Like Pickle Juice on a Cookie (3 page)

We could not call Bibi,

because she was away,

at the hospital,

taking care of her sick father.

We could not call Grandma Sadie, either.

Because Grandma Sadie

would ask me about Bibi.

We could not go to Roma Pizza.

Because Bibi loved Roma Pizza.

So Roma Pizza reminded me of Bibi.

We could not ride my bike.

Because Bibi helped pick out my bike.

So my bike reminded me of Bibi.

We could not go swimming at the gym.

Because Bibi was scared of swimming.

So swimming reminded me of Bibi.

Sometimes

after I told my mom what we could not do

she would ask,

“Is there anything that we
can
do?”

So I would let her read to me.

And bake cookies with me.

And take me to the Flatbush Avenue diner.

Because I didn't want her to get too cranky.

One day,

after breakfast,

my mom said,

“I have to make a work call now.

I'm very sorry.

I wish I didn't have to,

but it's an important call.

I'm afraid you'll have to be quiet.

And you can't interrupt.”

Then she picked up the phone

and started dialing.

That call went on forever.

Finally I pulled on her sleeve.

“Will you ever be done?”

I whispered.

She frowned at me

and shook her head at me

and put her finger to her lips.

That meant no.

She would never be done.

I left her there

on her very important call

and decided to look through her clothes.

I like looking through her clothes.

I tried on her long black dress

with beads on the straps

and her highest-heeled shoes.

Then I opened a dresser drawer,

my favorite dresser drawer,

full of fancy scarves.

Grandma Sadie sends my mom those scarves.

I took them out one by one

and unfolded them

and set them down

until I got to the navy one

that's covered with cherries.

Bibi loves cherries.

Before she moved away,

we used to sit at the kitchen table

with a bowl for me

and a bowl for her

and a bowl in the middle for the pits.

We'd eat all those cherries

and spit out the pits.

Bibi would always remind me

not to swallow the pit.

And I never did.

I never swallowed a single pit.

I didn't ask my mom if I could have her navy scarf

that's covered with cherries.

I just took it

and hid it under my pillow

and decided to keep it there forever.

After her very important call

my mom sat on the couch with me

and read five whole chapters of a book to me.

She didn't even stop when the phone rang.

“We'll let the machine get it,” she said.

And when we got to the happy ending,

my mom's eyes got red

and her cheeks got blotchy.

“Are you crying?” I asked.

She laughed and touched her eyes.

“I guess I am,” she said.

“I always do.”

It's true.

My mom always cries at happy endings.

All of a sudden,

as I was watching her cry,

I glanced at her neck,

where she sometimes wears a fancy scarf.

My own face got hot

and my heart felt funny.

I jumped up.

“Wait right here,” I said.

“I'll be right back.”

Then I ran to my room

and threw aside my pillow

and grabbed the cherry scarf,

which looked a little crumpled.

I smoothed it as best as I could

against the top of my leg

and ran to my mom's room

and pulled open the drawer

and folded the scarf

and slipped it in

near the middle of the stack

and closed the drawer fast

but tried not to slam it

and ran back to my mom.

I was breathing fast.

I tried to stop breathing fast.

I tried to look perfectly normal.

My mom raised her eyebrows at me.