You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye (13 page)

I stood up then and turned to Daddy. “What did she want before when she looked at me like that? I don’t know!”

“To live.” Daddy was crying. “To see you grow up.”

“But I couldn’t give it to her, and she died!”

“It's not your fault. None of us could make her better. But she did want you to know something.”

“What?” We were both crying so hard that I could barely see
him, and I don’t think he could see me, either. But he held something out to me.

It was a small package, wrapped in shiny silver Christmas paper and tied with red ribbon and a bow.

“What is it?”

“It's from Mom. She's been writing it for you. It's a letter. Maybe you’d even call it a book. Things she wanted you to know. She started it a long time ago. She wrote the last thing in it this morning.”

I took it and tore it open. What did she say? What did she want? It was a book, one of those blank books you can buy, and she had written in it, filled it, almost, with her writing. I looked at the first page, but then flipped through quickly to the last—to the last thing she had wanted me to know.

I
AM LYING ON MY BED, AND IT’S ALMOST DARK NOW. I AM IN the house alone, as I have been every afternoon for the past three months when I come home from school—alone except for Flicker and for Feisty, my cat, who's curled on the bed beside me. I am reading again the book from Mom and listening to my favorite record on my stereo. The book is getting worn out from my reading it so much, and I have memorized parts of it. Some make me happy, and some make me sad. There are pages where Mom jokes with me, and those parts make me saddest. I never knew I would miss her so much. It's funny, though, it's been a whole week since I’ve taken the book out, and I used to read it every day.

I’m doing something else now, and Mom would be surprised if she knew. I am keeping a notebook of my own. It's a thick spiral notebook that I bought with some of my Christmas money. In it, I write everything I do each day, and everything I think, sort of keeping track of things. When I learn something new, I write it down—like I’ve learned to do the laundry, and I’m not a bad cook at all. I’m even reading some of the books Mom bought for me, some of those grown-up authors she wanted me to know. But the most important parts are the feelings.
I’m doing that because of what Mom wrote to me those last two days she wrote in this book, the day of the gymnastics show, and Christmas Eve day.

I always used to turn to that part of the book first, so that now I have it memorized and hardly even have to look at it. On the day of the gymnastics show, she wrote this, and I can almost hear her saying it in that breathless way she had. “Sarah, today is the saddest day of your young life. The hardest and most important thing that anyone must do is to let go. When I am gone, you must let go of me. Not stop loving me. Not stop remembering me. But keep what I’ve given you. Keep what's important to you, and let go of the rest. And go on. You have Daddy to love and care for. And Grandma and Grandpa. And Robin, and even her mom. And the Arnolds. And so much. But most of all, you have yourself. Maybe, because of what is happening to you, you will always be lonely in some small corner of your heart and soul. Don’t run from that. It will make you tender. And strong. Sarah, I love you so much, and that love will always be in your heart. So, I’m not completely gone, am I?”

That part used to make me really angry. “Yes, you’re gone,” I wanted to yell at her. “Being in my heart doesn’t make me less lonely. I want to
see you!”
That's why I started writing, sort of as if I were writing to her, telling her how mad I am, and everything else I’ve been feeling. Funny, though, lately I don’t feel I’m writing it for her so much. I almost feel as though I’m writing it for my own kids, although I don’t know that I’ll ever marry and have kids. But writing helps because it helps me understand
things. Yesterday, Robin told me her mother has been sick again and hasn’t gone out of the house for a week. I told Robin that it's all right. See, you don’t get all better suddenly. It's a little better, and then a little worse, like that game of giant steps we used to play—a big step forward, a little step back. So I know she’ll get better again. Like me. Some days I cry all the time. Other days, hours go by and I don’t even think of Mom. That made me feel guilty at first. But I’m getting used to it a little, and Daddy says he sometimes feels the same way too.

It's weird with Daddy now. We share so much more than we used to, and that made me feel guilty for a while too, as if I wasn’t being loyal to Mom because she and I used to share all those things. But I guess it's all right, and I guess Mom wouldn’t mind because she did tell me to love and care for Daddy…

The phone just rang, and it was Robin. She's coming over, and together we’re going to make dinner for us and Daddy. We’ve done that a couple of times, and it's fun. She said she got a seed catalog, too, and she's bringing that over. We’re planning to fix up the garden in the spring, so it will be pretty outside the morning room, just the way Mom planned it. At first I thought I was doing the garden for Mom, but now I’m not sure who I’m doing it for. Maybe for Daddy. Maybe for me.

I know one thing for sure, though. I know it because Mom wrote it, the last thing before she died. I know it because she's right. Of all the things that have been said since she died, it's the one thing that has helped. It was on the last page, and it's the only thing she dated. She put a time on it, too: 1:00, December 24.
“Sarah,” she wrote. “Don’t let anybody tell you differently. What we’re going through stinks. It just plain stinks.”

I think anyone else who saw that would laugh. But I know what she means, and she's right. I know I’m getting better. I know Daddy's going to get better. I know I’m growing up and learning a lot of things. And spring is coming, and I know I’m going to plant a garden. But I know something else. Mom is dead. And it stinks.

PATRICIA HERMES IS THE AUTHOR OF ALMOST FIFTY BOOKS for readers from early middle grades through young adult, as well as two nonfiction books for adults. Her books have won many awards and recognitions: American Library Association Best Book, Smithsonian Notable Book, C.S. Lewis Honor Book, Ira Children's Choice, as well as many state awards, four of them for the novel,
You Shouldn’t Have to Say Goodbye.