Like Pickle Juice on a Cookie (2 page)

My mother took a deep breath.

“Bibi is moving away,” she said.

I blinked at them.

I could not speak.

Bibi is my babysitter.

She has been my babysitter my whole life.

She is the best babysitter in the world.

She makes me soup when I am sick.

She holds my feet when I do handstands.

She knows which of my teeth are loose

and which ones I've lost

and where I was when I lost them.

She rubs my back when I am tired.

She takes a needle and thread

and sews up my pants

to make them fit right.

And she knows not to tickle me.

Because I hate to be tickled.

“Bibi cannot move away,” I said.

“She is moving to Florida,” my father said.

“To be with her father.

He is sick.

He needs her.”

“
I
need her,” I said.

“Bibi cannot move away,” I said again.

“You are eight, Eleanor,” my mom said.

“You are getting so big.

You don't need Bibi as much as you used to.

Everything will be okay.”

I started to cry.

“I don't want to get so big,” I said.

“Everything will
not
be okay,” I said.

“This is as bad as somebody dying,” I said.

And it was.

It was as bad as somebody dying.

We had a going-away party for Bibi.

All of her friends came.

Angela and Connie and Blossom and Dee.

Everyone gave her presents.

Except for me.

I could not make Bibi a good-bye present.

Or pick one out.

My mom gave Bibi a picture of me in a pretty frame.

Bibi said she would keep it by her bed

so she could see me when she woke up

and when she went to sleep.

Everybody at that party cried.

My dad cried.

My mom cried.

Angela and Connie and Blossom and Dee cried.

Bibi cried.

And I cried.

I cried a lot.

It was not a fun party.

I hope you never go to a party like that.

I really do.

At the end of the party,

Bibi put her presents in big shopping bags.

Then it was time for her to go.

“Maybe we shouldn't all go outside with Bibi,”

my dad said.

“It will be very sad outside.”

“It's sad inside,” I said.

“I want to go,” I said.

So we all went.

My parents helped Bibi get a cab.

Then we hugged her

and she hugged us

and she climbed into the cab

and pulled the door shut

and turned toward us

and the cab drove off.

And now I know the worst thing in the world.

The worst thing in the world

is a cab

driving farther and farther away

with Bibi in the backseat

waving good-bye.

The next morning I woke up

and wrapped myself in my blanket

and went in the living room

and sat on the sofa

and waited

for the sound of Bibi's key in the door.

I knew I wouldn't hear Bibi's key in the door.

But still

I thought

maybe.

Maybe she forgot something.

Maybe she changed her mind.

Maybe her dad got well.

So I waited

and listened

and waited

and waited

until my mom came in

and sat beside me

and held me tight.

“This feels just awful,” she said.

We sat there together

feeling awful.

Then she said,

“Should we have something special for breakfast?

Some chocolate-chip pancakes?”

“No,” I said.

“With powdered sugar?”

“No,” I said.

“Cinnamon toast with extra cinnamon?”

“No,” I said.

“How about pickle juice on a cookie?” she said.

“Would you like pickle juice on a cookie?”

And then I had to smile.

Because that was just ridiculous.

After Bibi left, my mom took a little time off from work.

“We'll get through this together,” she said.

But there were lots of things we could not do.