Diary Two: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky

by Ann M. Martin

  “That’s always your excuse. Why stick around if someone else can take care of Carol? I never see you taking her meals in bed. Or keeping her company when she’s lonely. Or rubbing her feet or reading to her when her eyes are tired. I’m the one who does those things. I’m the one who was shopping with her when she collapsed. Why? Because her own stepdaughter is never around.”

  Dawn laughed. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. I must be dreaming. Sunny Winslow lecturing me about taking care of a parent? Stop patting yourself on the back for a minute and think about visiting your own mother for a change.”

  “How can I? You’re there all the time!”

  “Oh, Sunny, that is so lame. That is beneath you. I visit your Mom because I love her. I have known her all my life. And I feel bad for her. Because I know that her own daughter feels so sorry for herself that she can’t ever visit.”

  “For your information, I do visit my Mom. More times than you’ll ever know.”

  “Wrong. I know about them all. I’ve sat and listened to you complain about every one.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like, Dawn. You, with the perfect family. The cute brother. The nice, uncomplicated Dadߞ”

  “Divorced Dad. You forget that little detail. Do you think that’s so easy? Dealing with a new person in the house who’s not my real Mom but who’s having my Dad’s baby?”

  “At least you have a Mom! Two of them! Isn’t that enough for you?”

  Dawn fell silent. She gave me a long pitying look. “I guess you want to take one for yourself, huh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Sunny,” Dawn said softly, “you have a Mom. Count your blessings.”

  Those last three words hit me like a hammer.

  My head was about ready to explode.

  Words were bursting up through me like lava. But they caught in my twisted throat.

  I was afraid I’d throw something. Hit something. Smash a window.

  I turned and ran.

  I didn’t stop until I was home.

  I didn’t even say good-bye to Carol.

  Friday 4/3

  10:54P.M.

  Rise and shine.

  Guess I fell asleep.

  Guess I’m playing hooky today.

  11:23

  On my way out, I found this note from Dad.

  Clueless.

  4:04 P.M.

  Venice Beach

  I am not Bo’s slave. I have a life of my own.

  Just because we know each other’s real names, I’m supposed to be attached to him forever?

  Okay, I canceled the date. I didn’t give him notice. So big deal. He should be glad I didn’t just stand him up. Why get so angry? It’s not the last Friday night in the world.

  I don’t want to see anyone tonight. Especially the guy who started the whole disaster.

  I want to sit in my room, watch TV, and paint my toenails.

  For the rest of my life.

  9:56 P.M.

  Two messages from Dawn on the answering machine. All she said was “Call me back.”

  Right.

  When pigs fly.

  Saturday 4/4

  1:45P.M.

  Ducky says: “How do you know what Dawn wants? Maybe you left forty dollars there, and she needs to return it to you.”

  I say, she can keep it.

  Dawn and I are over.

  I don’t know her.

  Sunday 4/5

  4:12P.M.

  The worst part of this is, I’m cut off from Carol.

  I can’t call her. I might get Dawn. And then I’d have to hang up.

  I might get Mrs. Bruen or Mr. Schafer or Jeff. And then I’d have to explain why I hate Dawn so much.

  Besides, Dawn has probably poisoned Carol’s mind. Twisted our argument to make me sound like a total witch.

  How will I know about the baby? Will she send me an announcement? Will I ever see the baby?

  Fat chance.

  Monday 4/6

  Soc stud

  Maggie asked me what’s wrong between Dawn and me. Amalia told me that Dawn has been dissing me in front of everyone.

  I laughed.

  I told them I didn’t care.

  I said if she wants to be friends, all it takes is an apology, a large diamond necklace, a new navel ring, and three years of personal servitude.

  7:05 P.M.

  Mom looks awful.

  She’s not eating at all.

  She says the weirdest things. One minute she’s talking about some dumb TV show she’s been watchingߞevery detailߞin this bored. Monotonous voice. The next she’s talking about all the family trips we’re going to take.

  And then, all of a sudden, she’s herself again. Like a window of health has opened up. She’s gentle and kind and interested. She remembers details.

  She asked about Dawn. Just like that. Out of the blue. “I sensed a little tension between you two,” she said.

  So I told her. Everything. From the burnt stew through the big argument.

  Mom listened carefully. She joked that Mrs. Bruen should have used a microwave for the stew.

  Finally she clasped my hand and said, “You’ll weather this one, Sunny. You always do. I have faith in you.”

  “You used to say that to me all the time,” I murmured.

  “That’s what mothers are for.”

  I hugged her. “It feels so good to talk to you again.”

  “Oh, I’m all talk. Visit me more often.”

  “I will, Mom,” I said. “I promise.”

  “Really?” Mom gave me a big smile. “Well, then, aren’t I lucky?”

  For a moment I forgot where I was. I didn’t notice the cancer and the hollow eyes and grayish skin. Mom’s smile was big and blinding like the rising sun. I felt all my twitches go away and I was back home, a little girl again, curled up on the sofa with Mom, sipping hot chocolate.

  “Mom?” I said.

  I love you. That’s what I was going to say.

  But Mom had a sudden twinge. She sank back into her pillow, eyes closed, teeth grinding.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Bedsores,” she said.

  I was crashing back to earth. Back to the hospital room and the pain and the IV tubes and the white sheets and the view of the parking lot.

  And I felt fifty times worse than I had before.

  That’s the danger in visiting Mom.

  You try not to let your hopes rise, but they always do. And the higher you go, the harder you fall.

  That’s what Dawn doesn’t see.

  She can’t have her heart broken at the sight of Mom’s body. She can’t look inside Mom’s eyes and see sorrows and triumphs and scoldings and kisses and late nights and lazy mornings and country walks and long drives and plays and pottery and softball games and sicknesses and years and years and years, all gone for good but somehow still there.

  I can see them. It’s like they’re crowded together in a room the size of Mom’s soul. And the door to the room is about to close.

  Dawn is so wrong.

  I do think about Mom. I think about her every day. Every minute. I think about what’s going to happen. And part of that thinking is preparing. Arming myself. Forming a shell.

  Because you have to. If you don’t, you fall apart.

  Count my blessings?

  It’s not so simple.

  Thursday 4/9

  5:07

  Haven’t written in awhile. Not much to write.

  Ducky’s doing great at the store.

  Alex postponed his interview and didn’t give Dad a reason. Ducky’s trying to get in touch with him.

  As for Dawn, I see her at our lockers at the beginning and end of the day. Sometimes we get drawn into conversations with Maggie and Amalia. Once or twice I’ve asked her how Carol is, and she usually says, “fine.”

  We don’t tear each other’s hair out. But we don’t say much.

  I like it that way.


  I think she does too.

  And that’s all the news.

  Life still bites. But it could be worse.

  I’m not sure how, but it could.

  P.s. I’m visiting Mom tonight.

  Her begonia died. The roots choked.

  So I bought her another.

  It’s small, but it’s in a big pot. So it’ll have room to grow.

  Over time.

  Mom will love it.

  Maggie: Diary Two

  California Diaries

  Ann M. Martin

  The author gratefully acknowledges

  Jeanne Betancourt

  for her help in

  preparing this manuscript.

  Contents

  Monday 7/13

  Tuesday 7/14

  Wednesday 7/15

  Thursday 7/16

  Saturday 7/18

  Sunday 7/19

  Monday 7/20

  Tuesday 7/21

  Wednesday 7/22

  Thursday 7/23

  Friday 7/24

  Saturday 7/25

  Sunday 7/26

  Monday 7/27

  Tuesday 7/28

  Wednesday 7/29

  Thursday 7/30

  Friday 7/31

  Saturday 8/1

  Sunday 8/2

  Monday 7/13

  2:30 P.M.

  Breakfast: Small bowl of cornflakes w/skim milk, black coffee (no sugar).

  Lunch: ½ tuna sandwich (NO mayo), diet soda, 1 apple (small).

  Goal: Don’t eat between meals.

  Weight: 103½ lbs.

  Goal: 90 lbs.

  STARTING TODAY I, Maggie Blume, vow to write down every bite that goes into my mouth.

  I have to face facts. I am one of those people who gain weight if they eat five peanuts. I’ll have to watch what I eat for the rest of my life. I might as well start now.

  Everyone tells me I don’t need to lose weight. Amalia says it. Ducky says it. Dawn says it. They say I have a great body. They are WRONG WRONG WRONG. They don’t see me when I’m in my underwear. They don’t see me when I’m on the scale. They think I’m thin, but I’m FAT. Thirteen pounds. That’s all I need to lose.

  I was really smart about lunch. I waited until two o’clock to eat. I’m noticing that when I eat slowly I enjoy my food more. The apple was so good. Clean and fresh. No fat.

  Someone brought a dozen donuts into the office kitchen this morning. I was nauseous just looking at them. Grease, fat, calories! Croissants are just as bad. They’re full of butter.

  This afternoon I have to make 35 copies of the script for the next film Dad’s producing. They finally settled on a title for it—Never.

  During my first week of work Dad asked me to read the script for Never. “Write up a summary of the plot and tell me what you think of it,” he said. “I value your opinion.”

  He doesn’t really care what I think about the script. He just wants me to feel like I’m part of his team.

  I read it.

  I think Never is a perfect name for this movie. As in, “Never go see it.” But I didn’t write that in my “review.” I told Dad what I knew he wanted to hear—“Exciting and suspenseful.” It would just have caused tension between us if I told him what I really think.

  It’s so weird. Hundreds of people are working and spending zillions of dollars on a movie that is basically dumb. Car chases and violence. All that money wasted.

  I know Dad isn’t always proud of the kinds of films he makes. But he is proud of being a big success.

  His movies make money.

  He likes his money and all the things it can buy.

  Including all the things that keep the Blume family going.

  Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite when I think about Dad like this. I live in the big fancy house. Swim in the pool. Wear the nice clothes (though they don’t look so nice on me). And have all kinds of advantages.

  But working for my father is NOT one of them. At work he is Mr. Phony. Mr. Schmooze. Mr. I’ll-kill-you-with-kindness-but-you-have-to-do-it-my-way.

  We see that side of Dad at home sometimes. But at Blume Productions it’s one hundred percent.

  Dad secretly wishes he were a writer/director instead of a producer. That’s probably why he suggested I use my free time in the office to try scriptwriting. I said I didn’t have any ideas for a script. He said, “Write what you know. Look around. Listen in on conversations. Then write a little scene. I wish I’d done that when I was your age. It’s a big advantage to start young. You’re lucky.”

  Dad thinks he’s doing me this big favor by giving me a job in his office when I’m only thirteen. He promised me that I’d be able to work in the music end of his new film. I was excited about working for Flanders Delmont. He’s a composer whose work I really admire. Dad said I would be in Flanders’ studio at least half the time. I’d meet other people in the music business. I’d see how Flanders composed and ran his business.

  It sounded great until Flanders Delmont decided to run his business out of his home office in Australia.

  So here I am, stuck in Schmoozeville with Dad and his new assistant, Duane Richards. Duane is quickly learning the fine art of schmoozing. Today it was, “Maggie, you look so-o-o very glamorous today.”

  What a liar.

  I look terrible today. Fat, dull, and so-o-o very boring.

  DARKNESS

  Sunlight Summer sun too bright for

  the sad day within

  Why do troubles haunt

  and taunt?

  Why do my inner darks cloud out obscure the light?

  Are the answers in the darkness?

  © Maggie Blume

  That is the first poem I’ve written in weeks. It used to make me feel better to express my feelings in poetry. But I don’t feel any better for writing that poem. Maybe I should try scriptwriting.

  NEVER… TELL THE TRUTH

  (Inspired by a conversation overheard between Producer and a scriptwriter)

  A large office in Hollywood. Producer sits behind a big desk. A writer sits in a small chair facing him.

  PRODUCER: We need another chase scene, Ralph. And put a school bus in the car chase scene. Our main character’s kid should be on that bus.

  WRITER: But Mr. Blume, our main character doesn’t have a kid.

  PRODUCER: Then we’ll give him one. I know you, Ralph. You can work it in. You’ve done a great job. Let the bus be central in the chase. It can go off one of those cliffs in the Hollywood Hills.

  WRITER: Do you want the kid injured or killed?

  PRODUCER: Both.

  WRITER: Both?

  PRODUCER: We think he’s dead, but he’s only injured—seriously injured. We don’t know if he’ll make it. Put in a hospital scene. (He gets up, a signal that it’s time for the writer to leave.) Why don’t you come by the house for a drink, say around seven? There’ll be some people there I’d love you to meet.

  WRITER: (smiling) Great. Love to.

  Dad is already looking for a new writer to rewrite the Never script. Everyone on the project knows it. But that night, when the writer came to the house, Dad and his business partners in the film acted like he was the hottest writer in Hollywood. I hate all that phoniness. Hate it.

  Dad is back from one of his wheeler-dealer lunches. I better hit the photocopy machine.

  4:05 P.M.

  Amalia called. There’s a Vanish rehearsal tonight. The band hasn’t practiced much this summer. We all have summer jobs with different work schedules. Talking to Amalia made me wish we had more time to hang out together. She’s such a neat person and a great band manager. Maybe we will hang out, now that Vanish is rehearsing again.

  Amalia and Justin are picking me up. I haven’t seen Justin in two weeks. I’m so nervous about seeing him again. I can’t figure out if he likes me or not. Sometimes we really seem to click. And ten minutes later I think I imagined it.

  Justin is going to try out for the band tonight. If he’s in the band he’ll be at e
very rehearsal. Then I know I’d see him at least once a week. That would be great. I think.

  Amalia told me that Justin has been practicing guitar for hours every day. That he’s doing it so he can be in the band. “He’s doing it because of YOU,” she said.

  “He said that?” I asked.

  “Not in so many words,” Amalia admitted. “But he did say how much he liked EVERYONE who played in the band. Trust me, he likes you.”

  I wish I could believe her. Justin is everything I would want in a boyfriend—thoughtful, interesting, smart, cute, fun. And he acts like he’s just Justin. No schmoozing. No phoniness.

  But Justin isn’t my boyfriend. I’m such a fool. Why would he like me?

  I called Mom to tell her about the rehearsal. I could tell she was disappointed I wasn’t going to be home for “a nice family dinner.” I don’t think of our family dinners as “nice.” Zeke usually talks about some adventure game he plays on the Internet, as if it’s real life. Dad complains about all the other sharks in the movie business or tells Zeke and me how we should live our lives. And we all try to pretend we’re not noticing how much Mom is drinking.

  My mother drinks too much.

  When she drinks too much she has a faraway look in her eyes, like she isn’t focusing on me or what I’m saying.

  It’s strange that I’m writing about this, because Mom has been much better lately.

  I just hope she isn’t reaching for a drink right now. And if she is, I hope it’s not because I won’t be home for dinner.

  Maybe I should go home instead of to rehearsal?

  That’s crazy.

  If I stopped seeing my friends so Mom wouldn’t drink, I could never go out. Besides, it wouldn’t stop her.

  11:13 P.M.

  Dinner: Tossed salad (NO dressing), diet Coke, 3 french fries.

  At six o’clock I went into Dad’s office and told him about the Vanish rehearsal. I could tell he was disappointed that Vanish hadn’t vanished.

  He asked me who was taking James’s place.

  I told him that another guy, Justin, was going to try out. I hope I didn’t blush when I said Justin’s name. The last thing I need from Dad is an interrogation about Justin.