I'll See You Again Part 14

The excursions with Karen gave a measure of consistency to my week, and I looked forward to Tuesdays with an excitement way out of proportion to what we actually did. The jaunts gave Warren some peace of mind, too-for several hours each week he didn't have to worry about me, and I wasn't likely to call.

Since shopping with a friend seemed like the definition of normalcy, I felt a surge of satisfaction at taking out my purchases at night. Warren took a different view-particularly when I came home every Tuesday for four weeks straight with a new hat and scarf. To me, nothing is more comforting and homespun than a knit scarf, and my heart was so cold that any sensation of warmth gave me pleasure. Small purchases, but the pretty layers of bright-colored yarn made me happy. I liked the textures of the nubbly knits, and wrapping myself in a snug new scarf gave me a feeling-both literal and metaphoric-of being cozy and protected.

After seeing me unwrap my new knits every week for a month, Warren grimaced when I opened up another shopping bag one Tuesday evening.

"Another hat and scarf?" he asked. "What do you need them for?"

"I like them," I said, my voice rising.

"Okay, but you've bought one every week. How many hats and scarves can a person wear?"

"Why do you care?"

"It just seems like a waste of money."

I felt ready to explode. "Really, Warren? My kids are dead and you're going to question me about a hat and scarf? If I want a thousand hats and scarves, who the h.e.l.l cares?"

"Jackie-"

"I mean it!" I screamed. "My kids are dead. Don't talk to me about a hat and scarf!"

The conversation ended quickly.

Maybe it wasn't my most shining moment, but I felt a bit of vindication later that week when the argument came up again in front of the couples therapist we had started seeing once a week. Dr. O'Brien was usually nonjudgmental and didn't give opinions, but this time, he took my side.

"You have a lot to be angry about, Warren," he said. "I understand that. But do you really want to fight with Jackie about a hat?"

"Not one hat," Warren grumbled. "Four weeks' worth of hats."

But then he let it go, and I half smiled at Dr. O'Brien. I suppose I was grateful I had won that one. But for some reason, I didn't feel very victorious.

Eight

Doctors talk about depression as a chemical disorder of the brain, which is why antidepressants can often lift a funk. But bad situations like death or divorce or job loss can trigger depression in anyone, no matter how chemically balanced you otherwise may be. I'd battled depression at other times in my life, but nothing like the feeling that hit me after the loss of the girls.

I took antidepressant medication every day, but my doctors reminded me that my own actions made a difference, too. Exercise is a great way to relieve melancholia, and the endorphin rush I got from running always made me feel better. I'd also read articles claiming that if you make yourself smile, you'll feel happier. It sounds crazy, but there's a connection between mind and muscle: if your face muscles are pulled into a cheerful expression, your brain starts to think you're happy.

My brain wasn't so easily tricked. But I've always believed that when you look good, you feel better, so most days, I tried to make myself get dressed and comb my hair. When you're depressed, wearing makeup and high-heeled shoes isn't a sign of vanity or wastefulness-it's a symbol of hope.

Trying to pull myself up from a frightening slump one day, I got dressed in black jeans and a pretty embroidered blouse, dabbed on makeup, and searched my jewelry box for my favorite rings and earrings and necklaces. I already had a stack of pretty bracelets on my wrist that I wore all the time-each of them with the girls' initials, EAK. Some of them had been made for me-by schoolchildren in one case, and by a woman I didn't even know in another.

The bracelets were my way of keeping the girls close at hand, and the stones sparkled in the sunlight when I went outside. I made myself go to a local store, and as usual, people stared at me as if I were a celebrity. One woman I didn't know very well hesitated and then came over.

"Oh Jackie, you look so pretty," she said with exaggerated warmth. "It's good to see you all dressed up. Jewelry and everything."

"Um, thanks," I said. My fingers fluttered unconsciously to my face and I twiddled my earrings. Something told me that "you look so pretty" wasn't meant as a compliment. However kind she meant to be, I imagined her voice held an undertone of reproach. Seeing me out in public with a plastered-on smile, she had no way of knowing about the depression, the despair, the utter blackness that seemed to make up 99 percent of my life now. Her eyes fluttered to my bracelets, and I could almost hear her thinking:

"If my children were dead, I wouldn't be worrying about makeup and jewelry."

Devastated that anyone might suggest I'd forgotten the girls, I rushed away from the store and back to my silent house, where I crumpled in sobs on the sofa. Everything I tried to do backfired. Looking good seemed wrong. But was looking bad any better? If I went out gray-faced, wearing sweats, my unkempt hair pulled back in a ponytail, people would whisper about how drained and careworn I looked. Probably that's what they expected-Jackie as a walking ghost of grief. I've always cared too much about what other people think, but looking haggard only fed my depression, and right now, I knew that if I sank any lower into my pit of despair, I might never be able to emerge.

Before the accident, my daily schedule was set by my children's needs-school, summer camp, sports practices, play rehearsals, and playdates defined where I was and when. One child or another was always with me. Once Katie started school, I had a few hours to myself and I thought about taking more cooking cla.s.ses, or getting a job. Free hours felt like a gift.

Now I had nothing but those free hours-and they felt more like a prison.

The success of "Tuesdays with Karen" reminded me that I needed to keep my days full. Empty hours would only hang heavy. As usual, my friends provided a solution. Another Mothers' Club friend named Kathy Power had been a regular in a Thursday-morning bowling league and insisted on signing me up. I dragged Isabelle in, too, getting her to join us at the lanes. I'm not much of a bowler, but since it was a team compet.i.tion, I had to show up or I would put everyone at a disadvantage. No matter how low my spirits, my sense of obligation to the team won out and I'd drag myself to the lanes for a couple of hours. Wearing funny-colored shoes and swinging an eight-pound ball down a glossy lane does tend to be a good distraction from real life.

Mondays, my friends Denine and Laura came over for TV Night. Both of them were die-hard fans of The Bachelor, and though I'd never watched it before, we now curled up weekly in front of the show with ice cream and bowls of snacks. Many Monday nights, my neighbors Tia and Desi and Gina swarmed into my den to join us, too. Suddenly there was a houseful of women.

"What's going on?" Warren asked, coming home from work one night and finding us all there.

"Just watching TV," someone called out cheerfully. "Want to join us?"

"No!" he said, fleeing upstairs.

If The Bachelor wasn't on, we'd watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey-or whichever version of that franchise happened to be available. For us, any of those shows were like Monday Night Football must be for a group of guys-we cheered and screamed and were very loud.

"Don't kiss her!" I screamed during one episode of The Bachelor, covering my face at a too-romantic close-up. "Oh, gross!"

We hollered our opinions at the TV and booed the contestants we didn't like. Not the highest intellectual activity, but always fun and a way to forget.

Even though I could fumble my way through the weekdays, Sat.u.r.day and Sunday loomed as unbearable black holes. Our friends were with their families, going with their children to soccer games and dance recitals and gymnastics shows.

Warren and I had nothing to do.

We'd always followed the women's magazine rule of Sat.u.r.day night as date night. When the girls were here, we'd get a babysitter and go out with our friends on Sat.u.r.day nights, our one chance to let loose and act like grown-ups. To regain some slice of normalcy, Warren insisted that we start having those date nights again. Since the evening activities had never involved the girls, he figured we wouldn't be overwhelmed by memories.

But everything had involved the girls.

One Sat.u.r.day night, trying to get ready to go out, I stood desultorily in front of the mirror, staring at my makeup. It had been a long, empty day and maybe Warren was right to try to add some distraction. Halfheartedly, I picked up a lipstick.

And suddenly I had an image of the girls swarming into the bedroom, as they usually did on Sat.u.r.day night. It was so vivid that it seemed real.

"Oooh, Mommy, you look so pretty!" Alyson said. Always happy, she made me feel happy, too.

She leaned close to me in the mirror, asking to try on the lipstick, and of course I grinned and handed it to her. And then Katie pushed in, asking for blusher for her naturally rosy cheeks.

"Is it a Gersham night?" Emma asked as she, too, began applying my makeup to her already smooth face.

And that memory brought me up short.