CHAPTER 22
July 26
Mom and I drive the boys to Portland for the flight to Costa Rica. On the way, Jasper sees signs for the amusement park outside of Salem and begs us to stop.
“We have plenty of time,” Mom says.
I think my mom is a bit of a pushover, but I don’t say anything.
“Mom, come on the roller coaster with me!” Jasper shrieks.
I look up at the large wooden structure, not enthused at all.
“C’mon, Mom! You said you used to love rides.”
“Okay,” I say, and we get tickets and stand in the short line.
I am filled with dread and remorse as the car labors up the steep first hill. This is fun, I tell myself. I love roller coasters, remember? As we start to drop hundreds of feet at almost ninety degrees, I close my eyes and grip the handle bars with white fists. What was I thinking? This falling sensation is way too familiar and not something I need to inflict on myself for kicks.
The ride is mercifully short. I feel a twinging sensation in my back as I step out of the cart onto wobbly legs.
In the car again, Mom says, “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I think I tweaked a muscle in my back.” I turn to make sure Jasper has his headphones on so he doesn’t hear me add, “I never should have gone on that roller coaster.”
“You loved them when you were young,” Mom says, smiling. “You were such a gutsy kid.”
“I know. I used to love a lot of things. And now I’d rather be in my bedroom than almost anywhere in the world. I feel like I’m turning into a curmudgeonly recluse. I guess I’m a lot like your mom, with her agoraphobia and dislike of most people. I think she and I were both too sensitive for this world.”
“You’re not like that. You’re just fragile right now.”
My eyes prick with tears. “I’m dreading this trip.”
“We’ll have fun,” Mom says, reaching her hand across to touch mine.
“You’re right.” I force a quick smile. Inside, I am bracing myself each mile we travel farther from home and from Dicken, my home in this world.
* * *
In the airport in Costa Rica, Jasper insists on carrying my suitcase. He keeps hugging me, deferring to me.
“You really think we should take buses and not rent a car?” Mom asks me.
“Nana, my mom has been here more than anyone else,” Jasper says sternly. “We should do what she says.”
Kevin drags his big duffle bag across the airport. It’s bursting with gifts he bought for his brothers and cousins.
It’s dark when we get in a taxi. I tell the driver to take us to my favorite hotel in San Jose, where we’ll spend the night before heading down to the Caribbean coast. After a ten-minute drive to the city, the driver pulls up at a different hotel. I tell him this is the wrong place. He says the one I wanted is full. We both know that he has no idea if the other hotel is full, that he’s brought us here because he gets a kickback. I explain what’s happening to my mom, and she begins to argue with him in her fluent Spanish. The man raises his voice. Jasper starts to cry.
“Mom, let’s just stay here,” I say.
Unlike the hotel I wanted, this one is right on a busy street and has no security guard on duty. Jasper is still upset as we check in and make our way to our large room with three beds.
“I miss Daddy!” he wails.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Let’s just go to sleep, and when we wake up we’ll get the bus and go see Liliana and everyone.”
As I secure the door to our room, I note how flimsy the lock is. I hear the traffic outside the thin windows, hear voices on the street below.
Just as I’m imagining we’ll be robbed or worse, Jasper says, “Mom, what if someone breaks in and steals our things? ’Member when someone stole Nana’s wallet? And Daddy’s computer?”
“Oh, Jasper, stop it,” Mom says. “Everything’s fine.”
“But I’m scared!” Jasper cries. “I don’t like it here.”
I take a deep breath, wishing like crazy Dicken were here. “We’ll be fine,” I say. “We’ve never been robbed in San Jose. And the door is locked.”
“But I don’t feel safe. I just want Daddy!”
He must be picking up on my fear, I think, amazed at how he’s articulating my own thoughts.
Jasper presses up close to me in bed, his body stiff and tense, and we turn off the light. I lie in the dark, listening to the traffic noises, seeing lights from cars and trucks flashing across the walls of our room. I know I will not sleep.
July 28
We survive San Jose and the long, winding bus ride to the coast the next day. I’m exhausted from no sleep and spend the afternoon holed up in our cramped room. The air conditioner is humming loudly and dripping water every other second—splat, splat, splat. I feel like I’m going crazy, like I’m a prisoner in this room, the dripping sound a Central American version of Chinese water torture.
Kevin is staying down the road with his relatives. Mom has taken Jasper to the beach, so I’m alone. In some ways this is a relief; I was growing annoyed by Jasper’s whining, his demands that we turn on the TV, his cries of “I’m bored!” I have had enough of Fat Albert dubbed in Spanish, though it did drown out the dripping sound.
But being alone is pushing me closer to the edge of the void, and I’m tired of falling over and over myself, head over heels into that sea of blackness. I have lost too much this year. Too much blood. Too much weight. Too much sleep. I had no business coming to this godforsaken place. I hate the tropics. The burning sun, sweat, surfers, skimpily dressed girls. I have no interest in improving my Spanish. I lie on the bed, willing time to pass, thinking of Dicken at home sitting straight-backed in his office chair, working eighteen-hour days because we’re not there to remind him to eat and sleep. I should be home with my better half. I have no business grieving here in paradise.
July 29
I’ve spent all my time here so far in the hotel room, so I decide to venture out to the beach with Jasper today. We run into Kevin, who is staying with his aunt and uncle while we’re on this coast. His father has arrived in town because he heard Kevin would be here. Jasper runs straight into the water with the other kids, hollering with glee.
Kevin’s father is holding a small boy on his shoulders and watching the other children play in the water. I greet him and smile. He gives me a shy smile back. He has very dark skin, darker than Kevin’s, and his eyes look bloodshot and sad. I wonder what he feels about seeing Kevin again, and how he feels about us. I catch Kevin’s eye and call out a hello. He doesn’t say anything, just scowls at me, then turns his back. He says something to his cousins in Spanish that I can’t make out, and then a couple of the kids point at me. Are they snickering? I wonder. I’m sure he’s saying something terrible about me. I start to feel dark, telling myself Kevin won’t want to come back home with us at the end of this trip.
Mom joins us at the beach and strikes up a lively conversation with Kevin’s father in Spanish. I am grateful for Mom’s optimism and ability to connect. But I compare myself negatively—why do I see life so pessimistically while she stays positive in the face of virtually any challenge? I am exhausted and depressed, while she smiles and spreads her cheer. She has such a yes for it all and I am rejecting the world.
“I’m going to head back for a rest, if that’s okay,” I tell Mom.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll bring Jasper back for lunch later.”
August 2
Our last day on this coast.
As we walk back to the hotel, Jasper says, “There’s Kevin!” The boy coming from the opposite direction looks at us and smiles. I say, “He looks a little like Kevin, but not really.”
It is Kevin, on his way back from a trip to see his mom and brothers, including a new baby born in January, just like Theo. Kevin has a very radical haircut with designs shaved into his scalp. The Afro is gone!
“My tio cut my hair,” he says, rubbing his hand over his head.
“Are you excited to go home and see Daddy?” Jasper asks him.
“Sort of yes, sort of no,” Kevin replies. I take this comment and twist it into scary stories, telling myself, You might be about to lose another son. Though maybe if Kevin decided to stay here, it wouldn’t be so scary. Maybe it would even be better for him.
I look at this boy with his new teenager haircut. His family of origin is still imperfect, and so is his adopted family. He has known pain in both. He is an old soul who was connected to Theo before he was born. If he wants to leave us, I’ll have to trust in his wisdom, and in my own ability to let go.
* * *
I sleep for three hours in the afternoon. I don’t know if it’s the humidity, the heat, the stress of traveling, or just plain exhaustion catching up with me, but I feel rock-bottom tired, like I could stay in bed forever.
I wonder if the physical side of the birth and aftermath is finally catching up with me. For so many months, I didn’t give it much attention. I toughed it out, forcing myself to exercise, get back to my town days, ignoring the pain in my incision, the bleeding that went on for weeks. Now I’m realizing what trauma my body’s been through, how much blood I lost, how much of my vital force has gone into healing up layers of cut skin and tissue. Is this why doctors prefer women with trisomy babies to have vaginal births? Of course I don’t regret Theo’s birth for a moment, but I’m also realizing the longer-term consequences of a C-section and can see that I’m in no condition to get pregnant again, not now, maybe not ever. We’ll see.
August 3–6
The bus ride to San Jose is long. We drive through Limon, the town where Kevin was born. In the fading light, I can see into the hovel-like apartments in the slums. I make out the figure of an elderly woman at a stove, her posture radiating hard labor, defeat, hopelessness.
Jasper complains of a terrible headache. I feel his forehead; it’s very hot. We get to the bus station in San Jose and find a taxi. My favorite hotel turns us away, saying they are full. The driver tells us there might not be any hotels with openings.
“I thought you said we wouldn’t need a reservation at this time of year,” Mom says, clearly irritated.
“Summer is low season here,” I say. “I don’t understand this.”
Jasper is moaning from his headache. “I have chills, Mommy.”
I try not to feel the dread spreading through me.
The hotel we eventually find charges three times the normal rate, but we are too tired and discouraged to argue. Even in his feverish state, Jasper insists on dragging my bag for me.
In the musty room, I feel the walls closing in on me. I have to go into the bathroom to cry so I won’t upset Jasper, who is lying in bed. I feel terrible for him; he’s been dragged along on this trip, and now he’s sick. I’m terrified it’s malaria or dengue fever or some other nasty tropical disease. Poor sweet Jabu, heart of gold. I’m praying to God to get him over this illness quickly.
I should never have come down here; it was a very unsupportive move. I can’t trust myself to make good decisions. I rue the day I came to this hellacious country, wish I’d never played God by interfering in Kevin’s life. I look at the story line and convince myself I’ve ruined my life and Jasper’s and Dicken’s. Kevin’s too. He must be so confused and have no sense of where his real home is.
I’m seriously considering going home as soon as possible. I’d like to take a sleeping pill and knock myself out, but I’m afraid Jasper might need me in the night.
* * *
Before he falls asleep, Jasper says, “Mom, remember what Paul says: this will pass.”
I’ve tried to hide my despair from him, but he obviously senses it. From her bed across the room, Mom says, “Sweetie, remember, you’ve been through a huge loss, and being this vulnerable makes you feel terrible about yourself. Try to be gentle.”
Angrily, I respond, “I should never have come! Why didn’t someone stop me? I can’t make supportive decisions for myself!”
With so much emotion in me, I can’t sleep and end up taking half a sleeping pill, my first med so far. I still don’t sleep all that well, but I am able to relax. The night is long, Jasper’s hot body next to mine, holding me close. I can feel his skin cooling gradually as we approach dawn, and am hugely relieved.
Morning brings the sun and that amazing sense of hope I never expected to feel again. I whisper, “Good job, Jabu, I’m so proud of you for breaking your fever.”
He immediately replies, “Good job to you for getting out your anger.” And I thought I’d hidden it! Then he says, “Mommy, last night I felt the walls were closing in on me. It was really scary. I decided to think about surfing, and that made me feel better.” He breaks into tears.
“What is it, Jabu?”
“I heard someone whispering in the dark and wondered if it was Daddy.”
“Maybe it was,” I say. “Daddy is thinking about you all the time, I know that.”
It amazes me how closely linked Jasper is to Dicken, and also to me; it is astonishing to hear his description of the walls closing in on him, which was exactly how I felt last night. I think a big gift of this trip has been the way it has shown me how incredibly connected Jasper and I are—all that time spent with him when he was little has paid off exponentially. It makes me want another child, even after all the darkness last night.
* * *
Kevin meets us at the hotel that evening. He’s obviously not too happy to be leaving. He’s had a great time.
“Where did you get that bandanna?” Jasper asks him.
“My dad gave it to me,” he says. “My dad says I can live with him when I’m eighteen.”
Fine, I think bitterly, that means we only have to put up with you for eight more years.
“That’s a really cool bandanna,” Jasper says. “Can I feel it?” As he reaches his hand out, Kevin pushes it away. I feel a stab of protectiveness toward Jasper.
“I’m hungry,” Kevin says.
I pull some crackers out of my backpack and hand them to him. He makes a very slight sneer of disapproval, and I want to slap him.
“You’re welcome,” I spit.
“Thanks,” he grunts back, eyes downcast and dark with anger.
I stew in silence until a short time later, when Kevin and Jasper are chatting and playing cards amiably on the bed in our hotel room. Thank God things shift, I think, looking at Kevin and feeling a sweetness for him coming to life in my chest.
“My mom’s new baby is called Anthony,” Kevin tells Jasper. “He can sit up by himself, and he reaches his arms out for people to pick him up. He’s really cute!”
“We missed you, Kevin,” I say, and mean it. I can now see how confused he must be, how conflicted. His mom had her new baby boy in January, on the twenty-second, Jasper’s birthday and Theo’s due date. Funny, as Kevin wished for a baby brother all those months ago, I guess he got one, two if you count Theo, which I do. Strange universe . . . It’s hard not to wonder why we would get the baby with a terminal condition, when this mother who was unable to raise her oldest child would get another healthy one. Maybe I am being punished for taking away her baby, and her stolen child is being replaced?
Along with the occasional winces in Kevin’s direction, I also want to give him a great life, to help him return regularly to Costa Rica so that he can keep up his family ties. It’s wonderful that he’s maintaining those connections. We met several young men on this trip whose bilingualism has given them a way to make a good living in Costa Rica. We can consider our time with Kevin a loving boarding school. When I think of the incredibly intense time he’s had over the last four or five years—being abandoned by his mother; leaving his country for a whole new family, language, culture, and climate; his experiences during my pregnancy with Theo, hearing those voices at the conception and birth; and all the shock of the death, then the grieving and adjustment—I truly admire him. He’s got a strong spirit, that’s for sure.
August 7
The boys and I fly to Washington, DC, where we’ll spend a few days with my dad before heading up to meet Dicken in Boston. On the plane, I ask Kevin how he’s feeling, worried that he’ll say he’s missing Costa Rica. Instead he smiles and says, “I’m excited to see Grandpa Piggy’s house, I’ve never been there!” Then he tells me all about seeing his family in Costa Rica, meeting new cousins and his baby brother. At one point he gets a faraway look in his eyes, a mix of happiness and wistfulness, and says, “Mom, I have so many people all over the world who love me.”
* * *
I feel safe and quite settled in Dad’s house. I love the books piled floor to ceiling and crammed into massive shelves—so many amazing choices, I feel I could live here forever and never run out of reading material. I call Dicken every hour or so, hugely reassured to have this direct connection to him again.
Dicken tells me, “Giles is going downhill. He was in the hospital yesterday, having fluid drained off his abdomen. Becca explained the situation to the kids, who were crushed, having thought he was getting better.”
I am unable to say anything, and feel the tears coming.
“I’m on standby to go over,” Dicken says. “I want to say goodbye.”
“Oh, Dix, what can they be going through?”
That night, lying in bed with my used tissues piled around me, I feel the bigness of what Giles and Becca are facing. I’m afraid of getting my hopes up too much for being reunited with Dix, trying not to buy the illusion that something is missing in me or that my “problems” will be solved when we’re back together. I am in touch with a part of me that is strong, that can survive.
August 13
The day I’ve been waiting for arrives, and I spend the morning counting down the hours till our flight to Boston, though I have so little energy I can’t even muster up much more than relief at the idea of seeing Dix. I’m at my wits’ end, tired, sick, sick and tired of managing the boys. I keep having bouts of low fever, feeling dizzy and odd and floaty. East Coast humidilty exhausts me.
Dad watches me chase Jasper down before he can unleash a water balloon at Kevin and tells me, “I’m amazed you can keep up with the boys. Jasper seems particularly hyper today.”
“He’s just keyed up because we’re leaving today,” I say. “Transitions unsettle him.”
“I still think you should consider Ritalin.”
“Dad! I hate it when you say that!”
“Don’t take it so seriously, you know I’m kidding.”
I wish Dad adored the boys the way he openly adores girls, like Grace. People are allowed to have preferences, of course, just as Ben hopes to have a girl, though I can’t help taking all of it as a personal affront to Jasper. I can see Dad’s comments as an expression of compassion for me, because it is tiring to have these two very full-on, energetic boys. I’m ready for a break. I wish I could go somewhere alone with Dicken, preferably to a monastery. At the same time, Kevin has been close to angelic. I’m grateful for that. He’s hardly sulked at all, and he’s friendly and cheerful with people. It has been a fine visit to Dad’s; I’m very glad we came. I do regret one moment from the trip: when Dad’s friend asked me if Jasper had any siblings other than Kevin, and I didn’t mention Theo.
* * *
I have an exit-row seat and butterflies in my tummy as the engines gear up for takeoff. Paula was due yesterday. No sign so far. My heart aches for some vague reason, something other than Paula’s pregnancy. I wonder how Dicken is. Is he excited, nervous?
* * *
At baggage claim, I glance up and see Dicken running to meet us, looking incredibly vibrant, with a cheerful orange flower in his hand. I am so struck by his attractiveness, I feel a little shy.
We stop at Cecily and Michal’s house in Boston before driving up to our summer home in the Adirondack Mountains. Cecily gives me a huge hug, then gushes about how big and handsome the boys look. As we start to catch up, her phone rings. She glances at the caller ID and says, “Oh, it’s Benny! I have to get this!”
Seeing her light up with excitement when she answers the phone makes my chest throb.
“They talk every few minutes,” Michal says, smiling.
Cecily hangs up after a minute and says, “Nothing new. Okay. I’ve got to calm down. Oh my gosh, I’m such a bundle of nerves!”
Later, in the car, Dicken comments, “You seem sad about Benny’s baby. Is it hard to see Cecily paying so much attention to them?”
“I guess so. I also get sad thinking of how Theo and this baby would have been friends.”
* * *
The mountains I’ve loved my whole life are beautiful, but I feel removed, like the usual openness I experience here isn’t close enough to the surface to access. Dicken looks at me and says, “You’re not all here, are you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Are you unhappy?”
“No, not unhappy or miserable, just neutral. Lifeless.”
“Well, I consider it my mission to bring you back to me, all of you. I’ve been waiting for you desperately for the last two weeks, and I will find you.”
I smile as he takes me in his arms and begins to gently kiss my neck.
August 16
Mom, Ralph, Cecily, and Michal have joined us. This morning in the kitchen was a completely harmonious family scene—no tension, no competitive undertones simmering below the surface like in some years past. Theo’s legacy, I would say. Thinking that brings him here, reminds me his stamp on our world will never be erased.
Mom can’t stop talking about Ben and Paula’s baby, debating with herself aloud about when she should go to New York to stand by for the birth. I share her excitement, but I also feel a dull ache in my heart. I retreat to my room.
Dicken walks into the room in the late afternoon and finds me in tears.
“Oh, darling!” he says, and rushes over to hold me.
“I’m so, so sad.”
Later, I ask him, “Is hearing about Ben’s baby hard for you?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t make me think of Theo, I don’t know why.”
“Will I ever get over this? I mean, I see Theo in everything.”
“I don’t know,” he says, frowning. “I feel normal again, so I don’t know what it’s like for you, but I can see you’re struggling.”
“I’ll try to get better, like you,” I tell him.
We end up making love. I feel more powerful in the throes of desire. I sleep well, dream I am in labor and have gotten to five or six centimeters with no pain. I am excited to tell Dix about how well I’m doing—he is not there yet—but also want to surprise him with the baby. I think this dream is about a baby, not realizing until later it is about wanting to show Dicken that I am able to handle pain by myself.