o 7d2acff2003a9b7d (8 page)

11:22 A.M.

Just apologized to Dad.

I know he’s feeling as horrible as I am.

“Dad,” I said, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”

“I do,” Dad replied. “Because you’re mad. And you have a right to be.”

“I do?”

“Of course.”

Well. That was nice to hear.

Dad sat next to me on the bed. “We may have lost your mother,” he said, “but we still have each other.”

“I know.”

“What makes you the angriest of all?”

I thought for a moment. “That Mom put us in this position — so that all we do have is each other.”

Dad gave me a funny half smile.

I looked down at my lap then. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Finally I said, “But if all I do have is one other person, I’m glad it’s you.”

Dad took me in his arms then and we cried together. It wasn’t embarrassing at all. It seemed quite natural.

When we felt a little better, Dad asked me again to help out. We need to make phone calls and lots and lots of arrangements, he said. He asked me if I would talk to the florist and choose the flowers for the funeral.

To be honest, I don’t really want to. But I said I would.

12:07 P.M.

God, some people are stupid. Dawn was here. She said, “Sunny, you sound so angry. Why are you angry? I thought you’d be sad.” What a jerk.

I just looked at her and said, “Get out of my room.”

12:22 P.M.

Mymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgone.

12:48 P.M.

I think I am going crazy.

2:30 P.M.

Carol has been here. She appeared in my doorway. I was sitting on my bed. I hadn’t called the florist or done anything Dad had asked me to do. I’m not sure what Carol wanted to say to me. I didn’t even give her a chance. The second I saw her, I started talking. Everything just came spewing out. I said, “Carol, I’m sorry. I was horrible to Dawn. I was horrible to Dad. I didn’t mea anything I said. I want to get the right flowers. And I want to talk to Dawn.” Then I burst into tears.

Carol held me and let me cry.

“You know,” she said after awhile [sic], “it’s going to be a long time before you feel better. This is not going to go away quickly. You probably aren’t going to understand your feelings, or what you do, or what you say. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

I nodded, still crying.

“On the other hand,” Carol went on, “remember that you can rely on your friends and your family now. They want to be here for you. They want to help you. But they might not always know the best way to help you.”

“So I probably shouldn’t shout at them,” I said.

Carol smiled. “Well … not if you help it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t tell people when you want to be alone. Or, if you REALLY want to shout, how about turning up your stereo full blast and screaming? You can say whatever you want. I’ll tell you father that I suggested this to you.”

I managed a smile. “Okay,” I said.

“Now,” Carol went on, “do you want me to call the florist? I’d be happy to do that.”

“No. I kind of want to do it. I like the idea of choosing flowers for Mom. I don’t know why I got so mad at Dad.”

“Maybe you’re not really mad at your father. Maybe you’re just mad that the flowers have to be chosen in the first place.”

3:17 P.M.

I’m spending way too much time writing in my journal.

But I have to write.

7:30 P.M.

I’m exhausted. Didn’t mention earlier who’s been here today. I mean specifically. It feels like everyone on the planet has been here.

Grandma and Grandad came over last night, of course. And they were here for a long time today. For some reason, I didn’t feel like being with them. Grandma looked hurt. She called to me twice in my room. Finally I agreed to eat supper with her and Grandad and Dad and Aunt Morgan. The five of us crowded around the little table in the kitchen that was crammed with food and baskets and mail and packages. We tried to eat with all this stuff overflowing around us. Our elbows kept bumping; there was barely room enough for us and the meal.

I don’t know what got into me, but I gazed through the doorway into what had been Mom’s room and said, “Won’t it be nice to have the dining room back again? Then we can have more space.”

I thought Aunt Morgan was going to slap me. Dad began to cry and left the table. So I slammed my fork down and left the table too.

It’s funny. I just realized that I set out to make a list of the people who have been by today when what I guess I really wanted to write about was what happened at dinner.

I am a mean, horrible, awful person.

7:42 P.M.

And I am so tired of writing in this stupid journal.

Sunday 3/21

7:46 P.M.

I guess I needed a break from the journal. Sometimes writing is helpful. Sometimes it

intensifies everything. I don’t need my feelings intensified just now.

Dawn is here with me. She’s writing in her journal too. It’s been some day.

Last night I apologized to Dad (again) and we all calmed down. I went to bed early and actually fell asleep. I slept for a long time — until almost 7:00 this morning.

Today was almost as busy as yesterday, but a different kind of busy. Yesterday we made the rest of the phone calls, the horrible ones when we had to tell people about Mom. Most of the funeral arrangements have been taken care of. What happened today was just that people kept coming by. In droves, it seemed. In the morning, they were mostly friends of Mom’s and Dad’s. After awhile [sic] I got tired of sitting with them and went to my room. A few minutes later Dawn showed up. (I told her she was brave, considering how I treated her yesterday.) She ended up staying through the afternoon. In the morning we just sat in my room and talked. Dawn is almost as sad about Mom as I am. She has her own mother, and Carol, but she was close to Mom, kind of in the way I’m close to Carol. I have to say that at first I was irritated to discover how upset Dawn was — like being upset about Mom should be my personal right since I am her actual daughter. But then I thought about how I would feel if Carol died. I guess it’s okay for Dawn to be as sad as I am.

Dawn looks horrible. Pale and fragile.

Is that how I look?

Around lunchtime, Dawn and I crept into the kitchen and fixed plates of food for ourselves. We brought them back to my room. We just picked at them.

“You know what?” I said after awhile [sic]. “I’d kind of like to see Ducky.”

“You would? Now?” said Dawn.

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s call him. He’d like it if you called him. I’m sure he’ll come over.”

So we called him and he came over.

Good old Ducky.

When Ducky arrived one of the people downstairs let him in. Dawn and I didn’t hear the

doorbell ring, so suddenly Ducky was just standing in the doorway to my room. The second Dawn and I saw him we burst into tears. Both of us. Poor Ducky.

Ducky hugged me first, then Dawn. Then he started to cry too. I thought that would make things worse, but it didn’t. After a moment or two the three of us just looked at one another and then we started to laugh. And cry. Everything was all mixed up. We were trying to pull ourselves together a little when we heard someone say, “Hi.”

We turned around and there was Maggie. It was not like her to drop by without calling first, so I was surprise. But mostly I found that I was very pleased. There was more hugging. We weren’t saying much. We’d cry a little, then someone would hug someone, then we’d laugh a bit.

Later Dad called upstairs, “Sunny, telephone!”

For some reason I checked my watch as I headed for the phone. I found that hours had gone by.

Hours with my friends, crying, laughing, just being together.

The caller was Amalia. “Can I come over?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

A half hour later Amalia had joined Dawn, Ducky, Maggie, and me. Now the five of us were sitting around crying, laughing — and talking a bit more than we had been earlier.

When was the last time the five of us were together in one place other than school? Was it the night of that dreadful party, the night we met Ducky? That was months ago. It seems like forever ago.

I have been so horrible to most of my friends lately. And here they all were, gathered around me like a cocoon. Protecting me. Loving me. Not caring how horrible I’ve been. For just a second I felt a teeny, teeny bit better. Then I remembered what is going to happen tomorrow.

Please, please let me get through the funeral. It is going to be wretched. All I want is for it to be over.

8:50 P.M.

Carol came up awhile [sic] ago. She sat on my bed and talked to Dawn and me. Dawn wants to spend the night here. Carol said it’s okay. Dawn’s going to the funeral tomorrow. Everyone in her family is going. Carol has told Dawn she does not have to go to school afternoon. Dawn would be in no shape for it.

Maggie, Ducky, and, and Amalia are going to the funeral too. I will be in my cocoon again.

This afternoon I asked Dad if I can sit with my friends during the service.

“Well,” he said, “family members are supposed to sit together in the first two pews.”

My face must have shown my dismay. (Dismay? It was more like shock, horror.)

“How about if we let Dawn sit with you?” he said. “If she doesn’t mind not sitting with her family.”

So I talked to Dawn and Carol about that.

“It’s up to you, honey,” Carol said to Dawn. “We’d like for you to sit with us, but we’ll understand if you want to sit with Sunny.”

Dawn looked pained. I stopped just short of saying to her, “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE sit with me. I need you. You’re like my sister. You HAVE to sit with me.”

Maybe my face showed what I was thinking, though, because finally Dawn said, “Of course I’ll sit with you, Sunny. I’ll do anything you want.” But she sounded uncertain.

Carol spoke up then. “How many funerals have you girls been to?” she asked.

Dawn and I looked at each other. “One,” said Dawn.

“One,” I said. “My great-aunt’s. Two years ago.”

Carol nodded. “Funerals are difficult no matter what, but when you haven’t been to many …”

I guess that’s why Dawn looked pained. It isn’t just that tomorrow is Mom’s funeral. It’s the whole idea of a funeral.

“Dawn, if you want to sit with your family that’s okay,” I said. (Inside I was cringing.)

“No, no. I’ll sit with you.”

“Thank you,” I said, and let out this tremendous breath.

Carol looked at both of us for a very long time. “Nobody should have to go through what you’re going through,” she said softly, and tears came to her eyes. She stood up. “All right. I better go now. Dawn, are you going to come home tomorrow morning? Or do you want to go straight to the service with the Winslows?”

“I’ll come home first,” said Dawn. “I need to change.”

“Okay. See you in the morning, honey.” Carol kissed Dawn on the top of her head. Then she kissed me.

And you know what? Even though Carol kissed me too, when I saw her lean down to kiss Dawn I felt this huge knot of jealousy form in me. If Carol had died, and Mom were sitting here with us instead, she would have kissed me first.

But Mom is gone.

Monday 3/22

12:49 A.M.

Well, technically it is now the day of Mom’s funeral. I know I should be sleeping. I have tried to sleep. But I just can’t do it. I was so hopeful after my good sleep last night.

Dawn and I have been talking. Talking and talking and talking. Mostly about Mom. Of all my friends, Dawn knew her the best.

Knew her.

Now I have to write “knew” when I write about Mom.

12:56 A.M.

Had to stop for a few minutes.

Tears.

I don’t think I’ll ever go back and read this journal. I’m thinking of that summer (when? two

[sic] years ago?) when I spent a week rereading all of my old journals. Every single one of them.

In order. Starting with the very first one — second grade at Vista. If I ever do that again, I know that I will have to skip this one. It is actually tearstained. I can’t believe I wanted to chronicle the end of Mom’s life.

Six nights ago when Dawn started to talk about Mom I stopped her. Tonight, after Carol left and after Dad and Aunt Morgan went to bed, we only talked about Mom. I started it.

“Remember Mom and the pennies, Dawn?” I said. “The story you started to tell last week.”

Dawn smiled. “Yeah … Is [sic] it all right to talk about it now?”

I nodded. “I don’t think I can talk about anything but Mom. You know why?” (Dawn shook her head.) “I know it’s ridiculous, but she’s only been gone for two days and already I’m afraid I’ll forget her.”

“Oh, Sunny, you’ll never forget her.”

“What if I do?”

“Look around you. There are reminders of her everywhere.” Dawn pointed to the photos of Mom, and to a vase Mom had made and the little rug she had woven. “And this is just in your room. Think of what’s downstairs. Not to mention what’s in photo albums and scrapbooks.”

“I can’t explain it,” I replied. “I’m still afraid. That’s why I want to talk about her.”

And that’s why I feel like writing about her now. I want to get everything down in this journal, even though I’ll probably never read it again.

Here is the story about the pennies:

One summer day — it was very hot, I remember — when Dawn and I were about eight, we were bored to tears. And I think we were driving our mothers crazy. So Mom said she would take us downtown for awhile [sic]. Dawn and I were thrilled at the prospect of an adventure. Also, we though Mom was going to buy us ice cream. So we piled into the car with our pockets full of spending money in case we also went to the toy store. To our surprise, though, after Mom had found a parking space and we started down Henry Street, Mom walked us right by both the ice cream shop and the toy store.

“Where are we going?” I asked her. Then I noticed that Mom had pulled a bag of pennies out of her purse. “What are those for?”