Diary Three: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Page 5

  “I know, but…”

  “I think she just wanted to come home.”

  “Maybe I’ll go visit her.”

  “Why don’t you wait a bit. Let her get settled first. It takes more time now. At least wait until the ambulance leaves.”

  I was so shaken by the sight of the ambulance that after awhile I decided not to visit her. Maybe I’ll go this afternoon.

  Tuesday afternoon 3/2

  I am sitting at my desk, looking out my bedroom window. I can see the Winslows’ driveway. In it is a delivery truck with the words HERITAGE SURGICAL on the side. Below is a list of some of the stuff that I guess this place either sells or rents to people: commodes, walkers, back and knee braces, bedsore products, hospital beds, ostomy supplies (whatever they are). The list goes on. Under the list, in larger letters, are the words ALL SICKROOM SUPPLIES.

  I shivered when I read that last part. All sickroom supplies. It sounds so sad and sort of tragic.

  This guy has been going in and out the Winslows’ front door, carrying large cartons.

  Hmm. What’s going on? I was planning to visit Mrs. Winslow, but I guess I’ll put it off again. At least until things seem quieter next door.

  Tuesday afternoon 3/2

  The truck left. I was just about to go next door when a car pulled into the Winslows’ driveway and an older woman with curly graying hair stepped out carrying a bag. I know who she is. I’ve seen her before. I can’t remember her name, but I recognize her. She’s a visiting nurse. She comes by to do things like take blood samples and check blood pressure. Well. Now is not the time for a visit either.

  Almost dinnertime, Tuesday 3/2

  I was just about to go to the Winslows’ once again—when Sunny came home. Won’t go now. Maybe tomorrow.

  Tuesday night 3/2

  Dad and Carol didn’t say anything about the concert at dinnertime. Which is why I had to bring it up myself later. This time I waited until both Gracie and Jeff were in bed.

  “So,” I said. “Have you had a chance to think about the concert?”

  “Yes,” Dad replied, “but we haven’t reached a decision.”

  “The concert’s on Friday!” I exclaimed. “That’s in just three days.” I sounded slightly hysterical so I calmed down. Then I hit on a tactic that would, if nothing else, force Dad and Carol to make a decision quickly. “If I can’t go to the concert, I should let Ducky know right away so he can find someone else to give the ticket to.” The truth is, I have absolutely no intention of not going to the concert. If Dad and Carol say I can’t go, I’ll have to sneak out. Or tell them I’m spending the night at Maggie’s or something. But that’s a last resort.

  “Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Dad.

  “So can I go?” I asked.

  Dad frowned. “It’s the business of your being driven around so late at night by a sixteen-year-old,” he began.

  Even though Dad still hadn’t said no, I jumped to #4 and began making promises. “But Ducky is an excellent driver, I promise!” I exclaimed. “And I promise I’ll wear my seat belt. And I promise that Ducky never drinks and drives.”

  “I hope not,” said Carol. “In any case, he’s too young to drink.”

  “And I promise I’ll keep everyone in the car really quiet,” I went on. “Ducky won’t have any distractions. And I’ll make him stick to the speed limit. Which he does by himself anyway,” I added hastily. “And I promise I’ll call you the second we get to the club. I’ll call later when we’re leaving if you want. So you’ll know when we’re on our way home.”

  “Well,” said Dad.

  “Well,” said Carol.

  They were definitely uncertain, so I moved on to #5, hoping I wasn’t overdoing things. “If you let me go, I’ll clean out the garage.”

  Dad looked at me and started to laugh. So did Carol. “Okay, you can go,” said Dad.

  “Really?” I cried. “Really?”

  “Really,” said Dad and Carol.

  “Thanks! Thanks!”

  I ran across the room and hugged Dad first, then Carol.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” said Dad.

  “Did I go overboard?”

  “Maybe just a little.”

  “Do I really have to clean out the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  Later Tuesday night 3/2

  I won’t mind cleaning out the garage. I can daydream about Pierre while I work. With any luck I’ll have something real to daydream about.

  Wednesday afternoon 3/3

  When I got home from school today only one vehicle was parked in the Winslows’ driveway. I didn’t recognize it, but I decided to try visiting Mrs. Winslow anyway.

  It turned out that the car belonged to a very nice woman named Simone, who called herself a home-health-care worker. As far as I can tell, her job is to help out around the Winslows’ house (in particular, to fix meals), to keep Mrs. Winslow company when she’s there alone, and to help her with things like bathing, changing her nightgown, and going to the bathroom. I liked Simone, BUT…

  I couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Winslow wasn’t in her bed on the second floor. Instead, the dining room has been turned into her bedroom (I don’t know where the table and chairs were moved to), and she’s in an actual hospital bed. In fact, the room looks like a hospital room, with all sorts of equipment in it. The gross part? It SMELLS like a hospital room too. I can’t pinpoint that smell, but it’s kind of disgusting. It’s medicine and pee and sweaty sheets and I don’t know what else.

  Ugh.

  Mrs. Winslow seemed glad to see me. And she seemed better than she had been in the hospital. She could talk a bit because her mouth sores were getting better. She wasn’t so sleepy either.

  I sat in a chair next to her bed. I was holding Franny and Zooey, just in case. But we didn’t need it. We could talk.

  Well, we tried to talk. But we were interrupted about a thousand times. Simone had questions about dinner, which she was preparing. So she kept poking her head through the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, asking about Mrs. Winslow’s appetite or where the spices were stored or what time Sunny would be home. Then I was right in the middle of telling how I had to clean the garage when the doorbell rang and in walked the visiting nurse.

  I told Mrs. Winslow I’d come back the next day.

  Thursday morning 3/4

  TOMORROW NIGHT I WILL SEE PIERRE LIVE!!!

  Countdown: 40 hours (approximately)

  Thursday afternoon 3/4

  Visited Mrs. Winslow as soon as I got home from school. Simone was there. Mrs. Winslow seemed a teeny bit better than yesterday and I was encouraged. She can talk even more, and now that she can talk, her sense of humor is back. She was making jokes about the fuzz that will soon start to grow on her head. It will probably be blonde, and Mrs. Winslow was saying she’ll look like a chick.

  “I always wanted to look like a cute chick,” she said, “but I meant a cute chick, not a blonde chicken.”

  Mr. Winslow came home from work early. Simone showed him what she’d prepared for dinner and then she left. I started to leave too. I thought Mr. and Mrs. Winslow might want some time alone together, especially since they kept glancing at each other. So I stood up to leave, but Mr. Winslow said, “No, wait, Dawn. There’s something we’d like to tell you. Sunny already knows and it’s no secret anymore.” He glanced at Mrs. Winslow again.

  My heart leaped. Maybe Mrs. Winslow was in remission! Maybe they’d found a way to beat her cancer.

  “Dawn,” Mr. Winslow went on, “we’ve decided to terminate chemotherapy.”

  “Terminate it? You mean it’s over? That’s gr—”

  Mr. Winslow held up his hand to stop me. “It’s being terminated because it isn’t working any longer. It’s doing more harm than good.”

  I frowned, taking this in. Finally I said, “Well, what are they going to do instead? Radiation?”

  Mrs. Winslow shook her head.

  At this particular
moment, Sunny walked through the front door. She saw me in the dining room with her parents, turned, and headed up the stairs to her room.

  “Maybe I’ll go talk to Sunny,” I said to the Winslows.

  They nodded.

  At the bottom of the stairs I looked up and saw Sunny sitting on the top step. She wasn’t in her room after all.

  “Hi,” I said. “Your dad just told me—”

  “I know what he just told you,” Sunny said, interrupting.

  “Well, do you—”

  “No, I do not want to talk about it.”

  “But—”

  “I SAID I do not want to talk about it.”

  I called good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Winslow and left.

  Later Thursday afternoon 3/4

  I have to say that I’m kind of glad Carol took off so much time from work after Gracie was born. She’s not going to go back for two or three more months, and I confess that (usually) I like finding her at home in the afternoons. Today was one of those days.

  When I left Sunny’s house I burst through our front door and told Carol the Winslows’ news.

  Carol frowned. “Oh boy,” she said softly.

  “Do you think this means there’s nothing left to do for Mrs. Winslow?” I asked. “We didn’t really finish our conversation.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Good old Carol. I might just have worried and wondered, but Carol phoned next door and talked to Mr. Winslow. When she hung up the phone she held her arms out and gave me a hug. Then she said, “No more treatment, Dawn. They’ve done everything they can do.”

  “But—but—” I sputtered. “But that’s not fair! How can the doctors just decide something like that? It’s Mrs. Winslow’s life, not theirs. If the Winslows want to keep paying for treatments, then the doctors have to go along with that. Don’t they?” I cried.

  “Honey, it wasn’t the doctors’ decision.”

  “You mean it was Mr. Winslow’s? But that’s not fair either!”

  “No, it was Mr. and Mrs. Winslow’s decision, Dawn.”

  I was speechless. Carol sat me at the kitchen table and put the kettle on for tea. Then she sat down next to me.

  Finally I said, “But why would Mrs. Winslow decide something like that? I don’t understand.”

  “I think she’s being realistic. The treatments aren’t working. They aren’t doing anything but making her sick.”

  “So no one’s going to do anything for her anymore?”

  “Oh, no. That’s not what I mean,” said Carol. “Mrs. Winslow will still be cared for. The doctors will do everything they can to make her feel as comfortable as possible. But they don’t believe they can cure the cancer now.”

  Thursday night 3/4

  I do not know what to think about Mrs. Winslow.

  Friday morning 3/5

  Tonight I am going to see Pierre live and in person. I wish I were as excited now as I was yesterday morning. But I can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Winslow and

  Uh-oh

  Cafeteria, Friday 3/5

  I stopped writing when I noticed an ambulance in the Winslows’ driveway again. This time it was taking Mrs. Winslow back to the hospital. Something to do with her breathing.

  Friday afternoon 3/5

  I have to stop obsessing about Mrs. Winslow. It’s making me crazy. I think I’ll concentrate on the concert instead, which will take place in a mere seven (that’s 7) hours. At that time I will see Pierre X. It is possible that I could be just a few yards away from him. A few YARDS.

  Later Friday afternoon 3/5

  Conversation with Dad the SECOND he got home from work:

  Dad: So, are you excited about the concert, Dawn?

  Me: I can’t wait! Thanks again for letting me go with Ducky.

  Dad: That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

  Me: What.

  Dad: About your driving to North Palo with…What is his real name, Dawn? It can’t possibly be Ducky.

  Me: (My stomach is clenching because maybe Dad has changed his mind.) No, it’s Christopher. McCrae.

  Dad: With Christopher. Dawn, I want you to promise me several things.

  Me: (I am breathing an enormous sigh of relief.) Oh. Okay. (The truth is, I would promise just about anything right now, but I do not want to divulge this.)

  Dad: Number one, Christopher will be—

  Me: (I can’t help interrupting him.) Dad, his name is Ducky. Absolutely no one ever calls him Christopher. Even our teachers. (This was not entirely true, but I didn’t care.)

  Dad: Okay, Ducky will be the only driver.

  Me: The rest of us are only thirteen, Dad.

  Dad: But you never know who you might run into. And I do not want ANYONE else driving.

  Me: Okay.

  Dad: You wear your seat belt at all times.

  Me: (I almost say, “Even during the concert?” but I think better of it.) Okay.

  Dad: If Ducky does anything, and I mean ANYTHING at all, that makes you feel uncomfortable with his driving, you get out of the car and you call me.

  Me: (I don’t see how I would do that on the freeway. But…) Okay.

  Dad: As you suggested, the moment you arrive at the club you call home to let Carol and me know you got there safely. And later you call us when you’re leaving.

  Me: Even if it’s one o’clock in the morning?

  Dad: No matter what time it is.

  Me: Okay. I promise.

  Friday evening 3/5 7:35

  I have been standing in front of my closet for 10 whole minutes and I have not found a single outfit that will be cool enough to wear to the concert.

  I must make the right impression on Pierre.

  Friday evening 3/5 7:54

  Well. I suppose I have done my best. What I wanted to wear was an outfit like the one our waitress had on in the Tea Shop at the Square. But I wouldn’t be allowed out of the house in it, which would sort of defeat the purpose. So I have settled on a vest over a white T-shirt with a black miniskirt. Dad has seen the skirt before, and while he doesn’t actually approve of it, he doesn’t disapprove of it either. The vest is just plain black cotton, but I’m hoping that if the club is dark enough it might be mistaken for leather. Surprisingly, my feet are dressed better than the rest of me. They are clad in my black high-heeled sneakers with the three-inch soles. I will be the tallest person in our group. Again, Dad does not like these shoes, but here’s the great thing: Carol does. So there isn’t much Dad can say about them.

  I put on a nice tasteful pair of earrings. Then I tossed a really funky pair in my purse. I’ll switch earrings in the car. That’s okay. I have done this in the dark before.

  Friday evening 3/5 9:02

  Ducky will be here ANY MINUTE!!!!!

  Friday evening 3/5 9:14

  HE’S HERE!!!!!!!!!!

  Sunny: Diary Three

  California Diaries

  Ann M. Martin

  Contents

  Sunny: Diary Three

  Tuesday 3/16

  Wednesday 3/17

  Thursday 3/18

  Friday 3/19

  Saturday 3/20

  Sunday 3/21

  Monday 3/22

  Tuesday 3/23

  Wednesday 3/24

  Thursday 3/25

  Friday 3/26

  Saturday 3/27

  Sunday 3/28

  Tuesday 3/30

  Wednesday 3/31

  Friday 4/2

  Tuesday 3/16

  5:32 A.M.

  I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sleep late again. My inner clock is all messed up. I could fall asleep in the middle of the day, and I could be wide-awake at 4:00 A.M. I never need to set an alarm clock anymore. No matter what time I set it for I always wake up before it goes off.

  I can’t stop thinking about Mom. All day, all night. Is this what’s called an obsession?

  6:03 A.M.

  After I wrote that, I tried to go back to sleep. Put the diary away, turned off my light, crawled u
nder the covers.

  No good.

  Nada.

  First all these thoughts just kept blowing through my brain. Then I could hear Mom downstairs calling to Dad. It was like some messed-up, blurry, not-quite-right scene from my childhood. I thought back to nights when I was little and sick with the flu or a cold or something. I couldn’t sleep and I’d call out and in a flash Mom would be there for me. Now I lie in my bed and listen to Mom call out. Everything is wrong with this scene. Mom is in bed downstairs, not upstairs in her own room, the room she should be sharing with Dad. And she, the adult, is the one calling out, while Dad is the one rushing to comfort her.

  God, I can’t stand it.

  Maybe I’ll go to school today.

  6:24 A.M.

  I can’t decide. Should I go to school today? I don’t want to be there, of all places, if Mom should

  Let me start over. I mean, if Mom

  This is too hard.

  6:45 A.M.

  Okay, I’m going to go to school. I’m driving myself crazy here.

  We’re keeping a vigil.

  A vigil. Who keeps watch these days? That sounds archaic. But that’s what I overheard Dad say on the phone last night. He was talking (whispering, really) to someone from the bookstore. He said that yes, Mom had come home from the hospital a few days ago and we’re keeping a vigil. Sometimes, especially lately, Dad seems overly dramatic to me, so I take the vigil reference with a grain of salt.

  God.

  I’m being driven crazy.