You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye (12 page)

“That's wonderful! Robin must have been so happy.”

I nodded. “Yeah, and she was going to chin off the bar up there, and it's really dangerous, but she didn’t do it.”

“Because her mother was there?”

I shrugged. I wondered about that. Maybe. I only knew that Robin had been happier last night than I’ve ever known her to be.

Mom put one hand on my cheek. It felt hot against my face, and I looked at her quickly to see if she was feverish, but her face wasn’t flushed, and she was smiling at me. “Don’t be wild,” she said. “Dare a lot, but don’t be wild.”

I nodded.

“Promise?” She sounded much more serious than she looked.

“I promise,” I said, and Mom let out her breath as though she were relieved.

“Now, go get Daddy,” Mom said, “and let's get on with the business of Christmas. We need a good Christmas Eve breakfast, and he's the one to make it.”

I ran up the stairs to their room, knocking that time. It took him only a few minutes to get ready, and in no time at all he was in the kitchen starting to cook the sausages and French toast.

We have lots of traditions at Christmas, and one of them is what we eat for Christmas Eve breakfast. It always has to be sausages, no matter what else we have with them, because when I was little, I used to love sausages. Now I hate them, but on Christmas Eve I eat them. We have lots of other traditions too, things that we do just the way we did them when I was little—like the way we get our presents. We open them all—all but two—on Christmas morning, and they don’t even go under the
tree till then because when I was little, Santa didn’t bring them until after I was in bed. We get two presents on Christmas Eve as soon as it gets dark. That's because when I was little, Mom said I was too excited to wait for Christmas morning.

Now, while Daddy made breakfast, I set the table and Mom sat there talking to us. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept watching her, and I thought she looked a little better. Her color was better, and her eyes were bright and shining, like the pictures taken of me in front of the Christmas tree, the tree lights reflected in my eyes, when I was little. She was laughing a lot too, at the silly things that Daddy and I were saying. We were trying to remember every single present we had gotten for Christmas in the past thirteen years, ever since I was born. I wasn’t too good at remembering the years I was one and two years old, but I was better after that. Daddy was hopeless. He kept mentioning things that Mom had given him, and he’d describe them in detail, and then Mom would tell him that they were presents he had gotten from Grandma, not from her. Or else he’d describe something he thought I had given him when I was four, but it was really when I was nine. He kept getting everything all mixed up.

When we finally sat down to breakfast, we were all laughing—Mom, too, although she had a funny, faraway look in her eyes, as though she were remembering those other Christmases.

W
E ATE QUIETLY FOR A WHILE, I GUESS EACH OF US remembering. Then Mom looked at me and asked, in that sort of breathless way, “What was…your favorite… Christmas?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. They’ve all been so good.” I put down my fork, thinking. “Maybe the year I got Sleepyhead. Remember Sleepyhead?”

Mom smiled. “Of course.”

Daddy smiled, too. “How could we forget? You dragged her everywhere for two years.”

I laughed because I
had
done that. She was my favorite doll, a big, soft thing, like a stuffed animal. Her face was round and sweet, but her eyes didn’t open, and that's how she got her name—Sleepyhead. I have her still, although I don’t play with her any more. But she's up there in my room, on top of my bookcase.

“What made that your favorite Christmas?” Daddy asked. “Do you know?”

“Yup, because when I went to see Santa that year, for some reason, I was afraid of him. Remember, the doll came in two sizes, a big one and a little one? Well, because I was scared, I was
afraid to ask for the big one, so I just asked—I whispered, I remember it—for the little one. And then for weeks I prayed that Santa would know it was the big one I wanted.” I smiled at Mom and Daddy. “And of course Santa knew, and I got the big one. Santa always knew what I wanted in those days.”

“Does he still know?” Mom asked.

I laughed. “I guess so. I’ve never been disappointed.”

“What do you hope for this year?” Mom asked. “Even though it's too late to do anything about it.” She paused, panting again. “What do you hope for?”

I shrugged, unable to answer. I had been hoping for a stereo but I knew they cost a lot, and although I had hinted, I hadn’t asked outright. Usually I ask for what I want, but with Mom sick and in the hospital so much, I was afraid it was too expensive. But I didn’t much care what I got. Everything Mom and Daddy picked out for me was always good.

“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 Santa… has any… Christmas Eve specials… on kittens?”

Daddy looked worried. “Well, I don’t know…”

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 thought…you’d like…to 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 ones…we exchange…at 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 balls 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 while—how long?—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 and… 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 tears—something in my throat too—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.”