That was all right, too. I didn't care.
When I was all tucked in, Shelly sat down next to me on the bed and smoothed my hair back from my face.
"Vada," she said, "your dad was so upset. He really does love you very much. It's just that some people have trouble saying how they feel."
"I told Mr. Bixler that I love him," I said.
"That's good, good that you say that."
"But he didn't like me."
"Of course he likes you. Someday, believe me, someone will feel about you the same way you feel about them. And it'll make you so happy. And it will happen to you."
"I should have told Thomas J that he was my best friend. He told me that the other day. And I didn't tell him back."
"I bet he knew."
I didn't say anything for a while. I didn't know if I could say what I had to say, but I knew I had to try.
Nothing mattered much anymore anyway. "Shelly?"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"I stole your money from the cookie jar to take the writing class."
"Oh, sweetie. It's all right."
"I'll pay you back," I said.
She bent and kissed my head, then kept her face pressed into my hair. "You just dedicate your first book to me," she whispered, "and I'll forget the whole thing."
I shook my head. "I don't think I'll ever go back to writing class."
"You will. Someday. And then I get the book dedicated to me, okay?"
"If I ever write one, I will," I said.
I fell asleep, right then with Shelly still sitting on my bed, still smoothing my hair. But when I woke up next, no one was in the room with me. But I woke because I heard Dad downstairs.
"Is she here?" he said. And then I heard him say, "Thank God!"
And then I heard him run upstairs, and he opened my door, and the light from the hall crept across the floor.
I heard him come to stand beside the bed.
But for some reason I couldn't look up at him.
He stood there for a long time, so long that I thought maybe he was gone. But then he bent and kissed me, softly on my forehead. And I heard him going out of the room.
I had to know. Had to. And nothing worse could happen anyway, nothing more than what had happened already.
"Dad?" I said. "Did I kill my mother?"
Dad turned abruptly. "What?" he said.
I sat up in bed. "The bees killed Thomas J. And I killed my mother."
Dad came back to my bed and sat beside me. He pulled me close. "No, no, Vada, it just happened. It
wasn't your fault. How can it be a baby's fault?"
"I found this," I said.
I dug under the pillow and pulled out the picture I had found in the garage the other day.
Dad held it up so he could see it in the light from the hall. "I forgot about this picture," he said, smiling.
"Where'd you find it?"
"In the garage."
"That was her favorite car," Dad said.
"What was my mother like?"
"What was she like?" Dad said. "Oh, she was pretty, like,you. And she was kind. And you have her eyes. And boy, did she love to laugh." He put the picture down and stroked my hair. "Sometimes when you laugh, you sound just like her."
"Do I?"
"Uh-huh."
When I laugh, I sound like her.
There was a long pause, and then Dad said, "When she found out she was going to have you, you know what she did?"
I shook my head no,
"She came home and started painting your room pink. She was sure she was going to have a little girl."
"Did she want a girl?"
Me?
"Yes. Yes, she did."
"Did you—do you—miss her?"
"Yes, I did. For a long time. And even now I sometimes get sad when I see a pretty flower—dahlias were her favorites—or when I see one of those purple sunsets and know that your mother would have liked it. And those perfect summer or winter nights when the stars seem to come right down to the horizon. She loved beautiful things." He stroked my hair. "She would have loved you."
"I think that every time I see a weeping willow tree or those empty cicada shells, I'll think of Thomas J."
Suddenly Dad hugged me, hugged me so fiercely that for a moment I could hardly breathe.
But I didn't hug him back.
"I'm sorry, Vada," Dad said, and I could tell that he was crying. "I haven't helped you much. See, I wanted to keep you from it, but I just couldn't. At first I thought—what could I say to you? See, day after day people come to me when their family dies. They bring fathers, mothers. And even their children. And they all look to me to make things better. But all I can offer are a few nice words. I wanted to do more than that for you. I wanted it to never happen to you. I even lied to you. I told you . . . that children don't die. Of course you knew. But . . . I wanted to protect you. And I couldn't. I didn't know how. I don't know how."
He was still hugging me, holding me close. And then, little by little, I found myself hugging him back.
I even patted his shoulder and his back a little, the way Gramoo used to do to me.
"I still don't know how to help you," Dad said. "I can't make it better."
Dad's arms were tight around me, his shoulder warm and close.
And I found I was crying again. Crying. But . . .
Dad brought my head down to his chest, rocking me a little. "Vada," he said, "I know that Thomas J never came in here, and I know why, too. He was afraid of this place. I understand. I was born in this house. I remember my eighth birthday. My mother planned a huge party for me."
"Gramoo?"
"Gramoo. And she invited all my friends, but not one of them showed up. They were all afraid to." He held me away and looked down at me. "I think I know how you feel—must have felt—with Thomas J afraid of this house."
For a long time Daddy continued to hold me in his arms, rocking me like I was just a little baby. It was almost like he had forgotten I was grown up.
I don't think he'd held me for that long since I was four.
"You know," he said softly after a while, "I must have seen hundreds of funerals in this house. When it's an old person, you say, Well, they had a wonderful life. But when it's . . . someone eleven years old, I don't know what to say. I don't know how to help you, so I haven't said much. But I know that was a mistake. I can't make it better but . . ."
His shoulders were shaking, and I could feel his breath all trembly. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's not that I don't care. It's just that I can't make it better. And I want to."
No. He couldn't make it better. Well.
Dad straightened up then, and hugged me once more. Then, very gently, he laid me back down on the pillow. "You're a good girl," he said softly. "And I want you to be happy. Don't be like me."
He kissed my head, then laid his hand against my forehead.
"How's your throat?" he said. "Maybe you should go see Dr. Welty?"
"No," I said. "It's nothing."
Dad got up and went to the door.
"Daddy?" I said. He stopped.
"Daddy," I said, "it's not so bad to be like you."
CHAPTER XXIV
Summer is almost over now, and it's been bad—really bad. But sometimes I make it better by playing games with myself, making believe Thomas J is just away, like maybe at summer camp. And Shelly helps, too, by doing stuff with me, and so does Dad. Dad helps by just talking to me. It's like we understand each other a little better now.
And it's not all bad. I am writing. Judy's going to be in my homeroom in the fall. And Dad and Shelly are going to get married.
I think I might like that now. I don't think it's going to be too bad. Like Thomas J said, now I'll get to have a mother, too.
Gramoo is still weird and not going to get better. And Uncle Phil . . . well, he's just the same. But I haven't been back to see Dr. Welty all summer practically.
It was the last week of the writing class, and I had
n't been back there, either, not since Thomas J died.
But I had written a poem for Thomas J one day, and I wanted to read it to the class, to Mr. Bixler, especially. So I got dressed up, in a dress, just like a grown-up, and went to the class.
They were meeting out in that courtyard again, sitting in a circle on the grass. I was purposely late. I didn't want to stay, either, just wanted to read my poem and go home.
Mr. Bixler was reading as I came in. He stopped short and looked at me.
Everyone turned.
"I was hoping you'd come by," Mr. Bixler said.
"Hey, welcome back, man!" Justin said.
"I can't stay," I said. "I just came to read my poem."
"We'd love to hear it," Mr. Bixler said.
Everyone looked at me.
I was still standing, and I stayed there, and I read: "Weeping willow, with your tears running down, why do you always weep and frown? Is it because he left you one day? Is it because he could not stay? On your branches he would swing. Do you long for the happiness that day would bring? He found shelter in your shade. You thought his laughter would never fade. Weeping willow, stop your tears, for there is something to calm your fears. You think death has ripped you forever apart. But I know he'll always be in your heart."
I looked up. "That's all," I said.
Nobody said anything, not even that it was nice.
But I saw lots of people take out handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes.
Justin gave me the peace sign. And Mr. Bixler, he had tears in his eyes that he wasn't even trying to hide.
I went outside then.
The sun was shining through the trees, but it was slanty in the sky, a fading kind of weak light now. Fall was definitely coming on.
I wondered what it was like where Thomas J was, whether there really were horses with wings in heaven and you fell into soft clouds. . . .
I walked on home, but just as I came up on the porch, the door opened, and Dad and Mrs. Sennett, Thomas J's mother, came out.
I didn't want to see her. But there she was, and I couldn't avoid her now.
"Vada," Mrs. Sennett said.
"Hello, Mrs. Sennett," I said.
She held out her hand. "I wanted to give this to you. Thomas J had this on him when . . . He was holding this and the beehive that day. I thought you might like to have it."
She put something in my hand.
I looked down at it. It was upside down in my hand, the stone side down. But I knew what it was—my ring, my mood ring.
He had remembered! When he went back for the beehive, he'd remembered my ring!
I looked up at her. At Daddy, standing watching us. I didn't know what to do, what to say.
I missed him more than I had all summer!
I could feel tears welling up in my eyes again.
Mrs. Sennett saw, I know.
"You were such a good friend to him," she said. "I hope you'll still come by and visit me."
I couldn't speak. So I just nodded. I will. A promise.
Daddy came over and put an arm around my shoulders.
Mrs. Sennett went on down the steps and out to the sidewalk.
I looked down at the ring in my hand, then slowly turned it over.
It wasn't black anymore. It was blue. Sky blue! Sky blue!
Thomas J. Suddenly. . . suddenly I knew where he was.
I ran down the steps.
"Mrs. Sennett!" I called.
She turned back to me.
"Thomas J will be all right!" I said. "He will. My mother will take care of him."
About the Author
PATRICIA HERMES is the author of many highly acclaimed novels for children and young adults. Among her many awards are the California Young Reader Medal, the Pine Tree Book Award and the Hawaii Nene award. Her books have also been named IRA/CBC Children's Choices and Notable Children's Trade Books in the field of Social Studies. Her books have been praised for their "recognizable vitality" (Kirkus Reviews) and "rhythmic, homey text and genuine characters [that] resonate with authenticity" (School Library Journal starred review).
Minstrel Books publishes Kevin Corbett Eats Flies; Heads, I Win; and I Hate Being Gifted. Archway Paperbacks publishes Be Still My Heart and My Girl.
Born and educated in New York, Patricia Hermes has taught English at the High School and Junior High level and has taught Gifted and Talented programs in the grade schools. She travels frequently throughout the country, speaking at schools and conferences, to students, teachers, educators, and parents.
The mother of five children, she lives and works in New England.
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