Mr. Picconi watches Randi too, and drinks wine—too much wine. He jokes with the waitress. “Where’s the cake? We’d like to sing for this year’s birthday, not next year’s!”
Mrs. Picconi nudges him. “That’s enough,” she whispers through clenched teeth.
Randi opens her eyes. They are swimming with tears. “Yah, stop it, Dad. I can’t take this anymore. Your stupid drinks are ruining our family. You pass out, Mom cries, Michael cries, and I’m still sick. Why are you doing this to yourself? To us? We need a dad.”
The party is silent.
Mr. Picconi pushes back his chair and mumbles something. It sounded like “sorry pumpkin,” but I’m not sure what he said. He heads for the restroom.
I trace the checkerboard pattern on my plate with a French fry. Randi’s cousins are twirling their ice cubes with a straw. I’m relieved when the waitress arrives with the cake, and we sing “Happy Birthday.”
As our table bursts out in song, people at another table stare and whisper. Are they interested in a birthday party, or are they wondering why a young girl looks the way she does? Though I can’t read their minds, I am angry with these nosey neighbors. I imagine them making fun of this overweight girl with a crew cut whose dad is too loud.
After the cake, we play some of the arcade games. Randi climbs into the mini-corvette seat and calls me over. I plop down next to her, and we race the Indy 500. Randi is lively again, shouting “Go! Go!” at the screen as she tries to win the race. It almost makes up for the awkward dinner.
“Watch out! I’m catching up to you,” shouts Randi.
“No, you won’t. I’ve got one more lap.” I want Randi to win though. “Hey! You knocked me off the road! No fair!”
“See—I told you I’d catch up!” Randi giggles.
Mr. Picconi reappears and stands behind us, watching. When the game stops, he leans over the seat and says something to Randi. She glances my way. “I’ll be right back.” She gets up and follows him outside. I keep playing, but it’s hard to drive when I can see them hug through the window. Mrs. Picconi and Michael join them in their hug like a football huddle. I smash my car into a field of cows and lose the game.
As we gather up our party bags filled with lollipops, a yo-yo, and a rope bracelet, a girl about Randi’s age from the whispering table approaches us and hands Randi a miniature stuffed polar bear wearing a birthday sash.
“Here … happy birthday. I won it at the arcade games, but I thought I’d give it to you since it’s your birthday.”
“Thank you. That’s so nice of you.”
I’m glad I was wrong. I guess I’ve become Randi’s guard dog. If anyone dares to make one wrong move—a curious stare, a nasty comment—I want to attack. It’s a good thing I didn’t bite this time.
“Did you have a good time?” Mom opens my goody bag.
“It was okay. I liked playing the arcade games. The cake was too sweet, but I liked my hamburger. Mr. Picconi drank too much wine. Mrs. Picconi and Randi got mad at him, but they worked it out. It was just uncomfortable.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Mr. Picconi is going through a rough time. He needs our prayers too.”
I nod, but I doubt prayers will help him, especially mine. I prayed that God would make Randi get better. But she’s worse. I prayed that he would give her another friend, but she’s still stuck with me. What will happen if I pray for Mr. Picconi? My prayers are more like a curse.
Chapter 37
“Francie, wake up! Do you know what day it is?” I roll over and crack my eyes open. My sister’s head blocks the glaring sunrise coming in the window. “It’s Friday. That means our hair appointment is just one day away. Can you believe it?”
“Uh huh. Good night. It’s too early.” I pull my quilt over my head.
Every day after school I get to hear Laurie’s countdown. It started the first day of June: twelve days to our perms ... twelve ... eleven days ... ten ... and so on. We’re getting closer to blast off.
Yesterday I told Randi that I was getting a perm, but no one else knows. I’d rather surprise everyone at school with my new look. Although most kids there probably don’t care what my hair looks like, someone may notice. If it comes out nice, I’ll enter one of those modeling contests in the magazine.
I can’t concentrate on my schoolwork today. I keep thinking about my hair appointment and looking around to see which girls have perms. I’ve counted eleven who I am sure used to have straight hair.
***
Finally Saturday. Laurie forgot to say blast off.
Laurie and I are escorted to our side-by-side chairs where Kathy and Linda, our chic stylists, begin rolling our hair and pinning it. We scrunch our faces and laugh at how silly we look. Magazines help pass the time, but it takes more time than we can handle sitting in one spot. Mom did warn us. We thought she was kidding when she told us she was going home and would come back later. Wow! She definitely made the right decision.
Next, we have to sit under hair dryers like Wilma and Betty from the Flintstones cartoon. At least our dryers aren’t made out of stone. Across from us sit two old ladies who must be regulars. They call the hairdresser over and tell her the time is up. The hairdresser agrees.
“I don’t want it as tight as it came out last week,” whines the one with the bluish hair.
I can’t imagine doing this every week. You have to be at least eighty to think this is a rockin’ time. I am about to scream and run out of here—just give up on the whole curly hair idea—if I have to sit any longer. This better be worth it.
I’m starting to worry that I might look like a poodle or like that old lady. I’ll have to lock myself in my room until it grows out.
“Laurie, are you awake?” I guess not. My eyes keep shutting too. The constant humming of the dryers could put anyone to sleep. Waiting and waiting for the timer…
Dinggggg. Kathy comes over and lifts the dryer off. “Are you ready for the grand finale?”
“Definitely!”
“Well, let’s go!” My scalp tingles as she unwinds the curling rods to reveal shoulder-length strands of spirals. I’m fascinated. I’ve never had the slightest bend to my hair. At the same time, Linda unrolls Laurie’s hair. She looks amazing.
My hair looks so full. Is it too full? Do I look like I stuck my finger in a socket? I hope that’s not what kids at school will say. I hope Todd likes curls. My hair feels soft and bouncy, but it is such a change. I can’t decide if I like it or not. One thing’s for sure—I will tell my parents I love it.
“Do you love it?” Kathy asks with a beaming smile as if reading my mind. “You look awesome! You must have a terrific hairstylist.”
Right on cue, Mom walks in. I can see her through the mirror, paying the cashier. As she walks toward us, I watch her, anticipating her reaction.
“You both look beautiful.” Judging by Mom’s facial expression, however, I’m not sure I believe her. She is half-smiling, phony, and not like herself at all. Now I’m worried. Is she going to tell us the truth in the car? Will she say we look awful and it was a waste of money? Actually, that’s more Dad’s style. Mom would say it in a softer way, like “You look pretty, but your straight hair was nice too.”
Laurie and I sit down in the backseat. Mom gets in and slams the front door. She must hate our perms. She hasn’t said a word since we walked out of the salon and hasn’t even started up the car. Mom’s eyes stare at us through the rearview mirror.
“Girls, I need to tell you something. Some bad news . . .” Mom begins, but pauses to take a breath. My heart is pounding out of my chest. “Oh, this is so hard.” Mom turns around to face us. “This morning ... Randi went into a coma.”
I’m not sure I know what happens in a coma, and I’m sure Laurie doesn’t know. But the tone of Mom’s voice tells me it’s serious—just like when I first heard she had cancer.
Laurie starts crying. “Does that mean she died?”
“No, it means she is in a deep sleeping state and c
an’t wake up.”
I am not crying, just in shock. “How long will she stay like that? Can she get out of a coma?”
“I don’t know. No one does. She could come out of it, but she might not.”
“So where is she?”
“She was in her bed when I left, but is probably at the hospital by now. She never woke up today.” Mom wipes her eyes, starts the engine, and we drive toward home. In the rearview mirror, I see tears on her cheeks. I should be crying by now too, but I can’t. I picture Randi lying on her pink bed, sleeping heavily. Any minute now, she will wake up. She has to.
The ride home is painfully slow—as if the car is standing still. But even without moving, we arrive. Before I can get out of the back seat, I hear a strange noise, like a screeching bird. “What is that sound?”
I open the car door. Now I hear it clearly. It’s screaming.
It’s Michael. He runs around the bushes between our houses and charges toward us, yelling at the top of his lungs. When he reaches the driveway, he collapses with his face in the grass, kicking and punching the ground with all his might. The screeching continues. I cover my ears. Mom rushes over to him.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Tell me.” Mom grabs him in her arms and holds him tightly.
“She’s dead! Randi is dead,” Michael gasps between crying spasms. Mom keeps hugging and rocking him. Her tears cascade onto his shoulder.
I can’t move my feet. I watch, mesmerized, as if I am watching a movie—a tearjerker. This isn’t real. Randi can’t be dead. I was over there yesterday. She was alive. We celebrated her birthday just last month. We celebrated her life.
I close my burning eyes. The salt stings and the lump in my throat is the size of a tennis ball. I don’t know what to do, so I run to my room.
Laurie is already sobbing in her room. I didn’t see her disappear. She must have run in right after hearing those horrible words: “She’s dead.” I hear them over and over again and again. I cover my head with my pillow and weep.
Chapter 38
Mom rubs my back and offers to cook me some food. Though eating is the last thing on my mind, I desperately need some water to quench the fire in my throat. I must have fallen asleep.
I start to get up. Big mistake. My head pounds. The room spins like I’m floating in a purple sky. After regaining my balance, I stumble by my mirror, stunned at the image before me. I already forgot about my long-awaited perm, which now looks like a tangled mess inviting some bird to land in it. A wavy imprint of my ruffled bedspread runs across my cheek like a scar. Swollen red eyes stare back at me. This is not the new look I imagined. In the mirror, I see Dad standing in my doorway.
“Hi, Dad.” I am afraid he’ll tell me how bad my hair looks, but he just hugs me silently. There is nothing to say.
I’m glad I can’t see into the Picconi’s house. Every room must reek of sadness. In our house, the mirrors are a problem for me. Every time I see my new hair, I see death. I’m angry I had it done. I never want to go back to that salon again. I’ll always remember that parking lot—where I heard about Randi’s coma, her last step before she died.
Mom warns me. “You should go in the other room while I make some phone calls. I told Mrs. Picconi I’d let the neighbors know that Randi’s funeral service is tomorrow. I also said I’d call their friends who’ve moved away. I hate calling people with such awful news.”
This is moving too fast. I’m not ready to go to her funeral this soon. I’ve been to one other funeral—my grandfather’s—but that was a few years ago, and he was Catholic. I don’t know what a Jewish service will be like. I hope there isn’t an open casket. I couldn’t handle that.
All night long, I had crazy dreams about the funeral. In one, I got lost and didn’t get there in time. I let her down. She wanted me to be there, where she could have talked to me, but I missed my chance. In the dream, my parents didn’t want me to go to the funeral. But it’s the day, and I know I have to be there.
After brushing my teeth, I rummage through my closet, a forest of spring colors. Half the clothes I’ve outgrown. Mom suggests wearing the navy blue dress I wore for Easter, except with a blue sweater instead of the white one it came with. Good enough.
I’ll definitely need a sweater since it feels chilly for mid-May. It’s overcast with bulging grey clouds. Maybe it was going to be sunny and warm, but God changed the weather with the news of Randi. It’s like all the angels in heaven are crying and the sky has collected their tears.
Laurie cries on the way to the temple. But I don’t. I think about death and heaven. Do people age there? Will she always look twelve?
My eyes fixate on the trees passing by at thirty miles per hour. Poplars, elms, oaks—they are traveling to a gathering in the forest. We are just parked in the car—not driving to a horrible funeral. Bent trees, deformed trees, proud trees, dancing trees, twisted trees, even diseased trees. I’d rather think about maples than seeing Mr. and Mrs. Picconi. And Michael.
In a last minute panic, I blurt out, “What do I say to her parents?” I can’t even utter the name Randi.
“You can say you are sorry,” Dad says as he pulls into a parking spot. We all get out, pop up our umbrellas, and walk across a garden full of flowers and stones to enter the temple’s side door. It would be beautiful if it weren’t pouring rain. Does it always rain for funerals?
Right away, Mrs. Picconi sees me and hugs me. My throat tightens as I manage to say, “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. You meant so much to Randi.”
My eyes fill up with tears at the sound of her name, and my heart is filling up with guilt. The words Dad told me to say are true. I am sorry.
I am sorry for being a horrible friend when she needed me most.
I am sorry for being selfish, making excuses and telling lies.
I am sorry for passing by Randi’s house every day and not stopping.
I am sorry for pretending she wasn’t there.
I am sorry Randi had to suffer alone and be sad at the end of her life.
I am sorry that I can never change what I did.
I am sorry that I can never get that time back.
I must be a symbol of Randi’s pain to her parents. They must hate me. I hate myself right now. I don’t deserve to sit near her family. We sit in the back row—my choice.
There are so many people here—so many I don’t know. Some look like they might be from the high school—coworkers of Mrs. Picconi. Some used to be in Randi’s class, like Kimmy. I also see a few teachers. One of them is Mrs. Grayson. It must be extra sad for her. Mr. and Mrs. Torelli, Isabelle, and Joey are here. They sit in the same row as Becky and her parents. Even Jake and Todd are here. Every seat is taken.
The service starts. I didn’t think I was going to cry, but I am. I can hardly pay attention. My eyes keep moving to the casket. The lid is down. I can’t believe Randi is lying inside that fancy grey box. Maybe that’s why some people do open caskets—to prove the person, the body, is actually inside.
The rabbi speaks, but not for long. Mr. Picconi gets up to say something. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a completely serious Mr. Picconi. He talks about Randi’s birth and how she grew up to be the ideal daughter.
“I knew she was strong from the first time she gripped my finger and batted her baby lashes. She was becoming quite the little gymnast as she got older, but her real strength was in her character. She was honest and kind and a fighter until the end. Even when she couldn’t go to school anymore, she worked hard to earn straight A’s. When Randi was in the hospital, she encouraged the other children and tried to make them laugh. I wonder where she got her silly side from?” He stops while a few people chuckle at his little joke.
“Her strength was definitely from her mom. Randi battled me to quit drinking. She had the wisdom to tell me that destroying myself wasn’t going to save her, but would destroy our family instead. Even in her pain, she could see my anguish. Her sad eyes made me want to quit. She never
gave up hope for me, even though I lost hope for her.
“I’m so sorry, Randi. I shouldn’t make excuses, but I couldn’t stand to watch you suffer, and watch you slowly die. I just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.” He sniffles and coughs back his tears. “Randi, for you I promise to stay sober. Randi, you were a beautiful jewel. We are going to miss you forever. We love you.”
Mr. Picconi places a flower on Randi’s casket and breaks down. People fumble for tissues. Some just wipe their eyes with their coat sleeves.
The rabbi introduces Michael. He wants to share some stories about Randi. I am trying hard to focus my glassy eyes on him.
“My sister was the best! She wasn’t like most girls. She didn’t play with dolls and stuff like that. She liked baseball and climbing trees. She even liked playing with matchbox cars. She was smart and funny. I wish she was still here. I am going to miss her so much!”
He breaks down too and walks off crying. Everyone around me is wiping away tears. This is the saddest day ever.
“Come and sign your name in the guest book.” Dad guides me to where it is.
The pen shakes in my hand, making it hard to write neatly. While I struggle to write, the gentle weight of a hand presses my shoulders. Assuming it’s Dad again, I turn around. But it’s Mrs. Grayson. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You must miss her.”
The dam breaks and I can’t control my grief. I’m crying, maybe even screaming too. I can’t tell. The last time I saw Mrs. Grayson was at Randi’s house. Randi and I were best friends. She doesn’t know about that in-between time when I abandoned Randi, the time I am so ashamed of. Seeing Mrs. Grayson reminds me of the time before cancer came and changed everything. People keep trying to console me, making it worse. I can feel others staring at me as they walk by, even Jake and Todd see me. I can’t stop sobbing, but I don’t care.
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