I'll See You Again Part 2

On Sat.u.r.day morning, Warren got up early and I lay in bed, my mind whirling. Although I knew how lucky I was-my girls were happy and well loved-I wanted even more for them. Like so many mothers, I thought endlessly about what would make them happy, and even when my life revolved around camp and car pools, I enjoyed all the tasks of motherhood. But my head never stopped focusing on "What next?" and "Am I doing this right?" Without them home this weekend, needing me to cook and counsel, I found myself focusing on their futures.

We lived in Floral Park on Long Island, in the house where Warren had grown up, which his great-grandfather had built. Warren liked the sense of deep-rooted tradition in the walls, but Emma and Alyson shared a bedroom and Katie's room wasn't much bigger than a closet. Was it time to move? Did they need their own rooms? And then came the question of schools. Several of our friends had already moved to a nearby town where they had a middle school, which Floral Park didn't. Katie was only in kindergarten, but shouldn't we be thinking ahead?

The phone rang a few times with friends calling, but I didn't answer. My friend Jeannine Votruba texted to see how Warren and I were doing on our own. She and I had met at the Mothers' Club in town years ago, and with her high energy and take-charge att.i.tude, Jeannine could probably run any corporation in America. But right now she focused her executive skills on her four young children and her many friends, me included. Her daughters Sydney and Nina were as close as sisters with Emma and Alyson.

"We're having a great time!" I quickly texted back.

Let her imagine laughter, great s.e.x, and a romantic second honeymoon. If I admitted to her that I had sunk into a blue mood without the girls around, she'd rush over and tell me to snap out of it. And she'd be right. I knew I should try to enjoy this private time with Warren.

You have a wonderful life with three beautiful children, I told myself. Just appreciate it.

I knew I was blessed. My girls had a gleam about them and seemed to glow with joy. Though still young, they had big hearts and enough confidence to help the underdogs. Emma's third-grade teacher told us how incredibly kind my daughter was to an autistic boy in her cla.s.s. He responded to Emma better than to anyone else-probably because she always took the time to talk to him and give him special attention. I was proud of that. Loving my daughters and having fun with them was having the right effect.

A few days earlier, a woman I didn't know had come up to me at the beach club where the girls attended day camp.

"Are you Alyson Hance's mother?" she asked.

"I am."

"I just wanted to meet you," she said, extending a hand. "You have such a happy child, I figured you must be a really great person."

Remembering that as I lay in bed on that Sat.u.r.day morning, I smiled into my pillow. Yes, I had happy children. And what could be more important than that? Everyone admired Alyson's ease and her smile embraced the world. I didn't have to worry about her. And Katie, though only five, expected the world to be good to her, and so far, she hadn't been disappointed.

Emma was the Energizer Bunny of the group-she loved being active. Her days this summer started with an 8 a.m. enrichment program at the school, then at 9:30, I drove all the girls to camp for a full day of swimming, sports, and playing at the beach.

Every day at 4 p.m., when camp ended, the other girls carpooled home and Emma hopped into my car, scarfed down a snack, and changed her clothes while I drove her to travel soccer practice. Two hours later, we zipped to another town (requiring another change of clothes) so she could rehea.r.s.e for a play with a church theater troupe. Emma was one of the youngest in the cast, and since the adults couldn't get to the stage each evening until after work, the rehearsals went on until 10 p.m. The production of Beauty and the Beast would surely be terrific, but really, was all this worth it?

"I'm so tired," Emma groaned one morning when I woke her at 7 a.m.

Uh-oh. What had we gotten into? I didn't want her feeling stressed and pressured.

"You're doing a lot," I said, stroking her head. "Maybe you should give up something. Should we stop the enrichment?"

"No!" she said, sitting bolt upright. "I got picked special for that."

"Travel soccer?"

"Not travel soccer!" she said. "I tried out for the team and I made it. I can't quit."

"Camp? You don't have to go to camp."

"Nooooo! I love camp!"

Well, that was that. I didn't have to ask about rehearsal. Neither of us would want her to give up the play. Emma was transformed when she stepped onstage. I loved watching her and could easily imagine her becoming a talented actress one day.

Warren, who believed in strict bedtimes, didn't like how the days and nights were getting longer. The girls needed their sleep. Or maybe Warren was trying to keep his little girls from growing up too quickly. Emma was only eight-how busy would she be when she was fifteen?

"But Daddy, I want to do the play," Emma said, overhearing us discussing it one night. "I know it's late, but I'm going to sleep right now. I won't complain."

Too much? Just right? Was Emma overscheduled or getting exactly the stimulation she needed?

Thinking about the girls now made me want to hear their voices.

I checked the time and called Diane. My girls were too young to have their own cell phones, so Diane handed hers over to them and we chatted briefly about their plans for the day. Boats! Swimming! Hikes! Their excitement came through the phone. We blew kisses good-bye, and for the rest of the day I smiled as I pictured them happily playing together at the campsite.

When we spoke again that evening, Alyson proudly reported that they had gone swimming and paddle boating. She and Emma had swum far out in the lake and then clambered up on the dock, where they practiced their dives and cannonb.a.l.l.s.

"I didn't get to the dock, Mommy, but I went in the lake," Katie reported when it was her turn to talk.

"That's great," I said, smiling at the delight in her voice. "And by next year, I promise you'll be swimming all the way out with your sisters."

The campsite had an arcade, and as soon as we hung up, they were going to head over for a round of games.

"I packed quarters for you," I reminded Emma. "Make sure you share them with your sisters."

"I know, Mom, I'll share," Emma said good-naturedly. "And after the arcade, we're going to roast marshmallows."

I didn't have to worry about Emma. She always took charge of a situation and helped her sisters. I was happy that the girls were having experiences with their aunt and uncle that they wouldn't have had with Warren and me.

Sunday morning I woke up in a rush of good spirits. I could see the end of the weekend. The girls would be home soon.

Anxious as I had been about the children getting to the campsite safely, I never thought twice about their trip home. Maybe worry is more an emotional reaction than a response to reality. Watching them drive off, I felt helpless to safeguard them. But now that they were coming home, I a.s.sumed they were out of harm's way, that my sister-in-law was only hours away from delivering them safely to my doorstep. Maybe that wasn't rational-but when is worry ever rational?

In the late morning, Emma called Warren at his office to say that Aunt Diane had gotten a late start, but they were all in the car now and heading home. It was like Emma to worry about the time. Like her daddy, she was very punctual and must have been concerned about missing play practice. Warren phoned me to relay the message, and I started figuring out how to reorganize the day. A little after noon-12:08 p.m., as records later showed-I spoke to Diane to check what was happening. Just a late start, she explained. No problem and no reason to worry.

We then launched into the kind of conversation you might have a million times with friends or family. Two moms chatting about logistics. We talked about what time they'd be home and about plans for the week ahead. Diane wanted to attend Emma's play, but since she worked full-time, could she get tickets for the following Sunday? Sure. We went over how many tickets she'd need. Let's see, Erin could sit on her lap and Danny and five-year-old Bryan would stay home, so one ticket should be enough.

"I'll make sure to come to that performance, too," I promised.

"Great," she said.

I called my friend Melissa to tell her about the schedule change. Melissa, a pretty blonde with a perfectly decorated house that looks like she has a staff cleaning it 24/7, keeps everything in such meticulous order that her husband, Brad, jokes that they live in a museum. But she's one of the most warmhearted people I know, and she and Brad, a successful Wall Street guy, were among our closest friends. Our oldest daughters were the same age and shared the same name, and both Emmas had been cast in the summer play.

"Emma won't be going to play rehearsal today," I told Melissa, explaining the situation. "The girls are getting home late."

"Is everything okay?" Melissa asked.

"Everything is fine."

But by 12:58 p.m., it wasn't fine.

The phone in the house rang, and when I answered, Emma said, "Something is wrong with Aunt Diane."

"What? What's wrong?" I asked.

"I don't know." Emma was crying and she sounded scared. I heard Alyson in the background, also crying. My heart began to pound. What was happening?

Diane took the phone from her.