Chapter

37

I am home. The words tumbled around in my head, and I rushed to the corner table where my purse was sitting and dug through it frantically, looking for my wallet.

I pulled it out and, flipping it open, sank down on the couch with a sob. There in the place of honor was the picture I always carried with me, only this time it was different. Just like the original, this picture showed Mitch and me and our girls, but, unlike the original, there was no tiny picture of James cut out and placed in the corner of the photo sleeve. No, he was there, cradled in Mitch’s arms, his tiny hand wrapped around his daddy’s finger.

James had never met his daddy. As I examined that picture and searched for answers, a miraculous stream of memories came pouring in, surrounding me with their familiarity. They were like two rivers, both leading from the same lake and arriving at the same ocean but taking different paths. I could remember both sets of memories—they were mine after all—and they were mostly the same, with only a few differences.

The memories of meeting and marrying Mitch were the same. Our honeymoon, our first apartment—these were all the same, but there was much more music in them. I taught voice lessons and eventually started a children’s choir that I still ran. I could name the place where we held our rehearsals and the names and faces of the children. It was my business, and I loved it.

I rocked back, clutching the photos as more memories came to the surface. The births of my three children were there, except that in the new memories Mitch was at James’s birth. How was that possible? A tiny flicker of an insane hope bloomed in me. Maybe . . .

But no. The hope was dashed as I remembered Mitch’s death. His funeral. Only this time I stood by his graveside with Margaret, still alive, and all three children as we said good-bye to our husband and father and son. The tears fell as the memory washed over me. I had replayed this scene millions of times in my head, the original version. It was nothing new, but it still hurt.

And yet the hurt was less bitter. It was tempered by the memory of all of the times that Mitch had played with James, by all those extra memories of our family together, and finally by the treasured memory of him lying in his hospital bed and opening his eyes one last time, his mouth forming the words, Love you. I saw myself kissing his hand, his cheek, his head, his lips, and whispering, “Good-bye.”

I let the tears pour down my cheeks, silent, healing tears that washed away the anger and the desperation. When they slowed I felt as if they had filled me somehow, giving me energy instead of sucking it away. I stared at the picture again, and I noticed that there were more behind it.

I flipped through them quickly, soaking up the wonderful beauty of the smiling faces of my children, the laughing eyes of Mitch, and one picture with Margaret reading to all three of my children. That was a miracle.

Then I heard a voice down the hall.

“Grandma, are you making pancakes?”

The wallet flew from my fingers, and I jumped off the couch.

“Mallory?” I called. I ran to the door, throwing it open with a bang. Mallory was standing in the hall in her nightgown, bare feet poking out from beneath the ruffle. Her hair was tumbling down her back in messy waves.

“Morning, Mom. Are you hungry? I think Grandma is making pancakes.” Her words were cut off as she yawned.

“Baby!” I cried out and ran to her. I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around her, burying my face against her chest. “Oh, honey, I missed you so much. How are you? Have you been having a good time? Where are your brother and sister?” I couldn’t hold her close enough. She smelled so good.

“Sheesh, Mom. Don’t call me ‘baby.’ I’m almost a teenager.” Her voice was exasperated, but she hugged me back. “Jenna and James are still sleeping.”

She pointed over her shoulder at the room that had been Rachel’s and now served as a guest room for the grandkids. I grabbed her hand and pulled her along with me as I rushed into the room. James peeked out of his crib, bleary-eyed and drowsy, and Jenna’s hair was just visible above the blankets on the bed.

“Oh, my children!” I cried out, and I rushed to pull James from his bed. He snuggled into my shoulder and wrapped his warm baby arms around my neck. Mallory tried to leave, but I grabbed her and pulled her along with me, and we crashed onto the bed, waking poor Jenna from a deep sleep. I gathered them to me and kissed and hugged every part of them that I could reach. Kissing turned to tickling, and we laughed as tears poured down my face. I couldn’t tell which were tears of mirth and which of sorrow or joy or relief. It was all mixed together in one amazing explosion of living.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” Jenna said as our giggles slowed somewhat.

“Me, too, baby cakes. Let’s go eat some breakfast.”