I ran up the steps, into the waiting room. Dr. Welty was there at the desk, talking to Mrs. Randall.
My throat. I couldn't stand the pain. I reached out as Dr. Welty turned to me.
"Vada!" he said. "Vada, what's wrong?"
"I can't breathe," I said. I was gasping, holding my throat. "I'm suffocating. Help me."
He came to me and picked me up—picked me up.
He carried me into the examining room and laid me on the table.
"It's all right," he said. He kept on saying, "It's all right. It's all right. Take deep breaths. Come on, it's all right. Hush, hush, now."
"It hurts, it hurts so bad. Please make it stop. Please!"
"What hurts, Vada?" he said quietly. "Breathe slowly and talk to me. What hurts?"
"The bee stings. The bee stings. I can't breathe. Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts so bad."
CHAPTER XXI
I went to the lake after that. There was nothing else to do. Nobody to do it with. Dr. Welty wanted me to wait for Dad to come get me, but I told him I had to walk. I'd go home, I said. But first, I went to the lake. At the lake, I climbed up in the willow tree and sat for a long time staring out at the water.
Then, I did something I'd never done before: I stood up, climbed higher, and found an almost bare branch near the top of the tree. I pulled myself to a standing position, and began walking the branch like a tightrope walker.
I took four. . . five . . . six steps.
Thomas J. He'd be so . . .
So what?
And then I slipped and crashed down several branches before I caught myself. My heart was beating wildly.
And then, very calmly, I climbed down and headed for home.
There was nowhere else to go, anyway. Nothing to do. No one to do it with.
Thomas J. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be. I knew he wasn't. They were lying.
We played together just yesterday.
I told him I'd . . . I'd think of him if I didn't get to marry Mr. Bixler.
I promised him.
He was my brother. My blood brother.
Home.
I walked home.
Thomas J.
Thomas J? You jerk.
You went back to the beehive. I told you not to. Dork. Jerk. Retard. What'd you do that for? Collecting beehives. You are weird, just like everybody says.
I'll come over later and see you. I will.
Dad lied.
Children don't die. He said so himself! You'll be okay later. Then we'll ride our bikes. Maybe even—maybe even we'll try that, like what we did yesterday —you know, with the kiss?
You better not have told. Better have kept your promise.
You better or I'll kill you. I'll beat you up. You know I can do it, too. I'll sit on your back and bounce-hard, just like I did the other day.
Allergic! You baby.
You're even allergic to chocolate!
And nobody's allergic to chocolate. Even Shelly said that.
Should I go to Thomas J's?
Where was I?
I looked around me. I was home. In front of my house. There was my bike. How come I hadn't seen it before?
Where was Thomas J's bike?
It was so quiet. Only cicadas in the trees. The sprinkler dropping water on the grass.
I opened the front door and went in, passing Shelly on the stairs.
"Vada?" she said and she reached for me, but I was too fast for her.
I ducked away from her hands and ran to my room, then closed and locked my door.
I had to talk to Thomas J.
Somebody had cleaned up my floor. The fish and the food and the bowl and everything, all were gone. Where was my fish? Where was it?
Did he die?
He was too young to die. Children don't die.
Where was Thomas J?
I stayed in my room all day, not talking to anyone, not seeing anyone. I didn't even come out for meals, just to go to the bathroom once in a while.
Shelly knocked on my door lots of times and tried to come in, but I had locked it. And when Shelly wasn't knocking, Dad was. Even Uncle Phil came and knocked once, asking if I wouldn't come down. But I
wouldn't talk to them. I couldn't talk to them.
They were lying, both of them. All of them.
And if they brought Thomas J here for a—Well, they couldn't bring Thomas J here. Could they?
Oh, God, please.
It hurt, it hurt so bad.
I couldn't breathe again.
I remembered what Dr. Welty said: take deep breaths, it would be all right.
But it wouldn't be all right. It wasn't.
I lay down on my bed, carefully. Something would break if I wasn't careful.
Careful.
It got to be dark, and still I didn't come out of my room.
They were going to bring Thomas J here. I knew it. It was the only place. But they couldn't.
They couldn't bring him in here! He was scared of this place. Didn't they know that? And he was scared of the dark, too.
Food. I was hungry. That was it.
If I ate, just like I always did. . . .
Shelly had asked me before, begged me, practically, to come down for dinner. And when I didn't answer, she said she'd leave some food for me outside my door.
I went out in the hall and got the tray and brought it in.
Milk. An apple and raisins. And sandwiches, my favorite—chicken on rye. With tomatoes.
Thomas J's allergic to tomatoes.
I took the tomatoes off and ate some of the chicken part.
But I wasn't really hungry after all.
I don't know how much time went by. It got to be night, and I heard people talking. And I heard— Was it Thomas J's mother talking?
I ran over to the door and opened it softly, listening.
It was Mrs. Sennett.
I wanted to run down and see if Thomas J was with her. But I didn't. I knew he would never come in here, not in this house. He must have been waiting on the porch.
I'd go down and talk to him. Later.
I closed my door, then went and lay down on my bed.
I must have fallen asleep, because I was awakened by someone talking to me.
I sat up. The room was completely dark, but someone was talking. Shelly. And I wasn't dreaming.
But I hadn't unlocked the door. She couldn't be in here.
And then I realized she was outside, right outside my door, talking to me through the door.
"Vada? Vada?" she was saying.
I didn't answer. I wasn't talking to anyone. Only to Thomas J when he got better. After that, I'd talk to Shelly and Dad, too.
"Vada?" Shelly said. "Please come down, sweetie? Please. Don't you want to come down? It's been a whole day. You have to do something. You have to come out. Please?"
I don't have to do anything. Not anything. No.
"Vada? Maybe you should come down for the funeral? It's tomorrow. Sometimes it helps to go to the funeral."
She waited, like waiting for an answer.
Helps? Helps what? Ha!
"Vada?" she began again. "Vacla, I want to tell you something. And if you won't let me in, I'll tell you from here. You have a family here. You do. They care. You know, you have your dad and Uncle Phil and Gramoo. I know Gramoo isn't well, but if she could talk, she'd tell you how much she cares. And you know what else? Your dad cares a lot. He just doesn't know what to say. And, Vada, you have me."
I don't want you.
No.
"Vada?" she said again, softly, almost whispering. "You know, Vada, when I first came here, I wasn't crazy about the idea of working with dead people. But when I saw that a family lived here, I thought that if I'm living without a family, at least I could work with one, and maybe once in a while be invited for supper. And then . . . then we became a family, or we're going to be. . . . Vada, there's nothing like family. Come out, please. So we can help?"
You help? You? You're not my family
.
And how come Dad doesn't know what to say? He knows what to say to everyone else. People bring in dead people all the time. He knows just what to say to them.
I sat listening for a long while after that, but she didn't say anything more. I sort of hoped she would.
But it was quiet for a long time. And then I think she went away.
CHAPTER XXII
When next I woke up it was light out and I could hear people walking around and talking downstairs.
I got up and looked out the window.
There was a hearse out there. So they must be going to have a funeral today. It was a big hearse, though, big enough to carry a grown-up coffin, so it wasn't for Thomas J. It would have been a little one. For children.
No.
I saw people coming up the walk to the house Reverend Miles and Mrs. Miles, both of them wearing black.
Stupid.
Thomas J hates black.
I could hear people talking, hear Dad greeting people. And then it got very, very quiet.
I pressed my ear to the door, listening.
But the only sound was Reverend Miles talking, droning on and on like he does in church when he puts Dad to sleep. Was he praying? Thomas J prays, I know he does. We've talked about it lots of times.
"There are no words that I could say," Reverend Miles was saying, "that could begin to express the loss
and grief we feel for our beloved Thomas."
Beloved.
Where was he now? Were there really horses for him to ride in heaven? Would he be able to ride? And what if he was allergic to them?
I could still hear Reverend Miles. "One word that must keep going through our heads is—why?" he said. "Why would God take this little boy from us?"
Why? Why?
I could come out. Dad and Shelly would be down there listening to Reverend Miles. They wouldn't see me if I came out.
Quietly I opened my door a crack. I tiptoed from my door to the top of the stairs. Very quietly I crouched on the top step.
I could hear Reverend Miles clearly now.
"There are no clear answers," he was saying, "but there is comfort in knowing he is cared for."
Cared for? By whom? What if he's scared up there? What if the horses don't have wings and he falls? I was just making that up, about the clouds. What if I was wrong, and the clouds don't hold him up? Who will take care of him? Who will bully him and make him not afraid, like I always did?
"So while I can't give you an answer to 'why?' " Reverend Miles went on, "I can tell you that God has
chosen Thomas for some very special purpose."
What purpose?
I went a little farther down the steps, but not so far that I could see inside that room, that viewing room. I didn't want to see inside that room. No.
I just wanted to . . . be closer, maybe.
"And we must find solace in knowing that Thomas is now in God's care," Reverend Miles said. "And now I would like to read a passage from the Bible and hope it will be of some comfort. Turn with me to Matthew nineteen, verse thirteen.
In God's care?
I don't want him in God's care. I want Thomas J here!
Quietly I slipped inside the door of the viewing room and looked quickly around.
They were all bent over their Bibles, looking for the place, and no one saw me.
I didn't want to look where he was—there in the front corner of the room where they always have the coffins.
The child's coffin.
I didn't want to look. But I did. I had to.
Slowly I went over to him!
Thomas J!
I bent over him. "Your face is so puffy!" I whispered. "Oh, God, it must hurt so! It's so puffy. Damn bees!"
I stepped back.
"You dummy!" I whispered. "I told you not to bother them."
Reverend Miles was praying again.
". . . And children were brought to him so that he could place his hands on them in prayer. The disciples began to scold them, but Jesus said, 'Let the children come to me. Do not hinder them. . . .' "
I bent close to Thomas J again. "Come on with me, Thomas J," I whispered to him. "Let's go climb trees. We'll go to the willow tree."
He didn't move, didn't . . .
I reached out to touch him. "Your face," I whispered. "Does it hurt real bad?"
Suddenly it was very quiet. No one was praying.
And Dad and Shelly were standing there by me.
"Vada," Dad said softly.
I turned to him. "I have to get Thomas J to come with me," I said.
I turned back. "Come on, Thomas J," I said.
"Vada!" Dad said.
And then I noticed something—Thomas J! His glasses. He didn't have on his glasses.
I turned back to Dad. "Where's his glasses?" I said. "Get his glasses. He can't see without them. Put his glasses on! Now!"
Dad took me in his arms, held my face against his chest. "Vada!" he whispered. "Vada, he's gone!"
I looked up at him.
It was very quiet in the room.
"He was going to be an acrobat," I said.
Dad let go of me.
"Please, sweetheart," Dad said.
I backed away from him. "No," I said. I shook my head. "No. No."
I raced out of there, down the street.
Thomas J was dead. He was.
I turned once, and Dad was following me, but then, when I looked around again he was gone.
I turned the corner, not knowing where I was going—and almost ran right into Mr. Bixler's arms, Mr. Bixler with some woman, both of them coming down the steps of that house he was fixing up.
"Vada!" he said, holding my arms and crouching down so he was looking right in my face. "Are you all right? I was just coming over to your house. I'm so sorry about Thomas J."
I thought of what Gramoo says. Sing. Sing.
"Blitie blop, bloopie, you twinkle above us, we twinkle. . . ."
I sang.
"Okay, Vada!" Mr. Bixler said, still holding my arms. "We don't have to talk about him if you don't want."
I stopped singing and pulled away from him.
We were all quiet. That lady with him looked like she was crying.
After a minute I said, "Justin and Ronda said I should say what I feel."
"Yes," Mr. Bixler said.
I looked at my shoes.
"Mr. Bixler," I said, "I love you."
I looked up, and he was staring at me, wide-eyed. Surprised.
Was it a good surprise or a bad one?
"I love you the way my dad loves Shelly," I said. "And I want to live here with you."
"Vada, I think your father would miss you," he said. "He would, a lot."
"No, he wouldn't," I said. "And I can't go home."
The woman with Mr. Bixler suddenly took his hand. Tears were running down her face.
"Who's she?" I said.
"Vada," Mr. Bixler said. "This is Suzanne." He hesitated. "We're getting married in the fall."
"I'm so sorry about Thomas J, Vada," Suzanne said.
I just stared at her. At him.
Getting married.
Then he wasn't getting a pet.
"Vada," Mr. Bixler said. "I was going to bring her to class next week. I wanted her to hear your poems."
I backed up.
"I cared for him, too, Vada," Mr. Bixler said.
"Don't go! Let me take you home."
But I was already gone.
Out of there.
Nowhere.
Nowhere to go. Nobody to go with.
I ran to the lake, to the willow tree.
I climbed up.
I would stay here. For how long. I didn't know how long I'd stay. Maybe forever. Maybe for life.
Maybe till I died.
Because I was going to die now. Not from that thing in my throat. That was nothing now. I was dying from something else.
I didn't know what to call it. It wasn't a cancer. But I knew whe
re it was—or actually, where it wasn't. It was right there—something was gone right there, right inside my chest.
CHAPTER XXII
I stayed up in the willow tree for a long time, a long, long time.
It got dark, and the moon came out, and I could hear bullfrogs calling and a fish splash in the water. And still I sat. I only got down and went home because I didn't know what else to do, where else to go. I was surprised that I was still alive, that the hole in my chest hadn't made me die yet.
Thomas J was dead. And he's my best friend.
But I was alive. And I didn't know what else to do but go home.
When I came up the steps, it was already pitch dark. The hearse was gone, but there was a police car by the door.
When I went up onto the porch, I could hear the policeman and Shelly inside.
"But you have to find her!" Shelly was saying. "It's getting dark, and she can't be alone in the dark."
"We'll keep looking," the policeman said.
"We've been out all day trying to find her. Her father's out there now. Her teacher called this afternoon. She went there first."
"Yes, you told us, ma'am."
"But I can't just sit here. She's only eleven years old, and her only friend in the world is dead. I should . . ."
I don't know what she thought she should do.
Because I walked in then right past them. Or tried to.
Shelly grabbed me by the arms and hugged me to her, rocking me, rocking me. I didn't pull away.
I was tired.
"Vada, Vada, where have you been? We've been worried sick about you, sweetie." She hugged me so tight it almost hurt, then held me away and looked me over. "Are you all right?"
I nodded.
No.
"Thank God," Shelly said, and she hugged me again.
"Glad everything's all right," the policeman said. And I heard him go down the steps.
I went upstairs to my room, and Shelly followed me up.
I went in the bathroom, and she followed me in there. She washed my hands and face and stayed there while I peed and brushed my teeth. Then she went with me back to my room, where she undressed me and helped me into my pajamas, just like I was about three years old.
I let her. It was okay. I was too tired to do anything else.
When I was all ready, I got into bed and Shelly tucked me in. She fixed the covers all the way around, almost as if it was wintertime.
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