

  “Just Jonathan,” I whisper, my heart swimming in happiness.

  * * *

  My life changed forever that day. Jonathan’s needs, his feedings and diaper changes absorbed my life. With Graham focusing his energies on his law career, Jonathan became my constant companion. We went everywhere together, what fun we had.

  The old baby carriage—a thrift-store purchase that, with a whole lot of tugging and twisting would eventually convert to a stroller—meant freedom for me. That beat-up stroller had more miles on it than plenty of cars. Those day trips to the library were visits with old friends. Dr. Seuss and Beatrix Potter stories were among Jonathan’s favorites. While he played and amused the staff, I picked up books to read for myself. The staff loved Jonathan’s solemn approach to books, his quick smile. They gave him treats, which he devoured noisily.

  How I cherished those times with Jonathan. There were days I worried that I might end up talking baby talk long after he’d gone to school.

  Back then, in the mid-seventies, there were few day cares, and we never considered taking our child to coffee at a friend’s house as a playdate. Coffee with a friend was a short reprieve from all the hours of caring for your child alone; any advantage to the child and his socialization skills was incidental.

  “With Graham’s busy career as a litigation lawyer, working many evenings and often weekends, Jonathan and I had nearly seven years to ourselves before the twins arrived. My aunt Celia always said that Jonathan was older than his age. She was probably right. Jonathan grew up living and playing with adults—until that fateful first day of school.

  I'll never forget the morning he entered grade one. I'd stayed awake all night, telling myself it was because I wanted to have him up and ready bright and early. The truth was entirely different. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to let go of him when we
got to the schoolhouse steps. And I was convinced I’d end up crying all the way home, even if I did manage to successfully deposit him at school. And if he cried and wouldn't let go of my hand...I needn’t have worried. When he neared the building, Jonathan spotted a little friend from his library days. Before I could hug him goodbye he raced off.

  And as the other children grew up, it was Jonathan I depended on. Jonathan never came home from school without checking in with me, and I relied on his responsible nature more than I should have. Not that the twins weren’t helpful, it was just that Jonathan and I had a history of being best friends.

  Everything about Jonathan was familiar to me, including the kind of woman he married, Linda was a pharmacist, another very responsible person, one who took life seriously. With her long brown hair knotted at her neck, she was pretty in an old-fashioned way, and she loved Jonathan. There were days, especially in the months after Graham died, when I wished Jonathan lived closer to me.

  Suddenly, feeling lonely, I called his number. His phone in Bellingham rang a long time before he answered.

  “Mom, is that you?”

  He sounded sleepy, or maybe sick, “Yes, Jonathan. Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine. What’s going on with you?”

  I was convinced that the older he got, the more his voice was like his father’s. “You’ll be pleased to know I’m going through some of your father’s papers in the office, and I’m getting organized to renovate this room.”

  I heard Linda’s voice somewhere behind him, asking who was on the phone. She seemed irritated, but maybe I was reading more into it than was there.

  “I'm glad to hear that, Mom”

  “And you'll all be home for Christmas, the three of you.”

  “Yeah, we will.”

  What was this strange tone in my son’s voice? “I can't wait to see you.”

  “Me too," Jonathan said, and heard him yawn. Then, it dawned on me.