Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,2
wouldn’t want to cry in front of her thirteen-year-old. “Aunt Bernie’s cooking. Why don’t you go order us two large pies? Whatever you want.”
“All right!” Ashley reversed directions and headed into the house.
I refocused on Diane. “You okay?”
“Please.” She shoved a hand through her too-long auburn bangs and rolled her eyes. “Like you have time for my troubles.” A tear tumbled over her lower lashes. The matching drop followed down the opposite cheek. “Why couldn’t this have happened for you?”
My heart hurt. Even though I had to admit I’d wondered the same thing myself, I hated that my inability to have healthy children had breached the perimeter of Diane’s moment.
I shut the door on my old heartache, closed the space between us and pulled her into a hug. “Stop it. What did the doctor say?”
“She said ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Snyder, that’s one strong heartbeat.’”
“That’s great,” I whispered against her hair, while the traitorous voice inside questioned why it couldn’t have been me. Why not? Just one more chance.
Diane sniffed so loudly my eardrum creaked. “I was kind of hoping for some major thyroid condition. That would explain the missed periods, and maybe she’d give me some pills to help me lose weight.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was refreshing to have a friend whose neuroticism matched my own. “Let’s go.” I hooked my arm inside her elbow. “Rumor has it David’s going to put his head in the oven, and I want a front row seat.”
o0o
Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the large mahogany box that held the memories of Emma. Had it really been five years? I resisted the temptation to count the months and days for fear the past might devour me alive.
I hoisted the heavy object from the bureau and set it on top of the bed. I pulled open the lid and drew in a slow breath before reaching out to trace my finger across each precious keepsake.
Once upon a time--before I knew better--I believed grief faded over time. Now I knew it never did. Not completely.
Just when you thought you were fine, the pain and sadness came crashing back, grabbing some time on stage like a washed-up dance hall girl hoping for one last chance at fame.
That’s how my grief for Emma announced itself now, roaring back to life, linking hands with the numb fog that had swirled inside me ever since Dad took his last breath.
The two danced together, twisting their fingers into my heart and squeezing tight.
When had I last peeked inside the box? Touched her things? Read and reread the congratulation cards that gave way to notes of sympathy?
Emma’s memory box had sat on my bureau for almost five years. In the beginning, we’d kept the box downstairs on an antique table that had been a gift from my grandmother.
Ryan and I had grown tired of the sideways glances our friends and family tossed toward the box. They never asked to look inside, never asked to see the lock of Emma’s beautiful, downy-soft brown hair. Never asked to see the tiny crocheted booties a volunteer had donated to keep Emma’s feet warm in the Neonatal unit.
They glanced at the gleaming mahogany box engraved with her name then looked away.
Why should they do anything different? Once we moved the box upstairs, Ryan and I barely looked at it ourselves.
Maybe Ryan sneaked moments like I did, as if the grief might win if we opened the mahogany box together and let the heartache out.
Yet, the memories held their position in our bedroom and in our lives, taking up far more space than their one corner of the bureau.
I shut the lid and ran my finger across the engraved brass plate. Five days. They’d been the happiest of my life and the most horrible. I remembered coming home from the hospital without her. I’d always thought people only swooned in the movies, but that’s what I’d done. I’d stood in her nursery and swooned.
And Ryan had caught me.
I reached for a pale pink card from inside the box and traced the inked image of Emma’s foot. I scrutinized the tiny lines and gentle creases that had been the print of her chubby sole.
I lifted one multi-colored pastel bootie to my nose, inhaling deeply. The yarn smelled like the inside of the mahogany box, no longer smelling of Emma, or of the detergent the hospital had used before they’d called us to pick up her things.