I'll See You Again Part 43

"I always want to have a dream," Mark said. "That's what keeps me going."

The comment made me stop. How nice it would be to have dreams for the future again. I looked over at Warren, who pushed his food around on his plate but didn't bother to eat. Or even to look up.

"What are your dreams, Warren?" I asked, trying to get him into the spirit.

"I dream about getting through the day," Warren said. "That's about all."

"That's so depressing," I said.

Warren put down his fork and dropped his head into his hands. "I'm exhausted," he said. "I think I need to go home."

Brad sighed. "You two are just so sad tonight."

Warren got up from the table and as I followed, Brad reached for my hand. "Let him just go to sleep tonight, Jackie," he whispered. "He's completely worn down."

Warren and I drove home in silence, and following Brad's advice, I let him go upstairs without another word. I was beginning to understand that my high energy and roller-coaster emotions could wear people down. I could generally keep fighting and talking and talking and fighting all night, but right now, that would be counterproductive. Warren needed to get his reserves back.

"Last night at dinner was the first time I felt that I didn't even fit in with my friends anymore," I said to Warren the next morning.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Maybe because they were talking about dreams for the future," I said. "We need to have dreams again, too, Warren. To dream is to hope. We've got to keep dreaming in order to live."

I hoped he'd feel the uplift of the moment, but instead he shook his head. "I'm so broken inside," he said shakily. "All my reserves are gone. I can't dream. I can barely get through a day of work."

Warren's own grieving process hadn't been as loud as mine, but it had been just as tortured. It hurt to see him sinking lower and lower under the burdens of sadness and lawsuits and anxiety about the future. And I didn't make it any easier for him. "How do I get my husband back?" I asked. "The one who took care of everything."

A profound sadness washed over Warren's face. "I don't know how to give you what you need," he said. "I realize you don't like me to call your friends when you're upset. You want me to take care of you. But I don't feel like I can. I can't even make my wife happy anymore."

I looked at him, stunned. His moment of vulnerability now stopped me cold. I never thought Warren heard me before when I said I wanted him, not my friends, to comfort me in my darkest moments. The other night when I was crying and he called Laura, I a.s.sumed he just didn't want to deal with my hysterics. But standing with him now, I suddenly had a new perspective. He wanted to be my white knight, my emotional savior. How mortifying for him to feel that he didn't have the strength to be the hero on the horse, riding in to save the day. The world had different expectations for how Warren and I would handle our tragedy.

I, the shattered mother, was allowed to fall apart, scream in pain, rage at the unfairness of fate. Warren, the heartbroken father, was expected to go to work and prop me up.

I stepped a little closer to him now.

"Remember what I said that night? I need a hug from my husband."

He looked at me distrustfully. The flip side of not getting what I wanted from Warren was that I hadn't offered the love, comfort, and support he needed, either. I had resisted any physical affection for a long time. Our discussing it the other day hadn't gotten us anywhere.

"Can we at least try it?" I asked.

Awkwardly, standing in the kitchen, we put our arms around each other. My belly got in the way and we smiled and readjusted. The hug didn't last long, but it was a start.

Two broken people, looking for the glue that would help us mend, and daring to hope we could each find it in the other. Maybe that was the best kind of dream of all.

Twenty-six

My anxiety had only been getting worse as the pregnancy progressed, and I couldn't sleep and wasn't eating much. I had still gained only fifteen pounds. The baby seemed healthy, but the doctor didn't want to take any chances. Though my due date was still some weeks off, she scheduled a Cesarean section for October 6.

"That's Warren's birthday!" I told her delightedly. "You picked a perfect day!"

I'm always looking for omens, and this seemed like a good one. I wasn't sure what the coincidence of the date signified, but somehow it felt lucky.

My doctor, Randi Rothstein, explained that she would do an amniocentesis before the delivery to make sure the baby's lungs were sufficiently mature. Only once the baby pa.s.sed that test would I come in for the C-section.

I marked October 6 on my calendar with a big red star. At least I was off the hook for buying Warren a birthday present. The baby would be his gift, all wrapped up in one of the soft pink blankets and pretty satin hair bows I had received at the shower.

But at the next doctor's visit, Dr. Rothstein had changed the plan. "Hospital policy doesn't allow an amnio to check the lungs until thirty-eight weeks," she explained. "So we'll push your date back to October eleventh."

"You can't do that," I said, feeling like a little kid who's just had a lollipop taken away.

"It's only a week," she said consolingly.

I started to explain about the lucky day, but then stopped. She didn't seem like the superst.i.tious type.

I called all my friends to tell them about the date change, and I kept moaning that this must mean the good omen had turned bad. Most told me not to be silly, or echoed Dr. Rothstein's comment that it was only seven days. But Warren, used to my looking for portents and prophecies, had a better way to save the situation. He had just come home from work and was opening and closing kitchen cabinets, looking for something to eat. But he saw my crestfallen face and immediately sat down at the kitchen table with me.

"October eleventh," he said thoughtfully. He doodled on a piece of paper for a minute, and then grinned. "Thank goodness she changed it, because October eleventh is the perfect date. Numerology. It couldn't be better."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"It's 10/11/11. Look." He slid the paper over to me and I saw: 101111.

"So what?" I asked.

"So, ones for girls and zeroes for boys. I'm the 'zero' in the lineup. You're the 'one' to one side of me. And my four daughters are on the other side."

I looked at the numbers again, which seemed to swim in front of my eyes. "Show me again."

"That's Jackie," he said, pointing to the first 1. He slid his finger over to the 0. "That's Warren." Then the next lineup of 1s: "Emma, Alyson, Katie, Kasey. So it's Warren surrounded by his five ladies."

101111.

I got it.

"That's kind of amazing," I said, suddenly smiling.

"And I don't even mind being the big fat zero," he joked.

Maybe you can make anything seem like a good sign if you try hard enough. A lineup of numbers can signify a date on the calendar, or it can be the stand-in for a loving and growing family. It's just a question of being positive in how you interpret numbers-and life.