If Only Read online

  “I think you’re going to love this new salsa,” Mom had announced.

  “What’s in it, Mom?”

  “Jicama, sausage, and banana chutney.”

  See what I mean?

  I would give anything right now to taste one of Mom’s inventions. Even the curdled chicken. I don’t tell Dad.

  Our lame dinner is interrupted by the doorbell. For a second, I think maybe it’s Joci, but when I open the door, it’s Deborah, bringing us some of her weird bread. She must be feeling really sorry for us, because she’s always dropping off homemade bread. Her bread has five trillion kinds of seeds in it, and they usually get stuck in your teeth, which then makes you look like a dental monster. She always puts a card on the bread with a message about wanting to help in any way she can, which is sweet. But sometimes she just shows up and has huge, long conversations with my dad.

  “Uh . . . hi . . . again.” I stand there blinking at her in her black pants and purple top.

  “Hi, sweetie, I wanted to see how you guys were doing.” She’s looking right at me like she’s studying my face for important information.

  “We’re great. Really great. Never been better.” I didn’t know I could sound so sarcastic.

  “Corinna, I know this is a really, really hard time. You must miss your mother terribly.”

  “Uh, yeah, you could say that.” The sarcasm is pouring out of me and might not stop.

  She looks a little startled.

  “Is your dad here?”

  Dad finally comes to the door and politely invites her in for coffee, sounding almost like a windup toy that can only say a few sentences.

  I turn around and storm upstairs to my room.

  Too bad it wasn’t Joci’s mom who came by instead of Deborah. Deborah is so awkward and that makes me feel awkward. Joci’s mom is so loving and easy to talk to. Never pushy. You don’t feel like she’s grilling and drilling you. When she brought us dinner back when Mom was sick, those times when Joci didn’t come with her, she would sit on the floor and pet Maki. If I felt like talking, it was fine. If I didn’t, that was fine, too. I never did talk much about Mom being sick. Neither did Mom.

  I’m mad at Joci for a lot of reasons. But I also need her. It felt so good when she stuck up for me at lunch the other day, better than any cupcake ever could. Being so mad at the person you want on your side feels terrible.

  Maki and Dad

  Maki is my best bud. Thank goodness my parents let me get him five years ago, even if it was because they felt guilty about me being an only child and I had begged for a brother or sister so many thousand zillion times that they got sick of it.

  “Please, please, pretty please!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  That was my broken record.

  “That’s enough, Corinna.”

  “So you’ll have another baby?”

  “No, honey, we’re not going to have a baby, but you can have a puppy.”

  “Really?” Finally, my begging and pleading had gotten me a baby, even if it wasn’t the human kind.

  “But please don’t ask again about a baby.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Mom and Dad insisted on getting a non-shedding breed, so we only looked at poodles. I remember when we got the idea to name him Maki. We were making sushi rolls with sticky rice and cucumber.

  “What’s this black papery stuff?”

  “It looks like paper, doesn’t it? But it’s dried seaweed.”

  “We’re eating seaweed for dinner? Gross!”

  Mom went on explaining, “The dried seaweed is called ‘nori’ in Japanese. When we’re done making it into rolls, then they’re called ‘maki.’”

  “How do you know all these words?”

  “Remember I lived in Tokyo for a semester in high school? My host family had a daughter named Aiko, and she taught me all kinds of things. I really want you and Dad to meet them someday.”

  When we finally got Maki, he was a little black roll, just like the cucumber rolls, so the name Maki seemed to fit him perfectly. He is so soft, curly, and cuddly, and he’s always happy to lie down right next to me. He also likes to lick my face, which I sometimes think is totally gross, especially when he’s just eaten a stinky, chewy rawhide bone. I can still hear my mom’s voice reminding me, “Think about where his mouth has been.”

  Totally ick.

  On Sunday morning, I come downstairs and see Maki at the bottom step, waiting for Mom to come down in her blue flannel robe. She was the one who gave him breakfast while the coffee machine did whatever coffee machines do. That makes two of us who can’t truly believe she’s not coming back.

  Dad’s sitting on the brown leather sofa that’s all faded from the sun, the one that has the red plaid blanket on it for when you need to get cozy. He’s listening to The Beatles, staring into space, looking so sad.

  No, he’s beyond sad. He’s a wreck.

  Before, he was always the loud, funny one in the family. He could get my mom and me to laugh, even when we were crying or arguing about something. Now, whenever he puts on “Julia,” the song about one of the Beatles losing someone he loved, I know he’s thinking about Mom.

  “Hey, Dad, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m okay,” he says in an unconvincing voice. He does that thing where he tilts his head from shoulder to shoulder, like his neck hurts.

  “Did you eat breakfast yet?”

  “No. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving. Can we make French toast?”

  “Yeah, if we have bread.”

  It’s times like this when I feel like he barely notices me, even though we’re in the same house. It’s not like I am totally invisible, but more like we’re separated by fog and can barely see each other.

  A few minutes later, we are at the kitchen table eating Honey Nut Cheerios. There wasn’t enough bread for French toast. Mom’s chair is between us, painfully empty. Neither of us ever sits in her chair. We don’t really talk about my mom very much. I think it was a few weeks after the funeral before Dad mentioned her name. That was weird.

  Sometimes I test him. “Dad, what do you think Mom would have said about the whole situation in Iraq?”

  “Dad, how did Mom get grass stains out of my shirts?”

  This morning I decide to test him with another question. “Don’t you think Mom would have liked the Avatar movie?”

  He reaches out to hug me, and I knock over my cereal bowl. Neither of us reacts to the spill.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet she would have.”

  I don’t mind the cold milk that’s soaked into my pajama sleeve. I’m just glad we’re talking about her, because it seems like since Mom’s death, Dad hasn’t shared much with me at all. It’s like he’s being more Mom-ish about it. She didn’t like talking about upsetting stuff even before she had cancer; at least it seemed that way to me. She was always trying to get me to think positive when I was in a bad mood about something. I wish that I felt more comfortable talking with him about Mom. I don’t mean about cancer, just regular stuff. I get the sense that it’s too hard for him.

  Thank goodness I can talk to Maki.

  “Maki, I can’t believe Mom is gone. Really gone. Forever.”

  Maki does his sniff and roll over routine, hoping for a tummy rub, during our heart-to-heart conversation.

  “It’s just so sad, isn’t it, Maki? I know you miss her, too.” I scratch behind his ears the way he likes me to.

  “Don’t you hate it when someone says my mom’s death was part of God’s Plan?” I ask Maki. “Or when they say that God needed my mom in heaven or some other garbage?”

  I don’t believe God had a plan to make my mother die and make me motherless at age thirteen and my dad wifeless at age forty-four. Who knows how or why she got cancer, and who knows why she didn’t suspect there was a problem, and who knows why the doctors didn’t find it earlier, and who knows why they couldn’t help her more, and who knows why the medical treatments weren’t more effective. But I do know that Go
d didn’t want this. What kind of a God would want Sophie Burdette to die?

  The Box

  According to my dad, Mom chose the music for her funeral before she died. I guess being a musician means you really care about the music, even if you know you won’t be able to hear it.

  Mom never really talked about dying or funerals when I was with her, just about not feeling well and being so tired. I’d never been to a funeral before hers, so I hadn’t really known what to expect.

  As soon as we walked into the concert hall, I could tell it was going to be crowded. There were tons of people. From the backs of their heads, I couldn’t recognize anyone. Then they started turning around and looking at me, which I didn’t like. It would have been the perfect time to be invisible.

  The hall smelled dusty and musty, like it hadn’t been used in decades, and it was hard to believe that just eight months ago Mom had performed here with Deborah and their trio. August tenth might have been tied for the hottest day of my life, but the air inside was cool. I felt really small and wished I didn’t have to go in any farther, almost like I was afraid I might get swallowed up by the rows and rows of seats. My blue skirt was tight and my blue-and-white checked short-sleeve button-down shirt was itchy. Nothing felt right.

  Aunt Jennifer’s cold and clammy hand was holding mine tightly, and I was squeezing hers. I wanted to turn around and go home, but Aunt Jennifer pulled me inside and somehow we made it up to the very front row of seats, where Grandma and Bapa were sitting. Everything was quiet, except for some whispers and coughs. Grandma and Bapa looked really old and sad. I could barely breathe.

  “It’s okay,” Aunt Jennifer said quietly, though it didn’t seem okay at all. “Let’s sit down.”

  I could do that. I could sit down.

  “Wow, there are so many people here who loved your mom.”

  I couldn’t make myself look around.

  “Where’s Dad?” I whispered.

  Aunt Jennifer put her arm around me. “I’m sure he’ll come sit with us soon. Don’t worry.”

  She was talking to me like I was a toddler again, but I didn’t mind. I felt lost, like I was sinking, even though I was sitting on a hard seat. About three seconds later, Dad sat next to me and gave me a hug. Just then someone in a really loud voice said, “Where’s Sophie?” It was an old man hunched over a cane. He kept asking, “Where’s Sophie?” I think he was hard of hearing, and maybe he had Alzheimer’s or whatever it’s called when you lose your memory and you’re really out of it. Some other man, who I think worked there, rushed over to him and tried to help him find a seat. The deaf guy kept asking where Sophie was, and I heard the person next to him say, “She’s in the box!” as he tried to shut him up with a finger to his lips. The box with her ashes sat on the front table next to some white roses in a big vase. She loved roses.

  While my neck was totally twisted to see what was going on with the loud guy, I noticed some people I recognized. Not that I knew all their names, but I saw some of Mom’s viola students, plus some neighbors, including dreadful Mrs. Simmons, my pediatrician who wears Disney ties, the funky lady who cut Mom’s and my hair, teachers from the high school where Dad works, Joci and her parents, Eliana and her mom, relatives I’d only seen pictures of, and tons of strangers. Because it was August, a lot of our friends were away on vacation.

  Finally, the music started. A bunch of Mom’s fellow musicians from the Montgomery County Chamber Symphony were on the stage. Deborah was up there, too, right in front, her long black skirt flowing on either side of her cello. The music was pretty, but sad, and it went on for a really long time. I didn’t recognize any of it. Then came the speeches. One of them was given by her college friend, and my uncle read something Aunt Jennifer had written. There was also some random guy who spoke. I didn’t hear how he knew my mom. I couldn’t really follow what anyone was saying. Instead, I focused on how soggy my tissues were. I ended up using my sleeve to wipe my nose, which isn’t exactly easy with a short-sleeve shirt.

  It was so strange to think of Mom being in that small wooden box. It didn’t make sense, that her body could be reduced to such a small amount of ashes, and I couldn’t stop staring at it. When the service was finally over, my dad gave me a really long bear hug. His face was red and wet with tears. My throat swelled up like I was having an allergic reaction to peanuts even though I don’t have that allergy, and I wanted to run out of there to breathe. All these people were coming up to my dad and me.

  “We’ll miss her terribly, yada, yada, yada.”

  “I’m so sorry, yak, yak, yak.”

  I felt totally trapped in a sea of tall people talking at me, over me, down to me. Finally, Aunt Jennifer took my hand and we walked outside into the thick August heat. I don’t think I started breathing again until we drove away in her bright blue rental car.

  After the service, a lot of people came over to our house. Joci and her parents were there and each of them gave me a big hug, but they had to leave right away to catch a plane somewhere. I wish at least her mom could have stayed. Aunt Jennifer’s kids and husband came with her from California, and my cousins who live in England came, too. I hadn’t seen them in a really long time because they live even farther away than the California cousins.

  The kids stayed outside mostly, only coming in for food or drinks. Speaking of food, there was tons of it. Some of it was disgusting. Jell-O molds. Orange, green, and yellow. Yuck. Do they really think people like those? And like nine pans of baked ziti. Baked ziti is great, but that much ziti was kind of tough to appreciate.

  The grown-ups were inside, and it was pretty hard to be around them. Some of the grown-ups hugged and squeezed me and told me to “be strong, be strong for your dad.” Like I’m some kind of weight lifter. It was horrible. And annoying. I also was told I was “doing so well” a few times. What does that mean? That I hadn’t grown horns? One totally ancient-looking stranger came up to me and patted me on the head, saying, “Don’t cry.” Actually, a few people did that. I’m thirteen, not two, and I’m not a dog! Who are they to say that crying is bad? I escaped back outside.

  Even my grandparents — Grandma and Bapa, Mom’s parents who moved from Pennsylvania to Arizona a few years ago, and my dad’s parents, Gigi and Pop Pop, who live in Annapolis — didn’t seem to know what to say to me. At least they gave me lots of hugs and didn’t do the head-patting thing. Aunt Jennifer was the best. She told me how much my mom loved me. She didn’t smother me or give me all kinds of advice. She had a baby who died a few days after he was born, so I think she kind of knew what it was like. It’s totally different, but kind of the same, I guess. Before she left, she told me to call or e-mail her whenever I felt like it, that I could ask her anything I wanted, about my mom or death stuff or girl stuff. I think she really meant it. She also said she would come visit us. It stinks that she lives in California, especially now. Aunt Jennifer reminds me of my mom. They are sisters, of course. Were sisters?

  Aunt Jennifer’s family had to leave two days after the funeral, because California schools start earlier than Maryland schools do, and they had to get back. Our house got really, really quiet after they left.

  That night, Dad was napping on the brown sofa, so I tiptoed upstairs to Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Walking through the doorway felt strange. I used to dance in there and ask them a question or show off an outfit or ask for another bedtime tuck-in. When I was sick or I wanted to watch TV in their cozy bed, I’d get under their puffy blue comforter and pretend I was floating on a cloud. I locked the door and climbed into their bed. I lay under the covers for a long time, trying to feel that floating feeling, until I started to worry that Dad would come up and wonder why I was locked in his room. My muscles got all tense and I couldn’t decide what to do.

  After checking that Dad and Maki were still snoring on the sofa downstairs, I went back to my parents’ room. As soon as I slid open the door to Mom’s closet, I could smell her perfume. I buried my nose in some of her hanging clothes. Then
I touched the wrinkles in one of her shirts, left over from when she wore it the last time. I started thinking about how having her clothes there meant that a part of her was still there, too. Next, I tried on her shoes, the old-fashioned ones and the newer ones. They were too big for me, but that didn’t stop me from trying them on. Clip-clop. Ever since I was a little girl, I loved the sound of her high heels.

  Kanser

  At lunch, everyone’s all excited and chattering about tonight’s Fall Follies talent show. Joci’s talking with her mouth full, giving me a full panoramic view of her tuna and mayonnaise. I haven’t decided yet if I want to go tonight, but everyone’s pushing me to come see their acts. Joci and Juliette are doing their jazz dance, Eliana and Olivia are going to sing, and Lena is juggling and riding her unicycle.

  “I don’t think we should wear red tops, because it would clash with Eliana’s hair, don’t you think?” Olivia asks me.

  Lena interrupts, “Did you hear that Mr. Spinolli is doing magic tricks? I heard he’s actually a good magician.”

  They’re talking about all the various dancers, and all I hear is “cancers.” My mind gets stuck on the word. Cancer. CANSIR, CANSUR, KANSER, KANSIR. Lots of ways to write it, but it still is such a big, bad, powerful word.

  My mom’s cancer had already taken over her entire body before the doctor found it. I know that some people are luckier. Their cancer is found early or the kind of cancer they have has a better treatment than some other types. I think the doctor tried to give us hope, by telling my parents about some new chemotherapy treatment Mom could try. In April, my mom explained to us that she was willing to try anything to get better, so she did the chemo. But somewhere along the long line of appointments, we all started to wonder if it was worth it. She felt so sick and so weak. Her doctor, Dr. Rothstein, really pushed her to continue with the treatments. Even in July, after my mom had decided “no more chemo,” Dr. R. kept pushing her to get blood transfusions. My dad said he thought Dr. R. was having a hard time accepting that she couldn’t fix my mom. When she finally stopped chemo and all the other stuff, Dr. R. seemed kind of mad. How could she be mad? Ugh.