Baby-Sitters Club 058 Page 3

  "Yes, ma'am." Mom dutifully closed her eyes.

  I returned to my room. Before I thought about dinner, I took another look in the mirror. I imagined myself at the fancy dinner, sitting next to my father. The weekend was going to be wonderful. I just knew it. I could hardly wait for my trip to the Big Apple.

  Chapter 4.

  The day after our trip downtown to buy my new outfit and to celebrate Dad's promotion, Dawn baby-sat for Buddy, Suzi, and Marnie Barrett. She sits for them pretty often. They live nearby and are regular clients of the BSC. Mr. and Mrs. Barrett were divorced recently, which has been hard on the kids, but this may be one reason they get along well with Dawn. Since she has just been through a divorce, she can sympathize with them. She talks to them and answers their questions honestly.

  On Sunday, though, the divorce was the farthest thing from the minds of the Barretts. They were much too busy filling out forms and addressing envelopes. At least, the older kids were. Marnie, the youngest (she's just two), was busy with a box of Kleenex. (The things that will entertain kids amaze me sometimes.) But Buddy who's eight and Suzi who's five were thoroughly engrossed in a stack of copies of Good Housekeeping, Ladies' Home Journal, and Dawn wasn't sure what else. Suzi can't write yet, so she couldn't fill out forms, but she adored looking through the magazines, and Buddy instructed her to lick stamps and seal envelopes.

  When Mrs. Barrett had left the house Dawn, carrying Marnie on one hip, entered the rec room where Buddy and Suzi had set up shop.

  "This place looks like an office!" exclaimed Dawn.

  Buddy beamed. "I guess it is sort of an office." He and Suzi were sitting on the floor. Around them were spread scissors, pencils, envelopes, stamps, tape, and even some money.

  Suzi saw Dawn glance at the money. "Mommy gave us that," she said happily. "She told us we could order whatever we want." "And we added our own money to it," said Buddy.

  "How much did you say we have altogether?" asked Suzi.

  "Well, we had twelve dollars and sixty cents, but now we have used up some of it. So we have to order really cheap things." "Okay," said Suzi uncertainly. Then she held a magazine toward her brother. "Buddy? Is this cheap?" "The ring?" Buddy squinted at the page. "No. It costs almost fifteen dollars. I wish you could read, Suzi." "Me, too." Dawn began to look through the small pile of envelopes that Buddy had declared were ready to mail. "What have you ordered so far?" she asked.

  "A needle-threader!" exclaimed Suzi. "I found that. What did the ad say, Buddy? I don't remember." "It said 'You never need thread a needle again. Amazing Seamstress Helper does it for you,' We thought Mom should have that." "I didn't know your mom likes to sew," said Dawn.

  "She . . . well, she might," Suzi replied.

  "Anyway the Seamstress Helper only cost a dollar twenty-nine," said Buddy.

  "And then we found special silver polish," Suzi went on.

  "No-tarnish silver polish," Buddy explained. "The hostess's best friend." "And I don't remember how much it cost, but we sent away for a book for Marnie," said Suzi. "A very personal book." "A personalized book," her brother corrected her. "It is so cool, Dawn. You just fill out some information like Marnie's name and her age, and - boom - they send you a story about a two-year-old girl named Marnie. She is going to love - Oh! Oh, wow! I have to have this!" Buddy had continued to pore through the magazines while he was talking to Dawn, but now he had stopped and was jabbing excitedly at a page.

  "What did you find?" asked Dawn, peering over his shoulder.

  "A book. A book for me! It's called How to Become Mr. Muscle!" "You want to be a strongman?" "I want to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. That would be way cool." "Who's Arnie Swarteneggy?" asked Suzi.

  "A movie star. Everyone likes him." Buddy was frantically cutting the order blank out of the magazine when the Barretts' bell rang.

  "I'll get it!" cried Suzi.

  "Make sure you know who's at the door before you let them in," Dawn cautioned her. "Look out the window first." Suzi disappeared up the stairs to the first floor. Buddy filled out the form. And Dawn cried, "Don't eat the Kleenex, Marnie!" "Once," said Buddy absently, "Marnie ate so much Kleenex she threw up." "Ew," replied Dawn, and was saved from a disgusting conversation when Suzi returned to the rec room with Matt and Haley Braddock, who live in the neighborhood. Haley is nine and Matt is seven. Matt and Buddy are good friends, but they usually need Haley around when they get together. This is because Matt is deaf and communicates using sign language. Buddy (and most of the kids who spend time with Matt) know some sign language, but not enough for long or complicated conversations.

  Matt and Haley bounced into the rec room carrying armloads of comic books, a supply of envelopes, and Haley's address labels.

  "We found wart-remover this morning!" Haley announced, at the same time signing, for Mart's benefit.

  "You guys have warts?" asked Dawn, removing a hunk of Kleenex from Marnie's fist.

  "No, but I bet someone we know does." "Hey!" exclaimed Buddy. "Here's a simple kitchen tool that allows you to make your own garnishes for gourmet meals." "How much?" asked Haley.

  "Two ninety-five. You can make radish rosebuds and all sorts of things." Buddy filled out the order form.

  When Jake Kuhn arrived with his comic books he said, "I found a kit that lets you grow your own catnip!" "When did you get a cat?" asked Dawn.

  "Well, we didn't. But . . . hey, Mary Anne has a cat, doesn't she?" "Yes," agreed Dawn, hiding a smile.

  "Ooh, pumpkin seeds!" exclaimed Suzi as the bell rang again.

  Nicky and Vanessa had arrived. They strutted into the rec room, looking important. "Guess what came in the mail yesterday," said Nicky.

  All heads turned toward him.

  "Something came!" said Jake, awed.

  Nicky nodded. "I got the mail myself, and when I opened our box, I saw a big envelope. My name was on it. It is so, so cool to get mail. I opened the envelope, and inside was ... a tube of stain remover." "I got something, too," Vanessa spoke up. "Freckle-remover. I used it last night before I went to bed. Do I look any different?" Haley leaned over and studied Vanessa's nose. "I think your freckles are paler," she said.

  Vanessa nodded. "In two weeks they should have faded completely. They will vanish from my face. I can't wait." "Lucky ducks," said Jake. "None of my stuff has come yet." "Mine either," added Buddy. "Maybe tomorrow." "Really?" shrieked Suzi. "Really? I might get mail tomorrow?" "You all might," Dawn told her. "You guys will be getting mail for days." "Awesome," said Buddy, and returned to his magazine.

  Chapter 5.

  This is how much I like math. I don't even mind math tests. I don't even mind studying for math tests. On Monday my class took a V.I.T. (Very Important Test). It was one of the ones that counts for, like, a fifth of your report card grade.

  I had studied hard on Sunday and I knew the material. Our current unit is pre-algebra. To me, figuring out what x and y equal is like solving a mystery. (I wish I could convince Claudia to think of math that way, but she won't do it. Once I even told her to call herself a Math Detective, but she just looked at me like I'd lost my mind.) I concentrated on my test paper. X=3Y+4. If y equals . . .

  "Mr. Zizmore? Mr. Zizmore?" The school secretary was calling my teacher over the PA system. It crackled loudly.

  I jumped a mile, and my hand jerked off the paper, leaving a pencil trail.

  "Yes?" replied Mr. Zizmore importantly.

  "Is Stacey McGill in class?" "Yes," he said again. He turned to look at me, and so did every student in the room. They were curious. Also, they were glad for the interruption in their test-taking. I heard sighs, knuckles cracking, feet shuffling.

  "Would you ask her to come to the office, please?" "I'll send her at the end of the period," Mr. Zizmore replied. "She's in the middle of a test." "No, it's important. Please ask her to come now, and tell her to stop by her locker on the way and pick up her coat." "Okay." Mr. Zizmore turned to me again. "Did you hear that, Stacey?" I nodded, confused. I'd been con
centrating hard on the math problems, and now, suddenly, I was told to abandon them and report to the office - with my coat, which could only mean I was leaving school.

  Feeling the eyes of my classmates follow me to Mr. Zizmore's desk, I handed him my paper. "It's only half-finished," I said.

  He smiled. "Don't worry. You're a good student. We'll straighten this out tomorrow." He paused. "I hope everything's all right." "Thanks," I replied. Then I dashed out of the room, ran to my locker, grabbed a few things from it, and hurried on to the office.

  Mrs. Downey, one of the secretaries, was waiting for me. "Hi, Stacey," she said as soon as I appeared. She led me into an empty office.

  "What's wrong? Something is wrong, isn't it?" I cried.

  "Your mother - " Mrs. Downey began to say.

  "My mother? What about my mother?" "She collapsed a little while ago. She was at a job interview at a company downtown and she just - collapsed." Fell over? Fell down? Fainted? What?

  "Where is she now?" I demanded.

  "At the hospital, hon," said Mrs. Downey. "Mrs. Pike phoned. Mallory Pike's mother. She said she's a good friend of your mother?" (I nodded.) "Okay. She's on her way over here to pick you up. Then she'll drive you to the hospital. Do you have all your things with you?" "Yes," I whispered.

  "Good. Take a seat on the bench by the door. Mrs. Pike should be here any minute. I'll get you a glass of water." I sat on 'the bench clutching my coat and wondering why people hand out glasses of water during a crisis. I didn't even notice the stares of the kids who passed by in the hall.

  When Mrs. Pike arrived, I jumped up and ran out of the office without bothering to greet her. Halfway down the hallway, I called, "Where are you parked?" and kept on hurrying.

  "By the front door, sweetie," Mrs. Pike replied. "Stace, it's okay. Your mother is going to be okay." "But Mrs. Downey said she collapsed." "I know. The doctors will take care of her, though." Maybe. But doctors are not magic. I know that.

  Mrs. Pike drove to the hospital as fast as she could without getting arrested. She managed to find a parking space and we rushed inside, following signs to the admittance desk.

  "Where's my mother?" I asked breathlessly, leaning over the desk. "She was just brought in. Her name is Mrs. McGill. I don't even know what's wrong with her." The man behind the desk pointed down the hallway. "She's still in the emergency room, but - " "They'll let me see her, won't they? I'm her daughter." "Go ahead," said the man.

  Mom was lying on a gurney (I know terms like that because of the unfortunate amount of time I myself have spent as a hospital patient) in a tiny room off the waiting area near the emergency entrance.

  She was by herself.

  "Mom?" I whispered. Her eyes were closed, so I didn't know if she was asleep or just resting or what.

  She opened them slowly. "Hi, honey." "Mom, what happened? Are you hurt?" My mother shook her head slightly. "No, but I feel awful." She coughed.

  I put my hand on her forehead. "Hey, you're burning up!" "I know." "Is it the flu or something? You know flu season is here. Mom, did you ever get your flu shot? You made me get one." "I don't think this is the flu, Stacey." "Where are the doctors?" I demanded. "Why are you here alone?" "Doctors and nurses have been coming and going," Mom told me. She glanced up and noticed Mrs. Pike standing in the doorway. "Hi, Dee," she said weakly. She sounded like she might cry. "Thank you for bringing Stacey here. I appreciate it." Mrs. Pike smiled. Then she stepped into the room and clasped Mom's hand.

  "What do the doctors say, Mom?" I wanted to know.

  She shook her head. "They aren't sure yet. They've taken a chest X-ray and drawn blood and examined every inch of me." "Oh." A horrible thought occurred to me then. I remembered this girl who went to my old school in New York. One day she had a sore throat and a fever. Her parents took her to the doctor. They thought she had a strep throat. It turned out that she had leukemia. Cancer.

  What if Mom had leukemia? What if she got really, really sick and I had to leave Stoneybrook and move in with my dad? What if - "Mrs. McGill?" A doctor bustled into the room carrying a clipboard. She shooed Mrs. Pike and me into the hallway.

  When she called us back a little while later, Mom was smiling thinly at us from the gurney. "Pneumonia," she said. "I have pneumonia." "The good news is that she can be cared for at home," the doctor spoke up. "She doesn't need to be admitted to the hospital." "What's the bad news?" I asked.

  "That I have pneumonia, Stace!" exclaimed Mom. "Now come on. Let's get out of here. I'd like to be in my own bed as soon as possible." Mrs. Pike drove Mom and me home. As she pulled into our driveway I thought to ask, "Hey, Mom? Where's our car?" "Downtown. It's parked near Bellair's." "Mr. Pike will drive it back tonight, Stacey," said Mal's mother. "Don't worry. Let's just take care of your mom now." We helped Mom up the stairs, into her room, into her nightgown, and into her bed. "Ahh," she said. "I think I could sleep for a century." She promptly closed her eyes.

  Mrs. Pike and I tiptoed back downstairs. "I'll get these prescriptions filled," she said. "Will you be okay here with your mom?" "Oh, sure. I'm a great nurse," I said confidently. "Remember, I've had plenty of experience being a patient." Not long after Mrs. Pike left, the phone calls began.

  "Stace, where were you?" Kristy wanted to know.

  "You aren't sick again, are you?" asked Claud.

  "We waited for you after school," said Mary Anne.

  My friends called separately, so I had to tell the same story over and over (except to Mallory, who heard it from her mother). If I'd been able to go to the BSC meeting I could have gotten away with telling it just once. But of course I didn't attend the meeting. Dawn took over my duties and collected dues.

  Near dinnertime I was in the kitchen, busy making chicken noodle soup (oh, all right - heating up canned soup), when Claud called back. "How's your mom?" she wanted to know. "Everyone was asking about her at the meeting." "Okay, I guess. She's just sleeping mostly. She wakes up long enough to take her pills, then she drifts off. I hope she'll eat something tonight, but I don't know." "Will you be in school tomorrow?" asked Claud.

  "I - Oh, I hear my mom! She's awake after all. Claud, I better go. I have to see how she is. Call you later. 'Bye." It was while I was on the phone again with Claudia later in the evening that something occurred to me. If I didn't even know whether I'd be in school the next day, what was I going to do about the weekend? My big weekend in the Big Apple was supposed to begin in four days. What on earth was I going to do about it?

  I X / c H A P T E R ^ / ^ ·< / / / did not sleep much Monday night. I kept listening for Mom. She was coughing a lot. And twice I had to wake her up to give her pills. Each time I returned to my bed, I just lay there, one ear trained in the direction of my mother's room. No wonder new parents don't get much sleep, I thought. When they aren't up feeding the baby, they're probably lying awake listening for the sound of crying.

  Around five-thirty on Tuesday morning I finally gave up on the idea of sleep. I tiptoed out of my room and peeked in at my mother. I thought she sounded a little better. She had not coughed in almost half an hour. I settled myself into a chair just outside Mom's room and began to read.

  "Stacey?" called Mom. It was after seven. I was halfway finished with the book.

  I jumped up and ran to her bed. "Good morning," I said cheerfully.

  "Morning." (Cough, cough.) "Shouldn't you be getting ready for school?" "Me? No, I'm staying home today." (I had made that decision at three-thirty, lying awake in my bed.) "But it's Tuesday . . . isn't it?" "Yes. And you're sick." "It isn't necessary for you to stay home with me, though." "Mom. I'm not leaving you. You have pneumonia." "Honey, Dee will drop by today. And she said she'd arrange for other neighbors to do the same." "I'm not leaving you," I repeated. "You stay with me when I'm sick." "But you're my daughter." "You're my mother." Mom sighed. "Okay. You may stay home today." "Thank you. What do you want for breakfast?" My mother groaned. "Do I have to eat?" "Only if you want to get well. You need strength. Plus
, you make me eat when I'm sick." Mom smiled. "You win. All right. Let me see. For breakfast I would like toast. And tea . . ." She trailed off.

  I nodded. "Right. Toast/ tea, hot cereal, fresh fruit." "Oh, honey, I can't eat all that. Not this morning." But I fixed it anyway. I served it to her on a tray, and she sat in her armchair and ate while I changed the sheets on her bed.

  "You're a good nurse, Stacey," she told me.

  "Thank you," I replied. "You still have to eat your breakfast." Mom was just picking around the edges of things.

  "I really can't. I'll get sick." I sighed. "Okay." Mom climbed back into bed and lay against her pillows. "Nicely fluffed," she commented, and yawned. "Honestly, how could I be so tired? I slept all day yesterday and all last night and . . ." Mom's eyes drooped.

  Before she could fall asleep I said, "Mom, I have to talk to you about something. It's important." "Really important? Or can it wait a little while?" "It's pretty important. Mom, what about this weekend?" "This weekend?" "You know, Dad's dinner. I'm supposed to go to New York." "Right, the dinner. You can still go." "And leave you?" "Don't worry about me," said Mom firmly. "First of all, Friday is three days away. I'll be better by then. Second, I can arrange for Dee to look in on me. And she can run errands if I need anything." "We-ell . . ." "Stace, I'm falling asleep. We'll talk later. But plan on New York. It'll be fine. Trust me." Mom rolled over. The discussion had ended.

  I tiptoed downstairs with her breakfast tray, ate my own breakfast, then cleaned up the >kitchen. I kept picturing my mother lying on the gurney in the hospital emergency room, looking sicker than anyone should look, and saying, "1 don't think this is the flu, Stacey." How could I leave her? Maybe I should talk to my father, I thought. And then I realized he didn't even know Mom was sick. Nobody had called him. True, he and Mom weren't married anymore, but Dad had a right to know that his ex-wife had pneumonia. Especially if it meant I might have to miss our special weekend in New York.