I’ll stroll around. I’ll pretend I’m looking for a blender.
Carol is taking forever in that dressing room. I wonder if she’d mind if I—
5:24 P.M.
At the hospital
I can barely think.
My fingers are tired.
My body is tired. I need sleep.
But I feel terrible. I feel like it’s all my fault.
I have to write this out.
Everything happened so fast.
I was such a fool. Sitting there, bored, worrying about what’s-his-name—Bo something.
Did it even occur to me why Carol might be taking so long?
Maybe if I hadn’t been so distracted, I would have called to her and asked how she was doing. Maybe I would have heard her fall to the dressing room floor.
Well, someone did. Some little old lady who began to shriek.
I could see Carol’s hand sticking out from underneath the dressing room door. I tried to pull the door open, but it was locked. I yelled for help.
The shrieking lady was sitting in a chair. Three people were helping her.
But no one was helping me. A couple of shoppers were gawking, still holding their purchases. Like I was a TV screen.
Finally I ran out and found a clerk.
The two of us crawled under the door. Carol was almost out. Eyes flickering. Slumped on the floor.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I feel faint.” she was barely forming the words. Her voice was tiny.
“Is it the baby?” I yelled. “Is it coming?”
Carol shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t just stand there,” I said to the clerk. “Get some help.”
The clerk looked horrified. “The manager’s on break,” she said.
Useless.
I ran out and made the nearest cashier call 911 for me on the store phone. I grabbed the receiver and told the operator what had happened.
When I ran back, I had to elbow through a crowd. I heard someone say, “There’s the daughter.”
I glanced around looking for Dawn, until I realized the person was talking about me.
Carol was sitting up now, her back against the dressing room wall. She looked bone-white. The clerk was squatting by her side, holding her hand.
I knelt down and put my arm around Carol. I asked the clerk to get her a glass of water. I practically barked at the crowd, telling them to make room. It was incredibly stuffy.
“I feel weak,” Carol said. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“You’ll be okay,” I said.
“I’m scared, Sunny.”
I wasn’t. That’s the weird thing. I was thinking about what had to be done. In order of importance.
1. Stay with Carol while we wait.
2. Make sure she gets to the hospital.
3. Call Mr. Schafer at work.
4. Call Mrs. Bruen at home.
The place was swarming now. Customers, clerks, security guards, crackling radios. Poor Carol. Like she really needed all this.
I didn’t move from Carol’s side (step 1). I fed her sips of water. I borrowed a cell phone from one of the gawkers and did steps 3 and 4.
It felt like we were there for hours. I was so relieved when the EMS crew showed up. They put Carol on a stretcher and carried her to a service elevator.
I rode down with them, then followed them out a back entrance, where the ambulance was waiting.
One technician asked if I was “kin.” Carol quickly answered yes. I guess she figured they wouldn’t let me ride with her if I wasn’t kin. I hopped into the back and held Carol’s hand as we sped toward the hospital.
Daughter for a day.
Fine with me. More than fine. I was proud.
On the way, the technicians hooked Carol up to a couple of IVs. One of them took her pulse.
“Am I going to lose my baby?” Carol asked.
“This kind of thing isn’t abnormal,” the technician said. “Pregnancy is complicated.”
“That wasn’t the question,” I reminded him.
The technician nodded and smiled. “The baby’s probably going to be just fine.”
Probably.
I never thought that word could be so scary.
What does it mean? 95 percent? 51 percent?
I want to ask the doctor, but I can’t. I’m in the Palo City Hospital emergency room waiting area now, which is about the most depressing place in the world, besides home. Carol’s in room 209, being examined.
I have no idea what’s happening in there.
The TV is blaring a soccer game in Spanish. To my right, a little kid is sneezing and coughing and crying. Across the room, a young guy is all bandaged up. To my left, an old man is slumped in a chair, asleep.
At least I hope he’s asleep.
I am totally, totally freaked out.
11:12 P.M.
Home now.
Well, at Dawn’s.
I can’t believe how late it is.
This day feels like it lasted a month.
Luckily I wasn’t alone too long in the waiting room. Mr. Schafer came barging in as I was writing.
He was pale and anxious. He looked like he’d aged about 10 years.
I told him where Carol was, and he ran right in to see her.
The receptionist wasn’t too happy about that, but he ignored her. So did I. I followed him.
The door to room 209 was open, and a doctor was chatting with Carol. His nametag said Dr. C. Rymond.
Carol was still hooked to IVs, but she looked a lot better.
Mr. Schafer threw his arms around her. They both started crying.
“We’re f-f-f-fine!” Carol blurted out.
“Mama and baby both pulled through with flying colors,” Dr. Rymond agreed. “That’s the good news.”
Mr. Schafer turned warily. “Is there bad news?”
Dr. Rymond smiled. “If you consider total rest and relaxation bad news. I’m prescribing confinement to bed until the baby is born. No getting up at all.”
“But that’s two months!” Mr. Schafer replied.
Dr. Rymond explained that she’d better do what he said if she wanted to keep the baby. Well, he didn’t use those exact words, but that was the meaning.
Mr. Schafer clasped Carol’s hand and asked how she felt about this.
She smiled. She said she would finally have time to read all her magazines. “Besides,” she went on, “I love meals in bed and long foot rubs.”
She winked at me. I winked back.
God, I hope I’m like her when I grow up.
A few moments later Dr. Rymond said he had to do a few more tests and he needed to be alone with Carol.
I told them I’d wait outside. Mr. Schafer told Carol he’d be right back, and he walked out with me.
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t there. You saved her, Sunny. You saved both of their lives.”
“Both?” I said.
“Carol’s,” he replied, “and the baby’s.”
Saved their lives.
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
I had been so busy doing, I hadn’t really been thinking.
But imagine if I hadn’t been there at all. Would someone have seen Carol and called 911 in time? Maybe not. Then what? She might have fallen unconscious. Become dehydrated. Or worse.
But she didn’t.
Because of me.
Me, Sunny the useless, ungrateful daughter.
I felt about ten feet tall.
“I’ll wait here,” Mr. Schafer said. “and I’ll drive you home. If you want to go visit your Mom, feel free. I won’t leave without you. In fact, I’d like to say hi too. I’ll meet you in her room, okay?”
Actually, I hadn’t thought of visiting Mom.
Not that I didn’t want to. But at that moment, I was sort of connected to Carol. I didn’t feel like leaving her just yet, after all we’d been
through.
I told him I didn’t mind waiting. But he gave me a funny look. Like, you don’t want to visit your own mother?
So I started to leave.
I met Dawn, Jeff, and Mrs. Bruen in the hallway.
They started firing questions at me. Jeff asked if Carol was dead. Dawn was worried about the baby. Both of them were crying. Mrs. Bruen was busy trying to keep them from blocking the hallway.
I held Jeff’s and Dawn’s hands. I calmed them down and told them everything was all right. I brought them into the waiting room.
While Mr. Schafer gave them the details, I headed for the cancer wing.
Mom was sleeping, but she woke up when I walked in.
“Robin,” she said. “Hi.”
Robin?
“It’s Sunny, Mom,” I reminded her.
Then I realized who she meant. My aunt. Mom’s little sister, who died shortly after I was born.
Mom blinked. Then she laughed weakly. She said she’d been having a dream. Her brother, sisters, and all her cousins were gathered around her. They were little children, but they were strong enough to lift her in the air, upward and upward until their heads were in the clouds.
I sat. I listened. I tried to chat, but Mom was in her own dreamy world.
When Mr. Schafer finally came in, Dawn and Jeff were with him. Dawn had a bouquet of flowers. She put them on the night table, gave Mom a big kiss, and fussed about how great Mom looked.
That was Dawn’s word of the day. Great. “Doesn’t she look great? You look so great!”
And all I could think was:
I hadn’t complimented Mom.
I hadn’t brought her flowers.
I hadn’t even kissed her.
And the truth was, she didn’t look great. She looked withered and sick and groggy.
But Dawn just plopped herself in front of me, gushing away. Lying.
And blocking me from Mom.
Excuse me. I’m only her daughter.
Dawn was in high motormouth mode. When she finished complimenting Mom and gushing about her own flowers, she told Mom about Carol’s accident.
Finally Mom looked alert. “Oh, my goodness,” she said. “Sunny hasn’t mentioned this.”
“I was about to,” I said.
But I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, I didn’t say. Because Dawn was talking enough for about fifteen people.
And she kept on, while Jeff wandered around and Mr. Schafer chased after him and I did my impression of a Barcalounger.
The next thing I knew, Mr. Schafer was ready to take us home. I managed a quick good-bye to Mom.
During the car ride, Dawn finally shut up.
We all did. We were exhausted.
Back at the Schafers’, everyone grunted good night and went off to bed. Except Mr. Schafer. He went back to the hospital.
I should be fast asleep, but I can’t stop thinking about Carol.
She comes home tomorrow. I won’t feel totally comfortable until then.
Dawn obviously feels fine. She’s in bed, snoozing like a contented sheep.
I think I’ll spend the night right here, on the Schafers’ sofa.
I feel like being alone.
Thursday
10:31 A.M.
Woke up late this morning. Dawn was already leaving for school. I told her I’d meet her there.
I didn’t.
I went home for a change of clothes.
Dad was eating breakfast. I told him what happened to Carol. He half listened while he was reading the paper.
“That’s tough,” was his analysis of the situation.
End of discussion.
Thank you for your support, Dad.
Why is he like this?
He didn’t used to be. We had fun when I was a kid.
Or maybe my memory is playing tricks. Maybe he was always unbearable, only I didn’t recognize it.
I turned to go upstairs.
“I’m meeting that boy today,” Dad called after me. “Christopher. Quacky. Whatever you call him.”
“Ducky,” I said.
“He sounds like a nice boy on the phone. Let’s just hope he can alphabetize.”
That was supposed to be a joke, I think.
I didn’t even smile.
7:54
I helped bring Carol back from the hospital. She was so grateful to me. She said she would feel safe in any emergency with me. She said I had the quick wits of someone twice my age.
Everyone (except Dawn) was making a big fuss.
I loved it.
I insisted on rolling Carol to her room in her wheelchair. Mr. Schafer, Mrs. Bruen, and I eased her into bed.
Then we all celebrated with take-out Thai food on portable trays in her room.
Dawn didn’t say much.
I think she’s jealous.
Friday 3/27
Homeroom
He found my locker.
Before homeroom.
He had to walk all the way across school.
And he did it just to put his arms around me from behind and whisper in my ear, “Are we still on for tonight?”
Does he know how that makes me feel?
He must.
He’s a junior.
I was cool. I did not act shocked. I did not answer him like a 13-year-old.
I just smiled at him and touched his hand. As if this kind of thing happened to me every day.
And I said, “I’m on if you are, Pete.”
Dawn was staring fiercely into her locker. I know she wanted to give me one of her tsk-tsk looks.
Too bad.
I gave Pete a kiss, put my arm in his, and walked with him down the hallway. Slowly.
So Dawn could watch our every step.
I love his voice.
I love his cologne.
I love the feel of his arm around my waist.
Pete Nelson, where have you been my whole life?
I wish we could get an early start. Cut school right now and party until midnight. Just the two of us.
Oh, well. I’ll have to wait until later.
Details at 11.
But don’t hold me to it.
Saturday morning
Okay, details at 12:31 (a.m., that is).
Pete couldn’t believe how late I was “allowed” to stay up. That’s the way he put it. Allowed. Like I was a little kid.
I told him I make the rules in my house.
I told him I have unlimited freedom.
He was impressed.
Okay, the verdict. On a scale from 1 to 10, boring to absolutely fab.
The movie: 3 for the film, 10 for the way we ignored it, which leads to
Kissing technique: a definite 11. Makes what’s-his-face from last week look like Mickey Mouse.
Face factor: 8. Great cheekbones. Some pimples at eye level.
Post-movie: 7. Okay, pizza’s fine. And Pete does work part-time at Pizza Paradise, so it made sense to go there. But after you’ve been to the Sagebrush Grille, nothing is ever the same.
Conversation: Who cares?
General impact: 9+. Possibility for improvement in the restaurant area, but otherwise perfection.
Assessment for future: a keeper.
Saturday
10:59 A.M.
Oh. Forgot to mention.
When I got home last night, I found a message from Chris on the phone machine.
Chris the basketball fan.
He asked me out for next weekend.
Uh-huh.
Dream on.
8:02 P.M.
I cannot believe Dawn.
Who does she think she is?
She shows up at 6:15. She walks into her kitchen while I’m slaving over dinner. And instead of saying thanks, which she should do, she yells at me:
“Who told you to make dinner? Who changed the schedule? It’s not your turn, Sunny, it’s mine!”
I nearly threw the Caesar salad (with chicken) at her. I said, excuse me, but this is not the army.
And it is dinnertime. Carol is in her room, hungry and unable to take care of herself. The meal needed to be made.
But that wasn’t enough for Julia Child. She had bought fillets of flounder. And they had to be eaten tonight. Now they were going to spoil.
I wanted to take the fish and whap her upside the head with it.
Then Carol called, and we both ran to her room.
Good old Carol. She thanked Dawn for the fish and assured her that it would taste fine tomorrow. She explained that I was just trying to help Dawn out. She said she had thought Dawn would be happy to be relieved of dinner duty.
Uh-huh. Sure. Dawn grumbled all through dinner and excused herself early.
It’s jealousy. Has to be. Grow up, Dawn.
Anyway, Jeff wasn’t much better at the dinner table, and he had no excuse. He took one look at my beautiful salad and said, “Can I have a peanut butter sandwich?”
So I had a cozy, intimate dinner, eating off my little portable table in the master bedroom, along with Carol and Mr. Schafer. The two mature members of the family.
Sunday 3/29
11:05 A.M.
A few important items.
Number one. The Schafers are the family I should have had.
I feel so welcome in their house. Despite Dawn.
In their house I am not robo slave daughter. I’m allowed to be a person, a hero, really Mr. Schafer and Carol just can’t stop thanking me for what I did.
I can’t believe I actually used to resent Carol. I never wanted to talk to her. I guess I was siding with Dawn. But that seems like ages ago.
Dawn should realize how lucky she is.
Number two. Ducky has a job at Winslow books.
He called me at Dawn’s. He was practically screaming with happiness.
About working with Dad.
I behaved. I did not burst his bubble.
Dad gave him the job today. (Did Dad tell me? Of course not.) Ducky starts Tuesday after school.
To celebrate, he insisted on taking me out for dessert.
Now, if I had been at my home, Dad would have said no. He’d have found some stupid chore for me to do around the house. Something he’s too lazy to do himself.
But Mr. Schafer didn’t even blink. No warnings, no curfew, nothing. He just said, “Have fun.”
So I grabbed my bike and went to a hot spot that Ducky and I had agreed on.
Pizza Paradiseߞhome, strangely enough, of Palo City’s best sundaes.
Diary Two: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Page 9
