Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas

  Dear Show-off,

  You are starting to hold your own bottle. No one can believe it. This little guy feeding himself at two months. Every new experience that you have, I take as a gift to me and Daddy.

  Sometimes I can be such a goofball. Reduced to gauzy visions of station wagons, suburbia, and bronzed baby shoes. So I had to do it. I had to have your picture professionally taken.

  Every mother has to do it once. Right?

  Today is the perfect day. Daddy is off on a trip to New York, where someone has taken a liking to his poems. He’s very low-key about it, but it’s the greatest news. So the two of us are home alone. I have a plan.

  I got you dressed in washed-out blue overalls (so cool), your little work boots (just like Daddy’s), and a Red Sox baseball cap (with the peak bent just so).

  The cap had to go! You freaked out over it; I guess you thought I was trying to attach antlers to your head.

  Here’s the whole scene, just in case you don’t remember it.

  When we got to the You Oughta Be in Pictures photography studio, you looked at me as if to say, Surely you have made a grotesque mistake.

  Maybe I had.

  The photographer was a fifty-year-old man who had no kidside manner at all. It wasn’t that he was mean, he was just clueless. I got the idea that his real specialty might be still life, because he tried to warm you up with a variety of fruits and vegetables.

  Well, one thing is certain. We now have a unique set of pictures. You begin with the surprised look, which quickly dissolves into a slightly more annoyed attitude. After that you enter the cantankerous phase, which swiftly disintegrates into the angry portion of our program. And last, but not least, irreconcilable meltdown.

  There is a small consolation. At least you can’t tell Daddy. He’d get too much mileage out of his I told you so’s.

  Forgive me this one. I promise I will never show these pictures to new girlfriends, old fraternity brothers, or Grandma Jean. She’d have them in every shop window on the Vineyard before dusk.

  Nicky,

  It was a little cool out, but I bundled you up and we took a picnic basket down to Bend in the Road Beach — to celebrate Daddy’s thirty-seventh birthday. God, he’s old!

  We made castles and sand angels and wrote your name in big bold letters until the surf came and washed it away.

  Then we wrote it again, high enough up so the water couldn’t reach it.

  It was such a total blast to watch you and Daddy play together. You are very much a chip off the old block, two peas in a pod, Laurel and Hardy! Your mannerisms, your ways, your gestures, are Matt’s. And vice versa. Sometimes when I look at you, I can imagine Daddy when he was a boy. You are both joyful, graceful, and athletic, beautiful to watch.

  So there you are, just back to our blanket from fighting sand monsters and friendly sea urchins, when Matt reaches into his pocket and pulls out a letter. He hands it to me.

  “The publisher in New York didn’t want my collection—yet—but here’s a consolation prize.”

  He had sent a poem off to a magazine called the Atlantic Monthly. They accepted it. He didn’t even tell me he was doing it. Said he didn’t want it to be out there just in case it didn’t happen. But it did, Nicky, and he got the letter on his birthday.

  I asked if I could read it, and Matt unfolded a separate sheet of paper. It was the poem, and he had it with him all this time.

  My eyes teared up when I saw the title, “Nicholas and Suzanne.”

  Matt told me that he had been writing down all the things I say and sing to you, that he’d strain to overhear my little poems and rock-a-bye rhymes.

  He said that this wasn’t just his poem but mine, too. He told me that it was my voice he heard in these lines; so we had created it together.

  Daddy read part of it out loud, above the crashing surf and screeching gulls.

  Nicholas and Suzanne

  Who makes the treetops wave their hands?

  And draws home ships from foreign lands,

  And spins plain straw back into gold

  And has a love too large to hold . . .

  Who chases the rain from the sky?

  And sings the moon a lullaby,

  And grants the wishes from a well

  And hears whole songs sung from a shell . . .

  Who has the gift of making much?

  From everything they hold or touch,

  Who turns pure joy back into life?

  For this I thank my son, my wife.

  What could be better than this?

  Absolutely nothing.

  Daddy said this was his best birthday ever.

  Nicholas,

  Something unexpected has happened, and I’m afraid it’s not so good.

  It was time again for your dreaded baby shots. I hated to have to put you through it. Your pediatrician on the Vineyard was on vacation, so I decided to call a doctor friend in Boston. It was time for a visit to Beantown, anyway.

  While I was in Boston, I would get my own physical. It was also a chance to catch up with friends, maybe do a little window shopping on Newbury Street, eat at Harvard Gardens, and, best of all, show you off, Nicky Mouse.

  We took the ferry over to Woods Hole and hit Route 6 by nine in the morning. This was our first adventure off the island. Nicholas’s Trip to the Big City!

  Your appointment was first. The children’s office looked exactly as it always had. Highlights, crayons, and blocks lay everywhere. A black clock cat moved its tail and eyes back and forth to the time. You were fixated on it.

  Other babies were crying and fidgety, but you sat there as quiet as a little mouse, checking out these new surroundings.

  “Nicholas Harrison,” the receptionist finally called.

  It was funny to hear your name announced so officially by a complete stranger. I almost expected you to answer, “Present.”

  It was good to see my old buddy Dan Anderson, and he couldn’t believe how big you were already. He said he saw a lot of me in you, and of course that thrilled me. But in fairness I had to show him pictures of Daddy, too.

  “You seem so happy, Suzanne,” Dan said as he measured, tapped, and tuned you up, Nicky.

  “I am, Dan. Never been happier. It’s great.”

  “Leaving the big city did you a world of good. And just look at this future quarterback you’ve got here.”

  I beamed. “He is the best little boy on this earth. Like you’ve never heard that before. Right?”

  “Not from you, Suzanne.” He handed you back over to me. “It’s wonderful seeing you again, Mother Bedford. And as far as this one goes, he’s the poster child for good health.”

  Of course, I already knew that.

  Now it was my turn.

  I sat at the edge of the examining-room table, already dressed, waiting for my doctor, Dr. “Philadelphia” Phil Berman, to come back in. Phil had been my doctor in Boston and had kept in touch with the specialist on Martha’s Vineyard. They complemented each other nicely.

  The physical had taken a little longer than usual. One of the nurses outside was watching over you, but I was anxious for a hug and also to hit the road back to the Vineyard. That’s when Phil came in and asked me to step into his office.

  We were old friends, so we exchanged small talk for a minute or two. Then Phil got down to business.

  “Your stress test doesn’t look too good to me, Suzanne. I noticed a few irregularities on your EKG. I took the liberty of calling downstairs to Dr. Davis. I know Gail was your cardiologist when you were here as a patient. She has your records from the island. She’s going to squeeze you in today.”

  “Wait a minute, Phil,” I said. I was stunned. This had to be wrong. I was feeling fine—great, actually. I was in the best shape of my life. “That can’t be right. Are you sure?”

  “I know your history, and I would be remiss in not insisting that Gail Davis take a look. Hey, Suzanne, you’re here already. Martha’s Vineyard is a long way off. Just do it. It won’
t take long. We’ll keep Nicholas here until you’re done. Our pleasure.”

  And then Phil continued, his tone changing ever so slightly, “Suzanne, you and I have known each other for a long time. I just want you to take care of whatever this might be. It could be absolutely nothing, but I want a second opinion. You’d give the same advice to any of your own patients.”

  It felt like déjà vu, walking through the halls, heading to Gail Davis’s office. Dear God, please don’t let this happen again. Not now. Oh please, God. Everything in my life is so good.

  I entered the waiting room as if I were walking in a misty fog in a bad dream. I couldn’t focus or think.

  The ominous mantra that kept repeating loudly in my brain was Tell me this isn’t happening.

  A nurse walked right up to me. Actually, I knew her from the hospital visits after my heart attack. “Suzanne, you can come with me now.”

  I followed her like a prisoner about to be executed.

  Tell me this isn’t happening.

  I was in there for nearly two hours. I think I was given every cardiology test known. I was worried about you, even though I knew you were in good hands at Dr. Berman’s office.

  When it was finally over, Gail Davis came in. She looked grave but Gail usually does, even at parties where I’ve seen her socially. I reminded myself of that, but it didn’t really help.

  “You have not had another heart attack, Suzanne. Let me put your mind at ease about that. But what I detect is some weakness in two of your valves. I suspect it was caused by the last cardiac infarction. Or possibly the pregnancy.

  “Because the valves are damaged, your heart is having some difficulty pumping blood. You know where I’m going, Suzanne, but I feel compelled to alert you. This is a warning, a very lucky warning.”

  “I don’t feel very lucky,” I said.

  “Some people never get a warning, and so they don’t get a chance to fix what could be about to break. When you get back to Martha’s Vineyard, there’ll be more tests, then we can talk about your options. Valves may have to be replaced, or possibly not.”

  Now I was having trouble catching my breath. I absolutely refused to cry in front of Gail. “It’s so strange,” I said. “Everything can be going along just great, and then one day, whack, you’re blind-sided—a lousy, crummy blow you didn’t see coming.”

  Gail Davis didn’t say anything; she just put her hand gently on my back.

  Nicky,

  In the words of a feisty, little Italian girl, Michele Lentini, who used to be my best friend back in Cornwall, New York, oh, marone.

  Or, in the words of the Blues Brothers, They’re not going to catch us, we’re on a mission from God!

  I watched you in the rearview mirror, your little feet kicking up and down, your arms reaching toward me. The world swept past us on both sides, and it felt to me that we were falling home instead of just going there.

  I talked to you, Nicky, really talked.

  “My life feels so connected to you. It seems impossible that something bad could happen to me now. But I guess that’s just the false sense of security that love gives.”

  I thought about that for a second. Falling in love with Matt, and being so much in love with him now, had given me a feeling of security.

  How could anything harm us? How could anything really bad happen?

  And you give me this same sense, Nick. How could anything happen to break us apart? How could I not see you grow up? That would be too cruel for God to let happen.

  The tears I had held back in Dr. Davis’s office suddenly flooded my eyes. I quickly wiped them away. I concentrated on the road home and kept our journey at my usual slow and steady pace.

  I talked to you in the little rearview mirror I have that looks directly at your car seat. “So let’s make a plan. All right, baby boy? Every time I can make you smile means that we have one more year together, a whole year for every smile. Magical thinking, Nicky, that’s what this is. Already we have a dozen more years together, because you’ve smiled at least that many times on this car ride. At this rate, I’ll be a hundred and thirty-six, you a spry eighty-two.”

  I started to laugh at my own crazy humor.

  Suddenly, you broke into the biggest smile I have ever seen you make. You made me laugh so hard, I just looked back and whispered, “Nicholas, Suzanne, and Matt—Forever One.”

  That is my prayer.

  Nicholas,

  Four long, nervous weeks have passed since I received the troubling news in Boston. Matt is out with you riding in the Jeep, and I’m sitting in the kitchen with the sun falling through the window like yellow streamers in a parade. It’s so beautiful.

  The medical opinions are all in. I have heart-valve disease, but it is treatable. For the moment, we won’t be replacing the valves, and we definitely won’t be considering a heart transplant. Everything will be treated with radiation for now.

  I have been warned, though: Life doesn’t go on forever. Enjoy every moment of it.

  I can smell the morning unfolding, carrying with it the song and salt and the grassy perfume of the marshes.

  My eyes are closed, and the wind chimes are being tickled by the ocean breeze outside the window.

  “Isn’t it lucky?” I finally say out loud.

  “That I’m sitting here, looking out on this beautiful day . . .

  “That I love on Martha’s Vineyard, so close to the ocean that I could throw a stone into the surf—if I were the kind of person who could throw stones far. . . .

  “That I am a doctor and love what I do. . . .

  “That somehow, however improbable, I found Matthew Harrison and we fell wildly in love. . . .

  “That we have a little boy, with the most beautiful blue eyes, and the most wonderful smile, and the nicest disposition, and a baby smell I just love.

  “Isn’t it lucky, Nicky? Isn’t it just so lucky?”

  That’s what I think, anyway.

  That’s another of my prayers.

  Nicholas,

  You are growing up before our eyes, and it is such a glorious thing to watch. I savor each moment. I hope all the other mommies and daddies are remembering to savor these moments and have the time to do so.

  You love to ride bikes with Mommy. You have your own little Boston Bruins helmet and a seat that holds you snuggly and safely on the back of my bike. I tie a water bottle with a ribbon and attach it to your seat for you to enjoy on the ride— and we’re off.

  You love singing, and looking at all the people and sights on the Vineyard. Fun for Mama, too.

  You have a lot of the blondest of blond curls. I know that if I cut them, they’ll be gone forever. You’ll really be a little boy then, no longer a baby.

  I love watching you grow, but at the same time I don’t like seeing this time fly by so fast. It’s hard to explain; I don’t really know how. But there’s something so precious about watching your child day after day after day. I want to hold on to every moment, every smile, every single hug and kiss. I suppose it has to do with loving to be needed and needing to give love.

  I want to relive this all over again.

  Every single moment since you were born.

  I told you I would be a great mom.

  Each day lately has felt so complete for me.

  Every morning, without fail, Matt turns to me before we get up. He kisses me, and then whispers in my ear, “We have today, Suzanne. Let’s get up and see our boy.”

  But today eels a little different to me. I’m not exactly sure why, but my intuition tells me there’s something going on. I don’t know if I like it. I’m not quite sure yet.

  After Daddy goes off to work and I have you fed and dressed, I still don’t feel right.

  It is an odd feeling. Not too bad, but definitely not too good. I am lightheaded, and more tired than usual.

  So tired, in fact, I have to lie down.

  I must have fallen asleep after I tucked you into your crib, because when I opened my eyes again,
the church bells from the town were striking.

  It was noon already. Half the day was gone.

  That’s when I decided to find out what was going on.

  And now, I know.

  Nicholas,

  After Daddy put you to bed tonight, the two of us sat out on the porch and watched the sun set on the ocean in a blaze of streaking oranges and reds. He has the most amazing touch and was patiently stroking my arms and legs, which I love more than almost anything on the planet. I could let him do this for hours, and sometimes I do.

  He is very excited about his poetry lately. His great dream is to have a collection published, and suddenly people are interested. I love the excitement in his voice, and I let him talk.

  “Matthew, something happened today,” I finally said, once he had told me all his news.

  He turned on the couch and sat up straight. His eyes were full of worry, his brow creased.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I soothed him. “Something good happened today.”

  I could feel Matt relax in my arms and also saw it on his face. “So what happened, Suzanne? Tell me all about your day.”

  The nice thing is that your daddy really wants to hear about these things. He listens, and even asks questions. Some men don’t.

  “Well, on Wednesdays I don’t go to work unless there’s an emergency. There wasn’t any today, thank God. So I stayed home with Nick.”

  Matt put his head in my lap and let me stroke his thick, sandy brown hair. He likes this finger combing almost as much as I like his tickling. “That sounds pretty nice. Maybe I’ll start taking Wednesdays off, too,” he teased.

  “Isn’t it lucky?” I said, “that I get to spend Wednesdays with Nicky?”

  Matt pulled my face to his and we kissed. I don’t know how long this incredible honeymoon of ours is going to last, but I love it and don’t want it to end. Matthew is the best friend I could have ever wished for. Just about any woman would be lucky to have him. And if it ever, ever came to that—another mommy for you—I’m sure Matt would choose wisely.