If Only Page 13

  Hearing Chris introduce his dad like that makes it hard to breathe. I’m sitting next to him, which means that my turn is next. As soon as he finishes, I make a quick exit to the bathroom, and then bravely return to Ms. DuBoise’s office, hoping that I’ll be able to breathe again. Yasmine is in the middle of saying she still feels terrible about an argument she had with her dad on the phone the day before he died. I’m now the only one who hasn’t had a turn.

  “This is Sophie. She was forty-one when she died. She played the viola and she liked to sing in the car. Her favorite dinner was leg of lamb and roasted carrots. The thing I miss most about my mom is . . .”

  I pause. A few kids nod.

  “It’s hard to put into words.”

  “It’s okay. Take your time,” says Ms. D.

  “Well, she loved to laugh and she helped me plan really fun birthday parties. I could list a million things.”

  Some of the things the other kids miss are pretty intense, like: “the hugs he gave me,” “his smile,” “that safe feeling,” and “laughing together over stupid stuff.” Max says he feels bad that his dad didn’t get help for his depression and that he couldn’t prevent his suicide. Clare wishes she could tell her father how much she still loves him. Yasmine wishes no one ever invented bombs.

  I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt, trying to warm up. It’s not until I get home, make some tea, and cozy up with Maki on the sofa that I finally feel warm. While I was busy making the tea, Maki must have pulled Mom’s teddy bear out of my backpack and started chewing on the eyes, because now the eyes are all scratched and damaged.

  After rescuing the teddy bear and scolding Maki, I decide that I want to keep it forever. There are some things that seem weird to keep, like Mom’s toiletries. When Dad asks me about rearranging or giving away something that belonged to Mom, I usually tell him I’m not ready. Of course we want to keep most of her things, but we can’t keep every little thing forever. The first things we threw away were her old toothbrush and underwear. What about her glasses? Whenever we throw some small thing away, it kind of feels like we’re removing a part of her from our house. I guess I’m glad my dad asks me for help, but it’s really hard, too. How do you know when you are ready? At least he’s not asking Mrs. Simmons for advice!

  Meanwhile, I need to get some new clothes into the house for me, especially if Alex is actually going to be noticing me. Maybe I should get an orange sweatshirt. Except for the few things I ordered from the catalog, the bras I got at the mall, and my loose soccer clothes, everything is getting too tight or too short. When I remind Dad that I need to go shopping, he says, “Soon,” or “Maybe later.” But we never do anything about it. And I don’t want to ask Deborah. Things are complicated with her. I guess I’m going to have to rely on Joci’s mom, which means I better get over my problem with Joci and focus on her good qualities.

  I finally find an excuse to go see Miss Boppity Bop before school. I can’t stop thinking of her as Boppity Bop, but of course I call her Miss Beatty when I’m with her. I bring her a pumpkin muffin that I baked last night using Mom’s recipe. I bring two, so we can eat them together. She thanks me, and then she says she’s going to save it for lunch, so I leave mine in my backpack even though I’m hungry. My voice quivers as I ask her, “Miss Beatty, how did your mom die?”

  She sits down and adjusts her pretty scarf. “I guess I never mentioned that, did I? Well, she had multiple sclerosis. Have you ever heard of that?”

  “Is that MS?”

  “Yes. That’s right. She was sick for a long time.”

  “That must have been so hard.”

  “Yes, it was. You know that better than anyone, right?”

  “Yup.”

  I bite my lip. A few seconds later, the bell rings.

  “Thanks, Miss Beatty.”

  “Thank you, Corinna. Have a good day, sweetie.”

  The band concert is Thursday night. We have to wear white shirts and dark bottoms. I put on the only pair of black stretchy pants that still fit me, and they make me look like I’m going to an exercise class. Meanwhile, Alex is wearing his cool black shirt and gorgeous smile. I guess drummers can get away without the white shirt. I miss a few notes and I’m late on one entrance, but I hope they don’t stand out too much. No one turns around and stares at me or anything. The clarinets squeak a lot, which makes the flutes sound better in comparison. After the concert, I spy Mrs. Simmons in the hallway. What is she doing here? I try to avoid eye contact and look busy fixing my flute case, but she comes charging up to me like a bull. I worry that she’s stalking me, but she announces that she was here to watch her grandson, Steven, who plays the trombone.

  “Isn’t it great that Steven was asked to audition for the All State Band?” she says, bragging.

  I had no idea that Steven is her grandson. I instantly start feeling sorry for him. Then she asks me about all the signs covering the hallway walls.

  “Oh, they’re just reminders about the Valentine’s Day fund-raiser for the student council.”

  She’s probably trying to set me up with poor Steven.

  I’m still deciding who to send Valentine’s Day candy-grams to — Clare, Joci, Eliana, and Miss Beatty are definites, but I’m still unsure about Ms. Carey and Alex. I don’t want them to think I’m weird. Steven is not even under consideration.

  I find Dad waiting in the lobby, acting like he’s in a rush to go, so I don’t get to say bye to Alex. On the drive home, Dad says, “I know your mom would have wanted to see you play.”

  I don’t say anything back.

  Questions

  Our group meets again on Valentine’s Day. The girls in the group, including Ms. DuBoise and me, are all wearing some kind of pink. None of the boys are. We each write questions and then put them in a basket, without saying who wrote what. Then we take turns holding an unplugged microphone and fake-interviewing someone else, using one of the questions from the basket. I get asked, “Did you ever feel angry at the person who died?”

  I answer, “Yes, I sometimes feel mad at her for dying, even though I know it wasn’t her fault. I also got kind of mad sometimes when she was sick and we couldn’t do anything because we were always taking care of her.”

  Chris, the boy whose dad died from diabetes, says, “How could you be mad at the person who died?”

  That makes me feel terrible. Actually, I already felt terrible about having had that thought, but the truly honest answer is yes. I’m glad when Ms. D. says something about how lots of people feel mad at the person who died. Max says he’s incredibly mad at his father for killing himself and mad at his mom for lying to him. Then he says something that really bothers me. He says, “I’m glad my father didn’t die of a disease.”

  The room goes quiet. The silence lasts for a long time. Finally, Ms. D. says, “I think everyone is trying to understand and accept how their parent died. It’s a really hard thing to do.”

  When it’s my turn to read a question from the basket, I ask Yasmine, “Have you ever had a strange feeling when you ate something?”

  Yasmine, whose father was the one who died in the military, answers, “Yes, whenever I eat string beans, it reminds me of my father. He loved string beans.” No one else laughs, but I’m struggling to stuff down my giggle. Then I think about the coffee yogurt still sitting in our fridge. It’s expired, but neither of us wants to throw it away.

  The question I wrote to put in the basket is: “Do you ever dream about the person who died?” Clare reads that one aloud to Max, and I get a pit in my stomach, expecting to hear him talk about some gruesome details. He still hasn’t told us exactly how his dad died or even how he figured out the truth. I think we’re all afraid to ask him directly. I guess he’s really private about it. I wonder if he knows that kids have been asking questions about how his dad died. I have noticed that he uses the “I pass” rule more than the rest of us. Max tells us his dream about finding out that his dad is still alive, that it had been a case of mistaken ident
ity, and that his dad came back to live with them.

  Ms. D. reminds us that we have only two more meetings because she has to start the divorce group. Maybe Alex will be in that one. From the sound of his haiku poem, he could use it.

  When I make it back to the class after group, the student council reps are handing out the candy-grams. I get one from Joci, Clare, Olivia, Chris from our group — which is kind of a surprise — Eliana, and “a secret admirer.” I’m hoping the secret admirer is Alex, but I have no idea. The handwriting doesn’t give any clues because it’s in block letters. I chickened out of sending one to him, but I hope he is braver than I am.

  The phone rings. Could it be Alex?

  “You never call me anymore,” Joci says in an accusing tone.

  “Yes, I do,” I say defensively.

  “Well, not very often. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you doing for your birthday?”

  “We’re going to California to visit my aunt,” I say flatly.

  “That sounds fun, but what about a party with your friends?”

  “Nah, we’re doing the trip instead.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Well . . . thanks for the candy-gram. See you next week.”

  “You know, I didn’t do anything to you, Corinna. I’m just trying to be nice. I didn’t steal your stupid bracelet, and the only reason I told anyone about your mom last summer is because I thought people should know so they could be helpful.”

  “But I asked you not to!”

  “If I screwed up, I’m sorry. I already said I’m sorry, and I’ll say it again. I don’t know what else to say. I hope you can get over it.”

  “I’m trying to. It’s just not that easy because you really hurt me.”

  As soon as I hang up, I call Maki to my room and go to bed. Packing for our long weekend in California will have to wait until morning.

  Before we leave for the airport, we drop off Maki at this lady’s house who boards dogs. Saying good-bye to him is sad, but I know he would hate the plane ride, and it’s too expensive to buy him a seat.

  Dad and I watch Shrek the Third and nap on the plane. I’m disappointed that Alex doesn’t happen to be on the same flight to California. Talk about a serious case of wishful thinking!

  Aunt Jennifer and my cousins all come to the San Francisco airport to meet us. She looks so cute in her brown suede boots and stylish jeans. I think she looks more stylish than my mom ever did, and taller. My cousins are both wearing shorts. How can it be warm enough for shorts in February? I only packed long pants and long sleeves. Maybe I can borrow a pair of shorts so we can kick around a soccer ball since I’m missing practice.

  My cousins tell us about all the outdoor activity options we can choose from while we are driving back to their house.

  “We can hike on the trail, but you have to be careful not to let the mountain lions get you. You have to act big and scary.”

  It’s great to be laughing with them, and my body starts to relax a little.

  The next day, which is my actual birthday, we spend a long time looking through photo albums, with Aunt Jennifer telling me funny stories about when Mom had chicken pox and their parents tried so hard to keep them separated so Aunt Jennifer wouldn’t catch it. Mom and Aunt Jennifer kept sneaking into each other’s rooms because they were so bored. Aunt Jennifer didn’t get it until two years later. Then there was the time when Mom broke her leg skiing in seventh grade and had to cancel her first big viola recital. Her teacher almost fired her as a student, as if she had done it on purpose. One of my favorite stories is one I’d heard before from Mom. It’s the one about the gourmet sandwiches Aunt Jennifer and Mom used to make: peanut butter, pickle, mayonnaise, and jelly. They loved grossing everyone out, especially their mother, as they ate the dripping, oozing sandwiches. As she’s telling me these stories, I try to decide if I should tell her about Mom’s journal, but I decide to wait.

  When Aunt Jennifer and I go out to walk their dog, Pepper, I bring up the subject of ear piercing, but Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think she should go against Mom’s wishes. I had been hoping that she could help me convince Dad to let me get them. Then she starts asking how Dad is doing and what things I’m worried about.

  “Sometimes I worry about Dad. And I’m still hurt about how Joci treated me.”

  She keeps asking, “What else?” like she’s looking for a different answer.

  I don’t really want to bring up the subject of Deborah and how she seems to be trying a little too hard to help us. That whole issue wigs me out, so instead, I tell her that my other big worry is that Dad will get cancer, too. She tries to reassure me but it doesn’t work. In fact, while she’s making dinner, I do a Google search on her computer on “cancer family risk.” It doesn’t exactly bring relief.

  “Knowing whether your relatives have had illnesses like cancer can help predict your risk of developing the same diseases. Five to ten percent of all cancers are thought to be hereditary.”

  Great, huh. Dad’s not actually related to Mom, he was just married to her, so that’s good. But what about me? It’s not easy tuning that info out of my head. In fact, I’m kind of freaking out. What a mistake to look it up on my birthday. Stupid me.

  My cousin Audrey comes up to me at the computer in the middle of my freak-out and announces that her mom wants me in the kitchen. She’s laughing, so I kind of suspect something is up. I log off the computer and follow Audrey into the unmistakable lovely smell of something baking. Then I see the chocolate cake with raspberries on top. The corners of my mouth perk up into a smile, and I turn to Aunt Jennifer to give her a big hug.

  “I hope you still like chocolate cake.”

  “You’re the best, Aunt Jennifer.”

  For some reason, I can’t sleep tonight, and I don’t think it’s because of the combination of barbecue chicken and chocolate birthday cake in my stomach. I go down the hall to the bathroom but stop when I hear Dad and Aunt Jennifer talking quietly in the living room. I stand where they can’t see me, but I can still hear Dad’s voice.

  “I wish Sophie talked more about her cancer. It was just this huge elephant in the room.”

  After some sniffling, I hear Aunt Jennifer say, “She barely talked about it with me, either. She was always trying to stay upbeat about it, not complaining, always asking about me and my kids, changing the subject.”

  “Yeah, she prided herself on not being a whiner.”

  “Do you think she talked with her friend Deborah about it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Even though she knew she was going to die, she just didn’t want to talk about it.”

  They’re both silent, except for some nose blowing.

  After a long, long silence, my dad says, “I wish I’d pushed her harder.”

  “How could you have known?” she asks. I think she means about pushing Mom to talk or something.

  “I guess she thought she was protecting us.”

  Aunt Jennifer agrees with him, and I hear more crying sounds. Then Dad starts talking again.

  “She must have been so scared about dying. She told me she wanted to keep on living. She didn’t want to think about dying.”

  “It must have been so, so hard for you and Corinna. I feel terrible I didn’t visit more, help out more. I can’t forgive myself for only visiting that one time while she was so sick.”

  Dad says, “You had a lot going on, too. She understood that. We all did.”

  “Yes, but she’s my sister. How could I have been too busy for my sister? If only I’d lived closer, I would have been there.”

  Then his voice starts shaking. He can barely get out the words.

  “It . . . was . . . just . . . awful, watching her get weaker and weaker and thinner and thinner. And quieter and quieter. It was like she faded away. . . . God, I miss her.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I whisper to myself.

  The last thing I hear Dad say is, “I’ll never love anyone else t
he way I loved her.”

  I tiptoe back to my room without going to the bathroom and hug my pillow supertight. Too bad the quilt I’m sewing wasn’t done in time for this trip. I could use it right now.

  I finally fall asleep, and the next thing I know, Aunt Jennifer is waking me up to get ready to go to the airport for our eight twenty A.M. flight. Because the airplane food was so awful on the flight here, we stop at Subway to get turkey sandwiches. We polish them off in the first ten minutes after take-off. After flipping through the cartoons in Dad’s New Yorker magazine, I ask him if he’ll go through more of the picture shoe boxes with me when we get home. That seems like an easier thing to ask about than anything related to the conversation I overheard last night. I’m not so sure I want to ask Dad about why Mom never did really talk to me about dying. Maybe I already know all there is to know. What’s done is done.

  We have a really annoying person next to us, who keeps calling the flight attendant for more screwdrivers. At first I wonder why he’s asking for a tool. Doesn’t he know that no sharp objects are allowed on flights? Then I realize he’s talking about an alcohol drink with orange juice. Yuck. The flight is full, so we can’t change to another row. Finally, the flight attendant tells the guy that she won’t be able to serve him any more. He’s pretty drunk and smells of alcohol, and of not having showered in a while. Double yuck. Even though Dad is the one sitting next to him, I can still smell his stink and it makes me even crankier about having to go home already. He definitely needs one of those megadeodorants the middle-school boys worship.

  After picking up Maki, who barks and gives me lots of kisses, I spend hours writing to Suki about the whole California trip: the fun times and sunny weather and the gut-wrenching conversation between my dad and Aunt Jennifer that I can’t get out of my head.

  Spring

  Back to School

  I miss California: the weather, my relatives, the laughter. Our house seems so quiet compared to Aunt Jennifer’s. School is never quiet, though, and my heart leaps whenever I spot Alex in class or the hallway. Today, I see him on my way to lunch in Ms. DuBoise’s office. His orange shirt makes it easier to spot him even from halfway down the hall.