With You and Without You

by Ann M. Martin

  I turned but saw Denise talking to him. She must have told him what I’d said. He didn’t call me again.

  I reached the porch steps. Mouse was sitting contentedly on the top one, in the same spot where Charlie had been not long ago. Suddenly I hated her. I wanted to hurt her for being alive when Charlie was dead. So I did something terrible. I purposely stepped on her tail—hard—as I went past her.

  Mouse shrieked with pain and surprise. She tore off the porch and into the bushes to nurse her tail. I ignored her and went to my room.

  An hour later there was a knock on my door.

  “What?” I said.

  I’d been sitting on my bed all that time. Not crying, just sitting and staring and thinking. Once I’d gotten up to look out the window. I could see the bloodstain in the street.

  Mom and Dad came in, followed by Denise.

  “Honey,” said Mom, “a doctor at the Center looked at Charlie right away, but he said there was nothing to be done. Charlie must have been killed instantly.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “They cleaned him up, though,” said Dad, “and Mom and Brent brought him home. We thought it would be nice to bury him out back next to Spanky.”

  Spanky was the first cat we’d had. She’d died of old age when she was fourteen.

  “Okay,” I said. “But not right now.”

  “And,” added Mom, “the vet said if we ever want to get another cat, the Center often has litters of orphaned kittens. They’d be glad to give us one. They always need people to give strays good homes.”

  “Mom,” I said stiffly, “Dad, Denise—I do not want another cat. Do you understand?” I couldn’t say anymore. I didn’t want to start crying yet. I took two deep breaths while everyone began talking at once.

  “Baby,” began Dad.

  “Honey,” said Mom.

  “Liza,” Denise said.

  But I cut them all off. “Would you please just get out of here? Please—leave—me—alone.”

  And they did, but the door hadn’t been closed for more than a minute when Hope let herself in.

  “I’m sorry about Charlie,” she said, crawling up beside me on the bed.

  I sighed.

  “Is he really dead?”

  “Yes, Hopie. He’s really dead.”

  “Mommy said that means we won’t see him anymore.”

  “That’s right. After we bury him, we won’t see him anymore.”

  “Why do we bury him?”

  “Could you please go ask Mom, Tink?” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Are you sad?” asked Hopie.

  “Yes. I’m sad.”

  “Well, don’t worry. I know a secret.”

  “What?” I asked. I was losing my patience.

  “He will be back,” whispered Hope, leaning toward me conspiratorially. “Not right away. But later. He’ll come back. Maybe in some days or some weeks.” She nodded her head wisely, as if confirming this information.

  “Look, Sissy,” I said. “Will you do me a big favor? Will you go downstairs right now and talk about this with Mom and Dad? Tell them just what you told me.”

  “Why?” asked Hopie.

  “Because I said.”

  “But it’s a secret.”

  “They’ll keep the secret. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  Hopie left reluctantly.

  Later that afternoon, we held a funeral for Charlie. Our whole family was there, plus Denise. The Pet Emergency Center had sent Charlie home in a plastic bag. We put the bag in a box.

  Then Brent dug a hole in the ground under an ash tree next to an uneven piece of slate that said in faded white letters:

  SPANKY

  A Sweet Cat

  We stood in a huddle in the warm sunshine and watched Brent place the box in the hole and start burying it with shovelfuls of dirt.

  “Daddy,” whimpered Hopie. “If Brent covers him up, he won’t be able to get out.”

  “He can’t get out, Emmy,” Dad said firmly. “He’s dead. That means he won’t come back. Do you understand?”

  Hope didn’t answer. She just let her tears fall silently.

  Brent finished burying Charlie.

  Then I got the new piece of slate on which I’d carefully printed:

  CHARLIE

  That was all that was going on his gravemarker. I didn’t think anything else needed to be said. Carrie and Denise helped me push the marker into the frozen ground and prop it up with rocks.

  Then I stood, brushing the dirt off my hands, and turned to my family. They were standing solemnly, facing the new grave. Suddenly nobody had anything to say. We just looked at each other. I knew we were all thinking the same thing. The next funeral would probably be Dad’s.

  Dad turned abruptly and started walking toward the house, Fifi at his side. We let him go.

  Everybody managed to find something to do outdoors. We knew Dad needed to be alone. Denise and I walked back to the edge of our property and sat down in two ancient tire swings that hung from the branches of a gigantic old maple.

  “I can’t cry,” I said to Denise. “All this week I cried about Dad, and now Charlie’s really dead and I can’t cry.”

  “I know,” said Denise.

  “You do?” I asked.

  “Mm-hmm. When my dad died I couldn’t cry at first either. I was too numb. Also, I was afraid to cry. It was like …” She paused, thinking. “It was like, the thing I had to cry over was so awful, I was afraid if I started, I’d never be able to stop. So I put it off for weeks. I kept telling myself I was strong and that only babies cried. I told myself I didn’t need to cry. Then when I did, when I couldn’t keep it inside any longer, it was pretty awful. That was the time when I wouldn’t speak to you. And I stayed out of school for a whole week, remember?”

  I nodded.

  “Mom said I should have let myself cry earlier. She said even though it seemed awful then, it would have been easier. Maggie was so little, she cried right away and got over it, just as if she’d been stung by a bee or something. It wasn’t so bad for her.”

  The sunny day was beginning to disappear as heavy clouds rolled in. I shivered. “It’s cold,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”

  Denise shook her head. “I better go home. I’ve got to practice for my piano lesson. But come over tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As we walked back toward my house, we came across Hopie, sitting behind the tool shed. Mouse was cradled in her arms. Her back was to us and she didn’t see us, but I could hear her.

  “I won’t let them do that to you,” she said. “No boxes, Mousie, I promise.”

  I glanced at Denise. “I better talk to her,” I whispered. “See you tomorrow.”

  Denise left and I sat down on the ground next to Hope. “Do you know what ‘dead’ means?” I asked her.

  Hope looked as if I’d said something dirty to her.

  I went on before she could answer. “It means you’re not alive anymore. It means you can’t move or think or feel. It’s like being asleep, except you can’t dream. You can’t even breathe. There’s nothing left of you except your body. Do you understand?”

  Hope relaxed a little. “I guess …”

  “Remember that bug you stepped on yesterday?”

  “The one I squished?”

  “Yeah. Do you think that bug can move around now? Do you think it can fly or crawl or sting people?”

  “No,” said Hope. “That was why I squished it.”

  “Well, now it’s dead,” I said. “Only, a living thing doesn’t have to be squished to die. Animals and people can die in different ways. Today Charlie was hurt so badly that he died.”

  “Then he really isn’t coming back?” Hope asked. “He’s not trying to get out of the box?”

  “He can’t.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Dead is dead.”

  “That’s right.”

  I took her hand. “Let’s go inside now.”
<
br />   So we did. And when we got there, we found the last thing I’d have expected. Dad was in the living room surrounded by cardboard cartons. Our Christmas decorations. He looked as happy as a clam.

  “Girls! Oh, good. I know it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, but around here, Christmas starts today!”

  “But Dad, if we decorate now, we won’t have any decorating to do later.”

  “Oh, come on, just a little?”

  I grinned. Dad really couldn’t wait any longer!

  “Go find your mother and Brent and Carrie,” he said. “Let’s start!”

  “Yay!” shouted Hopie.

  So Christmas at 25 Bayberry began five days before Thanksgiving that year. And that night, I let myself cry about Charlie.

  Chapter Six

  THANKSGIVING CAME AND WENT. In our family, it has always been a happy affair, sometimes with guests, sometimes not; but it has always seemed overshadowed by the Christmas that is drawing near.

  That year it seemed particularly overshadowed. Dad’s desire for one last perfect Christmas had worked its way into each one of us. Christmas was all we could think of.

  We began our Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving, and everyone had big ideas. Mine were so big I had to ask Mom if I could dip into my savings account so I’d have enough money to buy everything. I was only slightly surprised when she said yes without even hesitating. No doubt about it, we were pulling out all the stops that Christmas.

  Hopie had big ideas too, but they all involved herself. (She hadn’t quite gotten the hang of giving gifts.) She wrote an early letter to Santa asking for bunk beds, a bicycle, a dollhouse, a new swing set, a horse, a playhouse, and a few other things. Dad blanched slightly as she dictated the letter to him.

  Even knowing what was going to happen to Dad, I think I could have forgotten a little and really enjoyed our frantic Christmas preparations, except for one thing. Dad was getting worse.

  He had told the company he worked for about his health and the prognosis, and Dad’s boss had said that his job and his office would be there for him as long as he liked. But Dad usually managed to go to New York only twice a week, and then sometimes only for a half a day. I began to worry about money, but Dad said he was still being paid his full salary.

  One night I woke up with a start. I squinted at the digital alarm clock by my bed. It read 3:15. What had woken me up? I didn’t need to go to the bathroom, and there was no more Charlie needing to be let in or out.

  Then I heard a creak in the hallway, and another creak. Sometimes Carrie walked in her sleep. I got up to see if she needed any help, but it wasn’t Carrie I found in the dark hall; it was Dad.

  He was pacing back and forth, breathing fast and noisily.

  “Dad!” I cried. “What’s the matter?”

  Pant, pant. “Nothing (pant) to worry about.” Pant, pant. “Just have to (pant) catch my breath.”

  “Why? What were you doing?”

  “Just sleeping (pant). It’s (pant) hard to catch my breath (pant) at night sometimes.”

  I think Dad was trying to reassure me, but he looked scared and sort of gray all over. I took his hand. “Why don’t you go back to bed? Maybe you’ll feel better lying down.” I was hoping we would “accidentally” wake Mom as Dad got in bed. She’d know what to do.

  But Dad shook his head. “Just need to walk around (pant) a little until I can breathe better (pant). It’s already getting easier.”

  “Well, let’s go downstairs,” I suggested.

  “All right.”

  I flicked on the light that lit the stairway and led Dad down to the living room. Then I got an idea. “How about some hot chocolate?” I suggested.

  “Well … okay.” Dad began to smile.

  He sat in the kitchen while I heated up a pan of milk.

  I listened to him breathing. He did sound better. Noisy and a bit ragged, but definitely better.

  When the hot chocolate was ready, we sat at the table sipping it slowly. I was glad Dad was drinking it. Maybe he would put on a pound or two.

  “How’s the play coming?” he asked.

  “Oh, what a joke. Dad, it’s supposed to be an updated version of A Christmas Carol, so there are all these stupid things in the script.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Scrooge is an insurance salesman, and Bob Cratchit’s kids earn money doing things like delivering papers and baby-sitting. And for Christmas dinner, Mrs. Cratchit makes a meat loaf. And for dessert, she makes a Jello-O mold.”

  Dad laughed. His breathing sounded almost normal. “Oh, Liza.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a wonderful sense of how things should be. Don’t ever lose that, even if sometimes it seems too idealistic for this harsh world of ours. You’re the quiet one in this family. You’re sandwiched between Brent’s mouth and your two chatterbox sisters. I see you sitting back and taking things in, just listening and watching and storing up what’s going on around you. I know you’re forming opinions, maybe even judging us sometimes, and that’s okay. I think you’ll put your mind to good use someday. In fact, you’re already putting it to good use, but not everyone knows it because you’re so quiet.”

  “I might write,” I said slowly.

  “Be a writer?” Dad asked. “Mom and I would be very proud of you.”

  “No. Just write. I keep a diary, but I don’t write in it very often. Mostly I write in my head. I remember things. … ” I wasn’t sure how to explain this. I’d never tried before.

  “Well, I imagine you’ll get all those ‘things’ sorted out one day and put them down on paper.”

  I nodded.

  We’d finished our hot chocolate. I carried the empty mugs to the sink and rinsed them out.

  “Do you think you can sleep now?” I asked Dad.

  “I think so.”

  Chapter Seven

  THE DAY WE HAD our first full dress rehearsal for the pageant was the day I definitely made up my mind that I didn’t want anyone to go to it.

  “Believe me, you won’t be missing a thing,” I announced at dinner.

  “But I want to see you be a ghost,” said Hopie, her lower lip trembling.

  “I’ll bring my costume home and give you a special, private performance. How’s that, Sissy?”

  “Okay,” said Hope.

  “Really,” I continued, glancing back and forth from Mom to Dad, “I don’t want anyone to come. I’m not just saying that. I mean it.”

  “Then we won’t come,” said Dad.

  “Are you sure you don’t want just one person there for moral support?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah,” said Carrie. “What if you faint?”

  “I won’t faint.” But it occurred to me that fainting into Marc Radlay’s arms might be sort of interesting. Marc, who I still thought was the cutest boy in our grade, was Scrooge, so I played my entire scene with him. I imagined myself on the stage, beginning to sway ever so slightly. Marc would notice and stop speaking in the middle of one of his monologues.

  “Liza?” he would whisper, trying not to attract too much attention.

  And right then and there I’d keel over, and Marc would catch me and lay me gently on the stage. The audience would murmur and gasp as Marc would bend over to touch his lips to my forehead. …

  I was replaying that daydream for the tenth or eleventh time in bed that night when I heard voices downstairs. I’d thought everyone was asleep.

  I threw back the covers, tiptoed across my bedroom, opened the door a crack, and stood listening for a few seconds. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop; I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.

  Mom’s and Dad’s voices floated up to me from the living room.

  “… respect a person’s wishes … ,” I heard Dad say softly.

  And I froze. What was going on? Were they talking about his funeral? Had something happened that I didn’t know about?

  I crept further down the hall, stopping abruptly when a floorboard creake
d.

  “I know she means it,” Dad said, and I let out a sigh of relief. They weren’t talking about Dad’s last wishes after all.

  “Maybe if you explained to her,” Mom suggested gently.

  “No,” said Dad. “I don’t want to put any extra pressure on the kids. These months are tough enough on them as it is.”

  Mom murmured something I couldn’t make out.

  “It’s just that I want to be a part of everything while I can,” Dad went on. “I don’t want to miss out on a thing. Who knows? Liza could grow up to be a great actress.”

  “Not with her stage fright,” Mom said. I could tell she was smiling.

  I didn’t want to hear Dad’s response. I’d heard plenty. I went back to my room and pulled up the window shade. Then I knelt on the bed and looked out on our moonlit street. It had snowed again, so the world was frosty white.

  At that moment, I wished more than anything that Charlie were with me. He’d always liked the nighttime and my windowsill, and he’d been good company when someone was feeling sad.

  But there was no Charlie.

  I sat by the window anyway.

  So Dad wanted to come to the pageant. He wanted to see me in a school performance. He wanted to share that piece of my life with me. I could understand that.

  But now what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t supposed to know that he wanted to come. I couldn’t change my mind and invite the family, since I’d told them several times how bad the play was. And besides, I really didn’t want everyone there. Maybe I could think of a reason to invite just Dad.

  I flopped down on my bed and decided to worry about it in the morning.

  And I did. Worry, I mean. But it didn’t get me anywhere, except in trouble. I worried about it before school and I worried about it during school. I worried so much that I practically ruined the rehearsal that afternoon.

  I was sitting in the auditorium completely lost in thought, and didn’t notice when Act III wound up, which was my cue to get ready for the scene I played with Marc. I didn’t notice anything until I realized that the auditorium was dead silent. Marc was on stage alone—waiting for me. I looked around. The whole class was staring at me. I flushed deeply, my face growing hot.

  “Liza?” said Mr. Landi. “Would you care to join Marc on the stage, or do you just want to test the seats in the auditorium all afternoon?”