By Darlene Truman

When I was pregnant, I wanted a daughter, a pretty doll-like being to play with. She’d smile at me, laughing and cooing in her frilly pink dress.

Wishing so hard, I produced Desiree and Stephanie, twin girls — tiny red-faced creatures that cried and pooped and ate like piglets.

I wished they’d feed themselves. Soon enough, they drank from their Sippy cups like two recovering drunks that had fallen off the wagon. The cute silver spoons that grandma gifted them were lobbed to the floor in favor of their hands, much better to smear anything that landed on their high-chair trays into mush. Red sauce streaked their blond hair, spaghetti noodles stuck in their toes, noses, and diapers.

As I emptied the guck from the pockets of their plastic bibs, and washed the walls and floor, I realized this was not what I’d envisioned when I made my wish.

Since I’m a slow learner, I looked forward to the time they would walk. My twin stroller kept jamming the automatic doors at the grocery store. Hoisting a baby on each hip limits the use of your hands. I imagined blissfully shopping hand-in-hand with my cute girls when could they walk.

Well, they walked. And then they ran.

One Tuesday afternoon, at the mall, they took off running in different directions. As I hesitated, one fell down. So I took off after the other one with the sound of a woman asking, “What kind of mother is she, leaving her child crying?” following me. By that time, toddler two entered a shoe store. Desiree always liked shoes. I wrestled a woman’s high-heeled boot from her fat little hand, tucked her under my arm football style, and running as if to make a touchdown, I raced back to the crying one on the floor. I broke through her audience, and like a skilled crane operator, I maneuvered her under the other arm. Sauntering away as if I didn’t have a care in the world, I wished – for the floor to swallow me.

Having learned nothing, I wanted them to talk. My daughters communicated with each other, even before they were born, and I yearned to be included in their conversation.

An average four year old asks about 450 questions per day. Two four year olds encourage each other’s curiosity, so the total number of questions per day usually exceeded 10,000 by my count. “Why is an orange called an orange? Can you have a cat mommy and a dog daddy? Where do lizards sleep? Will I be bigger than Daddy? How does the sun know when to come up?”

I started wishing for them to start school. Apparently I hadn’t noticed the pattern yet.

Summer ended, and my marriage was sinking. I had no gainful employment, and the girls turned five on September 7. I decided that while they were on the cusp, age-wise for school, it might be best for all of us if they entered kindergarten. They both read, so the curriculum should be a breeze. I hoped school would be a happy, stable place for them, not sure what was ahead for us at home. With white-out and a copy machine, I forged their birth records, changing their birthday to September 1, and enrolled them.

Kindergarten was a success, but first grade – more challenging. Their dad moved out of our house in February, along with my dream for a traditional happy family. But determined to maintain their routine, I still put them on the bus every morning, following it toward town for employment interviews.

One day, they refused to get on the bus. They grabbed my legs and wouldn’t let go, their faces wet with tears. I untangled one, only to have her re-attach as soon as I tried to untangle her sister. “Don’t leave us too,” they said, and I realized they shared my fear, my sense of loss. In fact, their devastation was greater than mine.

As my resolve slipped, the driver got off the bus with little white donuts in his hands. Wiping their faces, he offered them the donuts and promised they could help him drive to school. As he talked, he gently unraveled one child and guided her onto the bus; I followed with my other child. It worked, and for years after, Sam, the bus driver made sure my daughters had donuts on every school bus they rode.

The years flew past. I got a job, remarried, and my girls both grew into lovely young women. Desiree was engaged, preparing to walk down the aisle, a beautiful bride, in impressive shoes.

On January 23, 2005, six weeks before the wedding, a policeman knocked on our door to tell me that Desiree had been killed in a car accident.

Still I wish. In my dreams, I see Desiree alive again; she bears the babies she was planning, confides her impatient desire for them to crawl, and I get to laugh long and hard.

I wish my family to be whole again. Accepting this unspeakable loss leaves me with my memories of yesterday, and the task of building a life without her.

I wish I was still wishing my babies talked, walked, or fed themselves.

Darlene Truman moved to Shepherdstown in 1987. She has been a business person for over 20 years in Charles Town, a fitness and dance instructor in Jefferson County, daughter of Ethelmary Elliott, mother of Desiree and Stephanie Shields, and wife of Brian Truman.