“Mm-m.”
“You’re sleepwalking, aren’t you?”
No answer.
I peered over the side of my bunk, gazing down at her in the moonlight. Fully awake, I scooted to the ladder and hurried down, changed into my pajamas, then undressed my sister, pulling her flannel nightgown down over her limp head.
The next morning, she didn’t remember being shuffled about by her big sister. I quizzed her repeatedly at breakfast, and she only laughed. Didn’t believe me.
After the dishes were rinsed and stacked in the sink, I hurried back to my room to write the promised letter to Mommy. Much of what I had to say was personal, and I wondered if someone—one of the nurses or a doctor—might stumble upon my letter unintentionally. I couldn’t risk having my private questions viewed by anyone other than my mother, so I decided not to divulge everything that was on my mind.
Thursday, September 25
Dearest Mommy,
You sounded so happy on the phone last night, I could hardly believe you are sick at all. Everyone at church is praying for you, and so am I.
I couldn’t tell her I was close to presenting a proposition to God.She might not agree. My parents were never big on making deals with the Lord or “putting out fleeces,” like some folk we knew.
The Schubert Impromptu (the one you love) is completely memorized. My teacher is pleased with the extra expression I’m putting in, especially the middle section. You know, where the music changes and it sounds minor—almost like a thunderstorm, remember?
Oh, I almost forgot. I looked up the verse in Malachi at church, and I love it!
I didn’t go on to tell her that I’d already memorized the King James version of it: “But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings.”
My parents, of all people, revered the Lord’s name. It was the perfect verse to stand on, and I did. Even told my sister about it as we walked together to the bus stop.
“Do you think Jesus has wings?” she asked halfway up the hill.
Good question.
“He might, now that He’s in heaven, but I don’t think that’s what the verse means. Wings are for angels mostly, I think.”
“Does it mean that Mommy’s gonna get well?”
I had to be careful what I told her, because six months from now, Emily would hold me to whatever I said.
“Mommy’s talking to Jesus a lot these days. Reading the Bible, too.” I didn’t say that our mother was too nauseated to eat on occasion, so she was devouring God’s Word for her nourishment. “When you get really close to the Lord, sometimes He gives you promises, you know, from the Scriptures.”
“But Mommy’s been close to Jesus ever since she was little, right?”
“And she’s always enjoyed reading the Bible,” I added. “So we mustn’t worry about her, okay?”
Emily nodded her head, eyes bright with hope. She listened as I explained that Mommy was having a medical procedure to kill off the cancer cells. “It’s radiation treatment.”
“Will it make her well again?” she asked.
“Hope so.”
“Me too.” She reached for my hand.
We’d come to the crest of the hill, where a group of seven or eight kids were waiting. When the bus came and we got on, I waved to Trudy Croft, giving her the high sign. She seemed to understand and slid over against the window. I squeezed Emily in between Trudy and me, right where a worried little sister oughta be.
During Home Ec., I made a mistake, though not over the measurement of an ingredient or something food-related. I let the word cancer slip out when I told my baking partner that my mother was in the hospital.
The girl who shared my work station immediately walked away and washed her hands, glancing anxiously over her shoulder. I wanted to tell her that the disease wasn’t catching, that she didn’t have to worry.
By the time I had Phys. Ed., everyone in track 7-Y—my class— knew about Mommy’s hospitalization, that she had terminal cancer. I ended up taking a shower in the farthest stall, hoping to quell the apparent panic.
But nothing really helped. People didn’t seem to understand about cancer—especially kids my age. No, I was the daughter of a contaminated woman. A frightened, rejected girl on the verge of puberty, who needed her mother more with each day that passed.
Chapter 8
When the phone rang, I had a feeling it was Mommy. I was right. She wanted to hear the Schubert piece, the one for Fall Festival.
Daddy pulled the telephone cord around the corner and into the living room, stretching it taut as he held the receiver in midair. “That’s as far as it’ll reach,” he said, pointing it toward the piano across the room.
I scooted the bench out. “Think she’ll be able to hear?”
“Play just the first two lines, okay?”
I placed my hands on the keys, and the melody began to ring out, softly at first. Taking care to voice the top notes, I leaned my right hand into each triad. Then I stopped at the appointed line and turned to Daddy, waiting as he talked to Mommy.
“How’s that, hon?” Soon he was nodding his head, motioning for me to start again and play the solo straight through.
Happily, I performed it as if I were sitting at the concert grand on the J. P. McCaskey High School stage. I thought of the music judges—how they would stop to write their comments, never once conferring with one another. But mostly I thought of Mommy and how she loved this piece.
When it came time for the final three chords, the rubato added the depth of drama I longed to express, perfectly timed.
Emily clapped loudly from the kitchen, and when I turned around, Daddy beamed his approval. He held up the phone. “Come talk to your mother.”
“Hello?” I said, breathlessly, into the receiver.
“Oh, Becky, it’s wonderful. You’re playing it beautifully . . . you’re really ready, aren’t you?”
“The piece needs to settle down a bit,” I replied. “But at least I have a good four weeks for that to happen.”
“I hope you’ll play it at school or try it out on some friends before competition,” she said.
“Well, you know how it is at school. . . .”
“You have a sweet spirit about this talent of yours, Becky. Don’t let anyone discourage you.”
I sighed. “It’s just that my school friends don’t understand why I need to practice so much. Trudy especially. And Suzanne and Doris both think I’m weird.”
“But they play field hockey and run track all hours before and after school and don’t think a thing of it, do they?”
“With music it’s different. If you’re not in the school marching band, you’re just not that great,” I said, anxious to hear how she was feeling, yet too nervous to ask.
“Well, always remember this: I think you’re far better than simply great, honey, so keep up the good work, okay?”
“Thanks,” I murmured and started to hand the phone back to Daddy. But she was still talking. “The letter you wrote was so sweet, Becky. Daddy brought it to me this morning as I sat in the sunroom, praying. I’ve read it at least three times.”
“I’ll write again,” I said, stealing a glance at Daddy and Emily. “Maybe some girl stuff, next time.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. “Good-bye, dear.”
“Bye, Mommy.”
Daddy was interested in talking to her more privately. He went into the kitchen and turned off the light, so Emily and I headed upstairs for bed.
“We’re going to Aunt Mimi’s house this weekend,” my sister said as we undressed.
“How do you know?”
She tossed her knee-highs on the floor. “I heard Daddy calling Uncle Mel before supper . . . in his bedroom.”
“Not his bedroom,” I shot back. “It’s still Mommy’s room, too.”
“Well, you know.” She glared at me. “Do you wanna hear the rest or not?”
I folded my arms and stood in the doorwa
y. “What’s to hear? We’re being sent away again.”
“How can you say that?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” I felt instantly lousy for letting such words slip out.
“Daddy can’t handle everything, you . . . me . . . his sermons. Plus all the hours at the hospital.” Emily sounded surprisingly grown-up for just having turned nine. Was this the same girl who’d asked me today about the Son of God sprouting wings?
“I don’t mind going to Uncle Mel and Aunt Mimi’s,” I spoke up.
“Me neither,” she replied.
“We’re family there.”
Emily started to giggle. “Aunt Mimi sleeps with her glasses on.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, her blond curls dancing about her shoulders. “I saw her once when she was taking a nap. She says, ‘A person’s gotta see what she’s wakin’ up to.’ ”
“Oh well, naps are a different story,” I said. “Betcha she doesn’t wear them to bed at night.”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Guess so.” I picked up Emily’s socks and tossed them into the hamper without scolding her.
After we said our prayers, I waited for Emily to slip into bed before I turned off the dresser lamp. I felt my way through the darkness, careful not to trip on anything and break my arm . . . or my fingers, what with a piano competition coming up. I’d heard once that a famous musician had insured his hands for a million dollars each, and thinking about it now, I wondered if playing the piano was his only means of earning money. Or maybe he simply loved the feel of the keys beneath his fingers, the sound of the instrument. Probably both, I decided.
After slipping into my bed, I slid my right arm down along the wall side of the bunk beds and whispered to Emily. “Sorry about acting so sassy.”
I felt her warm hand grasp mine and hold on. “I forgive you, Becky. Will you forgive me?” she said, almost sheepishly.
I said yes and fell asleep lying on my stomach, my arm draped down between the bed and the wall, holding the small hand of my only sibling.
That night I dreamed that Mommy was at home, weeding Daddy’s garden, humming up a storm—never had had cancer at all. It was summer, and we were planning a family vacation to the beach. Emily had taken my spot on the boys’ softball team, though, and I was livid. Because of it, I played the piano nonstop for days, working out my frustration.
I awoke with a start, my arm completely numb. Pulling myself together, I rolled onto my back, experiencing the electric tingles that come when the blood begins to flow freely again.
As I waited for the annoying sensation to subside, I thought of my prayer at the altar last night and the promise of a pact. The Lord would be waiting. What could I possibly do to move the hand of almighty God? Should I pray longer? Go without eating?
I contemplated to the point of frustration. Should I find a special sequence of words or phrases? Write out my prayers so they were perfect? What?
Maybe begging and pleading would help. Maybe then God would heal Mommy. But . . . my heavenly Father already knew how badly Emily and I wanted our mother to be healthy again. None of my ideas were right.
Tomorrow, and not a day later, I will work this out and present it to God, I decided.
In my haziness, I felt absolute joy.
Chapter 9
Friday after school, before Daddy took us to the neighbors’ house for the weekend, I asked if I could speak to Mommy on the phone privately, feeling the warmth creep into my neck.
Daddy, looking equally embarrassed, nodded and left the kitchen. Thankfully, my sister was upstairs doing her last-minute packing—sets of paper dolls: some cut out; others brand-new.
The phone number was written in my father’s bold hand on an index card and posted with tape to the cover of the telephone book. I dialed quickly, hoping I could go through with this much-needed conversation.
It turned out that Mommy had been wheeled down to the end of the hall, where she was enjoying the sunroom. “I’ll have her call you from there,” said the cordial nurse.
“Thank you.” I hung up, thinking of Mommy’s special place, how she’d described the flowering plants, the window seat filled with pillows . . . the brilliant, soothing sunlight.
By the time she returned my call, Emily and Daddy were standing by the doorway, itching to load up the car.
“Go ahead,” I told them. “I’ll talk fast.”
Mommy was on the line. “Hello? A nurse said someone called from this number.”
From this number? It was her number—from her own home! Had she forgotten so soon?
I swallowed hard and took a deep, deep breath. “This is you, isn’t it, Mommy?” It didn’t really sound like her. She sounded distracted, dazed.
“Where’s your father?” she asked.
I turned to look out the back door window. “Uh . . . he’s putting suitcases in the trunk. We’re going to Uncle Mel and Aunt Mimi’s for the weekend.”
She was silent.
“Mommy?”
She exhaled into the phone, and I could almost feel the pain in her sigh. “Have a nice time. Mind your manners, please, and tell your sister to do the same.”
“We’ll behave,” I promised.
She was coughing now, and the phone thumped, like she’d dropped it.
“Mommy, are you all right?” I waited, hoping the nurse might pick up the receiver and talk to me, let me know my mother hadn’t fallen or worse. But no one came on the line, and I rushed outside to tell Daddy. “Hurry! Something’s wrong!”
He dashed into the kitchen, picked up the phone and listened for a moment, then clicked the phone over and over. “There, that’s it,” he said at last. “I hear the dial tone.”
“But Mommy didn’t say ‘good-bye,’ ” I insisted. “She never said it!”
Quickly, he dialed again. When he finally got through, it seemed as if the nurse was doing most of the talking. Daddy hung up much too quickly, then looked kindly at me. “Your mother hasn’t fallen, Becky. She’s all right.”
“But, Daddy, I—”
“We must put our trust in the Lord, honey.”
I followed him to the hall closet, still frightened as we grabbed our sweaters.
It had turned warm again, and a full-blown Indian summer was in the making. At least, that was the current weather condition and promised to be the outlook for the entire weekend.
“Maybe you girls can play in the hayloft at Uncle Mel’s,” Daddy said on the way. “Sounds like fun to me.” He was attempting to divert my thoughts, I knew. Still, I was worried—even had developed an upset stomach over Mommy’s odd behavior on the phone.
Emily interrupted my thoughts. “We love jumping out of the loft window, down into a big pile of hay. It’s great fun!” she said.
I couldn’t begin to think of enjoying myself at the Mennonite farm, not with Mommy so much worse. The sound of her pitiful voice echoed again and again in my head. A gnawing dread ate at me. She’d never said good-bye!
On top of everything else, the prayer-decision loomed in my mind and in my heart. Evening was fast approaching; I had to make up my mind about the deal. My pact with God.
Daddy switched radio stations, from the news to classical music. The glorious sounds filled the car, pulling me out of my depression and into the enchanting melody.
The first hint of an idea began to form in my mind. Yet I thought of its dire consequences and what utter willpower it would involve. Could I even pull it off?
I let the music from the radio crowd out my thoughts as we made the short drive to the Landises’. This pact idea was out of the question. Impossible to keep. Besides, just because Abraham had been tested that way didn’t mean I would be.
I found myself sitting high in the hayloft, cuddling two barn cats as I watched Emily and all five of the Landis kids fling themselves out the barn window into mounds of soft hay below. Their squeals of 54 delight kept bringing me back to earth every so often. And
I suppose I would’ve been content to brood there till the first star of evening appeared, but I thought of my sister, knowing I needed to be strong, show some maturity.
So I stood up, brushed myself off, and headed to the open window. Then I did the sensible thing and hurled myself into the air, enduring the butterflies in my stomach as I fell in silent panic into the sweet hay to join the group.
“My mommy bought some surprises for you,” the youngest Landis boy informed me as I emerged from the hay mound.
“She did?” I sputtered, regaining my equilibrium.
“Yep, and she’s gonna give ’em to you and Emily at supper.” I looked over at my sister, straw clinging to her silky hair. She looked almost like a scarecrow. “That’s nice of Aunt Mimi,” I said absentmindedly.
The brown-eyed boy nodded his head up and down. “We don’t mind having two more sisters round here, honest.”
Sisters?
“Well, Emmy and I aren’t up for adoption,” I told him straight. “Our mother’s gonna get well, you’ll see.”
He didn’t bother answering, just scampered off to throw more hay on the rest of the kids.
Everything looked the same as it always did in Aunt Mimi’s dining room. Her walnut table was long and opened up the whole way, with one matching bench running along one side of it, mostly for the children. The wide-plank pine floors, the paneling on the doors, and the wide mopboards reminded me of an old-fashioned farmhouse, which, of course, it was.
We’d been told to wash our hands before coming to the table, and it was no wonder, what with all the straw dust on us. I’d taken the time to brush Emily’s school skirt off real good—my own, too—before ever entering the screened-in back porch. Made me almost wish we were allowed to wear overalls like the Landis boys.
Anyway, this was a safe, loving place. The people who lived in this house served the Lord and honored His Word. They also loved to sing in four-part harmony. After the table blessing, they broke out in a song, and I thought of Mommy in the hospital, singing praises to God in spite of her pain. And I wished something would happen to make her well again.
The Sunroom Page 4
