The Day Before (2 page)

Acknowledgments

Annette Pollert, thank you so much for your enthusiasm and all of your work to make this book the best it could be. On every page you pushed me—kindly and gently—but you pushed, and for that I’m incredibly grateful.

Sara Crowe, I cannot express how much I appreciate your rock solid support and belief in me. A million times, thank you.

Cindy Hanson of the Oregon Coast Aquarium, thank you for your help with my research. Any errors in regards to your fantastic facility are mine, and mine alone.

Bryan Bliss, thanks for asking around and helping me check very important facts. It’s true—you’re awesome.

Finally, I want to thank all of my fans who lift me up with kind words and deeds. People like Maddie, Alex, Kathleen, Sara, Jack, Alyson, Candace, Avonlea, Teresa, Hailee, Skyanne, Anna, Maryanne, Elizabeth, Jessica, Katie, James, Emma, Jasmine, Kristen, Lauren, Delaney, Savannah, and many other wonderful people. Your support means the world to me, really and truly.

a different kind of day

Some mornings,
it’s hard to get
out of bed.

Sleep lures you
like a stranger
with a piece of candy.

Follow me.
It will be okay.
I promise.

You know better,
but still you follow,
because you really do
love candy.

When you finally
open your eyes,
late for everything
and your whole day
screwed,
you curse that bastard,
Mr. Sandman.

It’s happened to me
a hundred times.
But not today.

Today was different.

Anticipation is the best
alarm there is, and it shook
me awake before
my phone even had
the chance.

As I move around my room
with my iPod on and earbuds in,
my girl P!nk sings strong,
and I feel like I have
superpowers.

The power to
let myself go,
let myself be,
let myself live
the next
twenty-four hours
in a way
I have never lived
before.

ready, set, go

In the bathroom
I get myself ready,
quiet as a sunrise.

I grab my backpack
containing
the essentials—
extra clothes,
just in case;
my drumsticks,
just because;
my camera,
just for fun;
and a box of jelly beans,
just like always.

I s l i n k
into the dark kitchen,
clutching the note
I wrote last night.

I thought of everything.

The note goes in front
of the food-splattered
Betty Crocker Cookbook
that sits on a stand
in the middle of the counter,
like a revered queen on her throne.

The hardest part
is unlocking the door,
walking out,
and leaving it all behind me.

There’s a moment
when the dead bolt clicks
and I

freeze,

waiting to hear
if footsteps
will follow.

The footsteps don’t come,

so I go.

practice makes perfect, I hope

So long.
Good-bye.
See ya later.

Every day
for the past month,
when I’ve left the house,
I’ve tried to pretend
it was the day.

So long, Mom.
I’ll think of you
when I watch movies,
see birds in the sky,
and read all your motherly notes
that I’ve saved over the years.

Good-bye, Kelly.
I’ll think of you
when I hear a violin’s song,
see a pile of library books,
and remember all the secrets we’ve whispered
since we were small.

And even though
he doesn’t live here anymore,
I still say to him,
See ya later, Dad.
I’ll think of you
when I hear about the latest techie gadget,
watch a Mariners’ game,
and bravely confront the spiders
you used to battle for me.

Today I think the words.

Tomorrow they’ll expect me to say them.
I hope I can say them.

good morning

The chilly air
slides its arms around
my warm, anxious body,
and as I breathe in
its faint floral scent,
I feel myself begin
to relax.

While Mom watched
the news last night,
I stayed and watched too,
instead of retreating
to my drum set.
The weatherman said
it’s supposed to be nice today.
A sunny day in March,
a rare treat for Oregon.
Next week is spring break.

It’ll be raining by then.

Sure as Mom will be
curled up on the sofa
with her afghan,
drinking tea by the gallon,
watching movie after movie,
and hoping,
wishing,
praying for an escape
from the heartbreak,
it will
r
a
i
n

I walk down the sidewalk
of Englewood Avenue.
Ten years of memories
line the street
and wave.

Images
of riding bikes,
jumping rope,
playing hide-and-seek
swarm my brain
like bees.

I shake my head and walk faster.

When I turn the corner,
the limousine is waiting.

The driver says, “Good morning.”
My response to him
is quick and awkward,
the way it is
when I have to say
those words to someone
I don’t know.

And then I tell myself,
You better get used to it.

Three years ago

Dear Amber,

It breaks our hearts that you don’t want to meet us. We are hurt, but we also understand that it is a bigshock. Perhaps you just need more time to get used to the idea.

We think about you every day, and have so manyquestions for you. What do you look like? What activities do you enjoy? What foods are your favorite?

I will tell you a little bit about us, and maybe as we move toward meeting one another, it will help you to not be so afraid.

The most important thing to know about me is that I love children. I have been a child-care provider for over twenty years. I get notes from parents telling me those first children I cared for years ago are now doing well in college!

Allen also loves children, and has spent his life working in the educational system, as a teacher, a vice principal, and now, for the past few years, a principal. He is the kindest man you’ll ever meet. He has a big heart with a huge capacity to love.

We’d love to hear from you. Please write back? I’ve enclosed our contact information along with our picture. I thought you might be curious about us the way we are curious about you.

We really hope to hear from you.

Love,

Jeanie and Allen

only good things

I don’t have to tell the driver
where we’re going.
He knows.
I arranged this weeks ago.

Since there’s no bus
that goes to the beach,
my choices were
a taxi or a limo.
I chose the limo
because the next
twenty-four hours
are not about
holding back,
being cheap,
thinking hard,
taking crap,
feeling bad.

They’re about
being me,
loving life,
finding joy,
playing hard,
taking risks,
and who knows what else.

To plan it all
would take away from
the fun and excitement
of what’s to come.

Let the day
reveal itself to me
in its own time,
in its own way.

I am yours, Today.

I am yours.

there is only one sky

As we head west,
the sun begins to rise
behind us,
turning the sky
sweet shades
of pink and orange.

The sky makes me think
of my mother.

When, as a curious five-year-old, I asked her
why she chose my name,
she explained
Amber means “sky”
in another language.

“You, sweetheart,”
she told me,
“you are my sky.”

I remember her answer
because I didn’t know
what it meant
to be someone’s sky.

As I stare out at
the body of blueness
splashed with orange,
pink, and white streaks,
so magnificent
I want to tuck the entire
masterpiece into my bag
and keep it forever,

I finally understand.

my mom

If I am her sky,
she is my sun.

Warm,
bright,
and
ever present.

Even in the darkness,
I am comforted knowing
she is there,
always there,
even if I can’t see her
or feel her.

While I play
loud and strong
on my drums,
she walks
quiet and soft
in the woods.

She looks for birds,
marks them in her book,
and finds joy in
discovering the new.

Peace and quiet,
two things she loves.
Noise and rhythm,
two things I love.

But as the sky
and the sun coexist,
each needing the other,
it’s the same with
me and my mom.

Sometimes, love is loud.
Sometimes, love is quiet.

Always, love is my mom.

not today

I wipe a tear away
and remind myself
I’m not riding
in a hearse.
This is a limo.
My limo.
And this day
is supposed to be
my day.

I grab my jelly beans,
fish one out,
and pop it in my mouth
without looking.

I play my guess-the-flavor game
whenever I think
too much,
too long,
or, like today,
at all.

Because when you
put something
on your tongue,
your mind focuses
on it almost
instantaneously.

First one.
Cotton candy.

And then another.
Very cherry.

It brings me
back to the moment,
and I want to live
the moment with everything I’ve got.

I grab a glass
and fill it with
sparkling water
because that’s all there is,
and besides,
me and alcohol
don’t mix.

One leads to two
leads to too many.
I tend to lean
toward extreme,
and I don’t like
where I end up
after I start down
that road.

I raise my glass
and toast to no one
and to everyone.

“To a good day,” I say out loud.

I drink the water,
the fizzy bubbles

sk ip pi ng

across my tongue.

That’s more like it.

sorry, Mom

As we drive
the tree-lined highway
toward my destination,
I wait for the inevitable.

When my phone rings,
I can see the panic in her eyes,
hear the fear in her voice,
feel the longing in her heart.
They are friends of mine—
panic, fear, longing.

I send her
to voice mail
so I can talk to my new friends
for today—
joy, happiness, and adventure.

“Hi, Mom.
I’m sorry I left so early.
I didn’t want tears this morning.
There will be enough of that
tomorrow.
I hope you understand.
This is the last day
of my before.
The day before it all changes.
Forever.

This is my day.

I promise I’ll call you
if anything comes up.
But I’ll be okay.
Try not to miss me too much.

After all,
it’s
just

one

day.

I love you.
Amber.”

how it has to be

These past weeks,
Mom has hovered close,
asking me to help her
with this thing,
that thing,
and another thing.

Today, I just couldn’t help her.

She’s a crier.
Watching movies—
kind of our thing—
she’ll cry whether
it’s a happy ending
or a sad ending.

Today, I had to help myself.

If we were together,
I’m afraid it would be one
long,
painful,
miserable day
of crying.

She’ll call my dad in tears.
Tell him I’ve left.
He’ll come over.
They’ll let Kelly stay home
from middle school.
They’ll be a family together,
without me.

Today, they’ll have to help
themselves.

And to their surprise,
they’ll survive.