You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye

by Patricia Hermes

  After I had stopped sobbing, Mom held me away a little. “Better?” she asked quietly.

  I nodded. The biggest silent lie I had ever told in my life, because I wasn’t better at all. I was worse than ever. Because now that I had begun to cry, now that I had begun to let it in, I was beginning to believe it was true.

  AFTER THAT, WE WENT CLOTHES SHOPPING AND THEN TO the bookstore. Neither of us said any more about what we had just talked about, but it was different from the day before— for me, anyway. I didn’t have the feeling that I had to keep running away from Mom to keep her from saying anything.

  At the clothes store, I got new jeans and a new winter jacket because my old one had gotten so small that my wrists stuck out. And then I got a new velour sweater, a pink one, and after that we went to the bookstore. I picked out a lot of books from the young-adult section, and Mom picked out about a dozen books from the grown-up shelves. I didn’t even want to look at them, but I didn’t say that to Mom. She asked me to put them in my bookcase so someday I’d have them when I wanted them. I knew I would never read them, though, and secretly I gave them a name—getting-ready-to-die books. I would never read getting-ready-to-die books, ever. So when I got home, I hid them in the back of my bookcase, and then I began reading the books I had picked out.

  Dinner was normal enough, and afterwards I went up to take my bath. I soaped myself all over and slid under the water, as though I could wash away everything that had happened that day. Usually I take a book into the bathroom with me to read in the tub, but I had forgotten to bring the one I had started that day. I looked around, then reached out to the little stand that has some of my other books in it. I found an old one and picked it up. It's called Summer of the Swallows. It's all about a kid named Ellie who gets stung by a bee and dies. I used to like to read it because it's a sad book, and sometimes it's fun to feel sad—about a book. I would sit in the bathtub and cry because Ellie had died, and then I would go to my room, and the light would be on and Mom would come and kiss me good-night, and it felt good.

  I started the book again. I’ve read it so many times, I have it memorized, practically. The words just slid across my brain, blanking everything else out. I was with Ellie and the swallows…

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. “You okay, honey?” It was Mom.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re taking forever.”

  “I’m reading.”

  “It's way past your bedtime.”

  “That's okay.”

  “Want me to make you something to eat? A little snack?”

  “No thanks.” I felt full, as though even the thought of food would make me throw up. I looked down at my stomach. It was shiny from the soap and water, and it was flat, nice and flat. Still, Robin and I always want to lose at least another pound, and we’re always talking about going on a diet, but we never do. I wouldn’t have a snack, and I could tell Robin that I had already started my diet. She’d be jealous.

  There was silence at the bathroom door, but I could tell that Mom was still there. “You’re sure you’re okay?” she called after a minute.

  “Mom, I’m sure! I’m too old to drown in the bathtub.”

  I heard her giggle, and I knew then that she would leave me alone. I read some more until I had finished the whole book. It was a short book, and I’m a fast reader, and there were even parts I could skip, I knew them so well. For some reason, this time, I didn’t cry at all about any of the things that used to make me sad. The only part that seemed sad was the part where they go to the cemetery and see the hole that was dug for the casket. A hole for Ellie. A hole for Mom. I finished the book, then got out of the tub and dried off.

  In my room, I got into my pajamas and into bed, then turned off the light and waited for Mom to come kiss me good-night. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want anything but for this day to be over. I wanted to go to sleep. In a minute I saw the door open, and the light from the hall slipped in. “Sarah? You awake?”

  “Hmm,” I muttered.

  “You didn’t even say good-night.” I turned over and closed my eyes, but I could tell that Mom was crossing to the bed.

  “I’m too tired,” I murmured sleepily.

  “But I feel bad when you don’t say good-night.”

  I wanted to tell her to stop it when she said that. I didn’t want to know that I made her feel bad. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and for about the millionth time that day, I felt ready for another cry, but I fought it back. “Just tired.” I held up my face for a kiss, then turned over to the pillow.

  Mom patted and rubbed my back a little. “I understand,” she said, but I wondered if she did. I didn’t understand it myself.

  I heard the mattress sigh as Mom got up off the bed, then heard her go to the door. I opened my eyes, saw the door close, the light from the hall disappear—and then, for some reason, I couldn’t stay in bed. I felt as though if I stayed there, everything would catch up with me, as if things were waiting out there for me. I got out of bed, walked over to the window, and looked out at the night. I wondered if I could see Robin's window from here, but of course I couldn’t. Four blocks is a long way, and even if I could see a light, I wouldn’t know which one was hers.

  A door closed below me, and I looked down. Two figures were outside, standing in the dark, their faces turned up to the sky. Mom and Daddy. Daddy's arm was around Mom's shoulder, and they both stood, heads turned up. Daddy—how was he feeling? He had looked so awful for weeks, and I now knew why. He had probably been crying. I looked down at the yard again, but they were gone, maybe taking a walk around the block.

  I crept back into bed. Alone, I would be all alone. And Daddy would be all alone, too. Both of us. No! I sat up and switched on the light. I had cried enough. I wouldn’t cry any more.

  I got out of bed again and went to my bookcase, reached to the top, and got down my hamster's cage. Flicker, my hamster. I took him out and let him run around on my hand for a while. He's soft and funny, his nose squiggling and twisting as he tries to smell me. Sometimes, if I put one finger in front of his face, he bites, but he doesn’t do it to be mean. He just bites whatever is around. If I put my whole hand out, though—not just a fingertip—he doesn’t bite. I lay on the floor and let him run up and down my arms, all over my stomach, and even on my face. When he crawled to the floor, I scooped him up and set him back on my stomach again. The house was so still. I wished Mom and Daddy would come back from their walk.

  I fed Flicker some hamster food and some hamster treats, and he took them all and stuffed them in his cheeks. I laughed out loud and wished Robin were there, or Mom, so I could show them. His cheeks got round like a chipmunk's, and then he headed back for his cage. He always spits out the treats in a corner of his cage and saves them for later. It looks like his food cabinet or refrigerator in there. When he got back inside, I closed the cage tightly, then put a book over it, because sometimes he bumps against it so hard he knocks the top off. I opened my bedroom door then, and listened to hear whether Mom and Daddy were downstairs yet. Why hadn’t I talked to Mom when she came to say good-night? Why had I pretended to be sleepy? It was so quiet now.

  Still no sound down there. I was shivering suddenly, but I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to bed—not yet, not until they were back from their walk. I went to my closet for my robe, but then I realized I didn’t want my own robe. I wanted Mom's, the one we tease her about and call her woolly lamb robe. It's white and fuzzy and practically worn out, and half the buttons are missing, but Mom wears it when she's especially cold or when she feels down. She says it makes her feel better. I went to her room, tiptoeing in case they had come back, because I didn’t want to have to explain.

  I found the robe, wrapped myself in it, then went back to my room. I turned out the light and looked out the window again. It was a cold, clear night, the stars shining brightly. When you are dead, what do you do? Are you really in heaven? Is there such a place? Are there angels and stars, and
do you hang around in the stars? Or when you’re dead, are you just plain dead? Stupid questions! Stupid little-kid questions!

  I began to cry again, tears running down my face. I stood at the window, wrapped in Mom's robe, and it was warm, but it didn’t help. I must have been crying so hard that I didn’t notice the light slide across the floor again as someone opened the door a crack. Then Daddy was beside me. He lifted me up as easily as though I were a little baby and carried me across the room to my bed, and he sat me in his lap. I didn’t know that it would feel almost as good as Mom's. Then we both cried for a long time.

  IT WAS FUNNY HOW THE DAYS WENT AFTER THAT. I GUESS YOU can’t keep on crying forever, because things began to seem awfully normal. Thanksgiving came and went, and Grandma and Grandpa Grimes came from Florida to visit, and then Christmas was coming. The gymnastics show was coming too, and there was a lot to get ready for. Mom didn’t say much any more about being sick, and she didn’t say anything at all about dying, and I didn’t think about it a lot—at least, not in the front of my mind. But in the back, it was always there, like those tapes they play in the dentist's office, that weird, dreary sound in the background that you can’t shut out. Mostly though, Mom looked better, and things seemed pretty much the way they used to be.

  It was on one of those normal days that I came home from school and found Mom up on a ladder in the morning room. The furniture was covered with big cloths, the rug was turned back, and all the pictures were off the walls. Mom had a can of spackle in her hand and a putty knife. She was filling the nail holes in the wall and grinned at me as I came in. “I can’t stand this room. What color are we going to paint it?”

  “Huh? Paint?”

  “Yes. Choose a color.” She pointed to a chart that was half-buried in a chair, underneath some figurines that were piled there.

  “Mom, you’re nuts! This room is fine. And, anyway, how can you get it done in time?”

  “What do you mean, in time?” She paused and looked at me, the putty knife held in midair, and there was a stillness not only in her hands, but in her face.

  “Before Christmas! Christmas is only two weeks away. ”

  “Oh.” Mom turned back to the wall then, and I couldn’t see the expression on her face any more. “No problem. You know me. I can finish a room in two days flat.” She laughed then. “With a little help.”

  “Un-uh! Not me! I hate painting, and you know it.”

  “Aw, come on, Sarah. Please?” She sounded like a little kid.

  “No way! Besides, I have gymnastics practice every day after school.”

  “You could help when you come home.”

  “Mom!” I hate it when she does that to me, makes me feel guilty.

  “Okay,” she said. “But you have to help me pick out a color.”

  I uncovered one of the chairs, scooped some magazines out of the seat, and sat down with the chart. “It has to be bright,” I said.

  “For sure.”

  “Blue? Light blue?”

  “I’ve thought about that. Maybe.”

  “Or…” I flipped through the chart. “Here's a good one. How about this?” I held it out. It was pink, almost a peachy color.

  Mom made a face, and I went back to the chart. “How about a yellow or gold? Look.” I held the booklet up for her to see. There was a page with the bands of color from bright yellow to dark, mustardy golds. The dark ones were yucky.

  “Mmm,” Mom said. “Some of them are nice and springy looking. When spring comes and the flowers are in bloom again, this room would be nice, almost like the outdoors—sun color.”

  “Yeah, that’d be nice. Mom, where are we going to put the Christmas tree this year?” I knew I was changing the subject, but I had gotten used to listening to a sound in the back of my head, a warning bell that went off, and when Mom started talking about spring, the alarm sounded. “Huh? Where will we put it this year?”

  “Where would you like it?”

  “In here maybe, if it's finished in time?” We’ve never had the tree in the morning room, even though it's been practically everywhere else in the house. Sometimes it's in the living room, and sometimes in the family room. Once, when I was very small, it was in the front hall. That was because I had wanted to see it, first thing when I came down in the morning.

  “That would be nice,” Mom said. “With all these windows, people could see the lights from outside.” She paused, and even though she was facing the wall, when she spoke again, I could tell that she was smiling. “Of course,” she said slowly, “I’d probably have to have some help with the painting. I mean, I don’t see how I could paint and do the Christmas decorating…”

  “Oh, all right! Honestly, Mom, you’re a pain! Painting this room was your idea.”

  “Tell you what. How about if you take off from school to do it with me?”

  “Really?” I squealed and jumped out of the chair, spilling magazines all over the place.

  “Why not? You’re a good student, so you wouldn’t miss much.”

  “What would I tell my teachers?”

  “Why would we have to tell them anything but the truth?”

  “That I took two days off to paint with my mother? I couldn’t do that. It would be an unexcused absence, and I’d get F's for the entire two days’ work.”

  “Unexcused absence?” Mom had a puzzled look on her face.

  “Yeah, the only way you get an excused absence is if you’re sick or have a doctor's appointment, or sometimes if you’re on a trip with your parents, although even that's a hassle. You practically have to prove that your parents couldn’t take the trip any other time. You know that. It's no problem, though. I’ll just tell them I’m sick.”

  Mom turned back to the wall, and she didn’t say anything more, just worked with the putty knife for so long that she must have made the smoothest spot in the whole house.

  “Something wrong?” I said finally.

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I paused. “Is it because I said I’d lie?”

  Mom took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. When she spoke, it sounded as though she were measuring every word. “I love you, Sarah, and I want to be with you as much as possible. I want to spend the time with you painting this room, and I’ll even lie if I have to in order to get that time. That's not what's bothering me. But something else is bothering me, scaring me, even. You see, I’ve been feeling so frantic about time, about not having enough time, but lately, the past few days, I’m thinking I might have a lot of time. Plenty of time.”

  I looked at her, puzzled, not sure what she meant.

  “Sarah, I think I might beat this. I think I might get better.”

  Right then, I wanted her to stop. She had said the one thing I had wanted so much to hear, and if she kept on talking, she might take it back.

  “I know you’re going to get better. Robin knows it too. We’ve always known.” I was lying, but it wasn’t a complete lie, and it didn’t matter, anyway. “Come on, what color are we”— I paused and smiled at her—“we going to paint this room?”

  “Yellow. Sun color,” she said, laughing, but there were tears in her eyes at the same time. “Sun yellow.” She began laughing harder, and I looked at her quickly because there was something odd about her laugh, almost hysterical. After a minute, though, she took a deep, trembly breath, wiped her eyes, and stopped laughing. “They don’t think so, you know. The doctors don’t think so, but every time I go in for a test, they’re amazed how well I’m doing. I went in today, and they couldn’t believe how well I was.”

  “I told you. I know!” I said. “I know you’re going to be all right. And we’re going to paint this room sun color. For Christmas. And for spring.”

  Mom laughed then, but it was a regular laugh, not like that nervous one before. “Wait till Daddy comes home and sees this mess.”

  I laughed too, because Daddy was always having a fit when Mom suddenly took it into her head to do things around the
house, like the time she moved every single piece of furniture in every room. “Should we tell him he has to help too?” I asked.

  “No way,” Mom said. “He's a bear about things like that. That's why I do it myself. But I’ll tell you what.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be home in a minute. How about if we ask him to take us to the paint store?”

  I laughed again. “Okay, we’ll meet him in the driveway and tell him we’re hitching a ride.”

  “Get your coat,” Mom said.

  I got mine, and she took hers from the closet, then stopped in front of the mirror in the front hall, wiping smudges of spackle and paint chips from her face and hair. “I look a wreck,” she said.

  “You look great.” I smiled at her, and she grinned back and put an arm around my shoulder.

  The two of us went down the driveway to the street. “Should we go to the paint store?” Mom said. “Or should we take off for California?”

  “California, for sure,” I answered. “But the paint store first.”

  We sat down on the curb then, pretending we really were hitchhikers, talking about things the way we always used to talk, about maybe really taking a trip to California the next summer. And when Daddy drove up, we were still sitting there, and like real hitchhikers, we stuck out our thumbs.

  DADDY TOOK US TO THE PAINT STORE, ALTHOUGH HE thought we were weird for sitting on the curb in the dark. Later we all went to McDonald's for dinner. While we were there, we made a plan: Mom and I would paint the morning room together; Daddy would put up the outside lights and set up the tree. On Saturday, the Saturday before Christmas, we would have a party. It would be a grownups’ party and kids’ party, too, and each of us would invite some friends. There weren’t many people I wanted to invite, just Robin and maybe Julia from gymnastics. But Mom and Daddy planned to invite lots of people, their best friends—the Arnolds and the Hardings and the Steiners—and lots of others, including Daddy's partner, Mr. Alden, and his wife. That didn’t make me happy because Mr. Alden is a fake, has that phony, super-friendly way of talking, but I guessed I wouldn’t have to talk to him much, anyway.