May, 1946

I was standing by a road . . . no, a river. Where did this river come from? But no matter. For some inexplicable, ineffable, totally confusing reasons, it just seemed to make sense. A man was standing on the opposite bank . . . and a woman, as well. Yet more people kept popping into view. All my friends, family, and even people who were long gone stood across from me, separated from my grasp by only ten feet of rushing, angry white water of unfathomable depth. The people were all reacting differently. Ruthie was waving in a hyper way, her old way, the old way she’d kept hidden deep down, afraid to bring out, afraid for the feelings inside her to be cracked again by more loss. Stirling seemed to be speaking to me, but his voice was lost over the roar of the water. The others stood there, smiling and waving, and I waved back.

I stood there for quiet a bit longer, when suddenly it hit me. A powerful urge, more powerful than I’d ever thought possible– the urge to go to them, to grip each one in a powerful hug, to go back to them, to go back to everyone else. Then, realization took over. I was dying– I couldn’t be, for this was a dream, but somehow, somehow with piercing clarity I knew that if I didn’t make it back to them, I would die.

I suddenly felt a burst of courage and ran forward. I flew across the river, soaring over it like it was ten inches, not ten feet. I landed safely on the other side and ran to them, ran to all my friends . . . only to grab Stirling’s hands and have him disappear into thin air. They all vanished, to be replaced by a cream-colored ceiling.

I blinked and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, lost and confused and feeling out of place. I heard a sigh from nearby. I slowly rolled over. The one window of the room was curtained, but my instincts told me it was nighttime. Ruthie was dozing off, leaning against the wall, her brown hair half falling out of its tight braid. My parents were sitting in those hard, wooden chairs against the wall. They were both asleep.

I still had no idea where I was. Every time I tried to move my legs, I felt a stabbing pain course through me. I remained still, looking around. I looked down at myself. I was on a hard, flat bed. The room smelled . . . well, I have no idea how to say this other than it smelled exactly like a hospital. So that was it, I thought. A hospital. Then it all came coursing back.

The wail of a child, I thought, my child. My new children. Where are they? What happened to me? It couldn’t have been that, surely. No, it couldn’t have. But I’ve been afraid of that happening ever since I first found out I was pregnant. But I did hear ripping . . . not a lot, but it sounded bad enough. And the pain . . . Dear sweet God, please don’t ever put me through that again. What happened after that? I think I screamed . . . yes, I screamed. And then, everything went all blurry and fuzzy. But I do remember Stirling speaking. Speaking of him– where is Stirling?

My question was answered almost immediately. Stirling came into the room silently, looking a bit like a pale wraith. He seemed weary and yet too alert to go to sleep. He didn’t notice me until he had quietly sat down in his chair. I noticed the dark rims under his eyes, and the way his hands feebly clutched the arms of his chair. I gently reached out for him and put my hand on his arm.

I must have scared the wits out of him, for he leapt nearly a foot in the air and stared at me, looking horrified. Then, when he saw me, such a visible wave of relief and love washed over his face that my eyes welled with tears. How he must have suffered, waiting for me to wake up. He suddenly jumped up, knocking the chair over with a thud, and practically collapsed on me, clutching me and shaking.

“Oh, Kit,” he moaned into my shoulder, “I thought you were never coming back to me. Oh, Kit!”

“Don’t fret, Stirling,” I answered calmly, stroking his hair as though my husband did this every day, “I’ll always come back to you.”