Miss Me When I'm Gone

chapter 22



My mother had reserved a private room for us at the tearoom.

In the middle of the table was a Martha Stewart–style wedding cake fashioned out of diapers, ribbon, receiving blankets, and tightly rolled-up onesies—all hip and cheerful fabrics, alternating stripes and polka dots of dark brown, baby blue, and white. A stuffed monkey emerged from the top, one fist raised. A revolutionary monkey.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” my mother said. “Abby made it. Abby has been amazing with all of the preparation. Wait till you see the favors she’s giving out at the end.”

Abby—my closest high school friend. We hadn’t talked as much as we used to since she’d had twins four years earlier. You’d think my pregnancy would have made us feel more connected, but it really hadn’t. We’d only talked twice since I’d announced it, and she was as busy as ever with her children and her full-time marketing job. Still, she’d insisted on arranging my shower.

My mother led me to her. We hugged while my mother continued to rave about the diaper cake.

“I know it’s not really your thing,” Abby admitted. “But when I looked up baby-shower ideas, I just couldn’t control myself. So many cool little ideas. Gives me a chance to explore my crafty side.”

My mother said something about how cute the invitations were, then wandered off to greet a friend of hers who had just walked in.

The mention of invitations made me think of Gretchen. Had Abby sent her one? Without thinking, I asked Abby if she had. She didn’t seem surprised at the question, however.

“Yeah. I invited her on e-mail, through her author Web site. Since I didn’t know her address.” Abby glanced at the floor. “She RSVP’d. Seemed excited about it.”

I almost asked her when exactly that had happened, but thought better of it.

“I’m so sorry about Gretchen, Jamie,” Abby added softly. “If you need anything, you should call me.”

“You’re already doing so much,” I mumbled.

“This is kind of for your mom, aside from the presents,” Abby said, “which I’m hoping will come in useful. Don’t get me wrong. But I mean, what else can I do for you?”

The question overwhelmed me with a wave of emotion so strong it felt like nausea. To prevent myself from bursting into tears, I changed the subject.

“Where are the twins today?” I asked.

“Everything’s ready!” my mother announced before Abby could answer.

Abby showed me to the head of the table, where a large chair was stuffed with polka-dot pillows. A sock monkey was perched on one side of the chair’s high backing, wearing a blue sweater vest.

After that was a blur of tea sandwiches and cupcakes and gifts in Gerber and Graco packages. There were lots of coos and smiles from both me and the guests, accompanied by the general feeling of being someone else. I tried to grin and remark at every sleeper and swaddling blanket that passed through my hands. I believe I even said “Cool!” when I opened a box containing a breast pump, though I couldn’t remember later if the word had actually come out of my mouth. I couldn’t think of what else to say, since cooing didn’t seem appropriate for that item.

Two gifts stood out. One was Abby’s. In addition to a Diaper Genie, she’d wrapped up a copy of The Little Prince—which I’d been enamored of in high school.

Some part of my Sparkly Pregnant persona cracked just then. It seemed like I could keep up the act unless someone tried to address the person behind the belly. When that happened, I could feel it all coming apart.

I thanked her and quickly reached for the next gift.

Two gifts later came a framed poem from Aunt Paula, my father’s brother’s imperious second wife. It was a fabric picture frame, covered in light blue polka dots and brown elephants, with a long poem inside.

“It’s for the nursery,” Aunt Paula announced. “Read it, honey.”

I began to read aloud:



A baby boy is a gift

From heaven above

For his mommy to kiss

And to hug and to love.

“Did you write this?” I asked.

“No,” Aunt Paula said, crossing her bony arms. “I found it on the Internet. I thought it was nice.”

It was clear I was supposed to go on. The poem was endless. Eight stanzas.



Soon he’ll be playing

And climbing up trees

And running to Mommy

To kiss his skinned knees.

I looked up self-consciously and noticed an empty chair between Abby and my mother’s friend Irene. Probably that’s where Gretchen would’ve sat if she’d come. She knew Abby from college visits and she would have liked Irene’s quiet and unassuming manner.

But I could just see Gretchen sitting there, staring down at the floor, embarrassed by this poem, embarrassed for me. Maybe she was uncertain if I was ever supposed to have children. She was so unsure for herself—how could I be so presumptuous as to think I was any different? Cold and prickly women like her and me had no business having babies. Who did I think I was? The wounded expression on Aunt Paula’s face confirmed this sentiment—I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t even have a clue how to pretend to be a sweet and grateful pregnant woman, even for an afternoon.



He’ll outgrow his teddies,

Sweet bunnies and ducks

And ask for trains and LEGOs

And baseballs and trucks.

By the time I got to the appropriately capitalized LEGOs, I’d started to giggle through the words. I wondered if Aunt Paula got this poem from a corporate LEGO site.

By the end of the next stanza, my eyes were starting to water with the strain of trying not to laugh. I didn’t know why I was laughing, but I couldn’t stop. I looked up for some kind of assistance. Aunt Paula’s mouth was open now, her eyes wide with disbelief. I glanced at the empty seat again and imagined Gretchen there, rotating her left foot around in a circle, then her right. She’d be wearing her clunky-heeled sexy librarian shoes. Picking at her cuticles. Smiling just a little in spite of herself.

“Aww . . .” someone whispered. Some of the guests seemed to think I was getting weepy.

I struggled through the next stanza, stumbling on the words, still tittering.

When I looked up again, my picture of Gretchen was gone. I glanced up at Abby, who was staring at me sympathetically. She knew I wasn’t crying, but laughing. Did she know it wasn’t a gleeful laugh, but a nervous, negative one? She blinked and smiled a little. Then her mouth straightened, as if to say, “Just finish it, Jamie.”

I hurried through the last few stanzas—which had my son growing a foot taller than me and lettering in football—and thanked Aunt Paula, telling her how cute the poem was, that it was just right for the nursery, for which I hadn’t any wall decorations yet. Which was true. Because I hadn’t stepped into that room for weeks.

I glanced gratefully at Abby as I reached for the second-to-last unopened gift.

It was a relief to remember that there had been something of me before this sadness and this baby. To have someone there—someone besides Gretchen’s ghost—who at least remembered it, too.