Diary Three

by Ann M. Martin

  Maggie, Ducky, and Amalia are going to the funeral too. I will be in my cocoon again.

  This afternoon I asked Dad if I can sit with my friends during the service.

  “Well,” he said, “family members are supposed to sit together in the first two pews.”

  My face must have shown my dismay. (Dismay? It was more like shock, horror.)

  “How about if we let Dawn sit with you?” he said. “If she doesn’t mind not sitting with her family.”

  So I talked to Dawn and Carol about that.

  “It’s up to you, honey,” Carol said to Dawn. “We’d like for you to sit with us, but we’ll understand if you want to sit with Sunny.”

  Dawn looked pained. I stopped just short of saying to her, “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE sit with me. I need you. You’re like my sister. You HAVE to sit with me.”

  Maybe my face showed what I was thinking, though, because finally Dawn said, “Of course I’ll sit with you, Sunny. I’ll do anything you want.” But she sounded uncertain.

  Carol spoke up then. “How many funerals have you girls been to?” she asked.

  Dawn and I looked at each other. “One,” said Dawn.

  “One,” I said. “My great-aunt’s. Two years ago.”

  Carol nodded. “Funerals are difficult no matter what, but when you haven’t been to many…”

  I guess that’s why Dawn looked pained. It isn’t just that tomorrow is Mom’s funeral. It’s the whole idea of a funeral.

  “Dawn, if you want to sit with your family that’s okay,” I said. (Inside I was cringing.)

  “No, no. I’ll sit with you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and let out this tremendous breath.

  Carol looked at both of us for a very long time. “Nobody should have to go through what you’re going through,” she said softly, and tears came to her eyes. She stood up. “All right. I better go now. Dawn, are you going to come home tomorrow morning? Or do you want to go straight to the service with the Winslows?”

  “I’ll come home first,” said Dawn. “I need to change.”

  “Okay. See you in the morning, honey.” Carol kissed Dawn on the top of her head. Then she kissed me.

  And you know what? Even though Carol kissed me too, when I saw her lean down to kiss Dawn I felt this huge knot of jealousy form in me. If Carol had died, and Mom were sitting here with us instead, she would have kissed me first.

  But Mom is gone.

  Monday 3/22

  12:49 A.M.

  Well, technically it is now the day of Mom’s funeral. I know I should be sleeping. I have tried to sleep. But I just can’t do it. I was so hopeful after my good sleep last night.

  Dawn and I have been talking. Talking and talking and talking. Mostly about Mom. Of all my friends, Dawn knew her the best.

  Knew her.

  Now I have to write “knew” when I write about Mom.

  12:56 A.M.

  Had to stop for a few minutes.

  Tears.

  I don’t think I’ll ever go back and read this journal. I’m thinking of that summer (when? two years ago?) when I spent a week rereading all of my journals. Every single one of them. In order. Starting with the very first one—second grade at Vista. If I ever do that again, I know that I will have to skip this one. It is actually tearstained. I can’t believe I wanted to chronicle the end of Mom’s life.

  Six nights ago when Dawn started to talk about Mom I stopped her. Tonight, after Carol left and after Dad and Aunt Morgan went to bed, we only talked about Mom. I started it.

  “Remember Mom and the pennies, Dawn?” I said. “The story you started to tell last week?”

  Dawn smiled. “Yeah… Is it all right to talk about it now?”

  I nodded. “I don’t think I can talk about anything but Mom. You know why?” (Dawn shook her head.) “I know it’s ridiculous, but she’s only been gone for two days and already I’m afraid I’ll forget her.”

  “Oh, Sunny, you’ll never forget her.”

  “What if I do?”

  “Look around you. There are reminders of her everywhere.” Dawn pointed to the photos of Mom, and to a vase Mom had made and the little rug she had woven. “And this is just in your room. Think of what’s downstairs. Not to mention what’s in photo albums and scrapbooks.”

  “I can’t explain it,” I replied. “I’m still afraid. That’s why I want to talk about her.”

  And that’s why I feel like writing about her now. I want to get everything down in this journal, even though I’ll probably never read it again.

  Here is the story about the pennies:

  One summer day—it was very hot, I remember—when Dawn and I were about eight, we were bored to tears. And I think we were driving our mothers crazy. So Mom said she would take us downtown for awhile. Dawn and I were thrilled at the prospect of an adventure. Also, we thought Mom was going to buy us ice cream. So we piled into the car with our pockets full of spending money in case we also went to the toy store. To our surprise, though, after Mom had found a parking space and we started down Henry Street, Mom walked us right by both the ice cream shop and the toy store.

  “Where are we going?” I asked her. Then I noticed that Mom had pulled a bag of pennies out of her purse. “What are those for?”

  “Can you guess?” said Mom.

  “A wishing well?” Dawn suggested.

  Mom shook her head. “Nope.”

  “To throw in a fountain?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “A gumball machine?” I said hopefully.

  Mom smiled. But she said “nope” again.

  Dawn and I looked at each other. We shrugged.

  Then Mom opened the bag and took out a penny. Carefully she placed it heads-up on the sidewalk.

  I was clueless. “What?” I said to Mom. “I don’t get it.”

  “What does a heads-up penny mean?” asked Mom.

  “Good luck,” Dawn replied.

  “That’s right. And you can make a wish on a heads-up penny.”

  “But why are you leaving it there on the sidewalk?” I asked.

  “So someone can find it.”

  At last I got the idea. “Oh!” I cried. “We’re going to leave wishes for people. We can leave them all over town.”

  “Can we stay and watch what happens when people find the pennies?” asked Dawn.

  “Sure,” said Mom.

  She held out the bag to Dawn and me. Each of us reached into it and withdrew a handful of pennies. Then we continued along Henry Street, setting down pennies as we went. We tried to leave them in places where we were pretty sure people would find them, but not right out in the open, because we thought they would be more fun to find if they were just a teensy bit hidden.

  “Now let’s get ice cream,” said Mom.

  She bought cones for us and we ate them on a bench outside of Krause’s. From where we were sitting we could see four of our pennies.

  The first two people who found them just spotted them, leaned down, picked them up, and put them in their pockets.

  The third was noticed by a little girl. She was about five, just enough younger than Dawn and me so that she seemed like a really little kid. I nudged Dawn and Mom. “Look,” I whispered loudly.

  The girl picked up the penny and tugged at her father’s arm. “Daddy!” she cried. “I found a penny! And it’s a good-luck penny.”

  “Make a wish on it,” her father said.

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a few seconds. When she opened them she said, “Okay!”

  “What did you wish for?” her father asked.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she replied. “You know I can’t tell you that. Then it won’t come true. But it was a really good wish.”

  Dawn and Mom and I looked at one another and grinned. We were about to leave when we saw an old man and an old woman walking arm in arm toward Krause’s. The woman was humming very loudly while the man spoke patiently to her.

  “You’re going to see Marilyn and t
he kids tonight, remember, dear?” he was saying, and for some reason I had the feeling he’d said it to her many times already that day.

  “Marilyn?” the woman said vaguely.

  “She’s our daughter,” the man went on, as patiently as ever. “Our older daughter. And her kids are Jamie and Ben.”

  “Now…have I ever met Jamie and Ben?” the woman said. And that was when she spied the last penny. “Oh! Oh! A penny!” she cried.

  “Why, that’s the third penny you’ve found today,” said the man.

  “Three pennies,” the woman said, and she looked so happy. “Three cents. This was a three-cent walk!”

  The man and the woman went into Krause’s then, and I looked at Mom. “Is something wrong with that woman?” I asked her.

  “I think she’s just getting old,” Mom replied. “Some people lose their memories when they get old.”

  “But she forgot who her own daughter is!” I exclaimed. I was incredulous.

  Mom drew in a breath. “Well, some older people develop a disease called Alzheimer’s. I think that may be what has happened to that woman.”

  We were silent for a moment. Then I started to grin again. “She didn’t wish on the penny, but I think we made her really happy,” I said. “It sounds like she has a penny collection or something. Did you see how happy we made her?”

  “Yup,” said Mom.

  “With just a penny,” said Dawn.

  “Yup,” said Mom again.

  When Dawn and I were remembering this story tonight, Dawn said that out of all those pennies we set down we saw only one person, the little girl, actually make a wish. But I bet we made a lot of people happy for one reason or another. Like the old lady.

  And that was one of the best things about Mom. She knew how to make people happy. Remembering that about her makes me feel both happy and sad.

  I think I’ll try to go to sleep now. My wrist aches from writing, and my eyes burn from sitting under the tiny reading lamp.

  3:13 A.M.

  No dice.

  No sleep.

  I don’t want to be a zombie tomorrow.

  3:16 A.M.

  On the other hand, what does it matter?

  3:20 A.M.

  Going to try again after all.

  Tuesday 3/23

  4:30 P.M.

  Everything is over. I never even wrote in my journal again yesterday. And today I went back to school. I can’t say I was able to concentrate. Or that I’ll do anything besides write in my journal for the rest of the day. But suddenly I couldn’t stand sitting around the house for another minute. I wanted to return to my life. So I got up this morning, got dressed, and walked to Vista with Dawn. Almost like usual.

  Back to yesterday, though.

  The day passed in a blur. At least that’s how it seemed at the time. But now that I try to recall it, I find that some details are coming back.

  Dawn and I got up early. Neither of us had slept well, and we were very nervous. Dawn came out of the bathroom, sat on my bed, looked at me, and said, “Well…what are you going to wear?”

  I couldn’t believe it, but until that very second I hadn’t given it a single thought.

  “Oh god. I don’t know,” I said. “What are you going to wear?”

  “I asked Carol about that yesterday and she said you don’t have to wear black to funerals anymore. She said I could wear pretty much whatever I want, as long as it’s, you know, sedate. I thought I’d wear my black pants and that green sweater.”

  “I want to wear something Mom liked,” I said. And I was embarrassed to think of the horrible clothes I’ve been wearing lately. I’m sure Mom didn’t like any of them. My torn, faded, black things. I have a lot of black, but nothing very sedate.

  “What did your mom like?” asked Dawn.

  I frowned and opened the closet door. “I don’t know.” I pawed through T-shirts and sweatshirts, leggings and hulking oversized jackets and shirts. “Stuff I used to wear last year, I guess.” It took forever but finally I came up with that navy dress Mom bought for me. I haven’t worn it very often and wasn’t even sure it would fit, but it fit well enough. “I guess this’ll do,” I said.

  Dawn went home to change, and I went downstairs in my funeral clothes. If Dad or Aunt Morgan had said one word — ONE negative word — about my outfit I think I would have screamed at them, run upstairs, and locked myself in my room. But they just gave me sad half smiles when I walked into the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table drinking black coffee and wearing his darkest suit and tie. Aunt Morgan was standing at the sink in a black dress with black shoes and a black band in her hair.

  So much for not having to wear black to funerals anymore.

  Aunt Morgan said, “I cannot believe I am standing here dressed for my sister’s funeral. This wasn’t supposed to happen for about forty-five more years.”

  Dad’s eyes filled with tears and he stared into his coffee mug.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Aunt Morgan. She dissolved into tears. Then Dad did too.

  I left the kitchen.

  You know what? I don’t know what I did between then and the time we left for the funeral.

  5:05 P.M.

  Ducky just called. Checking up on me. He is a very good person.

  The next thing I remember about yesterday is finding a parking space behind the church. The lot was really crowded even though we were way early, and I remember thinking, What if we’re late to Mom’s funeral because we couldn’t find a parking space? I almost laughed. Then I almost cried. Then I concentrated on looking for a space.

  “Do you think a lot of people are going to come?” I asked Dad.

  “Yes,” he replied grimly.

  We didn’t say much until we were inside. Dad found Jim (the minister) in his office and began to talk to him. Aunt Morgan and I wandered into the chapel and looked around.

  “The flowers are beautiful,” Aunt Morgan said. “You did a good job.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  We saw people gathering in the vestibule. Then Dad joined us. “We should probably go talk to everyone,” he said. “Jim is going to begin the service in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said.

  “Then don’t talk to anyone,” Aunt Morgan said crossly.

  She and Dad headed for the vestibule. I followed them. I felt like punching Aunt Morgan in the face.

  Luckily, the first person I saw was Dawn. She was standing uncomfortably with Carol, her father, and Jeff. When she saw me, she hurried across the room and put her arms around me. Suddenly I was surrounded by my friends. Out of nowhere, Ducky, Maggie, and Amalia appeared. I was in my cocoon again. Safe.

  I don’t remember what we talked about.

  At a few minutes after eleven, Dad touched me on the elbow. “Okay, honey,” he whispered.

  I grabbed Dawn, panicky. “Oh god!” I said, and I know I sounded hysterical.

  The cocoon enveloped me once more, lending me strength. Then Dad, Aunt Morgan, Dawn, and I left the vestibule and walked down the aisle to the first row of pews. Jim looked at us from the front of the chapel. He nodded encouragingly.

  We slid into a pew.

  When we were seated, the other people began to enter. First our relatives, who sat directly behind us. Then our friends. It reminded me of a wedding, and once again I was tempted to laugh, then to cry. Luckily, neither happened.

  Dawn reached over and held my hand. Dad did the same. Then Aunt Morgan took Dawn’s hand. I don’t know how Dawn felt about that, but it was nice for the four of us to be linked.

  For awhile we just sat there. Finally I whispered to Dawn, “When is it going to start?”

  She shrugged.

  Fifteen more minutes went by.

  “Dad?” I said at last. “It’s getting kind of late.”

  “Turn around and look behind you,” he said.

  I turned around.

  The entire church was filled. Not one single space w
as empty. People were standing along the back, and more were crowded into the vestibule.

  Jim approached us then. “Sorry for the delay,” he said quietly. “There are people standing out on the front steps too, and down on the sidewalk. We’re trying to rig something up so that they’ll be able to hear the service outside.”

  I still can’t believe it.

  My mother touched so many people.

  They loved her and she loved them.

  When Jim stepped away, Aunt Morgan started to cry again. I wanted to cry too, but I just refused to break down in front of that huge crowd. I was not going to do it.

  I didn’t do it.

  (Mom, that is no reflection on you.)

  At last the service started. Dad and Mom had talked a lot about what would happen during it. Mom wanted certain music played in the background. Her friend Jake was in the choir loft, sitting on a stool with his guitar, next to his wife, Nina, at the organ.

  First they played some music that I thought might be Chopin. Then they played “Sheep May Safely Graze.” I know that for sure because it was a piece of music that Mom requested over and over at the hospital.

  Then they began to play “Amazing Grace.” They played it through once, and then a clear, sweet voice rang out from the choir loft. I turned around to look. It was Liz. She managed to sing the entire song without crying, although just about everyone else in the church was teary-eyed by the time she finished.

  After that Jake and Nina played very, very softly throughout the rest of the service. All mom had wanted after the music ended was for people to have a chance to talk about her and remember her. Jim spoke first. He talked about the first time he met Mom. She was pregnant with me then, and he described her as radiantly happy about the baby she was about to have.

  What happened next was horrible, as far as I was concerned. No one else, including Dad, seemed to think anything of it, but I was mortified. After Jim finished speaking, Dad stepped up to the microphone. He began to talk about Mom. He talked about how they met when they were in college, and how they were drawn together by their beliefs—in peace and nonviolence and gun control, in issues of equality and tolerance—and how the only big fight they ever had was over the fact that Mom couldn’t help but feel intolerant of intolerant people. Dad had told her that made her a hypocrite, and Mom replied that she just couldn’t feel anything but disgust for people who hated other people because of the color of their skin or their religion or the sex of the person they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with. And that was that.