No More Sad Goodbyes

by Marilyn Reynolds

  I didn’t quite get the connection between not being in drama and living in Paradise for all of eternity, but I guess it made sense to Danni because she wasn’t mad at her mom anymore.

  Even though I didn’t understand the whole thing about the prayer group, I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have a mother, and to be in a mother/daughter prayer group with her, and to have her want me with her for all of eternity. I wonder now if my dad and Grams and Casper are in heaven with my mom, or if it’s only church people like Danni and her family who go to heaven.

  Once, not long after my mom died, Carole took me on her lap and told me I didn’t need to be sad about my mother, that she was with God in heaven and they were watching out for me from up above. I remember liking that idea, but I wasn’t sure I could believe it.

  Carole had always made a big deal about how Santa Claus went all over the world on Christmas Eve, delivering presents to good little boys and girls. She’d even had Danni and me help bake cook­ies to put out for Santa because he’d be so hungry from all of his travels. She’d been so convincing in the Santa stories she told us that I believed her version of Santa Claus more than I did my own Dad’s. According to Dad, the Santa story was kind of a nice fairy tale to help people remember the joy of giving.

  Anyway, whenever Carole talked to me about God, I thought He sounded a lot like Santa Claus, and I’d already figured out that was all make-believe.

  I decided to check things out with my dad, because he’d been right about Santa a few years back. I waited until after our bedtime story, because that was when it seemed best to talk about important things. So after Dad finished reading to me about a kid who lived in the jungles of Africa, I asked him, “Is Mommy in heaven with God, watching over me?”

  He was quiet for a long time. Then he told me that if anyone at all was in heaven, Mom was. She was the best person that ever lived, and if they had the right kind of telescopes in heaven, she’d definitely be watching over me.

  “What’s heaven like?” I’d asked.

  “I don’t know, Kid. I think it’s a lot like the yellow submarine. Our friends are all aboard, and more of them live next door, and everyone has all they need.”

  “Are there angels playing on harps?”

  “Well . . . truth is, I really don’t know about heaven, but here’s something I do know. Your mom will always be in my heart, and in your heart, and her happy, loving spirit will see us through. Hold her in your heart, Kid.”

  “Autumn? Wake up.”

  I look up at Brenda.

  “I’m not sleeping,” I tell her.

  “Well . . . it looked like you were, with your head down on the desk and your eyes closed . . . but who could blame you? I’m sorry that took so long. Where were we again?”

  In a yellow submarine I think, but have sense enough not to say. Instead I just shrug, trying to leave the old times behind.

  “Oh, yes. We were talking about how close you are to earn­ing your high school diploma. It looks as if you’ve been a good student,” she says, running her index finger along the columns of grades on my transcript.

  “As I was saying, all you need to graduate is to complete those six credits each in English, Government, and Economics. You can manage that pretty quickly here, working independently.”

  “But for my scholarship . . .”

  “Well . . . for now, let’s work on the basic requirements. Then maybe you’ll want to make up some classes at a more comprehen­sive program in summer school, or in the fall, at a community col­lege.”

  Brenda sets me up with Senior English, American Government and Economics textbooks along with a book titled Your Pregnancy and Newborn Journey, and the worksheets that go with it.

  “You can start Spanish IV on the Sterling High School campus next semester, if you’d like. The only trouble is, you’ll probably have to miss at least two weeks when you have the baby. It might be hard to make that up.”

  “Can I complete Peer Communications?”

  “I can set you up with some activities to meet those require­ments.”

  So, okay. It is better here than back at the county home school because I can get more of the courses I need. But it’s weird to be around so many pregnant girls.

  “Would you mind taking your enrollment forms over to the of­fice?” Brenda asks.

  “Where is it?”

  Brenda walks outside with me and points in the direction of a sign that says “OFFICE.” But what really catches my attention is the pay phone on the wall near the office door. I give my papers to the secretary and walk back to class, thinking only of the phone call I want to make.

  When the van drops me off at the county home in the after­noon, Madison rushes out to greet me, like she’s been standing at the window waiting or something.

  “Guess who’s back?” she yells.

  “Who?”

  “I’ll give you a hint. You’d better be caught up on your sleep!”

  “Not . . .?”

  “Yep! Your old friend Dericia!”

  “Shit,” I say. Not shite, but shit, shit, shit!

  Chapter

  12

  After dinner I’m in the community room, writing a paragraph for Economics homework, minding my own business, when Deri­cia plops down beside me.

  “I dumped your shit out of my side of the closet.”

  “Whatever,” I say, not looking up.

  I keep writing, feeling her eyes burning into me.

  “Must be hard to act like such hot shit when everyone knows you’re nothing but a knocked up slut.”

  I stop writing and turn to her.

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone and I’ll do the same for you.”

  “Hey, yeah! Thanks, Rodney. Let’s just all get along,” she says, oozing sarcasm.

  “Why don’t you just forget the drama?” I say, picking up my books and walking to a table on the other side of the room.

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  “No thank you,” I say. “I’m not in the mood right now.”

  Dericia pauses long enough to show she doesn’t get what I’ve just said, then throws another “fuck you” at me as she storms out the door.

  Jessie looks up from her letter to her grandmother.

  “You’re going to have to fight her or she’ll never leave you alone.’’

  “Fight? That’s soooo stupid!”

  “I’m just saying . . .”

  “Maybe she’ll run away again pretty soon.”

  Jessie shrugs her shoulders and goes back to writing. I try to finish my homework but I’m having a hard time concentrating. I haven’t been in a fight since I got mad at Danni for scribbling on my picture of a tree. I was six years old and even then I knew it was stupid.

  I wait until Raiders comes through with a five-minute warning for lights out before I go into my room. I’m hoping for a miracle, like Dericia will already be asleep or something. She’s not. She’s sitting on my bed, in her pajamas, clipping her toenails. I scoop up the clothes, which are strewn all over the floor, and reach for hang­ers from the closet. I shove Dericia’s things over to her side and hang mine back up where they belong.

  “Lights out!” Raiders calls from down the hallway.

  I stand looking down on Dericia.

  “Do you mind?” I say in my most sarcastic tone.

  “Do you mind?” she says, mimicking me.

  She moves over to the other bed.

  “I didn’t want nasty toenail clippings on my bed,” she says, crawling under the covers and turning out the light.

  I yank the spread from my bed and shake it out over Dericia, then climb under my covers. Trembling with anger, I lie with my face to the wall and count to ten. Then I do it again, remembering the words of Coach Nicholson. “Count to ten, then again. Anger loses. Control will win.”

  After about the eighth time of counting to ten, my heartbeat is regular and my hands are steady.

  “Goodnight, Bitch,” Dericia s
ays.

  “Goodnight, Dericia,” I say, keeping my calm, grateful for what Nikki taught us. Which gets me thinking again about my old life. I’m still awake, thinking about how much I miss my old friends, and thinking how maybe I’ll call someone from the telephone near the TAPP office, when I hear Dericia snoring. The sound is light, and gentle, and reminds me of how Grams snored when she first fell asleep. It’s such an innocent sound, not loud and grating like I’d expect from someone like Dericia. What isn’t an innocent sound comes later—Dericia thrashing around in her bed, crying out “mother-fucker-cock-sucker.”

  In the morning, Dericia’s apologetic, sort of. Like after the first time I met her when she was in such a rage.

  “Sorry about the toenails,” she says, smiling.

  We walk to the dining room together.

  “Know what I dreamt last night?” she asks.

  “What?” I say, longing to hear somebody’s dream, even if it’s Dericia’s.

  “I was running from my asshole father. He had his belt out, buckle first, and was swinging at me and getting closer and closer. And then, I just lifted up and flew high into the sky. And I shit on him, like I was a bird! Dumped a big load right on his head.”

  She laughs so hard she has to lean against the wall to catch her breath.

  “Cool, huh?”

  “No wonder you’re in such a good mood this morning,” I say, joining in her laughter.

  “How about you?” she says, wiping her eyes.

  I look at her blankly.

  “Dreams? Did you have any dreams last night?”

  I think for a minute.

  “Yeah. I was at my old school, at lunch with my friends and I took a bite of my hot dog and all of my front teeth came out.”

  “Weird!”

  “Not as much fun as yours, I guess.”

  Once inside the dining room we go our separate ways. But for hours after our brief conversation, I am strangely reassured by hav­ing heard, and told, a dream.

  After three days of thinking about the phone, I finally get up enough nerve to make a call. I break my carefully saved twenty at nutrition time, so I’ll have change for the phone. At 11:37 I ask to use the restroom. Brenda never questions anyone about using the restroom because a major symptom of pregnancy is that you have to pee practically all the time. It’s exactly 11:40, ten minutes into lunch-time at Hamilton High, when I dial Krystal’s cell phone num­ber. She picks up right away.

  “Hey, Krystal. It’s me, Autumn.”

  “Autumn!” she shrieks, practically rupturing my eardrum.

  “Hey, it’s Autumn!” she says, and I envision the lunch table—Danni with her peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off, Jasmine with her giant diet soda, and Krystal and Shantell with whatever the cafeteria’s offering today.

  “Autumn?” Krystal says. “Where are you?”

  “School,” I say, but I don’t think Krystal hears me because there’s a lot of noise in the background. Then I hear Danni’s voice.

  “Gimme the phone!”

  More sounds of confusion and then it’s Danni.

  “Autumn?”

  “Yeah. How are you?”

  My stomach feels all fluttery and this time it has nothing to do with being pregnant.

  “It’s about time you called! Where are you? Where have you been?”

  “I’m at school.”

  “How could you just disappear like that? You didn’t even bother to say goodbye!”

  “I couldn’t . . . your mom . . . I’m sorry,” I say, my voice tight with tears.

  “Where are you? Krystal’s got her car. We’ll come get you.”

  Donna comes rushing over. “Can you hurry? I need the phone.”

  I nod at Donna, then tell Danni, “I’m over near Frank Sterling High School, but I’ve got to go back to the county home in twenty minutes.”

  “The county home?”

  Donna gives me a pleading look.

  I get a recorded one-minute warning and Danni asks for my number so she can call me back.

  “I’m at a pay phone at the school, and somebody’s waiting to use it.”

  “Okay, so what’s the number where you’re staying? I’ll call you tonight. We’ve got to talk!”

  “I can’t get phone calls there.”

  “What? It’s like a jail or something? What’s happened anyway? Email me then. Something . . .”

  The phone goes dead and I hand it to Donna.

  Back in class, Brenda calls me to her desk for a private consul­tation. She has my journal open to the “Dear Baby” section.

  “I see that Tuesday you don’t have any hope for your baby,” Brenda says, turning the page. “The topic for Wednesday was to tell your baby the names you’re thinking about for it, and why. All you wrote that day was ‘Dear Baby,’ and the rest of the page you left blank. And today is a blank.”

  “I just . . . I couldn’t think of anything to write.”

  She turns to the “My Plan for Baby and Me” section, which is also blank.

  “Let’s work on this one together,” Brenda says. “Due date?”

  “February 15.”

  Brenda writes February 15 on the “Due Date” line.

  “Where will you and the baby be living?”

  I shrug.

  “Who will you be living with?”

  Another shrug.

  “What hospital?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Is it safe to say you haven’t thought much about life with a baby?”

  “I didn’t want a baby,” I say.

  Brenda glances at the clock.

  “Oops. Just five more minutes. We’ll have to work more on your plan tomorrow, but you might take a look at these.”

  She hands me some adoption pamphlets and a card for someone to call if I’m interested.

  In the van on the way back to the county home I read the pam­phlets. Donna, sitting in front of me as she did on my first trip to TAPP, notices.

  “That sucks!” she says, pointing to “The Facts About Adop­tion.”

  “It sucks having a baby to take care of instead of going to col­lege, too.”

  “I’d never give up my baby! Why would I want someone else raising my own baby?”

  “Because you have other things to do before you get tied down to a baby?”

  “That’s the most spoiled, selfish, mean thing I have ever heard!” Donna says, turning around and facing forward.

  When we get to her stop she gets off without looking at me, and without saying goodbye.

  Madison is sitting at an outside table cluttered with blunt scissors, construction paper, glue, crayons, and everything else that would go with an elementary school art project. I ease down on the bench opposite her.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Thanksgiving,” she says, carefully tracing the outline of her left hand onto a sheet of heavy white paper.

  “What about Thanksgiving?”

  She does the eye-roll thing.

  “Well?”

  “It’s next week, and I’ve got to send something to my mom, and my little sisters.”

  She does another tracing of her hand, then hands me the pencil. She takes a fresh sheet of white paper and places her right hand down on it.

  “Here, trace this hand for me. I don’t want all of the turkeys to be facing the same direction.”

  “Turkeys?” I say, tracing her hand like she asked me to.

  “You know. Hand turkeys. Didn’t you ever make hand tur­keys?”

  Then I remember about hand turkeys from back in the third grade with Mr. Westley. Our whole class made turkeys like that. The thumb was the neck and head and the fingers were feathers. We drew in details, and colored them, and on the back we wrote “Happy Thanksgiving” to take to our families.

  “Here, trace one more right hand for me,” Madison says. “So I’ll have two facing one direction and two facing the other—two for each of my sisters.”
r />   I put my pencil at the base of her thumb and start to trace, then I start laughing. I’m laughing so hard I can’t even hold the pencil.

  “What?” Madison says.

  “I . . . You . . .You could trace four left hands and just turn two . . .” I’m gasping and Madison is looking at me like she still doesn’t get it. “. . . you could just turn two of the left hands over and they’d be going the other direction.”

  Madison looks at one of the papers with a traced right hand, turns it over and peers at the barely visible outline on the backside of the paper, then turns it over again.

  “You’re always soooo fuckin’ smart,” she says, laughing.

  I sit with her for awhile and make my own hand turkey, care­fully coloring the feathers and drawing a beak, and eyes, and that ugly thing that hangs from turkeys’ necks. Wattles, I think. It’s a pretty good turkey—definitely better than the one I made in the third grade.

  Madison chooses the best of her turkeys and writes on the back, in pen, very carefully, “Dear Mom, Have a Very Happy Thanksgiv­ing. I hope I get to see you soon. I love you.” She signs her name and decorates the edge of the card with hearts.

  “I’ve got homework,” I say, standing up and taking my back­pack from the table. “See you later.”

  “Hey, don’t you want your turkey?” Madison calls after me.

  “You can have it. I don’t have anyone to send it to, anyway.”

  Chapter

  13

  In my dream a red-faced, howling Penny lies in the crib in the pink room, her arms and legs hanging out between the slats. Nikki stands over her, trying to give her a bottle. Penny throws her head from side to side, refusing to drink. The dream is so strong that when I first awaken from it I don’t even know where I am. My old bedroom on Camellia? Danni’s room? Then I hear Dericia’s soft snore and it all comes back to me.

  First thing in the morning, while we’re gathering our clothes to take to the shower room, I tell Dericia my dream.

  “It was so strange—that big, grown-up woman in a baby crib.”

  Dericia nods.

  “How about you?”