o 7d2acff2003a9b7d (2 page)

4:10 P.M.

Well, that was stupid. That last entry, I mean. I just reread it. It doesn’t say anything. I’m so confused.

This diary is my friend. It is my confidante, even more than Dawn is. Like, I actually couldn’t say just anything to Dawn. Not sure why. But I do say absolutely everything to my journal. Or at least I used to. I don’t think I’ve been doing that so much anymore. I feel closed up, like a sealed bottle. I need to open up. Or to be opened up.

I’m going to try that last entry again.

Okay. Here goes.

* * *

For starters, Dad is at home (as I said). He’s been at home for several days straight. He’s pretty much abandoned the bookstore. He stays with Mom just about around the block. He even sleeps in her room. And of course a nurse is usually here, and one doctor or another checks in on her every day. When I went downstairs, Dad was sitting with Mom, and a nurse was just outside the room. Aunt Morgan was in the kitchen. In other words, no privacy.

“Hi,” I said to Dad. “Can I talk to Mom?”

“Sure, honey.” He was sitting on the end of her bed.

“Maybe I could talk to her alone?” I said this like it was a question.

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Dad stood up and walked into the living room. I could hear him talking to the nurse in a very low voice.

I sat at the foot of Mom’s hospital bed and gazed at her, trying to figure out if she really was awake. It’s hard to know these days. You can’t tell by her eyes. Sometimes she’s awake with her eyes closed. I think it’s too much effort to keep them open for long periods of time.

“Mom?” I whispered.

Mom’s eyes fluttered open. “Hi, sweetie,” she said.

“Hi.”

“How was school?”

“Fine. How are you feeling?” I knew this was a dumb question, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“About the same.” Mom licked her lips.

“Do you want some water?”

“Just some ice. Please.”

I brought Mom some ice chips and put a few of them in her mouth.

“Thanks,” she said after a few moments. “That’s better.”

I didn’t know what to say then and I was embarrassed. How could I not know what to say to Mom? To Mom?

While I was still trying to dredge up a little piece of conversation, Mom said, “You are a very strong person, Sunny.”

I bit my lip. I don’t feel strong.

“Maybe you don’t feel that way,” Mom went on as if she’d read my mind, “but it’s true. You can survive anything.”

Well, that didn’t make any sense. Mom is a strong person too, and she isn’t going to survive cancer. “I don’t know,” I said.

Dad poked his head into the room then. “Can I get you anything?” he asked Mom.

Mom shook her head. “No, thanks.”

Dad just stood there in the doorway, looking at Mom. I stared at him. Finally he went away.

After Dad left, Mom said, “Sunny, when I’m gone — ”

And I gasped. Right out loud. I don’t know whether Mom heard me, but

HOW COULD SHE START A SENTENCE LIKE THAT?

“When I’m gone,” Mom was saying, “you and Dad take care of each other, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“You’re going to need each other.”

I nodded. Then I realized Mom’s eyes were shut again and she couldn’t see me nod, so I

whispered, “Yes.”

“You’ll have Grandma and Grandad, of course. And Dawn. But you and Dad — you’ll have to take care of each other.”

Soon Dad stuck his head in the room again, and I wondered if he’d been listening at the door. I frowned at him. “Dad — ” I began to say.

“Oh, sorry.” He pulled his head back like a turtle, and this huge feeling of disgust washed over me.

I looked at Mom again. “Mom?”

No answer. She had fallen asleep. She does that a lot these days. She can fall asleep in the middle of talking to you, right in the middle of a sentence. So I tiptoed out of the room. I nearly ran into Dad.

“Were you eavesdropping?” I asked.

Dad’s mouth dropped open.

And in a flash, Aunt Morgan appeared. She’s like an evil witch in a fairy tale. “Sunny,” she said in a warning tone.

I didn’t answer her. I pictured her in her big office in Atlanta, ordering her assistants and secretaries around. I bet she yells at people.

Dad stepped in. “It’s all right, Morgan,” he said.

I let out a breath I’d been holding. I knew we weren’t going to fight. We’ve been much too subdued for fighting lately. We don’t fight. We don’t hug. We don’t yell. We don’t have long late-night chats. We just tiptoe around each other. It’s like we don’t have the energy for a fight.

Or for any kind of big emotion. Any big emotion between us, I mean. I think we’re saving all the big emotion for Mom.

6:35 P.M.

It’s almost dinnertime, and I’m delaying going downstairs and face Dad and Aunt Morgan. I’m rereading what I wrote a little earlier.

I am so lame. I am such a coward. Even here in my journal I’m not being honest. I left out a whole big important part of my conversation with Mom. I couldn’t bear to write it down.

But now I will.

After Mom said Dad and I will have to take care of each other, she said, “Do you know

something? Since the moment you were born I have been looking forward to your wedding day.

Isn’t that silly? What if you don’t want to get married? Lots of people don’t. But still, I’ve looked forward to that day. I’ve dreamed of you wearing my wedding dress.”

“Mom — ”

“And I want you to know where it is.”

“Mom — ”

“It’s in a box in the attic. The box says WEDDING DRESS on it.”

“Okay.”

And then Dad stuck his head in the room again.

I don’t understand. Why do people have to die? All right, that’s a stupid question. They have to die because if everyone lived, and babies kept on being born, the world would have become overcrowded a long, long time ago.

Okay, why do good, young people have to die? Why does Mom have to die now? Why couldn’t she die when she’s really, really old, the way most people do.

I AM NOT READY FOR MOM TO DIE, AND THERE’S NOT A THING I CAN DO ABOUT

IT.

THIS IS UNFAIR. UNFAIR. UNFAIR.

I DON’T WANT MOM TO LEAVE YET.

8:20 P.M.

I got called down to dinner. When Aunt Morgan calls, you obey. Actually, I was kind of relieved to close up the journal and do something mundane, like eat.

Aunt Morgan is not much of a cook. Or a housekeeper. But she saw it as her duty to fly out here and take care of Dad and me. So she worked really hard this afternoon to make supper for the tree of us. She made a vegetable lasagna. It was runny, overcooked on the top, and undercooked in the middle. It took her a long time to make it. I am trying to be appreciative.

Dad and Aunt Morgan and I ate in the kitchen with the door into Mom’s room open so she could hear us. I think Mom was asleep the whole time, though. Already I don’t remember much about dinner. Only that I wasn’t hungry. But I forced some of the lasagna down. And I tried to answer Dad’s and Aunt Morgan’s questions about school and stuff.

Then I just looked at the two of them sitting there, all defeated. After a few moments, I excused myself.

Why has everyone given up on Mom?

I want to yell, “DON’T GIVE UP! DON’T GIVE UP!” I even want to yell those words at

Mom. Because she has given up too. I know she has. And I don’t understand why.

Also, I don’t want the end to come. I AM NOT READY.

10:32 P.M.

I knew I wasn’t going to do my homework tonight, but I didn’t expect to be so busy. The last few evenings have been quiet, and some of my saddest times. That’s why I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work. I thought I would just sit and write.

But a couple of hours ago, the phone started to ring. And since Dad’s spending all his time with Mom, and Aunt Morgan was busy with her everlasting laundry chores, I was put in charge of the phone. The first caller was Mr. Schafer, just checking up on things. Funny, for some reason when I heard a guy’s voice I thought Ducky was calling. I was disappointed for a moment but glad to hear from Dawn’s father. He and Carol, especially Carol, have been so wonderful.

Maybe I’ll go talk to Carol tomorrow. Mr. Schafer asked me if I wanted to talk to her on the phone tonight, but I’d rather talk in person.

After Mr. Schafer called, Greta called. I don’t know why, but I have a little trouble talking to those people from Mom’s cancer support group. They’re all very nice and everything, but I don’t know how to finish this sentence. What is my problem with Greta and the others?

Not sure. Maybe it’s that so far they’re surviving their cancers. And Mom is not. I talked to Greta for a few minutes, and then someone from the bookstore called with questions for Dad. I guess he’s not indispensable after all. I knew Dad didn’t want to be disturbed, so I tried to answer the questions myself. It even occurred to me that this would be a good excuse to call Ducky finally. He’s spent time working at the bookstore. Maybe he could answer the question.

But I just couldn’t get up the nerve to call him. I wonder how long that will take.

Okay. I’ll try going to bed. Maybe tonight is the night I’ll be able to sleep at last.

11:18 P.M.

No luck. Tossing and turning.

11:41 P.M.

The light from the street lamp is driving me crazy. I can’t block it out.

11:53 P.M.

what [sic] has happened to my pillow? It feels like someone flattened it with a sledgehammer.

Wednesday 3/17

12:08 A.M.

Oh my god. This is awful. Mom is making the most horrible noises downstairs. I’ve never heard anything like them. This is new. Dad is down there with her, of course, but what do I do?

Should I go to her? What do the noises mean? Is this the end? Oh god, I can’t stand it if this is really the end. Right now. Right now. I’m still not ready.

I feel like praying. I haven’t prayed since I was a little kid.

Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I

Oh god. I never paid much attention to that prayer before. It’s horrible.

12:11 A.M.

The noises have stopped. What does that mean? I know I should go downstairs but I’m afraid to. I’m really not prepared for it to be over.

Please. Just let me have a few more days. That’s all I ask.

I’m going downstairs now.

12:28 A.M.

Mom is asleep. Dad said he’d never seen her in so much pain. The morphine had worn off, the nurse had given her some more, and it hadn’t really helped, so she’d given her even more. It takes longer and longer for it to work. The noises Mom was making before were like howling.

Like an animal howling.

I was so scared when I tiptoed downstairs. I really thought I might go into Mom’s room and Dad would say, “Sunny, I’m sorry, Mom is gone.”

My heart was pounding and my mouth had gone dry. I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a second and listened. I could hear Mom moaning but not howling like before. The room was lit by a night-light and that street lamp. I peeked into Mom’s room. I could see her hunched up in the bed, the nurse hovering, and Dad sitting with her, stroking her hand, her hair, talking softly to her. I remember when Mom used to do that for me when I was sick.

I didn’t know if I should say anything, but finally I whispered, “Dad?”

“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “The morphine is starting to work again. She’s going to sleep.”

I nodded. I went into the kitchen for something to drink. Then I sat in the living room and stared out the window for a bit. After a few minutes, Dad joined me and we talked a little. But not about anything important. And then I came back to bed.

10:16 A.M.

What a night last night. This morning I decided not even to go to school. For one thing, I think the end really is near. I couldn’t bear to be at school and not with Mom when it finally comes.

For another thing, I don’t think I’ve ever, EVER, been so bone-weary tired as I am this morning.

Last night, after I tried to go back to bed, I decided I needed to see the moon. I looked out my window but I couldn’t find it. Then I wanted to smell the night air. I raised my window. And across the yard I saw Dawn’s window being raised too.

“Sunny?” she called softly. “Are you okay? I heard your window open.”

“I can’t sleep. I wanted to see the moon and smell the air.”

“I can’t sleep either.”

“Meet me outside?”

“Okay.”

It was just like when we were kids, on hot summer nights when we couldn’t sleep. Why did we always meet in my yard, I wonder?

There minutes later we were sitting together on an old lawn chair.

“Remember when we used to come out here when we were little?” Dawn said.

“I was just thinking about that.”

“What did we talk about then?”

“Stuff that scared us.”

“Like what?”

“Kid stuff. Bad dreams. Shadows.”

“Our dreams back then were so silly. Remember the one I had about the foxes under my bed?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Why were the foxes so scary?”

“I don’t know. But they were really scary. And you had that dream about the bulldog.

Remember?”

“Yeah. You’d think we hated animals,” I said.

“Have you been asleep at all tonight?” asked Dawn.

“Nope. Not one wink. How about you?”

“I fell asleep for about an hour and then I woke up. I was just lying there when I heard you.”

“Mom was making noises downstairs. She’s in a lot of pain tonight.”

Dawn winced. “I’m sorry.”

We leaned against the back of the lawn chair. We could just barely squeeze into it, side by side.

“We used to fit better,” said Dawn.

“Remember the time we were sitting on this with Maggie and Jill and it collapsed?”

Dawn laughed. “Then we added up our weights and altogether they only totaled, like, the weight of one really large adult, so we couldn’t figure out why the chair wouldn’t hold us.”