Never Blame the Umpire (5 page)

Friday night at our house is usually popcorn and movie night. Mama and Dad pick out a DVD that we can watch together. Sometimes instead of watching movies we play games like Monopoly or Scattergories or UNO or Outburst. And a bunch of others. We have some video games—my favorites are the ones that require a lot of physical competition—but we play a lot of board games with dice or cards. Dad’s kind of a collector of games.

Our Friday night family time has been a tradition as long as I can remember. But I don’t want to leave my room. I can’t pretend nothing has changed.

I can smell the popcorn. Usually the popcorn smell makes my mouth start to water, and I can’t wait to feel that salty, buttery taste on my tongue.
But now it doesn’t even smell good to me.

There’s a tap at my bedroom door. “Kate, can I come in?”

I wipe my tears and sit up in bed. “Yes, Mama.”

She’s holding a bowl of popcorn and an orange soda, my favorite drink. “I thought you might like these.” She puts them down on my desk and sits beside me on my bed.

I throw my arms around her. “Oh Mama! I don’t want you to be sick! I don’t want you to be!”

“I know, dear. But I want you to know something. Something very important.” She touches my cheek lightly with the back of her fingers. I try to fight back tears, but it’s no use. I know that the world will never be a happy place if Mama isn’t here to sit beside me and touch my cheek.

“When the doctor first told me, I was certain he’d made a mistake. I wasn’t feeling bad enough to be as sick as he said I was. It took me awhile to accept the fact that I do have cancer. And not only that, but that they probably won’t be able to cure it.”

I look into Mama’s eyes. I’ve always been so proud to have the kindest, prettiest mother of any of my friends. But now, it’s as if I’m seeing her for the first time. It’s as if I’ve never really looked at her before. It isn’t that she’s changed—it’s still hard to believe she’s really sick. But what’s different is that I realize I’ve always taken her for granted, thinking
that she’ll always be here, forever and ever.

Mama squeezes my hand. “Then I got angry,” she says. “I thought about how unfair it is that I should get cancer. I’ve always exercised. I’ve made sure to eat healthy foods. I’ve never smoked or taken drugs. How could it happen to me? I’ve always thought I’d live to see you and Ken grow up and get married and have a career…”

Suddenly she pulls me close to her, and I can feel tears that I know are hers.

“It’s okay, Mama. It’s okay to cry.” Because I’m crying too and we’re holding tight to each other.

Mama wipes away her tears, and mine too, and she smiles. She tries to, anyway. At least she does a better job of it than I do. I don’t know if I’ll ever smile again. “I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t intend to cry. I was going to talk to you about how we all have to be brave and accept whatever happens as God’s will. But it’s still hard for me to accept.”

She reaches for the dish of popcorn and hands it to me. “Here. I popped the yellow popcorn tonight, especially for you.”

I don’t feel much like thinking about popcorn, but I take the dish and nibble at a couple of kernels. “Thanks, Mama,” I whisper.

“The one thing I most want to tell you,” she says, “Is that I’m not afraid of the future. Oh, I’d like to live to be an old lady with a bunch of grandchildren running
around my house.” She reaches out for a handful of popcorn. “There’s a poem called ‘Birches.’ Robert Frost wrote it. In it he said, ‘Earth’s the right place for love; I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.’ I’ve always liked that line because I’ve been so lucky: my life has always been filled with love. I’ve known the special love of our friends from church, our special church family. My parents and brothers and sisters are all close. Your father is the most wonderful man in the world, and he chose me for his wife. And I have the two most terrific children that any mother can have. No one who has known the love I have would want to leave that love behind.”

“You won’t have to,” I blurt out. “They’ll come up with a cure. I know they will.”

“Maybe they will,” Mama says. “I pray they will. But I know this: the time I have left on this earth, whether it’s months or years, will be filled with a far deeper love than most people have ever known. I realize how very, very lucky I am.”

What Mama says reminds me of a movie we’d all watched together a few months ago. It was an old movie about a baseball player who was dying, and he said he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth. I wondered how he could consider himself lucky. And now Mama is saying almost the same thing.

“Oh, I love you, Mama. I do!” I hug her again, tight. I don’t ever want to let her go.

“I know you do. You’re the light of my life. You and Ken and your father. I couldn’t face this without all of you. And I need you all to help me, help us all, fill every day with happy thoughts. While we still have the gift of life, we can’t waste our time mourning or feeling sad. Each day is a precious gift, a gift from God.”

She stands and walks to the window and brushes the drapes aside. It isn’t dark yet. The last sliver of sun has left the sky a gorgeous purplish-pink.

I can’t help but think about how amazing the sky looks. It should be black. Or gray. Why would God make the sky so pretty when he’s doing this awful thing to Mama?

“Just look how pretty the sky is. I think God’s doing it on purpose, to remind us how much beauty there is in the world.”

I gasp. Out loud. It’s like Mama is reading my mind.

“Always see the beauty,” she says. “Not the pain. Not the ugliness. I realize this is all new to you, to all of us. You’ll need time. We all will. But try to remember what I’ve said. Each day is a gift. I’ve been lucky enough to live for more than twelve thousand days. I figured it up today. I did. And almost every one of those days has been special. So full of joy. There are a lot of people who’ve lived to be seventy or eighty years old who haven’t seen anywhere near the number of wonderful days I’ve experienced
already. Remember God’s gift of giving us so many days of joy and love. Okay, Kate? Try to remember.”

I take a deep breath. “I’ll try, Mama.”

Her lips brush my forehead. “If you want to come out, we’ll be starting a movie in a few minutes that you might like.”

“I don’t think so, Mama. Not right now.”

“I love you, Kate.” Mama closes the door softly behind her.

“I know, Mama,” I whisper to the empty room. I lie down and stare at the ceiling.

I keep thinking about all the things Mama said. I lie there without moving until all the ice has melted in my glass of orange soda.

On the bus to school Ginny keeps asking me what’s wrong. I finally shout, “Nothing’s wrong, all right? Just stop asking!” I pull a book from my backpack and pretend to read.

I don’t even have to glance their way to know the two girls sitting across the aisle are looking at me. Ginny doesn’t say anything. I feel terrible about shouting at her. I want to apologize, but I can’t. If I do, that’ll just get her talking again. I don’t want to have to say anything. I just want the bus to get to school. Maybe once it’s there I can lose myself in whatever Mr. Gallagher has us do and block out yesterday from my mind.

I know I’ll have to tell Ginny about Mama sometime, but I’m not ready to talk about it. I wouldn’t
know what to say. I didn’t even want to come to school today, but that would have taken even more explaining. Besides, I know it would have upset Mama if I’d quit my creative writing class in the first week.

Mr. Gallagher starts class the same way he does every day, by giving us what he calls a “starter activity.” He gives us a lot of them. They’re different ways to help us get those first words on the page. He says that for most writers the hardest thing is staring at a blank page, not knowing how to start. He says that once we have a few words on the page, the rest comes easier.

Today nothing comes easy. We work for an hour and a half. During that time he gives us four different “starter activities.” I try all of them, but none of them are good. They’re just words. They don’t mean anything. When he asks the class to read, I don’t read any of mine.

Mr. Gallagher told us the first day of class that we should never throw away anything we write. But I don’t have anything on my paper today worth keeping. I just keep thinking, “What am I doing here? I should be with Mama.” But if I weren’t here, I couldn’t be with Mama anyway. She’s at work. I don’t
understand why she’s still going to work. She should stay home with us. If she were home, I wouldn’t be coming to school today. There’s no way she could make me.

Mr. Gallagher holds up a blank sheet of paper. He says, “The main joy of any artist is to take this blank sheet of paper and bring to it something that would not exist except for the imagination and talent and craft and soul of the artist. Poets write poems about every subject, and to fit any mood, happy or sad or angry or lonely.” He holds up a book. “I’ve been reading you some of Shel Silverstein’s poems. He wrote a lot of silly poems. He did a great job of reading them, too. I’d like to play part of a CD of him reading some of his own poems. You can see that it can be fun not only to write poems, but to read them out loud.”

Shel Silverstein’s voice is weird. Weird-funny. I’ve never heard anybody who sounds like he does. It’s impossible not to laugh, and I do, right along with everybody else. He reads four or five poems before I even realize I’m laughing.

Suddenly something in my head blocks out Silverstein’s words. I see Mama’s face and I remember her words from last night. I know what she said about
being happy and enjoying every minute, but I can’t do it. I don’t have the right. I feel like screaming. Mama’s dying and I’m laughing. What kind of person am I? Mama said she wants me to be happy, but she’d be disappointed in me if she knew I was laughing right now. I know she would. Laughing is almost like saying I’m not sad about what’s happening.

I try not to listen to the rest of the CD. I’m afraid all the poems will be funny, and I don’t want to hear anything that might make me laugh again. Not today.

Mr. Gallagher says, “Free writing time. I’m going to give you fifteen minutes to write. It can be the first draft of a poem, but it doesn’t have to be. It can be the start of a story, or it can just be a few sentences. It can be silly or serious. Maybe you heard something in one of Shel Silverstein’s poems that will give you an idea for some writing of your own.”

“What if we can’t think of anything?” Jill Cannon asks.

“Then just write a single word,” Mr. Gallagher says. “Maybe a noun. Let’s say you write the word ‘dog.’ You could think about a dog of yours or maybe a friend’s dog. Think about something it did or what it looks like. Whatever word you begin with, just ask yourself ‘when’ and ‘who’ and ‘where’ and ‘what happened.’ Don’t worry about an ending, just start with a word or idea and see where it takes you.”

“What if we need more time?” someone asks.

“Don’t worry about a finished product. Just write as much as you can. You’ll have plenty of time later if you’re not finished. You’ll have the whole rest of your life to revise.”

The whole rest of your life. The words burn in my ears. He talks like that’s forever.

“I’m not looking for polished or finished work,” he continues. “I’m not even going to collect what you write—that is, unless you want to let me see it. Just write as much as you can. And as I said before, don’t ever throw any of your writings away. When you’re eighty years old, you should still have everything you’ve ever written.”

Why is it that everything he says today reminds me of Mama? He’s talking like everybody will live to be eighty. Well, they won’t. Doesn’t he know that? Why would it even matter if I write another poem or story if Mama won’t be able to read it?

Everybody else is writing, so I take my blank sheet of paper. I don’t want him to think anything’s wrong. If he did, he might start asking questions, like Ginny did.

I think about some of the things Shel Silverstein wrote about in the poems I’d paid attention to. I write one of the words on my paper. I cross it out and write another. And another. My mind’s a blank. All I have on my paper are those three words.

Homework

Bands

Pony

A fourth word pops on my paper. I didn’t plan it. It’s like it wrote itself. I stare at my paper.

Dying

I bite at my lower lip and my hand starts to move. I watch my pen move across the paper, but I don’t pay any attention to what the words are. I don’t even think about what I’m writing. It’s like my pen has a mind of its own.

When my pen gets tired and stops, I read what’s on the page.

Dying

No No No

Stop it! Stop death

I hate it. It isn’t fair.

Why do people have to die?

Why? It isn’t fair. Isn’t there

a way to stop death? To live,

give life, to never stop, never

stop keep going

she’s wrong, they’re wrong,

live until we’re eighty,

lies! lies!

everybody will live until 80

sure they will!

and read everything

and play tennis and go swimming

and eat popcorn and play baseball

otherwise why bother waking up

in the morning and listen to people

talk about things they don’t know

anything about

about art about creating things

just so they can die someday

nobody knows what will

My pen had stopped writing before it even finished a thought, but I don’t have any idea what the thought even was. All I know is that the words on the page don’t make any sense and that I’ll never show the page to anybody.

I rip it from my notebook and crumple the paper into a little ball and stuff it in my pocket. I pick up my notebook and walk toward the door. I don’t run. I don’t want Mr. Gallagher to think anything’s wrong. But I walk as fast as I can.

I walk all the way to the bleachers next to the baseball diamond behind the school and just stare out at the field. It’s not the same field our team played its game on last week—it seems a year ago—but I try to picture my last at-bat. Me getting the hit, Andy sliding across home plate with the winning run, everybody congratulating me. It was such a great time—while it lasted.

“What is it, Kate?”

I look around. It’s Mr. Gallagher. “Is something wrong? Anything I can do to help?”

“No,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I left the room without permission.”

His hand brushes the air as if he’s trying to brush away a gnat or something. “Oh, don’t worry about that. That’s not why I’m here. I just thought you might want to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Mr. Gallagher sits down on the bleachers. Not right next to me, though. There would be room for two or three people to sit between us. I glance toward him. He’s staring out toward the field. “One quality that almost all writers have is the ability to feel things deeply,” he says. “You’re feeling deeply about something right now. It’s certainly nothing to be sorry about. Embrace the way you feel. But sometimes it’s good to talk those feelings out.”

“I hate the way I feel. I wish I couldn’t feel
anything.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No,” I say. “I can’t.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Gallagher nodding. “If you ever do want to talk, I’ll be happy to listen. If you feel like coming back to class now, please do. If you want to sit out here, that’s okay. And if you’d like for me to stay for awhile, I will.”

Then the words just tumble out. “My mother’s dying.”

I don’t plan to do it, but it happens. I take the crumbled paper from my pocket and hand it to him. I don’t watch him while he reads it.

“I’m so sorry,” he says finally. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“She has cancer. There’s nothing they can do about it.”

“Oh Kate,” he says. “I know that there aren’t any words that can help right now. Just know that your friends are always here for you, even though you might not always feel it.”

Then he says something that surprises me. It sounds like something Mama might say. He says, “Your love will be your strength.”