You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye (5 page)

She was crying too, but she didn’t look at all as though she were fighting the tears, just letting them roll down her face. She took my face between her hands then and held it, looking hard at me. For some reason, her tears scared me.

“What's the matter?” I said.

“I’ve missed you,” she answered. “I’ve missed you so much. And it stinks…” She broke off as though she were choking.

“What stinks?”

But she shook her head and didn’t answer, she was crying so hard. Daddy had come around to her side of the car, and he reached in to help her out. I ducked and backed out, watching Daddy help Mom. She seemed to need his help too, and she leaned heavily on his arm. When she was standing up fully, I looked at her, surprised. She had lost so much weight that her clothes hung on her, loose, almost baggy. Her skin was funny, sort of brown, like she had a tan, but pale underneath, and there were dark rings under her eyes. But she turned to me and smiled, putting her free arm out to me. I went to her, and the three of us walked to the house together, Daddy on one side of Mom, me on the other.

Halfway up the walk, Mom stopped. “The house looks so good,” she said, and she smiled.

“What?” I asked.

“The house.”

I looked up myself, but shrugged. It was the same house. I guess because she hadn’t seen it in so long, maybe it appeared better.

Inside the front hall, Daddy asked, “Do you want to lie down?”

“No.” Mom shook her head and turned to me. “Let's sit together. We have so much to talk about, to catch up on. What smells so good?”

“Brownies. I made them for you. I set the table too. In the morning room. Come here.” I took Mom's arm and pulled her gently into the morning room. With the sun shining through the window, everything was beautiful. Perfect. The china was shiny, and I remembered those silly ads on TV where the ladies look at themselves in their plates, and how Mom always laughs at that.

“Flowers!” Mom said. “Oh, Sarah, did you do this?”

I nodded, pleased. “Here!” I said, and I pulled out a chair for her. “Sit down. You too, Daddy. Do you want coffee?”

Mom seemed hesitant. “Yes, I would but … have you learned how to make it?”

I made a face at her. “Nah, but I can learn. It's easy, right? I’ll be right back.”

“Want help, Sarah?” Daddy called when I was halfway to the kitchen.

“Nope, I can do it myself.” And then I added, “It's a breeze.”

I heard Mom giggle, and for the first time since the car pulled in the driveway, I smiled and felt okay. That sounded like Mom.

It was harder than I thought to make coffee, and when it was finally ready and I poured it, it didn’t look the way coffee is supposed to. Mom's coffee is usually dark brown, and this was sort of tan, but I guessed it would be all right. Anyway, I put it on the tray with the brownies and took everything to the morning room. Mom was sitting back in her chair, turned partway so she could see the garden. Daddy had moved his chair close and was holding her hand. Mom had a sort of quiet look on her face, but Daddy looked weird—tight and strange—and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Then Mom turned to me and grinned. “The kid—the cook,” she said.

“Wait’ll you taste the coffee this kid made,” I said, grinning back. I held up the glass pot for her, and the sun shining through it made it seem even paler than it was.

Mom winced, and then she laughed. “Let's try it.”

I poured their coffee, and we all sat around the little table. Mom had taken a flower out of the bowl in the middle and was gently twisting it around in her fingers, but her hand was trembling. I cut a brownie for her and then one for Daddy and one for me.

“For Mom,” I said, holding up the cake as though I were making a toast. “Welcome home!”

Mom held up her brownie too, and so did Daddy.

We all took bites together, but I saw Mom's mouth get all twisted suddenly, and she put a hand over it, as though she were
forcing down the brownie. Her eyes filled with tears, and she put down her cake and reached out to me. She took both my hands in hers, even though I still held my brownie.

“Sarah,” she said, crying, “there's just no easy way to tell you this. It's so damn unfair. It's melanoma, a terrible kind of cancer, too advanced to do anything. It's spread to my kidneys—everywhere. They say I’m not going to get better…” She broke off.

She was squashing my brownie into my hand. I pulled away.

“I’m not going to get better…”

The words ran around in my head, not making any sense.

“What do you mean, ‘not better’? Everybody gets better!”

“No, Sarah. Sometimes people die.”

“No!
You’re not going to die!” Somebody was screaming, and Mom put her arms around me.

I pulled away from her and looked at Daddy. He would tell me she was lying. But he was crying too, and he was nodding.

“No, you liar!” Somewhere in the back of my head an alarm was going off, ringing, ringing. I put my hands over my ears, but it wouldn’t stop. Then, Daddy was reaching to answer the telephone. Mom had picked up the flower, the flower I had picked for her. She was rolling it between the palms of her hands, back and forth, back and forth. And some of the petals were falling on the tablecloth.

I
DON’T REMEMBER MUCH OF THE REST OF THAT DAY, EXCEPT that I felt hateful. Mom went to her office and closed herself in, and I went to my room and slammed the door as hard as I could. I know I was crying, and I was angry too, but why I was angry, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because I wondered why Mom was doing this to me. Why was she sick? And what did she mean she wasn’t going to get better? That wasn’t fair! Besides, she couldn’t know that for sure. People got better all the time. I cried for a long time, and after a while Daddy came to my room and asked if I couldn’t stop. He said I was making it harder for Mom. Hard for
her?
What about me? But I didn’t say that out loud, and after Daddy went, I got a sweater and left the house and ran down to the corner. It was almost three o’clock, and I would wait for Robin.

I stood there a long time, waiting and thinking, and soon kids began coming home from school. Jeff Cooper and a bunch of his friends came by, and Jeff began teasing me about playing hooky. I turned my back, trying to ignore him, but I thought about what it would be like to tell the truth, to turn around and say, “Stuff it. I wasn’t playing hooky. I was home because my mom came home from the hospital. Because she's going to die.”
I wondered what he would say to that. But I didn’t say anything at all, and the boys left. After a while, everyone was gone, but still no Robin. Then I remembered. Gymnastics practice! How could I be so dumb? I ran all the way to school and into the gym.

Robin saw me before I saw her, and she waved to me from the top of the ropes. I sat down on the crash mat and began pulling off my sneakers, getting ready to climb up, but in a second, she had slid down and was sitting beside me. “What happened? You sick today?” she asked. “How come you’re here now?”

“I wasn’t sick,” I answered. “Mom came home from the hospital today, and my dad let me stay home to see her.”

“Wow, that's great! How is she?”

“Sick.”

“What do you mean, sick? She's not better?”

I shook my head. “She says she's not.”

“What's the matter with her?” Robin was frowning at me. “What's wrong?”

“She has cancer, some weird kind of cancer. Her kidneys.”

“Oh, God!” Robin whispered, and her eyes got wide.

I swallowed hard, then blurted it out, even though I had just promised myself that I’d never, never tell anyone. “She says she's going to die. People don’t die from that—not all the time, do they?”

Robin shook her head no, but still had that awful look on her face.

“She can’t die!” I said, and for the first time since that morning, since Mom told me, it began to seem maybe real. I
just looked at Robin, tears forming in my eyes, and she looked back. And then we both turned away from each other.

“Maybe they’re wrong,” Robin said after a while. “Doctors make mistakes, you know. And nobody can say for sure that somebody else is going to die.”

I nodded miserably, but forced myself to answer. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Then I blurted out something I hadn’t meant to say, something I didn’t even know I was thinking. “But she's so—I mean, she's my
mother.
Mothers don’t die…”

“They made a mistake,” Robin said, and now she was beginning to sound more sure of herself. She shook her head vigorously back and forth. “Some people die, but not your mom. She's really healthy. She’ll make herself get better. Not everybody dies from cancer. Lots of people live and get better. Remember Kim in fourth grade? She had bone cancer, and they moved to be nearer the hospital so she could have her treatments. And she got all better.”

“But this is some weird kind of cancer, Mom said, something that starts with an
m
, but I can’t remember what she called it.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Robin sounded sure of herself. “She's going to get better.”

I knew she was trying to reassure me, and I wanted to believe her. “You really think so?”

“Really.” She nodded.

I didn’t know how she could be so sure, but it did make me feel better. “Okay,” I said. “Let's climb the ropes. But Robin…”

She looked at me.

“Robin, don’t tell anybody, okay? I don’t want anybody to know.”

She nodded, and we both climbed the ropes then and worked on our routine. The gymnastics show was still many weeks away, but we had a lot of work to do. Robin hadn’t said anything in a while about chinning off that bar that Mr. Anderson had warned us away from, and I didn’t mention it, either, just hoping she had forgotten all about it.

When practice was over, we walked home slowly. Now that daylight saving time was over, it was almost dark, and the darkness so early made me feel sad. “Robin?” I said. “Think you could come home with me? Maybe we could have dinner together. You could call your mom and ask?”

“Would your mom want me there—you know, being sick and all?”

“I don’t think she’d mind,” I answered, even though I wasn’t sure of that. I was sure, though, that I didn’t want to go home alone, and having Robin there would make it better. “Come on, you can call from my house.”

Robin nodded and we walked the rest of the way home in silence. The porch lights were on when we got there, and lights were on in Mom's office too. I wondered what she was working on, what she was thinking about. But once inside, I could hear the stereo and smell coffee. It was the first time in weeks that things seemed normal. “Mom?” I called. “I’m home.”

“In here!” The answer came from her office, and I went over and opened the door.

“Hi, Mom! I brought Robin with me, okay?”

Mom was at her desk, and she looked up and smiled at us. “Hello, Robin. It's good to see you again.” She sounded happy, and she was smiling, just the way she used to, but I couldn’t help noticing how tired she appeared and how the dark spots under her eyes seemed even darker in the light from the desk lamp.

“Hi, Mrs. Morrow,” Robin said. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” Mom agreed. “Hospitals stink.” She turned to me then. “I was getting worried about you. Where did you go?”

“To school. Gymnastics practice. Sorry I forgot to tell you.” What I didn’t tell her was that I was mad and hadn’t wanted to tell her where I was going—that she could do the worrying for once. What I said out loud was, “Can Robin stay for dinner?”

Mom nodded immediately, as though she didn’t even need to think about it. “I don’t know what we’re having, but as soon as Daddy and I decide, we’ll get it started. Robin better call her mom, though.”

We both nodded, and we went into the kitchen, closing the door to Mom's office behind us. In the kitchen, Robin said, “She doesn’t look bad. Just tired.”

I nodded. “And she's working.”

“She’ll be okay,” Robin said. She picked up the phone and dialed her number while I stood and waited. I listened when she got her mom on the phone, but then I noticed that she had turned her back to me and was talking very quietly. I wondered if her mom was mad that she hadn’t come home right away, and since I could see that she wanted some privacy, I walked away a little.

After a minute, I heard her hang up, and I turned around. “You allowed?” I asked.

Robin nodded, but she didn’t say anything.

“Was she mad?” I continued.

“Nope. She just gets weird sometimes. Sad.”

“Why sad?”

Robin shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t think she does, either. My father says she's depressed.”

“Depressed?”

“Yeah. Sad. It's a disease—at least, that's what my father says. She takes medicine, but it doesn’t always help.”

“Sadness is a disease?”

Robin nodded. “I know it sounds weird, but that's what he said. But if she keeps taking her medicine, she’ll get better. And she goes to a doctor, so it will help.”

“I hope so.” I felt uncomfortable. “Robin,” I said, “I didn’t know…”

“I know. I don’t usually tell anybody. But…” She shrugged, but she didn’t continue. Still, I thought I knew what she meant. Maybe she meant that now that I had told her about my mom, she could tell me about hers.