I drew in a breath. “Well,” I began, “the doctor was here a couple of hours ago.”
“Did you talk to him?” Ducky interrupted me.
“No. I didn’t even go downstairs. I kind of didn’t want to know what’s going on.”
Ducky nodded. “I understand.”
“But after he left?” (Ducky nodded again.) “Dad and Aunt Morgan looked kind of, I don’t know, stunned maybe.”
Ducky sucked air between his teeth. “Whoa.”
“Yeah. I know. And then people started coming over. Well, not a whole stream of them, but first Anne showed up” (Ducky has met Anne once or twice), “and now Grandma and Grandad are here. When Anne was here Dad left Mom’s room to let her see Mom alone. And Anne gave me this really long look when she left. Like, a long meaningful look?”
“Yeah?”
“And she was crying really hard, and she didn’t even try to say anything to me.”
“Whoa.”
“Grandma and Grandad are very serious,” I went on. “I was happy to see them, but Grandma looked at me kind of strangely. Like, how could I even think of seeming happy right now.” I paused. “Hey. I wonder what Dawn’s doing, because when she went inside Grandma and Grandad were still with Mom, I think. Hold on a second,” I said to Ducky.
I stuck my head in the front door. I saw that the door to the dining room was ajar and I could hear low voices from inside. Then I peered into the living room. There were Dad and Dawn, sitting on the couch, not talking, just sitting. So Dawn probably hadn’t seen Mom yet.
“Ducky,” I said when I joined him on the porch again. “Ducky, I just want to say this one more time. You mean so much to me. I’m so sorry I was such a bad friend to someone who’s been such a good friend.” I almost added, “I love you,” because I do, but something stopped me.
Ducky looked at me then with huge eyes that were soon filled with tears. He couldn’t say a word. He just turned to me and gave me a hug. That was when I knew that everything would be okay between us.
Ducky and I sat quietly on the porch for awhile. Just sat. Side by side. Every now and then, Ducky took my hand. After fifteen minutes or so had gone by I stuck my head in the front door again. Now Dad and Aunt Morgan were sitting in the living room with Grandma and Grandad, and Dawn had disappeared.
“Dawn’s with Mom,” I reported to Ducky.
A few more minutes went by and Ducky and I heard the front door open. We turned around and saw Grandma and Grandad.
“Call us,” Grandma was saying to Dad.
“No matter what time, son,” Grandad added, and touched Dad’s shoulder. I have always thought that Dad is lucky to have parents like Grandma and Grandad.
Dad closed the front door, and Ducky and I stood up.
“You remember Ducky?” I said.
Ducky stuck out his hand and first Grandma, then Grandad shook it. But nobody said anything.
Then Grandma turned to me. “You too, honey,” she said. “You call us anytime. For any reason.”
“Okay,” I replied. I wasn’t sure why she said that because I thought it was kind of understood. I mean, I call them plenty of times for plenty of reasons.
Grandad hugged me then and stepped off the porch. Grandma took my hand and held it and looked deep into my eyes. She started to say something, then pursed her lips to keep from crying, turned, and followed Grandad. They got into their car and pulled out of the driveway.
Ducky and I looked at each other. Finally I said, “Want to go inside?”
Ducky looked like that was the very last thing he wanted to do, but he said, “Sure,” stood up, and held the door open for me.
Dad and Aunt Morgan were standing in the kitchen, conferring about something. The door to Mom’s room was still ajar. It opened slowly and Dawn tiptoed out. She was crying.
“What —” I started to say.
But Dawn held her finger to her lips. “Shh,” she said very, very quietly. And she headed for the front door. So Ducky and I turned around and followed her back outside.
Ducky looked at Dawn’s tearstained face and held his arms out to her. He enveloped her in a bear hug. And once again a cold fear washed over me. Had Mom…? No, she couldn’t have. Dad and Aunt Morgan wouldn’t have been talking so calmly in the kitchen. They would have been in Mom’s room. Or on the phone or something.
I waited until the fear had melted away, sighed hugely, and then said, “Dawn, what is it?”
Ducky released Dawn from the hug and she turned to me. She was still too choked up to speak, but I had the feeling that even if she could have spoken, she wouldn’t have wanted to.
“Sunny,” said Ducky, “I’m going to walk Dawn home.”
“Okay. I’m glad you guys came over.”
“Me too,” replied Ducky. “Want me to call you tonight?”
“Sure. Definitely.”
Dawn and Ducky left and I went into the house again. I hadn’t spoken to Mom in hours and I knew I had to go into her room.
So I did.
9:58 P.M.
Quiet. Nothing going on downstairs. The phone has rung a couple of times. That’s all.
Dad and Aunt Morgan were still in the kitchen. They were sitting at the table with some papers spread around them. I signaled that I was going in to see Mom and they nodded.
I stepped into Mom’s room, which we’ve been keeping dark. For some reason, the light sometimes hurts Mom’s eyes. She was lying on her bed, looking paler than ever. Honestly, her skin sometimes looks translucent. You can see her veins in places — places you wouldn’t expect to be able to see them. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were half open.
“Mom?” I whispered.
Her eyes opened. “Hi, honey. How was school?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the reason I hadn’t visited her all day was not because I’d been at school, but because I was a great big coward.
“Well…” I began. Was I actually going to lie to my mother? Lie to her now? I couldn’t do that. But then, I really couldn’t tell her I’d been home the entire day and hadn’t come into her room even once. Finally I said, “It was about the same.” I figured that probably wasn’t a lie. I was sure school had been about the same. I just hadn’t been there.
Okay, okay. I feel very bad about having said that, but it’s over and done. I can’t take it back.
“Tell me what’s going on,” said Mom.
I looked at her closely. I thought she seemed a bit more alert than usual. Her eyes had opened and her voice seemed stronger.
“What’s going on?”
“Yes,” said Mom. “In your life. How are you and Dawn getting along these days? How is Ducky? What are you working on in school?”
I settled in on Mom’s bed for a talk. We hadn’t had one in awhile. This was nice.
“Dawn and I are friends again. But I guess you knew that. I mean, from talking to Dawn. It’s like before anything happened. Like old times.”
“That’s nice,” said Mom.
“Mm-hm. And Ducky is good. He was here a few minutes ago, but he didn’t come in.”
“That’s okay.”
“Mom, I didn’t tell you that Ducky and I had a fight. A big one. But we made up. Just now. And I’m really glad.”
“What was the fight about?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.”
I didn’t feel like telling Mom the story. Not because she wouldn’t understand, but just because I wanted to talk about other things. It was so nice to be sitting here sharing stuff with her. We hadn’t done that in a long, long time. She hadn’t felt well enough. Did she actually feel better now? I had to know.
“Mom? You look a little better today.”
Mom smiled apologetically. “Well, that’s nice, honey. Thank you for saying so.”
“But—?”
“But…I’m in a lot of pain.” I must have looked confused because she said, “The doctor gave me a new pain medication and right after I take it I feel great
for a little while.”
“Oh.”
Disappointment.
10:48 P.M.
Continuing after a phone call from Ducky…
I have seen Mom in all sorts of states over the past year or so. I have seen her bald. I have seen her barfing from the chemo. I have seen her so tired that reaching for a glass wears her out. I have seen her so lifeless I thought she had died. I look at this newest Mom. She seems a little better, and now I learn that’s because she’s actually worse. She’s in so much pain that she’s on super-strength medication that makes her feel better for a while, then drops her back into some abyss of misery I can’t comprehend or imagine.
I decided to take advantage of Mom’s drug-induced condition to have a real talk with her, though.
“Mom,” I said, “tell me about when I was a baby.” I swear, I do not know where that came from. It sounds like something an eight-year-old would say. But the words fell out of my mouth.
I think Mom was as startled by them as I was. “What?” she said.
“When I was a baby, your baby, what was I like?”
“Well…” Mom searched for words. “You were sunny. Your personality, I mean, I think we would have nicknamed you Sunny even if your name wasn’t Sunshine. You smiled all the time, and everything made you laugh, even things that might have frightened other babies.”
“Like what?”
“Like thunder or a big dog or being taken to a strange place. Some babies would have cried. But you would look at us and laugh. We were delighted. Mostly because you were so delighted.”
(God. I’m looking at myself in the mirror right now and I do not see a delightful, sunny person. I see someone dressed in black jeans and nasty-looking black boots, a black T-shirt, and black jewelry. My hair is dirty, and I hardly ever smile anymore.)
“You were a great baby,” Mom went on. “The best. Ideal. Like a baby out of a fairy tale. Your dad and I were in love with each other and in love with you. Sometimes we would say, ‘How can two people be so lucky? We lead charmed lives.’”
I marveled that Mom could say this. Does she still think she has led a charmed life?
“How come you and Dad never had any other kids?” I asked.
Mom didn’t answer right away. “We weren’t able to,” she said at last. “We wanted other children, because we liked you so much. We thought, ‘If all babies are as wonderful as Sunny, then we want lots of them.’ But it wasn’t meant to be. And we were already very happy with what we had. The three of us seemed like the perfect family.”
But the problem with three, I thought, is that it’s such a small number. When one of the three goes, only two are left. And when one of them goes, well, you’re alone.
I tried to bring on a smile for Mom, though. “Okay, so I was a great baby. What was I like as a little girl?”
“Still pretty sunny. And adventurous. Do you remember the time you visited Mrs. Myrick?”
“Mrs. Myrick? When we lived in Grove Park?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t we visit her a lot?”
“We did. But I’m thinking of a time you visited her alone. When you were three. This was how we met Mrs. Myrick in the first place.”
“I guess I don’t remember,” I said.
“It was a Saturday morning. You and Dad and I were in the yard. Dad and I were working in the garden, and you were playing with your dump truck.”
“I had a dump truck?”
“It was your favorite toy for several months.” (I laughed.) “Anyway, I was pulling weeds, and suddenly I realized you were gone. Dad and I looked in the yard first, of course. Then we searched the house. Then we went back outside and began calling and calling for you. I asked Dad if I should phone the police and he said yes, so I did that, and while we waited for them to arrive we walked up and down the street, calling some more. A few of the neighbors joined us. We were several blocks away from our house when we heard you call out, ‘Hi, Mommy! Hi, Daddy!’ You were sitting on Mrs. Myrick’s front porch, and the two of you were having a pretend tea party. You had just wandered there by yourself. Mrs. Myrick didn’t know you, but she didn’t think you should be off on your own yet, and she was trying to figure out who you were so she could call your parents. Of course, just at that moment the police showed up, and Dad and I were embarrassed but so glad to have you back safe and sound that we didn’t care too much. After that, Mrs. Myrick became one of our best friends.”
“I can’t believe I did that!” I said. “Hey, Mom. Tell me about you when you were little. Were you like me?”
“Oh, no, I was nothing like you,” said Mom. “Totally different. Scared of everything.” Mom paused and had to catch her breath.
“You were scared of everything? But you’re so brave,” I said.
“Me? I’m not brave!”
“Yes, you are. Look at what you’ve been through this year. I wouldn’t have been half as brave.”
Mom smiled ruefully. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“I still think you’re brave,” I said.
“Well…thank you.” She closed her eyes briefly.
“Tell me something naughty you did when you were little.”
“Hmm, naughty,” said Mom, her eyes still closed. “Let me think. Did I ever tell you about the time with the chickens?”
I laughed. “No.”
“I was in first grade. And our teacher—”
“What was her name? Or his name?” I interrupted.
“Her name. Mrs. Rago. And Mrs. Rago brought a cage of chickens to our room one day. Just for fun. I decided I wanted to see them out of the cage, not stuck in it. So I let them out. They ran and flapped around the room, and Mrs. Rago made me stand in the corner.”
“Oh, Mom! Mrs. Rago sounds mean,” I said. “But it’s a funny story.”
“You know what I think is funny? That was one of the bravest things I did as a child—and it involved chickens. Get it? Chickens?”
“I get it.” I was laughing again, even though Mom was wheezing and laughing. This was so nice. Mom and me. Just hanging out, talking. “I’m going to write that down,” I told Mom. “I really like that story. It’s a fun way to—” My sentence came to a screeching halt. I had almost said “a fun way to remember you.” “I mean,” I continued, “it’s a fun memory.”
Mom didn’t answer me. She started to cough then, and it made her double over.
“Is the pain medicine wearing off?” I asked anxiously.
“I’m afraid so.” Mom was clutching her chest.
I peeked through Mom’s door and saw to my relief that the nurse was waiting. I signaled to her. The nurse hurried into the room and fussed over Mom for a few minutes.
“Why don’t you rest now, Mrs. Winslow?” she said, and Mom nodded weakly.
I hope I have gotten everything down, everything we said this afternoon. I don’t want to forget one word of it.
Thursday 3/18
3:22 A.M.
Whoa. I just woke up from the most horrible dream. I was in my bedroom and somehow I knew that a man was trying to get into my room. He was on the other side of my door, holding a huge quilt, and he planned to smother me with the quilt. I could hear him rattling the door handle.
I woke up sweating.
The first time in weeks that I’ve actually been in a deep sleep.
When I first woke up I thought I heard Mom downstairs, thought I heard her moaning, but when I listened at my door (which I was terrified of opening because of that man with the quilt) I heard nothing.
5:46 A.M.
I was able to go back to sleep for a couple of hours, and now I’m up again. I grabbed for the journal right away. I want to record everything. Everything I can about these days.
These last few days.
Something happened at dinner last night, after I’d talked to Mom.
Dad and I were alone in the kitchen. Aunt Morgan was with Mom, even though Mom was asleep, and even though the nurse was here. Dad and
I were supposedly eating dinner, although once again we were just sitting in front of plates of untouched food. And we were barely speaking.
After a long, long pause, Dad said, “Sunny, you don’t have to go to school anymore. I mean, until after…you know…”
(Nobody wants to say anything too casual about Mom’s dying. We talk about it and we don’t talk about it.)
“You’re giving me permission not to go to school?”
“Well, it’ll only be for a couple of—” Dad stopped himself.
Of course I had figured this out for myself. All of it. That Mom had only a day or so left, and that I could stay home until she died. After all, I’m already staying home. (Has Dad noticed?) But when I heard Dad say these words, that cold fear came over me again. It was as if as long as those thoughts stayed inside my head, maybe I had made them up. But now Dad was saying them, so they must be true.
“What do you mean?” I said to Dad.
“I think you know,” he replied.
“Yeah. I know that you’ve given up on Mom. You and everyone else. You have all given up.”
“Sunny—”
“Well, it’s true. I just don’t understand why. Why have you all given up?”
“Sunny—”
“No one talks about the future. No one even talks about next week. It’s like there is no future.”
“Sunny,” said Dad flatly. “I thought you understood. Mom’s treatments have been stopped and nothing more can be done for her. We have talked about all of this.”
“I know.” I stared down at my plate. “But how could this happen? How could we let it happen? It’s like we’re killing Mom.”
I though Dad might get angry at that, but instead he said, “It does feel that way. You just have to remember that the way things feel isn’t always the way things are. Mom’s treatments were more painful than helpful. And when she dies her misery will finally be over.”
Diary Three Page 8
