You Shouldn't Have To Say Goodbye Part 8

"Come on," Mom teased. "Tell us one little thing you want."

"For you to get better soon." I blurted it out. I hadn't meant to say that, but it just came out.

Daddy nodded hard, but Mom seemed to dismiss my answer. "What else?" she said, laughing, and she looked at me in that teasing way she had, and for an instant, she looked almost the way she used to. "Come on, tell."

"A cat," I answered, surprising myself. "A kitten." I hadn't even thought of that before, but thinking about Sleepyhead, remembering how she felt, I suddenly wanted something to hold. And I was way too big for dolls.

"A kitten?" Mom sounded as surprised as I was. "Hmm, they're hard to find on Christmas Eve." She looked at Daddy. "Think Santaa has anya Christmas Eve specialsa on kittens?"

Daddy looked worried. "Well, I don't knowa"

I couldn't believe they were taking me seriously! I've always wanted a pet, but Mom has so many allergies, I've never been allowed to have one except hamsters or things that have to stay in a cage. "Are you serious?" I asked. "Could I really have a kitten?"

"Well, I don't know if we could find one today," Mom breathed. "Christmas Eve and all. But after today. Why not?"

"But your allergies!"

Mom just smiled.

"No," I said, "definitely not. It would bother your allergies too much." I would not think about why I might be allowed to have a pet now. "Come on," I said, standing up. "We still have Christmas Eve things to do. We have to decorate the cookies."

Daddy stood up too, and we both began clearing the table. Slowly Mom got up and went toward the stairs to go get dressed. I watched her go, using her hand to steady herself against the wall again. When she got to the stairs, she stopped and rested on each step.

After Daddy and I had done the dishes, I went up to get dressed too. I put on my favorite jeans and sweater and my Christmas socks, the red ones with the green Christmas trees on them. The socks are really small now because Mom bought them for me years ago, but they've become a tradition too.

When I was dressed, I went down to the kitchen. Neither Mom nor Daddy was down yet, so while I waited, I got out the cookies and the icing things. It took Mom a long time, and when she finally came down, she was all dressed, and had make-up on, too. I couldn't help thinking that it didn't do much good. Her color was awful, but the worst part was the way she breathed, seeming to get out of breath at every little thing, even from talking. So she sat down at the table, but that was all right because you can decorate cookies better sitting down, anyway. To decorate, we use colored sugar icing thinned with water, and we put it on the cookies with tiny paint brushes. We did Santas and trees and angels, and I loved it. Why had I ever given up painting in those paint books I used to have? Painting was fun!

When we finished, Mom went back upstairs. She said she was going to wrap more presents, but I was pretty sure she was going to take a nap. I didn't care, though, because I still had more presents to wrap, so I didn't mind being alone.

It was about three o'clock, and I was in my room with the door closed, just putting the tape on the Arnolds' present, when Daddy knocked. "Punkin?" he called.

"Come in," I answered.

He opened the door a little. "Come on down to the morning room, would you?"

"Sure. Why?" But he was already gone, so I finished putting the ribbon on and went down.

Mom and Daddy were both in the morning room, sitting together on the sofa. Under the tree was a ton of presents. But they've never put the presents out till I was asleep at night! "What's this for?" I asked angrily. They had no right to change traditions!

There was a little silence, and then Daddy said, "We thought you might like to exchange presents now."

"What! We can't do that. It's not Christmas yet!"

Daddy took a deep breath. "We wanted to see you open them."

"Dad-dy! Stop it. It's not Christmas."

I looked at Mom. She always sides with me, but she wasn't saying anything now, not even looking at me. She sat straight and very stiffly, almost holding her breath, and her hands were clenched as though she were holding onto something invisible.

"Mom?"

"What?" she whispered.

"Mom, why are we doing this?"

"I don't know," she said, so quietly that I could barely hear her, and she was panting. "We thoughtayou'd likeato have your presents."

"Well, I wouldn't!"

She looked at me then, and her eyes were bright. "All right," she gasped. "How about our two gifts? The onesawe exchangeaat night?"

"But it's not night yet, either!"

"Sarah, please?" Daddy said.

"All right." Just like that I said it, but I began to cry. I couldn't think about this, about what was happening. I ran up to my room and got their presents. The tennis shirt and tennis b.a.l.l.s for Daddy. The two little china angels with the candles for Mom. I raced back down the stairs.

Daddy had moved to the arm of the sofa and was holding Mom tightly around the shoulders. But Mom looked even weirder, as though she weren't there any more. She was still sitting straight and stiff, still holding onto that something invisible, but now her eyes were wide, blank, and staring.

I went to them then, put their presents in their laps, and turned away, crying.

"Sarah?" Daddy called to me, and reached out to me. "Come here."

I didn't want to, didn't want to be near what was happening. Yet I turned and went.

As I did, Mom suddenly lifted both hands, pressed them hard against her forehead. She looked at me once, her eyes huge, and for an instant, it was as if she were pleading with me.

"What?" I cried.

She took her hands away from her forehead then, held them out to me, still asking, but she didn't speak. Then she began rolling her head back and forth, harder and faster, and her eyes did something funny, twitched, and her mouth did, too. Then one hand flew up, and she gripped Daddy's arm hard, and her head fell back against the sofa.

I screamed. Somebody screamed. I put my hands over my ears, but the sound went on. I flew up the stairs to my room, slammed the door, and fell face down on my bed, burying my head in the pillow.

It was quiet then downstairs, quiet everywhere. The screaming had stopped. Quiet for a very long time. I don't know how long I was there, maybe a long time, nothing happening inside me. Then sounds came up from downstairs, soft sounds of people coming and going. After a whilea"how long?a"Daddy came in without even knocking, came right over to the bed, picked me up, and held me close. "Sarah, you know Mom's dead. You know."

I nodded.

"Do you want to come downstairs anda see her? I've called the funeral home. Someone will be here in a while."

"See her?" I cried. "She's dead, isn't she?"

Daddy didn't answer, but he pulled me closer, and we stood together, him holding me tightly, my ribs hurting from the pressure of his arms. The doorbell rang, and then rang again. I heard a voice, as someone went to answer it. "Who's downstairs?" I asked.

"The Arnolds. I called. They came right away."

"Why did she die?"

Daddy didn't answer.

"Why?" I really meant it, really didn't know. Mothers didn't die. Not mothers!

"I don't know, Sarah." Daddy was crying, too, but he sounded almost angry, and I knew I shouldn't be asking him things like this now. But I was lonely, and scared too. Scared because Mom had wanted something from me when she held out her hands to me. I didn't know what it was. I didn't give it to her. And that made me cry harder. What did she want?

"Come downstairs, please?" Daddy said.

I nodded, and he took my hand as though I were a little child, and together we went down the stairs. I didn't want to see Mom then, dead. I did not want to see her. Yet a part of me wanted to see her very much.

I went into the morning room with Daddy. The Arnolds were there, and Mom too. She was lying on the sofa covered up with a blanket up to her chin, just as if she were sleeping. She looked just the way she always does when she sleeps, too, quiet, but awfully still. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the Arnolds leave the room. There were so many tearsa"something in my throat tooa"so I felt like choking or throwing up. I whispered to her, "Mommy." I kneeled down beside the sofa, wanting to throw myself into her lap, into her arms, the way I had the night before. But instead, I just put a hand on her hair, and it was soft, and I realized I hadn't touched her hair in so long. Then I whispered something to her, something stupid. I whispered, "Good-bye."

I stood up then and turned to Daddy. "What did she want before when she looked at me like that? I don't know!"

"To live." Daddy was crying. "To see you grow up."

"But I couldn't give it to her, and she died!"

"It's not your fault. None of us could make her better. But she did want you to know something."

"What?" We were both crying so hard that I could barely see him, and I don't think he could see me, either. But he held something out to me.

It was a small package, wrapped in shiny silver Christmas paper and tied with red ribbon and a bow.

"What is it?"

"It's from Mom. She's been writing it for you. It's a letter. Maybe you'd even call it a book. Things she wanted you to know. She started it a long time ago. She wrote the last thing in it this morning."

I took it and tore it open. What did she say? What did she want? It was a book, one of those blank books you can buy, and she had written in it, filled it, almost, with her writing. I looked at the first page, but then flipped through quickly to the lasta"to the last thing she had wanted me to know.

IAM LYING ON MY BED, AND IT'S ALMOST DARK NOW. I AM IN the house alone, as I have been every afternoon for the past three months when I come home from schoola"alone except for Flicker and for Feisty, my cat, who's curled on the bed beside me. I am reading again the book from Mom and listening to my favorite record on my stereo. The book is getting worn out from my reading it so much, and I have memorized parts of it. Some make me happy, and some make me sad. There are pages where Mom jokes with me, and those parts make me saddest. I never knew I would miss her so much. It's funny, though, it's been a whole week since I've taken the book out, and I used to read it every day.

I'm doing something else now, and Mom would be surprised if she knew. I am keeping a notebook of my own. It's a thick spiral notebook that I bought with some of my Christmas money. In it, I write everything I do each day, and everything I think, sort of keeping track of things. When I learn something new, I write it downa"like I've learned to do the laundry, and I'm not a bad cook at all. I'm even reading some of the books Mom bought for me, some of those grown-up authors she wanted me to know. But the most important parts are the feelings. I'm doing that because of what Mom wrote to me those last two days she wrote in this book, the day of the gymnastics show, and Christmas Eve day.

I always used to turn to that part of the book first, so that now I have it memorized and hardly even have to look at it. On the day of the gymnastics show, she wrote this, and I can almost hear her saying it in that breathless way she had. "Sarah, today is the saddest day of your young life. The hardest and most important thing that anyone must do is to let go. When I am gone, you must let go of me. Not stop loving me. Not stop remembering me. But keep what I've given you. Keep what's important to you, and let go of the rest. And go on. You have Daddy to love and care for. And Grandma and Grandpa. And Robin, and even her mom. And the Arnolds. And so much. But most of all, you have yourself. Maybe, because of what is happening to you, you will always be lonely in some small corner of your heart and soul. Don't run from that. It will make you tender. And strong. Sarah, I love you so much, and that love will always be in your heart. So, I'm not completely gone, am I?"

That part used to make me really angry. "Yes, you're gone," I wanted to yell at her. "Being in my heart doesn't make me less lonely. I want to see you!" That's why I started writing, sort of as if I were writing to her, telling her how mad I am, and everything else I've been feeling. Funny, though, lately I don't feel I'm writing it for her so much. I almost feel as though I'm writing it for my own kids, although I don't know that I'll ever marry and have kids. But writing helps because it helps me understand things. Yesterday, Robin told me her mother has been sick again and hasn't gone out of the house for a week. I told Robin that it's all right. See, you don't get all better suddenly. It's a little better, and then a little worse, like that game of giant steps we used to playa"a big step forward, a little step back. So I know she'll get better again. Like me. Some days I cry all the time. Other days, hours go by and I don't even think of Mom. That made me feel guilty at first. But I'm getting used to it a little, and Daddy says he sometimes feels the same way too.

It's weird with Daddy now. We share so much more than we used to, and that made me feel guilty for a while too, as if I wasn't being loyal to Mom because she and I used to share all those things. But I guess it's all right, and I guess Mom wouldn't mind because she did tell me to love and care for Daddya The phone just rang, and it was Robin. She's coming over, and together we're going to make dinner for us and Daddy. We've done that a couple of times, and it's fun. She said she got a seed catalog, too, and she's bringing that over. We're planning to fix up the garden in the spring, so it will be pretty outside the morning room, just the way Mom planned it. At first I thought I was doing the garden for Mom, but now I'm not sure who I'm doing it for. Maybe for Daddy. Maybe for me.

I know one thing for sure, though. I know it because Mom wrote it, the last thing before she died. I know it because she's right. Of all the things that have been said since she died, it's the one thing that has helped. It was on the last page, and it's the only thing she dated. She put a time on it, too: 1:00, December 24. "Sarah," she wrote. "Don't let anybody tell you differently. What we're going through stinks. It just plain stinks."

I think anyone else who saw that would laugh. But I know what she means, and she's right. I know I'm getting better. I know Daddy's going to get better. I know I'm growing up and learning a lot of things. And spring is coming, and I know I'm going to plant a garden. But I know something else. Mom is dead. And it stinks.

About the Author.

PATRICIA HERMES IS THE AUTHOR OF ALMOST FIFTY BOOKS for readers from early middle grades through young adult, as well as two nonfiction books for adults. Her books have won many awards and recognitions: American Library a.s.sociation Best Book, Smithsonian Notable Book, C.S. Lewis Honor Book, Ira Children's Choice, as well as many state awards, four of them for the novel, You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye.

end.