12:42 A.M.
I’m beginning to see the really black side of AIDS that everyone tries to hide. Guess I’ll just pretend that everything is okay with me. Then I’ll die.
Wednesday, August 29
7:15 A.M.
I called El and told her my dad was sick and I was going to stay with him for a while. He really isn’t sick, but I have to get away to get my beans together. It was hard to convince El that I was doing the right thing, but I did. She said she’d get the word around and they’d all write me.
I hated to tell such a big, black lie, but I can’t handle seeing the kids right now, especially Lew. I really can’t. What would I say? What would I do? Maybe I’ll die right away, and I won’t have to do anything.
7 P.M.
Missy, the counselor, came and spent most of the afternoon with Mom and me. I wanted her to answer a lot of questions I had written down, but we started talking about *&=-+, and my questions sort of got brushed away.
Missy and Mom both want me to report *&=-+ to the police. At first I resisted. I don’t want everybody in the world to know what happened to me, how stupid I was, how gullible, but then they got me to thinking about little Margie and…well…I guess I’ll do what I ought to do instead of what I want to do. Actually, I really, truly do want to do it now that I’ve considered it! The thought of little Margie having AIDS makes me sick. How may others have there been? The thought is worse than a nightmare.
Thursday, August 30
8:10 A.M.
It’s a strange thing, but thinking about other people and trying to help them is making me feel better. At least now I have a positive reason for existing.
A policewoman is coming over this afternoon with Missy, and we’re going to get at least one menace off the streets. That makes me happy, and I didn’t think I’d every be happy again. Well, I’m not really happy, but at least I’m up to about one-half millionth on a scale from one to ten. For the last few days I’ve been about minus 300 million.
4:26 P.M.
Janie Dee, the police lady, and Missy really made me feel important. They say if more kids would report—they called them predators—they could stop at least some of them. I looked the word up in the dictionary, because it didn’t sound bad enough to me. Predator: one who plunders, loots, wastes, destroys, preys upon, etc. But no word could really be bad enough for…him!!! How? Why? Why could he have done this to me? Why didn’t he just kill me and get it over with in a hurry?
Missy said he “preyed” upon me like a cat toys with a mouse. Chips, I can’t believe that I once thought of *&=-+ as the most beautiful creation that God had ever made. I thought he was the most personable, the most verbal, the most honorable…everything. What a fool. What a stupid, dumb, idiotic, birdbrained, empty-headed, mixed-up fool. He is Satan incarnate.
A police artist is coming over in the morning to sketch him as I see him. That should be easy, because his picture is burned into my brain like he was standing right here.
Isn’t it funny how things come in handy when you never think they would? When Mom and I visited her aunt Thelma on her ranch in Idaho, while Mom lazed around the cabin and read and stuff, Aunt Thelma and I took the horses out on long trips. Always, she brought pads and pastels and stuff along, and she’d draw beautifully, and I’d try…not too successfully…if you remember, Self, and I’m positively sure you do. At least at first they were bad, but I got better, didn’t I, at remembering details anyway?
10:27 P.M.
I wonder why God made the nights so long. I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate on TV, I can’t write, I can’t read…I can only think and think and relive…and relive…and suffer.
12:03 A.M.
I’ve decided to at least do something constructive! I will give the police sketch person a description of *&=-+ that they will not believe possible. And all because of Aunt Thelma and her tutoring me the miracle of really LOOKING AND SEEING! It was wonderful, finding the hidden little miracles after she had shown me how. By Indian Paint Brush Falls, she had me look down into the crack in the rocks to find the tiniest, most fragile, different-color flowers I had ever seen. She said many people had passed that way for centuries, and probably few had seen the unearthly fragileness and other-world shades of color.
When we found things like that or Indian writings on bare canyon walls, or even unusual rock formations, she would have me look at the thing until I had absolutely imprinted it on my mind. Then I would describe it to her as if she were blind, remembering each tiniest little color and texture, width and length and everything else in relationship to everything around it.
I’m so grateful to Aunt Thelma for this wonderful, perfect reproduction album of pictures I have in my mind. Sometimes we’d turn our backs on the sacredly special thing we’d just seen, and we’d paint it from memory. It was a fun game, me trying to find things she’d left out in her paintings and her trying to find things I’d left out in mine! It was fun, and it taught me something I’ve used many times since, but always for good before…maybe this will be for good too. Maybe after I’ve re-created *&=-+ for the police, I’ll be able to completely erase him. I wonder if it’s possible to do that. I think I’ll call Aunt Thelma first thing in the morning. No, I can’t do that; how could I ever explain *&=-+ to someone as “unspotted from the world” as Aunt Thelma? I don’t know where I heard or read that phrase, but it really describes her. She was the one who taught me that people who use crude and vulgar words only do it because they don’t have the vocabulary or the desire to describe things as they truly are. She printed that so indelibly in my mind that I usually automatically don’t…well, most of the time I don’t.
3:42 A.M.
I’ve drawn a colored-pencil sketch of Coll-Throw-Up that I think, when the drawing guy does it, and I give him a few more suggestions about size and stuff, will create a reproduction that will be almost lifelike. This one is so much like him that I can’t work on it anymore. It’s already spotted with tears.
Friday, August 31
11:49 A.M.
Missy and the policy sketch artist came at nine o’clock. They both loved the sketch I’d made of Throw-Up. Officer Williams had some books and stuff and by the time he’d finished his picture, it was almost like a colored photograph. I could even tell the policeman how much taller Throw-Up was than me, and from the body sizes in the book I found one that could have been his brother, or him.
As soon as Officer Williams had finished the sketch, the bottom fell out of my energy container, whatever it is, and so they both left. Missy said that she’d be back tomorrow to answer some of the important questions that I’ve got to ask her but we’ve never had time for. I hope she knows the answers. I do hope so! I need to know everything about AIDs.
Saturday, September 1
Noon
I just fixed myself a peanut butter and banana and jelly sandwich, but I only took one bite. Nothing tastes good anymore, or looks good, or feels good. I wonder if I’ll ever get out of this funk. I am a basket case! I don’t want to die. I really don’t. I’m scared. It isn’t fair. I want to live to be an old, wrinkled-up little lady who knits things and paints and stuff, and has lots of kids and grandkids hanging around and a husband who is true and faithful…and dependable…like Lew. I mean…I hope…I wish…really Lew. But none of that can ever be now.
From here on, it’s just death and me trying to stare each other down. Oh, I can’t handle that. I’m just being morbid and self-centered and paranoid and all the other negative self-serving stuff I don’t want to be. I’ve got to be more…more…I wish I knew what.
2 A.M.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about school starting…I’m not even sure I’ll live to graduate from high school. I wonder how long it will be till I…Will I just get tired and then more tired and then I’ll just go to sleep forever?
I’ve got to get some more of those books about people seeing lights and tunnels of warmth and beauty, and having someone all white and shiny come
to take them from here to there, wherever there is. I read once, a long time ago, a book called Return to Tomorrow, or something. I wonder if I could get it at the library. I suspect I’ll look at it a lot differently now.
3:24 A.M.
I really don’t want to die. I love my bed. I love my room. I love my mom. I love my dad. I love Imperical.
I love to hear him twitter early in the morning before it’s quite light. I usually wake up to that soft, wonderful belonging sound. I don’t want to leave it ever! Ever! Ever! I’m scared…I’m really scared! I’m not absolutely positive there is that Heaven that I want so desperately to be there. Oh, please, please, God, let there be a Heaven for me to go to. I don’t want to just be a poor, lost, lonely soul wandering through space forever. That’s stupid…that’s dumb…that’s morbid…and I used to be sooooooo happy. I can hardly remember those days.
Tuesday, September 4—I think
(But who cares? One day just runs into another.)
Guess what? My old 7th grade teacher who used to live next door, was in the neighborhood, and dropped by to say hi. I think she’s psychic! She said she’d dreamed about me. She tried to make me laugh and stuff. Maybe she’ll have to teach me that all over again too. I hope she can.
3:09 P.M.
Officer Williams came over, and it was really strange. I don’t think he hypnotized me, but he just talked quietly and had me relax all my muscles and nerves and stuff. He’d pulled the shades on the windows and turned the lights down, and it was quiet and restful and a safe feeling. After a little he asked me to remember all I could about Throw-Up’s car and stuff. He even calls him that now; so do Missy and Mom. Anyway, I don’t think I did too well on that, but when he quietly, slowly, caringly asked me to recall every detail that Throw-Up had said about his personal life or past, I remembered that one day, when we were sitting by the lake throwing rocks in and talking about my Philomena Farnsworth Junior High and what a funny name that was, he said that his junior high was just plain old Abraham Lincoln junior High. At least mine was different.
Officer Williams seemed happy about that, although I don’t know what great good it would be; there must be nine hundred Abraham Lincoln whatevers in wherever.
Wednesday, September 5
10:10 A.M.
Officer Williams called and said there were only a few Abraham Lincoln Junior High schools and that he was going to get me all their yearbooks, and I’d go through the pictures to see if I recognized Throw-Up. He seemed pretty sure I would. I hope he’s right.
Thursday, September 6
3:30 P.M.
I can’t believe it, but I think I’m feeling better. At least the sun seemed warm today, and Mom brought me some raspberries, which I snarfed down like a starving person.
Missy comes nearly every day. She’s convincing me that I’ve gotta get on with my life. She’s even telling me that I can get my beans together and be a real person again. Maybe I can get up and get out! Go back to school again. Laugh, play, work, feel…at least some things besides pain. Do you think I can, Self? Your opinion is important to me, you know. Okay, if you say I can, I CAN, AND I WILL, AND I SHOULD, AND I SHALL. SO THERE. HA…ha, ha, ha.
7:15 P.M.
I felt so good, I had Mom take a walk with me. We just went around the complex a few times, but we had fun. We played Follow the Leader and skipped and hopped, and ran and jumped and did all the silly little things we did when I was young. I guess past tense is right. I’ll never by young again, or will I? Ummm, maybe I will. Missy says being positive is the biggest part of my recovery.
Monday, September 10
10:30 A.M.
I haven’t been able to read the letters the gaggle sent to me in care of my dad, and he shipped back to me. They just made me feel more guilty and like the biggest liar in the universe, but now…well, here goes. I hope I don’t drown out my bedroom with my tears and have my bed floating down the hall.
One…two…three…rip.
11:47 A.M.
I guess I had never realized until this very minute how precious and wonderful and special and, well, almost sacred—no, really sacred—friends are. Their love covers me and protects me and warms me like the soft little “banky” security blanket I had when I was a baby. I remember, when I was about three, dragging it around everywhere I went and sucking my thumb. Each finger had a flavor: orange, strawberry, raspberry, peanut butter, and lime. Suck-suck-suck. I can still taste those wonderful flavors. My mind is flooded with sweet, sweet old memories as well as the caring ones in the letters. Everyone misses me and wants me back! Lew said a piece of the jigsaw puzzle of his life is missing with me gone, and that’s the piece right in the left-hand corner of his chest. Isn’t that beautiful? How am I going to handle us?
1 A.M.
Once Mom told me the story of Gone with the Wind. She said Scarlett O’Hara always said, when things were bad, “I’ll worry about that tomorrow.” I think that saying is going to become a big part of my life from here on.
Awwww…I just yawned and stretched and realized that I’m very relaxed and sleepy. Isn’t that delicious? For some time now I’ve only slept when I was exhausted.
Good night, nice friends.
Good night, nice Mom.
Good night, nicer-than-nice Lew.
Good night, Dearer-than-Dear Self.
Friday, September 14
8 A.M.
I got up early and fixed Mom’s breakfast. Aren’t I nice? She didn’t want to lie for me, but she finally consented to call El and tell her I’d be home tomorrow. Isn’t she the best mom ever? I’m so lucky to have her, and I appreciate her soooooooo much, even though sometimes I don’t act like it.
I’ve got to hurry and do my homework before my home schoolteacher gets here. She’s nice, but she’ll never take the place of the gaggle. They are so…I can’t even think of words fantastic enough. I am so lucky, lucky, lucky. God must love me.
Saturday, September 15
4:30 P.M.
I met El and Red at the mall. We had lunch at Pizza Heaven, and it was that. They had so much to tell me, they were both talking at once, and I was trying to listen to each of them, and we were giggling and spilling and choking on our food. The people at the next table gave us dirty looks, and we all just turned up our noses and pretended we were better than they were—so we could do what we wanted even it if was nutty and childish and stuff. I WANT TO BE CHILDISH! I NEED TO BE CHILDISH! I DESERVE TO BE CHILDISH!…Because I don’t really know how long I’ve got to be whatever.
Oh, forget that pity-party stuff, Self. We are going to live like we’ve got forever! Promise? Promise you’ll help me? Okay! Good! Thanks!
El says Dorie has a boyfriend that her parents don’t know about. After I begged for about an hour, they told me it was Fred Simmons. I don’t know about him. He’s in high school and I’m sooo worried. But he was in ninth when we were in seventh, and he seemed like a good kid…ha. Oh, how sad. Will I forever, from now on, be jaded and mistrusting and negative?
Lew’s gone to his cousin’s for the weekend, and I’m really kind of glad. At least that give me a little more time to decide what…how…if. Life is so confusing that I guess I’ll just wait and “worry about tomorrow tomorrow.” Okay? Okay!
El and Red and I are going to the movies tonight. We’ve all seen what’s playing three times, but we’re going again. We all love the music as well as the tenderness of the story. The only problem is that I feel dangerous now. Oh, that’s dumb. I don’t make sense now more than I do make sense!
11:10 P.M.
We couldn’t get into the movie we wanted, so we just went to the nearest one. It was soooooooo old and silly and childish and dumb. We all laughed until we cried and choked and beat on each other. You could hardly hear the dialogue, and when you could, the whole audience was talking along with it.
Hey, I really had fun. It was like the old days. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way again. In fact, I almost forgot about…what I’d lik
e to forget about.
Sunday, September 16
I went to Rock Port with Mom to get some real estate option papers signed. It was a long, boring day. Well…a lot of it was long and boring. The rest was nice. I like being with Mom. She’s the only one I can be myself with. My real, real, real, real, real AIDS self with.
I’ve decided not to tell the gaggle about…it. In fact, I’m trying to pretend I don’t even have…it. Missy said for me to go day by day and do what feels right.
Oh, Self, it’s sooooooo painful to know that my blood is…DEADLY…that I could literally kill the people I love and want to protect the most just by being careless. I worry every minute that I’ll be in an accident or something with someone whose life is more precious to me than my life itself…and that we’ll both be bleeding and…they’ll get even one drop. I wonder if anyone else in the world feels this much pain and responsibility. Missy tells me not to worry, but what kind of person would I be then? I worry so about Mom too. What if? What if?
1:02 P.M.
I woke up silently screaming. I didn’t even know you could do that, but I did. Anyways, I dreamed that Mom had it, and I didn’t, and she fell and cut herself on the glass she was holding. It was horrible…horrible…horrible. I wanted to help her, but the glass had shattered and cut me too. I can’t bear to think about it, but I was afraid of her, deathly afraid. I wanted to run away! To run and keep running forever!!
I wonder if Mom ever feels that way about me. I’m sure she must! She must! Everybody must! But they don’t know. They don’t know, and I’m never going to let them…Never…Never. When I die, Mom can just say pneumonia did it, or something.
I’ve GOT TO DECIDE HOW TO TREAT LEW, WHAT TO TELL HIM. There are nine jillion ways I could do it. I could just drop him, pretending I’d met someone else in Arizona…or I could tell him the truth…or I could just act like nothing’s happened…or I could just kill myself. No, Catholics don’t do that. Besides, Mom would kill me if she knew I’d even thought about killing myself. How many times have I said that?
It Happened to Nancy Page 7