Praise for You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye:
“A vivid, painful believability.” (recommended)
— The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books
“Hermes, author of this…uncompromisingly candid story,
makes the reader aware of life's priceless moments and the
need for courage.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sensitive, touching account…”
—Instructor Magazine
You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye is the winner
of the following awards:
Notable Children's Trade Book from the Children's Book Council
Hawaii Nene Award
California Young Reader Medal
Iowa Young Reader Medal
Michigan Young Reader Medal
©2008 by Patricia Hermes
Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover photo © Corbis
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Originally published in 1982 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovitch, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hermes, Patricia.
You shouldn’t have to say good-bye / by Patricia Hermes.
p. cm.
Summary: During the autumn of the year, thirteen-year-old Sarah learns her mother is dying of cancer.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1325-0 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-4022-1325-5 (alk. paper)
[1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Death—Fiction. 3. Cancer—Fiction.] I. Title.
II. Title: You shouldn’t have to say good-bye. III. Title: You should not have to say goodbye.
PZ7.H4317Yo 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008004548
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my children—and for Jessie
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
“WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE KID, DID YOU EVER WISH YOU could walk on the ceiling?” Robin had turned her head and was looking at me sideways, her huge eyes seeming even wider than usual, her dark hair streaming away from her face and down over the edge of the bed. We were both lying flat on our backs, and Robin stretched her legs and pointed her toes straight up. Perfect legs, rounded just right, not like mine. Sticks, I have. Thirteen-year-old sticks.
“Huh, Sarah, did you hear me?” Robin was still looking at me. “Did you ever want to walk on the ceiling?”
“Yup, still do. I imagine the whole house upside down, and I walk on the ceilings and pick my way over the light fixtures. Really wish I could do it.”
“Yeah, me too.” Robin bent her leg and examined her bare foot. “My toenails are gross.”
“What's the matter with them?”
“I don’t know. They’re lumpy-looking.”
“Poor baby,” I answered. Perfect Robin, little doll-like face, huge eyes, thick, shiny hair, and a figure, small and curvy at the same time. I couldn’t feel too sorry about her lumpy toenails.
“I mean it. They’re really gross.”
“Tough. Robin, you know you’re pretty. What's it feel like?”
“What!”
“You heard me. You must know you’re pretty. What does it feel like?”
“You know what?” Robin sat up and crossed her legs. “It's a pain. It really is. Only junior high, and the boys all bother me; and most of them are creeps. There are some boys I like, but they don’t come near me. Sometimes I think they’re scared.”
“But it must feel good too, knowing everybody thinks you’re cute. Doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Robin recrossed her legs, burying her feet with her lumpy toenails under her. She looked sad.
“What's the matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something.”
“Yeah.” She paused. “Did you know my mother was a runner-up for Miss America? Miss Arkansas, she was.”
“Honest? I didn’t know that!” I tried to picture Mrs. Harris, Robin's mother, but I couldn’t. I just had this vague memory of a little woman at the end of the dark hallway at Robin's house, her hair twisted up in a towel, some kind of dark stuff on her skin. I had seen her only that once, because we hardly ever go to Robin's house. “So, why does that make you sad?” I asked. “You feel like you have to be Miss America too?”
“No!” Robin wriggled off the bed. “I’m bored. Let's do something.”
“What?”
“Play with your hamster?”
“I’m tired of him.”
“Ride bikes?”
I shook my head. “My bike's got a flat. Besides, I’m sick of bikes. There's no place to ride around here. Roller-skate?”
“Didn’t bring my skates with me.”
I made a face, but I didn’t suggest that we walk over to Robin's house to get them, even though she lives only a few minutes away. It's just understood that nobody goes to Robin's house. “Pooh! What then?”
Robin just shrugged. She still looked sad, the way she gets sometimes, and I realized we had to do something or we’d end up staring at each other all afternoon. I knew my mom would have some ideas, or at least she’d give us a good laugh. I opened my bedroom door. “Ma!” I shouted.
Mom hates being called “Ma,” and it's a joke between us. If I call her “Ma” she shouts back in an awful, super-loud voice, “What?”
There was no answer, but I could hear the typewriter going in her downstairs office. I waited until she paused, then shouted again. “Ma!”
“What?” she shouted back, and I could tell by her voice that she was laughing,
“Ma, we’re bored. What can we do?”
“Scrub the kitchen floor.”
“Mommy, dearest, we don’t want to scrub the kitchen floor. What can we do?”
“I have a whole list,” she called back, “but I can’t shout, so you’d better come down.”
Robin grinned at me, and we both ran downstairs. My mom is a lawyer, and her office is on the first floor of our house, with a side door for her clients. She set up her office at home after I was born so she wouldn’t have to be away from me all day. She said she sure wasn’t going to give up her work, the thing she loved most—besides Daddy and me, that is.
When we went into her office, she rolled her chair away from the typewriter and waved Robin and me into the big squashy chairs she has. “So”—she smiled at us— “you’re
bored, and yet you don’t want to scrub the floor?”
“Nope.” Robin smiled back at her, and as I watched, I smiled too. All my friends think my mom is neat, and it feels really good. Once, when we were little, we voted, and Mom was voted the best mom in the neighborhood. “Nope,” Robin said. “I hate scrubbing floors.”
“Smart girl,” Mom said. She turned to me. “Ride bikes? Roller-skate?”
“You can do better than that,” I said.
“Take your chicken for a walk? Dress up your dolls and put them in a carriage?”
“What?” Robin squealed.
“Imagine you’re a grasshopper,” Mom continued, and she began ticking things off on her fingers. “Paint a dog. Clean your toothbrush. Squeeze a turtle. Inspect your fingernails. Hold both elbows in one hand.”
We were both giggling now, and Robin tried holding both elbows in one hand. She didn’t do too well.
“Or make yourselves some Reuben sandwiches and take them out on the roof to eat.”
“Really?” This time I squealed.
“Really. I bought all the stuff for Reuben sandwiches.”
“Oh, Mom, you’re wonderful!”
“I know.” She smiled.
I love Reuben sandwiches. You make them with corned beef or pastrami and sauerkraut and cheese on rye bread and heat them in the oven until the cheese melts. Next to hot-fudge sundaes, they’re about my favorite food in the whole world. “But can we really eat them on the roof?” I asked.
“If you’re on the flat part over the garage—and if you don’t tell everybody in the neighborhood and get me in trouble.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I knew what Mom meant. She lets me do some things that other moms don’t let their kids do. Sometimes the other kids try it, and then their moms get mad at my mom—like the time when I was little and Mom let me paint myself all over with watercolors. The other kids saw it and they tried it too, but they used house paint on themselves. It was a disaster, and the whole neighborhood was upset for a week.
“And you have to wear sneakers,” Mom was saying. “No bare feet on the roof or you might slip.”
“Oh, Mom, that's great,” I said. Robin and I struggled up out of the stuffed chairs, and I went to Mom, wrapped my arms around her waist, and hugged her. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Ow!” She sucked in her breath and pulled away from me suddenly.
“What's the matter? Did I hurt you?” I hadn’t squeezed her that hard.
“Yes,” Mom said quietly. She rubbed a spot low on her back and wiggled around, as if she were trying to get rid of a hurting place.
“I’m sorry,” I said, puzzled.
“It's not your fault.” Mom smiled at me, but she seemed puzzled too. “I’ve had lots of sore spots there lately, little things. I don’t know why. Nothing, I guess.” She smiled again. “Now careful with the sandwiches in the oven, and if you need help, shout. And don’t forget the sneakers.”
“Sneakers taste terrible on a Reuben sandwich,” Robin said from the doorway.
Mom glanced at her, then burst out laughing. “Good girl!” she said.
I laughed too and looked at Robin. All the sadness was gone from her face.
Together, Robin and I turned to leave Mom's office, but as I closed the door, I looked back. She had rolled her chair back in front of the typewriter, and as I watched, she put one hand on that place on her back, a kind of puzzled look on her face again. But then she smiled. “Sneakers taste terrible on a Reuben sandwich.” She laughed to herself.
THE TROUBLE WITH REUBEN SANDWICHES IS THAT THEY take forever to prepare. It must have taken us an hour to assemble and heat them. Then we put our sneakers on and climbed out of the window of the spare bedroom and onto the garage roof. We settled down in a corner on the flat part near the section that goes up to the peak. It's a perfect place because you can see the street from there, but if you lean backward, toward the ridge, nobody can see you. We were halfway through our sandwiches when a tiny white car pulled up in front of the house and a fat man squeezed himself out. He waddled around the car to the sidewalk, staring up at the house as if he weren’t quite sure he was in the right place. “Hi, mister!” Robin shouted. “Look up here…”
“Hush up!” I tugged at her arm, yanking her back out of sight. “That might be one of Mom's clients!” Mom gets mad if I’m not dignified when she has clients.
Robin stayed with me back out of sight, but she was giggling. “Gosh, is he fat! Probably ate too many Reuben sandwiches.” She grinned. “Did you ever notice how fat people always have tiny cars? They look like they’re wearing them.”
I started to laugh. “Can you imagine what kind of car Julia is going to get when she grows up?”
Robin burst out laughing. Julia is a kid on our gymnastics team, and she's a good kid, but she's fat. She reminds me of the Pillsbury dough boy you see on TV. “A Volkswagen.” Robin giggled. She sighed then and stuffed the rest of her sandwich into her mouth. When she had finished chewing, she said, “I’m bored. Let's do something.”
“Robin! We’re already doing something. You’re a bird.”
“Yeah, well, I’m restless.” Suddenly, she began to smile. “I have an idea. I want to see what's going on in your mom's office.” She lay on her stomach and started wriggling toward the edge of the roof.
“What are you doing?”
She looked back at me. “Going to lean over the edge and see if I can peek in the windows. See what Fat Man is doing.”
“Robin, you’re going to get me in trouble! Now cut it out.”
She sighed again, but she crept back to me and sat up, cross-legged. “Okay,” she said. “Boring, boring, boring.” She looked around as though searching for something, then turned toward me, a little smile beginning to form again on her face.
“What?” I said. I knew something was coming.
“If your mother has a client, we can figure that they’ll be busy for a while. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Maybe even for hours. Right?”
“So?” I said.
“So-ooo.” Robin was smiling. “See that peak up there? I dare you to get up there and walk on it.” She was pointing to the top of the roof, to the ridge that ran the length of the house. “Bet you can’t do it,” she said.
“Bet I don’t want to do it. That's crazy.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“Robin, no! You’ll get killed.”
“Only if I fall,” she said, grinning.
“Ro-bin!” I tried to make my voice get the warning sound that Mom's does sometimes. “Don’t you dare!”
“I’m going.” She scrambled away on all fours and began climbing the sloped roof to the ridge. She was moving really fast, and even if I could have grabbed her, I didn’t dare for fear she’d fall.
“Robin, Robin, please stop! Please, you’re going to get hurt. Dead.”
“You forget that I’m a robin, a bird. You said so yourself. And birds don’t fall.”
“Funny,” I said, hoping it sounded as sarcastic as I meant it. Robin was still scrambling up, and as I watched her climb, my heart began to pound with fear. At the same time I was just a little jealous. I would love to do that, but I’m way too scared.
“I’m supposed to have a pole,” Robin called down to me. “You know, like those people in the circus who walk the wires— the pole out for balance?”
“Then why don’t you wait till you get one?” I realized it was a stupid thing to say and that Robin would know that it was stupid too, but I would do anything, almost, to stop her. She gave me a weird look over her shoulder and finished climbing to the peak.
“Hey, this is something,” she said after she had settled herself up there. “You can see everything from up here—the church, even the school.”
“So now that you’ve seen it, why don’t you come down?”
She just grinned at me then, with what she calls her fiendish smile, and began inching herself to a standing position
on the ridge of the roof. I watched her, fear making my throat so tight that I could barely swallow. She tottered a little, back and forth, her arms out for balance, but when she looked at me, she was grinning. “Well, here goes nothing,” she said, but even though she was smiling, she didn’t sound quite so sure of herself as she had before. And she was pale. Even from down below, I could see that, pale as a ghost.
“Robin?” I said softly. “Please?”
She either didn’t hear or pretended not to hear, and she started off across the roof, one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, arms out for balance. I couldn’t watch. I closed my eyes and prayed. “Please, God, please. Even though she's a nut, she's my friend. Don’t let her fall.”
I opened my eyes a crack. She was still there, making her way to the far end of the roof, her back to me now so I could no longer see her face. “Please, God, just a few more steps?”
My prayers must have been answered because she was at the end of the roof. Slowly, she inched herself to a sitting position and swung around to face me. She took a deep breath and smiled, but then, instead of crawling back, now that she had done it, she began to stand up again, as though she were going to walk back.
“Robin!” I shouted. “You’ve already done it! You’ve proved it. Now cut it out.”
She only grinned and began the trip back. Now that she was coming toward me, I could see the fear on her face. She was paler than I’ve ever seen anyone. She wasn’t going to faint, was she? Again, I couldn’t watch. I closed my eyes and swung around a little to face the street. And that's when I saw them—my mother and Fat Man, wide-eyed, clutching each other, staring up at the roof at Robin. I turned and looked back too. Robin had just completed the trip and she sank down behind me, creeping into a sitting position. “I did it! I did it!” She grabbed my shoulder.
I nodded, unable to speak, and Robin said it again. “I did…” Then I pointed to the street, to my mother, who looked as if she had just come alive and was rushing toward the house, raising one finger and shaking it at us. “I—did it,” Robin said, with sort of a sinking tone.
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