Chapter 34 – Stories and Skiing

Holly wakes me early the next morning. I grab a bottle and bring her into bed with me, tucking her into the curve of my shoulder as I feed her. Her blue eyes are fastened on mine, and I can't help but smile at her.

"Funny to think you were here with us last year," I say softly. "Probably only about as big as a green bean, hiding away there in your momma's belly."

For a moment I think about the placenta growing alongside her, and wonder if even that early on it was burrowing its way so deep into Rosalie's womb that the story of her end was already written. I've never asked; I don't know when things slipped beyond normal and what happened became an inevitability. But I push the thought away, focusing only on the soft, milky warmth of the beautiful baby living and breathing beside me.

"We didn't know you were there. We wouldn't even find out about you for another month or so; I wonder if one day you'll think we were idiots for that? Probably! You'd been growing in there for eighteen weeks before we noticed…but you were such a surprise, baby girl! After everything, we didn't even imagine that you were possible…"

My voice trails away as I realise that this is the first time I've ever started to put Holly's story into words for her. She's a baby and can't understand, but that never stopped me when the others had been tiny. Right from the start I had talked to them, telling my babies how much they had been loved and wanted, and what we had gone through for them. Daisy's adoption, the IVF treatments that had given us both sets of twins…we had always told their stories.

Even before we knew you, we wanted you. You didn't come easily, we went through so much to get you, and we did it because we needed you. Our family needed you…you were always, always, wanted and always, always loved.

Holly's story is different. She came to us out of the blue, with none of the yearning and heartache and struggle of our other pregnancies. We weren't even looking, and yet she came to us and that unexpected pregnancy had felt like a gift.

"We spent nine years not being able to make a baby on our own," I say, my voice low. "We'd given up on it even being a possibility…and suddenly there you were. Rosalie called you her miracle, and said you were meant to be." I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I smile at the baby and drop a light kiss onto the top of her head. "And yeah, your birth might have turned into a tragedy…but your existence is still a miracle, and you need to know that."

She smiles at me around her bottle, her blue eyes thoughtful, and on the other side of her Bram and Zeke begin to stir into wakefulness. They're delighted to find me tucked into bed with them, and they crawl over Holly and start climbing on me, gleefully sticking fingers into my nose and ears and laughing at my protests. This is not exactly restful, so as soon as Holly's done I unzip all three of them from their sleep sacks and start getting us ready for the day.

The three older kids are already awake, although they're still tucked up in bed watching cartoons and taking full advantage of the novelty of having a tv in their room. Bram and Zeke excitedly climb into Daisy's bed with her, and she promises to watch them for me while I have a quick shower. I leave Holly in the crib with some toys and shut myself in the bathroom, having the quickest shower known to mankind. For a moment I think wistfully of long, hot showers, just standing there with my thoughts, but then I hear Holly's plaintive wail from next door and turn off the water with a sigh. Maybe in another five or so years?

Holly just didn't like being alone, and as soon as I reappear in the bedroom she's all smiles. I hand back the toys she's dropped through the crib bars and start looking for some clothes.

"Emmett?" Angela calls through the door. "Can I come in? I've got Bram and Zeke and we need some diapers."

"Hang on…yes, fine," I hastily zip up my pants and slip into a shirt before Angela comes in, the two little boys bounding ahead of her. "Hey, how are you?"

"Great." Angela looks through the suitcase I've got sitting open on the luggage rack. "Mac and Noah were asking about breakfast so I told them to get dressed while I did the little twins and then we can go down to the dining room."

"Cool." I sit down and pull on some socks, and then change Holly's diaper and pull a sweater on over her sleeper. "Do you think five months is too old to live in pyjamas all day?" I ask Angela, who is changing Bram on the bed beside me. "I think Rosalie would hate it; she was all about dressing the babies in little coordinated outfits, and she was always sticking those stupid enormous bows on Daisy's head. Am I just being lazy and hopeless by putting the kid in a romper or onesie ninety-five percent of the time?"

"I think it's okay," Angela says, after considering Holly for a moment. "Rompers are practical for a little baby who naps a lot and is just learning to roll over. Holly has some pretty fancy rompers too, and all the hand-knitted sweaters from your mom are adorable. I think you're fine. Honestly, I'd wear pyjamas all day if it was socially acceptable." She looks at me, slightly amused. "Were you really worrying about this?"

I shrug a little self-consciously as I fasten a clean diaper on Zeke and pull down his onesie. "Not exactly, but…sometimes it's the little things, you know? I know it's stupid that it matters – surely with all the grief and trauma for the kids, and Mac's dyslexia and Noah pulling his hair out and all that you'd think I have enough BIG stuff to deal with that stupid shit like clothes wouldn't even matter. I mean really, who cares? But actually, Rosalie cared, and sometimes I feel like I'm letting her down if I don't give a fuck about the small shit too."

"Shit," Zeke says, grinning at me. "Shit!"

"None of that!" I say, yanking a sweater over his head. "You're not helping Daddy look good when you've got seven words and two of them are curse words! That's something that I know for sure Mommy would be very unhappy about!"

Angela fits a pair of soft baby shoes onto Bram and puts him down on his feet. "I don't think Rosalie would be unhappy with what you're doing," she says. "Whether it's exactly what she would have done or not…you're doing a good job."

It's a good morning. We enjoy the breakfast buffet, and then I drop Bram, Zeke and Holly off at the resort childcare room and get everyone else dressed in snow gear and fitted out with boots and skis before we meet with Jack and the ski instructor he's hired, Cecile.

The kids haven't skied for a year, but Cecile turns out to be a great teacher and they pick up where they left off pretty quickly. Daisy has superb strength and balance after all her years of gymnastics, and is a natural talent on skis. Mac is determined to keep up with her though and, with apparently no sense of either fear or self-preservation, hurtles down the bunny slope after her like he's being chased by wolves. Noah is more cautious, but he's pretty athletic in general and is soon having a great time sliding down the slopes after the other two. Angela takes in the lesson too, and after a few runs that end with her skidding down most of the slope on her butt (much to the kids' amusement) she starts to find her feet. I'm surprised but kind of pleased when Jack spends the entire morning with the kids, helping them with their technique in the lesson and afterwards taking Daisy to test out her skills on a more challenging slope. I stay with Mac and Noah, racing them down the hillside and throwing snowballs at them, letting them pummel me in return until we're all wet and snowy and laughing. I love seeing them so happy.

We collect the babies from the creche and eat lunch at the lodge, everyone gobbling down toasted sandwiches and hot chocolates, warming up from the inside out as fingers thaw out and snow suits leave damp patches under the table. When no one can eat another bite we head upstairs to our room to get into dry clothes and hang up all the snowsuits and jackets and ski pants to dry.

"These babies all need afternoon naps," Angela tells the big kids. "And you guys are probably pretty tired after skiing all morning, so why don't you watch a movie and have a rest too? Then later this afternoon we can take Bram and Zeke outside to play in the snow, and maybe try out the toboggan hill?"

No one objects to this plan, so I cue up Star Wars for the big kids to watch and then leave Angela feeding Holly while I take Bram and Zeke into the bedroom. They're exhausted after a morning playing in the childcare and there's not even a token protest when I stretch out on the bed and tuck them in beside me. They snuggle up against me and I wrap my arms around both of them, stroking my fingers across two sets of rosy cheeks as their eyes slowly blink closed.

I don't move even when they're asleep. I've always loved holding my sleeping babies. I love the warm weight of it, the feel of beating hearts and warm damp breath against my chest. I love knowing that held in my arms they are happy and loved and safe. Lying there in the comfortable hotel bed with light flurries of snow drifting past the window, I look at the slumbering faces of my little boys and think about how good the morning had been outside with my big kids, and I feel myself smile. It's been a good day.

I try to cling on to that feeling. I really do. I try to focus on the contentment of this moment with the sleeping babies, I try to remember the morning out in the snow – the beauty of the mountains, the pleasure I got from the physical exertion of skiing, the enjoyment of watching my kids gaining mastery and skill, the fun of throwing snowballs and making them laugh. I can feel it drifting away, and I try desperately to hold on to the feeling of lightness. I don't want to be sad right now. It's been five and a half months – can't I just have one day where it's okay? Haven't I earned that by now?

But it doesn't work like that. Because the grief might loosen its grip for a time, but it is always there, waiting for a moment when I leave my heart unguarded to come roaring back with a vengeance.

Hey, remember your dead wife? Remember Rosalie? Remember the way you love her? Remember the way she bore your baby and then she bled to death and now you're ALONE? Remember that?

It washes over me again, through me again, the endless black darkness of sorrow. This time though, there aren't any tears. Just bleakness that this is the way it is, the way it will always be, and there is nothing I can do but endure.

The door creaks open and Angela pads through the room in her socks, whispering, "I'm just putting Holly in the crib." She tucks the blanket around the baby and then turns to leave, pausing when she sees my face. "Are you okay?"

I can't say anything around the paralysing tightness of my throat. And after a moment's hesitation Angela sits down on the bed, propping a pillow behind her as she leans against the headboard and smiles at me sympathetically. "Tough day I guess?"

"Actually, it's been great!" My laugh is halfway to a sob. "The skiing was fun, and the kids have been so funny and…yeah. Tough day." My voice drops and I smooth a hand down Bram's back as he stirs against me.

"I thought it would be hard for you here," Angela says. "Just because this is something you used to do with Rosalie."

"It's weird how that is," I say, keeping my voice quiet so I don't wake the babies. "It's hard to do things we used to do together because it makes me miss her, and yet it's also hard to do new things that we never did because that just makes me feel bad that she's not here. Lose-lose either way."

"I think it's good for the kids that you came here though. It was really lovely seeing them laughing last night over the photos from last year, strengthening the good memories they have of doing things with their mom. And they've been having so much fun! They're making new memories, and you're showing them that you're still a family who can do fun and exciting things together and be happy," Angela says.

I ease away from the sleeping twins and sit up too. "Truth is, I had a really fun morning. I love watching the kids have a good time, and they all did so well skiing! Rosalie would have loved it. I was feeling great and then it all just…I don't know. I hate sounding like I'm whining but fuck it…I'm so tired of this. It's exhausting to be so goddamn miserable."

"There's no way to hurry the process though," Angela says. "It is what it is. And despite what it might feel like, you are making progress; I can see that. Look at how much you enjoyed this morning – you were laughing and having a great time outside with the kids, and were able to really enjoy the moment. A few months ago, when I first started working for you, you wouldn't have been able to do that. It's just that those good moments are sometimes not as noticeable as the grief is when it comes crashing back down."

I swallow hard. I recognise the truth in what she's saying, but that doesn't make the bleakness any easier to bear. And once again, the same contradictory feelings flare up inside to torment me.

I don't want to feel this way anymore. I can't bear it. I hate it. Please make it stop.

I can't let this pain go. I can't bear the thought of not feeling your loss so acutely. I'm terrified that one day I won't feel it, and I'll start forgetting.

Angela leans over and tucks Holly's blanket in a little more tightly. "You weren't too upset when we picked up the babies from the child care and the worker called me mommy were you? I thought you looked a little…underwhelmed by that."

I shrug. It had felt like a punch in the gut in the moment, when we'd walked into the child care room and the girl reading books with Zeke had looked up and said brightly, "Hey, here's your Daddy and Mommy!", but not really for the reason Angela might be concerned about.

"No, it wasn't a big deal," I say. "Not in the way you mean. Mostly it was the look on Zeke's face when the worker said mommy…the word barely means anything to him now. 'Mommy' is just a picture on the wall to him, and that's…I really hate that. I'm trying so hard to keep the memory of Rosalie alive for Daisy and Mac and Noah, and it kills me that the babies will only ever really have 'mommy' as an idea, not as their reality." I sigh heavily. "As for people assuming you're their mom – well, I know that the way things are that's inevitable. You're a woman in her thirties, you're literally the same age as their mom was, if people see you taking care of a baby of course they're going to think it's yours. Especially the way you are with them."

"I correct people," Angela says quickly. "If someone says something to me, I always tell them I'm the nanny. I don't want to cross any boundaries so if you think I am you need to tell me."

"I didn't mean that," I say. "I like the way you are with the kids."

I don't want Angela to change anything. She's always professional and has never done anything to overstep, but she cares for my children with the kind of loving affection that is something I desperately want for them. "You don't pretend you're their mom, but you don't take care of them like it's nothing but a duty either. You give them a lot of yourself…I see that and I appreciate it."

"Nannying can be a hard balance sometimes," Angela admits. "I love the kids I work with, but I always have to remember that my role is to be the nanny, not the mother. It's harder with your kids though because they don't have a mom anymore, and sometimes the lines feel blurred."

"It's working though," I say, looking from the twins sleeping peacefully in between us to Holly in the crib and realising that it's true. "The way you are with them, whatever you're doing…it's working. The big kids are getting more settled; Mac hasn't been in any trouble recently and Noah's hair is…well, if it's not growing back yet, it's not getting any worse either. Daisy's doing great. And Bram and Zeke and Holly are thriving."

Angela grins. "I'm glad because honestly, I really do love your kids and I want to keep doing this job. I'm in it for the long haul now."