“There was never a good time. With all that was happening to you…well, we just didn’t know how.”
“Or when,” Stu adds. His face has gone blank.
They’re asking me to make their confession acceptable. To give them my blessing. Our threesome is breaking up—them the Dynamic Duo, me the Lone Ranger.
“Please say something.” Melody looks pale and scared. “You’re my best friend, Susanna.”
I understand scared. I know scared. “It isn’t a crime to fall in love,” I finally say.
“Really?” Hope crosses Melody’s face.
I think, Bree said she was in love with Jerry.
“Then it’s okay?” Melody asks. “You’re not mad at us?”
“Not mad.” I’m sad. Horribly sad, but I can’t tell her that. Something is passing away, like autumn leaves blown from trees by the winds of change. I stand. “I need to get back upstairs. I need to feed Bree’s baby. She’s probably awake now. And hungry.”
“Can we talk later?”
“Call me.”
“But we’re still friends?” Melody looks skeptical.
Did she think I’d explode and dump on her? I know what she wants me to say, and I know what I must tell her. In a steady voice, I say, “We’ll always be friends.”
I go to the lobby, but don’t take the elevator. Instead I take the stairs, run up the stairwell until my legs throb and my lungs feel fiery and ready to burst. But I run up all eleven flights without stopping.
In the stairwell, I sag against the wall and wait to catch my breath. My calf muscles are screaming from the exertion, but all I can think about are my two best friends changing the rules and becoming boyfriend-girlfriend. I want to feel angry. I want to hate them for liking each other behind my back. Yet if I’d had my way, if Stu had fallen for me, wouldn’t it be Melody who would be left out in the cold? I think about her heart hurting the way mine is and realize I don’t want her to feel this way. I don’t want anyone to feel this way.
Which brings me full circle to thoughts of my sister. Bree had such dreams and plans for herself and Jerry. If they had stayed together, if she had stayed in L.A., the aneurysm would still have happened—that’s what Dr. Franklin has told us. And Jerry might not have agreed to keep her alive on machines. And the baby would have never been born. I shudder thinking about it. And I know deep down that I’d rather know that Bree’s baby—our baby—is alive, even if she’s adopted and has to live with other people.
I start to cry over the sense of loss that’s fallen on me like dark rain. From below, I hear a stairwell door open, then hear footsteps ascending. I quickly wipe my cheeks and push through the door of the eleventh floor. The warm air hits my face and I realize how cold I’ve gotten in the unheated stairwell. The warmth makes me feel better.
Colleen waves as I pass the desk and go into the unit. Bree’s baby is in her incubator and she’s crying—screaming, actually. I see a round Band-Aid taped to her tiny heel. “The lab tech just drew blood,” Colleen says, coming alongside me. “Why don’t you swaddle her and hold her?”
I open the lid and pick her up, but she continues to cry. I wrap her tightly in the blanket, put her back into her incubator because I know I should start letting go of her if Mom’s going to allow her to be adopted. I spy my flute case on the floor, drag a rocking chair over to the side of the baby’s bubble and open my case.
I lift my flute, hold the silver instrument up and play “What Child Is This?” because that’s the first song that pops into my head. I get into the music and play the song a second time, and soon the room fades and I’m lost in my music.
At some point, when I rest for a minute, Colleen says, “You play beautifully.”
I thank her.
She says, “Look,” and gestures at the plastic shell.
I turn and see that the baby has stopped crying and she’s looking straight at me. And even though I know newborns can’t see really well, I swear she’s staring, her slate-colored eyes full of curiosity, her head cocked as if she’s listening, and knows who I am. That I am Susanna, her aunt, maker of music. My heart swells. I raise the flute to my lips and play again.
When I get home that night, the house is dark except for a glow in front of the living room window. Once inside, I see that the glow is coming from a fully decorated Christmas tree. Not our pathetic old artificial tree, but a fresh live one. The pine scent fills the room. On the table, I find a note from Mom.
Sissy,
The tree is courtesy of your friends, Melody and Stuart and Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza. They showed up with it this afternoon and asked permission to set it up and completely decorate it. How could I say no? Plus you deserve a tree. We should have a tree!
I’m with a client until seven, then I’ll be home. Warm yourself something from the fridge. And Stuart asked me to have you please call him as soon as you get home.
Love,
Mom
I go to my room and call Stu. He answers on the second ring. Has he been waiting by the phone? “Hey. It’s me,” I say.
“Thanks for calling.”
“Thanks for the tree. I mean that. It’s really nice.”
“It was Mellie’s idea and the Mendozas wanted to help.”
A guilt offering? I wonder.
“We thought you should have a tree.” He wants to say something else, so I wait on the line letting the silence stretch until he breaks it. “I’m sorry it took us…Mellie and me…so long to tell you about our dating.”
Us. The new way of seeing my two best friends. Us, not we. “I’m over it,” I say. Not quite the truth, but I know I will get over it, so I say so because I think he needs to hear it.
“I…um…I want you to know something, Susanna.”
I’ve always liked to hear him say my name.
“I never said anything to Melody about what happened between us after the funeral. And I never will.”
I’m glad, but curious. “Why?”
“I just don’t think she needs to know, that’s all.”
He was protecting her.
“She…she would never understand and I don’t want her to be mad at you. And I don’t want you to think for a minute that it didn’t mean something to me. It did.”
He was protecting me.
“I’ll forget it if you will,” I say.
Another silence. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” I say, and hang up. I sit still and search my feelings, and say goodbye to my first serious crush. I’m okay about it.
I fall asleep on my bed fully clothed before Mom gets home and wake at six the next morning. I quickly take a shower and get ready for Melody’s dad to pick me up. When I go downstairs, Mom is sitting on the sofa, a large white box on her lap. “Sorry I conked out that way,” I tell her. “You could have woken me up.”
“I looked in on you and didn’t have the heart.”
“I like the tree.”
“It was very thoughtful of your friends. I like it too.”
I glance at the box. “Do you want me to wrap that for you this afternoon?”
“It isn’t a gift.”
I sit beside her and peek into the open box. It’s filled with ribbons, barrettes, scrunchies, headbands and bows. “What’s this?”
“Your and Bree’s hair gear from when you were little.”
I forage through the pile. “You saved all these?”
“It’s what mothers do.” She picks up a sparkling headband with streamers and stars glued on. “This was your sister’s favorite. She was a fairy princess every time she put it on. Which was every day when she was three. She had a wand too, but it broke in half. How she cried.”
The box holds other treasures. I find a baby bracelet made of beads with letters that spell my name. I can’t believe my wrist was ever this small. I pick up a pie plate of hardened plaster of paris, the impression of a child’s handprint painted gold pressed in its center.
“Bree’s,” Mom says. “From he
r nursery school on Mother’s Day.”
On the back is a poem. Aloud I read, “‘This is to remind you,/When I have grown so tall,/That once I was quite little,/And my hands were very small.’”
Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “I talked to Ms. Watson yesterday,” she says.
I sit stock-still and hear the sound of my heart thumping with dread. Can Mom hear it too?
“I told her that while it makes a lot of sense to have a good, loving couple raise Bree’s baby, I—we can’t let her go. She’s all we have of Bree. All that remains of my lovely daughter.”
I get light-headed with relief. I want to jump up and down and shout out how happy I am. I don’t, though. I slip my arms around Mom. She kisses my forehead, lays her cheek against my hair. “I talked to Dr. Kendrow too, and she says we can bring the baby home day after tomorrow. On Christmas Eve.”
“We can?” I can’t contain myself and bounce up and down on the couch.
Mom shakes her head and with a smile says, “You’re really going to have to come up with a name for her, Sissy.”
During the ride home from the hospital, I sit in the backseat next to the strapped-in carrier holding the baby. We have dressed her in pink and lavender and she’s all scrunched up, sound asleep. Mom keeps glancing in the rearview mirror and asking, “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine.”
In the trunk, we have a home monitor to track her breathing and a going-home bag from the hospital full of formula, diapers, baby wipes and other baby products—all we need to get started. Melody’s already informed me that her mother is having a huge baby shower for us just as soon as she can get it organized. We are all surprised that Dr. Kendrow has allowed the baby to leave the hospital so soon, but she’s gained enough weight and although she still needs to be monitored, her lungs are developed enough for her to go.
“We’ve got plans,” Melody has told me on the phone. “Do you know how many people are volunteering to help your mom when you go back to school? It’s true. Mom’s got a long list. So…can I come over on Christmas Day? Can I hold her? I’m her surrogate aunt, you know.”
I tell her yes because I feel generous and bighearted. We’re still best friends and the baby will grow up with her and Stu hanging around.
Traffic is heavy and by the time we get home, it’s dark. I change and feed the baby and walk around the house, showing her the place, talking to her while holding her on my shoulder. She’s alert and seems to be looking at everything. She’s especially attracted to the lights on the tree.
Later I put her in her crib and drag my sleeping bag into her room.
Mom asks, “What are you doing?”
“I think I’ll sleep on the floor next to her bed tonight.”
“Are you sure? It’s going to be cold.”
I’ve thrown several blankets on the floor and have slipped on my flannel pj’s, the ones with Dalmatians all over them. “Just for tonight.”
The monitor is set up and I have an alarm clock to wake me so that I can give her a bottle in three hours.
“I don’t mind taking a feeding shift,” Mom says.
“I’ll handle it tonight,” I tell her.
We settle down, the baby in her crib and me on the floor. From the floor, my perspective is different. Through the window, I see stars dotting the night sky. They look cold and far away. A cow-jumping-over-the-moon night-light glows from a nearby wall socket. I see a baseboard left unpainted from when I abruptly stopped the night Bree was taken to the hospital.
The baby sleeps, but I can’t. I turn on my clock radio, tune it to a station that plays holiday music all night long on Christmas Eve without any interruptions. I think the baby likes music. Maybe I’ll teach her how to play the flute someday.
As I listen and wait for sleep, one particular carol performed by a symphony orchestra catches my ear. I sit upright, my eyes wide open, suddenly knowing what I’m going to name the baby. Why didn’t I think of it before?
Noel. It means Christmas and she’s the most wonderful Christmas gift of all. I decide that she needs her mother’s name too, so that she’ll always remember who she came from. She’ll be Briana Noel, but we’ll call her Noel. I say the name aloud and it settles on my heart like firelight, and I know it’s right. So right for her. I can’t wait to tell Mom.
Through the window the stars twinkle, no longer cold-looking, but only bright and beautiful and full of promise.
Noel!
About the Author
LURLENE McDANIEL began writing inspirational novels about teenagers facing life-altering situations when her son was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. “I want kids to know that while people don’t get to choose what life gives to them, they do get to choose how they respond.”
Lurlene McDaniel’s novels are hard-hitting and realistic, but also leave readers with inspiration and hope. Her books have received acclaim from readers, teachers, parents, and reviewers. Her novels Don’t Die, My Love; I’ll Be Seeing You; and Till Death Do Us Part have all been national bestsellers.
Lurlene McDaniel lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
You’ll want to read these inspiring titles by
Lurlene McDaniel
ANGELS IN PINK
Kathleen’s Story • Raina’s Story • Holly’s Story
ONE LAST WISH NOVELS
Mourning Song • A Time to Die
Mother, Help Me Live • Someone Dies, Someone Lives
Sixteen and Dying • Let Him Live
The Legacy: Making Wishes Come True • Please Don’t Die
She Died Too Young • All the Days of Her Life
A Season for Goodbye • Reach for Tomorrow
OTHER FICTION
Prey
Hit and Run
Letting Go of Lisa
The Time Capsule
Garden of Angels
A Rose for Melinda
Telling Christina Goodbye
How Do I Love Thee: Three Stories
To Live Again
Angel of Mercy • Angel of Hope
Starry, Starry Night: Three Holiday Stories
The Girl Death Left Behind
Angels Watching Over Me
Lifted Up by Angels • Until Angels Close My Eyes
I’ll Be Seeing You • Saving Jessica
Don’t Die, My Love • Too Young to Die
Goodbye Doesn’t Mean Forever
Somewhere Between Life and Death • Time to Let Go
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep
When Happily Ever After Ends
Baby Alicia Is Dying
From every ending comes a new beginning….
Published by Laurel-Leaf an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc. New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2006 by Lurlene McDaniel
All rights reserved.
Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Delacorte Press, New York, in 2006. This edition published by arrangement with Delacorte Press.
Laurel-Leaf and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
RL: 4.8
eISBN: 978-0-375-84658-8
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