I am yo-yoing in the worst way in my feelings about The Visit. I go from nervous to pleased to desperately dreading it over the course of an evening. I made pickled grapes last night, so that they can sit in the fridge for a few days before The Visit
At the worst times, I want to scream at her: I lost my child, and now you want to bring him by so you can take him away again? Why in God’s name would you do this? What have I ever done to you?
There are, of course, a lot of reasons why I don’t. I like her, for one thing; I also know that what’s happening in her head is entirely different, and in fact the screaming I want to do isn’t even close to the whole truth for me. It’s just the part of the truth that I can’t talk about. And even if I could tell her about this without hurting her feelings, which doesn’t seem possible, I would (unfairly, I guess) not want her to have that in mind when she thinks about visits. This is the part of me that wants to shape her experience.
I wrote all of this a couple of hours ago, and in the off time, was embarrassed to realize what’s been happening without my realizing it. First I thought they might not come, then I got mad that they were coming…. Apparently I have three more stages to get through. I asked Mr. Book why on earth I’d be grieving a visit, and he said “Your baby is coming home, and it’ll be impossible for us not to see him here and think about what it would be like if he was here all the time.” Well.