I'll See You Again Part 30

"I wouldn't care."

"You'd care. We wouldn't be able to pay the bills, and we need a roof over our heads."

I pulled the covers over my head. "Leave me alone," I said, my voice m.u.f.fled by the blankets. However strong my muscles might be from running, I was too emotionally tapped out to move.

"Listen to me!" Warren ordered, shouting like a marine sergeant at basic training. "If I need to go to work, then you need to get out of bed," he said angrily.

"Why? I have no kids to take care of and nothing to do. I want to stay in bed today."

In the back of my mind, I knew that Warren was right, and he wanted only what was best for me. Finding something to keep me busy was better than staying home by myself to wallow in my misery. Warren realized that, and I did, too. And though he wouldn't admit it, he was scared for me to be alone.

Since Warren's office is near our house, I used to call him sometimes when the kids were little, asking him to dash home briefly so I could run to CVS or do an errand.

"What if I worked far away?" he'd ask.

"But you don't!" I'd say cheerfully.

Now, without children to take care of, I no longer had any reason to ask him. But he appeared often during the day to check on me, anyway. Finding me in bed invariably led to another fight. So sometimes when I didn't want to face either Warren or the world, I'd show up at Isabelle's doorstep.

"Can I lie in your bed?" I'd ask plaintively when she answered the bell.

She'd hug me and let me in, and I'd nest for an hour or two (or three) on her soft sheets, safe and alone. Maybe it was a little weird, but what in my life wasn't weird? Other times, I'd go to Laura's house across the street to take a nap. But rather than just walk directly over, I'd drive around the corner and park the car where Warren couldn't see it. If he stopped home, he'd think I'd gone out. Like a teenager sneaking off for a smoke, I snuck away to sleep.

After the holidays, something clicked in me. Other people were moving on with their lives, but my life was essentially over. Every parent on earth could understand my not wanting to go on-I felt extreme guilt for not having protected the children and the extraordinary loneliness of being here without them.

Standing in the living room after Warren left for work one morning, I made a conscious decision to kill myself. Being reunited with my daughters in heaven had always been a theoretical coin in my pocket, as Dr. O'Brien had said. Now I wanted to make it real.

Late that night, I began searching the Internet for the best ways to end my life. I'd never owned a gun and didn't like violence, so that was out. Hanging would be grotesque.

Pills seemed an obvious solution. Always thinking ahead, I'd been hiding away a few pills from every prescription, and I had plenty that I could swallow at once. I'd be glad to take them, but you get no guarantees with pills.

I read about other methods of ending my life, amazed by how much specific information about suicide and death is available online. Antifreeze, which is odorless, colorless, and has a sweet taste, had a certain appeal. So I had my answer: antifreeze and pills. I felt a certain elation at finding a solution to my pain. I'd do it at the Floral Park Motel, so Warren wouldn't have to find me in the house. He should get to keep living in his own home without feeling it might be haunted. I'd leave my car in the motel parking lot so everyone would know where to find me.

With the plan fully settled in my mind, I went to bed calmer than I'd been in a long time. I fell asleep immediately and had the most vivid dream I'd ever experienced. I saw myself standing at the entrance to heaven. Just beyond the gates, I could see Emma, Alyson, and Katie, smiling and sweet and close enough to touch.

"Mommy, Mommy, you're here!" they called excitedly.

I started to rush toward them, but G.o.d didn't let me inside the gates.

"You didn't do everything you could on earth," he said.

"I did," I whined. "I've prayed, I've written every thank-you note. I'm suffering so much."

"The doctor gave you a gift. Why haven't you used it?" G.o.d asked.

"I want to be with my girls," I pleaded.

"You have to take the gift and at least try to use it. And then you can come back."

I woke up with my heart pounding.

Try ... and then you can come back.

The words had been so clear I didn't know if the conversation had happened in real life or a dream. I lay in bed for a long time, repeating every word over and over.

That afternoon, I was driving to do some errands when I pulled into a parking lot and began crying. For sixteen months I had stayed stuck in the same moment, with no dreams or aims or goals. I couldn't think about a future because I wanted only to retrieve the past. Some part of me understood that what had been lost couldn't be found again. Heaven may be the pipe dream we cling to when this world is too agonizing, but as long as we are alive, we need hope. n.o.body can live without hope. And for the last sixteen months, I had none.

Sitting alone in that parking lot and trying to control my sobs, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jo in Dr. Rosenwaks's office. "I can't live like this anymore," I told her. "Everyone is moving on but me."

"I'm glad you called," she said without hesitation. "I'll talk to Dr. Rosenwaks and get right back to you."

I hung up, relieved. I figured there was no way I'd actually get pregnant, but at least I was doing what I'd been told to in the dream. Trying to accept the gift of the frozen embryos.

Twenty

I tried not to think too much about any plan for pregnancy until the next week, when Warren and I got in the car to drive to our appointment. Traffic getting into Manhattan that morning was even more backed up than usual, and as we inched along behind a huge exhaust-puffing truck and maneuvered into the Midtown Tunnel, we looked at each other uncertainly.

"So, why are we going to this appointment?" Warren asked, his hands clutching the wheel. "Does this mean you want a baby now?"

"I don't know," I said. I hadn't told him about the dream-and I wouldn't for a very long time. "I don't think I want a baby. Not now. Do you?"

"We're going to the office," Warren said. "We must have a reason. We have those frozen embryos."

"But I don't think I want a baby," I said again. "What are we going to say when we get there?"

"Let's just find out about the process," Warren said.

When we got to the office, Dr. Rosenwaks didn't ask why we had come-he just a.s.sumed we wanted a baby. By taking control and giving us a plan, he made it very simple. For starters, I had to go off antidepressants for a couple of months, and since I didn't otherwise have fertility problems, he'd do the implantation on a natural cycle, without drugs.

When you are confused and uncertain, it helps to have someone who seems to know exactly what you should do-and the doctor's cert.i.tude was a relief. He was taking care of everything for us, and that's exactly what we needed. I looked over at Warren as Dr. Rosenwaks spoke, and our eyes locked. Something clicked in both of us. Since the accident, we had no next steps to look forward to, no future to plan. Now we might. We would try to implant the embryos.

That evening, I looked longingly at the bottles of antidepressants, sleeping pills, and antianxiety medication that had been lining my kitchen cabinets for the past year and firmly shut the door. I'd stop right now. Now that I'd decided, I wanted to get this process under way.

But I worried that I might become totally unhinged once I'd given up the medication. At our next session with Dr. O'Brien, I warned Warren that I'd be even tougher to deal with in the coming months.

"Warren, how are we going to do this?" I asked. "I'm crazy now with medication. How's it going to be without it?" The very thought scared me, and I couldn't imagine how my husband would handle it.

"It'll be fine," Warren said, as he always did. Why do men always pretend everything will be fine?

Dr. O'Brien was more realistic. "Warren, it's going to be a challenge. Are you up for it?"