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Ducky looked at Dawn’s tearstained face and held his arms out to her. He enveloped her in a bear hug. And once again a cold feeling washed over me. Had Mom …? No, she couldn’t have.

Dad and Aunt Morgan wouldn’t have been talking so calmly in the kitchen. They would have been I Mom’s room. Or on the phone or something.

I waited until the fear had melted away, sighed hugely, and then said, “Dawn, what is it?”

Ducky released Dawn from the hug and she turned to me. She was still too choked up to speak, but I had the feeling that even if she could have spoken, she wouldn’t have wanted to.

“Sunny,” said Ducky, “I’m going to walk Dawn home.”

“Okay. I’m glad you guys came over.”

“Me too,” replied Ducky. “Want me to call you tonight?”

“Sure. Definitely.”

Dawn and Ducky left and I went into the house again. I hadn’t spoken to Mom in hours and I knew I had to go into her room.

So I did.

9:58 P.M.

Quiet. Nothing going on downstairs. The phone has rung a couple of times. That’s all.

Dad and Aunt Morgan were still in the kitchen. They were sitting at the table with some papers spread around them. I signaled that I was going in to see Mom and they nodded.

I stepped into Mom’s room, which we’ve been keeping dark. For some reason, the light

sometimes hurts Mom’s eyes. She was lying on her bed, looking paler than ever. Honestly, her skin sometimes looks translucent. You can see her veins in places — places you wouldn’t expect to be able to see them. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were half open.

“Mom?” I whispered.

Her eyes opened. “Hi, honey. How was school?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the reason I hadn’t visited her all day was not because I’d been at school, but because I was a great big coward.

“Well …” I began. Was I actually going to lie to my mother? Lie to her now? I couldn’t do that.

But then, I really couldn’t tell her I’d been home the entire day and hadn’t come into her room even once. Finally I said, “It was about the same.” I figured that probably wasn’t a lie. I was sure school had been about the same. I just hadn’t been there.

Okay, okay. I feel very bad about having said that, but it’s over and done. I can’t take it back.

“Tell me what’s going on,” said Mom.

I looked at her closely. I thought she seemed a bit more alert than usual. Her eyes had opened and her voice seemed stronger.

“What’s going on?”

“Yes,” said Mom. “In your life. How are you and Dawn getting along these days? How is Ducky? What re you working on in school?”

I settled in on Mom’s bed for a talk. We hadn’t had one in awhile [sic]. This was nice.

“Dawn and I are friends again. But I guess you knew that. I mean, from talking to Dawn. It’s like before anything happened. Like old times.”

“That’s nice,” said Mom.

“Mm-hm. And Ducky is good. He was here a few minutes ago, but he didn’t come in.”

“That’s okay.”

“Mom, I didn’t tell you that Ducky and I had a fight. A big one. But we made up. Just now.

And I’m really glad.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Oh, it’s a long story.”

I didn’t feel like telling Mom the story. Not because she wouldn’t understand, but just because I wanted to talk about other things. It was so nice to be sitting here sharing stuff with her. We hadn’t done that in a long, long time. She hadn’t felt well enough. Did she actually feel better now? I had to know.

“Mom? You look a little better today.”

Mom smiled apologetically. “Well, that’s nice, honey. Thank you for saying so.”

“But — ?”

“But … I’m in a lot of pain.” I must have looked confused because she said, “The doctor gave me a new pain medication and right after I take it I feel great for a little while.”

“Oh.”

Disappointment.

10:48 P.M.

Continuing after a phone call from Ducky …

I have seen Mom in all sorts of states over the past year or so. I have seen her bald. I have seen her barfing from the chemo. I have seen her so tired that reaching for a glass wears her out. I have seen her looking so lifeless I thought she had died. I look at this newest Mom. She seems a little better, and now I learn that’s because she’s actually worse. She’s in so much pain that she’s on super-strength medication that makes her feel better for a while, then drops her back into some abyss of misery I can’t comprehend or imagine.

I decided to take advantage of Mom’s drug-induced condition to have a real talk with her, though.

“Mom,” I said, “tell me about when I was a baby.” I swear, I do not know where that came from.

It sounds like something an eight-year-old would say. But the words fell out of my mouth.

I think Mom was as startled by them as I was. “What?” she said.

“When I was a baby, your baby, what was I like?”

“Well …” Mom searched for words. “You were sunny. Your personality, I mean, I think we would have nicknamed you Sunny even if your name wasn’t Sunshine. You smiled all the time, and everything made you laugh, even things that might have frightened other babies.”

“Like what?”

“Like thunder or a big dog or being taken to a strange place. Some babies would have cried. But you would look at us and laugh. We were delighted. Mostly because you were so delighted.”

(God. I’m looking at myself in the mirror right now and I do not see a delightful, sunny person.

I see someone dressed in black jeans and nasty-looking black boots, a black T-shirt, and black jewelry. My hair is dirty, and I hardly ever smile anymore.)

“You were a great baby,” Mom went on. “The best. Ideal. Like a baby out of a fairy tale. Your dad and I were in love with each other and in love with you. Sometimes we would say, ‘How can two people be so lucky? We lead charmed lives.’ ”

I marveled that Mom could say this. Does she still think she has led a charmed life?

“How come you and Dad never had any other kids?” I asked.

Mom didn’t answer right away. “We weren’t able to,” she said at last. “We wanted other children, because we liked you so much. We thought, ‘If all babies are as wonderful as Sunny, then we want lots of them.’ But it wasn’t meant to be. And we were already very happy with what we had. The three of us seemed like the perfect family.”

But the problem with three, I thought, is that it’s such a small number. When one of the three goes, only two are left. And when one of them goes, well, you’re alone.

I tried to bring on a smile for Mom, though. “Okay, so I was a great baby. What was I like as a little girl?”

“Still pretty sunny. And adventurous. Do you remember the time you visited Mrs. Myrick?”

“Mrs. Myrick? When we lived in Grove Park?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we visit her a lot?”

“We did. But I’m thinking of a time you visited her alone. When you were three. This was how we met Mrs. Myrick in the first place.”

“I guess I don’t remember,” I said.

“It was a Saturday morning. You and Dad and I were in the yard. Dad and I were working in the garden, and you were playing with your dump truck.”

“I had a dump truck?”

“It was your favorite toy for several months.” (I laughed.) “Anyway, I was pulling weeds, and suddenly I realized you were gone. Dad and I looked in the yard first, of course. Then we searched the hose. Then we went back outside and began calling and calling for you. I asked Dad if I should phone the police and he said yes, so I did that, and while we waited for them to arrive we walked up and down the street, calling some more. A few of the neighbors joined us.

We were several blocks away from our house when we heard you call out, ‘Hi, Mommy! Hi,

Daddy!’ You were sitting on Mrs. Myrick’s front porch, and the two of you were having a pretend tea party. You had just wandered there by yourself. Mrs. Myrick didn’t know you, but she didn’t think you should be off on your own yet, and she was trying to figure out who you were so she could cal your parents. Of course, just at that moment the police showed up, and Dad and I were embarrassed but so glad to have you back safe and sound that we didn’t care too much. After that, Mrs. Myrick became one of our best friends.”

“I can’t believe I did that!” I said. “Hey, Mom. Tell me about you when you were little. Were you like me?”

“Oh, no, I was nothing like you,” said Mom. “Totally different. Scared of everything.” Mom paused and had to catch her breath.

“You were scared of everything? But you’re so brave,” I said.

“Me? I’m not brave!”

“Yes, you are. Look at what you’ve been through this year. I wouldn’t have been half as brave.”

Mom smiled ruefully. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

“I still think you’re brave,” I said.

“Well … thank you.” She closed her eyes briefly.

“Tell me something naughty you did when you were little.”

“Hmm, naughty,” said Mom. He eyes were sill closed. “Let me think. Did I ever tell you about the time with the chickens?”

I laughed. “No.”

“I was in first grade. And our teacher — ”

“What was her name? Or his name?” I interrupted.

“Her name. Mrs. Rago. And Mrs. Rago brought a case of chickens to our room one day. Just for fun. I decided I wanted to see them out of the cage, not stuck in it. So I let them out. They ran and flapped around the room, and Mrs. Rago made me stand in the corner.”

“Oh, Mom! Mrs. Rago sounds mean,” I said. “But it’s a funny story.”

“You know what I think is funny? That was one of the bravest things I did as a child — and it involved chickens. Get it? Chickens?”

“I get it.” I was laughing again, even though Mom was wheezing and laughing. This was so nice. Mom and me. Just hanging out, talking. “I’m going to write that down,” I told Mom. “I really like that story. It’s a fun way to — ” My sentence came to a screeching halt. I had almost said “a fun way to remember you.” “I mean,” I continued, “it’s a fun memory.”

Mom didn’t answer me. She started to cough then, and it made her double over.

“Is the pain medicine wearing off?” I asked anxiously.

“I’m afraid so.” Mom was clutching her chest.

I peeked through Mom’s door and saw to my relief that the nurse was waiting. I signaled to her.

The nurse hurried into the room and fussed over Mom for a few minutes.

“Why don’t you rest now, Mrs. Winslow?” she said, and Mom nodded weakly.

I hope I have gotten everything down, everything we said this afternoon. I don’t want to forget one word of it.

Thursday 3/18

3:22 A.M.

Whoa. I just woke up from the most horrible dream. I was in my bedroom and somehow I knew that a man was trying to get into my room. He was on the other side of my door, holding a huge quilt, and he planned to smother me with the quilt. I could hear him rattling the door handle.

I woke up sweating.

The first time in weeks that I’ve actually been in a deep sleep.

When I first woke up I thought I heard Mom downstairs, thought I heard her moaning, but when I listened at my door (which I was terrified of opening because of that man with the quilt) I heard nothing.

5:46 A.M.

I was able to go back to sleep for a couple of hours, and now I’m up again. I grabbed for the journal right away. I want to record everything. Everything I can about these days.

These last few days.

Something happened at dinner last night, after I’d talked to Mom.

Dad and I were alone in the kitchen. Aunt Morgan was with Mom, even though Mom was

asleep, and even though the nurse was here. Dad and I were supposedly eating dinner, although once again we were just sitting in front of plates of untouched food. And we were barely speaking.

After a long, long pause, Dad said, “Sunny, you don’t have to go to school anymore. I mean, until after … you know …”

(Nobody wants to say anything too casual about Mom’s dying. We talk about it and we don’t talk about it.)

“You’re giving me permission not to go to school?”

“Well, it’ll only be for a couple of — ” Dad stopped himself.

Of course I had figured this out for myself. All of it. That Mom had only a day or so left, and that I could stay home until she died. After all, I’m already staying home. (Has Dad noticed?) But when I heard Dad say these words, that cold fear came over me again. It was as if as long as those thoughts stayed inside my head, maybe I had made them up. But now Dad was saying

them, so they must be true.

“What do you mean?” I said to Dad.

“I think you know,” he replied.

“Yeah. I know that you’ve given up on Mom. You and everyone else. You have all given up.”

“Sunny — ”

“Well, it’s true. I just don’t understand why. Why have you all given up?”

“Sunny — ”

“No one talks about the future. No one even talks about next week. It’s like there is no future.”

“Sunny,” said Dad flatly. “I thought you understood. Mom’s treatments have been stopped and nothing more can be done for her. We have talked about all of this.”

“I know.” I stared down at my plate. “But how could this happen? How could we let it happen?

It’s like we’re killing Mom.”

I though [sic] Dad might get angry at that, but instead he said, “It does feel that way. You just have to remember that the way things feel isn’t always the way things are. Mom’s treatments were more painful than helpful. And when she dies her misery will finally be over.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I just don’t really understand any of it.”

“Nether do I,” said Dad.

“The new pain stuff is helping her, though, isn’t it?”

“A little, yes. It buys her time. And there are some things she wants to do.”

My heart leaped. “You mean like places she wants to visit?”

“Oh, honey, no,” said Dad quickly. “The pain medication does nothing more than what you saw it do this afternoon. Take away her pain long enough for her to have conversations or visits with people, or to write a bit. There are a few things she wants to put in order before she dies.”