Dad hasn’t suggested that we go on our annual Mother’s Day bike ride and picnic at Lake Needwood, and neither have I. We used to decorate our three bicycles with ribbons on that day, but this year, our three bicycles stay parked in our garage, completely undecorated.
Later in the day, after neither of us has even mentioned Mother’s Day, I ask him, “Dad, how come you and Mom never talked about the baby?”
He looks up and smiles.
“The baby. How did you find out about the baby?”
“I have my ways.”
He seems a little nervous but keeps smiling.
“Baby Zachary. Well, it was really sad, a sad thing to go through, and we didn’t want to be stuck in the sadness. I suppose we thought that if we kept busy with the rest of our lives, you know — teaching and music, and especially with our Corinna, that we’d be okay. And we were. But there’s still a sadness. I’m not sure that ever totally goes away.”
“Like with Mom, that sadness will always be there. She’ll always be missing.”
“Yeah. And . . . well . . . thank goodness we have each other. And we have Maki and lots of other people who love us and care about us.”
Lying in bed at the end of what feels like the longest Mother’s Day ever, I say to myself over and over, “A year ago today, she was alive.”
Clothes
Mrs. Simmons seems to have stopped coming by, but she’s often outside her house trying to start a conversation with me when I’m walking Maki. She hasn’t brought up Mom’s clothes again, which is lucky for her because I would really blow up at her if she did.
When Dad and I finally get around to sorting Mom’s clothes, we agree to do just a little bit, to see how it feels. We make a pile to keep, a pile to give away to charity, a pile for particular people we know, and a throwaway pile.
When we come across something I’d cut up for my quilt, Dad doesn’t even notice. His mind is somewhere else. I move the cut things to the throwaway pile — they’re no use to anyone — but whoa, does it feel bad and kind of nauseating to throw them away. I put them in a separate garbage bag and move it to my closet.
We wait a week to make sure neither of us changes our minds before Dad calls the Salvation Army and women’s shelter to schedule a pickup.
I don’t have any bad dreams about the clothes that night, so I decide to carry the trash bag of cut-up clothes out of my closet and into the garage. I stand in front of the stinky gray trash can, pausing for a moment before I put the bag inside. Okay, today’s the day. Good-bye, clothes.
I hold my breath, turn, and walk away. I wonder if anyone else in my group did that or if I’m weird. That would have been a good question to ask.
The garbage truck is making its usual loud, crushing noises down the street, reminding me that the clothing bag is going to be taken away and mashed together with garbage juices. It’s not a pretty image, and I need to do something quick to distract myself from that horrifying, smelly thought. I decide to spend some time looking through my baby book.
Inside the book, I see Mom’s writing and the cute things she wrote down. There are funny pictures of me pretending to read the newspaper, of me with underwear on my head, and one of me chomping on a bagel practically as big as my head. She also saved hair from my first haircut and pressed my tiny footprints onto the page. My favorite part is where she wrote down things I said when I was learning to talk. Apparently, I loved macaroni (still do) and had a few names for that: happironi and wacanoni. Maybe I should name my future dogs Happironi and Wacanoni. Then there were my bossy demands: “Do self.” “Need it hug.” “Need it kiss.” I do need a hug and a kiss, but I’m tired of doing things “by self” or almost “by self.”
Another of my favorites happened when we were eating chicken. (We sure have eaten a lot of chicken in my life!) Mom wrote down a whole conversation:
“Do chickens have feelings?”
“No, the chicken is dead.”
“But how do they get the feelings out? What do feelings look like?”
Not bad questions for a two-year-old. Or even a fourteen-year-old. I wish Mom had written down her answers to those questions. What does happen to the dead chicken’s feelings? I guess they just stop.
A few hours later, Joci calls to tell me she’s upset about the grade she got on her To Kill a Mockingbird essay. She starts saying she feels like she’s a terrible writer and she doesn’t know how she is ever going to do the writing in high school. Her older sister has been scaring her about the much harder workload.
“That’s so mean of your sister. You’ll be fine. I know you can do it. If you need help, my dad can help you. He’s good at that stuff.”
Dad, the teacher, is still playing that Beatles song “Julia” all the time. And when I go up to get ready for bed, sure enough, it’s playing. Maki is asleep on my bed. I pick up my pajamas off the floor and see something that doesn’t belong there. I don’t know if I should scream at Maki or laugh, but on closer inspection, I call out, “Daaaad!”
It’s a Tootsie Roll poop. Not a Maki poop, but the good old Tootsie Roll trick.
Maki opens his eyes and looks guilty. I hear Dad on the stairs, laughing. The next thing he does shocks me. He actually asks me if I want to go clothes shopping together.
“Oh, yeah,” I cheer, imitating the way my coach says, “Oh, yeah,” when someone on our team scores.
Ghosts
Ever since I can remember, I’ve held my breath when we drive past a graveyard. Some kid told me a long time ago that you’re supposed to do that. Why? To prevent death? To protect yourself from ghosts? I don’t even believe in ghosts.
Olivia and I are walking to the library after school because we were assigned to be partners for our research project on the Korean War. She’s wearing her stylish capris and layered T-shirts, along with her brand-new Reef flip-flops. They match perfectly, of course. I’m wearing a soccer T-shirt and pants that look more like capris because I’ve grown a few inches, but my navy Reefs just happen to match the blue shirt. I hate how I think more about clothes when I’m around her. We’re walking right past the graveyard on Walnut Avenue. Out of habit, I start holding my breath.
“My uncle told me that the dead get really active when there’s a full moon,” Olivia announces. “He said that if they’re still angry at someone from when they were alive, they seek revenge during the full moon, so you have to try not to do or say anything to make them even madder or they’ll come back to get you.”
I interrupt my breath-holding to get her to stop her stupid ghost stories.
“Yeah, right,” I say, with as much sarcasm as I can.
“We can prove we aren’t scared of them by taking this path. Otherwise, they might come back more often.”
“No, Olivia. I don’t want to. I’m staying on the sidewalk.”
“We have to show we aren’t afraid, Corinna.”
I see something white on the ground and think how terrible it is that people would litter in a cemetery, but when we get close enough, I can see that it’s a pair of white gloves. I have to admit, it creeps me out.
Olivia’s nose scrunches up as she inspects the gloves.
“See what I mean. Look at these, Corinna. Last night was the full moon, and one of the ghosts must have been trying to get even with someone. She left her gloves behind as a warning.”
“Olivia, cut it out.”
“I’m serious. My uncle said it’s true. He totally believes in ghosts, and he knows everything about that stuff because he works for the CIA.”
I start holding my breath again and walking faster, but then I realize there’s no way I can hold my breath all the way to the end of the sidewalk. Even the shorter path through the graves is too far for one breath. Plus, Olivia’s not holding hers, and she’s the one who believes in ghosts.
“This is stupid. There are so many stupid rumors and stories about ghosts and curses and death. And if you’re trying to scare me about my mom, she’s not even here, for your in
formation.”
“Where is she?”
“Not here.”
“She’s not buried yet?”
“She was cremated, and we have her ashes at our house.”
“That’s gross!”
“No, it’s not. It doesn’t smell or anything.”
“Well, if I were her, I’d be mad you hadn’t buried me, and you know what happens when the dead are angry.”
“Well, if she’s a ghost, then she’ll be a good ghost.”
I stay silent the rest of the way to the library, tuning out Olivia. I am so mad at her and can’t believe how insensitive she’s being with her “spooky” ghost stories.
I try to block out everything she said and start thinking about Mom’s random dinner creations and the way she folded my socks in a ball and all the fun projects we did together and . . . how I will never, ever forget her. And even though her brain doesn’t work anymore, I know in my heart that she won’t forget me, either.
Something about surviving Olivia and the graveyard makes me feel ready to show Dad the quilt. After I finish my homework, I come downstairs with the quilt all rolled up in a ball in my hands.
“Dad, I have something to show you.”
“Yeah, sure . . . Just a sec.”
Dad finishes writing on the paper he’s correcting and turns around in his swivel desk chair.
“What’s that?” His chair squeaks as he leans back.
I hold it out for him to see.
“I’ve been working on this for a long time at school. Do you recognize anything?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Is that . . . Mom’s nightgown?”
“Yeah.” I smile, and then ask, “What else?”
“Well, that must be the bathrobe she wore all the time, right?”
“Yup.” I nod.
“All those pieces are from Mom’s clothes?”
“Yeah.” I pass it to him. “It’s a memory quilt.”
“Wow.”
He shakes his head and his eyes tear up. That makes me tear up. We both have a “need it hug” moment, like I did as a toddler. I had been a little worried he would be mad that I cut up some of her things, so it’s a relief when he doesn’t seem to mind at all and gives me a great big hug.
“Mom would have loved it. Great idea. I see you chose not to use that brown-and-green dress of hers you used to tease her about!”
“Yeah, I hated that dress, didn’t you?”
We both start laughing.
“Hey, guess what the history department head asked me to do?”
“I have no idea, Dad. What?”
“He asked me to start a Model UN chapter at the high school.”
I guess that’s really exciting for a history teacher. It’s nice to see him happy about work. I’ve been so worried about him.
Words and Letters
I’m riding with Nicole to her house on the incredibly loud and wild yellow bus and I can’t imagine how she’s been surviving it, especially during the whole “Shamu” phase.
When we get to Nicole’s house, her babysitter, Rosa, is there with her little brother, Luke, who is apparently obsessed with fire trucks. He’s really cute and tries to get us to play with him. Nicole tells him to go fight some more big fires with Rosa in the basement.
As we munch on carrots and ranch dressing at her kitchen table, Nicole explains that Rosa lives with them because their parents travel so much for work. Luke runs back in, shouting, “My bottom is stuck together!”
“Luke!”
“Look,” he says, turning around so we can get a better look.
“Luke, that’s called a wedgie. Can you say wedgie?”
I laugh so hard I almost wet my pants. Rosa doesn’t seem to get the humor in that. She tells Luke to sit down for snack time and starts asking about my family. I have to make that hard decision about how much to explain.
“Well,” I say, “it’s just me and my dad. My mom died last summer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
She looks like she regrets asking. So does Nicole. I’ll bet Nicole wishes she had explained that to her before my visit.
“Thanks,” I reply.
I wonder if that whole thing with people asking about my parents will ever get easier.
Nicole and I head up to her room and make necklaces with beads. Her seed-bead collection is much bigger than mine, and she keeps it neatly organized in an elaborate red-and-gold box.
“I’m making mine for my cousin. What about you?” Nicole asks me.
I have to stop and think. When I was younger, I would have made it for my mom. Now, I might give it to Aunt Jennifer.
Dad’s not home when Rosa drops me off, so I take the opportunity to go read another page of Mom’s journal. It’s the last page before a hundred blank ones.
Maybe someday I’ll get better at this journal thing. My music comes so much more easily. Music is my outlet. Music IS my journal.
The end. I flip through, hoping to find more. Nothing was written in the last seven years of her life, not even after she got diagnosed with cancer. Nothing. Nothing more about me, either. How could it end here? Didn’t she have lots of feelings to express during all of that?
Maki starts barking. It must be Dad coming home. Instead of Dad, though, it’s the mailman. I rescue our mail from Maki’s teeth as it comes through the slot. We still get the dreaded Sophie Burdette mail. I notice an interesting envelope with an Allentown, Pennsylvania, return address, and since Dad’s not here, I go ahead and open it.
Dear Sophie,
I got your address from the Allentown High School reunion committee. I hope you’re coming to our 25th reunion on June 20th. It would be great to see you.
Cheers,
Hugh
I don’t think there are many Hughs in the world, so I’m figuring he just might be the Hugh who gave her the necklace. Obviously, Mom won’t be making it to the reunion to slap hands or exchange kisses with Hugh. I wonder if they’ll even know she died. That reminds me: I wonder if Deborah has received any of those letters she said she was going to ask Mom’s friends for. I dial her number.
“Hi, Deborah, this is Corinna. I was wondering if you ever got those letters from my mom’s college friends.”
“I was just getting ready to call you. I got the last one yesterday.”
“Really? So you have some?”
“Really. Shall I bring them over tonight?”
“Yeah . . . I guess that would be good.” I’m trying to sound calm and nonchalant, but my voice is a little shaky.
“What time?”
“How about seven?”
At 7:10 P.M., Deborah rings the bell. I’m excited to be getting some blasts from my mom’s past. At least I hope they’ll be good blasts and not more bombshells.
“Hi, Deborah,” I say cheerfully as my hands go to my pockets.
“Hi, Corinna. Here are the letters.”
“Have you read them?” I quickly ask.
“I was tempted, but they’re really for you, so no, I haven’t.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to receive them.
“Do you want me to stay while you read them?”
“That’s okay, but my dad’s in the kitchen . . . if you want to see him.”
I head up to my room with Maki, prop up my pillows, and spread the five envelopes around me, trying to decide which to open first. It’s a bit like opening up a picnic lunch packed by someone else and you have no idea if you’re going to like what’s in each of the little packages.
I open the first envelope, from Sue.
Dear Corinna,
My most memorable story about your mom happened on a beautiful spring day during our sophomore year in college. We were taking a study break to get freshly made cherry pie from the well-known bakery in the next town. We borrowed a car from an older student so we could get there and back before our next class.
We learned an important lesson in life that day: Eating hot pie (or anything hot) is dangerous whil
e you’re driving a car. I spilled the delicious, gooey, steamy pie filling on my lap, and it burned me, which distracted me at a critical moment. The car slammed into a stone fence and my teeth slammed into the steering wheel. Your mom also hit her head, but she kept her teeth. Needless to say, we didn’t make it to class. We had to go by ambulance to the hospital, but luckily, we weren’t too seriously hurt. Now, whenever I even smell cherry pie, I think of her. I think of her lots of other times, too. She was a dear, dear friend, and I shall miss her.
Love,
Sue Farley
I open Patty’s story next. Her envelope has flower stickers on the back that smell like roses.
My Dear Corinna,
Your mom was the most thoughtful person I knew in college. She was always helping others in their moments of need. She patiently helped me study for tests and helped me to stay calm when I was sure I was going to fail. She helped me with roommate problems freshman year, and then we became roommates for our final two years. I got appendicitis during senior fall, and she stayed all night with me at the hospital and into the next day. Ever since I first met her, I have been thankful to have her as a friend.
Sincerely,
Patty Steinitz
I’m expecting there to be a musical memory, and Michelle’s letter covers that part of my mom’s life, complete with a few music notes drawn under her signature.
Dear Corinna,
Sue asked me to write out a memory about your wonderful mom, Sophie. When she heard that the local animal shelter was going to have to shut down for lack of funds, your mom organized a huge fund-raiser. She got all the different musical groups on campus to perform on a Saturday night. Chamber music ensembles, jazz bands, the gospel singers, a cappella groups, drum groups, and a flute choir. She went around town putting up posters and getting the radio station to advertise, and they made thousands of dollars in ticket sales. We were so proud of her. She was passionate about animals and passionate about music. I am truly saddened that she died so young.
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