“Of course you can’t. Well, at least this dumb bunny Matt has good taste in women,” her mother said, and cackled as she always did. She could be wicked-funny when she wanted to be. Katie was always grateful that she’d inherited her mom’s sense of humor. But she didn’t feel like joking.
Tell her, Katie was thinking to herself. Tell her everything.
But she couldn’t. She had told her two best friends in New York—Laurie Raleigh and Susan Kingsolver— but couldn’t tell her mother she was pregnant. The words just wouldn’t come out of her mouth.
Why not? Katie wondered. But she knew the answer.She didn’t want to hurt her mother and father. They meant too much to her.
Her mom was quiet for a moment. Holly Wilkinson was still a first-grade teacher in Asheboro, Katie’s mentor for thirty years. She was always, always there for her, supportive, even when Katie had gone to the dreaded, hated New York and her father didn’t talk to her for a month.
Tell her, Katie. She’ll understand. She can help you.
But Katie just couldn’t get the words out. She choked on them and felt bile rising from her stomach.
Katie and her mother talked for almost an hour, and then she spoke to her father. She was almost as close to him as she was to her mom. He was a minister, much beloved in the area because he taught “God-loving” instead of “God-fearing.” The only time he’d ever been really mad at Katie was when she had packed up and moved to New York. But he got over it, and he never threw it up in her face anymore.
Her mother and father were like that. Good people. And so was she, Katie thought, and knew it was true. Good people.
So why had Matt left her? How could he just walk out of her life? And what was the diary supposed to tell her that would somehow make her understand?
What was the deep, dark secret of the diary? That Matt had a smart, wonderful wife and a beautiful, darling child and that he had slipped up with her? Had an affair with a New York woman? Strayed for the first time in his picture-perfect marriage? Damn him! Damn him!
When she had finished talking to her dad, Katie sat in her study with her good buddies Guinevere and Merlin; they curled up on the couch with her and looked out the bay window at the Hudson. She loved the river, the way it changed every day, or even several times in the same day. The river was a lesson, just like the lesson of the five balls.
“What should I do?” she whispered to Guinevere and Merlin. Tears welled up in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks.
Katie picked up the phone again. She sat there nervously tapping the receiver with her fingernail. It took all the courage that she had, but she finally dialed the number.
Katie almost hung up—but she waited through ring after ring. Finally, she got the answering machine.
She choked up when she actually heard a voice. “This is Matt. Your message is important to me. Please leave it at the beep. Thanks.”
Katie left a message. She hoped it was important to Matt. “I’m reading the diary,” she said. That was all.
THE DIARY
Come to our wedding, Nicky. This is your invitation. I want you to know exactly what it was like on the day your mother and father pledged their love.
Snow was falling gently on the island. The bells were ringing in the clear, cold, crisp December air as dozens of frosty well-wishers crossed the threshold into the Gay Head Community Church, which happens to be the oldest Indian Baptist church in the country. It’s also one of the loveliest.
There is only one word that can describe our wedding day . . . joy. Matt and I were both giddy. I was just about flying among the angels carved in the four corners of the chapel ceiling.
I really did feel like an angel in an antique white dress strung with a hundred luminescent pearls. My grandfather came to Martha’s Vineyard for the first time in fifteen years, just to walk me down the aisle. All my doctor friends from Boston made the trip in the dead of winter. Some of my septuagenarian patients came, too. The church was full, standing room only for the ecumenical service. As you might have guessed, just about everybody on the island is a friend of Matt’s.
He was incredibly handsome in a jazzy black tux, with his hair trimmed for the occasion, but not too short, his eyes bright and shining, his beautiful smile more radiant than it had ever been.
Can you see it, Nicky—with the snow lightly blowing in from the ocean? It was glorious.
“Are you as happy as I am?” Matt leaned toward me and whispered as we stood before the altar. “You look incredibly beautiful.”
I felt myself blush, which was unlike me. Dr. Control, Dr. Self-Confidence, Dr. Hold It Together. But a feeling of unguarded vulnerability washed over me as I looked into Matt’s eyes. This was so right.
“I’ve never been happier, never surer of anything in my life,” I said.
We made our pledge on December 31, just before the New Year arrived. There was something almost magical about becoming husband and wife on New Year’s Eve. It felt to me as if the whole world were celebrating with us.
Seconds after Matt and I pledged our vows, everyone in the church stood and yelled, “Happy New Year, Matt and Suzanne!”
Silvery white feathers were released from dozens of satin pouches that had been carefully strung from the ceiling. Matt and I were in a bliz- zard of angels and clouds and doves. We kissed and held each other tightly.
“How do you like the first moment of marriage, Mrs. Harrison?” he asked me. I think he liked saying, “Mrs. Harrison,” and I liked hearing it for the first time.
“If I had known how wonderful it was going to be, I’d have insisted we marry twenty years ago,” I said.
Matt grinned and went along with me.
“How could we? We didn’t know each other.” “Oh, Matt,” I said, “we’ve known each other all our lives. We must have.”
I couldn’t help remembering what Matt had said the night he proposed on the beach in front of my house. “Isn’t it lucky,” he’d said, “Suzanne didn’t die in Boston and we have today to be together.” I was incredibly lucky, and it gave me a chill as I stood there with Matt on our wedding night.
That’s what it felt like—that was the exact feeling—and I’m so happy that now you were there.
Nicholas,
Matt and I went on a whirlwind, three-week honeymoon that started on New Year’s Day.
The first week we were on Lanai in Hawaii. It is a glorious spot, the best, with only two hotels on the entire island. No wonder Bill Gates chose it for his honeymoon, too. I soon discovered that I loved Matt even more than I had before he proposed. We never wanted to leave Lanai. He would paint houses and finish his first collection of poems. I would be an island doctor.
The second week we went to Hana on Maui, and it was almost as special as Lanai. We had our mantra: Isn’t it lucky? We must have said it a hundred times.
Matt and I spent the third week back home on the Vineyard, but we didn’t see much of anyone, not even Jean or Melanie Bone and her kids. We were luxuriating in the newness and specialness of being together for the rest of our lives.
I suppose that not all honeymoons work out so well, but ours did. Nick, here’s something your father did, something so thoughtful and special that I will always hold it close to my heart.
Every single day of our honeymoon, Matt woke me in bed—with a honeymoon present. Some of them were small, some were funny jokes, and some were extravagant, but every present came straight from Matt’s heart.
Isn’t it lucky?
I’ll never forget this. It hit me like a wave of sea-sickness on February 7. Unfortunately, Matt had already gone to work and I was alone in the house. I sat down on the edge of the tub, feeling as if my life were draining away.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck, and for the first time in over a year, I wanted to call a doctor. It seemed odd to want a second opinion. I was always diagnosing myself.
But today I felt just bad enough to want to ask someone else, “Hey, what do you think
?” Instead, I threw cold water on my face and told myself it was probably a touch of the flu, which was making the rounds.
I took something to settle my stomach, dressed, and went to work. By noon I was feeling much better, and by dinner I had forgotten about it.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I found myself sitting on the edge of the tub once more— spent, tired, and feeling nauseated.
That’s when I knew.
I called Matt on the cell phone, and he was surprised to hear from me so soon after he’d left the house.
“Are you okay? Is everything all right, Suzanne?”
“I think . . . that everything just got perfect,” I told him. “If you can, I’d like you to come home right now. On your way, could you stop at the drugstore? Would you pick up an EPT kit? I want to be absolutely sure but, Matt, we’re pregnant.”
Nicholas,
You were growing inside me, a speck no larger than a grain of cereal.
What can I tell you, Nicky—happiness flooded our hearts and every room of the beach cottage. It came like high tide on a full moon.
After the wedding, Matt had moved into my house. It was his idea. He said it was best to rent his place out since I was so established with my patients, and my proximity to the hospital was ideal. It was considerate and sweet of him, which is his way. For a big, tough guy, he’s awfully nice. Your daddy is the best.
I would have missed the ocean, our sweet and salty garden, and the summer shutters that clack all night against the house when it’s windy. But now I don’t have to.
We decided to make the sunroom of the house yours. We thought you’d love the way the morning light comes pouring over the sills to fill every nook and cranny. Daddy and I began converting it into a perfect nursery, gathering things that we thought you might love.
We hung wallpaper that danced with Mother Goose stories. There were your bears, your first books, and colorful wall quilts that hung over your crib, the same crib Daddy had when he was a baby. Grandma Jean had saved it all these years. Just for you, pumpkin.
We jammed the shelves with far too many variously colored stuffed animals, and every variety of ball known to sportsmen.
Daddy made an oak rocking horse that boasted a beautiful one-of-a-kind crimson and gold mane. Daddy also made you delicately balanced mobiles filled with moons and stars galaxy. And a music box to hang in your crib.
Every time you pull the cord, it plays “Whistle a Happy Tune.” Whenever I hear that song, I think of you.
We can’t wait to meet you.
Nick,
Matt is at it again. A present was on the kitchen table when I got home from work. Gold paper covered in hearts and tied blue ribbon concealed the contents. I couldn’t possibly love him any more than I do.
I shook the small package, and a tiny note dropped out from under the bow.
It read, “Working late tonight, Suze, but thinking about you as always. Open this when you get in and get relaxed. I’ll be back by ten. Matt.”
I wondered where Matt was working until ten, but I let it go. I unwrapped the box carefully and lifted the tiny lid.
Inside was the most beautiful antique necklace. A sapphire locket in the shape of a heart hung from a silver chain. It was probably a hundred and fifty years old.
I pressed the clasp, and the heart opened to reveal a message that had been engraved inside.
Nicholas, Suzanne, and Matt—Forever One.
Nick —
A few years back there was a book called The Bridges of Madison County. Its huge success was partly due to the fact that so many people seem to be missing romance and emotion in their lives. But an underlying premise of the novel was that romance can last for only a short time; in this particular book, only a couple of days for the main characters, Robert and Francesca. Romeo and Juliet were also star-crossed lovers whose love for each other ended tragically.
Nicky, please don’t believe it. Love between two people can last a long time if the people love themselves some and are ready to give love to another person.
I was ready, and so was Matt.
Your father is starting to embarrass me. He is too good to me and makes me so happy. Like today. He did it to me again.
The house was filled with friends and family when I came downstairs this morning, in floppy pink pajamas no less, with a sleepy expression on my face.
I had almost forgotten that today was my birthday. My thirty-sixth.
Matt hadn’t. He had made a surprise breakfast . . . and I was surprised, all right. Unbelievably surprised.
“Matt?” I said, laughing, embarrassed, wrapping my arms around my wrinkled pajamas. “I’m going to murder you.”
He weaved through the people crowded into the kitchen. He was holding a glass of orange juice for me and wearing a silly grin. “You’re all witnesses. You heard my wife. She looks kind of harmless and sweet, but she’s a killer. Happy birthday, Suzanne.”
Grandma Jean handed me her present, and she insisted I open it then and there. Inside was a beautiful blue silk robe, which I put on to hide my flannels. I gave Jean a big hug for bringing the perfect gift.
“The grub is hot, pretty good, and it’s ready!” Matt yelled, and everyone moved toward the groaning table, which was filled with eggs, several varieties of breakfast meats, sweet rolls, Jean’s homemade babka, plenty of hot coffee.
After everyone had their fill of the sumptuous breakfast—and, yes, birthday cake—they filed from the house and left us alone. Matt and I collapsed onto the big, comfy couch in the living room.
“So, how does it feel, Suzie? Another birthday?” I couldn’t help smiling. “You know how most people dread a birthday. They think, Oh God, people will start looking at me like I’m old. Well, I feel the exact opposite. I feel that every day is an extraordinary gift. Just to be here, and especially to be with you. Thanks for the birthday party. I love you.”
Then Matt knew just the right thing to do. First, he leaned in and gave me the sweetest kiss on the lips. Then he carried me upstairs to our room, where we spent the rest of my birthday morning and, I must admit, most of my birthday afternoon.
Dear Nicky,
I am still a little shaky as I write about what happened a few weeks ago.
A local construction worker was rushed into the ER about eleven in the morning. Matt knew him and his family. The worker had fallen eighteen feet from a ladder and had suffered trauma to his head. Since I had previously been the attending physician on out-of-control nights at Mass. General, I had seen my share of trauma. I had the emergency room functioning on all cylinders, full tilt, snapping orders and directives.
The man’s name was John Macdowell, thirty years old, married, with four kids. The MRI showed an epidermal hematoma. The pressure on his brain had to be alleviated immediately. Here was a young man, so close to dying, I thought. I didn’t want to lose this young father.
I worked as hard as I have since I was in Boston.
It took nearly three hours to stabilize his condition. We almost lost him. He went into cardiac arrest. Finally, I knew we had him back. I wanted to kiss John Macdowell, just for being alive.
His wife came in with their children. She was weak with fear and couldn’t stop tearing up every time she tried to speak. Her name was Meg, and she was carrying an infant boy. The poor young woman looked as if she were carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She probably felt that she was on this particular day.
I ordered a mild sedative for Mrs. Macdowell and sat with her until she could gather herself. The kids were obviously scared, too.
I took the second smallest, two years old, into my lap and gently stroked her hair. “Daddy is going to be okay,” I said to the little girl.
The mother looked on, letting my words seep in. This was meant for her even more than for the children.
“He just fell down. Like you do sometimes. So we gave him medicine and a big bandage. He’s going to be fine now. I’m his doctor, and I promise.”
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The little girl—all of the Macdowell kids—fastened on to every word I had to say. So did their mother.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she finally whispered. “We love John so much. He’s one of the good guys.”
“I know he is. I could tell by the concern everybody showed. His entire crew came to the ER. We’re going to keep John here for a few days. When it’s time for him to leave, I’ll tell you exactly what you’ll need to do at home. He’s stable now.
Why don’t I watch the kids. You can go in and see him.”
The little girl climbed down from my lap. Mrs. Macdowell unraveled the baby from her arms and lowered him into mine. He was so tiny, probably only two or three months old. I doubted that his mother was more than twenty-five.
“Are you sure, Dr. Bedford? You can spare the time?” she asked me.
“I have all the time in the world for you, John, and the kids.”
I sat there, holding the baby boy, and I couldn’t help thinking about the little boy growing inside me. And also about mortality, and how we face it every day of our lives.
I already knew I was a pretty good doctor. But it was only at that moment, when I held the little Macdowell baby, that I knew I was going to be a good mother.
No, Nick, I knew I was going to be a great mom.
“What was that?” I said. “Matt? Honey?”
I spoke with difficulty. “Matt . . . something’s going on. I’m in . . . some pain. Whew. There’s more than a little pain, actually.
I dropped my fork on the floor of the Black Dog Tavern, where we were having dinner. This couldn’t be happening. Not yet. I was still a good month away from my delivery date. There was no way I could be having a contraction.
Matt jumped into action. He was more prepared for the moment than I was. He tossed cash onto the table and escorted me out of the Black Dog.
Part of me knew what was happening. Or so I believed. Braxton Hicks. Contractions that don’t represent true labor. Women sometimes have these pains, occasionally even in their first trimester, but when they come in the third, they can be mistaken for actual labor.