California Diaries # 11: Dawn III: Missing (6 page)

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. Wel . 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 tel 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 stil 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’l keep everyone in the car real y quiet,” I went on.

“Ducky’s 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’l call you the

second we get to the club. I’l 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’l 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 al 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 tel ing how I had to

clean the garage when the doorbel 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 but 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, especial y 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 tel 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, “Wel , 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’l 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 al .

“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

al owed out of the house in it, which would sort of defeat the purpose. So I have

settle 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 tal est 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 real y 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