“I’ll be right back. I forgot something in the car,” I said and moved briskly to
the front door of our house.
Pop.
“Damn,” I muttered, knowing this meant the latch hadn’t caught. Irritation
rippled through me, yet I turned and yanked for the doorknob. As the door
swung into place, I jiggled the old handle still sputtering under my frustrated
breath about old houses and faulty latches – and then I froze. My eyes fell on
the scene inside and time suspended.
All negative emotion drained instantly. Despite the below freezing
temperature, I stood motionless watching the scene unfold before me as
love wrapped a thick blanket around my coatless, shivering figure.
He sat in a large, heavy coconut wood chair slightly bent at the waist,
readying to put on his shoes. Nearly in unison, two small girls approached
from either side, one slightly taller than the other. Instinctively, his arms
opened like sails on a large ship to welcome them. Through the tight fabric
of his Carrhart shirt, I saw the sails close in -his muscles tighten, bringing
them close for a brief squeeze, then lifting their four and six year old bodies
simultaneously onto opposing legs. His arms united, creating a triangular
connection.
They looked up into his face, turning their own to meet his eyes. His fickle
eyes, which – depending on the day – oscillated between tender blue and
greenish hues, turned to look into the deep baby blues of his children. His
face, so recently filled with purpose – softened, clearly forgetting the shoes
still waiting by the feet of the chair. Ripples appeared at the corner of his
smiling eyes.
Involuntarily, I shivered as I drank in the scene through the frosted glass
pane, a quick and bitter wind whipping through the porch. But neither cold
nor wind could drag me away. I was entranced. T hey looked so easy with
each other, a perfect fit. This is a portrait I never thought I would see. Oh –
thank you – thank you. Tears stung my face as a mixture of comprehension
and memory swam through me.
***
I sat on a fold-out chair, drinking punch, watching the bride and groom
dance. My eyes scanned the room taking in so many people from high
school. It seemed a lifetime ago that we had navigated the waters of social
transition through the green and gold halls. And yet, only six years had
passed while I further navigated collage then grad school and he – the Marine
Corps.
My gaze repeatedly landed on him, the best man. I found it difficult to
visualize the boy from the track and field team who always moved with such
purpose. That boy whose daily attire consisted of Carrhart pants, t-shirts,
and – if the temperature dropped below 30 degrees – a sweatshirt. He had
sported large, square, thick ironic glasses that simultaneously allowed him to
see the world, yet seemed to prevent others from really seeing him. Six
years later, looking shockingly handsome in a three piece tux, I watched him
move with the same calm purpose, gather at the head table and smile for,
yet another, picture. I saw him through new lenses and he, me.
The speed of our falling seemed to throw us both. Me, for its authenticity.
I had never known anything more true in all my days and struggled to believe
that love could happen contrary to the popular – nearly mandated – timeline.
And he, for its sudden appearance. At twenty-three years old life was
presenting him with a barrage of firsts, holding nothing back: first girlfriend,
first deep connection, first love, first physical relationship.
It was a heady time for both of us. We basked in the aura of togetherness.
We shut out the world. We shooed away perspectives, timelines and
judgments like a series of annoying black flies, flicking them one by one. You
cannot squash our happiness! And yet, reality found us within the topic of
future children.
We were only three months into our whirlwind romance when we stumbled
into that conversation. “Ooooh” I gushed, “I just love children.” I flushed
red with the good memories, smiling broadly at the idea of babies in general.
I rambled, “I really wanted a brother or a sister, but when that didn’t
happen. I took on as many families as I could and became there ‘go to’
babysitter, a real member of their family – kind of. They bought me
Christmas presents and I them. I would even take their kids overnight
sometimes.”
Maternal blood pumped through my veins from an early age. By my early
twenties – it was painfully obvious that becoming a mother was always
destined to be one of my greatest joys.
His expression changed, becoming serious, contemplative as he muttered
“Really?” He looked very unsure whether he truly wanted to ask the burning
question we both knew was hanging on his tongue. Why risk bursting the
protective love bubble we existed within? But the words were choking him,
demanding to be spoken. “So,” he said softly, “having children is really
important to you, isn’t it?”
All the color drained from my face, not because I feared answering him, no –
this man could handle any truth – but because I sensed this was a defining
moment. It deserved my full attention and honesty. A strange calmness
settled between us. I love you with all my heart. I know you are my one. I
trust you with my truths. “Yes” I whispered, “extremely.” And then, with a
soft smile I added one word for our mutual benefit – “someday.”
He didn’t respond immediately. But when he spoke it was with equal
honesty and purpose. His voice echoed the words he had said in high school
when such ideas were wildly futuristic, to his buddies in the Marines who
chided him for never having been with a woman, to his parents when they
asked of his future plans, and now – to me. “I’ve always known I’d have a
good life, but I thought it would be on my own. I’ve never thought of myself
as the marrying kind…” and after a quick breath, knowing what it might do to
me – to us – he added, “or the fathering.”
***
I moved slowly, intentionally focusing on each leg and its forward motion. Six
hours ago, a lifetime ago, I had screamed through the final push delivering
our stillborn baby girl into the world. Now, emerging through the heavy
hospital bathroom door, eyes focused on each shiny 12 x 12 reflective tile, I
re-entered the offensive room.
Leveling my vision, I saw them – father and daughter, united. He sat in a
short, uncomfortable chair. Emma Grace was barely visible within his large,
possessive arms. He cradled her, awkwardly, as though afraid he could
somehow hurt her tiny, perfect form. His eyes, wet with restrained tears,
looked down into her ethereal face. Within the torture of the moment, an
eerie calm settled over them.
And then, he crumpled. His frame collapsed under the weight of grief,
disbelief, and the tangible reality that he held a dead baby, his daughter, the
child he never thought he would have, in his arms for what would be the
first and last time.
The wind blew threw me again while tears of contented joy formed and
froze in my eyes. I drank them in. A father and the daughters he never
thought he’d hold close. His eyes reflecting sheer contentment to be
together in their moment, deepening their lifetime bond by looking and
feeling.
And then, I saw the shift. The devilish look appeared instantly. They saw it
too, but too late. His hand and arms moved quickly, simultaneously locking
them within the gates formed by his strong, crossed legs. “Noooooo” they
feigned, clearly reveling in their father’s love. He groped at their bellies,
their armpits and the soft backs of their knees, fingers searching and finding
individual tickle spots.
Two heads fell backwards laughing in spite of their mock protests. A full
mane of dark straight hair waved back and forth, her chest heaving with
laughter. A smaller head of lighter, wavier hues mouthed his name, Daddy,
Daaaaddy. And still, they wanted more.
In the years following Emma’s death I struggled to reconcile the dual
emotions always battling within me. I still do, but on this day I believed the
reconciliation possible. As I stood, nose practically pressed to a foggy
windowpane, I saw tangible proof that intense love and soul-shattering grief
can derail our best laid plans, instead filling our lives with unintended, but
none-the-less overwhelmingly fulfilling emotion.
Unable to control my own: a mixture of bittersweet memory and contented
joy at the surreal scene playing out before me, my tears fell in earnest. I am
so lucky to have this man. Time and loss changed everything – his beliefs, his
desires, his definitions of what makes him feel satisfied to the core. Thank
you my love – thank you.
In the next second, like a character in a scripted scene, he seemed to know
he was being watched. And even as our girls still wriggled under his strong,
loving arms – he raised his head. Our eyes met – his still smiling. I imagined
him scrolling through his memories of our family-building process: our pre-
marriage chat, Emma’s death and birth, Claire’s arrival, Caroline’s and now
this. After so many years of shock, anger, desperation, unanswered
miracles, confusion, sadness, worry, and consistent questioning of God’s
stacked hand, our life – it seemed – had finally found its unbalanced center.
We are a family. A mom, a dad, and three girls exist in this home. The form of
their existence, inconsequential. Our family is complete.