— Fruit basket from the fruit market
— Surprise visit from Liz, Mom’s best friend from childhood, I gather, although I haven’t seen Liz since I was five. Mom couldn’t even wake up when Liz said her good-byes. Liz left Mom’s room sobbing; Carol comforted her.
— At noon Carol insisted on fixing lunch for Dad and Aunt Morgan and me. (A few days ago, Aunt Morgan would have done that. Now she’s just like Dad and me.) We all tried really, really hard to eat.
Events of the afternoon:
— None
11:30 P.M.
It’s happened.
It’s over.
Now I’m going to try writing about it. Everything. I don’t care if I have to write for hours and hours and hours. I feel as if I have nothing in my life but time. A gaping hole of time.
It started late in the afternoon. Carol was in the kitchen, Dad was in the front hallway saying good-bye to two people from the bookstore who were just leaving, and Aunt Morgan was taking a shower. (When she had said, “Maybe I’ll go take a quick shower,” I realized I couldn’t remember when I had taken my last shower. Yesterday? The day before that?)
I was alone with Mom.
She had been asleep. Suddenly she woke up. She looked very alert, which was strange since she hadn’t had an injection in quite a while. She saw me in my chair at the foot of her bed.
“Honey?” she said.
“Hi, Mom,” I replied.
“Sunny, could you go get Morgan? I want to talk to her for a few minutes. Then I want to talk to you, and then I want to talk to Dad.”
I thought of all those times in the last few days when something has happened to make my heart pound or my palms sweat. Now I heard these words, and I knew exactly what they meant, and…I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just terribly, terribly calm.
“Okay,” I said.
I ran from the room. I hoped Aunt Morgan was finished with her shower. If she wasn’t, I thought I might have to haul her naked out of the bathroom and rush her to Mom.
I knocked on the bathroom door. “Aunt Morgan?” I called.
“Yes?”
“Aunt Morgan, Mom said she wants to talk to you. Now. And then she wants to talk to me and then to Dad.”
The door flew open. Aunt Morgan stood before me with wet hair, but she was already dressed, thank goodness.
“Oh my god. Okay,” she said.
She flew down the stairs and into Mom’s room.
(It just occurred to me. Isn’t it funny how we switched so quickly from calling our dining room “the dining room” to calling it “Mom’s room”? It was the dining room for so many years. We’ll probably never be able to think of it as just the dining room again.)
As Aunt Morgan ran to Mom, I caught up with Dad in the hallway. He was closing the door behind Arlie and James.
“Dad,” I said breathlessly, “Mom said she wants to talk to each of us alone. Aunt Morgan is with her now. Then she wants to see me, then you.”
Dad turned pale, but he simply said, “Okay.” After a moment, he added, “Are you all right with this, Sunny?”
“I think so.”
Dad and I slumped into chairs in the living room and sat there wordlessly, hardly moving. A few minutes later Aunt Morgan slipped out of Mom’s room. Tears were streaming down her face. She headed into the kitchen. To be with Carol, I guess.
And I stood up and walked into Mom’s room.
I sat on the edge of her bed.
“Hi,” I said.
Mom smiled at me.
Then I leaned over and put my arms around her. I fell against her and began to cry. Mom stroked my hair.
“It’s almost time,” she said to me.
“I know.” I began wildly trying to recall the list I made. But I couldn’t even remember how many things I wanted to say, let alone what they were. Something about Greece and getting married and when Mom was little and when I was little.
“I love you, sweetheart,” said Mom.
“I love you too,” I replied. “You’re the best mother in the whole world.”
“And you’re the best daughter. I couldn’t have ordered a better one.”
I tried to smile, but instead I cried harder.
Mom held me as tightly as she was able. “You know,” she said, “I’ll always be with you, even if I’m not here.”
“Yes.”
“You and Dad—remember to take care of each other.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of Dawn a little too, and she’ll take care of you. And go to Carol for anything. You know you can do that, don’t you?”
“Yes…. Mom, I love you so much.”
“I know.” She paused. Then she said, “I love you big,” just like she used to say when I was little.
I stood up. It was time to get Dad. And after Dad had his time with Mom, he and Aunt Morgan and I were going to sit with her until the very end came. We decided this, the four of us, several days ago.
I sat by myself in the living room. Aunt Morgan and Carol were still in the kitchen and I felt like being alone. Ten minutes went by. Then Dad leaned out of Mom’s room and said, “Sunny, please get Aunt Morgan and come in now.”
I jumped to my feet and ran to the kitchen. I was shaking all over. “Aunt Morgan,” I said, and I realized my voice was shaking too. “Dad says to come in now.”
Carol hurried to me and buried me in a hug. Then Aunt Morgan and I went back to Mom’s room and sat on the bed. We found Dad next to Mom, holding her in his arms. I sat on the side of the bed and took Mom’s hand. Aunt Morgan sat at the foot of the bed.
It really was time.
I couldn’t believe it.
Mom and Dad and Aunt Morgan and I sat on the bed in silence for a moment or two. Then I took Aunt Morgan’s hand with my free hand so she could feel more connected to Mom. Finally Mom said, “It’s time.”
I squeezed her hand more tightly.
Mom closed her eyes. “I love you,” she said to us. “Take care of each other. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Dad and Aunt Morgan and I said.
And then…we all sat there for nearly two hours. Mom’s breathing changed. Sometimes she didn’t take a breath for ten or twenty seconds. Her eyes became all glassy. Then, finally, they closed. I watched her chest move up and down. And then…I don’t know what changed exactly, but it was as if I could see the fight leave her. She began to look more peaceful. More and more peaceful. Her chest was barely moving. Then it was still. For a very long time.
I started to cry.
Dad and Aunt Morgan were crying softly too.
At last Dad said, “I think she’s gone.”
And she was. Nobody moved for a few minutes, though.
Finally Dad stood up and cleared his throat. I ran from the room and straight into Carol’s arms.
After that — it was as if the house had been asleep for a long, long time and suddenly it woke up. We made thousands of phone calls. The doctor returned. People came by.
All I could think was, What do we do now?
Saturday 3/20
4:45 A.M.
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING THIS ISN’T HAPPENING THIS ISN’T HAPPENING THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
5:08 A.M.
When am I EVER going to be able to sleep again?
5:31 A.M.
It is Saturday morning and my mother is dead.
5:38 A.M.
The funeral will be held on Monday. Monday morning at 11:00. Dad arranged that last night. The service will be held at the Palo City Unitarian Universalist Church. I haven’t been there in a few years, but Mom and Dad used to go pretty often, especially before Mom got sick. The only reason they stopped going was because Mom was in the hospital so often. And when she was at home she usually didn’t feel well enough to go out. She and Dad did go to church a couple of times this year, though. And the minister, Jim, came over to our house quite often. I like him. He isn’t phony. Very straightforward. And very open. The good thing about the UU churc
h is that it is accepting of all kinds of people. It isn’t judgmental.
5:50 A.M.
I can’t believe that my mother is dead and I’m analyzing churches.
6:00 A.M.
Mom, I miss you already.
6:09 A.M.
Dad’s up. I can hear him moving around in his room. He’s crying. Should I go to him?
I can’t go to him.
Dad is in his room now. It’s Dad’s room only. It’ll never be his and Mom’s again. Can Dad bear it?
Can any of us bear any of this?
10:00 A.M.
Our house is like Grand Central Station. I wish everyone would just go away and leave us alone. Why are they bothering us?
11:10 A.M.
Dad just asked me to help out and I blew up at him. Like I used to do. I’m in my room now.
EVERYBODY, LEAVE ME ALONE.
11:22 A.M.
Just apologized to Dad.
I know he’s feeling as horrible as I am.
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
“I do,” Dad replied. “Because you’re mad. And you have a right to be.”
“I do?”
“Of course.”
Well. That was nice to hear.
Dad sat next to me on the bed. “We may have lost your mother,” he said, “but we still have each other.”
“I know.”
“What makes you the angriest of all?”
I thought for a moment. “That Mom put us in this position — so that all we do have is each other.”
Dad gave me a funny half smile.
I looked down at my lap then. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Finally I said, “But if all I do have is one other person, I’m glad it’s you.”
Dad took me in his arms then and we cried together. It wasn’t embarrassing at all. It seemed quite natural.
When we felt a little better, Dad asked me again to help out. We need to make phone calls and lots and lots of arrangements, he said. He asked me if I would talk to the florist and choose the flowers for the funeral.
To be honest, I don’t really want to, but I said I would.
12:07 P.M.
God, some people are stupid. Dawn was here. She said, “Sunny, you sound so angry. Why are you angry? I thought you’d be sad.” What a jerk.
I just looked at her and said, “Get out of my room.”
12:22 P.M.
Mymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgone.
12:48 P.M.
I think I am going crazy.
2:30 P.M.
Carol has been here. She appeared in my doorway. I was sitting on my bed. I hadn’t called the florist or done anything Dad had asked me to do. I’m not sure what Carol wanted to say to me. I didn’t give her a chance. The second I saw her, I started talking. Everything just came spewing out. I said, “Carol, I’m sorry. I was horrible to Dawn. I was horrible to Dad. I didn’t mean anything I said. I want to get the right flowers. And I want to talk to Dawn.” Then I burst into tears.
Carol held me and let me cry.
“You know,” she said after awhile, “it’s going to be a long time before you feel better. This is not going to go away quickly. You probably aren’t going to understand your feelings, or what you do, or what you say. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
I nodded, still crying.
“On the other hand,” Carol went on, “remember that you can rely on your friends and your family now. They want to be here for you. They want to help you. But they might not always know the best way to help you.”
“So I probably shouldn’t shout at them,” I said.
Carol smiled. “Well…not if you can help it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t tell people when you want to be alone. Or, if you REALLY want to shout, how about turning up your stereo full blast and screaming? You can say whatever you want. I’ll tell your father that I suggested this to you.”
I managed a smile. “Okay,” I said.
“Now,” Carol went on, “do you want me to call the florist? I’d be happy to do that.”
“No. I kind of want to do it. I like the idea of choosing flowers for Mom. I don’t know why I got so mad at Dad.”
“Maybe you’re not really mad at your father. Maybe you’re just mad that the flowers have to be chosen in the first place.”
3:17 P.M.
I’m spending way too much time writing in my journal.
But I have to write.
7:30 P.M.
I’m exhausted. Didn’t mention earlier who’s been here today. I mean specifically. It feels like everyone on the planet has been here.
Grandma and Grandad came over last night, of course. And they were here for a long time today. For some reason, I didn’t feel like being with them. Grandma looked hurt. She called to me twice in my room. Finally I agreed to eat supper with her and Grandad and Dad and Aunt Morgan. The five of us crowded around the little table in the kitchen that was crammed with food and baskets and mail and packages. We tried to eat with all this stuff overflowing around us. Our elbows kept bumping; there was barely room enough for us and the meal.
I don’t know what got into me, but I gazed through the doorway into what had been Mom’s room and said, “Won’t it be nice to have the dining room back again? Then we can have more space.”
I thought Aunt Morgan was going to slap me. Dad began to cry and left the table. So I slammed my fork down and left the table too.
It’s funny. I just realized that I set out to make a list of the people who have been by today when what I guess I really wanted to write about was what happened at dinner.
I am a mean, horrible, awful person.
7:42 P.M.
And I am so tired of writing in this stupid journal.
Sunday 3/21
7:46 P.M.
I guess I needed a break from the journal. Sometimes writing is helpful. Sometimes it intensifies everything. I don’t need my feelings intensified just now.
Dawn is here with me. She’s writing in her journal too. It’s been some day.
Last night I apologized to Dad (again) and we all calmed down. I went to bed early and actually fell asleep. I slept for a long time — until almost 7:00 this morning.
Today was almost as busy as yesterday, but a different kind of busy. Yesterday we made the rest of the phone calls, the horrible ones when we had to tell people about Mom. Most of the funeral arrangements have been taken care of. What happened today was just that people kept coming by. In droves, it seemed. In the morning, they were mostly friends of Mom’s and Dad’s. After awhile I got tired of sitting with them and went to my room. A few minutes later Dawn showed up. (I told her she was brave, considering how I treated her yesterday.) She ended up staying through the afternoon. In the morning we just sat in my room and talked. Dawn is almost as sad about Mom as I am. She has her own mother, and Carol, but she was close to Mom, kind of in the way I’m close to Carol. I have to say that at first I was irritated to discover how upset Dawn was—like being upset about Mom should be my personal right since I am her actual daughter. But then I thought about how I would feel if Carol died. I guess it’s okay for Dawn to be as sad as I am.
Dawn looks horrible. Pale and fragile.
Is that how I look?
Around lunchtime, Dawn and I crept into the kitchen and fixed plates of food for ourselves. We brought them back to my room. We just picked at them.
“You know what?” I said after awhile. “I’d kind of like to see Ducky.”
“You would? Now?” said Dawn.
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s call him. He’d like it if you called him. I’m sure he’ll come over.”
So we called him and he came over.
Good old Ducky.
When Ducky arrived one of the people downstairs let him in. Dawn and I didn’t hear the doorbell ring, so suddenly Ducky was just standing in the doorway to my room. The second Dawn and I saw him we burst into tears. Bo
th of us. Poor Ducky.
Ducky hugged me first, then Dawn. Then he started to cry too. I thought that would make things worse, but it didn’t. After a moment or two the three of us just looked at one another and then we started to laugh. And cry. Everything was all mixed up. We were trying to pull ourselves together a little when we heard someone say, “Hi.”
We turned around and there was Maggie. It was not like her to drop by without calling first, so I was surprised. But mostly I found that I was very pleased. There was more hugging. We weren’t saying much. We’d cry a little, then someone would hug someone, then we’d laugh a bit.
Later Dad called upstairs, “Sunny, telephone!”
For some reason I checked my watch as I headed for the phone. I found that hours had gone by. Hours with my friends, crying, laughing, just being together.
The caller was Amalia. “Can I come over?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
A half hour later Amalia had joined Dawn, Ducky, Maggie, and me. Now the five of us were sitting around crying, laughing — and talking a bit more than we had been earlier.
When was the last time the five of us were together in one place other than school? Was it the night of that dreadful party, the night we met Ducky? That was months ago. It seems like forever ago.
I have been so horrible to most of my friends lately. And here they all were, gathered around me like a cocoon. Protecting me. Loving me. Not caring how horrible I’ve been. For just a second I felt a teeny, teeny bit better. Then I remembered what is going to happen tomorrow.
Please, please let me get through the funeral. It is going to be wretched. All I want is for it to be over.
Diary Three: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Page 11
