If Only Page 8

  When we arrive in Annapolis, Gigi asks me to help set the table. I put my sauce, along with a folded index card labeled SOPHIE’S CRANBERRY SAUCE, right next to the plate of thick red goo. After everyone is served, Gigi makes an announcement.

  “Corinna made the cranberry sauce in the blue bowl. You might want to mix it with the other kind, unless you like it tart.”

  “Thanks, Gigi,” I mutter to myself.

  Somehow, I manage to get cranberry sauce all over my sweater sleeves, but I don’t care. Dad spends most of his time on the sofa watching football with his brother. Everything about this Thanksgiving feels so wrong, so fake, so empty without Mom. I don’t know if I should try to act cheerful and “thankful,” or if it’s okay to sulk and feel jealous of my cousins, who still have a mom. Uncle Patrick and Aunt Vicky, my father’s brother and his wife, are both trying to be thoughtful and make an effort to talk and sit with me away from my loud and hyper cousins. All the grown-ups ask me the same question: “How’s school?”

  I think people are avoiding talking about Mom, which is really weird, because we’re with our own family. It’s like everyone is trying to protect one another by not bringing her up, but it’s so obvious that she’s on everyone’s minds. Well, maybe not my little cousins’ minds. They’re busy being kids. The only thing I’m in the mood to do with them is zone out in front of some stupid TV shows.

  Since she couldn’t be with us and I need to laugh, I decide to e-mail Aunt Jennifer when we get back home and ask her to tell me a funny story about my mom when they were kids. She writes back and tells me about the time Mom had a crush on a boy in ninth grade. She baked brownies for him and dropped them off on his porch and did the old “Ding, Dong, Ditch” because she would have been too embarrassed if his parents had answered the door. It turned out that the boy was allergic to tree nuts. What had she put in the brownies? Walnuts. Lucky for her, he didn’t eat any of them. My grandmother had insisted that because the recipe called for walnuts, she had to use them. No wonder Mom liked inventing her own recipes! I print out the e-mail and put it in my Mom Box.

  Maybe we can be thankful with Aunt Jennifer’s family next year. I’ll bet she’ll appreciate my cranberry sauce. I sure hope future Thanksgivings will be easier.

  Winter

  Wishful Thinking

  We have a plaster mold of my hand that I made in preschool. I must have been three or four years old. I like to squeeze as much of my hand into the mold as I can, imagining that my hand fits in perfectly, and I get transported back in time to that age and size, and my mom is still alive.

  There’s another trick I do with candies. I’ve always loved candy, and so did my mom. Sometimes I use M&M’S, but I’ve also used Koppers, Jujubes, jelly beans, Gummi Bears, and salt water taffies. Anything with a lot of colors. Chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in colored foil would be good, too. First, I sort the candy into color groups. Then, I make designs with them. I tell myself that if I get the right combination and eat them in a special order, then I might somehow unlock a secret passageway and be magically transported to heaven (or wherever her spirit is), and my mom will be sitting there smiling at me like she’s been waiting for me. Yeah, yeah, I know that sounds crazy. But it feels good to wish . . . and the candy tastes good.

  I’m daydreaming about my candy trick when our band teacher interrupts with his usual preconcert speech: “We have a big concert this Thursday and I expect everyone to know their parts! Okay. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.”

  After we play the first two lines, he stops us and says, “That was terrible, guys. What’s going on in the flute section?”

  Eliana answers for us. “Mr. Morgan, my keypad is sticking.”

  She doesn’t tell him that I’m the one who missed all the C-sharps.

  “Let’s try it again. Flute section only. Ready? One, two, three, four.”

  Band practice drones on for what seems like another five hours while I’m wishing I could be invisible. Then Mr. Morgan says, “Corinna, is something the matter?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Corinna, why don’t you sit this one out.”

  My hands are sweaty and my tears ignore my orders to stay dry while the flutes play the same passage over again. Talk about public humiliation! I think I’m going to croak. I fear that Alex is witnessing my tears and this musical disgrace even though I can’t see his face.

  “Corinna, can you stay after class for a minute?” Mr. Morgan asks.

  When the bell finally rings, everyone packs up and leaves. All except for Alex, who is busy adjusting his drums. When he walks to the door, he turns around with what looks like a little smile, and says, “See ya.”

  It would be thrilling, except for the fact that Mr. Morgan is standing right here, obviously waiting to pounce on me with some vitally important teacher conversation and my eyes are surely looking hideously puffy. Mr. Buzz-Kill Morgan takes a long sip out of his Redskins mug, swallows loudly, and wrinkles up his face, like he’s gulping down some foul-tasting cleaning chemical.

  “Corinna, how are you doing?”

  “Not so great.”

  “Because your playing is not what it used to be, not what I know you’re capable of. You seem distracted.”

  “Yeah, kind of,” I mutter.

  In his gentlest voice he asks, “Is it your mother?”

  “Um . . . yeah.”

  I’m still looking at my flute case, fiddling with the latch.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  I know he means well, but this is really awkward and I don’t know what to say.

  “No, not really. Thanks.”

  “Well, if there’s any —”

  I’m halfway to the door when I turn around and say, “I don’t know if I even want to play the flute anymore.”

  “What makes you say that?” he says as his eyebrows go straight up. He looks like he’s scared of me.

  “I just don’t enjoy it.”

  He takes another sip out of his mug, swallows a few times, and says, “I think everyone goes through periods of being less enthusiastic about their music.”

  “Yeah, but I never say to myself, ‘Oh, I think I’ll go play my flute.’”

  We’re both quiet for what feels like a superlong time before he says, “Your mom would be sad if you quit.”

  “Well, maybe, but my mom’s not here,” I say, looking right at him.

  “Right, but wouldn’t she want you to continue?”

  His effort to send me on a guilt trip rubs me the wrong way.

  “Yeah, Mr. Morgan, she probably would. But what about what I want?”

  “Okay. Well, then, why don’t you think about it, maybe talk about it with your dad, and then let me know. I’d hate to see you drop band. You’re a good musician, Corinna.”

  Thanks for the punch, Mr. Morgan. And thanks for ruining my perfect chance to talk to Alex.

  I’m glad Clare is coming to my house tonight for a movie and dinner. I need a major distraction.

  I can’t believe it’s December and this is the first time Clare is at my house. It just hasn’t felt right to invite someone over when my dad is so down. I’ve wanted to have her over ever since she sent me that first IM. The one about us both being part of the same Parent-Who-Died Club that no one wants to be a part of.

  “I have so much to tell you!” I blurt out as soon as I open the door.

  After a snack of tortilla chips and salsa, we take Maki for a walk. When we pass Mrs. Simmons’s house, I tell Clare about how she visited umpteen times during Mom’s cancer.

  “That lady drove me crazy. She would just show up, take up space, and jabber away at my mom, my dad, and me.”

  Clare’s answer surprises me: “I’ll bet she thought she was being helpful.”

  “Yeah, real helpful. One time, I caught her taking pictures of Mom, so I said to her, ‘What are you doing?’ Mrs. Simmons acted all innocent. ‘Just taking some photos of your mom. I want you to
have them. Doesn’t she look better today?’ I wanted to scream at Mrs. Simmons, but not in front of Mom, who was half awake. I said to Mrs. Simmons, ‘Could you please come into the kitchen for a minute?’ As soon as we stepped into the kitchen, I said, ‘Mrs. Simmons! What are you doing? Stop taking pictures of my mom! We have good pictures of her, thank you very much, and we don’t need you taking pictures of her dying.’ Mrs. Simmons was clueless. ‘Oh, Corinna, dear, I’m sure she doesn’t mind.’”

  I tell Clare how my dad wasn’t there when I needed him to deal with Mrs. Simmons. Then I describe how my cheeks were exploding with the words I had wanted to scream back at her, “Well, I mind. In fact, I mind a lot. If you don’t delete those pictures, I’m going to smash your camera and you will never come into this house again.”

  I’m glad I’m finally telling Clare about this horrible experience. She’s the one person who might understand.

  “I still cross the street or walk the other way whenever I see her. I can’t deal with her.”

  From the way Clare looks me in the eye, makes a face, and even shudders her shoulders, I can tell she gets it.

  Dad is asleep in his chair when we get home, so we go to the basement to watch our movie. Clare’s mom picks her up after Clare and I make a pot of spaghetti for our dinner.

  The rest of the weekend is pretty boring until Dad’s announcement. He tells me that we’re going to dinner tomorrow night at Deborah’s house. It will be the first night we’ve had plans to go out for dinner since before my mom died. Dad seems nervous as he’s telling me. I can tell by the way his eyes and mouth look. I’m nervous, too. What will we talk about? Will Deborah ask me for an update on the furry pink journal she gave me? Will her sons ask me uncomfortable questions about my mom? Will she hog my dad’s attention? Will she go on and on about music and pressure me about my flute?

  Deborah is cooking when we arrive, but we don’t eat until at least an hour later, by which time I am starving. The food is pretty good: chicken without any of her strange bread seeds, baked potatoes, and, unfortunately, brussels sprouts. I can’t stand brussels sprouts. Even the smell of them makes me sick, and these smell burned and cabbagey. I leave them on my plate, but so do her two little sons.

  Deborah makes a toast in the middle of dinner.

  “Here’s to Sophie.”

  “To Sophie,” Dad echoes.

  “We miss you,” Deborah goes on, sounding sad and looking right at me.

  I manage to hold up my water glass while I look down at the brussels sprouts on my plate.

  I think everyone is unsure of whether or how much to talk about Mom, kind of like at Thanksgiving. Of course she’s totally on our minds. I practically have a red light that flashes “Mom” on my forehead.

  Deborah tries to get me to laugh by saying, “Remember when your mom’s music stand fell down and she just kept on playing? Has that ever happened to anyone in your band, Corinna?”

  I swallow and put on a smile, though I’m not sure who the smile is for. The boys are busy playing with their action figures on the table. Dad is definitely being more talkative than I am, more talkative than he’s been in a long time. He must be feeling really brave, because he asks Deborah, “How’s the chamber music going for the Bellagio Players?”

  “Oh, pretty well. We’ve had lots of gigs, including one at the governor’s big fund-raiser. Sophie always wanted to play there and check out the acoustics in that beautiful historic building.”

  “Remind me who you got to play viola?”

  “Well, no one can replace Sophie, but Alan Peterson joined us. He’s this super-serious guy who never laughs, even when we make mistakes in rehearsal. He just sits there, really, with no expression on his face. Sophie and I used to laugh so hard we practically peed in our pants.”

  That part makes me laugh. There were lots of times Mom would tell me stories about when she’d almost wet her pants laughing. She really did love to laugh.

  Dad doesn’t do anything crazy or embarrassing, but Deborah sure does. Right at the end, when we’re saying good night, she announces that she’d really like to go to the Parents’ Night at my school since Dad has to be at work as a teacher at his own school that night.

  “No, it’s okay,” I tell her, because the last thing in the world I want is for people to think Deborah is my mom.

  “But I’d like to.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I didn’t realize I was stepping on toes.” She actually seems surprised that I don’t want her to come.

  Talk about awkward. On the drive home, Dad says to me, “She was only trying to be nice.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he’s talking; he just stares straight ahead. I want to say, “Well, she’s not my parent,” but I don’t let the words go past the part of the throat where your tonsils hang down like a gate.

  If Only

  I can’t help it, but I wonder whether my mom could still be alive if only she had gone to the doctor sooner, before the cancer spread. What made her wait? Did she know or even suspect she had something wrong for a while before she went to the doctor? Did she wait because she was too busy with me or her job? Was there something my mother did that caused the cancer? Something she didn’t do? My head sometimes spins with so many questions, questions that I will never have the answers to.

  I’ve thought about writing her doctor, Dr. Rothstein, but I haven’t because I didn’t think she’d listen to a kid. Today, I decide that the only way to get some of these things out of my head is to actually write the letter, not because I’ll get answers, but because I want her to know some things. I take out one of Dad’s red correcting pens and a piece of computer paper.

  Dear Dr. Rothstein,

  I don’t know if you remember me, but I remember you, and I remember some things I want to share with you. I hated it when you visited my mother’s hospital room and you always seemed so rushed. You spoke so technical and scientific, like my mom was some kind of science experiment and we were part of the machinery. What was THAT about? Maybe when you deal with cancer all the time, you forget about the person. If I get cancer, I’m going to find a doctor who knows how to talk to me and my family like people, not machines that don’t have feelings. I hope you will do a better job of listening to your patients and their families about their choices from now on. You made us feel bad about choosing to stop the treatment. It felt awful.

  Sincerely,

  Corinna Burdette

  I show it to Dad, who says, “I understand how you feel, but you can’t send that.”

  “Why not? You always tell me how it’s important to be honest.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Dad, don’t you think Dr. R. needs to know her strengths and weaknesses, just like your students?”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “So, I’m sending it. I think Mom would be proud of me.” That shuts him up. He goes back to sucking on his butterscotch Life Saver, which I can smell from ten feet away. I don’t think Dad will give me the address, so I hunt for it on one of those millions of pages of medical bills, in the piles on his desk, that he’s so stressed out about.

  I spend the next three days trying to decide if I should mail the letter. Maki doesn’t give any useful advice, so I consider calling Aunt Jennifer to ask her what she would do if she were in my shoes. I decide the choice is up to me. When I finally walk down to the mailbox on the corner, I open the door and hold it flat for a long time. Will Dr. R. even read it? If she does, will she say, “Oh, that little kid doesn’t know what she’s talking about”? I finally let the mailbox swallow the envelope.

  Trapped

  Just before lunch, we get our eighth-grade school photos back, and I am horrified by mine. They are awful. I mean truly terrible. They don’t even look like me, unless I look a lot worse than I thought. Maybe my whole sense of reality is off because nothing much feels normal. When we meet up in the hall, Joci and Clare look at them quickly, smile, and then start to talk
about going to the mall after school. I must look hurt, because they apologize, but the apology doesn’t make it better. Not only am I being excluded from the mall, but I have hideous pictures. I think about throwing them away or burning them. My ears are sticking way out and my smile is more like a grimacing Halloween mask. I thought the green V-neck shirt would look good with my green eyes, but it makes me look like I’ve just thrown up. If there was an ad for what not to wear for school photos, it would use that disgusting picture. At least my hair is neutral-to-good, thanks to Olivia’s French-braiding skills. Joci’s photos are gorgeous, with her long brown hair perfectly in place and her beautiful blue sweater and big boobs. Even her braces with matching blue rubber bands look okay. Clare’s are kind of dorky-looking, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her smile is nice, and that’s the most important part. I can’t even think about the fact that my hideous picture is going to be in the yearbook for Alex and the rest of the world to see. Mom would have told me not to worry, that’s what the do-over days are for, but I don’t feel like dealing with it.

  I stuff my pictures into my backpack and look for Eliana. I’m supposed to go to her house today. I did manage to get out of bowling. She’s always asking me to go bowling. Her dad manages a bowling alley, so I haven’t wanted to break the news that I actually hate bowling and think it’s the most boring thing in the world.

  When we get to her house, we scarf down some strawberries, cinnamon-raisin English muffins, and apple cider, and then go up to her room. It’s all color coordinated and looks like it could be in those decorating magazines they have at the checkout counter. She shows me her scrapbooks, which are all neatly lined up on her bookshelf, and there’s this really cute page of all her school pictures since nursery school. I’m relieved to see that her fifth-grade bad hair day rivals my eighth-grade disaster. She had drawn bushy curls in black pen all around her red hair to cover it up. We both have a good laugh about that. I take one of my photos out of the big white envelope and use Eliana’s Sharpie to give it some black bushy curls to match hers.