You Shouldn't Have To Say Goodbye Part 4

Later that night, when I went to bed, Mom came in and sat on the side of my bed just the way she used to, and she didn't say anything about being sick then, either. But I was afraid that if she stayed, she'd start talking about it, so I yawned and told her I was super tired. I was, too. The night before, I had been so excited because Mom was coming home that I had hardly slept.

The next morning things were just the way they used to be. Mom was up early and dressed, working in her office before I even came down. I made my breakfast, and while I ate, Mom brought her coffee to the table and sat with me. Then I left for school, and Mom went back to work. While I walked to school, I thought about it. Mom looked pretty good, and she seemed just the same. So why had she said what she said yesterday? Was it just in casea"just in casea" she didn't get better? She sure looked as though she was going to be all right, just the same as always. At school, when I said that to Robin, she agreed that Mom had been just the same the night before. Exactly.

I didn't stay for gymnastics practice that day. It had been so long since I had gone home from school and found Mom there that I wanted to get home on time and see her and talk, just the way we used to. It was a little after three-thirty when I burst into the house. "Mom!" I shouted. "Hi, Mom, I'm home!"

"h.e.l.lo, honey, I'm in here."

In her office, not in bed! I was so glad, because for a minute, when I opened the front door, I had been afraid I'd find her in bed like that other time.

I opened the door to her office. She was sitting in one of the big chairs, her feet up on another chair, reading from a folder in her lap. She smiled at me. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi. How do you feel?" I couldn't help asking it, but I turned away and looked out the window before she could answer.

"Not bad. A little tired."

"Good." I was so relieved that I smiled at her. "I'm starved. I'm going to get a snack. Want anything?"

Mom smiled back. "Not really. But you get yours, and after you're finished, there's something I want to do with you."

"Yeah, what?" Right away, I thought of clothes. We'd go clothes shopping!

"Laundry," Mom said.

"Laundry! How boring."

Mom smiled again. "How necessary."

I went back to the kitchen, feeling good but a little puzzled. Mom had never asked me to help with the laundry before. I didn't even know how to run the washer or anything. But I guessed that if she was sick, she'd need help, at least until she was better. I made toast with cinnamon sugar and ate about half a loaf, and when I was almost finished, Mom came into the kitchen. She sat down at the table across from me.

"Looks like you haven't eaten in a week," she said.

"I'm finished now." I dusted toast crumbs from my mouth and hands and stood up. "What do you want to do about laundry?"

"I want to teach you how to do it."

"Boring," I said again.

"Necessary," Mom said again, and we both laughed.

We smiled at each other, and then Mom stood up and put both arms around me. "Oh, Sarah," she whispered.

I pulled away quickly. "Come on," I said. "Let's get it over with." I turned to the laundry room just off the kitchen. "What do I have to learn?" I reached into the dirty-clothes bin and started pulling out things, Daddy's pajamas, my jeans, my white gym socks, and all the other stuff. It smelled terrible. "Dump it in, dump in soap. How much?" I turned to Mom. She hadn't moved from where I had left her in the kitchen, but when I looked at her, she came toward me slowly.

She laughed softly and shook her head. "Honey, that's not how you do it. You have to sort wash first. Dark colors, light colors, white things."

"Oh, pooh! You sound like an ad on TV."

"Wait till your blue velour sweater comes out gray from being in with the jeans and you won't think so."

"Is that really what happens?"

She nodded, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

I turned away, bent over the laundry bin again, and tried to come up with things all the same color. I couldn't look at Mom, wouldn't ask her why she was crying.

Even though I didn't ask, she started to talk anyway. "Sarah, it's the nuttiest thing, but you know what haunted me in the hospital when they first told mea about the cancer?"

I didn't answer or look up, just stayed bent over the clothes bin.

Mom paused for a minute, then went on. "Thinking of leaving you, thinking of the little things, thinking of how you're going to have to care for yourself. And all I haven't taught you yet." She paused for a long time, then spoke again. "Stupid things, like laundry. Who's going to make sure you have your blue velour clean when you want it, or your gym suit on Monday mornings? You have to learn that, honey." I could tell she was crying, and I was crying too, but I wouldn't look up. n.o.body's ever stayed head-down in a laundry bin for as long as I did.

"Here's four pairs of jeans," I said after a while, still without straightening up. "And black socks. Can they go in together?"

There was no answer, and slowly I stood up. Mom was looking at me, tears in her eyes. "You have to face it, Sarah. You have to. It won't do any good to avoid it. Please! Please?" Her eyes were pleading with me.

I just shook my head. If I didn't listen, if I made my mind as blank as possible, I could do it. I could feel nothing. I pulled the pajamas and white socks out of the washer, and put in the jeans and black socks. "How much soap?" I asked.

"A cupful," Mom answered. There was no emotion in her voice then, just sort of flat. She leaned over the washer, pushed a b.u.t.ton. "This is for a full wash," she said. "If it's a small load, you push the one for small. Herea" She pushed another b.u.t.ton marked COOL, then one that said LARGE, and then stood back. "Okay," she said. "Large for a full load. Cool water for dark things. You'll use hot water for white things."

"That's easy," I said.

Neither of us moved out of the laundry room for a while. Mom was blocking my way to the kitchen, and I'd have to look at her to get past. I was still keeping my mind blank, unfeeling. I just let it run around on things like laundry, like black socks. Mom still hadn't moved, so without looking up, I said, "Anything else?"

"Yes. Books."

I was so surprised, I couldn't help turning to her then. She nodded sadly. "Yes, books. So many books I haven't told you about, haven't read to you. I want to buy you so many books now. You won't understand some of them yet, but I want you to have them for later, for when you're older. I couldn't bear for you not to have read Isak Dinesen. She's a woman, you know. And Kazantzakis. Such funny names."

"Stop it!" Tears were running down my face, and I put my hands over my ears. "Stop it!" I almost screamed it.

"I have to!" She put her arms around me. "I have to, Sarah. There's so little time. Please?"

"You can't die! You can't die, can't die. You can'ta"

I was sobbing, and Mom had her arms wrapped tight around me as she rocked me back and forth, back and forth. Tears were streaming down my face as though something had broken inside. "Can't die, can'ta" I looked up at her then, and I almost said it. "Ia"Ia" But I choked it back. "I hate you!"a"that's what I was going to say. "I hate you, hate you for doing this to me. Hate you for talking about dying." But something made me stop, and Mom pulled me close. I tried to pull away, but Mom was amazingly strong, and she held me tight. And then I really couldn't stop crying. Tears just ran out until I was exhausted, till I could hardly stand up, but after a long while, I couldn't cry any more. It wasn't that I didn't want to. It was just that there were no more tears left. My breath was coming in big, shaky sobs, and Mom began patting my back softly.

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 beforea" 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 namea"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 sada"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 swallowsa 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 disappeara"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. Daddya"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, thougha"not just a fingertipa"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 b.u.mps 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 s.h.i.+vering suddenly, but I couldn't bear the thought of going back to beda"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 b.u.t.tons 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 lota"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 s.p.a.ckle 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."

"Ora" 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 outdoorsa"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 decoratinga"

"Oh, all right! Honestly, Mom, you're a pain! Painting this room was your idea."