Miss Barbara, Randi’s nurse, comes over and holds me. “Darling, you’re a blessing. I prayed God would give Randi a friend, and you showed up. You were there for her when she needed a friend the most. You made her last days bearable. She told me so. She knew how much you cared for her. She remembered all of the good times you shared together. And she would want you to remember them too.” Somehow, Miss Barbara’s words and the warmth of her hug comfort me, and I calm down. Maybe God did answer one of my prayers. I just didn’t expect the answer to be me.
We miss the turn to the gravesite and get lost, so Dad decides to go straight home. As soon as he opens the door, I run into my room to change. Even my clothes look like they were crying. I wash my face and try to remove every scent of the funeral.
Sometime later—I lost track of time—there is a knock at the door. I have no idea who it could be, but I answer it. Mr. Picconi hands me my blue sweater I must have left behind. “Rita found this on the floor. Hey, that was a quick change. Are you a superhero in disguise?”
I try to stop my eyebrows from scrunching. Does he mean I changed from sad to happy? Does he think I was pretending to cry before? Does he think I don’t care about his daughter or that I won’t miss her? That I was faking the tears? It doesn’t occur to me that he means I changed into pants and out of my dress as fast as Wonder Woman until I walk by the hall mirror.
All I want to do is climb into my bed, sleep, and erase this day.
Chapter 39
Time makes no sense. It races away when I’m on vacation, when I want time to stop. But when I want time to speed up, when there is something I want to forget, time stalls. I’m waiting for the day when I forget I can’t go over to Randi’s after school. I’m waiting for the day I can look out the window and not imagine her lying on her bed alone that last hour. Will I ever be able to talk to her family without feeling sad or thinking about their sadness, seeing her in their faces? Hartwell Drive will always be the street where a young girl, my friend, died of cancer.
Every morning, I run down the driveway to get the mail. I yank open the mailbox that never worked smoothly after Mr. Picconi hit it, and glance over to Randi’s. Every morning since she died, Mr. Picconi sits on their front step, the same step where on hot summer days Randi used to sit and eat her turkey sandwiches on rainbow-colored plastic plates. Now Mr. Picconi sits there, staring straight ahead like he’s watching a baseball game on TV—a game that’s been delayed from rain. Is he waiting for life to start as he stares all day long from Randi’s steps?
A week goes by, and a month. A slow, painful month. I start going to Nina’s house more often. She understands why I didn’t spend much time with her during Randi’s last weeks. Nina’s house is still a great escape from Hartwell Drive, but I’m not hiding from friendship troubles anymore. I’m avoiding memories. Mom drives me over to her house or I ride my bike, and when I’m there, I can laugh again.
Hanging out with Nina doesn’t bring back the guilty feelings I would have if I hung with Isabelle again. Isabelle has been nice to me and has invited me over. I’m sure she feels sad about Randi, and guilty too, for taking me away from her and for teaming up with Becky. But I still can’t be around her.
Hartwell Drive is not the same anymore. Around the block, kids play games but not near Randi’s house. I don’t know if it is out of respect for what the Picconis are going through, for fear of seeing them and not knowing what to say, or because parents told them to keep a distance. There seems to be an invisible fence set to protect and isolate the Picconi’s home, letting them grieve alone. I haven’t seen Michael outside once since the funeral.
Another month passes, and Hartwell Drive is almost normal again. It’s the middle of August. Kids ride bikes in the street, swim in pools, and run through sprinklers. Mr. Picconi doesn’t sit on the steps for hours at a time anymore. Instead, he’s in constant motion around his lawn. He mows, plants, weeds, and trims until dark. In the evening, he and Mrs. Picconi take walks around the block like they used to. Even Michael is outside playing baseball again. Is their mourning less painful when they are busy?
There’s also something new: a For Sale sign on the Picconi’s lawn. I can’t imagine them not living next door, even though I haven’t talked with them much since the funeral—just the occasional hello. The Picconis are still our neighbors. No one else could live there.
Mom hangs up the phone and says, “Mrs. Picconi wants us to come over. She’s clearing out her basement and found some things she wants to give us.”
“Do I have to? I don’t want to go in their house.”
“I know it’s hard, but you need to stop wondering what it’s like in Randi’s house. I need to do that too. And I need your help carrying boxes, so let’s go.”
Mrs. Picconi hugs me at the door. “By the way, happy birthday. I can’t believe you’re a teenager now.”
“I can’t believe it either,” Mom says. “These years go so fast, it seems like yesterday that I was pushing her around in a stroller.”
Please stop, Mom, before we all start crying. Mrs. Picconi must be thinking about Randi’s stroller days, and that she never got to be a teenager.
We follow Mrs. Picconi down the hall, and I try not to think of Randi, but she’s everywhere. I hear her in her den singing along with Billy Joel. I see her sprinkle glitter at the table. I smell her “Bounty fresh” clothes. I go down the basement stairs and feel Randi’s soft hands showing me how to run Michael’s train set.
“Francie, can you get the box I left on the kitchen table?”
“Sure.” I’m glad she didn’t ask me to go upstairs. I can’t. Walking by the counter, I notice the drawing I made for Randi’s birthday card. Someone framed it in pale wood that has the words Best Friends printed along each side. I miss you Randi.
Mrs. Picconi comes into the kitchen and stands next to me. She puts her arm on my shoulders. “I know,” she says.
“Ouch!” Michael’s remote control car crashes into my ankles and races away, spoiling the moment. I hear Michael giggle in the other room.
Chapter 40
It’s not the sound of birds chirping that wakes me up today, it’s the crashing sound of truck doors slamming. I look out my window and see a moving van that takes up half the street in front of the Picconi’s house. They are going to Maryland.
Almost a year has passed since Randi died. Even though the For Sale sign sat on their lawn, I didn’t believe it would happen. I prayed they would change their minds and stay. God never answered me or explained the “whys,” but I think he did sew a patch on my hurting heart. Last Sunday, I actually paid attention in church. I heard how much he loves everyone. That was the first stitch. I realize now that the sign on their lawn, and the move, are ways to get rid of some of the painful memories. Maybe God will bless them in Maryland to make up for their suffering. Maybe he has other reasons that are too hard for me to understand.
It’s Saturday, so I take my time getting ready. Like a magnet, I am pulled to the window to watch the movers take the furniture that created the warm atmosphere in their home and stack it in the truck. I know every piece and where it sat in their house. I can’t imagine how their house looks now. Will I feel worse when strangers move their things into Randi’s house—into Randi’s room? The Picconis put everything they owned in the truck, but they couldn’t pack their house. Whenever I look over at that house, I will see them and I will see Randi.
I need to say good-bye to the Picconis today, but I don’t want to walk into the empty house. All of the memories have been removed, and I have my usual problem—I don’t know what to say. The truck is getting fuller, and there’s not much time before they leave. I toss clothes on my bed, trying to figure out the right outfit for this cool spring day, and I hear Mom at the front door.
“Hi Guys. Come on in. Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks, but Sal wants to get an early start. We need to get the last stuff in the car and get going. We just came to say good-bye to
our special neighbors.”
“We thought we would have another week to get organized, but I got a call from my new company, and they want me to start work on Monday. It’s a rush, but I’m excited to work again.”
I slip my pants and shirt on, brush my teeth, and run out barefoot. Laurie tags along behind me in her nightgown. Mom is already hugging Mrs. Picconi. The two of them are crying. I walk outside just in time to see Dad hand Mr. Picconi the portrait he did of Randi.
“No! Don’t give that away, please?”
Dad turns red and gives me a puzzled look, but I don’t care. I remember the day she posed. That drawing is how I want to remember her.
“Come here, Francie.” Mrs. Picconi holds her arms out to me. I dissolve into tears as she hugs me tightly. “That’s okay. You keep the portrait. She’d want you to.”
Mr. Picconi hands the portrait to me as Mrs. Picconi, who always knows what to say, continues. “You will always have a place in our hearts. You’re a sweet girl. We’ll miss you.” She places the framed drawing I did for Randi for her birthday on the table along with the journal. “I want you to keep these too. Randi would want you to have them to remind you of your special friendship. She never got to write her story in the journal, but maybe you’ll write your own story in it.”
I smile and thank her through tears once again.
Mr. Picconi hugs Laurie, and then he hugs me. “We’re going to miss our crazy neighbors.” It’s good to hear him joke again.
We high-five Michael and hug him too. Our good-byes are done. The Picconis walk out our door for the last time.
Then Michael is back. He races through the door for the matchbox car he left on our couch and grabs another hug from Mom. I wonder if he left it on purpose. He waves again with his eyes down, hidden under his Mets baseball cap.
Not long after, I hear a horn honk. We rush outside to wave to the Picconis as they drive off. Maybe this will be the last time that lump strangles my throat. Waving to them makes me think about how I said good-bye to each member of their family, except Randi—the one I knew the best. She moved away forever, and I never got to say it. I guess she knew how I hate good-byes.
Good-bye is an ending, and I hate endings. I hate to finish reading a book. I hate the end of a good movie. I hate the last spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Maybe we didn’t get to say good-bye because it wasn’t the end of our friendship.
Randi was taken away too soon—like a glistening bubble blown on a sunny day that pops soon after it rises. But the bubble doesn’t just vanish. The water has to go somewhere.
Randi isn’t gone. She just leaped off her steps—straight into heaven. I don’t know what other steps I’ll have to climb, but when I reach the end, I bet Randi will be there, dangling her feet at the top. She’ll hand me a slice of angel food cake swirling with extra-thick chocolate frosting and pink flowers. It will be the beginning.
In loving memory of my childhood friend.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my editor, Jeanette Atwood Morris for her insightful editing and for encouraging me with praise and prayers. She understood the depth of my emotion poured into this story.
I want to thank my husband, Gene, for listening to my ideas and revisions and giving his honest opinions, for loving me with all my obsessions and crazy writing schedule.
Thank you to my parents and sister, Laurie, for reading my story, helping me with details and encouraging me through the years.
Thank you to my mother-in-law, Clementine, for reading my first draft and sharing her home so I had a place to write.
And I have to thank my dear friend Amy Katz for reading each beginning chapter at Starbucks, for making me laugh and sharing my joys and sorrows.
I thank the many adults and children who read my first edited copy and gave their opinions: Lilly Conforti who gave such great advice, Cheryl Carter, Janae Carter, Paula Servellon, Mary McDonagh, Gigi Van Deckter, Nicki Van Deckter, Eve Hedges, Ali Marshall, Kyla Norton, Sara Martin, Deana Hepner, Kathy Oster, Mara Swanson, and my daughter, Jordan. I will always treasure the time Jordan read Randi’s Steps out loud to me.
And most of all, I thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus, for being my comfort and providing the peace that passes all understanding.
My heart and prayers go out to all the families who have had to suffer through a time of childhood cancer, especially my cousin, Jenny, and her husband, Reggie, who lost their beautiful four-year-old daughter to brain cancer.
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