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like those injections do. I wish I could somehow give you a glimpse of the adult I am

going to become. I wish I could find a way to tell you if you will be a grandmother one day. I wish I could give you a big, huge diamond-and-sapphire necklace. It’s not the

kind of thing you’ve ever wanted, but I’d like to give you something truly fabulous. I

also wish I could give you a trip to Greece and Spain and Italy.

16. Mom, I would like to see those countries with you. I wish we could stand side by side and see the Mediterranean Sea together for the first time.

17. I wish I could crawl back in time and know you when you were a little girl. I wonder if we would have been friends.

18. How can I have you for dying?

11:06 P.M.

I stopped the list a while ago. Dad and Aunt Morgan are making a valiant effort to sleep in here.

I have tried but just can’t do it. Maybe later. I am writing this by penlight. (I can just barely see.)

Mom is asleep, but she doesn’t seem comfortable. She rustles around and lets out little moans and whimpers.

Dad is stretched out in his chair with his feet resting on the end of Mom’s bed. He looks like he’s asleep, but I don’t see how he possibly could be. Aunt Morgan is trying to sleep with her feet curled up underneath her. I KNOW she’s not asleep. She’s ruminating. (That’s what she told me.) She said ruminating sometimes helps her fall asleep.

Friday 3/19

2:32 A.M.

I did fall asleep. Not sure how it happened. And what just woke me up? Oh, Mom’s awake (I think).

2:35 A.M.

That was weird. I thought Mom was asleep, but she was lying in bed with her eyes open. In the middle of the night.

“Mom?” I said.

She didn’t answer.

Of course I thought she had died. So I called her name again. Very softly because I didn’t want to wake Dad and Aunt Morgan, who had fallen asleep after all. After a couple of seconds Mom said, “Sunny? Is that you?”

Couldn’t she see me? I wondered. Well, the room was pretty dark.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And she fell asleep again.

My heart is beating really hard and my palms are sweating.

2:41 A.M.

Should I be writing all these things down? I don’t know. I am chronicling my mother’s death. It doesn’t seem right.

2:53 A.M.

But I can’t be as terrible a person as I sometimes think I am, can I? I mean, I guess I could, but now I’m thinking about the things I wrote down for Mom. And I’m thinking about what a great mother she’s been. If she’s been such a great mother, she couldn’t have raised a horrible daughter, could she have?

These thoughts are so confusing.

I wish I could ask Mom about them.

5: 24 A.M.

I have been dozing since the last entry. Everyone is sort of dozing now. We sleep, then wake up, then sleep a bit more. Dad seems more awake than asleep now.

I just realized something. It’s another day. Mom made it through yesterday, and her doctor had thought she wouldn’t. Can it be that she’ll make it through today and tomorrow as well? I’m thinking of the k.d. lang song, the one about yesterday, today, and tomorrow. In the song the three days are unbearable. But they’re all I wish for Mom. I wonder. Will she have her three days after all?

6:55 A.M.

Oh god. Mom started barfing a little while ago. She has nothing at all in her stomach. How can she barf? It hurts her so much. It’s like when she was getting the chemo. It’s making her cry.

I don’t know if I should wish for those three days for her. Maybe that isn’t fair. Maybe it really would be better if she died.

6:57 A.M.

I can’t believe I wrote that.

7:30 A.M.

Carol just called to see how we’re doing and to find out how Mom is feeling. Then she said she has decided not to go into work today. She’s going to come over again and take care of things for us.

I remember that she has already said good-bye to Mom.

8:10 A.M.

Carol is here. She’s fielding phone calls and the doorbell. Dad and Aunt Morgan and I are camped out in Mom’s room again. Mom fell asleep about an hour ago and seems to be in less pain. The doctor will be here soon.

9:05 A.M.

The doctor just left. He said Mom doesn’t have much time left. Of course, yesterday he said he didn’t think she’d live until the end of the day and she’s still here.

I don’t know what to think.

10:24 A.M.

I’ve just had an idea. Maybe Mom can’t read my diary, but I could read it to her. I could read my list of things I want to tell her, so that I don’t forget any of them. Why not?

10:30 A.M.

Now I know why not. I asked Mom if I could read something to her.

“Of course, honey,” she whispered.

So I opened the journal to the list. I read items 1 and 2, and saw that Mom was sleep. I don’t know if she heard anything at all.

1:10 P.M.

Boy, this day is just dragging by. I feel like I’m sitting in a chair with a collar around my neck and someone has fastened a leash to the collar and is pulling and pulling at me and I’m not moving.

Events of the morning:

Mom sleeping

Dad and Aunt Morgan sitting

Carol answering phone calls

Two more deliveries from the florist

Fruit basket from the market

Surprise visit from Liz, Mom’s best friend from childhood, I gather, although I haven’t

seen Liz since I was five. Mom couldn’t even wake up when Liz said her good-byes. Liz

left Mom’s room sobbing; Carol comforted her.

At noon Carol insisted on fixing lunch for Dad and Aunt Morgan and me. (A few days

ago, Aunt Morgan would have done that. Now she’s just like Dad and me.) We all tried

really, really hard to eat.

Events of the afternoon:

None

11:30 P.M.

It’s happened.

It’s over.

Now I’m going to try writing about it. Everything. I don’t care if I have to write for hours and hours and hours. I feel as if I have nothing in my life but time. A gaping hole of time.

It started late in the afternoon. Carol was in the kitchen, Dad was in the front hallway saying good-bye to two people from the bookstore who were just leaving, and Aunt Morgan was taking a shower. (When she had said, “Maybe I’ll go take a quick shower,” I realized I couldn’t remember when I had taken my last shower. Yesterday? The day before that?)

I was alone with Mom.

She had been asleep. Suddenly she woke up. She looked very alert, which was strange since she hadn’t had an injection in quite a while. She saw me in my chair at the foot of her bed.

“Honey?” she said.

“Hi, Mom,” I replied.

“Sunny, could you go get Morgan? I want to talk to her for a few minutes. Then I want to talk to you, and then I want to talk to Dad.”

I thought of all those times in the last few days when something has happened to make my heart pound or my palms sweat. Now I heard these words, and I knew exactly what they meant, and I felt … nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just terribly, terribly calm.

“Okay,” I said.

I ran from the room. I hoped Aunt Morgan was finished with her shower. If she wasn’t, I thought I might have to haul her naked out of the bathroom and rush her to Mom.

I knocked on the bathroom door. “Aunt Morgan?” I called.

“Yes?”

“Aunt Morgan, Mom said she wants to talk to you. Now. And then she wants to talk to me and then to Dad.”

The door flew open. Aunt Morgan stood before me with wet hair, but she was already dressed, thank goodness.

“Oh my god. Okay,” she said.

She flew downs the stairs and into Mom’s room.

(It just occurred to me. Isn’t it funny how we switched so quickly from calling our dining room

“the dining room” to calling it “Mom’s room”? It was the dining room for so many years. We’ll probably never be able to think of it as just the dining room again.)

As Aunt Morgan ran to Mom, I caught up with Dad in the hallway. He was closing the door behind Arlie and James.

“Dad,” I said breathlessly, “Mom said she wants to talk to each of us alone. Aunt Morgan is with her now. Then she wants to see me, then you.”

Dad turned pale, but he simply said, “Okay.” After a moment, he added, “Are you all right with this, Sunny?”

“I think so.”

Dad and I slumped into chairs in the living room and sat there wordlessly, hardly moving. A few minutes later Aunt Morgan slipped out of Mom’s room. Tears were streaming down her face.

She headed into the kitchen. To be with Carol, I guess.

And I stood up and walked into Mom’s room.

I sat on the edge of her bed.

“Hi,” I said.

Mom smiled at me.

Then I leaned over and put my arms around. I feel against her and began to cry. Mom stroked my hair.

“It’s almost time,” she said to me.

“I know.” I began wildly trying to recall the list I made. But I couldn’t even remember how many things I wanted to say, let alone what they were. Something about Greece and getting married and when Mom was little and when I was little.

“I love you, sweetheart,” said Mom.

“I love you too,” I replied. “You’re the best mother in the whole world.”

“And you’re the best daughter. I couldn’t have ordered a better one.”

I tried to smile, but instead I cried harder.

Mom held me as tightly as she was able. “You know,” she said, “I’ll always be with you, even if I’m not here.”

“Yes.”

“You and Dad — remember to take care of each other.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of Dawn a little too, and she’ll take care of you. And go to Carol for anything. You know you can do that, don’t you?”

“Yes. … Mom, I love you so much.”

“I know.” She paused. Then she said, “I love you big,” just like she used to say when I was little.

I stood up. It was time to get Dad. And after Dad had his time with Mom, he and Aunt Morgan and I were going to sit with her until the very end came. We decided this, the four of this, several days ago.

I sat by myself in the living room. Aunt Morgan and Carol were still in the kitchen and I felt like being alone. Ten minutes went by. Then Dad leaned out of Mom’s room and said, “Sunny,

please get Aunt Morgan and come in now.”

I jumped to my feet and ran to the kitchen. I was shaking all over. “Aunt Morgan,” I said, and I realized my voice was shaking too. “Dad says to come in now.”

Carol hurried to me and buried me in a hug. Then Aunt Morgan and I went back to Mom’s room and sat on the bed. We found Dad next to Mom, holding her in his arms. I sat on the side of the bed and took Mom’s hand. Aunt Morgan sat at the foot of the bed.

It really was time.

I couldn’t believe it.

Mom and Dad and Aunt Morgan and I sat on the bed in silence for a moment or two. Then I took Aunt Morgan’s hand with my free hand so she could feel more connected to Mom. Finally Mom said, “It’s time.”

I squeezed her hand ore tightly.

Mom closed her eyes. “I love you,” she said to us. “Take care of each other. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Dad and Aunt Morgan and I said.

And then … we all sat there for nearly two hours. Mom’s breathing changed. Sometimes she didn’t take a breath for ten or twenty seconds. Her eyes became all glassy. Then, finally, they closed. I watched her chest move up and down. And then … I don’t know what changed

exactly, but it was as if I could see the fight leave her. She began to look more peaceful. More and more peaceful. Her chest was barely moving. Then it was still for a very long time.

I started to cry.

Dad and Aunt Morgan were crying softly too.

At last Dad said, “I think she’s gone.”

And she was. Nobody moved for a few minutes, though.

Finally, Dad stood up and cleared his throat. I ran from the room and straight into Carol’s arms.

After that — it was as if the house had been asleep for a long, long time and suddenly it woke up. We made thousands of phone calls. The doctor returned. People came by.

All I could think was, what do we do now?

Saturday 3/20

4:45 A.M.

THIS ISN’T HAPPENING

5:08 A.M.

When am I EVER going to be able to sleep again?

5:31 A.M.

It is Saturday morning and my mother is dead.

5:38 A.M.

The funeral will be held on Monday. Monday morning at 11:00. Dad arranged that last night.

The service will be held at the Palo City Unitarian Universalist Church. I haven’t been there in a few years, but Mom and Dad used to go pretty often, especially before Mom got sick. The only reason they stopped going was because Mom was in the hospital so often. And when she was at home she usually didn’t feel well enough to go out. She and Dad did go to church a couple of times this year, though. And the minister, Jim, came over to our house quite often. I like him.

He isn’t phony. Very straightforward. And very open. The good thing about the UU church is that it is accepting of all kinds of people. It isn’t judgmental.

5:50 A.M.

I can’t believe that my mother is dead and I’m analyzing churches.

6:00 A.M.

Mom, I miss you already.

6:09 A.M.

Dad’s up. I can hear him moving around in is room. He’s crying. Should I go to him?

I can’t go to him.

Dad is in his room now. It’s Dad’s room only. It’ll never be his and Mom’s again. Can Dad bear it?

Can any of us bear any of this?

10:00 A.M.

Our house is like Grand Central Station. I wish everyone would just go away and leave us alone.

Why are they bothering us?